He gestured to a fat detective, who raised a hand in greeting without turning around.
“Thank you. No, I came to report a suspicious man.”
“That’d be for one of the others to hear about,” Jones said. “Inspector Tiffany and the other Murder Squad detectives isn’t to deal with nothin’ but murders. Instructions from the commissioner hisself.”
“It’s all right,” Tiffany said. “I can hear the lady, Constable.”
“Sir Edward won’t like it none.”
Tiffany smirked. “I suppose he won’t, will he?”
Jones shrugged. “Then it’s you who’ll get an earful from ’im. I done my duty. Mrs Day, it’s a real pleasure to meet you.”
Jones hurried away in the direction of his temporary post in the back hall.
Tiffany gestured for Claire to follow him through the gate and into the squad room. He pulled a chair over from another desk for her to sit and took his own seat across from her.
“Have you a disagreement with Sir Edward?” Claire said.
“I preferred Commissioner Warren,” Tiffany said. “He let us do our jobs and kept his nose out of it.”
“I see.”
“But that’s hardly your concern, is it, Mrs Day? Let’s hear about your suspicious character.”
He picked up a pen from his desk and toyed with it, as if prepared to write down what she said, but he leaned back in his chair, away from his desk. She could see that, despite his pretense, he had no intention of writing anything down or pursuing anything she might have to say to him. She was nothing but a diversion for him.
Still, she needed to tell someone.
“I had a man come round the house earlier today,” she said. “He presented himself as a detective and told me that he worked closely with Walter. But Mr Jones has just confirmed for me that there is no such person here at the Yard. I’m worried that Walter may be in some danger from this man.”
“It sounds to me as if you’re the one in danger.”
“He didn’t threaten me or make any move toward me at all. In fact, he acted the perfect gentleman.”
Tiffany sat back in his chair and tossed the pen on his desk. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about, have you? I suspect you’ve just let nerves get to you. Happens to women all the time. Go home, have a rest, and you’ll be right again in no time.”
“But what could his purpose have been? He seemed to want information from me regarding one of Walter’s cases.”
“And did you give him information?”
“Well, no, of course not. I don’t even know about Walter’s cases.”
“Good. This sort of work isn’t anything a woman need trouble herself with. Your husband’s done the right thing by keeping you well out of his business.”
Claire wasn’t sure she wanted Inspector Tiffany to approve of her husband. Walter and Tiffany were different men entirely, and Claire was glad of it.
“Are you married, Mr Tiffany?”
“I hardly see how-”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Thank you, Mrs Day. I believe we’re done here.”
“One more thing, please. That pen you’re using is one of Walter’s, isn’t it?”
“Why, yes, I think it is.”
“I know because I gave it to him. I suppose he shared it with you?”
“Mine wasn’t working.”
“That’s right. Thank you, Mr Tiffany. I’ll show myself out.”
She stood and left by the back hall, stopping just long enough to thank the kind constable for his time and trouble. Claire resolved to tell Walter about her strange visitor as soon as she saw him. He would listen to her. He had always listened to her.
The world was full of men like James Tiffany. There was only one Walter Day.
62
Somewhere in the dark house, Saucy Jack called out to him.
“I won’t hurt you,” Jack said. “Come out and watch me play.”
Hammersmith remained quiet. He was in a drawing room with no lamps, but he could see dust motes floating through the air around him, backlit by the blue light of a picture window. The furniture was covered with white sheets, but the sheets were stained brown and red, spattered with the blood of Jack’s victims, who lounged about, blocking Hammersmith’s exit.
There was Annie Chapman, sitting on a Prince of Wales chair, her uterus in her lap. She smiled at Hammersmith. Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes were together, leaning against the empty fireplace, talking in hushed tones. Stride raised a hand in greeting and her throat opened with the effort, fresh blood pouring out and over the front of her party dress. Mary Kelly relaxed on the daybed. Her heart beat slowly next to her. Mary Ann Nichols stood at the window, and Hammersmith noticed for the first time that it was snowing outside the room. Mary held a finger to her lips, hushing him, and Hammersmith realized the snowflakes were actually grey ash drifting past the window.
The Ripper had been busy. Saucy Jack had not stopped with those five women. Or started with them. Jack was London itself and London had always been a killer.
Eight-year-old Johnny Gill played with a tin train set beside the divan. He grinned at Hammersmith and a thin smear of blood slid across his teeth. The train continued round its track and Johnny’s attention returned to it. Elizabeth Jackson sat by Johnny, brushing her hair, one hundred strokes before bed every night. She turned her decapitated head this way and that in her lap, blindly moving the brush, her shy face tucked away in the crook of an elbow.
The drawing room door was closed and the key was in the lock. Hammersmith could see it from where he stood. The key moved as someone worked the handle. Then a great fist struck the door and Jack’s voice echoed through the hall outside.
“You’re too small, Nevil,” Jack said. “I’m everywhere and I always find my little boys and girls. You can’t hide from me.”
Hammersmith looked down at his body and saw that he was a child again. He was almost five, and he was still smaller than most four-year-olds.
Elizabeth Jackson picked up her head and stood. Her face peered out from under her arm and a single eye focused on Nevil. It winked.
Nevil grabbed the white sheet from the divan and threw it over his head. Under the sheet, the air was thick and the darkness was complete and Nevil felt safe. If the door broke down and the Ripper came in, he would tramp right past the sheet-clad boy and he would never ever find him. Jack would only see another ghost.
He was blind, but he could still hear as, across the room, the key fell out of the lock and clattered to the floor. Hinges creaked as the door opened and deliberate footsteps thumped across the floorboards and over the rug and stopped in front of the police boy under the cloth.
Jack’s lips pressed against the other side of the sheet, and Nevil felt the Ripper’s breath, hot and moist against his cheek. A kiss.
“Thank you, Nevil,” Jack said. “I couldn’t do any of it without you.”
The lips drew away and Nevil heard the Ripper’s footsteps retreat, and the room must have grown because the footsteps went on and on.
Nevil closed his eyes-there was no change in the quality of darkness-and he wished that the footsteps would stop, that Jack would reach the door and leave, but the sound of the killer continued, pounding against the floor, pounding.
He awoke in a sweat, his bedsheet tangled about his throat. His room was nearly as dark as the dream had been. He could still hear the distant pounding.
“Hammersmith,” someone said.
The voice was faint, coming through the hall door. Someone was out there knocking.
“Are you in there? Answer the door, man, or I’ll break it down.”
Hammersmith sat up and stumbled out of his bedroom to the front door. He threw the latch and opened the door and Sergeant Kett blinked at him, his arm raised to knock again. Hammersmith’s landlady, Mrs Flanders, was behind the sergeant. Beside her, Inspectors Day and Blacker stood with their hats in their hands.
“I couldn’t find the key, Mr Hammersmith,” Mrs Flanders said. “I’ve told you not to lock the door.”