The Devil's Workshop (11 page)

“What should I do?”

“Don’t worry, Peter. I’ll help you figure it out.”

He looked up at the dark sky as he walked and he let the rain hit his eyeballs the way it had drummed against the dog’s eyes. Finally he had to blink. He splashed along through the puddles underfoot, and he led his dear stupid little fly toward the city.

T
hey crossed the field carefully. The rain had gone as quickly as it had come, and clouds scudded away across the sky, the only movement in sight. Day and Hammersmith shuttered their lanterns and, when their eyes had grown used to the starlight and moonlight, they crept through the grass, watching for movement against the blue horizon. Day drew his Colt Navy, but kept it held down at his side. There was a handful of loose tombstones scattered about, tumbled down by rain and snow and years, but there were no men hiding behind those stones. The three policemen were alone.

When they reached the road, they stopped and listened. Day held up his hand and motioned toward their right, where the road sloped up over a culvert. Hammersmith nodded and crossed
the cobblestones silently. Under the cover of the trees on the other side, he went slowly uphill, watching the windows and doors of the houses that bordered the field. Day turned and walked along the road to his left, and March followed him.

Day began to feel foolish. There was no reason to suppose the chalk marks meant something, no reason to suspect any of the prisoners had escaped across the field. While the three of them wasted their time out here, the prisoners might be ten or a dozen miles away in the other direction. He hoped Blacker and Tiffany and the others were on the right track, even if he wasn’t.

“Ssst.”

Day looked around. March was across the road, walking at the edge of the tall grass and looking in the other direction. Behind him, he could see Hammersmith’s head and shoulders, his policeman’s uniform purple in the yellow moonlight. He wasn’t looking in Day’s direction, either.

“Ssst,” came the voice again. “Up here.”

Day looked up into the trees. Nothing. Then a quick movement in the shadows behind the leaves. Day moved his head and saw an old lady leaning out of a window on the top floor of a house, partially obscured by a jutting rooftop from the story below her.

“Hello, mother,” he said. “It’s late.”

“It’s early,” she said. “And keep your voice down. That other one might still be around.”

“Other one?”

“Come out from behind them trees, so I can see you proper.”

Day stepped out, away from the row of houses, out of the
shadows, looking both ways to be sure he wasn’t presenting a target. The woman was not much more than a blur in the darkness of the room behind her, but even though he couldn’t see anything Day felt it was improper to peer into a lady’s bedroom. He averted his eyes.

“You’re a policeman?”

“Inspector Day, ma’am.”

“My pleasure.”

“You said there was another one,” Day said. “Another man? Was he another policeman besides me?” With so many of the police combing every neighborhood near the prison, it was quite likely the woman had seen a lot more activity on the street than she was used to.

“Not the man I mean. Dressed different. Not a policeman, just different.”

Day felt his breath come quicker and his heart beat faster. Had the convicts come this way after all? “How was he dressed, ma’am? Was he wearing a white uniform? Big black darts up and down the sleeves?”

“One of them was wearing something very like that, yes. How did you know?”

“You say one of them was? Do you mean there was more than one of them?”

“Of course I mean there was two men. Please keep up if you want to talk to me.”

“Yes, ma’am. My apologies.” Day turned at a sudden sound behind him. March had crossed the road and was standing at his elbow.

“What’s she saying?”

“She’s seen two men tonight,” Day said.

“Who were they?” March said. He apparently had no compunction about looking into women’s bedrooms, because he was scowling up into the shadows as if he’d already caught the woman in a lie.

“I’m sure I don’t know who they were,” the old lady said. “I don’t associate with strange men after midnight. Nor coppers, neither.”

March muttered something under his breath that Day didn’t catch and took a step forward. Day caught him by the arm. “If you don’t mind, sir,” he said in a low voice, “I think I might be the one to talk to her.”

“Go ahead, then,” March said. “But I wouldn’t expect much out of that one, if I were you.”

“Of course, sir.” Day raised his voice so that the woman could hear him. “Mother, we’re terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour, of course, but we would greatly appreciate your help.”

“You would, would you?” The old lady’s voice still sounded chilly, but she hadn’t closed her window yet. Day took that as an encouraging sign.

“I don’t mean to worry you,” he said, “but we’re on the trail of dangerous fugitives. And you are the most important witness we’ve got.”

“I am?” Day could practically hear her drawing herself up to her full height, enjoying the sudden authority she’d been given. “Well, I’m not surprised. They didn’t act at all civilized.”

“What did they do?”

“Why are you looking at that tree when I’m speaking to you?”

“My apologies, mother. I don’t mean to offend you.”

“You’re a good boy, but I’m far too old to be offended easy.”

She had already proved herself to be easily offended, but Day glanced cautiously up at her. She was leaning farther out the window now, and he was surprised to see that she was fully dressed, her hair up and her face powdered. It occurred to him that she had been expecting him, or someone like him.

“Mother, what did the other men do?”

“This is ridiculous,” March said. “We’re going to wake the entire street. She doesn’t know anything.”

“I do so know anything,” the old lady said. “They come from up the field there and got into a row right under my window. I wasn’t sleeping. Haven’t slept good in years. It’s my back. Hurts most awful at night when I’m laying down. I should ought to get another mattress, but those ain’t cheap, you know?”

“A good mattress can be quite pricey indeed.”

She nodded, clearly happy he was in agreement. “So I was awake anyhow and I looked down on them, but not too close. I didn’t want them to see me looking and come round on me.”

“If they were the men we’re looking for, they were dangerous fellows.”

“I thought they were. The one dressed half like a policeman did something to the other one and they went away up the street there and then the other one fell down.”

“One was dressed as a policeman?” Day was confused. “Like me, you mean?”

“No, only half. And more like him.” The old lady pointed and
Day looked around the tree trunk where Hammersmith was just jogging up even with March.

“One of the men was dressed like him?” Day pulled Hammersmith forward and the sergeant smiled and took off his hat, then looked away at the same tree Day had been staring at.

“Not just like him, no. But very like him, I suppose. His top didn’t match his trousers, though.”

“So he had a jacket,” Day said. “A blue jacket, like this.” He tugged at Hammersmith’s sleeve.

“Precisely what I’m saying, yes.”

“And they went off in that direction?” Day pointed down the lane. There was a small green building there, a few yards away, butted right up against the curb.

“Yes. Then the man who was half a copper went off again and I never seen him no more tonight.”

Day felt a raindrop hit his cheek and roll down. A moment later another drop hit his hand. More rain wasn’t what he needed.

“And the other man?” he said.

“Well, he’s still here, isn’t he?”

“Still where, mother?”

“Why, there.” And the old lady pointed directly at the tiny green tea shop.

T
hey lingered in the shelter of
a copse of trees until a man passed by. He
was tall and thin and carried a heavy attaché case.
His hair was dark, going grey at the temples. His
shoes were shiny black. The rain had abated, but his
umbrella was still open. He was a busy man, hurrying
along with no interest in the bald man and the
half-naked bogeyman that trailed after him down the road.

They followed him along Old St Pancras Road to Aldenham and then up Ossulston to Phoenix Street, which Jack felt was entirely too appropriate at the dawn of his rebirth. The man turned in at the gate of a small tidy whitewashed terrace house, unlocked two bolts on the red front door, and stepped inside. Jack took the black medical bag from Cinderhouse, and the bald man trotted across the street. He pushed through the gate as it was swinging shut and put out his hand
just before the businessman closed the door. Jack came along after him and they forced their way inside before the man could do more than furrow his brow and open his mouth to complain.

Jack shut the door and turned the topmost bolt. He already felt sure the man was alone in the house. Anyone inside was unlikely to have fastened both locks. He sniffed the air and his supposition was confirmed. The atmosphere inside was stuffy and empty. There was nobody moving around in here to stir the dust and bring the rooms to life. He sighed deeply and smiled at the man, grateful to have a place to call his own, even if their arrangement was only temporary.

“Who are you? How dare . . .” the man said. He was still holding his umbrella, and now he pointed it at them like a weapon. “I demand that you leave. Leave immediately.”

“To answer your initial question,” Jack said, “I am who I am. And this is my colleague, the shadowy Mr Evans of Fleet Street.” Jack indicated Cinderhouse, who gave him a confused look, but said nothing.

“Well, Mr Evans and Mr . . .” The man looked for the first time at Jack’s naked legs, at his cock hanging down past the end of the prison shirt. His gaze traveled up and took in the darts on the white canvas uniform, and Jack saw comprehension suddenly spark in his eyes. “I don’t want trouble,” the man said.

“Nobody wants trouble,” Jack said. “Who would
want that? Trouble is not something we seek, dear sir.
Trouble is the thing that seeks us.”

The man turned to run, headed for the hallway and, Jack assumed, a back door through the kitchen or scullery. But Cinderhouse was prepared and blocked the way. Jack felt electric excitement shudder through his spine and flicker down his arms and legs. He set his bag on the floor against the wall, grabbed the man from behind, and
propelled him to the floor. He bit into him, but the man’s suit was thick and padded in the shoulders and Jack’s teeth were weak. Still, Jack laughed.

He was free.

The man crawled across the foyer with Jack clinging to his back. Jack grabbed a handful of distinguished greying hair and pulled the man’s head back, smashed it forward into the floor. Once, twice, three times, and the man stopped crawling, crumpled across his forearms, his fingers twisted into claws. A clear ooze mixed with blood trickled from the man’s left ear, and Jack tasted it. He listened to the man, relished the sound of the hot salty life coursing through his throat. He ground himself against the man’s still body.

Finally he rolled off the man and rose to his feet. Cinderhouse stood there, uselessly, staring at the wall as if he were a machine that had been switched off.

“Take him into the parlor,” Jack said. “Put him in a chair and find something to tie him with.”

“Why not finish him and be done?”

“Always in such a hurry, Peter. You have much to learn about art. Now do as I say.”

“I think it’s a mistake to leave him alive for any length of time.”

“Tell me you aren’t arguing, little fly?”

“Please stop calling me that.”

“Ah, they grow up so fast, don’t they?” Jack said.

Cinderhouse frowned, wondering who Jack was talking to.

“You must never contradict me,” Jack said.

“It’s only that I don’t like it when you call me an insect.”

“Then I will stop.”

“Thank you.”

After that, Cinderhouse went quietly about his chores as Jack watched. He lit candles all through the house, then dragged the man through the inside door and down the hall to the parlor, propped him up, and levered him into a plush armchair piled with embroidered burgundy pillows. Jack surmised that the man was married and that the wife was currently away. Why else the burgundy pillows? They were not the sort of thing a man would choose for himself. Jack wondered if the man had children, too, and how old they might be. And what the insides of their bodies might look like. Jack shrugged. There were things even he wasn’t meant to know.

While Cinderhouse went looking for twine or wire, something to tie the man with, Jack cast his eye about the house, his gaze finally coming to rest on the attaché case. It was unlikely the case held clues to the man’s home life. It was probably full of business papers, which would be completely boring. Jack kicked the case under a settee. The man wouldn’t need it again. He wouldn’t be returning to work. Jack had already liberated him from the humdrum life of the worker bee.

There was a silver letter opener on the mantel over the fireplace and Jack picked it up. It was well-polished and gleamed in the candlelight. Jack tucked it into the sleeve of his shirt, holding it against his arm with his fingertips, relishing the cold metallic feel of it. He decided to add the letter opener to his collection of instruments in the black leather bag. But it occurred to him that he needed pockets. He needed a decent pair of trousers and a waistcoat and a long jacket, all of them with loads of pockets.

The rest of the house was drab and ordinary, but with those
occasional women’s touches he had noted. Floral-patterned draperies and gilt chandeliers. Nothing expensive, and nothing too terribly tasteful, either.

Cinderhouse returned from the back of the house with a spool of rough mailing twine. He set to work wrapping it around the unconscious body of the man in the chair.

“We should name him,” Jack said. “What shall we call him?”

“I’m sure he already has a name.”

“Had. He had a
name, dear fly, when he was a simple worker. But
we are going to do things to him and he
will never return to that ordinary life he once led.
Nor should he desire to. This is a new day
for him. For us all. And he shall have a
new name to go with the new day.”

“I asked you not to call me that.”

“What’s that?”

“I asked you not to refer to me as an insect anymore.”

“I didn’t realize I had.”

“Well, don’t do it again, please.” The bald man cocked his head to one side and seemed to think for a long moment before speaking again. “I’m fond of the name Fenn,” he said.

“Fenn?”

“For him.” Cinderhouse pointed at the bound man. “Isn’t Fenn a pretty name?”

“No. I don’t like it.”

“Well, I do.”

“I like the name Elizabeth,” Jack said.

“But he’s a man,” Cinderhouse said. “You can’t call a man Elizabeth.”

“I can and I have. His name is now Elizabeth.”

Cinderhouse shook his head, but he didn’t argue further. He returned to the work of tying Elizabeth to his chair. Jack was unhappy with the bald man’s attitude. There was entirely too much arguing going on.

“What did you say,” Jack said, “that you used to do before you were in prison?”

“I was a tailor,” Cinderhouse said.

“Fascinating,” Jack said. “And how close in size do you think I am to Elizabeth?”

Cinderhouse sized them both up expertly with his eyes. “You are taller than he is, and I would guess that you were once a very large man, but you’re quite thin now. Still, I think I could let out his hems and cuffs and get his suits to match you well enough.”

“But I’m not interested in ‘well enough.’ I want to look every bit as dashing as I did before those evil men got hold of me.”

“I can make you look good. That’s a thing I do well.”

“That’s the spirit,” Jack said. “And it appears you’ve got our boy good and fastened down. Be a good fellow and come here a moment.”

Cinderhouse narrowed his eyes, but put down the nearly empty wooden spool that had held the twine. He cautiously approached Jack, walking very slowly. Jack became impatient.

“You are becoming entirely too insolent,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I shall have to punish you now. Please remember, I do this out of love.”

Cinderhouse started to
back away as Jack reached for him, but it was
too late. Jack mustered all of his strength and chopped
his knuckles at the base of Cinderhouse’s skull, where it
connected to his spine. When the bald man stumbled and
fell to his knees, Jack pulled the
letter opener from
his sleeve and held it to Cinderhouse’s throat. He leaned
down and brought him close and whispered in the bald man’s ear.

“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” he said. “Or perhaps not as much. Let’s decide when it’s done.”

Cinderhouse began to scream, wordlessly, but Jack didn’t hear him. He heard nothing but the blood pounding in his own ears.