Page 10 of Miss Delightful
“The newspapers,” Miss Delancey spat, “sell their vile drivel by making that flesh trade as lurid and sensational as possible. They celebrate adultery, scandal, ruin, and tragedy instead of fostering anything approaching an elevated or constructive dialogue. This city needs sewers, Mr. MacKay, but what do the newspapers have to say about it? Who will pay for these sewers? That is their sole contribution to the discussion.”
The city did need sewers, desperately. What sort of minister’s daughter broughtthatup?
“London is an old city. Reconstructing its drainage will be a huge undertaking.”
“And waging war for most of the past century wasn’t a huge undertaking? Packing our thieves and vagrants off to the Antipodes to colonize a wilderness isn’t a huge undertaking? Fat George’s endless extravagances aren’t a huge undertaking? But we haven’t the coin to build the sewers that would make our air breathable for John Bull?”
The average soldier was a fighter of necessity and a grumbler by inclination. Miss Delancey’s tirade went from grumbling to debate. She recited facts. Britain had all the money in the world for expanding its empire, she was right about that. The revenue was on hand in part because Britain plundered one colony to extend its reach in another, and in part because the gentry and shopkeepers were taxed unmercifully.
But for the increasing masses of London poor, nothing was spent.
To encourage sloth or dependency in those not born to wealth would beunkind—and giving them clean air and safe water would be only the first step on that misguided—and expensive—road to coddling them.
“So why have you attached yourself to eradicating prostitution in the capital?”
“We will never eradicate prostitution, Mr. MacKay, here or anywhere else. Many enlightened thinkers don’t believe we should try.”
“Then what is your aim, Miss Delancey?” The answer mattered to him more than she knew.
She tromped along in silence as the shopfronts they passed went from genteel to worn.
“Those women should have a choice,” she said, her tone weary. “Many of them don’t. They have no trade, and if they did have a trade, their wages would belong to a father or husband. His wages aren’t sufficient to feed the family, and thus she’s expected to… She’s required to…” Miss Delancey waved a gloved hand, the gesture both exasperated and eloquent.
They arrived at the pawnshop, the three balls hanging beneath its sign showing only flecks of gold paint. The shop had no name, the sign simply proclaiming, “Items bought, sold, and traded. J. Shroop, Prop.” London had a thousand such shops, most of them relying as much on stolen inventory as on goods legitimately pawned.
“Keep a sharp eye,” Alasdhair said. “You might see the shawl and blanket, or other items that belonged to Melanie. If you want me to redeem them, I will.”
“I have coin, Mr. MacKay.”
Alasdhair paused outside the pawnshop. “What you have is a bad temper, else you would never make such an imprudent announcement in such a location. I am angry, too, Miss Delancey, but we are here to gather information. Reforming all of London will have to wait.”
She looked about, her gaze falling on a one-legged man sitting on the walkway on the sunny side of the street. A worn cap sat before him, while he stared straight ahead at passersby.
“I am angry. Mr. MacKay. Good of you to notice.”
“I like that about you, and I like almost nobody. Let’s get this over with.” He held the door for her, and she swept into the dim little shop with all the dignity of Wellington reviewing the troops.
Alasdhair slipped in behind her and gave his eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom. The shop was barely heated, which was fortunate. The stench of mildew and dust was pervasive even in the cold.
Miss Delancey moved off down a row of goods. Furniture made up the foundation of the rows—sagging sofas, dented sideboards, bureaus missing drawers. Piled atop the furniture were sundries—a washbasin here, mismatched boot trees there, a stack of hats adorning a clothes press. The detritus of lives going in the wrong direction.
“Greetings,” said a skinny young man with sandy hair. He stroked his mustache, which grew in luxuriant abundance over a too-hearty smile. “Looking for anything in particular?”
Miss Delancey shot Alasdhair a glance over the stack of hats. Smart woman. He excelled at leading initial charges.
“I am looking for a rocking chair,” Alasdhair said, “and a cradle made to match it. These items were formerly in the possession of Miss Melanie Fairchild.”
The fellow’s smile took on a brittle quality. “What I have to sell is all on display, my friend. It appears your missus is interested in buying you a hat.”
Miss Delancey set aside the high-crowned beaver she’d been inspecting. “I am interested in answers regarding the rocking chair and cradle. You will please provide them.”
“I find,” the proprietor said, his smile disappearing altogether, “that limiting my business to goods rather than questions and answers makes for healthier custom. If you’d like to purchase something, I am happy to quote you a price.”
None of the prices were displayed, of course, the better to bilk every shopper of the maximum coin they appeared able to pay.
“I find,” Alasdhair said quietly, “that when a young woman in good health dies under mysterious circumstances, and her most precious possessions have been given into the hands of the nearest swindler, that my fists develop a curious itch, Mr. Shroop.”
“I find,” Miss Delancey said, coming up on Alasdhair’s right, “that a great impulse to discuss Miss Fairchild’s situation with the authorities has come over me. You were seen by multiple witnesses accepting possession of her rocker and cradle, and my companion here can describe that cradle in detail, right down to the maker’s mark on the underside. When did Miss Fairchild sell you these items, Mr. Shroop?”
