“No, you’re right. If it isn’t the Ripper, it’s possible there’s someone else like him out there, though I shudder to think.”
“We need to look at other cases. It’s possible another murder committed by this same person has been looked at by one of the others.”
He swept his hand over the room, indicating the three rows of four desks each. There were eight other detectives in the big room who might be working other murders and have clues that separately added up to nothing, but could be put together in a useful way.
“I’ll go to Sir Edward first thing in the morning,” Blacker said.
“Let’s not bother him yet. He gave me leave to do what I need to solve Little’s murder. I’ll use my authority and get everyone to look through whatever they’ve got.”
“There’ll be some who won’t like it.”
“I know it.”
“I’ll throw my weight behind you. I may not be the most respected peeler in the room, but I think I’m well liked. If I vouch for you, I’m sure the others will cooperate.”
Day smiled. “Thank you. It means a lot that you’re willing to trust me. I’m not sure I trust myself on this.”
Blacker nodded, but he didn’t smile. “I’ll be honest with you, Day, there are men here that I’d rather were looking into this. But I trust Sir Edward, and if he picked you for it then there must be a good reason and I’ll go along. I’m behind you on all this, but I’m not blindly following.”
He stared pointedly across the desk until Day had to look away. When he looked back, Blacker’s scowl had dissolved into his trademark grin. The atmosphere in the room was lighter again.
“But you’ll find no more loyal hunting dog than me,” Blacker said. “You point me in the direction of the bird that did this and I’ll bring the bloody bastard back to you with his head hangin’ out me mouth.”
He winked and Day laughed.
“What say we get a couple hours’ sleep and freshen up? We’ve got a lot to do in the morning.”
“I think morning is already in progress.”
“If you’re willing, once the sun’s up and the milk’s delivered, I think it would be best if you questioned Little’s family, while I handle the neighbors,” Day said. “You’ve got a lighter touch, and the family might be more open with you.”
“Will do.”
“One other thing. Are there any constables we could trust? Smart men who can be discreet?”
“There’s one or two I can think of.”
“We may want to enlist them. There’s a lot to track down here, and some help would be welcome.”
“I’d go to Hammersmith first.”
“Hammersmith? He was at the crime scene this morning. Good man?”
“He rarely laughs at my jokes, but he’s a born lawman.”
“Hammersmith it is, then. I’ll see about getting him reassigned when Sergeant Kett comes on duty.”
“I wouldn’t want to be Little’s killer right now,” Blacker said. “We’ll have the noose round his neck by sundown tomorrow.”
Day nodded, but he didn’t smile. He stood and got his hat and jacket from the hooks on the wall and left without a word for the desk sergeant. On his way out, he saw that Blacker had left the dancing man’s wooden crate on a pile of rubbish at the end of the block. He picked it up and carried it to the back door of the Yard and left it there.
14
Constable Nevil Hammersmith didn’t return home until after midnight. The flat was empty. Colin Pringle was still away on his date with the shopgirl, Maggie.
Hammersmith and Pringle shared a two-bedroom flat above a confectioner’s shop. The aroma of chocolate and sugar filled the rooms day and night, and they were locked in a constant battle with rats that migrated upstairs and skittered through the walls. The entirety of the floor above them was leased by a young man who received a yearly stipend of five hundred pounds from his grandmother. He didn’t need a flatmate. Hammersmith and Pringle, being eligible men of no social standing and of limited means, struggled to make their rent each month.
Despite the hour, Hammersmith started a fire. His thoughts returned to the dead boy, and he unconsciously studied the dimensions of his own fireplace. It was, he thought, too small for even a child to fit in, too narrow for anyone of any size to shimmy up. When the fire was going, he put the kettle on to boil. He lifted the teapot and a small tin of tea from the mantel and spooned green leaves into the pot. Pringle generally filled the tin with “renewed” tea from a street vendor who collected used leaves from people in the neighborhood. The damp tea leaves were dried, spiced, and colored green with copper. It was weak but affordable. When the water began to boil, Hammersmith poured it from the kettle into the teapot and fit the lid back on. While the tea steeped, he paced back and forth through the small parlor.
A piece of paper, disturbed by the breeze he was creating, fluttered at the edge of his vision as he passed by the door to his bedroom. A note was tacked to the wall there and he pulled it down, leaving the tack where it was. He read it and tossed it into the fire. He rubbed the back of his neck and forced his thoughts to return to the case at hand.
He was startled from his reverie by irregular footsteps in the hall, and a moment later, Pringle staggered into the flat and tossed his hat on the well-worn chair by the door.
“Hullo, old boy.”
Pringle’s face was red, and Hammersmith could see a smudge on the knee of his flatmate’s trousers. A sober Pringle would never be seen in soiled clothes.
“How’s Maggie?” Hammersmith said.
“Oh, my dear Mr Hammersmith, Maggie’s fine, all right. Quite fine, indeed.”
“Good to hear.”
“And what are you doing awake and prowling about at this beastly hour?”
“I’ve made tea.”
“Thank you. I’ll have some.”
“Good.”
Hammersmith strained the tea into two cups and set them on the small table under the window. The curtains were drawn back, and outside on the street, sweepers were already hard at work, shoveling horseshit into their foul carts, trying to get a head start on the coming day’s traffic.
“There’s no milk.”
“Did we drink it all?”
“It was spoilt.”
“You threw it out?”
“Should I have kept spoilt milk?”
“Well, I suppose we’ll have more in the morning.”
“Not long now. Still, there’s no milk.”
Pringle shrugged and burnt his tongue on the tea.
“Let it sit,” Hammersmith said.
“Easy for you to say. I’ve already burnt myself. Say, did you get the note I left? There was a message sent over from a doctor at St Thomas’ this evening. Dr Brindle, I think his name was.”
Hammersmith blew across the surface of the tea and took a sip. He could taste the sharp tang of copper and wished again that they could afford to spring for fresh tea.
“I got it,” he said.
“You ought to visit him. Sounds like the old man’s not long for this world.”
“There’s no sense in it, Colin. He doesn’t know me anymore.”
“It might do you some good to say your piece to him. Whether he knows you or not.”
“If I get the time.”
Pringle nodded and tested his tea with a finger. Hammersmith was grateful that his flatmate didn’t press the issue. He hadn’t visited his father in months. The last time he’d been to St Thomas’ Hospital, his father had called him a stranger and cursed at him, the stream of invective finally halted by a spasm of coughing and a spray of blood across the dirty white sheets in the consumptive ward. Hammersmith wanted to remember his father as a tall, strong man with a ready smile and quick hands, not as the shrunken, angry old man who had to be tied to a bed so that he wouldn’t bite the nurses who fed him.
“It’s not just him eating at you, is it?” Pringle said. “I can see by that faraway dreamy look on your face that there’s a case boiling away inside your skull.” He sat forward in his armchair and scowled at Hammersmith. “Was there something in that thug’s story, then?”