Lenox’s first thought was that he must go see Edmund. An anonymous death on a train had become, in the course of just a few of Lenox’s deductions and a day’s research by Graham, an incident with international political implications.
A great number of oddities had now been explained. Chief among these was the murderer’s care in removing the labels from Gilman’s clothing. But there was also his desire to have the body sit in Paddington Station overnight, when the passengers and crew of the 449 had scattered as widely as possible. The longer this particular death went unremarked, the less likely that anyone would associate it with the nonappearance in London of Eli Gilman. And the safer the perpetrators would be.
Lenox remained in the small sitting room with Graham and rapidly read the clippings that the latter had brought from the Manchester newspapers.
There was news of Gilman’s arrival among other dignitaries and notables aboard the Clarissa and a small item from the Manchester-Guardian recording that Gilman had spent two days meeting with business leaders in Manchester and Leeds, soliciting their support—financial, moral, political—for the abolitionist groups whose interests he represented.
But his most important meetings, it was obvious, reading between the lines, were to have been in London. So was a march, which was to have taken place the very next day. The Manchester Guardian reported that important members of the liberal and conservative parties had both agreed to meet with Gilman, as well as several connections at court. It was expected to be the best-attended abolitionist march in London in more than a decade.
In other words, Gilman had come to England with more than a naïve hope of finding an audience for his anti-slavery views. The question was whether this was the cause of his death.
Lenox glanced at the door; he was suddenly very curious about the bloodied bandage around the head of Gilman’s friend.
“Slavery,” Lenox said.
Graham nodded gravely. “Yes, sir.”
Whatever America had recently achieved, there was a point upon which all Britons could count themselves proud: The transport of slaves had been illegal within the empire for nearly fifty years now, since 1807.
It was a near-miracle. Almost never in the history of human events had a people forced its government to stand against such monumental economic interests. Indeed, some might have called it a true miracle—for the leaders of abolitionism in the country had been largely either Quaker or devoutly Anglican.
The instigators of the movement had both been deeply religious, Thomas Clarkson and William Wilberforce. They had performed complementary functions: Clarkson the organizer, Wilberforce the politician.
The first bill Wilberforce introduced to abolish slavery had been in 1791. It was defeated roundly, 163 to 88. Between that vote and the passage of the Slave Trade Act in 1807, sixteen years later, British ships had transported about half a million African slaves, to the immense profit of a few hundred men. Some of those arguing against Wilberforce said it was in fact the nation’s single most profitable business. This was their argument for allowing it—perhaps, they would concede, under heavier regulation—to continue.
But for once the moral argument had triumphed over the commercial argument. All across England, in part thanks to Clarkson and the Quakers, leagues had sprung up from nowhere to assist former slaves and to campaign against the creation of future ones.
Josiah Wedgwood, one of the country’s most famous and important men, designed a medallion: a black man in chains, speaking the words Am I not a man and a brother? The image had become so popular that women of the upper and middle classes pinned it to their dresses and wore it upon necklaces and bracelets. Gentlemen kept it in their lapels.
Meanwhile, Wilberforce worked tirelessly. Vote after vote, speech after speech, year after year, never yielding an inch. At long last, on February 23, 1807, he brought the bill of 1791 to the floor a final time. This time the vote was a rout, 283 to 16—in favor of abolition.
In quick succession, France, the Netherlands, and Spain agreed to adopt some variation of its contents. The bitterest irony was the nation that adopted the act only weeks after Wilberforce: the United States of America. This seemingly admirable action came with one enormous and tragic ambiguity; it did nothing whatsoever to address the nation’s internal slave trade.
Lenox had been just four or five years old when Wilberforce died. By the time the young Charles had reached school age, Wilberforce’s name was already a legend, particularly among the boys who knew themselves to be headed into lives of religion. A weak student at Cambridge, given to socializing and flirtation, Wilberforce had found, suddenly and to his great surprise, a cause to which he had been willing to commit his life. Was this not evidence that divinity could enter any soul? Rarely had a moral crusade so perfectly matched the spirit of Christ.
Now, not half a century later, there were already statues of Wilberforce across the country, plaques and busts. Many men and women kept his penny portrait on their walls. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. Meanwhile his equally devout and energetic partner, Clarkson, had lived the years until his own later death, in 1846, campaigning against chattel slavery in America. He had found followers there—though never the same success that he and Wilberforce had in Britain.
There was a footstep in the hall, which proved to belong to the lady of the house. She was carrying a tea tray.
“Mrs. Thompson?” Lenox ventured.
“Yes?” the woman said.
She set down the plain wooden tray, which had a chipped white porcelain pot and four mismatched cups on it, along with fragrant toasted teacakes piled on a plate.
“Is your—lodger, I suppose—is he returning?”
“Mr. Hollis. Yes. He went to send a telegram; may the Lord preserve him.”
They heard the door at just that moment, and Hollis, as he was apparently called, reentered the sitting room.
Lenox had an additional moment now to examine him, and noticed a brass watch-chain, a sturdy gray cravat, and shoes that were creased here and there but well preserved. Good, functional attire.
Lenox stood. “Mr. Hollis, this is my associate, Mr. Graham,” he said. “As I told you, my name is Charles Lenox. We’ve been assisting Scotland Yard in the investigation of a murder on train 449 from Manchester to London. I came to the Salted Herring in response to your advertisement, and now, unfortunately, it appears that we have answered your question about your missing friend—though I have just learned of his name and position.
“Given all of that, may I inquire who you are?”
The black gentleman gestured to the tea. “Please, sit, if Mrs. Thompson doesn’t mind.”
She nodded, and they sat, she taking her own place, Lenox noticed, very freely. As she did, he saw a wooden cross swing from her neck, and realized that she must be a Quaker. Theirs was a religion that gave women an equal hearing, he had heard—as far as that went. This perhaps explained Hollis’s deference to her.
“Thank you,” said Lenox, and took a sip of the very strong, almost muddy tea. At this evening hour it was welcome. “That’s a bracer.”
“Mr. Lenox, my name is Josiah Hollis. I hail originally from Atlanta, in the state of Georgia. For the first twenty-seven years of my life I was held in bondage not far from there, on the plantation of the Hollis family.”
He spoke with a marked formality. Perhaps a fortification against people who would judge his intelligence by his race.
“Some months ago,” Hollis continued, “Congressman Gilman and I, along with a secretary to the Congressman, Mr. Abram Tiptree, formed a party to come here. We accepted donations to fund the trip and were happily surprised to receive far more in donations than we had expected.
“Our aims were twofold: to solicit support from high-ranking members of British society, first financial, second political, for the abolitionist movement in America. We were not the first such party, nor will we be the last. Yet we had great hopes. Our letters of introduction, thanks to Mr. Gilman and his friends, reached the highest levels of your society.”
“And your wound?” said Lenox, motioning toward his head.
Hollis set down his tea. “Ah. Yes. As I was saying, we are not a unique party—except in this, that two of the three of us are dead, and I myself—this is the reason for my telling you I was armed—was nearly killed yesterday.”