He coughed again. And again. And then his body shook with convulsions as he barked and hacked, pitching forward and rocking back. Tiffany jumped out of the way as a thick clot of gore spewed from Frank Mayhew’s mouth. Blood, black as tar, spattered the floor. Hammersmith and Blacker rushed from the other side of the room, but Tiffany held them back, giving Mayhew room. Constables and sergeants queued up on the other side of the rail and watched Mayhew work, coughing his life up and out.
Finally Frank Mayhew straightened. He stood quietly with his back to the detectives and took the handkerchief from his pocket again. He wiped his lips.
“You have consumption,” Day said.
“I do.”
“You’re dying.”
“Not too long now.”
“Let me take you to hospital.”
“So I can die there?”
“They can make you comfortable.”
“You know better’n ’at.”
Mayhew turned to face him. The front of his shirt glistened, and Day realized that what he had taken for dirt was actually layer upon layer of dried blood.
“What you said. There’s too many deservin’ of help in this city? That’s true enough. But you could maybe help just one of them that’s deservin’ and that’s somethin’ and that’s true enough, too.”
Day was quiet.
“I can’t look after my brother no more. And I know you can’t, neither. But you can maybe get ’im outta that place and give ’im a fightin’ chance on the street where he can breathe some air and do a dance again. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with a little dancin’, Mr Police, sir.”
Mayhew nodded at him, sniffed, and turned. He walked away through the gate, and the uniformed men on the other side of the railing moved to let him pass. Mayhew disappeared down the back hallway. He would, Day knew, be swallowed up by the city and he would die in an alley or under a building somewhere within the week.
“Well, this is quite a mess,” Tiffany said.
“It is.”
“We’ll get someone to clean it.”
“Thank you.”
“Day?”
“Yes?”
“If you try to handle more than you can, you’ll drive yourself mad. My advice to you is to concentrate on the job. Anything else will only get in the way of that.”
Day nodded, but said nothing. After a moment, Tiffany clapped him on the shoulder and went to open the gate for a boy who was lugging a bucket of suds and a mop. Day stepped back and let the boy get to work scrubbing the floor.
“What now, old man?” Blacker said.
“I believe I’ll let you and Mr Hammersmith handle the interview with Penelope Shaw by yourselves, if you don’t mind.”
“What Tiffany said just now-”
“No. He’s right, of course, but that’s not the way I’m made.”
“So you’re headed round the workhouse, then?”
“Of course I am. I’ll check in on the tailor first. It’s on the way.”
“Sir Edward wants us to stay together.”
“This isn’t precisely in the line of duty. We can’t lose valuable time on the case while I run a fool’s errand. I’ll catch up to you at the Shaw house as soon as I’m able.”
“With any luck we’ll see you there soon.”
78
Our Mr Day has taken the last wagon.”
“Considerate of him.”
“Fancy a walk?”
“That’s a long walk.”
“Aye.” Inspector Blacker sighed and looked at the sky. “More rain today, I think.”
“Even better news.”
“Aye.”
“I’ve forgotten my hat,” Hammersmith said. “Wait for me?”
“Of course.”
Blacker watched Hammersmith duck past a pair of bobbies and disappear through the back door of 4 Whitehall Place. When Blacker turned around, a black hansom was pulling up to the curb.
“Well, that’s a stroke of luck,” Blacker said.
The two bobbies looked at him expectantly and he waved them on.
“Talking to myself,” he said. “It’ll be the nuthouse for me next.”
They smiled and nodded and moved down the sidewalk as the hansom’s coachman alighted and reached into the cab for something. He emerged with a short stack of books and approached Blacker.
“Pardon me, sir,” the coachman said. “I’m to deliver these to an Inspector Day.”
“I’m afraid you’ve just missed him,” Blacker said. “What have you got?”
“Catalogues from Mr Cinderhouse.”
“The man’s name pops up at every turn. Tell you what: Take those in to Sergeant Kett. He’ll be right inside there. Tell him that Inspector Day needs them left on his desk and he’ll take care of you.”
“I’ll need a receipt of some sort.”
“Kett’s your man.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“I say, when you’ve done with that, I don’t suppose you’re up for giving me a ride?”
“A ride, sir?”
“It’s a short distance. Can your employer spare you the few minutes?”
“I’m sure he’d be happy if I was of service to you.”
“Excellent. Hurry yourself, then. Remember, Sergeant Kett’s the fellow you’re looking for.”
The coachman tipped his hat and carried the stack of catalogues into the Yard, passing Hammersmith, who emerged from number four with his hat in his hands. Hammersmith scowled at the sky. Heavy clouds were rolling in, the color and texture of boiled spinach.
“I’m too tired to be wet today,” he said.
“There’s good news in that department, old man. I’ve arranged a ride for us in this shiny beast of a cab.”
“That is good news. I don’t believe I’d have made it halfway there on foot.”
“Then hop in and we’ll be talking to this Shaw woman in mere moments.”
Hammersmith climbed into the cab and shut the door behind him. Blacker stood on the curb until the coachman came back out.
“Did the sergeant fix you up, then?”
“He did. Thank you, sir.”
“Then we’re off.”
“My pleasure. Where to, sir?”
“Here.”
Blacker wrote the address in pencil on the back of a calling card. He handed it to the coachman, who squinted at it.
“It’s not far,” Blacker said.
“Not at all. No trouble, sir.”
“Good man.”
Blacker clapped the coachman on the shoulder and clambered into the cab. He felt the hansom shift as the coachman settled into position above. There was the sound of reins snapping and the cab lurched into motion.
Blacker looked over at Hammersmith. The constable had pulled his hat down over his eyes and was snoring softly. Blacker smiled and pulled the curtains closed over the windows. In the darkness he leaned his shoulder against the wall of the cab and shut his eyes. Within moments, the gentle rocking of the hansom had lulled him to sleep as well.
79
Sergeant Kett was so buried in his paperwork that he didn’t notice when the postman rapped twice on the doorjamb. The mail sat in its box for more than an hour before Kett’s internal clock reminded him that the post was overdue.
He fetched the mail to his desk and looked through it, quickly sorting it into piles for the runners to deliver about the building. He always looked through the messages to the Murder Squad room himself, though, to be sure there wasn’t anything that might disturb his detectives. The Ripper fiasco had led to a fair amount of hate mail and even, once, a letter bomb.
There was an envelope addressed to Inspector Day. No return address. Kett slit it open. Inside was a lady’s handkerchief and a note. The handkerchief had the initials CC embroidered on one corner. Kett opened the note. It said:
Inspektor Day, you no who this belongs to amp; I can get at her agin. Stop what your duing and declare it insolvible or the wurst will hapinn.
The note wasn’t signed.
Kett read it again. It was nonsense, clearly meant as a threat, but so vague as to be pointless. Just one more crazy Londoner.
He tossed the envelope, note, and handkerchief in the rubbish can next to his desk. His duty was to serve and protect the detectives who in turn served and protected the great city. Inspector Day didn’t need to be heckled by anonymous citizens.