The director of the St. Martin’s workhouse was an officious little man named Felix Fry. Short-legged and pudgy, he had slicked-back black hair and a small, pointed nose and soft white hands he fluttered through the air when he spoke. Confronted with Lady Devlin, daughter of the King’s powerful cousin Lord Jarvis and daughter-in-law to the Earl of Hendon, Fry was all bowing civility and obsequious smiles as he ushered Hero into his comfortable office near the grim brick building’s front entrance.
But his smile froze when Hero settled in the seat indicated by him and brought his pleasantries to an end by saying briskly, “Thank you, Mr. Fry. I’m here because I’m interested in hearing about your recent interactions with Lady McInnis.”
“Ah. Um, yes; Lady McInnis.” He sank into the wooden chair behind his broad, lovingly polished desk. “It’s beyond shocking, what happened. I fear the crime in our streets grows worse every day. The end of the war has emboldened the criminal classes, wouldn’t you say? All this—”
“The murders are indeed shocking,” said Hero, cutting him off. “So do tell me, please, precisely when was the last time you saw Lady McInnis?”
“Me?” Fry’s eyes widened, then darted away. “Oh, it’s been weeks now. Weeks.”
“Sometime in early July, would you say?”
He swallowed. “Something like that, yes.”
“She came here?”
Fry straightened the already neat pile of papers at the corner of his desk. “She did, yes.”
“And why was that?”
The treacly smile was back in place. “Lady McInnis’s interest in the children of the poor was . . . intense.”
“It was, indeed. I’m told she was concerned about the manner in which the workhouse handles its apprenticeships, particularly your practice of selling very young orphans to chimney sweeps. Is that why she came?”
Mr. Fry gave a faint titter. “I wouldn’t say we sell them, precisely. This isn’t America, you know.”
“No? I’ve heard the going rate is four shillings.”
He was no longer smiling. “As your ladyship is doubtless aware, it is the duty of every Poor Law guardian to keep the parish rates as low as possible. Obviously, one way to do so is by apprenticing out as many of the workhouse children as we can.”
“Tell me about the little boy named Robby.”
“Robby?”
“The orphan who was apprenticed as a climbing boy to a chimney sweep named Hiram Dobbs. The little boy died, so you gave Dobbs another.”
“Ah, yes; Robby Coker, or Cooper, or some such thing. His mother came to us last year. I believe the father was killed fighting the French.”
“Is she still with you?”
“Oh, no. She died not long after they arrived.”
“And that’s when you apprenticed her little boy to Dobbs?”
“No; we found the position for Robby before she died.”
“She didn’t object?”
“She did, yes. But we explained that it was necessary.”
“And she accepted that?”
“Not exactly. I fear she became hysterical. Uncontrollable, actually.”
Hero thought about how she would react if someone were to tear Simon or Patrick—or the child now growing in her womb—from her arms and condemn them to the short, brutal, terrifying life of a climbing boy. And for one piercing moment the fear, pain, and rage that shot through her made it impossible for her to even breathe. Her fists spasmed around the strings of her reticule, and she had to consciously relax them.
She said, “How old was Robby?”
Fry shifted uncomfortably in his chair. According to the 1788 Chimney Sweepers Act, sweeps were not allowed to take apprentices younger than eight. The rule was never enforced, of course, but it was still the law. Which meant that if Laura McInnis had wanted to make trouble for Mr. Felix Fry, she might have been able to.
Except that with both Robby and his mother dead, how could anyone prove the child’s age?
Fry spread his fluttery hands wide. “It’s often difficult to say precisely how old these orphans are, you know. They frequently look much younger than their actual ages, and all too often they are old beyond their years. Like so many of the gentler sex, Lady McInnis was charmingly softhearted. As a result, I fear she sometimes failed to appreciate the extent to which the members of the lower orders are different from their betters. The poor are a deeply flawed lot, you know—their passions raw, their morals corrupt, their offspring tainted. What might be tragic in a different situation . . .”
He stumbled to a halt at the sight of the furious outrage flaring in Hero’s eyes. “You don’t find the death of an innocent five-year-old child tragic?” she said. “A child orphaned because his father was killed fighting for his country?”
“Yes, yes; of course, of course,” he said hastily. “But if you knew the extent to which all the workhouses have been overwhelmed by the influx of widows and orphans because of the number of men killed in the wars! And now, with so many returning veterans unable to find work and also thrown onto relief, I don’t know what we’re to do.”
“Oh? And do you consider our returning veterans ‘tainted’ and ‘flawed,’ as well?”
Fry’s voice turned whiny. “We do what we can, my lady. If Parliament were to allocate funds to help the parishes cope, it might be different. But as it is, the maintenance of the poor is too much for local ratepayers to bear, and that is something Lady McInnis refused to comprehend. Why, I heard this last week that she’d been harassing one of the countrywomen who cares for the parish’s infants.”
By law, all workhouses were required to place their orphaned or foundling babies in homes at least three miles from London. As conceived, the law was admirable, since the thinking was that the infants would have a greater chance of survival away from the unhealthy city. But in practice the law was a disaster, for the workhouses tended to dump their infants on unscrupulous foster mothers who could generally be relied upon to kill the infants left in their charge within a very short time.
“What countrywoman?” said Hero.
“A most excellent, motherly woman named Prudence Blackadder. She and her husband care for a number of our infants at their farm—a lovely place not far from Richmond.”
“And how do you come to know that Lady McInnis had a conflict with this woman?”
“Because I had Mrs. Blackadder here in my office, defending herself against Lady McInnis’s attacks.”
“What kind of attacks?”
The nostrils of his pointed little nose flared with indignation. “Frankly, I don’t think I should even repeat them. The fact is that infants die all the time. To accuse Mrs. Blackadder and her husband, Joseph, of neglect—or worse—is beyond unconscionable.”
“Oh? And what percentage of the babies left in this woman’s care die?”
Fry looked Hero straight in the eye and said, “I’ve no idea.”
“Really? One would think that is precisely the sort of information you should have.”
A muscle jumped along Fry’s suddenly clenched jaw. He glanced pointedly at the clock on the nearby mantel and pushed to his feet. “Dear me, look at the time. I fear you must excuse me, Lady Devlin; I am overdue for an appointment with our chaplain.”
“Of course,” said Hero, smiling as she rose with him. “Thank you so much for your time. And don’t worry; if I need anything more, I shall simply come back.”