The Great Trouble (12 page)

“Because that’s really what we want to know in the end, ain’t it?
Why
are ordinary folks getting sick with this awful disease that can kill a body in a single day?”

Dr. Snow turned to me. “Eel, you’ve hit the nail on the head. Until we understand
why
, we cannot stop cholera from spreading through this or any other neighborhood like a fire out of control.

“I’m rather impressed, lad. You have the makings of a good investigator. Let’s go home. We have a lot of work to do in four days.”

Home
. The word gave me a start. I’d almost forgotten about my own problems, what with thinking about Bernie and the Five
W
’s and all this talk of theories.

I would have to tell Dr. Snow more about the Lion, I decided.

“There’s just one thing, sir,” I began. “Like I mentioned, I used to work at the Lion Brewery. I lost my situation there last week. It wasn’t my fault, I swear. I’m honest. I was falsely accused of stealing.”

“Go on.”

“But that means I don’t have anywhere to live right now.” I paused. “So I was wondering … do you think I might sleep in your shed, at least for a few days?”

I held my breath.

“Well, that seems reasonable,” he said. “Mind you, I’ll
have to speak with Mrs. Weatherburn. She runs a tight ship, as you may have noticed. You’ll have meals too. And I suppose we should come to an understanding about your wages.”

I waited, hoping it would be enough to pay Mrs. Miggle.

“This will be different work from what you’ve done before, Eel,” he went on. “Oh, there’s physical work: long hours of walking up and down the neighborhood and knocking on doors.”

“I’m strong and I don’t get tired,” I put in eagerly.

Dr. Snow waved a hand. “But more than that, this work will require all your faculties: your eyes, your hearing, your brain—and a pen. But wait, you probably don’t read or write.”

“Actually, I do,” I told him. “I went to a day school till I was ten, and then a ragged school—when I could—up until … up until last year. I know my numbers too.”

“Excellent. We must present to the committee in four days’ time. But the work won’t end there. It will take me weeks after that, if not months, to finish a thorough study,” Dr. Snow explained.

“You already pay me two shillings a week now, sir,” I reminded him, “to clean the cages and feed your animals.”

“Do I? All right, then. I’ll add four more. What do you say to six shillings a week, plus breakfast and dinner?”

Six shillings. Breakfast and dinner. It would be more than enough.

“Thank you, sir. I’m … I’m very grateful.” Then I thought of Mrs. Miggle. “Do you think, Dr. Snow, that I might be paid a part of my wages by Friday morning? It’s on account of a previous commitment.”

Dr. Snow’s eyes twinkled. “Do you mean to tell me you’re in debt, Eel?”

“Nothing like that, sir.”

To my surprise, Dr. Snow pulled three shillings out of his pocket and dropped them into my hand. “Here’s an advance. You’ll have three more on Friday morning. Believe me, young man, you will work for it.”

Monday, September 4

The next morning, I woke long before dawn. First off, I reached into my pocket. The three shillings Dr. Snow had given me were still there, plus the two I’d earned working with Charlie the coffin man.

As it got light, Dr. Snow’s animals began to stir. I was wide awake too. I decided to bring Mrs. Miggle the two shillings I owed from last week. She’d be glad to have the money. I had another reason too: losing Bernie had made me anxious about Henry. I knew my little brother wasn’t anywhere near the cholera outbreak. Still, I’d feel better if I checked on him.

Slipping out of the shed, I soon left Dr. Snow’s quiet neighborhood behind. I made my way along winding
streets and alleys, darting around horses and carts on the way to market (and being careful to avoid fresh piles of dung).

Mrs. Miggle was so surprised to see me (and especially my shillings) that she gave Henry and me two hot cross buns each to stuff in our pockets.

“Come on, then. I’ll walk you to school today,” I told Henry.

“Ain’t it too dangerous, Eel? Because of
him
?”

I poked Henry in the ribs, which made him giggle. “Just this once. We’ll be careful.”

“Do you miss her, Eel?” Henry wanted to know as we walked along.

I nodded. “Of course. Don’t you?”

Henry bit his lip and nodded. “I do. But … I can’t see her clear in my mind anymore.”

“That’s not your fault. You were still six when she died,” I told him gently. I thought of the sketches Florrie had made for Betsy. At least Betsy would have something to help her remember
her
mother’s face.

“Did … did ’e love her, Eel?”

“Of course Pa loved her!”

“Not Pa. I hardly remember him,” Henry said. “You know who I mean.
Him
.”

“No,” I told Henry firmly. “He didn’t. Bill Tyler is a villain, and don’t you forget it. He married our mum because
she was beautiful and sweet. And she agreed because she hoped that he would take care of us. But that ain’t what happened. He never loved her. And you can be sure our stepfather never loved us.”

I grabbed Henry’s arm. “And that’s why, if you ever see him coming, you got to run. You understand me? You run as fast and hard as you can and you get away from him. You can’t trust him.”

“He weren’t so mean to me …,” Henry protested, trying to pull out of my grasp.

I pinched his thin arm so hard he began to whimper. “Listen to me, Henry. Promise me you’ll run if you ever see him. Will you do that?”

Henry was nearly trembling with fear now, and I was sorry for that. But he was too trusting.

“I promise.” He sniffled. “But how long do I have to stay at Mrs. Miggle’s? Why can’t I come live with you?”

“Because you can’t,” I said shortly.

“Maybe I’ll run away and find you,” he said, his lower lip trembling.

“Henry, don’t say that!” I hissed. “You gotta stay with Mrs. Miggle, you hear me?”

Henry threw his arms around me and buried his face in my shirt. “Sorry, Eel,” he mumbled. “I’ll be good. I just … I miss you.”

“I know,” I whispered. “Everything will turn out fine, I promise. Go on now.”

And he scurried away into school.

I was still worried about Henry all the way back to Sackville Street. How was I going to make things better? Why couldn’t Mrs. Miggle be nicer?

I was so caught up in my own thoughts I didn’t even hear Mrs. Weatherburn come up behind me as I worked in the shed. She cleared her throat. I mumbled, “Mornin’.”

“Young man, is that how you say good morning to your betters?”

“No, ma’am.” I gave a little bow. “Good morning, Mrs. Weatherburn.”

“Hmph.” Clearly, my performance was not entirely satisfactory.

“The doctor says you are to come into the kitchen for your breakfast and then to his study when you’re done,” she ordered.

Mrs. Weatherburn put her hands on her hips, looking me up and down. Her white apron was as bright as a cloud. “And brush the straw and dirt from your sleeves before you step into the house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Inside, she’d set a place for me at the small table in the kitchen. There was tea, toast, and an egg sticking straight up in a cup. I stared at it.

“Take its head off,” she instructed.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“With your spoon. Take the top of the egg off with your spoon,” she told me shortly.

We’d never had eggs in cups like this at home. Mrs. Weatherburn watched my struggles for a minute, then simply strode across the kitchen to do it for me. She made me so nervous I felt sure the egg I did manage to swallow would curdle in my stomach.

“More tea?” she asked.

“Please, ma’am. Thank you,” I said, my mouth full of toast. Not only toast but jam. Real raspberry jam. This time I hadn’t been able to resist.

“I’ve been Dr. Snow’s housekeeper for a good while now,” she remarked as I chewed. “A kinder gentleman you’ll never meet.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I managed. That was clearly the safest answer.

“He’s very dedicated to
science
,” she said, emphasizing the word with reverence.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sure he is.” Was she going to give me yet another long lecture about Dr. Snow being a genius?

“And as I’ve told you before, I’ll not have him taken advantage of in any way. Especially not by a greedy street urchin.”

“But, Mrs. Weatherburn,” I protested, putting down my mug of tea. I hoped she wouldn’t see that my hand was shaking a little. “I’m not … I wouldn’t …”

For answer, she just eyed me coolly and picked up my
plate. There was one crust left, and I would’ve eaten it if I could have.

Dr. Snow appeared in the doorway. “Ah, there you are, loitering over your tea. Tomorrow, Eel, present yourself at six-thirty. We don’t have a moment to lose. For now, follow me.”

I felt even more nervous as I trailed the doctor to his study. What if I bumped into something? I felt Mrs. Weatherburn’s eyes boring into my back. I stopped in the doorway. “Sir, are you sure it’s all right for me to come in? It seems like a great library—or a grand museum.”

Dr. Snow chuckled and waved me closer. “Come in, come in. I want to show you something. Put your eye here.”

He gestured toward the microscope on the table.

“It’s a beautiful microscope,” I said, venturing closer. “It’s a bit like a church organ, ain’t it, sir?”

Dr. Snow seemed surprised. “What makes you say that?”

“Well, it’s mysterious-like,” I said. “Just looking at it makes you scratch your head, trying to figure out exactly what it might do. But I expect if you know how to use it, then it ain’t a mystery at all.”

And then, without thinking, I said, “Mum had a pianoforte once.”

Dr. Snow stared at me for a long minute, as if he thought I might say more, but I clammed up.

He was still expecting me to look through the microscope. Bending to the instrument, I put one eye to the glass piece and squinted the other one shut.

“Can you tell what you are seeing?”

“Not really. Though I can guess it’s water that you got from the Broad Street pump.” I glanced up at him. “Have you found it, sir? Can you see the cholera poison in this water?”

“No, I can find nothing unusual,” Dr. Snow said. “Later I’ll bring a sample to my colleague Dr. Arthur Hassall, who has a more powerful microscope.”

He began to pace back and forth behind his desk. “But even then, we may learn nothing. For while I believe there must be some substance in the water—some kind of poisonous material—that causes the cholera, it may be too small for us to see.”

“Could it be floating in the air too, Dr. Snow?” I asked. “The cholera poison, I mean.”

“As I mentioned yesterday, my work in this area leads me to believe that whatever causes the disease is ingested.”

“On account of the … uh, the canal.” For the life of me, I couldn’t remember its name.

“Alimentary canal, yes. The symptoms of the blue death are vomiting and diarrhea, which are usually caused by eating or drinking something bad,” Dr. Snow said. “Now we just have to prove it to the committee.”

“Sir, about that,” I said hesitantly. “I was just wondering: what do we want the committee to
do
?”

“Ah, I haven’t explained that, have I?” Dr. Snow exclaimed. “It’s quite simple, lad. We want them to take the handle off the Broad Street pump.”