Lost and Gone Forever (9 page)

“Are you going to finish cleaning in there?”

“No,” Hatty said.

“Well, it needs cleaning.”

“Then hire someone whose job it is to clean. Or do it yourself. Meanwhile, I’d like some information from you.”

“What sort of information? I’ve told you everything I know.”

“I want you to remember exactly when you let the household staff go and when you and your brother were last here.”

“I can try to remember, but I’m not sure—”

“Just do your best, sir. Anything you can tell me might be of help.”

“Well—”

“And when we’re done here, I’m going to have to head back to London to share this information with Mr Hammersmith, but I want you to fetch the thing on the ground beside the rubbish bin, if you would be so kind, and keep it safe here until the Brighton police arrive.”

“The police are coming?”

“They will be as soon as I alert them.”

“Alert them? Alert them to what?”

“I believe you had a human tongue in your bin. It’s entirely possible there are other bits of your brother in there, too. Now, let’s focus on that timetable.”

Of course, Hatty had no evidence that the tongue had ever belonged in Joseph Hargreave’s head, but it gave her great satisfaction to shock Richard Hargreave and it made her feel very much like she imagined a detective ought to feel. The best part was that Hargreave became immediately cooperative and gave her no more arguments.

D
ay woke and sat up. His hair was damp, his collar limp with sweat, and his mouth tasted stale. For a moment he thought he was back in his cell, but then he felt a wave of relief as he recalled his experiences of the past weeks. The relief was tinged with a sense of dread. He would be meeting Jack again today, and Jack might take him back to that cell.

But Day no longer wanted to return to his little cot with its rough grey blanket, or to his tiny window that looked out on stones and snow.

He struggled to his feet in the cramped space and cracked open the door to the storeroom. People bustled this way and that, but nobody looked his way. He glanced back at Ambrose. The boy was sprawled in what seemed to Day to be a very uncomfortable position, his neck bent awkwardly, his mouth wide open. But his chest was rising and falling steadily. Day left him there in the dark, where he was safe for the time being, and stepped out, shutting the door behind him.

He was on the main floor of the department store, all shining
wood and glass and a black spiral staircase that ran up through the center of the room to the gallery, where he and Esther had sipped their tea and eaten their seedcakes and looked down on the other shoppers. The whole place smelled of perfumes and talcum, mixed with wood polish and body odor.

Day drew his watch (another gift from Esther) from his pocket and was astonished to see that it was already half past eleven. He had slept for three hours on the floor of the storeroom. Did he still have time to get back to the draper’s shop and change his collar, comb his hair, splash a little water on his face? There was certainly no time to nose around the store, as he’d wanted to, to try to find some advantage over Jack before their meeting, but he at least wanted to look presentable, to seem confident. Jack sniffed out weakness in other men and exploited it. And he knew all of Day’s weaknesses, had already exploited every one of them.

On thinking about it, Day decided a fresh collar probably wouldn’t change anything. All he could do was brace himself and face whatever was coming his way, whatever Jack had planned for him.

As if on cue, Day looked up and saw the man himself at the gallery rail. Jack smiled and waved at him, gestured for him to come up.

No time anymore to do anything except climb those steps. His decisions were all made for him. He put his watch away and trudged to the spiral stairs and went up. His leg suddenly hurt, and he had to use his cane to push himself off each step. Along the way he passed several shoppers, all of whom gave him nervous glances and sidled as far to the other side of the steps as they could. He thought he must reek of doom.

Jack was waiting for him at the top and took his arm.

“You’re early,” Jack said. “How lovely.” He led him to a little table with a lacy cloth draped over it and he pulled out a chair for him.

•   •   •

“I
T
’
S INCREDIBLE
.”

Fiona Kingsley had been available to accompany the Day clan on their outing to Plumm’s. She had brought a sketch pad and a small case of pencils, paints, brushes, and charcoals. Everything there seemed false to her, designed to evoke some feeling or response, but she still felt a little thrill as she looked round at it all.

There was a giant globe in a box above her being glassed in by men who reminded her of busy ants.

“It is very big,” Claire said. “And there’re so many things. How can they sell all these things?”

“Who would buy some of them?” Fiona was looking at a brooch shaped like a butterfly, with mother-of-pearl inlays and antennae made of thin wire with beads on the ends.

“You could illustrate some of it,” Claire said.

“I think they’d expect me to buy something if I tried to draw it. But I’ll do a quick sketch of some wooden things to help the book if we find anything new or different. Do you think we ought to try the furniture department or the— Oh, Claire, we should look in the books department and see if they have yours.”

“Do you think they do?”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Surrounded by all of this? That would be . . .”

“It would be incredible.”

“That is the word.”

“Miss Tinsley!”

Fiona jumped and turned. A small round fellow was hurrying toward them. Fiona blinked and tried to remember where she had seen him before, but he was on them before she could place him.

“You remember me,” the man said. He was perhaps fifty years old, and his face was red all over and beaming with pleasure. She could not help herself and broke out into a huge smile despite herself.

“It’s me,” the little man said. “Alastair Goodpenny. You do remember me?” He stopped short and his face changed; his smile disappeared and his forehead creased with wrinkles.

She did remember him. She had consulted with him the previous year on a case her father and Hammersmith had been involved in. He was the proprietor of a kiosk in the Marylebone bazaar and had advised her on a pair of cufflinks that had been owned by a murderer.

“Her name is Miss Kingsley, not Tinsley,” one of the boys said. She thought it was Robert, but she didn’t turn round to see.

“There’s no need to shout,” Goodpenny said. “I can hear you. Miss Tinsley and I have known each other longer than you’ve been alive.” He softened then and bent down, and Fiona turned to see which of the boys he was talking to. It was Simon. “What’s your name, little boy?”

“My name is Simon.”

“How unusual. Jemima is commonly a girl’s name. From the Bible, isn’t it?”

“Simon. My name is Simon.”

“Just so. And you should be proud. Though you might also want to strengthen your upper body. With that name you’ll be forced to defend yourself often enough, I should think.” Goodpenny straightened back up and beamed at Fiona. “How are you, Miss Tinsley? How is that boy you were so fond of? Mr Angerschmid?”

“Thank you, Mr Goodpenny. I believe Nevil is fine, although I don’t see much of him these days.”

“Oh, what a shame. He seemed in need of a woman’s attention, don’t you think?”

Fiona blushed. “Have you met my friend? Mr Goodpenny, this is Mrs Day.”

Claire offered her hand, and Goodpenny leaned over it, his manner courtly and endearing. “My great pleasure, Mrs Dew.”

“The pleasure is mine,” Claire said. She gave Fiona a knowing smile that Mr Goodpenny failed to notice.

“What are you doing here, Mr Goodpenny? Are you shopping?”

“No, no, Miss Tinsley. I’m employed here now. They need good people who know how to judge a piece of silver and who understand what a man needs in the way of accessories. You’re not after such a thing today, are you?”

“No, thank you. We’re here to look for things made of wood.”

“Of course I would. You have only to tell me what you need.”

Fiona glanced round at Claire, who looked puzzled, and whispered, “He can’t hear a thing.” Claire hid a smile behind her hand.

“Shall I give you the grand tour? We’ve only been open a short while, and I’m still learning the place myself.” Mr Goodpenny seemed proud and happy, and Fiona felt glad for him.

“We’d be delighted,” she said.

“Well, let’s see if we can find the thing you’re after,” Mr Goodpenny said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Plumm’s carries it.”

They had no idea what he had in mind, but he led the way down a narrow path between two counters and Fiona followed. Claire and the boys and the nanny with her double pram all came along.

•   •   •

A
MBROSE CRAWLED OUT
of the storeroom and crept along behind the counter. He had awoken as the latch clicked shut, and his
boss was walking away from the room by the time Ambrose rubbed the sleep from his eyes and peeked out the door. He’d been abandoned there.

He knew he’d be thrown out of the store as soon as anyone of authority saw him. He didn’t look like he had money or a reason to be there. The only way he could think to explore Plumm’s and catch up to the guv was to pretend he was running deliveries for someone posh. He stood up and straightened his threadbare jacket and tried to look like he imagined a delivery boy might look. He marched past a grouping of chairs and tables and sofas, then along in front of the cabinets of jewelry and scarves without paying attention to any of the fineries on display.
These things,
he thought,
don’t impress me. I see finer things all day long at my employer’s home.
He kept this silent mantra going, in hopes that if he thought a thing, however false it might be, it would manifest itself in his face and his bearing. His real employer barely had a home at all and didn’t seem to care about much of anything except tobacco leavings, but thinking about that was of no use in this situation. He passed several shopgirls and not one of them stopped him, so he imagined he was carrying off the internal disguise well. His manner was almost regal.

But he couldn’t keep himself from looking upward, past the huge installation that was being constructed. Somewhere up there was a skylight, on beyond the vaulted ceiling and the shops and offices. Somewhere up there Ambrose had watched two women being murdered.

And the man who had murdered them was right there, standing in plain sight above him!

Ambrose actually gasped when he saw him and ducked down behind a display of silk trousers. The murderer was taking the guv’s hand, escorting the boss of Reasonable Tobacco to a little table as if
they were going to have tea together right there in front of God and everybody.

Like they was friends.

Was his employer going to turn him over to the killer? Had Ambrose been lured to the store on purpose so they could do away with the only witness to the murders? But no, if the guv planned to betray Ambrose, surely he wouldn’t have left him sleeping in a closet with the door practically open. He would have locked Ambrose in until he could make his arrangements. At least, that’s how Ambrose thought
he
would have done it if he were that sort of person.

So it wasn’t a trap for him. But it might be a trap for his employer. He’d told the guv all about it, and now the killer was saying something to him up there, telling the guv something, and the guv didn’t look none too happy about it, either. The killer was threatening him.

And then Ambrose understood: His employer was protecting him by hiding Ambrose and diverting the killer’s attention.

Ambrose wasn’t the bravest boy on the streets, but he was loyal. He’d never let anyone down, so far as he knew. He had to do something and he had to do it fast.

“Excuse me, young man, but you’re blocking the aisle.”

Ambrose turned and saw a nasty old nanny pushing a pram that held two babies. Behind her were two more children, boys who were maybe a little younger than Ambrose himself. There was a slender girl with her nose in a sketch pad and a fat little clerk who was jabbering about something. And behind them all was the most beautiful woman Ambrose had ever seen, with golden hair that shone brilliantly under Plumm’s yellow lights.

“Well, get a move on, why dontcha?” The nanny raised her hand as though she meant to swat at Ambrose from three feet away and with a pram between them.

The beautiful woman frowned at her governess. “Tabitha, be nice.” Then she smiled at Ambrose and said, “This place is amazing, isn’t it? I’ve never seen a store so large.”

Ambrose managed to nod at the beautiful woman, stunned that she had spoken directly to him. She was the nicest posh lady he had ever seen.

Before he could find his voice and answer her, the nanny said, “Yes, Mrs Day.” And all eight of them swept past Ambrose and into the furniture department behind him.

•   •   •

T
ABITHA WAS SIMPLY NOT
going to work out. Claire scowled at the nanny’s back and tried to figure out how to let her go when she had no one to take up the slack. Tabitha was the third governess the babies had been through in the past year. And none of them had worked out. The first had left them because there always seemed to be a killer of some sort prowling about the house. (Claire couldn’t blame her.) The second had hit one of the boys. And now Tabitha was acting willfully awful.

Imagine! Talking to a poor delivery boy as if he were street scum.

She rolled her eyes and noticed something familiar at the outside edge of her vision. Her attention was drawn by two workmen having a row over something they were building, a huge globe, perhaps fifty feet around, in a glassed-in box. She ignored them and focused on one of the men taking tea at the gallery above.

The big gas lamps behind them shone down through a mass of dark hair, and it only took her a moment to place the man. She had once met Jack the Ripper. He had even come into her bedroom. And the man sitting above her, having tea like any other ordinary person, was that same man. She was certain of it.

“Missus?”

Claire came to herself and shook her head.

Tabitha touched her arm. “What is it, ma’am?”

“Can’t you leave me alone for a single moment and let me think?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Watch after the children. Isn’t that your job? Isn’t that the whole of your job?”

“Yes, ma’am.” The nanny hung her head and hurried after the boys, who had taken the pram and were pushing their way into the books department. Mr Goodpenny and Fiona had disappeared together around a bank of tall wardrobes with double doors. Claire could hear the cheerful little gentleman going on about the quality of the wood finish.

Claire made a mental note to apologize to poor Tabitha. She looked up again at the tea shop near the railing. And Jack was still there. He was sipping from a cup and he was . . . He was looking down at her. He saw her. His features were sketched out in grey upon grey, like the mist outside, but she could see a smile crease his face. He was smiling at her. He set down his cup and raised his hand, touched his forehead in a salute.

Claire looked away and closed her eyes. She heard a train racing through the department store and she nearly jumped before realizing it was her own heavy breath. Her heart was racing, her lungs were laboring. She opened her eyes and looked up again. The devil was sitting across from someone, and Claire finally turned her gaze on him. His back was to her, but she had known him most of her life and she knew him now. She knew him like she knew the freckle on the back of her ring finger, knew him like she knew the strawberry birthmark on the small of Winnie’s back.