The Yard (27 page)

The hall at the top of the stairs was dark and silent. He leaned against the wall and called again. “Mrs Shaw?” he said.

After a long moment, he heard something rustle off to his left and her voice floated toward him down the long hall.

“I’m here.”

“I can’t see. Where are you?”

There was no answer this time. He turned to his left and held on to the wall, shuffling forward in the dark. Diffuse light formed a halo in the air a few feet from him, but when he moved his head, the halo moved, too. He thought he was still gripping his nightstick, ready for anything that might jump out at him, but he couldn’t be sure. His arms were deadweights. He knew he wouldn’t make it to the downstairs door, and he had come too far into the house to do anything now except keep moving forward for as long as his legs continued to respond.

The halo around his vision grew brighter and resolved itself into a vertical line somewhere in front of him. He moved toward it and put out his hand. With the tip of the nightstick, he pushed out and a door swung open.

Penelope Shaw stood in a floating rectangle of light. He wasn’t sure her feet were touching the floor.

“What was in the tea you gave me?” Hammersmith said.

Penelope smiled at him and dissolved into a beautiful swirl of pink light. Hammersmith reached out toward her, stumbled, and fell. The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was Penelope Shaw’s bare ankle.

He did not notice the soft hands unbuttoning his shirt.

S
o we’re agreed then that the scissors are the murder weapon?” Day said.

“I don’t think there’s much question of that.”

“Nor I.”

Day and Blacker looked at the meager evidence on Detective Gilchrist’s desk. They had only a pair of shears and a button. Day had once more decided that Gilchrist’s desk was fair game since Patrick Gilchrist wouldn’t be showing up to claim it. Besides, it made it look as if the absent Gilchrist was contributing to the case.

“It’s progress, I suppose, but there’s no way to connect them to anybody.”

“Not yet. Anyone could have access to scissors, but that thinking leads us nowhere.”

“The dancing man might tell us something about them.”

They had escorted the dancing man to the empty storage closet behind the squad room and left him there for the moment.

“He might,” Day said, “but he’s hardly reliable. He can wait. I’d like to have a better grasp of the evidence so that we can guide him and possibly get better answers, if he has them. I think we have to continue to act as though the scissors have to do with the killer’s profession. The ferocity and strength required to follow through with the murder rules out the possibility of a woman, agreed?”

“Of course. No woman could have done this.”

“So we need not look at seamstresses, nurses, or the ordinary London wife.”

“And that leaves us with…?”

“Tailors, doctors, perhaps a cobbler.”

“Or anyone else in the city who happened to pick up his wife’s scissors.”

“Yes.”

“Can we connect them with the button?” Blacker said. “Does that lead us back to the upholsterer?”

“I don’t think so. I have a theory about that, and if I’m right, it’s entirely disconnected from the case itself.”

“A false clue?”

“Perhaps.”

“In what sense?”

“I’d like you to take another trip out to Little’s place with me later, if you’re up for it. I’d like to talk to his widow one more time.”

“I’d rather not.”

“Nor I.”

“But if it’s unavoidable…”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“So do we rule out upholsterers, too?”

“Not necessarily. But probably.”

“So then there’s the trunk itself.”

“Kingsley’s got that. And the needle and thread, too. He says the needle used was probably an ordinary one, and I don’t see how that helps us much. Except inasmuch as the needles used by an upholsterer are apparently of a different sort entirely, which may be another reason to rule out that occupation as suspect. The thread…” Day shrugged. “I suppose a thread is a thread.”

“Unless we find a length of it covered with blood in someone’s pocket,” Blacker said.

“That would be convenient.”

“Time’s running out and we still don’t have much to go on. If we don’t catch this one soon, it’ll be another Ripper case.”

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“The widow.”

“Didn’t I just say no to that?”

“Not specifically.”

“Damn it.”

W
hat on earth is that frightful odor?”

Sergeant Kett looked up at the man standing in front of his desk. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored black suit accentuated by an aquamarine cravat and matching pocket square. He had a tall black hat with an aquamarine hatband, and the lines around his eyes and mouth suggested that smiling was something other people did. Kett recognized him as Geoffrey Cinderhouse, official tailor to the Metropolitan Police. Cinderhouse was holding a pair of navy trousers on a wooden hanger. He removed his hat with a flourish, revealing a perfectly smooth bald head that gleamed in the sunlight from the open doors.

“I don’t mean to seem rude, but it rather smells as though someone’s died in here,” the man said.

“What can I do for you, Mr Cinderhouse?” Kett said.

He realized that he’d become used to the lingering odor of the dancing man, who was in the back room and out of sight, but who nonetheless seemed to be exerting some influence over the atmosphere.

“I’ve an errand here,” the man said. “Two errands, actually. I’d like to speak to Inspector Day.”

“You’ve brought Inspector Day a change of clothing?” Kett said.

“What? Oh, the trousers. No, these are for Constable Pringle.”

“I’m not sure where Pringle is at the moment.”

“He was supposed to pick them up from me, but hasn’t been by the shop. So I thought I’d kill two birds, as it were, by fetching them round here and seeing the detective at the same time.”

“How kind of you. I’ll get Mr Pringle’s clothes to him.”

Kett stood and held out his hand.

“Oh,” Cinderhouse said. “Of course.”

He started to hand over the trousers, but then pulled them back.

“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I really did have my heart set on meeting Mr Day. I’ve heard so many good things about him, and if I don’t take the initiative, I may never have a chance to congratulate him on his recent promotion.”

“I’ll let him know you inquired.”

“Is it true he’s working to solve Inspector Little’s murder?”

“He is.”

Cinderhouse leaned forward over the desk, Pringle’s trousers dangling just out of Kett’s reach.

“Any progress?” the tailor said.

“I rather think they’re close,” Kett said. “They have the murder weapon now.”

“Do they? What is it?”

“A pair of shears.”

Pringle’s trousers dropped from the tailor’s hand.

T
he sound of wood clattering on wood snapped Cinderhouse awake as if from a trance, and he ducked to retrieve the fallen hanger. He felt around under the desk for it, his face hidden from the sergeant for a precious minute or two.

They had the shears. How did they have the shears? And so quickly?

It hadn’t been more than a few hours since Cinderhouse had thrown them from the window of the hansom into the road. He’d expected the shears to be swept up by early morning street sweepers, along with the previous day’s horse-shit. Or perhaps found by some vagrant and whisked away into the bowels of London’s tenements.

And yet, here they were, almost immediately at Scotland Yard, in the custody of the new detective.

Was the man that good? Was Detective Walter Day the enemy he had always feared might come for him?

At least they didn’t seem to know that Pringle was dead.

His fingers closed around the hanger. He composed his expression, stood up, and draped the trousers over the hanger, giving himself a moment before turning his attention back to the sergeant.

“Are you quite all right?” Kett said.

“Yes, of course. Please forgive me. I’m just so fascinated by detective work that I get too excited sometimes.”

“Quite all right.”

“The shears … Are you sure they’re the murder weapon?”

“You’d have to ask the detectives that.”

“Of course, of course. I only bring it up because I’m so used to working with shears myself. You might call me an expert. I’d be happy to look them over and lend the detective my opinion, if you think it would do any good.” He smiled, hoping that the smile looked genuine.

Kett looked over his shoulder at the entrance to the big hall and the tiny, fenced-off domain of the Murder Squad.

“I don’t think—”

“I’m not a policeman myself, of course,” Cinderhouse said, “but my close association with the force puts me in a unique position, don’t you think?”

“I’ll leave a message with the detective and have him get back to you.”

“I really think I can help,” Cinderhouse said.

He stepped around Kett and walked down the short hall. He ignored the large area to his right and went straight to the low railing that surrounded twelve cluttered desks in a corner of the big open space. He started to open the gate in the rail but was stopped short by Sergeant Kett’s hand on his arm.

“Here now,” Kett said. “I’d hate to do anything nasty when we’ve been so cordial up to this point.”

Cinderhouse put his hands up and smiled again. “I don’t mean any harm,” he
said. “It’s the thrill of being able to help these fine gentlemen. You understand. Surely you understand.”

“And I hope you understand that I can’t let every citizen off the street in here to muck with evidence in a murder case.”

“I’m hardly a citizen. You might even call me an auxiliary policeman, since I clothe you all. At least I like to think of myself as such, and I’m awfully proud to be of service to you fine gentlemen. Why, I’m practically one of you.”

“Practically ain’t reality.”

Cinderhouse nodded. He made a calming motion with one hand to let Kett know that he wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t going to do anything hasty. He could see the shears sitting out on a desk in there, almost within reach. The only evidence that connected him to the crime and it was right there, and if he didn’t do something to get those shears, then didn’t he deserve whatever fate the detectives had in store for him?

“Are those the shears?” he said.

Kett shrugged.

Cinderhouse peered at the scissors over the top of the rail. They were his own. He was sure of it. There was a nick in one blade where he’d run up against a snap in a sailcloth jacket. He could see it from here. There were chips flaked off the glossy black handles from long use, one crack in the paint that he’d always thought resembled the shape of Italy. And there was Colin Pringle’s blood, caked in the crevices where the blades met the handle and where the rivet swiveled the shears open and shut. The blood was still so fresh that it gleamed red in the lamplight.

“Hmm,” he said. “I suppose they might be of the same sort I use at the shop. A little different, of course.”

“I’m sure.”

“Tell me, how did Inspector Day come by them?”

“In the course of his investigation.”

“Well, yes, but I mean … how?”

Kett clucked his tongue and scowled.

“Official business of the Yard. If there’s nothing else—”

“I have an idea.”

“Yes?”

“Why don’t you let me take these with me back to the shop? Then I can compare them to my own shears—I have several pair—and to those in the catalogues I keep. I may be able to match them exactly.”

“I’ve been patient with you,” Kett said.

“Forgive me. Only trying to be of help. And, as I said, I’m practically one of you.”

“It’s why I haven’t hoisted you out into the street yet. But we’re a bit busy at the moment, and it’s not part of my job to give tours.”

Kett motioned for Cinderhouse to precede him through the back hall. The tailor hoisted Pringle’s trousers high so that they wouldn’t drag on the dirty floor. He bit his lip. If Day had been in the squad room he might perhaps have welcomed Cinderhouse’s help. But the sergeant wasn’t interested and Cinderhouse couldn’t seem to
make
him interested, no matter how he approached the thing. There seemed to be no way to get close to the investigation and find out how it progressed. He was in the dark and would, it seem, remain in the dark.

“I s’pose if you really wanna be of help,” Kett said, “you could bring those catalogues you mentioned and let the detectives take a look at ’em.”

Cinderhouse turned suddenly, sending the heavy end of the trousers swinging.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Bring them in?”

“I don’t know. That might be a thing they’d wanna see.”

“But of course. I’ll rearrange my schedule. I have a few fittings, but they can easily be pushed off until tomorrow, provided I can get a message to my clients in time.”

“Don’t mean to put you out.”

“Not at all. Happy to do it. I’ll change my appointments, arrange for someone to watch my son, and be right back round with those catalogues.”

“No hurry, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep Inspector Day waiting. I’ll be back with them as quickly as I possibly can.”

Cinderhouse smoothed a leg of Pringle’s trousers over the hanger.

“Best take these back with me, anyway. Clumsy of me to have dropped them. Now I’ll have to press them again.”

“I’m sure they’re fine. You can leave them here for the constable.”

“Ah, you must not know Mr Pringle well. He’s very particular about his trousers. No, I’ll take them along to the shop. Who knows? Perhaps he’ll turn up after all.”