The Yard (45 page)

W
asn’t him.”

“Was too him. Saw him clear as day.”

“It’s not clear as day, though, is it? Can’t see yer nose in front a yer face in this rain.”

“Still, I know it was him.”

“Him wears a uniform like the other bobbies. This’un had a suit.”

“It was a uniform.”

Liza led the way down the steps to the sunken garden below ground level. She reached out her hand to steady Esme.

“Slippery here,” she said. “Watcher step.”

At the bottom of the steps, Esme knelt in damp cedar mulch and peered into the brownstone through a tiny window. The room inside was dark. She reached out and pushed on the glass and the window swung up and open.

“Lucky us they don’t lock it.”

“Looks broken.”

“Why ain’t it fixed, then? Ought to afford it, a doctor like he was.”

“Well, it’s just her alone now. Somebody done kilt her husband, so who’s to fix the broken window?”

Esme smiled. She took her friend by the wrists and lowered her over the sill, then hiked up her skirt and swung a leg into the house. She dropped down beside Liza and put a finger to her lips. They both listened, staring at the gloom. Nobody came. Nobody had heard.

They helped each other to their feet and brushed the wet wood chips from their clothes and wrung water from their skirts, letting it pool on the floor.

“They’re up there,” Liza said. “Hear ’em?”

“Hush,” Esme said.

But she could hear footsteps on the floor above. She smiled, and when she spoke her voice was barely audible.

“I suppose we’ll find out if it’s Hammersmith up there or not.”

“Either way,” Liza said.

She withdrew a straight razor from somewhere in the folds of her skirt. The women held hands and closed their eyes in silent prayer. When they were ready, they approached the staircase on the far wall and started up, still holding hands in the dark.

I
nspector Day stood outside the forbidding brass gates and looked up at the workhouse on the hill. Many of the city’s workhouses were welcoming places where destitute members of the populace could get a simple meal and a berth for the night. In return they were required to work three hours grinding corn or performing some other menial, and largely meaningless, task.

But Hobgate was for those who were determined to be vagrants, unable or unwilling to work and possibly violent. In Lambeth, South London, it was just a step away from the asylum for the poor and mentally crippled, and it resembled a prison more than it did a shelter.

A guard unlocked the gate and swung it open for Day. He held a black umbrella and moved it over Day’s head while they talked. Fat raindrops smacked against the waxed canvas above them, and Day had to raise his voice to be heard.

“I’m with the Yard,” Day said.

“Pardon?”

“The Yard. I’m a detective with the Yard.”

“Aye, what can we do for you today, sir?”

“I’m looking for someone brought in yesterday.”

“Man or woman?”

“Man.”

“Then he’d be in the men’s ward. We don’t separate ’em out as to how they come, so he’d be mixed in with those what come in on their own.”

“Are there many of those?”

The guard chuckled. “Well, not too many, no. Could be this is the same fellow the doctor’s looking for as well?”

“Doctor?”

“Aye, sir. You’ve barely missed him. Come looking for someone not five minutes before you did.”

“I doubt that we’re here for the same reason. The man I’m looking for likes to perform. He dances. Have you seen him?”

“Can’t say as I have, but I’m out here on the entrance. Might ask inside. Just follow the path up the hill and you’ll find someone at the main building. Men’s ward’s on the first floor. Women and children are upstairs.”

“Thank you.”

“Might think to keep your stick handy. Sometimes they get out of line.”

“You hit them?”

The guard looked away. “Only if they need it, sir.”

Day didn’t know how to respond. He was appalled by the thought that the homeless in Hobgate might be abused, but he had no experience with the workhouse and no idea how dangerous the people here might be. Perhaps it was the guards who feared abuse.

He nodded at the guard and set off up the hill. The path twisted and the workhouse disappeared in the fog. The rain was coming down harder now, and Day silently cursed himself for forgetting his own umbrella. The path was lined with small yew trees, all stripped of leaves and bark. Day wondered whether the trees had fallen victim to disease or to the Hobgate inmates. Ahead, the main building hove into view again, a dark stone block against the grey sky. There were no windows in its walls, only a huge oak door wrapped in iron bands.

Another guard was posted outside the door. He was talking to someone as Day approached. The second man had his back to Day and was holding a small black bag in one hand. Both men turned to look at Day.

“Dr Kingsley?” Day said.

“Detective!”

Kingsley seemed relieved to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Day said.

“I suspect I’m here for the same reason you are.”

“The dancing man?”

“Henry Mayhew, yes.”

“I’d like to get him out of here, if I can.”

“As would I.”

“Well, between the two of us…” Day grinned. He couldn’t help himself. In the wagon on the way to the workhouse, he’d wondered if he was doing the right thing, if sending a vagrant back to the streets ran counter to his responsibilities as a police. But if Kingsley had also made the trip to Hobgate, there must be some logical merit to the idea of letting Henry Mayhew live his life as he pleased.

“I didn’t relish the thought of entering this place alone,” Kingsley said.
“I was trying to persuade this gentleman to accompany me inside when you arrived.”

He gestured toward the guard, who raised his umbrella and tipped his hat.

“Against regulations to leave my post here, sir, unless there’s a ruckus inside. Otherwise, I’d be proud to help.”

“I understand. Now that the detective is here, I think we’ll be fine.”

“Good luck then.”

The guard gave them a look that made Day nervous, then slid back a bolt on the door and opened it. He reached into a small antechamber just inside the open door and came out with two lanterns. He lit them from his cigarette and handed one to each of them.

“You’ll need these in there,” he said.

Then the guard stood aside and let the two men move past him into the gloom of Hobgate.

The ground floor of the workhouse was one huge room, partitioned off into smaller chambers. The walls on both sides of the makeshift center hallway had been hastily thrown up and were rough, so close that splinters snagged at the sleeves of their overcoats. Day inhaled through his mouth to avoid the odors of human waste and body odor. Every six feet there was a hole cut in each wall. A doorway without a door, so small that a grown man would have to crawl through it.

Day and Kingsley divided the hall, each of them taking a side, and stooped to peer into each room that they passed. The lantern light cast long moving shadows, but there was little else to see inside the chambers. They were all identical, two long platforms fastened to the walls and covered with straw, a walkway between them that ended at a second door-hole. Each platform was deep enough to sleep three men, and the snores echoing throughout the hall were evidence that Hobgate had few vacancies. At the far end of each room was a chamber pot. A single sniff was enough to confirm that the pots were rarely emptied.

“This is inhumane,” Day said.

“Hardly unique in this city,” Kingsley said.

“What do you mean?”

“London is growing too fast for the poor and the dead, the children or the simpleminded to keep up. There is no place for any of them.”

“I hope that’s not true.”

“You know that it is.”

Day sighed and changed the subject. “I don’t know how we’re going to find him in this labyrinth. There’s no rhyme or reason to anything here. Men are stacked like cordwood.”

“Let’s try this, then,” Kingsley said.

He set his lantern on the floor, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted: “Henry Mayhew! Come out, Henry Mayhew!”

“I don’t think he’ll respond to that,” Day said. “He’s quite timid.”

“Have you another idea?”

Day raised his eyebrows. “I might,” he said. “Or at least an addition to your own idea.”

Several heads had poked out from the holes along the walls. Men peered down the dark hall at them. Day didn’t like the looks of most of them. He stuck out his chin and shouted.

“Henry Mayhew, your brother has sent us! We’re here on Frank’s behalf! Henry, Frank wants you to come out!”

More faces appeared along the length of the hall. From somewhere ahead, a place deep in the shadows, a rhythmic thumping began as something heavy moved toward them. Kingsley leaned close and whispered, “Do you have your pistol on you, Detective?”

“I do.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I’ve never used it except to practice.”

“That’s not particularly comforting.”

Day put his hand on the grip of his pistol but didn’t draw it. Kingsley raised his lantern and both men braced themselves as the thumping drew closer. The heads along the passageway swiveled and disappeared back
inside their chambers. Finally a figure emerged from the darkness at the end of the hall and moved slowly forward. The swinging lantern created multiple shadows, and Day pulled his gun partially from his belt.

“Where’s Frank?”

“Is that Henry there?” Kingsley said. “Are you Henry Mayhew?”

The dancing man moved into the circle of light cast by Kingsley’s lantern and his shadows joined him, pooling at his feet. Without the shadows’ imaginary bulk behind him, there was nothing intimidating about Henry Mayhew. If anything, he had shrunken in on himself over the course of the night.

“Where’s Frank?” he said again.

“Frank couldn’t come to see you today,” Day said. “He sent us in his stead.”

“You gonna keep me safe from the messenger?”

“The messenger?”

“The messenger of the city. The one what left the scissors for you. He’s here to kill me now.”

“Nobody wants to kill you, Henry.”

“The messenger does.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“He looks mad and he scares me.”

“Have you seen him again?” Day said.

“Aye.”

“Where?”

“Behind you.”

The dancing man pointed. Day turned, his lantern swinging wildly in the small space. The yellow light sent shadows looping and veering about the narrow hall, black doors like mouths in the dark. A shadow separated from the others and spun away, taking shape as a man in a dark suit and a tall black hat.

The man raised his hand and lantern light glittered off a pair of shears.

T
he notice in the
Times
was clear and to the point. An elderly couple had lost their chimney sweep and needed someone new for the job. Interested parties were to enquire at the couples’ flat.

Sam Pizer couldn’t read letters, but he could read numbers, and the bartender’s daughter at the Whistle and Flute had read the advertisement aloud to Sam. Now he double-checked the address against the numbers on the curb.

Lord only knew he needed the money that the job could bring. He had offered the coachman two and eleven for a new climber, but he didn’t have it. And everything would be much harder if the police kept coming round to harass him. It might be impossible to find a new boy on his own, which made his connection with the coachman his only real hope.

He hoisted his bucket of brooms and rags and rang the bell next to a confectioner’s shop. He heard a shuffling noise and then the door cracked open and a sliver of an old woman’s face appeared there.

“What is it you want?” she said.

Sam tipped his hat and smiled. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Your notice said to come round about now.”

“Notice?”

“For a sweep? In the
Times
?”

“Didn’t put a notice in. Must’ve been Mr Hammersmith.”

“Your husband, ma’am?”

The old woman blushed and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my, no. He’s a tenant.”

“I see. May I come in?”

She stepped aside, but didn’t open the door all the way. He had to walk in sideways in order to get the bucket of tools past her. Looking around, he found himself in a small foyer with a dark staircase ahead.

“Just upstairs?” he said.

“Yes.” She peered at him and stuck a finger up in the air. “I know who you are.”

“You do?”

“You’re no sweep at all, are you?”

“But I am, ma’am.”

She winked at him. “You look like a sweep would look, but there’s something not quite right, I think. But never you mind. Your secret’s safe with me…” She paused and leaned forward, looked over her shoulder at the empty hall behind them, and whispered, “… Officer.”

Sam blinked at her, but said nothing. He’d encountered his fair share of dotty old bats in his time.

“Head on up. It’s there at the end of the hall. The second flat. He’s waiting for you.”

Sam nodded and hoisted his bucket, getting a better grip. He started up the staircase and turned back when the old lady hissed at him.

“Never mind what I said before,” she said. “You’re quite convincing.”

Sam shook his head and trudged up the remaining stairs to the top. The old lady followed him and broke off to scurry into a flat. Sam moved on to the door at the far end of the hall and rapped lightly on the jamb.

“Come in,” a man’s voice said.

Sam Pizer used his free hand to turn the knob and stepped inside the flat. He closed the door behind him.

T
he coachman pried open a window and let himself into the tailor’s house. He checked it thoroughly, but Cinderhouse wasn’t there and neither was the boy. He’d hoped to find Fenn in a closet somewhere. He could take him, sell him to Sam Pizer the chimney sweep, and Cinderhouse would simply assume that the boy had escaped again. A neat profit for the coachman, and with no consequences to worry about.