“You said that before. What does it mean?”
“Are you being coy, Walter Day? I can’t decide if you’re playing a game with me. I do like games, but I’m not sure I have the patience right now.”
“It sounds like Latin. What you said. Is it Latin?”
“You really don’t know what it means?”
“No. I swear it.”
“Fascinating.”
“What does it mean?”
“I’m not entirely sure, Walter Day, but some of your friends do seem to know what it means.”
“My friends?”
“Your man to the right of me, in the neighboring cell, Mr March. He knows what it means. And the gentleman to my left-he’s to your right, I suppose. He knows, too. Or knew. As I said, he’s stopped doing things and knowing things. Though it hardly matters. He’s not important to our story anymore.”
“You’re mad.”
“Quite probably. But that’s not important just now, either. The immediate problem you pose for me arises because I believe you when you say you do not know those words, Walter Day.”
“I don’t know them.”
“I already said I believe you. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
“But what does it mean? Exit proboscis?”
“You’ve misquoted me. I think you just told me that something’s coming out of your nose. And, now you mention it, you do seem to be having some trouble breathing. Are you having trouble breathing?”
Day nodded. When he moved his head, he felt the rough fabric against his chin and lips and eyelids. And he felt the stab of pain in his head, but it wasn’t as sharp this time. It was bearable. The fabric shifted and he felt pressure on his scalp, then the hood lifted away and cool air hit his face. He took a deep rasping breath and opened his eyes. He immediately closed them again.
“Is that better, Walter Day?”
“It is.”
“You should say thank you.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. And I’m glad you’ve found your manners. Though I did have to remind you.” There was a pause. “But I forgive you that because I remember how terribly stuffy this hood can be. It stifles the senses, doesn’t it?”
“Yes.”
Day opened his eyes again, just a little bit, kept them partially closed and ratcheted his eyelids up a bit at a time, letting them adjust to the light. When they were open far enough that he could see, he was surprised to realize that the only illumination in the cell was indirect, the glow of a lantern in another nearby alcove. He could see the light from it reflected on the tunnel wall opposite his own cell, but everything around him was black.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Jack said. “The light, I mean. It stabs at your eyes.”
The way he emphasized the word stab sent a shiver down Day’s spine. He tried to turn his head to see Jack, but the shooting pain in his skull stopped him. The brief glimpse he had of Jack was disappointing, only a shape in the darkness.
“Do you see me, Walter Day?”
“No. I mean, you’re lost in the shadows.”
Jack laughed, sudden and loud, the bark of a rabid dog.
“You’ll forgive me. I’m a bit giddy today. But I am indeed lost in the shadows. And gladly so. I live in them. You’re merely a visitor.” The humor left his voice and he leaned in closer, though Day did not turn his head. “Tell me,” Jack said.
“I told you. I don’t know the words. I don’t know Latin.”
“No, tell me something else. Do they remember me? Above, in the sunlight. Do they remember Saucy Jack, or have I truly faded into the shadows?”
“You’re forgotten. No one remembers you in the slightest.”
Day heard Jack move, sitting back, his body creaking like old leather and rotting wood.
“No, I don’t believe you this time, Walter Day. I think they do remember me. I think I still frighten them. Am I a tale told to children to keep them in their beds? Do they see me at the back of their closets, under their beds, following them in the street at dusk?”
“Yes, if you must know. Yes. You ruined everything. You took away their trust and security. Does that make you ashamed? That you damaged the city so badly that nobody will ever feel safe again? Or does it make you happy?”
“Oh, it makes me very happy, indeed. Thank you.”
“The best thing you can do for everyone in London is to die.”
“If only I could. But gods don’t die, Walter Day. They step back into the shadows they came from and they watch. You know, you have a lump on your head. I think perhaps I put it there when I hit you. I apologize for that. But how was I to know we’d become friends?”
“I forgive you,” Day said.
This time Jack’s laughter was deep and sincere, even friendly. It rolled around the cell and boomed down the tunnel. It was the laughter of a delighted and indulgent father.
“Oh, Walter Day, you do amuse me. I think I’m going to let you keep your tongue.”
Day said nothing. He was afraid to speak. He didn’t know whether to take Jack literally. Did he mean that Day was free to speak? Or did he mean that he might actually cut the tongue out of his mouth?
“The tailor no longer amuses me,” Jack said. “I’ve grown bored of him. Of course, he couldn’t say anything of interest these days, even if he wanted to.”
“Tailor?”
“I believe you know him.”
“You mean Cinderhouse?”
“Clever boy, Walter Day. That is exactly who I mean.”
“You cut out his tongue?”
“I did alter him a bit. That’s a joke about tailoring. I’m sorry it’s not a better one.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“I do.”
“Will you tell me?”
“What would you do with that information? You’re here, he’s there. I’m afraid it would be a useless gesture, were I to give you his location.”
“I was looking for him down here. I wasn’t looking for you. I didn’t know you were here or even that you were still alive.”
“So it was the Fates that brought us together. Do you suppose those three fine ladies speak Latin? Perhaps they could translate my phrase for me.”
“How do you know him? Cinderhouse, I mean? Did he come for you? Did he help you kill those women a year ago?”
“The Fates at work again, those weird sisters. I suppose you could say the tailor works for me. Like those policemen work for you. The ones who will be coming to find you here.”
“Are they coming?”
“You said they were.”
“They don’t work for me.”
“They should. You’re smarter than they are. Take the power that is yours to take, Walter Day.”
“There’s no power. We work together. We’re the Murder Squad.”
“Oh, yet another gentlemen’s society. You people are so keen on those. Still, I don’t see them here, the other policemen. I see you here. You were the only one smart enough to find me. You, who are wholly removed from that gentleman’s club of torturers, the Karstphanomen. You, who have braved the darkness. Walter Day, you are the Murder Squad. At least, all of it that matters to me.”
“Sergeant Hammersmith will come. He will find me.”
“Hammersmith? Who is he?”
“A better policeman than I am.”
“Better than the great Walter Day? This I must see. And yet he is your sergeant. You are his superior.”
“I’m no one’s superior.”
“Someone has taught you too much humility. Who was that? Who did that to you? You must have been a child to have learnt it so deep in your bones. Your father, was he in service?”
“He’s none of your business.”
“Ah, so he was in service. A footman, perhaps? A valet?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he did you a disservice. That’s another play on words.”
“He was a good man.”
“Was? He’s dead now?”
“No. He’s alive.”
“When did you see him last?”
“I don’t know.”
“Hmm. Neither do I. Nor do I actually care. Let me show you something.”