“He’s going to chop it off!” the youngest squeals far too cheerfully.
“No,” Gray says. “It only needs tending. However, if it is not tended, the corruption will spread.”
“That’s what happened to my papa!” the little one says. “Stubbed his toe, and it got in-fec-ter-ed and the whole leg had to come off. That’s why he can’t work.”
“No,” the boy snaps. “He can’t work on account of his drink?—”
Annie and I clear our throats at the same time and then exchange a rueful smile. I note the sadness behind hers, too, and I remember what Davina said. If alcohol had ruined Annie’s life, it seems she’s stopped. I’d spent enough hours on the downtown Vancouver streets to recognize long-term alcoholism in someone her age, and I don’t see that. Just the sadness.
“I need to clean and bandage the finger,” Gray says. “Then you need to keep it bandaged. Can you do that?”
“Will it hurt? The cleaning?”
“Yes, but it will hurt more if you lose the finger.”
I bite my lip at Gray’s matter-of-fact tone, which the boy considers and then nods. “All right.”
“I do not have what I need to do the job,” he says, “but I know a doctor nearby?—”
“I won’t go to another doctor,” the boy says. “One’s enough for anyone.”
“I was going to suggest that I get what I need from my friend and bring it back to fix you up here.”
“It will hurt, though,” I say. “Dr. Gray will need to bring a sweet for you to suck on while he cleans the finger. Is that all right?”
The girls start chattering excitedly, but the boy only grunts, “I suppose.”
“I’ll bring extras for the girls,” I say. “One should never eat sweets alone.”
“And for Annie!” the little one says. “She likes sweets.”
“No, silly,” the boy says. “She only says that so she can give us some.”
“Enough of that,” Annie says. “Why don’t we let Dr. Gray go visit his friend while you talk to Miss Mallory about Bobby.”
I’m not sure whether Gray is actually going to visit a doctor or stop in at McCreadie’s police office, which will also have what he needs. I suspect the latter, but he’s certainly not telling these kids he’s getting supplies from the police.
Once he’s gone, Annie asks them to tell me what they saw, and they all start talking at once. She pipes them down and tells Dorrit to speak. I half-expect the boy to bristle at that—he’s older and male—but to his credit, he cedes the stage to her.
“We know who did it,” Dorrit says. “We all know, but no one listens to us because we’re children. Grubby little street urchins.”
“Dorrit!” Annie says.
“That’s what they say. The people who come here to see the castle and the kirkyard and Bobby.” She switches to a remarkably dead-on English accent. “Grubby little street urchins. My mama says they have them at home, too. Worse, the ones there don’t know their letters and numbers. We do. We go to school.”
“I don’t,” the little one says.
“You will. We shall make sure of it, no matter what your papa says, and if he won’t take you, I shall teach you myself.”
The little one beams. We haven’t reached the age of public schooling yet, though it seems to be in the works. Children like this would go to “ragged schools” funded by charities. Even for poor children whose parents don’t expect them to work in a factory, it wouldn’t be a full school day. They’d go for a few hours, likely just exceeding the two-hour minimum.
“About Bobby . . .” Annie prods.
“Yes. Bobby.” Dorrit straightens. “The man with the funny necktie and strange hat took him.”
“Funny necktie . . .” I begin.
