The Yard (37 page)

“I doubt he felt it. He was probably already gone by the time the sewing started.”

Hammersmith was silent so long that Day finally looked over at him. Hammersmith was gazing at the rectangle of flattened grass.

“Where’s the body now?” he said. “Where’s the trunk?”

“Kingsley’s got him at the laboratory.”

“When he’s done, Colin will want a new uniform. He wouldn’t want to be in something wasn’t clean and fresh.”

“I’m sure that will be arranged.”

“Do you have a lead?”

“There was a little girl playing by the water who said her friend’s father deposited the trunk here.”

“Her friend’s father.”

“I know. It’s a slim clue, but there were no other witnesses.”

“So there’s nothing else?”

“We’re working it. Kingsley thinks his finger patterns will narrow the suspects down for us.”

“You said it happened yesterday.”

“I think so.”

“He was awfully tired yesterday. Colin was. Up all night on a case.”

“None of us have slept much these last few days.”

“No. But if I hadn’t pushed him so hard … And on a thing that … on a case that nobody wanted me working, anyway. He did it, though, he came along and he helped and he was tired and probably distracted.”

“You didn’t kill him.”

“But I didn’t help him. I wasn’t there when he finally needed me. He was always there when—”

Hammersmith’s voice broke and Day looked away into the trees and pretended not to notice the constable’s grief. There was no sense in embarrassing the man.

They stood like that for a long time, and then Hammersmith took a deep rattling breath, and when he spoke his voice was soft and low. There was something deadly behind his words.

“We’ll get him.”

“We will,” Day said.

“Do you think Kingsley’s still up and about?”

“I imagine he’s worked through the night on this. One murdered police is a disaster, two police is a war.”

“Then let’s get to his lab. If there’s news, if he finds something, I want to know about it immediately.”

“You should get some rest, so as to be ready when there
is
news.”

“I’ve had some rest.”

“Then we’ll go.”

The two of them headed up the footpath to where a fleet of wagons waited at the street. Behind them, the lanterns of the police bobbed like fireflies over the park’s tainted meadow.

K
ingsley slid one of the jacket sleeves down Pringle’s left arm and dropped the empty sleeve in a bin. He did the same with the left shirtsleeve. He set the bare arm on the table next to the constable’s body and used a long metal skewer to pin it in place against the left shoulder. He dipped a rag into a basin of cold water and washed Pringle’s torso, dipping the rag in the basin again and again. The water in the basin turned pink, then red, then black, and Kingsley dumped it out, refilled it. Bits of blue and white thread from his uniform had been embedded in the constable’s skin by the force of the murder weapon. Kingsley bent over the body with tweezers and pulled out each thread.

He stepped back and bent his head, first to one side then the other until his neck popped, then went back to work separating the man from his uniform.

“Father?”

Kingsley turned and blocked his daughter’s view. “I don’t need you for this yet,” he said.

“You don’t need to hide it from me. I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen similar horrors, but you needn’t see everything that comes through here.”

“Is it another policeman?”

“Why would you guess that?”

Fiona pointed to the shredded jacket on a nearby table and Kingsley nodded.

“Yes, it’s another policeman.”

Fiona’s hair was mussed and her nightshirt was too short. Her ankles showed beneath the hem.
She’s still growing,
Kingsley thought.
Still a little girl
.

“Let me get my sketch pad,” she said.

“I’ll sketch this one.”

“You can’t draw, Father.”

“True, you’re much more skilled than I am with the charcoal, but I can still mark out the positions of these injuries.”

“Not as well as I can.”

“Have I done the wrong thing, Fiona?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the horrors you’ve seen, all the death and murder and evil. I recently met a man named Henry who was driven mad by it all, and I’m…”

He couldn’t think how to phrase the doubts he had. The same doubts that had been with him since he’d first decided to include his daughter in his work.

“Death is there whether I see it or not, isn’t it?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Then I’d rather see it and know it. I’d rather not be ignorant of it.”

“But I think you’re
supposed
to be ignorant of it. I think your mother would have kept it from you.”

Fiona nodded.

“I could have sent you to school with your sister,” Kingsley said.

“I didn’t want to go.”

“I know.”

She stood there in the doorway until he relented.

“Get your tablet,” he said. “I’m a tired old man and this city seems to get worse every day.”

“I like this city, Father. And you shouldn’t worry so. For all the bad we see, you’ve shown me how to look for the good.”

There was the faint sound of a bell and Kingsley snapped to attention. They had early visitors.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now go put on a proper dress. That will be the police, come to see their friend.”

I
’ve brought tarts,” Blacker said.

He came through the railing and into the murder room, holding a brown paper parcel done up with string. Day looked up from his report. Blacker set the parcel on Day’s desk and unwrapped it. A dozen tarts lay on the grease-soaked paper.

“I missed breakfast and thought the same might be true of you,” Blacker said.

Day smiled his thanks and went back to the report he was writing. Hammersmith didn’t look up from his own paperwork or acknowledge Blacker in any way. Blacker shrugged and bit into a tart. Inspector Oliver Boring wandered over from his own desk. He was a large man and moved like a horse with an overburdened cart.

“Are those for all of us or just for you and Day?” he said.

“Anyone, I suppose.”

“Fantastic. Many thanks, Blacker.”

“Don’t mention it. These two haven’t.”

Boring took a tart and returned to his desk, passing Sergeant Kett along the way. Kett stopped at Day’s desk and folded his hands in front of him.

“Don’t mean to interrupt, Inspector,” he said. “It’s nothing important.”

Day looked up again and set his pen down. “What’s that?”

“All the excitement, I forgot to mention you had visitors yesterday. While you were out, I mean. Your wife was one.”

“I never had a chance to speak with her last night. She was asleep by the time I got home. And I was hardly there long enough to change clothes. I’ll have to look in on her today.”

“And the tailor dropped by. The supplier we use for uniforms and the like. Seems to want to help with your investigation.”

“Good of him. Perhaps we’ll drop by and get his opinion, then. Is he reliable?”

“Odd bloke, but friendly enough.”

“This the strange bald fellow we’re talking about?” Blacker said.

“He’s the one,” Kett said.

“Rubs me the wrong way.”

“Still, good of him to offer his assistance,” Day said. “We meant to talk with him yesterday, but it slipped my mind in the excitement. Thank you, Sergeant.”

Kett nodded and left by the gate. His shoulders were slumped and the life appeared to have gone out of him.

“Poor Kett,” Day said. “I think he feels like a father to some of them here. Pringle’s death has hit him hard.”

“Any word from Kingsley’s laboratory about that?” Blacker said.

“We’ve only just come from there. We were with him all morning. There’s very little to report, but we do have a few promising leads. There’s the witness, of course, the little girl in the park. We’ve determined her identity, but we don’t expect much from her.”

“Is that all we’ve got?”

“No. Kingsley found a multitude of clues on the body. There’s the thread used to sew poor Pringle’s mouth and eyes shut. It matches exactly the thread used on Little. So we’re dealing with someone who has a fair supply of thread at hand.”

“I suppose that narrows things down a bit. But not much.”

“It’s something. Particularly since we’re assuming a man did this. We’re not going to be looking for a seamstress or a homemaker here. It also appears, from the force and depth of the blows, that the killer worked
in a sort of frenzy. It’s likely he took Pringle by surprise the same way he did Little. Both police probably knew their murderer well enough to trust him.”

“Well, we have Hammersmith here to help us narrow down that list.”

Hammersmith finally looked up at Blacker. “That’s what I’m doing now, sir. Writing up my impression of Constable Pringle’s daily routine and acquaintances.”

“There’s also the matter of the finger marks,” Day said.

“Finger marks,” Blacker said. He rolled his eyes.

“I know your feelings on that matter,” Day said. “Nevertheless, the doctor feels they may be helpful, and Sir Edward himself concurs.”

“He doesn’t.”

“But he does.”

“I’m astonished. He’s such a reasonable sort.”

“Kingsley kept the trunk from Little’s murder and is comparing the two. He’s been keeping a shed full of evidence from previous cases that he thinks might be revisited one day. He suggested that we do the same here.”

“Why would we keep old evidence?”

“I think it’s a good idea. In a case like this, evidence from one murder may reflect on a later case.”

“It would accumulate until it toppled and crushed us.”

“It would require a lot of space.”

“Not to digress, but speaking of valuable space and the scarcity of it, we need to take up the matter of your dancing gentleman. He’s spent the night in our cell and we’re going to have to decide soon what to do with him.”

“I know it.”

“Fair enough. He’ll keep for the moment. So then Pringle’s murder…”

“Right. Finger marks on Little’s trunk, on Pringle’s trunk, and on the shears found by the dancing man, all the same. There’s another, unidentified set of markings that belong to someone else. Those are on both of the trunks and may be those of an accomplice. Someone probably helped carry the trunks, which would have been too heavy for one man. Marks matching
those of the possible accomplice weren’t found on the shears. So the markings found only on the shears have to be those of the killer.”

“I’ll begin rounding up every person in the city so we can match those markings against everyone’s fingertips.”

“You’re sarcastic, but I really think we’ll be able to match them up if we find someone we like for these murders.”

“Won’t ever hold up in front of a magistrate.”

“No, but it may help to focus us on the right suspect.”

“Perhaps. I’m willing to budge on that a bit, but I’m still not completely convinced.”

Day shrugged.

“Well, at any rate, it seems Kingsley did a fine job for us,” Blacker said.

“There was one more thing. He found something else when he brushed Pringle’s trousers.”

“He brushed the man’s trousers?”

“He did. And he found long white hairs. A good many of them.”

“We’re looking for an old man?”

“Animal hairs, not human. He thinks a cat.”

“Did Pringle own a cat?”

“No,” Hammersmith said. “He disliked cats.”

“That seems like a far more promising clue than your finger marks.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Oliver Boring said.

His voice carried throughout the squad room. He was standing by the railing, talking over the top of it with a group of constables who seemed quite animated about something. Day looked over at the fat detective and then back at Blacker. Whatever Boring was up to, it was none of their business.

“What?” Blacker said. “Oh, right. So if Pringle disliked cats, then the hairs didn’t come from his own home, and it’s unlikely he stopped to pet a stray.”

“Right.”

“So the cat might have been at the scene of the offense and might have brushed against him after he died.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Then we’re looking for an acquaintance of both Little and Pringle, someone who owned a white cat. Were cat hairs found on Little’s clothing?”

“The doctor allows for that possibility, but he says Little’s hygiene was such that he might not have noticed animal hair.”

“Well, we can’t rule it out, then. This feels good, doesn’t it? It’s not a sure bet, but it feels right, like we’ve got a chance at catching this blighter.”

“I think there’s reason to hope,” Day said.

“Oh, we will catch him,” Hammersmith said. He was staring across the room at the jackets hanging on the far wall. Day couldn’t see his face. “This one won’t go unsolved.”

“Of course it won’t, old man. Of course.”

Oliver Boring ambled over from the railing and stood in front of the tarts on the desk.

“Have another tart,” Blacker said.

“Thank you,” Boring said. “These men being offed in their water closets—that’s already on one of you lot, ain’t it?”

“The Beard Killer,” Blacker said. “You’re talking about the bloody Beard Killer. That’s my case.”

“You’re welcome to it. I don’t want it nohow.”

“Well, what about it?”

“’Nother one of ’em found. Some doctor from up the East End’s been shaved and left for dead in an empty flat. Thing of it is, they didn’t quite finish the job on him.”

“Where is he?”

“In hospital now. Can’t talk. Throat’s slit wide open and they’re stitching it up. But it seems he can still write if you want to drop round and chat him up about it. Name’s Charles Shaw.”

C
inderhouse sat at the edge of the bed and watched the boy sleep. The sun shone through the freshly mortared bars in the window and cast a long grey grid across the bed and up the opposite wall. Finally the boy tried to stir. He opened his eyes when he found he couldn’t move.