Alex Grecian - The Yard

Just fifteen minutes.

It was a comfortable chair, and the shop was quiet, and it felt good to sit.

He closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

Walter Day had woken up early and rolled out of bed with the cobwebs of a bad dream clinging to him. He splashed cold water on his face from the basin and ran a wet cloth over his chest and armpits. He shaved quickly, stopping long enough to smile at Claire when she entered his room.

By the time he finished shaving, Claire had set kindling in the small fireplace. Day’s trousers from the night before were draped over the board to be pressed. He checked the walk-in closet and was pleased to find that he had three fresh shirts.

“I didn’t hear you leave my room last night,” Claire said.

“I was quiet. I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”

“I wish you had stayed.”

“What would the housekeeper say?”

He chuckled, but Claire acted as though she hadn’t heard him. The kindling began to blaze, and she carefully placed a handful of thin logs on the new fire. She stood and aimed a pointed stare at him.

“I swear I don’t know what to do with myself, Walter. Except for the bloody housekeeper, I know none of the women in the neighborhood. They don’t come round. They haven’t warmed to me.”

“How could they not? You are, I’m sure, the most charming woman in all the city.”

“Detectives’ wives are not universally beloved here.”

Day grimaced. It was another reminder that the man on the street had no great love for the police. There was too much crime that went unstopped and no one felt safe. Everyone in London knew that the Ripper was still out there in the fog and that the police were helpless to stop him.

“Then don’t tell anybody what I do.” He winked at her.

Claire smiled and put the press on the fire. It was a flat rectangle of iron with a wooden handle bolted to one side. She used a pair of sturdy tongs to move it into place on the logs.

“Shall I tell them you’re a vendor? I’ll say you sell dolls from a cart in the West End. I’m fabulously proud of the work you do with dolls.”

“Hmm. Perhaps I drive an omnibus.”

“The other wives shall embrace me and raise me on their shoulders when they find out.”

Day laughed.

“They’ll carry me through the streets,” Claire said.

“Until I run over them all with my omnibus.”

“You and your bus will ruin my best day.”

“You are the best Day.”

“That’s positively corny.”

“It is. There’s another detective I’m working with. His name’s Blacker. That’s the sort of joke he makes.”

“You’ve made a friend?”

“I believe I have.”

“I’m glad.”

“Now we need to find some friends for you,” Day said.

“Perhaps Mr Blacker has a wife.”

“I believe he’s a bachelor.”

“Poor man.”

Claire used the tongs to lift the hot iron from the fire and wrapped a cloth around her hand before picking it up by the handle. She dipped her other hand in a small dish of water and sprinkled it over the ironing board. When she pressed the iron against her husband’s trousers, a cloud of steam and a loud hiss filled the air around her. She moved the iron over the pants quickly, repositioning them as she went. In seconds, Day’s trousers looked fresh and presentable again.

“I should go round to the tailor for another pair of trousers,” Day said.

“Mrs Dick will be in today and I’ll have her launder your other pair.”

“There you have it. Right under your nose. Mrs Dick shall be your bosom companion.”

“That sort of friend I’m sure I don’t need.”

“Perhaps if you were to-”

“Walter.”

“Yes?”

“Walter, you’re a dear man and I’m touched that you concern yourself with my affairs, but I shouldn’t burden you with my silly complaints. I have this fine house to look after and I am content to know that my husband is a brilliant detective with the famous Scotland Yard.”

“Even so. If you wanted to go back … I mean, if you should ever wish to return to Devon, to your family, I would understand.”

“You mustn’t worry about that when you have so many important things to do. Now, let’s get you dressed and off to work.”

She held his trousers out to him and he put them on. They were still warm.

The sky was the palest of greys, and street vendors had begun setting up tarps and awnings to protect their wares from the drizzling rain. The city’s nightlife had wound down and the saloons had emptied out. Hammersmith’s eyes were grainy. He needed sleep, but the coming day beckoned.

He had been in every pub and opium den in the neighborhood of the Shaws’ brownstone, and in the last hour had extended his search several blocks out, but with no luck. He decided he had time to visit one more establishment before returning to the flat to get ready for his shift.

The place in front of him was drab and run-down. The timbers of the steps were split and rotting, but a yellowed paper sign in the window read NO GRIDDLING, meaning that panhandlers and peddlers weren’t allowed inside. The peeling sign above the door read THE WHISTLE AND FLUTE, which was Cockney rhyming slang for a gentleman’s suit. Hammersmith imagined the original proprietor had started out with more optimism than the neighborhood had finally permitted.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, stopping long enough to let his eyes adjust to the sudden cavelike darkness of the pub. When he could see well enough to move forward, he approached the long bar that imposed itself before the back wall. It was really nothing more than a few well-worn planks that had been nailed to four uprights. The barkeep, a heavyset man with a wild beard and thick tattooed arms, nodded to him from behind the counter. The barkeep’s eyebrows met in the middle and struck out from there across his forehead. Pink cheeks and beady eyes were the only artifacts of the man’s face still visible through the thickets of hair.

Hammersmith ordered a pint and stood surveying the room. Two worn-out tarts hunkered at a small table near the end of the bar. They weren’t looking his way. No doubt they were ready to turn in for the day without company. At the other end of the room, a handful of shadowy figures hunched over four tables that had been pushed together. Hammersmith could hear cards being shuffled and bets murmured through the smoke. The barkeep set a mug on the counter and backed away. Hammersmith took a courtesy sip. He had no intention of drinking the ale, but he didn’t want to appear out of place. The people in this pub weren’t here early in the morning. They were here late at night, hard-core drinkers who didn’t want to stop.

The ale tasted of ashes. Hammersmith set the mug back down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He noticed he needed a shave and wondered if he had time for it before his shift.

As he reached for his wallet, he felt a hand on his arm and turned, ready for a fight.

The girl in front of him was no more than fifteen years old. She wore a low-cut white blouse and a skirt that was immodestly tight. Her long dark hair hung loose over her shoulders, and she leaned in toward Hammersmith, breathing heavily, the tops of her breasts visible under the blouse’s scooped collar.

“You look lost,” she said. She giggled, covered her mouth, and looked up at him with her head lowered. “Would you be wantin’ some company?”

Hammersmith understood. He looked toward the end of the bar and saw the two worn-out whores watching them. The girl was bait. She was a working girl, but it was her job to lure men outside or upstairs or to wherever business was done. Once a man was committed to the deed, a switch would be made and one of the others would take her place. The young woman would then sidle up to the bar once again to be dangled in front of the clientele. Hammersmith assumed that in another year, maybe just a few months, this girl would assume her place with the harder-working women and a fresh young girl would be recruited to act as the bait. It was a sad fate awaiting her, and he wondered how much of her future life she was aware of.