Day squinted.
“It’s a hair,” he said.
“No, lad. It’s a thread. This end is frayed a bit where it’s been cut. Here, you see?”
“The same thread used to sew his mouth and eyes?”
“Different color. That was black. This is dark blue. It could be a coincidence, someone lost a thread from her coat, perhaps, but I don’t think so. I think your killer came prepared with at least two colors of thread. And why would that be?”
He abruptly dropped to the ground and began to crawl around the platform, his magnifying glass playing over the surface, his long fingers poking into the corners where the wall joined the planks of the floor. After several long minutes in which the onlookers behind the railing began to grow restless, Kingsley murmured an exclamation and held his finger up to the light. A drop of blood formed on his fingertip, and Kingsley smiled. He sucked the blood from his finger and turned his magnifying glass around, using the blunt handle to scrape dirt away from the wall.
He stood and trotted back to where Day was still holding up an end of the trunk. Kingsley held out his hand, displaying his find for Day to see.
“Needles,” Day said.
Kingsley grinned. “Three needles, Inspector Day. Three, where one might do. I’d say our killer’s made a telling mistake. Give me your handkerchief.”
“Is it in my breast pocket?”
“I don’t see one there.”
“I may have come out without it today.”
Kingsley nodded and turned to the nearest constable.
“You there, have you a handkerchief?”
A tall, lanky constable looked up from the side of the platform where he seemed to be scanning the crowd. His eyes were bright and intelligent and nearly hidden behind long feminine lashes. He jumped slightly at the sound of Kingsley’s voice.
“What’s your name?” Kingsley said.
“Hammersmith, sir.”
“You sound Welsh, sir.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re watching the crowd?”
“What the detective said, about it being another detective in the box, it surprised people.”
“You were looking to see who among that crowd wasn’t surprised. Who might have already known there was a detective in the trunk.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“I didn’t see anything unexpected.”
Kingsley nodded. “Still,” he said, “it was a worthy idea. How long have you been with the force?”
“Two years, sir.”
“I’m surprised I haven’t made your acquaintance before this. I shall watch your career with interest. Now, I wonder if I might borrow your handkerchief?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr Hammersmith.”
Kingsley took the offered kerchief and glanced at it. He looked up at the constable.
“This is not particularly clean.”
“I apologize, sir. I’ve been at it now for two shifts and haven’t had a chance to launder anything.”
Indeed, Hammersmith looked sloppy. His blue uniform was wrinkled, his shirt was untucked on one side, and the cuffs of his trousers were muddy. There was a hangdog air about him, but in his body language and bearing he somehow gave the impression of utter competence.
“Yes, well, thank you, Hammersmith. I shall return this as soon as I possibly can.”
“Of course, sir.”
Kingsley wrapped the needles in the soiled square of cloth. He tucked the handkerchief and the short piece of blue thread into his vest pocket to be examined later.
“This one is a challenge. A real challenge.”
Kingsley smiled and scanned the platform one last time, barely taking in the crowd of onlookers.
“Wonderful,” he said. “Simply wonderful. You can let that down now.”
Day eased the end of the heavy trunk back to the platform floor and breathed a sigh of relief.
“Have two of the men bring that round to the college,” Kingsley said. “I’ll want to examine Little’s body, but I’m not going to do it here. Have the rest of these bobbies search the platform carefully for a man’s left shoe. I suspect it’s in the trunk, but there’s no harm in putting them to work.”
Kingsley shrugged back into his coat, picked up his hat, and walked away. Halfway to the far edge of the platform, he turned and walked back to where Day still stood. He leaned in and whispered so the onlookers wouldn’t overhear. “Shut the lid on that trunk,” he said. “We don’t want that rabble ogling a dead detective.”
DAY ONE
1
TWO HOURS SINCE THE DISCOVERY OF MR LITTLE.
Sergeant Kett took a moment to scan the station. Euston, the metropolitan terminus of the London and North-Western Railway, was always bustling. Hundreds of passengers arrived every day for their first experience of the great city, while others fled to Liverpool, Birmingham, Manchester, Nottingham, and all points between. Kett knew it was unlikely that Inspector Little’s killer had remained at the scene of the crime, but still. . he held out some slight hope that he would spot the butcher. He stood at the top of the wide double staircase looking south toward the great Euston Arch. The grand hall was framed by dark red pillars, and sunlight streamed through a domed skylight in the high ceiling, shimmering across the metallic lava floor. The bright blue uniforms of dozens of bobbies stood out against the grey sea of day travelers and against the white granite of the station walls. But the presence of so many police in the station, while initially novel, was eventually ignored in the urgent press by commuters to get to their proper destinations.
Irish laborers tramped through the massive entrance along with soldiers on furlough and small dirty children traveling to stay with distant relatives. Beyond the wide green awnings above the gates outside, the lingering morning fog had begun to burn away, but Kett couldn’t see far into the mist. He liked the swirling grey and the possibility of newness somewhere inside or behind it.
He scanned the crowd while constables bustled back and forth behind him.
Here was a doctor with his family, headed away on vacation, his elaborate beard losing its curls in the sudden heat of the crowded platform, his black bag clutched tight to his chest. His pretty wife bustled along behind, leading a nurse and a young boy, all of them tired and put out.
Two tarts loitered against the wall near one of the meeting rooms and, when he caught their eyes, he made a quick motion with his head to indicate that they should move along. They strolled past him and smiled.
“We does like a man with a full beard,” the shorter of them said.
“Quite masculine,” the prettier of them said. She had a long scar that ran from her scalp to her throat, but it somehow added to her vulnerability and attractiveness.
“Keep moving,” Kett said.
“Pity.”
And they were gone, caught up in the crush of bodies.
Prostitution was illegal, of course, and they were a cheeky pair to be plying their wares so early in the day and in so public a place, but they were brave in their fashion, too, and arresting them would have been fruitless. They would be back at it within the day.
Kett shook his head. Murderers, thieves, whores, and swindlers were all pressed together alongside that rarest of species, the honest citizen. He could spend the entire afternoon studying the crowds at Euston Street and never sort the decent from the damned.
He turned and watched his men do their work.
The hierarchy of the Yard was unusual in that nobody outranked anyone else. The detective inspectors specialized in certain types of crime, the cases that required the most time to solve. The constables-he never called them bobbies, despite the popularity of that nickname among the general public-dealt with London’s day-to-day offenses and walked their beats, familiarizing themselves with whole neighborhoods and their people, always with the goal of nipping problems in the bud before they escalated far enough to warrant the attention of the detectives. And the sergeants, Kett among them, facilitated both constable and inspector, working to ensure that everybody on the force communicated smoothly with everybody else, that everyone was at the top of his game.