Alex Grecian - The Yard

“It would accumulate until it toppled and crushed us.”

“It would require a lot of space.”

“Not to digress, but speaking of valuable space and the scarcity of it, we need to take up the matter of your dancing gentleman. He’s spent the night in our cell and we’re going to have to decide soon what to do with him.”

“I know it.”

“Fair enough. He’ll keep for the moment. So then Pringle’s murder…”

“Right. Finger marks on Little’s trunk, on Pringle’s trunk, and on the shears found by the dancing man, all the same. There’s another, unidentified set of markings that belong to someone else. Those are on both of the trunks and may be those of an accomplice. Someone probably helped carry the trunks, which would have been too heavy for one man. Marks matching those of the possible accomplice weren’t found on the shears. So the markings found only on the shears have to be those of the killer.”

“I’ll begin rounding up every person in the city so we can match those markings against everyone’s fingertips.”

“You’re sarcastic, but I really think we’ll be able to match them up if we find someone we like for these murders.”

“Won’t ever hold up in front of a magistrate.”

“No, but it may help to focus us on the right suspect.”

“Perhaps. I’m willing to budge on that a bit, but I’m still not completely convinced.”

Day shrugged.

“Well, at any rate, it seems Kingsley did a fine job for us,” Blacker said.

“There was one more thing. He found something else when he brushed Pringle’s trousers.”

“He brushed the man’s trousers?”

“He did. And he found long white hairs. A good many of them.”

“We’re looking for an old man?”

“Animal hairs, not human. He thinks a cat.”

“Did Pringle own a cat?”

“No,” Hammersmith said. “He disliked cats.”

“That seems like a far more promising clue than your finger marks.”

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Oliver Boring said.

His voice carried throughout the squad room. He was standing by the railing, talking over the top of it with a group of constables who seemed quite animated about something. Day looked over at the fat detective and then back at Blacker. Whatever Boring was up to, it was none of their business.

“What?” Blacker said. “Oh, right. So if Pringle disliked cats, then the hairs didn’t come from his own home, and it’s unlikely he stopped to pet a stray.”

“Right.”

“So the cat might have been at the scene of the offense and might have brushed against him after he died.”

“It’s a possibility.”

“Then we’re looking for an acquaintance of both Little and Pringle, someone who owned a white cat. Were cat hairs found on Little’s clothing?”

“The doctor allows for that possibility, but he says Little’s hygiene was such that he might not have noticed animal hair.”

“Well, we can’t rule it out, then. This feels good, doesn’t it? It’s not a sure bet, but it feels right, like we’ve got a chance at catching this blighter.”

“I think there’s reason to hope,” Day said.

“Oh, we will catch him,” Hammersmith said. He was staring across the room at the jackets hanging on the far wall. Day couldn’t see his face. “This one won’t go unsolved.”

“Of course it won’t, old man. Of course.”

Oliver Boring ambled over from the railing and stood in front of the tarts on the desk.

“Have another tart,” Blacker said.

“Thank you,” Boring said. “These men being offed in their water closets-that’s already on one of you lot, ain’t it?”

“The Beard Killer,” Blacker said. “You’re talking about the bloody Beard Killer. That’s my case.”

“You’re welcome to it. I don’t want it nohow.”

“Well, what about it?”

“’Nother one of ’em found. Some doctor from up the East End’s been shaved and left for dead in an empty flat. Thing of it is, they didn’t quite finish the job on him.”

“Where is he?”

“In hospital now. Can’t talk. Throat’s slit wide open and they’re stitching it up. But it seems he can still write if you want to drop round and chat him up about it. Name’s Charles Shaw.”

C inderhouse sat at the edge of the bed and watched the boy sleep. The sun shone through the freshly mortared bars in the window and cast a long grey grid across the bed and up the opposite wall. Finally the boy tried to stir. He opened his eyes when he found he couldn’t move.

Cinderhouse smiled at him. “You’re a deep sleeper,” he said. “I carried you from the closet without waking you.”

Fenn said nothing. He stared at the shadowy bars on his wall.

“I’m afraid I’ve had to tie you down. Tighter this time, so you won’t wiggle free again. When the mortar in the window dries, I might consider letting you sleep without the ropes, but you’ll have to convince me that I can trust you.”

Fenn closed his eyes, but Cinderhouse could tell the boy wasn’t sleeping.

“I’m sure what happened yesterday was difficult for you to witness. I wish you hadn’t made me do that. You realize you’re the one who killed that policeman, don’t you?”

A tear appeared at the corner of Fenn’s eye and rolled down his cheek.

“He would still be alive if you hadn’t involved him in our family affairs, you know? Won’t you answer me? I need to know that you understand the consequences of your actions.”

The boy nodded. His head barely moved, but Cinderhouse saw it.

“If you promise it won’t ever happen again,” he said, “that you’ll always listen to your loving papa, then you’ll be forgiven. And God will forgive you, too. You know His most important rule, don’t you? ‘Honor thy father.’ Can you promise me that you’ll listen and obey me from now on? Can you promise God that you’ll honor His commandment?”

The boy nodded again. More tears made their way down his face and through his hair, pooling in his ears. The tailor smiled. It was good that Fenn was taking this so seriously. Perhaps he really had learned a lesson. Cinderhouse felt his chest swell with love for the boy and thought he might start crying, too.

They sat like that for a long time. Finally the boy opened his eyes.

“What’s that?” he said.

Cinderhouse raised the crop from his lap. He had forgotten he was holding it.

“This? Haven’t you seen a riding crop before?”

“It’s for horses.”

“Yes, it is. And it’s also for naughty boys. My own papa used this very crop on me whenever I was bad. This exact one.”

Fenn began to cry again, and this time a choking sound from deep in his chest accompanied the tears. Cinderhouse barely noticed. He was wrapped in memories thick as a blanket.

“The old man next door had trees then, when I was a boy. There’s nothing there now. The trees didn’t survive. I’ve outlived them by years and years. But back then there were still trees, and a great many of them. Plum trees. Damsons, I think. And one morning, very early, I got myself over the wall between our houses and I stole three ripe plums from that old man’s trees.”

The tailor smiled at the memory: the smooth feel of the plums, the rubbery flesh between his teeth, the purple juice spilling from his lips.

“We didn’t have money for fruit then. My papa did his best, but plums were dear and I had never tasted one. He beat me, of course. Beat me with this crop. Took me to the carriage house and made me fetch it to him, which in a way was worse than the beating. Because of the fear, you understand? The fear grew and grew until I couldn’t stand it, and the beating came as a release from that band of terror that had tightened around me.”