The Worst Sins: Pomp and Poverty, #3

By James Farner

“One day I will escape.”

Madness has become the defining point of Theodore Norlong’s life. After his father followed through on his threat to have him condemned, Theodore was cruelly ripped from reuniting with his true love Gertrude Carnall. Now Bedlam is his home, where he writes a stream of working class propaganda.

But escape isn’t far from his thoughts.

Miles away lives Edward Urwin. After accepting Clive Griggs’s offer to join him, life has never been better. As he continues to grow in wealth and power, Edward must balance the new responsibilities of joining the upper classes of the British Empire. When an unexpected inheritance comes through his life changes forever.

Separated from her childhood friends, Gertrude Carnall is a widow. With nothing to do but run a household, she finally snaps and decides now is the time to return to work. She accepts a job working as a maid for the wealthy Hortbury family, but the head of the household has his eyes on her.

Gertrude’s decision may just turn out to be the worst of her life.

Check out the first books of my other series, including Made in Yorkshire and the War Years.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Farner
• Release date: Feb 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524270186

Book preview

Theodore Norlong

1862

1

To the untrained eye, Bethlehem Hospital was a kind place designed to treat the seriously ill. Biblical connotations spring to mind. But that wasn’t the hospital’s only name. Bedlam, as the general public knew it, was the chance to spend a Saturday afternoon tormenting the mad by paying a penny at the door.

Theodore Norlong had never become part of these freak shows. He wasn’t violent or notorious enough for the general public to want to pay to see him. Equally, nor was he gentle enough to beg for coins on the street for non-existent charities. The man who sent him here, his father, Lord Norlong, would never have given him such a chance of escape.

Theodore, dear boy, Theodore.

Theodore rolled his eyes. What do you want?

Theodore Norlong, as an Oxford man, may I enquire into what you are writing today?

You did not go to Oxford, and for the last time, no. This is not something you would understand. Theodore turned back to the writing desk in the middle of a dormitory with six separate four-poster beds.

Always wearing a forest green dressing gown and a pair of slippers, George Johnson claimed to have studied philosophy at Oxford, culture in Paris, and spent time working for the Ottoman Bank in Istanbul. It was all nonsense, of course. One of the warders had told Theodore that George had worked as a clerk at the Midlands Bank in Wolverhampton. A divorce from a nasty wife had sent him over the edge.

Theodore, dear boy, Theodore, but the men are intrigued by your writings. Would you want to disappoint them? George’s last words came out as a hiss.

Then they shall wait.

George toyed with his fingers, as if mulling over how great a ruckus it would cause. He mumbled something to himself and moved off again. Theodore watched him go in case he had a second wind and decided to come back.

When George was gone, Theodore turned back to the second-hand writing desk the staff had procured for him. Bedlam was a home dedicated to domestic bliss. The latest treatments emphasised kindness over skull drills. Cells no longer existed and the inmates could live like one big dysfunctional family.

Theodore glanced out of the window to see fresh sheets of sunshine crash through the well-cleaned window panes. If he stood up, the high walls around the grounds would remind him he was a prisoner.

He picked up the metal tip pen and began to scratch onto the paper, only stopping to check that the people around him weren’t looking over his shoulder.

No, they are not in their right minds.

One rocked back and forth on his haunches in the corner sucking his thumb. Another continued to pace around in a circle approximately five feet by five feet in diameter, counting out his steps under his breath. Another sat in silence, total stony silence. He was as big as a house and always made Theodore feel uncomfortable. It made him a perfect candidate for the regular Bedlam freak shows.

Flipping over the book he’d been writing in, he began to read over his work again. Soon he would have it published and the country would know what pressures the working classes were under.

The Social Conditions of the Working Classes from the Perspective of Ardent Trade Unionist Theodore Norlong

The unhappy working classes of Great Britain and her Empire are locked in a struggle. A struggle for human dignity and a struggle against the oppressors. They are the oppressed masses and they have had the heel of the aristocracy upon their heads for too long. No more will they stand for it. The change is coming soon.

My name is Theodore Norlong, and your writer has been humbled by the disgraces committed in a supposedly civilised country. I was once an oppressor, an upper class snob with a belief that the working classes were built to serve us. I believed it was God’s will and this was the way of the world. I did not fully understand the position they were subsequently forced into.

I come fresh from the event known as the Wilsonian Massacre. Before the great beast of the Ironworks, located in Lambeth, London, I fought with my brothers and sisters. Not for plunder and not for any self-absorbed reasoning. I fought for the basics of what a human being needs to survive in this cruel world. What could be more acceptable than a plea for a living wage and enough food to see the day through?

Ninety-four people were murdered by the red coats on that day, including my dear union leader Reginald Carnall. I was subsequently imprisoned by my father for my presence there. Not a peep was raised in parliament. Independent investigations and hollow words passed through the Palace of Westminster. One year on and we are no further forward than before. I call this no more than a disgrace.

Theodore stopped reading. He could sense the presence of someone behind him. He turned to see one of the warders in his full white uniform gazing over his shoulder.

What is the meaning of this? said Theodore.

Oh, nothing, said the skeletal-like figure of Barney Tubbs. His white smile seemed to extend further than physically possible by any other human being. I merely wondered what you were writing about today. Will you not enlighten me?

Theodore snapped the book shut. I will not sit here and be made a mockery of by the likes of you.

Tubbs’s smile continued to widen, like a snake detaching his jaw. Why, I would never do such a thing.

Do not take me for a fool. I may be here, but I am not mad – Theodore stopped himself and immediately regretted those words. He’d fallen into the hands of Tubbs again.

Oh dear, Theodore, oh dear. A man who does not admit his affliction must undergo further treatment. You know the rules. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to come with me.

No, please, I beg of you not to subject me to that again. I would be happy to tell you about my writings.

Tubbs clicked his tongue together. I am so sorry. These are the rules and I must adhere to the rules. I must ask you to come with me. We don’t have to restrain you again, do we?

Theodore couldn’t think of a way to get out of this. Every few weeks he slipped up by proclaiming he was sane. They’d broken his arm the first time he’d resisted. He wasn’t going to go through that again. The treatments at Bedlam were downright cruel, and he was sure they had almost no scientific basis.

He got up and left the book where it was. Tubbs beckoned him with a skeletal finger and they left the room. Out in the main corridor, mundane landscapes of London and the surrounding countryside ran along the walls. Tubbs stopped to kick an inmate who was scratching at the maroon floral wallpaper again.

The gaggle of sounds made the scene into some sort of circus. Nothing made sense, and all the warders did was stand and laugh. Theodore wondered whether he was the only sane man left in here.

Down another hallway they went before descending the stairs towards the treatment rooms. Everything from manacles to solitary confinement cells lived down here. He heard a long, low scream that came from behind.

Morrison again, he thought.

Goosebumps popped up all over his skin as Tubbs stopped outside an empty room with stone floors and walls. Only a few candles in iron brackets lit the dim surroundings. A little depression in the centre of the room with a sewerage drain marked the spot where his next ordeal would begin.

Time to restore the body’s equilibrium. We need to rebalance you again. Remind you of who and what you are, Mr. Norlong.

Theodore could only look straight ahead as he mentally braced himself. At least they no longer had the gyrating chair from the last century. It shook patients until their brains exploded inside their skulls. The asylums had quickly packed that in because it was getting too messy.

In you go, said Tubbs.

Theodore went into the centre of the room and stripped off his clothes. The warders had had to do it forcefully the first few times. The idea of standing naked in front of a crowd of men had humiliated him. They had seen everything before; now this part no longer seemed that bad. The prudishness of the day seemed so inconsequential to him.

Tubbs and a couple of other warders followed. This treatment didn’t require the input of a doctor. Theodore cringed as the men with the buckets entered the room, sloshing water over the side. A draft made him shiver.

Theodore screamed as a bucket of hot water crashed over his head. Every inch of skin yelled for relief. Another followed and another. He was burning; he was on fire. His brain didn’t have the chance to process what was happening. Cold water followed. He began to convulse. The freezing cold dampened the fires and dampened his will to resist.

I’m mad! I’m mad! he managed to force between his chattering teeth.

Tubbs nodded. His white smile gleamed like a Chinese firework in the darkness. The treatment stopped and they threw him a rag to dry himself off.

Theodore struggled to catch his breath and make his limbs work. It never got any better each time he went through it. Like always, he chastised himself for not watching what he said. Like always, Theodore knew it would happen again.

Well done, another successful treatment. Return him to his room. I’m sure he has a lot of writing to get on with, said Tubbs.

Theodore couldn’t ignore the smirks that followed. The warders allowed him to write his working class propaganda because they thought he was mad. No man on the outside could say any of this publicly. Bedlam was the one place in the British Empire where a man could speak his mind without consequence.

One day, I will escape.

Hugo Ebonson

1862

2

Never would Hugo have thought that the remote penal colony of Australia would have held the key to his salvation. Since 1854, Hugo had lived and worked in Australia as a gold prospector. He followed the news of gold finds from the beginning, ruthlessly carving out niches for himself and using local thugs to intimidate other prospectors.

He stood on the balcony of his country house looking out over the orange plains on the outskirts of Victoria. It had all started with the Clunes goldfield in 1851. The Victorian Gold Discovery Committee had made countless other finds since. Mount Alexander had proved to be his fortune. The gold had existed just under the surface and he’d gained a regular source of wealth.

The sunburned plains of this little corner of the British Empire didn’t agree with him. He wore a sun hat and regularly batted away the flies and the buzzing mosquitoes. Turning away from the view ahead of him, he returned to the table set out by a local servant.

When will you return to England? said Pawel Clarke.

Soon, said Hugo. I hope you still intend on accompanying me. I will reclaim what is rightfully mine.

Of course, of course. Pawel fingered his carefully manicured sideburns. And James will surely be coming with us. He is currently playing the role of overseer.

Hugo scoffed. That man needs to learn to delegate tasks to lesser men from time to time. He will grind himself into dust if he continues to work every hour God sends.

A wind blew across the plains, rustling the newspaper sitting between two glasses of gin. Hugo drank it in and sighed. A wind in Victoria was as rare as a shooting star. He had to savour it each time.

Pawel stretched himself out in his chair and arched his back. We are getting old, Hugo. Sometimes I wonder whether it is worth returning to England at all. We already have so much here.

Hugo couldn’t ignore the silver hairs he’d noticed in the mirror. Age was catching up with him. Soon he would be too old to do much of anything. That only made the situation more critical. If not now, when?

He wasn’t listening as Pawel continued to rattle on about his situation. A fellow member of the aristocracy, he had fled to England when his debts began to catch up with him. Decades had passed and he’d made meticulous enquiries to ensure that all his debtors were either dead or in no position to make any claims on him.

Yes, yes, I understand, said Hugo when the annoying buzzing of Pawel’s tattling had stopped.

What are your plans upon your return, my dear friend?

Hugo hesitated. He wasn’t sure he wanted to share anything with anyone. On the other hand, what harm could it do?

I have plans to reclaim my family name and take revenge upon the Norlong family. Lord Norlong believes he can rest easy. He surely believes that I am either dead or destitute. Not so. I am alive and well and nobody shall be able to stop me. The time is coming where I will be perfectly positioned to take him down.

Hugo narrowed his eyes as his plan sharpened in his mind. I will target his businesses, his family, and his friends. I will eliminate them all before he even knows of my existence. My resources are set and I can begin to move my pieces. I still have friends in England, or at the very least there are people who despise Lord Norlong as much as I do.

And you can count on my help, said Pawel.

Hugo smiled and nodded.

Not likely, you damned fool. You are about as much use to me as my air-headed sister, Gertrude.

––––––––

Sleep came easy in Victoria. The knowledge that he was secure in his position allowed him to relax. But not this night. The banging began and Hugo sat bolt upright. His first thought was he hadn’t closed the shutters and a wind had forced them to bang against the outside of the house. The sound of wheels crunching against the ground threw him from his bed.

Hugo changed out of his nightshirt and grabbed the rifle he always kept under his bed. He stuck his head towards the window and saw a number of glowing lights in the darkness. They mesmerised him. There were no signs of anyone coming to see him, nor did he call anyone over at this time. The buzzing of the insects flying around cut the tension like a violin string being tightened to breaking point.

He growled as his bedroom door burst open and shadowy figures rushed him. By the time his finger reached the trigger, the attackers forced the barrel into the ceiling. The resulting bang dislodged a chunk of the roof and sent it raining down upon them in a cloud of dust. A fist slammed into his jaw.

Hugo collapsed to the ground. Before he could get his hands up, one of the attackers was winding ropes around his body. They turned him over and over until every appendage was under lock and key. The men had bandannas wrapped across their faces.

They carried him between them out to the waiting cart while he shouted for help. Then within a half-second they forced a rag into his mouth to gag him. His own heavy breathing echoed in his ear.

They positioned his body in the centre of the cart and slapped the horses on the hindquarters. The carriage began to rumble away down a dirt road and out into the bush. None of his captors spoke to him during the journey. Each of them took turns watching whilst the other slept.

Hugo couldn’t sleep, though. He turned over and over in his mind how many enemies he had and who would want to do this to him. It was useless. He had any number of enemies he’d swindled and scammed to take over the position he had. For all he knew, they could have banded together to do this. What was he to do?

When the carriage rumbled to a halt, the sky had turned a magnificent pale blue streaked with the gentle orange of a new day. A mountain range beyond told him he was well out into the countryside. Even if he escaped, he would likely die trying to get back to civilisation. He grimaced against the pain in his right leg, trapped under the rest of his body.

It’s alright. Take it off, said an unshaven man in a wide-brimmed hat.

Both men removed their bandanas. To Hugo’s disappointment, he found no point of recognition.

Nice meeting you, said the other unshaven man in a thick Australian accent. Get out of the carriage.

Hugo waited for the joke.

I said get out of the carriage. The man kicked Hugo’s prone body in the side. He tumbled onto the dusty ground with the wind driven out of him. Like a worm trapped above ground, he squirmed and tried to get free.

The man jumped down and kicked up a cloud of dust. He smiled and ripped the gag out of Hugo’s mouth. Hugo could taste something like oil on the tip of his tongue.

Probably wondering who we are, mate. You made us miss our tucker. Should be happy we’ve not made a killing on you already.

The man in the hat came around the side of the carriage. Don’t mess around with him. We’re not to spend too much time getting to know our friend.

Unhand me, peasant, barked Hugo. You have the wrong man. I was not involved in any saloon quarrel and I assure you I have powerful friends.

The two men looked at each other and balked. They had heard all this before. Hugo, too, quieted himself. These weren’t the decision makers in this operation. He would undoubtedly meet the filth behind this disgraceful act in due course.

They lifted Hugo to his feet and forced him to walk forward. A mountain range in the background began to show signs of a reddish hue underneath a shining sapphire blue sky. The beginnings of teal peeked out from underneath the great curtain like the beginning of a theatre performance.

Hugo could walk, but he knew he couldn’t run. The guns hanging from the men’s belts put pay to any chance of him escaping. And even if he could escape, where could he go? Getting lost in the bush was akin to a death sentence by itself.

Stop there and don’t move, said the man in the hat. He moved around to the back of him and began to untie his bounds. The clean-shaven man raised his weapon and tightened his grip around it. Now, you see that shovel there. I want you to dig.

Dig? Why would I ever do that? said Hugo.

That depends on whether you want that rich corpse of yours to be breakfast for the birds. I know you lot with your ancestors want to be buried in fancy graves. You’re not going to be finding much of that out here.

Hugo gulped. A little way away from him rested a shovel. He looked at it and contemplated what was about to happen. They wanted him to dig his own grave. He wasn’t sure he had the courage to do it, let alone the power to admit defeat so soon.

He took the shovel in hand and held it for a few moments. Choosing a space on the ground, he plunged the blade into the soft earth and began to dig. Whenever he tried to stall his work, the men would raise a fuss and threaten to leave him for the wildlife. Hugo wouldn’t accept that. Never.

Keep digging. The man in the hat wiped his face with the back of his sleeve.

Why will you not act like a man and tell me the truth of this matter? said Hugo. Are you too scared to tell the truth, or are you just a knave who does what he is told by men far powerful than himself?

The man smiled and squatted down in front of him. The hole had managed to reach Hugo’s waist, and the compacted soil resisted every strike of the shovel.

You think that I care what a dead man thinks?

Hugo recoiled at the thought. Plans to kill the man with the shovel flashed in his mind again. There were only two of them. If he could avoid the gunshots of his comrade, he could get out of this alive.

Alright, since you asked I’ll tell you.

You sure about that? said the other man, who was now leaning against the rifle like it was a walking stick.

Oh it’ll be fine. He’s not going to tell anyone after this. He knows what he did anyway. That gold deal in Darwin six months ago. You mucked about with the wrong guy. He’s come back for you.

Hugo flicked through the archives of his mind. The gold deal in Darwin.

Ah, damn that accursed deal.

Hugo had come to sell the gold he’d harvested from the mines all throughout Australia. In a moment of madness, he’d authorised his armed guard to kill the dealers. They’d taken both the money and the gold and eliminated all traces of what had happened.

How the devil did anyone manage to tell the tale?

Whomever managed to get back into town must have placed a bounty on his head. In that singular moment, he felt a tinge of regret for the decision he’d taken that day. It had given him a huge boost to his income, but that wouldn’t matter if they murdered him in revenge.

The shadow of the man’s brimmed hat couldn’t disguise the smile now coming to the Australian’s lips. Got you, boy. Now keep digging.

Hugo had no choice but to keep going. When the hole had reached his neck, they ordered him to step out of the hole. The morning had finally set in and the sun had risen above the rocky range beyond. A trickle of perspiration coursed down his temple as justice came for him. Even now, he still thought of ways to escape what was coming.

Stop one moment, said Hugo.

The guy’s stalling, mate, said the man with the raised rifle.

The man in the hat began chewing on a wad of tobacco. Should we give him his last meal?

Hugo ignored the jibe and the men’s harsh laughs. Who sent you here? I should at least know who decided to cause all this trouble.

Colonel Arthur Kaylock thanks you.

The single rifle shot rang out, sending the curious birds scattering in all directions.

Edward Urwin

1862-1864

3

Having his own office made him realise he’d made it. Edward Urwin was no longer the clerk he saw in