The Baker's Tale (14 page)

“We have never spoken of my size,” Abraham said.

“Nor of mine,” Ruby parried.

He smiled.

“There is a difference. My life has been shaped by my physical stature. In polite terms, I am a curiosity. I have heard far worse. I am educated and, I believe, intelligent. I have feelings, which are frequently abused. I am sometimes ridiculed and scorned.”

He seemed to be struggling a bit.

“I am told that I was a serious child. I recall liking to arrange all of my toys in a row.”

He paused, as though having difficulty coming to the heart of the matter.

“You may speak freely,” Ruby said.

“My parents were of normal size. One can say that it is worse to be the way I am. None would say that it is better. It makes life more difficult. And lonely. These things happen in the world.”

The shadow of apple trees splayed across the grass.

“It was in this garden that I experienced the worst moment of my life. One day when I was young, some friends and I were gathered round my mother's knee, looking at a picture of angels that she held in her hand. It was summer. I am certain of that because one of the girls had a rose in her hair. There were many angels in the picture, and I remember the fancy coming upon me to suggest which of the angels represented each child there. Once I had gone through the other children, I wondered aloud which of the angels was most like me. I remember the children looking awkwardly at each other. A sorrow came upon my mother's face, and the truth that I was different from other children broke upon me for the first time. The other children kissed me and told me they loved me just the same. My mother held me in her arms, and I cried. I have long since made my accommodation with the world. But my heart aches for that child. I think often of how he would awake after dreaming that he had grown larger, only to find himself the same and cry himself to sleep again.”

Ruby could think of nothing to say.

Abraham looked directly at her.

“Why did you come to America?”

There was a moment of silence.

“Most people come here with the intention of improving their fortune. I do not sense that in you.”

“A change in my life was necessary.”

“I will not pry, since you seem disinclined to tell me more. But I will always be here to listen. I am older than you are and may, on a few small points, be able to offer guidance should you choose to confide in me. I have told you of my trials. Perhaps, someday, you will tell me of yours.”

There was no impertinence in the offer. It was as well intentioned as could be.

“There is wisdom of the head, and there is wisdom of the heart,” Abraham told her. “Neither is all-sufficient. You are a wonderful young woman. Know your own worth. You can be nothing better than yourself. That will suffice.”

That night in her tiny room, Ruby thought about the day just done. There was a shadow on her heart that told of a sad love story. Sad, but a love story just the same. Something inside of her cried out, “Love him! If he wounds you, love him! If your heart is torn to pieces, love him! Love him! Love him! Love him!”

She took paper and pen in hand and began to write.

My Dearest Marie,

I do not quite know how to tell you what I wish to say. The nights here are very long. I cry sometimes when I am alone. I have been torn from my home and those I love.

The people here are kind. I have a room of my own and a job in a bakery. I would say that I am well, but pieces of my heart are in England.

I dreamed last night of myself as very young girl with patches on the clothes I wore before I knew you. I dreamed also of sitting by the fire with you and Antonio and dear uncle by my side. So you are with me still, though I am far away.

Ruby put the pen down, lifted it up, and put it down again, considering what to write next.

I will tell you the whole truth. Forgive the rambling of my thoughts. They are not easily told.

Ruby then poured out her soul in the relief and pain of disclosure. She recounted being summoned to Murd's home, and meeting with Murd and Isabella. She wrote frankly without concealment of any kind.

I left England because I feared that not doing so would bring misfortune to Edwin. If I did wrong to you and Antonio and others I love, it was in ignorance of the world.

The brightest hopes of my heart were set upon Edwin. I have loved him for every minute of every day since I have known him. I now look upon our time together as a dream—a dream I might marry the man I love—that can never be fulfilled.

I know that I must look for what is right in the world. I cannot let my life grow cold because there came my way a good man who, but for the selfish regret that I cannot call him my own, would, like all other good men, make me happier and better.

If by chance you see Edwin, tell him how much I wish for his happiness, that I will never forget his kind face and gentle manner. Tell him that I am sorry for any trouble that my feelings for him brought upon him.

In all of these foolish thoughts, which I confess to you because I know that you will understand me if anyone can, there is one thought that is never out of my mind. I hope that, sometimes in quiet moments, Edwin thinks fondly of me. I hope he remembers that I exist and, in
some way, knows that I love him. If I were to die tomorrow, I would bless him with my last words and pray for his happiness with my last breath.

Your devoted daughter,

Ruby
        

CHAPTER
10

W
hen Ruby disappeared suddenly from London, it was as though the sun that shone over Edwin had left the sky. He recalled every moment of their time together. Every charm that had enveloped her heightened his despair. He tried at times to smile, but it is difficult to smile with an aching heart.

Every Saturday, Edwin went to the learning center. He felt closer in spirit to Ruby when he was there. On Sundays, he visited Marie and myself, always hoping for news, although I had promised that I would immediately bring to him any word of Ruby's whereabouts. We would sit together in the bakery and talk about all manner of things. A bond developed between us. Marie and I grew increasingly fond of Edwin, and our fondness was returned.

“My heart is given to Ruby,” he told us. “Nothing in the world will change that. No one would be more welcome in my life than one who brings me assurance that she is well.”

Five weeks after Ruby left home, a letter arrived. We knew now that she was in America. She spoke of being in Boston, but possibly going to New York. She expressed affection and a longing for home, but did not tell us why she had left. There was relief in knowing that no physical harm had come to her. But the ashes of the fire that once warmed Marie's home were grey and cold.

Edwin's distaste for Alexander Murd continued without abatement. Murd radiated civility and charm with men of business who could help him to fresh profits. But he was a different man with others. His voice was harsh as he demanded money that was owed to him or sought to limit what he owed.

Edwin declined an invitation to accompany Isabella to a second opera. That did not keep her from visiting the office and hovering over him on a particularly unpleasant morning.

“How is Miss Spriggs, who I saw you with on the street not long ago?”

“I have not seen her lately,” Edwin replied.

“I suppose she has lost interest in you.”

“Perhaps.”

“Most likely, she has run off with a man more suited to her class.”

There was a look of malignant satisfaction in Isabella's eyes.

“In any event, I suppose that Miss Spriggs has made clear her lack of interest in you.”

Edwin did not respond.

“I have an intuition in these things,” Isabella continued. “I ought to know.”

Ought to, Edwin thought to himself. But it is unlikely that you do. There are treasures of the heart that gold cannot purchase. I would not expect you to understand.

Later that day, the office secretary was at his desk, reading letters that he was to open before parceling them into separate piles for distribution. The post had come in heavy that morning, and he had a good deal to do.

A man of middle age entered. He wore a grey outer coat with a narrow collar, black pants, and a waistcoat fashioned from ribbed black silk. His cheekbones were high and prominent, and his cheeks themselves so hollow that he seemed to be sucking them in.

He was in an agitated state.

“My name is Harold Plepman. I wish to see Mr. Murd.”

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

“I am the purchaser of coal for the Hospital for Foundling Children. It is about a matter of payment.”

Murd was disinclined to receive the visitor when his secretary announced the arrival.

Harold Plepman sat and waited.

Arthur Abbott, the accountant, went into Murd's office. Several minutes later, he reappeared and approached the uninvited Mr. Plepman.

“You are not to come here. Business of this nature is conducted away from the office.”

“I ought to have got more money,” Plepman said. He was perspiring in the summer heat.

“You have been well compensated.”

“Tell Mr. Murd that I know what constitutes a fair bargain. I wish to make a fair bargain with him.”

Abbott went back into Murd's office and closed the door behind him.

Moments later, Murd appeared.

“You will leave now,” he told Plepman.

“One hundred pounds is not enough,” Plepman said.

“I do not ask. I direct. If you come here again, you will be subjected to criminal prosecution.”

A wave of his hand was tantamount to dismissal.

Plepman swallowed hard and left the office.

“It was a misunderstanding with regard to a minor matter,” Murd told the employees, all of whom had been watching and none of whom, other than Arthur Abbott, seemed to know what the conversation had been about. “I believe it had to do with a transaction that Edwin handled.”

“You are mistaken, sir,” Edwin corrected. “I have had no transactions with that gentleman.”

Murd frowned and, without more, returned to his private office. Soon after, Arthur Abbott approached Edwin.

“Mr. Murd would like to see you,” he said.

Murd was sitting behind his desk when Edwin entered.

“It is not necessary for you to correct me on matters of business.”

“I understand, sir. But I have had no dealings with that gentleman, nor do I have any knowledge regarding what his grievance was about.”

“It is not necessary that you know. You are not to raise the subject with me or with anyone else again.”

“Since you brought my name into the matter, sir, I would like to know what it is about.”

“All I desire, Mr. Chatfield, is that it be forgotten. All that you need to do is forget it.”

Murd reached for a leather-bound ledger on his desk.

“You talk of books, Mr. Chatfield. This is the most treasured book in my library. It is a delightful book, all true and as real as the gold spoken of in its pages. It is written in my own hand for
my own particular reading. None of your storybook writers will ever make a book as good as this.”

Murd took a small key from his jacket pocket as Edwin had seen him do before, unlocked the drawer in his desk in which there was another key, and used the second key to open a cabinet. Then he placed the ledger on a shelf beside several similar books, locked the cabinet, and returned to his desk.

“If you had more work to do, perhaps you would ask fewer questions. I would like a memorandum from you by tomorrow morning. You are to summarize what we know at the present time regarding the cost of shipping coal from land that is under consideration for acquisition by the company. I trust that will not be a problem for you.”

The timing of the assignment was punitive. Edwin understood that. It meant a long night's work to compile information that Murd, most likely, already had at his disposal. But now was not the proper time for rebellion.

That night, Edwin remained at his desk long after everyone else had left the office. The day's events resounded through his mind.

“I am the purchaser of coal for the Hospital for Foundling Children. It is about a matter of payment. I ought to have got more money.”

Harold Plepman was purchasing coal. He should be paying out money, not receiving it.

“Business of this nature is conducted away from the office. If you come here again, you will be subjected to criminal prosecution.”

The wheels in Edwin's head were turning. A battle with his conscience followed as he considered the moral ambiguities inherent in what he was about to do.

Perhaps the instant act was wrong, but there were larger ethical issues.

Edwin went into Murd's private office. A silver letter opener in the shape of a sword lay on Murd's desk. Edwin took the letter opener and inserted its point into the crack above the drawer where Murd kept the key to his cabinet.

The lock held firm.

Edwin manipulated the blade again . . . A third time . . .

There was a
click
.

Edwin opened the drawer and, taking care not to disturb its contents, removed the key from its resting place. Then he unlocked the cabinet and took out the ledgers, all the while listening for sounds of danger in the night.

There were four ledgers. He spread them out on Murd's desk and began to read.

Over the next six hours, Edwin explored the mysteries of Alexander Murd's business, dissecting its nerves and fibres. It was all there. A full record of invoices, receipts, percentages on dealings, the distribution of money to third parties. The numbers were plain and clear enough that Edwin, with what he knew of the business, was able to interpret them without difficulty.

The Hospital for Foundling Children was paying far more for coal than similarly situated purchasers, and had been for several years. Within a week of each such purchase, one hundred pounds was transferred to Murd's solicitors to be given to Harold Plepman.

The same lack of uniformity in price, followed by payments to purchasing agents, existed with regard to numerous other buyers of coal.

In other areas of the business—such as amounts paid to transport coal—there were irregularities of a similar nature. Only here, Murd appeared to pay less than the standard amount.

Edwin copied the names and numbers that he thought most important onto paper of his own. Then he placed Murd's ledgers back in the cabinet, locked it, and returned Murd's key to the proper place in the desk. Finally, he closed the desk drawer tight and manipulated the lock shut with the letter opener.

The memorandum that Murd had ordered him to write was hastily written. Edwin would deal with the consequences of its shortcomings in the morning. He extinguished his candle and stole out onto the dark streets of London.

The next day, Edwin arrived at the office at his normal hour. Murd spent most of the morning with the door to his private room closed. Several messengers came and went. With each one, a sense of urgency seemed to grow heavier in the air. Edwin told himself that it was only his imagination.

He had tried his best to restore everything in the desk and cabinet precisely as he had found it. But centimeters matter. The angle of a piece of paper resting on a shelf matters. The fear of discovery grew.

“Mr. Murd would like to see you in his private room,” Arthur Abbott told Edwin.

Edwin steeled his emotions for whatever lay ahead.

Murd was sitting behind his desk with a dark look on his face.

“You wished to see me, sir.”

“There has been an accident of a serious nature at the Lancashire mine.”

A sinking sensation swept through Edwin.

“The extent of damage is unknown at the present time,” Murd continued. “Lives have been lost, and the mining of coal has been temporarily suspended. There is a threat of violence and the possibility of action by the miners that might spread to other sites.

“I am sending my solicitor, Albert Diamond, to Lancashire this morning. He will observe and gather evidence for the inquest that is sure to follow. You have a way with people, and you were well received by the miners on your visit to Lancashire. I would like you to accompany Mr. Diamond to Lancashire. You will tell the miners that I have the greatest sympathy for their suffering, but that candor obliges you to affirm that nothing improper preceded the accident. You are of no use to me unless you advance this position. I expect that you will conduct yourself in an appropriate manner. You are to calm the miners, not incite them.”

The journey to Lancashire took eight hours.

Edwin had met Albert Diamond briefly on several prior occasions. He was a man of formal bearing with a jutting chin that seemed as though it would facilitate passage through a crowded room.

As the train travelled north, the solicitor explained to Edwin that handling the mine incident would involve a combination of diplomacy and management. At day's end, they came to the mining town. The setting sun glared upon the horizon through a grey haze like a sullen blood-stained eye.

Edwin and Albert Diamond disembarked from the train. There was the same thick air, difficult to breathe, and the same blighted ground. But now, death cast a heavier pall. Grief and urgency were everywhere.

The mine site resembled a deadly battlefield. An explosion had happened. More than one hundred men, women, and children working underground had been swept from the face of the earth, many of them without a moment for penitence or prayer.

Doom hung over the scene, imparting a squalid sickly hue. Men and women exerted themselves with steady courage, hoping
to rescue friends trapped underground and to recover the bodies of others. Torches burned all night.

The miners had been working at the end of an upwardly inclined tunnel ninety yards off the main shaft. When a tunnel is on an upward slant, any gas that is present collects in the upper end. The men broke through into the end of another up-hill tunnel. There was a rush of gas. Coal dust flew as luminous sparks. The air became inflammable, scorching all within its reach. There was an explosion. Clothes were burned and hair singed off. Skin and flesh were torn apart.

The whole town had gathered for the rescue effort. Teams of workers had been formed. They dug all through the night and through the next day and through another night, then day again. Digging deeper and deeper into the crust of the earth, carrying timber and rock away, searching for the dead with little hope of survivors.