Poppy stood at Elizabeth’s front door, trying to resist the temptation to slip her thumbnail under a sliver of peeling paint and rip it off the timber. After a few moments the door opened to reveal the bright and bouncy Helena, jumping from foot to foot as if she needed to use the lavatory. “Mees Poppy!” The girl leapt forward and threw her arms around Poppy. Poppy, laughing, gave the young Italian a hearty squeeze in return.
“Hello, Helena! Is Miss Dorchester here? Miss Liza?”
Helena pulled away and skipped down the hall. “Yes, yes, come!”
Poppy followed, shutting the front door behind her. Helena led her down the hall and past a couple of open doors. Through one Poppy saw four young people – two teenage boys and two girls – poring over books and newspapers in what appeared to be a small library. Through the other door three women were packing baskets of “essentials”: toothpaste, soap, underwear, and female sanitary products, while a toddler played on the floor. Settlement house business, thought Poppy. I definitely want to do a feature on this after these other stories go to press.
Soon they were in the kitchen where she, Aunt Dot, and Elizabeth had shared a Sunday roast a few days earlier, and then through the back door. They stepped into an enclosed yard with a gate at the back leading, Poppy assumed, to a rear alley.
“There she is!” said Helena, then scampered back into the house before Poppy had a chance to thank her.
A clothesline was strung from the corner of the house to the back wall, and standing in the middle of the yard, her sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms, was Elizabeth. She was hanging up washing that had just been put through a laundry mangle. It’s funny seeing the daughter of an English lord looking like an East End washerwoman, thought Poppy. And to think it’s all voluntary. Remarkable woman.
Elizabeth dried her hands on her apron and pushed a long strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “Poppy, hello. I didn’t know you were coming today.”
Poppy smiled. “Yes, sorry, I would have called but I didn’t know your telephone number – or even if you have one.”
“We don’t,” said Elizabeth. “I use the one at the post office. But let me finish hanging this out then I’ll put the kettle on.”
“I’ll help you,” said Poppy and bent over and picked out a cotton shirt-waist dress.
Elizabeth passed her two wooden dolly pegs.
As the women worked in tandem, Poppy asked Elizabeth if she had made any progress tracking down the illegal immigrant prostitutes.
“I have actually. I was going to try to ring you this afternoon. But now you’ve saved me the trouble – and the nickel.”
Poppy smiled at the aristocratic woman’s penny-pinching. “So?” she asked, picking out a pair of cotton bloomers that had been patched more than once.
“Magriet Fashions. The corner of 36th and Ninth. It’s got a legitimate workforce, but my source tells me there’s a loft workroom kept separate from the rest. It’s run by illegals who live in a dormitory on the premises. Apparently a handful of the girls are sometimes let out to do other business. My source says they’re dressed up to the nines and are picked up and dropped off at funny hours.”
Poppy absorbed the information. “Yes, it sounds suspicious, doesn’t it? Have you been into this Magriet Fashions?”
Elizabeth shook her head. “No. I’ve tried before, but the guards won’t let anyone in. Everything’s behind lock and key.”
“But you’ve spoken to some of the girls?”
“Some of the legals, yes, but very reluctantly. I only got one of them to talk because she’s the cousin of young Helena and she appreciates what I’ve done to help the family. But she told me if anyone found out she’d talked she’d be out of a job. So, Miss Lady Journalist, I need your word you will not allow that to happen. Nothing must come back to me or the workers. Can you do that?”
Poppy nodded. “I can. Thank you.”
There were two tea towels left at the bottom of the basket. Elizabeth gave one to Poppy and hung the other one up herself.
“Good. Then let’s have a cup of tea before you go.” She gave the peg bag to Poppy, picked up the empty basket, and turned towards the house. But as she did someone stepped out of the kitchen and into the yard.
“Oh Lizzy! Just thought I’d drop in to tell you… dear God! Poppy Denby!”
Poppy dropped the peg bag, the wooden dollies scattering across the paving. “You!” she screamed, her voice ricocheting off the brickwork like a Gatling gun. There, standing in the doorway of his sister’s kitchen, was none other than Viscount Alfie Dorchester.
“Poppy, calm down.” Elizabeth clutched Poppy’s shoulder.
Poppy shrugged her off. “You knew? You knew he was here?”
“Yes. But it’s not what you think. Let’s have a cup of tea and we can talk about it.”
Alfie stood nervously on the doorstep. “Maybe I should go, Lizzy.”
“Go where?” screamed Poppy. “To your dead uncle’s apartment? To plot how you can wangle the old man out of more money? Or perhaps you want to figure out how you can continue to avoid facing justice in England for your disgusting crimes?”
“Now that’s enough, Poppy,” said Elizabeth, standing, hands on hips, between the hysterical Englishwoman and her brother.
“You’re absolutely right it’s enough!” screamed Poppy, her hands on hips a mirror image of Elizabeth’s. “I cannot believe you are defending him! After all he’s done to you! After all he’s done to me! Just what is going on here?”
Elizabeth lowered her eyes and then raised them again. “I know. I, more than anyone, have reason to hate him – so surely that must mean something that I’ve given him the time of day. Please, Poppy, let me put the kettle on; listen to what he’s got to say. He’s just as shocked as you are at old von Hassler’s murder. And he even has some information that could help you with the prostitutes at the garment factory. Please, Poppy, listen to him. It’s all I ask.”
Poppy felt as if she was going to faint. There was Alfie, his blond hair dyed black, standing on the kitchen step like Mephistopheles. And his sister – the woman he had tortured for years and years and years – was defending him. There was only one answer: she had lost her mind. There had been signs of it back in London – which Poppy had refused to accept – but it was true: Elizabeth Dorchester was certifiably insane.
She spun around and pinned Elizabeth in her gaze. “I trusted you!” Then she ran to the back gate and heaved it open. Without looking back, Poppy Denby fled into the back alley, leaving a massacre of pegs scattered in her wake.