To his surprise, Sir Edward nodded.
“If Tiffany decided not to pursue the matter, then it’s not the business of the Yard to investigate the case. Anything you do, you’ll do on your own time. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Hammersmith was amazed. Sir Edward was giving him tacit permission to go after the boy’s killer, while at the same time disavowing official responsibility.
“While you’re on your shift, you will confine your duties to those assigned you by Sergeant Kett.”
“Of course, sir.”
“And don’t pay any more visits to Charles Shaw. He’s not someone I care to see again before I’ve had my morning tea.”
Hammersmith almost smiled, but kept a straight face.
“You’re dismissed, Constable.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He rose and bowed slightly before turning to the door. Sir Edward cleared his throat as Hammersmith touched the doorknob.
“Hammersmith.”
“Sir?”
“Get yourself a new shirt. That one’s much too small for you.”
34
Something touched Colin Pringle’s leg. He woke confused and it took him several moments to figure out where he was. The tailor’s shop was dim and cold. A shy clique of dressmaker’s dummies, draped with dark fabric samples, huddled against the opposite wall. Pringle felt movement against his leg again and he jerked forward, alarmed. He looked down at the floor.
A fluffy white cat rubbed against him and then sat back, waiting to be stroked. Pringle sneezed. He wondered why a tailor would keep a long-haired cat. He imagined it would shed all over the suits and dresses created here. But Pringle had never noticed white hairs on his own suits, so the tailor must have brushed them well before giving them over. Pringle pushed the cat out of the way with his foot and stood up, stretching. The cat returned, purring, and he sidestepped it.
He looked around for a clock, but couldn’t see one. He didn’t think he’d been asleep long, but he decided he couldn’t wait any longer. He was late and Sergeant Kett was sure to reprimand him. Pringle was searching the table in the middle of the room for a piece of paper and pencil so he could leave a note when he heard carriage wheels roll to a stop outside.
A deep voice said something that Pringle couldn’t make out and footsteps approached the shop across the hard-packed dirt sidewalk. Pringle suddenly realized the tailor would think he was trespassing. He looked around, but he didn’t know what he was looking for. He hadn’t really done anything wrong. And he was a police officer, after all.
The door opened a couple of inches as if someone was testing it, and the deep voice he’d heard a moment before said, “Damn it, unlocked.” Pringle sat back down in the chair so as not to present a threat. He didn’t want to frighten anyone.
The tailor opened the door wider and stuck his head inside, looking around, but apparently didn’t see Pringle in the shadows. The door closed again and Pringle heard the bolt turn. He was being locked in!
Pringle ran to the big plate-glass window by the door and pounded on it. He could see the tailor getting into a hansom cab at the curb. There was someone else in the cab. The tailor stopped and turned his head, listening. Pringle slapped his open hand against the glass and the tailor turned to look directly at him. He squinted at Pringle and drew back, alarmed. Pringle smiled and spread his hands out at his sides. He shrugged.
The tailor jumped back out of the cab, reaching into his pocket. He produced a large iron key and approached the door again. The bolt turned and Pringle pulled the door open from inside.
“What’s going on here?” the tailor said.
“I’m so sorry, Mr Cinderhouse. I came in here looking for you and I suppose I fell asleep.”
“Looking for me? Why?”
“You were working on a new uniform for me. Surely you remember.”
“Oh, of course, Constable Pringle. I apologize. I had a … a family emergency this morning and wasn’t able to open the shop. Is there any way I can ask you to return tomorrow? Or even later this afternoon?”
“Well, you can see the state of my current uniform.”
“Yes. Unfortunately I’m just on my way somewhere and couldn’t possibly-”
“Then perhaps just a quick steam and press?”
“But I…” The tailor sighed. “Very well, sir. Give me a moment, would you?”
Pringle smiled and Cinderhouse went outside. He spoke to the driver of the cab and handed him a coin. The driver nodded. Pringle moved to the open door and leaned against the jamb, waiting. A small boy emerged from the darkness of the cab and looked at Pringle. The boy was dirty and half-naked, like some wild animal, and his face was red, as if he’d been crying. But when he spotted Pringle his eyes swept up and down the constable’s uniform and his expression changed. He opened his mouth wide as if to shout, but the tailor had turned away from the coachman and now he clamped his hand over the boy’s mouth before he could make a sound.
Pringle narrowed his eyes and moved away from the jamb. He had no idea what was going on, but there was something about the expression on the boy’s face that alarmed him.
The tailor yelped and pulled his hand away from the boy’s face. It was clear that the boy had bitten him. He shouted before Cinderhouse could get his hand over his mouth again.
“Help!”
Pringle moved toward them, but the tailor held his free hand up, smiling.
“He’s playing a game with you, Constable. My son’s a mischievous child.”
“Let me talk to him directly, please.”
“Of course, of course. But let’s go inside where we won’t draw a crowd. Someone might misunderstand.”
Pringle nodded, but he kept his eyes on the boy. He didn’t look like a mischievous child; he looked like he was in trouble.
Cinderhouse kept his hand over the boy’s mouth and reached out to pick him up with his other arm. He looked up and down the street, then yanked the boy out of the cab and bustled him past Pringle and into the store. Pringle followed. The tailor set the boy down in the same chair Pringle had slept in, then hurried back past Pringle to shut the door.
The boy leapt from the chair and ran to Pringle. He wrapped his arms around Pringle’s leg. He was small and frail and his thin pajama trousers were soaking wet.
“What’s your name, son?” Pringle said.
“Fenn, sir. Please help me.”
“Well, Fenn, what seems to be the-”
Something slammed against Pringle’s back and the impact forced the air out of him. He felt a mild burning sensation somewhere in his back, and there were little echoes of it tingling in his toes and fingers, the way an itch sometimes appears to be in several places at once. He shook his head and smiled at the boy, but Fenn was backing away, a horrified look on his face.
Pringle moved his head. He was trying to nod, but the gesture was loose, as if his head wasn’t properly attached to his body. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out, and he felt confused. His mouth was dry.
He turned around and something hit him in the chest. Again, there was a burning sensation, but it wasn’t as strong as the one in his back had been. He shut his eyes and opened them again as he was punched in the stomach. He doubled over and noticed that his shirt was completely ruined. Someone had got blood all over it.
He looked up at the tailor in time to see Cinderhouse’s hand descend again. The tailor’s hat came off as he moved into the thrust. Sunlight through the window gleamed on Cinderhouse’s bare scalp. Then there was a glint of silver as the tailor punched him in the throat, and Pringle’s legs finally went out from under him. He tried to hold up his arms to ward off another blow, but they didn’t respond and Cinderhouse’s fist fell on him again.
“I won’t let you take him from me!”
The tailor was screaming, but the ebbing tide of blood was still in Pringle’s ears and he couldn’t hear, he could only read Cinderhouse’s lips as if from a great distance. Cinderhouse, still silently screaming, dropped to his knees over Pringle and thrust down at him again and again, and Pringle noticed that the silvery thing in his hand was a pair of shears. He tried to smile at the bald man to let him know that he finally understood the situation. He was being stabbed to death. Then he frowned. It should hurt more.