Authors: Alex Grecian
“You want me to stay in here?”
“You can come and go here as you please. I’m sort of giving you this place. As a home.”
“A home?”
“Yes. So far as I know, this is the only key to this place. And I’m giving that to you. When you eventually get something larger, a flat of your own, I’d appreciate it if you returned the key to me, but—”
Henry picked him up and squeezed him in a massive bear hug. Day put his hand atop his head in case he should bump against the low ceiling.
“I say. That’s not necessary.”
Henry set him back down on his feet and gave him a shy smile. “Nobody’s been as nice to me as you and the doctor’s been since Frank went away.”
Day cleared his throat. “Yes, well, here’s the key.”
He put it in Henry’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you, Mr Day. I was wrong before. The city’s messenger is you. It’s been you all along.”
“I don’t know about that, but you’re welcome,” Day said. “I think … I think the city would want you to have this. That seems right to me.”
Henry looked around the space as if deciding where to put the furniture. Day thought that the milk crate would look the same no matter where he positioned it.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” he said. “I imagine I’ll see you the next time I’m by Dr Kingsley’s lab.”
“I’ll be there,” Henry said. “Thank you again.”
“You take care of yourself, Henry.”
Day stepped out and pulled the door closed behind him. He would sleep much better at night knowing that the dancing man was safe. He pulled his watch out and checked it. He needed to hurry back to work. There was much to be done if London was going to be made safe enough for the new Day to come.
Hammersmith had treated himself to a small bag of chocolates from the confectionary shop downstairs. He had never been in the place, but his new promotion to sergeant was an occasion that called for something more than coppery tea to mark it.
On his way down the hall, he heard the creak of Mrs Flanders’s door behind him and turned to see her standing at the landing.
“Oh, Mr Hammersmith, it’s you. I thought you might be someone else.”
“Someone else on the way up to my flat?”
“Well, I thought you might be the other policeman. Your friend. I never caught his name, but he was most gracious. A very nice man.”
“My friend?”
“Yes. The man who came round yesterday. Well, I should say there
were two men who came yesterday, but I didn’t spend time talking to the second one. It was the first policeman to arrive at your meeting that I mean.”
She waved her hand in the air and shook her head. “Oh, why am I talking about either of them?” She leaned toward him and whispered, “If anyone heard me, it might ruin their disguises.” She put a finger to her lips, winked, and backed into her flat. The door closed.
Hammersmith stood for a moment, wondering whether she would come back out and explain herself. When she didn’t reappear, he let himself into his flat and set the bag of chocolates on the table in the small sitting room. He looked around to see if anything had been disturbed. He had been so tired the night before that he had fallen into bed and been asleep nearly the instant he came through the door. There might have been a marching band in his flat and he wouldn’t have noticed. Now he checked the place carefully.
His own bedroom was as spartan as it had always been, but Pringle’s room was cluttered. Fresh laundry was draped over a clotheshorse in the corner, uncounted pairs of shoes were lined up next to the bed, ready to be shined, a lightly worn shirt was draped in front of the open window to air out. There was something dull and lifeless about that collection of things, as if the room had shut down in Pringle’s absence. It smelled dusty. Hammersmith averted his eyes and shut the door.
He found three things in the parlor that he did not think had been there yesterday morning. There was a small reddish brown spot on the rug under the table. It might have been jelly, but it looked to Hammersmith like blood. There was also a piece of paper folded on the mantel, held in place by a new tin of tea.
He opened the tea first and smelled it. There was no scent of copper.
He unfolded the paper and read what was written on it.
Dear Mr Hammersmith, our mutual friend has retired from business. You won’t be hearing about him again. Your tea was undrinkable. I took the liberty of replacing it. Perhaps we’ll meet again. Your friend.
The note was unsigned, but Hammersmith understood who had left it and what it meant.
He started a fire and put the kettle on. When the tea had brewed, he took his cup to the window and silently toasted Colin Pringle’s memory.
He took a sip. It was the best tea he had ever tasted.
Dr Kingsley put down his scalpel and put on his overcoat. He left his lab and locked the door behind him. Fiona was in the hall, hurrying toward him with her pad and charcoal.
“I’m sorry I’m late, Father,” she said.
“Not at all. I was thinking I might take today off and spend it with you.”
“But there’s so much work to do.”
“There will always be more work. But you will be grown and gone away before I know it.”
Fiona grinned and set her tablet of paper on the low table in the hall. “What shall we do, then?” she said.
The rain had turned to a light mist and they strolled aimlessly away from the hospital until the sky opened up again. They jumped aboard an omnibus and by the time the rain let up again they found themselves at Hyde Park. The park was nearly deserted and it glimmered with raindrops. The landscape smelled of fresh greens and flowers, and they drifted along in companionable silence, content for the moment to be alone together.
Finally Kingsley broke the stillness between them. “Fiona,” he said, “I’ve decided something.”
“Is it bad?” she said.
“Whatever would make you ask that?”
“You never leave your lab. And now suddenly … I’m afraid you have something awful to say, some news that has to be broken to me outdoors where I won’t scream and make a spectacle.”
“Not at all.”
“You’re not sending me away to school, then?”
Kingsley chuckled. “No, I’m not sending you away.”
“Good. I should hate boarding school and I would get bad marks just to spite you for sending me there.”
“I shall keep that in mind in case I ever do contemplate such a thing. No, I’ve decided that you spend too much time among the dead. It’s not healthy.”
“I don’t mind, Father.”
“I know, but I do mind. I’ve arranged for you to assist an expectant young mother. And when she has her baby, I’d like for you to stay on and help her care for it. She seems to be in quite over her head about everything, and you are a very capable young lady.”
“A baby! Oh, that would be wonderful.”
“The Days are kind people, and Claire Day might be just the female influence you need at this point in your life. You don’t want to be trapped in a lab anymore with an old man.”
“You’re not old at all, Father.”
“You flatter me. So you’ll do it?”
“Of course I will. Only, who will help you with the bodies?”
“I’ve already arranged for your replacement.”
“It’s settled, then.”
As they talked they had traversed the park, and now they came to the sunken garden. Amid the flowers, there was a statue of a cherubic boy atop a giant fish. They stopped and stared up at it.
“You see, Father, it
is
an angel. The boy, I mean. You said that he wasn’t, but he is.”
“It looks like an ordinary child to me,” he said.
“I say it’s an angel.”
Kingsley looked at his daughter and smiled. “Well, then,” he said, “perhaps it is an angel after all.”
Writing
The Yard
has been the most challenging, and the most rewarding, creative experience of my life and it could not have been accomplished without the support and encouragement of an abundance of good Samaritans. I owe many people a profound debt:
My agents, Seth Fishman at The Gernert Company and Ken Levin at Night-Sky, for talking me into writing this novel in the first place and then championing it beyond the call of duty.
My editor, Marysue Rucci, for her unflagging enthusiasm, her insightful notes, and her continued faith, both in this story and in my ability to write it. And Diana Lulek, along with everyone at Putnam, without whom this book would still be sitting on my hard drive.
My UK editors, Alex Clarke, Alice Shepherd, and the staff of Penguin UK, who took a chance on a Victorian London novel written by some guy in the American Midwest.
My early readers for their perceptive and sensitive suggestions: Alison Clayton, Christopher Sebela, Shane White, and Roxane White.
Riley Rossmo for inspiration and encouragement, Alan Moss for running interference, and Will Dennis for suggesting the title.
My father.
And, finally, Christy and Graham, who make everything possible.