The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 14

It is an established fact that when it came to the salvation of the Moulde Family from the shame of history, Edmund Moulde had a plan.

The particulars of Edmund’s plan are, unfortunately, unknown to scholars and historians of our era. This is partially because, as will eventually be made clear, there are several theories as to what his ultimate plan was.

The Model Assembly theory states that Edmund created his plan in pieces, each a separate cog or spring that could be added or removed as his scheme progressed. If Kolb had never ranted and raved during the Brocklehurst Debut ball, Edmund would have found some other way to place Kolb in South Dunkin. Or perhaps he would have built his factory elsewhere, with a different surrogate that suited his purpose.

The In Totus theory posits that everything, from Edmund’s arranging his marriage all the way to the day of the nuptials, had been conceived by Edmund at age eight, underneath Haggard Hill with Orpha Moulde’s skull clutched in his hands. An entire wing of the Brackenburg Historical Society is devoted to the ramifications of European history if this is true.

The Order of Rubbed Sage continues to hold a biannual meeting in secret, devoted to the study and sharing of reputation ruining research hinging on the idea that Edmund’s plan had, in fact, failed.

While the truth of Edmund’s plans may never be known for certain, it is important to note that there were a great many obstacles along the path that he could not have anticipated.

For example, on the 17th of June, 1881, Edmund received a telegram from his cousin Kolb, currently residing in South Dunkin, requesting he travel to South Dunkin immediately, as there was an urgent crisis demanding his attention. While Kolb was well known for his exaggerations and frivolity, he was not known for foolishness, so Edmund sent an afirmative reply before telling Enga to fetch the carriage.

In the years after the Great War, South Dunkin underwent many significant changes, both in the geographic and demographic senses. As such, it behooves every scholar of history and Edmund Moulde to understand the state of South Dunkin when Patron Moulde arrived.

To say South Dunkin was a poor borough is to be perfectly accurate, while still being misleading. It is perhaps accurate on average to say that the mean income of the South Dunkiners was lower than that of Brackenburg proper, but this was more due to the lack of gentry in the region, rather than any deficiency in wages or job opportunities.

Indeed, if any borough maintained a respectable standard of living for its residents, it was South Dunkin. Full of people from across Britannia, as well as more than their fair share of French, German, Indian, and Middle-Eastern immigrants, South Dunkin was not so much lower-class as it was argumentative. Any South Dunkiner worthy of the name had to embrace the simple truth that there would be strangers walking down the street who hated “your kind,” no matter which kind this was, and would love to settle the score verbally, physically, or legally.

This alone was not what earned South Dunkin the dismissive glances from the upper-class, but rather it was their pride in the fact. That they embraced this caustic nature and thought it somehow more honest. That they might spend an evening complaining and gossiping about their neighbor, and then not hide it in pleasant company…This proved the lower-class status of South Dunkin far more than the income of its people. After all, one could be filthy rich, and still be dreadfully common.

This is what kept the upper-classes and their investments out of South Dunkin, which meant the only money the borough ever saw was their own. South Dunkin was a place of stubborn, blunt, and proud people, who stuck out their square jaws and dared you to tell them how to make a proper blood pudding, when my ma’s recipe has been in our family for generations, thank you very much. And they didn’t take kindly to self-appointed saviors.

All of this is to say, Edmund knew he had his work cut out for him as his carriage pulled to a stop outside the Grand Comfort and Style Café.¹

Kolb was already there, leaning casually against the side of the building. “Patron! How fortunate to find you looking so fresh on this fine day. I count that the conveyance from your charming chateau was comfortable?”

Edmund glanced around. “Where is the foreman?”

“Why yes, Kolb’s smile was flat. “I am quite well, thank you for asking. It has been a trying time in this tenacious town, but I toil for your trust, in spite of the trammelings I must tolerate.”

“Good,” Edmund nodded. “Where is the foreman?”

“He is at the building site,” Kolb sighed, sagging slightly. “I urged him to meet with us in a more…luxurious location, but he’s a very grounded sort of chap. He insisted he needed to show you the situation, so you could understand properly.”

Edmund did not share in Kolb’s bemused resignation. What sort of foreman thought it was worth his time to try and educate the financier? Edmund didn’t need to understand anything about situations on the building-site. Indeed, that was what he was paying the foreman for.

Edmund felt his stomach clench. The Foreman was going to try and manipulate him. What other reason was there to try and explain? Professionals never needed to explain; their reasoning was either self-evident, or above the concerns of an inexperienced onlooker.

“Very well,” Edmund turned back to the carriage. “Get in.”

Kolb nodded, pushing his hand into his pocket and pulling a hip flask out of his pants. He took a quick swig, and climbed into the carriage, throwing himself gamely into the seat across from Edmund. In moments the enclosed world began to rock back and forth again, carrying them towards the building site.

Changes. Everything was changing…

Edmund stared as the streets of South Dunkin flowed past. Every man and woman in the street glared at the carriage as it strolled past, their faces contorted into masks of disgust. One of them spat into the street. Another gripped a tomato in his hand, struggling with himself whether or not to throw.

But he saw something more interesting than class tension, in spite of the glares and spit flung in the street as he passed: he saw leather jackets, and coiffed hair. He saw women’s hats that were cropped, and men’s coats that were flared. He saw men wearing tunics, belts, and epaulets. He saw woman without lavish dresses and glittering jewelry. He saw a metal track that ran down the middle of the street, and smelled the electricity in the air as a large train-car like vehicle flew along its path, sending sparks as it passed. Bicycles were everywhere.

“Things have changed quite a bit,” he noted.

“Far more than you can see,” Kolb nodded. “They are digging up the streets to lay brass and copper pipes underneath the ground. Can you guess why?”

Edmund could, but he let Kolb have his fun.

“They call it water-service. Running water to every building in the borough. Faucets for every sink, bath and flush-toilet. All funneled to and from a water-plant on the eastern edge of the borough, if you can believe it. Flush-toilets for everyone. You know, I hear they’re even planning to build a generator-plant?”

“The Rotledges are planning the same.”

“So I’ve heard. Much luck to them. The South Dunkiners have their own ideas of how to provide electricity to their homes and factories, and frankly, I don’t fault them.”

As the carriage turned a corner, Edmund caught a glimpse down a thick alleyway. Strange letters were miss-matched all along the wall, ascending and descending in strange patterns, the words circling around themselves in a slurry of calligraphy. Edmund leaned closer to the window, and watched for as long as he could study the graffiti.

When the lettering had vanished from view, he gave up and provided Kolb the opening he was obviously waiting for.

“Could I not have resolved the foreman’s problems from Moulde Hall? Coming all the way down is a marked inconvenience.”

“Ah? Did the dear proctor’s plea for your presence postpone your pernicious plans? How dreadful. And what did this sojourn so sadly circumvent? Some soiree, no doubt, stuffed to the summit with self-satisfied society?”

“You were quite brusque in your telegram,” Edmund admonished gently.

“Yes, well, I only receive so much allowance, you see,” the man grinned impishly. “I am certain I could have been far more verbose, had I the coin to afford it.”

“Why did the foreman stop construction?” Edmund avoided the obvious minefield Kolb had laid for him.

“Why?” Kolb grunted. “Why ask why? Why is only a whisper of wisdom in the wily winds of the world’s witlessness.”

“The why was enough to stop the building of my Factory. That makes it more than wind. What does the man want?”

Kolb sighed, pulling at his flask again. “Money. Everyone always needs more money. Haven’t you noticed, dear Patron? It is the way of the world. The question isn’t what one needs, it’s what one can get.”

That was a problem. If the foreman wanted more money, Edmund would have to dig deep to find it. Already the majority of Kolb’s gold had gone, and with his gala ball he would need to go into debt again. All of it would be taken care of once the aluminium started selling, but until then, he had to keep everything on an even-keel…

“My dear Patron,” Kolb’s tone was markedly softer. “Your furrowed forehead fills me with cousinly concern. Why does it matter what the foreman wants? Fire them all and find someone else. Or move everything to Brackenburg again. Take your money and damn the courts. None of it matters, Patron. You know that as well as I. Why are you so set on doing things ’the right way?'”

Edmund settled back in his seat, staring at his drunken cousin.

“Because, Kolb, there will be a moment. There is always a moment. I don’t know when it will come, but it will come, and when that final straw hits, there will be a wave that crests higher than Haggard Hill, and I have to be very careful to make sure that the Mouldes can ride along with it.”

Along the next road, an artist was painting on the side of the street. It wasn’t until the carriage passed him that Edmund realized there was no paint on his brush or palate.²

This city, Edmund realized with a growing horror in his stomach, is a powder keg.

---

By the time they had reached the building site, the sun was already beginning to dip low in the sky. The foreman nodded as they approached, tapping the edge of his hard hat, a re-purposed infantry helmet from the war. He wore denim jeans and a leather vest that barely covered his broad and muscular chest. His eyes were the eyes of a perfectionist.

“So,” he sniffed. “You’re Patron Moulde. Can’t say I trusted your boy when ’e said ’e was yours. Seemed a bit of a tall tale to me.”

“My boy? Ah,” Edmund glanced at Kolb. “Of course. Yes, he is working for me.”

“Don’t much matter, if the money’s good,” the foreman shrugged.

Edmund struggled to keep from smiling. Even soldiers weren’t so blunt with their speech. Was it really going to be this easy?

“So,” Edmund put on the tone of an “interested supervisor,” glancing around at the building site. “The building seems to be coming along just fine.”

“Seems like it,” the foreman nodded at the building site. “That’s right. It certainly seems like it.”

Edmund scanned the skeletal framework of the factory. As factories went it was fairly small. Not too small to be worthwhile, but smaller than one might fancy for a Founding Family’s first foray into fabricating factories, as Kolb put it. It was perfect for Edmund’s purposes. The land he had purchased was close to the eastern edge of town, not too far from the main streets so as to ease supply lines, but not so close to the center of South Dunkin as to be ostentatious.

“Excellent,” he said.

“‘Ad some trouble with the foundation.” the Foreman shrugged. “This ground ain’t so jolly for buildin’ on. We managed, but if you’ve got some ’eavy factory equipment, you might want to reconsider.”

“How heavy?” Edmund asked, his heart tensing for disappointment.

“Oh…I’d say nothin’ ’evier than…forty, maybe forty-two tonnes.”

“I see.” After some quick mental arithmetic, Edmund relaxed. “No, I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“Well, remember all the same,” the Foreman nodded. “I don’t want people to ’ear that one of my buildin’s sank into the ground ‘cause someone dragged in somethin’ ’eavy. I take pride in my work, you understand.”

“Of course,” Edmund nodded. “I myself wouldn’t dream of allowing anyone to see anything but my best work.”

“Good,” the Foreman crossed his arms. “I told my boys that you were a smart one, who’d respect a craftsman. That’s what your boy said, at any rate.”

Edmund glanced at Kolb, who had turned his face away to scratch as his eyebrow. “Well, no one knows me better than Kolb,” he lied, “and he assured me he hired the best, and the best is what I’m willing to pay for.”

“I’m glad to ’ear it.” The man shifted, ready to pounce.

Edmund cut him off. “That said, I’m afraid I have a few changes I’d like to make to the original design.”

“Oh?” The foreman paused, his voice became curious. “‘Alf way through the building, you have changes?”

“Nothing too extensive,” Edmund waved his hands. “Nothing too grand. Only after some…recent advances in my design, I realized the dimensions were a little off for what I intend to use this factory for. New machines, that sort of thing.”

“Ah,” the foreman frowned. “That sort of thing, eh?”

“For example,” Edmund pressed on, pointing with as much generality as he dared. “The first floor. The middle of the second floor. The roof, especially. I have some new dimensions for you.”

“Mmm. Bit late for that, isn’t it? Side braces are already in. Frame’s all done.”

“I understand the troubles,” Edmund persisted, “but I’m afraid these simply have to be changed. Here, I’ve made a few notes on the last diagram.”

Snapping his fingers, he held out his hand until he felt Kolb press the small blueprint-case into his palm. Pulling it open, Edmund unrolled the blueprints, handing one end to the foreman.

The foreman frowned, then raised an eyebrow, then frowned again.

“That’s an odd ceiling,” he said, after a moment. “And what’s this…made out of plaster, and not metal?”

“Plaster is currently cheaper,” Edmund nodded. “You will also note a small room added here, for a laboratory.”

“Huh,” the foreman rubbed his nose. “That looks mighty small for a laboratory…Looking to do some experiments, are you?”

“Something like that,” Edmund admitted. “I think the experiments done in this building could change the world forever.”

“Here, you’ve forgotten the windows,” the foreman’s eyes narrowed. “Hm…Not many workers will work in a factory without windows. Not anymore.”

“Looks like a music hall,” Kolb muttered.

“I’m sure I will find enough,” Edmund spoke quickly. “Besides, there will be a great many industrial secrets in this factory. I don’t want to make it easy for anyone who wants to spy. The security of my intellectual property is my Mercantile right.”

The look on the foreman’s face was all Edmund needed; he had struck home. “I trust the rest of the changes are clear?”

“Clear enough,” the man’s cold tone was punctuated with a sharp crackle as he tapped the paper with a knuckle. “Some different materials, new frame at the top, and a bit for the sides…” He flicked his fingers as he counted. “This’ll add four, maybe five days to the job.”

“Perhaps so,” Edmund had calculated three. “I trust you will resume construction as soon as possible?”

“Well, that depends, doesn’t it,” the foreman hoisted his belt over his gut.

“On what?”

The foreman’s icy glare was steady. “On whether we get payment.”

Edmund glanced back and forth from Kolb to the foreman. “Have you not been paid for the materials?”

“Oh aye, we’ve been paid for them alright, only its not just the materials that need paying for. What about the work?”

Edmund paused, and then shook his head in theatrical confusion. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. I was lead to believe that payment is only given for work completed, yes? The factory has not been finished yet, so why should I pay?”

“Well see, that works both ways, doesn’t it? If we haven’t been paid, why should we finish the factory? See, we want to finish the contract, but its a matter of comparison, isn’t it? Why, I’ve got men who have been offered jobs that pay daily, not just when the project is finished.”

“Absurd,” Edmund scoffed. “Why, you could get more money by working slower. Where’s the incentive to finish the building?”

“Aye, you have a point there, sir, you have a point,” the foreman sniffed. “I try and tell them that, but they seem to finish their work all the same. I told them I’d get an advance from you, sir. ‘Alf of the pay now, the rest when we’re finished. I wouldn’t ask, of course, but they need to eat, sir.”

Edmund heaved a beleaguered sigh, and reached into his pocket…

His fingers brushed Matron’s letter…

“I…suppose I can front you and your men an advance.”

“Thank you kindly sir,” the foreman tapped his helmet again as Edmund pulled his bank-book from his pocket. “We’ll resume construction at once. Oh, and I’ll be needing ‘alf as much again for the changes.”

“Excuse me?” Edmund looked up.

“You ’eard me,” the foreman crossed his arms. “Taking down and re-building what we already built? New materials? That’ll cost even more.”

“We have a contract,” Edmund reminded him. “The price was already set. One bill for one building.”

“Only it ain’t just one building anymore, is it?” The Foreman pointed at the blueprint. “It’s ‘alf a building, then a break-down, and then a re-building. And it ain’t taking the amount of time we thought it would. That’s four, maybe five more days that me and my crew ain’t making money puttin’ up some other toff’s building. Get me?”

“I see,” Edmund cleared his throat. “While I appreciate your situation, we do have a contract. I’m afraid that legally, you have to build what I tell you, for the price we agreed upon.”

“That so?” the Foreman cocked his head. “Well, I don’t think that’s quite what’s in our contract, and if you don’t want to pay us for five more days of work, well…I think we might need to hear what a judge has to say about it.”

Edmund paused. He had kept abreast of the legal situation in Brackenburg — he had needed to, without Mr. Shobbinton to take care of things for him — and the Labour courts were currently at capacity with disputes. If he let himself get trapped in the courts, it would mean more delays…

“Oh, by the way,” The Foreman held up a finger. “What with the legality of the contract being up in the air, like; me and my men won’t be working until it all gets sorted out. And I know quite a few other forefolk who work up in Brackenburg proper; and they might need to come and see the legal proceedings — just for their own edification, mind — and while they’re here, their people can’t work, see? And who knows how long this trial might take: there’ll be witnesses, and protests, and objections, and recesses…and who knows, maybe the Judge will rule in your favor, and I still won’t work my people for more days with no pay. I’d be put in jail for that, sure enough, and you’ll need to find some other forefolk to build your factory…only we all got non-compete clauses in our contracts, and even if I’m in prison, I’ve still got claim to the construction. You’ll have to wait until I’m released to get your building built, and that could be a long time, if I don’t get out early for good behavior.”

The foreman paused, and took a deep, satisfied breath. “I ain’t known for my good behavior.”

“Confounding Cad!”

Edmund stepped back as Kolb swung into view, his coat swirling about his lanky limbs. With the force of a madman, Kolb gripped the foreman by his shirt. “Boorish builder! Feckless foreman! Criminal carpenter! Salacious stonemason! To challenge a high-born gentleman, the Patron of the Moulde Family, no less!”

The foreman, whether through shock or confidence, made no move to fight back as Kolb ranted epithets to his face. Edmund could see, however, the other workers grip hammers, pry-bars, and piping, before advancing towards the three of them.

“Kolb,” Edmund snapped, “back to the carriage.”

It was enough to make the advancing soldiers of construction pause, but not enough for Kolb. He turned to face Edmund, his eyes wide and wild. “Of course, oh prized Patron. Far be it for me to come between this selfish snake of a salesman, and the —”

“Kolb.”

He didn’t raise his voice, he barely changed his tone, but it was enough to bring Kolb back. His eyes dimmed, his hands relaxed, and with slowly dawning comprehension, Kolb took a step back.

He opened his mouth to apologize, stopped, and took a heavy drink from his flask. Turning away from the construction site, he staggered back to the carriage, flask dangling in his hand.

“It will take time,” Edmund said, before the foreman could finish readjusting his shirt. “I will need to acquire the money by liquidating a few of my assets. If you start work again now, I can —”

“No,” the foreman’s voice was like steel. “No money, no work.”

Edmund glanced around. With Kolb gone, the pipes and hammers had been lowered, but were still gripped in powerful hands. The workers were watching and listening. “I promise you —” Edmund began.

“I’ve heard it all,” the foreman shrugged. “I know about you toffs and your debts. The money’s in my hand, or we don’t move a muscle. Understood?” A triumphant sneer flew across the man’s face. “That’s our Mercantile right.”

Edmund opened his mouth and closed it again.

He opened it…

…and closed it.

What could he say?

In all his life as a Moulde, he had never heard a commoner flat out refuse to do anything a Founding Family member demanded. All of their importance, all of their power, was soft. It was fiat.

Somehow, this foreman and his workers had decided that Edmund’s power over them wasn’t enough.

While he struggled with the unfamiliar power-dynamic, the other half of his mind watched the numbers flow through his head. Finances, assets, liabilities…/could/ he manage it? Half as much again…that would equal…He’d need to cancel the ball, and maybe even sell off some of his stakes…Would he still have enough? Could he still manage to make it all work?

Was he really going to do this? Was Edmund strong enough? Was he brave enough?

What would Matron do?

Glacially, Edmund opened his bank-book and wrote out a cheque.

---

Edmund’s eyes stared unseeingly out the window, as his brain worked feverishly. He needed the factory up and running before the end of next month, and it was looking less and less possible. He couldn’t just cash in his assets…he needed to cut his expenses, and quickly.

There’s the land in Hauspburg, I can sell it if I have to. Then there’s the farms up north…seventy-nine point five…then another mortgage to Brackenburg on the hospitals…ninety-two point three…

“It was the smell.”

The building on Poorbella Way isn’t worth much, but perhaps…ninety-three even…

“Leather and sweat,” there was a soft glugging sound. “Dirt and steel. Mud. Mud everywhere after a cold hard rain. One sniff, and I’m back.”

The land by the river…I hate to lose it, but I’d be up to ninety-eight at least…

“The alcohol helps. I think it does. Just a little help…I spent a year in those trenches.”

“You’re not there now,” Edmund snapped. “The war is over.”

“Is it?”

Edmund pressed his fingers to his forehead. There had to be more money somewhere. There had to be…

“Well, that meeting certainly was a whirlwind of a wrangle,” Kolb changed the subject, shifting in his seat. “That ferine foreman was as ferocious as he was fiendish. Imagine, threatening us with dragging the entire construction industry to a halt…”

“He didn’t threaten us. He threatened me.” I must cancel the ball. I will need to send apologies, withdrawals, deposits will be lost, I will be thought of as feckless and flighty…there is nothing else to be done.

Kolb coughed. “Well, he threatened the factory, at any rate. Highway blackmail, I call it. All for a few extra days…as if we weren’t paying him enough for a —”

“We aren’t paying him. I am.” I spend ten on Kolb, monthly…

“Yes…” Kolb said, his voice dropping lower. “With Spanish gold, I think. But no matter where it comes from, he can smell it going to him. And did you notice he had no problem saying the other workers would leave their jobs — forego their own pay — all to save him? That he welcomed the chance to sacrifice their earnings for the sake of his own contract? I don’t call that unity, I call that manipulation. We should complain to the mayor.”

Soft splatter on the carriage window sent black streaks of water across the panorama outside. The first soft rains began to fall as, in the distance, a soft clap of thunder portended a dark storm.

Edmund looked away from the window and focused the eyes of a Moulde on Kolb. Ever since Edmund had been young, he had admired the man. His adroit alliterations and fanciful tales had been impressive. Even when they had been adversaries, his charm and passion had been enticing. The mysterious nature of his journeys to parts unknown, the disgust his explorations elicited from their cousins…Kolb had been a fascinating conundrum.

How different was the man sitting across from him now, and how desperately was he trying to be the same. As much as it broke Edmund’s heart, the man needed a push.

“Kolb, you keep making the same mistake. ‘We’ are not going to complain to anyone. ‘We’ are not going to do anything. You are going to continue back to your room, where you will stay and keep tabs on my factory until I tell you otherwise.”

Kolb’s half-drunken gaze lingered on Edmund’s. “Ah. I see.” He turned away to stare out the window. The tentative patter of soft rain on the carriage roof began. After a moment: “Matron would be disappointed.”

“I beg your pardon?”

Kolb turned back, his eyes full of hate. “You didn’t even bother to fight back, did you? The foreman had to do little more than snap his fingers and you were tugging your own forelock to him! Is that the sort of Patron you’ll be? Bowing and scraping to everyone who thinks they deserve respect? It’s perfectly clear to me that you don’t have what it takes to be a real Moulde.”

“I am a real Moulde. You however, are only a Popomus.”

There was a pause.

“I seem to remember,” Kolb’s voice was slow, “from years ago, a time when you asked if I was a Moulde. I remember saying that the word was more than a surname. It’s a badge of honor to separate one’s self from the common multitudes.”

“I earned the name,” Edmund said, turning back to the window. “You haven’t.”

“Haven’t I?” Kolb’s voice was dangerously low. “I, who has traveled all over the world to see the wonders of ancient and exotic lands. I, who has tricked and wiled his way through dens of criminals and scoundrels, without so much as a scratch. I, who has killed and shed blood…” he raised his mechanical arm in front of his face, “…who sacrificed a piece of himself in service to the crown and the Moulde Family. And then, when all was said and done, and I had tired of cutting my way through the world like a carving knife, I gave you enough Spanish gold to build a new fortune and fund a new factory for the Moulde Family. I did that. Yet I haven’t earned the name? What, may I ask, did you accomplish? What did you do that earned you the right to be a Moulde?”

Edmund turned back again. “I had a Moulde for a mother.”

The light died in Kolb’s face.

“As of tomorrow I will no longer be sending you money.” Edmund tapped on the carriage wall. It rumbled to a stop. “Our business relationship is at an end.”

“I…I beg your pardon?” Kolb sat up, his drunken uncertainly vanishing before the sobriety of fear.

“If I require any more assistance, I will contact you and pay accordingly to my needs, but as of now, we are finished.”

Kolb opened his mouth, only to be shushed by Edmund’s finger.

“None of it matters? Is that what you were going to say? Were you going to laugh and say that as head of the Moulde Family I can do whatever I like? Or were you going to protest because suddenly the only thing that truly does matter to you — yourself — is in jeopardy?”

Edmund could see Kolb’s struggle. He was ready to launch himself across the carriage, and strike Edmund with the full force of his hate. “How,” he choked out, “am I supposed to live?”

“There,” Edmund gestured out the window, “is a music hall. You made your living well enough on the stage before, you can do so again. Or do not. It is no concern of mine. I brought you into my home, and you ruined my reputation. I gave you a job to do here, and the foreman is extorting me for more money. You were given two chances, Kolb, I cannot spare you a third.”

Kolb didn’t say another word. Nor did Edmund.

After he left, the rest of the carriage-ride to Moulde Hall occurred in complete silence.