The Devil's Workshop (25 page)

“You judge them, but praise me for not judging.”

“Only because I used to be like you, Walter Day. I am fascinated to watch your journey unfold. I’d like to see if it turns out like mine did.”

“So you’ll take these shackles off?”

“No. I think you’ll free yourself without any help from me. And soon, too. Maybe not soon enough. We’ll see, I suppose. Maybe you’ll continue to bleed and you’ll die down here after all. But that’s not for me to say.”

“Then what? You said you would do something for me.”

“If you ask me to, I will go to your home and I will remove
your wife and your unborn child from the sphere of your responsibility.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what that means. I can free you, Walter Day, in more ways than you intend. I can do that for you.”

“Don’t you touch her! You stay away from my Claire!”

“Claire? What a beautiful name. She sounds lovely already. All right. I promise I’ll leave her for you. You have my word. But you didn’t mention the baby, and that makes me think perhaps you’d like to take me up on at least part of my offer. You don’t want to follow in the footsteps of your valet father, do you? Oops, I brought him up again. Do forgive me.”

“Leave them alone.”

“We’ll see. We’ll see. I’ll give it some thought and determine what might be best for you. But for now, you just rest. You’re going to need your strength if you’ve any intention of getting out of here.”

“Undo the shackles.”

“No. But I have every confidence in your abilities. After all, you have a lockpick. Good-bye, Walter Day.”

The shadow melted away into the gloom of the tunnels. The lantern was extinguished, and Day could not be sure whether Jack had left or had simply stepped back against the wall and was even now watching him. Nor could he be sure whether Jack had meant to leave the hood off this time. But he did his best to enjoy every breath he took of fresh air.

And he wondered which would be his last.

T
he boy led them to a section of houses on Phoenix Street. He parked his bicycle next to a black wrought-iron fence, hopped off, and waited. A door behind him opened and a girl came outside and stood in her little garden behind the boy, watching their wagon pull up in the lane. All was quiet. The horse snorted. Inspector Blacker climbed out of the wagon first and looked up and down the street. Inspector Tiffany followed and stood beside him. They looked at the boy, who shrugged back at them. When Hammersmith, in his blue uniform, hopped down from the wagon, a door opened opposite the boy and his bike. An old lady ran out and waved them over. She pointed at the next house, with a red door and an untended garden in front.

“That’s where they’ve been,” she said. “I think one of them might still be there. The bald one.”

Cinderhouse,
thought Hammersmith.
The bald one is Cinderhouse.

“I’m Inspector Blacker, mum. And this is Inspector Tiffany, and this is Sergeant Hammersmith.”

“I apologize,” the lady said. “It’s been a strange day. I’m Mrs Pye. My husband was Giles Pye.” As if they should know who he was.

“What happened here?” Blacker said. He had automatically stepped into the role of communicator. Tiffany stood to one side, nervously staring at the red door.

“They’ve had Mr Michael in there, doing terrible things to him.”

“Who’s Mr Michael, mum?”

“The man who owns that house, of course.” She leaned in and whispered, “They cut his tongue right out of his mouth.” She drew back again and squared her shoulders, having accomplished the most distasteful bit of business she had to conduct. “I’ve sent for a doctor. He should be along.”

“I don’t suppose he can talk to us?”

“Not without a tongue, he can’t.”

“Of course. Can he write?”

“I think he can. One of them went out and hasn’t come back. I’ve been watching. That one’s the Devil himself.”

Hammersmith supposed she must mean the Harvest Man. They didn’t have a good description of him.

“But I haven’t seen the other one come out again. I was away from the window for a bit and I suppose he might have left the house then, but if he didn’t then he’s still in there.”

Blacker took a step away from Mrs Pye and looked over at Tiffany. They both drew their revolvers. Hammersmith took his truncheon from his belt and looked at the way the sun shone on its burnished black surface. He liked the weight of it in his hand and felt every bit as confident holding it as he would have felt with a gun. Maybe more so.

At that moment, a second wagon turned the corner at the end of the lane and rolled up next to their own. Both of the inspectors turned their guns toward it, but the boy up top was no older than their own driver was, and four constables piled out of the back of the new wagon before it was completely stopped.

“Name’s Bentley, sir,” one of the constables said. “Kett sent us. A boy came to the Yard. Said there was fugitives hereabouts somewhere.”

“You’re just in time,” Blacker said. “It’s the red door.”

“We’re ready, sir.”

“Then let’s go.”

Before he could finish his sentence, Tiffany was already pushing through the gate and across the garden to the door.

“It’s not latched,” he said.

All seven of the policemen funneled past the red door and into the house.

T
he coverlet was ruined.

Fiona stood in the upstairs hall and spread it out over her hands, let it drape down and pool on the floor. It was covered with blood and sticky mucus. She reeled it in and ran her fingers over the names that ran all around the outside of it, sewn in red thread and passed down from one generation to the next. The names of Claire Day’s female ancestors.

Margaret, Jean, Janet, Mary, another Margaret . . .

All of them had spent hours in front of their hearths sewing their daughters’ names into the fabric that had been passed down to them.

There was room at one corner for Claire’s daughter. If she had a daughter.

But the coverlet was ruined.

The bell rang and Fiona gathered the coverlet to her breast and hurried to the entryway. She opened the door.

“Miss Fiona, got a package here for the mister.”

The postman handed it over. A small brown-paper-wrapped parcel. She nodded her thanks and closed the door on him. A corner of the coverlet fell from her arms, and as she gathered it up, the parcel fell from her hand to the floor and the paper burst open. The box inside was cardboard, a bottom and a shallow lid, which came off and flopped onto the floorboards. Fiona set the coverlet on the floor—it wasn’t going to get more ruined than it already was—and snatched up the various parts: the two halves of the box, a wad of cotton, a small off-white card, and a key.

The key was large and ornate, with a filigree handle and a long barrel and a bit of metal that stuck out from the side, like a trigger. She turned it over in her hands. It was heavy, weighted at the handle end, and there was a hole in the barrel that seemed to go straight through to the handle.

She turned the card over and read the inscription:
Let’s speak soon. Yours—Adrian.

She stuck the cotton back in the big half of the box and nested the key inside. She placed the card on top, closed the lid, and stuck the whole thing in her apron pocket. She wadded the ruined brown paper and set it aside on the little occasional table in the hall. She needed to rewrap it all before presenting it to Mr Day. She wouldn’t want him to think she’d opened his mail on purpose.

Fiona glanced back at the door and then gathered the cloth to
her breast again and hurried down the hall. Her father had given her busywork and she knew it. He’d given her the same task he’d set for Constable Winthrop. There was something more important she could do with her time while Claire struggled with labor.

She just hoped she could get the blood out.

A
wagon sped past Jack and around the corner onto Phoenix Street. Jack slowed down and followed it cautiously. He hung back and watched as four coppers jumped out of the wagon and joined three others who were already standing in the lane. Jack sniffed and pressed a finger to his lips. All seven of the policemen rushed through the black gate, across the garden, and in through the red door. Jack wondered what his silly little fly had done to merit the attention of so many policemen.

He stepped into the middle of the street and walked to the wagons, which were resting next to each other, front to back and back to front, blocking the lane. The two young drivers were ignoring each other. One had a deck of cards and was shuffling them repeatedly. The
other was engrossed in a tabloid of some sort. Jack caught the attention of the boy with the cards.

“What’s happening in there?” He poked his thumb in the general direction of the red door.

“Caught some dangerous murderers in there,” the boy said. “Bloody-eyed madmen they are, too. You’d do well to stand back, Doctor, and let ’em do their job.”

Doctor? Jack looked down at the black leather bag he was holding and smiled.

“They sent for me,” he said. “Someone’s been hurt?”

“Yes, sir. They cut off somebody’s face, cut out his eyes, cut off his fingers, even cut out his tongue.”

Well, part of that was true, at least, Jack thought. Unless that silly fly had been very busy since Jack left the house.

“I’d better go take a look, then, hadn’t I?”

“You be careful and stay well back, like I say. Let them boys do their work.”

“I certainly will. Thank you for your help, son.”

There was an old lady talking to a little girl and a boy with a bicycle. Jack walked past them without being noticed and walked right through the door and into the house he now thought of as his own.

T
he house was empty.

Tiffany dispatched two of the constables to check the bedrooms upstairs. The other two went into the parlor, and Hammersmith went with them. Tiffany and Blacker proceeded down the hallway to the kitchen.

There was an odor of rotting meat in the parlor. A single ray of sunlight beamed through the front window, but did little to dispel the gloom. A bee buzzed lazily through the room and back out.

A chair was tipped back next to the hearth. Bits of twine curled around its legs and arms and around the cushioned back. Hammersmith knelt beside it and saw dark flecks that he was certain were blood on the brocaded seat.

“Oh, God almighty,” one of the constables said. Hammersmith looked up and followed the constable’s gaze to the mantelpiece. Two objects were nailed to the wood just below eye-level.

“That explains the smell in here,” Hammersmith said. “But why would there be meat on the mantel?”

“It ain’t just meat, Sergeant. Look at it.”

Hammersmith stood and took the three steps to the fireplace. He covered his nose with the back of his hand and leaned in for a better look. It took a moment for him to realize what the things were.

“Do you suppose they’re human?” the other constable said.

“Surely they’re lambs’ tongues,” Hammersmith said. But he wasn’t at all sure.

He heard the other two constables come down the stairs and clomp past the parlor door on their way to the kitchen.

“Get some more light in here, would you?” he said to the constable who had found the tongues. “And get those down from there.”

“I don’t wanna touch them things.”

“Find a pry bar. Put them in a basin. I’ll send for Dr Kingsley. He might be able to verify what sort of animal they came from.”

He started out of the room, then turned back.

“No, on second thought,” he said, “leave them there. Kingsley’s daughter can draw this all out for us. It might be important to know where everything is.”

He saw both constables relax, clearly pleased that they wouldn’t have to touch the bloody tongues.

Hammersmith went out of the parlor and turned left. The
two constables who had been upstairs passed him on their way back out. One tipped his hat to Hammersmith. They went back past the parlor and out through the front door. Hammersmith watched them go, then walked down the hall and found the two inspectors in the kitchen, huddled over something on a big table. They looked up when he entered the room.

“It looks like they’ve gone,” Blacker said. “But they left a map. It might tell us where they went.”

“But it’s covered with markings,” Tiffany said. “They could be anywhere.”

Hammersmith looked around the room, at a piece of ham on the counter, shiny and hard, at breadcrumbs on the floor. He noticed a small stub of a pencil against the bottom edge of a cabinet leg. It looked like it had rolled off the table and across the room and lodged where it was unlikely to be noticed. The honeybee from the parlor careened past his nose and bumped into the edge of the back door, then corrected its flight path and disappeared outside.

“The back door’s open,” Hammersmith said. “Did you check the garden?”

“Of course,” Tiffany said.

“Look at this,” Blacker said. He led the way out the back door and past a flowering bush where more bees were hard at work tending to bright purple blossoms. There was a high wooden fence at the back of the garden, covered with thick leafy vines. Blacker pointed at the fence. “See that? See how the vines are torn away here? And here?” He pointed. “And up there?”

“Somebody climbed over that fence,” Hammersmith said.

“And they were none too neat about it. Maybe saw us coming and left in a hurry.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“Don’t know. Just sent two of these boys around the end of the street to find out.”

A voice came through the fence: “Over here now, sir!”

“That was quick,” Blacker said. “Anything to see?”

Hammersmith could hear the two constables tromping about in the garden on the other side.

“There’s some kind of a little tree over here,” the constable said. “Branches all broken away like somebody hung on ’em. And leaves all over the ground. Somebody tipped over a table here, too.”

“Is anyone at home over there?”

“Yes, sir. Got the lady of the house here with me. She seen one.”

“How long ago?”

“Not sure, sir. Should I go ask?”

“Just get her inside. We’ll be over to talk to her.”

Blacker turned to Hammersmith, excited. “We’re right behind them. At least one of ’em went over the fence and through the house on the other side.”

They went back into the kitchen, and Blacker grabbed Tiffany by the elbow. “We’ve got ’em,” he said. “Come on!”

Tiffany turned back as they left the kitchen. “Sergeant, why don’t you take the rest of these lads and go from door to door? Talk to everybody on this street and make sure the fugitives
didn’t come back round. They could be hiding somewhere along here, waiting for us to leave.”

Hammersmith nodded, but once the two inspectors had left, he bent and picked up the pencil from the floor. He took it to the table and stared down at the map. Some of the markings there were in ink or wax crayon, but he saw the fainter trace of graphite here and there. In one place, a pencil had been pushed down against the parchment so hard that it had torn through. Hammersmith leaned forward and stared at the rough loop made by the end of a blunt pencil. Someone had circled a spot in Primrose Hill again and again.

And Hammersmith knew all at once who had drawn the circle on the map. Cinderhouse was not on Phoenix Street or even the next street over. He was on his way to 184 Regent’s Park Road. He was on his way to Walter Day’s house. Day wasn’t at home and Hammersmith was sure he was in no danger. But Claire would be there and she would be alone with young Fiona Kingsley. There was a constable guarding the house, but Hammersmith didn’t know who it was. He couldn’t believe Sir Edward would post someone very good on guard duty. Not during a manhunt.

Hammersmith ran past the parlor, where two constables were busy trying to coax the two tongues into a dirty washbasin with the tips of their truncheons. A third man was there, his back to Hammersmith, apparently supervising the removal of the tongues. He wore a tall black hat and was holding a medical bag. Hammersmith briefly wondered why the doctor hadn’t gone
next door to take care of the injured homeowner, why he would override Hammersmith’s own orders regarding the tongues, but he didn’t stop to ask. He banged out through the front door and past the two wagons, the old lady, and the children. He grabbed the bicycle out of the hands of the boy who was still standing by the gate across the street.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I need this. I’ll get it back to you straightaway. Tell the inspectors to get someone to Walter Day’s house in Primrose Hill. That’s where one of the fugitives has gone. Tell them Sergeant Hammersmith is going there now and to meet me there.”

And before the boy could answer or protest, Hammersmith leapt on his bike and pedaled away down the street.

“Well,” Eunice Pye said to the children. “Rude.”