Jack stepped back and wiped his fingers on the front of the smoking jacket. He hefted the hammer once or twice, tested its weight, and slashed at the air with it, letting it swing his arm around, wondering at the simple power of it. He saw Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye, still drooling blood down the front of his shirt, his eyes wide with pain and terror. Jack sighed and put the hammer down on the mantel top. He hadn’t intended to frighten the poor fellow. Hammers were not his style. Didn’t everyone know that by now? He patted Elizabeth on the shoulder and left the room.
He checked on Cinderhouse, who was still toiling away over the suit at the dining room table, then took the stairs up to the bedroom once more. He closed the door and turned the lock and lay down on the bed. The ceiling was tin, painted white, with swirling decorative grooves that looped across its whole expanse. He followed the grooves with his eyes, making pictures in the patterns up there, until he fell asleep.
23
They were waiting for the wagon from Scotland Yard, and Hammersmith was visibly chafing at the sense of wasted time. Day offered him his flask of brandy, but Hammersmith waved it away. Day took a long pull at the flask, recorked it, and stowed it in his jacket, on the other side from the Colt Navy so that their weight balanced and didn’t pull the jacket off-center.
“I hope the others have caught somebody, too,” Hammersmith said.
“How are you, Nevil?”
“What?”
“You asked after me earlier,” Day said. “What about you?”
“I’m fine.”
“I see.”
Day stared at the green tea shop where Adrian March stood guard over the prisoner. The air was better out here on the street, even if the sky remained suspiciously grey.
“I’ve got to find a new flatmate,” Hammersmith said.
“It’s been six months. More than that, hasn’t it?”
Hammersmith nodded, looked away at the sky, both of them waiting for it to open up and soak them. “His family came. Took his things. What things they wanted.”
Constable Colin Pringle had been off duty when he was murdered, helping his friend Hammersmith on a case he wasn’t even supposed to be working. Hammersmith hadn’t mentioned Pringle even once since then. Day was surprised to hear him speak of him now, but he stayed silent, afraid any sound he made might chase the sergeant back into whatever hole he’d been living in for seven months.
“Left me with his suits.”
Day looked down at the footpath and waited.
“Can you imagine me in a suit?”
Day smiled at him. “Maybe when you make inspector.”
“Never happen. I’d give them to you, but they wouldn’t fit. You’re bigger than he was.”
“So are you.”
“I suppose so. Where would I put them if some new chap moved in? He wouldn’t want a dead man’s clothing taking up all the space in his room.”
“You could donate them to the poor.”
“Would Colin like that, do you think? Would he be pleased to see his suits worn by shit-shovelers and knocker-uppers?”
“It might amuse him. But I didn’t know him as well as you did.”
There was a long companionable silence. Day looked up at the sky and Hammersmith looked down at the tops of his shoes.
“You shouldn’t worry, you know,” Hammersmith said.
“About what?”
“I was thinking about my father.”
“You’ve lost a lot in the past year.”
“I was thinking about him the way that I remember him, not the way that he was at the end of things. By then his body had failed and his mind had gone. He wasn’t the same man. But when I was younger…”
“I’m sure he was a good father.”
“Well, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s a good father and what’s a perfectly average father, since I never had more than one to compare, you know? But what I remember best of all are the small things, not the big events, not the things you think you’ll remember, like a trip to the Crystal Palace.”
“But the small things?”
“Yes. When he would put his hand on my shoulder as we walked along. Or when he showed me how to tie my boots. He was patient with me.”
“Nevil, your boots are untied.”
“That’s what reminded me just now. I never quite got the knack of it.”
“Do you want another lesson?”
“Ha.” Hammersmith looked up and grinned at him. “But that’s what I mean. You’ll show your son. Or your daughter. You’ll show them how to tie their shoes. Or you’ll just take a walk with them and be quiet and let them talk. You’ll listen the way that you always do. And they’ll remember that one small moment, maybe, when they’re older. And that’s all they’ll need from you. Only that you were there.”
“If that’s really all it took, Nevil…”
“I think that it is.”
“Thank you, Sergeant.”
“I didn’t mean to offer you unasked-for advice. And it’s hardly my place…”
“Not at all,” Day said. “I’m glad that you did.”
“Good.”
Both men quietly watched the far corner of the street until the wagon came around it and rolled smoothly toward them. At last, the escapee would be taken off their hands and they could get back to the business of catching prisoners.
“And it’s good to know,” Day said, “that their uncle Nevil will be such a font of good advice.”
He clapped Hammersmith on the back and stepped out into the street and hailed the wagon driver.
24
Cinderhouse poked his fingers through the gap in the curtain and peered outside. Clouds were moving fast across the sky, and shining slivers of bright blue and pink slashed through the grey. He was aware of Elizabeth, whimpering in the chair beside him, but he ignored the damaged homeowner. Cinderhouse had been punished, but he was still Peter, still the rock. Elizabeth was nothing, not even a fly. Jack would dispose of him eventually, when he grew bored.
A carriage rolled by outside and a bird fluttered up past the window, on its way to some roost above. Cinderhouse smiled, then grimaced at the pain in his mouth. His punishment had been too severe, he thought. But then, who was he to judge? He set his face carefully, found an expression that didn’t hurt his tender lips too much. Jack had pushed hard against the bald man’s jaw for leverage as he’d yanked.
The bird flew back down past the window — or perhaps it was a different bird; what did he know about birds? — and grabbed at something in the dirt. Across the street, a door opened and a little girl stepped out into a sudden patch of sunlight. It glinted on her shiny blond ringlets. She wore a pink dress covered with bows and dots, and it ended just above her ankles. Cinderhouse found himself staring at her delicate ankles. He was panting.
He wanted that girl.
But Jack had told him he could not have any more children.
A ridiculous notion. Surely Jack hadn’t meant it. It was like telling the bird not to claw at worms in the dirt.
The girl leaned against the fence across the street and Cinderhouse pulled the curtains partially shut. He didn’t want her to see him. Not yet. He wasn’t properly dressed. Elizabeth jounced in his chair, trying to get the bald man’s attention. Cinderhouse turned and picked up the shovel from the fireplace. He pounded the injured man — the other injured man — on top of his skull until Elizabeth slumped silent in the chair. That was better.