“That was silver they were pouring, was it not?” I asked my guide.
“It was,” said he, “and it’s a specially difficult metal to work with, for it must be poured steady and even, not too fast and not too slow.”
“The fellow who did the pouring-he’s not an apprentice, surely.” He seemed older and more experienced.
“Oh no, that’s Mr. Tarkington. He’s a journeyman. But Joe, who handled the mold, he’s an apprentice in his last year.”
“I see,” said I, “and the third man is Mr. Turbott?”
“Just so,” said he, “and his part is as important as any, for it is he who must decide just when the silver is ready to be poured.”
“This, then, is all there is to it?”
“Oh no. It’s just the first step in the process. Those things you see in the wall shelves are, most of them, waiting to be taken through the next steps. But-”
“Yes?”
“Sir John awaits. Down these stairs, if you please, to our kitchen.”
There, where I was left by my guide, did I find Sir John and Clarissa engaged in an interrogation of an older woman, obviously the cook. He asked the questions, and Clarissa watched her answers (a bit obtrusively, it seemed to me) for evidence of prevarication and subterfuge. She gave a curt nod to me; Sir John gave no sign of recognition, yet I was sure he was aware of my arrival.
“And you say that the last you saw of her was Easter Sunday?” Sir John was saying.
“That was the last of it,” said she. “Easter morning it was. And Lizzie was all dressed up for church, or Easter dinner, or whatever it was. I don’t know which for I did not ask her.”
“And she was not expected back until. .”
“Well, maybe that night or next morning. Monday noon at the latest.”
“And that was because. .”
“That was because the master and the mistress would be back by one, and they said to me they didn’t care how we came and went just so there was someone in the house at all times and when they got back the place was clean.”
“Those sound like reasonable requirements,” said Sir John. “But tell me, you have rather a small household staff here, do you not?”
“Just kitchen help-me and the two girls. Now just one.”
“How does that work-I mean normally. For instance, who does the cleaning?”
“The ’prentices.”
“And makes the beds and so on?”
“The two girls.”
“And you all eat down here?”
“Well no, not quite,” said she. “The master and mistress take their meals on the first floor. The girls serve them there.”
“And the apprentices?”
“They eat with us down here.”
“And they sleep. . where?”
“Up on the top floor.”
“Including the journeyman?”
“No, he lives off somewhere. You’ll have to ask him where.”
“With so many doing extra work, it makes things busier for the staff, doesn’t it? Is this a happy staff?”
“Well,” said she, “Mr. Turbott, he sets a good table, and he treats everyone pretty well, so I’d say yes, on the whole, and on the average, day in and day out, it’s a happy staff.”
“What about Elizabeth Hooker?”
“What about her?”
“Was she happy?”
She hesitated at that, leaning back, stroking her jowls as she considered the matter.
“Well now, that’s pretty hard to say, ain’t it?” said she. If you mean really happy it’s hard, anyways-not like Kathleen over there. She just whistles her way through the day here in the kitchen. Ain’t that so, Kathleen?”
The girl, not much older than sixteen, smiled shyly and nodded in response.
“But Lizzie-that’s as we called her-she was something different. Half the time she had her mind somewhere else, so that more often than not you had to tell her things two or three times before they’d get done. Not lazy, you understand, just sort of dreamy. But she’s a great favorite with the Turbotts-specially the master. He’s forever teasing her and carrying on.”
That was where the cook (whose name I later learned was Aggie Liston) ended her description of Elizabeth Hooker. What surprised me was that Sir John allowed her to end it there. In truth, she had said very little. I was sure that he could have gotten more out of her. “I should like to have a moment to talk with my young assistant, Jeremy Proctor, who has just arrived. Then perhaps you might take me to where Miss Hooker sleeps. Has she a room of her own?”
“No, no she ain’t. She shares one with Kathleen.”
“I thought so. Well, perhaps you might take Clarissa and show her the room-that is, if Kathleen has no objection.”
“No, I’ve none,” said the girl.
“Good,” said Sir John. “Now, if there is somewhere he and I might talk with some degree of privacy?”
“What about the pantry?” said Aggie.
“Sounds ideal. If you would not mind waiting, Kathleen?”
“I’ll be right here,” said she.
“Very good.”
With that, we were shown into the pantry, where a single candle burned. Sir John waited till the door was shut, then turned in my direction with a scowl upon his face.
“Now, what is it, lad? You must have something grand to tell me, for ever since you came down the stairs you’ve been hopping from one foot to the other in your eagerness to tell me this great something.”
“But-but-how did you know?” said I, flummoxed and flabbergasted “How could you tell?”
“Why, for the very reason I’ve said. You smell of sweat. You must have run a good part of the distance from Wapping. Everything about you bespeaks a bursting desire to have my attention. Well, now you have it. Speak your piece, if you must.”
And so, quick as ever I could, I gave my report to Sir John on what I had learned from Hetty Duncan, the neighbor next door, as well as a few of the supporting details from George Chesley. It was a pleasure to see that scowl of annoyance turn to an expression of keen interest as my tale unfolded. By the time I had done, he was all but rubbing his hands in delighted anticipation of the next development.
“This is very interesting indeed,” said he. “Mrs. Chesley, the very sister of Jenny Hooker, was so reluctant to let her know that another had attended the dinner in her place that she failed to mention it to her. You’ll notice, too, Jeremy, that we are beginning to get a much different picture of Elizabeth as we learn more about her-as we probe deeper-a girl who indeed has dreams of her own.”
“Yes, the cook had some very interesting observations, did she not? I can hardly wait till Kathleen has her say. You realize, don’t you sir, that she and not Elizabeth’s uncle and aunt was the last to see her.”
“Hmm. Yes. Quite.” Sir John seemed to be far ahead of me. “Let me make you an offer, Jeremy,” said he at last “Since it was you came up with this interesting bit of information, you may interrogate Kathleen, if you like.”
“I welcome the chance, sir,” said I.
“Very well, the burden is upon you then. But do keep in mind that even though she has not stepped forward with this information, she need not have done so. Do not accuse her. Simply draw her out and let her tell her story.”
“Yes sir.”
And so saying, I opened the door, and we two stepped out into the kitchen. Kathleen stood where she had when we entered the pantry. I pulled out a chair for Sir John, and I invited her to sit down there at the large kitchen table. She accepted, smiled, and dropped into a chair nearby. I sat down opposite her.
“Kathleen is your name?” I asked.
“It is, sir.”
“What is your surname, Kathleen?”
“Surname, sir?” She did not know the word. Could she read, I wondered.
“Yes, surname-your family name.”
“Ah!” said she. “Kathleen Quigley is my full name, sir.”
“What sort of name is that? North of England, perhaps Scottish?”
“Irish, sir.”
Kathleen Quigley was a pretty girl who, had she been asked, might have agreed that she was pretty but would have argued that it meant little in London in such times. Which is to say, she was a realist-as Clarissa perhaps was not.