Jack shut the door and turned the topmost bolt. He already felt sure the man was alone in the house. Anyone inside was unlikely to have fastened both locks. He sniffed the air and his supposition was confirmed. The atmosphere inside was stuffy and empty. There was nobody moving around in here to stir the dust and bring the rooms to life. He sighed deeply and smiled at the man, grateful to have a place to call his own, even if their arrangement was only temporary.
“Who are you? How dare…” the man said. He was still holding his umbrella, and now he pointed it at them like a weapon. “I demand that you leave. Leave immediately.”
“To answer your initial question,” Jack said, “I am who I am. And this is my colleague, the shadowy Mr Evans of Fleet Street.” Jack indicated Cinderhouse, who gave him a confused look, but said nothing.
“Well, Mr Evans and Mr…” The man looked for the first time at Jack’s naked legs, at his cock hanging down past the end of the prison shirt. His gaze traveled up and took in the darts on the white canvas uniform, and Jack saw comprehension suddenly spark in his eyes. “I don’t want trouble,” the man said.
“Nobody wants trouble,” Jack said. “Who would want that? Trouble is not something we seek, dear sir. Trouble is the thing that seeks us.”
The man turned to run, headed for the hallway and, Jack assumed, a back door through the kitchen or scullery. But Cinderhouse was prepared and blocked the way. Jack felt electric excitement shudder through his spine and flicker down his arms and legs. He set his bag on the floor against the wall, grabbed the man from behind, and propelled him to the floor. He bit into him, but the man’s suit was thick and padded in the shoulders and Jack’s teeth were weak. Still, Jack laughed.
He was free.
The man crawled across the foyer with Jack clinging to his back. Jack grabbed a handful of distinguished greying hair and pulled the man’s head back, smashed it forward into the floor. Once, twice, three times, and the man stopped crawling, crumpled across his forearms, his fingers twisted into claws. A clear ooze mixed with blood trickled from the man’s left ear, and Jack tasted it. He listened to the man, relished the sound of the hot salty life coursing through his throat. He ground himself against the man’s still body.
Finally he rolled off the man and rose to his feet. Cinderhouse stood there, uselessly, staring at the wall as if he were a machine that had been switched off.
“Take him into the parlor,” Jack said. “Put him in a chair and find something to tie him with.”
“Why not finish him and be done?”
“Always in such a hurry, Peter. You have much to learn about art. Now do as I say.”
“I think it’s a mistake to leave him alive for any length of time.”
“Tell me you aren’t arguing, little fly?”
“Please stop calling me that.”
“Ah, they grow up so fast, don’t they?” Jack said.
Cinderhouse frowned, wondering who Jack was talking to.
“You must never contradict me,” Jack said.
“It’s only that I don’t like it when you call me an insect.”
“Then I will stop.”
“Thank you.”
After that, Cinderhouse went quietly about his chores as Jack watched. He lit candles all through the house, then dragged the man through the inside door and down the hall to the parlor, propped him up, and levered him into a plush armchair piled with embroidered burgundy pillows. Jack surmised that the man was married and that the wife was currently away. Why else the burgundy pillows? They were not the sort of thing a man would choose for himself. Jack wondered if the man had children, too, and how old they might be. And what the insides of their bodies might look like. Jack shrugged. There were things even he wasn’t meant to know.
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?”