by Alex Grecian
“Inspector,” the boy said. “Sir?”
Day looked up at him. “What is it, boy?”
“He’s sent for you. Sir Edward has.”
“At this time of night?”
“Sent for ever’body, sir. I mean ever’body there is. I had a time findin’ you, too. They tol’ me you was in Kentish Town, not out here. Posh!”
Day sighed. He didn’t like to advertise the fact that he lived well beyond his means in Primrose Hill. The house was a gift from Claire’s parents. “Tell me what’s happened.”
“They’re out, sir. They’re all out, the bad ’uns are. The whole prison’s disappeared in a puff of smoke, and the bad ’uns are in the streets.”
Day gripped Claire’s arms and ushered her back up the porch steps and into the house, glancing about the whole while at the empty and now ominous lane that ran down along the wide-open park.
“Do you mean to say,” Day said, “that someone has escaped from a prison?”
“More than one.” The boy was excited, his small pale face lit up from inside. “A daring escape from Bridewell. A legion, a host, at least twelve or a hundred bloody murderers are on the loose.”
“Twelve or a hundred? You’ve left yourself a wide margin.”
The boy nodded. “It’s all hands tonight. Sir Edward wants ever’body.”
“Get in here, boy.”
Day waited while the boy scampered past him into the house. He took one more look up and down the street, closed the blue door, and bolted it. On his way to the stairs, he pointed at a chair in the receiving room.
“Sit there,” he said. “I won’t be a moment. Got to put on some shoes.”
“I can find my own way back to the Yard, sir.”
“Not if what you say is true. You just wait for me and I’ll make sure you arrive back there safely.”
Without waiting for an answer, Day hurried up the stairs with his wife. As he ran, he let the slippers fall from his feet and clatter down the stairs behind him.
3
Claire wasted no time, pulling out a suit from the wardrobe for him and hurrying to the dresser where he kept his cuffs and collars, studs and buttons in the top drawer. Her nightgown swirled around her as she moved, and he took a moment to appreciate her natural grace, even as uncomfortable as he knew she was.
“This isn’t . . . Most of your collars are at the laundry,” she said. “They won’t be delivered until later today. This is the only one left, and you haven’t worn it in ages. It’s limp.”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine.” Day quickly stripped to his underwear and began to dress himself.
“I’m setting out your special cufflinks. The ones Mr March gave you last Christmas.”
“Those things? They’re ridiculous. Like something from a penny novel, toys hidden here and there, completely defeating the regular purpose of a thing. And they’re enormous! I’m sure the ordinary cufflinks will be fine.”
Claire sat heavily on the edge of the bed and watched him button his shirt. She pulled her dressing gown tighter around her and retied the sash.
“Where did you go, Walter?”
“Nowhere. It was hot in here. I needed to get out of the house for a bit.”
“To get away from me, you mean.”
Day stopped looking for cufflinks. He picked up the box she had set out for him and went to the bed. He wanted to put an arm around his wife, to comfort her, but he felt suddenly awkward and so he busied himself fastening his shirtsleeves.
“I’m anxious, that’s all it is.”
“I know this isn’t what you married.” Claire looked down at her belly, swelling into her lap. “But Walter, I miss you when you’re gone.”
He smiled at her. “I was taking a walk. That’s all it was. Couldn’t sleep.”
He straightened his cuffs and put an arm around her, and she settled against him. Then she straightened up and grabbed his hand.
“What’s happened?”
“Oh, I skinned my knuckles on a tree. It’s nothing.”
“Walter?”
“Really. It’s nothing. Don’t be silly.”
“I’ll be as silly as I please.” She kissed his hand. “Let’s put an ointment on these scratches before they fester.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Put ointment on them anyway. Indulge me.”
“I always indulge you. You are the smartest and prettiest and silliest person I know, and I have to keep you happy or you’ll remember you might have married old Sam Whatsisname instead of me.”
“That’s true. Let’s never forget good old Sam Whatsisname. So you didn’t meet any prettier girls on the towpath tonight? Girls without giant bellies?”
“I prefer giant bellies. How did you know I walked along the towpath?”
“I’m sorry, Walter, but you smell like horse manure.”
“That was a choice. I thought you might appreciate a new perfume.”
“If only it were new. Horse manure has become your regular scent, you know.”
“I’ll step in different kinds of manure and get your opinion. We’ll see what you prefer.”
“Please do.” She pulled back and looked at him, serious. “Oh, Walter, you are happy, aren’t you? Or, at least, not too unhappy?”
“I am very happy every waking moment I spend with you.”
“Me, too.”
“I hate to leave you again, but I’ll be back as soon as I possibly can.” He rose and went to the bedroom door, paused with his hand on the knob. “You’ll be all right?”
“We have at least two weeks before the baby’s due, and I have Fiona here if I need anything. Don’t worry. Just be careful and come back to me today. I refuse to raise this baby by myself.”
“Of course.”
“And, Walter?”
“Yes.”
“You might think about putting on your trousers before you leave.”
Day looked down. He was bare-legged, in just his long woolen underpants and socks and garters.
“I thought I might give the other boys at the Yard a show.”
“Let’s save that for another day.”
“Oh, very well.”
Day rushed to put on his trousers, and Claire fetched braces for him. He gave her a quick kiss and dashed out of the bedroom to the stairs. He was reasonably certain he would have remembered his trousers on his own, but his thoughts were completely muddled. He only hoped that Claire hadn’t seen the fear he was hiding from her.
4
Griffin caught up to Napper a quarter of a mile from Bridewell’s walls. The convict was circling a terrace house at the end of a quiet street, its windows dark, its occupants slumbering.
Griffin stopped and drew a big chalk arrow on the stones at the mouth of the lane, then he melted into the shadows under the trees and crept forward. Napper didn’t see him coming. Griffin was able to reach out and grab the other man’s ear between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. He twisted hard and Napper yelped.
Napper tried to pull away, but Griffin kicked him hard in the back of his left knee. Napper pitched forward, and Griffin struggled to hold on to his ear. He heard a faint ripping sound and felt blood on his fingers. Napper screamed. Griffin clapped a hand over Napper’s mouth and pulled him backward, Napper scrambling crablike to keep up, into the trees. A light went on above them, and Griffin heard a window scrape in its frame.
He let go of Napper’s ear and got his elbow around his throat, applied slight pressure until the convict began to go limp.
He whispered in Napper’s good ear. “Quiet now or I’ll do you right here.”
Griffin looked up and down the street and smiled. There, at the other end of the row of houses, was a small shack, painted green, with a prominent window in the front. It was a stand for cab drivers, a place for them to enjoy a quick spot of tea during the day when they were not allowed to leave their cabs unattended. Now it was dark and silent, shuttered for the night.
He put his mo
uth on Napper’s ear again. “Shh. Very good. You’re being very cooperative. Just a few minutes more, you useless perverted git.”
Napper squirmed, testing Griffin’s hold on him, but didn’t try to answer or make any sound. Griffin tightened his arm around Napper’s throat anyway, just a bit, to make the point clear.
Griffin waited until the light went out above them. He didn’t hear the window close again and supposed the householder had decided to let in some air. Or was watching the street from the dark room. Griffin would have to be as quiet as possible so as not to rouse any more curiosity.
He jammed his arm under Napper’s and brought it up so that his hand was against the back of Napper’s neck. He pushed and Napper bent forward. With his other hand he caught Napper’s good ear and pulled. Napper grunted and Griffin shushed him again.
He push-pulled Napper down the street, keeping to the shadows. Griffin paused outside the green shack, stared at it for a long moment, trying to figure out how to keep Napper quiescent while opening the shack. Napper stood patiently, agreeable as long as there was the threat of pain. Finally Griffin surrendered to the inevitable. In one swift move, he removed his hand from Napper’s ear and pushed him forward as hard as he could into the corner of the shack’s wall. There was a terrific thump and Napper went limp. Griffin looked around to see if any more lights would go on in the houses around them, then knelt and examined Napper. The convict was bleeding heavily from a scalp wound, but he was breathing.
Griffin stood back up and rubbed each of his shoulders in turn, easing out the kinks. It was no easy thing to move another person against his will, like a puppet. He took a deep breath and reached for the keys at the end of the chain around his neck. He chose one of the three keys and walked around the side of the shack to its back door. The key fit smoothly in the lock, as it did with most of the locks in London. He turned it and let himself in. The tiny space was empty, the supplies of tea and the little gas hot plate stowed away and covered with heavy canvas.
He went back and hoisted Napper’s body under the armpits, dragged him around the shack and inside. He checked again to be sure Napper was breathing, then used the canvas to tie him at the wrists and ankles. The cloth was thick and difficult to work with, and Griffin was sure he had them too tight around Napper’s extremities. Napper would permanently lose the use of his hands and feet if the canvas wasn’t loosened soon.
Napper began to stir, and Griffin bent over him and whispered close to his ear. “I’ve got a nice cell waiting for you down below, my friend. Just wait a wee bit in here and somebody’ll be right along for you.”
There was no response. Griffin didn’t know if the prisoner had heard him. He smiled and shrugged and left the convict there on the floor of the little green shack. It really didn’t matter whether Napper had heard him. Either way, the next hour in the darkness of the tea shop would leave him frightened and pliable. Griffin stepped back outside into the relative brightness of the night, the moon and stars shining down on him, the clean cool air that he appreciated so much more since he had been in Bridewell.
He locked the door behind him and went out into the street. He bent over the curb and fished his piece of blue chalk from the pocket sewn into his trousers. He drew the number one on the cobblestones and an arrow above that, pointing toward the cab drivers’ tea shack. The chalk lines would be ignored by most passersby, but there were people who would be looking for that symbol, and they would remove Napper’s body before the shack’s proprietor arrived later on. With a little luck, that innocent man would never know how his odd little tea shop had been used in the night.
Griffin put the chalk back in his pocket, made sure his keys were out of sight beneath his shirt, and walked casually down the street and around the corner.
One down. Three to go.
5
Twenty-one of the best policemen in London stood at attention outside the office of the commissioner of police at 4 Whitehall Place. Ten of them were the elite inspectors of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad. Sir Edward Bradford looked at his notes and then up at his men. He set his notes down on the desk in front of him and ran his hand over his disheveled white beard. In his hurry to leave the house, he hadn’t brushed it properly, but his wife had got up with him and brewed a quick pot of tea while he dressed. As she always did, she had pinned the empty left sleeve of his jacket up to the shoulder. Thanks to her, he felt a bit more awake and put together than he otherwise would have.
He cleared his throat and noted the time on the big clock at the back of the room. It was a quarter of four. He had acted quickly and was pleased that the entire Murder Squad, along with the best and brightest of his sergeants and constables, had already assembled, crowding the small area inside the railing that separated the murder room from the rest of the building. A few men jostled one another for space outside the railing, still within earshot of Sir Edward, and more police joined the swelling ranks every moment. There was much to be done, and Sir Edward was glad to have everybody and anybody he could muster.
“I apologize for calling you out at this hour,” he said, “but most of you know the situation and understand why we’re here. For those of you as yet unaware, several prisoners escaped this morning, barely two hours ago, from HM Prison Bridewell. We have limited information about those prisoners right now, and we’ll find out more as the warden and his men sort out the mess there, but we must not waste time. Every one of the confirmed escapees is a murderer, and all of them were awaiting execution. They have little to lose at this point, and it is my great fear that they will take up their murderous ways again even before the sun comes up. We must make haste and catch them.”
An older man at the back of the room raised his hand, and Sir Edward nodded at him. “Yes, Mr March?”
“How many prisoners have escaped, sir?”
Sir Edward saw Day’s face light up at the sound of the familiar voice and watched the young inspector look around, trying to catch the eye of his former mentor. Inspector Adrian March had brought Day up from Devon and pushed for his promotion to detective. They had become good friends and frequent dinner companions, but had not worked together in many months.
“There is some question about that,” Sir Edward said, “which I will explain in a moment. For those of you who have not yet met him, Mr March has kindly agreed to come out of retirement to help us today. He is something of an expert on the murderer’s mind and may be able to lend a unique perspective. As might Mr Augustus McKraken, who has also joined us this morning. Both of them are highly decorated former inspectors, and I hope you will listen to whatever they have to say that might help us here.”
The other men murmured their greetings and nodded their heads in the direction of the two retired inspectors. Both had been key investigators in the Jack the Ripper case. They had failed to capture that monster, but they remained well respected among their peers.
“As Mr March points out,” Sir Edward said, “there is some confusion about how many men have escaped.”
“How did they do it, sir?” Inspector Jimmy Tiffany was front and center, taking notes in a small cardboard tablet.
“A train derailed and destroyed the south wall of the prison.”
Tiffany looked up from his notes, his eyes wide, as another wave of chatter ran through the room.
“Yes,” Sir Edward said. “It beggars the imagination.”
“Were any passengers hurt, sir?” This from Sergeant Nevil Hammersmith, who stood at the back of the room, towering over the other men nearby.
“There were no people on the train. Three cars split off and rolled down the hill, demolished the prison’s outer wall, and traveled across the yard and through the walls of several cells. The rest of the train was found a mile away, abandoned but still on the tracks.”
“And the driver?”
“There was no driver. There was no fireman. In fact, there was no record of that train leaving the depot in the first place.”
“It went out on its
own for a quick look round, did it?”
Sir Edward scowled at Inspector Michael Blacker, who he felt was generally too quick to make sport of things. Still, he was a good detective, and so Sir Edward tolerated the man’s cheeky attitude. “Of course it could not have left the depot on its own, Mr Blacker. But that is a mystery for another day.” He looked at Inspector Day, then looked back at Blacker. “Our first priority is to get these prisoners off the streets of London before they hurt someone. Very shortly now, men will be leaving their homes and traveling to work. At that point, these murderers may be able to blend in with other people, may be able to cause a great deal of chaos and damage before they are caught. We must get as many of them as we possibly can before daylight. We must contain this situation, and we must do so now.”
Sir Edward realized he was talking through clenched teeth. His jaw hurt, and he paused long enough to take a deep breath. “Sergeant Kett? I don’t see you. Would you raise your hand? Ah, there you are. Thank you.”
Kett nodded, but remained expressionless, the lower half of his face obscured by an unkempt thicket that he usually groomed into the shape of a particularly impressive handlebar mustache. If his own beard were in better condition this morning, Sir Edward might have reprimanded the sergeant for his appearance.
“Everyone see Sergeant Kett? Good,” Sir Edward said. “He has the names of some of the men who have escaped. The ones we know about, at least. We are still gathering information, but the warders at Bridewell seem to be somewhat confused about who is missing and who is not. Some men believed to have escaped may, in fact, still lie under the rubble of the south wall. There may be eight prisoners loose, there may be four prisoners loose. We need an exact number, but you men cannot wait for us to determine that number. Sergeant Kett will continue to gather information, and I want you to communicate with him constantly today. He will keep a list of who has been found by you, and he will do his best to add to that list as the prison tells us more, will you not, Sergeant?”