Devil's Workshop (9781101636398)

by Alex Grecian

  “Yes,” Day said. “Regarding the number of men who actually escaped.”

  “There’s no question of that.”

  “I’m told there’s a clerk who is questioning that number.”

  The warden made a scoffing sound that echoed down the ruined corridor, but he didn’t turn around and Day couldn’t see the man’s face as he replied. “You’re talking about Folger. He’s made a mistake, that’s all.”

  “Well, I’d like to talk to him anyway, if it’s all the same to you.”

  The warden and Constable Jones both spoke at the same time.

  “I’ll fetch Mr Folger, sir,” Jones said. And: “There’s no need for that,” the warden said. Then, hearing what Jones had said, he sniffed and turned around to face Day. “Oh, very well. Talk to him if you wish, but he’ll only confuse the issues.”

  “I’ll go with you, Jones,” Hammersmith said. He gave Day a nod and followed Jones back through the door and away toward the prison’s hub. Day smiled at the warden and picked his way carefully down the tight stone hall of the south wing. Six cells stood in a row in the rubble, their back walls shorn off, their doors hanging open. Across from them, six identical cells also stood open.

  “Nine bodies?”

  “Nine,” said the warden.

  “The train ruined the cells, but it couldn’t have opened the doors on the other side of the hall,” Day said.

  “No.”

  “Then what did?”

  “No idea.”

  Day bent and examined one of the steel bolts. He pulled the flat leather case from his waistcoat and opened it, took out a succession of tiny keys. He tried each of them in the lock, shook his head, replaced them in the leather case. He produced a tension wrench, like a small pair of tongs, and manipulated them in the keyhole, poking about with another crooked little tool.

  “Good locks,” he said.

  “The best,” the warden said. “Gibbons locks on every cell and every door we’ve got here.”

  “Someone had a key to these.”

  “Impossible. I have the only key.”

  “Do you?”

  Day stood and watched as the warden produced a huge key ring and flipped through it, key by key, until he found one he liked. He poked it into the keyhole of the first cell and turned it, snicking the bolt forward and back. He looked up at Day with a triumphant smile. “This one opens every door here.”

  “Hmm,” Day said. “Is there a duplicate of that key?”

  “No. Only this one and the one ordinarily held by the warder on duty at the main gate. Your constable’s got it right now.”

  “So there is one other.”

  “Well, I suppose, but—”

  “Please, don’t say no when you mean yes.”

  The skin around the warden’s eyes tightened. “Of course,” he said. “My mistake.”

  Day sighed. “I apologize. Damned awkward situation.”

  “Indeed.”

  Day moved past the first cell and stepped into the second. Grit crunched under his shoes. He stood over the body of a man and stared for a long moment at the mangled remains, the black darts emblazoned on the white canvas blouse. He stepped back out and walked over the rubble to the end of the corridor. Another body lay there, the prison shirt loose over its torso.

  “Do we know the names of the dead?” he said.

  “Yes. This is one of mine. A warder. Name of Mallory. Not among the best I’ve got. Best I’ve had, I mean.”

  “How so?”

  “A shirker. Never one for following procedure.”

  “He’s wearing the uniform of a convict.”

  “Not really wearing it.”

  “Well, it’s there, even if he’s not got it on properly. Was he guarding this wing tonight?”

  “I believe he was.”

  “I see,” Day said. “He’s suffered a head injury there. An accident, I wonder, or was he struck by one of the escapees? He certainly wasn’t involved in the escape plan, unless something went very wrong.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s dust under the body. And rocks from the wall. The uniform couldn’t have been changed out before the crash or the body would be under the debris, not the other way round. So his jacket was switched directly after the derailment occurred.”

  The warden bent and reached out toward the dead man.

  “Don’t touch him,” Day said. “Leave him until Dr Kingsley gets here. I want to know what killed him.”

  “The crash killed him. That much is obvious. I think we ought to—”

  A deep voice interrupted him. “What is obvious to you may well prove to be false.”

  The warden jumped and nearly fell, but Day caught his elbow and turned to the new arrival with a grim smile. “Good to see you, Doctor,” he said. Then his face fell. “I’m sorry. I thought you were . . .”

  A man in his late sixties, enormously fat with a great shock of silvery hair, approached them carefully, stepping around the body and kneeling with some effort in the dust. He looked up at Day and nodded. “Bickford-Buckley. On night duty at University College Hospital. Dr Kingsley sends his regrets. He’s up to some important paperwork and couldn’t tear himself away from his office. But you’ll want to know whether this one was killed after the train hit, am I right?”

  “Is it possible to figure that out?”

  Bickford-Buckley nodded. “It may indeed be possible.” He stood, his overburdened knees creaking, strode toward the back wall, and pushed. Loose rock tumbled back and out into the prison yard. He pushed again and a large chunk of the wall fell aside. “Although I must say I don’t like the conditions.”

  Day left the doctor to his work and moved farther down the corridor. He poked his finger at each of the cells in turn as he walked. The warden followed silently. Finally, Day turned to him.

  “There are nine bodies, including the warder. Twelve cells. These other dead men are all wearing the prison uniform, but are they guards or prisoners?”

  “All prisoners, sir.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Quite.”

  “So one prisoner has apparently changed jackets with a guard. He either killed that guard or simply saw an opportunity after the train hit. Four prisoners have escaped, but there could very well be a fifth man. This man in the stolen guard’s clothing has disappeared.”

  “We don’t know about a fifth man,” the warden said. “That’s pure conjecture. Too much chaos to be sure of anything yet.”

  “What about the other cells?” Day didn’t look at the warden, but gazed at one of the empty cells as he talked. “Are there any empty cells in the other wings?”

  “A few, I suppose.”

  “But you have no idea how many?”

  “No, sir. That’s not right. We keep excellent records.”

  Day said nothing. He raised one eyebrow and waited.

  “Well,” the warden said, “today is rather an unusual case, isn’t it?”

  “I certainly hope so.” Day knew he was being hard on the man, but couldn’t seem to help himself. He looked away at the piles of stone and twisted iron bars around them and considered his next question carefully. He didn’t want to completely alienate the warden before he’d got all the information the official might be able to provide. The warden had lost several dangerous prisoners, but through no fault of his own. A runaway locomotive wasn’t something he could have expected or planned for. If the escapees were found and returned quickly enough, Munt might be able to salvage his reputation and keep his position at the prison.

  Day’s train of thought was interrupted by the sight of Sergeant Hammersmith, who rounded the corner at the end of the hall, leading a small thin man by the elbow.

  “Sergeant,” Day said. “Good to see you.”

  “This is the clerk,” Hammersmith said. “Mr Folger.”

  Day shook Folger’s hand and introduced himself. The little man clutched a sheaf of file folders. “The prisoners,” he said. “The ones w
ho’ve gone missing.”

  “Four of them?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “But there’s an irregularity, correct?”

  “There is.”

  “What sort?”

  “Well.” Folger was warming up now, his expression grim, but his body animated. “I can account for four men. The four we know about. Or at least tell you who they are, what to look for.” He was clearly anxious to help and, Day was sure, anxious to avoid as much personal embarrassment as possible.

  “But there’s something unusual about one of them?”

  “No,” Folger said. “I mean, yes. But not one of the four. It’s just that I think there was a fifth man.”

  “So you’ve indicated to my commissioner.”

  “See here now,” the warden said. “I’ve already explained it to you, Folger. You’ve made a mistake. There’s no reason to go about—”

  “Please,” Day said. “Perhaps it’s a mistake, perhaps not, but I’d like to hear what he has to say, if you don’t mind.”

  “Well, sir, there’s one empty cell in the next wing that confuses me.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s evidence of habitation.”

  “Perhaps it wasn’t properly cleaned after the last prisoner there left it,” the head warder said. “As I said, we do have shirkers among the men.”

  “Quite so,” Day said. “But if there was someone in that cell last night, that prisoner is also missing. In addition to these in here, that would make five men gone, not four.”

  “It might appear so,” Munt said. “But my thinking is that the cell was probably always empty.”

  “You and Mr Folger seem to disagree on the facts. I’d like to hear more from him.”

  The warden threw up his arms and walked several steps away down the corridor toward where the doctor was huddled over the dead warder. But Day noted that he had remained just close enough to be able to hear anything Folger told them.

  “Go on, sir,” Day said.

  “Right,” Folger said. He glanced at his employer. “Yes. Well. A fifth man. I think there was one, in that cell. But I don’t know who he was. That’s the irregularity, you see?”

  “You’ve lost the missing man’s file?”

  “No. I never had his file.”

  Day shook his head, confused, not sure what question to ask next. Behind him, he could hear the low murmur of words as the warden talked to Dr Bickford-Buckley. Short snatches of their conversation drifted to him. “. . . it’s a shame . . . overzealous, is all . . .” Day narrowed his eyes as if that might help him eavesdrop, but Folger mistook his expression for irritation and held up his free hand.

  “The fifth man wasn’t a prisoner here,” he said. “Or, rather, we don’t know if he was a . . . We don’t know who he was, that’s all.”

  “Are you saying that someone broke in to the prison right before the others broke out of it? And then left again with the escapees?”

  “Well, I know that doesn’t make any sense at all, but I can’t think of another explanation.”

  “Why are you so sure there was anyone in that empty cell?”

  “I have records indicating that meals were taken there. Regular meals over the course of the past two days.”

  “Is it possible one of the warders was stealing food?”

  “Well, I suppose it’s possible. But I don’t know why he would. The warders are fed much better meals than the prisoners are. It’s not as if they’re starving, you know.”

  Day took a moment to consider. An extra meal or two delivered to an empty cell was a curious thing, but it was hardly proof that a mystery man had invaded the prison.

  “We know for a certainty that there are four men who escaped,” he said. “That is correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me anything about them?”

  “Oh, a great deal.” Folger seemed relieved to have something definitive and constructive to offer. He cleared his throat and opened the topmost folder in the little stack he was carrying. “Let’s see, over here, we had a man named Hoffmann.” He pointed at one of the empty cells. “Quite deviant. Seems he fell in love with his cousin and murdered her young gentleman friend to get him out of the way.”

  “Is that all?” Hammersmith said. “That’s obviously deviant enough, of course, but we’ve seen men—”

  “Oh, but he didn’t stop at that. He blinded the poor girl and tried to pose as the fiancé he had murdered, somehow thinking she wouldn’t know the difference.”

  “Ah,” Hammersmith said. “Yes, that is strange.”

  “I would imagine he’d go back to try to reconcile with the girl now,” Folger said. “He was completely obsessed with her. Talked of nothing else.”

  Day and Hammersmith gave each other a look. Hammersmith drew his pad of paper and pen from his jacket pocket and made a note. The clerk had given them a solid lead in finding one of the missing men.

  “And here,” Folger went on, pointing to a cell on the other side of the corridor. “Well, that’s a dead man in there, so we can close his file. But then next to him”—he pointed at the next cell in the row—“next to him we had Napper. Nasty little fellow. Followed a man from the Strand at the end of a workday, entered his home right behind him, and immediately killed him. Then he spent days with the man’s wife, alone in the house, before finally being caught.”

  “What did he do to her?” Day said.

  “Why, he ate her,” Folger said. He moved on to the next empty cell and so failed to see the expression on Day’s face. “And on the other side again, these two cells side by side, we had a bit of a John Doe.”

  “You don’t have a name for him?”

  “No. Never did. But he’s been in and out of institutions like this nearly his entire life. Family all killed when he was a child, and the boy was found living with their bodies, completely unaware that they were dead. Isn’t that odd?”

  “Um, yes,” Day said.

  “After that he started sneaking into people’s attics and hiding until they were asleep. He’d creep out at night, kill them. The whole family, I mean, kill them all and live in the house. He was found serving food to a family of rotting corpses the last time and eventually brought here.”

  “But you don’t know his name?”

  “He’s never spoken. Completely mute.”

  “You must have called him something.”

  “Well, some of the warders and the other inmates called him by a buggy sort of name. Some insect. Let me see here.” Folger looked through his file, then looked up at Day and smiled. “Oh, yes. Well, it makes perfect sense. They called him the Harvest Man after the species of spider. You know, it lives in attics. Quite an appropriate moniker, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Day said. “And what about this cell?” He indicated the last empty cell in the row.

  “That one was . . . let me see. Ah, his name is Cinderhouse.” Folger looked up from his stack of files at Day. “Oh, it seems you’re familiar with his history.”

  “We’ve met.”

  “You arrested him.”

  “After he went to my home and threatened my wife.”

  “And after he abducted a child,” Hammersmith said.

  “And after he killed several other children and two good policemen,” Day said.

  “Well, it looks like you’ll have to arrest him all over again,” Folger said. “I remember interviewing him. I didn’t think he seemed particularly dangerous.”

  “He was dangerous enough,” Hammersmith said. “He just wasn’t very smart.”

  10

  Jack heard footsteps coming in the dark, wet shoes slapping the ground, someone moving quickly. It wasn’t the doctor; the doctor hadn’t visited him in days. And it wasn’t the policeman. This was someone new, a gait he didn’t recognize. Whoever it was, he was alone. Jack kept his muscles loose, his breath hot and steady under the canvas hood, and he listened. The footsteps slowed and then stopped as the stranger neared the opening o
f Jack’s cell.

  “Isn’t this exciting?” Jack raised his voice so that the stranger would hear him. “I haven’t had a new visitor in quite some time.”

  “What . . .” The stranger stopped, then started again, nervous. “What is this? Who are you?”

  Oh, the stranger didn’t know! He had stumbled upon Jack by accident. Under the hood, Jack smiled. His cracked lips broke and he tasted copper.

  “Come closer, little fly,” he said.

  “I need to . . . There’s no time.”

  “Someone is following you,” Jack said.

  “I don’t know. I mean, yes, they’re looking for me.”

  “And where will you hide?”

  “Here. Down here.”

  “But this is my home. You may only hide here if I allow it.”

  “Why are you chained like that?”

  “Come closer.”

  He heard the stranger shuffle in place, undecided.

  “It’s all right,” Jack said. “I can’t hurt you, can I? You can see that. So where’s the harm?” Every word scorched his dry throat. He savored the pain. “Come and take this off my head so that we might see each other and converse like the gentlemen we surely are.”

  The stranger didn’t move.

  “What’s your name, little fly?”

  “Cinder . . . My name is Cinderhouse, but I fail to see how that matters.” The stranger, Cinderhouse, feeling brave now after his initial confusion, feeling like Jack couldn’t hurt him, chained and hooded in the dark as he was. Jack smiled again. Such a perfect little fly, a tender morsel already caught in Jack’s web, but still unaware of the danger.

  “Oh, it matters to me, Mr Cinderhouse. Do you mind if I call you Peter?”

  “But that’s not my name.”

  “It’s not meant to be a name. It’s a title.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Tell me, do you understand this: Exitus probatur?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. They’re not close. The men following you. They’re far away, aren’t they?”

  “I don’t know where they are. I think I killed one.”

  “We have time before they follow you here. You’re quite safe with me, Peter. I can protect you.”

  “Don’t call me that.”