Alex Grecian - The Yard

“He seems like a good boy,” Blacker said.

“You know you can’t have children if you don’t first find a wife.”

“Who said I want children?”

“Don’t worry. You’ll find the right woman.”

“Who said I was looking?”

Halfway down the stairs, they could still hear the chorus of misery behind them. The wailing and howling seemed to keep time with the regular beat of the chair banging against the wall.

“That boy should be taken away.”

“You think he’d be better cared for in an asylum?”

Blacker sighed. “No. I wouldn’t wish the asylum on anyone.”

“Thank God they’ll get Little’s pension.”

Blacker stopped as they reached the door to the street. The sorrowful music wasn’t heard down here so much as it was felt, a fog seeping through the walls and the floor.

“Little’s pension?” he said.

“What?”

“Little didn’t have a pension any more than you or I do. And it doesn’t look like he saved much over the years.”

“Then what was she talking about?”

“Sir Edward.”

“You mean…?”

Blacker nodded. “I have to think so. After witnessing all that, the man’s doing what he can.”

“Bully for him.”

“He’s a better man than I am, that’s a sure thing.”

Blacker pushed open the door and the two stepped out into bright daylight. Day breathed deep and let the sun fill his lungs. He took the peanut shell from his pocket and tossed it into the street. Blacker saw but didn’t ask.

“I say live every day as if you’re Walter Day,” Blacker said.

“And what does that mean?”

Blacker smiled. He shook his head and put an arm around Day’s shoulder.

“What say we find a murderer?” he said.

Day nodded and allowed himself to be led down the rain-damped street. The bright morning sun shone on his face and London beckoned. He listened to the birds calling to one another above, to the costermongers hawking their wares by the side of the road, to the healthy children shouting from the windows, and everything he had seen and heard and smelled in the Littles’ flat began to recede like the tide, leaving only the faintest trace of black silt behind.

You’re covered with blood,” Kingsley said.

Hammersmith was surprised to find Kingsley in his lab so early. He had left Blackleg after arranging a time and place to meet later in the day and had rushed to the college, stopping briefly at stalls along the way to grab a penny pie, a ginger beer, and something to read.

“I’m sorry?” he said.

He looked down at his shirt, which was permanently ruined by a wide brown swath of blood.

“Oh. Yes, you might say I had an adventuresome night.”

“Does your nose hurt badly?”

Hammersmith shrugged. He had stopped paying attention to the low throbbing pain that surged outward from the middle of his face.

“Come,” Kingsley said. “Let’s have a look at you. If it’s broken we’ll need to set it.”

Hammersmith allowed himself to be led to an empty table in the middle of the laboratory. There were ten tables here, and all but two of them were currently occupied by corpses. The girl Fiona was standing near one of the tables, sketching the body that lay on it. Hammersmith didn’t see Inspector Little’s body anywhere in the room. Nor did he see the dead chimney climber.

Fiona looked up from her tablet and gasped when she saw Hammersmith.

“Is it that bad?” he said.

He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.

“You look a fright,” she said. “As bad as these’uns on the tables.”

“I’m more lively than they are. Though not by much.”

Kingsley dipped a clean rag in cold water and began dabbing at Hammersmith’s face, gently around the nose. Hammersmith could feel dried crumbs of blood falling past his lips.

“Here,” Kingsley said. “Blow your nose.”

He handed Hammersmith a second rag and stood back. Hammersmith tried to squeeze his nose with the rag, but his vision went suddenly dark and pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes. He steadied himself, then held the rag against his upper lip and blew gently out through his nose. A great clot of blood and snot slid out onto the rag.

“Oh, good Lord,” he said. “That’s horrible.”

“Not even the worst thing I’ve seen this morning,” Kingsley said. “What’s this you’ve got here?”

He took the balled-up bloody rag from Hammersmith and pointed at the magazine rolled up under his arm.

“I expected to have to wait for you,” Hammersmith said. “I came prepared.”

“You read,” Kingsley said.

Hammersmith nodded.

“May I?”

Kingsley dropped the rag into a bucket under the table and held out his hand. Hammersmith gave him the magazine. Kingsley unrolled it and frowned at the cover.

“Punch ?”

“It’s quite popular and I like to keep up.”

Kingsley flipped through the magazine.

“What’s this? ‘Mr Punch’s Model Music Hall Songs’?” He smirked and handed the magazine back to Hammersmith. “Amusing, I’m sure.”

Hammersmith smiled, embarrassed. “Well, there’s a variety of subjects. That’s only one snippet. But anyway I’m sure you must read more…” He stopped, at a loss for what the doctor might read.

“Any reading is good for the mind,” Kingsley said. “And I suppose even a humorous magazine may stimulate the imagination.” He smiled. “We have some of these same weeklies around the house, don’t we, Fiona? I’ve seen this before.”

The girl blushed and made a show of concentrating on her drawing. She spoke as if to the tablet of paper.

“I quite like the illustrations in it,” Fiona said. “Did you see the new one by Mr Tenniel in that one?”

Hammersmith was surprised. It was the most the girl had said in his presence. “I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to look it over yet,” he said.

He turned the pages until he found the cartoon she’d mentioned of two men who apparently represented Capital and Labour. They were playing a card game called Beggar My Neighbour. The meaning of it eluded Hammersmith entirely.

“It’s a very good picture,” he said.

“He’s my favorite artist,” she said. “I study him. Did you ever read Alice ?”

“Alice ?”

“ Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland . He drew it all up and it’s beautiful.”

“I will seek it out,” he said.

The girl smiled at him.

“Well,” Kingsley said, “Mr Hammersmith, I would like you to distract yourself now by thinking very hard about music hall songs and cartoons. I’m going to reset your nose and it’s going to hurt a great deal. You should have come to me immediately instead of poking about newsstands. By now the tissue has swelled all round the break. It would be best for you to cast your mind on something else.”

“But now that you’ve told me how painful it’s going to be, I doubt I’ll be able to think about anything else.”

“I apologize. I’m used to dealing with the dead. They never complain.”

“I certainly hope not.”

Kingsley brought his hands together on Hammersmith’s cheeks and placed his thumbs on either side of the bridge of his nose. Hammersmith closed his eyes and felt the doctor drag his thumbs down across his face. Pain exploded through Hammersmith’s skull and he jerked away from Kingsley. Fixing his nose hurt infinitely more than breaking it had. He braced his arms against the back edge of the table, his elbows locked straight, and breathed deeply through his mouth.

When he opened his eyes, Kingsley was holding the bucket out to him.

“If you need to vomit…” he said.