Echoes of Mercy: A Novel (2 page)

“Or someone took them from him,” she finished.

Noble nodded somberly. He caught her hand. “Caroline, I know you just returned from an investigation. You’re tired and have rightfully earned your week of rest. But there’s an opening at the factory where Harmon died.”

Caroline stiffened, anticipating his next request.

“The opening is for a toter, a job generally given to women.” His fingers tightened on her hand. “You’re my only female agent. Would you go to Sinclair, apply for the position, and use it to look into Harmon’s death? I’d need to send you out on this evening’s train.”

The entire journey home she’d anticipated a lengthy soak in a hot bath followed by days of lying on her comfortable feather mattress in a state of languor. The thought of departing that evening without even a few hours of rest made her want to groan. But how could she deny Noble when he’d done so much for her?

Noble went on. “Of course, we can’t make investigating Harmon’s death your official reason for being there. We’d be overstepping our bounds with the local authorities. So, as far as the commission is concerned, you’d be there to finish Harmon’s report on the factory’s safety features … or the lack thereof. Harmon sent several messages about his findings. He was especially concerned about the number of underage workers at the factory, but he died before submitting a full report.”

Caroline gave a start, her pulse speeding into a gallop. “Underage workers?”

Noble’s lips formed a grim line. “According to Harmon, this factory seems to have a disproportionate number of child workers.”

Her tiredness melted in light of this new information. The opportunity to further her personal battle to end child labor and to put Noble’s worries to rest concerning Bratcher’s death proved too tempting to resist. “I’ll go.”

The relief in Noble’s face compensated for the loss of her hot bath and days of lazy recuperation. “Bless you, Caroline. There’s no one else I would trust with this mission.”

His confidence in her both touched and terrified her. After all, one investigator had already died in the factory.
Go with me, dear Lord
. She drew in a deep breath and vowed, “I won’t let you down, Noble. I promise.”

If he didn’t choose her, she might stamp her foot and wail. The overnight train trip from Lincoln to Sinclair and then her frantic dash from the train station to Dinsmore’s World-Famous Chocolates Factory had left her wilted, exhausted, and more than a little grouchy. Weariness momentarily sagged her shoulders, but Caroline resolutely straightened her spine and held her chin high while the hiring agent walked slowly along the line of six hopeful women, scraping each of them from head to toe with an unsmiling gaze.

His boot heels thudded against the polished wood floor of the stuffy office, carrying over the muffled clanks and wheezes seeping into the room from the factory below. Each resounding
thump
was a nail pounding into the lid of a coffin. He would bury the hopes of five of the women who’d answered the advertisement for a new toter.

The man came to a halt before the timid-looking girl on Caroline’s right. His charcoal pinstriped suit and crimson silk ascot beneath his goatee gave him a dapper appearance, but his furrowed brow and piercing eyes ruined the effect. He’d introduced himself as Gordon Hightower, and befitting his name, he seemed to peer down his nose at all of them. The man was as intimidating as an army sergeant making an inspection.

The poor girl in front of him squirmed, pressing her chin to one hunched shoulder and grinding the toe of her worn brown shoe against the floor. Sympathy twined through Caroline’s heart for the girl, who was surely no more than fourteen years of age. For one brief moment Caroline found herself hoping the girl would be chosen. Judging by her tattered frock, scuffed shoes, and
filthy knuckles, she needed the job. But Caroline pushed aside the fleeting thought with steely determination. She must be the single new hire invited inside that factory. How else would she uncover the details of Harmon Bratcher’s death?

Quick as a lightning strike, Hightower thrust his hand forward and grabbed the girl’s upper arm. A startled yelp emerged from her, and her eyes flew wide open. Caroline nearly intervened—he had no right to terrorize the poor child so—but fear of being sent out the door held her silent.

Hightower gave the girl’s arm several quick squeezes, and then he released her, his lips pursed in disgust. “You haven’t got enough meat on your bones to tote a broom, let alone carry trays of confections.” His derisive tone snapped out like a lash, and the girl cringed beneath the words. “We asked for a toter. Qualifications are strong arms and able legs. Didn’t you read the notice?”

Up and down the line, the women flicked glances at the others’ forearms. The one on the far end clenched her fists. Caroline stared at the firm muscles displayed beneath the taut fabric of the woman’s faded blue sleeves. If strong arms were a qualifier, the hiring agent would certainly choose that woman over all the others. Caroline’s determination to be an employee of Dinsmore’s factory wavered.

The girl released a helpless whimper. “I … I dunno how to read, sir.”

Caroline closed her eyes, a familiar frustration filling her breast. What had kept this child from attending school? Other jobs? A mother who needed extra hands at home to help with younger siblings? No matter the reason, the girl’s inability to read or cipher destined her to a life of poverty.

“I can’t use you.” The man flipped his wrist, the dismissive gesture showing no hint of empathy.

Tears welled in the child’s wide blue eyes. “But I gotta get hired on, sir. Already been turned away at three other places. My pa he said he’d beat me senseless if I didn’t get this job.”

Hightower folded his arms over his chest and scowled at the girl. “You can’t be a toter. Toting takes strength. You haven’t got strength.”

“But I do!” The girl clasped her hands beneath her chin, her expression pleading. “I’m stronger’n I look. Honest, I am. Can’tcha just gimme a chance?”

The agent leaned in, his nose mere inches from the cowering child. “Those trays hold up to fifteen pounds each. Toters haul three trays at a time. You drop one load, and a good five dollars’ worth of candy is wasted. That’s too much to risk.” He caught her arm again and gave her a little push toward the door. “Now get. Tell your pa to pay better attention to the qualifications next time he sends you out.”

With sobs heaving her skinny shoulders, the girl scuttled out the door, but the sound of her distress drifted from the hallway and flayed Caroline’s soul. She gazed at the open doorway, sending up a silent prayer for the girl. A tiny seed of hope wiggled its way into her heart. If the girl couldn’t secure a job, maybe her parents would send her to school instead. She’d learn to read, to write, and to figure sums. Then in a few years when she was full grown, she could find a decent job. Not all parents were as heartless as her own. This girl might have a chance to—

“You!”

The barked command ended Caroline’s musings. She jerked upright, blinking several times. Hightower stood before her, his frown fierce. She licked her dry lips. “Yes, sir?”

“How old are you?”

Caroline hesitated. She knew what she was supposed to say, and she knew the man would accept it. Her round face and smooth skin gave the appearance of someone much younger than her true age of twenty-seven. The Labor Commission had given her stern instructions to carve five or six years from her age when asked. The fabrication helped hide her real identity. Even so, lies didn’t slip easily from her tongue. She lifted her chin in a flirtatious manner and tiptoed around the question. “Does it matter?”

“It might.”

She offered a coy shrug. “The qualifications didn’t include a specific age.”

He grunted—a very ungentlemanly sound that contrasted with his refined attire. He cleared his throat and moved down the line, snapping out questions and summarily sending the next three hopefuls out the door by turn.

With the final slam of the door, Caroline and the thick-armed woman remained as the only contenders for the single position as toter. Caroline
quickly examined her competition, noting the woman eyed her with equal interest. Dislike gleamed in the woman’s beady gaze. Clearly, she intended to secure the position no matter the cost. But Caroline’s need was too great for her to concede defeat. She might be tired, rumpled, and less muscular than the other woman, but she would win. With God’s help, she amended, she would win. Noble expected it. And the future of Kansas children depended on it.

Hightower strode behind a massive, clean-topped desk that filled the center of the room. He frowned at the pair of women. “Come over here.”

In unison they moved to the opposite side of the desk and stood side by side. Caroline’s belly churned. She linked her hands and let them fall loosely against the front of her wrinkled skirt, hoping the casual pose would hide her inward nervousness. How she hated this part of the process. No matter how many times she vied for positions, it never got easier. When she shared her reservations with her supervisor, Noble always chided her, reminding her that being chosen fulfilled the commission’s purpose.

But it also meant someone else must lose.

She glanced again at the other woman, who glared at Caroline like an angry bull. Beneath the bluster Caroline glimpsed a desperation that pierced her as deeply as the young girl’s wails of despair had. Lines fanned from the corners of the woman’s eyes. Gray hairs lay among her dark tresses, which she’d slicked back from her face into a severe bun. The thickened waist and sagging jowl spoke of years. Forty? Forty-five? Caroline couldn’t be sure, yet she knew the woman was old enough to have a family. Did she need this income to support several children?

Once again her stomach clenched as remorse smote her. She fought the ugly emotion, reciting Noble’s gentle admonition in her mind.
“You’re there to do good, Caroline. Set aside the guilties, and remember you’re the only one who can do the real job.”
The “guilties,” as Noble called them, didn’t completely dissolve, but she calmed. Yes, she was here to do good. Good for Noble, for the Labor Commission, and for the current generation of Kansas youngsters and the generations to come. She would focus on those people rather than the needy individual standing beside her.

Hightower had opened a drawer and removed two sheets of paper and a
pair of stubby pencils. He slid the items across the desk. “Answer the questions. I’m going to prepare a test, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.” His wide strides carried him across the room and out the door.

The other woman poked her tongue out the corner of her mouth, snatched up her pencil, and began scrawling words onto the waiting lines.

Caroline lifted the page and glanced at it. Name, hours available to work, expected wage … She’d answered the questions more than a dozen times before on previous missions and knew the appropriate responses. Even so, she hesitated. Somehow putting lies down in black lead on cream paper made them more glaring.

The other woman gave Caroline a conniving look. “You need me to …”

Pride swelled. She’d never set foot in a schoolhouse, but thanks to Annamarie, she could read and write as well as anyone who’d attended several years of school. “I can do it.”

The woman heaved a mighty sigh. “Fine.” She bent back over her page.

Despite the grim situation, a grin twitched at Caroline’s cheek. What might the woman have written for her if given the chance? It would be amusing to see, but she had a job to do. Placing the page on the desk again, by rote she filled in the lines with her carefully invented information, tweaking the facts just enough to mask reality but not so much it would raise suspicion.

Just as she finished, the door opened, and Hightower breezed back in. A sugary scent accompanied him, almost heady in its sweetness. Saliva pooled beneath Caroline’s tongue, and her belly twisted in desire to taste the treats being manufactured on the lower levels. Chocolate smelled so much better than beets.

He plucked the sheets of paper from the desk and held them out. “So we have Carrie Lang and Agatha Brewer. Correct?”

Caroline nodded, and the older woman blared, “Mrs. Agatha Brewer, that’s right.”

“I see neither of you has factory experience,” he went on, his gaze bouncing from one page to the other, “although Mrs. Brewer has worked in a bakery and a hotel laundry.”

Her round face flushed pink. “That’s right. Ten years at both places. I ain’t afraid of hard work.”

Caroline’s hopes lifted. If Mrs. Brewer had more experience, she’d demand a higher wage. Caroline, with her supposed inexperience, would require much less, giving her an advantage. Factory owners always filled the unskilled positions—and toting required no skill whatsoever—with lower-wage employees first. A bitter taste attacked her tongue as she considered how some filled their floors with children, who worked the same hours for less than half the compensation of an adult.

“I see you’re both available to work ten hours Monday through Saturday.” Since he seemed to be talking to himself, Caroline stayed quiet, but Mrs. Brewer inserted, “Mm-hm. Mm-hm.” He muttered a couple more comments, too low for Caroline to discern, and then he frowned at Mrs. Brewer. “Am I reading this correctly? You’ll accept the starting wage of four dollars a week?”