Devil's Workshop (9781101636398)

by Alex Grecian

  “Do you kiss her, Walter Day? Your wife, I mean. Isn’t it fascinating how all skulls are basically the same? Just under the skin, you all look so frightfully similar. Wait here, I’ll show you.”

  The dark shape stood and moved away, into the tunnel. The lantern light that was reflected on the wall shimmied and flowed as the shadow passed through it. Day hung his head and bunched the muscles in his shoulders, trying to alleviate the pain there. He curled the toes of his right foot and rubbed them against the inside of his shoe. He tried the same movement with his left foot, but nothing happened. Then Jack was back, standing next to Day. He held a dirty brown skull. The jawbone had fallen off. Or perhaps Jack had removed it.

  “Who do you suppose he was?” Jack said. “Or she? It’s hard to tell, isn’t it? I’m told there are people, doctors and the like, who can tell the sex of a person based on its bones, but they’re really all the same, aren’t they? Bones, I mean, not doctors. There are profound differences between doctors.”

  Jack smacked his lips and turned the skull this way and that in his hands. “You’re not being a good guest right now, Walter Day. I expect livelier conversation from you. Look at this skull, so similar to yours. But then imagine some mushy pink and brown bits on top of the bone and, voilà! A person is formed. When you kiss your wife, you’re pressing against the bone, the bone is the structure, but it’s the mushy bits you really like. Yes, those are the best part. People are made up entirely of the saggy flesh they carry around on their poor tired bones. How is that? Why should that be? Why is the hard part, the strong part, of a person not the best part? It’s the soft gentle parts that make you different from your friends and neighbors. Isn’t that awfully interesting? I think about this sort of thing a great deal.”

  “Is that why you cut people?”

  “Well, there are so many reasons to cut people, don’t you think? Really, there are too few reasons not to, when you think about it. Everyone ought to be running about cutting everyone else.”

  “There’s decency. That’s a reason not to hurt people. Do you have any of that in you? Do you have any common human decency?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s cut me open and take a look round for it.” Jack laughed again. “Is decency something you learned from your father, Walter Day? Your father, the valet?”

  “Yes.”

  “He taught you a great deal, didn’t he? Taught you subservience and putting others before yourself. He taught you to be unhappy and unfulfilled, didn’t he? What a wonderful man he must be. And what of your mother?”

  Day said nothing.

  “Oh, your mother’s a touchy subject. I quite understand. Did you know her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Did you kill her, Walter Day?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, I see. May I take an educated guess? You transformed your mother even as she was creating you, am I right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I feel very close to you right now.”

  “And what about you? What did your father teach you? And what about your mother? Did your mother teach you to murder women?”

  Day heard Jack sniff. The atmosphere changed, like a breeze blowing in from another direction, and the tiny underground cell seemed to grow colder. Day felt fabric rustling against his right leg, the leg he could still feel. There was the sound, once more, of rending cloth, and then the feel of air against his skin.

  There was another sensation that caused chills to move up his body.

  “You don’t mention my mother,” Jack said. His voice was low and very quiet. So quiet that Day could barely hear him over the sound of blood pounding in his ears.

  “You cut my other leg.”

  “I’m sorry. I really am, but you made me do it.”

  The realization that he’d had hope almost broke Day. He felt his throat close up and his eyes sting and he couldn’t breathe. He’d been holding on to some belief that he might make it out of the catacombs alive, and now that belief left him in a rush and he knew the hopelessness of Jack’s victims.

  “This is what they felt at the end, isn’t it?”

  “Who? Who are you talking about, Walter Day?”

  “Those women, those five women that you murdered.”

  “Only five? Funny how little you know, Mr Policeman.”

  “How many, then?”

  “Oh, so very many. I’m weary. But I slept in a bed today. Did I tell you that?”

  “No.”

  Day felt moisture trickling down his right leg and knew that he would soon lose the feeling there. Even if he managed to free himself from the shackles, he would be unable to walk back to the street above them.

  “I slept, Walter Day, as men sleep. In a real bed. And I had the most interesting dream. Would you like to hear it?”

  Day didn’t answer. Without hope of escape, there was no reason to talk to Jack or listen to his ravings.

  “In my dream, I transformed five people. I don’t know whether they were men or women. I honestly don’t remember that part of the dream. But they died during the transformation, as they so often do. And then I brought them back. I brought them all back from the place I’d sent them. I forgot to say, three of them were bad people and two of them were good people. The good people thought that they were going to visit a magic kingdom in the afterlife. They thought they deserved such a thing because of the entirely unimportant little decisions they’d made on this sphere. But all five people came back terrified. What they had experienced on the other side was too much for them. And do you know, the bad people became good. They thought that if they mended their ways, the next time they died they would perhaps have a better experience. But the good people gave up all hope and became indifferent. They did bad things after that. Do you see? They all experienced the same thing, but their individual perception of who they were changed everything. Their perception of what they deserved changed how they lived their lives. Those two good people learned that there was no justice or consequence.”

  Day raised his head and looked at the shadow next to him.

  “That’s why the Karstphanomen will always fail,” Jack said. “Because justice is not a thing one can pursue. It is a perception.”

  “What did you do to Adrian March?”

  “March? The policeman? Would you like to know what he did to me, what beautiful art he created on my body over the past year or so? I could show you.”

  “I only want to know what you have done to him.”

  “I think he might be alive. I’ve tried, at least, to keep him alive. You have to give me credit for that.”

  “If you’ve killed him . . .”

  “What, Walter Day? If I’ve killed him, you’ll be unhappy with me? What is he, your mentor? That’s what he is to you, isn’t he? Your father failed in certain critical ways, and so Adrian March has become important to you.”

  “Don’t speak about my father anymore. That is not your right. If I am not to speak of your mother, then—”

  “Ah. Touché, as the Froggies say. You’re right about that, and I ought to allow you to cut me in return, oughtn’t I? You see how I think about things? How thoughtful I am? I think it’s time for you to have a new mentor. Is it too forward of me to put myself out as a possibility?”

  “If I am ever free of this place,” Day said. “I know it’s not . . . No, but if I ever am, I will see that you are brought to justice. Then you’ll see what a real thing that is. You’ll see that justice is a thing to strive for, not a thing to be mocked.”

  “Bless your heart.” The shadow was quiet again for a long time, and Day began to drift off. Then Jack spoke.

  “I have an offer for you, Walter Day. A thing I will do for you, if you wish. To make up for having dragged your father and mother into our dialogue. It was wrong of me to punish you for mentioning my mother when I had already mentioned yours.”

  “Why me? Why do you keep talking to me? What did you do to the man in the next cell?”

  “
He wasn’t special.”

  “And I am?”

  “I see potential.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “Do you think you’re better than the man in the next cell?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think you’re worse?”

  “No.”

  “Believe it or not, that makes you unique. You don’t judge them, those many many people out there, all of them rooting about in their own messy fleshy lives, never looking up. You try to understand them.”

  “Maybe you should try, too, instead of killing them.”

  “I don’t kill them. That is only your perception. I try to help them understand themselves, to appreciate what is always there beneath the surface. I transform them. They are caterpillars, unable to see beyond the leaves they eat and shit upon. There’s an entire tree waiting for them if they would only look up and see it.”

  “You judge them, but praise me for not judging.”

  “Only because I used to be like you, Walter Day. I am fascinated to watch your journey unfold. I’d like to see if it turns out like mine did.”

  “So you’ll take these shackles off?”

  “No. I think you’ll free yourself without any help from me. And soon, too. Maybe not soon enough. We’ll see, I suppose. Maybe you’ll continue to bleed and you’ll die down here after all. But that’s not for me to say.”

  “Then what? You said you would do something for me.”

  “If you ask me to, I will go to your home and I will remove your wife and your unborn child from the sphere of your responsibility.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know what that means. I can free you, Walter Day, in more ways than you intend. I can do that for you.”

  “Don’t you touch her! You stay away from my Claire!”

  “Claire? What a beautiful name. She sounds lovely already. All right. I promise I’ll leave her for you. You have my word. But you didn’t mention the baby, and that makes me think perhaps you’d like to take me up on at least part of my offer. You don’t want to follow in the footsteps of your valet father, do you? Oops, I brought him up again. Do forgive me.”

  “Leave them alone.”

  “We’ll see. We’ll see. I’ll give it some thought and determine what might be best for you. But for now, you just rest. You’re going to need your strength if you’ve any intention of getting out of here.”

  “Undo the shackles.”

  “No. But I have every confidence in your abilities. After all, you have a lockpick. Good-bye, Walter Day.”

  The shadow melted away into the gloom of the tunnels. The lantern was extinguished, and Day could not be sure whether Jack had left or had simply stepped back against the wall and was even now watching him. Nor could he be sure whether Jack had meant to leave the hood off this time. But he did his best to enjoy every breath he took of fresh air.

  And he wondered which would be his last.

  50

  The boy led them to a section of houses on Phoenix Street. He parked his bicycle next to a black wrought-iron fence, hopped off, and waited. A door behind him opened and a girl came outside and stood in her little garden behind the boy, watching their wagon pull up in the lane. All was quiet. The horse snorted. Inspector Blacker climbed out of the wagon first and looked up and down the street. Inspector Tiffany followed and stood beside him. They looked at the boy, who shrugged back at them. When Hammersmith, in his blue uniform, hopped down from the wagon, a door opened opposite the boy and his bike. An old lady ran out and waved them over. She pointed at the next house, with a red door and an untended garden in front.

  “That’s where they’ve been,” she said. “I think one of them might still be there. The bald one.”

  Cinderhouse, thought Hammersmith. The bald one is Cinderhouse.

  “I’m Inspector Blacker, mum. And this is Inspector Tiffany, and this is Sergeant Hammersmith.”

  “I apologize,” the lady said. “It’s been a strange day. I’m Mrs Pye. My husband was Giles Pye.” As if they should know who he was.

  “What happened here?” Blacker said. He had automatically stepped into the role of communicator. Tiffany stood to one side, nervously staring at the red door.

  “They’ve had Mr Michael in there, doing terrible things to him.”

  “Who’s Mr Michael, mum?”

  “The man who owns that house, of course.” She leaned in and whispered, “They cut his tongue right out of his mouth.” She drew back again and squared her shoulders, having accomplished the most distasteful bit of business she had to conduct. “I’ve sent for a doctor. He should be along.”

  “I don’t suppose he can talk to us?”

  “Not without a tongue, he can’t.”

  “Of course. Can he write?”

  “I think he can. One of them went out and hasn’t come back. I’ve been watching. That one’s the Devil himself.”

  Hammersmith supposed she must mean the Harvest Man. They didn’t have a good description of him.

  “But I haven’t seen the other one come out again. I was away from the window for a bit and I suppose he might have left the house then, but if he didn’t then he’s still in there.”

  Blacker took a step away from Mrs Pye and looked over at Tiffany. They both drew their revolvers. Hammersmith took his truncheon from his belt and looked at the way the sun shone on its burnished black surface. He liked the weight of it in his hand and felt every bit as confident holding it as he would have felt with a gun. Maybe more so.

  At that moment, a second wagon turned the corner at the end of the lane and rolled up next to their own. Both of the inspectors turned their guns toward it, but the boy up top was no older than their own driver was, and four constables piled out of the back of the new wagon before it was completely stopped.

  “Name’s Bentley, sir,” one of the constables said. “Kett sent us. A boy came to the Yard. Said there was fugitives hereabouts somewhere.”

  “You’re just in time,” Blacker said. “It’s the red door.”

  “We’re ready, sir.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Before he could finish his sentence, Tiffany was already pushing through the gate and across the garden to the door.

  “It’s not latched,” he said.

  All seven of the policemen funneled past the red door and into the house.

  51

  The coverlet was ruined.

  Fiona stood in the upstairs hall and spread it out over her hands, let it drape down and pool on the floor. It was covered with blood and sticky mucus. She reeled it in and ran her fingers over the names that ran all around the outside of it, sewn in red thread and passed down from one generation to the next. The names of Claire Day’s female ancestors.

  Margaret, Jean, Janet, Mary, another Margaret . . .

  All of them had spent hours in front of their hearths sewing their daughters’ names into the fabric that had been passed down to them.

  There was room at one corner for Claire’s daughter. If she had a daughter.

  But the coverlet was ruined.

  The bell rang and Fiona gathered the coverlet to her breast and hurried to the entryway. She opened the door.

  “Miss Fiona, got a package here for the mister.”

  The postman handed it over. A small brown-paper-wrapped parcel. She nodded her thanks and closed the door on him. A corner of the coverlet fell from her arms, and as she gathered it up, the parcel fell from her hand to the floor and the paper burst open. The box inside was cardboard, a bottom and a shallow lid, which came off and flopped onto the floorboards. Fiona set the coverlet on the floor—it wasn’t going to get more ruined than it already was—and snatched up the various parts: the two halves of the box, a wad of cotton, a small off-white card, and a key.

  The key was large and ornate, with a filigree handle and a long barrel and a bit of metal that stuck out from the side, like a trigger. She turned it over in her hands. It was heavy, weighted at the handle
end, and there was a hole in the barrel that seemed to go straight through to the handle.

  She turned the card over and read the inscription: Let’s speak soon. Yours—Adrian.

  She stuck the cotton back in the big half of the box and nested the key inside. She placed the card on top, closed the lid, and stuck the whole thing in her apron pocket. She wadded the ruined brown paper and set it aside on the little occasional table in the hall. She needed to rewrap it all before presenting it to Mr Day. She wouldn’t want him to think she’d opened his mail on purpose.

  Fiona glanced back at the door and then gathered the cloth to her breast again and hurried down the hall. Her father had given her busywork and she knew it. He’d given her the same task he’d set for Constable Winthrop. There was something more important she could do with her time while Claire struggled with labor.

  She just hoped she could get the blood out.

  52

  A wagon sped past Jack and around the corner onto Phoenix Street. Jack slowed down and followed it cautiously. He hung back and watched as four coppers jumped out of the wagon and joined three others who were already standing in the lane. Jack sniffed and pressed a finger to his lips. All seven of the policemen rushed through the black gate, across the garden, and in through the red door. Jack wondered what his silly little fly had done to merit the attention of so many policemen.

  He stepped into the middle of the street and walked to the wagons, which were resting next to each other, front to back and back to front, blocking the lane. The two young drivers were ignoring each other. One had a deck of cards and was shuffling them repeatedly. The other was engrossed in a tabloid of some sort. Jack caught the attention of the boy with the cards.

  “What’s happening in there?” He poked his thumb in the general direction of the red door.