The Devil's Workshop (26 page)

F
iona 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.”

“Are you sure there’s any in that basket?”

“Not at all. But there might be, and I’d like to find it if it’s there.”

“Well, I’ll take a look.”

“That would be wonderful.”

He smiled. “Happy to do it, if it helps.”

“It does. Now I can go clean this up before it sets.”

“Will the blood come out?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Me, too.”

Fiona picked up the spool of white thread and the coverlet, careful not to perforate it with the tip of the scissors, and went to the door. She peeked back over her shoulder just in time to see the constable pick up the basket and scatter its contents over the tabletop. She sighed and hurried away down the hall to the kitchen.

J
ack heard someone rush past in the hallway behind him and turned around too late. All he saw was the blue-uniformed back of a policeman. Then the front door banged shut.

“What do we do with these when we get ’em off of here?” one of the constables said.

Jack contemplated the tongues, sagging from their iron nails, dried and no longer vital. He felt a lack of connection to them that surprised him. His trophies had always meant so much.

“Take them back to Scotland Yard,” he said. “Leave them on the desk of Detective Inspector Walter Day. Do you know who that is?”

“Sure,” the other constable said. “I know him. He’ll know what to do with them?”

“Tell him they’re a gift from a new friend.”

The older of the two constables sniffed and rubbed his nose with his thumb. He squinted at Jack, trying to determine whether he was the butt of a joke, whether he ought to laugh.

“The inspector’s probably not at his desk
right now,” the younger one said. “Out looking for the
escaped prisoners, same as everybody else.”

“Oh, I imagine he’s busy escaping, too. He should be returning to the Yard soon, if he doesn’t lose
his leg.”

“Lose his leg?”

“Well, it was dark and I’m not completely sure about the depth of that incision. Still, I’m reasonably confident he’ll be back and in one piece. Please tender my apologies and tell him I hope these offerings will cement our friendship.”

Jack turned and walked away, out of the parlor and out of the house. He heard the constables behind him yelling questions, but paid no attention to them. They were simpletons. He ran his fingers over the bloodred surface of Elizabeth’s door one last time as he passed it. He knew he would not return, but felt little regret. He was done with this place.

There were two wagons in the lane and Jack lingered next to one of them, stroking the horse’s nose, as the old woman who lived next door hurried past and into her own house, leaving her front door standing open.

“How much to take me away from here?” Jack said to the young boy who sat up top, reading a magazine and chewing on the butt of a cigarette.

“Working for the police, mister. This’s their wagon. Can’t go nowhere but where they tell me to go.”

“I’ll give you a quid.”

The boy put down his magazine and squinted at Jack. He straightened the front of his jacket and tossed the cigarette butt into the street. “Where you wanna go, sir?”

“Just a moment, please.”

Jack went around behind the wagon and walked over to the children standing against the short black fence along the opposite side of the street.

“You had a bicycle,” he said to the boy. “Where did it go?”

“Some copper just stole it away from me.”

“He did?”

“Just took it right out of me hands. Didn’t ask or nuffin’.”

“Oh, my. How dreadful.”

“You don’t know how much. That bicycle’s dear. Can’t afford a new one.”

“I’m sure he’ll give it back. He’s a policeman, after all. What was his name?”

“Said it was Hammersmith. Like the place.”

“You don’t say.”

“I do say! Never heard of anybody with that name before.”

“I have. Earlier this very day. It’s a small world, isn’t it?”

“Looks big enough to me.”

“Sergeant Hammersmith didn’t happen to tell you where he was going, did he?”

The boy looked Jack up and down. “He said to tell it to the police, not to any doctors.”

“Oh, but I’m a police doctor.”

“That’s different, then. He said he was going to an inspector’s house. Walter somebody. Walter
Dew, maybe.”

“Could it have been Walter Day?”

“Yeah, that’s the name. In Primrose Hill.”

“Oh, my, but it is a very small world indeed. Thank you, young man.”

“You’re gonna get my bike back?”

“I doubt very much that I shall remember you by the end of the day. You should look after yourself
and get your own bike back. How else will you learn self-reliance?”

Jack turned back to the wagon and climbed in. He patted the side of it with his palm and shouted up to the driver.

“We’re going to Primrose Hill, young man.”

“Where to in Primrose Hill?”

“Just get me to the area and I’ll sort it out from there. Do hurry. I promised a friend I would look in on his wife.”

C
inderhouse was careful about his approach. He did not go right up to the front door of the Day house. Instead, he left the road just after he crossed the bridge and traveled through the back gardens of the terrace houses connected to number 184. It was the same way he had left the house with the red door. When he had escaped that house, he’d been worried that Jack might be waiting outside for him. Here, he simply wanted the element of surprise. Day wasn’t as tall as the bald man, but he looked stronger, and Cinderhouse didn’t want to confront him head-on.

He had to climb a fence at the end of the row of homes, and when he fell down on the other side, his jaw bumped against his upper molars and the fresh wound in his mouth sent pain
shooting up behind his eyes. He spit blood, wiped his lips on the sleeve of his jacket, and sat for a moment until the pain became bearable. Then he stood and straightened his collar and fixed his resolve. He needed to show Jack that he was capable, that he could follow through with a task. He needed Jack to respect him. And so he needed to kill Walter Day and his wife. It was the logical move to make.

He crept up to the back of number 184 and peered through the small window next to the door. There was a girl in the kitchen whom Cinderhouse took to be the housekeeper. She was filling a basin with water from a big pail. She struggled with the pail because it was heavy and she was quite petite, but she managed to get the water into the basin without spilling much. She added salt to the water and dunked a mass of fabric into the mixture.

Cinderhouse opened his lips and tried to lick them before remembering that his tongue now adorned the mantelpiece in Elizabeth’s home. The girl in the kitchen before him was perhaps a trifle old for his tastes, but she was nearly young enough and she was pretty, and it had been so long for him. She had straw-colored hair and quick little hands, and he imagined sitting by the fire with her after a day at the shop. They wouldn’t talk. He couldn’t talk, not anymore. But she would perhaps mend a sock with her clever little hands and he would read the paper and they would be happy together.

He blinked away a tear and smiled. And, after a moment’s further reflection, he turned the doorknob and entered the kitchen.

F
iona looked up when she heard the door open. The coverlet was soaking in a basin, and she hoped salt water would lift most of the worst of the stains. Her mind had already turned to her father and Claire upstairs, thinking about what they would need, and so she assumed that it was Constable Winthrop entering the kitchen with water, even though she knew that he was in the parlor rooting through Claire’s sewing basket for a spool of red-colored thread.

Of course, it was not Rupert Winthrop at the door. The man who entered the kitchen was thin and bald and he was wearing a very nice suit. But his jaw was badly bruised, purple and green, and his lips were puffy, and his eyes were wide and staring. Fiona glanced at the card of sewing needles on the table in front
of her, then she saw the scissors and she grabbed them, but the bald man was already moving across the kitchen. He took hold of her arm just above the elbow and snatched the scissors out of her hand. He dragged her to the pantry—only four or five steps, there was no time for her to break free of his grip—and he shoved her inside.

It all happened so quickly that Fiona was still stunned. Later, she thought of several things she might have done: stomped on the stranger’s foot or clawed at his wide, madly rolling eyes, perhaps even slapped his tender bruised jaw or grabbed the scissors back from him. But she did none of these things in the moment.

As the pantry door closed on her, she did manage to scream: “Rupert!”

Then she was alone in the dark.