“I’m afraid I’m only home for a meal and a quick wash-up. I’ll have to go back out. There’s a new case-”
He sensed a shift in her attitude. The small vertical worry line between her eyebrows deepened, and her chin dipped just enough that her starched collar dug into the flesh under her jaw. Day drew a breath and braced himself for unpleasantness, but Claire surprised him with a quick hug.
“There’s always a new case, Walter.”
She stepped away from him, keeping her hands on his elbows. She frowned, but he knew that she wasn’t angry. She looked perfectly composed from the top of her sculpted blond hair to the tip of her high-buttoned boots, and he wondered at her ability to withstand the parlor’s suffocating heat all day.
“Is there anything on the fire yet?”
“Mrs Dick was here. She made mock turtle soup and I watched, but I’m not sure I can make it myself yet. I’ll learn.”
Day made a face. “There was no real turtle available?” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. We can’t afford turtle. But mock turtle tastes almost the same, doesn’t it?”
Day winced. The price of live turtle was two shillings a pound, and even the prepackaged variety of the fatty green meat was two pounds a tin. Turtle was for special occasions. Day would have preferred to leave mock turtle out entirely. It was made from gelatinous veal and didn’t truly resemble the taste and texture of the meat it mimicked, but he kept his dislike of it to himself since Claire seemed to find the stuff agreeable. He hoped the calf’s head had already been removed from the soup. He’d seen enough gore for the day.
“So Mrs Dick has left already?”
It was Claire’s turn to make a face. “I don’t like her.”
“Why?”
“She does the bare minimum to keep the place up, and she laughs at me when I ask her to show me things. It’s not my fault I don’t know how to properly mend a shirt.”
Claire had grown up in a wealthy household with a phalanx of servants ready to cater to her every whim. Marrying Walter Day had plunged her into a world where she was expected to take care of her husband and household without the aid of much staff. Day made barely three hundred pounds a year. They could afford Mrs Dick, but there were no servants’ quarters in the little house at Kentish Town. Mrs Dick came once a day to help cook and clean and Claire trailed along after her, hoping to absorb some of the knowledge dribbled out by the older woman.
“Did she sew it, then? The shirt?”
“No, I did it myself, but she peered over my shoulder every so often to spy on my progress.”
Claire smiled and went to the chair where the shirt in question was draped, perilously near the fire.
“I’ve only just finished. Try it on.”
Day removed his shirt and collar and let Claire help him on with the shirt she’d mended. She had a handful of buttons and poked them through, but the holes didn’t line up on both sides of the shirt. It bunched and puckered along his chest and felt tight across the shoulders. He hunched himself forward to avoid letting Claire see how short the sleeves were now.
He smiled at her, but she scowled back.
“Don’t you pretend to me. Look at this. It’s awful.”
“Well, it fit better yesterday, but it didn’t button at all. So we’ve made some progress, haven’t we?”
Claire kept the scowl for a few seconds and then relaxed, smiling back at him.
“Progress, indeed. Just don’t tell Mrs Dick. I’ll hide this in the bottom of your bureau and we’ll never speak of it again.”
“Agreed.”
He reached for her and held her for a long moment. He knew she was unhappy, knew she was bored. The only way he could think to make her happy was to become a success. It was what she wanted for him. Then he could expand their household staff and she could return to the life of privilege she’d grown up with. Not completely, not on a detective’s wages, but things would improve. Day knew he could never return to his life in Devon. He needed his wife to be proud of him.
“Why did you marry me, Mrs Day?” he said.
“As I recall, you’d taken a blow to the head. I considered it my duty to keep an eye on you so you wouldn’t get into too much trouble.”
“Good of you.”
He winked at her and she smiled.
He let go of her and turned away to put his old shirt back on. Claire took the “mended” shirt from him and folded it carefully. He was sure it would disappear into the rubbish pile before the week was out.
“Lead me to the dinner table,” he said. “I’m famished and I have a long night ahead of me.”
8
Constable Pringle was waiting outside when Hammersmith left University College Hospital. Hammersmith’s stomach growled and he realized that he hadn’t eaten since early that morning. He’d missed both lunch and tea.
“A quick stop at the tailor’s and we’ll grab a bite,” Pringle said.
“You spend more time at the tailor’s than you do on the job.”
“It’s been two or three days. Stopping there isn’t a daily occurrence.”
“Close enough.”
“Yeah? When’s the last time you were there?”
Hammersmith looked down at himself. His blue uniform was dingy and greying. Blood was smeared across the front of his right trouser leg. He reached for his handkerchief, thinking he might at least wipe some of the blood away, but his pocket was empty. His handkerchief had been used to wrap evidence at the scene of the crime.
“I don’t remember the last time I was there.”
“Well, it’s high time. You have a single uniform, and it’s seldom cleaned or pressed or cared for in any way. You pay absolutely no attention to your general appearance, and it won’t do. No woman will want a scarecrow for a husband. You’ll grow old in that flat, long after I’ve moved out.”
“I’m not worried about it, Colin. I suspect I’d be a bad husband, anyway.”
“Well, it’s true that you’d have to spend more time at home than you do now. A wife will want attention paid to her.”
“Exactly right,” Hammersmith said. “And who has time for it when there’s so much work to be done?”
Colin Pringle opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, a cry came from behind them.
“Hoy! Coppers! Over this way!”
A huge bearded man who looked as if he’d been left out in the sun too long strode across the road toward them. Up close, the man’s green eyes shone brilliantly through the surrounding dark hair. They twinkled with intelligence, belying the man’s thuggish appearance.
“You bluebottles is hard to come on, ain’t you?”
“Is there something we can do for you, sir?” Hammersmith asked.
As the man drew closer, Pringle took a step back, no doubt concerned about his spotless uniform.
“Can I show you a thing?” the man said.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Blackleg.”
Hammersmith smiled. The name was more likely the man’s job description. It meant that he was willing to cross picket lines for work during a union strike. Hammersmith suspected Blackleg had long since forgotten the name he was born with.
“What have you got for us, Mr Blackleg?”
“It’s this way. C’mon with me, then.”
They waited for an omnibus to roll past, the horses chuffing and foaming at the mouth, then crossed the road and followed Blackleg to an alley halfway down the other side of the street. Pringle leaned close to Hammersmith and whispered.
“Nevil, my shift’s long since over. And so’s yours. I’ve got an appointment. Where’s the man on the beat?”
It was a good question. London was divided into fifteen-minute segments, meaning that every beat cop was within fifteen minutes’ run from every possible spot in the territory he patrolled. Hammersmith had found and kept one of the big wooden wheels that had once been used to measure distance and to determine the size of each beat within the sprawling city.
“Did you encounter any constables before us, sir?” he said.
“No, sir, an’ I looked, you believe me. You’re the first I seen.”