Devil's Workshop (9781101636398)

by Alex Grecian

  He found half a stale loaf of bread in the kitchen cupboard, along with a cheese that wasn’t much more than rind. He ate them too quickly and was only halfway through the bread when he had to step out the back door and vomit it all back up. After that, he ate slowly, swallowed a little bit of water with each mouthful.

  When he felt satisfied that he would hold the bread down, he went back to the parlor and stood in the shadows under the stairs and watched Elizabeth struggle with his bonds, unaware that he was being observed. Jack’s gaze settled on the mantel. Cinderhouse’s tongue was nailed to the forward edge. It had stopped dripping and was beginning to shrivel a bit around the edges. It had always fascinated Jack how long a person’s tongue was once it was out of the mouth, free to stretch itself out a bit.

  Now he missed Cinderhouse’s chattering. Only a little. The bald man still expressed himself with grunts and gestures, but of course that was the most rudimentary and imprecise of languages. Jack frowned and wondered if he ought to have punished Cinderhouse in some other way. Left him with his words so they could have a proper conversation.

  Then he realized that what was really needed was a second tongue on the mantel. Two tongues might converse with each other. What secrets would they tell? He left the shadows and went in search of his medical bag. It was still on the floor against the wall where he’d left it when they’d first entered the house. He opened it and rummaged through until he found a fine scalpel, still dotted here and there along its short sharp blade with Jack’s own blood. He went back to the parlor, and Elizabeth stopped struggling when he saw him. Jack smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring way and removed the gag from the homeowner’s mouth. Elizabeth started to say something, but Jack shushed him and went right to work.

  When he had finished, he left the gag loose around Elizabeth’s neck so he wouldn’t choke to death on his own blood. Jack pounded a nail through Elizabeth’s tongue into the edge of the mantel. It made a fine companion piece to Cinderhouse’s tongue, although there were subtle differences between the two pieces of meat, not the least of which was that the bald man’s tongue was much more ragged at the far edge where it had been torn out. Absolutely fascinating to see the many variations the human body worked upon itself. God’s wonders were truly infinite.

  Jack stepped back and wiped his fingers on the front of the smoking jacket. He hefted the hammer once or twice, tested its weight, and slashed at the air with it, letting it swing his arm around, wondering at the simple power of it. He saw Elizabeth out of the corner of his eye, still drooling blood down the front of his shirt, his eyes wide with pain and terror. Jack sighed and put the hammer down on the mantel top. He hadn’t intended to frighten the poor fellow. Hammers were not his style. Didn’t everyone know that by now? He patted Elizabeth on the shoulder and left the room.

  He checked on Cinderhouse, who was still toiling away over the suit at the dining room table, then took the stairs up to the bedroom once more. He closed the door and turned the lock and lay down on the bed. The ceiling was tin, painted white, with swirling decorative grooves that looped across its whole expanse. He followed the grooves with his eyes, making pictures in the patterns up there, until he fell asleep.

  23

  They were waiting for the wagon from Scotland Yard, and Hammersmith was visibly chafing at the sense of wasted time. Day offered him his flask of brandy, but Hammersmith waved it away. Day took a long pull at the flask, recorked it, and stowed it in his jacket, on the other side from the Colt Navy so that their weight balanced and didn’t pull the jacket off-center.

  “I hope the others have caught somebody, too,” Hammersmith said.

  “How are you, Nevil?”

  “What?”

  “You asked after me earlier,” Day said. “What about you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “I see.”

  Day stared at the green tea shop where Adrian March stood guard over the prisoner. The air was better out here on the street, even if the sky remained suspiciously grey.

  “I’ve got to find a new flatmate,” Hammersmith said.

  “It’s been six months. More than that, hasn’t it?”

  Hammersmith nodded, looked away at the sky, both of them waiting for it to open up and soak them. “His family came. Took his things. What things they wanted.”

  Constable Colin Pringle had been off duty when he was murdered, helping his friend Hammersmith on a case he wasn’t even supposed to be working. Hammersmith hadn’t mentioned Pringle even once since then. Day was surprised to hear him speak of him now, but he stayed silent, afraid any sound he made might chase the sergeant back into whatever hole he’d been living in for seven months.

  “Left me with his suits.”

  Day looked down at the footpath and waited.

  “Can you imagine me in a suit?”

  Day smiled at him. “Maybe when you make inspector.”

  “Never happen. I’d give them to you, but they wouldn’t fit. You’re bigger than he was.”

  “So are you.”

  “I suppose so. Where would I put them if some new chap moved in? He wouldn’t want a dead man’s clothing taking up all the space in his room.”

  “You could donate them to the poor.”

  “Would Colin like that, do you think? Would he be pleased to see his suits worn by shit-shovelers and knocker-uppers?”

  “It might amuse him. But I didn’t know him as well as you did.”

  There was a long companionable silence. Day looked up at the sky and Hammersmith looked down at the tops of his shoes.

  “You shouldn’t worry, you know,” Hammersmith said.

  “About what?”

  “I was thinking about my father.”

  “You’ve lost a lot in the past year.”

  “I was thinking about him the way that I remember him, not the way that he was at the end of things. By then his body had failed and his mind had gone. He wasn’t the same man. But when I was younger . . .”

  “I’m sure he was a good father.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I don’t know what’s a good father and what’s a perfectly average father, since I never had more than one to compare, you know? But what I remember best of all are the small things, not the big events, not the things you think you’ll remember, like a trip to the Crystal Palace.”

  “But the small things?”

  “Yes. When he would put his hand on my shoulder as we walked along. Or when he showed me how to tie my boots. He was patient with me.”

  “Nevil, your boots are untied.”

  “That’s what reminded me just now. I never quite got the knack of it.”

  “Do you want another lesson?”

  “Ha.” Hammersmith looked up and grinned at him. “But that’s what I mean. You’ll show your son. Or your daughter. You’ll show them how to tie their shoes. Or you’ll just take a walk with them and be quiet and let them talk. You’ll listen the way that you always do. And they’ll remember that one small moment, maybe, when they’re older. And that’s all they’ll need from you. Only that you were there.”

  “If that’s really all it took, Nevil . . .”

  “I think that it is.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  “I didn’t mean to offer you unasked-for advice. And it’s hardly my place . . .”

  “Not at all,” Day said. “I’m glad that you did.”

  “Good.”

  Both men quietly watched the far corner of the street until the wagon came around it and rolled smoothly toward them. At last, the escapee would be taken off their hands and they could get back to the business of catching prisoners.

  “And it’s good to know,” Day said, “that their uncle Nevil will be such a font of good advice.”

  He clapped Hammersmith on the back and stepped out into the street and hailed the wagon driver.

  24

  Cinderhouse poked his fingers through the gap in the curtain and peered outside. Clouds were moving fast acro
ss the sky, and shining slivers of bright blue and pink slashed through the grey. He was aware of Elizabeth, whimpering in the chair beside him, but he ignored the damaged homeowner. Cinderhouse had been punished, but he was still Peter, still the rock. Elizabeth was nothing, not even a fly. Jack would dispose of him eventually, when he grew bored.

  A carriage rolled by outside and a bird fluttered up past the window, on its way to some roost above. Cinderhouse smiled, then grimaced at the pain in his mouth. His punishment had been too severe, he thought. But then, who was he to judge? He set his face carefully, found an expression that didn’t hurt his tender lips too much. Jack had pushed hard against the bald man’s jaw for leverage as he’d yanked.

  The bird flew back down past the window—or perhaps it was a different bird; what did he know about birds?—and grabbed at something in the dirt. Across the street, a door opened and a little girl stepped out into a sudden patch of sunlight. It glinted on her shiny blond ringlets. She wore a pink dress covered with bows and dots, and it ended just above her ankles. Cinderhouse found himself staring at her delicate ankles. He was panting.

  He wanted that girl.

  But Jack had told him he could not have any more children.

  A ridiculous notion. Surely Jack hadn’t meant it. It was like telling the bird not to claw at worms in the dirt.

  The girl leaned against the fence across the street and Cinderhouse pulled the curtains partially shut. He didn’t want her to see him. Not yet. He wasn’t properly dressed. Elizabeth jounced in his chair, trying to get the bald man’s attention. Cinderhouse turned and picked up the shovel from the fireplace. He pounded the injured man—the other injured man—on top of his skull until Elizabeth slumped silent in the chair. That was better.

  Cinderhouse checked to be sure the girl was still there. Then he turned and hurried to gather his new suit, the second suit from Elizabeth’s wardrobe that he had altered. He would make himself look nice for the girl.

  Jack couldn’t possibly be angry about that. Not if he simply visited the little girl. Surely he wouldn’t punish Cinderhouse for obeying his nature. That wouldn’t be fair at all.

  Just the thought of that pretty little girl was giving Cinderhouse strength. Just the thought of her! He almost smiled again.

  He absolutely couldn’t wait to meet her.

  25

  Fiona Kingsley dropped her umbrella in the foyer and rushed through the door into University College Hospital. Her feet left damp tracks across the smooth polished wood as she scampered along the dark hallway. She barely glanced at the skeleton in the corner, held together with wires and screwed into a wooden base. She had named it Bruce when she was three years old, and it was now like an old family pet, tolerated but barely seen. Her father’s laboratory was in the hospital’s basement, but his office was on the ground floor and so she tried it first. She knocked twice on the closed door and pushed it open, entering headfirst. Great piles of paper obscured her father’s desk, and a single green-shaded lamp standing on a stool against the side of the table failed to illuminate the dark and dingy workspace. Fiona clicked her tongue and turned to leave, but there was a rustling sound from somewhere in the gloomy back half of the room, and Dr Kingsley’s head popped up over a mound of yellowed vellum. His spectacles were up on top of his head, virtually lost amid drifts of wild grey hair. His necktie was skewed and stubbornly knotted as if the doctor had tried to pull it off without first loosening it.

  “Shut the door,” he said. “I’m busy.” Then he peered harder in her direction and said, “Fiona? Is that you?” He touched his face and patted his hands gently about in the sea of paper.

  “They’re on your head, Father,” Fiona said.

  Dr Kingsley reached up and found the spectacles, extricated them from his hair, and adjusted them carefully on the bridge of his nose. He smiled at Fiona and walked around the desk, grabbed her in a big hug. Fiona noticed that she was nearly as tall as he was and wondered when that had happened.

  “What brings you, my dear?”

  “It’s Claire,” Fiona said. “She’s having the baby.”

  “What, right this minute?”

  “Very nearly so. She’s having pains.”

  “Contractions, you mean? How close together?”

  “Every five minutes at least.”

  “If I know Walter,” Kingsley said, “he must be out of his mind with worry right now.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Where is he?”

  “He was called out. Something’s happened and he was sent for.”

  “How long ago?”

  “Not long.”

  “Oh, of course. The thing at the prison.”

  “It was just after he left that Claire began to feel the cramping. Well, not long after, at any rate.”

  “Has her water broken?”

  “I think so. But Father, there’s blood.”

  “She’s bleeding?”

  “Yes, is that very bad?”

  “Not necessarily. How much blood did you see?”

  “A little bit. I’m not sure. There were other fluids, too.”

  “Well, a certain amount of bleeding is to be expected.” Kingsley snatched his hat from the rack by the door and moved a stack of papers off the floor onto his desk. “Ah, here it is. You know, you should have sent someone to get me, stayed with her.”

  “I’m quicker than anyone I might have sent. And a policeman is there helping.”

  “That’s good.” He pulled up on the handle of the black medical bag that he always carried when he was outside the hospital. It didn’t move. “But I’m sure she’d rather have you there with her right now.”

  “We’d both rather get you there sooner than later.”

  He stopped pulling on the bag and squinted at her. Fiona felt sure he could see through her, that he knew how frightened she was, that she had left Claire alone because she didn’t know what else to do and she needed her father. He turned back to the bag and glared at it.

  “Oh,” he said. “There’s the problem.” He leaned on the corner of the desk and lifted it an inch and slid one of the handles out from beneath the desk’s leg. He scooted the bag across the floor with the toe of his shoe and set the desk back down. He stepped over to the bag and picked it up, took his daughter by the elbow, and steered her toward the door.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?” he said. “We have a baby to deliver.”

  26

  Eunice Pye moved to a terrace house on Phoenix Street the same year she was married. Her husband, Giles, died in that terrace house the same year the London Underground was opened to the public. Right or wrong, she had always associated Giles’s death with the advent of swift transportation and there was nothing within walking distance that interested her much, so she rarely left her home except for Saturday mornings when she visited the corner market.

  She was returning from the market at eight o’clock when she saw a strange man leave the house with the red door. That particular house had been cause for much speculation by Eunice because Mrs Michael, who lived there, had left two weeks previously and had not returned. Giles would have told her to mind her own business, but Eunice couldn’t help speculating. She had decided that there must have been a terrible row and that it was entirely possible Mrs Michael would not be returning. Mr Michael, whose hair had begun to grey (or perhaps he had stopped touching it up when his wife left), had lived there alone for those two weeks, but had not changed his routine. He left each morning for work and returned each evening with a bag of fish and chips from Benny’s on the corner. (Eunice assumed it was fish and chips because she could not imagine sampling any of Benny’s other greasy offerings.)

  Eunice had not seen this new strange man enter the house, so she reasoned that he must have arrived while she was at the market or in the wee hours while she slept. But now here he was, a tall man in a nice grey suit that fitted him nearly perfectly (although she thought it seemed a bit scrunched in the shoulders). He closed the
red door carefully, as if to make sure it would not latch behind him, and he came through the gate, letting it swing shut again.

  He stopped then and stood on the curb, watching the little Anderson girl, who was playing in her tiny front garden. Eunice took a moment to smile at her, but the little girl had always been an absolute beast and she stuck her tongue out at Eunice.

  Eunice was carrying two baskets of groceries and her gate was latched. She was trying to determine whether to set a basket down on the path in order to free up a hand to unlatch the gate when the stranger hurried over and opened the gate for her.

  “Thank you, young man,” Eunice said. She carried her baskets through the gate and turned back to the man. “Would you mind closing it again?”

  The man said nothing. He closed and latched the gate and tipped his hat to her. He turned back to the house with the red door and paused only a moment for another look at the little Anderson girl. He glanced again at Eunice and then went in by his own gate and into the house.

  She watched until the red door had shut behind him, then she shuddered. She had never liked bald men. Giles had maintained a full and healthy head of hair for the entirety of their married life. There was something about this particular bald man that interested her, though. Something she couldn’t quite place. Perhaps it was his mouth, which looked swollen and sore. His lips didn’t seem to close completely.

  She set her baskets down on the narrow strip of grass that separated her garden from the front walk and found her key in her handbag. She unlocked the front door, picked up the baskets, and carried them through to the kitchen. The instant she reached the counter, she remembered why the bald man seemed so familiar.

  She let go of her baskets, one of which landed safely on the counter. The other landed half on, half off the counter, and gravity propelled it the rest of the way to the floor. Eunice heard the crash and spatter of a jam jar, but did not turn around. She got to the front door as quickly as she could, shut it, and bolted it fast. She went to the parlor window and looked up and down the street, but the bald man had not come back outside. There was nothing in the lane but the usual foot traffic and the occasional carriage rolling past. Still, she kept watch for half an hour, waiting to see if the bald man would leave again.