“I was a gentleman,” Mr. Kingsley continued.
“Blimey, then ‘ow did you happen to end up ‘ere, sir?”
“And what do you think, Miss?”
“Obviously you lost your brass somehow. What else could it be? You don’t look like one who is inclined to Tiddley Win—and you ain’t sick. That would leave a failed business, a poor investment, or you be a gambler, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
His eyebrows raised, clearly surprised by his new friend. “You’re right, Miss Mabel, I don’t drink and I’m not sick—no more than any old man is. Of the three options, which do you think it is then?”
“I would not expect one who had succeeded at business to suddenly fail, right? And most who 'ave earned their brass do not gamble it away—as opposed to them what were born with silver spoons in their mouths.” She shrugged. “So it seems to me it were a poor investment.”
“Astonishing.” He stared at her for a long while. “How did you come to be such a keen observer, Miss Mabel?”
“Believe me, you don't 'ave much choice where I come from.”
“That is correct. I made a bad business deal and fell upon hard times. As you can see, I am older in years, and there is no other place for me.”
The workhouse was indeed a place for the elderly, the sick, the insane, and the children—along with young women with child who had been turned out by their families—indeed anyone who was helpless. The able-bodied would not choose to be here.
“Turn to the Lord and forsake your evil ways!”
Mirabella shuddered. She could not imagine Henry Hudson, her curate father, behaving in this manner; he was such a compassionate soul. “Are they always this bloomin’ loud?”
He chuckled. “Yes, and worse.”
“Lawd above! And their manner is so . . . so . . .” She acted as if she struggled to find the right word. She knew from Sherlock that everything about her must match her station in life.
“Condemning? Self-righteous?”
“Yes, that is it. Struth!”
“Indeed the Sunday evenings in the workhouse are terrible. The howlers scream their religion at us.” He studied her interestedly.
“I see some couples huddled together in corners. It’s as if they can’t hear the howlers. I wish I might not.” Mirabella put her hands over her ears as a simple girl might.
“Sunday is the only day husbands and wives can see each other.”
“I suspect what you was married but ‘ave lost your wife.”
“That’s right.”
“And you ‘ad no children together?”
“How would you know that, Miss Mabel?” The old gentleman seemed quite astonished.
“Because you ‘ave the manners of one who was once happily married—you know how to address the female half—and yet, if she were alive, right, she would be here with you after a week of separation. An’ if you had children, you would be with them and not ‘ere. Ain’t that right, guv’nor?”
“I see. Also true.” He studied her with interest. “You’re a bright one, you are.”
“It ain’t no sin.” She turned quickly to stare at a couple who seemed to be arguing, oblivious to all else. She motioned with her head. “Is that couple married?”
He nodded. “You would think it would be a lovely reunion, only seeing each other once a week, but there are often ill words between them, perhaps for the self-deprecation inflicted upon them by the workhouse.”
There would, of course, be no conjugal visits. Upon arrival at the workhouse, husbands and wives were separated, and children removed from their parents, and even from their siblings if they were not the same sex.
I am beginning to understand. How a charlatan such as Mr. Fairclough could come along: it would be easy for him to offer something better than the workhouse. Being with one’s own family—and particularly one’s children—was enough to make one agree to any proposal for a way out, all other things being equal, even hunger.
“The only thing to like about Sunday is, of course, the absence of work,” Mr. Kingsley continued.
“Is the work hard for you, sir?” Concern filled her heart for the old man before her, distinguished in manner. It was a shame such a man had come to be disrespected in his old age.
“It’s not bad. Separating the oakum for eight hours a day.”
“Old ropes?”
“Yes, Miss Mabel. We separate it out, which is in turn used in shipbuilding for caulking, in the joints, and in the deck planking.” He shrugged. “It’s rough on the hands, and I have an allotment.” He smiled suddenly, leaning towards her as if telling a secret. “I never make it, but the younger ones pitch in and help me.”
It was encouraging to learn that, even in misery, kindness occurred.
“In truth, the only thing bad about this place is the food,” he added. “Even then, I would be dead if not for the workhouse. For myself, I have no reason to complain, but I see unnecessary suffering for others. I’ve never been beaten or mistreated myself.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She bit her lip. “It’s a regular palace it is.”
“It beats the cold and wet outdoors with no food.”
She glanced around to see a child burying herself in her father’s chest, her arms around his neck.
“It’s touching, isn’t it?” Mr. Kingsley asked. “They only have one visit per week. When they are told the children must return to their quarters, it is heart-wrenching to watch the fathers and their children tear themselves apart.”
I must not tear up. Mirabella chastised herself. I must be careful not to smear my makeup and invoke suspicion. I must learn to control my emotions.
“But children . . . separated from their parents. Love is the thing these unfortunate children need most in the world.” She swallowed. “And it is bein’ withheld.”
“Yes. It’s as if the State wishes to demoralize these children during their formative years.”
“That wee girl . . . where is her mother?”
“Mr. Aylesbury has lost his cherished wife. This is what has forced him into the workhouse. He was not able to take care of the children—and to work.”
“The Sabbath is a day to elevate one’s mind and to live in communion with the Lord. I believe this keeping families apart makes a mockery of the Sabbath.”
Mr. Kingsley studied her, interested. “Today is the Sabbath.”
“Yeah, but to behave right only on the Sabbath is to disrespect God. Why ain’t it being done every day?” She swallowed hard. Ordinarily it was not to her advantage to vent her feelings, but here it might be a good strategy for her to make a friend. Staying isolated would not help her discover the culprit.
“True. Such treatment makes the bad and lazy worse, and it breaks down the good. Of course, there are always those who will take advantage, but it is not most.”
“AEEEE!” A blood curdling scream pierced through the howlers.
“What was that?” exclaimed Mirabella.
“The male insane ward. It also houses the imbeciles and the epileptics.”
“The epileptics are put in with the insane?”
“The worst is the nursery room. It is a wretchedly damp and miserable room responsible for scores of preventable deaths of both mothers and children.”
Her eyes moved to a book in his hand. “Are you readin’ a novel, Mr. Kingsley?”
He laughed. “Not until the howlers stop. Then there will be a few stolen moments.” He tapped the novel. “It’s missing the beginning and the ending—but it gives me the opportunity to exercise my mind and to utilize my imagination. I console myself to make up the missing parts.”
“But aren’t there any newspapers here?”
“The newspapers are pure gold in here.” A momentary expression of contentment crossed his face. “There are a few fortunate inmates who receive these regularly—perhaps from family members—and they are the kings of the establishment. They receive favoritism from all of the other inmates as well as extra bits of
bread or tobacco in exchange for a half-hour’s borrowing of the news.”
“A lot of people think the poor don’t wish to elevate their minds.”
“I might have thought so myself.” He looked down. “Before I became poor.”
She made a mental note to drop off Sherlock’s used newspapers for the inmates in the future. “And what’s your news of choice, Mr. Kingsley?”
“Reynold’s is my preferred, and after that, The Dispatch and Lloyd’s.”
“I know enough to know them are radical newspapers.” She feigned shock. Naturally Sherlock had these papers, as well as Punch and the more conservative periodicals. It didn’t much matter what side they played; the important thing was that the media kept the politicians accountable to the people.
Mr. Kingsley fingered his novel. “Can you read Miss Mabel?”
Her cheeks heated. She hoped he interpreted her blush to mean she was not a particularly good reader. “A wee bit.”
He studied her suspiciously. “It doesn’t seem like you belong here, Miss Mabel.”
I am not fooling anyone. I am terrible at disguises. “I hope not. I don’t wish to stay. But . . . Why do you say so, Mr. Kingsley?”
“You are able-bodied and smart. You should be able to find work.”
“I have a bit of a mouth on me.”
He chuckled. “I can see that.”
“I can’t abide stupid, which is usually my employer.”
“Ah, you don’t suffer fools gladly? It’s a failing, to be sure.”
She motioned with her chin to another man, as if to indicate she wasn’t the only one who didn’t belong. “That gent seems able-bodied.”
“There are some able-bodied in the workhouse who, for whatever reason, seem unable to find and keep employment. And naturally there are those of immoral character.” His eyes moved to another man. “Stay away from him. However, there are mostly orphans, the elderly, women with children, the disabled, the mentally ill, and the sick. There are those, like myself, who lost everything through bad business dealings and poor management. And there are those who lost it through gambling or debt.” He looked at her. “And those who never had it.”
“How long ‘ave you been here at St. Pancras, Mr. Kingsley?”
“About six months.” He rubbed his chin. “I lived on the streets for a month. I was cold and hungry. My foot became swollen and infected, and I knew I had to enter. The first meal I received—though it was a tasteless gruel—was the first hot meal I had eaten in a month.”
“Have you seen many blokes come and go?” She didn’t know how to ask if he had seen anyone leave with the vampire she was searching for.
“The ‘Ins and Outs’ you mean, Miss Mabel?”
“I was thinking more of them what left and never came back. Are you saying then that anyone can come and go?”
“Naturally. A person can check himself in and out of the workhouse. It is not a jail and no one is required to be here. That would be debtor’s prison. In fact, anyone who can get out, wants out, because of the separation of families, the food, and the desire to have one’s jurisdiction back.”
“It would seems to me that the residents would be out all the time looking for work instead of picking Oakum.”
“Believe me, searching for a job is a job in itself. Leaving does require permission—if you intend to come back that night. And often one does not have appropriate clothing to face an employer, nor is the workhouse willing to provide the clothing. And there’s a stigma attached to being in the workhouse from the employer’s point of view. It’s a difficult cycle to break. One can’t just take off every day in search of work. One is supposed to be picking Oakum in return for a bed, food, and a roof. You can’t get out to get a job, and you can’t get a job if you can’t get out.”
“But what about the Ins and Outs. How do they do it?” She tried to be persistent without causing suspicion. But, as yet, she had found out nothing of use.
“The Ins and Outs are the type what get out, get a few bucks, spend it on booze and women, then end up back in the workhouse.”
Mirabella was frustrated; it seemed she was getting nowhere. How to ask the right question to get the answer she sought without being too obvious? “And are there charities that come here to help people leave?”
“So you already want to leave, Miss Mabel?” He looked at her curiously. “You only just got here and all these questions about how to leave.”
She smiled. “Do you blame me, sir?”
“I can see that a young girl would not like to be here. She would want to be out working—and to find a marriage partner.”
She shrugged, feigning embarrassment. “I suppose if the right bloke were to come along . . . but I ain’t holding me breath.” She giggled. “For now, I just want me own room and a job of me own. Work is limited for young ladies with no skills.”
“You’ve had education, Miss Mabel, I’d stake my life on it.” He studied her shrewdly.
“Why do you say that, sir?” She had to fix whatever she was doing wrong.
“It’s the questions you ask. The accent might be right, but the questions are wrong. You’re a thinking girl, and that’s a fact.”
“Just because I’m uneducated, don’t mean I’m stupid.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a brain in your head.”
“If you’re a man. It’s not always a good thing for a female. And I’ve had no formal education.” True on all accounts. She had been schooled at home by her curate father. “I’ve been sacked from almost every job I’ve ever had. I doubt I could keep a job as the chamber pot maid.” Also true.
“Too smart, I reckon.”
“But you didn’t answer my question. Are there those what come here to help people get . . . out?”
“Getting out and being free are two different things.” He frowned.
“What do you mean, Mr. Kingsley?” He was an interesting man. A philosopher of sorts.
“There are those who come here and take people away. I wouldn’t trust just anyone, Miss Mabel. Don’t leave just because someone promises you a better life.”
Now we are getting somewhere. “Oh? And why is that, sir?”
“Almost everyone wants something from you. They aren’t just coming here out of the goodness of their hearts to improve your lot in life.” His voice became low. “Ask yourself what they want.”
“Who is not to be trusted?” Better to just put it bluntly.
“I’ll tell you who you can trust. There are some Christian ladies who visit the wards, reading to the sick and infirm. Miss Louisa Twining in particular organized this, devoting years of her life to the workhouse sick.”
“So I can trust Miss Twining?”
“Yes.” He nodded agreement.
“But who can I not trust?”
“Nobody else.” Mr. Kingsley seemed to clam up. She was so near to the truth—but sometimes being right outside the door at midnight was the same thing as being in the dark.
She looked about her, observing so much misery. “Please tell me, Mr. Kingsley.”
“I have no proof of wrong doing.”
“Who is it?” She attempted not to appear eager.
“There is a gentleman who comes. I’ve never trusted him.”
“Why not?”
“Because he takes the ones with the most anger. The ones that no one would want. I can’t figure it.”
Oh, so he wants spirit, does he? That I can provide.
“I have to ask myself why he wants defiance in his servants,” Mr. Kingsley continued reflectively. “I’d stay clear of him, Miss Mabel, if I were you.”
“Who is he?” Mirabella asked.
“I don’t know his name. But—he’s a pharmacist.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
An Abrupt Departure
“He was on the brink of being termed brilliant—or insane. The laughing stock of London.”
- “Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess”
“Blazes to Hell! We have to get that ship!” Sherlock cursed as he, Watson, and their police escort dashed down the stairway to the wharf as the RMS City of Chester departed Pier Head in Liverpool en route to America.
“You have reason to think a murderer is on the Chester, Mr. Holmes?” Sergeant Quinlan asked, panting as he spoke.
“Nathan Longstaff is on it alright. Let’s make haste, man!” He and Watson had followed Longstaff’s trail all the way from Scotland.
“I’m afraid it’s out of range now, sir,” Quinlan said, the Chester fading from view.
“Send a tug after it!” Sherlock ordered. He had already handed the sergeant the missive from both the Yard and Mycroft as authorization, but he would have assumed command regardless.
“Or signal with a flag semaphore,” Watson suggested.
“The Chester won’t see the semaphore at this point, and me tugs are all occupied.”
“What about that one?” Watson pointed to a small coal-powered boat moored nearby. From the skipper’s frantic movements, the tug was in no need of purpose.
“There’s the last launch, on this very dock,” Quinlan said.
“Stop!” Sherlock shouted as he ran towards the boat, with Watson and Quinlan close behind him. “We must have that boat.”
The sailor manning the boat narrowed his eyes in defiance. “I’m headin’ upriver. S’posed to be draggin’ the river for a body.”
“A murderer escaping has got precedence, mate. Follow that ship!” Quinlan yelled, close behind. Sherlock was gratified the sergeant had come round to his way of thinking, skirting the need to take the boat if cooperation had been lacking. The skipper was a rough sort, and sailors tended to have a way with knives, so this was a superior outcome for all concerned.
“What’s your name sailor?” Watson asked in his polite fashion as they jumped onto the boat.
“Valentine,” the sailor growled as he tossed some coal into the small furnace boiler, Sherlock and Watson casting off the lines. Quinlan took the tiller and they splashed out and down the River Mersey.
Sherlock Holmes and the Vampire Invasion Page 25
