The Devil's Workshop

Her toes started to hurt. They weren’t used to bearing all of her weight, even though she was not a large person by any stretch of the imagination. She scowled, disappointed, at the empty room beyond the window and decided there was nothing to see. She would have to go directly to the police and bring them round, rather than waiting for them to respond to her earlier correspondence. But just at the moment she began to lower herself back to the ground, something moved at the periphery of her vision and she sprang back up on her toes and focused on the corner of the room between the window and the fireplace. There near the hearth was a blind spot where she could not see, but there was a foot, or more precisely a shoe with a foot in it, and the shoe was moving. Just a little bit, but it was enough to command her attention. She pressed her cheek against the glass and followed the shoe with her eyes, up a leg, and there was a hand, but the hand was twisted at a very odd angle, and there was a bit of rope about the wrist, and that was as much as she could possibly see.

Her toes hurt and her eyes hurt and her back hurt, but she paid them no mind.

There was a person tied to a chair in the parlor of the Michaels’ house.

Her eyes widened with the realization and she drew a deep breath, and then she noticed something else. Nailed above the fireplace were two objects. They were small and oblong and dark in color. Then one of the objects moved, shriveled a bit and curled up on itself just the slightest amount, and it looked to her like it might be talking to her.

And it was a tongue. There were two tongues nailed to the mantel.

Eunice let herself drop back down into the garden. She went to the gate and around to her own little garden and inside her house. She opened the door under the stairs and found her stoutest garden hoe and went back out of the house and next door again.

There was no time for policemen now.

The red door was not latched. The Devil had left it open for her, and she did not know whether that had been a mistake or he had set a trap, but she knew that she had to do something or she would hate herself forever.

Eunice Pye pushed open the door and, brandishing her garden hoe, she stepped over the threshold and into the Devil’s house.

37

Adrian March knew the tunnels beneath this part of London as well as he knew the streets above them. He lit his candle again and led the way past sunken buildings, through an underground train station, to a large pond, which they crossed in a two-man skiff. Day followed along, but his mind wandered despite the marvels he saw around him. He knew that he wouldn’t be able to backtrack through the tunnels without becoming hopelessly lost. He remembered that they were supposed to meet Hammersmith at the door of the church before they struck out underground, but Day didn’t know where the church was anymore or how to get back there. It was entirely possible that March intended to abandon him down here, leave him to wander in the darkness until he died.

He turned his mind to the twin concerns of food and water, as if March’s betrayal were a certainty: The water in the underground pond was fresh, and they saw wildlife living in the tunnels, deer and foxes and rats. There were fish in the pond, too, blind white things, and Day thought he might be able to fashion some kind of hook and line. He could catch a fish, he assumed, more easily than he could hunt a deer in the dark. Of course, he was unlikely to find a cask of brandy in any of the caverns they passed through. There would be no cases of wine that hadn’t long ago turned to vinegar. He might live for a time, but he wouldn’t be comfortable. And he wouldn’t be present at the birth of his child.

Still, he followed March deeper and deeper down and he prayed that his mentor had not completely lost his mind, that there was still a trustworthy man somewhere in there.

Beyond the pond, March led the way into a side passage that grew narrower as they traveled. The ceiling angled down so that Day had to stoop to walk, and the walls were unfinished red clay rather than the hard-packed soil and stone he had seen in the larger tunnels. He followed March down a series of steps that might have been accidental shapes in the earth, not anything hewn by men. He thought again of his friend Hammersmith, who had grown up working the coal mines of Wales and who still feared enclosed spaces. Perhaps it was best after all that they had not gone back for the sergeant.

At the bottom of the soft clay steps, March leaned down and waved his candle over the ground at his feet.

“What do you make of this?”

Day came down off the bottom step and stood next to his mentor. There were dark spots in the dirt and they gleamed in the candle’s light. Day squatted and touched one of the spots. It was thick and gummy. He brought his fingers to his nose and sniffed at the black liquid, then stuck out his tongue and tasted it.