“I can’t ignore him, Colin.”
“Let him keep looking. He’ll find someone else.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
“Don’t change the fact we’re off duty.”
Hammersmith grimaced. He was never off duty.
“Tell you what, you go on and I’ll see what’s what. I’ll catch up to you soon enough.”
“I wouldn’t feel right leaving you. What if this bloke decides to take you on?”
They both looked at Blackleg, who stood patiently at the alley’s mouth, waiting for their conference to end. At rest, he still seemed coiled and ready to spring. Blackleg looked like he was no stranger to violence. And Hammersmith wondered what other shadowy work the man was involved in, besides crossing picket lines.
“I believe I’d be up to the challenge,” he said.
Pringle raised his eyebrows. “You’re sure?”
“Go on, Colin.”
“You’ll be right behind me?”
“I imagine I’ll arrive at the tailor’s at the very moment you do, if you dawdle a bit along the way.”
“Right, then. I’ll see you.”
And Pringle was gone, hurrying back across the street to disappear in the maze of fruit vendors and fish peddlers that lined the walkway. Hammersmith chuckled and joined Blackleg at the alley.
“What happened with him?”
“He had a pressing engagement. Lead on.”
Blackleg nodded and gestured for Hammersmith to follow. Hammersmith hesitated before plunging into the alley after Blackleg. He could make out shapes in the dark, but no details. He drew his nightstick from the loop on his belt and stepped into the shadows.
Blackleg was far ahead, silhouetted against the light from the other end of the alley, but Hammersmith knew better than to chase blindly after him. He walked carefully, peering into every dark corner and skirting the crannies in the buildings on either side of him. There were people in here, sleeping away the daylight hours. Perhaps they would awaken at dusk to ply whatever unsavory trade they practiced. Or perhaps they wouldn’t ever wake up again. Hammersmith left them where they lay and moved forward.
He emerged unscathed at the other end of the alley, blinking in the sudden light. Ahead of him, Blackleg impatiently beckoned Hammersmith forward.
The East End was a prosperous neighborhood, but had fallen on hard times over the past decade. Once-handsome architecture was no longer maintained or repaired, and the London poor-the working class, the beggars, the pickpockets, grifters, and drunkards-had all begun to claim it for themselves. There were oases of elegance to be found among the homes, and the nearby medical college still brought doctors to the area, but fewer doctors lived here now. Dignified old houses endured an uneasy proximity to some of the seediest pubs and opium dens in the city, and students who couldn’t afford homes in the suburbs were being edged out by vendors and streetwalkers.
Blackleg led Hammersmith to a row of tall brownstones skirted by a black wrought-iron fence. The slate-grey building was dotted helter-skelter with small windows, and there was a garden area below street level, sunken behind the fence.
Blackleg pointed down at the garden. It was accessible by a series of stone steps that were partially hidden by potted plants on the walk.
“I was settlin’ in for a doze down there, right?”
Hammersmith squinted at the other man and pursed his lips. It was a credible lie and Blackleg sold it well, but Hammersmith didn’t believe for a moment that he slept on the street or in sunken gardens. No, in all likelihood, Blackleg was an area diver, a criminal who broke into homes through their below-ground-level servants’ entrances and burgled the lower rooms. There was little doubt Blackleg had been casing the townhouse to make sure nobody was home.
Blackleg didn’t miss the accusation in Hammersmith’s expression.
“God’s truth, yer honor. Any rate, I was down there and I happened to spy a thing through the window that’s unsettled me some’at.”
“Looking through the window, were you?”
“Just glanced, is all. I’m not a peep. Just had a little glance as I rolled over on me side to get a good sleep.”
“Of course. Go on.”
“Well, look for yerself. Me, I don’t quite know what to make of it.”
Hammersmith kept his eye on Blackleg as he descended the steps to the sunken area. It was an ideal spot for the criminal to mug him, but if Blackleg intended to harm him, Hammersmith suspected the attack would have come in the alley.
He squatted on a bed of cedar mulch and peered into the room beyond the window. Within the semi-gloom he could make out the distinct shapes of furniture: three chairs, a small table, a sofa, all covered in heavy white cloths. The wall to the left was dominated by an enormous fireplace with a marble hearth that jutted into the first third of the room. Above the mantel and dotting the other walls was a collection of recent Impressionist paintings that looked valuable to Hammersmith’s untrained eye. A Turkish rug was rolled up in the far corner, unfurled at the end so that the deep blues and reds of the carpet’s pattern gleamed in a shaft of sunlight that shot past Hammersmith’s shoulder. He turned and Blackleg was standing by his side, watching the policeman anxiously.
“It appears uncommonly well appointed for a servant’s room, if that’s what it is,” Hammersmith said. “But that’s hardly cause for concern.”
“Look harder, sir. Look over there.”
Hammersmith frowned and looked again at the massive fireplace. The grate was folded to one side and a set of fireplace tools stood neatly against the stones. Hammersmith counted a bellows, tongs, a poker and shovel. A selection of ladles and spoons hung from an iron bar bolted to the bricks, and a toaster, its rectangular slots rusted and black with soot, rested by itself on the right-hand side of the hearth. Something worked at the periphery of Hammersmith’s vision, and he turned his gaze to the black maw of the fireplace itself. There. He drew back and looked up at Blackleg, who nodded.
“Now you see it.”
“What is it?”
“’Fraid it’s a chavy, sir. Too small to be aught else.”
“Why did you go for the police? Why not sod off and leave it be?”
“Told you, sir. I’m right sure it’s a chavy. That ain’t proper.”
Hammersmith nodded and pushed at the pane of glass in front of him. It gave way. The window was unlocked. He felt along the edge of it for damage and ran his fingers over splintered wood. It confirmed for him that Blackleg had broken into the house, but Hammersmith kept that knowledge to himself. There was no sense in scaring the criminal away. Blackleg might still prove to be a useful witness.
Hammersmith swung his legs over the windowsill and dropped down into the room. Dust swam aimlessly through the solitary beam of sunlight. Hammersmith was sure that Blackleg had rolled up the rug in the corner of the room, planning to cart it away, before he made his lurid discovery.
“Hello?” Hammersmith said.
He raised his voice and hollered again, louder this time.
“Hello? Is anybody home? Police.”
Silence answered him. The brownstone had the feel of a long-abandoned place. No homeowner was within earshot.
Behind him, Hammersmith heard Blackleg drop to the floor. He turned and Blackleg nodded at him. The two men walked to the fireplace, and Hammersmith knelt on the hearth. He reached out toward the shoe that dangled from the chimney and prodded it with his nightstick. There was clearly a foot in it. A body was stuck up inside the chimney.
Hammersmith paused and glanced back again at Blackleg. The other man’s expression mirrored his own. The shoe hanging down below the top edge of the fireplace’s mouth was small enough to fit in the palm of Hammersmith’s hand. They were looking at the foot of a chavy: a dead child.
Hammersmith grabbed the child’s ankle in both hands and pulled. Nothing happened. The body was wedged in tight. He braced himself and pulled again. He felt something shift above him.