Alex Grecian - The Yard

“This is it, Day. Don’t you think so?”

“It could very well be. But we should sift through the rest of this just in case.”

Blacker pursed his lips and returned to the files in front of him, but he appeared reluctant, and Day could tell that he wasn’t really reading anymore. Finally Blacker stopped and leaned forward.

“I want to talk to Kingsley about this,” he said.

“As do I, but Kingsley is most likely home in bed.”

“True.”

“And if we can sort out the rest of these files, we can both go home to our own beds.”

“Point taken.”

The two detectives read in silence for a few more minutes.

“The killer may have changed his methods because he wasn’t able to lure Little near enough to a bathtub,” Blacker said.

“Pardon?”

“I can’t stop mulling it over, the possible connections between the two murders.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a reason Little’s desk was located far from mine.”

“Was Little … Was he disliked?”

“Disliked? I wouldn’t say so. But few of us associated closely with him. It was unpleasant to be too near him.”

“In what way?”

“He was somewhat … odiferous.”

“He smelled bad?”

“Quite. When I first found you here this evening, I thought that Little had returned from the grave. That box you had in here smelled very much like him.”

“Could he have been killed for that? For a lack of hygiene?”

“What, by someone with hyperactive nostrils?”

“Perhaps by a neighbor who tired of his scent?”

“A neighbor who was so tired of his scent that he killed the man, sewed shut his eyes and his mouth-but not his nose, mind you-and pounded his limp body into the bottom of a steamer trunk, then dragged that trunk to the train station?”

“It does sound ridiculous.”

“No, I agree that it might be worth following up with the neighbors. After all, I’m the one who brought up his body odor in the first place. I’m simply laying it all out to look at. There’s no part of this case that isn’t ridiculous in the most morbid way. A foul body odor is as likely a motivation as any, I suppose.”

“Not for a sane man.”

“What sane man does any of these things?” Blacker indicated the mounting stacks of case files on the desk. “If all men were sane, we would be blacksmiths.”

“I believe I would be a lord to the manor born.”

“Ah, well, if we have that much choice in the matter…”

Blacker chuckled and they hurried through the rest of their files. There was nothing else in Little’s files as promising as the beard-hater who had killed John Robinson twice in the same bathtub.

“Listen,” Day said. “Whoever killed Robinson, if he killed Little, too, what if he killed others? There are dozens of unsolved murders here.”

“You mean he’s like the Ripper, he kills again and again?”

“I know it’s a horrible thought, but…”

The idea of someone who killed from habit and need was a relatively new one and something the detectives weren’t prepared to deal with. Murder was usually between spouses or involved money. Crimes of passion were frequent. Prostitutes were killed, bankers bludgeoned, landladies buried alive. Madness was sometimes a factor, but madmen were most often public and demonstrative about their crimes. The Ripper had been something new. He had killed in secret and for no apparent reason. He had done it again and again with impunity.

“No, you’re right. If it isn’t the Ripper, it’s possible there’s someone else like him out there, though I shudder to think.”

“We need to look at other cases. It’s possible another murder committed by this same person has been looked at by one of the others.”

He swept his hand over the room, indicating the three rows of four desks each. There were eight other detectives in the big room who might be working other murders and have clues that separately added up to nothing, but could be put together in a useful way.

“I’ll go to Sir Edward first thing in the morning,” Blacker said.

“Let’s not bother him yet. He gave me leave to do what I need to solve Little’s murder. I’ll use my authority and get everyone to look through whatever they’ve got.”

“There’ll be some who won’t like it.”

“I know it.”

“I’ll throw my weight behind you. I may not be the most respected peeler in the room, but I think I’m well liked. If I vouch for you, I’m sure the others will cooperate.”

Day smiled. “Thank you. It means a lot that you’re willing to trust me. I’m not sure I trust myself on this.”

Blacker nodded, but he didn’t smile. “I’ll be honest with you, Day, there are men here that I’d rather were looking into this. But I trust Sir Edward, and if he picked you for it then there must be a good reason and I’ll go along. I’m behind you on all this, but I’m not blindly following.”

He stared pointedly across the desk until Day had to look away. When he looked back, Blacker’s scowl had dissolved into his trademark grin. The atmosphere in the room was lighter again.

“But you’ll find no more loyal hunting dog than me,” Blacker said. “You point me in the direction of the bird that did this and I’ll bring the bloody bastard back to you with his head hangin’ out me mouth.”

He winked and Day laughed.

“What say we get a couple hours’ sleep and freshen up? We’ve got a lot to do in the morning.”

“I think morning is already in progress.”

“If you’re willing, once the sun’s up and the milk’s delivered, I think it would be best if you questioned Little’s family, while I handle the neighbors,” Day said. “You’ve got a lighter touch, and the family might be more open with you.”

“Will do.”

“One other thing. Are there any constables we could trust? Smart men who can be discreet?”

“There’s one or two I can think of.”

“We may want to enlist them. There’s a lot to track down here, and some help would be welcome.”

“I’d go to Hammersmith first.”

“Hammersmith? He was at the crime scene this morning. Good man?”

“He rarely laughs at my jokes, but he’s a born lawman.”

“Hammersmith it is, then. I’ll see about getting him reassigned when Sergeant Kett comes on duty.”

“I wouldn’t want to be Little’s killer right now,” Blacker said. “We’ll have the noose round his neck by sundown tomorrow.”

Day nodded, but he didn’t smile. He stood and got his hat and jacket from the hooks on the wall and left without a word for the desk sergeant. On his way out, he saw that Blacker had left the dancing man’s wooden crate on a pile of rubbish at the end of the block. He picked it up and carried it to the back door of the Yard and left it there.

Constable Nevil Hammersmith didn’t return home until after midnight. The flat was empty. Colin Pringle was still away on his date with the shopgirl, Maggie.

Hammersmith and Pringle shared a two-bedroom flat above a confectioner’s shop. The aroma of chocolate and sugar filled the rooms day and night, and they were locked in a constant battle with rats that migrated upstairs and skittered through the walls. The entirety of the floor above them was leased by a young man who received a yearly stipend of five hundred pounds from his grandmother. He didn’t need a flatmate. Hammersmith and Pringle, being eligible men of no social standing and of limited means, struggled to make their rent each month.

Despite the hour, Hammersmith started a fire. His thoughts returned to the dead boy, and he unconsciously studied the dimensions of his own fireplace. It was, he thought, too small for even a child to fit in, too narrow for anyone of any size to shimmy up. When the fire was going, he put the kettle on to boil. He lifted the teapot and a small tin of tea from the mantel and spooned green leaves into the pot. Pringle generally filled the tin with “renewed” tea from a street vendor who collected used leaves from people in the neighborhood. The damp tea leaves were dried, spiced, and colored green with copper. It was weak but affordable. When the water began to boil, Hammersmith poured it from the kettle into the teapot and fit the lid back on. While the tea steeped, he paced back and forth through the small parlor.