Alex Grecian - The Yard

When his stomach began to rumble, he opened his pack and felt for the jam sandwich he’d brought with him. One of the braver rats crawled up his leg, attracted by the jam scent, and Nevil dropped a few sandwich crumbs onto his lap. The rat was warm and Nevil didn’t mind its little claws. He ate slowly, aware that the sound of his own chewing could drown out the noise of an approaching cart and cause him to miss his cue.

When the sandwich was gone, the rat left him and Nevil went back to listening. Listening and waiting. The day ground forward and Nevil opened his trapdoor four times, closed it again each time, and returned to his thoughts until he heard a voice on the other side of the door.

“Nevil?”

“Alice, is that you?”

“It’s me.”

“Is the sun still up?”

“It’s already gone down. I’m late, Nevil. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Have a good night, Alice.”

“You, too, Nevil.”

He crawled past her and moved up the tunnel. His father would be waiting for him.

As they left the main chamber, Nevil searched the sky for Orion’s Belt and gulped the fresh night air. He listened to the crickets in the stubbly grass beside the road. His father’s knobby fingers, black with coal dust, closed on Nevil’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Nevil smiled and enjoyed the moment while it lasted. There were still chores to do on the farm before supper and bed, but it hadn’t been a bad day. Nevil had been luckier than the lost children of the South Drift. He might still escape the tunnels.

French Upholstery and Fine Furniture was a small shop on Charles Street, between Euston Station and Regent’s Park, and perhaps a quarter of a mile from University College Hospital. Day had chosen it for its proximity to the scene where Inspector Little’s body was found. On his way there, he stopped at the hospital and collected Dr Kingsley, who brought the button found in the bottom of Little’s trunk.

A tiny bell over the doorway jingled as they entered. Inside, the shop was dim but pleasant. Two graceful armchairs, with high oval backs and brocade seats, were displayed on a low wooden platform near the door. A small Gothic Revival table sat between them as if in preparation for tea. The place smelled of sawdust and furniture varnish. Day smiled. The odor reminded him of his father’s carpentry shed in back of the family house.

At the sound of the bell, a small round man scurried out from a back room. He sported enormous muttonchops, perhaps to compensate for the sparse growth on top of his head. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. Day resisted the urge to reach out and push them up on the man’s face.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,” the man said, “to what do we owe the honor today?”

“Good afternoon, sir,” Day said. “This is Dr Kingsley, and I’m Inspector Day of the Yard. We’d like a moment of your time, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh, dear me. Oh, dear. Is there any possibility you’ve only come here for furniture? Any chance at all?”

“I’m afraid not, sir.”

“No chance, you say? You know, I also reupholster older items. Older and newer items. I can reupholster new items to make them look like they was much more dear than they cost you. Much more dear.”

“Thank you, no. We’d like to ask you a few questions. About your working methods and where you may have been last evening. Last evening.”

Day pretended to scratch his nose, covering his mouth so that the furniture man wouldn’t see him smile. He had inadvertently picked up the little man’s method of speech and was repeating himself.

“Oh, my. My, my, my. I was here, right here working into the wee hours, I was.”

“Of course you were,” Kingsley said. “You mentioned just now that you are in the habit of reupholstering furniture? I suppose you use needles, thread, that sort of thing in your work?”

“Of course I do. Of course. Needle and thread are the very foundation of the upholstery trade. And fabric, of course. Fabric and wood and iron. Mustn’t forget those. Fabric and wood most especially. Needle and thread and fabric and wood.”

“Yes. I wonder if you might let us take a look at some of the tools you use in your very interesting trade.”

“And iron. Did I forget iron? There’s a great deal of it used in some styles of furniture, you know. Not all, but some.”

“You did indeed mention iron.”

“Oh, good. Wouldn’t do to forget. Wouldn’t do at all.”

“No, I don’t suppose it would. Your tools, sir?”

“Oh, of course. Please, come with me. Certainly, certainly. Come, come.”

The little man disappeared back through the door on the far wall.

“Our furniture maker seems a bit nervous, doesn’t he?” Kingsley said.

“He certainly does,” Day said. “Certainly, certainly.”

Kingsley smirked and held the door open for Day.

The back room was a workshop, much larger than the storefront that clients saw.

“Forgive the mess,” the little man said. “Wasn’t expecting you or I’d have tidied a bit. Wasn’t expecting anyone at all today. No one at all. Although of course one hopes for a smidgeon of surprise if one can get it. If it comes. If it’s good.”

“I’m sorry,” Day said. “We didn’t catch your name, sir.”

“Oh, my. Unforgivable of me. Absolutely unforgivable. Where are my manners?”

Day waited. The little man bustled about, picking up bits of material and setting them next to other things without appearing to bring any order to the space. Giant spools of twine were strung on a series of bars that ran across the wall behind the main workspace. Shelves on the west wall of the room were lined with smaller spools of thread and fine chain stuck on pegs. The opposite wall was covered with bolts of fabric, jutting out on long wooden arms. A sewing machine was bolted to a stained but solid worktable that filled the center of the room. The rest of the table was covered with a jumble of fabric pieces and pots and brushes, loose springs and dowels and bins full of buttons. Behind the table, partially obscured by it, the corpse of a sofa squatted, its arms and back exposed, bits of cotton batting stapled haphazardly to its naked skeleton.

“Your name, sir?”

“Oh, my name. Oh, of course. My name is Frederick French. French as in French Furniture, you see, although too many think I work only with French imports. French imports from France, I mean.”

“I see.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I don’t mean that I do work with imports. Although of course I do. Of course I do. I’m perfectly capable of working with imported furniture and do so all the time. But I named the shop after myself, not after the country of France, you see?”

“We do see. We do.”

“Good, good.”

“You say you were here all evening last?”

“Yes. I’m afraid this poor chesterfield was rather badly abused by its former owner, and it’s taking some time to get it back up to snuff. Poor thing. One shouldn’t have children if one wants to own fine furniture. Really, one shouldn’t. Children are a bane.”

“Are they?”

“Oh, certainly. An absolute bane. Sticky and messy and always jumping about, ruining springs and wearing the texture off of everything within sight. An absolute bane.”

“So you don’t particularly care for children, I take it.”

“Not at all, not at all. They’re darling little things, I suppose. But we mustn’t let them on the furniture. Don’t have any myself. Children, I mean, not furniture. I have a good deal of furniture, of course. A good deal. But no children.”

“Has another policeman been to visit recently? Another detective?”