Page 20 of The Cabinet of Dr. Leng

“Fight, sir.”

“Well, why the devil didn’t you take care of it?”

“All the inmates in that cell are involved. It’s riling the rest of the block, and I fear the agitation might spread.”

The superintendent delivered a brief, blistering critique of would-be surgeons who lacked the oysters to break up a fight among a group of slatterns. Then he put on his coat, picked up a truncheon and his keys, and began to make his way down the passage.

“Grab that,” he said, pointing to a large chamber pot sitting by the entrance to the north wing. “If they won’t leave off, we’ll give them a proper bath.” And he laughed.

Gingerly, Moseley picked up the overflowing bucket and followed the superintendent up the stairs, then down the length of the second-floor corridor. As they drew closer, it was clear the fight showed no signs of abating. This was good: it was now half past twelve, and he’d brought the superintendent as far from the south wing as he possibly could. Except for the presence of the cook, everything was going to plan.

It was only then he realized that—from this moment onward—he had not been told what that plan consisted of.

13

AS THE SECOND HANDswept past the topmost mark on the subdial of her pocket watch—marking twelve thirty-one precisely—Constance quietly snapped the hunter case shut over the Patek Philippe, tucked it away, and nodded to Murphy.

They emerged from the bushes onto a roughly paved path that led to the basement entrance, not a dozen feet away. The black bulk of the workhouse loomed above them, enshrouded by dark clouds over the moon. Constance glanced around quickly. Except for a few distant voices, all was quiet.

She crept up to the metal door, verified it was unlocked, then glanced around once again. She would have preferred to blacken her face for the undertaking, but she didn’t dare present such a frightful visage to her brother Joe: she knew only too well that opening the door to his cell was a beginning, not an end, to readjusting him to civilization—and her success from that point on would require his cooperation.

She glanced at Murphy. “All good?”

“Any finer and I’d be China—begging your ladyship’s pardon.”

“Remember: the single most important thing is the safety of the boy.”

He nodded.

“The second most important thing is: no violence unless absolutely necessary.”

“No?” said Murphy, a note of disappointment in his voice.

“Leaving bodies behind would only attract attention.” Reaching into a pouch, she pulled out a stoppered glass vial wrapped in thick gauze and handed it to him. “Just in case,” she said. “If you need to use it, remember to place the body in a sitting position, against a wall. Be careful not to breathe in any fumes or, God forbid, drop the vial—I’d never be able to lug your bulk back to the rowboat.”

The man took the gauze-wrapped bottle with a chuckle. It contained, as Constance had told the surgeon’s assistant, the admixture known as ACE: more specifically, alcohol, chloroform, and ether. She retained a second bottle for her own use.

Now she stepped aside, letting Murphy ease the door open. A dark hallway lay beyond, dressed in damp stone. Slipping behind the coachman, she closed the door, then looked around. To the right was the stairway leading up to the south wing. To the left was a narrow passage, punctuated by three doors, provisional residences for the chaplain, physician, and cook. The first two were closed, with no sign of light underneath: they were off the island, as Moseley had predicted. The third, however, was open, and from it emanated the flicker of a lantern and a low, rhythmic sound of snoring.

Damn.

Nodding to the coachman, she crept up the chill passageway to the open door. A fat man wearing a greasy cook’s smock and apron was half-draped across a table, insensible.

This was a problem. One or perhaps two keepers they were prepared to deal with, but this ogre of a man was an unexpected variable. If he roused himself and went for help, he’d betray their plan. Having to confront him in a drunken rage was equally undesirable.

She inched closer to the doorframe, pondering what to do. Then she noticed the door. It was steel, banded and riveted, thick as all the other doors in the prison. Silently, she mimed a plan of action to Murphy, who nodded his understanding but took hold of his truncheon nevertheless.

With consummate stealth, she took a step into the room, then another, all the time keeping a close watch on the cook. Grasping the handle of the door, she paused a second, then began stepping back in the direction she’d come, drawing closed the heavy door with the faintest whisper of the latch sliding past the strike plate. Pulling a set of lockpicks from a pouch on her belt, she inserted first a short hook, then a gem hook, into the mechanism, working by feel. After a moment she nodded to Murphy, who pulled a metal shim out of his own pocket and shoved it forcefully, but quietly, into the gap left between her picks. She withdrew her tools, and the coachman used his bull-like strength to bend and break off the shim, rendering the lock unopenable. They waited a minute, making sure the snoring continued. Once the cells were opened, they would use similar shims to damage the locks to cover up evidence that a skeleton key had been used.

They crept back down the stone passage, passing the exit and pausing again at the bottom of the stairway. Constance could see it spiraling up like a corkscrew into the dark void above. Mentally, she sketched out a plan of what awaited them. The stairs were set into the northernmost wall of the south wing of the workhouse. They opened onto three landings, all vertically aligned, corresponding to the three tiers of cells. Moseley had told them that a keeper was always posted in a rude pillbox near the first-floor landing. From there the guard could, by simply walking out into the hollow core of the building, gaze up and across all three cell blocks, stacked one upon another, with a gallery running around the doors of each level. From the vantage point of this “great hall,” anything amiss could be immediately spotted. Moseley had warned them that sometimes a second keeper was stationed on one of the floors above—and there was no knowing when this would happen.

Satisfying herself again that no one was aware of their presence, she led the way cautiously up the winding staircase to the first floor. As she did, the nocturnal coughs, sighs, groans, and imprecations of imprisoned humanity—as well as the stench of unwashed bodies—became more evident.

They paused in the darkness of the first-floor landing. Beyond, a narrow tunnel, illuminated at its far end by a kerosene lantern, revealed a small wooden hutch, bolted in place against one of the walls and reinforced with cords of iron. The lantern hung inside a barred window, and Constance could make out a shadowy form within: the keeper. The foul, chill air exhaling from the passage confirmed that a large space, invisible in the darkness, lay ahead.

Suddenly, a sharp, hacking cough sounded almost directly above them, followed by a disgustingly extravagant expectoration. They froze. The noise was too close to the staircase to have come from a prisoner: it could only mean that a second keeper was on duty that evening on one of the floors above.

In the faint glow of Murphy’s dark lantern, the two exchanged glances. The coachman nodded his understanding of how this complication fit into their plans. He shut the hinge of the lantern, hung it on his belt, then gingerly drew out the vial Constance had given him. He unwound the gauze until the glass stopper was visible, and began creeping up the stairs.

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