Alex Grecian - The Yard

“I’ve had some rest.”

“Then we’ll go.”

The two of them headed up the footpath to where a fleet of wagons waited at the street. Behind them, the lanterns of the police bobbed like fireflies over the park’s tainted meadow.

Kingsley slid one of the jacket sleeves down Pringle’s left arm and dropped the empty sleeve in a bin. He did the same with the left shirtsleeve. He set the bare arm on the table next to the constable’s body and used a long metal skewer to pin it in place against the left shoulder. He dipped a rag into a basin of cold water and washed Pringle’s torso, dipping the rag in the basin again and again. The water in the basin turned pink, then red, then black, and Kingsley dumped it out, refilled it. Bits of blue and white thread from his uniform had been embedded in the constable’s skin by the force of the murder weapon. Kingsley bent over the body with tweezers and pulled out each thread.

He stepped back and bent his head, first to one side then the other until his neck popped, then went back to work separating the man from his uniform.

“Father?”

Kingsley turned and blocked his daughter’s view. “I don’t need you for this yet,” he said.

“You don’t need to hide it from me. I’m sure I’ve seen worse.”

“I’m sure you’ve seen similar horrors, but you needn’t see everything that comes through here.”

“Is it another policeman?”

“Why would you guess that?”

Fiona pointed to the shredded jacket on a nearby table and Kingsley nodded.

“Yes, it’s another policeman.”

Fiona’s hair was mussed and her nightshirt was too short. Her ankles showed beneath the hem. She’s still growing, Kingsley thought. Still a little girl .

“Let me get my sketch pad,” she said.

“I’ll sketch this one.”

“You can’t draw, Father.”

“True, you’re much more skilled than I am with the charcoal, but I can still mark out the positions of these injuries.”

“Not as well as I can.”

“Have I done the wrong thing, Fiona?”

“What do you mean?”

“All the horrors you’ve seen, all the death and murder and evil. I recently met a man named Henry who was driven mad by it all, and I’m…”

He couldn’t think how to phrase the doubts he had. The same doubts that had been with him since he’d first decided to include his daughter in his work.

“Death is there whether I see it or not, isn’t it?” she said.

“Of course.”

“Then I’d rather see it and know it. I’d rather not be ignorant of it.”

“But I think you’re supposed to be ignorant of it. I think your mother would have kept it from you.”

Fiona nodded.

“I could have sent you to school with your sister,” Kingsley said.

“I didn’t want to go.”

“I know.”

She stood there in the doorway until he relented.

“Get your tablet,” he said. “I’m a tired old man and this city seems to get worse every day.”

“I like this city, Father. And you shouldn’t worry so. For all the bad we see, you’ve shown me how to look for the good.”

There was the faint sound of a bell and Kingsley snapped to attention. They had early visitors.

“Thank you,” he said. “Now go put on a proper dress. That will be the police, come to see their friend.”

I’ve brought tarts,” Blacker said.

He came through the railing and into the murder room, holding a brown paper parcel done up with string. Day looked up from his report. Blacker set the parcel on Day’s desk and unwrapped it. A dozen tarts lay on the grease-soaked paper.

“I missed breakfast and thought the same might be true of you,” Blacker said.

Day smiled his thanks and went back to the report he was writing. Hammersmith didn’t look up from his own paperwork or acknowledge Blacker in any way. Blacker shrugged and bit into a tart. Inspector Oliver Boring wandered over from his own desk. He was a large man and moved like a horse with an overburdened cart.

“Are those for all of us or just for you and Day?” he said.

“Anyone, I suppose.”

“Fantastic. Many thanks, Blacker.”

“Don’t mention it. These two haven’t.”

Boring took a tart and returned to his desk, passing Sergeant Kett along the way. Kett stopped at Day’s desk and folded his hands in front of him.

“Don’t mean to interrupt, Inspector,” he said. “It’s nothing important.”

Day looked up again and set his pen down. “What’s that?”

“All the excitement, I forgot to mention you had visitors yesterday. While you were out, I mean. Your wife was one.”

“I never had a chance to speak with her last night. She was asleep by the time I got home. And I was hardly there long enough to change clothes. I’ll have to look in on her today.”

“And the tailor dropped by. The supplier we use for uniforms and the like. Seems to want to help with your investigation.”

“Good of him. Perhaps we’ll drop by and get his opinion, then. Is he reliable?”

“Odd bloke, but friendly enough.”

“This the strange bald fellow we’re talking about?” Blacker said.

“He’s the one,” Kett said.

“Rubs me the wrong way.”

“Still, good of him to offer his assistance,” Day said. “We meant to talk with him yesterday, but it slipped my mind in the excitement. Thank you, Sergeant.”

Kett nodded and left by the gate. His shoulders were slumped and the life appeared to have gone out of him.

“Poor Kett,” Day said. “I think he feels like a father to some of them here. Pringle’s death has hit him hard.”

“Any word from Kingsley’s laboratory about that?” Blacker said.

“We’ve only just come from there. We were with him all morning. There’s very little to report, but we do have a few promising leads. There’s the witness, of course, the little girl in the park. We’ve determined her identity, but we don’t expect much from her.”

“Is that all we’ve got?”

“No. Kingsley found a multitude of clues on the body. There’s the thread used to sew poor Pringle’s mouth and eyes shut. It matches exactly the thread used on Little. So we’re dealing with someone who has a fair supply of thread at hand.”

“I suppose that narrows things down a bit. But not much.”

“It’s something. Particularly since we’re assuming a man did this. We’re not going to be looking for a seamstress or a homemaker here. It also appears, from the force and depth of the blows, that the killer worked in a sort of frenzy. It’s likely he took Pringle by surprise the same way he did Little. Both police probably knew their murderer well enough to trust him.”

“Well, we have Hammersmith here to help us narrow down that list.”

Hammersmith finally looked up at Blacker. “That’s what I’m doing now, sir. Writing up my impression of Constable Pringle’s daily routine and acquaintances.”

“There’s also the matter of the finger marks,” Day said.

“Finger marks,” Blacker said. He rolled his eyes.

“I know your feelings on that matter,” Day said. “Nevertheless, the doctor feels they may be helpful, and Sir Edward himself concurs.”

“He doesn’t.”

“But he does.”

“I’m astonished. He’s such a reasonable sort.”

“Kingsley kept the trunk from Little’s murder and is comparing the two. He’s been keeping a shed full of evidence from previous cases that he thinks might be revisited one day. He suggested that we do the same here.”

“Why would we keep old evidence?”

“I think it’s a good idea. In a case like this, evidence from one murder may reflect on a later case.”