The Dead Among Us

by Tracy L. Ward

  On Narrow Street, Ainsley and Simms walked past a shop sign advertising cat meat and sidestepped a knee-high pile of manure that had been raked into the street from one of the backyards. Two pigs tethered to a tree had their ropes twisted together and tightening as they moved to free themselves, their squeals signalling how tight their nooses had become. A lone child stood next to them dumbfounded, only on guard for poachers, not for the sows’ well-being.

  “Interesting neighbourhood, this,” Ainsley said with an amused smile.

  The near-constant activity and rush of the crowded street no longer held Inspector Simms’s attention as he led the way through the throng. It appeared easy for him to ignore the smell and noise, whereas Ainsley was constantly distracted by the flashes of movement caught in the corner of his sight. So quiet was Belgravia compared to the street they now walked along. So spacious was his house with its rear yard and innumerable rooms. In Limehouse, the doorways were crowded with the grubby faces of half-starved children, many of whom would have loved a small measure of the luxury that Ainsley and Margaret so often took for granted.

  The gravity was not lost on Ainsley as he followed Simms. He had been around the poorer classes before, and had visited orphanages and boarding houses, but never had he been affected by the sights and the smell, wafting from the dockyard and the river Thames. Perhaps it was his newfound concern for Benjamin, a child no doubt somewhere in that very throng, looking for cast-offs and scraps in the hopes of bringing them back to the other parentless children.

  “Keep up, Dr. Ainsley,” Simms yelled over the swelling crowd.

  Ainsley pushed through, abandoning the previous care he used to avoid the people around him, and followed Simms between two tall, red brick buildings to the river. The weathered grey wood boards creaked and groaned beneath their footfalls as they stepped forward. Ainsley scanned the muddy banks that flanked the Thames, and saw a dozen or more children knee-deep in the filth. The youngest was no more than five years old and struggled against the pull of the mud.

  Ainsley cringed at the sight of it, knowing all the hazards, the broken glass, wire, and rusty metal, that lay unknown beneath the surface. But it was these items and more that the children searched for, reaching their hands beneath the surface for any cast-offs or discarded items that could still be put to use. Any measure of cloth, tin, or iron could be sold for a few dithers and this was how the children sustained themselves and perhaps other members of their family.

  They did not know the risk they took. Slaughterhouses further up river routinely tossed discarded pieces of animals into the water, and unscrupulous cesspit workers looking for easy disposal of the waste also used the river. Ainsley’s heart quickened at the thought of countless diseases that could be contracted by the slightest exposure to such waste.

  “You there!” Simms yelled out while pointing to the eldest boy of the group. “You know a girl called Alice?”

  The boy, nearly ten years old, squinted against the oddly bright sun when he looked up to Ainsley and Simms on the overhanging platform. “Yeah,” he answered shortly. “What’s it to ye?”

  “She have a family? An overseer?” Simms asked as loudly as he could muster.

  The boy cocked his head behind him toward Narrow Street. “Lives wit’ ’er gran’mudder on Candle.”

  “Her grandmother, huh?”

  The boy nodded. “’Aven’t see ’er in a while.”

  Simms nodded and raised his hand in thanks. Turning to Ainsley, he gave him a quick rap on the stomach as he walked past, a giddy gesture that announced his excitement. Ainsley was slow to move, however. Instead, he stood a few seconds longer, looking at a girl who had just found a muddy cloth, no more than a foot long. She was attempting to wash it in a bit of muddy water but, despite her fruitless task, she smiled slightly at her find, happy to have something for her pouch.

  “Ainsley!”

  The young doctor turned and saw Simms coaxing him to follow. Ainsley nodded and stepped toward him. “Do you realize how many of those children end up in my morgue?” he asked as he approached the detective. “They die of blood poisoning from wounds to the feet and hands,” he continued, without giving Simms a chance to answer. “Painful way to go.”

  “And you would know from experience?” Simms asked with a hint of challenge in his voice. The detective turned and continued on his way, appearing to not care if Ainsley followed.

  “No,” Ainsley answered, walking after him. “You are in quite a foul mood today,” Ainsley said, with a slight laugh. “Not much yourself, are you?”

  Ainsley watched as Simms’s jaw became tight and waited for the detective to answer but nothing came.

  They walked many blocks, knowing it would be quicker than trying to manoeuver a carriage, finally arriving at a grey wood door. No steps led from the payment and when the door was opened Ainsley and Simms stood on equal ground to a middle-aged woman with her hair in a frayed bun and an apron that barely covered a sliver of her round shape.

  “Ma’am, we are looking for the grandmother of Alice, a girl of brown hair and blue eyes,” Simms explained while Ainsley remained one step behind him.

  From his place on the pavement, Ainsley could see into the room the woman guarded. He could see four babies, swaddled and laying in dresser drawers and baskets placed on the floor. They all slept soundly save one, who Ainsley could see jerking slightly, its eyes wide and vacant as it lay almost forgotten.

  The woman at the door moved, marring his view, and Ainsley finally took his gaze from the babes and found her scowling at him. “She ain’t got no grandmother.”

  “Her mother then,” Simms said quickly.

  The woman shook her head. “Nah. Her mother left the wee Alice with me not seven years ago and I ain’t see her since.”

  “You have quite the collection,” Ainsley said, unable to help himself. “All their mothers leave them with you?”

  The woman’s eyes flickered from Simms to Ainsley, ill-amused and annoyed at their never-ceasing questions. “You want one?” she asked, with a snicker.

  “Ma’am, we believe Alice has died,” Simms said, bringing the conversation back to the task at hand.

  “Well is she or ain’t she?” The woman at the door, snorted, as if disbelieving, but then her face fell. “Where is she now then?”

  “St. Thomas Hospital,” Ainsley answered, taking a step closer and lowering his voice.

  “We believe she was a victim of The Surgeon,” Simms explained, with no care to Ainsley’s loathing for that press-given moniker.

  The woman was quiet for some time, her eyes trained on the men’s feet as they stood in front of her. She did not cry, and this struck Ainsley as odd. But then he remembered she had only a business relationship with the girl and not a loving one.

  Finally, she gave a breath of resignation and a nod. “I suppose ye will give her a Christian burial then?”

  Ainsley nodded, recalling the parish church he could send her body to, knowing she’d receive better attention than she did in life. “We shall,” Ainsley said.

  A pair of blond-haired boys appeared beside Simms and Ainsley, slipping past them and into the room. The woman glared at them as they pulled buttons and chains of gold from their pockets. The boys wore the filth of the streets on their feet and hands, as if they’d been left to the elements for months. The woman placed their offerings in a large pocket of her apron and cocked her head toward the inner room. She clicked her tongue sharply and the boys scurried into the house.

  “Well, that’s it then,” she said as soon as they were behind her. The woman moved to close the door but Ainsley stepped forward and braced his arm against the wood.

  “I believe the detective has some questions,” Ainsley said. He was taller than her, somewhat imposing, and he was glad to have the advantage at such a time. No doubt the woman in front of him was used to sending unwelcome visitors off with either a blade concealed on her person or weapon of some description within arm’s length.
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  She stared at him for a long while, her lips twisted tight with resentment, before she finally released her hold on the door. “Get on with it then,” she answered harshly, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “How long has she been missing?” Simms asked.

  The woman shrugged. “Long enough to be noticed.”

  “And you did not report it?”

  “One less to worry about,” she answered plainly. “She wouldn’t be the first one to try her luck on the streets.”

  “She couldn’t be more than eight,” Ainsley interjected.

  “She stayed with me longer than most,” the woman answered incredulously.

  “Did anyone wish her harm? Did she get in a scrap with anyone?” Simms asked.

  “If she did, she didn’t trouble me about it,” the woman answered. “She knows I got ten wee ones to coax to sleep. As long as she brings me some fodder every day I don’t ask no questions.”

  “What did she bring you?” Ainsley asked, doubting it would provide much for their investigation. Curiosity had gotten the better of him.

  “This and that. How is it any concern of yours?” the woman asked, her patience nearly evaporated.

  Ainsley shrugged. “I just find it rather repugnant when a woman, such as yourself, sees more profit training pickpockets than finding homes for those babies as you promised their mothers you would.”

  “Wait a minute now,” she said, standing taller. “Who said anything to you about pickpockets?”

  “That gold chain,” Ainsley said, gesturing to her pocket. “That was not found in the muddy banks or rubbish heaps.”

  The woman feigned offence, an act as obvious as the haggard look to her hardened features. “I run a legitimate business ’ere and the boys are only contributing to their keep. I ain’t got to ask where they come by their ...contributions.” Her mouth twisted into a half-smile.

  The pickpockets looked no more than five. Their hands were small and their presence overlooked. If raised from a young age, Ainsley had no doubt of their usefulness to a woman such as the one standing before him. So why, Ainsley wondered, did women such as this surrender some of their foundlings to the charities while choosing to keep others for longer spells? Why would a boy like Jonathon be brought to Mrs. Holliwell?

  “What about a boy,” Ainsley asked, “named Jonathon? Do you remember a boy by that name? You would have brought him to the Limehouse Philanthropic Society Foundling Home twelve years ago.”

  A snort escaped the woman’s mouth. “So long ago, can’t remember. The name Jonathon does not sound familiar at all.”

  “With so many in your charge, how can you be expected to remember their names,” Simms offered disparagingly.

  The woman before them seemed to take offence to that. Her shoulders straightened and she scrunched her face up in a hardened scowl. “I do my best for them, I do. More than I can say for the likes of some, them what dropped the little things off. Ain’t no skin off my back if I cannot find them homes. No one wants a half-pint. Them that wants a child wants a baby and I provide them with one.”

  “Aye, and ye abandon the ugly and sickly ones, do ya?” Simms asked.

  Ainsley guessed there was more to this line of questioning and resolved to ask about it later.

  “There’s some that do but I am not one of ’em.” She nodded and then her smile vanished as she forcibly closed the door, narrowly missing Simms’s face.

  Ainsley glanced around them, the normal hustle of the street somewhat faded from the norm, and found an audience had gathered around them, eager to take in the interview.

  Simms took the discovery in stride. The detective was most likely used to such audiences, and had learned to ignore the jeers and threatening gestures. Ainsley, however, could not help but look at the gaunt faces of the streets of Limehouse. Behind greasy full beards and moth-eaten hats, men glared their disapproval and watched intently as Simms and Ainsley pushed their way through the crowd.

  Once a few blocks away, Ainsley spoke, glancing back to see the avenue had returned to normal. “Do you ever feel like they mean to do you harm?” he asked, his nerves still on edge. Never before had he felt at the mercy of a mob.

  “All the time,” Simms answered plainly.

  “That woman must have many friends.”

  “They are just suspicious of anyone not their own,” Simms answered as they walked. “Face it, Ainsley, you and I don’t look like we live ’round the corner.”

  Chapter 9

  A time ago:

  God gave us golden cups, and we were bidden

  To feed you so.

  Hands on her hips, Margaret stood in her mother’s sitting room, the furniture and trinkets arranged as they had been while her mother lived. Lady Charlotte’s bedchamber and sitting room remained a museum of sorts for the months that had slipped by since her passing.

  Standing in the room the first time since, Margaret hardly knew where to start. She turned in place, twisting her little mouth as she took it all in. Julia waited amongst crates, straw, and newsprint she had absconded from the kitchens.

  “I haven’t the faintest clue where to begin,” Margaret said at last, looking at the concerned face of her lady’s maid.

  “’Tis a difficult chore,” Julia said.

  Margaret laughed slightly and raised her hand to her chin, propping her elbow with her other arm. “I’m afraid I haven’t the stomach. I wish it were possible to leave it as it is.”

  Julia knelt down, her skirt billowing slightly as she took her place amongst the boxes. “Perhaps we should start at the beginning.” She chose a small bud vase, hand-painted with gold details, and held it gently in both her hands. “Shall we return this to the Ainsleys?”

  Margaret slipped heavily into an armchair near her. “I haven’t the faintest clue,” she said with honesty. “Mother’s family hasn’t bothered with us for many years. I couldn’t say what is an heirloom and what is bumpf.”

  Julia eyed the delicate vase, a hint of a smile tickling the corners of her lips. “Where I grew up bumpf had a different look entirely.” Julia set the vase aside. “Perhaps you’d like to take it when you marry.”

  Margaret gave a short chuckle. “I doubt I shall ever marry. All the men who come to call are silly boys, superficial in thought and deed. I could no more see myself spending the rest of my life with them any more than I could see myself marrying the king of Spain.” Margaret and Julia smiled at Margaret’s jest.

  “And your gentleman friend?”

  Margaret’s face fell as soon as the words were said. “Father would never allow it,” she confessed. “Perhaps if my mother were here I could borrow some strength from her.” Margaret played with a loose strand of the armchair’s seam. “Jonas and I both know nothing will ever come of it. Besides, he’s not much of the marrying kind. A rogue by all accounts…he cannot be tamed.”

  Julia smiled. “Then why do you meet with him?” she asked.

  “Because it feels good,” Margaret confessed, “to know someone cares when it feels as if no one else does. I suppose it’s a bit self-serving really. I don’t expect him to wait, not for me.”

  Margaret could feel the eyes of her maid on her but she did not look up. Instead, she bit her lower lip in an attempt to hold off threatening tears. What she said was true. There was no hope. Jonas would never have permission to ask for her hand, just as she would never be permitted to accept it. They enjoyed each other’s company but nothing else could come of it.

  “And you, Miss Julia, have you any plans?” Margaret asked teasingly in an effort to change the subject.

  “No,” her maid answered plainly. “I try not to plan. I learned long ago that plans are made of clay, easily shaped and contorted, or simply washed away.”

  Margaret flinched at Julia’s eloquent words. There had always been hints of higher education during their talks, something Margaret had never before experienced with her father’s staff. While Margaret had learned pieces of Julia’s life bef
ore Marshall House, she was well aware that the true story of Julia’s background lay buried beneath the surface. Despite a close kinship developed from tragedy and proven loyalty, Margaret wondered if the maid would ever feel comfortable telling her about her past and the childhood she left behind.

  “Julia—”

  “These books, would you like to keep them?” Julia said with a marked directness. It was clear she had an interest in changing the subject and smiled while she held the volumes up for Margaret to see. Margaret nodded, conceding the change in topic and accepting the books as Julia handed them to her.

  A moment later, Cutter arrived, stepping inside the threshold from the hallway. “A Lady Gemma Brant to see you, Lady Margaret.”

  Margaret furrowed her eyebrows, surprised that Lady Brant would come to the house. She had not visited Marshall House for as long as Margaret could remember.

  “Show her in, Cutter,” Margaret said. “I doubt Lady Brant would mind if we continued with our work.” Cutter bowed at the waist and left to escort the guest up to the room.

  Margaret sighed. Lady Brant often visited Margaret’s mother while they stayed at The Briar, but at the time Margaret and Ainsley were still young enough that they were not required to entertain her. As soon as they would see her carriage making its way down the long lane from the main road, Margaret and Ainsley would take off into the trees, climbing as high as they could, and then spy on her and their mother. They’d make an afternoon of criticizing Lady Brant’s dress or hat, her facial expressions, and the way she ate with her fingers. It all seemed rather harmless at the time, though now the memories sat heavily on Margaret’s heart.

  While the days she spent in the treetops with her brother solidified their attachment for all time, she now felt she should have spent more of her days learning the ways of sophisticated women rather than making sport of them. She had taken it for granted that her mother would always be there to flank her or, in the very least, guide her in social settings. Now, it seemed, Margaret was on her own.