Her stomach turned again and she pushed against the wall until the sensation passed. She closed her eyes, took a short breath, and when she opened her husband’s bedroom door she was composed and smiling.
There was no need to trouble him.
The bald man returned to his house when the street vendors started setting up their stalls for the day. Traffic had begun to pick up, curious passersby glancing in his direction, and the bald man realized that he was still wearing his sopping nightshirt and slippers.
He bathed quickly and changed clothes.
In Fenn’s room, the bald man examined the ropes that had held the boy to his bed. They were still intact, still knotted. Fenn must have spent hours wriggling his way out of them. The bars on the window looked sturdy, but when the bald man checked them, one bar slid out of place. It swung to the side and the bald man stooped to look at the window casing. The mortar there was crumbled and loose. When he scraped at it with a fingernail, it sifted down the wall like sand. He moved the bed and there was a pile of grit on the floor. Clearly he had done a shoddy job installing the bars, hadn’t mixed the mortar well enough and left a dry pocket that the boy had been able to scratch away at, loosening a single bar just enough to squeeze through.
Below the window, a flood wall ran the length of the block. Fenn could easily have hopped down to the top of it, then over and away.
The bald man had an idea of where the boy might go. Fenn had a head start, but he was probably still on foot and had miles to travel. The bald man kept a private hansom on retainer and would be able to overtake the boy soon enough.
His shop was on the way. He would stop there first to get some supplies and to put a sign in the window. It was a shame to have to close the place down for the day, but the bald man had his priorities.
Family should always come first.
Constable Colin Pringle couldn’t decide whether to wait or to go home and try to get an hour’s sleep before his shift. But after a long sleepless night outside, his clothes were a mess, wrinkled and dirty. Maybe the tailor would be at his shop early. And maybe he would have new clothes that Pringle could wear out of the store. It would be good to show up for his shift looking fresh, even if he didn’t feel awfully fresh.
But it was clear that the tailor still wasn’t in. There was a sign in the window, carefully printed in red ink on stiff white paper: Will Return Soon. Pringle cupped his hands against the glass and peered into the shop. It was dark and still. There was no sense that anyone was working within, and there was nothing to indicate how “soon” anyone would return.
Pringle assumed that if he left now, the tailor would immediately return to the shop. But if he waited, he might be here all day. That was the way the universe worked. He regretted not waiting at the store on his previous visit. If he had, he might have a fresh new uniform waiting for him at home right now.
He tried the doorknob. He didn’t expect it to turn, didn’t expect the door to swing open; it was just the thing you were supposed to do before giving up. But the knob did turn, and the door did swing open, and Pringle stepped inside.
Now that he was here, he might as well wait.
He walked through the shop and sat in an overstuffed chair that was positioned near the back room for clients who were being fitted. He would give the tailor fifteen minutes and then he would leave.
Just fifteen minutes.
It was a comfortable chair, and the shop was quiet, and it felt good to sit.
He closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.
23
Walter Day had woken up early and rolled out of bed with the cobwebs of a bad dream clinging to him. He splashed cold water on his face from the basin and ran a wet cloth over his chest and armpits. He shaved quickly, stopping long enough to smile at Claire when she entered his room.
By the time he finished shaving, Claire had set kindling in the small fireplace. Day’s trousers from the night before were draped over the board to be pressed. He checked the walk-in closet and was pleased to find that he had three fresh shirts.
“I didn’t hear you leave my room last night,” Claire said.
“I was quiet. I’m glad I didn’t wake you.”
“I wish you had stayed.”
“What would the housekeeper say?”
He chuckled, but Claire acted as though she hadn’t heard him. The kindling began to blaze, and she carefully placed a handful of thin logs on the new fire. She stood and aimed a pointed stare at him.
“I swear I don’t know what to do with myself, Walter. Except for the bloody housekeeper, I know none of the women in the neighborhood. They don’t come round. They haven’t warmed to me.”
“How could they not? You are, I’m sure, the most charming woman in all the city.”
“Detectives’ wives are not universally beloved here.”
Day grimaced. It was another reminder that the man on the street had no great love for the police. There was too much crime that went unstopped and no one felt safe. Everyone in London knew that the Ripper was still out there in the fog and that the police were helpless to stop him.
“Then don’t tell anybody what I do.” He winked at her.
Claire smiled and put the press on the fire. It was a flat rectangle of iron with a wooden handle bolted to one side. She used a pair of sturdy tongs to move it into place on the logs.
“Shall I tell them you’re a vendor? I’ll say you sell dolls from a cart in the West End. I’m fabulously proud of the work you do with dolls.”
“Hmm. Perhaps I drive an omnibus.”
“The other wives shall embrace me and raise me on their shoulders when they find out.”
Day laughed.
“They’ll carry me through the streets,” Claire said.
“Until I run over them all with my omnibus.”
“You and your bus will ruin my best day.”
“You are the best Day.”
“That’s positively corny.”
“It is. There’s another detective I’m working with. His name’s Blacker. That’s the sort of joke he makes.”
“You’ve made a friend?”
“I believe I have.”
“I’m glad.”
“Now we need to find some friends for you,” Day said.
“Perhaps Mr Blacker has a wife.”
“I believe he’s a bachelor.”
“Poor man.”
Claire used the tongs to lift the hot iron from the fire and wrapped a cloth around her hand before picking it up by the handle. She dipped her other hand in a small dish of water and sprinkled it over the ironing board. When she pressed the iron against her husband’s trousers, a cloud of steam and a loud hiss filled the air around her. She moved the iron over the pants quickly, repositioning them as she went. In seconds, Day’s trousers looked fresh and presentable again.
“I should go round to the tailor for another pair of trousers,” Day said.
“Mrs Dick will be in today and I’ll have her launder your other pair.”
“There you have it. Right under your nose. Mrs Dick shall be your bosom companion.”
“That sort of friend I’m sure I don’t need.”
“Perhaps if you were to-”
“Walter.”
“Yes?”
“Walter, you’re a dear man and I’m touched that you concern yourself with my affairs, but I shouldn’t burden you with my silly complaints. I have this fine house to look after and I am content to know that my husband is a brilliant detective with the famous Scotland Yard.”
“Even so. If you wanted to go back … I mean, if you should ever wish to return to Devon, to your family, I would understand.”
“You mustn’t worry about that when you have so many important things to do. Now, let’s get you dressed and off to work.”