Alex Grecian - The Yard

“There’s nothing posh about-”

“I’m sayin’ you could help Henry if you put your mind to doin’ it.”

“But why?” Day was impatient now. He sat on the edge of his desk and leaned forward, breathing through his mouth. Frank Mayhew smelled like death. “Why should I do that, Mr Mayhew? Your brother…”

He broke off, unsure of how to point out the obvious without insulting the dancing man’s brother. Frank looked away, at the piles of paperwork on Day’s desk, all the unsolved cases.

“I know it. I understand about my brother. I know he don’t contribute much of nothin’ and he don’t know how to relate to folk and he don’t make much sense when he do try to relate. But that don’t make him a bad person. He deserves better’n he’s got.”

“So many people deserve better, Mr Mayhew,” Day said. He spoke quietly. “This city is full to the brim with people who deserve better.”

Day held the other man’s stare until the spark went out of Mayhew’s eyes, leaving them once again watery and grey. Mayhew closed them and hung his head.

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Mr Mayhew. Truly I am.”

“It was a rubbish idea anyhow. Police don’t do nothin’ for nobody ain’t got two to rub together.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Ain’t fair, but ’tis true. I’ll clear outten your way now.”

Mayhew coughed as he rose. He turned, stumbled, and then fell, toppling over the chair, but keeping his feet. He tripped forward again, trying to catch his balance, dragging the chair under him as it banged back into him. His gaunt body finally crumpled and he lay still beside Inspector Tiffany’s desk.

Tiffany stood and grabbed Mayhew around the waist. He yanked him to his feet.

“Suspect or witness?” Tiffany said.

“Neither,” Day said. “A concerned citizen.”

Tiffany’s expression softened and he set Mayhew on his feet. Mayhew staggered, but stayed upright.

“Are you all right?” Day said.

Mayhew held up his hands, palms out, and nodded. “Be right as rain. Need a moment’s all.”

He coughed again. And again. And then his body shook with convulsions as he barked and hacked, pitching forward and rocking back. Tiffany jumped out of the way as a thick clot of gore spewed from Frank Mayhew’s mouth. Blood, black as tar, spattered the floor. Hammersmith and Blacker rushed from the other side of the room, but Tiffany held them back, giving Mayhew room. Constables and sergeants queued up on the other side of the rail and watched Mayhew work, coughing his life up and out.

Finally Frank Mayhew straightened. He stood quietly with his back to the detectives and took the handkerchief from his pocket again. He wiped his lips.

“You have consumption,” Day said.

“I do.”

“You’re dying.”

“Not too long now.”

“Let me take you to hospital.”

“So I can die there?”

“They can make you comfortable.”

“You know better’n ’at.”

Mayhew turned to face him. The front of his shirt glistened, and Day realized that what he had taken for dirt was actually layer upon layer of dried blood.

“What you said. There’s too many deservin’ of help in this city? That’s true enough. But you could maybe help just one of them that’s deservin’ and that’s somethin’ and that’s true enough, too.”

Day was quiet.

“I can’t look after my brother no more. And I know you can’t, neither. But you can maybe get ’im outta that place and give ’im a fightin’ chance on the street where he can breathe some air and do a dance again. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little dancin’, Mr Police, sir.”

Mayhew nodded at him, sniffed, and turned. He walked away through the gate, and the uniformed men on the other side of the railing moved to let him pass. Mayhew disappeared down the back hallway. He would, Day knew, be swallowed up by the city and he would die in an alley or under a building somewhere within the week.

“Well, this is quite a mess,” Tiffany said.

“It is.”

“We’ll get someone to clean it.”

“Thank you.”

“Day?”

“Yes?”

“If you try to handle more than you can, you’ll drive yourself mad. My advice to you is to concentrate on the job. Anything else will only get in the way of that.”

Day nodded, but said nothing. After a moment, Tiffany clapped him on the shoulder and went to open the gate for a boy who was lugging a bucket of suds and a mop. Day stepped back and let the boy get to work scrubbing the floor.

“What now, old man?” Blacker said.

“I believe I’ll let you and Mr Hammersmith handle the interview with Penelope Shaw by yourselves, if you don’t mind.”

“What Tiffany said just now-”

“No. He’s right, of course, but that’s not the way I’m made.”

“So you’re headed round the workhouse, then?”

“Of course I am. I’ll check in on the tailor first. It’s on the way.”

“Sir Edward wants us to stay together.”

“This isn’t precisely in the line of duty. We can’t lose valuable time on the case while I run a fool’s errand. I’ll catch up to you at the Shaw house as soon as I’m able.”

“With any luck we’ll see you there soon.”

Our Mr Day has taken the last wagon.”

“Considerate of him.”

“Fancy a walk?”

“That’s a long walk.”

“Aye.” Inspector Blacker sighed and looked at the sky. “More rain today, I think.”

“Even better news.”

“Aye.”

“I’ve forgotten my hat,” Hammersmith said. “Wait for me?”

“Of course.”

Blacker watched Hammersmith duck past a pair of bobbies and disappear through the back door of 4 Whitehall Place. When Blacker turned around, a black hansom was pulling up to the curb.

“Well, that’s a stroke of luck,” Blacker said.

The two bobbies looked at him expectantly and he waved them on.

“Talking to myself,” he said. “It’ll be the nuthouse for me next.”

They smiled and nodded and moved down the sidewalk as the hansom’s coachman alighted and reached into the cab for something. He emerged with a short stack of books and approached Blacker.

“Pardon me, sir,” the coachman said. “I’m to deliver these to an Inspector Day.”

“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him,” Blacker said. “What have you got?”

“Catalogues from Mr Cinderhouse.”

“The man’s name pops up at every turn. Tell you what: Take those in to Sergeant Kett. He’ll be right inside there. Tell him that Inspector Day needs them left on his desk and he’ll take care of you.”

“I’ll need a receipt of some sort.”

“Kett’s your man.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“I say, when you’ve done with that, I don’t suppose you’re up for giving me a ride?”

“A ride, sir?”

“It’s a short distance. Can your employer spare you the few minutes?”

“I’m sure he’d be happy if I was of service to you.”

“Excellent. Hurry yourself, then. Remember, Sergeant Kett’s the fellow you’re looking for.”

The coachman tipped his hat and carried the stack of catalogues into the Yard, passing Hammersmith, who emerged from number four with his hat in his hands. Hammersmith scowled at the sky. Heavy clouds were rolling in, the color and texture of boiled spinach.

“I’m too tired to be wet today,” he said.

“There’s good news in that department, old man. I’ve arranged a ride for us in this shiny beast of a cab.”

“That is good news. I don’t believe I’d have made it halfway there on foot.”

“Then hop in and we’ll be talking to this Shaw woman in mere moments.”