Alex Grecian - The Yard

“Never! You’re the first. The absolute first.”

“Sir,” Kingsley said, “your tools, please?”

“My tools?”

“You were going to show me the tools you use in your work?”

“Oh, so I was. Come round here to this side of the table, if you don’t mind. Come, come. Easier over here on this side of the table. Don’t have to lug it all round there when it’s all over here to begin with.”

Day looked at Kingsley, who rolled his eyes. Day understood. The upholsterer was amusing, but communicating with him was a tedious process. They stepped around the end of the table and stood back as French lifted a wooden tub of tools up and onto the table, scattering nails and screws onto the floor. The tub sat off balance, the end of a short bolt of burgundy linen under one corner.

Kingsley peered into the tub and pulled out a number of items, setting them on the table next to him.

“You don’t mind, I hope,” he said.

“Not at all, not at all. Feel free.”

Kingsley picked up a white rubber mallet and held it up to the light.

“Why white?”

“Pardon? Oh, you mean why is the mallet white?”

“That is indeed what I mean.”

“Well, not to mar the furniture, of course. A black mallet would leave marks, wouldn’t it? I mean, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it might.”

“Oh, it would. It most certainly would.”

Kingsley set the mallet aside. Day reached past him and took a small hammer from the tub. It was shaped like a miniature pickax, with dull metal points on both sides.

“This looks dangerous,” he said.

“Oh, not at all. Not at all. Perfectly harmless. Of course, one must know how to use any tool. In that sense, I suppose you might say it is dangerous. Quite dangerous indeed.”

Day held the hammer out for Kingsley to see. “Do you suppose,” he said, “that something like this might have been used to subdue Detective Little before the murder?”

French gasped and his hands flew to his face. He grabbed his muttonchops in both fists and pulled.

“Murder?” he said. “Oh my Lord. Murder?”

“No,” Kingsley said. “Please calm yourself, Mr French.”

The doctor shook his head and took the hammer from Day’s hand, frowned at it.

“There was no evidence of any crushing blow,” he said. “So far as I was able to determine, the only implement used was a pair of shears.”

“Like these, you mean?”

Day reached into the tub again and pulled out a pair of shears, angled near the handles. The blades were well worn and had been frequently sharpened. The handles gleamed black.

“Perhaps,” Kingsley said. He took them from Day and held them up to the light.

“No, sir. No, sir, my shears never were used for no murders, none ever. Oh my Lord.”

“Mr French,” Kingsley said, “you may want to ease your grip on your side-whiskers before you pull them entirely from your face. We are here to ask questions of you, not to accuse or incriminate you.”

Day put a hand on the little man’s shoulder. “We really just need your expert opinion, sir. You can be of great service to the Metropolitan Police Force and to all of London.”

French looked at him and let out a long breath. He loosened his grip on his cheeks and nodded. “Be proud to do what I can, then, sir. Proud and honored.”

“Good. That’s settled.”

“Shears very much like these, I would imagine,” Kingsley said. “I would need to perform some tests on them for blood residue before ruling out this specific pair as the weapon.”

Day held out his hand to stop French, whose hands had flown to his muttonchops again.

“It’s quite all right,” Day said. “Dr Kingsley is speaking in the hypothetical.”

“I don’t mind the language, sir. It’s the question what throws me. It’s the question of murder, don’t you know.”

“May I borrow these?” Kingsley said.

“My shears? Well, I do have a second pair, but I prefer those. I prefer them over my second pair.”

“I don’t care to inconvenience you. I could arrange to have them back to you by teatime.”

“I’d rather not. I’d really rather not. But, as you say, if I can be of service-”

“I’ll have them returned to you forthwith. And these, if you don’t mind.” Kingsley held up a set of long curved needles, each about four inches long and thick through the middle. They were fastened to a plain white card and resembled metal ribs, torn from a spine.

“My needles? Certainly, certainly. I have many of those. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’d much rather you took a dull needle. I have many I plan to discard if you don’t need one of my sharpest ones.”

“A dull one will do just fine, sir.”

“Excellent. Wonderful. Excellent.”

“One more thing,” Kingsley said.

He reached into his pocket and withdrew the button. He held it out in the palm of his hand for the furniture maker to see. French leaned in and moved his spectacles closer to the end of his nose. Day watched carefully, ready to catch them if they fell from his face.

“What do you make of this?” Kingsley said. “Anything unusual about it?”

“Unusual? No, not unusual, I wouldn’t say. Nothing unusual about it, except perhaps that it’s not attached to anything. This sort of button, you know, this sort of button is not the sort one carries about in one’s pocket. No, not a pocket button at all, per se, but meant to be attached to a piece of furniture. Most definitely a furniture-type button.”

“I see. Well, there was very little reason-”

“I can tell you that the piece of furniture this comes from is quite old and probably somewhat out of fashion these days. Somewhat old-fashioned. I would think it’s from a sofa, an old sofa. The velvet has been worn down to nothing, hasn’t it?”

“I hadn’t realized it was velvet.”

“Oh, yes, at one time. And peach-colored, though you wouldn’t know it to look at it now. Yes, once upon a time this was a peach velvet button. Most likely from a peach velvet sofa.”

“Yes, most likely.”

Kingsley’s sarcasm was lost on the little man. French beamed up at the doctor and pointed at the button.

“May I?”

“By all means.”

He lifted the button from Kingsley’s hand and peered at it. “I’m not at all sure what these stains are. Teeny tiny black stains dotted all about it and this big smudge here on the side. Not at all sure. Perhaps mold?”

“It’s blood.”

“Blood? Oh, my. Blood, you say? Well, yes. Now, if you look at the back of it here, you see there’s still a bit of thread attached, which tells me almost nothing because thread is thread is thread, don’t you know. But it’s frayed quite a bit. I imagine this button drooped from the couch for a good long while before it was plucked off. A good long time. I would absolutely hate to see the state of this piece of furniture. Clearly not cared for in the least. Why, do you know…”

French snapped abruptly to attention and pushed his spectacles back up on the bridge of his nose.

“Do you know, I would be willing to wager that whoever owns this piece of furniture … well, not this piece of furniture, because this isn’t a piece of furniture at all, is it? No, it’s a button. But I mean to say the piece of furniture this button comes from. The couch it was once attached to, if you take my meaning.”

“We do,” Day said. “We take your meaning entirely.”

“Good, good. I would wager anything that this button comes from a couch that comes from a home that has children. And more than one child, I should think. This couch has been abused by children.”

“I hear they’re a bane.”

“They are. An absolute bane.” French carefully laid the button back on Kingsley’s outstretched palm. “I only wish I could be of more help,” he said.