Page 48 of Who Will Remember (Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery #20)
Monday, 26 August
“T he unfortunate truth is that, every year, a certain number of young women choose to drown themselves in the Thames,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy the following morning as he and Sebastian walked along the terrace of Somerset House overlooking the broad, wind-whipped expanse of the river. “Almost inevitably it’s because they’ve found themselves with child. They’ve been dismissed by their employers, abandoned by the father of their unborn b “abe, and rejected by their own families. They’re ashamed, alone, frightened, and in despair, so that for far too many, death seems the only option.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “What makes you ask?”
“Something I heard the other day,” said Sebastian, unwilling as yet to expose Jamie Gallagher to the merciless and often fatal scrutiny of Bow Street. “How many women a year are we talking about?”
“It’s difficult to say precisely, given that many such bodies either sink or are swept out to sea. The Royal Humane Society—the former Society for the Recovery of Persons Apparently Drowned—are the ones who keep the records on such things. Generally, in any given year there are something like a hundred and fifty corpses pulled from the river. Of those, perhaps seventy-five are the result of accidents, twenty-five are considered suicides, and the rest are classified as ‘found dead.’?”
“And how many of those are young women?”
The magistrate frowned thoughtfully. “Of the known suicides, perhaps sixteen or eighteen, although it may be more. I know the numbers have risen lately, presumably because of our current economic woes. But when it comes to those classified as ‘found dead,’ many of the bodies are in such an advanced stage of decomposition when recovered that determining the deceased’s identity or even age can be difficult, and frankly, the authorities often don’t bother.”
“So postmortems aren’t always performed?”
“Where there is some question as to how the individual died, they are, yes. Although when the individual is obviously a foreigner, or in the case of known suicides, the examinations can sometimes be rather cursory. The ratepayers object.” He paused, then said, “These questions are not idle, are they?”
“Not exactly. But at the moment it’s all speculation.”
Lovejoy nodded as he stared out over the churning expanse of the river, a dull pewter now as it reflected the heavy gray clouds overhead. “Incidentally, we’ve discovered the origins of the note Lord Preston received that night shortly before dinner. It actually came from Bow Street—from John Stafford, to be exact. He was relaying some information from Sidmouth. From the sound of things, it had nothing at all to do with the man’s death.”
Sebastian looked over at him. “Is Sir Nathaniel still determined to arrest Major Chandler?”
“I fear so.”
“And why precisely is the Major supposed to have killed Letitia Lamont?”
“That isn’t entirely clear. Half-Hanged Harry is believed to have seen the two men together that night, which provides the motive for his killing. But given that the abbess was still in the Bridewell at the time, the assumption is that she must somehow have known…something.” Lovejoy paused at the edge of the terrace to watch a sea gull take flight from the low wall beside them, its feathers ruffled by the growing wind as it rose into the sky. “The truth is, the Palace wants the fears of the populace quieted now . Our times are so…disturbed. Another ex-soldier and a former sailor were found starved to death in the streets this morning. There is a growing fear in certain quarters that London may soon see an outbreak of the sort of ‘Bread or Blood’ riots that shook East Anglia several months ago. The harvests are failing, and people are desperate. They’re also dangerously angry—at the shopkeepers, whom they blame for the high price of food; at their current or former employers, because of falling wages and vanishing employment opportunities; and at the government for failing to do more to help those in need. Yet Liverpool remains determined to continue slashing expenses in order to bring down the unprecedented level of government debt.”
“At least we aren’t seeing the massive floods that are sweeping Switzerland and the Netherlands,” said Sebastian. Then added, “Yet.”
Lovejoy was silent for a moment, his face bleak as he glanced up at the gray sky above. “It’s strange—is it not?—how as a species we like to think that, however messy human affairs may be, the earth itself will always be there, always the same: orderly, stable, eternal, reliable. But it’s not, is it? Something has gone terribly wrong with our world. And simply because we don’t understand what it is doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
“According to a natural scientist named Lancelot Plimsoll, the strange disruptions we’ve been seeing—the altered patterns of rain and drought, the unseasonable temperatures—are being caused by a massive volcano that erupted near Java last year and spewed vast clouds of volcanic dust and ash into the air.”
“I hadn’t heard that explanation. It seems rather fanciful, though, doesn’t it? Volcanoes have been exploding since the dawn of history, and they’ve never done this.”
“I gather this was a spectacularly large explosion.”
“Indeed. And what does your Mr. Plimsoll think will happen next? Will this be our lives from here on out? Will it get worse and kill us all? Or will things eventually go back to normal?”
“That he doesn’t know.”
Lovejoy drew a deep breath and let it out slowly as they watched the strengthening wind lift a frothy spume from the tops of the choppy waves beside them. “I’ve heard that some are blaming lightning rods, saying they prevent the earth from releasing heat back into the atmosphere. Others suggest the internal temperature of the earth is cooling, causing a lack of circulation in the electrical fluid that moves between earth and the heavens.”
“And don’t forget the malevolence of witches. I understand the Americans have become particularly fond of that explanation.”
“It sounds about as good a reason as any,” said Lovejoy, and smiled.