The Devil's Workshop

She let go of her baskets, one of which landed safely on the counter. The other landed half on, half off the counter, and gravity propelled it the rest of the way to the floor. Eunice heard the crash and spatter of a jam jar, but did not turn around. She got to the front door as quickly as she could, shut it, and bolted it fast. She went to the parlor window and looked up and down the street, but the bald man had not come back outside. There was nothing in the lane but the usual foot traffic and the occasional carriage rolling past. Still, she kept watch for half an hour, waiting to see if the bald man would leave again.

When he did not, she reluctantly left her station and cleaned up the broken jar of jam (which had thankfully been contained in the basket and had not caused a mess on the floor). She emptied the basket into the garbage, considered washing the basket, then threw it in after. She put her groceries away and folded her remaining basket and stowed it under the kitchen table. Then she gathered her notecards, envelopes, and her best pen and sat down at the window seat where she commanded an excellent view of the entire street. She barely looked at the notecard as she wrote, and so her handwriting was not up to her usual standards, but she felt it necessary to keep a watchful eye on the little Anderson girl, even if the child was a beast.

When she saw the postman turn onto her street, she stuffed the card into an envelope and addressed it to the Metropolitan Police. She pulled her door open before the postman could get the mail through the slot and handed him her envelope.

Then she went back to watching the street.

She wondered what was going on in the house with the red door. And she wondered how soon the police would come to catch the bald man.

27

The boy driving the police wagon was perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. From his driver’s seat he was able to look down on Day and Hammersmith, and it was for this reason that he refused to alight. Instead, he sat, stoic and silent, with the morning sun behind him. Sergeant Kett had obviously put young runners to work driving carriages for the day. Day wondered if the boy was trying to grow whiskers or had perhaps left a bit of wheat cereal on his lip. His thoughts wandered to his unborn child and he wondered if it would be a son and if it would be as dutiful as this boy was.

Hammersmith gave the horse’s nose a pat and followed Day to the tea shop door, which was closed and refused to budge. Day tugged on the handle and then rapped on the green door.

“It sticks,” said the shop’s proprietor, who sat frustrated on the curb, watching for cabs in the street. Every time a two-wheeler or four-wheeler rolled by, he would mutter under his breath, “Another one lost.”

Eventually, the door swung open and Adrian March beckoned them inside. Day shook his head.

“The wagon’s arrived,” he said. “Let’s bring him out.”

“One moment,” March said.

The door closed, then opened again a minute later, and March pushed Napper out onto the footpath. The prisoner stumbled, but caught himself before falling and stood up straight. He was shorter than he had seemed inside the miniature shop. His hands were still bound in bunched and knotted canvas, but there were fresh wounds on his face and scalp, fresh blood on his prison-issue uniform. He spat at Day, but the inspector moved backward and watched the glistening spit break and spatter at his feet. Napper grinned at him. His teeth were small and pearl grey.

“Sorry,” he said. “Meant that for him over there.”

“What happened?” Day said. “Why’s he got blood all over him?”

“He fell,” March said. “Hit his head against the counter before I could catch him.”

The shop’s proprietor pushed past them all and disappeared into the gloom of the green building. Off-balance, Napper fell against Day. Day grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upright, but his attention was arrested by the gleam in the little prisoner’s eyes.

“Heard something,” Napper said.

“What do you mean?” Day said.

“The other one, Griffin,” Napper said. “He told me a thing you might like to know.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll tell you,” Napper said. “Or maybe I won’t.”

“He’s lying,” March said. “He didn’t say anything like this when we were in there.” He gestured at the tea shop.

“You didn’t ask me nice,” Napper said. “You was evil toward me. Not talkin’ no more to you.”

“If you have something to say,” Day said, “say it.”

“Only you. Only to you.”

“Why me?”

“Nice eyes you got. Friendly eyes. Salty tasty eyes.”

Day remembered that Napper was the one who had eaten a woman over the course of several days. He swallowed hard and turned away. “Let’s get him in the wagon.”

“He said he were gonna put me in a cell,” Napper said. He was talking fast, realized he’d lost his audience, but probably had no idea what he’d said that was so wrong. “Said he was gonna take me underground, down there, and put me in a cell.”

Day turned back around. “Who did? Who said that?”

“You weren’t there.”

“Who?”