Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

“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 dis service. 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 still 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?”