She was returning from the market at eight o’clock when she saw a strange man leave the house with the red door. That particular house had been cause for much speculation by Eunice because Mrs Michael, who lived there, had left two weeks previously and had not returned. Giles would have told her to mind her own business, but Eunice couldn’t help speculating. She had decided that there must have been a terrible row and that it was entirely possible Mrs Michael would not be returning. Mr Michael, whose hair had begun to grey (or perhaps he had stopped touching it up when his wife left), had lived there alone for those two weeks, but had not changed his routine. He left each morning for work and returned each evening with a bag of fish and chips from Benny’s on the corner. (Eunice assumed it was fish and chips because she could not imagine sampling any of Benny’s other greasy offerings.)
Eunice had not seen this new strange man enter the house, so she reasoned that he must have arrived while she was at the market or in the wee hours while she slept. But now here he was, a tall man in a nice grey suit that fitted him nearly perfectly (although she thought it seemed a bit scrunched in the shoulders). He closed the red door carefully, as if to make sure it would not latch behind him, and he came through the gate, letting it swing shut again.
He stopped then and stood on the curb, watching the little Anderson girl, who was playing in her tiny front garden. Eunice took a moment to smile at her, but the little girl had always been an absolute beast and she stuck her tongue out at Eunice.
Eunice was carrying two baskets of groceries and her gate was latched. She was trying to determine whether to set a basket down on the path in order to free up a hand to unlatch the gate when the stranger hurried over and opened the gate for her.
“Thank you, young man,” Eunice said. She carried her baskets through the gate and turned back to the man. “Would you mind closing it again?”
The man said nothing. He closed and latched the gate and tipped his hat to her. He turned back to the house with the red door and paused only a moment for another look at the little Anderson girl. He glanced again at Eunice and then went in by his own gate and into the house.
She watched until the red door had shut behind him, then she shuddered. She had never liked bald men. Giles had maintained a full and healthy head of hair for the entirety of their married life. There was something about this particular bald man that interested her, though. Something she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was his mouth, which looked swollen and sore. His lips didn’t seem to close completely.
She set her baskets down on the narrow strip of grass that separated her garden from the front walk and found her key in her handbag. She unlocked the front door, picked up the baskets, and carried them through to the kitchen. The instant she reached the counter, she remembered why the bald man seemed so familiar.
She let go of her baskets, one of which landed safely on the counter. The other landed half on, half off the counter, and gravity propelled it the rest of the way to the floor. Eunice heard the crash and spatter of a jam jar, but did not turn around. She got to the front door as quickly as she could, shut it, and bolted it fast. She went to the parlor window and looked up and down the street, but the bald man had not come back outside. There was nothing in the lane but the usual foot traffic and the occasional carriage rolling past. Still, she kept watch for half an hour, waiting to see if the bald man would leave again.
When he did not, she reluctantly left her station and cleaned up the broken jar of jam (which had thankfully been contained in the basket and had not caused a mess on the floor). She emptied the basket into the garbage, considered washing the basket, then threw it in after. She put her groceries away and folded her remaining basket and stowed it under the kitchen table. Then she gathered her notecards, envelopes, and her best pen and sat down at the window seat where she commanded an excellent view of the entire street. She barely looked at the notecard as she wrote, and so her handwriting was not up to her usual standards, but she felt it necessary to keep a watchful eye on the little Anderson girl, even if the child was a beast.
When she saw the postman turn onto her street, she stuffed the card into an envelope and addressed it to the Metropolitan Police. She pulled her door open before the postman could get the mail through the slot and handed him her envelope.
Then she went back to watching the street.
She wondered what was going on in the house with the red door. And she wondered how soon the police would come to catch the bald man.
27
The boy driving the police wagon was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. From his driver’s seat he was able to look down on Day and Hammersmith, and it was for this reason that he refused to alight. Instead, he sat, stoic and silent, with the morning sun behind him. Sergeant Kett had obviously put young runners to work driving carriages for the day. Day wondered if the boy was trying to grow whiskers or had perhaps left a bit of wheat cereal on his lip. His thoughts wandered to his unborn child and he wondered if it would be a son and if it would be as dutiful as this boy was.
Hammersmith gave the horse’s nose a pat and followed Day to the tea shop door, which was closed and refused to budge. Day tugged on the handle and then rapped on the green door.
“It sticks,” said the shop’s proprietor, who sat frustrated on the curb, watching for cabs in the street. Every time a two-wheeler or four-wheeler rolled by, he would mutter under his breath, “Another one lost.”
Eventually, the door swung open and Adrian March beckoned them inside. Day shook his head.
“The wagon’s arrived,” he said. “Let’s bring him out.”
“One moment,” March said.
The door closed, then opened again a minute later, and March pushed Napper out onto the footpath. The prisoner stumbled, but caught himself before falling and stood up straight. He was shorter than he had seemed inside the miniature shop. His hands were still bound in bunched and knotted canvas, but there were fresh wounds on his face and scalp, fresh blood on his prison-issue uniform. He spat at Day, but the inspector moved backward and watched the glistening spit break and spatter at his feet. Napper grinned at him. His teeth were small and pearl grey.
“Sorry,” he said. “Meant that for him over there.”
“What happened?” Day said. “Why’s he got blood all over him?”
“He fell,” March said. “Hit his head against the counter before I could catch him.”
The shop’s proprietor pushed past them all and disappeared into the gloom of the green building. Off-balance, Napper fell against Day. Day grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upright, but his attention was arrested by the gleam in the little prisoner’s eyes.
“Heard something,” Napper said.
“What do you mean?” Day said.
“The other one, Griffin,” Napper said. “He told me a thing you might like to know.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll tell you,” Napper said. “Or maybe I won’t.”
“He’s lying,” March said. “He didn’t say anything like this when we were in there.” He gestured at the tea shop.
“You didn’t ask me nice,” Napper said. “You was evil toward me. Not talkin’ no more to you.”
“If you have something to say,” Day said, “say it.”
“Only you. Only to you.”
“Why me?”
“Nice eyes you got. Friendly eyes. Salty tasty eyes.”