Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

“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.

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.”