The brain went into a small basin, a damp cloth to cover it. Kingsley filled Thomas’s empty brainpan with cotton and set the skullcap back in place with a bead of thick glue. He maneuvered the corpse’s skin back up over the top of the head and down. It was a tight fit. He smoothed it over the skull, popping the teardrop of cartilage back in place over the nose. He stitched the skin shut at Thomas’s throat using one of the upholsterer’s thick curved needles and made a mental note to order more of the needles for the lab. They were ideally suited for this type of work. When the flesh was joined again, he moved his expert fingers over the corpse’s face, pushing here, pressing there, realigning the features so that the dead man looked like himself once more.
“See there,” he said. “Good as new. No one need ever know you haven’t a brain in your head.”
He smiled.
The door of the laboratory opened again, barely a crack, and Fiona’s soft voice floated in.
“Tea’s ready, Father.”
“I’ll be there directly.”
The door closed again with a sigh and a click.
Kingsley rinsed his bloody hands in a bowl of water, wiped them on a clean towel, and left the room. Before he closed the door, he looked back at the dead man. Kingsley followed Thomas’s empty gaze to the laboratory’s ceiling.
“I hope it’s all worth it,” he said.
He closed the door, leaving Thomas to sort it out for himself.
37
Mr Pringle was smaller than Inspector Little had been, and he fit more naturally inside a steamer trunk. Cinderhouse, the bald man, had only two trunks left in his possession, and one of them was a hat trunk, cube-shaped and half the size of his only remaining steamer. Pringle wasn’t that small.
Cinderhouse locked the shop door and took Fenn home. He bolted the boy in a downstairs closet with a sandwich and a jug of water and then returned to the shop. He took a hatchet with him.
Pringle’s arms were separated from his torso. This was easily accomplished, but there was a suspenseful moment when Cinderhouse’s foot slipped from where it anchored Pringle’s weight and the body rolled to one side. The bald man almost lost a toe.
But without arms, Pringle was easier to pick up and maneuver into the trunk. Inspector Little had been a nightmare. The tailor liked to think that he learned from his mistakes. He had given more thought to the disposal of this second body.
Pringle’s legs were folded up against his body and tied there with a length of stout twine. The arms were thrown in on top of the rest of the mess and the trunk closed over it all, removing it from sight and memory.
Cinderhouse wrapped the bloody shears in a length of black crepe and put them in his pocket. He would dispose of them later, anywhere so long as they were far away from the scene of the crime.
He mopped the floor and scrubbed it with an ammonia solution until it glowed.
The coachman was summoned, and for a shilling, he helped Cinderhouse lift Pringle’s trunk up into the hansom. The tailor climbed onto the board next to the coachman and with a snap of the whip and a “Haw!” the three of them set out toward the train station.
38
I hope you don’t mind my saying so … Your shirt is ridiculous.”
Hammersmith took the cup from Penelope Shaw and smiled. “It’s not mine.”
“Of course it isn’t yours. It doesn’t fit you.”
“A friend was kind enough to lend me his shirt. Mine was ruined.”
“How was it ruined?”
“I spilled something on it.”
“Spilled something?”
“Blood.”
“Oh, my.”
Penelope took a step back and reached for the wall behind her. Hammersmith rose from the chair and reached out toward her, but she waved him away.
“You didn’t say what happened to you. You killed someone, did you?”
“It was my own blood. I apologize for troubling you.”
“You haven’t troubled me in the least. I lost my balance for a bare instant, that’s all.”
Hammersmith took a sip of tea and scalded his tongue. He set the cup on the side table.
“Have you ever killed anyone?” Penelope said.
“No, of course not.”
“I’m sorry, I just thought perhaps … So many villains out there.”
“Perhaps fewer than you might think.”
“Well, it’s clear that someone’s been acting up.”
She gestured at Hammersmith’s shirt, then his damaged face, taking in the entire tableau with an up-and-down movement of her wrist.
“Again, only an accident. A misunderstanding.”
“Well, I hope you gave as good as you got.”
Hammersmith smiled. “I believe God will eventually even the scales in this particular case.”
“If that’s so, then why do we need policemen at all, Mr Hammersmith? Why don’t we all simply wait for…” She waved her hand again, this time taking in all of time and space.
“Because no man should send another to his death. It’s not for us to decide. Police maintain the natural order of things.”
“Do you?”
“I try to.” He shrugged and picked up the cup. The tea had cooled a bit now and he took a swallow. There was none of the bitter tang of copper that he was used to.
“You’re about my husband’s size. I’ll fetch you a fresh shirt, at least.”
“No need for that.”
“It would make my time spent with you more pleasant if I weren’t constantly reminded of violence and death and your ‘natural order.’”
Hammersmith narrowed his eyes. “Where is your boy?”
“He’s with his governess. They’re at the park.”
“You don’t accompany them?”
“I waited here in case you chose to visit.”
“Why did you think I would?”
“I didn’t think that you would. But I had hope.”
She stood and left the room. She paused under the arch and turned toward him for a moment.
“I’ll be back with that shirt.”
39
What’s he doing here?”
“He’s harmless enough,” Day said.
“Let me dance for you,” the dancing man said.
He began to gyrate, waving his broom handle in the air between them, a talisman of something only he understood. A streamer of black crepe fluttered at his throat.
“Somebody should’ve moved him along weeks ago,” Blacker said. “He belongs in the nuthouse. Or at least the workhouse.”
“No,” the dancing man said.
The dancing stopped. He dropped the broom handle and reached into the folds of his clothing. He drew out the knife that Day had seen the night before.
Day took a step back, but Blacker moved forward. The dancing man feinted with the knife and Blacker jumped back, then forward, rocking on his toes. He grabbed the other man’s arm and twisted. The dancing man made no sound, but Day watched as his expression changed from anger to confusion. Day reached out toward Blacker, but the older detective had already disarmed the dancing man in two swift movements and knocked him to his back on the cobblestones.
“Stay there,” Blacker said.
“What made him do that?” Day said. “I’ve mentioned the workhouse to him before without any threat of violence.”
“Look at him. You think he ever makes any sense?”
Day didn’t answer. He leaned down and helped the dancing man to his feet. He held the dancing man’s elbow tight and steered him toward the back door of number four.
Blacker picked up the knife. He held it out to Day, then pulled it back and looked at it more closely, letting sunlight play over the silvery surface.
“This is made of wood. It’s only painted wood.”
“Surely not.”
“You think I don’t know wood when I see it?”
“It’s not a real knife?”