Devil's Workshop

“You’ve come to kill me. I regret nothing, so get on with it.”

“Gladly. But first, I hope you’ll give me the names of our mutual Karstphanomen friends. Not too soon, mind you. I have some sharp clinky metal things here I’d like to show you. Tell me, have you ever heard the phrase ‘divine retribution’?”

“Oh, good Lord!”

“Yes. That’s exactly right. I’m glad you understand.”

Jack barely caught the man again before he screamed, and after that he ensured that Dr Bickford-Buckley made no loud noises during their long visit. He didn’t want to disturb the housekeeper. She seemed like a nice lady.

He left a gift for her on the mantel before he let himself out.

67

Dr Kingsley had made special arrangements at University College Hospital, and a large sitting room had been refashioned into a private convalescence ward for two special patients. Day and Hammersmith lay side by side in clean white beds while nurses bustled about and patients in the nearby public wards cried out. Most of the time, the two policemen slept. When they were awake, they rarely spoke. Day’s legs were heavily wrapped in layers of gauze, and he was sedated for the first two days and nights of his stay. Hammersmith required more attention. One of his lungs was perforated, but the wound had been sewn shut in time to save his life. Dr Kingsley inspected the stitches and declared them to be adequate. It was clearly the work of an amateur, but a talented amateur, and there was no reason to submit Hammersmith to the trauma of reopening that wound. His chest posed a different problem. Fiona had kept him from bleeding to death, but her stitchwork was clumsy. Kingsley had removed the stitches from his chest and sewn him back up. He informed both Hammersmith and Fiona that there would be significant scarring, but that he had every reason to expect a full recovery. This did not comfort Hammersmith, who felt he should not have allowed himself to be stabbed in the first place.

Cinderhouse’s body had been put back together and examined. In addition to the missing genitals, Kingsley was unable to find the left kidney or the tongue. Mr Michael, owner of the house on Phoenix Street, eventually verified that one of the tongues found on his chimneypiece had come from Cinderhouse’s mouth, but there was no way to determine which one, and so both tongues were cremated along with the tailor’s remains.

The same day that Cinderhouse was burned and discarded, Claire Day finally visited the hospital. She pushed a pram that had been modified to fit two babies. A young nurse cooed over the infants and led Claire to the private room where Day had been awakened and dressed for the occasion. He lay atop his starched white sheets and smiled at Claire when she entered. She ran to him and they hugged, carefully, and she showered his lips and eyes and forehead with kisses.

“I’ve been so worried,” she said. “Dr Kingsley wouldn’t let me come.”

They whispered to each other, careful not to wake Hammersmith, whose ravaged chest rose and fell rhythmically, miraculously.

“How are you?”

“How am I? How are you? Walter, you almost died.”

“Nonsense. A rough day on the job, that’s all.”

“You didn’t really get a chance to see the girls.”

She went to the pram and wheeled it to the bed. Day looked down at his daughters, who slept curled up around each other like kittens.

“They’re lovely,” he said. “Did it. . I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

“Well, you’ve got a wonderful excuse.”

Day laughed. “Yes, I suppose I do. You’re all right now?”

“I haven’t slept much.”

“I’ve slept entirely too much.”

“Tell me about your legs,” Claire said.

“I’ve kept them both.”

“Well, that’s a good start. Will you walk?”

“I’m told I will, in time. There was tissue damage to the left leg. He didn’t do much to the right, and I should make a full recovery there. But I’ll walk with a cane.”

“It will make you look dignified.”

“It will make me look old.”

“I don’t care how old you look.”

Day pointed at the pram. “I wasn’t expecting two.”

“Imagine my surprise.”

“They’re so tiny.”

“They came early. But they’re healthy.”

“They’ll live?”

“I told you, they’re healthy.”

“What about you? Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Dr Kingsley has given me a clean bill of health. Only I don’t like to be at home by myself anymore. Not even with Fiona there. I can’t go into the kitchen. I certainly can’t go into the parlor.”