Free The Yard by Alex Grecian Page A

point in keeping them open), but he was careful not to fall asleep. If the mine’s deputy caught him sleeping, it would mean ten lashes from the overman’s yard wand again.
    When his stomach began to rumble, he opened his pack and felt for the jam sandwich he’d brought with him. One of the braver rats crawled up his leg, attracted by the jam scent, and Nevil dropped a few sandwich crumbs onto his lap. The rat was warm and Nevil didn’t mind its little claws. He ate slowly, aware that the sound of his own chewing could drown out the noise of an approaching cart and cause him to miss his cue.
    When the sandwich was gone, the rat left him and Nevil went back to listening. Listening and waiting. The day ground forward and Nevil opened his trapdoor four times, closed it again each time, and returned to his thoughts until he heard a voice on the other side of the door.
    “Nevil?”
    “Alice, is that you?”
    “It’s me.”
    “Is the sun still up?”
    “It’s already gone down. I’m late, Nevil. I’m sorry.”
    “It’s okay.”
    “I’ll see you in the morning.”
    “Have a good night, Alice.”
    “You, too, Nevil.”
    He crawled past her and moved up the tunnel. His father would be waiting for him.
    As they left the main chamber, Nevil searched the sky for Orion’s Belt and gulped the fresh night air. He listened to the crickets in the stubbly grass beside the road. His father’s knobby fingers, black with coal dust, closed on Nevil’s shoulder and squeezed gently. Nevil smiled and enjoyed the moment while it lasted. There were still chores to do on the farm before supper and bed, but it hadn’t been a bad day. Nevil had been luckier than the lost children of the South Drift. He might still escape the tunnels.

9
    F rench Upholstery and Fine Furniture was a small shop on Charles Street, between Euston Station and Regent’s Park, and perhaps a quarter of a mile from University College Hospital. Day had chosen it for its proximity to the scene where Inspector Little’s body was found. On his way there, he stopped at the hospital and collected Dr Kingsley, who brought the button found in the bottom of Little’s trunk.
    A tiny bell over the doorway jingled as they entered. Inside, the shop was dim but pleasant. Two graceful armchairs, with high oval backs and brocade seats, were displayed on a low wooden platform near the door. A small Gothic Revival table sat between them as if in preparation for tea. The placesmelled of sawdust and furniture varnish. Day smiled. The odor reminded him of his father’s carpentry shed in back of the family house.
    At the sound of the bell, a small round man scurried out from a back room. He sported enormous muttonchops, perhaps to compensate for the sparse growth on top of his head. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on the tip of his nose. Day resisted the urge to reach out and push them up on the man’s face.
    “Gentlemen, gentlemen, gentlemen,” the man said, “to what do we owe the honor today?”
    “Good afternoon, sir,” Day said. “This is Dr Kingsley, and I’m Inspector Day of the Yard. We’d like a moment of your time, if you wouldn’t mind.”
    “Oh, dear me. Oh, dear. Is there any possibility you’ve only come here for furniture? Any chance at all?”
    “I’m afraid not, sir.”
    “No chance, you say? You know, I also reupholster older items. Older and newer items. I can reupholster new items to make them look like they was much more dear than they cost you. Much more dear.”
    “Thank you, no. We’d like to ask you a few questions. About your working methods and where you may have been last evening. Last evening.”
    Day pretended to scratch his nose, covering his mouth so that the furniture man wouldn’t see him smile. He had inadvertently picked up the little man’s method of speech and was repeating himself.
    “Oh, my. My, my, my. I was here, right here working into the wee hours, I was.”
    “Of course you were,” Kingsley said. “You