Alex Grecian - The Yard

“Did no such thing.” Pizer’s eyes narrowed. “And if I did, you got no proof of it. Nothin’ you can do to me, bluebottle, so why don’t you go aboutcher business?”

He straightened his shirt, pulling it back down over his ample belly.

“You’re under arrest,” Hammersmith said.

He clasped Pizer’s wrist. Blackleg cleared his throat and Hammersmith looked over at him. The older man shook his head.

“You can’t,” he said.

“No, you can’t,” Pizer said.

Hammersmith let go of Pizer’s wrist and took a step back. The two criminals were right. They knew the law and they knew its limits. Pizer had done nothing illegal and nothing provable.

Pizer picked his cigar up off the table, brushed it off, and stuck the wet end back in his mouth. He grabbed his cigar cutter and grinned.

“Tell ya what. You seemed to like this well enough. You have it. A gift from yer old friend Sam. So you don’t forget me.”

He took Hammersmith’s hand, pressed the cutter into his palm, and closed Hammersmith’s fingers around it. He winked and walked away. The door of the pub slammed shut behind him.

Hammersmith threw the cutter into the fireplace and turned on Blackleg. “You didn’t help.”

“What should I have done, bluebottle?”

“I don’t know, but…”

“The law can’t touch someone like that. He’ll eventually end up dead, and it won’t be pretty, but it won’t be the law what does him in.”

Hammersmith pulled up Pizer’s chair and sat down hard. The poison was still working on him, although it seemed to be slowly dissipating. He felt tired and frustrated and the adrenaline rush of anger was fading. He looked around at the other people in the pub, the bartender, the waitress, four other men deep in their drinks. Nobody was paying attention, nobody cared that the chimney sweep had escaped justice.

“He can’t just walk away like this. There must be something someone can do.”

“Oh, there is,” Blackleg said. “But you needed to see that he’s outside yer reach, Mr Hammersmith.”

“What are you implying?”

“You can’t do anything to him, but that don’t mean he can’t be touched, do it?”

“You mean you can do something, even if I can’t?”

“I didn’t say that exactly.”

“What would you do?”

“I would do what needs doing.”

“I can’t condone that.”

“Didn’t say you needed to.”

“What if I stopped you?”

Blackleg chuckled. “Shame you threw that cutter in the fire. It was a nice one. You coulda give it to me, if you didn’t want it fer yerself.”

“I want to be the one who brings him to justice, Blackleg.”

“You can’t.”

“I know.”

“Best you can do is know it was done without knowin’ how. ’Cause yer still the law and that scum ain’t worth losin’ yer job and yer freedom.”

“I want more than that.”

“Thought you might feel that way. Could be there’s one way you can be a part of what needs to happen.”

“How?”

“Be a part without bein’ involved, I mean.”

“How?”

“Hire ’im. Give ’im a chimney to clean. I don’t got a chimney, but you do.”

“How did you know that?”

Blackleg smiled, but didn’t answer.

“My chimney’s small,” Hammersmith said.

“Size don’t matter. He won’t get a chance to actually clean it.”

“But if he knows it’s small to begin with, he’ll press some other child into service to bring with him. We don’t want that.”

“Well, we don’t need to tell ’im it’s small, do we?”

“And when he comes, we’ll be on hand. I can have my flatmate there, too. He’ll help.”

“What then? He’ll laugh in yer face again. No, you don’t need to be about and neither do any other bluebottles.”

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Can you live with not knowin’, but knowin’ anyways, Mr Hammersmith?”

“I don’t know.”

“I s’pose you’ll find out soon enough.”

“Why?” Hammersmith said. “Why do you care enough about the death of a child to involve yourself in this?”

“You said it yerself: It’s the death of a child. Someone’s gotta care. Hell, we should all care.”

“Use my flat.”

“I thought I would.”

“But how do I hire him? Put an advertisement in the Times ?”

“I’ve already taken the liberty,” Blackleg said. “The notice is runnin’ in the morning’s edition.”

When Hammersmith left the pub, he kept a hand on the outside wall and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. He walked carefully toward a taxi stand and never looked behind him. If he had, he might have seen Charles Shaw leave his shadowy post beside the pub’s front door.

Shaw trailed Hammersmith down the street and hovered near the stand until Hammersmith had boarded an omnibus. Hammersmith made his way to the back of the bus and Shaw jumped on, heading for the top deck, where he’d be able to see Hammersmith disembark.

Like Hammersmith, Shaw never looked behind him, and so he didn’t see the two women who were already following Hammersmith at a discreet distance. Shaw was climbing the ladder to the top of the bus when the prostitutes paid their ha’pennies and found seats near the front, behind the horses.

When everyone was safely aboard, the driver shook the reins and the bus rumbled off in the eventual direction of Hammersmith’s flat.

S he answered the door herself and so he assumed that she was the housekeeper. She was very young and very pretty, but she had a haggard air about her, as if she had been worked to the bone by a harsh mistress.

“Is the lady of the house in?” he said.

“I am the lady of the house, sir.”

“Oh, my. I do apologize.”

“No need to apologize. The housekeeper has left for the day or your question would make perfect sense.”

“Were you the housekeeper I should worry about the state of your mistress’s marriage. Her husband would no doubt be unable to take his eyes off you and she would discharge you within a fortnight.”

“How charming. Thank you, I think.”

“I apologize again. I’ve reached too far for a compliment and embarrassed you instead.”

Cinderhouse took her hand and kissed it.

“My name is Bentley,” he said. “Inspector Richard Bentley. I’m an associate of your husband’s. We work closely together at the Yard.”

Her eyes grew wider and her smile disappeared. “Is Walter all right?”

“Oh, of course. Of course he is. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I continue to start on the wrong foot here. May I come in?”

“Please do. I shouldn’t leave you out on the stoop. I’m so unused to receiving visitors, you see.”

She stood aside and allowed him into the house. It was small, but well appointed and tidy. He took off his hat and gloves and handed them to her, but kept his coat on.

“I won’t be staying. I just had a question or two.”

“I’m afraid my husband isn’t home.”

“That’s just as well. It’s you I want to talk to.”

They were interrupted by the sound of a whistling kettle.

“I was just preparing tea,” she said. “Would you join me?”

“I’d be delighted, Mrs Day.”

“Please, call me Claire.”

She smiled and hurried away through a door on the other side of the room. He got a glimpse of a tidy kitchen before the door swung shut again, leaving him alone in the front room. The parlor was cozy: a faded Oriental rug over polished floorboards, bright florals on the walls, a fire on the hearth with a red-striped Renaissance Revival chair pulled up in front of it. The lady’s sewing basket was open beside it and a white shirt was draped over one arm of the chair. Claire Day was obviously mending her husband’s shirt. From where he stood, Cinderhouse could already see problems with the repair job.