Chapter 8-3
1130 Words
Amelia didn’t move for a few seconds, then nodded as if she’d come to some realization. “You don’t understand. This — it means nothing to you.” She took a deep breath, let it out. “It means nothing.” She nodded. “Very well. Then I’ll sit.”
She was right: I didn’t understand. “I don’t mean to offend.”
Amelia began to laugh. “Your Pot must be much different than people think.”
That seemed a fair statement. We were poor, yes, but free, and proud of it. “I’ve left Mr. Anthony. I won’t say why, as it’s not entirely my story to tell. But to return to Spadros Manor, even to speak to Pip, would make things more difficult for everyone. Mr. Anthony doesn’t understand, which is why he’s so distressed.”
“He’s distressed because he loves you.”
I pushed the remorse and grief away. “Him loving me has never been the issue.” It only made Tony’s problems — and his pain — worse when he learned the truth.
She gritted her teeth, not breathing for a moment.
“There are things I need you to do, yet you mustn’t even speak of them to Mr. Dewey. Roy Spadros must not know.”
Her head shot up. “I swear, mum, I’ve told him nothing since I learned he made that deal with Mr. Roy.”
Roy Spadros violated Amelia Dewey, which is how little Pip came to be born, and had continued to terrorize her. Her husband only wanted to protect her, yet he did the one thing guaranteed to drive a wedge between them.
Had Roy anticipated this? The man seemed uncanny in his ability to torment others. “I don’t care who you report to. But I must know who knows what I do. Mr. Anthony’s life may depend on it.” I felt like a conniver for playing on her love for Tony, but it was close enough to the truth to be reasonable.
She fell silent for a few seconds. “Mr. Anthony, mum. And his man Sawbuck.” She hesitated. “And Mr. Pearson.”
I chuckled, shaking my head. “Who reports to Mr. Roy.”
Amelia stared at me in horror.
“What did you think all those ledgers in my study were about? My husband caught him at it.” I shrugged. “Don’t berate Pearson. He has his reasons.” The main one being that Roy Spadros held John Pearson’s mother as hostage.
Amelia’s head drooped. “Yes, mum.”
“Go to Spadros Manor, please. Have my things brought here.”
“Everything?”
“As much as they’ll let you bring.”
Amelia peered at me. “So you really don’t intend to go back.”
“No,” I said, “I don’t.”
* * *
After Amelia left, I ate dinner, opening my last bottle of wine.
Mr. Pike’s plan was good. I’d hold an auction to “help the poor.” That the poor being helped was me wasn’t going to enter into it. But I couldn’t run it myself. Who might assist me?
Eleanora Bryce might be willing, if she could find someone to watch David, who still did little more than rock after his k********g. Madame Biltcliffe would be ideal but I doubted she’d even speak to me after all that happened. Tenni, perhaps?
Gertie Pike had a baby at home and one on the way. But surely the wife of a law clerk would know how to keep records.
Pouring another glass, I turned out the lights and sat by the window in the darkness, as I had every night so far.
Papers blew past in the wind. A dog barked, off in the distance.
I might have dozed; a knock at the door startled me.
Keenly aware I was in the house alone, I peered out. Two men I didn’t recognize stood on my front step. The taller one tipped his hat. “Miz Spadros, we just came by to introduce ourself. I’m Sticks Monarch, this is Eight Howell. We’re in charge of this street here.”
I gaped at them. “What does that mean?”
Mr. Howell had a deep voice and a big bushy beard. “We come for the packets every month. Your Family fees?”
A laugh burst from me. “Roy sent you, didn’t he?”
Mr. Monarch said, “Yes, Miz Spadros, he surely did.”
“Well, I’m under house arrest at present.”
“Yes, mum,” Mr. Howell said. “Every house pays their street number whether you got money or not. You live on 33 1/3 Street. So 33 cents. For the third, you pay an extra penny every Solstice and Equinox. When you get income, we get one out of every ten, pennies or dollars. Put it in an envelope and seal it with your address on the front. We come by the end of the month to collect. Is this a good time? Or should we come when it’s light out?”
And it all goes to Roy at the end.
I remembered Madame Biltcliffe’s bruises. These two seemed pleasant enough but I had no illusions what might happen should they learn I hid income. “That would probably be better.”
“Or ya can come by our place to pay,” Mr. Monarch said. “We run the bar on the corner.” He pointed up the street to my left. “The Backdoor Saloon. Anything ya want, ya can get there.”
Mr. Howell said, “If you need us for anything, mum, just ask. Our street has its own messenger boy. Potholes, someone bothers you,” he gestured to the policemen standing by the barricade, “anything at all. That’s what you’re paying for.”
“Very well.” There were a few weeks left in May still. Anything might happen. “Can I ask a question?”
“Sure,” Mr. Monarch said.
“Roy said you couldn’t kill me. But why are you being polite?”
He shrugged. “It’s none of my business where ya live, Miz Spadros! Sides, Mr. Roy lets us collect from ya, which’s more for us.” He glanced quickly over his shoulder. “If our other guys try something, just so’s ya know, we’re not shooting ‘em for ya.”
I nodded. “Thanks for letting me know.”
The police outside were supposedly there for my protection. But these two just walked right past them and up to my door. If they had evil intent, I’d be dead now.
I closed the door with a laugh. For some reason, I didn’t care.
- Writer
