{"id":3693,"date":"2017-02-14T13:05:17","date_gmt":"2017-02-14T13:05:17","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/?p=3693"},"modified":"2017-02-14T13:05:17","modified_gmt":"2017-02-14T13:05:17","slug":"mr-dry-workman-hire","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/mr-dry-workman-hire\/","title":{"rendered":"Mr Dry: The Workman and His Hire"},"content":{"rendered":"

For Valentine’s Day, a taste of Bad Love and its consequences. Not quite horror, and not quite whimsy, we offer you an original story – some period fiction concerning the Deptford Assassin, Mr Dry<\/strong>, from our Tales of the Last Edwardian<\/em> series. <\/span><\/span><\/p>\n

\"dryheart\"<\/h2>\n

The Workman and His Hire<\/h1>\n

When the door-handle turned, she was ready enough. She had expected it to end this way, and had wondered many nights how it would come about. Some hackster from the streets, half-cut on Holland gin and staggering as he raised the knife\u2026<\/p>\n

The man who entered the squalid room was not from her imaginings. His brown patent boots caught her attention above all else. They were perfectly polished, something that you never saw in this part of Spitalfields. It was common enough on Dorset Street to see men with no boots at all. Leather for drink, when all else was gone.<\/p>\n

Neither tall nor short, he had a rounded face and pale blue eyes which watered slightly. Under other circumstances, she would have thought him a lawyer’s or a chandler’s clerk \u2013 a quiet, respectable sort of man.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are Miss Clara Smith,\u201d he said. A statement, delivered in a soft voice.<\/p>\n

He took off his bowler hat, but there was no convenient stand for it. Bending, he placed the bowler on the floor by his side. After some apparent thought, he moved it half an inch to the right.<\/p>\n

She lifted herself up on her elbows, but that brought a fit of coughing, and more blood.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am Clara Smith,\u201d she managed to say after the fit had died down. \u201cAnd you\u2026 you are come from Charles Kebworth.\u201d She spat into a bloody piece of cloth. She had no weapon, and no strength to use one. No strength to cling to this life.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d He closed the door at his back.<\/p>\n

Ragged ghosts of wallpaper clung to the walls, the laths showing through the plaster in many places. An enamel wash-basin, a crooked wardrobe and the bed were the only furnishings. It was a room much like many in the tenement lodging houses hereabouts, if not better than some. An actual, solid bed, rather than heaped blankets or a stale mattress on the floor, was considered a prize in some parts.<\/p>\n

He glanced at the orange-box by the bed, a box in which a tired green blanket seemed to rise and fall. The faintest sound of breathing stirred the thick air.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat will be his, I assume?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe boy is almost ten months old. He is called–\u201d<\/p>\n

A dismissive wave of the hand. \u201cI know who you are, which is the point.\u201d<\/p>\n

The room stank of urine, sweat and sickness. The smells which came in through the broken window were little better. The screaming of drunks and whores rose from the streets, along with the fish-wife battles and the cry of the cat’s meat man. She had stayed at White’s Row Chamber for a while, but the porter had taken exception to the child’s crying, and her funds had run too low. This place, this stinking place, would be her last lodging.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are here to murder me,\u201d she said, and coughed again. \u201cI thought his thugs would come soon. That last note\u2026 I should not have threatened him. I wasn’t thinking. As it happens, I fear you need only wait. Another few days…\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cConsumption.\u201d He looked closer. \u201cAnd the fever well set in, I think.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n

She was almost unable to ask the question that had haunted her for weeks.<\/p>\n

\u201cWill you kill my boy as well? I know that Kebworth cares nothing for the child.\u201d<\/p>\n

A look that might have been mild surprise crossed the man’s face. \u201cMy client gave no instructions as to children, pets or sundries.\u201d<\/p>\n

Clara Smith fell back onto one arm, her chest banded with pain. \u201cHe merely wishes me dead and forgotten. An end to my demands, to my entreaties. An end to any risk to his position.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThat would seem to be the case.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWho are you?\u201d she asked. \u201cAm I to be murdered by an unnamed stranger?\u201d<\/p>\n

He moved the bowler hat with one polished boot, and frowned at it. \u201cThis floor is none too clean.\u201d He looked up. \u201cMy name is Edwin Dry.\u201d<\/p>\n

A gasp; a long, choking cough which spattered the cloth once more. She recovered herself.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Deptford Assassin. Are you sunk so low then, Mr Dry, that you pursue dying women.\u201d<\/p>\n

He seemed unaffected by her barb. \u201cMr Kebworth was having trouble finding you through the usual routes. I am not ‘usual’. I know the smell of these streets \u2013 and how to find a single bird within a rookery.\u201d<\/p>\n

Her smile was bitter. \u201cBut do you know your employer? Do you know what he does, to men and to women?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr Dry pursed his lips, the slightest gesture. He came nearer. \u201cI have a commission, and a fee to collect. Other people’s lives, whether joyous or tragic, are hardly my concern.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo you do not know.\u201d She sighed. \u201cI loved him, once, and thought that love returned…\u201d<\/p>\n

Outside a woman shrieked her price, and a man laughed. Clara Smith wrung the rag between her fingers; the child slept on.<\/p>\n

\u201cI’m not the first he’s ruined, you understand. I’ll tell you the truth of Charlie Kebworth, of how his wife dines on roasts whilst I have sold the last buttons on my blouse for stale bread. Of how I loved him, and how he used me–\u201d<\/p>\n

Her breath gave out, and she coughed again into the rag.<\/p>\n

\u201cI would rather you did not. Time presses.\u201d He slipped a long, slender knife from under his plain brown jacket. \u201cIt will be quick, if that concerns you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease.\u201d She wiped bloody spittle from the corner of her mouth. She had been an actress, once, and tried to draw on what remained of her craft, her beauty. \u201cPlease listen, before you\u2026 put an end to me.\u201d<\/p>\n

This time the sigh came from the man. He lifted his half-hunter on its chain.<\/p>\n

\u201cFive minutes, then. No more.\u201d<\/p>\n

Clearing her lungs as best she could, Clara Smith began the last story she would tell.<\/p>\n

\"divider1\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Charles Kebworth shuffled the folders on his grand, expensive desk, seeing opportunity in each and every one. Plans for another factory, a scheme of transport, even an arch perhaps \u2013 the Kebworth Arch. There would be tenements to tear down, and monies to a certain Member of Parliament. Perhaps two Members, if he wished to expand down to the river itself. It could be done, it could be done…<\/p>\n

This was to be his year. He must be clear-headed. The coffee by his left hand was cold, and he reached behind him to ring for a fresh pot. His fingers encountered soft cloth. He drew his hand away sharply, turning in the chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat the…\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI am here for my remuneration,\u201d said Mr Dry.<\/p>\n

Beyond him the heavy main door, which had been open a moment ago, was closed. Kebworth had no idea how the killer had passed his manservant or the clerk in the outer office. He chose to cover shock with bluster.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have no right coming in here unbidden \u2013 and unannounced. I demand –\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe is dead. My remuneration, as agreed?\u201d<\/p>\n

The businessman stared as a small revolver slid into Mr Dry’s hand, seemingly from nowhere.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes, yes.\u201d Kebworth unlocked the top drawer of his desk, and brought out a plain white envelope, unsealed. Enough could be seen of its contents to suggest a considerable number of bank notes lay within.<\/p>\n

He passed it to the other man. \u201cYou didn’t need to bring a gun to ensure payment, you know.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr Dry glanced down at the weapon, and blinked. \u201cThat? I have that with me for a later commission.\u201d<\/p>\n

Kebworth breathed out noisily. \u201cI see. What misbegotten soul is next?\u201d He forced a smile. \u201cNo, I’m sure you won’t tell me. You are, I suppose, a businessman in your own right. We are not so very different.\u201d<\/p>\n

There was no smile from Mr Dry.<\/p>\n

\u201cA line I have heard many times,\u201d he said. \u201cBut it will not wash, dear me, no. It will not wash.\u201d He looked around the well-appointed office, noting the crystal tantalus filled with whisky, the leather-bound books, hardly opened, which lined the walls. \u201cI merely kill people.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou profit from your love of murder.\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr Dry’s pale eyes seemed cold, distant. \u201cLove? And twice I hear that word in one day. I am indifferent to it, myself.\u201d He placed the envelope into an inner pocket. \u201cBut you, Mr Kebworth, have had opportunities to know love and embrace it. You received, but did not give fair measure back. I deem that poor business practice indeed.\u201d<\/p>\n

Kebworth cried out as Mr Dry’s boot slammed into the oak-fronted drawer, trapping the seated man’s fingers.<\/p>\n

Mr Dry tutted. \u201cYou were reaching for your own revolver, perhaps? The one you keep under the papers in that drawer?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDamn you, I paid up, didn’t I? Why are you still here?\u201d<\/p>\n

Mr Dry reached into his jacket with his free hand. Between thumb and forefinger he held a small silver coin.<\/p>\n

Kebworth eased his fingers free, flexing them in pain. \u201cWhat’s that for, then? I hardly need loose change in my line of —\u201d<\/p>\n

The single shot came before Kebworth could move from his chair. He might have felt the impact in the very centre of his forehead, but it was doubtful.<\/p>\n

\u201cI am modern in my outlook,\u201d murmured the Deptford Assassin. \u201cA woman’s money is as good as any man’s.\u201d<\/p>\n

The grand businessman was no longer listening. The Kebworth Arch, shattered by a few grains of lead, would never rise over Spitalfields. Mr Dry considered the corpse for a moment, then slipped the threepenny bit into his pocket.<\/p>\n

That had been all she had left in the world, that and the boy.<\/p>\n

\u201cI give you this,\u201d she said as he raised the knife to her neck. She pressed the coin into his hand. \u201cYou must know why, having heard me out, and you must know how it shall be earned.\u201d<\/p>\n

In the circumstances, he considered it adequate. He liked to think that his rates were nothing if not flexible.<\/p>\n

\"divider1\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cIt was most extraordinary,\u201d said the Superintendent of the Christ Church Orphanage. \u201cNever seen the man before, yet he walked in bold as day, into this very office.\u201d<\/p>\n

The clerk smiled at the turn of phrase, being fond of Wordsworth himself. \u201cAs bold as day, eh? Not another Sir Hubert, I hope. And he brought this child?\u201d<\/p>\n

The two men stared at the bundle on the Superintendent’s desk. One small hand was visible, clutching at the worn green blanket.<\/p>\n

\u201cIndeed. He passed this to me, with the boy.\u201d<\/p>\n

He held up a tarnished silver threepenny bit.<\/p>\n

\u201c ‘The price of a life’, he said, ‘I shall know if you do not take good care’. And then he was gone, more swiftly than I would have thought a man could move.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMost extraordinary, as you say, sir.\u201d The clerk reached for his pen. \u201cI shall enter the babe as\u2026 Smith. A name that can serve for boatman or baron. Shall I give him a first name, for the books?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Superintendent tapped his lower lip.<\/p>\n

\u201cHmm. We are up to the letter E, are we not? Edward? Edgar? No\u2026 I have a notion that I heard a name recently.\u201d<\/p>\n

He moved the blanket aside, and gazed into the infant’s almost colourless eyes.<\/p>\n

\u201cWrite him in as… Edwin.\u201d<\/p>\n

END<\/h1>\n
\n

An interview with the man himself is available here:<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n

the deptford assassin<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n

And should you wish for stranger or darker tales which relate to Mr Dry, two are available for download at no charge.<\/strong> <\/em><\/p>\n

\"covdry5\"the intrusion<\/strong><\/a><\/p>\n

\"angelcov1\"<\/p>\n

a loss of angels<\/a><\/strong><\/p>\n

\n

We return in a couple of days with our usual medley of the weird and wonderful…<\/strong><\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

For Valentine’s Day, a taste of Bad Love and its consequences. Not quite horror, and not quite whimsy, we offer you an original story – some period fiction concerning the Deptford Assassin, Mr Dry, from our Tales of the Last Edwardian series. The Workman and His Hire When the door-handle turned, she was ready enough. … Continue reading Mr Dry: The Workman and His Hire<\/span> →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"iawp_total_views":1,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3693","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"yoast_head":"\nMr Dry: The Workman and His Hire - greydogtales<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/greydogtales.com\/blog\/mr-dry-workman-hire\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_GB\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Mr Dry: The Workman and His Hire - greydogtales\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"For Valentine’s Day, a taste of Bad Love and its consequences. 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