Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

“Sorry,” he said. “Meant that for him over there.”

“What happened?” Day said. “Why’s he got blood all over him?”

“He fell,” March said. “Hit his head against the counter before I could catch him.”

The shop’s proprietor pushed past them all and disappeared into the gloom of the green building. Off-balance, Napper fell against Day. Day grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upright, but his attention was arrested by the gleam in the little prisoner’s eyes.

“Heard something,” Napper said.

“What do you mean?” Day said.

“The other one, Griffin,” Napper said. “He told me a thing you might like to know.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you,” Napper said. “Or maybe I won’t.”

“He’s lying,” March said. “He didn’t say anything like this when we were in there.” He gestured at the tea shop.

“You didn’t ask me nice,” Napper said. “You was evil toward me. Not talkin’ no more to you.”

“If you have something to say,” Day said, “say it.”

“Only you. Only to you.”

“Why me?”

“Nice eyes you got. Friendly eyes. Salty tasty eyes.”

Day remembered that Napper was the one who had eaten a woman over the course of several days. He swallowed hard and turned away. “Let’s get him in the wagon.”

“He said he were gonna put me in a cell,” Napper said. He was talking fast, realized he’d lost his audience, but probably had no idea what he’d said that was so wrong. “Said he was gonna take me underground, down there, and put me in a cell.”

Day turned back around. “Who did? Who said that?”

“You weren’t there.”

“Who?”

Napper looked slyly around at the three of them. “Griffin. It were Griffin. Said he had it all ready and waitin’ for me, for when the others come and took me there.”

“Underground?”

“It’s what he said. Swear it on my honor.”

“Your honor? That means nothing.”

“Catch ’im. He’ll tell you same’s I done.”

The big shutters on the street side of the tea shop swung open and the proprietor stuck his head outside. “What happened in here? What did you do to my place?”

“It was this fellow and his friend,” Day said. “Terribly sorry, sir.”

“The whole day’s gone. It’ll take the whole day to clean this up.”

“We’ll try to send someone to help you with that,” Day said. But he knew there was nobody to spare. They didn’t even have proper drivers for the wagons.

Day opened the back of the wagon and eyed the dark interior. It had been built to transport prisoners and was sturdy enough, with heavy oak buttresses and inch-thick paneling. So heavy that Day wondered about the strength of the horse that had to pull it. The benches along the walls inside the van were utilitarian, not fashioned for any measure of comfort, and there was no window for illumination, no place to set a lamp or candle, nothing to break off and use as a weapon. He stepped back and glanced at the puffed-up boy holding the reins.

“We can’t send Napper away with this child,” Day said.

“I’m no child,” the boy said.

“I’ll be good,” Napper said. “Real good.”

Day ignored them both. “This lad would probably be safe enough during the ride, but there may not be anyone at the Yard to receive him. He might be stuck sitting there, useless, until someone comes to help move Napper into a cell. Or he might try to move the prisoner himself and be hurt in the attempt.”

“I can move ’im,” the boy said. “I’m plenty able.”

“Well, that settles it,” Hammersmith said. “He can move him.” But he chuckled as he said it.

“He looks strong,” Napper said. “Plenty of meat on them bones.”

Hammersmith stopped laughing.

“One of us has to ride along,” Day said.

“Mr Hammersmith,” March said, “you’re the best choice for it.”

“I think you ought to go,” Hammersmith said.

“I’m no longer quite so young as you are, my boy,” March said. “And Inspector Day can’t go because he’s in charge of this investigation. It would be a waste of his time.”

Hammersmith looked at Day and an entire conversation occurred without either of them saying a word. Hammersmith pursed his lips, raised his left eyebrow. Day shrugged at him. He didn’t want Hammersmith to go, but March’s logic was sound. Hammersmith sniffed and kicked at a stone in the street.

“Fine,” he said at last. “I’ll be back with you in an hour. Where will I find you?”

“Inspector March and I are going underground.”

“Do you know how many miles of tunnels are down there? It would take us days to get through it all,” March said. “And just on the word of this bloody convict?”

“I told you what’s true,” Napper said.

“Wasn’t talking to you.”

“I can’t very well expect to find you underground,” Hammersmith said.

A large crowd of passersby had gathered at a respectful distance, watching the police and the filthy little man trussed in bloody canvas. Napper clearly enjoyed the attention and was performing some sort of jig. The tea shop proprietor was still hanging halfway out his window, listening to their conversation, perhaps hoping one of them would come back inside and help him tidy the place up. Day waved at him.

“Where’s the nearest entry to the tunnels under us?”

“I’m supposed to know that?”

“I can tell you,” a heavyset man said. He was wearing a hat two sizes too small for him and carrying a broken umbrella. “There’s a church right across there.” He pointed vaguely at some spot in the distance. “Under it’s a catacombs.”

“How do you know that?”

“I work there. Play the organ at mass.”

“What’s the name of the church?”

“St John of God, sir.”

Day turned back to Hammersmith. “Meet us at St John of God. We’ll nose about and then come back to the door in an hour. If there’s any sign that someone is down there, we’ll all go down together.”

“Don’t deal with anything on your own,” Hammersmith said. He held up a warning finger. “Wait for me if there’s anything suspicious. Promise.”

“I’ll wait for you, Nevil.”

Hammersmith nodded once and pushed Napper into the back of the van. The prisoner was still hopping about, amusing the crowd, and he tripped, sprawled facedown on the floor of the wagon. Hammersmith lifted Napper’s legs and shoved forward, propelling him all the way in on his belly.

“Here,” Day said. He held out his lantern. “You’ll need this.”

“Further insurance that you’ll stay aboveground,” Hammersmith said.

“I’ll stay away from the dark until you find me again.”

Hammersmith took the lantern. He jumped up into the wagon and closed the doors behind him. The boy shouted “haw” and cracked the reins and the wagon lurched away from the curb. It rolled down the street, the horse straining against the immense weight of its load, turned the corner, and was gone.

Day turned to the fat man with the little hat. “Will you show us the way to St John of God?”

The man nodded, his face bright and eager. He waved the broken umbrella over his head and led the way down the street as if he were at the head of a parade. Day smiled at the tea shop proprietor, motioned to Adrian March, and followed the fat organ player as the crowd began to break up behind them.

There were fugitives loose in the city, but Constable Rupert Winthrop was not out there chasing them down. He was stuck in the foyer of a private home on Regent’s Park Road, sitting on an uncomfortable chair and sipping tea. His stomach was growling and he wanted a pastry, but there was no one else in the house except a very pregnant lady, and Rupert didn’t want to bother her.