Chapter 43
“We work in teams o’ four,” said the night-soil collector, a stout, middle-aged fellow with a whiskered face and bloodshot eyes who said his name was William Bell. He wore a battered slouch hat with a ragged, muck-smeared coat, waistcoat, and knee breeches of indeterminate color. The reek wafting from his person was stomach churning.
“And why is that?” asked Hero, who had positioned herself strategically upwind.
It wasn’t helping.
“Need four,” said Bell, taking a swig from what Hero realized was a gin bottle. He had agreed to meet with her near Dorchester House in Park Lane, which he’d explained was at the beginning of the route he planned to work that evening. “Need a ropeman, a holeman, and two tubmen. At first ye can jist scoop out the sh—” He broke off, looked flummoxed for a moment, then changed what he’d been about to say to “stuff.”
Hero hid a smile as she glanced up from the notes she was rapidly scribbling. “What do you use to scoop it with?”
“Buckets, at first. Thing is, ye see, we can only do that fer so long. Then we gotta put a ladder down in there.”
“You put a ladder right down into the cesspit or privy hole?”
“Aye. The holeman, he’s the one who climbs down in there and shovels the sh—stuff into the bucket. Then the ropeman, he hauls up the bucket and empties it into the tub. When that’s full, the tubmen carry it out t’ the street and dump it into the cart.”
“Why two tubmen?”
“’Cause them tubs is heavy. Ye have’ta carry ’em on a pole between two men. Most houses ’round here, there’s ways to get to the back without goin’ through the house. But it can be right messy if the cesspit’s in the basement, or if there ain’t no other way to empty the privy ’cept by carryin’ the tubs right through the house. They do drip, ye see.”
“Good Lord,” said Hero, staring at him.
“Now, some privies and cesspools are what we call a ‘dry pit.’ They ain’t too bad, ’cause the liquid most all drains away pretty quicklike. But when it don’t, it can be godawful.”
“Why does it drain away sometimes but not others?”
William Bell gave a shrug. “Depends on the way the cesspit is built—that and the water table, I reckon. I’ve seen some overflowin’ so bad, they’re draining into the cellar of the house next door. Folks get irate when that happens. The worst is them cesspits what’s hooked up to them newfangled water-flushing contraptions.”
“Why?”
“’Cause a cesspit, it ain’t designed t’ take all that water, that’s why. So them things is always overflowin’. If ye ask me, what they oughta do is let them nobs who wants them danged patented washdown pedestals connect ’em to the sewer system.”
London had long possessed an elaborate sewer system, but the sewers were intended only for stormwater and underground rivers. It was illegal to use them for the disposal of waste. Hero said, “The sewers empty into the Thames.”
“Aye.”
“We get our water from the Thames.”
William Bell laughed, showing a mouthful of surprisingly even, healthy teeth. “Aye. So?”
Hero consulted the list of questions she’d prepared. “What do you do once your cart is full?”
“We drive t’ the nightman’s yard and empty it. They mix the sh—stuff with other rubbish like ashes and dung and rotting vegetables, and sell it t’ farmers t’ manure their fields.”
“Lovely,” said Hero under her breath. “How long have you been doing this?”
“Since I was a lad. Used to help me da, I did. In them days I was the holeman. Now I’m the ropeman.”
“Did you ever think about doing something else?”
“No. Why would I? I make three times as much as yer typical journeyman. Can’t beat that.”
“You don’t find the work . . . unpleasant?”
He laughed again. “Ye gets used t’ it—as long as ye drink enough gin first. And it ain’t too dangerous, although ye gotta be careful. I’ve known fellers suffocated from the gasses when a cesspool was too deep.”
Hero thought about the possible danger posed by animalcules—tiny creatures invisible to the naked eye that some suspected could spread terrible maladies. But all she said was “How often are most cesspits and privies emptied?”
“In the poorer parts of town, they never empty ’em till they’re overflowin’. But around here, folks have us in meybe two or three times a year—unless they’ve got one of them danged washdown pedestals. Then we gots to get in there every week or so.”
“Do many people have them?”
“Too many, if’n ye ask me. The Pulteney Hotel’s got eight of the danged things. We’re always havin’ to go there.”
“Eight?”
“Aye. Chesterfield House has ’em too.”
Chesterfield House was an elegant detached mansion built in the previous century by Philip Stanhope, the Earl of Chesterfield, on the corner of South Audley Street and Curzon just several blocks down from Viscount Ashcroft’s town house. Hero looked up from her notes, her breath quickening with interest. “You empty the cesspits at Chesterfield House every week?”
“Aye.”
“What nights?”
“Tuesdays.”
“Ah,” said Hero in some disappointment.
William Bell took another swig of his gin and smacked his lips. “You’d be surprised the things we see, workin’ the streets at night. Why, I’ve found a good half dozen dead bodies in me day. Dead bodies and other things.”
“Oh?” She hesitated a moment, then said with studied nonchalance, “I assume you’ve heard about the Viscount who was murdered on Curzon Street last week?”
“Oh, aye.”
“Did you ever empty his cesspit?”
“Aye. Emptied it last December, we did. I remember ’cause it was durin’ the Great Fog.”
“Did you ever see anything unusual at his house?”
“Not when we was emptying his cesspit. But queer things was always goin’ on around there.”
“What sort of ‘queer things’?”
William Bell leaned forward as if imparting a secret, and Hero felt her stomach lurch as the intensified stench of excrement and cheap gin washed over her. “One time we was drivin’ down the street, headed fer Chesterfield House, and this woman come runnin’ outa his lordship’s house stark staring naked. Naked and covered in blood, she was.”
“When was this?”
“While ago. Don’t recall exactly. But there’s been several times we’ve heard screamin’ comin’ from in there. Why, just last week we seen a lady standin’ at his door with a gun in her hand.”
“A week ago this last Tuesday?”
“Aye.”
“What did the woman look like?”
“Couldn’t see her face on account o’ she was wearin’ a hat wit’ a veil. But she looked like a young thing—slim, she was, and tall for a woman.”
“Could you tell if she was fair haired or dark?”
“Oh, she was fair, all right. The lantern was still lit over his lordship’s door, and the light was shining right on her guinea gold hair—on her hair and on the gun in her hand.”
“You’re certain it was a gun?”
The night-soil man looked vaguely affronted. “Course I’m certain. Ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ me eyes.”
“What did she do when she saw you?”
“Acted real startled, she did. Come down the front steps in a hurry and took off walkin’ up the street.”
“What made you think she was a lady?”
“Dressed real fine, she was. And she had that air about her. There’s jist somethin’ about the way a gentry mort holds herself and moves. Ye can always tell, can’t ye?”
It was a surprisingly astute observation from a man who’d spent his life cleaning out other people’s privies. Hero said, “Do you remember what time this was?”
“Musta been about midnight. We always go to Chesterfield House first thing on Tuesday nights, and we ain’t allowed to work ’cept between midnight and five.”
Hero glanced at the watch she wore pinned to her bodice. “So what will you do between now and midnight?”
William Bell held up his gin bottle and grinned. “Prepare.”
Hero arrived home to find Devlin seated cross-legged on the floor of the library with a number of rumpled newspapers scattered around him.
“What are you doing?” she asked when he looked up, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead.
He raked his hair back from his face with splayed fingers, then linked his hands behind his neck as he arched his back. “When I spoke to Stephanie last Saturday, she described the way Ashworth was found in detail, right down to the clothes strewn around the room and the red silk bonds. Not just silk bonds, mind you, but red silk bonds. I don’t know why I didn’t think about it before, but something Aunt Henrietta said tonight set me to wondering. So I was looking to see if any of the papers mentioned the color of the ropes.”
Hero tugged off her gloves. “And?”
“And the answer is no. They didn’t.”
“So how did Aunt Henrietta know?”
“Hendon told her. And I told Hendon. But you can be damned sure he didn’t divulge those details to Stephanie.”
“Perhaps Ashworth always used red silk bonds. She would know that.”
Devlin shook his head. “I sent a message to Lovejoy asking if his lads found any other color bonds when they searched the chamber. He said there were also lengths of black and gold cord in a chest.”
Hero carefully removed her hat. “He could have always used the red ones with Stephanie.”
Devlin drew a heavy breath. “That’s ghastly to think about, but I suppose you could be right.”
She went to the table holding the brandy decanter, poured a generous measure in a glass, and came back to hand it to him.
“What’s this for?” he asked, looking up from neatening the papers into a pile.
“I suspect you’re going to want it when you hear what I have to say.”