“It’s the Frenchman,” whispered Tyler as he shifted his stance. “He’s come over with the scientific society from Paris, though he’s not a member.”
Charlotte gave no outward reaction.
The man started to talk. He spoke English quite well, with only a trace of an accent. It was a well-tailored presentation, distilling abstract concepts into practical ideas that the working men could grasp.
“The fact that travel is both expensive and difficult works as an invisible prison. You can’t afford to leave a place, and so employers can pay you a pittance for your labor. If you had the freedom of choice, you would also have an opportunity to make a better life for yourselves and your families. That’s why we are agitating for better roads and bridges to connect the country.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd as the men began to understand the message.
“I’ve seen for myself what improved roads mean for the working man in France,” continued the speaker. “You deserve no less here in Britain.”
The rumblings grew louder. A few shouts of support echoed through the room.
“You should also be demanding that the government establish a fund for public works—like roads and bridges—that will employ the soldiers returning home from war and unable to find jobs because steam-powered looms and lathes have taken their place!”
More applause.
Ferret Face approached the makeshift podium, and the Frenchman ceded his place. “We already have plans to start circulating printed broadsides pressing for Parliament to pass an Act to fund road and bridge improvements. Our local radical newspapers will also add their voice. If we stir enough public sentiment, the government will be forced to listen.”
An overly optimistic assessment, mused Charlotte. But then, reformers needed unflinching passion to keep butting their heads against the bastions of privilege and power.
Still, the man’s core point—that free movement of labor was a key element in offering workers an opportunity to improve their lives—had made her realize that it was, perhaps, an important issue, and that A. J. Quill ought to look into it more carefully.
Glancing around, Charlotte made a mental sketch of the people and venue. Perhaps in using her pen to help unmask Milton’s killer, she could also help those who were still living.
Ferret Face finished his exhortation and stepped down from the crate, signaling the end of the meeting. Tyler moved away to have a word with him and the Frenchman while the crowd began to file back to the tap room. He returned after a few moments, pausing just long enough for a quick exchange.
“I’ve been invited to stay. We’re meeting a friend of the Frenchman in a private side room.”
“Bonne chance,” she whispered. “I’ll head straight back, as we planned.”
“Be careful.”
Charlotte acknowledged the warning with a tug to her hat and then slipped away.
CHAPTER 10
The soot-dark night air felt refreshing after the fetid heat of unwashed bodies and rancid oil lanterns. She turned down an alleyway that branched out into a maze of footpaths after squeezing between two ancient wooden buildings. A scudding of starlight fluttered over the rutted ground for just a moment before the clouds overwhelmed the feeble glow.
It didn’t matter. Charlotte knew the route by heart.
Mud squelched underfoot, and for a moment she was transported back to the days when her nocturnal prowlings for information to use in her satirical drawings were the key to her survival.
From up ahead came the scrabbling of a feral cat and the faint squeak of its victim.
“Eat or be eaten,” she murmured. Though these days, that stark choice no longer had real teeth.
Life certainly did take unexpected twists and turns.
As her words were swallowed by the gloom, old instincts kicked in, and she was suddenly aware that she wasn’t alone. The sounds behind her didn’t quite match the echo of her own footsteps.
She took an instant to gauge her options. Cutting back was out of the question, and bolting ahead was too risky—she couldn’t be sure of outrunning her pursuer. And with the buildings jammed together cheek by jowl, there were no openings allowing escape to another alleyway.
However . . .
Charlotte slowly lengthened her stride. She recalled that just after the next turn was a brick warehouse where the half-collapsed overhang of the neighboring building provided a way to scramble up to a narrow ledge and reach the roof. From there, one could drop down to the other side and disappear into another web of alleys.
Assuming, of course, that the overhang was still there.
