The Harvest Man (27 page)

T
he house was dim and quiet, but there was a strange electricity in the air, humming just beneath the senses, as if one only needed to turn in the right direction to see or hear or feel whatever it was that was waiting there at 184 Regent’s Park Road.

Day closed the front door behind him and clomped down the hallway. He paused at the parlor door and stood watching the dark room until he was certain it was unoccupied. He could almost picture the dead man lying on the floor where Jack the Ripper had left him only weeks before. Where Jack had, in fact, disassembled the body and strewn its pieces about like an angry child upending his chessboard. Or like a messenger delivering a warning from somewhere humans could never set foot.

But there was nothing to see in the parlor except a memory. Day moved down the long passage to the kitchen. It was as empty as the parlor. Here, too, had been a body, this one simply discarded facedown in a pool of blood. Constable Rupert Winthrop had been a good young man with promise and prospects. It was through no fault of his own that he’d been caught up in the web of madness and violence that seemed to surround Walter Day. Day retraced his steps, checking the study and the small crawl space under the stairs. Something about the crawl space nudged at him, tickling his brain. Something he should have thought of earlier. He stared through the tiny doorway at the odds and ends that were stored there, but could not think of what was bothering him about it. He closed the door and went to the bottom of the steps, made his slow way up to the first floor. He paused at the landing and listened. He heard his own breathing, labored and nervous, but that was all. He moved on. His bedroom was empty, and so was the governess’s room. At the last door, he paused. It entered his mind that he could simply retreat. He could limp back to the staircase and go down and out of the house and never come back.

But his daughter was missing. And so Day reached out and turned the knob and pushed the nursery door open.

“Hello, Walter Day.” Jack’s voice, low and silky, somewhere deep in the pitch-black room. “I knew you’d find me if I waited long enough.”

Day stood in the open door, aware that he was silhouetted at the threshold, a perfect target. But to enter the room would be no better. Jack’s eyes were surely adjusted to the darkness, whereas Day would be stumbling about blind. He stayed where he was. “Where’s my baby, Jack?”

“Your baby? Oh, why is it always about
you
, Walter Day? There’s always some bit of business you’ve got on your mind, never just stopping by for a chat, maybe a hand or two of Happy Families or a leisurely game of chess.”

“The baby. Tell me.”

“Well, what
about
the baby? Surely you can share her. I consider Winnie Day to be practically my own family.”

“She’s nothing to do with you. You’ve gone too far this time.” Day could hear his own voice, flat and emotionless, a counterpoint to Jack’s rich singsong tones.

“But I always go too far,” Jack said. “It’s part of my not inconsiderable charm.”

“She’s an infant.”

“What is it the Jesuits say, Walter Day? ‘Give me a child for seven years . . .’ But what comes after that? I forget. ‘Give me a child for seven years and I’ll most likely kill her anyway.’ Is that right?”

“Jack!”

“Why seven years? What a beastly long time to have to deal with a child.”

“Stop playing games,” Day said. “Talk to me like a man. Do you have her here?”

“No. I don’t have her here. Is this masculine enough, the way I’m talking to you now? I never dreamed you’d find me feminine.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Enough, Walter Day. You’re exciting yourself. Have a drink.”

“A drink?”

“From that flask you’re so fond of.”

Day reached into his pocket and took out the flask. He didn’t look at it, but let it drop to the floor at his feet. “I don’t feel like a drink right now.”

“Then let’s get more comfortable. Why don’t you come in here and shut the door behind you?”

“So you can murder me?”

“I would never murder you, Walter Day. You’ve always misunderstood our special relationship.”

“We have no relationship.”

“You wound me.”

“You’ve wounded me in far worse ways.”

“Touché! How is your leg?”

“Damn you to hell.”

“Holding a grudge, are we? Then perhaps a peace offering is in order: Your daughter is safe, Walter Day. She was always safe. Safe from me and safe from anyone else who might want to harm her. I promise that for the rest of her life, I will be there, always and forever somewhere at the fringes of her sight, watching her and protecting her from wickedness.”

“The rest of her . . .”

“Always and forever,” Jack said again.

“Leave her alone. Leave us all alone.”

“It’s too late for that, Walter Day.”

“What is it you want from me?”

“I want . . . Let me think. I suppose it’s possible I only want a friend. I’ve had vassals, toadies, mimics, and suck-ups galore. How they weary me. Oh! Speaking of the like, you made quick work of Alan Ridgway, didn’t you?”

“I’m not proud of that. I had to shoot him.”

“I knew you had it in you.”

“If you don’t mean to harm me and my family, why did you send him to kill me?”

Jack chuckled. He had a pleasant laugh, melodious and clear, and it bothered Day that he could detect no evil or falsehood in the sound of it.

“Alan Ridgway? Kill the great Walter Day? No, that was never going to happen. I didn’t send him to kill you, Walter Day. I sent him to
be
killed by you. He was an offering. And I sent him with an invitation.”

“An invitation?”

“And here you are. I wish you’d been a little quicker. This rocking chair is not as comfortable as I’d imagined it would be.”

“You’re in the rocking chair, then? Now I know where you are, I could shoot you from here.”

“But what if I’m holding little Winnie Day? You might shoot her by accident.” There was a false note of alarm in Jack’s voice. Mocking Day, taunting him.

“You’ve already told me she’s not here,” Day said. “And you don’t lie, do you?”

“Ha. No, never. You’ve got me there. Lying isn’t kind, is it? But we both know you won’t shoot me anyway. Even if you had your trusty Colt revolver with you, which you don’t. You won’t shoot me, because you’re curious about me. You pride yourself on understanding people, on your grasp of your adversaries’ minds, their methods, what they want, and how they go about getting it. But me? You don’t understand me at all. And you want to, don’t you? You need to.”

“I only need my daughter. Tell me how to get her back.”

“If you’re a good friend to me and do just what I tell you to do, Winnie Day will be returned this very evening to the house where your wife waits. My, but Claire Day is long-suffering, isn’t she? You chose well with that one, Walter Day. I think a less patient woman would long ago have—”

“So you’ll bring the baby back?”

“She has a name, you know. Why don’t you call her by her name?”

“You’ll bring her back.”

“I’ll arrange it.”

“Someone else has her, then?”

“Yes.”

“Henry? Does Henry still have her?”

“That would be telling.”

“Where? Where does he have her?”

“I can’t tell you that, either.”

“Contact him. Send for Henry. Tell him to bring her to me now.”

“That’s not the arrangement I had in mind.”

“What then? What arrangement?”

“I want you to come with me.”

“With you? Where?”

“I have a little place picked out for us by the water. We’ll talk and we’ll become better friends and I’ll teach you what’s in here.”

“What’s in where?”

“I’m pointing to my head. Sorry, you can’t see me. It’s terribly dark in here and your eyes still haven’t adjusted, have they?”

“Not yet.”

“You could have tried to trick me just now, tried to make me think you could see. But you don’t lie either, do you, Walter Day? Perhaps that’s why I’m so fond of you. We’re alike in some ways, you and I.”

“We’re nothing alike.”

“You protest too much. You know, I think we could be even more alike if we take the time to learn from each other. We could be twins, Walter Day.” Day heard hands clapping. “Just like your babies. How marvelous!”

Day’s leg hurt and he was having trouble ignoring the pain. He wanted to lean against the doorjamb or sit down, but he was afraid Jack would see it as weakness and attack. Assuming Jack hadn’t already noticed how Day felt. The creature seemed preternaturally empathetic. Day concentrated on the cane, leaned harder on it, thought about what was hidden within its length. As long as Jack didn’t know what was inside the cane, Day had an advantage. He only needed to wait until Jack got close enough to him. Jack had to leave the room at some point and he would have to pass Day in the narrow doorway . . .

It was as if Jack could read his mind. “Walter Day, if you won’t enter the room, then would you do me the great favor of taking two steps backward?”

“Backward?”

“If I have to ask again, I’ll become displeased with you, Walter Day. I’m not as patient as your wife.”

Day did as he was told. He stood out in the open on the landing, squinting at the black rectangle of the nursery door, waiting for Jack to rush out of that darkness at him. He heard the rocking chair squeak.

“Now turn around,” Jack said. His voice sounded closer. “Put your back to me.”

“I’d rather not do that, Jack.”

“I understand.” It was impossible to tell exactly where Jack was in the room. His voice seemed to bounce around from one wall to the other and back again. Day glanced to either side, but there was nothing nearby to step behind or to put between himself and the open doorway. “You’re going to have to make yourself quite vulnerable.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You are. Think of it as proof of your trust in me.”

“But I don’t trust you, Jack. You know I don’t.”

“Stop being so contrary. I’m trying to be nice. Now turn around.” Jack’s voice had lost its silky quality. It sounded now like the low growl of some forest predator. “Turn around or our little game will end too soon and you’ll never see your daughter again.”

Day swallowed hard. He tightened his grip on the heavy silver knob at the top of his cane and turned so that his back was to the nursery. The staircase was directly ahead of him. If Jack hit him from behind, Day thought he might be able to drop and roll to the stairs. Even if he fell down them, he’d put distance between himself and the Ripper.

But looking at the stairs, the thought he’d been trying to catch earlier came to him at last. Eugenia Merrilow’s house didn’t have an attic for the Harvest Man to hide in, but he wouldn’t have risked moving on after stealing the mask. He wasn’t brave or daring. He would have found the next best thing to an attic: a crawl space. The Harvest Man was there now in that house with Hatty Pitt, hiding almost within arm’s reach, and Day knew it. But there was no way for him to do anything about it, no way to warn anyone, not while he was trapped here with Jack.

“Now walk to the stairs and down.” Jack’s voice was immediately behind Day, in his ear. Day hadn’t even heard the killer approach.

Could he spin around fast enough to catch Jack off guard? No, his leg wasn’t trustworthy. The pain was too much. It would give out on him. If he fell, he’d be at a disadvantage, unable to use his hidden sword. So he did as he was told, limped to the top of the stairs and moved slowly down, one step at a time. He could not hear Jack behind him, but he was there somewhere close. How close? Was there time to unlock the top of the cane and unsheathe the blade?

At the bottom of the stairs he stopped. Jack’s voice drifted down from somewhere above. “Outside there is a carriage. Get in and close the door. Do not speak to the driver.”

Day hesitated.

Now Jack’s voice was right behind him. “Go now, Walter Day.”

“If I get in your carriage, you’ll have the advantage on me, Jack.”

“I already have the advantage on you.” Somehow, Jack’s voice was far away again, somewhere on the staircase behind them. “Again, this isn’t about you. This is about your family, and about doing what’s needed to protect them. I know you’ll do the right thing now. For their sake. Otherwise, I’ll never give the word and little Winnie Day will never be returned to your dear wife. Of course, I’ll keep my word to protect her from harm, but she’ll never be seen again by anyone but me.”

Day took a deep breath and looked around at his house for what he was afraid was the last time. He wondered what Claire would do if he never returned, where she would go or where her parents would take her. He wondered whether Winnie would, in fact, be brought back, as Jack had promised. Day thought once again of his daughters growing up without him, calling another man Father and never knowing Walter Day.

He walked slowly out of the house and down the footpath, out by the garden gate. A black carriage was waiting at the curb, its windows covered by curtains, a midnight roan huffing up front. A driver sat above, immobile, his features obscured by a muffler and a tall hat. Far down the street, Day saw a fox run through the hazy circle cast by a gas globe. He wondered where it was going and what might be chasing it there. Day opened the carriage door and leveraged himself up and in, pushing off the street with his cane. He sat and the door closed behind him. He was plunged into utter darkness.

Jack’s voice floated through the black from outside. “I gave you my word, Walter Day. Your daughter is now safe. You have done what any good father should do and insured that nothing will ever disturb Winnie Day again in her lifetime. Bravo, my friend.”

Day heard the driver’s lash crack and the horse’s hooves clop against the cobblestones. The wagon lurched and Day was borne away forever from 184 Regent’s Park Road.

H
ammersmith was standing outside the rented cottage with Leland Carlyle when Kingsley’s cab pulled up in front. There were smiles all round when the doctor emerged from the carriage, holding a healthy baby in his arms. Carlyle paid the driver and included a big tip, and the three of them—four with little Winnie—went inside.

The governess, whose name Hammersmith had never learned, wept openly at the sight of the baby. She ran to Kingsley and took Winnie from him. Fiona had Henrietta in a chair by the fireplace. She stood and handed Henrietta over to the governess, who sat with a baby curled in the crook of each elbow and began to rock them. The twins cooed at each other and fell asleep, while the housekeeper hurried away to fetch two bottles of cream and a fresh nappy.

“Henrietta’s been fussing since you left,” Fiona said. She smiled up at Hammersmith. “I suppose she must have missed her sister.”

“Walter isn’t back yet?”

“No. We haven’t heard from him.”

Dr Kingsley got his bag and knelt by the daybed. He opened a capsule of smelling salts under Claire’s nose and she came awake instantly.

“Winnie’s back home,” Kingsley said. “And none the worse for wear.”

Once Claire had satisfied herself that both her daughters were safe, she settled back on the daybed and sighed. “Was she with Henry?”

“Yes. He had her in his room on the square.”

Hammersmith stepped closer so he could hear them speak.

“Why did he do it? Why take her?”

“He apparently thought she was in some danger. I honestly think he meant well. He wasn’t ever going to hurt her.”

“I don’t care,” Claire said. “I never want to see him again.”

“He said that someone told him to take her.”

“Who told him?”

“He didn’t know.”

“And he didn’t think to talk to me,” Claire said, “or Walter? He just enters my home and steals my baby?”

“I think he’d like to talk to you now. He’s quite upset about it all.”

“He should be. I won’t see him. At least not now.”

“Well, give it time.”

“We should find Walter and tell him,” Hammersmith said.

“He’ll come back when he’s tired,” Leland Carlyle said. “Or when he runs out of brandy.”

“Leland,” Eleanor Carlyle said. It sounded like a warning.

Carlyle put his hands up and shook his head. “I apologize. These few days have been trying. Not at all the holiday in London we expected. Between the missing baby, the men murdered on my daughter’s front step, three of my close friends murdered besides. It’s too much.”

Hammersmith ignored him. “Does anybody know where he went?”

Nobody spoke right away. Everyone looked around the room, waiting for a response. Leland Carlyle looked down at the floor. At last Kingsley cleared his throat. “He went into the park. It’s the last I saw of him.”

“Into the park or across it?”

“I don’t know.”

“If he’s in the park, he might be impossible to find,” Hammersmith said. “But across the park . . . Might he have gone to check the house? To see if Henry took the baby back home?”

“It’s possible,” Kingsley said. “It’s not a bad assumption, that Henry might return there, might forget the girl’s parents are staying here now.”

“Even though he took her from here.”

“Exactly so. Henry’s forgetful.”

“I’ll go look over there,” Hammersmith said. “Be right back.”

Fiona caught up to him in the hallway as he was preparing to leave, his hat in his hand. “Before you go,” she said, “I have something . . . I keep meaning to give it to you, but the moment’s never right.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I gave Mr Day a gift, you know, the sword stick to replace his broken cane, and I had one for you, too.”

“But I don’t need a cane.”

“It’s not . . . Oh, here.” She thrust a small wrapped package at him and ran away down the hall and back into the sitting room.

He stared after her for a moment, then looked down at the parcel. He put his hat on, freeing his hands, and unwrapped the package. It was a leather case, shiny and new, exactly like the wares carried by Mr Goodpenny at the Marylebone bazaar. He opened it and counted twenty ivory-colored calling cards, each with a filigree design in the upper corner. He took one out and read it. Written in a clear and elegant hand, which he recognized as Fiona’s, it said:
MR NEVIL HAMMERSMITH, PRIVATE DETECTIVE
.

He stood and stared at it and finally he smiled. He closed the case and put it away in his breast pocket, over the scar in his chest. He liked the weight of it there. It had the heft of a new chapter in his life.

He adjusted his hat and opened the door and went out into the night in search of Walter Day.