“I don’t mean to worry you,” he said, “but we’re on the trail of dangerous fugitives. And you are the most important witness we’ve got.”
“I am?” Day could practically hear her drawing herself up to her full height, enjoying the sudden authority she’d been given. “Well, I’m not surprised. They didn’t act at all civilized.”
“What did they do?”
“Why are you looking at that tree when I’m speaking to you?”
“My apologies, mother. I don’t mean to offend you.”
“You’re a good boy, but I’m far too old to be offended easy.”
She had already proved herself to be easily offended, but Day glanced cautiously up at her. She was leaning farther out the window now, and he was surprised to see that she was fully dressed, her hair up and her face powdered. It occurred to him that she had been expecting him, or someone like him.
“Mother, what did the other men do?”
“This is ridiculous,” March said. “We’re going to wake the entire street. She doesn’t know anything.”
“I do so know anything,” the old lady said. “They come from up the field there and got into a row right under my window. I wasn’t sleeping. Haven’t slept good in years. It’s my back. Hurts most awful at night when I’m laying down. I should ought to get another mattress, but those ain’t cheap, you know?”
“A good mattress can be quite pricey indeed.”
She nodded, clearly happy he was in agreement. “So I was awake anyhow and I looked down on them, but not too close. I didn’t want them to see me looking and come round on me.”
“If they were the men we’re looking for, they were dangerous fellows.”
“I thought they were. The one dressed half like a policeman did something to the other one and they went away up the street there and then the other one fell down.”
“One was dressed as a policeman?” Day was confused. “Like me, you mean?”
“No, only half. And more like him.” The old lady pointed and Day looked around the tree trunk where Hammersmith was just jogging up even with March.
“One of the men was dressed like him?” Day pulled Hammersmith forward and the sergeant smiled and took off his hat, then looked away at the same tree Day had been staring at.
“Not just like him, no. But very like him, I suppose. His top didn’t match his trousers, though.”
“So he had a jacket,” Day said. “A blue jacket, like this.” He tugged at Hammersmith’s sleeve.
“Precisely what I’m saying, yes.”
“And they went off in that direction?” Day pointed down the lane. There was a small green building there, a few yards away, butted right up against the curb.
“Yes. Then the man who was half a copper went off again and I never seen him no more tonight.”
Day felt a raindrop hit his cheek and roll down. A moment later another drop hit his hand. More rain wasn’t what he needed.
“And the other man?” he said.
“Well, he’s still here, isn’t he?”
“Still where, mother?”
“Why, there.” And the old lady pointed directly at the tiny green tea shop.
19
They lingered in the shelter of a copse of trees until a man passed by. He was tall and thin and carried a heavy attaché case. His hair was dark, going grey at the temples. His shoes were shiny black. The rain had abated, but his umbrella was still open. He was a busy man, hurrying along with no interest in the bald man and the half-naked bogeyman that trailed after him down the road.
They followed him along Old St Pancras Road to Aldenham and then up Ossulston to Phoenix Street, which Jack felt was entirely too appropriate at the dawn of his rebirth. The man turned in at the gate of a small tidy whitewashed terrace house, unlocked two bolts on the red front door, and stepped inside. Jack took the black medical bag from Cinderhouse, and the bald man trotted across the street. He pushed through the gate as it was swinging shut and put out his hand just before the businessman closed the door. Jack came along after him and they forced their way inside before the man could do more than furrow his brow and open his mouth to complain.
Jack shut the door and turned the topmost bolt. He already felt sure the man was alone in the house. Anyone inside was unlikely to have fastened both locks. He sniffed the air and his supposition was confirmed. The atmosphere inside was stuffy and empty. There was nobody moving around in here to stir the dust and bring the rooms to life. He sighed deeply and smiled at the man, grateful to have a place to call his own, even if their arrangement was only temporary.
“Who are you? How dare. .” the man said. He was still holding his umbrella, and now he pointed it at them like a weapon. “I demand that you leave. Leave immediately.”
“To answer your initial question,” Jack said, “I am who I am. And this is my colleague, the shadowy Mr Evans of Fleet Street.” Jack indicated Cinderhouse, who gave him a confused look, but said nothing.
“Well, Mr Evans and Mr. .” The man looked for the first time at Jack’s naked legs, at his cock hanging down past the end of the prison shirt. His gaze traveled up and took in the darts on the white canvas uniform, and Jack saw comprehension suddenly spark in his eyes. “I don’t want trouble,” the man said.
“Nobody wants trouble,” Jack said. “Who would want that? Trouble is not something we seek, dear sir. Trouble is the thing that seeks us.”
The man turned to run, headed for the hallway and, Jack assumed, a back door through the kitchen or scullery. But Cinderhouse was prepared and blocked the way. Jack felt electric excitement shudder through his spine and flicker down his arms and legs. He set his bag on the floor against the wall, grabbed the man from behind, and propelled him to the floor. He bit into him, but the man’s suit was thick and padded in the shoulders and Jack’s teeth were weak. Still, Jack laughed.
He was free.
The man crawled across the foyer with Jack clinging to his back. Jack grabbed a handful of distinguished greying hair and pulled the man’s head back, smashed it forward into the floor. Once, twice, three times, and the man stopped crawling, crumpled across his forearms, his fingers twisted into claws. A clear ooze mixed with blood trickled from the man’s left ear, and Jack tasted it. He listened to the man, relished the sound of the hot salty life coursing through his throat. He ground himself against the man’s still body.
Finally he rolled off the man and rose to his feet. Cinderhouse stood there, uselessly, staring at the wall as if he were a machine that had been switched off.
“Take him into the parlor,” Jack said. “Put him in a chair and find something to tie him with.”
“Why not finish him and be done?”
“Always in such a hurry, Peter. You have much to learn about art. Now do as I say.”
“I think it’s a mistake to leave him alive for any length of time.”
“Tell me you aren’t arguing, little fly?”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Ah, they grow up so fast, don’t they?” Jack said.
Cinderhouse frowned, wondering who Jack was talking to.
“You must never contradict me,” Jack said.
“It’s only that I don’t like it when you call me an insect.”
“Then I will stop.”
“Thank you.”
After that, Cinderhouse went quietly about his chores as Jack watched. He lit candles all through the house, then dragged the man through the inside door and down the hall to the parlor, propped him up, and levered him into a plush armchair piled with embroidered burgundy pillows. Jack surmised that the man was married and that the wife was currently away. Why else the burgundy pillows? They were not the sort of thing a man would choose for himself. Jack wondered if the man had children, too, and how old they might be. And what the insides of their bodies might look like. Jack shrugged. There were things even he wasn’t meant to know.