The Devil's Workshop

“I’ll fetch Mr Folger, sir,” Jones said. And: “There’s no need for that,” the warden said. Then, hearing what Jones had said, he sniffed and turned around to face Day. “Oh, very well. Talk to him if you wish, but he’ll only confuse the issues.”

“I’ll go with you, Jones,” Hammersmith said. He gave Day a nod and followed Jones back through the door and away toward the prison’s hub. Day smiled at the warden and picked his way carefully down the tight stone hall of the south wing. Six cells stood in a row in the rubble, their back walls shorn off, their doors hanging open. Across from them, six identical cells also stood open.

“Nine bodies?”

“Nine,” said the warden.

“The train ruined the cells, but it couldn’t have opened the doors on the other side of the hall,” Day said.

“No.”

“Then what did?”

“No idea.”

Day bent and examined one of the steel bolts. He pulled the flat leather case from his waistcoat and opened it, took out a succession of tiny keys. He tried each of them in the lock, shook his head, replaced them in the leather case. He produced a tension wrench, like a small pair of tongs, and manipulated them in the keyhole, poking about with another crooked little tool.

“Good locks,” he said.

“The best,” the warden said. “Gibbons locks on every cell and every door we’ve got here.”

“Someone had a key to these.”

“Impossible. I have the only key.”

“Do you?”

Day stood and watched as the warden produced a huge key ring and flipped through it, key by key, until he found one he liked. He poked it into the keyhole of the first cell and turned it, snicking the bolt forward and back. He looked up at Day with a triumphant smile. “This one opens every door here.”

“Hmm,” Day said. “Is there a duplicate of that key?”

“No. Only this one and the one ordinarily held by the warder on duty at the main gate. Your constable’s got it right now.”

“So there is one other.”

“Well, I suppose, but—”

“Please, don’t say no when you mean yes.”

The skin around the warden’s eyes tightened. “Of course,” he said. “My mistake.”

Day sighed. “I apologize. Damned awkward situation.”

“Indeed.”

Day moved past the first cell and stepped into the second. Grit crunched under his shoes. He stood over the body of a man and stared for a long moment at the mangled remains, the black darts emblazoned on the white canvas blouse. He stepped back out and walked over the rubble to the end of the corridor. Another body lay there, the prison shirt loose over its torso.

“Do we know the names of the dead?” he said.

“Yes. This is one of mine. A warder. Name of Mallory. Not among the best I’ve got. Best I’ve had, I mean.”

“How so?”

“A shirker. Never one for following procedure.”

“He’s wearing the uniform of a convict.”

“Not really wearing it.”

“Well, it’s there, even if he’s not got it on properly. Was he guarding this wing tonight?”

“I believe he was.”

“I see,” Day said. “He’s suffered a head injury there. An accident, I wonder, or was he struck by one of the escapees? He certainly wasn’t involved in the escape plan, unless something went very wrong.”

“How so?”

“There’s dust under the body. And rocks from the wall. The uniform couldn’t have been changed out before the crash or the body would be under the debris, not the other way round. So his jacket was switched directly after the derailment occurred.”

The warden bent and reached out toward the dead man.

“Don’t touch him,” Day said. “Leave him until Dr Kingsley gets here. I want to know what killed him.”

“The crash killed him. That much is obvious. I think we ought to—”

A deep voice interrupted him. “What is obvious to you may well prove to be false.”

The warden jumped and nearly fell, but Day caught his elbow and turned to the new arrival with a grim smile. “Good to see you, Doctor,” he said. Then his face fell. “I’m sorry. I thought you were…”

A man in his late sixties, enormously fat with a great shock of silvery hair, approached them carefully, stepping around the body and kneeling with some effort in the dust. He looked up at Day and nodded. “Bickford-Buckley. On night duty at University College Hospital. Dr Kingsley sends his regrets. He’s up to some important paperwork and couldn’t tear himself away from his office. But you’ll want to know whether this one was killed after the train hit, am I right?”

“Is it possible to figure that out?”

Bickford-Buckley nodded. “It may indeed be possible.” He stood, his overburdened knees creaking, strode toward the back wall, and pushed. Loose rock tumbled back and out into the prison yard. He pushed again and a large chunk of the wall fell aside. “Although I must say I don’t like the conditions.”

Day left the doctor to his work and moved farther down the corridor. He poked his finger at each of the cells in turn as he walked. The warden followed silently. Finally, Day turned to him.

“There are nine bodies, including the warder. Twelve cells. These other dead men are all wearing the prison uniform, but are they guards or prisoners?”

“All prisoners, sir.”

“You’re quite sure?”

“Quite.”