Detective Mary

Chapter 43

This time out, Mary had experience.

She took advantage of Mrs. Gardiner's inattention to change into Miss Morstan's hand-sewn dress. The Irishwoman's workmanship was very good, and she had added a few obscure touches to the corners of the dress by the use of fancy stitches.

Unfortunately, the cotton material limited Miss Morstan's ability to play with it. Victorian cotton is a far cry from the twenty-first century, where "cotton" is worn in more or less synthetic forms for beauty, comfort, and other convenience.

The so-called natural cotton is actually inferior to the improved fabric. Mary, who had only heard about this concept in the past, now felt it very deeply.

Even with Miss Mostyn's care, the dress was a bit plain, and didn't fit her well, let alone the shape, which was very different from Mary's normal clothes.

She lifted the hem of the dress, "This won't stand out, will it?"

Miss Morstan laughed.

"You've got a fair complexion and tender hands," she said, "and you can still tell the difference, Miss Mary, if you care to. But there's no harm in it; it's just to keep a low profile, anyway; it's not as if you're mixed up in some mysterious organization."

That's true.

Mrs. Bennet had good genes, and all her daughters were beautiful. Mary, the least beautiful of the sisters, looked like a pretty little maid when she changed out of her clothes, which was much better than wearing a lady's dress when she was out on the streets.

She followed Miss Morstan out of the door: "You say celebrate, how? Is it to the tavern?"

Miss Morstan gave Mary a surprised look, "You want to go to the tavern?"

Mary: "Uh-huh."

Mainly because there are always scenes like taverns in movies and TV shows set in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, and there's a mixed bag of people coming and going there, so maybe there's some useful writing material to be had.

But Miss Morstan shook her head, "It's not very safe, miss, and the tavern is uniformly full of men, so it would be too conspicuous if you broke in."

That was true.

If it hadn't been for Miss Morstan's reminder, Mary would have forgotten that in the nineteenth century taverns belonged to men. Even among the commoners, women did not go out alone after dark - married women had a home and children to look after, unmarried girls had a "reputation" to maintain, and those who loitered late at night were either lovers or prostitutes.

The fact that a few gentlemen had been kind enough to cover for her in order to get her involved in the case had been an exception to the rule, and a kindness for a kindness's sake.

"It would be better if I were taller," so Mary sighed helplessly, "and could change into men's clothes, with a longer brim, and perhaps blend in unnoticed."

But Mary was petite and weak-looking. It was neither in line with the aesthetics of this era, nor was it really difficult for a woman to dress up as a man.

"What's the point of going to a place where the men are stinking and huddled together," Miss Morstan said in relief, "What's there to go to? Don't worry, our Irish place isn't as spacious as a pub, but it won't slow you down."

Of course not!

Hearing the Irish girl's words, Mary raised a smile, "I'm looking forward to it."

Entering the workers' quarter once again, she walked into the neighborhood in her plain dress without causing anyone to look at her. By the time she reached the Irish quarters, before she even stepped into the dark, narrow alley, Mary heard the clamor and singing coming from it.

"I can't believe it started without us."

Miss Morstan uttered a complaint, but a smile had crept across her features as she looked sideways at Mary, "Shall we go?"

Whereas the last time Mary had been met with wariness and indifference from the workers as soon as she entered, this time, Mary received a one hundred and eighty degree turnaround in treatment.

The red-haired Irish girl pushed the door open and before she could speak, there was a crackle of smashing bottles in the dimly lit chamber. Mary Morstan's smile froze on her face and she instantly frowned, "Are you guys flipping out?!"

A few youths who were up to their eyeballs in excitement turned their heads and stopped suddenly when they saw Mary behind her.

For a moment the whole chamber became incredibly silent.

Mary: "......"

She was startled by the eerie silence, but in the next moment the Irish workers clamored again.

"Henry, come here," spoke still Dawson - the youth who had led the ruckus in front of the factory that day - "here comes Miss Mary!"

Obviously it was he who had shown the most obvious hostility at their first meeting, but to this day it was also he who had shown great enthusiasm. The blood-filled Dawson dragged Henry over to Mary, "Miss, you've finally come, we've been waiting for you for a long time."

Miss Mostan hugged her arms and grunted coldly, she glanced at the wine bottle in Dawson's hand in disgust, "You call this waiting?"

Dawson burst out laughing, "It's not like we can buy a decent lady a drink, so what's the point of drinking early?"

"Never mind."

The relaxed atmosphere between them infected Mary, and she tickled the corner of her mouth, "I can't drink easily, so I can't stop people from celebrating."

"Where in heaven's name can I find a decent lady like you!"

Mary's words were exchanged for cheers from several youths, who followed Dawson to Mary and expressed their gratitude in a chorus of words. It was as if she wasn't an unmarried girl who had changed her clothes and snuck out, but rather the muse in the hearts of a group of workers.

Knowing that Mary had lived for nineteen years in this era, she had never been flattered by so many men at the same time. The sincerity and enthusiasm in the eyes of these young workers quickly dissolved Mary's hand-wringing.

They meant nothing else, not flirty flirtations, not eerie, nor were they courting their spouses by praising Mary as the brightest star in the sky. These young men in their patched clothes were completely and sincerely grateful to Mary for helping to clear the name of their friend Henry Dyke.

"If it hadn't been for you and Mr. Formore, miss," said Dawson excitedly, "Henry would have been really desperate; he has two sisters and a mother, and if he couldn't have found work, it would have been all over for his family!"

Mary felt so good, and all her body was warmed by their kindness.

Truth be told, whereas before she had tracked down the case purely out of curiosity about the truth, about this era, now a satisfaction she had never felt before gripped Mary when confronted with the smiles of the Irish workers.

It was wonderful, it was the only thing on her mind, it was truly wonderful to save a young man's future, to save a family.

Though she expected nothing in return, and the poor workers could give her nothing, what was going on in this dimly lit room was the most wonderful sight in the world to Mary.

To Mary she had done nothing, but to the workers it had saved a family's life. Seeing the gratitude of Henry Decker and the other workers made the trip worthwhile.

The gratitude itself was the greatest thank you of all.

"And has Mr. Hamp given Henry permission to return to the factory?" Mary asked with concern.

"Hamp said he had other plans," Henry spoke up then, "but he promised to make it up to me."

Promises alone were never enough.

However, Victorian factory owners did not sign labor contracts with every worker, and a personal promise from a capitalist to his workers was a very big deal in this day and age.

So Mary could only nod, thinking that if she saw Mr. Hamp later, she would have to push him a few times before she forgot or simply glossed over it again.

She scrutinized Henry for a moment, always thinking that Henry Decker had not been in good shape since coming to his senses from the burning stuff at the Devil's heel.

The man who had intended to destroy the evidence had not yet been found, and it was not known whether it was the dead Captain Carter who had sneaked into the slums with the Devil's Heel at the time. This thought played in the bottom of Mary s heart, and she secretly memorized it, and then spoke, "Are you ...... physically well? How is the recovery?"

Not to blame Mary for being overly concerned, but after so long, Henry Decker still looks a little mentally unhelpful, with large dark circles hanging under his eyes, and a face with a fatigue that can not be dissipated, as if he still has not recovered from the illusion of the Devil's heel.

"Never mind."

Henry shook his head grudgingly, "It's just that the hallucinations caused by the chemicals are so realistic that they cause me to have nightmares from time to time lately, they'll pass in time."

It couldn't have caused any PTSD, or left neurotrauma, could it?

Mary couldn't help but be worried at that, modern medicine was just starting out in the Victorian era, there weren't any psychologists or neurologists.

In the eyes of the Irish workers, this is not a problem at all, everyone is doing manual labor day and night, who does not have a little sickness and pain? Dawson grinned broadly and took Henry's shoulder: "He's just been drinking too little lately, don't take it to heart, we'll get him drunk today, I don't believe that he'll still have nightmares!"

Mary: "......"

However, the merriment had somewhat infected Henry, and today could be the day to celebrate his restoration to honor. This called Henry Dyke into some spirit, and he was dragged aside by a couple of youths for a drink.

"Don't blame them," Miss Morstan was helpless, "Hamp has dropped the charges against Henry, and even if Henry doesn't get compensation, he can work in other factories, and there's always hunger for him and his family."

Two sisters and a mother, sounds like an extraordinarily heavy burden on Henry Decker.

And Mary knew that workers like Henry could not be counted in London. She turned to the eponymous Mary Morstan, "And what about you, Miss Morstan? Do you have to support your family as well?"

"That's not true."

Miss Mostyn raised her hand daintily, "I am much more fortunate than they are; my father, an Englishman by name, enlisted in the army and went to India when I was a boy."

Mary's eyes widened at that.

That was the same background as Mrs. Watson in the original, but Mary Morstan, in the original, was a single young lady about the same age as Mary, not some Irish worker, huh?

Murphy ......

"And what about your mother," Mary asked, "since father was in the military, and not so much, well ......"

"Reduced to living in a slum and working in a factory, right? My parents aren't married, and it's not against the law for him to leave me alone."

"......"

Mary was too embarrassed to say it, but Miss Morstan didn't care a bit; she still had a smile on her face, as if poverty hadn't affected her at all.

"What?"

Seeing Mary's embarrassment, the red-haired Irish girl smiled suavely, "It's actually quite nice, isn't it nice to be free and I have nothing to worry about?"

"If there is a headache, who will take care of you?"

"Me and a couple of the girls who live with us look after each other," she replied, "and besides we're thick-skinned and no more golden than you single ladies, Miss Mary, and there's not much risk to our lives at all, except that we'll be sucking the lint from the factory into our lungs."

Mary flinched.

Miss Morstan was talking about the culprit that had killed countless workers in this day and age - pneumoconiosis.

It was fine if she didn't mention it, but when she did Mary instantly became a little worried. Not to mention psychiatrists, the slum workers could not afford to see a doctor at all. Pneumoconiosis, a disease of labor, was nothing in the twenty-first century, but in this day and age it was enough to kill a man.

And there was only so much Mary could do in that regard.

She can help the Irish workers clear their names, she can help Mr. Bentley follow the trail of the contract, but she can't help the workers all over England get rid of their illnesses and get better treatment, ah.

"Well."

Mary's scowl was so obvious that instead Miss Morstan relieved her, "Don't dwell on it, aren't we living well here, we're here to celebrate today, don't think of spoilers."

With that said, she stepped away and led Mary to a slightly quieter corner, and the two had just taken their seats when the door to the room was opened once more.

A girl who had last sat by Miss Morstan's side came running in, saying excitedly, "Mr. Holmes is here, and with, with--"

"With whom?" Dawson asked curiously.

No answer was needed next, everyone knew the answer.

Sherlock Holmes with a well-dressed gentleman walked in, in order to hide his eyes, he is still the old coat, more set off by the tall gentleman around him out of place.

It is simply the scene of Mary's last visit to reappear ah.

But unlike Mary, who came to the slums for the first time, the nobly dressed gentleman didn't show any embarrassment or nervousness, his gleaming eyes quickly looked around for a second before he took off his hat, revealing a rather handsome face.

"Which of you is Henry Decker?"

His voice was low, and he spoke with an evanescent northern accent.

"I'm John Thornton, and there's something I need to talk to him about."

--John Thornton!

Mary covered her mouth in surprise.

The gentleman who had visited the slums in person was the hero of Mrs. Gaskell's novel South and North, and in this world, Mr. Bentley's other partner.