The Devil's Workshop

Fiona picked up the spool of white thread and the coverlet, careful not to perforate it with the tip of the scissors, and went to the door. She peeked back over her shoulder just in time to see the constable pick up the basket and scatter its contents over the tabletop. She sighed and hurried away down the hall to the kitchen.

55

Jack heard someone rush past in the hallway behind him and turned around too late. All he saw was the blue-uniformed back of a policeman. Then the front door banged shut.

“What do we do with these when we get ’em off of here?” one of the constables said.

Jack contemplated the tongues, sagging from their iron nails, dried and no longer vital. He felt a lack of connection to them that surprised him. His trophies had always meant so much.

“Take them back to Scotland Yard,” he said. “Leave them on the desk of Detective Inspector Walter Day. Do you know who that is?”

“Sure,” the other constable said. “I know him. He’ll know what to do with them?”

“Tell him they’re a gift from a new friend.”

The older of the two constables sniffed and rubbed his nose with his thumb. He squinted at Jack, trying to determine whether he was the butt of a joke, whether he ought to laugh.

“The inspector’s probably not at his desk right now,” the younger one said. “Out looking for the escaped prisoners, same as everybody else.”

“Oh, I imagine he’s busy escaping, too. He should be returning to the Yard soon, if he doesn’t lose his leg.”

“Lose his leg?”

“Well, it was dark and I’m not completely sure about the depth of that incision. Still, I’m reasonably confident he’ll be back and in one piece. Please tender my apologies and tell him I hope these offerings will cement our friendship.”

Jack turned and walked away, out of the parlor and out of the house. He heard the constables behind him yelling questions, but paid no attention to them. They were simpletons. He ran his fingers over the bloodred surface of Elizabeth’s door one last time as he passed it. He knew he would not return, but felt little regret. He was done with this place.

There were two wagons in the lane and Jack lingered next to one of them, stroking the horse’s nose, as the old woman who lived next door hurried past and into her own house, leaving her front door standing open.

“How much to take me away from here?” Jack said to the young boy who sat up top, reading a magazine and chewing on the butt of a cigarette.

“Working for the police, mister. This’s their wagon. Can’t go nowhere but where they tell me to go.”

“I’ll give you a quid.”