Alex Grecian - The Yard

He approached the sewing machine. A homemade rope of knotted linen was wrapped around its base. He ran his finger under it and traced it across the countertop and to the other side, where it disappeared through a trapdoor inside a cabinet. He knelt by the opening and listened. Nothing.

“Hello?” he said.

Still nothing.

He looked around, but he was alone.

Inspector Blacker had apparently abandoned him in a cab at the curb. There was no sign of Blacker now, nor were there any traces of the coachman or the tailor whose shop this was. Something had clearly happened while Hammersmith slept, and the only clue he had was this makeshift rope and a trapdoor in the floor. It was entirely possible that Blacker was somewhere below, possibly injured. Possibly worse.

Without another thought, Hammersmith slung his leg over the side of the hole and began to lower himself down.

The coachman’s hand was clamped tight over Fenn’s mouth and it partially covered his nostrils. He was having trouble breathing and the hand smelled of horses and meat pies and grease.

Above them, Fenn could hear footsteps on the floor of the tailor’s shop. He listened, wide-eyed, as someone stomped about the shop and finally came to the trapdoor in the cupboard.

“Hello?” someone said.

The voice echoed down and around the cave under the floor. It wasn’t the tailor’s voice.

The coachman hissed in Fenn’s ear. “I got a knife here. You make a sound, any sound at all, and I’ll cut you ear to ear.”

After a moment, what little light filtered through the cellar entrance was blocked and Fenn heard someone thumping against the wooden floor above.

Fenn knew that whatever the coachman’s plans for him, Fenn wouldn’t like them. If he had a chance at rescue or escape, that chance would disappear if he waited. He stuck his tongue out and licked the coachman’s hand. The coachman reacted, shifting position just a hair, but it was enough that Fenn was able to get a fold of the man’s palm between his teeth. He bit down as hard as he could. Flesh rolled and crunched between his teeth, and the coachman screamed.

When the hand was yanked away, Fenn shouted as loud as he could, “He’s got a knife!”

The coachman’s other hand covered his mouth again and Fenn couldn’t say anything more. He hoped he had been heard and understood.

There was the sound of someone dropping to the ground and the vague outline of a man against the dim grey light from the shop above. And then the man moved to the side and disappeared in the shadows without a word.

Fenn felt the coachman’s lips against his ear. “I’m gonna take care of him and then I’ll be back for you,” the driver said. “You’re gonna be sorry you done what you did, boy. I’ll get my money for you and then we’ll see what’s what.”

And Fenn was alone again, his leg still trapped under the stones of the collapsed wall, too scared to call out, unable to do anything except wait.

The dancing man was clinging to Inspector Day and he wouldn’t stop shouting, his voice echoing in the enclosed men’s ward of Hobgate.

“Stop him! Stop the messenger!”

Men had begun to crawl out of their tiny rooms all along the hall, responding to the noise. Day caught a brief glimpse of the man Henry called “the messenger” before he melted back through an empty doorway at the end of the hall.

“Take Henry to safety,” Day said.

Kingsley nodded and grabbed the dancing man’s arm. He led him quickly down the dark hall, away from Day and away from the messenger. They were quickly swallowed by shadows.

Day raced in the opposite direction, dodging past men in their nightshirts. He ducked through the hole the messenger had gone into. A man with one ear and a slit for a nose was sitting up on his bunk, his eyes wide. On seeing Day, he pointed at the door in the opposite wall. Day nodded and darted through into a hallway that was identical to the one he’d just left. He heard the clatter of running footsteps and held the lantern up. He saw the swirl of a dark cloak, a tall hat, and then the messenger passed beyond the reach of the lamp’s light.

Day found his whistle and blew a warning note that echoed down the hall, gathering in volume. The sound brought men to add to the swelling mob in the hall. Day rushed forward, elbowing his way down the narrow hall, and caught glimpses of the messenger moving ahead of him, weaving through the crowd.

Someone shouted “I got ’im!” and there was a shriek.

The milling men moved aside and Day stopped suddenly, a dark shape on the floor at his feet. He held his lantern up. A bleeding man was slumped against the wall. He was pale and silent, trembling. He looked at Day, his eyes wide and darting.

“Are you all right?” Day said.

The man nodded.

“Let me see it.”

The man held out his arm. There was a deep puncture wound through his forearm. Blood trickled out, but it didn’t gush. It wasn’t a fatal injury.

“Put your other hand here where mine is. Hold it there. You”-Day pointed at one of the other men who stood watching-“help him. Take your shirt off and press down on the wound.”

He moved aside and let the man kneel next to his peer.

“There’s a doctor on the premises,” Day said. “Somewhere here. I’m going to find him and send him back here to help. Just wait until he gets here.”

The bleeding man nodded again and Day stood.

“You others, spread the word. Everybody needs to stay in their rooms. Don’t crowd the halls. I know you want to help, but you’ll only be underfoot. This man is armed with a sharp weapon and he will use it.”

There was a murmur of assent, but nobody moved. Day shook his head.

“Did anyone see which way he went?”

Several men pointed at one of the many interchangeable dark openings in the wall. Day crouched and moved through the hole into a room. It was empty. There was yet another hole in the opposite wall, and beyond that, darkness.

He realized he was completely lost now, turned around in the labyrinthine interior of the workhouse. There was nothing to do but move forward. He crossed the tiny room and edged out into the darkness of the second hallway beyond.

Hammersmith heard someone shouting. A woman-or was it a boy? — yelled, “He’s got a knife!” There was a scuffling sound and silence.

Hammersmith dropped from the linen rope and moved sideways into the darkness of what seemed to be an abandoned root cellar. There were at least two people in the cellar with him. He pulled the nightstick from his belt and held it down at his side. He squatted against the stone wall, making as small a target of his body as he could, and he listened.

He heard scuffling across the dirt floor, but before he could pinpoint the direction of the sound he felt something furry brush against his ankle. In an instant he was little Nevil Hammersmith again, miles underground in a tunnel, surrounded by rats and by the never-ending dark.

He drew his knees up to his chest and held them against his body. The furry thing rubbed against him, doubled back, and rubbed against him again. He reached out for it.

The cat pressed up against his hand and purred. He rubbed its back and felt its tail coil around his hand as it turned in circles. He listened for the cart coming down the tunnel with its load of coal. He would need to open the trapdoor when it arrived.

Instead he heard the scuffling sound again and it brought him back to the present. He was a policeman in the biggest city in the world. He had realized his childhood dream of escape and would never have to enter a coal mine again in his life. He shook his head, willing the past away along with the last lingering effects of sleeplessness and poison.