Page 56 of Ghost in the Garden
Constance, used to her large house, with her large sitting room and bedchamber all to herself, with the others never sharing more than two to a room, had almost forgotten the sort of overcrowding she found next to the collapsed building. Disease would be rife here, worse during the winter, when whole swaths of them could be carried off, and there would always be other, even more desperate people waiting to take their place. Once she’d thought this the only way to live, and there had always been someone to look after her when her mother was “out.” Later, she was so desperate to be alone even for five minutes that she had hidden in cupboards and cellars…
But this was not about her. She walked forward.
Solomon had been here before. So had Dr. Dragan Tizsa, and many of the survivors from the building next door knew Solomon had sent him. There was distracted gratitude from Emmy, the mother of a mostly paralyzed girl of twelve who had begun to eat, grudging nods of respect from a few, hopeful stares from a few others.
“You’re doing a good thing,” one woman said to him, ignoring Constance. “Dr. Tizsa and you. There’s a bit of life about them again. Even Lenny.”
Solomon said nothing, merely nodded, but Constance regarded the woman with more interest. She could have been anything between thirty and fifty years old, with a face lined by hard work, hardship, and tragedy. But her eyes were those of a fighter, and she moved with swift economy. Constance wondered if, veiled and in a fog, the woman would appear to glide. She could easily imagine her running up a back lane and jumping into a carriage. Only the hackney fare would have been beyond her.
Solomon obviously had the same idea, for he said suddenly, “This may seem an odd question, but have you ever seen hackney carriages stop here?”
“Don’t be daft. Nor omnibuses, neither. No one here can afford them.”
“Were you here yesterday evening?” Constance asked.
“Where else would I be? Spending my gold at Covent Garden?”
Constance regarded the woman’s contemptuous face and took a chance. “We think someone from here might be visiting Caleb Lambert, for whatever reason. It would at least be good to know who it wasn’t.”
“I’d stick a knife in him if I could,” the woman said at once. “And maybe I will one day. But it weren’t no one in this room. There’s a will, but not the energy.”
“Did you know Huxley Gregg was murdered?”
“Heard it from a patterer at the market. Good riddance to him. Hope the same right-thinking philanthropist does the same for Lambert. Only there’ll always be another to take his place.”
“You talk like an educated woman, Mrs.…?”
“Smith. And I’m not. I just listen.”
“Me too,” Constance said. “Do you know anyone, from here or anywhere else, who would seriously try to hurt either Gregg or Lambert? Not just talk, but risk everything to do it?”
“Why would they? There isn’t much point, is there? The world needs change, not more violence or revenge.”
Constance thought she was right. There was hatred and hopelessness in this room and so many like it, but they were too weary for action.
She said as much to Solomon as they descended the filthy stairs.
He nodded, then paused. “Except perhaps forthesepeople. The rent collectors.” He moved faster and rapped smartly on the first door. From the one opposite and another near the front door, two children’s shaggy heads appeared and vanished.
The door in front of them opened to reveal a pert, pretty young woman. She wore a plain, working dress, covered by an apron. But no patches were visible.
“Yes?”
Solomon took off his hat. “Mrs. Fraser?”
“Yes?”
“I thought so. I was talking to your husband the other day. Is he at home?”
“He’ll be back directly. Why?”
“I was hoping for another word.”
She frowned, suspicion glaring out of her blue eyes. “Here, you’re not that journalist bothering us again? We only collect the rents. Someone’s got to.”
And she shut the door in their faces.
Constance forgot to breathe until they were out in the street again.
