The Bedlam Cadaver by Robert J. Lloyd

Author:Robert J. Lloyd [Lloyd, Robert J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Melville House
Published: 2024-06-18T00:00:00+00:00

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EVEN THOUGH RACHEL HAD GONE THROUGH to the kitchen, leaving Harry alone in the shop, he still felt acutely conscious of her. Particularly her proximity at the door, when she had pulled him in. Even if only in thought, he knew his preoccupation with Rachel was a betrayal of Grace. A twinge of guilt afflicted him. As with Diana Cantley, another woman had turned his head. This one was poor, undernourished, and Polish, working in Rotherhithe as a tailor. Married, too, he reminded himself, although her husband was at sea. Nevertheless, Harry ran his fingers through his hair to neaten it, as if by doing so he could rid it of its dirt. After his dunk in the Thames, his day of walking through Rotherhithe in the summer heat, and his night sleeping on sacking at the rope yard, he desperately needed a wash.

Ridiculous. To her, he was just a stranger divorced from his money, for reasons she had no way of knowing.

To distract himself, he looked around the shop, studying the equipment and materials. The women kept everything fastidiously stored. The floor and the platform were spotlessly swept. Kept beneath the platform, wicker baskets held scraps of materials. Larger pieces hung on hooks or frames. That the shop was busy was obvious, but he could only see two sets of tools. Organised by size on a shelf, brass and iron needles impaled long rectangular cushions. There were pots of thimbles, bodkins, and chalks, a couple of pressing irons, different types of scissors. Measuring sticks and lengths of paper for clothes ready to begin. Patterns, neatly folded.

Interested in its system, Harry studied more closely the way of marking the paper strips which recorded customers’ measurements, but Rachel’s return interrupted him.

With bread generously buttered, she brought little dishes full of honey and jam, and the same pot with coffee as yesterday. As Harry had seen her do with Mrs. Unsworth, they both leaned on the counter as they ate.

Harry could think of no food more delicious. His cook, Hubert Dieudonne, had prepared him many fine meals; none inspired the bliss this breakfast did now. The taste danced in his mouth and made him feel faint from pleasure. Rachel saw his appreciation and laughed softly at him, knowing it to be far inferior to his usual fare. She swallowed the laugh, stopping it abruptly, as if it displeased her.

Some pinkness rose on her throat, Harry could see, and stained her cheeks.

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