The factories were working at full throttle, and the smoke from the tanneries and mills and rendering plants mingled with the vapors rising from the Thames and the soot from thousands of chimneys, creating a poisonous yellow haze that hung in the air like a veil. People scuttled past on the sidewalk, mufflers and scarves wrapped over their noses and mouths, blinking their eyes against the sulfurous murk. The morning papers were still running hysterical columns on the dangerous London streets, and Mrs. Latham was still declining comment, but some of Bowser’s co-workers had been interviewed, and all attested to their colleague’s attention to detail, exemplary work habits and astute sense of judgment. One bloke weighed in with a sugary paean to Bowser’s loyalty to the Royal Family and his “great regard” for the Prince of Wales, which brought a smile to my lips. The day passed quietly enough. Lucinda’s cousin Molly had arrived on the doorstep, fresh off the farm and ready for a life of glamour in the metropolis.
