by Alex Grecian
“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 disservice. 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 st
ill 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?”
“I can’t think.”
“But you did think. I saw your face. You know whose bag this is. You know my doctor friend, don’t you? You’ve met him!”
“No. I don’t know him.”
“Shh. We’ve told each other enough lies for one day.”
Day heard fabric rip and felt something flutter against the calf of his left leg. There was a bright flash of pain and a burning sensation.
“What did you—”
“You lied to me just now.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t speak Latin, but I speak German well enough, Walter Day. Do you know what the word karstphanomen actually means?”
“My leg.”
“It’s bubbles of air, karstphanomen is. Pockets in the earth. These men, this doctor and that policeman in the next cell, and who knows how many others . . . they call themselves that, and they believe they mete out justice. They believe they do good work while hiding in the pockets of society. Do you believe that?”
“They were wrong to keep you here.”
“Oh, most certainly. There’s no question of that. But what do you think of their notions regarding justice and law?”
“It’s my job to uphold the law.”
“And what about justice?”
“They’re the same thing.”
“No, Walter Day. The Karstphanomen are right about that, right about that one little thing. They’ve got everything else wrong, but they’re correct when they say that the law does not concern itself with justice. And yet, these men contradict their own beliefs. They hide away down here in the dark and do evil things and think themselves good men. Isn’t that silly?”
Day said nothing. He could feel something warm running down his leg, trickling into his shoe.
“Perhaps we should cut the earth away and expose them, pop their bubbles, let them bleed out onto the surface. After all, if they’re so convinced they’re correct, why should they hide?”
“What did you do to me?”
“You won’t die yet. Not of this, at any rate. I said I wouldn’t kill you today and I think it will take a bit longer than that for you to bleed to death.”
“Don’t do this.”
“I must go. But I’ll be back soon to hurt your friend and to talk to you some more. Maybe I’ll even stop the bleeding. I really do enjoy talking with you. I think this relationship is going to be interesting for us both, Walter Day.”
“Listen, let us out of here and I’ll do what I can to see that you’re not hanged.”
“Oh, how lovely of you. What do you think, maybe they’ll let me rot in the asylum? Or maybe they’ll even let me go free! I greatly appreciate your overture of friendship, but let’s wait and see what tomorrow may bring. It’s been a very long day for me and, despite the fun I’m having, I’d like to see the sun again. Then I’d like to visit a lady and get a good night’s sleep.”
“Visit a lady?”
“Yes. I haven’t enjoyed the company of a woman in a very long time.”
“No, please don’t.”
“Good night, Walter Day.”
Jack stood and took a step toward him, blocking the light and casting himself in silhouette. There was a rustle of fabric and the hood was pulled roughly over Day’s face. He heard Jack walk away, his boot heels clocking against the earth. Then silence rushed in and Day felt himself alone in the dark once again.
45
Another wagon was already stopped outside the gates of HM Prison Bridewell when Hammersmith’s carriage arrived. Inspectors Blacker and Tiffany were at the back of the other wagon with the door open, and Blacker had his weapon drawn. They both stepped back, prepared for anything, but they relaxed visibly when they saw Hammersmith.
“We’ve got one of them,” Blacker said. His smile was as big and guileless as a child’s. “Gave us a merry chase, but he never stood a chance.”
“You’ve got one, too?” Tiffany said.
“We caught the cannibal,” Hammersmith said. “Napper.”
“Good show, old boy,” Blacker said.
“Which one have you got?”
“Hoffmann,” Tiffany said. “The one killed his cousin’s lover.”
“Let’s reunite these old friends,” Blacker said. “I’ll bet they’ve missed each other.”
Tiffany nodded at the dark interior of their wagon, where Hammersmith could see a person waiting. “All right, all’s clear,” Tiffany said. “Back out slowly, now.”
“Wait a minute, Nevil, and I’ll help you with yours,” Blacker said. “These children they’ve got driving the wagons today aren’t of much use.”
“Hey!” The driver of Hammersmith’s wagon scowled down at them. His nose was dusted with freckles, a cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. “I didn’t have to be here, you know. Got other things I could be doin’ today.”
“Yes, I’m sure,” Hammersmith said. “No insult intended.”
“All right, then.”
The boy went back to reading his scandal magazine. Hammersmith stepped to the back of the other wagon and pulled the truncheon from his belt. He watched carefully as the prisoner Hoffmann moved backward to the wagon’s edge and perched there awkwardly, craning his neck to see the ground three feet below him, his wrists cuffed in front of him. Hammersmith held the end of the truncheon against the back of Hoffmann’s knees while Blacker and Tiffany kept their revolvers pointed at the prisoner.
“I’m right here,” Hammersmith said. “There’s a ledge here under the wagon’s lip. You can’t see it from where you are, but I’ll guide your foot onto it and make sure you don’t fall.”
“If you do fall,” Tiffany said, “or make any other movement that I don’t like, I’ll put a hole in you.”
“He’ll do it, too,” Blacker said. “Inspector Tiffany’s in a mood today.”
Hoffmann nodded and licked his lower lip. It was hard to tell from Hammersmith’s vantage point how tall the prisoner was, but he seemed abnormally thin. He was older, with a few strands of grey hair that arced up over the top of his head. He had the habitual squint of a man used to wearing spectacles, and Hammersmith wondered if he’d lost them in the escape. Hoffmann bent his knees and felt behind him with his left toe. Hammersmith used the truncheon to guide his heel, and Hoffmann found the ledge. He leaned sideways against the inside wall of the wagon and eased himself down.
Hammersmith used the flat of his left hand on Hoffmann’s back and helped him the rest of the way to the ground.
“Thank you,” Hoffmann said.
“Don’t talk to me.”
“But I can . . . you know, I can help you. I know where one of the others are. I mean, where he is. One of them that escaped with me.”
The three policemen looked at one another.
“You’d help us catch him?” Hammersmith said.
“I would,” Hoffmann said. “I would help you if you were to put in a good word to the head warder for me.”
“We don’t make promises to criminals,” Tiffany said.
“It’s gonna . . . it’s going to be harder on us this time round. In Bridewell. I mean, the head warder. He’s gonna . . . he’s going to hurt us, take away meals and our time outside. And he’ll take away our tea. I like teatime most of all.”
“You killed a man,” Blacker said. “Tea seems like the least of your worries.”
“Where is he?” Hammersmith said. “If you know where one of the others is, tell us.”
“Promise first. Promise you’ll talk to the head warder. Just a word to him. Just a good word from you, it’s all I ask. A recommendation. I’m not asking for more than that. I know I’ve made mistakes and I don’t ask for forgiveness or special favors. Tea is all. A piece of toast is all. It’s not much, is it? A piece of toast? Maybe a spot of jam. But not necessarily. I didn’t mean to say jam. It’s too much to ask. Toast is all I need. Please, just toast.” Hoffmann’s voice grew more shrill as he pleaded with them. Hammersmith looked away from him at the two inspectors.
“I don’t like making bargains with criminals,” Tiffany said.
“And I don’t like standing out here like this,” Blacker said. “Let’s get him inside and locked up. Then we can talk.”
“Do you think he actually knows something?”
“I do,” Hoffmann said. “I do know something.”
“Maybe he does,” Tiffany said. “But we’ll find the other men without him.”
Tiffany tugged on Hoffmann’s elbow and led him toward the gates where a blue-uniformed warder was watching them.
“It might be worth finding out what he knows,” Blacker said. “Or thinks he knows.”