Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

“You’re just in time,” Blacker said. “It’s the red door.”

“We’re ready, sir.”

“Then let’s go.”

Before he could finish his sentence, Tiffany was already pushing through the gate and across the garden to the door.

“It’s not latched,” he said.

All seven of the policemen funneled past the red door and into the house.

The coverlet was ruined.

Fiona stood in the upstairs hall and spread it out over her hands, let it drape down and pool on the floor. It was covered with blood and sticky mucus. She reeled it in and ran her fingers over the names that ran all around the outside of it, sewn in red thread and passed down from one generation to the next. The names of Claire Day’s female ancestors.

Margaret, Jean, Janet, Mary, another Margaret. .

All of them had spent hours in front of their hearths sewing their daughters’ names into the fabric that had been passed down to them.

There was room at one corner for Claire’s daughter. If she had a daughter.

But the coverlet was ruined.

The bell rang and Fiona gathered the coverlet to her breast and hurried to the entryway. She opened the door.

“Miss Fiona, got a package here for the mister.”

The postman handed it over. A small brown-paper-wrapped parcel. She nodded her thanks and closed the door on him. A corner of the coverlet fell from her arms, and as she gathered it up, the parcel fell from her hand to the floor and the paper burst open. The box inside was cardboard, a bottom and a shallow lid, which came off and flopped onto the floorboards. Fiona set the coverlet on the floor-it wasn’t going to get more ruined than it already was-and snatched up the various parts: the two halves of the box, a wad of cotton, a small off-white card, and a key.

The key was large and ornate, with a filigree handle and a long barrel and a bit of metal that stuck out from the side, like a trigger. She turned it over in her hands. It was heavy, weighted at the handle end, and there was a hole in the barrel that seemed to go straight through to the handle.

She turned the card over and read the inscription: Let’s speak soon. Yours-Adrian.

She stuck the cotton back in the big half of the box and nested the key inside. She placed the card on top, closed the lid, and stuck the whole thing in her apron pocket. She wadded the ruined brown paper and set it aside on the little occasional table in the hall. She needed to rewrap it all before presenting it to Mr Day. She wouldn’t want him to think she’d opened his mail on purpose.

Fiona glanced back at the door and then gathered the cloth to her breast again and hurried down the hall. Her father had given her busywork and she knew it. He’d given her the same task he’d set for Constable Winthrop. There was something more important she could do with her time while Claire struggled with labor.

She just hoped she could get the blood out.

A wagon sped past Jack and around the corner onto Phoenix Street. Jack slowed down and followed it cautiously. He hung back and watched as four coppers jumped out of the wagon and joined three others who were already standing in the lane. Jack sniffed and pressed a finger to his lips. All seven of the policemen rushed through the black gate, across the garden, and in through the red door. Jack wondered what his silly little fly had done to merit the attention of so many policemen.

He stepped into the middle of the street and walked to the wagons, which were resting next to each other, front to back and back to front, blocking the lane. The two young drivers were ignoring each other. One had a deck of cards and was shuffling them repeatedly. The other was engrossed in a tabloid of some sort. Jack caught the attention of the boy with the cards.

“What’s happening in there?” He poked his thumb in the general direction of the red door.

“Caught some dangerous murderers in there,” the boy said. “Bloody-eyed madmen they are, too. You’d do well to stand back, Doctor, and let ’em do their job.”

Doctor? Jack looked down at the black leather bag he was holding and smiled.

“They sent for me,” he said. “Someone’s been hurt?”

“Yes, sir. They cut off somebody’s face, cut out his eyes, cut off his fingers, even cut out his tongue.”

Well, part of that was true, at least, Jack thought. Unless that silly fly had been very busy since Jack left the house.

“I’d better go take a look, then, hadn’t I?”

“You be careful and stay well back, like I say. Let them boys do their work.”

“I certainly will. Thank you for your help, son.”

There was an old lady talking to a little girl and a boy with a bicycle. Jack walked past them without being noticed and walked right through the door and into the house he now thought of as his own.

The house was empty.

Tiffany dispatched two of the constables to check the bedrooms upstairs. The other two went into the parlor, and Hammersmith went with them. Tiffany and Blacker proceeded down the hallway to the kitchen.

There was an odor of rotting meat in the parlor. A single ray of sunlight beamed through the front window, but did little to dispel the gloom. A bee buzzed lazily through the room and back out.

A chair was tipped back next to the hearth. Bits of twine curled around its legs and arms and around the cushioned back. Hammersmith knelt beside it and saw dark flecks that he was certain were blood on the brocaded seat.

“Oh, God almighty,” one of the constables said. Hammersmith looked up and followed the constable’s gaze to the mantelpiece. Two objects were nailed to the wood just below eye-level.

“That explains the smell in here,” Hammersmith said. “But why would there be meat on the mantel?”

“It ain’t just meat, Sergeant. Look at it.”

Hammersmith stood and took the three steps to the fireplace. He covered his nose with the back of his hand and leaned in for a better look. It took a moment for him to realize what the things were.

“Do you suppose they’re human?” the other constable said.

“Surely they’re lambs’ tongues,” Hammersmith said. But he wasn’t at all sure.

He heard the other two constables come down the stairs and clomp past the parlor door on their way to the kitchen.

“Get some more light in here, would you?” he said to the constable who had found the tongues. “And get those down from there.”

“I don’t wanna touch them things.”

“Find a pry bar. Put them in a basin. I’ll send for Dr Kingsley. He might be able to verify what sort of animal they came from.”

He started out of the room, then turned back.

“No, on second thought,” he said, “leave them there. Kingsley’s daughter can draw this all out for us. It might be important to know where everything is.”

He saw both constables relax, clearly pleased that they wouldn’t have to touch the bloody tongues.

Hammersmith went out of the parlor and turned left. The two constables who had been upstairs passed him on their way back out. One tipped his hat to Hammersmith. They went back past the parlor and out through the front door. Hammersmith watched them go, then walked down the hall and found the two inspectors in the kitchen, huddled over something on a big table. They looked up when he entered the room.

“It looks like they’ve gone,” Blacker said. “But they left a map. It might tell us where they went.”

“But it’s covered with markings,” Tiffany said. “They could be anywhere.”