A Murderous Malady

by Christine Trent

  “Of course, Mr. Maddox. Right away. Is there anything else you need? Don’t forget I’m good with a needle and not a half-bad cook.” Was I mistaken, or was Berenice positively glowing before George Maddox?

  Maddox didn’t seem to notice, nodding absently at Berenice as he headed back into the brewery. Berenice looked dejected as she, too, headed back to her duties.

  Now Davies was free to fully concentrate on me. “I presume you are not here for a glass of ale, Miss Nightingale?”

  “You are correct, sir. I actually came about something else, but first—you told that man who was playing dishonestly to get back to the earl’s household,” I said. “Surely he wasn’t a member of the peerage?”

  “No, he’s a minor servant of the Earl of Albemarle’s household in Portman Square. You wouldn’t believe the number of them that will come to the Lion on their days off. None of their masters would bother looking for them here. All of them would be surprised by some of the mischief their servants get up to when out of their uniforms.”

  My mind was whirling furiously. Sidney said that Fenton must have been in Soho on behalf of the investigation, but the dice in his pocket suggested otherwise. Perhaps I needed to return to my initial assumption that Fenton was a gambler?

  “How were you able to tell that he had cheating dice?”

  “Difficult it’s not. You roll them enough times to see if a symbol is coming too frequently. Once I saw that the anchor was rolled more often than not on all three of the dice after a few dozen rolls, it was evident to everyone that the dice were no good. I ran my fingers carefully over them to see if there were any subtle protrusions on any of the sides that would cause a die to keep rolling when hitting a particular side. The only flat sides to those dice were the ones opposite the anchor. Not all cheaters are particularly good at it.”

  Once more, I pulled the dice from my pocket and presented them to the brewery manager.

  “This again? What is it now?” he said in exasperation.

  “Are these cheating dice?” I asked bluntly.

  Davies refused to take them from me. Now he looked even more uncomfortable than when I had pinned him down on Berenice’s performance.

  Finally, he ran a hand over his damaged ear, scratching at the skin above it. “I knew they were bad dice when I first saw them, but I couldn’t say who they belonged to. Sometimes men leave ’em behind when I catch them out. I toss them into the rubbish bin, but I don’t know who goes and digs them out. Burning them maybe I should be.”

  Had Fenton dug that set of dice out of the Lion’s rubbish bin, or had he been the original owner?

  “Did you ever have a patron by the name of Fenton?” I described what I remembered of Sidney’s manservant.

  Davies was still perturbed. “That sounds like every drunkard who walks in here. Missing an eye, was he? Did he limp? Give me something distinguishing to describe him.”

  But other than his rather large lips, I couldn’t remember anything remarkable about him. I looked at Mary, but she shook her head. However, recalling Fenton’s condition reminded me of something else.

  “Have you still experienced no cases of cholera here at the Lion?” I asked.

  “Not a one, at least nothing serious. Neither my workers nor my customers. The owners are happy, because it means no down time in the brewery.”

  I thanked Davies for his time.

  It was as if the Lion had a blanket of divine protection around it. Why was cholera seemingly unable to penetrate the brewery building? Reverend Whitehead or Dr. Snow needed to know this. Reverend Whitehead was closer, so I would see him next.

  But even as I considered making another visit to the priest, a story was forming in my mind. It was a tale full of anger and hatred and was so malicious as to be unfathomable. If my theory was correct, Liz might not ever feel safe again. However, she most certainly was not the Babylonian Whore.

  The killer’s face loomed large in my mind and I shuddered. But I was still missing one important piece of the puzzle.

  “Goose, I believe I know what happened,” I said quietly to her as we made our way back to St. Luke’s.

  Mary gave me an expectant look. “So I was correct in thinking that Caroline Norton would do anything possible to destroy the Herberts’ domestic bliss? That she would not only attack Mrs. Herbert herself but murder her servants?”

  I sighed. “The reality is much more sordid than that. There’s just one connection I cannot seem to make, and I’m not sure how to do so.”

  “How can I help?” she asked.

  “Right now, you can stay at my side. Strength in numbers, right?” I laughed weakly, but I was becoming deeply concerned that the killer might know by now that I was figuring things out.

  I took a deep breath. The sooner I finished my investigation, the sooner a murderer could be brought to justice.

  I refused to say anything more for the moment, lest Mary make an accidental slip of the tongue in front of others.

  Reverend Whitehead was bubbling with excitement when we arrived. “Welcome, welcome,” he said, quickly ushering us back into his office and lighting candles for illumination. “I was hoping you might come by again. I have extraordinary news. I have become a convert.”

  “A convert?” I repeated, confused. “You are leaving the Anglican Church?”

  Whitehead laughed, even as he practically danced behind his desk. “No, no, I am now a believer in Dr. Snow’s theory that the cholera outbreak is spreading through the ingestion of contaminated water. I used your improved charting as a basis for determining where to conduct my interviews of residents in homes where cholera had come through, and they nearly all confirmed that they had drawn water at the Broad Street pump. Look.”

  He showed me his newly created tables that did indeed demonstrate that nearly all the people he had interviewed in infected homes had obtained their water at that one specific pump.

  “But the Lion Brewery is practically next to this water pump, and none of the workers or patrons there have been affected,” I protested.

  Whitehead’s expression was one of surprise. “You have been frequenting the brewery?”

  “Not exactly. I have been there because of my search for the movements of the Herberts’ servant, Fenton.”

  He nodded. “I do remember that you were seeking someone. Dr. Snow called upon Mr. Huggins, the proprietor of the Lion Brewery. There are seventy workmen employed in the brewery, and Huggins confirmed that none of them have suffered in the outbreak, other than one or two being mildly indisposed. They do not take water from the pump, as they mostly drink ale, plus there is a deep well in the brewery and water from the New River nearby that they use.

  “From this point forward, I think we will see the numbers of new cases greatly reduced. The doctor is going to the authorities to see about having the pump shut down while the reason for its becoming infected is discovered. There must be a source for it.”

  I was greatly disturbed. Was I so wrong about miasmatic theory? How could that be? My techniques of keeping rooms aired out and clean in defense against miasmas certainly seemed to work. Yet I couldn’t deny that Whitehead’s work supported Snow’s theory of the illness being ingested through water.

  At least I could be assured that some of the unintentional deaths could be halted. It was now up to me to stop the purposeful ones.

  This reminded me of something else I needed to know.

  “If I may say so, Reverend, the conditions in much of this area are completely appalling. The rats in the streets enjoy a better standard of living than most of the residents. In the short time I have spent in Soho, I have seen crumbling homes, half-naked children, stifling odors, glassy stares, and violent outbursts.”

  Whitehead nodded. “That is probably as succinct a description as I have ever heard.”

  “I suppose what I don’t understand is why it is like this. Why does everything crumble as soon as you cross a particular street?”

  “Think about what is aro
und you, Miss Nightingale. What neighborhoods surround Soho?”

  “I suppose Mayfair and Marylebone to the west, Fitzrovia to the north, and Belgravia and Westminster to the south.”

  “Precisely. All fashionable areas full of fashionable homes and aristocratic names. Many of those peers of the realm—in addition to some churchmen who have discovered an easy way to enrich themselves—own most of the properties here and have done so for a long time.”

  “And you have said you do not count yourself among their number.”

  He smiled. “I own little other than the clothes upon my back and a few candlesticks. I believe that if any of the landlords ventured down here and saw the results of their disregard, they would immediately drop to their knees in abject repentance. You are one of few ladies of quality I have ever seen down here.”

  “Assuredly my family owns no properties here. In fact, we only have our family home, Embley Park, in Hampshire, and a summer home in Derbyshire. I confess they both encompass far more pleasant vistas than what I see here.”

  “Just the two estates, eh, Miss Nightingale?” Whitehead’s teasing was gentle before he became serious again. “I’m sure your family has taken care to ensure your home is well maintained. But there is little profit to be made from improving things in this neighborhood. We call the owners the ‘vampires of the poor,’ as they sit on top of extremely valuable land that enables them to charge exorbitant rents on housing that never sees a single slate roof tile replaced. The landlords keep themselves hidden from their tenants by conducting all the leasing work through lawyers—themselves shadowy figures—so that the tenants have little recourse for complaint.”

  So many problems in London, and I was but one person, hardly able to do much other than provide some relief to the sick. “What can be done about it?” I asked helplessly.

  Whitehead shook his head. “They will never permit this state of affairs to change. Some politicians have finally noticed the plight of these people and have several times initiated efforts to have the slums demolished and the residents rehoused, but the corrupt, ungodly governing council blocks it each time. You see, the council is made up largely of vestrymen who hold some of the properties. I just try to help whatever poor unfortunates down here that I can, knowing that the situation is a polluted morass of greed that shames and befouls landlords and residents alike. Much as I see you have done, what with helping Berenice Porter in obtaining a service position.”

  I was quiet for several moments as I contemplated what he had said, particularly about how the landlords lived largely in the wealthy areas surrounding Soho. Finally, I asked, “Do you ever fear for your person while serving here, Reverend?”

  “No. Some people believe that poverty leads the residents of places like Soho—particularly Seven Dials—to commit more criminal activity. I fancy myself a quiet observer of human nature, Miss Nightingale, and I can state with certainty that the well-to-do have their own reasons for committing crimes as well.”

  CHAPTER 21

  “Those poor creatures,” Mary sighed in sorrow and sympathy as we left the church. “Not a chance in the world for them, is there?” She seemed to steel herself as she asked, “And where are we headed now?”

  “I’m afraid we must see Mr. Davies one more time,” I said.

  “Oh,” Mary replied, her final word on the matter during the remainder of our journey back to the Lion.

  We waited again at the inside entrance. The room was not as crowded as it had been earlier. Perhaps the player being literally thrown out on his ear had dampened enthusiasm for games and drinking.

  It soon became apparent that Mr. Davies was not going to show himself anytime soon, but I was not going to permit him to avoid what I had to say. “Let’s go back there,” I said to Mary, inclining my head toward the brewery entrance.

  “Should we? Why don’t we continue waiting here? I’m sure he will be out soon enough, and you said yourself there’s strength in numbers. Look at all the witnesses there are out here.”

  I took her hand, worried that she was going to flee the building altogether at any moment. “Goose, we are going into a factory, which will also have plenty of witnesses,” I assured her, already on the move.

  She followed me most unwillingly, muttering about what Milo would have had to say about it all.

  I pushed open the door, and we entered a long, wide passageway. Lining either side of the corridor were barrels, each marked with the Lion name and the type of ale it contained. I could only assume these were barrels for use in the public room itself.

  Although there was no activity at all in the corridor, the noise coming from the factory floor was thunderous. We finally reached the entry to the factory, and I was amazed by how overwhelming it was.

  Before us was an enormous and cavernous space of varying floor and ceiling heights, almost as if it had been built in different stages by a variety of men who all had a different idea of what it should look like. It was a cacophony of whistling steam, men shouting to one another, and the thumping and clattering of barrels being rolled against wooden ramps. The air was thick with a pungent odor that reminded me of bread baking, except much stronger. It was also heavy with a clammy heat. I instantly felt sweat forming at the nape of my neck where my hair was rolled and pinned. A glance at Mary told me that she, too, felt the heat in her flushed cheeks and the drops of moisture beading on her top lip.

  To our left, the ceiling was low over a large, square pool made of stone. The pool’s sides were perhaps three feet high. Inside it were men with long wooden rakes and spades, stirring and turning over a lumpy mixture. Extra spades rested against the side of the pool’s wall nearest to us, as if waiting for even more men to jump in and move the thick concoction around.

  Directly across from the pool, a steam engine was driving an assembly of gears that was in turn causing a large revolving device to spray steaming hot liquid into yet another enormous vat.

  Other departments were hard at work all over the place. At first glance it was chaotic, but as I took it all in, I realized that there was an order to it, even if I didn’t understand what was going on.

  All the work on this level seemed to be in support of what I saw on a wide catwalk off to one side reached by a long, sloping wood ramp. Lining the wall of the catwalk were the most colossal barrels I had ever seen, reaching at least twenty feet up into the highest point of the building. They were so large they looked as though they were sized for a giant in a children’s story.

  I assumed the ale, once made, ended up floating in these vats for some sort of aging process before being placed in small barrels for distribution to customers.

  Near one of these immense containers stood Oswyn Davies and George Maddox. From my vantage point, it appeared as though Davies was lecturing his new shift supervisor on something, but it was impossible to hear anything from my distance across the floor.

  I held up a hand and waved, which caught Maddox’s attention. He held up a hand in return and spoke to Davies, who then also turned to catch sight of us. Davies said something else to Maddox, and then the two men came down the ramp to join us.

  Davies held a hand to one side of his mouth to concentrate his voice. “Miss Nightingale, what are you doing back here? This is a dangerous place for women.”

  I, too, cupped my hands around my mouth. “I wish to speak with you, sir. I know about—”

  At that moment, a worker in a brightly colored vest came through, lustily blowing on a whistle. It clearly communicated a welcome command, for as a group, all the workers ceased what they were doing, shut down much of the machinery, which slowly screeched to a halt, and began filing out through a rear exit. Even the men inside the pool climbed out, dropped their spades, and dripped their way out the door.

  A nearly blissful silence followed. “Why have they left?” I asked, my ears still ringing from the noise.

  “This is their thirty-minute supper break,” Maddox said. “It is my time to quickly check the equipment t
o make sure all is working well.”

  “Yes,” Davies added. “It is far easier to keep operations smooth if we temporarily shut down once each day, rather than waiting until a breakage occurs.”

  “It is an extensive amount of equipment to check,” I observed.

  “Isn’t it?” Maddox seemed joyful at the prospect. “Let me show you around.”

  As we walked, Maddox spoke avidly of malting, mashing, boiling wort, fermenting, and racking. I was thoroughly confused by the end of his explanation, although by the way he pointed to the machinery in turn, it did seem to be a logical method for taking barley and processing it with water and yeast to eventually create barrels of the beverage the English had cherished for centuries.

  We ended up back next to the pool, which I now knew was a mash tun and was intended to mix malt with water to create a clean, amber liquid called wort that would be ready for brewing. It was an early stage of the complicated process.

  “You are enjoying this work,” I said.

  “Yes, I am actually surprised by the similarities to upholstery work. You see, I have to constantly ensure that everything is affixed tightly together, lest it come apart. But doing it for brewery equipment is so much more satisfying.”

  I hoped he had proved better at working machinery than fabric, or the men might be in imminent danger.

  “Mr. Davies here has given me quite a chance, letting me have run of the place so quickly,” Maddox continued. “I’m even thinking of tossing out my silly little manuscripts and letting my future be here.”

  Davies laughed. “In less than a week, Maddox here has proved himself to be the best shift supervisor I’ve ever had. He’s made it easy for me to disappear without Mr. Huggins realizing it.” He turned serious again. “But for a tour I presume you are not here?”

  “Actually, no,” I said, deciding to be as direct and forthright as possible. “I now know who murdered Joss Pagg and Alice Nichols,” I stated baldly.