The Devil's Workshop

Day put his Colt Navy away and bent down next to the man. There was a nasty gash on his head, but it wasn’t bleeding and had already crusted over in his hair. He looked up at Day, who shifted slightly from side to side. The man’s eyes followed his movements and seemed to be tracking correctly. He had pulled at his bonds hard enough that the canvas had knotted itself into something resembling a wooden ball. It was instantly clear that there was no point in trying to untie him.

“I need a knife,” Day said. “Have you got one?”

March shook his head and stepped past Day to the counter, where he began poking about in the drawers. “There’s this,” he said, and held up a wedge-shaped cake knife. “It’s serrated along the edge.”

“That might work.”

March knelt down and began sawing at the canvas on the man’s ankles while Day worked the gag slowly up and down until he could pull it away from the man’s mouth.

The man gasped and gulped in air, worked his jaw back and forth. Then: “About goddamn time,” he said.

Day eased the gag back into his mouth.

“What’s your name?” he said.

He maneuvered the gag again so that the man could move his tongue around the saturated cloth.

“Get this shite off me!”

Day put the gag in place again. He straightened up and stood next to Hammersmith.

“Well, I don’t think he’s the proprietor of this place,” Hammersmith said.

“Could be,” Day said. “The escapee might have changed clothing with him.”

“Almost got this,” March said. He was still sawing away at the man’s feet.

“How are you holding up?” Hammersmith said.

“Me?” Day said. “I’m fine.”

“You’ve seemed a bit anxious of late.”

“Oh, you know, just the usual sort of thing.”

“Baby coming and all that?”

“Yes, exactly. I shouldn’t worry, I suppose. Been plenty of babies born before mine and they turned out all right, some of them without fathers of any sort.”

“Well, I hate to disagree, but really too many babies grow up and become this sort of person.” Hammersmith pointed at the man on the ground.

“Ah, that’s got it,” March said. He stood up and laid the cake knife on the counter, then reached down and hoisted the man to his feet. He held the man’s elbow, steadying him, and leaned him against the counter. Then March held up a finger and grabbed the cake knife back off the countertop. “Wouldn’t do to leave that within your reach, would it?”

“Let’s try this again,” Day said. “I’m going to take off your gag and you’re going to tell us your name. Leave the profanities out of it.”

The man nodded and Day pulled the gag down over his chin. The canvas was sodden with drool, and he wiped his fingers on the man’s filthy prison shirt.

“George,” the man said. “My name’s George.”

“George what?”

“George Hampstead. This is my shop. Someone broke in, some mad bloke with a murderous gleam in his eye, and he tied me up. Switched his clothes for mine and left me here for dead, he did.”

“He heard us suggest that just now,” Hammersmith said.

“Did not,” the man calling himself George Hampstead said.

“You were right here when we said it.”

“I wasn’t listening.”

Day grimaced. “Mr Hammersmith, do you remember those sketches we were shown of the escaped prisoners?”

“I do, sir.”

“Does this man resemble any of them?”

“He does, sir.”

“Which one? Do you remember?”

“The one called Napper, sir.”

“I never was!” the man in the prison uniform said. “You can’t go off a thing like that! It’s not no kinda proof.”

Day nodded. “We’ll get this whole thing straightened out. Don’t you worry.”

He turned and opened the door. The others had to shuffle about to make room for the door to swing inward. Day stepped outside and took a deep breath of fresh air. He hadn’t realized how stuffy it was inside the tea shop until he was out of it. Dawn had brought with it a bustle of people, up and down the street, most of them headed toward the far corner and away. Day presumed that was the direction of the commuter train to central London. He whistled and motioned to a little boy, who was sitting idly on a step in front of one of the homes. The lad ran over to him and Day produced a ha’penny from the pocket of his waistcoat.

“Would you like to earn a coin?”

“Like to earn a bigger one than that, if you’ve got it,” the boy said.

“How about a second coin just like it?” Day fished in his pocket again.

“What’ve I got to do?”

“Get to Scotland Yard and ask them to send round a wagon. Tell them one of the men’s been caught.”

“One of which men?”

“Never you mind. Just find Sergeant Kett and he’ll know what you mean.”

“Sergeant Kett,” the boy said. “He’s to send a wagon, you’ve caught a man.”

“Exactly right.”

The boy nodded once, sharply, and marched away, joining the throngs of men headed for that nearby train. Day turned around and almost bumped into an elderly man, who was stopped outside the tea shop and was staring at him with a puzzled expression.

“I say,” the man said.

“Terribly sorry,” Day said.

“What are you doing?”

“Police,” Day said. “My name is Inspector Day. Nothing to worry about. Please go about your business, sir.”

“But I can’t go about my business.”