The Devil's Workshop

“He’ll do it, too,” Blacker said. “Inspector Tiffany’s in a mood today.”

Hoffmann nodded and licked his lower lip. It was hard to tell from Hammersmith’s vantage point how tall the prisoner was, but he seemed abnormally thin. He was older, with a few strands of grey hair that arced up over the top of his head. He had the habitual squint of a man used to wearing spectacles, and Hammersmith wondered if he’d lost them in the escape. Hoffmann bent his knees and felt behind him with his left toe. Hammersmith used the truncheon to guide his heel, and Hoffmann found the ledge. He leaned sideways against the inside wall of the wagon and eased himself down. Hammersmith used the flat of his left hand on Hoffmann’s back and helped him the rest of the way to the ground.

“Thank you,” Hoffmann said.

“Don’t talk to me.”

“But I can… you know, I can help you. I know where one of the others are. I mean, where he is. One of them that escaped with me.”

The three policemen looked at one another.

“You’d help us catch him?” Hammersmith said.

“I would,” Hoffmann said. “I would help you if you were to put in a good word to the head warder for me.”

“We don’t make promises to criminals,” Tiffany said.

“It’s gonna… it’s going to be harder on us this time round. In Bridewell. I mean, the head warder. He’s gonna… he’s going to hurt us, take away meals and our time outside. And he’ll take away our tea. I like teatime most of all.”

“You killed a man,” Blacker said. “Tea seems like the least of your worries.”

“Where is he?” Hammersmith said. “If you know where one of the others is, tell us.”

“Promise first. Promise you’ll talk to the head warder. Just a word to him. Just a good word from you, it’s all I ask. A recommendation. I’m not asking for more than that. I know I’ve made mistakes and I don’t ask for forgiveness or special favors. Tea is all. A piece of toast is all. It’s not much, is it? A piece of toast? Maybe a spot of jam. But not necessarily. I didn’t mean to say jam. It’s too much to ask. Toast is all I need. Please, just toast.” Hoffmann’s voice grew more shrill as he pleaded with them. Hammersmith looked away from him at the two inspectors.

“I don’t like making bargains with criminals,” Tiffany said.

“And I don’t like standing out here like this,” Blacker said. “Let’s get him inside and locked up. Then we can talk.”

“Do you think he actually knows something?”

“I do,” Hoffmann said. “I do know something.”

“Maybe he does,” Tiffany said. “But we’ll find the other men without him.”

Tiffany tugged on Hoffmann’s elbow and led him toward the gates where a blue-uniformed warder was watching them.

“It might be worth finding out what he knows,” Blacker said. “Or thinks he knows.”

Hammersmith saw something move at the far corner of the high stone wall. It appeared at the periphery of his vision and moved fast toward the little cluster of policemen with Hoffmann.

“Move,” Hammersmith said. “Get him through the gates.”

Blacker didn’t even look up. He pushed Hoffmann forward and immediately closed the gap behind him. Tiffany moved into the lane, his Webley revolver already up and aimed. Then he lowered his weapon, just as the figure resolved itself in Hammersmith’s vision as a young boy on a bicycle. The two policemen looked at each other and then looked over at Blacker, who had managed to get Hoffmann through the gate and was only now turning to see if he could help the others.

“Well,” Blacker said, “we know how to move fast when we have to, don’t we?”

“And when we don’t have to,” Tiffany said. He scowled at the boy, who skidded to a halt in front of him. “Move along, son. Police business here.”

“Was lookin’ for police, sir.” The boy gulped and took several deep breaths. He was sweating and his hair was tangled from the wind.

“Someone sent you?”

“Yes, sir. A second, please. Catchin’ me breath.”

“Is it the Yard?”

“No, sir. The prisoners, sir. The ones who escaped? Mrs Pye’s seen two of ’em, and on my very street, sir, where I live.”

“Two of the prisoners? Who’s Mrs Pye?”

“Lady lives on my street, sir. Gave me a penny to ride up here and tell you.”

“How did she know we were here?”

“Anybody, sir. Said to tell anybody I saw.”

“Where are they?”

“Phoenix Street, sir. Not far. I’ll show you. They’re livin’ in a house over there. They hurt Mr Michael and took his house, but Mrs Pye, she went right in like it wasn’t nothin’ and she untied Mr Michael and saved him, sir, but he don’t got a tongue no more. They cut it out of him, if you can believe it.”

Tiffany turned to Blacker. “Leave him.” Then to the gatekeeper. “Can you take him from here?”

The warder nodded. “I got him, all right.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

Blacker squeezed out through the gap in the gate and the warder swung it shut behind him with a mighty clang. Hoffmann twisted away and threw himself against the bars of the gate on the other side.

“No,” he said. “I can tell you where he is. The strange one. The Harvest Man. I can tell you. I only want toast in return. That’s not so much to ask! Tea and toast!”