The Workshop

Monday morning came cold and gray, the kind of October day that threatened rain but couldn't quite commit to it. Violet stood at the studio window watching lamplighters extinguish the streetlamps one by one, Carter Square emerging from darkness into dim morning light.

She hadn't slept much. Had spent Sunday afternoon and evening visiting the murder sites with Artie, searching for spirits who might still be lingering. Mary Hutchins and Annie Chapman had both moved on, faded beyond the point where Violet's gift could reach them. But Jane Stride remained.

Jane, who'd spent the past week watching the Grand Guignol. Who'd learned to pass through walls as a spirit. Who'd explored the theater's hidden depths and mapped every level of Moreau's underground domain.

The information Jane had provided was extraordinary. Specific enough to give Flanahan exactly what he needed. Detailed enough that there could be no doubt about where to search or what would be found.

Now they just had to wait and see if Flanahan could convince Captain Morris to issue the warrant.

Behind her, Artie moved about the studio with uncharacteristic quiet, preparing tea neither of them would drink, arranging equipment neither of them would use. Waiting.

"He'll get the warrant," Artie said finally, breaking the tense silence. "Flanahan knows what he's doing. He'll make Captain Morris see—"

The knock at the door cut him off. Sharp, official, unmistakably urgent.

Violet had already transformed fully into Bernie by then: binding corset cinched tight despite her ribs' protests, false beard secured with spirit gum, best suit brushed and pressed. If this was the day everything came together—or came crashing down—she'd face it properly dressed.

Artie opened the door, and Flanahan stepped through looking grimly triumphant. His scarred face showed the strain of a sleepless night, but his eyes were sharp with purpose.

"Mr. Abrams." The formality was habit when others might be listening. "We have the warrant. Captain Morris signed off this morning. We're raiding the Grand Guignol in one hour, and I need you there to document what we find."

Relief and terror crashed through Violet's chest in equal measure. "I'll get the equipment."

"Good." Flanahan's voice dropped lower. "And Miss Abrams—your spirit's information had better be accurate. If we search that theater top to bottom and find nothing—"

"You'll find it exactly where Jane described it." Violet met his eyes. "Hidden door in the main basement, behind the stored scenery on the left side. Stone stairs descending two levels. Workshop at the bottom with four glass jars containing preserved organs."

"For your sake, I hope you're right." But Flanahan's expression suggested he believed her. Or at least, believed enough to stake his reputation on this search.

The Grand Guignol Theatre looked different in daylight. Less gothic and mysterious, more shabby and mundane. The ornate facade that had seemed so dramatic by lamplight now showed its age—cracked plaster, faded paint, windows grimy with years of London soot.

A crowd had gathered despite the early hour, drawn by the sight of police wagons and constables forming a perimeter around the building. Bernie stood with camera equipment at the ready, watching Flanahan coordinate his team with military precision.

"Jenkins, take four men and secure all exits. No one leaves this building until we've completed our search." Flanahan's voice carried authority that brooked no argument. "Constable Matthews, you're with me and Mr. Abrams. We're searching the basement levels."

Captain Morris stood to one side, observing with the detached interest of a superior officer who'd signed off on the warrant but wasn't entirely convinced of its necessity. He was a heavyset man in his fifties, mustache perfectly waxed, uniform immaculate. His skeptical expression suggested he thought this was a waste of Metropolitan Police resources.

"Remember, Detective," Morris said as Flanahan prepared to enter. "We need concrete evidence, not theories and anatomical sketches. If this turns out to be nothing more than theatrical props and stage makeup—"

"It won't be sir." Flanahan's voice was firm. "I stake my reputation on it."

"You are staking your reputation on it." Morris's tone was dry. "Proceed."

The theater's interior was dim and cold, dust motes dancing in shafts of light from high windows. The stage stood empty, its curtain raised to reveal the elaborate set from the recent performance—surgical tables, specimen jars (empty, Violet noted), medical diagrams on the walls.

Everything designed to look authentic. Everything just props.

Except somewhere below, in spaces Jane had mapped, the real workshop waited.

"Basement's this way." Flanahan led them down a narrow staircase behind the stage, into the darkness beneath.

The main basement was exactly as Jane had described: a large open space filled with stored scenery and props. Painted flats leaned against walls—castle interiors, forest scenes, drawing room backdrops. Costume racks held elaborate period dresses and formal suits. Storage boxes overflowed with wigs, false mustaches, bottles of stage blood.

All ordinary. All exactly what you'd expect to find in a theater's basement.

"Sir," Matthews said quietly. "There's nothing here except stage equipment."

"Keep looking." Flanahan moved deeper into the space, his eyes scanning the walls, the floor, the arrangement of stored items. "The plans showed three levels. We've only seen two."

Violet—still in full Bernie disguise—moved to the left side of the basement where scenery was stacked highest. Jane had said the door was hidden behind stored flats, would look like it led to a supply closet.

There.

A narrow door, partially obscured by a painted forest scene. No different from several other doors visible around the basement perimeter, except...

"Detective," Bernie called. "There's a door here. Behind the scenery."

Flanahan crossed to examine it. The door was plain wood, unremarkable except for the quality of its lock—heavy, modern, far more substantial than a simple supply closet would warrant.

"Matthews, help me move these flats."

Together they shifted the painted scenery, revealing the door fully. Flanahan tried the handle. Locked, as expected.

"Do we have authority to force it?" Matthews asked.

"The warrant covers the entire building, all levels." Flanahan pulled out the jimmy he'd brought for exactly this purpose. "We're looking for evidence of murder. Any locked door is fair game."

The lock gave way with a sharp crack. The door swung inward, revealing not a supply closet but stone stairs descending into darkness. Cold air breathed up from below, carrying the unmistakable chemical smell of formaldehyde and chloroform.

Matthews's expression shifted from skepticism to grim understanding. "Christ. There really is something down there."

"Stay sharp." Flanahan lit his bull's-eye lantern, began descending the stairs. "Mr. Abrams, you're with me. Matthews, fetch Captain Morris. He'll want to see this."

The stairs were old—medieval, Jane had said—carved from solid stone and worn smooth by centuries of feet. They descended in a tight spiral, the walls pressing close on either side. Violet counted the steps automatically, photographer's habit of documenting details.

Thirty-two steps to the first landing. Then another turn, another descent. The chemical smell grew stronger, more pungent. The temperature dropped until Violet could see her breath misting in the lantern light.

At the bottom, sixty-four steps down, another door. This one unlocked.

Flanahan pushed it open, raised his lantern, and froze.

"Jesus Christ," he breathed.

The workshop was exactly as Jane and Catherine had described. Not large—perhaps twelve feet square—but meticulously organized. A surgical table dominated the center, its surface polished steel. Cabinets lined the walls, glass-fronted, revealing rows of instruments: scalpels, forceps, bone saws, clamps. All surgical quality, all perfectly maintained.

And on a shelf against the far wall, illuminated by the lantern's light, four glass jars.

Violet moved closer, camera forgotten in the horror of the moment. The jars were specimen jars; the kind used in medical schools and anatomy museums. Each one contained liquid—formaldehyde, by the smell—and floating in that liquid...

The first jar: two eyes, blue and perfectly preserved, suspended in the clear fluid like some nightmare aquarium.

The second jar: a tongue, gray-pink and obscene, curled at the bottom of its glass prison.

The third jar: two hands, severed at the wrist, fingers slightly curled as if reaching.

The fourth jar: a human heart, remarkably intact, its chambers and vessels clearly visible through the preservative.

"God in heaven." Flanahan's voice was rough. He set down the lantern with shaking hands. "It's real. It's all real."

Bernie forced herself back into professional mode. "I need to photograph this. All of it. Before anyone touches anything."

"Right." Flanahan dragged his gaze from the jars. "Matthews will be back with Captain Morris any moment. We'll need complete documentation for the prosecution."

Violet worked quickly, methodically, forcing herself to treat this like any other crime scene. The camera mounted on its tripod. The flash powder prepared. The first plate loaded.

But her hands shook as she composed the shots. Because these weren't just evidence. These were Mary Hutchins's eyes, the eyes she'd been so worried about. Annie Chapman's tongue, stolen with her voice. Jane Stride's hands, the hands she'd used to sew beautiful things. Catherine Webb's heart, the heart she'd worried beat too fast.

All reduced to specimens. All preserved like butterflies pinned in a collector's case.

"How could anyone..." Matthews had returned with Captain Morris, his voice breaking. "Sir, you need to see this."

Morris descended the final stairs, took in the workshop, and his face drained of color. "Dear God."

"Four jars," Flanahan said. "Corresponding to our four victims. Eyes, tongue, hands, heart. All perfectly preserved. All removed with surgical precision and placed here like... like a museum display."

"This is monstrous." Morris moved closer to the jars, his professional detachment crumbling. "Absolutely monstrous."

Bernie triggered the flash powder, capturing the shelf of horrors in bright white light. Then she shifted position, photographing the surgical table, the cabinets of instruments, the diagrams on the walls showing human anatomy in meticulous detail.

"There's more here, sir." Matthews was examining the cabinets. "Journal entries. Moreau kept records of each operation. Dates, procedures, observations."

"Bag everything as evidence," Morris commanded, his voice harder now. Professional again. "Every instrument, every jar, every scrap of paper. This is the most damning physical evidence I've seen in thirty years of police work."

"And Moreau?" Flanahan asked.

"Issue a warrant for his arrest immediately. Murder, mutilation of corpses, whatever the prosecutors can make stick." Morris turned toward the stairs. "I'm calling in the Home Office. This is bigger than a simple murder case now."

As Morris ascended, Flanahan moved to Violet's side, and spoke quietly. "Your spirits were right. Everything exactly where they said it would be."

"I told you they wouldn't lie." Violet changed plates, continued documenting. "The dead have no reason to deceive."

"No." Flanahan's voice was strange. "I suppose they don't."

He watched her work for a moment longer, then added, even more quietly, "Thank you. For trusting me with this. For giving me what I needed to find them."

Violet glanced up from the camera. Flanahan's scarred face was illuminated by the lantern light, shadows making the old burn marks stand out in sharp relief. His eyes held something she'd never seen before—not just respect for Bernie's professional skills, but genuine recognition of Violet herself.

"We're partners," she said simply. "That's what partners do."

"Aye." A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "Partners."

By noon, the Grand Guignol Theatre was swarming with police. The preserved organs had been removed as evidence, carefully transported to the Coroner's office for confirmation that they matched the victims. The surgical instruments had been catalogued and bagged. Moreau's journals had been seized, their detailed accounts of each operation providing written confession of every crime.

But Moreau himself had disappeared.

"His lodgings are empty," Flanahan reported to Captain Morris in the theater's main room. "Looks like he packed in a hurry. Took clothes, personal effects, cash. He's fled, sir."

"Issue a warrant to all stations. Description to ports and train stations." Morris's expression was grim. "He can't have gone far. We'll have him within the week."

Bernie stood to one side, camera equipment packed and ready for departure. The photographs she'd taken would be crucial evidence—visual documentation of the workshop, the preserved organs, the surgical precision of Moreau's collection.

But Moreau himself was gone.

"He's already at Blackthorn Manor," Violet said quietly to Flanahan when they had a moment alone. "Exactly where Mademoiselle Beaumont said he'd be."

"Most likely." Flanahan's voice was tense. "Which means he fled Saturday morning, before we could move on the theater. A man that meticulous, that careful—he'd have known the investigation was closing in."

"And now he's had a full day to prepare." Violet's stomach tightened. "To fortify the manor, destroy evidence, or plan his escape to the continent."

"Which is why we move tomorrow at first light." Flanahan's jaw tightened. "We have the workshop evidence now—the preserved organs, the surgical tools, the journals. Even if he runs from Kent, he's left behind enough evidence to hang ten men. When we catch him—and we will catch him—there's no jury in England that wouldn't convict."

"If you catch him."

"When." Flanahan's voice was firm. "Kent constabulary is watching the manor. Telegraph sent to Dover and Folkestone ports in case he tries to flee to France. He's a wanted murderer now, not just a theater director. He can't hide forever."

Violet wanted to believe that. Wanted to trust that justice would find Moreau wherever he fled.

But a small, cynical part of her—the part that had seen too much death, too many cases where killers escaped—whispered doubts.

"The victims' families will have to be notified," Flanahan continued. "The preserved... the organs will be returned for proper burial. Your photographs will help document everything for the prosecution. When Moreau stands trial—"

"If he stands trial."

"When," Flanahan insisted. "Trust me, Miss Abrams. We'll get him."

Violet nodded, though uncertainty still gnawed at her. They had the evidence. They had the workshop. They had proof of Moreau's crimes.

But they didn't have Moreau himself.

And somewhere out there, a killer who collected beautiful things was running free, possibly planning his next collection.

That evening, after the police had finished their work and the Grand Guignol stood empty and sealed, Violet returned to Dead Man's Hole.

Jane Stride's spirit was still there, keeping her vigil at the place where her body had been found. But she looked different now—clearer, more solid, as though knowing justice was coming had given her strength.

"You found it," Jane said when Violet appeared. Not a question.

"We found it. Exactly where you said it would be." Violet stepped closer to the translucent figure. "Your hands. Mary's eyes. Annie's tongue. Catherine's heart. All preserved exactly as Catherine described."

"And Moreau?"

"Gone from the theater, but we know where he is." Violet's voice steadied with purpose. "We're going after him tomorrow."

Jane was quiet for a long moment. Her translucent form wavered in the alley's dim light.

"I saw him," she said finally. "Yesterday morning. Leaving the theater with a large trunk. I tried to follow, but I couldn't keep up. Spirits can pass through walls, but we can't travel fast. By the time I reached the street, he was gone."

"Did you see which direction?"

"South. Toward the Thames bridges." Jane's missing hands moved in a gesture of frustration. "I should have found a way to warn you. Should have—"

"You gave us the workshop location," Violet interrupted gently. "That was enough. More than enough. We have all the evidence we need to convict him when he's caught."

"When he's caught," Jane echoed, and it wasn't a question this time.

"When." Violet's voice was firm. "Detective Flanahan won't stop until Moreau's in custody."

"Will I..." Jane hesitated. "Will I be able to rest now? To move on? Or am I trapped here until he's caught?"

"I don't know." Violet had learned not to make false promises to spirits. "Some find peace once justice begins, even if it's not complete. Others linger until they see the final resolution. It's different for everyone."

"I think..." Jane's voice grew distant. "I think I'm ready. Knowing you found them, knowing my hands will be buried properly, knowing other women won't suffer because I helped stop him—that feels like enough."

"Then rest," Violet said gently. "You've earned it."

Jane Stride's spirit smiled—still sad, still marked by what she'd endured, but peaceful. "Thank you for seeing me. For hearing me. For making sure I wasn't just forgotten."

"Never forgotten," Violet promised. "Your story is part of the case now. Part of the evidence. You'll be remembered, Jane. I swear it."

The spirit's form began to fade, growing more translucent with each passing moment.

"Thank you for seeing me. For hearing me. For making sure I wasn't just forgotten," Jane whispered.

"Never forgotten," Violet promised. "Your story is part of the case now. Part of the evidence. You'll be remembered, Jane. I swear it."

Jane Stride's spirit smiled—still sad, still marked by what she'd endured, but peaceful. Then she was gone, faded beyond the veil, her vigil finally ended.

Violet stood alone in Dead Man's Hole for a long moment, feeling the weight of the promise, she'd made.

Tomorrow, they would go to Kent. Tomorrow, they would arrest Moreau.

And Jane Stride, along with Mary Hutchins, Annie Chapman, and Catherine Webb, would finally have justice.