But Day hadn’t found the guard’s gun, and that could mean the messenger had it now. The danger had doubled.
The bloody trail ended at the entrance to one of the small rooms. Day kept to one side and reached slowly into the room. He set his lantern on the floor and put both hands on his gun. He ducked into the room and swept the gun back and forth. It was empty. Something silvery glinted in the lamplight. Day moved some straw aside on the right-hand berth and found a pair of bloody shears. He wrapped them in his handkerchief and stuck them in his back pocket. Like the other rooms, there was a door on this side and another on the far wall, leading to yet another hallway. Day picked his lantern up and crept past the parallel berths to the second door. He crouched against the wall and peered out into the hall.
There was a sound behind him and he turned in time to glimpse the swirl of a dark cloak as a man leapt out from under the straw that covered the other berth. The guard’s gun went off and Day ducked. The lantern shattered. Day was already moving as he heard the crack of the shot and the tinkle of glass. He leapt forward, but the killer was gone.
Day rushed into the hall he’d come from. Up ahead, he could hear the clatter of shoes against the rough wood of the floor. There was a muffled cry and a thump. Day hurried forward and tripped when he came to a staircase that led into more darkness. At a landing halfway up he found a guard, slumped unconscious, his head sagging off a riser. Day checked and found a faint pulse. He adjusted the guard’s head, hoping to make him more comfortable, and moved carefully up the stairs, sliding his back against the wall, his gun ready at his side.
At the top of the stairs was a closed door. Day reached out and slowly turned the knob. When he heard the latch disengage, he flung the door open and threw himself through the doorway onto the floor.
The room Day found himself in was lit by dozens of candles on every side and an open window on the far wall. Outside, the day was grey and rain pattered against the windowsill. Curtains stirred softly and a cool mist wafted in on the breeze.
He was in the upstairs ward for women and children. The guard on the stairs had no doubt been put there to keep the men below from paying unwelcome visits. Mothers were backed up in a semicircle, hiding their little ones behind their skirts. Day looked the room over quickly, his weapon at the ready. There were beds set up in rows along the walls, plain straw mattresses, but nicer than the men’s barracks downstairs. Day dropped to one knee and glanced along the floor under the rows. Nobody hiding under a bed.
“A man,” he said. “Was a man here?”
One of the women, her eyes wide with fear, pointed to the open window and nodded.
He stood and went to the window and looked out. Inside the workhouse, he had nearly forgotten that it was still daytime. Beneath him, a wet stone path ended at a dark line of trees only a few paces from this side of the building. There was no sign of the killer. Day cursed himself silently and slipped the Colt back into his pocket.
Three men, one of them carrying another, came into sight below. The smallest of the men was carrying a black bag. He stepped out onto the path and looked around, then up. He saw Day peering over the sill and smiled.
“Detective,” he said.
“Dr Kingsley.”
The big man looked up now, revealing himself to be Henry Mayhew. The dancing man grinned and nodded. Day halfheartedly nodded back. The third man looked familiar, but Day couldn’t place him until he noticed the stained bandages around his arm. It was the fellow who had tried to stop the killer and had been stabbed for his trouble.
“Did you catch him?” Kingsley said. He was shouting. “The madman with the shears? Did you catch him?”
“He seems to have gone out this window just moments ago. I’m afraid he’s long gone by now.”
Day pointed at the trees and Kingsley turned to look.
“Well,” Kingsley said, “if he dropped from that window, he may well have hurt himself.”
“Still, he’s too far away by now.”
“Maybe you can catch him when he comes back,” Henry said.
“Why would he come back? He’s got clean away.”
“But he left his hat. Maybe he’ll come back for it.”
Henry set the injured man down against the side of the building so that Day could no longer see anything of him but his legs. Henry stooped and reached for something there out of Day’s line of sight. He held up the tall black hat Day had seen the killer wearing.
“Without this,” Henry said, “the rain will make him extra wet.”
“Why is that, Henry?”
“Because he’s bald. Didn’t you know?”
95
But why come to the Yard looking for you?” Kingsley said. “Why follow you to Hobgate?”
“I don’t know,” Day said. “Perhaps he was checking on my progress, worried that we might break the case and catch him.”
“Or perhaps you were his next intended victim.”
Day nodded, but didn’t say anything. The thought had occurred to him and he preferred not to dwell on it.
“I nearly forgot,” Day said. “I found these in one of the rooms.”
He produced his handkerchief and unwrapped the pair of shears from the workhouse.
“They appear to be an identical match to the first pair,” Kingsley said. “Two pairs of shears. A tailor indeed. May I keep these?”
“Of course. I’d hoped you could tell me something about them when you have a chance to return to your laboratory. You know, if he’d only kept to himself, we might never have found him, but the fool keeps throwing evidence at us.”
“You’d have found him regardless.”
“Perhaps. He might’ve removed his mark from inside his hat. That would have slowed our progress by at least a few minutes.”
“Detective work is more than the accumulation of evidence. Your instincts are good.”
“Thank you. Sir Edward said something similar not long ago.”
Kingsley nodded. “His instincts seem solid as well.”
“Thank you for not leaving me there,” Henry Mayhew said.
“Of course,” Kingsley said. He deposited the shears in his black bag and turned in his seat so he could see Henry more easily. “I could hardly leave my new assistant at the workhouse.”
“I wish this carriage would hurry,” Day said.
As he spoke, the carriage ground to an abrupt halt. Kingsley peered out through the curtains.
“I believe this is the place,” he said.
The three of them alighted from the police wagon and Day took a moment to instruct the driver. Then he held up a hand to stop Kingsley, who had stepped up to the door of the little shop.
“You wait here,” Day said. “If he’s come back, there may be danger.”
Kingsley nodded and backed up. He waited in the dancing man’s shadow as Day tried the door. It swung open easily. A white cat darted out, skirted a puddle, and disappeared around the corner. Day raised his eyebrows and entered the shop, his Colt drawn and ready.
Inside, the room was dim and cluttered. Clearly someone had ransacked the shop, tipping mannequins over and pulling drawers out onto the floor. Day moved quickly and quietly through the place. When he was sure there was nobody else there, he put his weapon away and opened the front door again, beckoning Kingsley in. Henry followed his new employer.
Kingsley took a deep breath and set his black bag on the main counter, next to a sewing machine that had a length of fabric tied around its base. From the bag he drew the pair of bloody shears.
“Shall we see if there are finger marks on these?”
“Did you bring your powder?”
“I did.”
With a flourish, Kingsley produced the little tin of charcoal dust. He opened it and blew a pinch of the black powder on the sewing machine.