CHAPTER 9 #2
Charlotte swore softly after reading the note that had just been delivered by an errand boy from the Royal Institution.
“Wrex won’t be home until late. He met up with a scientific colleague, and they are hoping to find Marc Isambard Brunel attending the evening lecture at the Royal Society, as he may be able to shed some light on the latest developments in bridge design. ”
“Brunel,” mused Tyler. “He’s the fellow who’s been working on digging a tunnel under the Thames.”
“I’m not sure that speaks highly of his bridge knowledge,” quipped McClellan.
Tyler chuckled. “If you can’t go over something, might as well try going under it.”
“Kindly stubble the levity,” muttered Charlotte. “The hunt for a murderer is no laughing matter.”
Tyler’s expression immediately sobered. “I did not mean to make light of it, m’lady.”
“I know, I know.” She sighed. “It’s simply frustrating to have no real leads—”
“Save for Lady Cordelia’s missing cousin,” interjected McClellan. “The fact that she’s had no word from him strikes me as suspicious, especially given what his fellow member of the Revolutions-Per-Minute Society told you.”
“Unless Carrick has also been murdered,” she countered.
“No corpse that might be his has been found,” pointed out the valet. “Sheffield had Mr. Goffe, the coroner who discovered Milton’s remains, alert all of his colleagues in Cambridgeshire and the surrounding counties to report any unidentified bodies. So far, there’s been no word.”
“It’s likely that Milton’s killer meant for the corpse to fall into the river below.” Charlotte repressed a shiver. “If it had, then God only knows if it ever would have been found. So if Carrick has met the same fate . . .”
Silence.
“But let us not be disheartened by what we don’t know.” Her words were as much for herself as for the others. “And concentrate on finding a thread that will lead us to the truth.”
She gave a grimace. “As to that, it may only turn into a useless knot, but since you discovered that a visiting Frenchman will be spouting his views on how the poor are kept in their place by the lack of affordable transportation, I thought it might be worth it for me to attend tonight’s meeting of radical thinkers. Where is it taking place?”
Tyler hesitated. “I’m coming with you.”
“That’s quite unnecessary.” She heard the sharpness in her voice and didn’t care. It rankled that he thought she had gone too soft to fend for herself. “Just because I’ve assumed a fancy title and live in the gilded splendor of Mayfair doesn’t mean I’ve become a helpless widgeon.”
“I meant no insult, m’lady. I’m not questioning your skills.
But this is a group whose outspoken ideas can land them in prison—or worse.
They know me. If a stranger shows up alone, they may very well suspect the fellow is an informer.
And in a fight of twenty-five to one, I don’t wish to contemplate what might happen. ”
“You know that Tyler isn’t one for exaggeration,” said McClellan. “If he says it’s too dangerous to go on your own, then it is.”
Charlotte knew they were being sensible. But for one mad moment, she wanted to tell them to go to the devil. The truth was, her life was feeling entirely too sensible. A part of her craved that fizz in the blood which came from dancing along a razor’s edge.
That was the trouble with danger. It was seductive. All reason went to hell.
McClellan must have read her thoughts. Eyes narrowing, she looked about to add a more forceful warning.
“You need not ring a peal over my head,” assured Charlotte. “You’ll get no further objection from me.”
Tyler shuffled his feet. “You’ll need to do exactly as I say.”
“Yes.”
He looked in question to McClellan, who gave a gruff nod. “Aye, m’lady’s word is her bond.”
“Then you had better go dress in your rags. We need to leave shortly.”
“Fawwgh,” muttered the maid. “I suggest waiting until the last moment before donning your stinking coat.”
A short while later, Charlotte and Tyler were headed east, winding their way through the back alleys and byways that few of the beau monde even knew existed. The surroundings grew shabbier, the stench of rotting garbage and human waste thickening the sooty air.
No words were exchanged until they passed into the slums of Seven Dials. Slowing his steps as the narrow footpath between two sagging buildings opened onto a cart path, Tyler edged closer, shoulder to shoulder.
“Once we’re inside the tavern, keep your head down and let me do all the talking,” he whispered. “These men are damnably good at smelling a rat.” His breathing shallowed. “Though whatever godawful substances Mac used to scent your coat should obliterate all other olfactory messages.”
Charlotte tugged the brim of her hat a little lower. “Oiy.”
“I’ll try to get myself invited to share an ale with the Frenchman after the meeting—I’m known to the group as a Scottish radical who has no love for the British. But I don’t dare have you linger with us. They have sharp eyes.”
“I understand,” she said. “I’ll leave and make my way home on my own.” She knew this part of the stews well. Her old residence was close by.
Though it might well have been on the moon, considering how far removed she was from her former life. Here the ambient smells were of sweat, piss, and despair rather than of money and all the luxuries it could buy.
Tyler plucked at her sleeve. “This way.”
A winding turn brought them to a lane unlit save for the greasy flicker of lamplight oozing through the shuttered windows of a low building.
A fugue of sounds—rumbled voices, the thump of pewter, the hiss of cheap candles—greeted them as Tyler wrenched open the tavern door and entered, Charlotte shadowing his steps.
Threading his way around the perimeter of the taproom, he headed for a door located on the far wall and led the way into a windowless meeting area.
It was half full—Charlotte gauged that there were between twenty-five and thirty men present, a mix of laborers and better-dressed men with soft hands. She guessed they were the intellectuals, hoping to use their minds rather than their fists to effect change.
A ferret-featured man with lank brown hair framing his narrow face came over to greet Tyler.
No introductions were made. This was not the sort of place where the niceties of Polite Society were observed.
A terse exchange followed, which Charlotte studiously ignored, while straining to hear what was being said.
Frenchie . . . delegation . . . transport—the few words she caught were promising.
The man drifted away to confer with several cronies. One of them then moved away and mounted an overturned wooden crate set close to one of the walls. The crowd shuffled around to face him, and the room grew quiet.
“It’s the Frenchman,” whispered Tyler as he shifted his stance. “He’s come over with the scientific society from Paris, though he’s not a member.”
Charlotte gave no outward reaction.
The man started to talk. He spoke English quite well, with only a trace of an accent. It was a well-tailored presentation, distilling abstract concepts into practical ideas that the working men could grasp.
“The fact that travel is both expensive and difficult works as an invisible prison. You can’t afford to leave a place, and so employers can pay you a pittance for your labor.
If you had the freedom of choice, you would also have an opportunity to make a better life for yourselves and your families.
That’s why we are agitating for better roads and bridges to connect the country. ”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as the men began to understand the message.
“I’ve seen for myself what improved roads mean for the working man in France,” continued the speaker. “You deserve no less here in Britain.”
The rumblings grew louder. A few shouts of support echoed through the room.
“You should also be demanding that the government establish a fund for public works—like roads and bridges—that will employ the soldiers returning home from war and unable to find jobs because steam-powered looms and lathes have taken their place!”
More applause.
Ferret Face approached the makeshift podium, and the Frenchman ceded his place.
“We already have plans to start circulating printed broadsides pressing for Parliament to pass an Act to fund road and bridge improvements. Our local radical newspapers will also add their voice. If we stir enough public sentiment, the government will be forced to listen.”
An overly optimistic assessment, mused Charlotte. But then, reformers needed unflinching passion to keep butting their heads against the bastions of privilege and power.
Still, the man’s core point—that free movement of labor was a key element in offering workers an opportunity to improve their lives—had made her realize that it was, perhaps, an important issue, and that A. J. Quill ought to look into it more carefully.
Glancing around, Charlotte made a mental sketch of the people and venue. Perhaps in using her pen to help unmask Milton’s killer, she could also help those who were still living.
Ferret Face finished his exhortation and stepped down from the crate, signaling the end of the meeting. Tyler moved away to have a word with him and the Frenchman while the crowd began to file back to the tap room. He returned after a few moments, pausing just long enough for a quick exchange.
“I’ve been invited to stay. We’re meeting a friend of the Frenchman in a private side room.”
“Bonne chance,” she whispered. “I’ll head straight back, as we planned.”
“Be careful.”
Charlotte acknowledged the warning with a tug to her hat and then slipped away.