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“I take it from ‘Those Who Have Seen Better Days’ that not all your applicants are former prisoners?” Reina asked.
“Oh, we’re quite willing to assist people who have fallen on misfortune. But it seems they don’t want to be associated with convicts, so all we have right now are the discharged prisoners. Or as we prefer to call them, ‘irregular servants.’ ”
“They sound constipated,” June said with a snort, and Reina sent her a warning glance.
“We have some promising applicants for you to interview this morning,” the manager continued, “all trained to the highest standards of domestic service. Most of them, at any rate. Or at least some. Definitely one or two.” She went to a nearby table, picked up a booklet from a stack, and gave it to Reina.
“There are special responsibilities that come with hiring from our agency. As their employer, you will be called upon to act as guardian, supervisor, and moral instructor. They must conduct themselves in a respectable manner and are forbidden to associate with unsuitable companions. They’re required to heed a curfew and carry an official ticket-of-leave on their person at all times. Also—this is important—they’re forbidden to leave the London Metropolitan District for any reason. If any of the rules are broken—even one—the ticket-of-leave is revoked instantly. The convict will be arrested and returned to Millbank Prison to serve the rest of his or her original sentence.”
“How often does that happen?” Reina asked.
“Out of every hundred ticket-of-leave prisoners, only six fall back into their former criminal ways.”
“Six?” June protested.
“Ninety-four successes out of a hundred,” Reina said brightly. “What promising odds.” She turned to June. “Why don’t you wait in the front while I do the interviews?”
“Not a chance,” June said.
Reina’s eyes narrowed. “Swear you won’t interfere,” she said in an undertone.
“I swear.”
“Not one word to any of them.”
Obligingly, June pretended to lock up her lips and toss away the key.
Reina’s gaze lifted to Mrs. Baverstock, whose smile was like the quickly basted edge of a dress hem that had been torn in the middle of a dance.
Good Lord, Reina thought, she’s frantic to hire out these people.
“Allow me to show you to the booth,” the manager said. After seating the women at one side of the table, she tidied a stack of files and handed them to Reina. “I’ll bring them out one at a time. Should you need assistance during the interview process, or if you feel unsafe for any reason, just give a quick shout.”
Unsafe?
Reina and June glanced at each other in shared concern as the manager left the room.
After a shrug, Reina looked into the top file, which contained criminal and discipline records as well as an employment application.
The door reopened, and the largest man Reina had ever seen came to the other side of the interview booth. He wore a shapeless sack coat and trousers that were too short, but the ill-fitting garments couldn’t conceal the enormous physical power of his build.
“Jay-sus,” she heard June whisper as the man sat and rested his hands on the table, one closed in a massive fist, the other clasped around it. His thick fingers could have bent horseshoe nails. Black tattoo designs peeked from the cuffs of his sleeves and the throat of his collarless shirt.
He was young but seasoned, with the pugnacious, slightly battered face of someone who’d lost a few fights but won many more. A pair of light, wolfish eyes stared from beneath a mop of tangled brown hair. There was something menacing about his stillness.
Disconcerted, Reina turned her attention to the stack of files in front of her and sorted through the first few pages. “Good morning, Mr. . . .” She paused as she saw the name at the top of the application. “Mad Dog?”
“Yeah.”
June broke in then. “What kind of bleedin’ name is that?”
Reina nudged June’s booted foot beneath the table, reminding her not to interrupt. Her friend didn’t seem to notice.
“Named meself when I was a boy,” the man replied, his gaze flickering to June before returning to Reina.
“Why did you choose Mad Dog?” Reina asked.
“I like dogs. Better than people, they are. That’s why I go mad when I see someone hurtin’ a dog.” He pushed back a sleeve to show her a tattoo of a bulldog’s head in a little portrait frame.
