A Crimson Warning (14 page)

“She’s still furious with you,” Ivy said. “But everyone’s on edge at the moment. It’s unbearable, all of this. I’m tired of the constant tension. The Riddingtons’ house was splashed red weeks ago and they’re still waiting for their secret to be revealed. They’ve been on pins and needles so long it’s almost inhuman. How much longer will they be tormented?”

“I don’t know how they’re bearing it,” I said.

“And I can’t get poor Lady Musgrave out of my mind. How she’s suffered! And for what? The villain never exposed her husband’s secret. I’ve heard rumors that more than one gentleman has threatened to do himself a harm rather than risk seeing his door painted red.”

“The scandal would be just as bad.”

“Perhaps,” Ivy said. “But they wouldn’t be around to suffer the consequences.”

“What a debacle,” I said. “And a definite sign of weak character. Do what you can to learn more about Winifred. At least you can take comfort in the fact that you’re taking action rather than being a passive observer.”

*   *   *

I was home for less than half an hour before Colin burst into the library and commanded me to follow him. He’d bustled me into the waiting carriage before I’d had time even to secure my hat.

“We’ll be dropped at Scotland Yard,” he said. “And then proceed on foot. Our attackers are about to be released.”

“You came back specially to get me?”

“You said you wanted to come. I promised I wouldn’t go without you.”

“I adore you,” I said. “What’s our strategy?”

“It won’t be complicated,” he said. “We’ll follow at a discreet distance. I don’t think they’ll make it difficult for us.”

“They were ready to make it difficult in the park.”

“Their time under guard was not pleasant. They’ll be focused on nothing but getting home.”

I winced, uncomfortable at the thought of their detention. Not that they hadn’t deserved it. But a dark cell, not enough food, and harsh treatment combined with the heavy silence in which the couple lived must have been deeply unpleasant.

“One of my colleagues brought them back for a final attempt at questioning. It was to no avail, but worth a try,” Colin said, and then called to our driver. “Stop here, please.”

We alighted from the vehicle. Colin motioned for me to open my parasol, which I did. He positioned it so our faces could not be seen by anyone exiting Scotland Yard, but still allowed him a sliver of sight between it and the brim of his top hat.

“That’s them,” he said. We waited twenty beats before following and crossed the street to the other side. This gave us a better view of the couple, who looked even more browbeaten and dingier than they had in the park. I winced, but there was no time for compassion at the moment. We increased our pace to match theirs.

They kept their heads down as they passed the edge of St. James’s Park and then turned onto the Strand, their postures looking more relaxed as they moved farther east. By the time St. Paul’s loomed well behind us and the Tower was long past, they’d begun to move with easy fluidity. The same could not be said for me.

We’d been walking for an inordinate length of time, nearly an hour, and while we were still in London, it was like no London I’d known before. The streets of the East End were filthy, the houses grim, the pavements filled with pedestrians in shades of gray. Not just their clothes, but their skin and hair, even their eyes seemed to lack color. A small boy ran towards us and grabbed at my skirts, pleading for me to give him money. Colin pressed some coins into his hands, and brightness flooded the child’s face, washing away the gray. His eyes were blue; I couldn’t see that before. My heart ached as he disappeared into a shadow-filled alley. He wouldn’t be going home to high tea and a soft bed.

We let our quarry slip farther ahead of us as the streets narrowed and our clothing set us apart from the others with whom we shared the pavement. Another quarter of a mile later, they pulled open the door of a large building. Colin stepped back and peered up at the letters above the door.

“A match factory,” he said. He didn’t immediately follow them inside. Instead, he took me by the arm and marched me around the perimeter of the building. Long windows lined the seemingly endless brick walls of the largely nondescript structure. Even though the windows were closed, clouds of a hideous, sulfurous odor oozed from them, the scent so strong I pressed a handkerchief to my nose. We went back to the door, opened it, and stepped in.

The entrance had nothing to recommend it beyond an increasingly strong smell of sulphur and some other odor I didn’t recognize. The paint on the walls was peeling, the floors covered with dirt and grit. There was no sign of our miscreants. We walked through a door labeled
OFFICE
and soon were sitting across from a red-faced, portly man who was clearly suffering from the heat of the day. He’d removed his jacket, and his shirtsleeves were in a disastrous state. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, then wiped his hand on his trousers.

“Mr. Majors at your service. What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.

“You’ve two employees who’ve just arrived back after some days away,” Colin said. “I’d like to know more about them.”

“Can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”

My husband pulled out his identification. “They’ve been with Scotland Yard and weren’t forthcoming in the least with our officers.”

“Are they under arrest?”

“No,” Colin said. “They were released after questioning.”

“So why do you need them?”

“That’s my business,” Colin said.

The man shrugged and bellowed to a wiry-looking colleague in the next room. “Who was it what skived off work?”

“Useless Dodson and useless Florence.” The other man didn’t look up as he spoke.

“Are they related?” I asked. “Married?”

Our host, such as he was, snorted. “You bloody well ought to have noticed they don’t speak. They’re dumb, the both of them. You think I’m sitting with them for tea and asking if his affections are honorable?”

“Where do they live?” Colin asked.

“Here,” Mr. Majors said. “We’re a full-service establishment.”

“They live here?” I asked. “In a factory?”

“It’s a sight better than the workhouse, madam,” he said. “All of them here are afflicted, you see. Families don’t want ’em, but don’t want ’em in the workhouse, either. So they give us their outdoor relief what the government gives ’em and we see to their needs. In exchange for some work, of course. Fair is as fair does.”

“Can you put us in touch with their families?” I asked.

“They ain’t got none, those two,” Mr. Majors said.

“So how did you arrange to get their relief?” I asked.

“Like I’ve been telling you, madam, I keep them out of the workhouse. Nobody’s going to argue with that.”

“Do they have contact with anyone on the outside?” I asked.

“Those two got nobody who gives a toss about them,” he said. “I only took them in because I was feeling soft when they turned up at the door on a snowy day last year. Let the Christmas spirit get the better of me, did I.”

“You know nothing about their backgrounds?” Colin asked.

“Sir, if Scotland Yard couldn’t get them to make sense, you think I can?” he asked. “I helped them apply for the benefit.”

“How did you know their names if they couldn’t speak?” I asked.

“They had a grubby sheet of paper with their details on it,” he said. “From their family, I suppose. I’ve another deaf one as well, showed up in similar circumstances.”

Colin’s eyes narrowed. “Take us to their quarters,” he said. “And I’m going to need to see the rest of your establishment as well.”

Mr. Majors looked as if he’d like to grumble, but must have thought the better of it. He motioned for us to follow him as he picked up a gnarled walking stick that had been leaning against the wall.

“It’s good there’s somewhere better than the workhouse,” I whispered, leaning close to Colin.

“This won’t be better,” he said. “It will be deeply unpleasant at best.”

We entered an enormous room, the factory floor. The air hung so heavy with stink I struggled for breath. The workers were crowded in the space, some of them standing over large vats, stirring with wooden paddles as the contents bubbled over hot fires. Others sat at long benches, dipping the slim tips of wooden sticks into the malodorous mixture, then laying them out to be collected by another crew, who carried them to another room, presumably to dry. Colin and I were a curiosity here, and one of the dippers looked up and smiled, revealing a mouth devoid of all teeth. I did my best not to recoil.

“Phossy jaw,” Mr. Majors said. “Still happens sometimes. It’s the phosphorus what does it, mixed in with the sulphur. Not much we can do but remove their teeth.”

“He’s missing an arm as well,” I said.

“Can’t find work that way, can he? We’re the only ones who’ll take in people like him.”

As I looked around, I saw that all of the workers—men and women, with a handful of children as well—had some sort of infirmity. Missing limbs, deformed facial features, club feet. The heat of the room pressed hard on me as I watched them work.

“How much do you pay them?” I asked.

“We take care of them, madam,” Mr. Majors said. “Like I was telling you, their families give us their benefit. It’s a service we’re providing, you see.”

“The government pays relief to families who keep their afflicted members at home,” Colin said. “It keeps them from the workhouse and is cheaper in the end, I suppose.”

“We give them medical care, too,” Mr. Majors said. “Come see.”

We followed him again, out of the main workroom, and I nearly retched when we crossed into what he called the infirmary. Rickety cots, their linens worn and dirty, were pushed so close together there was no space for a nurse to walk between them—not that there was a nurse anywhere to be seen. Every makeshift bed was full, and the stench in here were worse than that of the sulphur and phosphorus. This place smelled of death and decay, of blood and urine. Our presence was greeted with barely coherent moans as the patients struggled to sit up and reach for us. I didn’t need to understand their words to know they needed help.

“Back down, the lot of you,” Mr. Majors said, prodding the man nearest to him with his stick. “Leave your betters alone.”

“Don’t touch him,” Colin said, his voice sharp. “Take us to Dobson and Florence.”

Mr. Majors looked unimpressed. “As you will have it. But they won’t be of any use to you, any more than they’re of any use to me. I should throw them on the street after what they’ve done.”

“You know what they’ve done?” I asked.

“They had a little holiday, didn’t they? Sure enough got tangled up with Scotland Yard at the end, but it was a holiday, too. What makes you so interested? They take some of your fine jewels?”

“Do not speak to my wife in that tone,” Colin said. “We’re here on Crown business. You’ll have enough trouble coming your way without standing in the way of my purpose.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,” Mr. Majors said. “I’m running a fine establishment here. You seen a workhouse lately?”

Colin didn’t reply, but glared at the man, who scurried along, leading us to a room directly above the one in which his employees made the matches. It was identical in size and shape, but instead of vats over fires and rows of dipping slabs, here were miserable little piles of bedding, laundry hanging from lines strung from wall to wall, and wobbly tables covered with the remains of what must have been a deeply unsatisfying luncheon.

“This is where they live?” I asked, searching the space for Dobson and Florence.

“They’re right there,” Mr. Majors said, motioning to two huddled figures in a corner. “Only useless toe rags not working.” He crossed over to them and poked Dobson with his stick. “Back to work.” His voice was loud although he knew the man couldn’t hear him. “Now!”

The pair stood up, shirked when they saw us, and scuttled to the stairs.

“I don’t like what you’re doing here,” Colin said. “You’re exploiting these people.”

“I keep saying—”

“I don’t want to hear about the workhouse,” Colin said, taking Mr. Majors firmly by the lapels. “You’ll be hearing from me.”

He pushed the round little man against the wall, took me firmly by the arm, and steered me back into the street.

“You’re never coming here again,” he said.

*   *   *

Agitation and despair had consumed me by the time we’d exited the building. We started to walk, both of us filled with rage at what Mr. Majors was doing. What had seemed an endless trek on the way there passed almost too quickly on our return. We’d reached the steps of St. Paul’s and I still hadn’t calmed down enough to speak. Though the day was warm, my teeth were chattering, so upset was I. How could anyone live in such conditions? How had I lived so long without being aware of how bad life could be? I pulled Colin into the church, needing an infusion of peace and beauty. We sat in silence close to the altar for three quarters of an hour, each of us mired in the darkness of what we’d seen. What could one do in such circumstances other than pray?

Take notes, apparently. Colin was scribbling furiously in his book.

“Ready to go home?” he asked, placing a tender hand on my arm. “I need to find out more about Mr. Majors’s factory.”

“Of course,” I said, but didn’t rise to my feet. “We have to do something, Colin. We can’t let those poor people stay there. It’s … it’s … I don’t care what it entails. I don’t care if we have to take them into our home. Now that I’ve seen them, I cannot go on as if my world is the same as it was yesterday.”

“I understand, Emily. But there’s only so much we can do. Countless people live in similar conditions.”

“How can you live, knowing that and doing nothing?” I asked.

He kept his eyes steady on mine. I remembered how, when we first met, this had unnerved me. Now I found it soothing. “I work to make the world more just. You’re doing that now, too.”

“But it’s not helping those people.”

“Change comes slowly,” he said. “Especially when it comes to social justice.”

“There must be more we can do,” I said. “We have so much money.”