Alex Grecian - The Yard

“The messenger on his black chariot. He delivered the gift that was meant for me. Not for you.”

“A man in a black carriage?”

“The messenger.”

“And he gave them to you?”

“He cast them at my feet, wrapped in a shroud so that I would know.”

“A shroud?”

“Yes.”

“There was no wrapping when we found it.”

Kingsley cleared his throat and moved cautiously toward the dancing man.

“That scarf,” he said. “The black crepe at your throat. Is that the shroud?”

The dancing man clutched at the length of fabric.

“It’s mine,” he said. “The message was for you. The blood is yours, but not the shroud. You would only have cast it off. It’s right that I took it. It’s mine.”

“Of course it is. But may I look at it for a moment?”

“You can’t have it.”

“I won’t keep it.”

The dancing man grudgingly unwrapped the crepe from his throat and held out one end of it to Kingsley. He held the other end of it, wrapping it around his hand so that it couldn’t be pulled away from him. The doctor sighed and held up his lens.

“The most useful tool in my arsenal,” he said. He smiled at the dancing man, but got a wary scowl in return.

Kingsley hunched over the chair and held the shears next to the end of the makeshift scarf, comparing the two items. After a minute or two, he straightened up and nodded.

“I’m reasonably certain the shears were wrapped in this material. There’s blood, or something very like it, on the fabric, and the black thread caught in the shears matches those at this frayed end here.”

“That corroborates his story,” Day said.

“So it would seem we’re looking for a black carriage of some sort,” Blacker said. “Not much to go on.” He turned to the dancing man. “What kind of carriage was it? What kind of chariot?”

The dancing man shook his head, still staring at the end of the fabric held in Kingsley’s hand.

“Was it large or small? Would it hold two people or several?”

“It was small,” the dancing man said. “The city doesn’t crave notice.”

“And neither do murderers, I’d wager. Possibly a hansom.”

“I want my shroud.”

“Of course,” Kingsley said.

He let go of the end of the crepe and the dancing man wrapped it around his throat again.

“There’s nothing else this length of cloth can tell us,” Kingsley said.

“But perhaps giving it back to him has bought us some goodwill,” Day said. “What do you say, Henry? Will you make a mark on this paper for us?”

“It is not for me to make a mark. The city makes its mark on us all.”

“True enough. But perhaps, just this once, you could dirty yourself in the furtherance of a good cause.”

Day brought the ink bottle to the dancing man and held it there. He nodded, encouraging Henry to get a little ink on his finger. The dancing man stared at the bottle for what seemed to be a long time, and Day could hear Blacker behind him, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Finally, the dancing man reached out and stabbed his finger into the bottle. Before he could draw away, Kingsley had his hand in a viselike grip and pressed the blackened finger against the paper. He stood back and let go, and Day stoppered the bottle.

“We can’t let him go,” Blacker said. “He might disappear.”

“I know,” Day said. “But I don’t want to cage him, either.”

“We’ve no choice.”

“I know that, too.”

“And we can’t leave him here in the closet.”

“We’ll put him in the holding cell for now.”

“I want my things. You can’t take my things.”

“By all means, take them, sir. All but the shears. Those belong to us now.”

The dancing man gathered his bindle and allowed Blacker to lead him from the room. When they were gone, Kingsley lit a cigarette.

“I should have brought my pipe. The odor is rather overpowering, isn’t it?”

Day held his pipe up and nodded. They both smiled.

“Now then,” said Kingsley. “To work.”

Hammersmith sensed something near his right elbow. A moment later, he heard a small noise, a rustling that lasted a fraction of a second. He didn’t open his eyes. His head hurt and he saw red behind the curtain of his eyelids. Behind that was a pattern of winter tree branches, and he spent time listening to himself breathe while he tried to decide whether the skeletal branches behind his eyes were red on black or black against a red sky. When the trees began to fade, he found his tongue and spoke.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Who are you?”

It wasn’t an echo. The voice that returned his question was smaller, higher, than his own. Hammersmith focused on his body and was able to feel some sensation in his hands and feet, a distant tingling. Something brushed against his hand.

He opened his eyes, blinking rapidly to filter the light, but couldn’t keep them open for long. He let them drift shut again and concentrated on breathing.

“What happened?” he said.

But even as he said it, he knew that he had been poisoned.

“Why are you in my mama’s bed?” said the small high voice.

“Who are you?” Hammersmith said.

“Bradley.”

“Bradley Shaw?”

“Yes.”

“Is your mama named Penelope?”

“Yes.”

“I’m in her bed?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you were at the park with your governess.”

“I was.”

“How long have you been back?”

“Just now.”

“Where is your mother?”

“She’s downstairs.”

“Did she send you to get me?”

“No.”

Hammersmith waited for more, for an explanation, but it didn’t come.

“Did she tell you to wake me up?” he said.

“No.”

“Did you come looking for me?”

“No. I just came in.”

Hammersmith waited, adjusting to the sudden stimulation of the air.

“The door was open,” the boy said.

“How long were you at the park?”

“I don’t know.”

Hammersmith levered himself up on one elbow and swung his feet off the side of the bed. He arranged the bedsheets as he moved to cover himself. He didn’t remember undressing, but he was naked. He sat for a long time, his eyes closed, waiting at the side of the bed for the world to catch up to him.

“Are you my new papa?”

“No.”

He opened his eyes and saw the back of a small boy as he went out by the bedroom door.

“Why would you ask me that?” Hammersmith said.

The boy turned and came back. He might have been five years old. Hammersmith could see that he was sensitive. Bradley Shaw had big ears that stuck out from his face and a cowlick that had arranged his hair in circles around the back of his head so that his face was the epicenter of a hurricane. But his eyes were huge and brown and lively. There were sparkling depths there.

“Because my mama is done with my papa,” the boy said.

“What do you mean?”

“My mama isn’t his friend anymore.”

Hammersmith looked around the room for his clothes.

“Your clothes are on the chair,” the boy said.

“Bring them to me.”

The boy walked sideways, his eyes on Hammersmith, and picked up a pile of clothing from a wingback chair in the corner. He brought them to the bed and set them within Hammersmith’s reach. He stepped back and watched the man on his father’s bed as if waiting for violence, ready to run. Hammersmith picked up his trousers and slid them on under the sheet that lay across his lap. He stood up and fastened them at the front. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it on. When he closed his eyes, the room seemed to be rocking under his feet. He sat back down on the edge of the bed.