The Welfare of the Dead (24 page)

‘No,' says Woodrow, though he sounds rather preoccupied. ‘I can't stand the fellow.' He sits down upon the bed, then places his hands upon his thighs, as if bracing himself for some sudden shock. It is sufficiently out of character to unnerve his wife, who reaches out her hand to his shoulder.

‘My dear, is there something wrong? Is it Lucy? I have told Jacobs that she must sleep in her room for now.'

‘No, it is not Lucinda,' says Woodrow, although the mention of her name seems to cause him to frown. He wordlessly moves his lips, as if struggling to find the right words. ‘Melissa, you know I would normally not trouble you with such matters, but I must be frank; I have need of your help.'

‘Whatever do you mean, Woodrow?'

‘There has been a . . . well, I do not know what is the word. An unfortunate circumstance. One of the shop-girls was found dead, this morning.'

‘Dead? Why, how awful.'

‘No, you do not understand me. The girl was murdered; it is a terrible business; they found her at the Casino. Her throat was . . . well, I am told it was unpleasant. The work of some madman; they have not caught him yet.'

Mrs. Woodrow sits back. ‘Good Lord.'

‘Quite.'

‘The Holborn Casino? But what was she doing there?'

‘What is any girl doing in such a place?'

‘Lord. The poor creature. What was her name?'

‘Good God, woman, damn her name, what about ours? Don't you see what this means? Bad enough it should be one of our girls, but at the Casino? The whole thing will be in every paper in London by Monday. It could spell the ruin of the business.'

‘Woodrow, please. Do not shout. The servants will hear you.'

Woodrow takes a deliberate, deep breath. ‘Forgive me. I did not mean to be so . . . intemperate. But you do not understand the gravity of the situation.'

Mrs. Woodrow looks puzzled. ‘My dear? Of course, it is quite terrible, I mean to say I cannot imagine, and people will talk. But we have such a good reputation. We will just have to wait it out.'

Woodrow shakes his head. ‘People have long memories. But that is not the worst of it. Langley has backed out. I have spent two hours with him this afternoon; I went to see him. I explained the situation, so he at least might hear it from me, and not read it in the
Daily News
. He says he is not certain he can “commit myself under the circumstances”.'

Mrs. Woodrow shrugs. ‘Well, then, if that is all, the new premises will have to wait. I know you have cherished the idea, my dear, but surely you can bear that?'

Again, Woodrow shakes his head. ‘You do not understand. We need his money; we need it now.'

‘Why?'

‘There are things I have not told you. Business matters that do not normally . . . there are debts.'

‘But surely you can pay them from—'

‘No,' says Woodrow, emphatically. ‘Bad debts. There are certain transactions I have made, perhaps unwisely. Well, I shall spare you the details. They would mean nothing to you, in any case. We need Langley's money; we need it rather badly.'

Mrs. Woodrow puts her hand to her brow. ‘My dear, how bad is it?'

‘I can pay the wages in the New Year; we should have enough, too, for the gas and coal.'

‘But then?'

‘That is it. Unless things change, we are done for.'

Mrs. Woodrow stares at her husband in shock. Neither of them speaks for a good minute. ‘Good Lord, what would Papa say?'

Woodrow gets up from the bed.

‘Melissa, your blessed father is dead, rest his soul,' he replies, a suggestion of anger in his tone. ‘He left the business in my hands.'

‘And this is what you have done with it. I cannot believe it.'

Woodrow looks sharply at his wife but bites his lip. ‘It still might be saved if we can find sufficient money; an investment in the future.'

‘We?'

‘If you were to speak to your cousin. Perhaps her father might consider a loan. Even five hundred might be sufficient; just enough to square some of the creditors.'

‘Woodrow, good Lord, how many are there?'

‘That does not matter. After a point, one robs Peter
to pay Paul; it is the amount that is the thing. Will you speak to her?'

Mrs. Woodrow wipes her eyes and looks down into her lap. When she finally speaks, it is almost in a whisper.

‘I cannot.'

‘You cannot? What the blazes do you mean by that?'

‘Woodrow, you know full well – what would the family say?'

‘Damn the family. Would they prefer us bankrupt? On the streets?'

Mrs. Woodrow sighs. ‘Now you are being ridiculous.'

‘I wish I were.'

‘What about Mr. Langley? He is such a decent man – perhaps if you outlined some of the circumstances; explained yourself fully.'

‘He may be rich but he is not a fool, Melissa.'

Melissa Woodrow looks up at her husband, who stands dejectedly by the window.

‘I wish,' says Woodrow at last, ‘I wish I had not told you.'

Mrs. Woodrow pulls back the covers and gets out of bed; she opens the drawer to her dresser, rummaging underneath her silk petticoats.

‘Well, at least now,' she says, ‘I know the meaning of these. That is something.'

Woodrow turns and looks at her, confused. She holds a handful of paper.

‘Here,' she says, offering them to him. ‘I should have shown you. I know I should. But, Woodrow, I didn't know what to think.'

Her husband takes the notes and reads them; a peculiar litany of accusations.

YOUR HUSBAND IS A FRAUD

YOUR HUSBAND KEEPS SECRETS

DO NOT TRUST YOUR HUSBAND

 

‘Where did you find these?' asks Woodrow.

‘Someone has been sending them here, in the post. It started a couple of weeks ago. I was going to tell you, I swear, but there has not been a time when I felt I could say something. Do you know who it is?'

Woodrow shakes his head.

‘Although,' continues Mrs. Woodrow, ‘I cannot conceive why anyone should be so spiteful, even if you owe them money.'

‘No,' replies her husband, rather mechanically, ‘nor can I.'

‘What is it?'

‘Nothing,' he says, crushing the notes in his hands. ‘You're right. These things are quite foul. Malicious. I shall burn them. You must tell me if you get any more.'

Mrs. Woodrow sighs and takes hold of her husband's arm. ‘We can weather any storm together, my dear, we can truly.'

Woodrow nods, still looking at the crumpled paper.

‘Woodrow, look at me. Did Mr. Langley say he would definitely not take up the partnership?'

‘He was vague,' replies Woodrow. ‘Doubtless I embarrassed him, pleading with him.'

‘But if you had the money, you think the Warehouse could prosper? You could pay these people what you owe?'

‘I should not make the same mistakes twice.'

‘Then I shall invite him to dinner, in a day or two.'

‘What good will that do?'

‘It might put him in a good mood; make him more open to persuasion. Show him that you are not daunted by what has happened.'

‘He may not come.'

‘Perhaps, but I shall make a point of saying Annabel would be glad of his company. He rather likes her, I am sure of it. I've seen him look at her.'

‘Well, she is a fine-looking young woman.'

‘Woodrow!'

‘Not finer than you, my dear.'

‘I should think not.' Mrs. Woodrow smiles at her husband. She rests her head against his shoulder. ‘Woodrow, we shall come through this, I promise you.'

Jasper Woodrow looks down at his wife and tries to smile back.

‘You have told me everything, haven't you, dear?'

Woodrow nods.

‘Then I shall tell Mrs. Figgis to make a start on dinner.'

 

T
HE
B
IBLE
?

Why, yes, I take a good deal of comfort from it. And yourself, Miss Krout? Are you familiar with the Good Book? I am glad to hear it. This wretched city would be much improved if there were more young women like yourself and less . . . well, I will not say the words.

No, you must believe me. You have been protected from the worst of it, Miss Krout, as is proper. If, God forbid, you were to walk the streets of the metropolis at night, you would soon see such disgusting exhibitions of vice, scenes that would provoke utter repugnance in the heart of any true Christian. I confess, I have even passed through a City churchyard, and seen half a dozen young women, mere girls, openly plying their abominable trade amidst the graves. There is no place on earth so degraded as London by night, I am sure of it.

I am sorry, I did not mean to raise my voice.

Of course, yes, Eloi Chapel. Indeed, that is where it began; that is the rotten, cancerous core of this whole business. Tell me, Miss Krout, have you read about our fair city during the forties? We had outgrown our quaint English churches you see, the ancient medieval sort that so please your countrymen. The City graveyards were the worst; more akin to swamps,
overflowing with bodies, packed twelve deep in narrow shafts, from paupers to princes. In some, they topped up the earth, until it almost spilt over the church walls; in others they merely burnt the coffins and buried the corpses one atop the other. In the poorer parts of the metropolis, you could see men jumping into the graves to push them down, to break the bones if they needed; it was a regular occurrence.

You think I exaggerate?

No, I am not angry. I simply try to be accurate. Let us merely say such arrangements were rather too intimate for our English taste. So we built our new cemeteries; parks and gardens for the dead, instead of swamps. I gather we rather borrowed the idea from the French, but it was a good notion, all the same. You are not so crowded in Boston, I dare say?

Mount Auburn? No, I have not heard of it. Is it picturesque?

Well, in any case, it became clear there was money to be made by those providing homes for the dead; new burial grounds, stocks and shares in burials companies – a good deal of money. Now, you know as well as I, every type of commerce attracts scoundrels, Miss Krout. It is a universal law; some men are always less scrupulous than others. The burial business was no exception.

I believe the Eloi Chapel Company opened in 1846 or thereabouts; you must find the date for yourself. It was cheap, I know that much, and so much more convenient, for the working man, than some distant plot at Kensal Green or Highgate. They cleared the vaults thoroughly before they began; took out all the old rubbish. Indeed, it was a large church off Fetter Lane; close to Fleet Street. And I should think it was pleasant enough, to begin with; until it filled up. But they kept filling it, you see; to the very brim, floor to
ceiling with cheap wooden boxes. And when it was full, they simply opened the boxes and emptied them out, rather like one tips ashes into a dust-bin. Except the refuse in this case was, shall we say, rather more troublesome, and so they were obliged to be a little secretive. He saw to that – Mr. J.S. Munday, Esq. – he formed the company, sold the shares. A clever young man; ambitious.

But in the summer of forty-eight, they'd left the tipping-out a little too long, and the place was over-ripe. I expect urgent measures were required; perhaps they were careless. Then someone saw their cart one night, full of . . . well, let us merely say
disiecta membra
.

Mr. Munday was ruined, poor fellow killed himself before the trial; and the stock was worthless.

A moral little tale, really. At least, that is what I thought until a couple of months ago. It is peculiar how a chance meeting can turn one's life topsy-turvy, is it not?

Forgive me, Miss Krout. In my present circumstances, one is obliged to play the philosopher.

‘Our Lord's forgiveness'? My! Do you intend to effect my reformation?

No, no. I await His judgment, that is all.