Alex Grecian - Devil's Workshop

Hammersmith looked around the room, at a piece of ham on the counter, shiny and hard, at breadcrumbs on the floor. He noticed a small stub of a pencil against the bottom edge of a cabinet leg. It looked like it had rolled off the table and across the room and lodged where it was unlikely to be noticed. The honeybee from the parlor careened past his nose and bumped into the edge of the back door, then corrected its flight path and disappeared outside.

“The back door’s open,” Hammersmith said. “Did you check the garden?”

“Of course,” Tiffany said.

“Look at this,” Blacker said. He led the way out the back door and past a flowering bush where more bees were hard at work tending to bright purple blossoms. There was a high wooden fence at the back of the garden, covered with thick leafy vines. Blacker pointed at the fence. “See that? See how the vines are torn away here? And here?” He pointed. “And up there?”

“Somebody climbed over that fence,” Hammersmith said.

“And they were none too neat about it. Maybe saw us coming and left in a hurry.”

“What’s on the other side?”

“Don’t know. Just sent two of these boys around the end of the street to find out.”

A voice came through the fence: “Over here now, sir!”

“That was quick,” Blacker said. “Anything to see?”

Hammersmith could hear the two constables tromping about in the garden on the other side.

“There’s some kind of a little tree over here,” the constable said. “Branches all broken away like somebody hung on ’em. And leaves all over the ground. Somebody tipped over a table here, too.”

“Is anyone at home over there?”

“Yes, sir. Got the lady of the house here with me. She seen one.”

“How long ago?”

“Not sure, sir. Should I go ask?”

“Just get her inside. We’ll be over to talk to her.”

Blacker turned to Hammersmith, excited. “We’re right behind them. At least one of ’em went over the fence and through the house on the other side.”

They went back into the kitchen, and Blacker grabbed Tiffany by the elbow. “We’ve got ’em,” he said. “Come on!”

Tiffany turned back as they left the kitchen. “Sergeant, why don’t you take the rest of these lads and go from door to door? Talk to everybody on this street and make sure the fugitives didn’t come back round. They could be hiding somewhere along here, waiting for us to leave.”

Hammersmith nodded, but once the two inspectors had left, he bent and picked up the pencil from the floor. He took it to the table and stared down at the map. Some of the markings there were in ink or wax crayon, but he saw the fainter trace of graphite here and there. In one place, a pencil had been pushed down against the parchment so hard that it had torn through. Hammersmith leaned forward and stared at the rough loop made by the end of a blunt pencil. Someone had circled a spot in Primrose Hill again and again.

And Hammersmith knew all at once who had drawn the circle on the map. Cinderhouse was not on Phoenix Street or even the next street over. He was on his way to 184 Regent’s Park Road. He was on his way to Walter Day’s house. Day wasn’t at home and Hammersmith was sure he was in no danger. But Claire would be there and she would be alone with young Fiona Kingsley. There was a constable guarding the house, but Hammersmith didn’t know who it was. He couldn’t believe Sir Edward would post someone very good on guard duty. Not during a manhunt.

Hammersmith ran past the parlor, where two constables were busy trying to coax the two tongues into a dirty washbasin with the tips of their truncheons. A third man was there, his back to Hammersmith, apparently supervising the removal of the tongues. He wore a tall black hat and was holding a medical bag. Hammersmith briefly wondered why the doctor hadn’t gone next door to take care of the injured homeowner, why he would override Hammersmith’s own orders regarding the tongues, but he didn’t stop to ask. He banged out through the front door and past the two wagons, the old lady, and the children. He grabbed the bicycle out of the hands of the boy who was still standing by the gate across the street.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I need this. I’ll get it back to you straightaway. Tell the inspectors to get someone to Walter Day’s house in Primrose Hill. That’s where one of the fugitives has gone. Tell them Sergeant Hammersmith is going there now and to meet me there.”

And before the boy could answer or protest, Hammersmith leapt on his bike and pedaled away down the street.

“Well,” Eunice Pye said to the children. “Rude.”

Fiona rooted through Claire’s sewing basket, looking for a spool of red thread to match the embroidered names on the coverlet. She had found a spool of white, which she set aside on the small table next to Claire’s chair in the sitting room, but all the other spools were spread across the bottom of the basket underneath fabric remnants and thimbles and cards with needles poked through, and Fiona had to be careful not to stick herself while she looked. There was no rhyme or reason to the way that Claire had stuffed her things into the basket. Fiona needed the white thread in case she had to take apart a seam in order to get the blood out. She’d have to restitch it. And she needed a pair of scissors and the needles, of course. But it was dark down in the basket and Fiona was tempted to upend it onto the table. She could sift through everything on the tabletop, in the bright sunlight streaming through the window, and then shove it all back in the basket. Claire would probably never even know. It was very clear that Claire didn’t spend a lot of time mending things.

Fiona found the scissors just as Rupert Winthrop entered the room behind her. She turned around and saw him staring at the bloody coverlet on the table behind her.

“Took up some water and things,” he said.

“Good.”

“He didn’t say much, the doctor didn’t. Do you think she’s all right?”

“Mrs Day, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“My father’s an excellent doctor. I have every confidence that she’ll be just fine.”

“I do hope so. That don’t look good, though.”

“The coverlet?”

“I mean, is that blood on it?”

“Yes.”

“Is she supposed to bleed?”

“I think a little blood’s okay.” But she didn’t feel at all certain, despite her father’s assurances.

“Your dad’s gonna take care of her?”

“There’s nobody better.”

“Wanted to help her somehow, but didn’t want to intrude during this time, you know. Didn’t know what to do.”

“I’m sure she understands that.”

“I feel useless just sitting there in the hall.”

“Well, you’ve made us all feel safe and protected. So no time wasted.”

“Good of you to say.”

It was good of her to say. In fact, she had nearly forgotten he was in the house. She certainly didn’t need him underfoot. She wanted to get the coverlet cleaned and hung up to dry as quickly as possible so she would be able to stitch Claire’s baby’s name in along the edge of it and present it to her as a gift. Claire would be so pleased.

“I put some more water on to boil,” Rupert said. “And I’ve found all the basins there is in the house, as far as I can tell, miss. It’s really not much. Is there anything I can help you do?”

Fiona looked down at the scissors in her hand and smiled. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “would you be a dear and look through this basket? I need a spool of thread.”

“There’s one right there on the table.”

“That’s white thread, which I do need. But I also need red thread.”