The Devil's Acre (8 page)

There was an angry, affronted shout from the direction of a boiler-cart selling steamed potatoes. Caroline squinted, looking closer. A dark, fierce-looking man, quite short and thin but utterly fearless, was cursing loudly in a strong Irish accent, making an energetic complaint to the stallholder. It was Pat Slattery, the fellow she’d seen with Martin and Mr Quill in the Eagle – whose name alone had caused her sister such alarm. A handful of others, his Roscommon boys, rushed to his side, raising their voices along with his. Martin’s stooped, broad-shouldered form was not among them. Caroline supposed that he must be off somewhere doing the bidding of the chief engineer.

Slattery and his friends started rocking the cart back and forth, and a dull clang rang out as one of them struck the boiler with his fist. The rest promptly followed suit, and soon the squat iron tank was under a prolonged, noisy attack. The stallholder did not try to weather this battering for long, driving his dented boiler-cart off towards Vauxhall Bridge in a hail of oaths and stones, whipping his braying mule for all he was worth. The Irishmen patted each other’s backs, nodding with the curt satisfaction of a job well done. They paid visits to a couple of the surrounding stalls – which served them quickly, waving away payment – and then came back through the factory gates, joking with each other as they settled against a wall to eat. These were creatures from the Devil’s Acre, Caroline thought; that was their natural place. What could possibly have lured them out to this Yankee’s factory in Pimlico? It wasn’t just the daily wage, that was for certain. Amy was wrong – something was going on here.

Nancy, the girl across from Caroline, cleared her throat
pointedly. This could only mean that Mr Alvord, their overseer, was approaching. Abruptly, Caroline turned from the window and reapplied herself to her labours. The drilling machine was about the size of a household mangle, but far more intricate and weighty in construction. Everything centred on the pistol part held in its middle by an elaborate clamp. This particular part was called the hammer, but to Caroline it looked more like a small twig or a wishbone. It was certainly hard to imagine this delicate piece of steel fitting into anything as deadly as a gun; hang it on a length of chain, she’d thought when first she saw it, and it would make a pretty pendant. Two different-sized holes had been run through the hammer presently fixed in the machine, which meant that there was one more left to do. The rotating head suspended before her held three drill-bits. At that moment, however, she couldn’t for the life of her remember which bit to use.

Compared with other factories that Caroline had seen – a few mills and potteries, glimpsed from the street – the machine floor of the Colt works was almost disturbingly quiet. The labour done there largely involved making adjustments, aligning clamps and so on; the machines were actually engaged for a few seconds only, and would emit no more than a high, rasping whine. There was the slapping of the belts, and the constant background hum of the brass driving cylinder overhead, but for much of the time the floor was swaddled in a schoolroom hush. The sound of men’s boots coming up behind her was thus clearly audible, and she stiffened at it; there were at least five pairs of them. Chancing a backwards glance, twisting momentarily atop her stool, she saw that the chubby, bland-faced Mr Alvord was surrounded by numerous others, more than she had time to count. They were all following an imposing bearded fellow, thick-set and tall, who looked like he knew his way around a gaming room – Colonel Colt, her employer.

Frowning in concentration, knowing that she must make a convincing display for the Colonel’s sake, Caroline turned the drill-head to the left. It slid around easily, with a heavy, well-greased clunk. She leaned over to pull the
lever that would connect her machine to the spinning cylinder ahead.

‘Mr Alvord,’ said a deep Yankee voice at her shoulder, ‘if I’m not mistaken, this girl is just about to sink a second bolt-cam hole through that there hammer.’

This voice, of course, belonged to Colt. Caroline cursed her luck. Alvord was at her side the very next instant, smelling of bad teeth and root ginger, disengaging the belt, rotating the drill-head, apologising profusely for her stupidity. She looked around, thinking to assume her best servant’s manner and assure the Colonel that it wouldn’t ever happen again.

A small, hard eye was scrutinising her from beneath the brim of a strange Yankee hat. ‘That hammer is the most vital part of a Colt pistol, young miss,’ the Colonel said, not entirely unkindly. ‘It’s what marks us out from our main rivals in this city. You be sure to learn how to drill it properly.’ He swivelled on his heel so that he faced the overseer. ‘And Mr Alvord, p’raps you might like to deliver your lesson again. Although it is true that even the most slow-witted of humans can be trained in the operation of my machines, the rate of success does depend a little on the quality of the goddamn instruction.’ With this, the gun-maker strode away in the direction of the jiggers and the lock-frames – the heavier devices that shaped the central parts of the revolver.

Alvord, enraged and humiliated, pointed to the drill-head. ‘Start at position
one,
turning
anticlockwise.’
He indicated each bit in turn. ‘That’s the hammer spring; the bolt cam; the main spring roller. If you don’t have it by the end of the day we’ll be replacing you in the morning, understand?’

Caroline nodded, repeating the names of the drill-bits. Alvord had already left, though, starting after Colonel Colt. She became aware that one of the Colonel’s followers had become detached from the train, and was lingering by her machine. Hands on the drill-head, she aimed a sly sidelong look in his direction. There stood a young man in an English frock-coat and top hat, a junior office type of the sort you saw perched up on the roofs of omnibuses bound for the City, smoking their cigars and surveying the streets below
as if they were the rightful owners of all London. She supposed that this particular fellow was part of Colonel Colt’s English establishment. He had a cool quality about him, though, a watchfulness, that held an undeniable appeal. He was studying her closely. Pausing in her work, she put a hand on her hip and met his gaze, thinking to embarrass any ignoble intention that might be lurking in his mind.

Caroline recognised him – the straight, short nose and smooth brow, the neat, coppery whiskers, the faint quizzical cast to his lips. It was the gentleman she’d seen in the yard on that first morning, a fortnight previously. He tipped his hat to her and went after Colt.

‘The Colonel’s starting to fret,’ whispered Nancy knowingly. ‘That’s what it’s all about. Word is that he’s looking to show the factory off as soon as he can, to the Army and some government toffs most likely. But now, just as he’s got the engine running nicely at last, his chief engineer goes and gets hisself knocked senseless.’

Caroline met this rather absently. ‘What are you on about, Nance?’

Keen to be the bearer of gossip, Nancy leaned in closer, poking her flat, snub-nosed face between the raised parts of her machine. ‘The beatings, Caro – ain’t you heard? Mr Quill the Yankee engineer and his paddy assistant. Got served out something proper last night in Pimlico, up on one of Mr Cubitt’s sites near Warwick Square.’

The smart young man left Caroline’s mind at once.
‘What?’

Nancy was well pleased by this response. Nothing gave this sturdy factory veteran more satisfaction than to adopt the guise of the wise old hand with privileged information to share. ‘They’ll be all right, best anyone can tell,’ she said casually. ‘In a week or so, anyway. The Colonel’s got ‘em laid up in the Yankees’ lodging house over on Tachbrook Street. Brought in a doctor and everything. No one knows who done it. There’s stories aplenty, o’ course.’

This was why Martin hadn’t been down in the yard with Slattery. He was lying all bashed up in a Pimlico lodging house. Amy would be going mad with worry. Would he have thought to get word to her? Would he have been able to?
Helplessly, Caroline looked around the long, dingy machine room; at the Colonel’s greasy metal contraptions, their operators hunched over them as if they were being slowly devoured; at the complex cat’s-cradle of machine-belts, flapping and tensing with the shifting of the levers. It was only late morning. There was no chance of her being able to get away before seven. When she’d been taken on, the foreman had stressed that any unexplained absence from your machine during factory hours would see you slung straight out the gate.

Caroline tried to return her attention to the drill-head, but she couldn’t stop thinking of Martin – of what had befallen him and Mr Quill after she’d spoken with them in the Eagle. Why would anyone attack them like that?

She could only come up with one possible answer. It had to be something to do with Pat Slattery.

All fifty of Colt’s female operatives were employed in the same region of the works, on the lighter machines, and they took their dinner together. They sat by the water trough in the centre of the yard, chattering and laughing as they ate. Caroline stayed apart from them, having no wish to listen to their excited speculation about the beatings. She’d bought a white onion and a piece of cheese, but frustration and worry had taken away her appetite completely. Pacing the factory’s boundary, she peered out through the railings, along the wide river in the direction of Westminster.

The bell rang, summoning them inside. It occurred to Caroline that she could just walk into the forging shop right then, confront Slattery and demand that he reveal everything he knew, for the sake of Martin’s wife and children. This was a tempting notion indeed. Crossing the yard to the sliding factory door, preparing to file in behind the other women, she imagined herself simply doing it: turning away from the staircase, weaving between the drop-hammers, approaching the Irishman as he stoked his fire and saying her piece with righteous, unchallengeable anger.

But there was no time; and besides, one of the Yankees would be sure to see her, Mr Alvord would be informed, and
she’d be dismissed before you could say ‘main spring roller’. Caroline went back up to her machine and drilled hammers all through the grey, everlasting afternoon, fidgeting with agonised boredom. When the final bell eventually sounded she was the first down the stairs and out into the deepening darkness. She left by the pedestrian gate at the rear of the works, intending to learn what she could of Martin’s condition and then go to Amy. This gate led onto Bessborough Place, the shadowy, featureless lane that lined the factory block’s north-eastern side. From here it was only a short walk to the Americans’ lodging house on Tachbrook Street. A large corner residence at the street’s southern end, it had the grand, fresh-made look common to all of Mr Cubitt’s Pimlico; the Colonel clearly believed in ensuring the comfort of his senior staff. She could see a couple of them through the windows, lounging in a gas-lit sitting room, laughing over something they’d read in a newspaper.

Caroline straightened her bonnet, screwed down her courage and knocked at the front door. It was opened by an elderly male servant who studied her with a knowing leer, no doubt assuming an unsavoury reason for her call. She was about to explain herself when she noticed two people sitting on a bench across the hall, directly opposite the doorway. One of them was Martin. He had a blanket over his shoulders and a wide, blood-spotted bandage wrapped around his brow. His ribs, too, were bound, as was his right wrist; in all, he looked more like a stricken soldier than an apprentice engineer.

Pushing past the servant, Caroline started towards him. The other person on the bench rose to meet her, and she realised that it was the fellow from the machine floor – the smart young man with the coppery whiskers. He was holding his top hat in his hands, as if about to go out; his hair was thick and straight, combed back from his brow in a neat, dark diagonal.

‘You are acquainted with Mr Rea, miss?’ he inquired.

Caroline nodded. ‘He’s my sister’s husband, sir. She’ll be worried half to death.’

Martin hadn’t reacted to her appearance in the lodging
house. This wasn’t so unusual. Her brother-in-law was prone to strangeness, his gaze icing over as he became sunk in his own private thoughts. That evening, however, he appeared to be barely conscious, swaying slightly where he sat as if drunk.

‘My name is Edward Lowry,’ the man said. ‘I am the Colonel’s London secretary.’ He spoke in a clear, polished voice, by the standards of the Colt factory at least – this secretary plainly had education, if not wealth or breeding.

‘Caroline Knox, sir,’ she replied, dropping a small curtsey.

Mr Lowry looked back at Martin. ‘The doctor says that Mr Rea here took several rather brutal kicks to the head, and remains seriously disorientated. He is set on returning to his home, though, as soon as possible. At once, in fact.’

‘Martin is a determined fellow, sir. Mulish by nature.’

‘The Colonel is upstairs, talking with Mr Quill. He has instructed me to honour Mr Rea’s wishes – to discover his address and put him in a cab. I was going to take him over to Moreton Street and flag one down.’

Caroline shook her head. ‘No cab will go where this cove lives, Mr Lowry. Let me ride with him. I’ll get the driver to drop us on Broad Sanctuary. I can get him back from there.’

‘Very well, Miss Knox.’ He smiled, rather pleasantly Caroline had to admit, meeting her eye for just a second longer than necessary; then he turned to the injured man on the bench and put on his hat.

Martin glanced up at them both, seeming to understand what they’d been discussing. His face looked wrong, lopsided and red, and scratched all over with angry cuts; the bandages had gathered his bushy black hair into a single unruly clump. He winced as if the dim lamp on the wall behind Caroline was painfully bright. ‘Let’s be off, then,’ he managed to croak.

The three of them tottered out into the street, Martin leaning heavily on Mr Lowry. They’d progressed about thirty halting paces along Tachbrook Street when there was movement somewhere behind them – rapid movement. Caroline felt a quiver of fear. Was it Martin’s mysterious assailants, come to
finish the job, along with any who might be with him? But no; before she even had time to turn, she heard the muttering, the accents, and knew immediately who it was.