Alex Grecian - The Yard

Hammersmith ignored Pringle. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it that night.

The two of them retreated behind the wall and watched as a patch of darkness blacker than the night moved up the street toward them. A pinprick of light bobbed along in time to the sound of the horses’ hooves. When it drew closer to them, the light resolved itself into a lantern on a pole affixed to the side of a great black carriage. Two sweating chargers pulled the carriage up even with the row of houses and stopped beside the wall, snorting and stamping.

After a moment, the driver hopped down from his perch and opened the door on the other side. He fetched a stool from the seat above and placed it on the cobblestones. Hammersmith could see under the carriage as first one foot lowered itself and then another, and a man’s weight eased forward. The feet touched ground and the man turned, apparently to help a woman down because a pair of dainty ankles were briefly visible before the hem of a frilly dress settled, obscuring the view. Another woman followed, then a child. The four pairs of feet moved away from the coach, and the driver jumped back up to his seat and whipped his reins across the horses’ backs. The carriage moved on up the street.

Hammersmith stood and stepped over the wall. He felt a drop of water hit his arm and he looked up. Another drop hit him in the eye and he gasped. He wiped his face with his sleeve and looked out across the street where the man from the carriage had also felt the rain coming. He was hurrying his two women and the child up the steps to the house. He was carrying a black leather overnight bag, and one of the women was lugging a much larger suitcase.

Hammersmith walked briskly across the street. He felt Pringle keeping pace. More raindrops splashed on his head and shoulders as he strode, his heels clicking against the cobblestones.

The man hadn’t noticed them yet. He was busy unlocking the front door. Hammersmith put his right foot on the bottommost step and cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, sir.”

The man visibly jumped and dropped his bag. The two women turned to look at Hammersmith, but the little boy stared up at the man, perhaps surprised to see his father caught unawares. The man turned slowly toward Hammersmith, looked down the steps, and pursed his lips, but said nothing. He had an elaborate beard that had been groomed into four outward-Jutting curls beckoned the eye, drawing attention from the rest of his long, horsey face.

“Are you the homeowner here?”

The man nodded, his curls bouncing on his chin.

“May I ask your name, sir?”

“Why, I’m Dr Charles Shaw.”

He said it as if the two police should already know him, as if everyone should know him.

“My colleague and I are with the Metropolitan Police. We’d like a word with you, please.”

Charles Shaw turned back to the door and got it open. He ushered the two women and the boy inside and closed the door behind them. He looked up at the black sky.

“It’s late, Constable, and it’s beginning to rain. Perhaps you’ll come back at a proper time?”

Hammersmith ignored the irritation in the doctor’s voice.

“Beg pardon, sir, but you don’t seem to be home much of late, and I’d hate to miss this opportunity to talk to you.”

Shaw stared at Hammersmith so long that Hammersmith thought the doctor might come down off the porch and hit him. He watched Shaw’s hand curl into a fist, relax, and then curl up again. Behind Hammersmith, he could hear Pringle shift from one foot to the other. They were all getting wet.

“And what if I decline to talk to you?” Shaw said.

Hammersmith shrugged. That was certainly an option. From the tone in his voice when he gave his name, this man was apparently prominent in the community. Hammersmith and Pringle were at least several rungs below him in social status, and if Shaw chose to pursue a grievance with Sir Edward, it might cost them their jobs. The two constables were well over the line, and they all knew it.

“Then I suppose we’ll wait, sir. It’s no problem at all. We’ll still be right here outside your home in the morning.”

The implication was clear. When the neighbors awoke and looked out their windows, they would see two wet and miserable police officers sitting outside this brownstone. It wouldn’t be good for the doctor’s reputation. It would require endless visits up and down the street, by both Shaw and his wife, to smooth things over and quell the rumors.

Shaw sighed. “Very well,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to appear rude. Please come inside, but I’ll ask you to refrain from dripping on any of the rugs.”

Hammersmith and Pringle followed Shaw through the door and into a well-appointed antechamber. Shaw didn’t know it, but Hammersmith had been here before, had explored the entire house for clues when the boy’s body was found. He looked around as if it were his first time there. A bench with an embroidered cover sat under a huge gilt-framed mirror to their left as they entered. On the opposite wall was a series of brass hooks beneath a small chandelier. Hammersmith took off his overcoat and hung it on one of the hooks. He hung his hat next to the coat. Pringle hesitated, then followed Hammersmith’s lead. Shaw looked stricken, but said nothing.

It was the custom to leave one’s coat and hat on unless a visit was expected to last more than fifteen minutes. Often, neighbors would take a stroll after dinner and call on their nearby friends and acquaintances. If they left their coats on, it meant that their host shouldn’t worry about serving tea or dessert. To take one’s coat off signaled a prolonged obligation and was avoided unless there was a clear invitation to stay.

Hammersmith had not been invited to stay.

One of the women appeared at the arched doorway between the entrance hall and the rest of the house. She smelled faintly of lavender and apples, and she was the better dressed of the two women Hammersmith had seen outside. He guessed she was Shaw’s wife and the other woman was probably a governess or maid.

“Charles,” she said.

“Penelope,” Shaw said, “please have Elizabeth put on some tea for our guests.”

Shaw didn’t sound pleased about it. The woman, Penelope, looked like she wanted to say something, but then turned and walked out of sight. Hammersmith rummaged in the pocket of his hanging coat until he found his notebook. He turned to a fresh page and wrote Dr Charles and Mrs Penelope Shaw , and then below that Elizabeth-Housekeeper?

“What are you writing?”

“Nothing important, sir. Your names, that’s all. How long has Elizabeth been with you?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. My wife hired her, of course, and it’s been many years now. At any rate, it’s none of your business. What’s this all about then?”

“Have you been informed that there was a break-in at your address?”

“Here, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hammersmith watched Shaw’s eyes. Hammersmith had assumed that Shaw knew about the boy’s body and had a good reason to want to avoid talking to the police, but when he heard that his home had been burgled there was genuine surprise and concern in his eyes. It was gone almost immediately, but Hammersmith had seen the emotion there for one unguarded moment.

“Why wasn’t I told?”

“We had no way to reach you.”

“I was … We were in Birmingham on holiday.”

“Birmingham?”

“Family there.”

“I see. May we?”

Hammersmith gestured toward the rooms beyond the hall, and Shaw looked at the floor. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sniffed loudly, then nodded, seemingly to himself rather than his uninvited guests. Without looking directly at the constables, he led the way into the drawing room and they followed.