The Yard (16 page)

Fiona padded across the room and sat on the arm of the chair. Kingsley put his hand on her back. He wiped his other hand across his face and tried to remember what he’d been thinking of. Fiona spoke as if she could read his thoughts.

“Were you thinking of Mother?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I was.”

“I was thinking of her even before the carriage woke me.”

“You were dreaming, you mean.”

“Yes. We were all together at Hyde Park, gathered around the fountain. You know the one I mean, with the statue of the angel in it.”

“I think I know the one, but I’m not sure that statue’s meant to be an angel.”

“I think it is.”

“Fair enough.”

“You and Mother were holding hands, and Beatrice was there, too, home from school, I think.”

“We should visit her soon.”

“I’d like that.”

“Then we’ll do it.”

“Do you still dream about her?”

“Beatrice?”

He knew what she meant. She wasn’t talking about her sister.

“Mother.”

“Yes, Plum, I still dream about her. I suppose we always will.”

“Do you think she dreams of us?”

“No.”

“Not ever?”

“She doesn’t dream anymore.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I have seen countless dead people, I have cut into them and removed their organs and weighed their brains, and not one of the dead has ever told me anything that wasn’t concrete and physical. When people die, their minds no longer work. They can’t dream.”

“What about their souls?”

“I have never seen a soul nor found a repository for such a thing in any body I’ve examined. There is no soul.”

Fiona was quiet, and Kingsley realized he’d upset his daughter. He was too tired to be of any use to his still-grieving daughter. He rubbed his hand clumsily up and down her back. He wished he could offer her some comfort, some assurance that her mother lived on, but since he didn’t believe it himself, he had no way of convincing her. She wiped her eyes, but her hair had fallen over her face and Kingsley couldn’t see her.

“Well, I believe we all have souls,” she said, “and you just can’t see them.”

Kingsley nodded. He was afraid to contradict her.

“I believe my mother is in heaven and I will see her again someday.”

Kingsley smiled, but it was a sad smile. “I sincerely hope that day is a long way off,” he said.

“I mean that we’ll see her when we both die of old age, hundreds and hundreds of years from now.”

“It’s a pleasant thought, at least.”

“Maybe she’s looking at us right now. Maybe she’s smiling at us and making nice things happen for us.”

“That would be an excellent dream for you to have.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?”

They sat in companionable silence, staring at the embers in the fireplace, and eventually Fiona slid off the arm of the chair and into her father’s lap.
He smoothed her hair away from her face and she shifted slightly, mumbled something unheard, and began to snore quietly.

Kingsley sat in the dark and watched the crackling remains of the fire until he fell asleep.

He didn’t dream about anything at all.

W
alter Day laid his head on his wife’s pillow and closed his eyes. Beside him, Claire swept a lock of hair from her eyes and propped herself on one elbow, her other hand on her husband’s chest.

“Let me lie here a moment and I’ll return to my room,” Day said. “I should have stayed there. You need your sleep.”

“But your room is miles away from mine,” Claire said.

“Only down the hall.”

“That’s still too far. And I sleep too much as it is. I hardly see you anymore.”

“It’s this case.”

“I know that. I’m not complaining. What is the case, Walter?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

“But I would love to hear about it.”

“It might upset you.”

“I’m no flower, you know.”

Day sighed. “I heard Percy Erwood still hasn’t married,” he said.

“Are you changing the subject, Mr Day?”

“You must have been the only woman for him.”

“I was never for him.”

She took her hand off Walter’s chest and moved away, staring in the dark direction of the ceiling.

“Why did you ever marry me and leave poor Percy in the lurch?” Day said.

“I declare,” she said. “You’re not going to worry about Percy Erwood for the rest of our long lives, are you?”

“I wouldn’t say I’m worried about him.”

“If you had your way, Percy Erwood would come here right now and carry me away.”

“Right now?”

“In the morning, then.”

“I would rather he didn’t.”

“As would I.”

Day smacked his lips and mumbled something Claire couldn’t make out.

“What’s that, dear?” she said.

“I said that I still remember the moment I fell in love with you.”

“Was I there or was it just you and Percy Erwood deciding amongst yourselves who ought to win me?”

“It was in church. That’s the only place I ever saw you. No, that’s not true. I saw you often when we were small, passing in the street sometimes, playing with your friends, and once in the post office, but church was the only place I felt like we might be on equal ground.”

“And you remember a single Sunday?”

“You were wearing a yellow dress. And a bonnet.”

“You remember the color of the dress?”

“And you wore gloves that nearly reached your elbows.”

“And you liked me?”

“You were the best and prettiest girl I had ever seen, and I knew you would never marry me because I wasn’t good enough.”

Claire smiled, though she knew Walter couldn’t see her. “I prefer to decide that sort of thing for myself.”

“And so,” Day said as though he hadn’t heard her, “I knew it was a hopeless cause, but I tried every day to be the best person I could be, to be good enough for you, whether you noticed or not.”

“You were always good enough, Walter Day,” she said. But she wasn’t sure whether she’d spoken loud enough for him to hear.

They lay there side by side for a long time then, Claire straining to see the ceiling. She thought her eyes would eventually adjust to the darkness, but they didn’t. Before long, Walter began to snore, and Claire curled up with her back along his side. She knew he would be gone from her bedroom by the time she woke in the morning.

“I married you,” she said, “because you’re the sort of man who remembers my yellow dress.”

She closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come.

“Humph,” she said. “Percy Erwood, indeed.”

C
onstable Nevil Hammersmith paused with his hand on the knob and took a deep breath before opening the door and entering the Brass Tankard. It was the seventh pub he’d visited since parting ways with Pringle and they were getting more squalid as the hour grew late. The only pubs still open were the places that catered to serious drinkers and criminals. Unless he found what he was looking for soon, he feared he would get no sleep before his shift.

He still had a long night ahead of him.

DAY TWO

S
EVENTEEN HOURS SINCE THE DISCOVERY OF
M
R
L
ITTLE
.

T
he sun climbed over the rooftops of Kentish Town, glancing through rain clouds and in at windows as it rose. Claire Day stood in front of her mirror, but she didn’t watch herself. She had enough experience that her fingers remembered what to do now; she didn’t need to see them.

She pulled the corset over her head and tugged it into place above her hips. She tightened the top set of laces below her shoulder blades and moved down, rung by rung, until she reached the middle of her back, where two loops hung down. She grabbed them and pulled the top half of the corset tight, whalebone biting into her sternum.

She took a shallow breath and started again at the bottom of the corset, just below her waist. Again, each set of laces was yanked taut until once more she reached the middle of her back. The loops, longer now, were crossed over each other and stretched again until they were long enough to wrap around to the front of Claire’s waist. She pulled as hard as she could and tied the ends into a discreet bow over her navel.

She looked down at her handiwork, what she could see of it, and frowned. Her maidservant had always made a prettier bow. Claire had resolved herself to the fact that she would never have a staff like the household she’d grown up in. Her husband was the loveliest man she’d ever met, and money meant nothing to him. They had little enough of it, but Walter routinely gave it away to anyone he met who appeared to be needy. Claire had no regrets.

She backed up and sat carefully on the edge of the bed, still avoiding her reflection in the mirror above the vanity.

She panted like a small dog, shallow breaths in and out. The inevitable suggestion of a deep breath presented itself to her and she tried to ignore it, but the thought grew until she felt she had to yawn.

Of course, she
couldn’t
yawn.

Instead, she felt her stomach turn over on itself, cramped though it was down there, and she ran to the bathroom, barely making it to the basin against the far wall before her gorge rose and she vomited water. It splashed her chin and dribbled from her nose. Thankfully, there was nothing else in her system, but still she continued to heave.

Finally, her body calmed itself and she slid to the floor, her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady.

She sat there until the light of the dawning sun filtered through the curtains and turned the insides of her eyelids orange. Then she grabbed the edge of the basin and stood.

Claire wiped her face and rinsed out her mouth. She pulled a long lacy gown on over the corset and left the bathroom. Her husband’s room was just down the short hallway, and she could hear water splashing in a basin, Walter getting ready for the day. She hurried her steps. He would need a freshly pressed shirt for work.

Her stomach turned again and she pushed against the wall until the sensation passed. She closed her eyes, took a short breath, and when she opened her husband’s bedroom door she was composed and smiling.

There was no need to trouble him.

The bald man returned to his house when the street vendors started setting up their stalls for the day. Traffic had begun to pick up, curious passersby glancing in his direction, and the bald man realized that he was still wearing his sopping nightshirt and slippers.

He bathed quickly and changed clothes.

In Fenn’s room, the bald man examined the ropes that had held the boy to his
bed. They were still intact, still knotted. Fenn must have spent hours wriggling his way out of them. The bars on the window looked sturdy, but when the bald man checked them, one bar slid out of place. It swung to the side and the bald man stooped to look at the window casing. The mortar there was crumbled and loose. When he scraped at it with a fingernail, it sifted down the wall like sand. He moved the bed and there was a pile of grit on the floor. Clearly he had done a shoddy job installing the bars, hadn’t mixed the mortar well enough and left a dry pocket that the boy had been able to scratch away at, loosening a single bar just enough to squeeze through.

Below the window, a flood wall ran the length of the block. Fenn could easily have hopped down to the top of it, then over and away.

The bald man had an idea of where the boy might go. Fenn had a head start, but he was probably still on foot and had miles to travel. The bald man kept a private hansom on retainer and would be able to overtake the boy soon enough.

His shop was on the way. He would stop there first to get some supplies and to put a sign in the window. It was a shame to have to close the place down for the day, but the bald man had his priorities.

Family should always come first.

Constable Colin Pringle couldn’t decide whether to wait or to go home and try to get an hour’s sleep before his shift. But after a long sleepless night outside, his clothes were a mess, wrinkled and dirty. Maybe the tailor would be at his shop early. And maybe he would have new clothes that Pringle could wear out of the store. It would be good to show up for his shift looking fresh, even if he didn’t feel awfully fresh.

But it was clear that the tailor still wasn’t in. There was a sign in the window, carefully printed in red ink on stiff white paper:
Will Return Soon.
Pringle cupped his hands against the glass and peered into the shop. It was dark and still. There was no sense that anyone was working within, and there was nothing to indicate how “soon” anyone would return.

Pringle assumed that if he left now, the tailor would immediately return to the shop. But if he waited, he might be here all day. That was the way
the universe worked. He regretted not waiting at the store on his previous visit. If he had, he might have a fresh new uniform waiting for him at home right now.

He tried the doorknob. He didn’t expect it to turn, didn’t expect the door to swing open; it was just the thing you were supposed to do before giving up. But the knob did turn, and the door did swing open, and Pringle stepped inside.