The Yard (30 page)

“My mama isn’t his friend anymore.”

Hammersmith looked around the room for his clothes.

“Your clothes are on the chair,” the boy said.

“Bring them to me.”

The boy walked sideways, his eyes on Hammersmith, and picked up a pile of clothing from a wingback chair in the corner. He brought them to the bed and set them within Hammersmith’s reach. He stepped back and watched the man on his father’s bed as if waiting for violence, ready to run. Hammersmith picked up his trousers and slid them on under the sheet that lay across his lap. He stood up and fastened them at the front. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. When he closed his eyes, the room seemed to be rocking under his feet. He sat back down on the edge of the bed.

“Your father is always your father,” he said. “He always will be.”

He didn’t look at the boy.

“I don’t care about him,” Bradley said.

Hammersmith looked into the little boy’s big brown eyes.

“Does he hit you?”

The boy shook his head.

Hammersmith pulled his boots on over bare feet.

“Then you’ve no reason.”

He grabbed his hose and garters, stuffed them in his jacket pocket, and then stuffed himself into the jacket. He noticed now that his shirt fit better than it had and he smoothed it over his chest. It was not the same shirt he’d worn into the Shaw house. It seemed Penelope had given him one of her husband’s shirts after all.

“Where is your water closet?”

The boy pointed to a door on the far wall. Hammersmith made his unsteady way across the moving floor. Behind the door, he found a room larger than the bedroom was. A claw-foot bathtub shared space with a toilet, a washbasin, and a conversation suite, including a chesterfield and a vanity table. The Shaws had clearly followed the lead of most middle-class Londonites and converted an existing bedroom into an indoor washroom. The paintings on the walls looked to Hammersmith as if they were of a set with the valuable art in the downstairs room. A bay window overlooked a small garden and served as a light source for the room. The sun was low on the horizon. He closed the door behind him so that the boy wouldn’t follow him, and he leaned over the basin. He stuck a finger down his throat and brought up the contents of his stomach.

He emptied the bowl into the toilet and pulled the brass chain, watched the sad remains of that morning’s penny pie whirl away from him. The poison in Penelope’s tea, however much of it was left in his stomach, went with it.

He sat on the chesterfield, wiped his mouth on the sleeve of Charles Shaw’s borrowed shirt, and waited for his stomach to settle. He wondered whether the boy was still waiting outside the door. After a few minutes he stood and made his way across the room. He felt steadier on his feet.

He cracked the door open and peered out into the bedroom. It was empty. He stumbled through to the hallway and paused at the top of the
stairs, but heard nothing anywhere in the house. The boards creaked under his feet as he descended to the ground floor. The parlor was dark and cool, and he almost didn’t see Penelope Shaw sitting in the shadows of the high wingback.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

Hammersmith couldn’t see her face.

“Thank you for the shirt,” he said.

“It looks good. At least it fits you better than the one you were wearing.”

“What was it? The poison, I mean.”

“Benzene, just a drop of it, from the laundry.”

Hammersmith nodded. He had seen benzene used to remove stains from upholstery and curtains, things too cumbersome to be washed properly. He had no idea what the long-term side effects of benzene poisoning might be, but he knew that if he stayed awake and on his feet, any poison should eventually work its way through his body.

“What if I’d died? Killing a police officer wouldn’t have gone well for you.”

“It’s not lethal,” Penelope said. “At least not in small doses. My husband uses it on his patients to calm them.”

“Did he tell you to use it on me?”

She raised a finger to her mouth and bit her knuckle. “I was supposed to … I just needed to put you in my bed. Elizabeth had to help me with that part of it. Charles was going to come in and catch you there.”

“I don’t understand.”

“It would give him something, some way of controlling you. The scandal would have ruined you. You would know that and you would leave us alone. Leave him alone.”

“The boy in the chimney.”

“Charles tried to remove him, but he couldn’t. The body was stuck. Charles said we had to go. But we hadn’t the money to go far, and he didn’t know what to do then. Someone was supposed to come and remove the body while we were gone. An associate of Charles’s. But when we came back, you were waiting for us here and Charles knew that you’d been inside.”

“He might have talked to me.”

“You might have talked to him.”

Hammersmith nodded. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t give you as much benzene as he told me to. You woke early.”

“Why would you want me to wake early?”

“I don’t … I hoped you might deal with him when he arrived.”

Hammersmith walked slowly—he was still dizzy and didn’t want to stumble in front of Mrs Shaw—through the arch to the foyer and opened the front door. He paused there, unable to see Penelope.

“I will be back. Don’t leave the house. You may want to send your son away. Send him to visit relatives. It wouldn’t be good for him to see his parents taken into police custody.”

He didn’t wait to hear her response. He stepped out into the late afternoon air and took a deep breath. He closed the door behind him, vomited in Penelope Shaw’s rose garden, and made his unsteady way down the crowded street.

He didn’t notice when Charles Shaw emerged from behind a vendor’s wagon half a block behind and followed him away from the brownstone.

W
e’re missing something, aren’t we?” Kingsley said.

“We are?” Day said.

“Yes, I’m sure I’ve touched that razor. We’ll need my mark to compare.”

He unstoppered the bottle of ink and stuck his finger inside. He wiggled it around and pulled it back out, then pressed it firmly against the piece of paper. When he pulled his finger away, a wet black smudge sat next to the
other three marks on the page. There were no ridges visible in the doctor’s mark.

“Too much ink, I suppose,” Day said.

“Yes. Perhaps the bottle is too large a reservoir. In the future, it may be prudent to use some sort of ink pad instead.”

He moved his finger to the other side of the row of marks and pushed it against the paper once more without re-inking first. This time he left a clear print. He smiled at it.

“Now why didn’t I take the amount of ink into account in the first place? Let’s see the razor and the…” He trailed off.

“What is it?” Day said.

“It’s just occurred to me that there’s absolutely no reason to continue working in a storage closet. Could we possibly reconvene at your desk, Inspector?”

“That would certainly smell better. Henry appears to have left a stain in the air here. But I’m afraid my desk is completely covered with reports at the moment.”

“Then what say we find another place to work?”

Kingsley gathered up his bag, the ink bottle, and the paper with its four finger marks. Day carried the razor and the shears, and the two of them left the storage closet. As soon as they hit the relatively fresh air of the squad room, they both breathed deep.

“Oh, my, I had no idea I was becoming so accustomed to that rank atmosphere. This smells wonderful.”

“We can use Detective Gilchrist’s desk. He’s out at the moment.”

“Actually, if you don’t mind, I’d like to check in with Sir Edward. I’d like him to be aware of this process, and his office might afford us some privacy.”

Blacker rejoined them. He made no mention of the dancing man.

“I’m sure I wouldn’t bother Sir Edward,” Blacker said. “Until we have concrete results.”

“Nonsense. He’s a thinking man. He’ll appreciate this.”

“Then I will respectfully wait here,” Blacker said.

“Suit yourself. Day, are you with me?”

“I am.”

“Good man.”

“I’ll look through these files and await your good news, then,” Blacker said.

Kingsley led the way across the room and knocked on Sir Edward’s office door. After a moment, they heard the commissioner’s voice.

“Come.”

Kingsley smiled and turned the knob and Day followed him into the office. He closed the door after them. Sir Edward stood and came around his desk. He held out his hand to Kingsley. His other sleeve was folded and pinned up at shoulder height, and Day imagined Sir Edward’s wife ironing that sleeve so that it would lie flat against his side.

“Doctor. It’s good to see you again so soon.” He turned and nodded at Day. “Detective,” he said. “Making progress?”

“Dr Kingsley has made an interesting discovery.”

“I’d like to show you something,” Kingsley said, “which I think might make the process of criminal identification much easier in the future.”

“By all means.”

Sir Edward gestured toward his desk, which was far neater and more organized than Day’s own. Kingsley set his bag on the desk and opened it. He laid the piece of foolscap in the center of Sir Edward’s blotter and held out his hand to Day, who gave over the razor. Kingsley set that down nearer to the three men than the paper and then took the shears from Day as well. He picked up the ink bottle and handed it to Day.

“I believe that’s yours. Thank you for the use of it. May I trouble you now for a pen?”

Sir Edward took a pen from his top desk drawer and handed it to Kingsley. Kingsley nodded at the ink bottle and Day opened it. Kingsley jabbed the pen into the ink and leaned over the desk.

“I should have labeled these immediately, but I believe I remember the order of them.”

He scratched a name under each of the four useful marks on the paper:
Day
,
Blacker
,
Mayhew
, and finally his own name.

“Who’s Mayhew?” Day said.

“Isn’t that the name of the unfortunate man from the storage closet?”

“He said his name was Henry.”

“Yes, Henry Mayhew.”

“He never gave a family name, only Henry.”

“Well, for some reason, the name
Mayhew
sticks in my mind. Regardless of whether it’s correct, we shall know that it stands here for that same man.”

Day nodded and indicated that Kingsley should continue.

“Now, Sir Edward,” Kingsley said, “as I showed your detectives yesterday, each and every citizen has a pattern on the skin that is different from that of anyone else in the city.”

“Do you mean skin coloring? Brown and white and freckled and so on?”

“No, sir, a pattern of ridges. Look carefully at your fingertips.”

Sir Edward held his hand up to the light and stared at his fingers. “You mean the wrinkles here at the knuckle?”

“Even smaller. If you’ll look at this piece of paper, you’ll see that the application of ink brings the patterns out and records them for future comparison. Here we have finger marks made by two of your detectives, a street person, and myself. None of them are exactly the same. There are minute differences in them all. And if you were to record this same sort of mark from the tip of the thumb or finger of everyone for miles around, none of them would match exactly.”

“That’s impossible. A fingertip is too small. Eventually you would come across an exact likeness.”

“It would seem so, but I believe this is one of nature’s many little miracles. Now, as fascinating as this is in theory, I’m about to put it into practice.”

He reached into his open bag and removed a brightly decorated tin that had once held snuff, but when Kingsley opened it Day could see a quantity of black powder inside.

“You’ve already shaved the charcoal,” Day said.

Kingsley smiled. “By keeping a certain amount of charcoal dust prepared and ready, I believe I might save time in the future. Now let’s see what evidence we can find on these two instruments of murder.”

He tapped a small amount of dust out onto his hand and blew it across the surface of the shears, then did the same with the straight razor. He picked them up, one at a time, and shook off the excess dust, then set them next to the paper and got his magnifying lens from the bag. He peered through it at the razor, moved over to the shears, back to the razor.

“Here,” he said. “And here. You see?”

He turned around and pushed the lens into Day’s hands. Day bent over the weapons and looked at the magnified marks. He played the lens over the paper and then back to the shears.

“Remarkable,” he said. “Unless I’m mistaken, I see Mr Blacker’s prints on these scissors. These, right here, may be yours. But there are more that don’t match any on the paper.”

“Those are undoubtedly the marks of Inspector Little’s killer,” Kingsley said.

“You don’t say,” Sir Edward said. “May I?”

Sir Edward bent over the items on his blotter and spent several minutes looking through the lens before straightening back up. He was frowning.

“I see it. I do see it. Mr Day, you’ve handled this razor, as has the good doctor and, it would seem, Mr Blacker. This other mark, this Mayhew fellow, his marks aren’t visible on the razor. At least not to my eyes, but perhaps Dr Kingsley has a more well-trained ability of perception. These shears, on the other hand, have all four sets of markings, and at least three other patterns.”

“Yes,” Kingsley said. “Very observant, sir. I’m going to assume that at least one of the sets of prints on the razor belong to the victim, since we’re going on the theory that his own razor was used to shave and kill him, but I won’t know until I have a chance to retrieve finger marks from the body in my laboratory and compare them.”

“Grisly work, that.”

“Simply a part of the job, sir. A new part of the job. I believe I’ll institute this step in all future examinations. It might even be possible to build some sort of repository of finger marks to compare against.”

“That sounds dreadfully tedious.”

“But if a suspect were to be winnowed out by other methods, then this sort of evidence might prove the clincher, mightn’t it?” Day said.