Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

He had tried watching the door like a hawk, just staring at it. It made him feel diligent and in charge of the situation, but that feeling had passed quickly. There was no situation. Everybody else was out there running down villains, and Rupert had apparently done something wrong because he was doing nothing. He couldn’t figure out why Sergeant Kett should be unhappy with him. He’d spent the last hour thinking over every exchange he’d ever had with the sergeant, but there was nothing. It must have been something personal, something he’d had no idea would offend. The only thing to do was try to get back in Kett’s good graces as soon as he possibly could.

He was puzzling over just how to accomplish that when he heard a woman scream upstairs. He dropped his cup of tea, which broke on the floor. Tea spattered everywhere, and Rupert wasted several seconds by dropping to his knees and trying to gather the shards of china into his palm. A second scream made him drop the shards, some of which split into even tinier sharp bits, and jump back to his feet. He rushed to the steps and stared up into the darkness. He looked back at the door again, the door he was supposed to be guarding, then took a cautious step up. He heard whimpering somewhere above and abandoned caution, taking the stairs three at a time. He didn’t wait at the top of the stairs for his eyes to adjust, and so he ran into a wall and caromed off of it, then oriented himself and walked down the hallway, stopping outside the lady’s bedroom. He rapped on the door, already embarrassed and unsure.

“Ma’am?”

A moment’s silence. Then: “I’m fine.”

Rupert tugged at his earlobe and sniffed. What if someone else was in the bedroom? What if someone had climbed up from the outside and through the window and had a knife to Claire Day’s throat and was whispering in her ear, telling her to say that she was all right?

“Ma’am,” he said, “can I open the door?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“But are you really all right?”

“Yes.” Her voice was small and far away, muffled by the thick door. She sounded like a little girl. “I mean, no. I don’t know. Where’s Fiona? I want Fiona.”

Rupert stepped closer to the door and put his lips almost against it. He wanted to push himself through the grain of the wood and be able to see whether Mrs Day needed his help.

“She went to get the doctor for you,” he said.

“She left me?”

“Only for a bit. I’m here, ma’am. Really, anything I can do. .”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Are you sure? I could-”

“I said leave me alone!”

Rupert pulled his head back away from the door as if he’d been struck. “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He spoke quietly and wasn’t sure she could hear him, but then she answered.

“I’m sorry, too, Constable.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Rupert?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I don’t wish to offend you, but would you please leave me alone?”

“Of course.”

“And please send Fiona to me as soon as she returns?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She is going to return?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Rupert. And I’m terribly sorry. You seem like a nice person.”

“Yes, ma’am. I try. Please don’t hesitate. . I mean, if you need anything. .”

“Thank you, Rupert.”

He nodded, though of course she couldn’t see him. He retreated to the stairs and down and went to his chair in the foyer, but he didn’t sit. He looked back up at the top of the stairs where they disappeared into shadow and then he looked at the dangerous puddle of tea and china that he had made on the floor. He clucked his tongue and went in search of a broom and dustpan.

There was something useful to do at last.

By the time they reached the church, the fat man with the tiny hat had grown nervous. They stopped at the edge of the church grounds and the man pointed across to a rear door.

“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps it would be a good idea if nobody knew I was involved.”

“You’re not involved,” March said.

“Exactly right,” the fat man said. “What say we keep it just between us?”

“There is no us,” March said. “Here’s the church and we have no further need of you.”

“Just as well,” the man said. “Just as well. But if you could see your way clear to not mention my name. To not mention, I mean to say, my name in connection with any of this.”

“But we don’t know your name,” Day said. “How could we possibly mention it to anyone?”

“Yes, thank you. Thank you for understanding. It’s just that I’m awfully fond of the organ here and I would hate to be asked to cease playing it.”

“Understood. Have a wonderful day.”

“It’s a very nice organ. Old, but refurbished. Its very age lends it a rich tone I wouldn’t be able to get from a newer instrument. Very nice, indeed.”

“Glad for you,” Day said.

“So.” The man smiled at them nervously and held out his dimpled hand for them to shake. “Happy to have been of help. As long as we agree that I was of no help whatsoever.”

“Complete agreement,” March said.

“Very good of you. I say, I wonder if you might tell me?”

“Yes? Tell you what?”

“Exactly.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Tell me what,” the fat man said. “What’s it all about, then.”

March rolled his eyes and walked away from them across the wet grass toward the church. He waved a dismissive hand. Day smiled at the fat man.

“We’re tracking a prisoner,” he said.

“You caught him.” The fat man seemed proud of himself for pointing out the obvious. As if Day were a small child trying to pound a square block into a round hole and the fat man had shown him the ball he ought to be using. “Sent him away not more than fifteen minutes ago in the wagon.”

“Yes, that was one of them. But there are others. We have to catch them all.”

The fat man’s face fell, and Day saw him struggle with the new concept.

“So,” Day said, “I’ll just pop off now and catch this other prisoner. Thank you again. And mum’s the word.”

“It is? Why?”

“No reason,” Day said. “We’re all done now. You may go home. Good day.”

He turned and walked briskly away before the fat man could say anything else. He heard the man clear his throat as if to get his attention, but he didn’t look back. He wondered how the little hat stayed on the man’s head.

The grass under his feet was wet from the recent rain and steamed slightly as a few stray sunbeams broke through the cloud cover and struck the churchyard. Glistening spiderwebs, like pearl strands, were slung low between blades of grass, and Day stepped carefully over them so as not to disturb their eight-legged tenants’ morning work.

He wondered whether Claire had woken up yet, whether she had even gone back to bed after he left. He wondered whether sleeplessness would affect the unborn baby. Thoughts of the baby made him frown, squinting into the sun. He marched on, forgot about spiderwebs underfoot, and found his flask in his pocket. He uncorked it and took a long burning drink. Corked it back up and put it in his pocket, wiped his lips on the sleeve of his jacket.

March was at the back door of the church when Day caught up to him. He raised his eyebrows at Day and jiggled the handle. It moved freely. March held a finger to his lips, telling Day to be quiet in case the prisoner they sought was just on the other side of the door. He turned the handle again as Day brought out his revolver, then pushed hard against the door and stepped back out of the way. Day crouched and moved forward through the door into the darkness of a little windowless room.