“Not much different than any workhouse,” Tess said as she mixed dough for tomorrow’s bread. “Or Bedlam. You can go watch the lunatics there for the enjoyment of it. Had a young man once who liked to do that. I told him he was barmy and he should join ’em in there.”

“Unsavory is the word.” Cynthia shivered. “Thanos and I made the acquaintance of two couples who professed to be quite interested in the children. Suppose they or people like them pick out a child or two on their Sunday outings, and later the director sends them to these people, putting down a false address to make it look as though the kiddies are being fostered or employed. That would explain things neatly.”

“It would,” I agreed.

“Cor.” Tess stirred flour into the yeasty water with vigor. “Go and arrest these ladies and gents, then. And the director. I’ll tell Caleb, and he’ll tell his sergeant.”

“I’m afraid it will not be so simple,” I said, watching Cynthia. I’d rarely seen her this anguished. “The director is a rather highborn man. A lord.”

“Son of a peer,” Cynthia said. “Not the same as being a peer oneself, of course, but he’ll be protected. Lord Russell Hirst is the apple of his ducal father’s eye, I happen to know. What a benevolent gentleman to run the Foundling Hospital, everyone thinks.” She lifted her teacup again. “But truly, no more questions at present. I would enjoy getting roaring drunk.” She glanced at the tea and set it down. “Perhaps Bobby will accommodate me.”

“She is not at home,” Miss Townsend announced. “She must occasionally make the obligatory stop at her family’s house to keep her allowance coming. She faced a Sunday dinner of her own today.”

“Ooh,” Tess said, interested. “Do they make her wear a frock?”

“I believe they’ve given that up,” Miss Townsend answered, amused. “Know it’s useless. But if Bobby turns up every so many Sundays, eats at the family table, and behaves herself, they leave her alone.”

“If only my family would do the same.” Cynthia shoved aside the tea, which sloshed over the rim of the cup to its saucer. “But at least they aren’t eyeing children arrayed before them to decide which would make a delectable morsel.”

My anger and distress surged. Another night was coming, and what would it bring for those children?

“Go upstairs and have a rest,” I told Cynthia. I turned to the cupboard and removed the brandy I’d used for the walnut tart, poured her a glass, and set it in front of her. “To help you settle,” I said.

Cynthia downed the brandy in one go, wrist stiff, then coughed. “Thank you, Mrs. H. Had you been there, I assure you, you’d be tempted to have a go at the whole bottle.”

*   *   *