The Devil's Workshop

And Hammersmith knew all at once who had drawn the circle on the map. Cinderhouse was not on Phoenix Street or even the next street over. He was on his way to 184 Regent’s Park Road. He was on his way to Walter Day’s house. Day wasn’t at home and Hammersmith was sure he was in no danger. But Claire would be there and she would be alone with young Fiona Kingsley. There was a constable guarding the house, but Hammersmith didn’t know who it was. He couldn’t believe Sir Edward would post someone very good on guard duty. Not during a manhunt.

Hammersmith ran past the parlor, where two constables were busy trying to coax the two tongues into a dirty washbasin with the tips of their truncheons. A third man was there, his back to Hammersmith, apparently supervising the removal of the tongues. He wore a tall black hat and was holding a medical bag. Hammersmith briefly wondered why the doctor hadn’t gone next door to take care of the injured homeowner, why he would override Hammersmith’s own orders regarding the tongues, but he didn’t stop to ask. He banged out through the front door and past the two wagons, the old lady, and the children. He grabbed the bicycle out of the hands of the boy who was still standing by the gate across the street.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I need this. I’ll get it back to you straightaway. Tell the inspectors to get someone to Walter Day’s house in Primrose Hill. That’s where one of the fugitives has gone. Tell them Sergeant Hammersmith is going there now and to meet me there.”

And before the boy could answer or protest, Hammersmith leapt on his bike and pedaled away down the street.

“Well,” Eunice Pye said to the children. “Rude.”

54

Fiona rooted through Claire’s sewing basket, looking for a spool of red thread to match the embroidered names on the coverlet. She had found a spool of white, which she set aside on the small table next to Claire’s chair in the sitting room, but all the other spools were spread across the bottom of the basket underneath fabric remnants and thimbles and cards with needles poked through, and Fiona had to be careful not to stick herself while she looked. There was no rhyme or reason to the way that Claire had stuffed her things into the basket. Fiona needed the white thread in case she had to take apart a seam in order to get the blood out. She’d have to restitch it. And she needed a pair of scissors and the needles, of course. But it was dark down in the basket and Fiona was tempted to upend it onto the table. She could sift through everything on the tabletop, in the bright sunlight streaming through the window, and then shove it all back in the basket. Claire would probably never even know. It was very clear that Claire didn’t spend a lot of time mending things.

Fiona found the scissors just as Rupert Winthrop entered the room behind her. She turned around and saw him staring at the bloody coverlet on the table behind her.

“Took up some water and things,” he said.

“Good.”

“He didn’t say much, the doctor didn’t. Do you think she’s all right?”

“Mrs Day, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“My father’s an excellent doctor. I have every confidence that she’ll be just fine.”

“I do hope so. That don’t look good, though.”

“The coverlet?”

“I mean, is that blood on it?”

“Yes.”

“Is she supposed to bleed?”

“I think a little blood’s okay.” But she didn’t feel at all certain, despite her father’s assurances.

“Your dad’s gonna take care of her?”

“There’s nobody better.”

“Wanted to help her somehow, but didn’t want to intrude during this time, you know. Didn’t know what to do.”

“I’m sure she understands that.”

“I feel useless just sitting there in the hall.”

“Well, you’ve made us all feel safe and protected. So no time wasted.”

“Good of you to say.”

It was good of her to say. In fact, she had nearly forgotten he was in the house. She certainly didn’t need him underfoot. She wanted to get the coverlet cleaned and hung up to dry as quickly as possible so she would be able to stitch Claire’s baby’s name in along the edge of it and present it to her as a gift. Claire would be so pleased.

“I put some more water on to boil,” Rupert said. “And I’ve found all the basins there is in the house, as far as I can tell, miss. It’s really not much. Is there anything I can help you do?”

Fiona looked down at the scissors in her hand and smiled. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “would you be a dear and look through this basket? I need a spool of thread.”

“There’s one right there on the table.”

“That’s white thread, which I do need. But I also need red thread.”

“Are you sure there’s any in that basket?”

“Not at all. But there might be, and I’d like to find it if it’s there.”

“Well, I’ll take a look.”

“That would be wonderful.”

He smiled. “Happy to do it, if it helps.”

“It does. Now I can go clean this up before it sets.”

“Will the blood come out?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Me, too.”