The Devil's Workshop (6 page)

C
inderhouse was delighted to have a friend.

But there was a small voice nagging at him from the back of his mind.
He’s a stranger,
the voice said.
He’s an escaped prisoner. Who knows what terrible things he’s done? Not the sort of friend we want, is he?

But I am also an escaped prisoner,
Cinderhouse thought back at the voice.
I have done terrible things. I needed to do terrible things, was forced to do them, but even so, who am I to judge anyone else?

The voice did not stop nagging, but it moved further back where he could ignore it amidst the other chatter in his head.

He and Griffin followed the underground stream deep into the tunnels beneath the city. Griffin was quiet and seemed tense,
but Cinderhouse found himself occasionally humming a merry tune.

They passed through a long narrow channel that seemed to grow closer and closer as they went, the walls pushing in on them. Moist red clay oozed in the light of Cinderhouse’s lantern all around them, and their feet grew heavier as they walked, packing clay around the soles of their shoes. And then they passed out of that tunnel and there were steps cut into the clay ahead of them. Cinderhouse stopped and peered down into the darkness, and Griffin bumped into him as he emerged from the tunnel. Cinderhouse almost lost his balance and fell, and barely stopped himself from striking Griffin.

Remember, he’s your friend,
the nagging voice mocked him.

“Where do we go from here?” Cinderhouse said out loud.

“Down, I suppose,” Griffin said. “There’s nowhere else to go.”

It was true. There was no way forward. The only choices they had were the staircase and the tunnel behind them, and Cinderhouse didn’t want to have to turn back. But he couldn’t bear the thought of descending into the blackness below, with no idea what might wait for them down there. He was about to suggest that they try the tunnel again and keep a sharper eye for branches that might be dug into the walls, but Griffin spoke first.

“Here,” Griffin said, “let me see the lantern for a moment, will you?”

“Why?”

“I think I see something up above. Maybe some other way we might go.”

Cinderhouse handed the lantern over. Griffin took it by its wire handle and turned around. He set it on the floor of the tunnel behind them and turned back to the bald man.

“Why did you—” Cinderhouse began.

Griffin swung a blow at him that the bald man did not see because the lantern was behind Griffin, making him nothing but a vague silhouette in the darkness, a yellow rim around a hole in the black mouth of the tunnel.

Cinderhouse yelled, but he was already turning away, covering his head. He ducked down, a thing he had seen many children do when he had punished them, crouching and covering their heads and necks. He felt the breeze from a second blow pass over him and heard a yelp as Griffin overcompensated. The other man had expected to meet resistance at the end of his fist and had not braced himself properly. The force of his swing pulled his shoulder around and he went forward across the top of Cinderhouse’s cowering body. His left knee hit the bald man’s back and he bent forward, his own weight carrying him over Cinderhouse and down the clay steps in front of them.

There was a great deal of thudding and thumping and yelling, moving away from Cinderhouse and down, and then there was silence again. Cinderhouse opened his eyes and stood. He picked up the lantern and held it out over the top of the steps.

“Griffin?”

There was no answer.

He tried again. “Griffin? Are you all right? Were you hurt just now?”

Again, no answer.

Well, this is a fine thing,
the voice in Cinderhouse’s head said.
Now you’re alone again.

Will you make up your mind?
Cinderhouse thought back at it.
First you don’t want him around, now you do.

The voice went quiet and Cinderhouse thought about his choices. They were the same as before, only now Griffin might be waiting to ambush him at the bottom of the steps. Cinderhouse took a step back into the red clay tunnel and stopped. The prospect of traveling back down the entire length of it, completely alone, did not appeal to him one bit. He turned back and looked into the tunnel ahead that led down and down, past the edge of the lantern’s light. He put a foot on the top step and then he put his other foot on the next step and he moved down like that, never resolving to actually go all the way down the entire staircase. But then he was far down it already and there seemed to be no point in turning back, and he had the lantern, which was more than Griffin had. If Griffin was even awake down there.
Or alive.
And then there were no more steps ahead of him, just hard-packed mud with traces of the red clay from above.

Griffin lay on the floor of this much larger passage, five feet from the bottom of the steps. Cinderhouse could see from his perch on the bottommost step that Griffin was still breathing, but his leg looked strange. When Cinderhouse drew cautiously near the other man, he could see a bit of pink-smeared bone sticking out through the trouser leg of Griffin’s prison uniform. Cinderhouse’s stomach turned over and he almost vomited, but he had eaten nothing since the evening meal at Bridewell and was able to swallow his rising gorge.

Then Griffin opened his eyes. They locked on Cinderhouse’s eyes, and Griffin screamed.

Cinderhouse swung the lantern in a wide arc, saw the mouth of a tunnel beyond Griffin, and ran. He felt Griffin’s fingers grasp for him as he passed, felt them snag the hem of his trousers and then fall away, and Cinderhouse was free. He ran and he ran, and it took some time before he finally heard that voice in the back of his mind giggling.

It sounded like the voice of a small child.

I
nspector Walter Day scanned the crowd outside the prison entrance, looking for other policemen, and specifically for other members of the Murder Squad. His wagon had broken a wheel and he had run the final half mile to Bridewell, cursing his luck all the way. He spotted Inspectors Tiffany and Blacker near the edge of the gathering and made his way over to them.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

Tiffany scowled at him. Jimmy Tiffany wasn’t the most sociable of animals in the best of times, and this clearly didn’t qualify as the best of times. “We’re to start out there”—he pointed to some distant point—“and make our way back to here.” He pointed at his own feet.

“We thought it might be useful to take a look at here before we went to there,” Blacker said. “Are you doing the same?”

“Sort of,” Day said. He didn’t know whether the others were supposed to know about his assignment.

“How’s the wife, old beast?” Blacker said. Tiffany scowled even more.

“The baby’s coming any day now,” Day said. “Or, well, in two weeks, but these things aren’t precisely timed.”

“I’m meant to be on my honeymoon at this very moment,” Blacker said. “Inconvenient timing all round, if you ask me. Bad people ought to stay in prison where they belong and leave the rest of us to get on with our lives.”

Day nodded. He felt selfish. And foolish. Babies were born every minute of every day. Why was he having so much trouble reconciling himself to the fact that one of those babies would be his own? Everyone else had worries of some sort. Such was life. He closed his eyes and opened them again, resolved to put his problems aside. Cinderhouse must be caught before he could threaten what little peace of mind Day had left.

“Where are the others?” Day said. “Has anyone seen Sergeant Hammersmith? Is he here yet?”

“They’re all about somewhere,” Blacker said. “Them what’s not at the mile mark. Oh, speak of the devil.”

Day turned and saw Constable John Jones pushing through the crowd toward them. Hammersmith was following close behind him. The sergeant had taken the time to rebutton his jacket and had done something with his hair so that he looked
moderately presentable. Day let Jones pass and grabbed Hammersmith’s elbow, stopping him.

“Is Inspector March with you?”

“Haven’t seen him,” Hammersmith said. “I thought he was with you.”

“Well, I suppose he’ll catch up to us,” Day said. “You’re all right?”

“I think I need to pay closer attention to my appearance,” Hammersmith said. “It’s the impression Sir Edward has left me with.”

Day grinned and clapped his sergeant on the shoulder. Hammersmith nodded, resigned. Changing the subject, he indicated the milling crowd.

“It seems Jones has left us behind. He’s got a key to the place,” Hammersmith said. “It’s locked up tighter than a drum.”

“How does Jones have a key? How many keys are there to this gate?”

“He just grabbed me and said to follow,” Hammersmith said. “I don’t really know what he’s got and what he doesn’t have.”

Day felt a hand on his elbow and turned. Jones was standing directly behind him, hemmed in by the onlookers milling about. “I was looking for you,” he said. “You two are to come with me.” Without waiting for any acknowledgment, he trotted away.

Day tipped his hat to Blacker and Tiffany and followed after Jones, with Hammersmith at his heels. They reached the high gates at the front of the stone fence that ringed the prison. Jones saluted the warders there and they nodded, slipped the bolt on
the other side, and drew the gates open. They creaked on their hinges and moved reluctantly. Jones didn’t wait for them to open wide, but slipped through as soon as there was a crack wide enough for his body. Day hesitated, but Jones beckoned him through with Hammersmith. They wound their way up the gravel path to the prison’s main entrance and Jones produced his key, inserted it into the lock, and opened the door.

Inside was chaos. Warders of every size and shape, all dressed in dark blue uniforms that made them look like policemen, hurried to and fro, their sidearms out, busy on their various missions. Nobody gave them a second glance, dressed as they were in their police uniforms and Day in his suit. Jones led the way through a succession of doors, using his key at each of them. Day marveled at the fact that a single key granted them access to so many areas. He wondered how secure the prison was and whether he might be able to get through those doors with his lock picks.

At last they reached Bridewell’s south wing. A man stationed at the door gave them a nod and unlocked the door behind him.

“This is the head warder,” Jones said.

The warder held out his hand, and Day shook it. “Warden Munt,” the man said.

“Inspector Day. Rough night you’ve had.”

“The roughest. The boys are pulling it all together, though. Good crew we’ve got here.”

“Glad to hear it. There are some discrepancies in the information I’ve got. I’m hoping you and your men can clear up a thing or two for me.”

The warden motioned for the policemen to follow him. He turned and walked through the door, talking over his shoulder as he walked. “Discrepancies?”

“Yes,” Day said. “Regarding the number of men who actually escaped.”

“There’s no question of that.”

“I’m told there’s a clerk who is questioning that number.”

The warden made a scoffing sound that echoed down the ruined corridor, but he didn’t turn around and Day couldn’t see the man’s face as he replied. “You’re talking about Folger. He’s made a mistake, that’s all.”

“Well, I’d like to talk to him anyway, if it’s all the same to you.”

The warden and Constable Jones both spoke at the same time.

“I’ll fetch Mr Folger, sir,” Jones said. And: “There’s no need for that,” the warden said. Then, hearing what Jones had said, he sniffed and turned around to face Day. “Oh, very well. Talk to him if you wish, but he’ll only confuse the issues.”

“I’ll go with you, Jones,” Hammersmith said. He gave Day a nod and followed Jones back through the door and away toward the prison’s hub. Day smiled at the warden and picked his way carefully down the tight stone hall of the south wing. Six cells stood in a row in the rubble, their back walls shorn off, their doors hanging open. Across from them, six identical cells also stood open.

“Nine bodies?”

“Nine,” said the warden.

“The train ruined the cells, but it couldn’t have opened the doors on the other side of the hall,” Day said.

“No.”

“Then what did?”

“No idea.”

Day bent and examined one of the steel bolts. He pulled the flat leather case from his waistcoat and opened it, took out a succession of tiny keys. He tried each of them in the lock, shook his head, replaced them in the leather case. He produced a tension wrench, like a small pair of tongs, and manipulated them in the keyhole, poking about with another crooked little tool.

“Good locks,” he said.

“The best,” the warden said. “Gibbons locks on every cell and every door we’ve got here.”

“Someone had a key to these.”

“Impossible. I have the only key.”

“Do you?”

Day stood and watched as the warden produced a huge key ring and flipped through it, key by key, until he found one he liked. He poked it into the keyhole of the first cell and turned it, snicking the bolt forward and back. He looked up at Day with a triumphant smile. “This one opens every door here.”

“Hmm,” Day said. “Is there a duplicate of that key?”

“No. Only this one and the one ordinarily held by the warder on duty at the main gate. Your constable’s got it right now.”

“So there is one other.”

“Well, I suppose, but—”

“Please, don’t say no when you mean yes.”

The skin around the warden’s eyes tightened. “Of course,” he said. “My mistake.”

Day sighed. “I apologize. Damned awkward situation.”

“Indeed.”

Day moved past the first cell and stepped into the second. Grit crunched under his shoes. He stood over the body of a man and stared for a long moment at the mangled remains, the black darts emblazoned on the white canvas blouse. He stepped back out and walked over the rubble to the end of the corridor. Another body lay there, the prison shirt loose over its torso.

“Do we know the names of the dead?” he said.

“Yes. This is one of mine. A warder. Name of Mallory. Not among the best I’ve got. Best I’ve had, I mean.”

“How so?”

“A shirker. Never one for following procedure.”

“He’s wearing the uniform of a convict.”

“Not really wearing it.”

“Well, it’s there, even if he’s not got it on properly. Was he guarding this wing tonight?”

“I believe he was.”

“I see,” Day said. “He’s suffered a head injury there. An accident, I wonder, or was he struck by one of the escapees? He certainly wasn’t involved in the escape plan, unless something went very wrong.”

“How so?”

“There’s dust under the body. And rocks from the wall. The
uniform couldn’t have been changed out before the crash or the body would be under the debris, not the other way round. So his jacket was switched directly after the derailment occurred.”

The warden bent and reached out toward the dead man.

“Don’t touch him,” Day said. “Leave him until Dr Kingsley gets here. I want to know what killed him.”

“The crash killed him. That much is obvious. I think we ought to—”

A deep voice interrupted him. “What is obvious to you may well prove to be false.”

The warden jumped and nearly fell, but Day caught his elbow and turned to the new arrival with a grim smile. “Good to see you, Doctor,” he said. Then his face fell. “I’m sorry. I thought you were . . .”

A man in his late sixties, enormously fat with a great shock of silvery hair, approached them carefully, stepping around the body and kneeling with some effort in the dust. He looked up at Day and nodded. “Bickford-Buckley. On night duty at University College Hospital. Dr Kingsley sends his regrets. He’s up to some important paperwork and couldn’t tear himself away from his office. But you’ll want to know whether this one was killed after the train hit, am I right?”

“Is it possible to figure that out?”

Bickford-Buckley nodded. “It may indeed be possible.” He stood, his overburdened knees creaking, strode toward the back wall, and pushed. Loose rock tumbled back and out into the prison yard. He pushed again and a large chunk of the wall fell aside. “Although I must say I don’t like the conditions.”

Day left the doctor to his work and moved farther down the corridor. He poked his finger at each of the cells in turn as he walked. The warden followed silently. Finally, Day turned to him.

“There are nine bodies, including the warder. Twelve cells. These other dead men are all wearing the prison uniform, but are they guards or prisoners?”

“All prisoners, sir.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Quite.”

“So one prisoner has apparently changed jackets with a guard. He either killed that guard or simply saw an opportunity after the train hit. Four prisoners have escaped, but there could very well be a fifth man. This man in the stolen guard’s clothing has disappeared.”

“We don’t know about a fifth man,” the warden said. “That’s pure conjecture. Too much chaos to be sure of anything yet.”

“What about the other cells?” Day didn’t look at the warden, but gazed at one of the empty cells as he talked. “Are there any empty cells in the other wings?”

“A few, I suppose.”

“But you have no idea how many?”

“No, sir. That’s not right. We keep excellent records.”

Day said nothing. He raised one eyebrow and waited.

“Well,” the warden said, “today is rather an unusual case, isn’t it?”

“I certainly hope so.” Day knew he was being hard on the man, but couldn’t seem to help himself. He looked away at the
piles of stone and twisted iron bars around them and considered his next question carefully. He didn’t want to completely alienate the warden before he’d got all the information the official might be able to provide. The warden had lost several dangerous prisoners, but through no fault of his own. A runaway locomotive wasn’t something he could have expected or planned for. If the escapees were found and returned quickly enough, Munt might be able to salvage his reputation and keep his position at the prison.

Day’s train of thought was interrupted by the sight of Sergeant Hammersmith, who rounded the corner at the end of the hall, leading a small thin man by the elbow.

“Sergeant,” Day said. “Good to see you.”

“This is the clerk,” Hammersmith said. “Mr Folger.”

Day shook Folger’s hand and introduced himself. The little man clutched a sheaf of file folders. “The prisoners,” he said. “The ones who’ve gone missing.”

“Four of them?”

“Perhaps.”

“But there’s an irregularity, correct?”

“There is.”

“What sort?”

“Well.” Folger was warming up now, his expression grim, but his body animated. “I can account for four men. The four we know about. Or at least tell you who they are, what to look for.” He was clearly anxious to help and, Day was sure, anxious to avoid as much personal embarrassment as possible.