The Devil's Workshop (12 page)

T
hey approached the little green building cautiously. Day walked straight toward it along the pathway, while March and Hammersmith split up and circled around it. March flowed through the gloom under the trees, nearly invisible. Hammersmith came at it from the road, out in plain sight, but varying his gait and direction by small increments to make it harder for anyone inside to take aim at him.

If there was anyone inside. And if they were armed.

It was still only sprinkling. The rain hadn’t come back in force yet, and Day hoped it would remain at bay. At least until they caught the missing men. He carried his Colt Navy loose in his hand, ready, but not anxious.

By the time Day reached the front door of the tea shop, he
could no longer see March or Hammersmith, but he knew they were nearby, within six feet of him on either side of the building. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon and it filtered through the leaves of the trees, glanced along the rooftops of the houses. The tiny shop twinkled emerald green as raindrops pattered against the leaves overhead, moving the tree branches up and down around it, alternately dappling it with light and shadow. Day arrived at the front door and switched the revolver to his other hand. He reached out toward the doorknob, but then pulled his hand back and frowned.

“It’s locked,” he said.

He took a step back and looked around him. The street was still deserted, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon, people would be coming out of those homes, men headed away to the train or the cabstand or simply walking to work, children running to school or playing in their gardens. The road would be crowded with people.

March materialized next to him from somewhere around the corner of the building.

“Surely you can unlock it, Walter,” he said.

“I can. But look.” He pointed at the heavy steel padlock, its swinging arm looped through a bolt on the outside of the door. “This has been locked from the outside, not the inside. It’s not possible for someone to be in there.” He raised his voice. “Sergeant, I think it’s clear.”

“Take a look at this,” came Hammersmith’s voice from around the corner of the shop.

Day stowed his weapon and walked around to the road.
March followed him. Hammersmith was squatting, looking at something against the curb. Day leaned down and used one hand to steady himself against the wall of the building.

“Another one,” he said.

A jagged line smeared by rain, but still clearly visible in the wan light, was drawn in blue chalk on the curb. Above it was an arrow, pointing toward the wall above it.

“The rain’ll eventually wash this away,” Hammersmith said.

“We need a sketch of it. Too bad we don’t have Fiona Kingsley with us. She’s a good artist.”

“A terrific artist,” Hammersmith said. “But we hardly need her talents for this.” He pulled out his dog-eared pad of paper, turned to a blank page, and sketched a duplicate of the tiny chalk diagram with his pencil. “That’ll do, won’t it?”

“Looks just like it to me.”

“But it’s nothing,” March said. “What does it mean?”

“Well, it must be a relation to the other one we saw,” Hammersmith said. “Don’t you think?”

“I think so,” Day said.

“But what is it?” March said. “It looks like it might be a long arrow, but a piece of it’s missing. Rubbed out or washed away by rain.”

“Or maybe whoever chalked it there, maybe his hand slipped and made that gap,” Day said. “What did the other one look like?”

Hammersmith flipped a page in his notebook. “I think it was a number four, but I’ll . . . Yes, a number four with an arrow below it.”

“And this might be a number one,” Day said. “With an arrow up top of it. Maybe it’s not a gap in the line. Maybe it’s two separate lines.”

“What do you think it means?”

“Besides nothing at all,” March said.

“I think it means that four people escaped Bridewell,” Day said. “Somebody’s helping us find them.”

“Or somebody has his own agenda we don’t understand,” Hammersmith said.

“Or children play with chalk in the roads round here and you two are so desperate for a clue that you’re seeing meaning where there isn’t any.” March sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t mean to be a naysayer, I really don’t, but a manhunt doesn’t come down to chalk lines in the road. Believe me, I’ve been involved in my fair share of manhunts.”

“Yes,” Hammersmith said. “You did a brilliant job bringing in that Ripper fellow.”

“Nevil!” Day said. “I say, man.”

“I apologize.”

“No, no,” March said. “From your perspective, you’re perfectly correct.”

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Hammersmith said. “It’s just, you’ve been insufferable tonight. I don’t understand. We’re doing our best here, and yet it’s never quite right for you, is it?”

“I suppose I have been difficult,” March said. “Success, finding these men tonight, it’s important to me. More important than you know. I did not retire from the Yard under the best of circumstances and I would like to correct the impression I made
in the Ripper case, if I can. I would like to win back some modicum of respect. I haven’t wanted to follow false clues because I fear those prisoners are getting farther and farther away from us with every passing moment.”

“We’re all tired,” Day said. “And we’ve all got a lot on our minds. Tempers fray. But we’ll find those missing men. We will.”

March smiled. “I believe you, Walter.”

Hammersmith held out his hand. March hesitated, then clasped it in both of his own hands and smiled.

“Again,” Hammersmith said, “I apologize, sir.”

“All is forgiven. Shows you care about what you’re doing, that’s all.”

“So,” Day said, “what say we take a quick look in this shop and then move on to the next clue?” He didn’t mention that he had no idea where they might find another clue.

The other two followed him round the side of the little green building to the door. Day leaned down and took another look at the padlock. He reached into the pocket of his waistcoat, produced the flat leather case, opened it, and took out two tools. One was a small pointed hook. The other tool was a tension wrench that resembled a thick pair of tweezers. He inserted the angled ends of the wrench into the keyhole and maneuvered it until he felt pressure against them, then slipped the tiny hook between them and turned it. It took him two tries, but the clasp sprang open and the heavy end of the lock fell loose and dangled against the doorjamb. Day smiled at his mentor and was pleased to see March smiling back.

Day motioned for Hammersmith to remove the lock from its bolt. He and March readied their firearms and took up positions on either side of the door. Day nodded to Hammersmith, and the sergeant pushed the door open with the toe of his boot and stepped back, all in one fluid motion. Day entered the room at a crouch and stood against the wall, just inside the door. He heard March and Hammersmith enter behind him, but he didn’t look around at them. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom.

If anything, the shop’s interior seemed even smaller than it looked from without. Grey sunlight pushed into the room through the open door and around the loose-fitted shutters that covered half the opposite wall. Dust motes sparked silver and disappeared. There was a lantern on a peg over the long counter below the window. Under the counter were several deep drawers. At a right angle to it were shelves stacked with saucers, cups, trays, spoons, and tiny china milk jugs. All of it plain, unadorned, easily replaced if broken. A mesh bag full of lemons hung from a nail on the side of the topmost shelf. There was a hot plate on the counter and two teakettles set neatly beside it, but no oven. Day supposed the vendor must bring in cakes and sandwiches from somewhere else every morning, rather than trying to create them in this cramped space.

Lying on the floor at his feet was a man, moving slightly, but bound at the hands and feet with rough swaths of canvas that bunched and mounded over him and across the worn planks beneath him. A thin strip of canvas had been tied around his mouth and behind his head so that it bit into his jaw on both
sides. The man’s eyes were wide and staring, the whites of them almost glowing. He was trying to speak, but his tongue was caught up in the gag and all he could muster was a weak grunting sound.

Day put his Colt Navy away and bent down next to the man. There was a nasty gash on his head, but it wasn’t bleeding and had already crusted over in his hair. He looked up at Day, who shifted slightly from side to side. The man’s eyes followed his movements and seemed to be tracking correctly. He had pulled at his bonds hard enough that the canvas had knotted itself into something resembling a wooden ball. It was instantly clear that there was no point in trying to untie him.

“I need a knife,” Day said. “Have you got one?”

March shook his head and stepped past Day to the counter, where he began poking about in the drawers. “There’s this,” he said, and held up a wedge-shaped cake knife. “It’s serrated along the edge.”

“That might work.”

March knelt down and began sawing at the canvas on the man’s ankles while Day worked the gag slowly up and down until he could pull it away from the man’s mouth.

The man gasped and gulped in air, worked his jaw back and forth. Then: “About goddamn time,” he said.

Day eased the gag back into his mouth.

“What’s your name?” he said.

He maneuvered the gag again so that the man could move his tongue around the saturated cloth.

“Get this shite off me!”

Day put the gag in place again. He straightened up and stood next to Hammersmith.

“Well, I don’t think he’s the proprietor of this place,” Hammersmith said.

“Could be,” Day said. “The escapee might have changed clothing with him.”

“Almost got this,” March said. He was still sawing away at the man’s feet.

“How are you holding up?” Hammersmith said.

“Me?” Day said. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve seemed a bit anxious of late.”

“Oh, you know, just the usual sort of thing.”

“Baby coming and all that?”

“Yes, exactly. I shouldn’t worry, I suppose. Been plenty of babies born before mine and they turned out all right, some of them without fathers of any sort.”

“Well, I hate to disagree, but really too many babies grow up and become this sort of person.” Hammersmith pointed at the man on the ground.

“Ah, that’s got it,” March said. He stood up and laid the cake knife on the counter, then reached down and hoisted the man to his feet. He held the man’s elbow, steadying him, and leaned him against the counter. Then March held up a finger and grabbed the cake knife back off the countertop. “Wouldn’t do to leave that within your reach, would it?”

“Let’s try this again,” Day said. “I’m going to take off your gag and you’re going to tell us your name. Leave the profanities out of it.”

The man nodded and Day pulled the gag down over his chin. The canvas was sodden with drool, and he wiped his fingers on the man’s filthy prison shirt.

“George,” the man said. “My name’s George.”

“George what?”

“George Hampstead. This is my shop. Someone broke in, some mad bloke with a murderous gleam in his eye, and he tied me up. Switched his clothes for mine and left me here for dead, he did.”

“He heard us suggest that just now,” Hammersmith said.

“Did not,” the man calling himself George Hampstead said.

“You were right here when we said it.”

“I wasn’t listening.”

Day grimaced. “Mr Hammersmith, do you remember those sketches we were shown of the escaped prisoners?”

“I do, sir.”

“Does this man resemble any of them?”

“He does, sir.”

“Which one? Do you remember?”

“The one called Napper, sir.”

“I never was!” the man in the prison uniform said. “You can’t go off a thing like that! It’s not no kinda proof.”

Day nodded. “We’ll get this whole thing straightened out. Don’t you worry.”

He turned and opened the door. The others had to shuffle about to make room for the door to swing inward. Day stepped outside and took a deep breath of fresh air. He hadn’t realized how stuffy it was inside the tea shop until he was out of it. Dawn
had brought with it a bustle of people, up and down the street, most of them headed toward the far corner and away. Day presumed that was the direction of the commuter train to central London. He whistled and motioned to a little boy, who was sitting idly on a step in front of one of the homes. The lad ran over to him and Day produced a ha’penny from the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Would you like to earn a coin?”

“Like to earn a bigger one than that, if you’ve got it,” the boy said.

“How about a second coin just like it?” Day fished in his pocket again.

“What’ve I got to do?”

“Get to Scotland Yard and ask them to send round a wagon. Tell them one of the men’s been caught.”

“One of which men?”

“Never you mind. Just find Sergeant Kett and he’ll know what you mean.”

“Sergeant Kett,” the boy said. “He’s to send a wagon, you’ve caught a man.”

“Exactly right.”