The Yard (35 page)

“Have you a disagreement with Sir Edward?” Claire said.

“I preferred Commissioner Warren,” Tiffany said. “He let us do our jobs and kept his nose out of it.”

“I see.”

“But that’s hardly your concern, is it, Mrs Day? Let’s hear about your suspicious character.”

He picked up a pen from his desk and toyed with it, as if prepared to write down what she said, but he leaned back in his chair, away from his desk. She could see that, despite his pretense, he had no intention of writing anything down or pursuing anything she might have to say to him. She was nothing but a diversion for him.

Still, she needed to tell someone.

“I had a man come round the house earlier today,” she said. “He presented himself as a detective and told me that he worked closely with Walter. But Mr Jones has just confirmed for me that there is no such person here at the Yard. I’m worried that Walter may be in some danger from this man.”

“It sounds to me as if you’re the one in danger.”

“He didn’t threaten me or make any move toward me at all. In fact, he acted the perfect gentleman.”

Tiffany sat back in his chair and tossed the pen on his desk. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you? I suspect you’ve just let nerves get to you. Happens to women all the time. Go home, have a rest, and you’ll be right again in no time.”

“But what could his purpose have been? He seemed to want information from me regarding one of Walter’s cases.”

“And did you give him information?”

“Well, no, of course not. I don’t even know about Walter’s cases.”

“Good. This sort of work isn’t anything a woman need trouble herself with. Your husband’s done the right thing by keeping you well out of his business.”

Claire wasn’t sure she wanted Inspector Tiffany to approve of her
husband. Walter and Tiffany were different men entirely, and Claire was glad of it.

“Are you married, Mr Tiffany?”

“I hardly see how—”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Thank you, Mrs Day. I believe we’re done here.”

“One more thing, please. That pen you’re using is one of Walter’s, isn’t it?”

“Why, yes, I think it is.”

“I know because I gave it to him. I suppose he shared it with you?”

“Mine wasn’t working.”

“That’s right. Thank you, Mr Tiffany. I’ll show myself out.”

She stood and left by the back hall, stopping just long enough to thank the kind constable for his time and trouble. Claire resolved to tell Walter about her strange visitor as soon as she saw him. He would listen to her. He had always listened to her.

The world was full of men like James Tiffany. There was only one Walter Day.

S
omewhere in the dark house, Saucy Jack called out to him.

“I won’t hurt you,” Jack said. “Come out and watch me play.”

Hammersmith remained quiet. He was in a drawing room with no lamps, but he could see dust motes floating through the air around him, backlit by the blue light of a picture window. The furniture was covered with white sheets, but the sheets were stained brown and red, spattered with the blood of Jack’s victims, who lounged about, blocking Hammersmith’s exit.

There was Annie Chapman, sitting on a Prince of Wales chair, her uterus in her lap. She smiled at Hammersmith. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were together, leaning against the empty fireplace, talking in hushed tones. Stride raised a hand in greeting and her throat opened with the effort, fresh blood pouring out and over the front of her party dress. Mary Kelly relaxed on the daybed. Her heart beat slowly next to her. Mary Ann Nichols stood at the window, and Hammersmith noticed for the first time that it was snowing outside the room. Mary held a finger to her lips, hushing him, and Hammersmith realized the snowflakes were actually grey ash drifting past the window.

The Ripper had been busy. Saucy Jack had not stopped with those five women. Or started with them. Jack was London itself and London had always been a killer.

Eight-year-old Johnny Gill played with a tin train set beside the divan. He grinned at Hammersmith and a thin smear of blood slid across his teeth. The train continued round its track and Johnny’s attention returned to it. Elizabeth Jackson sat by Johnny, brushing her hair, one hundred strokes before bed every night. She turned her decapitated head this way and that in her lap, blindly moving the brush, her shy face tucked away in the crook of an elbow.

The drawing room door was closed and the key was in the lock. Hammersmith could see it from where he stood. The key moved as someone worked the handle. Then a great fist struck the door and Jack’s voice echoed through the hall outside.

“You’re too small, Nevil,” Jack said. “I’m everywhere and I always find my little boys and girls. You can’t hide from me.”

Hammersmith looked down at his body and saw that he was a child again. He was almost five, and he was still smaller than most four-year-olds.

Elizabeth Jackson picked up her head and stood. Her face peered out from under her arm and a single eye focused on Nevil. It winked.

Nevil grabbed the white sheet from the divan and threw it over his head. Under the sheet, the air was thick and the darkness was complete and Nevil
felt safe. If the door broke down and the Ripper came in, he would tramp right past the sheet-clad boy and he would never ever find him. Jack would only see another ghost.

He was blind, but he could still hear as, across the room, the key fell out of the lock and clattered to the floor. Hinges creaked as the door opened and deliberate footsteps thumped across the floorboards and over the rug and stopped in front of the police boy under the cloth.

Jack’s lips pressed against the other side of the sheet, and Nevil felt the Ripper’s breath, hot and moist against his cheek. A kiss.

“Thank you, Nevil,” Jack said. “I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

The lips drew away and Nevil heard the Ripper’s footsteps retreat, and the room must have grown because the footsteps went on and on.

Nevil closed his eyes—there was no change in the quality of darkness—and he wished that the footsteps would stop, that Jack would reach the door and leave, but the sound of the killer continued, pounding against the floor, pounding.

He awoke in a sweat, his bedsheet tangled about his throat. His room was nearly as dark as the dream had been. He could still hear the distant pounding.

“Hammersmith,” someone said.

The voice was faint, coming through the hall door. Someone was out there knocking.

“Are you in there? Answer the door, man, or I’ll break it down.”

Hammersmith sat up and stumbled out of his bedroom to the front door. He threw the latch and opened the door and Sergeant Kett blinked at him, his arm raised to knock again. Hammersmith’s landlady, Mrs Flanders, was behind the sergeant. Beside her, Inspectors Day and Blacker stood with their hats in their hands.

“I couldn’t find the key, Mr Hammersmith,” Mrs Flanders said. “I’ve told you not to lock the door.”

Hammersmith said nothing. He stared at the old lady and the three police, and he tried to remember why he had felt so safe with a sheet over his head.

“I’m sorry, lad,” Kett said. “We was worried perhaps you’d been done in, too.”

Hammersmith shook his head. He didn’t step back from the door, didn’t make way for anyone to enter the flat. Day and Blacker appeared uncomfortable, and Kett was red in the cheeks.

“He’s dead, lad. Little’s killer done him.”

Hammersmith found his voice. “What time is it?”

“It’s not late,” Blacker said. “Did we wake you?”

“No,” Hammersmith said. “Of course not. Who’s died?”

But somehow he already knew.

DAY THREE

F
ORTY-ONE HOURS SINCE THE DISCOVERY OF
M
R
L
ITTLE
.

T
he sun was beginning to rise, but its rays had not yet reached the alley where Sam Pizer waited. He mashed the lit end of his cigar between his thumb and forefinger and put it in his pocket to enjoy again later. The rattle of wheels on stone grew louder, echoing up and down the alley, then slowed and stopped.

Pizer leaned against the alley wall and waited. After a long moment, a voice came from atop the hansom cab.

“You the sweep?”

Pizer spat on the stones and nodded, realized the coachman couldn’t see him in the shadows, and cleared his throat.

“Aye, I does chimneys.”

“Heard you was in the market for a climber.”

“Where’d you hear it?”

“Round and about.”

“Maybe I is and maybe I ain’t.”

“Well, make up your mind about it.”

“I’ll think on it while you climb down here so’s I can see you ain’t got a pistol aimed at me bean.”

The coachman grunted. “I ain’t got a pistol on you.”

“How do I know it?”

“I’m tellin’ you.”

“Your word, eh?”

“Aye, my word.”

“Don’t mean nothin’ if I don’t know your name even.”

Another grunt and then, after an extended silence, Pizer heard the other man shift his weight. The coachman’s cloak rustled as he swung out onto the side of the cab and hopped down with a clatter of boot heels to the alley floor. He stepped forward, his hands held out to show they were empty. The coachman’s face was hidden in the murk.

“Have a cigarette?” Pizer said.

The coachman hesitated, then reached into his cloak, pulled a dull silver case from the blackness, and opened it. Pizer took a cigarette and waited for a light, the stub of his old cigar heavy in his breast pocket. In the flare of the match, he caught sight of a prominent nose, ungroomed muttonchops, and a high hat before the orange flame sputtered and the two men were once again swallowed in shadow.

“Thanks,” Pizer said.

“So is you?” the coachman said.

“What, in the market for help? Might be.”

“What’re you payin’?”

“Tell me … you know a fella name of Blackleg?”

“Blackleg? Ain’t heard of him.”

“You sure?”

“Sure I’m sure. Who’s he to you?”

“Just heard he’s been nosin’ round about me.”

“That might be why you’re such a hard man to find?”

“You found me.”

“Took some work, though, I’ll tell ya.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t wanna be found by this fella Blackleg. And neither do you. I heard stories.”

“Why’s he want you?”

“Got no notion and don’t wanna find out.”

The coachman said nothing. Pizer took a drag of the cigarette. He blew the smoke up and watched it shimmer away.

“So you gots a climber for me, then?” he said.

“Might have.”

“You the child’s parent?”

“No. I work for a gentleman who done recently acquired a boy what ain’t his.”

“Ah, and he’s ready to dispose of the kid, that it?”

“Wrong again. He’ll keep this one for a good while, I’m guessin’.”

“Then what?”

“I get paid to procure them poor wee children for the gentleman.”

“So you sell the boy to me for my climber and then you get another payday when you replaces ’im.”

“Could be.”

Pizer nodded even though he knew the other man couldn’t see him. At least this made sense. He understood the coachman’s motives here, which made him trustworthy as far as this particular arrangement went. The coachman was entirely motivated by profit. He made money by locating and helping to procure a child for his employer. Eventually, the coachman would make sure the child disappeared. His employer would pay him to help look for the child. And then he would pay him again to help find a new child. And the cycle would repeat.

Whatever money he could chisel from Pizer in the process was nothing but gravy, and that gave Pizer the upper hand in this negotiation.

“How big is he? The kid?”

“Smallish, I’d say. Maybe half the size of a man and big around as my leg. Skinny thing, he is.”

“Hmm. What’ya want for him, then?”

“Ten quid’ll do it.”

Pizer snorted. “Ain’t worth ten. I’ll find me own climber.”

“You will, eh? You’ll do that while you’re hidin’ from this Blackleg fellow? You’ll rummage about the neighborhood for a child to snatch? Take a young person from the bosom of his family and none the wiser?”

“I get around all right.”

“Good night, then.”

Pizer heard the coachman’s cloak rustling again as he turned away.

“Wait. I gives ya two and eleven.”

“You’ll give me five.”

“I’ll gives ya two an’ eleven.”

“You need this boy or you don’t work.”

“But you need to get loose of the boy more ’n I need ’im.”

“An’ how’s that?”

“You got another kid lined up already, don’t ya? Don’t bother to say no. You got another kid, but ya can’t put the finger on ’im till you shake loose the one you already got. You could kill the kid you got already, but that might cause you some problems. You need a patsy, and that’s where I comes in.”

“You’re not a—”

“No, you don’t got to pretend anything ain’t what it is. I got no problem bein’ the patsy in this here case, long as you don’t bring the law round.”

“I wouldn’t.”

“’Course you wouldn’t. Too much to answer fer yerself.”