Alex Grecian - The Yard

He put down the forceps and the thread and rubbed the back of his neck with his bloody hand.

There were two more bodies that needed to be sewn together, but Kingsley knew that he had to find Henry Mayhew again before the police returned him to the workhouse or, worse, the asylum.

He owed the former ditchdigger something, and he was ashamed that it had taken him this long to remember and to act.

He rinsed the blood off his hands in the basin on the counter, grabbed his jacket, and left the room. The people on the tables could wait. They had all the time in the world.

H e had gone out the previous night while the boy slept, but he dared not risk it again. He could lock the boy up again, but he didn’t want to. He felt they’d made real progress in their relationship since Fenn’s escape attempt. To imprison him again, even for the hour or two it would take him to run his errand, might cause the boy to resent him again.

But he had offered to take his catalogues to the police. If he failed to deliver on his promise, Sergeant Kett-or worse, Inspector Day-might begin to wonder about him.

Cinderhouse left Fenn at the dining table with a bowl of soup and went from room to room in the tidy house, gathering what he could find. Most of his catalogues were at the shop, but there were a few that he’d brought home for one reason or another. They were all horribly out of date, but the police wouldn’t know that. In all he found eight catalogues. That ought to do.

He checked on the boy, made sure he was still eating, and stepped out the front door, locking it behind him.

His hansom was out front, the coachman bundled up top, snoozing. Cinderhouse wondered at the fact that the man could sleep while sitting up, but supposed that it came with long practice. The horse whinnied at Cinderhouse as he approached, and he stroked its muzzle.

“Somewhere to go, Mr Cinderhouse?”

He jumped at the sound of the coachman’s voice.

“Thought you were asleep up there,” he said.

“Was. But nobody gets close to my horse without me knowin’ it, even you, sir, no disrespect.”

“Not at all. Quite admirable, really. We must take care of our own, mustn’t we?”

“Exactly right, sir.”

“I’ve an errand for you.”

Cinderhouse held up the small stack of catalogues. The coachman jumped down and took them from him.

“There’s a detective at Scotland Yard who’s expecting me to deliver these. Inspector Day’s his name. Would you bring them round to him and apologize for me? Please tell him I had a family matter come up or I’d have brought them myself, but assure him that I’ll pay a visit to the Yard just as soon as I’m able. That I’m anxious to finally meet him. Within the next day or two.”

“Easy as can be, sir. Inspector Day, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“Anywhere else today, sir?”

“I don’t think so. I may need to go to the shop a bit later, but unless it rains I could do with a bit of a walk. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll take these straight round to the police, then. If it begins to look like rain, I’ll head back here and fetch you.”

“Only if it rains.”

“Very good, sir.”

The coachman leapt to his perch and cracked the reins. The horse snorted and jerked forward. Cinderhouse wondered at the fact that he trusted the man. The coachman had been present, even helped, during the commission of uncounted crimes, and yet there was no question in the tailor’s mind that he was loyal. He was paid handsomely for his dedication. Cinderhouse imagined that the world would be an easier place to navigate if everyone’s principles were for sale.

He let himself back into the house where Fenn was still eating soup in the dining room.

With a bit of luck, Inspector Day would be satisfied with the catalogues and wouldn’t call on the tailor today. By tomorrow things might be different. By tomorrow Fenn might be more settled into his new life with his new father, and Cinderhouse might even be able to bring the boy with him to call on the police. The tailor smiled at Fenn and was pleased to see the boy smile back at him. Despite all their recent troubles, things were beginning to come out right at last.

He ain’t gonna last in there.”

“The dancing man, you mean?”

“I mean my brother. Henry’s his name.”

“Of course. I apologize. Your brother has spent a great deal of time here, or rather in the street outside of here. We didn’t know his name until quite recently.”

Frank Mayhew waved the apology away. He was a lean man, tall but shrunken, slumped in the straight-backed wooden chair next to Walter Day’s desk. He had the appearance of a once larger and perhaps more intimidating man, but there was little evidence left of that past life. His hair was plastered to his forehead with old sweat, he had not shaved in at least a week, and grime caked the creases of his neck and forehead. His eyes were bloodshot and rheumy, tears welling up at the corners. His hands trembled as he took a filthy handkerchief from his shirt pocket and dabbed at his blood-encrusted nostrils.

Frank Mayhew was clearly not long for the world.

Inspector Day locked eyes with Constable Hammersmith, who nodded back at him. Hammersmith stood and motioned for Blacker to follow. Blacker raised an eyebrow but allowed himself to be led to the far end of the Murder Squad room.

Day cleared his throat. “As I said, I meant no disrespect toward your brother.”

Mayhew folded a clump of dried blood into the handkerchief and slipped the cloth back into his pocket. He wiped his face with a filthy paw and sighed.

“I know he’s a strange one, sir. But he’s a good kid. I been lookin’ after ’im a long time now, since our mama died on us, and I’m here to tell ya he’s got a sweet heart, a big heart, goes along with that big body a his.”

“I will admit to being fond of him. Despite his best efforts to alienate me and everyone else.”

“He don’t mean to do that. He loves people. Wants to make ’em happy. Just don’t like to be touched or pushed around none.”

“He’s made that clear on at least one occasion.”

“Sure he has.”

“Frank, I’m afraid I don’t know why you’re here. Your brother has been taken to the workhouse, where qualified people will care for him and help him reenter society as a productive citizen. It’s entirely out of my hands.”

Mayhew leveled his gaze at Day, and for a moment, his eyes cleared. Behind the blood and tears, there was the angry twinkle of wit.

“You believe a word yer sayin’?”

“About the workhouse?”

“Aye. ’Bout that.”

Day hesitated, then shook his head. “No. No, of course I don’t.”

“Then let’s you an’ me be honest, each with t’other. Henry stays in that workhouse, he ain’t comin’ back out alive. They treat ’em rough in there, and he ain’t equipped noways to deal with those folk. Nor with the work they’d be puttin’ him to.”

“I don’t disagree with you, but as I said, it’s out of my hands. I have no jurisdiction over the workhouse. Whatever meager authority I have is strictly tied to the investigation of crime and not at all to the welfare of … well, not to social inequities, at any rate.”

“That don’t mean nothin’ to me. A policeman goes in there and takes him out, nobody’s gonna stop ’im. ’Specially a policeman’s got no uniform, in a posh suit like you got.”