Alex Grecian - The Yard

Another guard was posted outside the door. He was talking to someone as Day approached. The second man had his back to Day and was holding a small black bag in one hand. Both men turned to look at Day.

“Dr Kingsley?” Day said.

“Detective!”

Kingsley seemed relieved to see him.

“What are you doing here?” Day said.

“I suspect I’m here for the same reason you are.”

“The dancing man?”

“Henry Mayhew, yes.”

“I’d like to get him out of here, if I can.”

“As would I.”

“Well, between the two of us…” Day grinned. He couldn’t help himself. In the wagon on the way to the workhouse, he’d wondered if he was doing the right thing, if sending a vagrant back to the streets ran counter to his responsibilities as a police. But if Kingsley had also made the trip to Hobgate, there must be some logical merit to the idea of letting Henry Mayhew live his life as he pleased.

“I didn’t relish the thought of entering this place alone,” Kingsley said. “I was trying to persuade this gentleman to accompany me inside when you arrived.”

He gestured toward the guard, who raised his umbrella and tipped his hat.

“Against regulations to leave my post here, sir, unless there’s a ruckus inside. Otherwise, I’d be proud to help.”

“I understand. Now that the detective is here, I think we’ll be fine.”

“Good luck then.”

The guard gave them a look that made Day nervous, then slid back a bolt on the door and opened it. He reached into a small antechamber just inside the open door and came out with two lanterns. He lit them from his cigarette and handed one to each of them.

“You’ll need these in there,” he said.

Then the guard stood aside and let the two men move past him into the gloom of Hobgate.

The ground floor of the workhouse was one huge room, partitioned off into smaller chambers. The walls on both sides of the makeshift center hallway had been hastily thrown up and were rough, so close that splinters snagged at the sleeves of their overcoats. Day inhaled through his mouth to avoid the odors of human waste and body odor. Every six feet there was a hole cut in each wall. A doorway without a door, so small that a grown man would have to crawl through it.

Day and Kingsley divided the hall, each of them taking a side, and stooped to peer into each room that they passed. The lantern light cast long moving shadows, but there was little else to see inside the chambers. They were all identical, two long platforms fastened to the walls and covered with straw, a walkway between them that ended at a second door-hole. Each platform was deep enough to sleep three men, and the snores echoing throughout the hall were evidence that Hobgate had few vacancies. At the far end of each room was a chamber pot. A single sniff was enough to confirm that the pots were rarely emptied.

“This is inhumane,” Day said.

“Hardly unique in this city,” Kingsley said.

“What do you mean?”

“London is growing too fast for the poor and the dead, the children or the simpleminded to keep up. There is no place for any of them.”

“I hope that’s not true.”

“You know that it is.”

Day sighed and changed the subject. “I don’t know how we’re going to find him in this labyrinth. There’s no rhyme or reason to anything here. Men are stacked like cordwood.”

“Let’s try this, then,” Kingsley said.

He set his lantern on the floor, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted: “Henry Mayhew! Come out, Henry Mayhew!”

“I don’t think he’ll respond to that,” Day said. “He’s quite timid.”

“Have you another idea?”

Day raised his eyebrows. “I might,” he said. “Or at least an addition to your own idea.”

Several heads had poked out from the holes along the walls. Men peered down the dark hall at them. Day didn’t like the looks of most of them. He stuck out his chin and shouted.

“Henry Mayhew, your brother has sent us! We’re here on Frank’s behalf! Henry, Frank wants you to come out!”

More faces appeared along the length of the hall. From somewhere ahead, a place deep in the shadows, a rhythmic thumping began as something heavy moved toward them. Kingsley leaned close and whispered, “Do you have your pistol on you, Detective?”

“I do.”

“Are you a good shot?”

“I’ve never used it except to practice.”

“That’s not particularly comforting.”

Day put his hand on the grip of his pistol but didn’t draw it. Kingsley raised his lantern and both men braced themselves as the thumping drew closer. The heads along the passageway swiveled and disappeared back inside their chambers. Finally a figure emerged from the darkness at the end of the hall and moved slowly forward. The swinging lantern created multiple shadows, and Day pulled his gun partially from his belt.

“Where’s Frank?”

“Is that Henry there?” Kingsley said. “Are you Henry Mayhew?”

The dancing man moved into the circle of light cast by Kingsley’s lantern and his shadows joined him, pooling at his feet. Without the shadows’ imaginary bulk behind him, there was nothing intimidating about Henry Mayhew. If anything, he had shrunken in on himself over the course of the night.

“Where’s Frank?” he said again.

“Frank couldn’t come to see you today,” Day said. “He sent us in his stead.”

“You gonna keep me safe from the messenger?”

“The messenger?”

“The messenger of the city. The one what left the scissors for you. He’s here to kill me now.”

“Nobody wants to kill you, Henry.”

“The messenger does.”

“What makes you so certain?”

“He looks mad and he scares me.”

“Have you seen him again?” Day said.

“Aye.”

“Where?”

“Behind you.”

The dancing man pointed. Day turned, his lantern swinging wildly in the small space. The yellow light sent shadows looping and veering about the narrow hall, black doors like mouths in the dark. A shadow separated from the others and spun away, taking shape as a man in a dark suit and a tall black hat.

The man raised his hand and lantern light glittered off a pair of shears.

The notice in the Times was clear and to the point. An elderly couple had lost their chimney sweep and needed someone new for the job. Interested parties were to enquire at the couples’ flat.

Sam Pizer couldn’t read letters, but he could read numbers, and the bartender’s daughter at the Whistle and Flute had read the advertisement aloud to Sam. Now he double-checked the address against the numbers on the curb.

Lord only knew he needed the money that the job could bring. He had offered the coachman two and eleven for a new climber, but he didn’t have it. And everything would be much harder if the police kept coming round to harass him. It might be impossible to find a new boy on his own, which made his connection with the coachman his only real hope.

He hoisted his bucket of brooms and rags and rang the bell next to a confectioner’s shop. He heard a shuffling noise and then the door cracked open and a sliver of an old woman’s face appeared there.

“What is it you want?” she said.

Sam tipped his hat and smiled. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Your notice said to come round about now.”

“Notice?”

“For a sweep? In the Times ?”

“Didn’t put a notice in. Must’ve been Mr Hammersmith.”

“Your husband, ma’am?”

The old woman blushed and put a hand to her mouth. “Oh my, no. He’s a tenant.”

“I see. May I come in?”

She stepped aside, but didn’t open the door all the way. He had to walk in sideways in order to get the bucket of tools past her. Looking around, he found himself in a small foyer with a dark staircase ahead.