The Devil's Workshop

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.

5

Twenty-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.