Page 81 of Murder on Cold Street
Mr. Fogerty’s eyes didn’t quite meet Lord Ingram’s. “Y—yes. It really is no place for a lady, the inside of a factory, grease, soot, and noisy machines everywhere.”
As if trying to underscore his point, a great din erupted on the factory floor, its volume only partially muted by the walls of Mr. Fogerty’s cramped office.
Lord Ingram was unmoved. “Mr. Fogerty, will you swear in a court of law that what passed between you and Mr. Sullivan was exactly as you described?”
Mr. Fogerty’s teacup paused on its way to his lips. “But why would I need to give evidence on oath? I had nothing to do with Mr. Sullivan’s death at all.”
“The inspector in charge of the case thinks Inspector Treadles killed Mr. Sullivan because of Mrs. Treadles. Should the case proceed to trial, counsel for the defense has cause to call anyone who has interacted with both Mr. Sullivan and Mrs. Treadles. Will you stand up before a judge, with your hand on a Bible, and give the same account?”
Mr. Fogerty fidgeted in his seat. “Ah...”
“Then pray do not try to pawn me off with a cheap imitation ofthe truth. I will accept that you acted on Mr. Sullivan’s order, but I do not believe that either of you were remotely motivated by chivalry.”
Before his severity, Mr. Fogerty seemed to wilt. “My lord, you must please understand, Mr. Sullivan was the one who brought me in to run this factory. I’m qualified and I do good work but there are many who are qualified and do good work. He brought me here to be loyal to him.”
Lord Ingram’s breaths quickened, but he kept his tone clipped. “Mr. Sullivan didn’t own this place.”
“I understand that, but he ran it, my lord. In all the time I worked here, I never heard from the younger Mr. Cousins, only Mr. Sullivan, Mr. White, and their secretaries. Mr. Sullivan said that Mrs. Treadles’s interest would wear off soon, if we but put a few obstacles in her way. And then things could go back to the way they were before and my position would be safe.”
Lord Ingram and Mrs. Watson exchanged a look. Would they at last hear something useful?
“Why did you think that your position wouldn’t be safe were Mrs. Treadles to see this factory?”
Mr. Fogerty’s nose and forehead beaded with perspiration. “It’s nothing like what you’re thinking, my lord. I’ve looked after this factory as if it were my own child. But I’m Mr. Sullivan’s man, you see. And Mr. Sullivan said that if he were to go, then there would be no one to protect me from axes falling from above.”
“And why did he think he might be let go?”
Mr. Fogerty looked uncomfortably toward Mrs. Watson, who gazed at him with grave interest.
“You need not worry that the lady might turn light-headed,” said Lord Ingram, with a touch of impatience. “She investigates alongside Sherlock Holmes. The things she has seen would make you need smelling salts.”
Still Mr. Fogerty looked down at the floor, as if by not seeing Mrs. Watson he could pretend she wasn’t there. “Well, Mr. Sullivantold me that Mrs. Treadles fancied him. But as he didn’t fancy her back, she was highly vexed—hell hath no fury and whatnot. He said that she was looking for excuses to get rid of him and that I mustn’t give her one.”
Lord Ingram had to marvel at Mr. Sullivan’s monumental lack of decency. “You believed him?”
“I... I didn’t think to question Mr. Sullivan. But I daresay after I saw Mrs. Treadles myself, well, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead but Mr. Sullivan never struck me as all that particular about the company he kept—company of the female persuasion that is. I couldn’t imagine he’d have turned Mrs. Treadles down if she’d actually fancied him. You see what I mean?”
“I do, very much.”
“But Mr. Sullivan said she would be interfering and would want to change things and give lots of orders, and he wasn’t lying about that. She did seem to want to do all those things.”
Lord Ingram held on to his temper. “She owns the company, Mr. Fogerty.”
“Still, my lord...”
When he received no word of agreement from anyone else, Mr. Fogerty took to drinking his tea with great speed and concentration.
Lord Ingram sighed inwardly. He turned to those who had come with him. “Mrs. Watson, Mr. Bloom, if you are sufficiently refreshed, I believe Mr. Fogerty can show us around.”
The factory sat on two acres but most of the manufacturing was concentrated in a great brick-and-iron shed building measuring three hundred feet in length and two hundred and fifty feet in width, with a high roof partially made of glass. Inside a number of furnaces roared. In summer, they might have made the place unbearably hot. But in the dead of winter, on a day in which the temperature hovered near freezing, the heat, which smelled of burnt oil and molten metal, was only stifling and no worse.
The noises, however, could drive a man to distraction: thegrinding, clashing, screeching, and above all, the thunderous clangs of plates being riveted both manually and by steam riveters. Perspiring workers, their faces darkened with soot, swarmed like bees around large, unfinished boilers. They glanced up as Lord Ingram, Mr. Bloom, and Mrs. Watson walked by, accompanied by Mr. Fogerty, but their attention quickly returned to their tasks.
Lord Ingram’s natural father had been one of the country’s wealthiest, most successful bankers. His banks had made—and continued to make—numerous industrial loans for the construction and modernization of factories. Consequently the banks had, at their disposal, individuals capable of judging whether that money had been put to good use.
Mr. Bloom, a rail-thin man with a large mustache, was one such highly regarded individual. Lord Ingram noticed that whereas his and Mrs. Watson’s eyes were quickly drawn to the hive-like activity, Mr. Bloom perused the physical assets, from the shed building itself, to the vertiginous pyramidal framework surrounding each steam riveting machine.
During the inspection, his few questions quickly revealed Mr. Fogerty’s ignorance of the factory’s prior incarnation. His subsequent request for documents and photographs only made the latter more discomfited.
