I am not certain I am capable of adequately describing the emotions that coursed through me after Mary told me Rodney was dead. First came a blow of shock, hard and cold, but then something more sinister and unsettling began to brew. Had I not, just the day before, drawn Mr. Hancock’s attention to him? Could I believe that the timing of his death was mere coincidence?
Of course I could not. Guilt and horror mingled deep in my abdomen and ran through my veins. I drew a long breath and did my best to keep my composure as I asked Mary for more details. She said she supposed it was an ordinary sort of fight, the kind gangs get into all the time, but that she didn’t know anything else. I took my leave from her, not even having the presence of mind to again offer her assistance should she desire a different sort of life, and rushed to find Jeremy.
He was still conversing with the boys surrounding his motorcar. I hung back for a moment, watching them, surprised by the easy manner in which he handled them, teasing and goading. When he saw me, he waved, and the boys scattered, as if they had been warned to avoid confrontation with ladies.
“You look a fright, Em,” he said. “I guess Mary wasn’t helpful.”
“Too helpful, rather,” I said and told him about Rodney. “I think we’d better go to Scotland Yard. No, perhaps to the morgue. I’m not sure.”
His eyebrows shot up. “It’s not like you to be so indecisive. Look, Em, you can’t blame yourself. Even if Father Christmas did order him killed—”
“Don’t call him that.”
“Hancock, whatever. If he’s the one behind it, it’s still his fault, not yours. But don’t dismiss the possibility that this was nothing more than an ordinary fight between violent ruffians.” He took me by the hand and helped me into the motorcar. “I’m taking you home.”
We had not driven more than two miles when I managed to master my emotions and was once more thinking rationally. I ordered him to the coroner’s mortuary. He started to balk, but knew better than to argue. Needless to say, the coroner’s assistants were less than eager to let us view the body, but, once again, Jeremy’s title proved its worth. Ducal command eliminated all of their objections and after a short wait, a thin, nervous-looking man led us into a well-lit room that contained three slab tables, two of which were empty.
On the third, beneath a sheet, lay Rodney Dawkins, as we now knew him to be. Jeremy nodded at the man, who then pulled back the sheet. Bile caught in my throat and I covered my mouth with my hand. His face was all but pulverized. I turned away, nearly regretting my decision to come, but pulled myself together.
“The cause of death?” I asked.
“Multiple internal injuries, madam,” the man said. “He was in a fight, you see. Not much need for an inquest, but it’s scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Was anyone else killed in this fight?”
“No, madam. The police would be better able to give you further details should you require them, as they’re the ones who brought the body in.”
“When is the funeral?” I asked.
“Three days from now,” he said. “His sister is handling the arrangements.”
I did not envy her the task. Jeremy took me firmly by the arm and guided me out of the awful place. I was trembling and upset, but glad that I had come. I thought about what Colin had told me, that one of the risks of this sort of work was that people would be killed. How could I not take at least some responsibility for what had happened to this poor man? In the end, I might be working for the greater good, but that did not mean I could accept with ease the heavy cost paid to achieve it.
Jeremy and I were silent on the drive back to Park Lane. Colin was not at home, and my friend insisted on bringing me inside. He tried to ply me with whisky, as he had done on a previous occasion, some years ago, when we had faced the hideous aftermath of another violent death, but I rejected his attempt. Instead, I asked him to telephone Inspector Pickering.
An hour later, the young man was sitting with us. “I understand that you feel responsible, Lady Emily,” he said, “but I assure you nothing could be further from the truth, regardless of what you said to Hancock. Dawkins was killed because he chose to live his life in a criminal gang. Two constables heard sounds of a struggle last night around three o’clock in the morning, and came upon what looked to them like a gang fight. It turned out to be an internal argument of sorts, as there were only members of the King’s Boys present. Dawkins took the brunt of the beating, but those present insisted that the fight had started as the result of an argument about a girl. The constables thought it looked more like a planned attack, as no one else bore injuries even close to those suffered by Dawkins. He was still alive when they found him, but was not conscious, and died shortly thereafter.”
I swallowed hard and ignored the burning sensation in my stomach. “Now that we know his surname, were you able to learn anything further about him?”
“He has the arrest record one would expect to find for someone affiliated with a gang,” Inspector Pickering said. “Nothing out of the ordinary, except when viewed through our current lens. He was twice arrested with Gilbert Barton. I’ve already been to the address he gave—if he ever did live in the place, he’s long gone—and no one I questioned admitted even the slightest acquaintance with either of them. Beyond that, I’ve found no sign of Barton. Perhaps he’s moved up high enough in the organization to have gone underground.”
“What about Mr. Hancock?” I asked. “Has he been questioned after Rodney’s death?”
“No, Lady Emily, and he won’t be.” The inspector didn’t bother to stop his spectacles from slipping down his nose. “There is nothing that links him to the crime.”
“But he—”
“We have nothing on him. Better that we expend our efforts elsewhere.”
I did not attempt to change his mind; I was busy trying to decide whether, despite everything, I should warn Mr. Hancock that his life might be in danger. I could no longer doubt that he was the leader of the King’s Boys. After having seen the bloodied remains of Rodney Dawkins, I felt no sympathy or concern for Mr. Hancock, but if I let him suffer a similar fate when I might have stopped it, was I any better than he?
Of course I was. However, as I hold myself to what I believe is a high standard of moral behavior, I penned him a quick note, which I gave to the inspector to hand deliver, and instructed the young man to keep a close eye on Mr. Hancock. Unlikely though it was he would put any stock in my warning, I could not ignore the possibility that he could lead us—wittingly or not—to the man responsible for the deaths of Mr. Grummidge, Mr. Casby, and Mr. Crofton.
Through all of this, Jeremy had sat, silent, in a cozy corner of the library, helping himself to Colin’s whisky. I admit I had encouraged him to do so. He had not overindulged, however, and my own frame of mind had improved considerably after I had sent Inspector Pickering off to the East End.
“You never told me what you learned from the boys,” I said. “I do hope you managed to direct the conversation away from the treatment of ladies, as that’s what it sounded like you were discussing when I left.”
He flashed a wry smile. “I’m not certain anything I learned is of value at this point. The tall one—he’s called Moggy Kelvin—admitted that he works, rather, worked, under Dawkins. A particularly useless revelation in the face of things. I did ask him about Hancock, and he insisted that they all avoid him like the plague because their loyalty is to, as he put it, the king.”
“Do you think he was telling the truth?” I asked.
Jeremy shrugged. “Impossible to know, but I can’t say he appeared anything less than candid. He was irritated at the mention of Hancock, and didn’t seem to be putting it on. Told me that men like Hancock don’t know the best way to run a neighborhood.”
I blew out a long breath. “Still, I can’t believe Mr. Hancock isn’t the head of the organization. The inspector said the leaders remain anonymous, and Mr. Hancock’s public persona, that of someone bent on improving life in the East End, is a simple but effective disguise.”
“Moggy did tell me one other thing,” Jeremy said. “When any of the King’s Boys betrays the gang, the rest of them are marched past the body. To remind them of what will happen should they make the same mistake as their fallen comrade.”
“Did he mention this in the context of Dawkins’s death?” I asked.
“I believe so, although he didn’t refer to Dawkins by name. I’m afraid he was rather looking forward to the wake. That’s when they see the body.”
I felt sick again. “Was he not betraying the gang by sharing that with you?”
“Far from it, Em. He was bragging about it. He hopes to move up in the organization now that Dawkins is gone.”
“But he can’t be more than twelve years old.”
“That’s ancient in his world,” Jeremy said. “Although Dawkins was an adult, of an age with Ned Traddles, if I had to guess.”
I frowned. “I don’t suppose I could persuade you to take me on another excursion?”
“Bloody hell, Em—forgive me—you can’t want to go back—”
“No, nothing like that,” I said. “I know we’re missing something, and I haven’t the slightest idea what it is. Remember the second article we found in the Tower passage, the one about the textile mill in West Ham? Perhaps its pertinence to the case will become clear if we go there.”
“I suppose there’s no harm in it and I can’t think of anything better to do.”
“You might let me drive part of the way there.”
“Don’t even think about it, Em. Hargreaves would have my hide.”
* * *
Holbrooke & Sons seemed in every way a model of safety and efficiency. I was disheartened to see so many children working—their nimble limbs and small size making it easy for them to dash under and around the hulking machines that processed raw materials into coarse jute sacks—but I could not say they were being ill-treated insofar as the current labor laws saw it. Laws, I might add, that I found wholly inadequate.
The foreman, Mr. Riggs, gave us a tour of the premises. Large windows let in loads of light, flooding the factory floor with brightness, and the machines looked to be in good working order. The place was far less dingy and cluttered than other factories I had seen, but I still did not believe that children should be working when they could be in school. I did not bother to voice my opinion to Mr. Riggs. I would take it up instead with a few members of Parliament I suspected would be sympathetic to my views.
Instead, I asked him if he was acquainted with Prentice Hancock, explaining that I understood he was known for offering assistance to children from poor families. Mr. Riggs brightened at the question, and said that Mr. Hancock frequently sent wayward youth to Holbrooke & Sons. He offered high praise of the man, and said London would be a better place if more of its residents emulated Mr. Hancock’s example. I did not disabuse him of this notion.
I asked to be allowed to speak to some of the children, and Mr. Riggs granted my request with a smile. He brought three boys and two girls to me, each of whom beamed when they told me how much they enjoyed their work. I half suspected Mr. Riggs of having lined them up and coached them in advance on what to say whenever visitors came. Two other girls watched from afar as we talked to their colleagues, their wide eyes hard and almost scared. I wished I could question them away from their supervisor, suspecting they might be more forthcoming than their peers. The only revelation of interest from the individuals to whom we were allowed to speak was that they were paid less than their counterparts at other factories.
“What do they think of being paid a lower wage?” I asked.
“Safety, Lady Emily, does not come cheap,” Mr. Riggs said, after dismissing his small employees. “Holbrooke & Sons has to turn a profit and wouldn’t be able to do so if we didn’t adjust the wages accordingly. Which is not to say the workers bear the full brunt of it. Mr. Holbrooke himself puts half of his share back into the factory, which allows us to pay more than we’d be able to otherwise. It’s a fair trade-off for those working on the floor. They appreciate the better conditions and the knowledge that they won’t get injured. Everyone is happy.”
“Is Mr. Holbrooke open to outside investment?” Jeremy asked. “I’d quite like to support his work.”
“He’d be most obliged, your grace,” Mr. Riggs said. “He’s abroad at the moment. Our raw materials come from India, you see, and he’s negotiating for better terms with our suppliers.”
“When do you expect him to return?” I asked.
“Next month, Lady Emily. If you’d like, your grace, I can put you in touch with him the moment he sets foot on British soil.”
“Yes, that would be good of you, Riggs,” Jeremy said in his most condescending drawl. “I’ll count on you to take care of it.”
The foreman gave a smugly satisfied smile and led us back to the factory office. Photographs of smiling workers covered one of the walls, and a copy of the article from The Times hung in a wooden frame. “That is the very piece that drew our attention to your facility,” I said, pointing at the article. “I’m sure we’re not the first to call on you as a result.”
“Mr. Holbrooke hopes that this factory will serve as a model for others.”
“Does anyone object to your practices?” I asked. “There are so many people loath to accept change and progress.”
“No one who matters,” Mr. Riggs said. “At least not to us. We can’t convert everyone to our ways and don’t waste our time on those who aren’t interested. But there isn’t much for anyone to object to.”
“Quite right,” Jeremy said. “I look forward to speaking to you again, Riggs. Don’t forget—I’m counting on you.” He shook the foreman’s hand and ushered me out of the factory. “You didn’t believe a word of that, did you?” he asked.
“It was all too perfect to be true,” I said. “And Mr. Hancock supplies much of the labor. There is something rotten here.”
“Yes, but what?” Jeremy asked. He pulled out his watch and glanced at the time. “The shift will end in forty-five minutes. We could skulk around and try to get more candid answers out of some of the other employees. Or we could call on Mr. Holbrooke, who I don’t believe for a minute is in India.”
I was studying the façade of the factory, wondering if anything in its construction could link it to Hastings or William the Conqueror, but the idea was too ridiculous to contemplate. “Would it be useful to speak to whatever inspectors in the government cover Holbrooke & Sons?”
“Doubtful,” Jeremy said. “I agree there’s something not quite right about the place, but it doesn’t seem unsafe. Holbrooke is probably exploiting his workers by not offering them better pay, but we’d be hard-pressed to do anything about that. Riggs is right that many people would give up some money in exchange for safety.”
“If they’re actually getting that in return,” I said. “How can they know?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea, Em, and we’re not going to figure it out by standing around here.”
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, a man carrying a bundle of something and slinking into an alley near the factory. He was followed by three unnervingly plump rats. “I don’t think there’s anything else for us here now,” I said. “But I’m not ready to go home.”