The Yard (44 page)

The detective moved away from the window. He shook his head and clambered back into the carriage.

Cinderhouse leapt across the room and grabbed Fenn by the upper arm. The boy protested, but there was no time to explain things. He shoved Fenn into a cupboard under the long counter with a slit in the top for cutting fabric. A small padlock fit through two iron loops set into the wood and fastened the cupboard tight. He had used this cabinet to seal away the bleaches and dyes he used so that his first son wouldn’t find them and hurt himself. It would work as well to keep the new son in place.

If there had been time, he would have given Fenn food and water, but he assumed he would be back within the hour.

Cinderhouse grabbed his hat and a pair of shears from a nearby drawer, then hurried out the door and locked it behind him. He looked for his regular hansom and remembered that he’d sent it away. A bright red coach rolled past and he flagged down the driver. He gave terse orders and hopped into the back as the horse was whipped into motion. Up ahead, the wagon carrying the policeman was still visible. The smaller, faster coach would have no trouble catching up to it.

Why had Day come to the shop? Had Cinderhouse overplayed his hand by going to them in the first place? Did the men of the Yard finally suspect that their official tailor was a murderer?

Cinderhouse shook his head. There was nothing to connect him to the murder. He would follow Day and, if necessary, dispatch him. If he had learned anything in the last few days, it was that the police were just as vulnerable as anyone else.

F
enn heard the tailor leave and he immediately began to explore. There wasn’t a lot of room to work with in the cramped cupboard. He pushed on the door, but it budged only a fraction of an inch. The hinges felt solid. He knocked over a few bottles next to him. There was some sort of liquid in them, but Fenn didn’t see how that would help him escape. He kicked at the wall to his left and heard a squeak. A moment later, something furry ran across Fenn’s ankle and he jumped, banging his head against the counter above him.

He rubbed the top of his head and scrunched up against the opposite corner, as far away from the furry thing as he could get. After a while he realized that the rat—he was almost certain it was a rat—wasn’t in the cabinet with him anymore.

Wherever it had gone, maybe Fenn could follow.

He probed the corners of the cupboard with his fingers, feeling for any crack or hole. Nothing. He wiped his hands across the walls and then over the floor, moving from one end to the other, shifting his body to feel beneath himself. Three inches from the back wall he found a small half-moon-shaped hole in the floor. He poked his finger into it cautiously, worried about rat bites, but there was nothing on the other side that he could feel. Just empty air.

He prodded the sides of the hole and ran his fingers along a crack that ran from the top of the hole to a point three inches from the wall next to
him. The crack made a right angle and, three inches from the cupboard door, made another right angle. He traced the crack all the way around the floor and established that there was some sort of panel in the bottom of the cabinet.

Fenn bent so that his back was against the ceiling of the cupboard and straddled the panel in the floor, his feet wedged against both walls. He was uncomfortable and his neck cramped, but he was excited, too. He reached down, got a finger in the hole, and pulled up. There was a wrenching sound and most of the floor came away. But now Fenn was pinned to the counter above by the edge of the trapdoor. He moved it back and forth, trying to find a way to move past it. Suddenly it gained weight as gravity took hold and he couldn’t hang on to it anymore. He lost his balance and steadied himself with a palm against the cabinet doors. The trapdoor dropped away from him, down the hole, and crashed to the ground somewhere below.

Fenn eased himself down to a sitting position, his feet dangling through the opening, and turned his head back and forth, working the kinks out of his neck.

He had no idea how deep the hole went. If he dropped through it, he might fall too far and be killed. But if he stayed in the cupboard, he knew that the tailor would eventually kill him. That was a certainty. And so the hole in the floor was the only hope he had.

He took a deep breath, held on to the far edge of the cupboard floor, and scooted himself forward. He plummeted, stopped short by his grip on the floor, but he wasn’t strong enough and his fingers were torn away from the narrow lip. He fell down into the darkness.

He hit the ground hard and felt his ankle twist under him. Pain seared up his leg and lodged behind his ribs. He gasped.

The darkness around him was complete, and beneath him was cold, hard-packed earth.

When he had caught his breath, he dragged himself forward and found the trapdoor where it had fallen. It was broken in half. Past it, he found a wall. Mud at the base of the wall gave way to dense crumbly dirt and then to loose stones. Fenn scraped at the stones with his fingers until pebbles came
away. He had no idea what was on the other side of the wall. Probably nothing but more dirt. Still, he had to try something.

He crawled back and retrieved half of the broken trapdoor. Back at the wall, he raised the door over his head and struck the splintered edge of it against the stones. More pebbles tumbled out onto the ground. He struck the wall again and larger stones fell away. Again and again he hit the wall with the stout piece of wood. When he felt he had made some progress, he jammed the end of the door into the small gash he’d created in the wall. He pushed down on the other end. Nothing happened. He got his upper body on the edge of the door that was sticking out from the wall and bounced on it, putting his full weight on the makeshift lever. There was a tearing sound and a shower of stone and dirt sluiced away. Fenn breathed deep and smiled.

Another tearing sound. This time the stones above him fell straight away from the wall. Fenn felt a sudden intense pain in his leg and tried to pull back, but he couldn’t move. His leg was caught.

He forced himself to remain calm. He closed his eyes and did his best to put the pain out of his mind.

Something furry ran up his arm and he screamed.

Fenn knew that the only person within earshot would be the tailor when Cinderhouse came back to the shop. But Fenn was a little boy and he wanted his parents. And so he screamed again.

B
lackleg rapped on the door and waited. When there was no answer, he took a flat strip of metal from his back pocket and inserted it between the door and the frame. He pushed on it until he heard a faint
click
. He put the metal bar back in his pocket and turned the knob. The door swung open.

“Here now, what’re ye doin’?”

He turned and saw an old woman coming down the hall toward him. She was pointing her finger at him like a weapon.

“That’s Mr Hammersmith’s flat,” she said. “And Mr Pringle’s, too, only he ain’t here no more, God bless him.”

Her finger flitted away from him long enough to make the sign of the cross, touching her forehead, then her heart and, quickly, her left and right shoulders. Immediately she was pointing at him again. By now she was directly in front of him, her bony finger an inch from his nose.

Blackleg held his hands up, palms out. “No worries, ma’am,” he said. “We’re friends, him and me.”

“You were a friend of Mr Pringle? I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t know the bloke. But Hammersmith’s me mate.”

He heard himself and smiled when he realized that he was telling the truth. Who’d have guessed that he’d ever be friends with a bluebottle?

“Well,” the old lady said, “I don’t know about that.”

She looked him up and down, clearly taking in his grubby clothes and unkempt beard.

“I’m a police, ma’am.”

Blackleg had long practice in telling people what they wanted to hear. The lie came to him easily, and he saw in her eyes that the old lady wanted to believe him.

“You don’t look like a policeman,” she said.

“Thank you.” He leaned in closer to her, which caused her to back up a step. “What I do,” he said, “is I dress up like as if I’m a lowlife and I mix in amongst them. Amongst that sort, I mean. They take me for one of their own and they tells me things as I can take back to Mr Hammersmith and the other police.”

“Why, how clever,” the old lady said. “You certainly look convincing.”

“Thank you again, ma’am. I do try.”

“Well, I’m afraid Mr Hammersmith isn’t at home today. I would have heard him on the stairs.”

“Quite all right, ma’am. He gave me the key to the place and tole me to wait here for ’im. I’m sure he’ll be here soon enough.”

“Oh, I see.”

“Unless you has a problem with that. If it makes you uncomfortable, me hangin’ about in the flat here lookin’ like I do, lookin’, I mean to say, like as if I’m a criminal, I understand most complete. I’d be happy to go on outside and wait at the door for him.”

“Oh, no,” the old lady said. “That wouldn’t do at all. No, you stay here and make yourself at home. I’m sure if Mr Hammersmith asked you here then it isn’t my place to say otherwise.”

Of course she didn’t want him loitering outside her building. That might make a bad impression on the neighbors.

“Well, you’re uncommon gracious, ma’am. ’Most exactly like my own sainted mother.”

The old lady blushed and covered her mouth.

“My name is Mrs Flanders,” she said. “I’m down the hall here, first door on the right. If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring the bell.”

“Thank you much, ma’am.”

She smiled and turned away.

“Ma’am?”

“Yes?” The old woman paused with her hand on the wall.

“There’s one more expected here today. ’Nother police like me who looks maybe a bit down at the heels as well.”

“A meeting here?”

“You might call it that.”

The old woman frowned. “I don’t care for business being conducted on my premises,” she said.

“It’ll be just the one time. We don’t like to meet at the station ’cause someone might see us there and connect the fact that we ain’t really criminals.”

“Oh, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Yes, ma’am. So when he gets here, don’t trouble yerself none. He can find his own way.”

“You’re quite the gentleman, you are, regardless of appearance.”

“Thank you.”

She waved a hand at him and tottered down the hall. When she turned back to look at him, he nodded. She went back into her own flat and closed the door. Blackleg let out a deep breath and pushed Hammersmith’s door open. He went in and closed it behind him.

Inside, the flat was even smaller than Blackleg’s own place. He chuckled to think that a bluebottle probably made less money in a year than he did. Crime wasn’t respectable, but it paid.

He checked the clock above the mantel and saw that he had nearly an hour before his guest was expected. There was a tin of tea beneath the clock and Blackleg opened it. He sniffed the contents and recoiled at the tang of copper in his nostrils. Renewed tea.

“Ah, well,” he said. “Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?”

With time to kill, he went in search of a kettle.

I
nspector Blacker woke up as the hansom cab ground to a stop. It took him a long moment to realize where he was. His eyes felt gummy. He pulled the curtain aside and saw a low stone wall with a weeping willow drooping over it. The thin light through the window shone on Hammersmith, across from Blacker on the other bench. He was curled up with his neck bent at an awkward angle against the side of the carriage, snoring softly. Blacker grinned and rubbed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to massage the grit away.

He pulled the curtain shut again and opened the hansom door, leaving Hammersmith there to catch up on much-needed sleep. The coachman looked down at Blacker and tipped his hat.

“This the place, guv’nor?”

“I suppose it is.”

Blacker fished in his pocket for a coin, but the coachman held up a hand.

“No need, sir. Happy to do what I can for the police.”

“You’re a gentleman.”

“You’ll be wantin’ me to wait till you’re done here, then?”

“No need. Inspector Day, my colleague, I mean, will be along shortly with a police wagon. If you don’t mind waiting until my friend wakes up, then you can be on your way.”

The coachman squinted at him. “Sir?”

“He hasn’t slept much lately.”

“All right, sir.”

“Thank you again.”

Blacker smiled and patted the side of the cab as he stepped into the street. He hurried across to the Shaw family’s brownstone just as the first drops of rain started to fall.

T
he coachman turned up his collar against the rain and watched as the detective crossed the road and knocked on the door of a brownstone, one of several identical homes joined in a row with a decorative wrought-iron rail out front.

After a short wait the door was opened by an attractive woman. She and the detective spoke and the woman moved aside to allow him in. The door shut behind him.

The detective had babbled something about a sleeping friend, but it appeared the household was awake. The coachman didn’t see a reason to wait. He had promised Mr Cinderhouse that he’d return to take him to the
shop if it began to rain, and now the light drizzle was turning into a sudden shower. The downpour was washing the fog away, but visibility wasn’t improving, and the coachman decided to hurry. Mr Cinderhouse wasn’t one to be kept waiting. The coachman wouldn’t admit it even to himself, but the tailor’s temper scared him. He snapped the reins. The horse snorted and lurched forward, and the hansom pulled away from the Shaw home.

The coachman thought about warm fires and dry socks, and it never occurred to him that he might have a second passenger asleep inside the cab. Nor did he look back to see two women emerge from behind the drooping willow and scurry across the street in the pounding rain.