Resurrection Row - Anne Perry [51]
Dominic shivered. It was perishing out in this ghastly street, and he was white with rage at Carlisle for having brought him here.
Either Carlisle was oblivious to it, or he simply did not care.
“Call back that cab!” Dominic snarled. “You had no right to bring me here! This place is—” He was lost for words. He stared around him, appalled at it; the weight of the buildings seemed to overpower him. The squalor was everywhere, and the smell of dirt, old clothes, grime of soot and oil lamps, unwashed bodies, yesterday’s cooking. On top of the roast it was almost too much for his stomach.
“A preview of hell,” Carlisle said quietly. “Don’t speak so loudly; these people live here; this is their home. I dare say they don’t like it any more than you do, but it’s what they have. Show your disgust, and you may not get out of here as immaculately as you came in—in any sense. And this is only a foretaste; you should see Bluegate Fields down by the docks or Limehouse, Whitechapel, St. Giles. Walk with me. We’ve got about three hundred yards to go, along that way.” He pointed down a side street. “Over the square at the end of that is the local workhouse. That’s what I want you to see; this is only incidental. Then perhaps the Devil’s Acre, below Westminster?”
Dominic opened his mouth to say he wanted to leave, then saw the children’s faces gaping up at him: young bodies, young skins, and eyes as old as the roués’ he had seen with the prostitutes in the night houses of the Haymarket. It was the weary avariciousness in them that frightened him more than anything else; that and the smell.
He saw one urchin, chased by another in play, pass close to Carlisle, and, in a movement as smooth as a weasel, extract his silk handkerchief from his pocket and move on.
“Carlisle!”
“I know,” Carlisle said quietly. “Don’t make a fuss. Just follow me.” And he moved almost casually over the street, onto the pavement on the other side, then down the alleyway. At the far side of the square beyond, he stopped at the large, blind wooden door and knocked. It was opened by a stout man in a green frock coat. The sour expression on his face changed to one of alarm, but before he could speak, Carlisle stepped inside, forcing him back.
“Morning, Mr. Eades. Comes to see how you are today.”
“Well, thank you. Yes, very well, sir.” Eades said defensively. “You are too kind, sir. You pay too much attention. I’m sure your time is valuable, sir.”
“Very,” Carlisle agreed. “So don’t let us waste it. Any of your children gone to the schools since the last time I was here?”
“Oh, yes! As many as we had at the time of intake, sir, you may be sure.”
“And how many is that?”
“Ah, well now; I don’t have the precise figures to my mind; you must recall, people come and go here, as the necessity finds them. If they are not here on the day of intake, which you must know is only once a fortnight, then, naturally, they don’t go!”
“I know that as well as you do,” Carlisle said tartly. “I also know they check out the day before the intake, and back in again the day after.”
“Now, sir, that ain’t my fault!”
“I know it isn’t!” Carlisle’s voice was raw with anger at his own impotence. He strode past Eades and down the airless, dank corridor to the great hall, and Dominic was obliged to follow him or be left alone in the stone passage, his flesh standing out with cold.
The room was large and low, gaslit; one stove burned in the corner. About fifty or sixty men, women, and children sat unpicking old clothes, sorting the rags, and cutting and piecing them together again. The air was so fetid it caught in Dominic’s throat, and he had to concentrate to prevent himself from vomiting. Carlisle seemed to be used to it. He stepped over the rags and approached one of the women.
“Hello, Bessie,” he said