The Devil's Workshop (15 page)

T
he boy driving the police wagon was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. From his driver’s seat he was able to look down on Day and Hammersmith, and it was for this reason that he refused to alight. Instead, he sat, stoic and silent, with the morning sun behind him. Sergeant Kett had obviously put young runners to work driving carriages for the day. Day wondered if the boy was trying to grow whiskers or had perhaps left a bit of wheat cereal on his lip. His thoughts wandered to his unborn child and he wondered if it would be a son and if it would be as dutiful as this boy was.

Hammersmith gave the horse’s nose a pat and followed Day to the tea shop door, which was closed and refused to budge. Day tugged on the handle and then rapped on the green door.

“It sticks,” said the shop’s proprietor, who sat frustrated on the curb, watching for cabs in the street. Every time a two-wheeler or four-wheeler rolled by, he would mutter under his breath, “Another one lost.”

Eventually, the door swung open and Adrian March beckoned them inside. Day shook his head.

“The wagon’s arrived,” he said. “Let’s bring him out.”

“One moment,” March said.

The door closed, then opened again a minute later, and March pushed Napper out onto the footpath. The prisoner stumbled, but caught himself before falling and stood up straight. He was shorter than he had seemed inside the miniature shop. His hands were still bound in bunched and knotted canvas, but there were fresh wounds on his face and scalp, fresh blood on his prison-issue uniform. He spat at Day, but the inspector moved backward and watched the glistening spit break and spatter at his feet. Napper grinned at him. His teeth were small and pearl grey.

“Sorry,” he said. “Meant that for him over there.”

“What happened?” Day said. “Why’s he got blood all over him?”

“He fell,” March said. “Hit his head against the counter before I could catch him.”

The shop’s proprietor pushed past them all and disappeared into the gloom of the green building. Off-balance, Napper fell against Day. Day grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upright, but his attention was arrested by the gleam in the little prisoner’s eyes.

“Heard something,” Napper said.

“What do you mean?” Day said.

“The other one, Griffin,” Napper said. “He told me a thing you might like to know.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you,” Napper said. “Or maybe I won’t.”

“He’s lying,” March said. “He didn’t say anything like this when we were in there.” He gestured at the tea shop.

“You didn’t ask me nice,” Napper said. “You was evil toward me. Not talkin’ no more to you.”

“If you have something to say,” Day said, “say it.”

“Only you. Only to you.”

“Why me?”

“Nice eyes you got. Friendly eyes. Salty tasty eyes.”

Day remembered that Napper was the one who had eaten a woman over the course of several days. He swallowed hard and turned away. “Let’s get him in the wagon.”

“He said he were gonna put me in a cell,” Napper said. He was talking fast, realized he’d lost his audience, but probably had no idea what he’d said that was so wrong. “Said he was gonna take me underground, down there, and put me in a cell.”

Day turned back around. “Who did? Who said that?”

“You weren’t there.”

“Who?”

Napper looked slyly around at the three of them. “Griffin. It were Griffin. Said he had it all ready and waitin’ for me, for when the others come and took me there.”

“Underground?”

“It’s what he said. Swear it on my honor.”

“Your honor? That means nothing.”

“Catch ’im. He’ll tell you same’s I done.”

The big shutters on the street side of the tea shop swung open and the proprietor stuck his head outside. “What happened in here? What did you do to my place?”

“It was this fellow and his friend,” Day said. “Terribly sorry, sir.”

“The whole day’s gone. It’ll take the whole day to clean this up.”

“We’ll try to send someone to help you with that,” Day said. But he knew there was nobody to spare. They didn’t even have proper drivers for the wagons.

Day opened the back of the wagon and eyed the dark interior. It had been built to transport prisoners and was sturdy enough, with heavy oak buttresses and inch-thick paneling. So heavy that Day wondered about the strength of the horse that had to pull it. The benches along the walls inside the van were utilitarian, not fashioned for any measure of comfort, and there was no window for illumination, no place to set a lamp or candle, nothing to break off and use as a weapon. He stepped back and glanced at the puffed-up boy holding the reins.

“We can’t send Napper away with this child,” Day said.

“I’m no child,” the boy said.

“I’ll be good,” Napper said. “Real good.”

Day ignored them both. “This lad would probably be safe enough during the ride, but there may not be anyone at the Yard to receive him. He might be stuck sitting there, useless, until
someone comes to help move Napper into a cell. Or he might try to move the prisoner himself and be hurt in the attempt.”

“I can move ’im,” the boy said. “I’m plenty able.”

“Well, that settles it,” Hammersmith said. “He can move him.” But he chuckled as he said it.

“He looks strong,” Napper said. “Plenty of meat on them bones.”

Hammersmith stopped laughing.

“One of us has to ride along,” Day said.

“Mr Hammersmith,” March said, “you’re the best choice for it.”

“I think you ought to go,” Hammersmith said.

“I’m no longer quite so young as you are, my boy,” March said. “And Inspector Day can’t go because he’s in charge of this investigation. It would be a waste of his time.”

Hammersmith looked at Day and an entire conversation occurred without either of them saying a word. Hammersmith pursed his lips, raised his left eyebrow. Day shrugged at him. He didn’t want Hammersmith to go, but March’s logic was sound. Hammersmith sniffed and kicked at a stone in the street.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll be back with you in an hour. Where will I find you?”

“Inspector March and I are going underground.”

“Do you know how many miles of tunnels are down there? It would take us days to get through it all,” March said. “And just on the word of this bloody convict?”

“I told you what’s true,” Napper said.

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

“I can’t very well expect to find you underground,” Hammersmith said.

A large crowd of passersby had gathered at a respectful distance, watching the police and the filthy little man trussed in bloody canvas. Napper clearly enjoyed the attention and was performing some sort of jig. The tea shop proprietor was still hanging halfway out his window, listening to their conversation, perhaps hoping one of them would come back inside and help him tidy the place up. Day waved at him.

“Where’s the nearest entry to the tunnels under us?”

“I’m supposed to know that?”

“I can tell you,” a heavyset man said. He was wearing a hat two sizes too small for him and carrying a broken umbrella. “There’s a church right across there.” He pointed vaguely at some spot in the distance. “Under it’s a catacombs.”

“How do you know that?”

“I work there. Play the organ at mass.”

“What’s the name of the church?”

“St John of God, sir.”

Day turned back to Hammersmith. “Meet us at St John of God. We’ll nose about and then come back to the door in an hour. If there’s any sign that someone is down there, we’ll all go down together.”

“Don’t deal with anything on your own,” Hammersmith said. He held up a warning finger. “Wait for me if there’s anything suspicious. Promise.”

“I’ll wait for you, Nevil.”

Hammersmith nodded once and pushed Napper into the
back of the van. The prisoner was still hopping about, amusing the crowd, and he tripped, sprawled facedown on the floor of the wagon. Hammersmith lifted Napper’s legs and shoved forward, propelling him all the way in on his belly.

“Here,” Day said. He held out his lantern. “You’ll need this.”

“Further insurance that you’ll stay aboveground,” Hammersmith said.

“I’ll stay away from the dark until you find me again.”

Hammersmith took the lantern. He jumped up into the wagon and closed the doors behind him. The boy shouted “haw” and cracked the reins and the wagon lurched away from the curb. It rolled down the street, the horse straining against the immense weight of its load, turned the corner, and was gone.

Day turned to the fat man with the little hat. “Will you show us the way to St John of God?”

The man nodded, his face bright and eager. He waved the broken umbrella over his head and led the way down the street as if he were at the head of a parade. Day smiled at the tea shop proprietor, motioned to Adrian March, and followed the fat organ player as the crowd began to break up behind them.

T
here were fugitives loose in the city, but Constable Rupert Winthrop was not out there chasing them down. He was stuck in the foyer of a private home on Regent’s Park Road, sitting on an uncomfortable chair and sipping tea. His stomach was growling and he wanted a pastry, but there was no one else in the house except a very pregnant lady, and Rupert didn’t want to bother her.

He had tried watching the door like a hawk, just staring at it. It made him feel diligent and in charge of the situation, but that feeling had passed quickly. There was no situation. Everybody else was out there running down villains, and Rupert had apparently done something wrong because he was doing nothing. He couldn’t figure out why Sergeant Kett should be unhappy with
him. He’d spent the last hour thinking over every exchange he’d ever had with the sergeant, but there was nothing. It must have been something personal, something he’d had no idea would offend. The only thing to do was try to get back in Kett’s good graces as soon as he possibly could.

He was puzzling over just how to accomplish that when he heard a woman scream upstairs. He dropped his cup of tea, which broke on the floor. Tea spattered everywhere, and Rupert wasted several seconds by dropping to his knees and trying to gather the shards of china into his palm. A second scream made him drop the shards, some of which split into even tinier sharp bits, and jump back to his feet. He rushed to the steps and stared up into the darkness. He looked back at the door again, the door he was supposed to be guarding, then took a cautious step up. He heard whimpering somewhere above and abandoned caution, taking the stairs three at a time. He didn’t wait at the top of the stairs for his eyes to adjust, and so he ran into a wall and caromed off of it, then oriented himself and walked down the hallway, stopping outside the lady’s bedroom. He rapped on the door, already embarrassed and unsure.

“Ma’am?”

A moment’s silence. Then: “I’m fine.”

Rupert tugged at his earlobe and sniffed. What if someone else was in the bedroom? What if someone had climbed up from the outside and through the window and had a knife to Claire Day’s throat and was whispering in her ear, telling her to say that she was all right?

“Ma’am,” he said, “can I open the door?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“But are you really all right?”

“Yes.” Her voice was small and far away, muffled by the thick door. She sounded like a little girl. “I mean, no. I don’t know. Where’s Fiona? I want Fiona.”

Rupert stepped closer to the door and put his lips almost against it. He wanted to push himself through the grain of the wood and be able to see whether Mrs Day needed his help.

“She went to get the doctor for you,” he said.

“She left me?”

“Only for a bit. I’m here, ma’am. Really, anything I can do . . .”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Are you sure? I could—”

“I said leave me alone!”

Rupert pulled his head back away from the door as if he’d been struck. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He spoke quietly and wasn’t sure she could hear him, but then she answered.

“I’m sorry, too, Constable.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Rupert?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I don’t wish to offend you, but would you please leave me alone?”

“Of course.”

“And please send Fiona to me as soon as she returns?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She is going to return?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Rupert. And I’m terribly sorry. You seem like a nice person.”

“Yes, ma’am. I try. Please don’t hesitate . . . I mean, if you need anything . . .”

“Thank you, Rupert.”

He nodded, though of course she couldn’t see him. He retreated to the stairs and down and went to his chair in the foyer, but he didn’t sit. He looked back up at the top of the stairs where they disappeared into shadow and then he looked at the dangerous puddle of tea and china that he had made on the floor. He clucked his tongue and went in search of a broom and dustpan.

There was something useful to do at last.