Death at Daisy's Folly (15 page)

Charles nodded. Given the neighborhood, he felt certain that Bradford needed no encouragement to remain with the motorcar. “Is that the workhouse?” he asked, glancing ahead, and Daisy nodded, tight-lipped.

Built of red brick stained with fifty years of black soot, the workhouse stood atop a small rise at the end of the street, which led up to it and stopped at its door. A welcoming party was assembled at the top of the three front steps, upon which a tattered and stained red carpet had been laid—borrowed, as its conspicuous gold insignia indicated, from the office of Chelmsford's Lord Mayor. Indeed, the mayor himself, a cheerful, smooth-cheeked individual wearing a red velvet cap and a matching ermine-trimmed cape, had come to receive the Prince, along with two more somber men in black frock coats and a small round lady in black silk with an old-fashioned lace cap perched on her fuzzy gray curls.

The entourage came to a stop. Kirk-Smythe helped the Prince alight, while Charles handed Daisy out of the brougham. The mayor doffed his large red hat and bowed low, and there followed a good deal of bowing and curtsying as Lady Warwick, who was already acquainted with the welcoming committee, introduced to the Prince the mayor, Warden Holden, Matron Kingsley, and Guardian Brocklehurst, the latter a member of the Workhouse Board of Guardians. Each of these persons in turn expressed his or her humble gratitude for His Royal Highness's concern and her ladyship's compassion, and hoped that the visit would not prove too trying.

While this was going on, Charles retrieved his camera, mounted it on its stout wooden tripod, and got down to the business of documenting the Prince's visit. He was hunched under the black shroud, planning his first photograph, when Guardian Brocklehurst, a burly man with sandy whiskers and hairless brows, came toward him.

“You, there, stop!” he growled. “No one has been authorized to take photographs.” He had his hand on the camera, about to wrench it away, when Kirk-Smythe intervened.

“This is the Royal photographer,” he said sternly.

The Prince turned around. “I say,” he called out. “Is there a problem?”

Warden Holden stepped forward. “If it please Your Highness.” He extended a soft white hand that would have done justice to an undertaker. “The Board of Guardians has ruled that photographers are not allowed within our doors. We have had several unfortunate experiences with—”

“That is to say, sir,” Matron Kingsley put in, “there are those who would portray our good work here in an unfavorable light.” Her gray curls bobbed earnestly. “Our funds are woefully inadequate, sir. We cannot do all we might wish to assist the poor souls under our—”

“Well, then,” the Prince said briskly, “I should think that photographs of these woeful inadequacies could be used to wring the hearts and purses of the rich.” He smiled. “I promise you, Matron, that my personal photographer will capture as many unfortunate scenes as possible.”

Guardian Brocklehurst continued to glare at the camera, and Warden Holden bit his lip nervously. But at Charles's request, the party stood for a photograph on the front steps, the Prince in the middle with Daisy on one side and the mayor on the other, the remaining three behind. Then, leaving Bradford, Lawrence, and the two coachmen to guard the vehicles, they went around the building to the back, where there was a walled-in recreation ground. In the middle were three long wooden benches on which were seated forty or so well-scrubbed and tractable inmates wearing what looked to be freshly ironed clothing, the men on one bench, the women on another, the children on a third.

“And what have we here?” asked the Prince, striding in front of the benches, swinging his silver-headed walking stick as if he were reviewing the Guards.

“Takin' the air, sir,” Warden Holden said.

“They take the air several times a day, sir,” Matron Kingsley added. She turned to Sir Charles. “This 'ud make a good photograph.” Charles set down his tripod, thinking that the scene was so obviously staged that it was hardly worth wasting a photographic plate on it. But there was a sad pathos on the scrubbed faces that pulled at his heart.

Daisy was frowning. “When I visited here, unannounced,” she said, “the inmates were not so clean as this, and there were three or four times as many.”

“Today is bath day,” explained Matron Kingsley. “I believe that you were here on the day
before
bath day, Your Ladyship.”

Daisy's dark blue eyes narrowed. “And how many souls do you care for in this place?”

The mayor spoke up proudly. “A hundred and thirty-seven last night, Your Ladyship. More every day as the weather turns chill. Winters is always the worst, of course. That's when the casuals all try to crowd in, whether they need charity or not.”

“That's right,” said Guardian Brocklehurst. He looked down his long nose. “Why, last night, when the men applying for shelter were searched, one had a whole shilling. He claimed he was saving it for his family, but with that kind of money, he could have paid for a bed at an inn.”

“You searched him?” Daisy asked. “Do you search all the men and women who seek shelter from you?”

Warden Holden folded his soft white hands. “Beg pardon, Yer Ladyship, but our aim is to confiscate pipes, tobacco, and matches, which are not allowed. Each inmate may keep fourpence.”

The Prince was looking impatient. “Where are we off to next?” he demanded.

Matron Kingsley had developed a nervous tic at the corner of her mouth. “We thought, sir, that a view of our Recreation Ground would suffice.”

“But there are no more than forty persons on these benches,” Daisy objected, “which leaves nearly a hundred unaccounted for. And I particularly wanted His Highness to visit your brickworks.”

The mayor stepped forward. “I must suggest to Your Ladyship,” he interjected, “that the sight of too much wretchedness would tire the Royal eyes. I humbly entreat—”

“Damn it!” the Prince said pettishly. “I have ridden thirteen miles in a rattletrap motorcar with the express intention of seeing the unspeakable inmates of your wretched workhouse. Now, I mean to see them—
all
of them, whether the sight tires the Royal eyes or not!” He aimed his walking stick at the mayor. “Do you take my point, sir?”

“Y-Y-Yes, Your Highness,” gabbled the mayor.

“Well, then,” His Highness said grimly, “let's get on with the miserable business.” He tucked his stick under his arm. “Come along, Your Ladyship. You too, Kirk-Smythe. Bring the camera, Sheridan.”

And so it was that Charles, pausing every so often to photograph a scene, followed the Prince and Daisy as they surveyed the dismal interior of the Chelmsford Workhouse, Kirk-Smythe at their heels. They walked hurriedly through the men‘s, women's, and children's wards and the nursery, where miserable, half-clothed inhabitants huddled in unclean corners and on filthy beds. Picking up their pace, they quickly toured the kitchen, where a gang of ragged, dirty women was stewing up small quantities of mutton with large quantities of cabbage and potatoes in huge copper kettles on massive stoves, while others made coarse flour into bread. To Daisy's inquiry, the matron reported that the luncheon menu was the same each day: three ounces of meat, six of cabbage and six of potatoes, and four of bread.

“With four of bread and a pint of broth for supper,” she added hastily, “and four of bread and a pint of porridge for breakfast. So you see they are adequately fed.”

The Prince shuddered. Charles wondered whether he was comparing the meager meal to the enormous breakfast he had put away this morning—ptarmigan pie, deviled kidneys, eggs, bacon, bread, several kinds of fruit. But he only said, “I cannot abide the odor of cooked cabbage,” and left the room.

From the kitchen, they went across the Recreation Ground again—the benches still filled with their sad-faced occupants—to a large barnlike structure at the rear. Inside, several dozen men, women, and children were laboring in the dusty dimness. The children were chopping straw and carrying it to a pug mill turned by a trio of men, while women broke up chunks of clay and mixed it in the mill with buckets of water. Other women were filling molds with the stiff paste that came out of the mill. Men knocked the bricks out of the molds and stacked them to cure, while other men carried the cured bricks to the outdoor kiln that roared like the flames of Hades in the yard behind. The ragged clothes and the weary faces of the laborers were covered by a powdery dusting of clay particles, so that they looked like walking ghosts, and except for the roaring of the kiln and the squeaking of the pug mill, not a human voice was raised. It was a scene of such somber melancholy as Charles had never seen before. In the unnatural quiet, he set up his camera, hoping that his photographs would capture the speechless despair on the workers' faces.

“Our brickworks, Your Highness,” the warden said nervously, glancing at the camera.

“Capital idea,” exclaimed the Prince, looking around and apparently seeing, for the first time, something to admire. “You are to be congratulated upon the industry of your workers. I imagine your bricks fetch a pretty price.”

“Quite so, sir,” Guardian Brocklehurst replied, as the warden seemed to relax. “We supply the local market and ship by railway as far as Colchester. It is a modestly profitable operation.”

Charles, enshrouded in his black hood, thought the man was understating the situation. Brick-making on this scale, with no rent, low-cost supplies, and free labor—it was a recipe for enormous profits.

“Brick-making is an ideal occupation for our inmates, sir,” Warden Holden explained, gathering courage from His Highness's approval. “It requires limited skill, except for making the forms and laying the courses for firing. Two trained craftsmen supervise that work.”

“And as you see,” the matron put in helpfully, “tasks may be found for all. Even small children can be set to work preparing the straw and grinding the clay. With such a ready labor supply, the brickworks operates the whole day around—two shifts.”

That meant that the women and the children were working twelve-hour shifts, Charles thought sadly. No wonder they looked so worn and weary. His sadness turned to anger as he thought of the irony of the situation. Under the Factory Act that had been passed almost two decades before, children under ten could not be employed in a mill or a mine, and children under eighteen had to be given a Saturday half-holiday. But the managers of a workhouse, which was not regulated under the law, could employ children with impunity—and pocket the profit from their labor.

“With half of your inmates always at work,” Daisy said, “you require only enough beds for the other half. Is that not so?”

“Exactly,” Matron Kingsley replied triumphantly. “It is a great economy.”

“You see, Lady Warwick?” the Prince asked, smiling. “Things are managed so that the workhouse is supported by the labor of the very people who depend upon its services. A tidy solution. By Jove, I like it!”

Charles shook his head. It was a sentiment to which even the staunchest Conservative could have agreed. If Daisy had brought HRH here in the hope of turning him toward Socialism, it looked as if she had lost.

But Daisy was undismayed. Without hesitation, she launched her counterattack. “And how much do you pay your workers, Warden?” she inquired icily.

Warden Holden's eyebrows shot up. “Inmates of a workhouse are not paid wages, as Your Ladyship knows very well.” His voice was huffy. “They labor for their beds and board, according to the provisions of the Poor Law Act of—”

Daisy did not allow him to finish. “You require these men, women, and children to work at this backbreaking labor without wages?” She turned to the Prince, imploring. “Don't you see, Your Highness? These wretched people are no better than slaves.”

The mayor pulled himself up. “Oh, no, Your Ladyship!” he cried in horror.

Lady Warwick whirled on him. “Your inmates are slaves! You pay no salaries, so your bricks can be sold for far more than they cost to produce. And to judge from the appalling conditions we saw today, only a fraction of these people's earnings go to provide for their food and shelter. What happens to the rest?”

Guardian Brocklehurst cleared his throat nervously. “I assure you, Your Ladyship, the Board of Guardians follows the most stringent accounting practices in apportioning its funds.”

The Prince frowned. “I'm not sure I follow your argument, my dear Lady Warwick. The inmates are free to leave if they wish, are they not? No one confines them here. Ergo, they are not slaves.”

“But where are they to go?” Daisy asked passionately. “They have come here because they could not find work, so where are they to turn?” She threw a dark glance at Guardian Brocklehurst. “Of course, if the workhouse were not in the business of brick-making, some local brick maker might employ them. Or if they were paid a fair wage for their labor here, they might be able to afford housing and food for themselves. But as it is, they are condemned to—”

“Ahem.” The Prince coughed delicately. “This is all quite interesting, Lady Warwick. But I fear that my throat is growing raspy from the dust in the air, and the time for luncheon is rapidly approaching. We must let these good people go on with their work.”

Daisy's face registered disappointment and a sharp dismay. “But, Bertie,” she said, “I hoped that—”

She didn't get to finish her sentence. She was interrupted by a dour-faced woman who opened the door and stepped inside. The woman was followed, to Charles's great surprise, by the lanky young man who had been sent to fetch the doctor yesterday—Tom, his name was. He whipped off his cap and bowed to the Prince, then turned to Lady Warwick.