“Ma’am?”
A moment’s silence. Then: “I’m fine.”
Rupert tugged at his earlobe and sniffed. What if someone else was in the bedroom? What if someone had climbed up from the outside and through the window and had a knife to Claire Day’s throat and was whispering in her ear, telling her to say that she was all right?
“Ma’am,” he said, “can I open the door?”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“But are you really all right?”
“Yes.” Her voice was small and far away, muffled by the thick door. She sounded like a little girl. “I mean, no. I don’t know. Where’s Fiona? I want Fiona.”
Rupert stepped closer to the door and put his lips almost against it. He wanted to push himself through the grain of the wood and be able to see whether Mrs Day needed his help.
“She went to get the doctor for you,” he said.
“She left me?”
“Only for a bit. I’m here, ma’am. Really, anything I can do. .”
“Just leave me alone.”
“Are you sure? I could-”
“I said leave me alone!”
Rupert pulled his head back away from the door as if he’d been struck. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He spoke quietly and wasn’t sure she could hear him, but then she answered.
“I’m sorry, too, Constable.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Rupert?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I don’t wish to offend you, but would you please leave me alone?”
“Of course.”
“And please send Fiona to me as soon as she returns?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“She is going to return?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Rupert. And I’m terribly sorry. You seem like a nice person.”
“Yes, ma’am. I try. Please don’t hesitate. . I mean, if you need anything. .”
“Thank you, Rupert.”
He nodded, though of course she couldn’t see him. He retreated to the stairs and down and went to his chair in the foyer, but he didn’t sit. He looked back up at the top of the stairs where they disappeared into shadow and then he looked at the dangerous puddle of tea and china that he had made on the floor. He clucked his tongue and went in search of a broom and dustpan.
There was something useful to do at last.
29
By the time they reached the church, the fat man with the tiny hat had grown nervous. They stopped at the edge of the church grounds and the man pointed across to a rear door.
“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps it would be a good idea if nobody knew I was involved.”
“You’re not involved,” March said.
“Exactly right,” the fat man said. “What say we keep it just between us?”
“There is no us,” March said. “Here’s the church and we have no further need of you.”
“Just as well,” the man said. “Just as well. But if you could see your way clear to not mention my name. To not mention, I mean to say, my name in connection with any of this.”
“But we don’t know your name,” Day said. “How could we possibly mention it to anyone?”
“Yes, thank you. Thank you for understanding. It’s just that I’m awfully fond of the organ here and I would hate to be asked to cease playing it.”
“Understood. Have a wonderful day.”
“It’s a very nice organ. Old, but refurbished. Its very age lends it a rich tone I wouldn’t be able to get from a newer instrument. Very nice, indeed.”
“Glad for you,” Day said.
“So.” The man smiled at them nervously and held out his dimpled hand for them to shake. “Happy to have been of help. As long as we agree that I was of no help whatsoever.”
“Complete agreement,” March said.
“Very good of you. I say, I wonder if you might tell me?”
“Yes? Tell you what?”
“Exactly.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Tell me what,” the fat man said. “What’s it all about, then.”
March rolled his eyes and walked away from them across the wet grass toward the church. He waved a dismissive hand. Day smiled at the fat man.
“We’re tracking a prisoner,” he said.
“You caught him.” The fat man seemed proud of himself for pointing out the obvious. As if Day were a small child trying to pound a square block into a round hole and the fat man had shown him the ball he ought to be using. “Sent him away not more than fifteen minutes ago in the wagon.”
“Yes, that was one of them. But there are others. We have to catch them all.”
The fat man’s face fell, and Day saw him struggle with the new concept.
“So,” Day said, “I’ll just pop off now and catch this other prisoner. Thank you again. And mum’s the word.”
“It is? Why?”
“No reason,” Day said. “We’re all done now. You may go home. Good day.”
He turned and walked briskly away before the fat man could say anything else. He heard the man clear his throat as if to get his attention, but he didn’t look back. He wondered how the little hat stayed on the man’s head.
The grass under his feet was wet from the recent rain and steamed slightly as a few stray sunbeams broke through the cloud cover and struck the churchyard. Glistening spiderwebs, like pearl strands, were slung low between blades of grass, and Day stepped carefully over them so as not to disturb their eight-legged tenants’ morning work.
He wondered whether Claire had woken up yet, whether she had even gone back to bed after he left. He wondered whether sleeplessness would affect the unborn baby. Thoughts of the baby made him frown, squinting into the sun. He marched on, forgot about spiderwebs underfoot, and found his flask in his pocket. He uncorked it and took a long burning drink. Corked it back up and put it in his pocket, wiped his lips on the sleeve of his jacket.
March was at the back door of the church when Day caught up to him. He raised his eyebrows at Day and jiggled the handle. It moved freely. March held a finger to his lips, telling Day to be quiet in case the prisoner they sought was just on the other side of the door. He turned the handle again as Day brought out his revolver, then pushed hard against the door and stepped back out of the way. Day crouched and moved forward through the door into the darkness of a little windowless room.
In the light from the open door, Day could see that the room was used for storage. It was stacked floor to ceiling with the sort of superfluous items a church might collect over the course of several decades: old broomsticks, candelabras, incense burners, three long dusty pews with broken legs, chairs, buckets, bolts of fabric, an enormous chipped slab of marble, some sort of font that leaned to one side, a chandelier, carefully labeled boxes of clothing and vestments. But no people, no missing prisoners. There was another door on the far wall. It was closed, and Day stepped carefully around a hole in the floor and tested the doorknob. It didn’t move. Locked from the other side. Which might mean that the prisoner had come through here and locked the door after him, but Day was willing to bet the door was always locked. It wouldn’t do to let a child wander into the storeroom. Too many opportunities for an accident.
He went back to the hole in the floor he’d skirted a moment before. March was already there, on his hands and knees, peering down into the darkness. There was a flat slab of wooden flooring upended against a stack of boxes next to the hole, scattered dust and dirt and splinters around the opening where the floor had been pulled up and cast aside.
“He’s down there, then,” Day said. He was suddenly seized by an urge to do something, to make some difference. Things were happening all around him, things he couldn’t control, and he wondered if he would feel better in action. Without time to worry, perhaps he would stop worrying altogether and feel better about everything in his life. What would Hammersmith do? Of course the sergeant would leap into the darkness, whatever the cost. Day had promised Hammersmith that he would stay aboveground, but Day wasn’t a child. He certainly wasn’t Hammersmith’s child. He was on the cusp of becoming a father, after all, someone who made decisions and acted on them.