The Devil's Workshop

“Look!” The bald man held out his free hand. It was bleeding and covered with fresh blisters. “I hurt myself climbing down that well.”

“There must be more than one way to get down here,” Griffin said.

“Where are we?”

“I was going to ask you that.”

“There are buildings down here. Have you seen?”

“No. It’s dark.”

The bald man nodded again. “This was hanging from a post.” He held up the lantern so that its light spread out across the wall beside him. “I think we’re in the old city.”

Griffin looked up at the high-timbered ceiling, arched and weathered by long-ago rain. They were in a courtyard that had once been aboveground. Tunnels branched away from them in several directions, and Griffin almost smiled to think that those dark ominous mouths had once been sunny footpaths. London had sunk into the mud and had been rebuilt on top of itself. Thousands of people had once walked down the road they now stood on, but it had been covered over and forgotten. The yellow lantern light revealed blank brick walls, yawning glassless windows, doors sagging on ancient wooden hinges.

“Yes,” Griffin said, “I think we are.”

They both jumped as a fox ran across the courtyard and disappeared down a dark tunnel, its orange tail a blur.

“Do you think people live down here?”

“I suppose it’s possible.”

“Listen,” the bald man said. “Listen, we could stay down here. They’d never catch us.”

“We?” Even in the dim glow of the lantern’s light, Griffin could see the need in the bald man’s eyes. This was not a person who did well on his own.

“Well, yes. We’re right under their feet.” The bald man chuckled, a rasping, uncertain sound. “They’re right up there, looking for us. And they’ll never find us. Not in a lifetime of searching.”

“You think not?”

“No. I mean, what if they came down here? What then? Why, we’d simply move to a different spot and they’d pass right by us because we’d know the area down here and they wouldn’t. It’s a perfect maze. We’d be safe forever.”

“I see,” Griffin said. “And we could simply fetch ourselves down to the market on the corner for a loaf of bread and a fish pie, could we?”

“Well…” The bald man shook his head. “I didn’t say it would be easy, did I?” He pouted. “We’d have to go above sometimes. Of course we would. Only once in a while, and only to get food and other necessities.” He sniffed and looked around at the abandoned façades. “I’ll bet if we were to clean one of those storefronts out, we’d find it a perfectly suitable place to live. After a time, we could even bring others. Have a little community of our own. Even a child or two running about in this courtyard. There’s all the room in the world down here. And wouldn’t a child just brighten the place right up?”

7

Detective Inspector Adrian March, late of Scotland Yard, stopped Day at the edge of the murder room, where the railing gave way to the entrance hall.

“Walter, my boy,” he said, “so good to see you again. How is my favorite pupil?”

“I wish the circumstances were better,” Day said. “Were you introduced to Sergeant Hammersmith?”

“I only just met him in Sir Edward’s office.”

Hammersmith smiled at March, but the retired inspector didn’t smile back at him. His eyes traveled up and down Hammersmith’s misbuttoned jacket and settled on a bloodstain halfway down his left sleeve.

“I’m frankly surprised the commissioner had nothing to say about your attire, Sergeant,” March said.

As if on cue, Sir Edward’s office door opened and he called out, “Hammersmith? Is Hammersmith gone yet?”

“I’m here.”

“I’d like to see you.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sergeant turned to Day and grimaced. “Well, I suppose I know what that’s about.”

“Did you have no clean shirts today, Nevil?” Day said.

“I had one. I really did. Hanging up neat as you please in the closet, ready to put on in the morning.”

“What happened to it?”

“It’s still there, I imagine. It was hanging next to this one, and in the dark…”

“Nevil, you ought to have all your shirts washed at once. Then you won’t have this sort of problem.”

“But I can’t wash the shirt I’m wearing on wash day.”

“Don’t hang that shirt back up,” Day said.

“I might need it again.”

“Then don’t eat soup on wash day.”

“Never again.”

Hammersmith trudged back across the room and the office door closed behind him.

“Is he any good as a policeman?” March said.

“Nevil?” Day said. “He’s better than I am, I fear. Absolutely relentless once he’s on the scent.”

“You’re describing a dog,” March said. “And I’ve seen many dogs that were better groomed.”

“He’s a good man.”

“If you say he is, then he must be.”

“He is.”

“I see you’re wearing the cufflinks I gave you. Tell me, have you kept up with your lock skills?”

“I’ve still got your old set of keys,” Day said. He reached for the breast pocket of his jacket and came away empty-handed, a puzzled look on his face.

“Were you looking for this?” March held out a well-worn leather case.

“How did you…?”

“You must be more aware of the people around you. I was easily able to lift this from your pocket.”

“That’s very good.”

“I’ll teach you how to do it.”