by Evie Grace
He had long black handlebar mustachios and smelled of tobacco smoke.
‘I regret that I can only give my word on both matters,’ she said, frustrated by all his questions. ‘I’m travelling to find work here or in the vicinity, and I don’t have an address as yet. I don’t carry an inventory of my belongings on my person either – it would seem most odd to do so.’
‘It would seem most odd that you cannot give me any details of who you are and where you come from. You sound like a lady, but you cannot vouch for it. Have you any friends or acquaintances who can corroborate your statement?’
She thought of the Cheeverses. Surely they would vouch for her.
‘I have acquaintances at the tannery,’ she said. ‘I am sure that Mr Cheevers will confirm the truth of my story if you go and ask him.’
The superintendent arched one of his dark bushy eyebrows.
‘Oh, he will say anything to help a person in distress. He is the patron of lost causes.’
She began to see that she was defeated. She tried once more.
‘I’ve been robbed of my jewellery and sovereigns.’
‘So you’ve said, by a well-dressed gentleman according to your account. We have some rogues around here, but none of that description. If you are who you say you are, you can always place an advertisement in the local paper with the inducement of a reward for the finder, Miss, er …?’
He knew she wasn’t married, she thought. He had guessed. She felt ashamed.
‘Mrs Linnet,’ she said.
‘I shall place the list of your missing items as Lost Property. That is all I can do. I wish I could do more, but without evidence, I can’t pursue this further. I’m sorry, Mrs Linnet. I wish you good day.’
She was upset at the realisation that she had no hope of getting her jewellery and sovereigns back. She still had two bags of clothes, but they wouldn’t help her buy food or pay rent. She was in dire straits unless she could sell them or find work.
She wasn’t sure which way to turn when she emerged from the police station.
She went down to the river where the dray horses were being led down to drink, churning up the muck at the bottom and bringing up the sulphurous smell of bad eggs to add to the stench of the tannery. It crossed her mind to throw herself on the mercy of the Cheevers family, but she couldn’t bear to show them how she had been brought low – or rather, she corrected herself – how she had let herself be brought low.
Oliver had thought her rather shallow. Why would he give sanctuary to a fallen woman who had known wealth and security, and thrown it away through her stubborn refusal to marry for convenience, not love, and her stupidity in not being able to tell the difference between flattery and the truth?
She took a turning down one of the narrow alleyways to try to avoid a man who was walking towards her, carrying a bucket of stinking waste. Everything that could be used was for sale in Canterbury, even the dirt that the dogs had left behind on the streets, and everyone was looking for a way to make money. A boy of about ten, wearing rags, came across to her.
‘Let me carry your bags for you, missus.’
‘No, thank you.’
She kept walking.
Dusk was beginning to fall, when a house with a sign in the window caught her eye. ‘Screevers wanted. Apply within.’
Her spirits lifted a little as she knocked at the door. She could write, if nothing else.
The door came ajar, revealing a middle-aged woman with long silver hair, pale blue eyes, rabbit-like yellow teeth and a receding chin.
‘You have an advert for screevers in the window. I’ve come to offer my services, Mrs …?’
‘Mrs Spode.’ The woman opened the door a little further and looked Agnes up and down. Her glance was furtive and darting, her expression one of suspicion. Agnes wished that she had a calling card to give her.
‘My name is Mrs Linnet.’ It sounded refined, she thought, and respectable. She had thought that it was as easy to be trapped into wealth as it was into poverty, but she realised now that wasn’t quite true.
‘You’d better come in.’ Mrs Spode showed her through into a room that was sparsely furnished with a fireplace, six stick-back chairs and a table, and floorboards that creaked underfoot. The air smelled of burning incense and oranges that disguised the odours of the street. There was a gentleman, a clerk perhaps, sitting at the table and writing a letter while a young man waited, leaning against the wall with his hands in his pockets.
‘There are lots of people who’ve come along here claiming they can screeve, but they can scarcely make their own mark on the paper, let alone write a charming and persuasive turn of phrase.’ She stared at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Where are you from, Mrs Linnet?’
‘Faversham. I have recently made the move to Canterbury where there is more opportunity for a lady to find work.’
‘Have you bin a screever before?’
‘I have experience of writing letters and teaching the art of handwriting to young ladies,’ Agnes said quickly. ‘I’m prompt, reliable and hard-working.’
From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the screever at the table getting stiffly to his feet to hand a piece of paper to the young man. Mrs Spode turned fast as lightning and snatched it away.
‘You must pay before you can make your mark,’ she said crossly. ‘You know that, Mr Fletcher. How many times do I have to tell you to take payment first?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Spode.’ The screever bowed deeply, revealing the bald circle on the top of his head. He had to be at least sixty years old, Agnes thought, and he looked weary, his skin pale and of a yellow hue. He addressed the young man: ‘Mr Taylor.’
The young man counted out his coins on to the table. Mr Fletcher placed the paper on the table and handed him a pen, having dipped it slowly in ink.
‘Make your mark,’ he said.
‘I am most grateful for your service,’ Mr Taylor said as Mr Fletcher handed the coins to Mrs Spode, who slipped them into a purse on a belt at her waist. Mr Fletcher took his place and extracted a fresh piece of paper from his leather portfolio, picked up his pen, dipped it in the ink again, and began to write. Mr Taylor left and Mrs Spode set Agnes to a test of her competence.
‘Sit down. There is paper and a pen. Write a letter from a woman fallen upon hard times seeking pecuniary assistance from a benefactor.’
Agnes frowned.
‘Don’t worry. I shall add the names and addresses later. All you have to do is screeve the body of the missive.’
Agnes’s fingers trembled as she picked up the pen. She hadn’t had any sleep and the events of the previous days had rendered her weak and weary. She made to dip the nib into the inkwell that stood in front of Mr Fletcher, but he grabbed it up and cradled it against his neck, scowling at her.
‘That belongs to me.’
‘I’m sorry.’ She looked up at Mrs Spode, who was standing over her. ‘Please may I have some ink with which to scribe.’
‘I suppose you must.’ Mrs Spode walked to the side of the room and picked up a small bottle from the side table. She opened the top and held it while Agnes dipped her pen into the ink inside. ‘Mind you don’t waste it.’
Agnes leaned forwards and touched the nib to the paper. The ink flowed along with the words across the scratchy surface, and a few sentences later, having blotted the ink, she had completed the task to her satisfaction and, she hoped, to Mrs Spode’s, although she doubted from the way she pursed her lips as she picked up the letter that she was a lady who was easily satisfied.
‘“Dear …”’ she read aloud. ‘“I write to you today to inform you that that through no fault of my own, I have fallen upon hard times. I am a proud and respectable lady, as you know, and it distresses me deeply that I am forced to seek financial assistance in this manner.” Oh, Mr Fletcher, Mrs Linnet exhibits a fine turn of phrase, don’t you think?’
‘Harrumph!’ Mr Fletcher grunted.
‘“I am grateful in advance for you
r compassion and generosity.” This is more than adequate. Who would have thought? “I hope that this letter finds you well. Yours sincerely.”’
‘I’ve left room for the lady’s signature,’ Agnes said.
‘This is a gracious hand, if ever I saw one. Curlicue of the finest quality. I think you’ll do very well. Mr Spode,’ she called. ‘Come and meet Mrs Linnet. Mr Spode!’
A door hidden in the panelled wall opened and a man ducked his head and stepped through from the room beyond. He was short, rotund and wore a colourful waistcoat that reminded Agnes of one of Papa’s, and a bow tie, and velvet slippers. He looked round his wife’s shoulder, slipped his spectacles on to the end of his nose and read the letter.
‘Well, I never did. She has the gift of persuasion through the written word, but can we count on her discretion?’ He removed his spectacles and stared at Agnes. ‘Our customers generally prefer their business to remain anonymous. Their privacy is our priority.’
‘I can assure you that I know how to hold my tongue, sir.’
‘I will have to believe it for now – the proof of the pudding will be in the tasting.’ He reeked of pickled onions. ‘I shall draw up a contract listing terms and conditions and percentages. Drop by tomorrow.’
‘I can start today,’ she said quickly, not wanting to waste any time.
‘We are about to close, and by the way, it’s piecework, not regular. Sometimes we are busy, sometimes we are not.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She was depending on a more reliable and secure occupation. Couldn’t they see that?
‘Office hours are nine until six, six days a week. I assume that your husband will be happy with this.’
‘I am a widow,’ she said, a wave of sorrow washing through her as she remembered her foolish hopes for her marriage to Felix Faraday. ‘I have no husband to answer to.’
‘To lose a husband sounds like carelessness to me. It is my mission to keep mine in the best of health,’ Mrs Spode said. ‘Return at nine o’clock sharp, Mrs Linnet. We charge for all paper, pens, ink and blotting paper that our employees use – don’t worry, we take it off your pay at the end of the week. It is to save on waste. If you’ve paid for the paper, you take more care. Look, how the wastepaper basket is almost empty.’ She pointed to the basket beside the fire.
‘How many screevers do you have in your employ?’ Agnes asked, wondering if she was going to have enough work to keep herself.
‘A goodly number,’ said Mrs Spode. ‘That way no one feels they are indispensable. It keeps their wits sharp. They don’t slide into complacency. Is there anything else?’
‘I wonder if you know of any suitable lodgings nearby?’
Mrs Spode looked from Agnes to her bags and back. Agnes guessed what she was thinking, that it was unusual for someone to be looking for work while dragging their worldly goods along with them.
‘There is a room available in a house not far from here. The landlady is well thought of.’
‘And you are sure it is a respectable house?’ Agnes was apprehensive. People seemed to have varying ideas on what respectability was.
‘It is indeed.’
Agnes glanced out through the dusty window at the darkening sky. ‘Then I will take it, according to your recommendation.’
‘Before I give you the address, there is a fee of introduction. One shilling and six should cover it.’
Agnes frowned as Mrs Spode continued, ‘It is the accepted custom around here. Both time and knowledge are precious.’
Agnes realised that she had no choice if she wasn’t to end up tramping the streets that night, along with the muggers and pickpockets and other unsavoury characters. Reluctantly, she dug about in her purse for the money then handed it over to her new employer.
‘Ask for Mrs Hamilton.’ She gave her the address. ‘Tell her that Mrs Spode sent you.’
‘I am very grateful for your kindness,’ Agnes said.
‘I shall see you in the morning.’
She heard the coins chinking in Mrs Spode’s hand as she turned away, picked up her luggage and left the screevers’ office to walk the streets once more, searching for the address she had been given.
She found it a few minutes later along a narrow alleyway down to the river where there was a stench of rotten eggs, privies and unwashed clothes. Number six was one of a row of houses made from timber and tiles, roughly assembled, as a cobbler might make a cheap pair of shoes. It had three storeys, the top window being tucked into the eaves. Water dripped from the gutter at the base of the roof where a few of the tiles had been replaced with a canvas sheet.
Why would Mrs Spode send her here? She must have made a mistake with the address. Surely anyone could see that this wasn’t what she was used to?
The door was open. She knocked but nobody came, so she stepped inside. The corridor was dark and damp, requiring a coat of whitewash, in her opinion. As she walked a few steps towards the first door, two youths came running towards her, pushing her aside.
‘Please, be careful,’ she said, guarding her belly.
‘Oh, you’re a fine lady, all upon the hoity-toities,’ one of them said.
‘Listen to how she speaks,’ the other joined in. ‘She thinks she’s the Queen. Maybe she is.’
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for a Mrs Hamilton.’
They ran away laughing.
‘Can I help you, miss? I mean, Mrs …’
She turned to find a woman of about thirty-five following behind her, weighed down by a basket of laundry. The hem of her blue dress was muddied and torn, and her apron was soaked through.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Hamilton,’ Agnes said.
‘She’ll be in her flat.’ The woman nodded towards the door. ‘Are you looking for lodgings?’
Agnes nodded.
‘If you ever want any laundry done, I’m on the next floor. The name’s Mrs Fortune.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Well, I’d best be getting on.’
Agnes watched her go, lugging her basket up the stairs at the end of the corridor. This was the worst, most godforsaken place she had ever experienced. She felt bereft.
‘Oh, Felix.’ She bit her lip as a tear rolled down her cheek. ‘If only you could see what your thoughtlessness has brought me to. You would soon change your mind, not leave me here to rot in misery.’
She pulled herself together and knocked on the nearest door.
‘Who goes there?’ a woman’s voice said as the door creaked open. An arm thrust a candle through the gap into the corridor.
‘Mrs Linnet. You have been recommended by Mrs Spode, the screever.’
‘What’s she up to? She knows I ’aven’t any spare rooms at the moment. Only this morning, I said, Mrs Spode, I am full right up to the rafters.’ The door opened wide, revealing an elderly woman dressed in dark clothing, with a long cream shawl around her shoulders and fingerless black knitted gloves.
‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you,’ Agnes said, noticing a small crop of white whiskers curling from the woman’s pointed chin. ‘I can see that I’ve been sent here under false pretences.’ The smoke from the tallow candle swirled across her face, stinging her eyes.
‘You’ve paid her a shilling for it, ’ave you?’
‘A shilling and six,’ Agnes confessed, embarrassed by her own naivety.
‘By all rights, you should ’ave come straight to me as I’m the landlady here.’
‘I will take my leave. Goodnight, Mrs Hamilton.’ Agnes began to turn away.
‘No, wait a minute. Let me see what I can do. There is room in my abode for one more as a temporary measure. Mr Kemp who rents the room in the eaves isn’t a well man, and dead men don’t pay rent.’ She cocked her head to one side.
‘May I see the room?’ Agnes said tentatively.
‘Of course. You won’t be disappointed.’
She did feel a little let down. It was dark, sparsely furnished and reeked of roses and lavender vying to overpower the s
mell of the privy which backed on to it. There were dried flowers in vases, shedding dust, and cobwebs dangling from the ceiling.
‘You may keep a fire lit at your own expense or you can share my parlour of an evening. There is a meat safe where you may store the basics, but nothing edible is to be left out anywhere because of the rats. They are as big as cats around here – they’ve grown monstrous fat on the pickings left lying around.’
Agnes shivered.
‘Oh, look at me. You are exhausted. Can I get you a nog of sherry? And a bowl of stew and some bread for an extra sum?’
‘Just the stew and bread, thank you,’ Agnes sighed. She was starving and felt too weak to go out to find an eating house.
‘Give me a deposit then,’ Mrs Hamilton said, smiling. Her jaw seemed to have sagged from its attachments, making her mouth slack and wet.
Agnes counted out more coins from her purse.
‘Thank you, ducky. That will do for now.’
When she had unpacked, Mrs Hamilton showed her to the small pull-out table in the kitchen where she sat down to take the weight off her feet. Her landlady wanted to gossip.
‘So you ’ave a place with the screevers,’ she said, slapping a ladle of stew into a bowl and handing it to Agnes. It smelled of turnip and onion. If there was any meat in it, she couldn’t find it. ‘Are you a long way from home?’ Mrs Hamilton sawed off a hunk of bread from a loaf.
‘I have been cast off by my family,’ Agnes said, not wanting to reveal too much.
‘Well, it doesn’t make any difference to me. As long as you pay your way, you can stay as long as you like. I don’t mind the child when it comes providing it doesn’t bawl all the time.’
