“I don’t-”
The Widow Little suddenly smiled and her face rearranged itself. She looked almost pleasant. Day realized that she was much younger than he’d first supposed. It was unlikely that she’d ever been a great beauty, but Day could see the ghost of the spirited bride she once was.
“I’m havin’ a laugh on you boys, is all. I know you don’t have nuffink to do wiff it. The money, I mean. I done talked it over wiff your man there, the one’s got no arm. He’ll see to it, see I get Mr Little’s pinchins.”
“His pension? How wonderful.”
“He’s a good man, that one. He brung that box, too,” she said. “More’n five pounds there. Thanks to you an’ yours. Gonna do a bit o’ shoppin’ later in the day.”
“Yes, of course,” Day said. “Well, we should-”
“Was Inspector Little planning to grow a beard, by chance?” Blacker said.
Day scowled at him and Blacker shrugged.
“Don’t think so. Beards is filthy, all full-up with food and dust and such. Won’t have no beard near these lips, I tell you. Mr Little was allus considerable about such things. Knew how them whiskers scratched and kep hisself tidy for me. Allus kep hisself tidy, he did.”
Without warning, the widow burst into tears. Her lips opened wide, trailing stringers of grief, a cobweb of spit connecting the two halves of her face. She seemed suddenly vulnerable in her ugliness and Day wanted to put an arm around her, but Gregory reached her first, patted her jiggling arm.
“There, there, Mama. Don’t cry.”
Across the room, Anthony began to bounce in his chair again, howling, and Day could almost make out words. The back of the wooden chair beat against the plaster wall as the hideous woman and her strange children celebrated their grief. The baby woke then with a start, its tiny arms windmilling against the floor, and joined its voice to the Little family’s horrible wailing.
Day took a pound note from his vest pocket and slid it under the top of the cigar box. He laid a calling card atop the barrel and grabbed Blacker by the arm. The two of them left, pulling the door closed behind them.
“I need a drink,” Blacker said.
“So do I. How could-?”
“I don’t know. But if I were married to that, I’d spend all my time at work, too. Sir Edward’s admonition to the men to spend more time with family must have gone hard with poor Little.”
“Well, I don’t only feel sorry for him. Look at them. What kind of life is that?”
“That’s why I’m not married,” Blacker said. “I’m sure she wasn’t like that when he met her.”
Day looked back at the door. If Mrs Little had changed over the years, how had her husband fared? Had he once been an idealistic young detective? Or had he always avoided his work and his family, just waiting for the inevitable end?
“The magic trick,” Day said. “That was kind of you.”
“He seems like a good boy,” Blacker said.
“You know you can’t have children if you don’t first find a wife.”
“Who said I want children?”
“Don’t worry. You’ll find the right woman.”
“Who said I was looking?”
Halfway down the stairs, they could still hear the chorus of misery behind them. The wailing and howling seemed to keep time with the regular beat of the chair banging against the wall.
“That boy should be taken away.”
“You think he’d be better cared for in an asylum?”
Blacker sighed. “No. I wouldn’t wish the asylum on anyone.”
“Thank God they’ll get Little’s pension.”
Blacker stopped as they reached the door to the street. The sorrowful music wasn’t heard down here so much as it was felt, a fog seeping through the walls and the floor.
“Little’s pension?” he said.
“What?”
“Little didn’t have a pension any more than you or I do. And it doesn’t look like he saved much over the years.”
“Then what was she talking about?”
“Sir Edward.”
“You mean…?”
Blacker nodded. “I have to think so. After witnessing all that, the man’s doing what he can.”
“Bully for him.”
“He’s a better man than I am, that’s a sure thing.”
Blacker pushed open the door and the two stepped out into bright daylight. Day breathed deep and let the sun fill his lungs. He took the peanut shell from his pocket and tossed it into the street. Blacker saw but didn’t ask.
“I say live every day as if you’re Walter Day,” Blacker said.
“And what does that mean?”
Blacker smiled. He shook his head and put an arm around Day’s shoulder.
“What say we find a murderer?” he said.
Day nodded and allowed himself to be led down the rain-damped street. The bright morning sun shone on his face and London beckoned. He listened to the birds calling to one another above, to the costermongers hawking their wares by the side of the road, to the healthy children shouting from the windows, and everything he had seen and heard and smelled in the Littles’ flat began to recede like the tide, leaving only the faintest trace of black silt behind.
30
You’re covered with blood,” Kingsley said.
Hammersmith was surprised to find Kingsley in his lab so early. He had left Blackleg after arranging a time and place to meet later in the day and had rushed to the college, stopping briefly at stalls along the way to grab a penny pie, a ginger beer, and something to read.
“I’m sorry?” he said.
He looked down at his shirt, which was permanently ruined by a wide brown swath of blood.
“Oh. Yes, you might say I had an adventuresome night.”
“Does your nose hurt badly?”
Hammersmith shrugged. He had stopped paying attention to the low throbbing pain that surged outward from the middle of his face.
“Come,” Kingsley said. “Let’s have a look at you. If it’s broken we’ll need to set it.”
Hammersmith allowed himself to be led to an empty table in the middle of the laboratory. There were ten tables here, and all but two of them were currently occupied by corpses. The girl Fiona was standing near one of the tables, sketching the body that lay on it. Hammersmith didn’t see Inspector Little’s body anywhere in the room. Nor did he see the dead chimney climber.
Fiona looked up from her tablet and gasped when she saw Hammersmith.
“Is it that bad?” he said.
He smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
“You look a fright,” she said. “As bad as these’uns on the tables.”
“I’m more lively than they are. Though not by much.”
Kingsley dipped a clean rag in cold water and began dabbing at Hammersmith’s face, gently around the nose. Hammersmith could feel dried crumbs of blood falling past his lips.
“Here,” Kingsley said. “Blow your nose.”
He handed Hammersmith a second rag and stood back. Hammersmith tried to squeeze his nose with the rag, but his vision went suddenly dark and pinpricks of light danced behind his eyes. He steadied himself, then held the rag against his upper lip and blew gently out through his nose. A great clot of blood and snot slid out onto the rag.
“Oh, good Lord,” he said. “That’s horrible.”
“Not even the worst thing I’ve seen this morning,” Kingsley said. “What’s this you’ve got here?”
He took the balled-up bloody rag from Hammersmith and pointed at the magazine rolled up under his arm.
“I expected to have to wait for you,” Hammersmith said. “I came prepared.”
“You read,” Kingsley said.
Hammersmith nodded.
“May I?”
Kingsley dropped the rag into a bucket under the table and held out his hand. Hammersmith gave him the magazine. Kingsley unrolled it and frowned at the cover.
“Punch?”
“It’s quite popular and I like to keep up.”
Kingsley flipped through the magazine.
“What’s this? ‘Mr Punch’s Model Music Hall Songs’?” He smirked and handed the magazine back to Hammersmith. “Amusing, I’m sure.”
Hammersmith smiled, embarrassed. “Well, there’s a variety of subjects. That’s only one snippet. But anyway I’m sure you must read more…” He stopped, at a loss for what the doctor might read.