The Speech Factory

May 22, 1850

Manchester Borough Police Station

‘Can you hear me, man? What is your name?’ Inspector Topper stood above the man to whom he spoke--a man whose face was burned and mottled with blood, his singed hair still smoldering.

‘Yes, sir. Thomas, sir. John Thomas,’ the injured man answered feebly.

‘Are you in pain, Thomas?’

‘Bearing up tolerably, sir,’ the man croaked, attempting to focus his eyes on his interrogator.

The inspector pressed on: ‘Do you recall what happened at the mill? Can you tell me anything about the explosion?’

‘I remember a terrifying light and a burst of hot air. And then nothing till you addressed me just now, sir.’ As he said these words a smoldering tuft of hair momentarily caught fire. Sergeant Jennings snuffed it between his thumb and index finger.

‘Do you remember anything else, anything out of the usual run of things, before the conflagration?’, continued the inspector.

‘There was a man, sir—a gentleman. He had a very tall hat, a “stovepipe” hat, I believe.’ The man’s eyes glazed as he said this. He looked as if he were absorbed by the image he was attempting to recall.

‘Anything else?’

‘He had a large carpet bag, sir.’

The inspector’s face brightened with hopefulness. ‘Yes. What else?’

‘He carried a cat, sir. There was a cat in his carpet bag.’

The brightness faded a bit from the inspector’s face.

’Very well, Thomas. A carpet bag with a cat inside. But can you describe the man? What was the man wearing, apart from the hat?’

‘He was wearing a black frock coat, I believe, sir. I can’t be sure.’

The inspector was becoming impatient. ‘Did you see an incendiary device, Thomas? In the carpet bag, perhaps? Did this man ignite the mill?’

‘No, sir. I believe,’ gasped the man, ‘the cat did, sir.’ His eyes closed as he sighed the last word.

‘The cat? Sergeant Jennings,’ muttered the inspector, more to himself than to the sergeant, ‘this man is delusional.’

Jennings attempted to reassure his superior. ‘I’m afraid, sir, he’s the only living witness to events we have found. Perhaps we should encourage him to speak, if there’s enough life left in him.’

‘Thomas,’ resumed the inspector, ’try to concentrate on the events preceding the explosion. Please try. We can come back to the cat by and by. When you were brought in, you were muttering a word: elixir or alluvial or some such. What did you mean?’

The man’s eyes fluttered open. ‘He called it Eluha, sir—that’s the name of the language we were instructed to learn.’

‘He? The man with the hat? Was he the owner of the mill? Jennings. Are you transcribing this?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The man, Thomas, and the mill. What more can you remember?’ The inspector jostled the man. He was, in spite of his injuries, the only sources of answers they had.

A groan escaped the man’s lips and his body began to shudder. ‘It wasn’t a mill as such, sir, but I think it had been, at one time.’ The inspector lay his hand on the man’s shoulder in an attempt to calm him. ‘All the looms had been removed. It had been changed, sir. Much of the space was given over to a vast school room. Thousands of us learned there; we had responded to his rally in favour of workingmen’s education. Most of us had very little learning at all when we arrived. He encouraged us to improve our reading and writing, or to begin learning them if we had none, to learn the rudiments of electrical telegraphy—to train as telegraph clerks, that is—and to master Eluha . . . Excuse me, sir, I’m feeling muddled.’

The man’s eyes closed and opened slowly. Jennings has still scribbling furiously.

The inspector adopted a coaxing tone. ‘Take your time, Thomas. Tell me when you’re ready.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ the man responded, his eyes beginning to focus. You see, by accepting his offer of instruction, we agreed to lodge in the mill—he called it the Speech Factory—to take all our meals there, and to attempt no intercourse with anyone outside its gates. He said we were part of a great modern experiment in universal education which would lead to the enfranchisement of working people. He told us that we would witness the beginning of an age of communal wealth-sharing.’

The inspector’s cheeks flushed visibly. He exclaimed, as if involuntarily, ‘First cats, Jennings, now bloody communists! For all we know this is arson or combustion caused by faulty machinery (whatever he may say about its being gone). Nevertheless, we must be prepared to consider this incident as the work of radicals—filthy Continentals, no doubt—at least until we find out more. Where in Europe do they speak Eluha, Jennings? France, I’ll wager. Find out. And when we’re finished here, telegraph London.’

While the inspector’s tirade was, for the most part, rhetorical, these last barked words were obviously intended for Jennings, who replied, ‘Yes, sir.’

’Thomas, can you still hear me? Is this he you mention the man with the tall hat? Thomas? Thomas, are you there?’

The inspector’s words echoed in the room, which seemed somehow emptier now.

‘I believe he’s expired, sir,’ offered Jennings.

‘Yes, Jennings, I believe he has. His testimony seems as full of fancy as fact.’

‘Yes, sir. Shall I draw up a description of this man, sir?’

The inspector gave Jennings an incredulous look. ‘A description? Tell me, how would it read? “Wanted:— man in tall hat carrying carpet bag, accompanied by pyromaniac feline!” If only he’d have given us more details. This man—if there was a man at all—could be anybody!’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied Jennings, almost apologetically.

‘In any case, call the chap—wait a moment, Jennings. Yes, Thomas, what is it?’

‘He’s coming to himself again, sir,’ indicated Jennings, looking down at the now still and almost lifeless man.

‘I see that, Jennings. Thomas, can you tell me anything more?’

‘Sir . . .’

‘Yes, Thomas?’

‘Did . . . did the constable find my legs?’

‘No, Thomas. He did not.’

‘Send for the chaplain, Jennings. And the coroner.’

‘Right away, sir.’