Bloody Business

by Ash, C. B.

  "Those two, always comin' round." Vivian said sternly. "They be roustin' good, honest folk who be barely scrapin' by. They ought ta be horsewhipped."

  Moira glanced over at Lydia, then Vivian. "So those bloody gits do this all the time, then?"

  Vivian looked at Lydia, who turned her eyes to the floor. "Not all the time. They were just sent ta fetch me fer work." Lydia said after a moment.

  William looked confused. "I thought ya said before this was your day off?"

  "I musta' got the days wrong," Lydia said as she rose to her feet. "I ... I need ta be goin'. They'll be expectin' me at the factory. They said there was a big order that came in last night... when I was out lookin'."

  Before she could take a step, Vivian stood and guided the young woman back into the chair. "Sit, yer goin' nowhere. Ye arm's hurt so bad, ya can barely move it. Na ta mention there's a slowly bleedin' cut by yer eye in that bruise."

  A low murmur of gears and springs heralded the approach of an automata servitor. Just two feet tall, its tarnished, cylindrical metal body and domed top trundled into the room on a stubby tripod of three spoked wheels. The clockwork servitor wheeled up to Vivian and stopped within reach of her. She patted it almost affectionately before opening its domed head and dropping the used washcloth inside. She closed the head, then opened a smaller panel on its cylindrical chest to recover a clean washcloth from a small stack there. Vivian smiled at William, who watched with fascination.

  "It belonged ta the Colonel, me late husband. He always be tinkerin' with somethin' around the house. It was only made ta handle one task, but he tweaked it ta be doin' a few more." Vivian explained.

  Hunter was still watching Lydia suspiciously. "Has this happened more than once?"

  "Ye need ta tell 'em." The older woman urged. Lydia simply kept her gaze focused on the floor near her feet.

  Vivian tossed the clean washcloth into the washbasin. It fell into the water with a wet, soggy splat. "Ye go runnin' out at all hours o' the night, lookin' fer Allison, which be braver than anything Ah'd seen. Them two mongrels come sniffin' round and ye wilt like a wet flower." She gently tilted Lydia's chin up and looked her in the eye. "Young lady, ye need ta tell someone. They won't quit till ye do. Seems ta me, yer new friends here be good ones ta start with, since they seem ta be able ta chase off them two bad apples."

  "It's nothin'." Lydia said, her voice agitated. "I ... I really gotta go work."

  Vivian gave Lydia a frustrated scowl, then picked up the washcloth again and applied it to the cut on the young woman's face. "If'n ya won't say, Ah will. Yes Sirrah, this be happin' more'n once. Lydia's only the current one be sufferin' it. Another girl, Maggie Campbell, had the same problem na long back."

  Moira sat down at the dining table with the others. "Ya make it sound like they stopped botherin' her. How'd Maggie make 'em leave?"

  Vivian paused in her ministrations to Lydia. "She never came home. Last Ah seen her was several weeks back." She said solemnly.

  Hunter's frown deepened. "What of the constables? Have you told them any of this?"

  Vivian laughed cynically while Lydia shook her head and glanced briefly at Hunter. "I told ya, they don't help. They never do. They know that Maggie's gone. They've not found anythin' yet. One of them peelers even said Maggie probably just moved on." The young woman's cheeks flushed with anxiety. "That just ain't true! This was better'n where Maggie came from! She was livin' off scraps before she got here. She'd not just leave."

  Suddenly, Lydia stood up again, her hands shaking. "I gotta go, I really gotta go. He'll take me job! I won't be able ta eat."

  Vivian was immediately on her feet again. She leveled a hard stare into Lydia's eyes. "Yer hurt and canna go. If'n ye lose that job, I'll let ya work here, Heavens know Ah can be usin' the help. Now, sit!"

  Lydia frowned back at Vivian, and for just a moment, Hunter wondered if the young woman would bolt out the door anyway. However, Lydia seemed to come to a decision as she then slowly sat back down in the chair.

  Vivian nodded in approval at the young woman. "Good, now once Ah get the bleedin' ta stop, we can go do the dishes."

  William leaned forward with a grin. "Besides, we can go speak on yer behalf. Tell the owner ya got hurt and can't come in. He'll understand."

  Lydia closed her eyes. "He won't." She said in a small voice.

  "If he's interested in a smooth operation of his business, he'd best understand. Just who owns this particular milling factory?" Hunter asked, crossing his arms over his chest. "And where is it?"

  "Gilbert Monkhouse." Lydia answered. "His mill factory's along East Silvermills Lane. North a'here, past the castle and just north of the Queen Street Gardens."

  "Not a far walk. Would he be there this time of morning?" Hunter asked curiously.

  Lydia sighed, almost in surrender. "Yes," she said softly. "He's always stayin' around in the mornings. Leaves mid-day."

  Hunter gazed at William and Moira. "We need to pay this Sirrah Monkhouse a visit."

  William patted Lydia on the shoulder and stood eagerly. "I'm ready. When we leavin'?"

  Hunter smiled slightly. "Now would likely be best, if we're to call on Sirrah Monkhouse before we do the rest of our hunting today."

  Once they had bid a good morning to Vivian and Lydia, Hunter paused outside the front door of the boarding house, lost in thought. Moira watched the captain a moment, then looked away.

  "I'm bothered by it, too." She said eventually. "She's got a streak of steel in her, but them two gits and that Monkhouse have her runnin' scared. An what happens if they come back while we be away?"

  "It's just not right." William protested. "Ya don't send somebody around ta beat up yer workers ta get 'em ta work."

  Once they both fell quiet, Hunter glanced at them. "Agreed. It seems we've more than one problem here. If we're to help Miss Olivander find her friend, we'll need to see this Sirrah Monkhouse and have a chat with him to soothe this entire situation. Perhaps he'll see some reason."

  William thrust his hands in his pockets. "And if he won't?"

  Hunter smiled. "He must. And if he's difficult, we will just have to be very charming and persuasive. After all, he's running a business. Harming his workers isn't the best way to make sure his workers are the most efficient. He might not even realize what his men are really up to."

  Chapter 6

  It was past mid-morning when the sun crept overhead, peering around the yellow soot-clouds that hovered over the woolen mills north of Edinburgh's Queen Street Gardens. The streets and buildings were darker there, stained by the coal and other residue from the fuels used to power the factories' massive steam engines. Soot obscured the edges of windows, clung to doors, and lay like a dusty shroud on the few pedestrians that walked along the road to and from the mills. In between the muffled grind and clank of clockwork gears and pulse of steam-driven pistons, the clatter of horse-drawn wagons laden with crates of freshly woven wool trundled along the cobblestone road. Between the factory buildings the occasional clockwork courier owl or raven soared with a tightly bound bundle.

  Anthony Hunter stopped at the corner where Dundee Street left behind the soothing green of the Queen Street Gardens and its hushed atmosphere in the cool, smoky air. For a moment, the wind changed, and fumes drifted south from the factories. Hunter sniffed sharply, then repressed a sneeze.

  Standing beside Captain Hunter, Moira wrinkled her nose while William made a face at the new odors. Moira finally rubbed her nose instinctively. "Not like bein' aboard the Griffin. Somethin' ta be said for fresh air."

  Hunter, though he agreed with Moira, simply replied, "Some would call that the progress of industry."

  "I'll take livin' on an airship any day." William said scornfully.

  "You sure about this, Cap'n?" Moira gave Hunter a worried look. "Beggin' yer pardon, but we don' know this Gilbert Monkhouse. He mighta' sent them men ta hurt Miss Olivander for whatever reason."

  "True, we don't know Gilbert Monkhouse." Hunt
er replied with a bemused glance towards William and Moira. "All the more reason to speak with him, I think. Although I do promise to be careful." Neither one seemed reassured. Hunter sighed, then pressed on. "In any case, I'll meet you both at the White Hart Tavern later in the afternoon after I stop by to check in on Krumer and Thorias. Luck to you both."

  Hunter left Moira and William to go on their way while he walked down a side road between Dundee Street and East Silvermills Lane. The woolen mill owned by Gilbert Monkhouse was simple enough to locate, given it was christened 'Monkhouse Weavers'. A two story building of dark brown brick, the woolen mill sat back from the road on the right hand side. A modest brick wall fenced in a courtyard where horse-drawn, and some of the newer steam-powered wagons sat waiting to be loaded with crates of newly woven bolts of woolen cloth.

  Anthony walked along the sidewalk, then through the wide, open gate into the courtyard. Beyond the gate, the sound of gears and dull clank of metal on cobblestones echoed off the brick fence. A handful of workers, some young women, others young men, and two young children wore clockwork-powered mechanical suits to help them move the heavy crates from the factory and lift them to the wagons.

  The 'Clockwork Augmentations Suit', or CASS for short, was a machine built much like the greasy, oil-covered metal skeleton of a giant. On its back was a large backpack in which the clockwork mechanisms slowly turned to provide power for the device. The operator sat inside the 'ribcage' of the skeleton, with their own arms and legs attached to levers that were directly attached to the gears and hydraulics of the skeleton's arms and legs. In this way, when the operator moved their appendages, the skeleton would walk or manipulate objects. They were highly effective machines, but the lack of any protection usually made them rather dangerous for just anyone to operate.

  These contraptions were something Captain Hunter was used to seeing in shipyards and dry-docks. He had only read about their use in factories. However, this was the first time he had witnessed one being operated by a young boy of twelve. Anthony frowned, but kept any comment he might make to himself.

  By the time Hunter crossed the courtyard, the wide, broad-shouldered figure of a familiar looking man wearing a stained cotton twill shirt and dark trousers had stepped out of the woolen mill. Conor glared openly at Anthony while he propped his hands on his hips. A dark bruise leered from the big man's jaw like a badge of shame.

  "What do ya want?" Conor said firmly in his thick Irish accent. "Then again, never mind. Go away."

  Hunter raised his eyebrows and repressed a sharp retort. His dislike for the man rode close to the surface, but Anthony knew he would have to maintain a more proper decorum if he was to settle any of this in Miss Olivander's favor. The captain smiled pleasantly. "That's a shame, as I've not had a chance to say anything."

  The Irishman started to say something, but Hunter interrupted him. "I'm actually here to speak your employer, Sirrah. I believe his name is Gilbert Monkhouse? It's about a young lady we have in common, Lydia Olivander."

  Conor continued to glare at Hunter silently, but the captain could tell. Something he said had peaked the man's interest. After a moment, the Irishman's body language changed slightly.

  "Well, this'll be interestin'." Conor finally said. "All right. If ya determined, lets by all means go ta see the boss." With a mock half-bow, Conor turned to walk through the large factory doors. "Mind yerself," he said over his shoulder to Hunter, "stay behind me. In a place like this ... accidents have been known ta happen." With an ugly chuckle, Conor vanished inside. Hunter followed the big man through the doors with a sour look at his wide back.

  Inside, Hunter blinked a few times until his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom that seemed to prevail. Once his sight adjusted, he paused a moment in surprise. While he was not an expert on the organization and arrangement of a woolen mill, he was not prepared for the view that greeted him.

  The factory was essentially one large room, approximately one hundred yards long and at least fifty yards wide, if he had to make an estimate. All along the space, recessed areas in the floor that resembled shallow pits segmented the area into 'rooms', if they could be thought of as such. In each pit, different machines - weaving looms, cutting machines, and many others - were arranged in long rows. In front of each machine sat at a worker: tired, malnourished and pale. Some, such the people at the looms, wore dirty bandages wrapped around calloused and bleeding fingers. Others, who worked at unboxing the dye chemicals so they could be mixed, occasionally erupted in wet, harsh coughs. One woman, who looked to be all of twenty despite the savage hair loss and sallow skin, looked up from her work to watch the newcomers with hollow, dark eyes. Once they passed, she sighed and returned to work.

  Aside from the specific work being done, each pit was the same as every other. Filled with machinery, operated by workers who had likely not seen the light of day in many weeks. Away from the pits, a five foot wide space acted as a separator between the pits. This flat, plain space served as a walking path.

  In the far back of the building, the automated dye vats sat, noisily churning the chemicals that comprised the various dyes. Around these noxious machines, a crude set of thin wood panels had been erected as walls to close these devices off from the rest of the main floor. The loose construction of the walls coupled with the lack of a door did little to prevent most of the chemical fumes from leaving the immediate area around the vats. The stench from the cooking dye that drifted from that part of the factory towards Hunter was indescribable.

  Just outside the dye vats were a dizzying array of other segments where the newly woven wool was washed and folded by workers, who used hand crank devices to churn, then later wring water from the cloth. Other devices nearby included clockwork arms which automatically took the cloth from the tired workers and methodically folded, then packed the cloth into crates. Along the walkways, between every pit, the occasional foreman strolled along, not unlike a slave master aboard a slave ship of antiquity.

  Hunter walked silently behind Conor, watching the nightmare play out around him. His heart beat tight in his chest at the horror. Inwardly, a turmoil raged in his mind and soul. He knew logically that he needed to see this through, to speak with Gilbert Monkhouse and get a measure of the man. His heart felt differently, however, and wanted to carry these abused people out of the factory and find help for every one of them. Finally, Conor stopped at the bottom of a set of wooden stairs.

  "This way," the Irishman explained. "The boss'll be upstairs."

  Anthony nodded solemnly and followed. All the while, his mind desperately worked to rationalize what he was witnessing. The conditions were unthinkable. He knew there were some laws that spoke against such treatment, specifically, restricting the conditions that women and children had to endure. He could not remember the details, but he thought inspectors should be preventing these kind of hardships. Unable to remember the wording of the law, he resolved to look it up at his first opportunity. When his attention returned to the matter at hand, Conor had already opened a door to the modest office on the second floor of the factory.

  "Yer in luck, the boss is in t'day." Conor said with a chuckle.

  Hunter nodded curtly. "Thank you, Sirrah." He said, walking inside. Conor did not bother with a polite reply. Instead, he pulled the door shut with a sharp tug.

  The office itself was modestly furnished, befitting the owner of a medium-sized factory. A pair of teak bookcases, their shelves heavy with worn, weathered books, sat against the wall to the right of the door. A smaller set of shelves for the accounting ledgers sat along the left wall. In between, a worn, dull reddish carpet lay over the dusty floor. At the head of the carpet was a wide cherry-wood desk adorned with all the trimmings one would expect from lamp, to papers and even a filing tray.

  Of all, the desk seemed to dominate the room and draw a person's eyes towards the portly, balding man in the pressed pinstripe dark gray suit. His clothing was well kept, almost manicured, which stood out in stark contrast to th
e appearance of the office. Even the memory-like tuft of russet hair that encircled his head seemed well-groomed. The man smiled, then drew his bulk up from where he sat as he held out a meaty hand to Anthony.

  "Good day, Sirrah. I'm Gilbert Monkhouse." Mr. Monkhouse said with the slightest hint of a nasal twang to his voice.

  Hunter accepted the man's handshake. Long ago, the captain had formed the belief that one could tell quite a lot about a person from the kind of handshake or greeting they gave. In this case, Gilbert Monkhouse spoke and dressed well, but had a rather cold, limp handshake. Hunter smiled. "Captain Anthony Hunter. Excellent to meet you."

  Mr. Monkhouse gestured to one of the empty chairs opposite the desk. "Please sit, Captain. I was told you'd an interest to speak with me? You're quite in luck, as I've some time available now."

  Anthony sat in one of the chairs, Gilbert resumed his own seat. The old wood squeaked slightly in protest like a small rodent as Monkhouse settled himself. Hunter cleared his throat.

  "I'll drive right for the point. I've come to speak to you on someone's behalf. Do you recall a Miss Lydia Olivander?" Hunter asked curiously.

  Gilbert's eyes shifted off into space a moment while he recalled the name. "Ah, yes. Miss Olivander. She worked in the dye vats."

  "Worked?" Hunter echoed while he raised an eyebrow.

  "Yes, she's sacked as of today." The portly man said with a shrug. "She did not appear for work. As I'm trying to run a business here, I can't have my employees just wandering in whenever they feel like. Besides, she wasn't the hardest worker at her job, especially of late."

  "How do you mean, Sirrah?" Hunter leaned forward slightly while asking.