While Cinderhouse went looking for twine or wire, something to tie the man with, Jack cast his eye about the house, his gaze finally coming to rest on the attaché case. It was unlikely the case held clues to the man’s home life. It was probably full of business papers, which would be completely boring. Jack kicked the case under a settee. The man wouldn’t need it again. He wouldn’t be returning to work. Jack had already liberated him from the humdrum life of the worker bee.
There was a silver letter opener on the mantel over the fireplace and Jack picked it up. It was well-polished and gleamed in the candlelight. Jack tucked it into the sleeve of his shirt, holding it against his arm with his fingertips, relishing the cold metallic feel of it. He decided to add the letter opener to his collection of instruments in the black leather bag. But it occurred to him that he needed pockets. He needed a decent pair of trousers and a waistcoat and a long jacket, all of them with loads of pockets.
The rest of the house was drab and ordinary, but with those occasional women’s touches he had noted. Floral-patterned draperies and gilt chandeliers. Nothing expensive, and nothing too terribly tasteful, either.
Cinderhouse returned from the back of the house with a spool of rough mailing twine. He set to work wrapping it around the unconscious body of the man in the chair.
“We should name him,” Jack said. “What shall we call him?”
“I’m sure he already has a name.”
“Had. He had a name, dear fly, when he was a simple worker. But we are going to do things to him and he will never return to that ordinary life he once led. Nor should he desire to. This is a new day for him. For us all. And he shall have a new name to go with the new day.”
“I asked you not to call me that.”
“What’s that?”
“I asked you not to refer to me as an insect anymore.”
“I didn’t realize I had.”
“Well, don’t do it again, please.” The bald man cocked his head to one side and seemed to think for a long moment before speaking again. “I’m fond of the name Fenn,” he said.
“Fenn?”
“For him.” Cinderhouse pointed at the bound man. “Isn’t Fenn a pretty name?”
“No. I don’t like it.”
“Well, I do.”
“I like the name Elizabeth,” Jack said.
“But he’s a man,” Cinderhouse said. “You can’t call a man Elizabeth.”
“I can and I have. His name is now Elizabeth.”
Cinderhouse shook his head, but he didn’t argue further. He returned to the work of tying Elizabeth to his chair. Jack was unhappy with the bald man’s attitude. There was entirely too much arguing going on.
“What did you say,” Jack said, “that you used to do before you were in prison?”
“I was a tailor,” Cinderhouse said.
“Fascinating,” Jack said. “And how close in size do you think I am to Elizabeth?”
Cinderhouse sized them both up expertly with his eyes. “You are taller than he is, and I would guess that you were once a very large man, but you’re quite thin now. Still, I think I could let out his hems and cuffs and get his suits to match you well enough.”
“But I’m not interested in ‘well enough.’ I want to look every bit as dashing as I did before those evil men got hold of me.”
“I can make you look good. That’s a thing I do well.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jack said. “And it appears you’ve got our boy good and fastened down. Be a good fellow and come here a moment.”
Cinderhouse narrowed his eyes, but put down the nearly empty wooden spool that had held the twine. He cautiously approached Jack, walking very slowly. Jack became impatient.
“You are becoming entirely too insolent,” Jack said. “I’m afraid I shall have to punish you now. Please remember, I do this out of love.”
Cinderhouse started to back away as Jack reached for him, but it was too late. Jack mustered all of his strength and chopped his knuckles at the base of Cinderhouse’s skull, where it connected to his spine. When the bald man stumbled and fell to his knees, Jack pulled the letter opener from his sleeve and held it to Cinderhouse’s throat. He leaned down and brought him close and whispered in the bald man’s ear.
“This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you,” he said. “Or perhaps not as much. Let’s decide when it’s done.”
Cinderhouse began to scream, wordlessly, but Jack didn’t hear him. He heard nothing but the blood pounding in his own ears.
20
They approached the little green building cautiously. Day walked straight toward it along the pathway, while March and Hammersmith split up and circled around it. March flowed through the gloom under the trees, nearly invisible. Hammersmith came at it from the road, out in plain sight, but varying his gait and direction by small increments to make it harder for anyone inside to take aim at him.
If there was anyone inside. And if they were armed.
It was still only sprinkling. The rain hadn’t come back in force yet, and Day hoped it would remain at bay. At least until they caught the missing men. He carried his Colt Navy loose in his hand, ready, but not anxious.
By the time Day reached the front door of the tea shop, he could no longer see March or Hammersmith, but he knew they were nearby, within six feet of him on either side of the building. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon and it filtered through the leaves of the trees, glanced along the rooftops of the houses. The tiny shop twinkled emerald green as raindrops pattered against the leaves overhead, moving the tree branches up and down around it, alternately dappling it with light and shadow. Day arrived at the front door and switched the revolver to his other hand. He reached out toward the doorknob, but then pulled his hand back and frowned.
“It’s locked,” he said.
He took a step back and looked around him. The street was still deserted, but it wouldn’t be for much longer. Soon, people would be coming out of those homes, men headed away to the train or the cabstand or simply walking to work, children running to school or playing in their gardens. The road would be crowded with people.
March materialized next to him from somewhere around the corner of the building.
“Surely you can unlock it, Walter,” he said.
“I can. But look.” He pointed at the heavy steel padlock, its swinging arm looped through a bolt on the outside of the door. “This has been locked from the outside, not the inside. It’s not possible for someone to be in there.” He raised his voice. “Sergeant, I think it’s clear.”
“Take a look at this,” came Hammersmith’s voice from around the corner of the shop.
Day stowed his weapon and walked around to the road. March followed him. Hammersmith was squatting, looking at something against the curb. Day leaned down and used one hand to steady himself against the wall of the building.
“Another one,” he said.