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“I know you can, but Dr. Gray has an account, and as the papers are for him, then you ought not to pay for them.”
When I hesitate, he eyes me. “You are definitely not the Catriona I remember.”
“Yes, but you have a point. If I can avoid dipping into my savings, I will. I shall wait while you change your boots. Also, you ought to wash your hands.”
He looks down at them. “I do not intend to eat.”
“Still, as you have been shoveling manure, it is wise for your general health. Trust me on this.”
He shakes his head. “You are an odd one.”
“I know, I’m not the Catriona you remember.”
“Oh, she was odd, too. You are simply your own unique type of odd.”
“I take that as a compliment. Wash up, change your boots, and let us be off.”
We visit two vendors on Princes Street. One is a corner stand, not unlike what I’ve seen in New York. The other is a boy shilling his wares. The firsthas newspapers, both today’s and those a few days old, which are marked down in price.
The newspapers average three pence. Cheap, right? It seems so, until I calculate that I’m making about five pence a day—and Gray and Isla pay well above the standard. A daily paper would be over half my wages. While Scotland has higher literacy rates than England, that doesn’t mean the average person can afford something the modern world considers a cheap commodity. This explains why there’s a market for day-old newspapers. There’s also apparently a market forusednewspapers.
Most shoppers seem to be domestic servants, like Simon, getting them for their employers. Then there’s the boy just ahead of us, who has come running from a shop a few blocks over, where he is employed to read the paper to the workers. They chip in to buy a newspaper and pay him a small wage to sit at a table and read aloud while they work. The Victorian version of a radio newscast… complete with child labor.
Simon picks out papers from the corner stall, and once we’re away, he gives me the ideological rundown on each. Again, it’s not much different from my own world. There are ones that lean left and right politically, and those that consider themselves serious purveyors of fact versus those that lean into sensational.
Our next stop is the kid hawking his wares, which consist mostly of broadsheets. Broadsheets are what they sound like—a large single piece of newsprint. According to Isla, they were much more popular a few decades ago, but the tradition carries on, for better or worse. For better if you see them as a source of entertainment. For worse if you expect a newspaper level of reporting.
All the broadsheets I’ve seen are crime related, though there may be others. The crime ones are certainly the most popular. As for the reporting, they’re like those movies that are “based on a true story.” Yet not everyone reading broadsheets realizes they aren’t accurate reporting, making them the internet news sites of the Victorian era. They’re also cheap, at a penny each, so for those who only want the most salacious tidbits, this will be their main source of printed news.
When we approach, the boy holds out a sheet. “Would you like that on your account, Mr. Simon?”
Simon arches his brows. “How do you know which one I’ll want?”
“Because it’s the best I’ve got, sir, and a discerning fellow like yourself only wants the best.”
“What does ‘best’ imply, might I ask?” I say.
“Why, the tale least fit for your pretty eyes, miss.” His own eyes gleam. “I must ask you not to read it, and if you choose to ignore my advice, then I hope you will remember me when you have need of other unsuitable reading purchases.”
I have to laugh at that.Nicely played.“Yes, I fear I will ignore your advice. In fact, I will take all the unsuitable sheets you might have on the death of one Lord Leslie. If you do not have any yet, I would ask that you put any you do receive aside for me, and I will pay one and a half pence for those.”
“Ooh, I think you will regret that, miss. Let me give you a proper deal, as a new customer. You may have four for three pence, and any others at the same rate.”
He holds out the one he’d offered Simon plus three others.
“I only need the ones on the Leslie case,” I say.
He sweeps an ink-stained hand over the stack at his feet. “They areallon the Leslie murder today, miss. Four already, I expect twice as many by sundown.”
I turn to Simon. “So quickly?”
“As fast as they can print them,” Simon says.
“And write them.”
“Oh, that does not take long at all, if one combines the barest of facts with a proper imagination.”
The boy harrumphs. “The barest of facts? These contain the truth of the matter, every one.”
