Alex Grecian - The Yard

“You’re a brave lad,” he said.

Day and Hammersmith stood on the curb and watched until the carriage had rolled out of sight. Once they were sure that Kingsley, Fenn, and Henry Mayhew were safely away, they turned and approached the big house. It was a tidy two-story home, well looked after, nothing ominous about it at all. Day imagined it rented for upward of forty pounds a year, more than his own house in Kentish Town.

The front door was locked, but Hammersmith found a window at the side of the house that had been jimmied.

“When do you think that was done?” Day asked.

“Looks fresh to me.”

“That’s what I was thinking as well. Pried open some time after the rain.”

Hammersmith nodded and drew his club from its belt loop. His injured arm hung useless at his side, but he looked determined and Day was glad to have him there. Day held up a hand and, with his Colt drawn, he sat on the sill and maneuvered himself through the window and into the house. He crept through a dark drawing room to the front door and opened it. Hammersmith was waiting on the other side. He stepped through, quietly closing the door behind him, and the two men made their way through the rooms at the front of the house without finding a sign of the tailor.

They split up at the staircase. Hammersmith slid through an open arch, headed toward the rooms at the back of the house, while Day edged up the stairs to the next floor. He poked cautiously through every doorway until he was certain he was alone upstairs. Then he put his gun away and went back through the rooms, more carefully this time, hoping to find some evidence.

At the end of a hallway, near the water closet, there was a small bedroom. The window had been barred. He approached it and looked out. The top of a retaining wall was directly under the windowsill, and beyond that, a tall tree. Day put his cheek to the bars. There was nothing in the yard except an old carriage house that looked like it might fall down the next time it rained. He sniffed and pulled his head back. The iron bars cast a long shadow across the bed. There were leather straps on both sides of the bed and a coil of rope hung loose at the foot of it. Day tested one of the straps and it came loose. The strap looked new, and Day guessed that it had been purchased to replace the rope, but had not yet been installed or used.

He looked around. A straight-backed wooden chair sat in the corner. He approached the chair and squinted at the dark shape lying across the seat. He went to the door and shouted out into the hall.

“Hammersmith, have you found anything?”

Hammersmith’s voice came back, surprisingly close to the staircase. “Nothing. You?”

“Up here.”

Day stepped back into the room. Hammersmith’s footsteps clattered up the stairs, and Day heard him checking the rooms along the hall.

“Back here.”

A moment later Hammersmith joined him. “What is it? Not the tailor.”

“No, he seems to be out. But look at this.” He pointed at the chair.

“A riding crop?” Hammersmith said.

“What is a riding crop doing in a bedroom?” Day said.

“I shudder to think.”

“Yes, but where might you be more likely to find a riding crop?”

“I don’t follow you.”

Day pointed to the window and Hammersmith looked out into the yard. He turned back to Day.

“A carriage house.”

“Let’s go.”

There was a thump-thump-thump on the stairs, and Mrs Flanders put aside her book. She hurried to the door and stepped into the hall in time to see one of the disguised policemen, the one with the bushy black beard, struggling through the downstairs door to the street. He was carrying something bulky wrapped up in a blanket. She scurried down the stairs and caught the door before it closed.

“Are you leaving already?” she said. “Mr Hammersmith hasn’t come back yet.”

The policeman jumped, clearly startled. He turned, staggering under the weight of the huge bundle on his shoulder.

“Ah, ma’am, you oughtn’t to come up on me like that.”

“Dreadfully sorry, sir.”

“Not at all. Just worried my police training might kick in and I’d do you harm. Wouldn’t want that, would we?”

He smiled and winked at her. Despite his rough appearance, Mrs Flanders found him utterly charming. She smiled back at him.

“No, we wouldn’t want that,” she said. “Where is the other policeman? The one dressed as a chimney sweep?”

“He left already.”

“I didn’t hear him on the stair.”

“He’s very sneaky. Got to be when you’re in disguise as a dipper like he is.”

“Do you mean to say that he picks pockets?”

“Aye, he does.”

“But he’s dressed as a sweep.”

“That’s a disguise on his disguise. Makes him double good at it.”

“Well, if he steals wallets, doesn’t that make him as much a criminal as the real criminals?”

“He’s got to blend in, you see, but then he always goes and gives people their things back, he does.”

“Oh, well, that makes perfect sense then. He returns what he steals.”

“Aye, that’s exactly what he does. Very sneaky one, that.”

“I don’t mean to seem curious, but may I ask what’s in the blanket?”

“Blanket?”

“The one you’ve got over your shoulder.”

“Oh, you mean this blanket?”

“Yes.”

“It’s police supplies in here, ma’am. Constable Hammersmith was savin’ ’em fer me. Gotta get ’em down to headquarters.”

“It looks very heavy.”

“Well, they’re not lightweight supplies, I’ll tell you that, ma’am. Not the easiest thing to have slung on me whilst I stand about in the street.”

“I’m sorry. I’m keeping you.”

“Not at all. It’s a sheer pleasure talkin’ with you, and that’s for sure. Did I mention you remind me of me mum?”

“That’s very dear of you to say.”

“’Tis the God’s truth, ma’am. But now I’d better get this over to Scotland Yard afore it’s too late.”

“Too late?”

“Yes, ma’am. Big rush on it from the commissioner of police hisself.”

“Then I mustn’t keep you any longer. Only…”

“Yes?”

“Do promise you’ll come back for a visit.”

The rough-looking policeman grinned at Mrs Flanders and bowed slightly at the waist, keeping the bundle on his shoulders carefully balanced as he did so.

“I guarantee that I will, missus.”

And with that he tottered off down the road with his heavy burden and turned the corner into an alley halfway along the block.

Mrs Flanders put a hand on her heart and stepped back into the building. She closed the door to the street and went back up to her own cozy flat. Strange, she thought, that she hadn’t heard the second policeman leave. They were obviously very good at their jobs. She had not bought into all the recent condemnation of the police. It made her feel safe knowing that she had them as tenants in her own building.

She sat down with her novel and found her place again. She had read only two sentences when it occurred to her that the nice policeman had never actually told her what was in the bundle he was carrying. She made up her mind to ask him about it the next time he paid a visit to Mr Hammersmith.

Day looked over at Hammersmith, took a deep breath, and swung the carriage house door open. Something hot whistled past Day’s right ear and there was the sudden crack of a gunshot. He fell backward and waited for another shot, but none came. He crawled to the side, away from the entrance so that the building’s wall would block any more bullets that were fired his way. Hammersmith was already on the other side of the door, against the wall there.