Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

“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.

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.”

Hammersmith saw something move at the far corner of the high stone wall. It appeared at the periphery of his vision and moved fast toward the little cluster of policemen with Hoffmann.

“Move,” Hammersmith said. “Get him through the gates.”

Blacker didn’t even look up. He pushed Hoffmann forward and immediately closed the gap behind him. Tiffany moved into the lane, his Webley revolver already up and aimed. Then he lowered his weapon, just as the figure resolved itself in Hammersmith’s vision as a young boy on a bicycle. The two policemen looked at each other and then looked over at Blacker, who had managed to get Hoffmann through the gate and was only now turning to see if he could help the others.

“Well,” Blacker said, “we know how to move fast when we have to, don’t we?”

“And when we don’t have to,” Tiffany said. He scowled at the boy, who skidded to a halt in front of him. “Move along, son. Police business here.”

“Was lookin’ for police, sir.” The boy gulped and took several deep breaths. He was sweating and his hair was tangled from the wind.