Margo shuddered. She’d grown up taking medical miracles for granted. How long did it take the “social disease” to deteriorate a person’s brain into insanity?
While she tried to take it all in, they sold eels and pies and moved steadily westward. Then, astonishing her with the abruptness of the transition, the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral loomed up over the dreary skyline. They found themselves abruptly in the heart of the bright, sunlit “City” where London’s Lord Mayor ruled from Mansion House. Margo gaped at the wealthy carriages which jostled for space on the narrow streets.
”It’s amazing,” she said, staring back the way they’d come. “I can hardly believe the change.”
”Yes. It is startling, isn’t it?”
The respite didn’t last long, though. Past Lincoln Inn Fields, they plunged once more into a realm of dark, sagging rooflines which overhung one another. The bright sunlight they’d left behind seemed centuries as well as miles away.
”How can they live and work so close to this misery and not care?”
Malcolm gave her a long, penetrating look. `”they haven’t wanted to see it. An effort is eventually made, particularly after Red Jack ensures that conditions in Whitechapel are wifely reported upon. And the Salvation Army got its start here a few years ago, so there is some-” He broke off and swore under his breath. “Damn, I hadn’t noticed we’d left Charing Cross Road. Heads up, now. We’ve wandered into St. Giles.”
They’d entered a “traffic circle” marked “Seven Dials” but there was no traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. At the center of the circle stood a dilapidated clock tower with seven fads. Running outward from the tower like mangled spokes from a wheel were seven sunless alleyways and wretched, filthy courtyards. They vanished into a slum that made Whitechapel seem luxurious. A noxious vapor rose from the houses, hanging like fog over sagging rooftops. Broken gin bottles littered the filthy ground. Under layers of filth and dirty ice might have been paved streets.