Page 13 of What Cannot Be Said

The Reverend glanced away and cleared his throat. “I can’t say that I recall, sorry.”

Which was not, Hero noticed, exactly the same thing as saying that he could not recall. But all she said was, “Before she died, Lady McInnis was arranging for me to interview several children who’d been bound out by the workhouses to masters and mistresses that had abused them terribly.”

Kay nodded. “Yes, I remember her telling me about one case involving a cheesemonger that was beyond shameful. The poor child had been bound out terribly young—at eleven, I believe. We typically apprentice our boys at fourteen, for seven years, and the girls at sixteen, for five years. But the workhouses will bind out both boys and girls much younger, and into some of the least desirable and most dangerous trades. They even sell their children to chimney sweeps when the poor tykes are scarcely four or five years old. I know people say the sweeps need them small so they’ll fit up the chimneys, but the wretches beat their charges horribly. The little ones are so terrified, it’s the only way to make them climb up such hot, dark, narrow spaces. It was one of the things Lady McInnis was particularly anxious to see changed, but I don’t believe she was getting very far.”

“Was Mrs.Goodlakes working with her on that, as well?”

“I don’t believe so, no. Organizing a benefit concert is one thing, but I fear dealing with the likes of grubby little climbing boys is something else again.” Then he colored, embarrassment flooding his cheeks as he rushed to say, “How terribly ungracious of me that was. Please forget I ever said it.”

“It’s forgotten,” said Hero with a sympathetic smile. She glanced around as the tall, ornate clock at the far end of the gallery began to strike the hour. She had originally planned to come here today to ask the Reverend some searching and probably uncomfortable questions about the Foundling Hospital’s own apprentice program, but that no longer seemed appropriate. “Goodness, I’d no idea it was so late. I’ve taken up far too much of your time. I know how busy you are.”

“Always happy to help, Lady Devlin,” he said, turning to walk with her toward the hospital’s ornate eighteenth-century entrance hall. “If we can be of any further assistance, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

“That is very kind of you. Thank you.”

She was aware of him watching her as she walked away down the institution’s forecourt, with its two long flanking ropewalk arcades. The day was warm without being unpleasantly hot, the morning breeze balmy. But the boys working beneath the arcades to twist the massive piles of hemp into long, thick cords were largely silent, for it was difficult, unpleasant work. They ranged in age from twelve or thirteen down to five or six, for this was the way of their world: Poor children were put to work as young as possible, either by their parents or by whatever officials found themselves saddled with their care. Somewhere out of sight behind the brick walls of the Foundling Hospital, the little girls who were these boys’ female counterparts would likewise be busy cleaning, cooking, and sewing. But at least these children were given a few hours of education a day, sufficient food, and warm clothes and shoes to wear in winter. Most of the children taken into London’s workhouses died, usually of malnutrition, disease, neglect, or simple despair. There were so many ways for a child to die.

As she let herself out the hospital’s massive iron front gates, Hero couldn’t help but wonder what had driven Laura McInnis to devote so much of her time to bettering the lives of the city’s wretched poor children. As the Reverend Kay had so bluntly observed, it was one thing to organize a prestigious benefit concert in the Foundling Hospital’s grand, illustrious chapel, but something else entirely to risk alienating one’s peers—and one’s own husband—by working to save the likes of grubby little climbing boys.

And yet Laura had been undeterred. What had drawn her to dedicate her life to such an admirable but unfashionable undertaking? It was something Hero had never thought to ask her friend while Laura still lived. Now it was too late.

Chapter 10

Sebastian left Gibson’s surgery on Tower Hill and went looking for Lovejoy.

According to the Bow Street magistrate’s clerk, Sir Henry had planned to leave early that morning for Surrey in order to consult the records of the trial of the man who’d been convicted and hanged for the murder of Lovejoy’s family. “I offered to do it for him,” said the clerk, a plump, bespectacled man named Collins. “But he insisted on going himself. After that I believe he intended to visit the Old Bailey to look at something there, so that’s probably where he is now.”

Sebastian could see his own worry reflected in the other man’s eyes, but all he could do was nod and say, “Thank you.”

Out of respect for Tom—whose memories of Newgate were painful—Sebastian left the boy with the horses at a watering trough by St. Paul’s Cathedral and walked up the street to the court. The criminal court known as the Old Bailey stood at the intersection of the streets of Newgate and Old Bailey, right beside the grim, hulking prison of Newgate. There’d been a time when condemned prisoners had been trundled through the streets from here to execution on the gallows at Tyburn, near Hyde Park. But when that area became fashionable with the wealthy, the hangings were transferred here, to a scaffold erected outside one of the doors of Newgate prison. As Sebastian walked up Old Bailey, he could see men working to erect the scaffold now, their hammering reverberating down the ancient narrow street. And standing to one side, quietly watching them, was the small, solitary figure of the magistrate.

He nodded a greeting at Sebastian’s approach, his gaze still on the scaffold. “They’ve four thieves scheduled to hang tomorrow,” he said as Sebastian drew nearer. “I’m told the youngest are nine and twelve.”

“Hell,” Sebastian said softly.

The two men turned to walk together toward Ludgate. “Learn anything?” Sebastian asked after a moment.

Lovejoy shook his head. “There have been no other even vaguely similar incidents in the area. And as for O’Toole, his case seems as straightforward to me today as it did fourteen years ago. The man was never right in the head after he was wounded in Ireland—used to roam the hills around Richmond dressed like a scarecrow, his hair and beard wild, shouting angry nonsense at anyone he chanced to come upon. People were afraid of him.”

“Did you or your wife know him?”

“No. I’d never even heard of him until...” The magistrate’s voice trailed away, and he drew a deep, shuddering breath.

“So how did O’Toole come to be suspected?” said Sebastian as they turned toward the cathedral.

“He was found standing over the bodies, covered in their blood.”

“I thought they’d been shot.”

“They had. But he’d taken and literally painted his face with their blood, as if it were war paint. It was quite horrible.”

“He still had the gun on him?”

“No. That’s the one problematic aspect of the case. The gun was never found, and there was no evidence that he’d ever owned one.”

“But he had been a soldier.”

“Oh, yes. And a spinster named Miss Carter who was walking in the park with her young nephews had seen him shouting at Julia—my wife—shortly before the murders.”

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