The Devil's Workshop (4 page)

G
riffin caught up to Napper a quarter of a mile from Bridewell’s walls. The convict was circling a terrace house at the end of a quiet street, its windows dark, its occupants slumbering.

Griffin stopped and drew a big chalk arrow on the stones at the mouth of the lane, then he melted into the shadows under the trees and crept forward. Napper didn’t see him coming. Griffin was able to reach out and grab the other man’s ear between his thumb and the knuckle of his index finger. He twisted hard and Napper yelped.

Napper tried to pull away, but Griffin kicked him hard in the back of his left knee. Napper pitched forward, and Griffin
struggled to hold on to his ear. He heard a faint ripping sound and felt blood on his fingers. Napper screamed. Griffin clapped a hand over Napper’s mouth and pulled him backward, Napper scrambling crablike to keep up, into the trees. A light went on above them, and Griffin heard a window scrape in its frame.

He let go of Napper’s ear and got his elbow around his throat, applied slight pressure until the convict began to go limp.

He whispered in Napper’s good ear. “Quiet now or I’ll do you right here.”

Griffin looked up and down the street and smiled. There, at the other end of the row of houses, was a small shack, painted green, with a prominent window in the front. It was a stand for cab drivers, a place for them to enjoy a quick spot of tea during the day when they were not allowed to leave their cabs unattended. Now it was dark and silent, shuttered for the night.

He put his mouth on Napper’s ear again. “Shh. Very good. You’re being very cooperative. Just a few minutes more, you useless perverted git.”

Napper squirmed, testing Griffin’s hold on him, but didn’t try to answer or make any sound. Griffin tightened his arm around Napper’s throat anyway, just a bit, to make the point clear.

Griffin waited until the light went out above them. He didn’t hear the window close again and supposed the householder had decided to let in some air. Or was watching the street from the dark room. Griffin would have to be as quiet as possible so as not to rouse any more curiosity.

He jammed his arm under Napper’s and brought it up so that his hand was against the back of Napper’s neck. He pushed and Napper bent forward. With his other hand he caught Napper’s good ear and pulled. Napper grunted and Griffin shushed him again.

He push-pulled Napper down the street, keeping to the shadows. Griffin paused outside the green shack, stared at it for a long moment, trying to figure out how to keep Napper quiescent while opening the shack. Napper stood patiently, agreeable as long as there was the threat of pain. Finally Griffin surrendered to the inevitable. In one swift move, he removed his hand from Napper’s ear and pushed him forward as hard as he could into the corner of the shack’s wall. There was a terrific thump and Napper went limp. Griffin looked around to see if any more lights would go on in the houses around them, then knelt and examined Napper. The convict was bleeding heavily from a scalp wound, but he was breathing.

Griffin stood back up and rubbed each of his shoulders in turn, easing out the kinks. It was no easy thing to move another person against his will, like a puppet. He took a deep breath and reached for the keys at the end of the chain around his neck. He chose one of the three keys and walked around the side of the shack to its back door. The key fit smoothly in the lock, as it did with most of the locks in London. He turned it and let himself in. The tiny space was empty, the supplies of tea and the little gas hot plate stowed away and covered with heavy canvas.

He went back and hoisted Napper’s body under the armpits,
dragged him around the shack and inside. He checked again to be sure Napper was breathing, then used the canvas to tie him at the wrists and ankles. The cloth was thick and difficult to work with, and Griffin was sure he had them too tight around Napper’s extremities. Napper would permanently lose the use of his hands and feet if the canvas wasn’t loosened soon.

Napper began to stir, and Griffin bent over him and whispered close to his ear. “I’ve got a nice cell waiting for you down below, my friend. Just wait a wee bit in here and somebody’ll be right along for you.”

There was no response. Griffin didn’t know if the prisoner had heard him. He smiled and shrugged and left the convict there on the floor of the little green shack. It really didn’t matter whether Napper had heard him. Either way, the next hour in the darkness of the tea shop would leave him frightened and pliable. Griffin stepped back outside into the relative brightness of the night, the moon and stars shining down on him, the clean cool air that he appreciated so much more since he had been in Bridewell.

He locked the door behind him and went out into the street. He bent over the curb and fished his piece of blue chalk from the pocket sewn into his trousers. He drew the number one on the cobblestones and an arrow above that, pointing toward the cab drivers’ tea shack. The chalk lines would be ignored by most passersby, but there were people who would be looking for that symbol, and they would remove Napper’s body before the shack’s proprietor arrived later on. With a little luck, that innocent man
would never know how his odd little tea shop had been used in the night.

Griffin put the chalk back in his pocket, made sure his keys were out of sight beneath his shirt, and walked casually down the street and around the corner.

One down. Three to go.

T
wenty-one of the best policemen in London stood at attention outside the office of the commissioner of police at 4 Whitehall Place. Ten of them were the elite inspectors of Scotland Yard’s Murder Squad. Sir Edward Bradford looked at his notes and then up at his men. He set his notes down on the desk in front of him and ran his hand over his disheveled white beard. In his hurry to leave the house, he hadn’t brushed it properly, but his wife had got up with him and brewed a quick pot of tea while he dressed. As she always did, she had pinned the empty left sleeve of his jacket up to the shoulder. Thanks to her, he felt a bit more awake and put together than he otherwise would have.

He cleared his throat and noted the time on the big clock at
the back of the room. It was a quarter of four. He had acted quickly and was pleased that the entire Murder Squad, along with the best and brightest of his sergeants and constables, had already assembled, crowding the small area inside the railing that separated the murder room from the rest of the building. A few men jostled one another for space outside the railing, still within earshot of Sir Edward, and more police joined the swelling ranks every moment. There was much to be done, and Sir Edward was glad to have everybody and anybody he could muster.

“I apologize for calling you out at this hour,” he said, “but most of you know the situation and understand why we’re here. For those of you as yet unaware, several prisoners escaped this morning, barely two hours ago, from HM Prison Bridewell. We have limited information about those prisoners right now, and we’ll find out more as the warden and his men sort out the mess there, but we must not waste time. Every one of the confirmed escapees is a murderer, and all of them were awaiting execution. They have little to lose at this point, and it is my great fear that they will take up their murderous ways again even before the sun comes up. We must make haste and catch them.”

An older man at the back of the room raised his hand, and Sir Edward nodded at him. “Yes, Mr March?”

“How many prisoners have escaped, sir?”

Sir Edward saw Day’s face light up at the sound of the familiar voice and watched the young inspector look around, trying to catch the eye of his former mentor. Inspector Adrian March had brought Day up from Devon and pushed for his promotion to
detective. They had become good friends and frequent dinner companions, but had not worked together in many months.

“There is some question about that,” Sir Edward said, “which I will explain in a moment. For those of you who have not yet met him, Mr March has kindly agreed to come out of retirement to help us today. He is something of an expert on the murderer’s mind and may be able to lend a unique perspective. As might Mr Augustus McKraken, who has also joined us this morning. Both of them are highly decorated former inspectors, and I hope you will listen to whatever they have to say that might help us here.”

The other men murmured their greetings and nodded their heads in the direction of the two retired inspectors. Both had been key investigators in the Jack the Ripper case. They had failed to capture that monster, but they remained well respected among their peers.

“As Mr March points out,” Sir Edward said, “there is some confusion about how many men have escaped.”

“How did they do it, sir?” Inspector Jimmy Tiffany was front and center, taking notes in a small cardboard tablet.

“A train derailed and destroyed the south wall of the prison.”

Tiffany looked up from his notes, his eyes wide, as another wave of chatter ran through the room.

“Yes,” Sir Edward said. “It beggars the imagination.”

“Were any passengers hurt, sir?” This from Sergeant Nevil Hammersmith, who stood at the back of the room, towering over the other men nearby.

“There were no people on the train. Three cars split off and rolled down the hill, demolished the prison’s outer wall, and
traveled across the yard and through the walls of several cells. The rest of the train was found a mile away, abandoned but still on the tracks.”

“And the driver?”

“There was no driver. There was no fireman. In fact, there was no record of that train leaving the depot in the first place.”

“It went out on its own for a quick look round, did it?”

Sir Edward scowled at Inspector Michael Blacker, who he felt was generally too quick to make sport of things. Still, he was a good detective, and so Sir Edward tolerated the man’s cheeky attitude. “Of course it could not have left the depot on its own, Mr Blacker. But that is a mystery for another day.” He looked at Inspector Day, then looked back at Blacker. “Our first priority is to get these prisoners off the streets of London before they hurt someone. Very shortly now, men will be leaving their homes and traveling to work. At that point, these murderers may be able to blend in with other people, may be able to cause a great deal of chaos and damage before they are caught. We must get as many of them as we possibly can before daylight. We must contain this situation, and we must do so now.”

Sir Edward realized he was talking through clenched teeth. His jaw hurt, and he paused long enough to take a deep breath. “Sergeant Kett? I don’t see you. Would you raise your hand? Ah, there you are. Thank you.”

Kett nodded, but remained expressionless, the lower half of his face obscured by an unkempt thicket that he usually groomed into the shape of a particularly impressive handlebar mustache. If his own beard were in better condition this
morning, Sir Edward might have reprimanded the sergeant for his appearance.

“Everyone see Sergeant Kett? Good,” Sir Edward said. “He has the names of some of the men who have escaped. The ones we know about, at least. We are still gathering information, but the warders at Bridewell seem to be somewhat confused about who is missing and who is not. Some men believed to have escaped may, in fact, still lie under the rubble of the south wall. There may be eight prisoners loose, there may be four prisoners loose. We need an exact number, but you men cannot wait for us to determine that number. Sergeant Kett will continue to gather information, and I want you to communicate with him constantly today. He will keep a list of who has been found by you, and he will do his best to add to that list as the prison tells us more, will you not, Sergeant?”

“I will.”

“Good man. Everybody else we have is covering the train yards and the roads out of London. It is up to us to help contain and capture the prisoners before they can get far. All of you, talk to the sergeant briefly and get out there on the street. Kett will have temporary assignments for you, and he’s got sketches of three of the men for you to look at. Memorize those sketches. I want a circle, beginning a mile out from Bridewell. I want half of you working your way toward the prison. Look under every shrub, overturn every rock, examine every windowpane of every home. Remain in pairs. Do not wander off on your own. We will keep runners moving back and forth so that you will have a
steady stream of information. It should go without saying that these are dangerous prisoners and you need to be alert at all times. The rest of you do the same, but work your way from that mile mark outward, away from the prison. Obviously you’ll have more ground to cover, so move quickly. Catch these men. Catch them before they can harm a single person.”

He looked out at the sea of faces, all good men, all of them committed to keeping London safe. “Be very careful,” he said. “I want every one of you back here by end of day unharmed.” He slammed his hand against the desktop. “Now go!”

The crowd dispersed, gathering around Sergeant Kett for their assignments. Sir Edward saw that Kett was passing out lists of everything they knew about the prisoners and wondered how the sergeant had made time to create the lists. He caught Inspector Day’s eye as the detective crossed the room.

“Mr Day, Mr Hammersmith, I’d like to see you both in my office, please.”

Sir Edward gathered his notes and led the way to his small office at the back of the room. He allowed Day to open the door and preceded him through. He went around his desk and laid the notes on the blotter, but didn’t sit.

“Please close the door.”

Before Day could move, another man entered and closed the door behind him.

“Mr March?” Sir Edward said. “I don’t recall asking for you.”

Retired Detective Inspector Adrian March was a stout man with spectacles and muttonchops, his curly grey hair worn long
enough to brush against the top of his collar. He carried a cane, but didn’t appear to need it.

“If it’s all the same, sir,” March said, “I’d like to be paired up with the inspector.” He nodded to indicate that he was talking about Day. “We make a good team.”

“You did,” Sir Edward said. “Mr Day also makes a good team with Sergeant Hammersmith. I plan to pair them.”

“Then I’ll be a third, if you don’t mind. There to offer whatever assistance or advice I can. I’m afraid I don’t know most of these other men and I’m not as fast on my feet as I once was. I’m familiar with Mr Day’s strengths and know those qualities he may require of me.”

Sir Edward sighed. “Very well. You’re kind to volunteer your services at this ungodly hour. I can’t very well order you about like a constable, can I? Please take a seat.”

Adrian March smiled at Day and frowned at Hammersmith and sat down. Sir Edward wondered why March seemed displeased with Hammersmith, but then noticed that the sergeant had a long soup stain down the front of his shirt, which he had apparently tried to hide by buttoning his jacket all the way up. But he had mismatched the buttonholes, and his jacket skewed strangely across his rail-thin chest. He was tall and lean, with a narrow face and almost feminine features. His hair stuck straight up, uncombed, except for a mass of it at the front that had fallen into his eyes. Sir Edward was used to Hammersmith’s slovenly appearance and realized he no longer even noticed the frequent stains and rips that the sergeant habitually sported. He sighed again. He was still unsure about whether he ought to have
promoted Hammersmith to the rank of sergeant. In addition to his unkempt appearance, Hammersmith was unruly and impulsive. It was nearly impossible to keep him in line. But he brought qualities to his police work that many of the detectives did not. He was sensitive, caring, and brave, quick to leap into a fray if it would help the cause in any way.

“Mr Day, Mr Hammersmith, Mr March, while the others beat the bushes for the escapees, I would like you to investigate some discrepancies in the information we’re receiving from the prison.”

“Sir,” Hammersmith said, “with respect, I feel I would be best suited to the search itself.”

“And you may be, Sergeant,” Sir Edward said. “But Inspector Day will require assistance and, as I said, you work very well together. I think each of you may see things at HM Prison Bridewell that the other would miss.”

“But Mr March is here to help,” Hammersmith said. “He can assist Mr Day.”

“You make me weary, Mr Hammersmith. For the time being, you will remain with Mr Day. And Mr March. Perhaps the three of you together will uncover something faster than you might otherwise do and then . . . only then, Sergeant, will I reassign you to the manhunt. Do we understand each other?”

Hammersmith nodded, but his expression was black. Sir Edward was touched by the young man’s devotion to justice.
Just wait,
he thought.
Be patient and try not to get yourself killed before you become the great policeman I know you could be.

“The head warder claims that all the dead prisoners have
been accounted for and that four men have escaped,” Sir Edward said. “But there is another man, a clerk on the prison staff, who claims there were five escapees. Both of these men seem to be absolutely unshakable in their convictions, and that worries me. It makes every bit of information coming out of that place suspect.”

“I should think the head warder would have the best information,” March said. “There must be four escapees.”

“Perhaps,” Sir Edward said. “But perhaps not. No one is infallible, and I want to know the truth. Were there four escapees? Five escapees? Perhaps there were twenty or thirty, for all we know. Find out for me. We can’t catch four men and call the job done if there are five men on the loose.”

“Yes, sir,” Hammersmith said. His expression was grim. “And we’ll be back in the manhunt within the hour.”
Back
in.
As if he had been called away from the hunt when it hadn’t really started yet.

“I’m afraid I have one more task for you,” Sir Edward said. He kept his eyes on Day so as to avoid Hammersmith’s inevitable grimace. “I want to know why there’s such confusion in the numbers. In the event of a catastrophe like this, it’s my opinion we should have immediately been given all the facts we needed. Instead, there’s a great deal of dithering going on at that prison. I worry there’s mischief afoot.”

“Mischief, sir?”

“Yes, Mr Day. It is, of course, possible that the confusion there tonight is perfectly natural. To be expected. But a train was deliberately derailed just outside the prison walls—”

“You really think the derailing was deliberate?” March said.