Lost and Gone Forever (7 page)

E
sther Paxton pressed Walter’s suit, and she picked out the finest merchandise from her shop window for herself. She would be careful with the dress and put it back in the window when they returned from Plumm’s.

It had taken a great deal of persuasion on Walter’s part to get her to visit the department store, but he had finally won her over by suggesting it might be a good thing for her to be seen there. She would be an ambassador of sorts, welcoming Plumm’s in its new glory back to her neighborhood. Far from seeming weak or frightened by the competition, she would be perceived as a confident merchant making a goodwill appearance.

Privately, Day was worried about Esther’s financial future. It occurred to him that she might be better off relocating to some smaller shop farther away from the massive competition.

And the midnight visit from Ambrose had left him shaken. Was it possible that Jack was at Plumm’s? Did he work there or had he broken in? If it even was Jack. Perhaps Day was inclined to see Jack’s hand in everything. But he remained nervous about taking Esther
there, and his concern was only ameliorated by the fact that it was broad daylight. Or the closest thing London had seen to broad daylight in the past month.

As the weather grew warmer and the slush evaporated from the streets, fog continued to swirl in, rolling down the roads and pooling in low-lying areas. Esther took Walter’s elbow, and he escorted her up Throgmorton Street, listening for oncoming traffic and steering her around puddles in the path ahead. Plumm’s seemed to rush at them, pushing its bulk through the fog, and they paused to admire its immensity. In the lower windows, a family of mannequins was picnicking by a stream made of shimmering blue fabric. A gentleman offered a lady a parasol under the light of a gas globe that was meant to evoke the moon. A stuffed horse trotted through a fabulous wood constructed of coatracks and armoires. Above them, in the windows of the next floor up, an Egyptian queen glared down from a throne that was decorated with costume jewelry. Cat-headed mannequin servants ranged outward from the throne, each holding some different item from Plumm’s many specialty departments.

“So much glass,” Esther said, her voice muffled by the fog and so soft that Day barely heard her.

“The windows?”

“Imagine,” she said. “Imagine the expense. Why would anyone be so ostentatious?”

“It attracts people,” Walter said.

“But what sort of people? My clients are more tasteful than this.” She looked up at him and squeezed his arm. “Aren’t they?”

“Vastly,” he said. “Shall we?”

She squeezed his arm again (he felt uncomfortable with the intimacy, but couldn’t bring himself to tell her so), and he led her across the street. A man with white gloves held the door for them and they
entered. Inside, the spectacle of so much sheet glass was dwarfed by even more glass set into the wooden frames of counter after counter, by hanging displays and live models and walkways that led away in every direction through a labyrinth of wares. Esther gasped and turned to leave, but Walter held her there.

“It’s no wonder,” she said. “Of course my clients would rather shop here.”

“Not all of them. Not everyone is so easily won over by this sort of shallow display. Your clients know the difference. They understand the value of quality and of tradition.”

“Not all of them. Not enough of them.”

“Don’t be silly. This is a fad. This sort of thing will never survive. It can’t. It’ll collapse under its own weight.”

She smiled up at him, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced. They walked on, past a tea shop and past racks of ready-made dresses, past the shelves full of shoes and the cabinets full of crockery.

“Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea,” Walter said.

“No, you were right. I needed to see this. I ought to know what the future looks like.”

“You could incorporate some of this into your own business.”

“How? Look at this.”

They were on the gallery now, high above the sales floor. The framework of an enormous cube was perched atop a pole. Wires ran from beneath it in a thickly braided cord, and workmen scurried about, constructing a globe that was apparently meant to fit inside the cube. Day guessed the sides of the box would be glassed in to represent the store itself and the wires might make the globe revolve. “Plumm’s Brings the World to You” or some such puffery.

Walter grimaced. “Just emphasize what makes you different, Esther.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at it all. It’s impressive, I grant you, but it’s impersonal and, really, it’s a bit much, isn’t it? They might fit me for a suit, but they don’t know my name.”

“I don’t know your name, either.”

“I mean to say that you know your clients, you understand them. That’s a commodity.”

“Do you think they understand that?”

“They might. If you do.”

“You mean if I make them understand.”

“You have to believe it first.”

She nodded, and he let the subject drop. But it seemed to him that she perked up a bit. At one point she took his arm and guided him quickly away down another aisle, and he shot her a questioning glance.

“A client. I didn’t want her to see me.”

“She should see you. She’d be ashamed.”

“And?”

“And she should feel guilty.”

“No, if she feels guilty and ashamed, she’ll never come back to me.”

He smiled. “Ah. Human nature. That ugly beast.”

They continued, touring the various departments, though Esther paid more attention to the fabric selections than anything else. After two or three hours, Walter suggested they have tea at one of the many shops throughout the store. They settled on the smallest tea shop on the first-floor landing, and they took a table near the window so they could look out through the grey at the street below.

“I don’t really think this is so bad,” Walter said. “I think this place
does something completely different from what you do, and you could easily capitalize on that difference.”

“I agree,” she said. Day saw that the sparkle was back in Esther’s eye. “It’s completely different, as you say. I think I could change a thing or two, bring in some new fabrics, some new patterns, and my clients will be satisfied. They want modern things, but they don’t necessarily want substantial changes.”

But Walter had stopped listening. Across the room a man had entered the shop and he stood there now, watching them with a puzzled expression. Esther had her back to the man and didn’t see, but Day felt chills up and down his spine. The man caught the arm of a staff member and whispered something in her ear. He handed the shopgirl a slip of paper that was folded in half, nodded to Walter, and left. A moment later, the girl brought the slip of paper to Day’s table.

“Are you Walter Day?”

“I don’t . . .”

“Walter Day?” Esther leaned forward over the table. “Is that your name?”

“I’m not . . .”

“If that’s you, I’m supposed to give you this,” the girl said.

Walter reached out his hand and took the note from her. It felt very heavy. He unfolded the paper and read.

MET ME HERE TOMORROW. NOONE. BRING THE WOMAN IF YOUVE GROAN TIRD OF HER.

“What does it say?” Esther reached for the note, but Day pulled it away.

“Nothing,” he said. “Just something about a special price they have on clocks.”

“Clocks?”

“Something like that. Timepieces of some sort. We should leave.”

Esther looked round the room, but it was empty of anything menacing, only a handful of customers and white-gloved staff going about their business. “What’s going on? Is Walter Day your name?”

“It’s not. I don’t know. Can we leave now?”

“If you want to.”

“I do.”

They abandoned their tea and their seedcakes. Walter dropped a few coins on the table and they left. Day watched the crowds in Plumm’s, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He propelled Esther down the stairs and out by the front door. An attendant saluted them and invited them to come again, but Day didn’t hear him. Pushing Esther ahead of him, he rushed out into the fog and didn’t slow his pace until they had turned the corner and were on their way back to Drapers’ Gardens.

Esther stopped walking and, when she had caught her breath, scowled at him. “Walter, will you please tell me what’s going on? Who was it in there, and how do you know those people?”

“Not people. One person. If you can call him a person.”

“Who? What’s his name?”

“I don’t know his real name,” Day said, “but he calls himself Jack.”

He shrugged off her further questions and lapsed into a brown study until they had returned to the shop. Once there, he hurried up the stairs and locked his door and refused to answer when Esther knocked later in the day.

I should never have gone out in anyone’s company,
Day thought.
I should never have allowed myself to be seen with someone.

He curled up in the corner of his room with his back to the wall and watched the shadows move across the ceiling until night came and the room was plunged into darkness. Even then sleep didn’t come for a long time. He kept his eyes open and listened for footsteps on the stairs until the sun came up again.

He knew he would have to return to Plumm’s at noon. Otherwise Jack would find him and would hurt him. Worse, Jack would hurt Esther. Day felt trapped and alone, with nobody to turn to and no recourse. His life would never be his own as long as Jack was free in the city.

H
ammersmith paused in the open door of a large room. He recognized many elements of the Murder Squad as he had known it: the sprawl and bustle, the men huddled in twos or threes, their heads down, murmuring to one another, occasional words like
dismembered
and
mutilated
echoing off the high ceiling and differentiating the atmosphere from that of a gentlemen’s club. But there was more of it, more of everything. In the year that had passed since Hammersmith had last worked with these men, the squad had doubled in size. Their desks filled a room that would once have seemed cavernous. Hammersmith recognized Michael Blacker, Tom Wiggins, and one or two other of the inspectors, their jackets hung along the wall below their hats, their shirtsleeves rolled up and their braces let down. But there were many new faces, too.

Sergeant Kett was working behind the desk at the door and he waved. He got up and came around and shook Hammersmith’s hand, but he wasn’t smiling. Above his bristling red mustache his expression was somber and his clear blue eyes were watery.

“What brings you today, Nevil?”

Kett was the center of the entire Murder Squad, coordinating the movements of his constables and facilitating all communications between the detectives. Hammersmith was certain that without Kett, the Yard would long since have fallen into disarray. When Hammersmith was a constable, Kett had taken special interest in him, had paired him with Day in hopes that they would complement each other’s strengths. Hammersmith had always thought of the burly sergeant as a mentor.

“I’m still not used to the new building,” Hammersmith said. “It’s . . . Well, it’s imposing.”

“It’s already too small,” Kett said.

“And the Murder Squad? How is everyone?”

“We’ve expanded. Twenty detectives now.”

“Twenty?” Hammersmith sighed. “At least I still see a man or two I know. I thought it might be worth checking in again to see if there’s been progress. Any clues or . . . well, anything at all.”

“Don’t you think we would’ve sent for you?”

“I know everybody’s busy. It’s possible there’s been some small thing and nobody’s had time to send for me.”

Kett sighed and put a hand on Hammersmith’s shoulder. “Aye. Everybody’s busy. Listen, son, it’s time.”

“Time?”

“Time to move on, put this thing behind you. I admire the way you’ve stuck to it, but Walter Day is lost. He’s gone, maybe gone for good. And no amount of runnin’ round on your part’s gonna get him found again.” Hammersmith shook his head, but Kett squeezed his shoulder. “Nevil, he’s gone. He’s gone.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to talk to Tiffany, or maybe Blacker. Maybe they’ve found something they haven’t passed along to you.”

“You know better than that. Anyway, I can’t let you in. Tiffany’s got three new cases today all by himself, not to mention what everybody else has to deal with. You’ll stir things up and keep ’em from workin’.”

Hammersmith looked away, out at the room of busy men. Blacker looked up and nodded to him, but he didn’t stop what he was doing, didn’t come over for a chat.

“Right,” Hammersmith said. “Very well. I’ll go.”

“One of these days we’ll hoist a pint and tell stories about Inspector Day. We’ll do it soon.”

“Sure we will.”

“We will,” Kett said. But his attention had already wandered. Hammersmith saw the sergeant’s gaze returning to the work waiting for him at his desk. He shook Kett’s hand again and turned back to the door.

Outside, he glanced up at the invisible sky. “Walter, where are you?” Hammersmith was completely isolated. He might be the last man on Earth, standing there in front of the Yard, surrounded by layers of nothingness. “Walter, I’m losing you, man. Do something to get their attention or I won’t be able to help you. Reach out if you can.”

As if in answer, a stranger unfolded from the blanket of grey and passed by within inches of Hammersmith. “Talkin’ to yourself? You’ll go mad doin’ that, you know.” The man chuckled and then was gone, swallowed back up by the fog.

Hammersmith stuck his hands deep in his pockets and walked away in the opposite direction. “Wasn’t talking to myself,” he said. “Not my fault if nobody was listening.”

D
ay woke from a dream within a dream. Someone was chasing him, but he was underwater, moving slowly, pushing himself forward. When he had awoken the first time, he was still underwater, but now he was on his cot in his cell. The beams of sunlight that stabbed through his barred window, through the green water, were bars themselves, solid yellow, hot and sharp. He swam around them, straining to get to the window, but the sun kept cutting him, burning him, the water cooling his skin so that he would try again. The second time he woke, he lay there for a long time, his skin still tingling, listening to the quiet. At last he rose and crossed the room and looked outside. There was no sun to cut him or burn him, and the air was diffuse, grey and comforting, a mist that hugged the ground, hiding all the evil and fear that Day knew was there.

He brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face from the basin beside his bed. Within ten minutes, he was dressed and on the path in front of Esther’s shop, closing the door behind him. Drapers’ Gardens was larger in the fog, bounded on all sides by nothing
except his imagination. He could hear horses clop-clopping along Throgmorton Street and he turned in that direction.

“Where are you going?”

Day wheeled, his cane raised and ready, and saw Ambrose standing in the shadows of the shrubbery, blinking sleep from his eyes.

Day lowered his cane. “Did you sleep here in the gardens last night?”

“I meant to be gone already,” Ambrose said. “I usually wake up with the sun, but there ain’t no sun, is there?” He looked up at the sky, inviting Day to see for himself. “I thought it might be safer for you if I was nearby.”

Day smiled and nodded. The boy was still frightened. Day realized he should have found a place for him to sleep out of harm’s way. He knew all too well how cold and hard a trench beneath the trees could be. But he had been distracted by other worries.

“So where are you going?”

“Just taking a walk, I suppose,” Day said. In fact, he wanted to think a bit before his noon date with Jack, turn the situation over in his mind and try to find some advantage for himself.

“Gimme two minutes.” The boy darted into the shrubbery, and Day stood, watching the fog roll at him and away, pushing the air ahead of it, kneading the gardens like so much bread dough. He snapped to attention when Ambrose spilled out onto the path, combing his hair down with his fingers. “Weren’t even two minutes, were it?”

“Fast.”

“That’s me.”

They walked in amiable silence, each wrapped in his own grey thoughts. There was almost no traffic yet, and they passed no other people. Then Plumm’s rose out of the fog ahead of them. It seemed
to vibrate there, humming with kinetic current. Day paused on the path, and Ambrose stopped beside him. They watched the building for a long while, and Day thought he might not be surprised if it uprooted itself and lurched toward them.

Ambrose grabbed his wrist. “Someone’s coming.”

Day listened. Through the fog came the sound of a man’s footsteps, approaching from the direction of the gardens. He knew in an instant who it was. Without a word, Day took Ambrose by the arm and hurried him across the street toward the department store. A white-gloved man exited the front of the store and glanced at them. Day nodded politely but steered the boy diagonally away. The black maw of an alleyway presented itself, and Day ushered Ambrose into it. Behind them, the sound of steady footsteps clocked off the flagstones. When he glanced back over his shoulder, Day saw nothing but swirling grey.

“What’s happening, guv?”

“Shh.”

He couldn’t see anything in the alley. Strange things crunched under his boots, and something furry brushed against his ankle. Ambrose tried to jerk away from him, but Day tightened his grip on the boy’s arm and kept him marching forward. A minute later, they came to a wall and Day turned the corner to his left, feeling along the bricks. At last they reached the end and there was nowhere else to go.

“Dead end,” Ambrose said. “You think that bloke’s still comin’ along? You hear him?”

Day could not hear him, but he could sense him circling in the dark. Jack was drawing near, he was somewhere just round the corner, coming closer to them with every panting breath they took. Day felt along the wall and found a knob and tried to turn it. A locked
door. He raised his walking stick and rapped on the door with the brass end, but there was no answer, no sound from within the building.

“Quick, Ambrose, feel around the ground here and find something thin and flat, something metal, if possible. A collar stay or hairpin will do.”

“What for?”

“Just find me something now.”

He heard the boy scrabbling around on the stones, sifting through the filth that accumulated on every square inch of London’s streets and alleys. Day felt along the door next to the lock for a keyhole and ran his index finger over it, seeing the shape of it in his head. When he reached back, Ambrose dropped four wet objects in his palm.

“Any of those do, guv?”

“Yes, Ambrose. Perfect.” One of the objects seemed to be a flat strip of thin metal, perhaps a rib from a lady’s corset. (Day tried not to think about how a corset had come to be torn to pieces at the back of a dead-end alley in Cornhill.) Another was a bit of bent wire. He dropped the other two objects at his feet and went to work on the keyhole, inserting the flat rib and working the bit of wire in next to it, listening all the while for those footsteps behind them. He maneuvered the wire until he heard a click and he smiled, licked his lower lip, and reached for the knob. In a matter of seconds he had ushered Ambrose inside and closed the door behind them. He turned the lock and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I don’t remember where I learned it,” Day said.

“Well, I’m glad you remember the doing of it. You ought to use that little trick of yours to do better than old tobacco leavings. You
could clean out a place before nobody knowed you was ever there in the first place.”

“But that would be wrong, Ambrose. We must survive, but we must also observe the law at all times.”

“All times?”

“Well, perhaps the law might be bent when your life depends on it.”

“I’d say. Like now.”

Ambrose produced a small box of matches from his pocket, and they rummaged around until they found a lantern hanging from a hook on the opposite wall of the room. Once lit, the lantern revealed that they were in a small storeroom with large double doors. “To bring in big things like furniture,” Ambrose said. These interior doors weren’t locked, and so the two of them went through and into the vastness of Plumm’s main floor. Day immediately ducked down behind a counter and pulled Ambrose down beside him. People were bustling about all round them, preparing the store for opening, laying out fabrics and jewelry, and lighting gas globes. Day waited, but nobody approached their counter; nobody had seen them enter through the storeroom.

“Can’t go back that way,” Ambrose said, and Day put a finger up to his lips, warning the boy to keep quiet. Ambrose lowered his voice to a whisper. “How’re we gettin’ outta here, guv?”

“Carefully,” Day said. It seemed to him that the safest course of action was to wait where they were until Plumm’s opened for the day’s business and then leave when there were shoppers about. But there was always the possibility that Jack had a key to the outside door and could pop up behind them through the storeroom.

Was Jack even there? Had Day imagined the familiar cadence of his step? No, Ambrose had heard it, too, and he’d been terrified.

Day reached out and patted the boy’s shoulder. It seemed ineffectual, but Ambrose smiled up at him. Whether he was comforted by the gesture or humoring Day, the smile was welcome. Day smiled back.

“Look,” he said, “we can’t stay here or we’ll be discovered. I think the only thing to do is go back into that room and wait.” He pointed at the storeroom, and Ambrose nodded.

Together, they crawled along behind the counter and dashed back into the room. They were visible again for perhaps half a minute, but there was no hue and cry. Nobody came to investigate the trespassers, the man and the boy who were hiding from a monster in the fog. And so they sat there in the dark and watched the door and listened for the expected crowd of morning shoppers, when they might slip out unobserved and make their escape.