The Devil's Workshop (22 page)

C
inderhouse dreamed that he was falling and he woke with a start. He was sitting in the upstairs hallway of the house with the red door. The first thing he noticed was the excruciating pain in his mouth, shooting through his jaw and up into his head. He put a hand to his mouth and immediately regretted it. He fished in the pockets of his trousers, no easy feat from a sitting position, and found his handkerchief, dabbed at the corners of his mouth. There was a little blood on the cloth when he pulled it back. He held it against his lips again and applied pressure, but it didn’t help. The pain was deep inside.

He realized that the bedroom door was open behind him at the same time he noticed that the knife was missing from his
hand. He had been waiting for the spider to wake up and unlock the bedroom door, and now the door was open and the knife was missing. He eased himself up and peered in through the open door, but the room was empty. There was the stale remnant of body odor, and dust motes swirled in the sunlight through the window opposite the big bed.

Cinderhouse blinked and sniffed and picked gunk from the corners of his eyes. He stood and staggered into the room, just to be sure no one was there, then went back to the hallway and sat at the top of the stairs, moved slowly forward and out, and bounced down each step. At the bottom of the stairs, he grabbed the post at the end of the banister and pulled himself up. He glanced in at the parlor on his way past and noted the absence of Elizabeth. The kitchen was as deserted as every other room he’d seen, but the back door was open and honeybees flitted in and out, visiting the purple blossoms in the garden and taking a wrong turn into the house before finding their way back out.

“Aaaauuoogh!”

He thought he was going to shout
hello
, but the sound that came from his tongueless mouth was some hideous howl of loneliness and pain. He winced at the sound of it.

He held perfectly still, his back to the butcher block, and listened. There was nothing. The house was empty. The echoes of silence came back to him and proved that there wasn’t a sound being made anywhere except here, except by him and the honeybees.

Jack had left and he had taken Elizabeth with him.

Jack had chosen Elizabeth over Cinderhouse. Never mind
that Cinderhouse had planned to kill Jack, had been waiting for him with the biggest knife he could find in the kitchen, had fantasized about plunging that blade deep in Jack’s chest and then taking it out and cutting out Jack’s tongue before the spider died. Never mind any of that. Cinderhouse had helped him, and still Jack had chosen Elizabeth to be his new rock, his Peter, his fly. He had taken Elizabeth away, and Cinderhouse felt certain they would never come back for him.

He pushed away from the butcher block and turned. He opened the drawer behind him and saw a rack of silverware inside. He couldn’t remember where he had found the twine he’d used to bind Elizabeth. He concentrated and crossed the kitchen and opened another drawer beside the water basin. Inside was another ball of rough string, not as thick as the stuff he’d used on Elizabeth, and a corkscrew, three pencil stubs, several thumbtacks, a pair of gloves, a shaker of salt, and a map of London, folded the wrong way round as if someone had consulted it and then been too impatient to fold it back properly.

Cinderhouse pulled out the map and one of the pencil stubs. He went to the table in the room and unfolded the map, spread it out flat across the table. He used the pencil to mark where he thought he must be, Elizabeth’s house on Phoenix Street. He saw that he was still near the prison, despite the many journeys to and fro under the street, the dead dog, the ambushing of the homeowner, and the aborted attempt at friendship with the little girl across the street. None of that had taken as much time as it had seemed to take, and none of it had taken him very far from the gates of Bridewell.

He traced the pencil up along Great College Street and found Kentish Town, then west to Primrose Hill. It was nearby. He sat at the table, got his nose down so that it almost touched the map, and moved the pencil around and around and stopped at Regent’s Park Road. He couldn’t be sure exactly where number 184 was, but he found the rough spot where he thought it must be and he circled that spot again and again with the tip of the pencil until it began to tear through the paper and the stub broke in half.

He had a splinter under his nail from the pencil and he dug that out with a paring knife.

He was much too lonely to go on like this. He needed the companionship of someone who would not confuse him the way that Jack did. Of course, a child would be the perfect companion. Children had always made him feel big and strong and able.

The old lady had seen him and had taken away his chance with the girl. But he knew it had not been much of a chance, since he had no tongue. It wasn’t the old lady’s fault. And it wasn’t Jack’s fault for taking his tongue. Not really. Cinderhouse had earned his punishment.

What he had not earned was a prison sentence. Not when he had been so good to his last child, the lovely little boy named Fenn, who had called him Father just the way he was supposed to. He had been good to that boy. And then the policemen had come to his house and ruined everything.

He remembered that little boy, and he remembered the policeman, some of them better than others. The tall policeman in
the cheap black suit. His name was Walter Day. He remembered Walter Day’s wife, too. Her name was Claire.

And he remembered where they lived: 184 Regent’s Park Road. In Primrose Hill.

And Primrose Hill was not far away at all.

H
e felt a presence in the cell before he heard the voice:

“Exitus probatur.”

“Is that you, Jack?”

“Hello, Walter Day.”

“Let us go free.”

“Hmm. Maybe. But no, probably not.”

“Then are you going to kill me now?”

“Look around you, Walter Day. Oh, that’s right, you can’t. That hood looks silly on you, by the way. I think I carried it off a bit better. Shall I describe our surroundings for you? Let us see . . . There are chains here, dirt floors, and stone walls. There are no windows, there is no sunlight, no butterflies or chirping birds. For that matter, there is a distinct lack of shrieking and
bleeding and weeping and piercing. We’re not in an abattoir or some dark alley in the East End. It’s quite dull here, actually. This is a dungeon, a prison, a sort of purgatory. This was a workshop for evil men, and I have taken it from them.
They
did not kill people here, and I do not mean to, either. This has become a sacred place, a birthplace. To be honest, though, I think I might have killed a man just over there on the other side of this wall. The fellow has stopped moving. I should look into that.”

“Do you mean—”

“In my rambling and contradictory way, I mean to say that I’m not planning to kill you, Walter Day. Not today, I’m not.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m still thinking. I’ll decide about tomorrow when tomorrow comes.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Today I desire intelligent discourse and I have my hopes pinned to you. It’s been such a very long time since I had a real conversation with someone who wasn’t screaming.”

“You said you killed someone down here. Was it Adrian March? On which side of me is the dead man?”

“Oh, I’ve killed so many people. Does it matter?”

“Was it March? I don’t hear him.”

“He’s sleeping. It was the other man I killed. That is, if I killed him.”

Day realized he was holding his breath and he let it out, took another breath. It sounded like a sigh.

“You can’t keep us here,” he said.

“I most certainly can. You don’t tell me what I can and cannot do, Walter Day.”

“People will be looking for us.”

“But will they find you? I’m aquiver with excitement. Will the detectives solve the mystery and rescue their cohorts? I can’t stand the suspense. Actually, Walter Day, I’ve spoken with your Inspector March, and there’s little reason to think anyone will search these tunnels. Nobody even knows you’re down here.”

“They’ll come looking for you. The Karstphanomen will. They’ll come for you and find me here instead. What do you think they’ll do then?”

“You’re not as stupid as the rest of them, are you, Walter Day? You present a problem for me.”

“And you present quite a problem for me, Jack.”

Jack chuckled and patted him on the arm. Day’s chains rattled with the movement.

“Yes, I suppose I do,” Jack said. “Let me ask you something. Are you ready for me to ask you something?”

“I think so.”

“Listen carefully now.
Exitus probatur.
”

“You said that before. What does it mean?”

“Are you being coy, Walter Day? I can’t decide if you’re playing a game with me. I do like games, but I’m not sure I have the patience right now.”

“It sounds like Latin. What you said. Is it Latin?”

“You really don’t know what it means?”

“No. I swear it.”

“Fascinating.”

“What
does
it mean?”

“I’m not entirely sure, Walter Day, but some of your friends do seem to know what it means.”

“My friends?”

“Your man to the right of me, in the neighboring cell, Mr March. He knows what it means. And the gentleman to my left—he’s to
your
right, I suppose. He knows, too. Or knew. As I said, he’s stopped doing things and knowing things. Though it hardly matters. He’s not important to our story anymore.”

“You’re mad.”

“Quite probably. But that’s not important just now, either. The immediate problem you pose for me arises because I believe you when you say you do not know those words, Walter Day.”

“I
don’t
know them.”

“I already said I believe you. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“But what does it mean?
Exit proboscis?
”

“You’ve misquoted me. I think you just told me that something’s coming out of your nose. And, now you mention it, you do seem to be having some trouble breathing.
Are
you having trouble breathing?”

Day nodded. When he moved his head, he felt the rough fabric against his chin and lips and eyelids. And he felt the stab of pain in his head, but it wasn’t as sharp this time. It was bearable. The fabric shifted and he felt pressure on his scalp, then the hood lifted away and cool air hit his face. He took a deep rasping breath and opened his eyes. He immediately closed them again.

“Is that better, Walter Day?”

“It is.”

“You should say thank you.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. And I’m glad you’ve found your manners. Though I did have to remind you.” There was a pause. “But I forgive you that because I remember how terribly stuffy this hood can be. It stifles the senses, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Day opened his eyes again, just a little bit, kept them partially closed and ratcheted his eyelids up a bit at a time, letting them adjust to the light. When they were open far enough that he could see, he was surprised to realize that the only illumination in the cell was indirect, the glow of a lantern in another nearby alcove. He could see the light from it reflected on the tunnel wall opposite his own cell, but everything around him was black.

“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Jack said. “The light, I mean. It stabs at your eyes.”

The way he emphasized the word
stab
sent a shiver down Day’s spine. He tried to turn his head to see Jack, but the shooting pain in his skull stopped him. The brief glimpse he had of Jack was disappointing, only a shape in the darkness.

“Do you see me, Walter Day?”

“No. I mean, you’re lost in the shadows.”

Jack laughed, sudden and loud, the bark of a rabid dog.

“You’ll forgive me. I’m a bit giddy today. But I am indeed lost in the shadows. And gladly so. I live in them. You’re merely a
visitor.” The humor left his voice and he leaned in closer, though Day did not turn his head. “Tell me,” Jack said.

“I told you. I don’t know the words. I don’t know Latin.”

“No, tell me something else. Do they remember me? Above, in the sunlight. Do they remember Saucy Jack, or have I truly faded into the shadows?”

“You’re forgotten. No one remembers you in the slightest.”

Day heard Jack move, sitting back, his body creaking like old leather and rotting wood.

“No, I don’t believe you this time, Walter Day. I think they do remember me. I think I still frighten them. Am I a tale told to children to keep them in their beds? Do they see me at the back of their closets, under their beds, following them in the street at dusk?”

“Yes, if you must know. Yes. You ruined everything. You took away their trust and security. Does that make you ashamed? That you damaged the city so badly that nobody will ever feel safe again? Or does it make you happy?”

“Oh, it makes me very happy, indeed. Thank you.”

“The best thing you can do for everyone in London is to die.”

“If only I could. But gods don’t die, Walter Day. They step back into the shadows they came from and they watch. You know, you have a lump on your head. I think perhaps I put it there when I hit you. I apologize for that. But how was I to know we’d become friends?”

“I forgive you,” Day said.

This time Jack’s laughter was deep and sincere, even friendly.
It rolled around the cell and boomed down the tunnel. It was the laughter of a delighted and indulgent father.

“Oh, Walter Day, you do amuse me. I think I’m going to let you keep your tongue.”

Day said nothing. He was afraid to speak. He didn’t know whether to take Jack literally. Did he mean that Day was free to speak? Or did he mean that he might actually cut the tongue out of his mouth?

“The tailor no longer amuses me,” Jack said. “I’ve grown bored of him. Of course, he couldn’t say anything of interest these days, even if he wanted to.”

“Tailor?”

“I believe you know him.”

“You mean Cinderhouse?”

“Clever boy, Walter Day. That is exactly who I mean.”

“You cut out his tongue?”

“I did alter him a bit. That’s a joke about tailoring. I’m sorry it’s not a better one.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“I do.”

“Will you tell me?”

“What would you do with that information? You’re here, he’s there. I’m afraid it would be a useless gesture, were I to give you his location.”

“I was looking for him down here. I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t know you were here or even that you were still alive.”

“So it was the Fates that brought us together. Do you suppose
those three fine ladies speak Latin? Perhaps they could translate my phrase for me.”

“How do you know him? Cinderhouse, I mean? Did he come for you? Did he help you kill those women a year ago?”

“The Fates at work again, those weird sisters. I suppose you could say the tailor works for me. Like those policemen work for you. The ones who will be coming to find you here.”

“Are they coming?”

“You said they were.”

“They don’t work for me.”

“They should. You’re smarter than they are. Take the power that is yours to take, Walter Day.”

“There’s no power. We work together. We’re the Murder Squad.”

“Oh, yet another gentlemen’s society. You people are so keen on those. Still, I don’t see them here, the other policemen. I see you here. You were the only one smart enough to find me. You, who are wholly removed from that gentleman’s club of torturers, the Karstphanomen. You, who have braved the darkness. Walter Day, you
are
the Murder Squad. At least, all of it that matters to me.”

“Sergeant Hammersmith will come. He will find me.”

“Hammersmith? Who is he?”

“A better policeman than I am.”

“Better than the great Walter Day? This I must see. And yet he is your sergeant. You are his superior.”

“I’m no one’s superior.”

“Someone has taught you too much humility. Who was that?
Who did that to you? You must have been a child to have learnt it so deep in your bones. Your father, was he in service?”

“He’s none of your business.”

“Ah, so he
was
in service. A footman, perhaps? A valet?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he did you a
dis
service. That’s another play on words.”

“He was a good man.”

“Was? He’s dead now?”

“No. He’s alive.”

“When did you see him last?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hmm. Neither do I. Nor do I actually care. Let me show you something.”

Jack’s hands entered the soft field of light reflected from the tunnel outside. He was wearing brown leather gloves that looked almost orange in the dim glow. They didn’t seem to fit him well. He was holding a black bag. He unfastened the clasp and opened it, drew out a scalpel. He held the scalpel up so that Day could see it, and Day shrank back toward the wall behind him. His chains rattled and clanked.

“I’m having . . .” Day said. “I mean, my wife’s having a baby.”

“That’s wonderful. But why should that matter to me?”

“Don’t kill me.”

“Oh, this. Well, first of all, if I were to kill you, your baby would still be born. Baby doesn’t care whether you’re there or not, am I right? But second of all, I’ve already told you I’m not going to kill you. You may take me at my word. Your question should be, ‘What
else
can Jack do with a scalpel?’
”

“Don’t.”

“And the answer is . . . I can point with it. Look at this.”

The sharpened tip of the scalpel moved over the outside of the bag and came to rest under a decoration stamped into the leather.

“What does this say, do you think?”

“Initials,” Day said. “Someone’s initials.”

“Exactly. But whose?”

“Is it your bag? Are they your initials? Your real name?”

“Oh, good guess, Walter Day. But no, these are not my initials. This is my bag. But yesterday it was not my bag. And I would like to know who owned this bag yesterday, you see?”

“A doctor?”

“Well, that’s a good start. A good assumption, I think. Yes, I believe, given the wonderful work he did on my own body, that he was and is a doctor. And our mystery doctor left this down here every day, which would indicate to me that this was not his primary medical bag. He must have another bag. I should be an inspector, shouldn’t I? Do you need a new associate?”

“I have—”

“Ah, yes, Sergeant Hammersmith. Perhaps if I make him go away, you and I might be even better friends.” The scalpel was withdrawn and disappeared in the shadows.

“No. Don’t. Leave him be. Um, the initials on the bag are
MBB
. So you’re looking for someone who is a doctor and has the initials . . . Oh.”

“Yes?”