Alex Grecian - The Yard

“I really didn’t mean to shoot him, Liza.”

“I know, love. It don’t matter. Lord knows we done worse.”

“He didn’t have no beard like the others. Like-”

Esme closed her mouth, bit off the next word. It didn’t matter. Liza knew what she was going to say. Like him. Him. Saucy Jack, the great bearded beast of Whitechapel. He had left his mark on Esme’s face and on her chest, and she still waited for him to return and claim her.

“He was a man, wasn’t he?”

“Aye. He was.”

“Then the beard don’t matter, whether it’s there or not.”

“The other ones, the ones we done up, they had the beard.”

Like him.

“The bluebottle don’t have it, neither.”

“Are we gonna do him up, too?”

“If we don’t wanna get caught we will.”

“He might not know.”

“You’re the one said he does.”

“That was afore I kilt that man back there. I don’t wanna kill no more, Liza.”

“We started somethin’.”

“I think it’s enough. None of ’em with beards was the one. And I don’t feel so mad no more.”

“What if I still do?”

“Oh, Liza.”

Esme stepped in close and put her hand on the back of Liza’s neck. She drew her in and Liza breathed the smell of her, sweat and smoke and mint, and Esme’s mouth was on hers and her body pushed in close. Warmth radiated out from Liza’s core. Her face flushed and she shut her eyes to contain it.

Esme broke the kiss and stepped away. Liza took a moment before opening her eyes. She smiled.

“All right, love,” she said. “Unless someone else gets in our way, the bluebottle will be the last one.”

“Only ’cause he knows it was us done the others.”

“Only ’cause he knows.”

“Good. Liza?”

“Yes, love?”

“What’s his name? The bluebottle, I mean. You said you heard the other one say his name.”

“Hammersmith. The other one called him Hammersmith.”

Esme nodded. “Then he’ll be the last one. We’ll kill Mr Hammersmith and be done with it.”

She smoothed her dress and led the way back into the pub.

We’ve come to see Inspector Little.”

Sergeant Kett looked up at the couple standing in the door of the back hall. The man had his hat in his hands and the woman had clearly put on her Sunday best to come round to the Yard on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Inspector Little’s unavailable,” Kett said. “What’s this regarding?”

“Our son,” the man said. He stepped forward just a bit, half a step. “Inspector Little was trying to find our missing son. We just wanted to know…”

The man broke off and smiled, but there was no warmth in it. That smile was the last vestige of hope on an otherwise thoroughly disappointed face.

“He’s our only boy,” the woman said.

“We got three girls,” the man said. “Only the one boy. We been waitin’ to hear, like the detective said to, but we need some news, sir. It’s got us torn up.”

“Inspector Little was moved to the Murder Squad not long ago,” Kett said. “That might be why you never heard nothin’.”

With so many missing in London every year, there was virtually no chance their son would be found. They hadn’t received news because the overworked detectives rarely had any news to report in cases like theirs.

“Murder squad? Is our boy murdered?”

“Nothin’ to do with your boy.”

“Who do we talk to, then?” the woman said.

“I’ll take you back there.”

Kett rose and came around the desk. He gestured for the couple to follow and led them down the short corridor. Off to his left, at the end of the hall, the Murder Squad room was mostly empty. Oliver Boring sat munching on a biscuit and reading a file, but the place was otherwise empty, everybody away looking for Little’s killer. Kett pointed at the bustling hive of detectives in the bigger room to his right.

“You’ll be wantin’ one of them,” he said.

“But…” the man said. “But who?”

Kett led them to Inspector Gerard’s desk. Gerard was one of the better detectives who hadn’t been tapped for the Murder Squad. Kett made introductions all around.

“You’ll need to ask Inspector Day for the file,” Kett said. “He’s got all of Mr Little’s things.”

“Why’s that?” the father of the missing boy said.

“We’re reshuffling a bit,” Kett said.

If they hadn’t read the papers and didn’t know that Little was gone, Kett saw no reason to alarm them. Learning that the detective was dead might kill their spirits. And their spirits were all they had.

He left them with Gerard, who had taken a pen and was writing down information about their boy. The only word Kett heard was Fenn , but he didn’t know if that was a name or a marsh where the boy had disappeared. He shook his head and returned to his desk just inside the door of the Yard.

That’s him there.”

The bartender pointed to a short man who was just now drawing one of two chairs up to a low table in the corner of the room near the fireplace. Hammersmith thanked the bartender and followed Blackleg to the man’s table.

“You’d be Sam Pizer?” Blackleg said.

The man drew a blunt used cigar from his shirt pocket before looking up at them.

“And who’d you be, then?” he said.

“Never mind who we are.”

“Well, I can guess at your game. And that one’s a bluebottle.” He pointed at Hammersmith. “I’ve no business with either of you.”

“Could be we’ve got business with you.”

Blackleg pulled up the other chair for himself and left Hammersmith to find his own chair, which he did by dragging one over from a nearby table.

“What’ya want, then?” Pizer said. He chewed on the end of his stubby cigar.

“Where were you three days ago?” Hammersmith said.

“Who knows? Where were you?”

“I suggest you treat this seriously.”

“Why? You gonna arrest me? For what?”

“Where’s your climber?”

“My what?”

“You know very well. The boy you employ to climb chimneys. Where is he?”

Pizer made a show of looking around the room. “Don’t look like he’s out for a drink.”

He laughed and fished a small metal device from his pocket. It looked like a miniature pair of scissors. One end resembled a pair of tongs. There was a rivet in the center. At the opposite end from the tongs were two crescent-moon-shaped cutters. Pizer snipped the end off the old cigar with the sharp end and turned the device around. He gripped the short cigar with the tong end and held it to his lips. Blackleg produced a match, struck it, and held it to the end of the cigar. Pizer leaned forward and puffed until the cigar was lit. He leaned back. “Thanks.”

Hammersmith pointed at the device. “Had that long?”

“Got it off a sailor. Handy little cigar cutter, ain’t it?”

Hammersmith jumped from his chair. His hand shot out like a snake and grabbed Pizer’s arm. Pizer dropped the cigar and the cutter clattered on the table. Hammersmith snatched it up with his free hand.

“I’ve seen this shape.”

He held the crescent blades under Pizer’s nose. The chimney sweep looked at him, his eyes wide, a crumb of tobacco stuck to his bottom lip.

“You branded that boy with these, didn’t you? There was a scar on his arm this exact shape and size. You heated it up in the fire and you burned it into his skin.”

Pizer shook his head. He pulled away from Hammersmith and pushed his chair back. Standing, he was a full head shorter than Hammersmith.

“Don’t know whatcher talkin about, bluebottle.”

“You left that child to die in the chimney. You walked away and left him.”