An Old Betrayal

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

In the morning Jenkins replied to Lenox’s telegram that he was occupied for much of the day but would be available in the late afternoon. (Alas, none of the names on Lenox’s list matched the names Jenkins’s men had gathered.) Lenox wrote back, promising to be at the Yard at four, and sent a telegram to Dallington to inform him of the new plan.

His morning suddenly free, Lenox dawdled around the nursery with Sophia for a while, chatting affably with Miss Emanuel as both of them observed the child’s awkward and endearing feats of coordination.

At ten, however, Graham asked for a word in Lenox’s study, and there suggested that since they were both free, they might take a round of the charities.

“We have been putting it off,” said Graham.

“Yes, and there will never be a better opportunity,” said Lenox forlornly.

“I will put the word around — if you would be ready to leave in half an hour?”

“Just as you wish.”

Since he had become a Member of Parliament, and especially since he had risen into the higher echelons of his party, Lenox had found himself an object of deep interest among the charities of London (and indeed beyond). For one thing, the imprimatur his name lent to the list of a board of directors was a valuable tool in raising new funds; for another, his attention might one day mean, however glancingly, the attention of the House of Commons.

In the first flush of his electoral triumph, Lenox had accepted every such invitation. It had become apparent very quickly how calamitous a policy that was. There were a great many sham charities, badly run and, truth be told, meriting the investigation of criminal authorities, and only narrowly did Lenox avoid involvement with several of these. As his circumspection increased, he had reduced his commitments to a half-dozen or so charities.

There were always new requests, however, and Graham now insisted — wisely — that they visit each, preferably on very little notice, to make their selection.

The first visit they made was a mere formality, one with which Lenox would happily have dispensed. Graham was more cautious and had insisted they visit Mr. Soyer’s establishment in person. Soyer had been a great man, but he was dead, after all, and one couldn’t rely upon the integrity of his successors.

It was clear from the moment they arrived, however, that Soyer’s food hall was still a model of efficiency. Lenox had now made several of these trips, and the signs of mismanagement had become instantly distinguishable to him: dirt, neglected duties, men lazing about on the job. None of those signs were here. The kitchen was housed in a long room, with a massive marble countertop at one end where eager young men offered a steadily flowing line of ragged-looking individuals and families both soup and bread. Some twelve hundred people ate here each day, according to the letter Lenox had received inviting him onto the board. On Christmas that number was closer to twenty-two thousand. Because it was cheap and made for a hearty meal, Soyer’s kitchen mostly served soup; the men who frequented the place had started calling it the “soup kitchen,” and that concept, of a hall serving soup to the impoverished, had spread all across creation, to the Americas, northwest to Ireland, and southeast to the continent.

This was a testament to the genius and vision of Soyer himself, who had now been dead for nearly twenty years. A Frenchman, he had come to England as the chef of the Reform Club, which instantly became famous for the quality of its food. It was the famine in Ireland that drew his roving attention (for he was also an inventor and an artist) to charitable work, eventually leading to this establishment in Spitalfields. Lenox had already decided when they entered the room that he would join the kitchen’s board of directors, and now, watching the men, women, and children take their food, he wondered at what life must have been like thirty years before, when there was no such resource. He gave credit to his age: Since William the Fourth had died and Victoria took the crown, somehow it had been decided, in the faint aggregate consciousness, that it was unacceptable to permit an Englishman to die of simple starvation, that it was unacceptable not to extend a hand down in aid. The changes were individually imperceptible, and together enormous. Who could say how many tens of thousands of lives this kitchen alone had rescued?

Not all charities were so admirable, unfortunately. The next one they visited was the Osgood Children’s Home, not far away from Soyer’s; it was a disaster.

The home was in Petticoat Market Lane, which might have been the most colorful street in London. All along it was a line of stalls selling clothes and cloth, in every possible color, quiet and garish alike; no doubt Lady Jane had bought dresses whose material originated in this street. Eel sellers and baked-potato men wandered among the crowds, offering their food, and little children, scampering between the stalls, stole what they could.

Near the end of the street was Osgood’s. A nervous young woman greeted them at the door (“It would be ever so much better if you wrote to Mr. Osgood for an appointment,” she kept saying) and only reluctantly escorted them to meet her master. Osgood was a type Lenox recognized at once, bluff, venal, arrogant, charmless, and full of the self-regard of a man who thinks he has made his place in the world on his own. Very possibly Osgood had — but by no savory means. The house was filthy, and the children that Lenox saw were all working, picking apart old rope. He only managed to see this much because he opened a door at random as Osgood hustled them along on a tour of the building.

When they returned to Osgood’s office, Lenox was preparing to give the man a measure of his mind. “Sir, I—”

Here Graham stepped in. “Mr. Lenox is honored at your invitation,” he said, “but wonders if it comes with any emolument, to ease the financial burden of his travel here, for instance, or the lost hours he would spend on behalf of the home’s cause. Perhaps I could return tomorrow to discuss it with you alone? Mr. Lenox’s time is, you understand, very valuable.”

Relief flooded into Osgood’s face. “Of course, of course,” he said. “Any time… I shall be in any time… I shall — please, come along and we may speak. It is always a pleasure to speak with a gentleman who has a business head.”

Graham, all graciousness, thanked their host and promised to return the next day. Lenox touched his cap and followed Osgood’s secretary out of the door.

When they had returned to the carriage, Graham said, in a low voice, “I thought it would be intelligent not to forewarn Mr. Osgood of any potential investigation you saw fit to initiate. I sensed that you might be near to expressing your anger with him, sir.”

“You were absolutely right.”

Yet this method of their extrication — the unsubtle hint that a bribe would certify Lenox’s good opinion of the home — hewed uncomfortably close to the slanders against Graham. Was it possible that just such a situation had led to the misunderstanding? Lenox nearly spoke the question out loud — but didn’t, found he couldn’t. His faith in Graham remained unshaken, and yet his disdain for the rumors about Graham had somewhat diminished.

The next two organizations they visited met with Lenox and Graham’s approval, though the second, a library for the Jewish schools, would demand a great deal of time; if possible, Lenox intended to fob the job off upon some junior Member.

“Are we finished?” he asked Graham as they left.

“Two more, sir.”

Lenox looked at his watch. It was nearly half past one. “I can do one of them.”

Graham chose for them, directing the driver to Great Ormond Street. There was a hospital for children there, the first of its kind in Britain, and though it had started with only ten beds, in ’52, it had been successful. One of its earliest supporters had been Charles Dickens.

“Stopping there has the virtue of bringing us back toward the west end of town,” Graham said. He was looking down at a page of notes in his tidy handwriting. “Aside from that, it is the least disinterested of our stops, sir.”

“Oh?”

“In fact, they did not inquire after your availability — rather the opposite; I inquired whether there might be a seat on their board for you. It may mean financial outlay, even a personal donation from you.”

“To what end?” asked Lenox, curious.

“If the rumors are to be believed, Queen Victoria intends to take an interest in the hospital. Better to be on the train before it stops for the multitudes, I think, sir.”

It was the kind of minor, vital action that Graham had mastered. Lenox smiled. “Excellent.”

The hospital, housed in a tall red building that curved around a corner, was a model of what such an establishment ought to be. The wards were clean and white, with the sharp disinfecting smell of soap strong on the air, and behind it occasionally a whiff of baked marmalade pie, which must have been the dessert the children received for lunch. Windows were open to circulate the air, but the beds looked warm. In tidy crates near the door were picture books and toys.

All of the patients here were between the ages of two and thirteen, with very occasionally someone who had been long in convalescence staying to the age of fourteen. Lenox’s tour began with the infants; a nurse, after giving him a mask for his mouth, led him to each crib, where she described the child’s illness and the steps that the hospital was taking. A remarkable variety of medical men, including dozens from the Royal Society of Medicine and the Society of Apothecaries, gave freely of their time. There were six staff doctors who rotated in and out of the hospital daily.

“Here is our newest one now,” said the nurse as they turned a corner. “Perhaps we can follow him for a few minutes in his rounds.”

There, to Lenox’s astonishment, stood Thomas McConnell.