The Forgotten Children Read online

  THE FORGOTTEN CHILDREN

  Anita Davison

  Start Reading

  About this Book

  About the Author

  Table of Contents

  www.ariafiction.com

  About The Forgotten Children

  Flora Maguire’s life is perfect – a beautiful home in Belgravia teeming with servants, a loving husband, and new baby Arthur to enjoy. But when she is invited to tour St Philomena’s Children’s Hospital in deprived Southwark, she gets a harsh insight into the darker side of Edwardian London.

  Shocked by the conditions people are living in, she soon uncovers a scandal with a dark heart – children are going missing from the hospital, apparently sold by their own families, and their fate is too awful to imagine. With the police seemingly unable or unwilling to investigate, Flora teams up with the matron of the hospital, Alice Finch, to try to get to the bottom of it.

  Soon Flora is immersed in the seedy, dangerous underbelly of criminal London, and time is running out to save the children. Will they get to them in time, or was their fate decided the day they were born poor…

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  About The Forgotten Children

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgements

  About Anita Davison

  A Letter from the Author

  About the Flora Maguire Mysteries

  Become an Aria Addict

  Copyright

  To my sister Jan, who would never expect me to

  dedicate a book to her – surprise! And thanks for everything.

  Chapter 1

  London, September 1904

  Flora tilted her hat over her left eye and pouted at her reflection in the mirror above the mantelpiece. Bunny appeared at her shoulder and plucked a sheet of pasteboard propped against the clock.

  ‘That’s the third time you’ve scrutinized that card in the last hour.’ She frowned as she returned the grey velvet confection to its original position.

  ‘Don’t you find it strange that we’ve been invited to tour a hospital neither of us has ever heard of?’ He tapped the card against his thumbnail. ‘Incidentally, I like that hat the other way.’

  ‘St Philomena’s Hospital is a charity founded by a wealthy philanthropist to provide medical care for children of the poor.’ Sighing, she adjusted the hat again.

  ‘An admirable endeavour, no doubt, but why have we been invited?’ He pushed his spectacles further up his nose with a middle finger and tucked the card into his inside pocket. ‘If Arthur became ill, we’re unlikely to take him to a hospital in Southwark.’

  Flora suppressed a shiver at the mention of illness in respect of their infant son, who currently enjoyed chubby good health. ‘Charities are always looking for funds; maybe they regard Mr Ptolemy Harrington, Solicitor at Law, as a viable proposition?’

  ‘Trust you to get to the bottom of the thing.’ Bunny joined her by the front door being held open by their butler. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather go in the motor car?’

  ‘No, and it’s too late to change your mind, the taxi is already here.’ She smiled at his downcast expression that was so like Arthur’s. ‘And Southwark is hardly a suitable place to leave your beloved Aster, no matter how many street urchins you pay to watch it.’

  ‘Taxi it is, then.’ Bunny handed her inside the motor taxi that idled at the kerb whilst giving the house a slow appraising glance through the window.

  The façade of Portland stone that rose four floors from the street always sent a possessive thrill up Flora’s spine. A pair of Ionic columns flanked a shiny black-painted front door with a set of railed stone steps that descended into basement kitchens equipped with the latest innovations Flora had insisted upon. Aware of what life was like in the servants’ hall at her childhood home, Cleeve Abbey in Gloucestershire, with its outdated facilities, she had been determined to make her own servants’ lives a little easier. She had unwisely expressed this sentiment in the presence of her mother-in-law, the memory of whose contempt still made Flora’s cheeks burn.

  The taxi headed east along Victoria Street, past the Catholic cathedral and around Parliament Square, past monumental buildings that represented the might of the British Empire.

  On the far side of Westminster Bridge, Portland stone and red brick gave way to wood and steel of the industrial area of the city, deteriorating more with each mile. The taxi’s route took them in a wide circle and back to the river where the sparkling new structure of Tower Bridge reached into a darkening sky.

  ‘It’s hard to believe we’re only three miles from Belgravia.’ Flora wiped a gloved hand to clear the mist on the rain-streaked taxi window as they entered Quilp Street and passed beneath a wrought-iron archway that displayed the words St Philomena’s Hospital for Sick Children.

  The hospital was a solid, rectangular building with a mansard roof that squatted amongst its less imposing neighbours like an elegant woman who had known better days; the red brick having faded to a dirty russet colour by forty years of coal smoke from the surrounding factories and tanneries.

  ‘Is that baking I can smell?’ She sniffed appreciatively at an enticing aroma of burned sugar that seeped into the cab.

  ‘Probably. The Peek Frean’s factory is one of the main employers in this area,’ Bunny said, handing her out of the cab. ‘They call this place “Biscuit Town”.’

  Their heads down against a sudden rainstorm, they ran for the entrance, splashing through puddles that soaked their feet, and exploded into the entrance hall laughing delightedly. A group of ladies in wide-brimmed hats and black-suited gentleman gave the newcomers slow, appraising looks, some curious, others of bored disinterest, before going back to their conversations.

  Bunny handed the porter who held open the door for them the printed invitation that had so perplexed him earlier.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Harrington, is it?’ He squinted at the square of pasteboard. ‘As you can see, we have quite a few visitors today, but someone will be here shortly to show you around.’

  ‘I hope we shan’t have to wait too long.’ Bunny nodded to where a group of four were being ushered through a set of swing doors, their departure making little impression on the remaining crowd.

  ‘Don’t be such a stuffed shirt.’ Flora cuffed him lightly. ‘We’ve only just arrived, so relax and enjoy a few hours away from your office.’ She inhaled the scent of late summer flowers, beeswax and warm bread instead of the disinfectant and carbolic soap she had expected.

  ‘This wasn’t quite what I had in mind when I said I needed a break from paperwork.’ Bunny adjusted his tie in the reflection of a framed print of Southwark Cathedral on the wall.

  ‘It’s quite an impressive building, don’t you think?’ Flora tilted her head back to where the slate grey sky was visible through a glass lantern four stories above half-panelled walls; a ceramic tiled bord
er set at shoulder height with hand-painted flower designs.

  ‘It’s certainly busy.’ He indicated the constant procession of neat, efficient nurses, lumbering porters and serious-faced doctors who strode purposefully through a set of double doors and disappeared through others ranged on the opposite side.

  Flora paused beside a statue of an adolescent girl in two-thirds scale set in a curved niche in the wall. Her expertly carved alabaster gown fell into loose folds at her feet, a posy of flowers held against her smooth cheek, her eyes cast demurely down, and the words, Saint Philomena etched onto a plaque fastened to the base.

  ‘I saw a statue of a girl similar to this one when I visited the Isle of Wight.’ Flora eased forward to get a closer look. ‘It was of Princess Elizabeth, by Marochetti. I wonder if this is his work.’

  ‘Which one?’ Bunny had wandered further along the hall, his attention on an oil landscape. ‘There must have been any number of Princesses named Elizabeth down the years.’

  ‘She was a daughter of King Charles the first and died at a similar age. I thought both sculptures looked similar.’

  ‘You are quite correct, it is indeed Marochetti’s work,’ a low, resonant female voice said from behind them.

  Flora swung around to where a woman in a black nurse’s uniform stood, regarding her calmly, her slender hands, encircled by stiff white cuffs, clasped demurely in front of her.

  ‘I–I’m sorry, I didn’t realize anyone had heard me,’ she said, flustered.

  She looked to be in her early forties, with slight traces of crow’s feet visible beside her blue-green eyes, her delicate, symmetrical features told of beauty in her youth. A memory hovered at the back of Flora’s mind she couldn’t place. Had she seen her somewhere before?

  ‘The ability to move quietly is a useful skill in my profession.’ Her warm smile held a hint of mischief. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, I’m Alice Finch, the Matron here.’ Her austere black dress clung flatteringly to her still girlish figure; her dark honey-coloured hair worn swept up beneath a stiff white cap from which trailed a strip of linen trimmed with a double row of pleats that fell to her hip.

  ‘Flora, Flora Harrington. And that gentleman over there is my husband, Ptolemy Harrington.’ She cleared her throat noisily, drawing Bunny’s attention from his study of the poster.

  ‘What an unusual name.’ Miss Finch gave his outstretched hand a brief, business-like shake.

  ‘We don’t call him that,’ Flora began, ‘he’s known as—’

  ‘Quite,’ Bunny cut across her, a hand raised to adjust his spectacles. ‘I assume the hospital was named for this saint?’

  ‘Indeed. Saint Philomena is the patron saint of children and young people.’ She turned a smile on Flora with a question in it. ‘I find her quite beautiful.’

  ‘Er–yes, yes, she is – I mean was,’ Flora mumbled, suddenly nervous beneath the matron’s close scrutiny.

  ‘Her remains were found inside the catacomb of Saint Priscilla in Rome,’ Miss Finch continued. ‘Legend says she was only thirteen at the time of her martyrdom, and believed to be a fourth-century Greek princess who was tortured and killed for scorning the advances of a Roman emperor.’

  The bustle of the entrance hall diminished to a low murmur as Flora tried to unearth where she had heard that lilting, musical voice before, but the memory eluded her.

  ‘Are you all right, Flora?’ Bunny broke the spell, making her jump. ‘You seem distracted.’

  ‘Sorry, I–’ she lifted a gloved hand to her temple, conscious they were both looking at her. ‘It’s nothing, just a slight headache.’

  ‘May I get you something for that?’ Miss Finch’s smile became concerned. ‘We have an excellent pharmacy here.’

  ‘Th-that’s kind, but won’t be necessary.’ Guilt made Flora’s cheeks burn at the lie. ‘Do tell us more about your saint.’

  ‘If you’re sure, but do let me know if the pain becomes worse.’ Her gaze held Flora’s for a long second. ‘Now, where was I. Ah yes, Philomena’s remains were moved to Mugnano, near Naples. A number of miracles occurred there, including a nun who claimed Philomena recounted her entire life story to her in a vision, including her ordeal at the hands of her persecutors.’

  ‘How fortuitous.’ Bunny lifted a sceptical eyebrow. ‘I mean, that this revelation should have come from a nun.’

  ‘Precisely.’ She slid a sideways look at him, their thoughts evidently in accord. ‘I’m not entirely convinced of its provenance either. However it prompted the Roman Catholic Church to grant her sainthood.’

  ‘Well, even if it isn’t true,’ Flora said, relieved to find her voice sounded normal again, ‘I quite like the notion of a saint dedicated to babies and children. Is this a Catholic hospital?’

  ‘Not at all. We accept children of all faiths. In fact there’s a separate ward and kitchen here for our Jewish children.’ A perplexed frown appeared on Miss Finch’s face as she scanned the now deserted entrance hall. ‘Oh dear, you appear to have missed the last tour group. Never mind. If you have no objection, perhaps I might show you our facilities myself?’

  ‘We’d be honoured, wouldn’t we, Flora?’ Bunny prompted.

  Flora nodded, surprised at how much the idea appealed.

  ‘Splendid!’ Miss Finch clasped her hands together. ‘Now, where shall we begin?’ In answer to her own question, she added, ‘The Primrose Ward is for patients close to recovery, so you’ll be less likely to be exposed to infection.’ She gestured them through a set of double doors and led them along an internal corridor painted a cheerful yellow, apparently to offset the lack of windows.

  A man in a dark overcoat strode towards them along the otherwise empty corridor. Solidly built, though not fat, his salt and pepper hair sprouted thickly from a low hairline; a heavy gold watch chain looped across the front of his paisley waistcoat added to his overall air of affluence.

  ‘Ah, Miss Finch.’ He lifted his silver-topped cane in salute, forcing them all to a halt. ‘I’ve left my group in the conference room availing themselves of the refreshments.’ He directed a neutral smile of acknowledgement at both Flora and Bunny. ‘I’m confident I impressed them with our work here and quite optimistic about new subscriptions.’

  ‘That’s excellent news. May I introduce Mr and Mrs Harrington? This is Mr Raymond Buchanan, a member of our Board of Directors. Mr Buchanan, Mr and Mrs Harrington.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you both.’ He covered the end of his cane with his bowler hat and shook each of their hands in turn. ‘Are you interested in becoming a patron of St Philomena’s?’ His heavy eyelids slanted inwards like a sleepy spaniel, a scribble of spidery broken veins across slightly puffy cheeks.

  ‘Er, we aren’t sure as yet,’ Bunny replied. ‘Although I’m interested to hear how the subscription system works.’

  ‘It’s quite straightforward. Depending on the generosity of your donation, a cot in one of the wards would carry your name.’ His gaze slid sideways along the hallway, evidently eager to be off. ‘Miss Finch will furnish you with the details. Now, I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. I’m late for an appointment.’

  ‘Mr Buchanan, before you go, might I have a brief word?’ Miss Finch grasped his arm in a firm grip and drew him to one side, her head bent close to his. He frowned, nodded once or twice in acknowledgement, but his expression remained fixed longingly on the door.

  ‘Come away, Flora,’ Bunny urged, his voice lowered. ‘They obviously wish to talk privately.’

  ‘Not so much a talk, more like a one-sided argument.’ She sneaked a look at them over Bunny’s shoulder. ‘Whatever they’re discussing it’s important to her, as she’s doing all the talking. He’s not saying much and keeps trying to get away.’

  ‘It’s none of our business. Now stop staring at her. You’ve been doing that since we arrived. Which is most unlike you.’ His frown dissolved and he blinked as if reconsidering. ‘Come to think of it, it’s not actually, but you aren’t usually so ob
vious.’

  ‘I know, and it’s odd, but I cannot help it. There’s something familiar about Miss Finch. Almost as if we’ve met before but I can’t place her – oh, look out, she’s coming back.’ Flora pretended to study a notice on the wall that explained the dangers of a lung infection from polluted air.

  ‘I’m sorry about that.’ Miss Finch re-joined them, her face visibly paler, and her lips drawn together into a thin line.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ Flora asked.

  Bunny pinched her inner elbow and she stiffened but kept her smile fixed.

  ‘Simply a minor difference of opinion. Now, where were we?’ Her gaze moved past them into the distance. ‘Ah yes, Primrose Ward.’

  Chapter 2

  Primrose Ward ran across the entire length of the building, the walls painted pale green and cream with a row of metal bedsteads on each side. Large, multi-paned windows ran along one side, with three sets of double doors placed at intervals, all of them open.

  Three nurses sprang to their feet as the trio entered, their strained expressions making Flora wonder how many times they had had to jump to attention that morning for visitors.

  In response to a discreet gesture from Miss Finch, they resumed their supervision of a group of children gathered on a rug in front of the fireplace; a row of teddy bears lined up for a tea party. A little way off, a curly-haired boy rode a rocking horse with noisy enthusiasm.

  ‘I’ve never seen four fireplaces before,’ Flora observed as a porter followed their progress through the ward, pulling each set of doors closed behind them.

  ‘This ward is almost a hundred feet long,’ Miss Finch explained. ‘When only partly full, like today, we partition off the separate areas so they can be heated as necessary. In winter keeping the wards warm is a major concern.’

  ‘They don’t look ill.’ Flora said, though without exception the children who pretended to pour tea were thin and frail looking, with sallow skin; a marked difference to her own son, Arthur, who at six months old was pink cheeked and chubby. Her thoughts went to the nursery, where at this time of day he would be taking a nap in a warm, safe place with his nurse in attendance. She experienced a sudden need to hold him in her arms and resolved to do so the moment they arrived home.