He balled up his fist and punched the tree trunk. Immediately, he regretted having done it. His knuckles hurt, and when he held his hand up and moved it in the moonlight he saw blood. He turned and rested his back against the unharmed tree and sank down along it to the ground, sat there. He bit his lip and plucked a blade of grass from the dirt between his legs, reached up and stabbed the moon with its tapered end.
Nine months had given him too long to think about things. His work had helped with that. He had buried himself in an overflowing caseload and ignored his nagging doubts about fatherhood. What did he know about being a father? His own father, Lord knows, had not set a wonderful example. Arthur Day had given Walter no clues as to how one went about the process of becoming a father. Everything — the entire life he saw ahead of him — was a complete mystery. If only things could remain unchanged. A happy life, a fulfilling job, a wonderful wife, and a tidy home.
But of course, it was too late for that.
He tore the blade of grass lengthwise. It separated easily along the grain, but it was useless now and dead. He dropped it back to the ground and felt sorry that he had killed it.
He may have slept then. He didn’t know. His mouth tasted terrible. The moon, at least, appeared to be in the same place in the sky, so if he had slept, it hadn’t been long. He pushed himself back up and patted the trunk of the tree and walked away from it, back up the lane.
He turned in at his gate by instinct and so did not immediately notice the young boy standing on his porch. When he did look up, he expected to see the familiar blue door at the top of the steps, but Claire was standing in the open doorway with a lantern held high. She pushed past the boy and came down the steps and set her hand lightly on his arm.
“Where were you?” she said. Her eyes were wide and searching, as if there might be a clue in the blunt planes of his face.
Day opened his mouth to answer and closed it again. He suddenly felt as though he had betrayed her. He had left her alone and had indulged in self-pity at a time when she needed him to be strong and, more than anything, to be there with her. He had acted as a child would act, and he shook his head at her now, unable to speak. He felt his face flushing with shame and was thankful that the lantern light was too weak for Claire to see him clearly.
“Inspector,” the boy said. “Sir?”
Day looked up at him. “What is it, boy?”
“He’s sent for you. Sir Edward has.”
“At this time of night?”
“Sent for ever’body, sir. I mean ever’body there is. I had a time findin’ you, too. They tol’ me you was in Kentish Town, not out here. Posh!”
Day sighed. He didn’t like to advertise the fact that he lived well beyond his means in Primrose Hill. The house was a gift from Claire’s parents. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“They’re out, sir. They’re all out, the bad ’uns are. The whole prison’s disappeared in a puff of smoke, and the bad ’uns are in the streets.”
Day gripped Claire’s arms and ushered her back up the porch steps and into the house, glancing about the whole while at the empty and now ominous lane that ran down along the wide-open park.
“Do you mean to say,” Day said, “that someone has escaped from a prison?”
“More than one.” The boy was excited, his small pale face lit up from inside. “A daring escape from Bridewell. A legion, a host, at least twelve or a hundred bloody murderers are on the loose.”
“Twelve or a hundred? You’ve left yourself a wide margin.”
The boy nodded. “It’s all hands tonight. Sir Edward wants ever’body.”
“Get in here, boy.”
Day waited while the boy scampered past him into the house. He took one more look up and down the street, closed the blue door, and bolted it. On his way to the stairs, he pointed at a chair in the receiving room.
“Sit there,” he said. “I won’t be a moment. Got to put on some shoes.”
“I can find my own way back to the Yard, sir.”
“Not if what you say is true. You just wait for me and I’ll make sure you arrive back there safely.”
Without waiting for an answer, Day hurried up the stairs with his wife. As he ran, he let the slippers fall from his feet and clatter down the stairs behind him.
3
Claire wasted no time, pulling out a suit from the wardrobe for him and hurrying to the dresser where he kept his cuffs and collars, studs and buttons in the top drawer. Her nightgown swirled around her as she moved, and he took a moment to appreciate her natural grace, even as uncomfortable as he knew she was.
“This isn’t… Most of your collars are at the laundry,” she said. “They won’t be delivered until later today. This is the only one left, and you haven’t worn it in ages. It’s limp.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Day quickly stripped to his underwear and began to dress himself.
“I’m setting out your special cufflinks. The ones Mr March gave you last Christmas.”
“Those things? They’re ridiculous. Like something from a penny novel, toys hidden here and there, completely defeating the regular purpose of a thing. And they’re enormous! I’m sure the ordinary cufflinks will be fine.”
Claire sat heavily on the edge of the bed and watched him button his shirt. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her and retied the sash.
“Where did you go, Walter?”
“Nowhere. It was hot in here. I needed to get out of the house for a bit.”
“To get away from me, you mean.”
Day stopped looking for cufflinks. He picked up the box she had set out for him and went to the bed. He wanted to put an arm around his wife, to comfort her, but he felt suddenly awkward and so he busied himself fastening his shirtsleeves.
“I’m anxious, that’s all it is.”
“I know this isn’t what you married.” Claire looked down at her belly, swelling into her lap. “But Walter, I miss you when you’re gone.”
He smiled at her. “I was taking a walk. That’s all it was. Couldn’t sleep.”
He straightened his cuffs and put an arm around her, and she settled against him. Then she straightened up and grabbed his hand.
“What’s happened?”
“Oh, I skinned my knuckles on a tree. It’s nothing.”
“Walter?”
“Really. It’s nothing. Don’t be silly.”
“I’ll be as silly as I please.” She kissed his hand. “Let’s put an ointment on these scratches before they fester.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Put ointment on them anyway. Indulge me.”
“I always indulge you. You are the smartest and prettiest and silliest person I know, and I have to keep you happy or you’ll remember you might have married old Sam Whatsisname instead of me.”
“That’s true. Let’s never forget good old Sam Whatsisname. So you didn’t meet any prettier girls on the towpath tonight? Girls without giant bellies?”
“I prefer giant bellies. How did you know I walked along the towpath?”
“I’m sorry, Walter, but you smell like horse manure.”
“That was a choice. I thought you might appreciate a new perfume.”
“If only it were new. Horse manure has become your regular scent, you know.”
“I’ll step in different kinds of manure and get your opinion. We’ll see what you prefer.”
“Please do.” She pulled back and looked at him, serious. “Oh, Walter, you are happy, aren’t you? Or, at least, not too unhappy?”
“I am very happy every waking moment I spend with you.”
“Me, too.”