“What about Mr. Hancock?” I asked. “Has he been questioned after Rodney’s death?”
“No, Lady Emily, and he won’t be.” The inspector didn’t bother to stop his spectacles from slipping down his nose. “There is nothing that links him to the crime.”
“But he—”
“We have nothing on him. Better that we expend our efforts elsewhere.”
I did not attempt to change his mind; I was busy trying to decide whether, despite everything, I should warn Mr. Hancock that his life might be in danger. I could no longer doubt that he was the leader of the King’s Boys. After having seen the bloodied remains of Rodney Dawkins, I felt no sympathy or concern for Mr. Hancock, but if I let him suffer a similar fate when I might have stopped it, was I any better than he?
Of course I was. However, as I hold myself to what I believe is a high standard of moral behavior, I penned him a quick note, which I gave to the inspector to hand deliver, and instructed the young man to keep a close eye on Mr. Hancock. Unlikely though it was he would put any stock in my warning, I could not ignore the possibility that he could lead us—wittingly or not—to the man responsible for the deaths of Mr. Grummidge, Mr. Casby, and Mr. Crofton.
Through all of this, Jeremy had sat, silent, in a cozy corner of the library, helping himself to Colin’s whisky. I admit I had encouraged him to do so. He had not overindulged, however, and my own frame of mind had improved considerably after I had sent Inspector Pickering off to the East End.
“You never told me what you learned from the boys,” I said. “I do hope you managed to direct the conversation away from the treatment of ladies, as that’s what it sounded like you were discussing when I left.”
He flashed a wry smile. “I’m not certain anything I learned is of value at this point. The tall one—he’s called Moggy Kelvin—admitted that he works, rather, worked, under Dawkins. A particularly useless revelation in the face of things. I did ask him about Hancock, and he insisted that they all avoid him like the plague because their loyalty is to, as he put it, the king.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” I asked.
Jeremy shrugged. “Impossible to know, but I can’t say he appeared anything less than candid. He was irritated at the mention of Hancock, and didn’t seem to be putting it on. Told me that men like Hancock don’t know the best way to run a neighborhood.”
I blew out a long breath. “Still, I can’t believe Mr. Hancock isn’t the head of the organization. The inspector said the leaders remain anonymous, and Mr. Hancock’s public persona, that of someone bent on improving life in the East End, is a simple but effective disguise.”
“Moggy did tell me one other thing,” Jeremy said. “When any of the King’s Boys betrays the gang, the rest of them are marched past the body. To remind them of what will happen should they make the same mistake as their fallen comrade.”
“Did he mention this in the context of Dawkins’s death?” I asked.
“I believe so, although he didn’t refer to Dawkins by name. I’m afraid he was rather looking forward to the wake. That’s when they see the body.”
I felt sick again. “Was he not betraying the gang by sharing that with you?”
“Far from it, Em. He was bragging about it. He hopes to move up in the organization now that Dawkins is gone.”
“But he can’t be more than twelve years old.”
“That’s ancient in his world,” Jeremy said. “Although Dawkins was an adult, of an age with Ned Traddles, if I had to guess.”
I frowned. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take me on another excursion?”
“Bloody hell, Em—forgive me—you can’t want to go back—”
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “I know we’re missing something, and I haven’t the slightest idea what it is. Remember the second article we found in the Tower passage, the one about the textile mill in West Ham? Perhaps its pertinence to the case will become clear if we go there.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in it and I can’t think of anything better to do.”
“You might let me drive part of the way there.”
“Don’t even think about it, Em. Hargreaves would have my hide.”
* * *
Holbrooke & Sons seemed in every way a model of safety and efficiency. I was disheartened to see so many children working—their nimble limbs and small size making it easy for them to dash under and around the hulking machines that processed raw materials into coarse jute sacks—but I could not say they were being ill-treated insofar as the current labor laws saw it. Laws, I might add, that I found wholly inadequate.
The foreman, Mr. Riggs, gave us a tour of the premises. Large windows let in loads of light, flooding the factory floor with brightness, and the machines looked to be in good working order. The place was far less dingy and cluttered than other factories I had seen, but I still did not believe that children should be working when they could be in school. I did not bother to voice my opinion to Mr. Riggs. I would take it up instead with a few members of Parliament I suspected would be sympathetic to my views.
Instead, I asked him if he was acquainted with Prentice Hancock, explaining that I understood he was known for offering assistance to children from poor families. Mr. Riggs brightened at the question, and said that Mr. Hancock frequently sent wayward youth to Holbrooke & Sons. He offered high praise of the man, and said London would be a better place if more of its residents emulated Mr. Hancock’s example. I did not disabuse him of this notion.
I asked to be allowed to speak to some of the children, and Mr. Riggs granted my request with a smile. He brought three boys and two girls to me, each of whom beamed when they told me how much they enjoyed their work. I half suspected Mr. Riggs of having lined them up and coached them in advance on what to say whenever visitors came. Two other girls watched from afar as we talked to their colleagues, their wide eyes hard and almost scared. I wished I could question them away from their supervisor, suspecting they might be more forthcoming than their peers. The only revelation of interest from the individuals to whom we were allowed to speak was that they were paid less than their counterparts at other factories.
“What do they think of being paid a lower wage?” I asked.
“Safety, Lady Emily, does not come cheap,” Mr. Riggs said, after dismissing his small employees. “Holbrooke & Sons has to turn a profit and wouldn’t be able to do so if we didn’t adjust the wages accordingly. Which is not to say the workers bear the full brunt of it. Mr. Holbrooke himself puts half of his share back into the factory, which allows us to pay more than we’d be able to otherwise. It’s a fair trade-off for those working on the floor. They appreciate the better conditions and the knowledge that they won’t get injured. Everyone is happy.”
“Is Mr. Holbrooke open to outside investment?” Jeremy asked. “I’d quite like to support his work.”
“He’d be most obliged, your grace,” Mr. Riggs said. “He’s abroad at the moment. Our raw materials come from India, you see, and he’s negotiating for better terms with our suppliers.”
“When do you expect him to return?” I asked.
“Next month, Lady Emily. If you’d like, your grace, I can put you in touch with him the moment he sets foot on British soil.”
“Yes, that would be good of you, Riggs,” Jeremy said in his most condescending drawl. “I’ll count on you to take care of it.”
The foreman gave a smugly satisfied smile and led us back to the factory office. Photographs of smiling workers covered one of the walls, and a copy of the article from The Times hung in a wooden frame. “That is the very piece that drew our attention to your facility,” I said, pointing at the article. “I’m sure we’re not the first to call on you as a result.”
“Mr. Holbrooke hopes that this factory will serve as a model for others.”
“Does anyone object to your practices?” I asked. “There are so many people loath to accept change and progress.”
“No on
e who matters,” Mr. Riggs said. “At least not to us. We can’t convert everyone to our ways and don’t waste our time on those who aren’t interested. But there isn’t much for anyone to object to.”
“Quite right,” Jeremy said. “I look forward to speaking to you again, Riggs. Don’t forget—I’m counting on you.” He shook the foreman’s hand and ushered me out of the factory. “You didn’t believe a word of that, did you?” he asked.
“It was all too perfect to be true,” I said. “And Mr. Hancock supplies much of the labor. There is something rotten here.”
“Yes, but what?” Jeremy asked. He pulled out his watch and glanced at the time. “The shift will end in forty-five minutes. We could skulk around and try to get more candid answers out of some of the other employees. Or we could call on Mr. Holbrooke, who I don’t believe for a minute is in India.”
I was studying the façade of the factory, wondering if anything in its construction could link it to Hastings or William the Conqueror, but the idea was too ridiculous to contemplate. “Would it be useful to speak to whatever inspectors in the government cover Holbrooke & Sons?”
“Doubtful,” Jeremy said. “I agree there’s something not quite right about the place, but it doesn’t seem unsafe. Holbrooke is probably exploiting his workers by not offering them better pay, but we’d be hard-pressed to do anything about that. Riggs is right that many people would give up some money in exchange for safety.”
“If they’re actually getting that in return,” I said. “How can they know?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, Em, and we’re not going to figure it out by standing around here.”
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, a man carrying a bundle of something and slinking into an alley near the factory. He was followed by three unnervingly plump rats. “I don’t think there’s anything else for us here now,” I said. “But I’m not ready to go home.”
1419
42
Cecily hadn’t thought about Adeline in years, not since her expulsion from Lord Esterby’s castle. She certainly had not expected Adeline to seek out her company, not after she had done her best to tarnish Cecily’s reputation and all but accused her of adultery in front of the baron’s entire retinue. Yet here she was, standing before her, a stricken look on her face.
“I had nowhere else to go,” Adeline said, keeping very still. She had been admitted into the courtyard, no doubt because the guards would not have considered such a bedraggled-looking woman capable of posing any threat to Sir William’s family. Cecily said nothing, but took her by the arm and led her into the house.
After ordering a maid to assist Adeline with a bath and a clean gown—she was much thinner than she used to be, all her pleasant curves planed into sharp angles—Cecily stopped on the stone staircase outside her bedchamber and gathered her thoughts. Her heart was racing, an inexplicable development, as there was no longer anything Adeline could do to hurt her. Was there?
She continued downstairs, going first to the kitchen to direct the cook to prepare a cold dinner for her visitor, and then outside and to the chapel, where she searched in vain for Father Simon. She found him in the rectory, bent over a table and carefully copying out the text of a manuscript she did not recognize.
“She’s come, hasn’t she?” he asked, without even looking up. “I suspected it was only a question of time.”
* * *
The siege of Harfleur had paled in terms of brutality to that of Rouen. King Henry’s army remembered all too well the disease and hunger that had plagued them during that earlier expedition into France. This time, their enemy was even better prepared, relentlessly pelting the English with crossbow bolts and cannon shot. A trebuchet protected every gate in the sturdy walls. Henry knew he could not break through the defenses, and instead of trying, settled in for a long siege, confident that he and his men could outlast the French. The great wealth of the city was useless to its inhabitants, for gold and silver and treasure of any kind cannot feed the hungry. Nor could it be used to purchase food after the English king, whose men had dragged ships across the land, laid thick chains across the river Seine, isolating the unlucky souls in Rouen.
Still, months would pass before these measures took a toll on the city, and in the meantime, there were attacks to be repelled. William well understood siege tactics, but he preferred a bloody fight to the infinite patience it took to wait for the food in a well-stocked city to run out. He hated the cries of hungry women and children, hated that disease would soon ravage the population. Plague came with the winter, and before Christmas, city officials expelled twelve thousand of the citizens of Rouen from the protection of its walls.
William had watched them make their way through the gates, women clutching small children, the weak and infirm following, unsteady on their feet. He turned away, not wanting to look, despising the French even more for this act. They hoped to take advantage of King Henry’s compassion and fairness, but they failed to realize he would be guided by military judgment. He could not give these refugees safe passage through the English army; they would cost him food and supplies that he could not afford to take away from his own men.
The dark clouds that hung heavy in the sky opened, drenching everyone below with a cold rain that continued for day after day, week after week. William hated the sounds of the dying exiles, who had nothing but trenches and dirt to shield them from the elements as they slowly starved to death. Still the nobles inside the city would not bend to King Henry’s will.
Respite—brief and not enough—came on Christmas itself, for the king would not fail to observe that holy day. He called for a truce and offered food to the starving. It was insufficient to change the sad course of those still clinging to life in the trenches.
They had been outside Rouen for nearly six months. How much longer would it take for King Henry to capture what was rightly his?
1901
43
Mrs. Grummidge did not look surprised to see us when she greeted us in her snug parlor. As always, her eyes lit up when she saw Jeremy. He graciously accepted her offer of tea, and sat in attendance upon her as if she were the most important courtier in Buckingham Palace. We had not come to socialize, however, and after giving her the news of Rodney Dawkins’s death, I implored her to remember everything she could about Gilbert Barton. “He is the last of your group who has remained unaffected by the murders,” I said.
“Surely you can’t believe he’s in danger?” Mrs. Grummidge asked.
I most certainly did not; if anything, I had the direst suspicions of him, but I knew sharing them with Mrs. Grummidge was unlikely to entice her to give me any information she might have about a boy she had once considered a friend. “No, I do not believe him to be in danger,” I said. “But we must do everything we can to stop these murders. Do you remember seeing an older gentleman at Lizzie’s funeral? He has a white beard and—”
“Looks quite like Father Christmas?” she asked. “Yes, I saw him, but I can’t claim him as an acquaintance.”
I remembered that he had said the same about her. “Does the name Prentice Hancock mean anything to you?”
She screwed her eyebrows together. “No, I can’t say it does.”
“That’s all right,” I said. “We must focus on Mr. Barton. You told me that you never knew where he lived, but have you seen him or heard anything about him recently?”
“No. Mr. Grummidge discouraged me from keeping in touch with the friends of my youth. He didn’t think they were fitting companions for a woman of substance, which is what he fancied me to be.”
More likely, he wanted to keep her as isolated as possible, so that she would have no means of fleeing from his abusive ways. “Could you tell us more about Mr. Barton? Every detail you can recall may be important. Not just a physical description, but one of his character and his interests as well.”
“He was always painfully thin, which is probably what made the chimney sweeps want him for work when he was
little, and he never grew very much. He was only a few inches taller than I. Medium brown hair, didn’t wear a beard—at least when I knew him—and he has hazel eyes with a rim of gold. That was his most identifying feature, I’d say. Other than his eyes, he looked quite ordinary.”
“Can you recall any of his interests?” I asked.
“Let’s see … he loved meat pies and I’m sorry to say stole them whenever he could, but you could hardly fault him for that, as the poor boy was hungry nearly all the time. And he always went to watch the football at the Memorial Grounds. He supports Thames Ironworks. I can’t think of anything else. He never had an easy life, Lady Emily, and had very little time for amusement.”
“Was he ever romantically attached to anyone?” Jeremy asked.
“When we were quite young, we used to go for walks together if I could slip away without my parents noticing, but I’m not sure that merits an attachment,” she said, blushing. “He was kind and sensitive, at least when he wasn’t around the rest of the King’s Boys. They were a rough crowd.”
“When was the last time you saw him?” I asked.
“I can’t even recall,” she said. “At least six years ago. Although there was one time, perhaps two months ago now, when I thought I saw him in the street, not far from this very house. I called to him, but he didn’t respond, and I realized it was probably just someone similar to him in appearance.”
Jeremy shot me a questioning glance. “We’ve troubled you enough,” I said. “Forgive the intrusion and please don’t hesitate to reach out if there’s anything you need.”
“Or if you recall anything about your old friend,” Jeremy said. “No detail is too small.”
Uneasy Lies the Crown Page 24
