The Devil's Workshop

When the body was finally extricated from its fetters, Day laid it down against the wall. He closed Griffin’s wide staring eyes and limped away, left it there in the dark. He would send people for it. He could barely walk, and March would need help. The living came first.

He sat on the box in March’s cell and drained his flask, felt the honey-colored liquid warm him from his chest out in a radiant spreading wave. When the flask was empty, he corked it and put it away. He used the branding iron and stood as well as he was able, went to March, and woke the elder inspector.

March was weak, but he could stand. The two of them leaned on each other and made their way out through the tunnel. They passed the ancient ruined city and the underground wilderness where few humans had ever set foot. They saw a pack of wild dogs from a distance, but the dogs were chasing a deer that bounded through the darkness and they showed no interest in the two men.

At last they found a ladder sunk into the wall. They pushed and pulled each other up the ancient wooden rungs and shoved against the ceiling at the top. They came up through a trapdoor in the floor of a small room that was filled with religious artifacts. They crossed the room slowly and quietly, picked a lock on a door, and stepped outside into the waning sun.

They were in yet another churchyard and, far across the grass, under the trees, they saw a lane where people walked and carriages rolled past. Day drew the handcuffs from his pocket and turned and snapped them shut around Adrian March’s wrists.

“I told you I would place you under arrest when we were free,” he said.

“You are as good as your word. And I don’t have the strength to fight you, Walter.”

The sound of March’s voice sickened Day. He didn’t want to talk to his mentor. He wanted to make sure his wife was all right. He wanted to collapse into bed and hold her. But he knew that once he left Adrian March in a cell, he would never go back to see him. And there were things he needed to know.

“Tell me who the others are. Tell me where to find the rest of your Karstphanomen.”

“So you can arrest them, too?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t do that.”

“No matter. I’ll find them.”

“I believe you might. But I won’t help you do it.”

Day nodded and held March’s arm above the elbow, and together they staggered across the churchyard.

Day kept his eyes wide open and focused on that distant thoroughfare. He prayed that it wasn’t a dream or a mirage.

63

Claire shut her eyes tight and pushed. She wanted Dr Kingsley to come back, to come and take her new baby away from her so that she could concentrate properly on whatever was happening now. She was afraid that if she pushed too hard she might let the baby fall from the crook of her arm, that her daughter would roll off the bed and be injured.

She had given birth already. Why was it happening again? Why hadn’t it stopped? She was helpless. She wanted to rest and her body wasn’t allowing it.

Above the sound of her own hard breathing, she heard footsteps on the stairs. Someone moved past the foot of the bed, and then the light from the bedroom window was blocked.

“I heard noises,” Claire said. “A lot of them. From downstairs. What’s happening?”

“Nothing that need concern you, Claire.”

It was not Dr Kingsley’s voice.

She opened her eyes and saw the dark shape of a man silhouetted against the window. He had long wavy hair, and the light haloed around him, making it seem as if he were glowing. She shut her eyes again.

“You’re not Dr Kingsley! Get out! Leave at once!”

She wrapped her arm around her crying daughter and used her free hand to rearrange the sheets on the bed, trying to cover herself, but the man chuckled. It was a warm sound, sympathetic and caring.

“Your baby is perfect,” he said. “What a transformation you have wrought.”

“Leave this room.”

“Dr Kingsley is very tired and I’m afraid he’s fallen asleep. But I’m… Well, Claire, you could say I’m a good friend of your husband’s. Walter Day and I were just talking a short while ago, and he asked me to stop and look in on you.”

“Walter’s all right?”

“I should imagine he’s on his way here by now.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I must be. Else why would I be carrying this black bag?” He looked down at her diary on the bedside table. “Is this yours? How delicious.”

He flipped it open and riffled through it from back to front. He stopped at the first page that wasn’t blank.

“It hurts,” Claire said.

“It’s a poem.”

“Why does it hurt when the baby’s already come?”

“May I read this? Do you mind?”

“Please help.”

He began to read out loud, and Claire was quiet. The urge to push subsided for a moment and the baby stopped crying. The new doctor’s voice was deep and pleasant as he read: