Alex Grecian - The Yard

“He didn’t want it to reflect upon his reputation. Why is that so hard to understand? You threatened to cause a scandal that would have ruined his practice.”

“I never cared about him. It’s the chimney sweep I want. He’s the one who left the boy’s body there. I want to see justice done. I don’t care about scandals and reputations and all this ridiculous social claptrap.”

“Do you care about me?”

Hammersmith took a step back. He looked away toward the open door of the critical ward.

“I … I need to see your husband now,” he said. “Wait here.”

He started to pass her, then stopped and spoke without turning around, without looking at her.

“Maybe you’ll get lucky and he’ll die.”

Dr Charles Shaw lay on his back with pillows under his shoulders and neck. Between this arrangement of pillows there was a plank that held a shallow metal tray, there to catch the blood and pus that drained from his throat. Heavy black stitches spiderwebbed across his neck, but fluid seeped through and ran down both sides under his ears, dripping into the pan. A copper tube snaked out through a small gap in the stitches, and Day could hear air being drawn through it as Shaw’s chest rose and fell.

As Day and Blacker approached Shaw’s bed, a nurse quickly slid the full tray of gore from under his head and replaced it with a fresh tray. The movement jostled the pillows. Shaw made no sound, but his hands clawed at the sheets, and Day knew that no matter how efficiently the nurse acted, the procedure must be painful for Shaw.

The two detectives stood side by side at the edge of the bed and looked down at the doctor’s swollen purple face. The elaborate curly beard was gone and Shaw’s naked chin was weak and pale. The wound across his throat nearly separated his head from the body below and Day wondered that Shaw was still alive.

“Can you hear us, Dr Shaw?”

Shaw’s eyelids rolled up and his bloodshot eyes worked to focus on Day.

“Can you say who did this to you?”

“He can’t talk,” the nurse said. “His voice box is just … well, it’s just gone.”

“We’ll need to ask him some questions. Will he improve?”

She shook her head. The pan under Shaw’s head was already filling up again with brown and yellow waste.

“He needs to rest,” she said. “There’s nothing anyone can do now but let him rest.”

Day sighed and began to turn away, but Shaw reached out and grabbed his wrist. Shaw’s grip was so weak that Day almost didn’t notice. He looked down at the doctor’s wide and pleading eyes.

“Get me paper,” Day said. “Any kind. Something to write with.”

The nurse glared at him.

“Sir, I shouldn’t say this in front of the patient.”

“Say what?”

“I shouldn’t say.”

Day took her elbow and moved her away from Shaw. They stood at the end of another bed where a man with no arms was crying for a drink of water. Day tried not to look at the man.

“What don’t you want to say?”

“He won’t live through today.”

“Then you must allow us to talk to him.”

Hammersmith entered the ward and saw Day. Day nodded to him across the room and Hammersmith joined them. The nurse glared at Hammersmith, too, clearly resenting police intrusion on her premises. Day decided that she was the kind of petty bureaucrat who reveled in whatever small amount of power they had and she clearly ruled the critical care ward. Her attitude toward the police had no doubt been colored by the Ripper murders. So many people who might once have been glad to see the police were now immediately scornful.

“You should leave now,” the nurse said. “Any exertion at all will speed the process of that man’s death.”

“Please forgive how plain this must sound,” Day said, “but what does it matter if he’ll die today anyway? Let us talk to him now. We’ll be easy on him, but he may be able to lead us to a murderer, someone who has killed before and who we believe will kill again. Don’t you think he’d want to help us with that? To help us find the man who murdered him?”

“Every moment of life is sacred. Let him spend his last moments in peace.”

“Every moment of life should be spent accomplishing something,” Hammersmith said. “Could someone get this poor man some water?”

He pointed to the man in the bed who was still screaming for a drink.

“He’s just had a drink of water. He wants attention, that’s all.”

“Then perhaps someone should pay attention to him.”

Hammersmith fetched a pitcher from a nearby cart and poured a small amount of it into a shallow bowl. He stepped around Day and lifted the crying patient’s head, held the bowl to his lips. The man grew quiet and sipped at the bowl of water.

The nurse stomped away and Day saw her talking to a doctor at the far end of the room, pointing back at them. The doctor broke free of her and waved his hand at the nurse to stay where she was. He had dark pouches under his eyes and his tie was askew. This wasn’t a man who was accustomed to sleeping well. When he approached them, Hammersmith handed him the empty water bowl. The doctor took it and nodded.

“There’s too many of them,” he said. “We do what we can for them, but the men in this ward are just waiting to die. We’re not cruel, but we haven’t the time.”

“I’m not asking for your time, sir,” Day said. “I apologize if we’ve distressed anyone. I am a friend of Dr Bernard Kingsley, who works here in the hospital, if you’d like to inquire about my discretion and habits.”

“I know Dr Kingsley. I’m sure it won’t be necessary to trouble him. What is it we can do for you?”

“You have a patient. Also a surgeon. Dr Charles Shaw.”

“I don’t recognize the name. Does he work here?”

“I don’t know, sir. But he’s lying in that bed, with a wounded throat.”

“Oh, my. Yes. I wasn’t aware he was a doctor. I’ve done what I can for him, but I’m afraid there’s no hope. All we can do at this point is pray.”

“We’ve no use for idle praying,” Hammersmith said. “We need information from this man.”

“I’m afraid he can’t talk to you. By that I mean he’s incapable of any speech at all.”

“Then could we have a notebook and a pencil?” Day said. “He may be able to write something down that could help us.”

“I don’t see any harm in that, if he’s awake. But he won’t be able to sit up.”

The doctor snapped his fingers to get the nurse’s attention and made a scribbling gesture in the air. She nodded and hurried from the room. The doctor shook their hands, made sure they were satisfied, and returned to his futile rounds. The nurse came back a moment later with a small brown cardboard-covered notebook and a wooden pencil, sharpened at both ends. Day took them and thanked her. She nodded curtly, spun on her heel, and retreated to the far side of the room.

“I don’t believe we’re making friends here, Constable,” Day said.

“Were we here to make friends?”

Day raised his eyebrows. “No. But I’ve found that the more friends I have, the easier my life seems to be.”

Hammersmith nodded, but didn’t speak.

“I don’t know about you, but I became a policeman because I care about people. We’re under a lot of pressure and you’ve suffered a horrible loss,” Day said. “But you can’t let it change you or you’ll be no better than that hard-hearted nurse over there.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

Day turned away. He wasn’t accustomed to being called sir and had no idea how to respond. He didn’t like it much and realized he had now created a certain formal distance between himself and the constable. He resolved to bridge that gap later. For now, he led the way to Dr Shaw’s bed, where Blacker had kept vigil. Blacker shook his head at them as they approached. Shaw was asleep. The sound of his breath as it echoed up through the copper tube was irregular and wet.