“That’s what reminded me just now. I never quite got the knack of it.”
“Do you want another lesson?”
“Ha.” Hammersmith looked up and grinned at him. “But that’s what I mean. You’ll show your son. Or your daughter. You’ll show them how to tie their shoes. Or you’ll just take a walk with them and be quiet and let them talk. You’ll listen the way that you always do. And they’ll remember that one small moment, maybe, when they’re older. And that’s all they’ll need from you. Only that you were there.”
“If that’s really all it took, Nevil. .”
“I think that it is.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“I didn’t mean to offer you unasked-for advice. And it’s hardly my place. .”
“Not at all,” Day said. “I’m glad that you did.”
“Good.”
Both men quietly watched the far corner of the street until the wagon came around it and rolled smoothly toward them. At last, the escapee would be taken off their hands and they could get back to the business of catching prisoners.
“And it’s good to know,” Day said, “that their uncle Nevil will be such a font of good advice.”
He clapped Hammersmith on the back and stepped out into the street and hailed the wagon driver.
24
Cinderhouse poked his fingers through the gap in the curtain and peered outside. Clouds were moving fast across the sky, and shining slivers of bright blue and pink slashed through the grey. He was aware of Elizabeth, whimpering in the chair beside him, but he ignored the damaged homeowner. Cinderhouse had been punished, but he was still Peter, still the rock. Elizabeth was nothing, not even a fly. Jack would dispose of him eventually, when he grew bored.
A carriage rolled by outside and a bird fluttered up past the window, on its way to some roost above. Cinderhouse smiled, then grimaced at the pain in his mouth. His punishment had been too severe, he thought. But then, who was he to judge? He set his face carefully, found an expression that didn’t hurt his tender lips too much. Jack had pushed hard against the bald man’s jaw for leverage as he’d yanked.
The bird flew back down past the window-or perhaps it was a different bird; what did he know about birds? — and grabbed at something in the dirt. Across the street, a door opened and a little girl stepped out into a sudden patch of sunlight. It glinted on her shiny blond ringlets. She wore a pink dress covered with bows and dots, and it ended just above her ankles. Cinderhouse found himself staring at her delicate ankles. He was panting.
He wanted that girl.
But Jack had told him he could not have any more children.
A ridiculous notion. Surely Jack hadn’t meant it. It was like telling the bird not to claw at worms in the dirt.
The girl leaned against the fence across the street and Cinderhouse pulled the curtains partially shut. He didn’t want her to see him. Not yet. He wasn’t properly dressed. Elizabeth jounced in his chair, trying to get the bald man’s attention. Cinderhouse turned and picked up the shovel from the fireplace. He pounded the injured man-the other injured man-on top of his skull until Elizabeth slumped silent in the chair. That was better.
Cinderhouse checked to be sure the girl was still there. Then he turned and hurried to gather his new suit, the second suit from Elizabeth’s wardrobe that he had altered. He would make himself look nice for the girl.
Jack couldn’t possibly be angry about that. Not if he simply visited the little girl. Surely he wouldn’t punish Cinderhouse for obeying his nature. That wouldn’t be fair at all.
Just the thought of that pretty little girl was giving Cinderhouse strength. Just the thought of her! He almost smiled again.
He absolutely couldn’t wait to meet her.
25
Fiona Kingsley dropped her umbrella in the foyer and rushed through the door into University College Hospital. Her feet left damp tracks across the smooth polished wood as she scampered along the dark hallway. She barely glanced at the skeleton in the corner, held together with wires and screwed into a wooden base. She had named it Bruce when she was three years old, and it was now like an old family pet, tolerated but barely seen. Her father’s laboratory was in the hospital’s basement, but his office was on the ground floor and so she tried it first. She knocked twice on the closed door and pushed it open, entering headfirst. Great piles of paper obscured her father’s desk, and a single green-shaded lamp standing on a stool against the side of the table failed to illuminate the dark and dingy workspace. Fiona clicked her tongue and turned to leave, but there was a rustling sound from somewhere in the gloomy back half of the room, and Dr Kingsley’s head popped up over a mound of yellowed vellum. His spectacles were up on top of his head, virtually lost amid drifts of wild grey hair. His necktie was skewed and stubbornly knotted as if the doctor had tried to pull it off without first loosening it.
“Shut the door,” he said. “I’m busy.” Then he peered harder in her direction and said, “Fiona? Is that you?” He touched his face and patted his hands gently about in the sea of paper.
“They’re on your head, Father,” Fiona said.
Dr Kingsley reached up and found the spectacles, extricated them from his hair, and adjusted them carefully on the bridge of his nose. He smiled at Fiona and walked around the desk, grabbed her in a big hug. Fiona noticed that she was nearly as tall as he was and wondered when that had happened.
“What brings you, my dear?”
“It’s Claire,” Fiona said. “She’s having the baby.”
“What, right this minute?”
“Very nearly so. She’s having pains.”
“Contractions, you mean? How close together?”
“Every five minutes at least.”
“If I know Walter,” Kingsley said, “he must be out of his mind with worry right now.”
“He’s gone.”
“Where is he?”
“He was called out. Something’s happened and he was sent for.”
“How long ago?”
“Not long.”
“Oh, of course. The thing at the prison.”
“It was just after he left that Claire began to feel the cramping. Well, not long after, at any rate.”
“Has her water broken?”
“I think so. But Father, there’s blood.”
“She’s bleeding?”
“Yes, is that very bad?”
“Not necessarily. How much blood did you see?”
“A little bit. I’m not sure. There were other fluids, too.”
“Well, a certain amount of bleeding is to be expected.” Kingsley snatched his hat from the rack by the door and moved a stack of papers off the floor onto his desk. “Ah, here it is. You know, you should have sent someone to get me, stayed with her.”
“I’m quicker than anyone I might have sent. And a policeman is there helping.”
“That’s good.” He pulled up on the handle of the black medical bag that he always carried when he was outside the hospital. It didn’t move. “But I’m sure she’d rather have you there with her right now.”
“We’d both rather get you there sooner than later.”
He stopped pulling on the bag and squinted at her. Fiona felt sure he could see through her, that he knew how frightened she was, that she had left Claire alone because she didn’t know what else to do and she needed her father. He turned back to the bag and glared at it.
“Oh,” he said. “There’s the problem.” He leaned on the corner of the desk and lifted it an inch and slid one of the handles out from beneath the desk’s leg. He scooted the bag across the floor with the toe of his shoe and set the desk back down. He stepped over to the bag and picked it up, took his daughter by the elbow, and steered her toward the door.
“Well, what are we waiting for?” he said. “We have a baby to deliver.”
26
Eunice Pye moved to a terrace house on Phoenix Street the same year she was married. Her husband, Giles, died in that terrace house the same year the London Underground was opened to the public. Right or wrong, she had always associated Giles’s death with the advent of swift transportation and there was nothing within walking distance that interested her much, so she rarely left her home except for Saturday mornings when she visited the corner market.