'Aye,' Mrs. Pratt said darkly. 'Whipt, wi' a leather strop. Nettie missed th' pincushion a while ago. We hoped it'ud turn up, like, under th' carpet or at th' back of the drawer, th' way lost things does. But Jaggers wanted it yestiddy, an' it culdn't be found, nowheres. She accused Nettie of thievin' an' give her till this arternoon to put it back.' She gathered up the mass of glossy dough with both hands and dropped it into the bowl. 'When she cudn't, she whipt her an' took away her half days fer a year.'
'Oh,' Kate whispered miserably. 'Poor, poor Nettie.' The girl was little more than a child, thin and pale-faced, with narrow hunched shoulders and lank hair. 'Where is she now?'
Mrs. Pratt turned the dough lardside-up with a swift motion. 'In th' cellar, cleanin' coal boxes. Jaggers give her a can'le an' set her to't afore tea.'
'How unkind!' Kate exclaimed. Being sent to the damp, black cellar with only a candle would of itself be a horrible punishment, let alone sent there to clean the coal boxes.
Mrs. Pratt looked at Kate, her glance narrowed and bitter. 'There's no dealin' wi' th' wretch,' she said bleakly. 'An' no use appealin' to Miss Ardleigh.'
'But surely, if my aunt knew-'
Mrs. Pratt's voice was fierce. 'An* wot'ud she do? It were th' same when Jaggers drove Jenny away last spring. Miss Ardleigh din't do nothin' then, neither.' She shook her head. 'No, Jaggers has got a hold on Miss Ardleigh somehow, otherwise she wudn't be tolerated here fer a bloody minute.'
'Please, Mrs. Pratt,' Kate said painfully, 'tell me about Jenny.' She didn't want to hear the story, because she had already guessed its outline. But it might help Mrs. Pratt to tell it.
Without speaking, Mrs. Pratt covered the bowl with a damp
towel and set it on the hearth. Putting the bread to rise at this late hour meant that she would have to get up for the baking well before dawn. It was a measure of just how far things had slipped out of kilter today.
Kate knit her fingers together. 'It's too late to help Jenny,' she said painfully, ' 'but I can do nothing for the others unless I know the whole story.'
Mrs. Pratt dropped into the chair on the other side of the fire. 'Can't do nothin' anyways,' she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. 'Nobody kin do nothin'.' She took a small flask out of her pocket and pulled on it.
Kate waited. In a few moments, the port loosened the cook's tongue. Mrs. Pratt began to speak, slowly and painfully, as if the tale were being wrenched out of her like an abscessed tooth, the pain of it undeadened, even by drink.
'Jenny were th' parlor maid afore Amelia,' she said. She put the flask back in her pocket. 'Me sister Rose's oldest girl, Amelia's sister. Pert as a daisy an' prompt in 'er work. But she wudn't put on an int'rest in religion, which soured Jaggers, an' sometimes she had a tart mouth.' Her jaw tightened. 'When Jaggers found out that she were wi' child-'
Kate pulled in her breath, imagining Aunt Jaggers's fury. And Jenny had been Amelia's sister! No wonder the girl had been so distraught.
'Floggin' was first,' Mrs. Pratt said thickly. She put her work-roughened hands on her knees and leaned toward the fire. 'Then Jaggers sent her out. No char'cter, no money, 'cept what little we culd scrape t'gether among us. Fair broke her mother's heart, it did.'
Kate closed her eyes. It was a familiar enough story-one she had even written herself, complete with shy maid, sly seducer, and flint-hearted mistress. But Jenny's was no made-up story. It was real. Kate could feel the girl's hopelessness and despair, and her heart brimmed with an answering compassion. How could girls like Jenny and Nettie endure such terrible treatment? How could they live in a society of such wretched inequalities, where their sad poverty could at every moment be measured against the abundance abovestairs, where a parrot merited more casual affection than a parlor
maid? But she had not yet heard the worst of it.
Mrs. Pratt clenched her hands. 'Hadn't bin fer Jaggers, we'd a' come through it, Jenny an' us, fer th' father were a village lad, an' loved her. He were happy to marry her an' give th' babe his name, straightaway.' Her voice sharpened. 'But Jaggers shamed her till she b'lieved hersel' worse 'n worthless, an' not gud enuf fer th' one she loved.' Her mouth twisted, her words full of poisonous hatred. ' 'Jaggers is who killed Jenny, with her hard blows an' her harsh words. All o' us knows it. All o' us hates her fer it. Tom Potter most of all.'
'Tom Potter?'
'Jenny's young man. Th' constable who brought th' news o' her passin' also brought a note from her t' him. A love note, like.' She smiled grimly. 'But yer needn't worry none, miss. Jaggers'll get her reward. It'll all be made right in th' end.' A coal broke on the hearth, scattering shimmers of spark. 'An' if it ain't, Tom'll make it right, or Mudd will, or me.'
Kate stared at her, apprehension rippling through her like a hissing snake. 'No,' she whispered. 'That's not the way.'
'Yes,' Mrs. Pratt said darkly. 'Yes, 'tis.'
28
'Find me some material, though it is no bigger than a fly's root, give me but a clew no thicker than a spider's web, and I'll follow it through tne whole labyrinth.'
Charles spent the next day following the two clues he had-the peacock feather and the dead man's photograph. Buttoned up in a mackintosh and wearing a hat against the drizzling mist, he rode into Colchester, where he stabled his horse and walked to Queen Street. At the fourth house, his portfolio under his arm, he pulled the brass bell. It was answered this time by a pert little maid with red cheeks and a ready smile who gave Charles a demure look under her eyelashes when he asked to see the master. He handed over his card, on which he had written, ' 'A matter of paramount importance.'
'I'll tell Mr. Murdstone yer here, sir,' the maid said, leaving him standing in the narrow hall. He passed the time by examining a series of gilt-framed etchings of the Charge of the Light Brigade, hung against the rose- patterned wallpaper. Precious was nowhere to be seen but could be heard, yapping briskly but faintly in a distant room, and the rich perfume of cooked onions arose from the back of the house. A moment later the maid returned to take his coat and lead him to the parlor.
Frank Murdstone was roasting his feet on the small fender in the lace-curtained parlor immediately off the hall, comfortable in a soft jacket and loose tie, reading a newspaper by the light of a hissing gas lamp. He was a man with a horsey nose, a high forehead, and tufted eyebrows.
'Oh, it's you,' he said, removing his boots from the fender. He put down his newspaper, his ears reddening. He obviously remembered yesterday's encounter with some embarrassment. 'What can I do for you, Sir Charles? What's this business of 'paramount importance'?'
'As I said yesterday,' Charles said, taking the photograph out of his portfolio, 'I am attempting to identify this man.'
Murdstone stood up, glanced briefly at the photograph Charles handed him, and shrugged. 'Can't help you, I'm afraid.'
'Do you mind taking one more look?' Charles prodded, watching Murdstone's face. The fire cast flickering shadows across his cheeks, highlighting the dome of his forehead.
Murdstone took a pair of gold-rimmed glasses out of his pocket, hooked them over his ears, and peered through them at the photograph. His eyes widened slightly. 'Dead man, is he?'
'Murdered.'
Murdstone shook his head firmly. 'Never saw the chap.' He handed the photo back and took off his glasses. 'If you don't mind my asking, why are you inquiring, and not the police?'
'It is a matter of interest to me,' Charles said vaguely. At this point he was not entirely sure why he was
