Cinderhouse sized them both up expertly with his eyes. “You are taller than he is, and I would guess that you were once a very large man, but you’re quite thin now. Still, I think I could let out his hems and cuffs and get his suits to match you well enough.”
“But I’m not interested in ‘well enough.’ I want to look every bit as dashing as I did before those evil men got hold of me.”
“I can make you look good. That’s a thing I do well.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jack said. “And it appears you’ve got our boy good and fastened down. Be a good fellow and come here a moment.”
Cinderhouse narrowed his eyes, but put down the nearly empty wooden spool that had held the twine. He cautiously approached Jack, walking very slowly. Jack became impatient.
“You are becoming entirely too insolent,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I shall have to punish you now. Please remember, I do this out of love.”
Cinderhouse started to back away as Jack reached for him, but it was too late. Jack mustered all of his strength and chopped his knuckles at the base of Cinderhouse’s skull, where it connected to his spine. When the bald man stumbled and fell to his knees, Jack pulled the letter opener from his sleeve and held it to Cinderhouse’s throat. He leaned down and brought him close and whispered in the bald man’s ear.
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” he said. “Or perhaps not as much. Let’s decide when it’s done.”
Cinderhouse began to scream, wordlessly, but Jack didn’t hear him. He heard nothing but the blood pounding in his own ears.
20
They approached the little green building cautiously. Day walked straight toward it along the pathway, while March and Hammersmith split up and circled around it. March flowed through the gloom under the trees, nearly invisible. Hammersmith came at it from the road, out in plain sight, but varying his gait and direction by small increments to make it harder for anyone inside to take aim at him.
If there was anyone inside. And if they were armed.
It was still only sprinkling. The rain hadn’t come back in force yet, and Day hoped it would remain at bay. At least until they caught the missing men. He carried his Colt Navy loose in his hand, ready, but not anxious.
By the time Day reached the front door of the tea shop, he could no longer see March or Hammersmith, but he knew they were nearby, within six feet of him on either side of the building. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon and it filtered through the leaves of the trees, glanced along the rooftops of the houses. The tiny shop twinkled emerald green as raindrops pattered against the leaves overhead, moving the tree branches up and down around it, alternately dappling it with light and shadow. Day arrived at the front door and switched the revolver to his other hand. He reached out toward the doorknob, but then pulled his hand back and frowned.
“It’s locked,” he said.
He took a step back and looked around him. The street was still deserted, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon, people would be coming out of those homes, men headed away to the train or the cabstand or simply walking to work, children running to school or playing in their gardens. The road would be crowded with people.
March materialized next to him from somewhere around the corner of the building.
“Surely you can unlock it, Walter,” he said.
“I can. But look.” He pointed at the heavy steel padlock, its swinging arm looped through a bolt on the outside of the door. “This has been locked from the outside, not the inside. It’s not possible for someone to be in there.” He raised his voice. “Sergeant, I think it’s clear.”
“Take a look at this,” came Hammersmith’s voice from around the corner of the shop.
Day stowed his weapon and walked around to the road. March followed him. Hammersmith was squatting, looking at something against the curb. Day leaned down and used one hand to steady himself against the wall of the building.
“Another one,” he said.
A jagged line smeared by rain, but still clearly visible in the wan light, was drawn in blue chalk on the curb. Above it was an arrow, pointing toward the wall above it.
“The rain’ll eventually wash this away,” Hammersmith said.
“We need a sketch of it. Too bad we don’t have Fiona Kingsley with us. She’s a good artist.”
“A terrific artist,” Hammersmith said. “But we hardly need her talents for this.” He pulled out his dog-eared pad of paper, turned to a blank page, and sketched a duplicate of the tiny chalk diagram with his pencil. “That’ll do, won’t it?”
“Looks just like it to me.”
“But it’s nothing,” March said. “What does it mean?”
“Well, it must be a relation to the other one we saw,” Hammersmith said. “Don’t you think?”
“I think so,” Day said.
“But what is it?” March said. “It looks like it might be a long arrow, but a piece of it’s missing. Rubbed out or washed away by rain.”
“Or maybe whoever chalked it there, maybe his hand slipped and made that gap,” Day said. “What did the other one look like?”
Hammersmith flipped a page in his notebook. “I think it was a number four, but I’ll… Yes, a number four with an arrow below it.”
“And this might be a number one,” Day said. “With an arrow up top of it. Maybe it’s not a gap in the line. Maybe it’s two separate lines.”
“What do you think it means?”
“Besides nothing at all,” March said.
“I think it means that four people escaped Bridewell,” Day said. “Somebody’s helping us find them.”
“Or somebody has his own agenda we don’t understand,” Hammersmith said.
“Or children play with chalk in the roads round here and you two are so desperate for a clue that you’re seeing meaning where there isn’t any.” March sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t mean to be a naysayer, I really don’t, but a manhunt doesn’t come down to chalk lines in the road. Believe me, I’ve been involved in my fair share of manhunts.”
“Yes,” Hammersmith said. “You did a brilliant job bringing in that Ripper fellow.”
“Nevil!” Day said. “I say, man.”
“I apologize.”
“No, no,” March said. “From your perspective, you’re perfectly correct.”
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Hammersmith said. “It’s just, you’ve been insufferable tonight. I don’t understand. We’re doing our best here, and yet it’s never quite right for you, is it?”
“I suppose I have been difficult,” March said. “Success, finding these men tonight, it’s important to me. More important than you know. I did not retire from the Yard under the best of circumstances and I would like to correct the impression I made in the Ripper case, if I can. I would like to win back some modicum of respect. I haven’t wanted to follow false clues because I fear those prisoners are getting farther and farther away from us with every passing moment.”
“We’re all tired,” Day said. “And we’ve all got a lot on our minds. Tempers fray. But we’ll find those missing men. We will.”
March smiled. “I believe you, Walter.”
Hammersmith held out his hand. March hesitated, then clasped it in both of his own hands and smiled.
“Again,” Hammersmith said, “I apologize, sir.”
“All is forgiven. Shows you care about what you’re doing, that’s all.”
“So,” Day said, “what say we take a quick look in this shop and then move on to the next clue?” He didn’t mention that he had no idea where they might find another clue.
The other two followed him round the side of the little green building to the door. Day leaned down and took another look at the padlock. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, produced the flat leather case, opened it, and took out two tools. One was a small pointed hook. The other tool was a tension wrench that resembled a thick pair of tweezers. He inserted the angled ends of the wrench into the keyhole and maneuvered it until he felt pressure against them, then slipped the tiny hook between them and turned it. It took him two tries, but the clasp sprang open and the heavy end of the lock fell loose and dangled against the doorjamb. Day smiled at his mentor and was pleased to see March smiling back.