The Administrators and other spirits I questioned
in the Waiting Area say Mortlock was one of their number, living in the slums, robbing
whomever he could, and coercing those weaker than himself into paying
protection money. He doesn't appear to have been a student at the school
although the records may have been destroyed."
"You
checked them?"
He nodded. "Mortlock
died only last week."
"Last
week?" George said.
"The day
after Finch died and we sent the demon back."
We all
considered that for a few moments.
"I don't
like this, Emily," Jacob said. "It's very dangerous. I want you to go
home. Let George and I question Mrs. White about Blunt."
I turned to him
fully and touched his cheek. I expected him to flinch, but he merely closed his
eyes. "No," I said. "I will not go home when there is more I can
do."
His eyes flew
open and he caught my wrist. His grip was hard but not bruising. "Emily!"
The coach slowed
and then stopped. We had arrived at the school. Clerkenwell was one of the
better slum areas if such a thing existed. It was working class and poverty was
rife as were all the things that went hand-in-hand with it—thieves, orphans,
and hunger. The school offered refuge to those children with no other prospects
except the workhouse or falling in with disreputable adults. It provided them
with food, shelter, and an education in the domestic arts, which gave them a
chance of finding work when they turned sixteen. Lucy our maid had been a
student, as had some of George's staff.
"I think I
shall become a patron," he said, stepping out of the coach behind me.
All three of us
looked up at the school. Its bricks might be blackened by years of soot, but it
was sturdy compared to the other buildings in the narrow street. It looked like
it was holding up the tall, rickety houses on either side. If it was removed,
they might all collapse into the vacant space, one on top of the other.
"What a
worthy idea," I said. I knew George was wealthy as he didn't work, but I
didn't know how wealthy. Obviously he had enough money to give to the school.
He knocked and a
maid opened the door. "Is Mrs. White in?" George asked.
The maid shook
her head. "Mrs. White has moved on, sir."
"Moved
on?" I echoed. "When?"
"Few days
ago, miss. Do you want to see Mr. Hollowbrooke, the new master?"
"Yes, thank
you," said George.
Jacob
disappeared as the maid led us into the drawing room, a large but barren and
uncomfortable space containing only a desk and two hard guest chairs. We waited
until she left before speaking.
"Beaufort
still here?" George asked me.
I shook my head.
"I can't believe Mrs. White has left."
"I know. I
thought she loved this school."
We both
contemplated the significance of that in silence until Mr. Hollowbrooke
arrived. Jacob followed behind him. I raised my eyebrows in question, but he
merely shrugged.
After the
necessary introductions, George said, "We were hoping to find Mrs. White
here, but it seems she has left. Such a great loss."
"Indeed."
Mr. Hollowbrooke spoke as blandly as he looked, and he looked very bland. Brown
hair, hazel eyes, neither short nor tall, fat nor thin. His age was
indeterminate, his features common, unmarked and expressionless. He was someone
you forgot soon after you've met him. Lucky Mr. Hollowbrooke. To go about
unnoticed, without inquisitive and sometimes rude stares following your every
move, must be liberating. A part of me did think it rather sad, but only a
small part.
"We wanted
to thank her for all she did for us," George said. "She has matched
some wonderful servants to my household and to that of Miss Chambers."
A small wrinkle
fought its way onto Mr. Hollowbrooke's flat forehead. "You're not here for
another servant, Mr. Culvert?"
"No. Just
to thank Mrs. White."
"Oh. Pity."
He had not sat down and now he inched back toward the door. We were dismissed.
"Find out
where she went," Jacob said.
"We would
like to write to her and thank her," I said to Mr. Hollowbrooke.
in the Waiting Area say Mortlock was one of their number, living in the slums, robbing
whomever he could, and coercing those weaker than himself into paying
protection money. He doesn't appear to have been a student at the school
although the records may have been destroyed."
"You
checked them?"
He nodded. "Mortlock
died only last week."
"Last
week?" George said.
"The day
after Finch died and we sent the demon back."
We all
considered that for a few moments.
"I don't
like this, Emily," Jacob said. "It's very dangerous. I want you to go
home. Let George and I question Mrs. White about Blunt."
I turned to him
fully and touched his cheek. I expected him to flinch, but he merely closed his
eyes. "No," I said. "I will not go home when there is more I can
do."
His eyes flew
open and he caught my wrist. His grip was hard but not bruising. "Emily!"
The coach slowed
and then stopped. We had arrived at the school. Clerkenwell was one of the
better slum areas if such a thing existed. It was working class and poverty was
rife as were all the things that went hand-in-hand with it—thieves, orphans,
and hunger. The school offered refuge to those children with no other prospects
except the workhouse or falling in with disreputable adults. It provided them
with food, shelter, and an education in the domestic arts, which gave them a
chance of finding work when they turned sixteen. Lucy our maid had been a
student, as had some of George's staff.
"I think I
shall become a patron," he said, stepping out of the coach behind me.
All three of us
looked up at the school. Its bricks might be blackened by years of soot, but it
was sturdy compared to the other buildings in the narrow street. It looked like
it was holding up the tall, rickety houses on either side. If it was removed,
they might all collapse into the vacant space, one on top of the other.
"What a
worthy idea," I said. I knew George was wealthy as he didn't work, but I
didn't know how wealthy. Obviously he had enough money to give to the school.
He knocked and a
maid opened the door. "Is Mrs. White in?" George asked.
The maid shook
her head. "Mrs. White has moved on, sir."
"Moved
on?" I echoed. "When?"
"Few days
ago, miss. Do you want to see Mr. Hollowbrooke, the new master?"
"Yes, thank
you," said George.
Jacob
disappeared as the maid led us into the drawing room, a large but barren and
uncomfortable space containing only a desk and two hard guest chairs. We waited
until she left before speaking.
"Beaufort
still here?" George asked me.
I shook my head.
"I can't believe Mrs. White has left."
"I know. I
thought she loved this school."
We both
contemplated the significance of that in silence until Mr. Hollowbrooke
arrived. Jacob followed behind him. I raised my eyebrows in question, but he
merely shrugged.
After the
necessary introductions, George said, "We were hoping to find Mrs. White
here, but it seems she has left. Such a great loss."
"Indeed."
Mr. Hollowbrooke spoke as blandly as he looked, and he looked very bland. Brown
hair, hazel eyes, neither short nor tall, fat nor thin. His age was
indeterminate, his features common, unmarked and expressionless. He was someone
you forgot soon after you've met him. Lucky Mr. Hollowbrooke. To go about
unnoticed, without inquisitive and sometimes rude stares following your every
move, must be liberating. A part of me did think it rather sad, but only a
small part.
"We wanted
to thank her for all she did for us," George said. "She has matched
some wonderful servants to my household and to that of Miss Chambers."
A small wrinkle
fought its way onto Mr. Hollowbrooke's flat forehead. "You're not here for
another servant, Mr. Culvert?"
"No. Just
to thank Mrs. White."
"Oh. Pity."
He had not sat down and now he inched back toward the door. We were dismissed.
"Find out
where she went," Jacob said.
"We would
like to write to her and thank her," I said to Mr. Hollowbrooke.
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