The Devil's Workshop (30 page)

D
r Kingsley had made special arrangements at University College Hospital, and a large sitting room had been refashioned into a private convalescence ward for two special patients. Day and Hammersmith lay side by side in clean white beds while nurses bustled about and patients in the nearby public wards cried out. Most of the time, the two policemen slept. When they were awake, they rarely spoke. Day’s legs were heavily wrapped in layers of gauze, and he was sedated for the first two days and nights of his stay. Hammersmith required more attention. One of his lungs was perforated, but the wound had been sewn shut in time to save his life. Dr Kingsley inspected the stitches and declared them to be adequate. It was
clearly the work of an amateur, but a talented amateur, and there was no reason to submit Hammersmith to the trauma of reopening that wound. His chest posed a different problem. Fiona had kept him from bleeding to death, but her stitchwork was clumsy. Kingsley had removed the stitches from his chest and sewn him back up. He informed both Hammersmith and Fiona that there would be significant scarring, but that he had every reason to expect a full recovery. This did not comfort Hammersmith, who felt he should not have allowed himself to be stabbed in the first place.

Cinderhouse’s body had been put back together and examined. In addition to the missing genitals, Kingsley was unable to find the left kidney or the tongue. Mr Michael, owner of the house on Phoenix Street, eventually verified that one of the tongues found on his chimneypiece had come from Cinderhouse’s mouth, but there was no way to determine which one, and so both tongues were cremated along with the tailor’s remains.

The same day that Cinderhouse was burned and discarded, Claire Day finally visited the hospital. She pushed a pram that had been modified to fit two babies. A young nurse cooed over the infants and led Claire to the private room where Day had been awakened and dressed for the occasion. He lay atop his starched white sheets and smiled at Claire when she entered. She ran to him and they hugged, carefully, and she showered his lips and eyes and forehead with kisses.

“I’ve been so worried,” she said. “Dr Kingsley wouldn’t let me come.”

They whispered to each other, careful not to wake Hammersmith, whose ravaged chest rose and fell rhythmically, miraculously.

“How are you?”

“How am
I?
How are
you
? Walter, you almost died.”

“Nonsense. A rough day on the job, that’s all.”

“You didn’t really get a chance to see the girls.”

She went to the pram and wheeled it to the bed. Day looked down at his daughters, who slept curled up around each other like kittens.

“They’re lovely,” he said. “Did it . . . I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“Well, you’ve got a wonderful excuse.”

Day laughed. “Yes, I suppose I do. You’re all right now?”

“I haven’t slept much.”

“I’ve slept entirely too much.”

“Tell me about your legs,” Claire said.

“I’ve kept them both.”

“Well, that’s a good start. Will you walk?”

“I’m told I will, in time. There was tissue damage to the left leg. He didn’t do much to the right, and I should make a full recovery there. But I’ll walk with a cane.”

“It will make you look dignified.”

“It will make me look old.”

“I don’t care how old you look.”

Day pointed at the pram. “I wasn’t expecting two.”

“Imagine my surprise.”

“They’re so tiny.”

“They came early. But they’re healthy.”

“They’ll live?”

“I told you, they’re healthy.”

“What about you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Dr Kingsley has given me a clean bill of health. Only I don’t like to be at home by myself anymore. Not even with Fiona there. I can’t go into the kitchen. I certainly can’t go into the parlor.”

“I heard about what happened.”

“Poor Constable Winthrop. I can’t even look in that room now. The parlor, either. Our house is ruined.”

“Nonsense. Give it a little time. We’ll make new memories there.”

“I spend a lot of time with our girls at the park. I make up little rhymes for them and they love it. They smile when I sing.”

“Of course they do. They know they’ve got the best mother in London. In the world.”

“Would you like to hear one of my rhymes?”

“Perhaps later. Maybe once I’m home again.”

“Oh, Walter, I know you’ve had second thoughts about having a child. And now there are two. Please don’t—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I know.”

He shook his head. “Not second thoughts. Not really. I was worried about you. After what happened to my mother . . .”

“I’m fine. I’m not sad like your mother was. And you are not your father.”

“And you are not yours, thank God.”

She laughed. “Thank God. We really ought to name them. The babies.”

“That can wait.”

“When will you come home?”

“That’s a question for the doctor, but I should think no later than tomorrow.”

“And what about Nevil?”

“His recovery will take a good bit longer, I think.”

“Not so,” Hammersmith said. They looked at him and saw that his eyes were open and he was smiling at them. His face was very pale, and the nurses had not done a good job of shaving his chin. “If you leave tomorrow, I leave tomorrow.”

“Nevil,” Claire said, “you’ll do what Dr Kingsley tells you to or you’ll answer to me, sir.”

She stood and went to Hammersmith’s bedside, put a hand on his forehead. His hair was sweaty, but his skin was cool to the touch.

“How are you, Mrs Day?”

“Better than you are, Nevil.”

“I’m just fine.”

“Of course you are. I begin to think you’re indestructible.”

“I do wish people would stop testing that theory.”

“Yes.”

“What about Fiona Kingsley? I’d like to thank her. I’m told she saved my life.”

Claire looked away. “She’ll visit soon.” In fact, Fiona had declared that she could not bear to see Hammersmith again. She felt she was doomed to remember him always at death’s door.

They all turned at the sound of someone clearing his throat. Sir Edward Bradford stood at the door, a gift-wrapped package in his hand.

“Good,” he said. “You’re both awake. Mrs Day, good morning to you.”

“Please come in,” Claire said.

He stepped over the threshold and held the package out to her.

“I brought this,” he said, “thinking I’d give it to the inspector. I didn’t want to disturb you at home so soon after the . . .” He glanced nervously at the pram.

“Oh, thank you, sir. Would you like to see them?”

“I can’t stay long. There’s still a prisoner on the loose.”

She took the package and turned the pram around so that he could look down into it. He nodded at the sleeping babies and smiled back up at Claire.

“They’re perfect, aren’t they?” he said.

“Very much so,” Claire said.

“Well done, mum.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s, um . . .” He pointed to the package. “It’s a toy. I didn’t think to get two of them. I’ll send another one.”

“They can share, I’m sure.”

“It’s the sort of thing you wind up and the puppet pops up at the end.”

“How thoughtful.”

“They may have to wait to play with it. It might be frightening for babies that small. I’d forgotten how small they can be.”

“I’ll put it aside for them,” Claire said. “For when they’re ready.”

Sir Edward nodded and looked over at the men in their beds. Claire followed his gaze and hurried over to her husband, kissed his cheek.

“Well,” she said, “I suppose you men have business to discuss. I’d better go and feed these young ladies.”

“It was good to see you, Mrs Day.”

“And you, sir.”

Sir Edward watched as she covered the babies with a white coverlet and wheeled the pram out of the room. He looked down the hall after her, then closed the door and turned to his men.

“Very kind of you, sir,” Day said.

“Don’t give it a thought.”

“Well, thank you anyway. Tell me . . . the Harvest Man, have they caught him yet?”

“There’s been no sign. An apothecary was broken into the night before last. Ether was stolen. And an old mask they kept as decoration. It might have been him, but we’ve got nowhere with it. Blacker and Tiffany especially are beside themselves. Haven’t slept since you two went down.”

“And what about Jack? Have you found him?”

“I’m charging Adrian March with the crimes against you.”

Day swung his legs off the bed and stood, balanced carefully on his right foot. He tried to take a step toward the commissioner, but fell backward and sat on the edge of his bed.

“Sir, it wasn’t Adrian March.”

“You were under considerable duress and those tunnels are filled with pockets of gas, Inspector Day. Your mind was not your own. I imagine you saw a great many spectacular things.”

“It was no gas. Jack the Ripper is on the loose again, and we’ve got to track him before he does something worse than he already has.”

Sir Edward gave him a long, sad look. “Don’t . . . Inspector Day, I have already made my report. In it, I state that you were instrumental in stopping the murderer Cinderhouse, who invaded your home and killed poor Constable Winthrop. You found and apprehended both Napper and Griffin. You’re a hero. There’s only one convict still out there, and the public believes, largely because of what they’ve read about you in the tabloids, that we will capture the Harvest Man any day now. What do you think it would do to London, to the people in this city, if you told them that Saucy Jack was still out there among them?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hammersmith said. Day and Sir Edward both turned to the sergeant, who had not spoken to this point. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. There’s a madman about and he will kill more people unless we stop him.”

“Ah, Sergeant, your attitude is what I’ve actually come here to discuss,” Sir Edward said.

“Sir?” Hammersmith’s expression was grim, and Day wondered how much pain he was experiencing. His own wounds hurt much more than they had two days earlier in the underground cell. In some ways the healing process was worse than the injury.

“Sergeant, you almost died,” Sir Edward said.

“I’ll be right as rain by tomorrow,” Hammersmith said.

“No, you won’t. But knowing you, you’ll attempt to come back to work anyway.”

“Sir, I—”

“Let me say it, Sergeant. Since I’ve known you, you’ve been beaten, poisoned at least twice, nearly frozen to death, and now you’ve been stabbed, cut open, and sewn back together. You rarely seem to eat or sleep. You regularly push yourself past the limits of your body.”

“I try to do my job, sir.”

“But I believe your job is killing you, Mr Hammersmith.”

“Sir, I respectfully—”

“I can’t let you do this anymore. For your own good—”

“Sir,” Day said. “You can’t.”

“I think I have to.”

“If you dismiss him, I’ll go, too.”

“You have two new babies, Inspector. Think about what you’re saying.”

“I stand by Nevil. We need him on the Murder Squad.”

“Well,” Sir Edward said, “I need him to live. And I firmly believe he will die if he continues at this pace. I am dismissing him from his duties. And you as well, Mr Day, if that is what you choose. In fact, that makes things a bit easier for me. It has crossed my mind that you might be mad.” He looked away from them toward the small window in the far wall. “I mean no ill will toward either of you, but I have given this a great deal of
thought and I believe it’s the only responsible decision I can make.”

He went to the door and stopped there, but did not turn back around, didn’t look at them. “I wish you both a speedy recovery and a very long life,” he said.

And he left them there.

C
laire pushed the pram away from the hospital. The sun was warm on her face, but she stopped on the path and tucked the coverlet in around her daughters. She ran her fingers along its seams, where her ancestors’ names were embroidered. There was a faint pink stain left there in the shape of a hand. She tried not to think about what it was. One of the babies, the quiet one who always seemed to be deep in thought, opened her eyes and smiled. Claire didn’t know whether it was a genuine smile or the effect of gas, but she smiled back.

“Would you like to hear a rhyme, Baby Day?”

She wiped a bit of moisture from the baby’s cheek and smoothed its fine dark hair and stood back up. A stranger tipped
his hat to her and she nodded back at him, went around to the other side of the pram, and pushed it across the path to a bench. She sat where she could see her children’s faces and she leaned forward and very softly recited the poem she had written that morning:

“I have two hands to clap and pray, two feet to skip and run.

I have two ears to hear you with, I have two eyes to see.

But of the most important things, the Lord just gave me one:

One head, one heart, and one thing more: One sister just like me.”

The thoughtful baby rocked and cooed and woke up her sleeping sister. Both girls stared up at her expectantly, and so she began to tell them another verse, something she had read in a book once. She had only written two or three rhymes of her own so far, but she liked thinking them up and she liked telling them to the babies. Perhaps one day she might even write them all down somewhere in one place so that the girls could keep them and tell them to their own children when they grew up.

She sat on the bench and talked to her babies and was in no hurry to return home, where she felt certain that blood had soaked between the cracks in the floor and deep into the wood. She did not think she would ever feel safe in that house again, but the sun was warm on her face and her babies were smiling and her husband was healing.