Alex Grecian - The Yard

“Think nothing of it. You’ve given us one or two bits of new information.”

“Have I? How wonderful. Wonderful.”

“Thank you very much, Mr French. We’ll be taking our leave now.”

Kingsley scooped up the scissors and the card of needles and walked briskly to the door. He turned and nodded and stepped out into the storefront. The little bell over the front door jingled, and by the time Day exited the back room, Kingsley was already out of the shop and standing in the street.

“We’ll send someone round later today with your things, Mr French,” Day said.

“Oh, thank you. I should hate to lose my tools. They’re quite necessary to my work. Absolutely essential, really.”

“Of course.”

“I suppose I can make do for a bit. Glad to be of use to the Yard, you know, always glad to be of use.”

“Thank you again, sir.”

Day shook his hand and hurried out of the shop. He joined Kingsley at the curb.

“You do know he wanted to send you out with a used needle, rather than his new ones,” Day said.

“Why do you think I left so briskly? I don’t want an old needle. I want these.”

“Why does it matter?”

“I want to see how easily they puncture flesh.”

“Oh.”

“They’re thick, you see. Quite a bit thicker than a normal needle.”

“Do you think this was the type used on Mr Little, then?”

“No. The needles I found at the scene were of a different sort.”

“Then why take these at all?”

“I like to be thorough, my boy. I may learn something from these that will shed light on something else entirely. Solving this crime is important of course, but crime doesn’t stop, and the more I know the better prepared I am. Evidence never lies, but it’s up to us to interpret correctly what it says.”

“I see. At any rate, it doesn’t look as if our Mr French had anything to do with Little’s murder.”

“Not in the least. A more harmless specimen I’ve never laid eyes on.”

Day nodded. “Certainly, certainly,” he said.

Kingsley chuckled and waved Day into their waiting carriage.

Dash it all, anyhow,” Constable Pringle said.

Lately, the tailor’s shop seemed to be closed more often than it was open. Pringle tried the door again, but it was locked tight and the interior of the little store, visible through the big plate-glass window at the front, was dark. He sighed and rubbed his chin, deciding whether to wait for the tailor to return.

“Was you talkin’ to us, love?”

Pringle turned and nearly bumped into two women who were standing directly behind him.

“Pardon me,” he said. “No, I’m afraid I was talking to myself. Must be going mad.”

He smiled his most charming smile. The two women were clearly prostitutes, but the taller one was pretty, if one looked past the livid scar that ran down her face. The other woman, the short one, seemed more aggressive, and Pringle liked that. She was the one who had spoken.

“Everybody talks to themself,” the short woman said. “What separates us from the beasts, don’t you know?”

“Perhaps it does at that, ma’am.”

Pringle tipped his hat at them. “Now, I don’t mean to be off-putting, my dear ladies, but you may see by my uniform that I am the law.”

“Aye, but the law’s got needs like any man, don’t he?”

“True. Very true. And I appreciate your noticing. But my personal needs are filled quite well at the moment and I’m afraid it’s my solemn duty to wag my finger at you and send you on down the road so you may think on the error of your ways. That or I have to run you in for looking after the needs of strangers. I don’t think any of us would enjoy that.”

“Just as well,” the short one said. “We prefers ’em with beards anyway, don’t we, Esme?”

“That we do,” Esme said. “But you’re very nice, anyhow. For a bluebottle.”

Pringle smiled at her again. Her scar was actually a bit fetching. Hinted at a hard life and a stubborn nature. Character is what he’d call it.

“Thank you,” he said. “Likewise, I’m sure.”

“We’ll be on our way, then.”

“And I will be on mine,” Pringle said. “You ladies have a lovely evening.”

He watched the prostitutes walk away from him down the street and shook his head at the unfairness of life. The company of two such tasty tarts would have been interesting. But it wouldn’t do to be seen in uniform and in the company of working women. The uniform might be taken away from him.

At the thought of his uniform, he glanced once more at the locked door of the tailor’s shop and shook his head.

Life, he thought, ought to work itself in a man’s favor more often.

Constable Nevil Hammersmith stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to the main house. From here he could direct the other police as they arrived. He had explored the entire brownstone without finding anything of interest, but two other constables had rolled out the Turkish rug and were looking for clues. He watched them work, but his mind was elsewhere.

Blackleg had disappeared soon after they dragged the boy’s body from the chimney. His parting words before climbing back out through the window were “Don’t you worry, bluebottle, I’ll find the man to answer for this.”

Hammersmith felt restless, hemmed in by the crime scene. He wanted to be there when the chimney sweep was found, wanted to confront him, look him in the eye, make him understand his crime.

“The body was found in the chimney?”

Hammersmith turned to see Dr Kingsley descending the stairs. The girl from his laboratory trailed silently behind. The doctor nodded at Hammersmith and glanced at the fireplace.

“You’re in charge here?”

“At the moment I am,” Hammersmith said.

“I’m Kingsley. Hope I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

“We’ve met, sir. Just today, actually.”

Kingsley peered at Hammersmith and nodded. “Of course. Constable Hammersby-no, Hammersmith. I apologize. I’ve been learning about furniture. Far more interesting than you might think.”

“Yes, sir, I’m sure it is. Thank you for coming. The body was wedged in part of the way up there.”

“Well, let’s see what we can discover.”

Kingsley crossed the room and lay flat on his back on the hearth. He slid across the marble until his head was in the fireplace. From across the room, Hammersmith could see part of the way up Kingsley’s left trouser leg. The doctor’s garter was worn out and his stocking had holes. Someone at home hadn’t kept up with the mending.

Kingsley’s girl had already taken up a post in the farthest corner of the room with her arms folded, clutching her tablet of paper to her chest. Hammersmith waved her over.

“Hello again,” Hammersmith said.

The girl nodded. Her thin hair was light, almost blond, and her eyes, when she lifted her head to look at Hammersmith, were too large for her narrow face.

“What’s your name?”

The girl stared at Hammersmith’s shoes.

“Are you a student of Dr Kingsley’s? At the college?”

Hammersmith heard a giggle, but the girl’s face was hidden behind a golden sweep of hair and the sound was abruptly stifled. He smiled, pleased to have flattered the girl that she might be older than she appeared.

“Ah,” Hammersmith said. “You’re his daughter, aren’t you?”

The girl nodded, her hair swinging back and forth between them.

“Why aren’t you with your mother? Or at school somewhere?”

“Fiona!”

Kingsley’s voice echoed up the chimney and back down, booming from the mouth of the fireplace. The girl jumped and turned around, hurrying to the hearth, where her father’s legs were still the only visible parts of him.