“I don’t mean to seem rude, but it rather smells as though someone’s died in here,” the man said.
“What can I do for you, Mr Cinderhouse?” Kett said.
He realized that he’d become used to the lingering odor of the dancing man, who was in the back room and out of sight, but who nonetheless seemed to be exerting some influence over the atmosphere.
“I’ve an errand here,” the man said. “Two errands, actually. I’d like to speak to Inspector Day.”
“You’ve brought Inspector Day a change of clothing?” Kett said.
“What? Oh, the trousers. No, these are for Constable Pringle.”
“I’m not sure where Pringle is at the moment.”
“He was supposed to pick them up from me, but hasn’t been by the shop. So I thought I’d kill two birds, as it were, by fetching them round here and seeing the detective at the same time.”
“How kind of you. I’ll get Mr Pringle’s clothes to him.”
Kett stood and held out his hand.
“Oh,” Cinderhouse said. “Of course.”
He started to hand over the trousers, but then pulled them back.
“I’m dreadfully sorry, but I really did have my heart set on meeting Mr Day. I’ve heard so many good things about him, and if I don’t take the initiative, I may never have a chance to congratulate him on his recent promotion.”
“I’ll let him know you inquired.”
“Is it true he’s working to solve Inspector Little’s murder?”
“He is.”
Cinderhouse leaned forward over the desk, Pringle’s trousers dangling just out of Kett’s reach.
“Any progress?” the tailor said.
“I rather think they’re close,” Kett said. “They have the murder weapon now.”
“Do they? What is it?”
“A pair of shears.”
Pringle’s trousers dropped from the tailor’s hand.
44
The sound of wood clattering on wood snapped Cinderhouse awake as if from a trance, and he ducked to retrieve the fallen hanger. He felt around under the desk for it, his face hidden from the sergeant for a precious minute or two.
They had the shears. How did they have the shears? And so quickly?
It hadn’t been more than a few hours since Cinderhouse had thrown them from the window of the hansom into the road. He’d expected the shears to be swept up by early morning street sweepers, along with the previous day’s horse-shit. Or perhaps found by some vagrant and whisked away into the bowels of London’s tenements.
And yet, here they were, almost immediately at Scotland Yard, in the custody of the new detective.
Was the man that good? Was Detective Walter Day the enemy he had always feared might come for him?
At least they didn’t seem to know that Pringle was dead.
His fingers closed around the hanger. He composed his expression, stood up, and draped the trousers over the hanger, giving himself a moment before turning his attention back to the sergeant.
“Are you quite all right?” Kett said.
“Yes, of course. Please forgive me. I’m just so fascinated by detective work that I get too excited sometimes.”
“Quite all right.”
“The shears … Are you sure they’re the murder weapon?”
“You’d have to ask the detectives that.”
“Of course, of course. I only bring it up because I’m so used to working with shears myself. You might call me an expert. I’d be happy to look them over and lend the detective my opinion, if you think it would do any good.” He smiled, hoping that the smile looked genuine.
Kett looked over his shoulder at the entrance to the big hall and the tiny, fenced-off domain of the Murder Squad.
“I don’t think-”
“I’m not a policeman myself, of course,” Cinderhouse said, “but my close association with the force puts me in a unique position, don’t you think?”
“I’ll leave a message with the detective and have him get back to you.”
“I really think I can help,” Cinderhouse said.
He stepped around Kett and walked down the short hall. He ignored the large area to his right and went straight to the low railing that surrounded twelve cluttered desks in a corner of the big open space. He started to open the gate in the rail but was stopped short by Sergeant Kett’s hand on his arm.
“Here now,” Kett said. “I’d hate to do anything nasty when we’ve been so cordial up to this point.”
Cinderhouse put his hands up and smiled again. “I don’t mean any harm,” he said. “It’s the thrill of being able to help these fine gentlemen. You understand. Surely you understand.”
“And I hope you understand that I can’t let every citizen off the street in here to muck with evidence in a murder case.”
“I’m hardly a citizen. You might even call me an auxiliary policeman, since I clothe you all. At least I like to think of myself as such, and I’m awfully proud to be of service to you fine gentlemen. Why, I’m practically one of you.”
“Practically ain’t reality.”
Cinderhouse nodded. He made a calming motion with one hand to let Kett know that he wasn’t dangerous, wasn’t going to do anything hasty. He could see the shears sitting out on a desk in there, almost within reach. The only evidence that connected him to the crime and it was right there, and if he didn’t do something to get those shears, then didn’t he deserve whatever fate the detectives had in store for him?
“Are those the shears?” he said.
Kett shrugged.
Cinderhouse peered at the scissors over the top of the rail. They were his own. He was sure of it. There was a nick in one blade where he’d run up against a snap in a sailcloth jacket. He could see it from here. There were chips flaked off the glossy black handles from long use, one crack in the paint that he’d always thought resembled the shape of Italy. And there was Colin Pringle’s blood, caked in the crevices where the blades met the handle and where the rivet swiveled the shears open and shut. The blood was still so fresh that it gleamed red in the lamplight.
“Hmm,” he said. “I suppose they might be of the same sort I use at the shop. A little different, of course.”
“I’m sure.”
“Tell me, how did Inspector Day come by them?”
“In the course of his investigation.”
“Well, yes, but I mean … how?”
Kett clucked his tongue and scowled.
“Official business of the Yard. If there’s nothing else-”
“I have an idea.”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you let me take these with me back to the shop? Then I can compare them to my own shears-I have several pair-and to those in the catalogues I keep. I may be able to match them exactly.”
“I’ve been patient with you,” Kett said.
“Forgive me. Only trying to be of help. And, as I said, I’m practically one of you.”