He went to the sofa under the window, where a dozen identical buttons had been pulled loose from the upholstery and now dangled on threads. He took a button from his pocket and compared it to the others. It matched perfectly.
There could be no mistake, now that he was able to make a side-by-side comparison. The button in the trunk had come from this sofa in this flat.
And Day suddenly knew how it had happened.
“Ma’am,” Day said, “did your husband visit you on the eve of his … I mean, when did you say you saw him last?”
“Aye, it was the night afore what was done to ’im.”
“Did the baby choke then as well? In Mr Little’s presence, I mean?”
“This baby chokes damn near ever’ day.”
Day sighed.
It was clear in his mind. Little had returned home to give his wife money for the household. His infant had choked on a sofa button. Little had got it out of the baby’s mouth and absentmindedly put it in his pocket. He had carried the button with him to his doom, but it had nothing to do with the murder and could lead the detectives nowhere.
Day put the button back in his pocket and then, on impulse, reached out and plucked the remaining loose buttons from the sofa.
“’Ere now, what’s this?”
“I need these as evidence.”
“Evidence? What’s my couch got to do wiff anythin’?”
“It’s hard to say now, but these may come in handy.”
Little’s widow sniffed and cast her eye on the mangled sofa. “Don’t look no worser now, I s’pose.”
Day pocketed the handful of buttons.
“I see there have been some improvements made since I was here this morning.”
“The money yer one-armed gennaman gave. Got me thinkin’ ’bout things might be done round the place now we have that pinchin comin’ in.”
“Sir Edward is a good man.”
“Is he married, though?” The widow winked at Day and he winced.
“He is.”
“Shame that.”
“I’m sure it is,” Day said. It seemed too soon after her husband’s murder for Mrs Little to make the joke, but he realized she was trying to cope and to connect in whatever way she could. Without her husband, and with few obvious prospects, she would be marginalized now and forgotten. “I’ll take my leave now.”
“Welcome to stay. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“Thank you, but no. My associate is waiting for me downstairs.”
“Bring ’im up.”
“I’m afraid we’ve more visits to make today. Still on duty.”
He tipped his hat to her and reached for the doorknob, but Gregory reached it first and swung the door open for him. Day smiled at the boy.
“You’re a good boy, Gregory. You’re very helpful to your mother.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“When you’re older, in another year or two perhaps, come by the Yard. We employ runners there, and I would be more than happy to put in a word for you with the sergeant.”
“Thank you, sir. I will.”
“Good day.”
He nodded again at Mrs Little and slipped into the dark hallway. The staircase seemed shorter going down than it had been going up, but when he opened the outside door the sudden light hurt his eyes.
“There he is,” Blacker said.
“Have you enjoyed your fresh air?” Day said.
“Like nothing else. Did you find what you came here for?”
“Yes,” Day said. “And I’m afraid we’ve been chasing at least one false clue.”
He pulled the handful of smooth beige buttons from his pocket and tossed them in the street. One of them had been found with Little’s body, but it hardly mattered anymore.
“The button’s useless,” he said.
Blacker looked at the scattering of buttons in the road and then up at the window above them. He nodded, and Day could see that he’d put it together.
“So that lets out upholsterers as suspects, doesn’t it?” Blacker said.
“I think so.”
“Which only leaves everyone else in London.”
“True, I suppose, but I feel this is progress just the same, even if it’s not awfully encouraging.”
“Leaving aside the button, then, we’ve still got needle, thread, and shears. I still want to talk to a tailor. That feels promising to me.”
“Right. What’s the name of the one we use? Kett mentioned him.”
“Cinderhouse?”
“That’s him. He might narrow it down for us, rather than running all over the city to every tailor with a shingle in the street.”
“Should we visit his shop, you think, or send for him?”
“Might pass him on his way back to the Yard.”
“Let’s go back. We have the dancing man waiting for us.”
“Good.”
Day took a last look at Little’s building and followed Blacker across the street. One piece of evidence had been a dead end, but Day still felt he’d done some good. There were no sofa buttons left in the Little home, and so Little’s youngest child might breathe more easily now. And perhaps live a bit longer.
46
The storage closet was an approximate three-meter cube. Blacker had dragged three chairs into the room, and they filled it so that there was barely enough space to sit in the chairs without touching one another’s knees. He lit a tallow candle and set it on a shallow ledge that ran about the walls of the room at wainscoting height. Blacker steered the dancing man toward one of the chairs and Day set the bindle of rubbish at his feet. Day sat in the chair across from the dancing man and Blacker stood behind him. The dancing man sat quietly, hardly moving, seemingly stifled by the close walls. The detectives took a long moment to light their pipes. The smell of tobacco smoke was infinitely preferable to body odor. Day was mildly amused to see that Blacker smoked a huge calabash that dwarfed his narrow face, but he hid his smile behind his hand as he lit his own much smaller pipe. When both pipes were going, Day glanced at Blacker, who nodded, then began.
“What’s your name, sir?” he said.
“Let me out.”
“We will,” Day said. “But we need to ask you some questions first.”
“Can’t dance here. Can’t dance. Too tight, too close, no room.”
“Let us help you get back out there so you can dance again. Just tell me your name.”
“Can’t dance. Broken legs. Table’s too short.”
The dancing man began to rock back and forth on his chair, hugging himself. Day looked up at Blacker, who gestured for Day to step outside.
“We’ll be right back,” Day said. He rose and left the room with Blacker.
“Shall we send him to the workhouse or to the asylum?” Blacker said.
“I’d like to let him get back to his life. He’s not causing any harm out there.”
Life seemed to turn and change on a whim, and while Day didn’t imagine he could sink as low in life as the dancing man had, he still worried that this might be his own future if he failed as a detective. What had caused the dancing man to slide into invisibility? How did one prevent it? Where were the police when the dancing man had needed them?
“You know as well as I that he didn’t kill Little,” Day said. “All he wants to do is dance with a broomstick. We need to know what he saw, but I don’t see a need to frighten him.”
“Frightening him may get him to tell us what we need to know. Assuming we can get him to say anything that makes sense.”
“The more emotional he gets, the more removed he’ll be from reality.”
“He’s already too removed. Whatever information he might have for us is already jumbled up with a lot of nonsense. There’s no way I can see to make him useful.”
There was a thumping noise behind the detectives as the gate at the railing slammed shut, then:
“Perhaps I can help with that.”
Dr Bernard Kingsley stood in the middle of the Murder Squad room, surveying the desks. Jimmy Tiffany looked up and saw Kingsley. He stood and grabbed his jacket from a hook, then exited through the gate behind Kingsley and disappeared down the back hall.