Shadows Fall Away

by Forbes, Kit

  “He would owe me a favor and might help me?”

  “Exactly.”

  Mrs. O’Connell, who’d been discreetly eavesdropping in between customers, approached the table. “Well, boy, if you’re as gifted with a pen as you are with your tongue, I’d say that new newspaper might be interested in paying for what you have to say.”

  I turned to face her. “Newspaper?” I’d never considered writing anything that wasn’t required for school even though Mom encouraged me to after proofing some of my essays. Of course, I did need a job ASAP. “I wonder how much they’d pay?”

  Mrs. O’Connell shrugged. “Oh, I wouldn’t know. The Russian chap who runs it sends over for a pot of tea and Cornish pasty every afternoon. He pays me a week in advance. The office is around the corner, up a flight. You tell him Maddie O’Connell sent you.”

  “I’ll do that, thank you.” I finished my scone and washed it down with the last of the tea. “I really appreciate the tip.”

  “And as for lodgings,” Mrs. O’Connell added, “I might know of some if you really are Inspector Fraser’s nephew.”

  Genie nodded. “Oh, that he is. Don’t you recognize the firm jaw, that stubborn, opinionated attitude?”

  Mrs. O’Connell laughed. “Sure and it’s a mile wide and plain as day. I’ve a room upstairs. Entry’s on the side street if you want to take a look. I’m particular about my tenants, is all,” she added. She looked suddenly doubtful for a moment. “You don’t have the weakness for drink, do you?”

  I smiled. “No, I got that out of my system.”

  She nodded with a knowing smile. “I’ll fetch the key for ya if you’d be wanting to take a look.”

  “Let me see about getting a job first,” I said. “Then I’ll be back.”

  Mrs. O’Connell’s eyes grew wide and she looked at Genie. “Imagine that. Someone who wants some chink in his pocket before taking the room.” She dipped down to whisper but spoke loud enough for me to hear. “I think I like him. Even if he is American.”

  Genie smiled at her then me. “He does seem to have his moments, but we shall see.”

  I winked at her as I stood and grabbed my hat. “Wish me luck, ladies.”

  “Good luck, Mr. Stewart,” they said in unison.

  Genie Trambley’s words were accented by a blush to her cheeks that made me grin.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mark

  The office of the Star Reformer was a small, cluttered space in a building that housed a commercial printer on the first floor. The owner of both enterprises introduced himself as Yuri Gurov. He gestured me inside his office then sat at his desk in his shirtsleeves, his ink-stained arms crossed over his chest as he looked doubtfully at me, a lot like the way the school counselor did when I blew off classes.

  Though accented, the older man’s English was impeccable. “Since you have never written professionally, what makes you think I should hire you?”

  I wondered that myself. “Mrs. O’Connell from the tea shop said you might be interested in my ideas.”

  Gurov leaned forward with sudden interest. “Oh? Are you an American-Irish Radical?”

  “I might be if there’s money in it.”

  Gurov removed his glasses. “Do you have any idea what we print?” he asked.

  “News?”

  He laughed then rummaged through a stack of papers on desk and handed one to me.

  The headline read, “Whitehall Policies A Scandal!” I skimmed the text. It appeared to be a scathing editorial about the horrific practices of sweatshops, child labor, conditions in the workhouses and Parliament’s apparent indifference to it all. I glanced up. “It’s okay, but it misses the point.”

  Gurov’s eyebrows shot up. “And what is the point, then?”

  I grinned. Maybe it was time to spout back some of that counselor crap I’d been hearing for the past couple years. “You’ve got to get people to change their behavior for something lasting to happen. Otherwise, one or two government programs aren’t going to do squat in the long run.”

  Gurov was obviously intrigued. “And what thoughts of yours in particular did Mrs. O’Connell think might be of interest to my readers?” he asked, indicating that I should finally sit down.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to tell him but gave a brief synopsis of what I’d talked with Genie about. Gurov leaned forward at my statement about equal rights.

  “Equal rights is all well and fine. But you wouldn’t want to share a railway coach with say, an Ethiopian?”

  “You mean a black guy?”

  Gurov nodded. “Dark, Chinese. Any non-whites.”

  I knew things were different here, but it hard to believe what I considered normal was a “radical” viewpoint for this time. “If they’ve paid the fare, why not? The only reason I’d not want to share a ride with someone is if they stunk up the place or spit all over the floor.”

  Gurov nodded, a bright smile breaking his face. “Oh, yes, both issues on which I agree one might discriminate in one’s choice of traveling companions.” He paused and stared a moment. “Your speech is unusual. Can you write?”

  I shrugged again. “I can put together intelligent sentences with proper grammar if I need to.”

  Gurov thought for a moment. “I will give you two shillings for every short piece I use. Five shillings for longer pieces. Seven if it goes on the front page, although that is not likely for now. But I charge sixpence for editing.”

  I smelled a potential scam just like the ones Mom always spouted off on when she’d read her writing forums. “How do I know you’ll really pay me? What if you just keep telling me it’s crap and to try again and I end up owing you for all the edits?”

  Gurov laughed. “Telling you something is crap I will do for free.” He stood and extended his hand. “I am a man of my word. If I say I will pay you for suitable material, I will.”

  I supposed I didn’t have much choice but to trust him. I stood and shook his hand. “Okay. If you’re willing to take a chance on me, I’ll give it my best shot.”

  Gurov rummaged through other stacks of papers. “Here are some back issues. See what we do. Then do it better.”

  I took the papers. “I’ll try.”

  “By the way,” Gurov said as I turned to leave. “Where are you staying?”

  “I hope it’ll be over the tea shop.”

  Gurov gave me a broad smile. “A good woman is Mrs. O’Connell. She cooks the finest pastries.” He paused. “Have you ever cleaned a printing press?”

  “No.”

  “Would you like to learn? You will start in two hours. The compensation for that is one-and-six a week. Enough to pay for the room.”

  I learned two things that afternoon. First, cleaning a printing press was a messy and boring job, but not too difficult. Second, writing under a deadline was a lot harder than my mom made it seem.

  I sat at the small table in my new room above the teashop and stared out the soot-streaked window, watching people come and go about their business. Were any of them the Ripper? Could it be someone I’d passed on the street? While the questions were interesting, I knew they weren’t going to earn me my two shillings.

  I shifted my glance back to the scrawled words on the page. They were mostly crossed out. This would be a lot easier if I had my laptop to type on and my iPod to listen to.

  I started to wish I could go for a run or cruise around on my skateboard because that always helped me think when it came to schoolwork. But I didn’t have my board or the right shoes for running. And the sight of anyone jogging would probably seem more than a bit odd to the locals. I didn’t want to attract that sort of attention.

  Sighing then ordering away the emo-tude, I stretched my back to try to work the kinks out of my shoulders. And still no words came into my head. Frustrated, I stuffed some paper and my pencil in my pocket and walked to the pub down the street to see if they served any kind of dinner the way the other pub had served bre
akfast.

  The place was filled with a haze of cigar and pipe smoke, and laced with the smell of damp wool, sweat, spilled beer, and gin. I pushed my way through the crowd of policemen just coming off work and found myself a small table in the back. After I had one of the meat pies they served I was able to think of a few things to write about—once I banished that image of Sweeny Todd and those meat pies from my mind.

  * * * *

  Gurov sat back in his chair, removed his glasses, and massaged the bridge of his nose then looked up sharply at me. “I find this disturbing.” He indicated to the scrawled sheets.

  “I wanted it to be.”

  “But this…” Gurov leaned forward and read the top lines.

  “At 3:30 a.m. on August 7, a woman was found murdered in a particularly vicious manner. It doesn’t matter that she was murdered. Murders happen all the time. The savage nature of the killing doesn’t matter. The fact that the killer will likely get away with it doesn’t even matter.

  “Because that woman doesn’t matter.”

  “Who says she doesn’t matter? The police? No, the police want to catch the killer. Society? No, society wasn’t there that night. Who says she doesn’t matter?”

  “You say she doesn’t matter!”

  “By refusing to speak— whether out of fear or the feeling that what you know can’t be important—you’re saying that the dead woman doesn’t matter. It’s the same as saying she got what she deserved…”

  Gurov looked at me. “You are putting the blame on the working class, on the poor themselves. What about the police? What about the government?”

  I shrugged. “Are you saying it’s crap?”

  Gurov jerked his watch from his vest and scowled at it.

  “Can you set type?”

  “No.”

  “Then you will learn to set and how to run the press,” Gurov said. “We will have a special edition out by tomorrow morning.”

  Bleary-eyed from having spent the night with Gurov to reset and reprint the entire front page of every copy of the newspaper to have it ready for distribution a day early, I was summoned to Ian’s office shortly after returning to my room above the tea shop.

  I watched Ian’s face turn four shades of red and thought his head might just pop off his shoulders.

  The urge to lie on the desk and sleep overwhelmed me. I was used to staying up all night but not doing all that work. I’d nearly had my fingers crushed by the press a dozen times over, Gurov spent most of the night screaming at me because I was doing it all wrong, and yet part of me found it pretty exciting.

  My story was on the front page of a newspaper. I felt a real sense of pride and accomplishment just the way Mom had when she got her first book deal.

  “You’re writing for this filthy, radical scandal-sheet?” Ian demanded, shaking the paper in my face. “Have you no sense of decency? Have you no sense whatsoever?”

  “Did you read it?” Weariness settled along my shoulders. I longed desperately for a cup of Starbuck’s coffee. Or any coffee.

  “I would not lower myself to reading such…such ... such…!”

  “Twaddle? Filth? Pick a word, any word.”

  Ian’s eyes bulged dangerously. “To think I offered my help to you—”

  “Your wife is the one who told me to get a job. I did.”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” a constable interrupted, poking his head into the office. “Chief Inspector Reid wants to see you.”

  Ian glared at me dangerously. “Don’t you move. I’m not done with you.”

  The constable cleared his throat. “Sorry, sir, I meant the chief inspector wants to see the American lad.”

  Ian’s face went rigid, but before either of us moved, Reid himself came huffing into the office with a copy of the paper in his hand. He burst forward and thrust it in my face.

  I was beginning to believe that pushing newspapers in people’s faces was an annoying British habit.

  “Are you Mark Stewart?” he demanded. “The Mark Stewart who wrote this?”

  “Yeah,” I muttered.

  “Well, then, I wanted to thank you personally. Smashing, simply smashing.” He turned to Ian. “Lad’s the only one who speaks any sense about this whole affair. And his suggestion is brilliant.”

  I looked up, surprised. Ian looked stunned, caught between shock and relief.

  “There is the part I particularly liked,” the Chief Inspector continued, putting on a pair of glasses and squinting at the small type. “Ah! Here it is.”

  “There are those, and there will be more, who will cry the police are not doing enough, that they are standing idly by, that they have abandoned the people of Whitechapel. But it is you who are not doing enough, you who are standing by, you who have abandoned your neighbors. It is you who have turned your back on this woman.”

  “You have refused to talk to the police. If you somehow think you are protecting yourself, you are wrong. Dead wrong.”

  The Chief Inspector looked up. “Smashing. Brilliant.” He pumped my hand. “It’s about time someone understood the policeman’s side of the story. Keep up the good work.”

  He turned and rushed out.

  I looked at Ian. “Can I go now?”

  “Quite. Off with you, then,” Ian muttered. “And do pop ‘round for dinner later. Eight-ish.”

  Even though I was wiped out, I was too wound-up to sleep. I often felt like this after skating all day or cramming for finals. Delicious smells from the tea shop reached out to grab me as I walked back from the police station.

  “Marry me, Mrs. O’Connell,” I said when she handed me a steaming cup of coffee and a huge sticky bun without my even having to order.

  She laughed. “I’ll not be buying your American blarney this day, my lad.”

  I stifled a yawn. “I’m too tired to throw the blarney or much else this morning.” I sipped from the steaming mug. Real coffee. Good coffee. “This is the first decent cup I’ve had since I’ve been here.”

  She laughed and swatted at me with her cleaning rag.

  The small bell over the door tinkled, signaling the arrival of customers. Paying no attention, I dug into the roll, loving the sweet, rich, nut-flavored dough that melted in my mouth. I reluctantly looked up at the sound of a sleepy greeting.

  Genie Trambley slipped as well as her cumbersome skirts would allow onto the high seat at the end of the counter next to me. “That smells delightful. I imagine the taste is even better.”

  “It is,” I said, taking another large bite.

  “And what might I get you, Miss Trambley?” Mrs. O’Connell asked.

  “I’ll have the same as Mr. Stewart, except with tea.” She turned and regarded me carefully. “You’re quite the talk of the town this morning.”

  “It’s a lot of fuss over something that should have been obvious to anyone.”

  Stifling a yawn, she sipped her tea. “You look a bit rumpled around the edges. A long night, was it?”

  “Ah, well, some long nights are more entertaining than others. Unfortunately, I spent last night with a screaming Russian. I hope you had better company.”

  Genie’s eyes narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

  I shrugged and returned my attention to the food. “Nothing.”

  “What I find fascinating,” she said, as she broke a small piece off the roll, “is that you’ve been in London for—what is it—two or three days?”

  “That I can remember,” I corrected.

  She gave me an irritated smile. “And yet you already know the solution to all the problems here in the East End. Somehow you know more than all the social reformers who have made extensive studies of the area.”

  I shook my head, not sure where she was going. “I made some common sense observations.”

  “Did you now?”

  “And your little article somehow gives them hope?”

  I glared at her. “I suggested they stand up. That’s t
he first thing they have to do. You can’t fight a battle, any battle, sitting on your as…divan.”

  “I doubt many of them even have a divan.”

  “The point is if they don’t cooperate with the police, the killer will never be found.”

  She sniffed. “Perhaps I’m just one of those ‘West End do-gooders’ you mentioned, those who exhibit—how did you put it?—‘misplaced missionary zeal.’”

  I gritted my teeth. “I was talking about the people who call for changes but have never seen the problems first-hand. So that obviously doesn’t include you.”

  “And setting yourself up as the person to talk to if someone has information on the killer somehow addresses this problem?” she asked skeptically

  “I was just trying to get the people to think of themselves as having a part of the solution, not that they can solve everything. And if they’re afraid to talk to the police why not tell me or Gurov or the guy who runs the print shop during the day?”

  “I find it interesting that you have addressed your own ‘missionary zeal’ to a class of people you don’t really know and who can’t even afford to buy the paper and, if they could, probably couldn’t read the words you wrote.”

  I frowned and stared down into my empty cup. She had a point.

  “I see you’ve decided to grow a beard,” she said after a time. “I rather doubt it will suit you. That is merely my misguided, female opinion of course, Mr. Stewart.”

  I scratched my cheek. “Yeah, well, I’m still not too handy with that razor. I’d go to a barber but at the moment, I don’t want to spend the money.”

  The awkward silence between us grew despite the surrounding clatter of crockery and voices of the customers until Mrs. O’Connell interrupted.

  “Not to be rushing you off,” she said, clearly trying to hurry us along. “But seeing as how you’ve finished, I’ll be clearing these spots for others if you won’t be ordering more.”

  “Of course, Mrs. O’Connell.” Genie stood, smoothing her skirts. “I really must be off. I have things to attend to.”