Devoured by D. E. Meredith Page A

thought you were an educated man, Mr Ashby. I thought you were the king’s own clerk.’ And yes, of course he had read Charles Lyell and his Principles of Geology . How the earth had evolved over millions of years. How the present was the key to the past. But what had that got to do with the Duke of Monreith? But before Ashby could ask, she had already gone.
    But what to do about it? Only one thing it seemed, so he’d rifled through his mother’s things and pawned the ring. Isn’t that what was demanded? Isn’t that what he did? Tidy things up for the Duke? Do as he was told? And now do as she said. And understanding all the time the nub of it: that money was key to this transaction.
    The entrance to the old house, a shoddy pile of dirty brick and fallen timbers, was down an unlit alley, off Weavers Lane. A bundle of dirty rags was piled up in the snow outside the doorway. He wrinkled his nose, stepping over the moaning heap of soiled clothes which begged him, ‘Luvvie, spare a coin,’ and stepped into a passageway, more black than the alley he’d left.
    The instructions he’d received had been clear. The money was to be polished, and to a figure of his choice. Ashby gritted his chattering teeth against the death chill of December. A perishing month if you suffered, as he did. But still, press on, he thought, press on.
    ‘Is anybody there?’ hissed Ashby.
    No answer came, but Ashby could hear a faint scratching sound so he carried on down what he thought must be a narrow hall, feeling his way like a mole with hands against the walls. The scurrying seemed to be ahead. And whispers? Yes, whispering. And a whirring sound and click, click, click and a clack, clack, clack.
    The clacking sounds grew louder as Ashby stumbled his way on through the winding passage until he saw a chink of furtive light, a thin shard, nothing more. Pushing against what Ashby felt must be a door, he stepped inside a room stuffed to the brim with a myriad of colours. The peacock splendour of it all whirled around him in iridescent flashes, as the whispering and the clacking grew louder. Ashby had never seen anything like it before in his drab little life, but he’d read of these places in books which he’d devoured as a boy. Like some Indian bazaar or Egyptian palace, this room was exotica. He found his voice. ‘Are you there, Madame Martineau? It’s Ashby.’
    Stepping into the storeroom, a figure in black stood silently for what felt like an age, before answering him in the faintest of accents, ‘I was expecting you at least an hour ago. Have you got my money?’
    Madame Martineau arched a black brow, questioning. Her jet hair almost entirely hidden by a white cap, etched either side with cascading ribbons. Her dark eyes staring, unblinking, and nestled under long, thick lashes. In one hand she held a sharp pair of scissors. In the other hand, nothing.
    ‘I decided on a single payment of ten guineas. It’s all here, Madame. Please check if you like.’
    ‘Indeed, Ashby, I shall if I like. The figure you have selected seems appropriate and I see you have polished the guineas. Well done!’ And she laughed as she took the coins from his hands.
    ‘So, Madame. Where are these letters you promised me?’
    ‘You shall have them, but come, Mr Ashby. Follow me. I need to rest a little. I’m not my usual self.’
    The sylphlike woman turned her back on the scribe, swishing her skirt behind her, and Ashby followed, meek as a lamb. At a series of long trestle tables sat a bevy of girls, heads down, hands busy at work. None looked up, because they feared their mistress, but Ashby knew now where the whispering and whirring came from. Each girl was sewing or cutting. One dark creature with bony shoulders sat hunched over a strange contraption, her little foot pumping up and down. Ashby spied what he thought must be a needle, winking silver, which bounced up and down on violet brocade. The other girls stitched by hand, as high fashion demanded.