by Lisa Mangum
He turned and walked out of the kitchen onto the narrow front porch. Clean air washed over them, the smell of London’s East End’s rank streets sweeter than the enclosed smell of death and sorrow that lingered in the kitchen—and would for days.
Dupin settled on the wooden bench perched on the porch and held the boy until his sobbing ceased. Then he sat the child next to him, sides touching, until the redness of the boy’s face ebbed.
“I’m Detective Inspector Dupin. What’s your name?”
The boy tried to answer, his chest hitching between syllables. “Sh … She …”
“She’s your mother?” Dupin said.
The boy nodded, rubbing his eyes.
“You live here with her?” Dupin indicated the house.
Another nod.
“It’s nice,” Dupin said. “Very much like my house, red brick and with a porch.”
The boy looked up at him, his eyes wet. “You live in a lodgings also?”
“More like a flat—with a kitchen to share. Comfortable enough for an old man.” He winked at the boy. “I’ve got a room and a bed, and all my books are there. Do you like to read?”
The boy shifted his gaze to his hands, clutched together in his lap.
“What about your brothers or sisters—do they like to read?”
“Only got one brother. He’s older than me.” The boy sniffled and wiped his nose. “He likes books, always carrying them around. For school, you know.”
“Is he at school now?”
The boy nodded. “At boarding school, in London. We visit him sometimes. Da’ says I’ll be off there soon, when I’m old enough to be away from …” His eyes filled with tears again.
Dupin turned the conversation away. “Your Da’, is he in London also?”
The boy shook his head.
“Have you seen him recently? Here, maybe?”
“They aren’t together anymore.”
“I see. Has your mum had any visitors lately?”
The boy stayed silent.
Dupin held his shoulders, letting the child work his way through it at his own pace, in his own time.
“She’s a good mum then, eh?” Dupin said.
The boy’s head sagged.
Dupin squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “My mum was the best in all of London, further even, perhaps.”
“Mine was the best in the whole world,” the boy said.
“The whole world? That’s impressive.”
The boy started to sob again, his body hitching in spasmed breaths.
Dupin wrapped an arm around him. “I’m going to find the one who hurt your mum, and I will put them away for a very long time. You have my word.”
The boy’s voice was muffled by Dupin’s jacket, but Dupin heard him all the same. “It won’t bring her back.”
Dupin nodded. This was the shame of his life’s work. He showed up to help only after lives had been shattered.
Dupin left the boy on the porch with an officer and went back inside. He circled the small kitchen, then picked up the fallen chair and set it back against the table. Its legs squelched against the bare wood floor.
Mrs. Pearcey came through into the room. “Inspector.” She looked at the table, then back at him. “Terrible sorry to cause such a scene. He’s a dear boy—bereft, is all.”
“Yes, of course.” Dupin nodded. “Mrs. Pearcey, were you home at the time of the murder?”
“Aye, I was.” She wiped her hands on her soiled apron. There were streaks of brown and black on it, soot or dirt from her cleaning.
“Did you hear anything?”
She swiped at a loose hair on her brow with a pinkie finger. “Not a pip. I was in another room, doing the tidying.”
Dupin pulled the chair back from the table slightly. It made the grating sound again. “I see. Do you know of the boy’s kin? They will need to be notified.”
“May never spoke of none. Though”—Mrs. Pearcey lowered her voice—“not to speak ill of the dead, God rest her soul, but she acted like a single woman while here.”
“She was sitting here when it happened?” Dupin pointed at the kitchen table.
“I suppose so,” Mrs. Pearcey said. “As I said, I weren’t in here. Didn’t see nothin’ nor hear nothin’, if that’s what you’re askin’.”
On the table next to the post was a mark in the wood. Dupin leaned over and, with his magnifying glass, inspected the table’s wound. It was a single scratch several millimeters long, deeply dug and fresh. He picked up the open letter. It was addressed to the victim, Mrs. May Holmes. He read through it.
“This letter is from May’s mother,” he said. “It appears her uncle, a painter in Paris, has sent her a sum of money. She has asked for May and the boy to come home.”
“Has she?” Mrs. Pearcey said. Her lower lids lined with tears. “Can’t say they wouldn’t be missed. I’ve grown used to having the boy here.” She dabbed at her eyes with the hem of her apron. “Never did have children of my own. Wadn’t blessed as some are.”
“I see.” Dupin returned the letter to the table and continued around the kitchen. On the screen door to the porch, by the handle, was a reddish-brown smear. Dupin looked over at the woman on the floor. No blood had soaked through onto the sheet. So who, or what, had left the mark on the door?
“And you run this doss-house yourself? Is that safe?”
“Aye, it is.” Mrs. Pearcey squinted at him. “I only take in ladies at my lodging house. This ain’t one of them filthy doss-houses, as you said, that take in all sorts, like them in Spitalfields. I run a clean house, safe for women. The door is bolted at ten o’clock sharp every evening, an’ I serve ’em breakfast too, sose you know. My ladies get at least one meal a day.” She stood with her hands on her hips and her legs apart, as though defying him to move her.
On the counter by the woodstove lay a brown parcel. Dupin used the handle of his magnifying glass to carefully pull open the wrapping. Inside was a fresh cut of beef. “Steak for breakfast. That is something.”
“That ain’t mine,” Mrs. Pearcey said. “I can afford to keep the house, but not hardly a cut of beef that fine. Times being what they are an’ all.”
Dupin inspected the meat with his glass. There were black flecks smeared on it, fine as coffee grounds. He rubbed some onto his fingertip and moved it between his thumb and forefinger.
Mrs. Pearcey continued, “May brought it back with her from the day’s shopping, is all.”
He sniffed the material, then lightly tapped his finger to his tongue. Not coffee, but garden dirt.
“Gets her meat from that butcher at the market, the one in the corner stall. I won’t go to him.”
“That butcher?” Dupin asked.
Mrs. Pearcey frowned. Her hands, big for a woman, curled, and she hid them in her apron pockets. “Whatever you call those people. No good foreigns.”
“I see,” Dupin said. “Mrs. Holmes could afford steak, yet she stayed here?”
“The butcher was sweet on her,” Mrs. Pearcey said. “Tried to woo her in with that meat. Up to no good, if’n you ask me.”
Dupin cocked an eyebrow and perused the crockery on the shelves, which included an unsightly mismatched bunch of copper pots and chipped serving dishes. “Was she close to anyone in the household, one of the other—”
“She ’n the boy share a room with Violet—Mrs. Watson, that is. Loves on May’s son like he was her own.”
“Where is she now?”
“At work, I’d say. Came to the city to earn money while her husband is away fighting for the Crown. He’s a soldier, though it ain’t no excuse to up and leave your family if’n you ask me.”
“And your husband? He lives here with you and the women?”
Mrs. Pearcey’s lips yanked down at the corners, deepening her frown. “Mister Pearcey, if you must know, up and ran off like the coward he is, near six years ago. Ain’t seen nor heard from him since, thank the good Lord.”
“Yes, I see,” Dupin sai
d. He retrieved the letter, folded it, and placed it in his inner jacket pocket. “There’s an officer just outside. He will remain here until someone comes to retrieve …” He nodded down at May Holmes. “And, Mrs. Pearcey?”
She stared down at the body, hands on her hips, scowling like the devil had just asked her for a cup of tea.
“Do let me know if anything else turns up, an address perhaps, for the boy’s father. He needs his family now.”
Her face softened slightly. “Aye, I do say. Here is where he calls home now. You let him come back, you hear me? He’ll be safe with me an’ my ladies.”
The screen door swung open, and an officer rushed in. The boy stood outside, eyes locked on Dupin.
“Sir,” the officer said. “There’s a riot near started at the Mid-Field Market. Come quick.”
Detective Inspector Dupin hurried into the waiting hansom cab, and the driver reined the horse into action. They shot past the people walking through London’s East End—the poor, the gamblers, the drinkers, and the workers. They were Dupin’s people, his charges, and he held a soft spot in his heart for them all.
At the market, the stench of unwashed bodies and freshly butchered meat hit Dupin as he leapt from the cab. He shouldered his way through the jeering crowd, behind an officer swinging his baton at the backs of the onlookers.
At the center of the commotion stood a man of considerable size, tall and broad-shouldered, his black hair slicked back with sweat, and his lips hidden beneath a thick, oiled mustache. He held a butcher’s blade in his right hand. “Get back, you bastards!” the man yelled.
Dupin squeezed his bulk through the middle of the mob. The crowd yelled back and stamped their feet. Someone threw a rotten apple at Dupin’s head.
“Here then,” Dupin roared. “Break up this madness. Go home! All of you, get back!”
He ushered the butcher into the corner stall, and let the other officers break up the crowd. They handled the angry people with violence—a few broken teeth and more than a few black eyes—before getting the riot under control.
Dupin turned to the butcher. “I’m Detective Inspector Dupin with the London Police. How do you do, sir?”
“How do I do?” The butcher twirled the knife in his hand. “You see how I’m doing. These English bastards, come on me for no reason.”
Dupin detected the slight tang of an accent beneath the man’s words. “What is your name, sir?”
The butcher took a deep breath. “Joseph Metzger.”
Dupin scratched at his chin. “Jewish, then, although I detect a bit of an accent. German, perhaps?”
Joseph swung the heavy cleaver into the slain pig on his chopping block. “Unless you’ve come for pork, leave me be.”
“Unfortunately, Mr. Metzger, that I cannot do. I am investigating a murder. And it seems these people, neighbors of Mrs. Pearcey if I am correct in my deduction, believe you culpable.”
“Someone’s gone and offed the old bitch then, and you think I’ve something to do with it?”
Dupin glanced around the workspace. The knives gleamed in their rack, polished and sharpened to cut bone with a single swipe. The man’s appearance was pristine, his apron crisp and white. Only the old flannel he used for wiping his hands was tainted in any way. The place was impeccably clean. The butcher, who dealt in literal blood and guts, was the tidiest gentleman this side of the Thames.
Dupin frowned. “No, the day finds Mrs. Pearcey alive and well. I’ve come on account of Mrs. May Holmes.”
Joseph froze. “May? What’s this got to do with her?”
“You sold her a very fine steak this morning, one that, as my understanding has it, she could not afford to purchase.”
“Not that it’s any of your business, nor anyone else’s, but it’s possible, from time to time, I supplied her with a nicer cut of meat than she had means for. She’s a fine woman, and kind to me. Which isn’t always the case with the locals.”
Dupin tapped the buttons on his coat. “I see, and were you involved with her, romantically?”
The butcher went as pink as the pork before him. “Went ’round to her lodgings once to ask. Got run off by that Mrs. Pearcey.”
“Yes?” Dupin prompted.
“That was it,” Joseph said. “Mrs. Pearcey said she wouldn’t have a man the likes of me coming ’round her establishment getting all the neighbors talking.”
“So, May wouldn’t agree to see you.”
“That’s not what I said. Saw her once is all, went for a walk in the Hyde, talked a little.” The butcher went a darker shade of pink. “She is the kindest woman.”
“I see,” Dupin said again.
“But why would that be of interest to a detective? It’s no crime to be sweet on a lady.”
“No crime at all,” Dupin agreed. “Murder is, however.”
“Murder? You said Mrs. Pearcey was fine.” The butcher paled visibly. “May?”
Dupin’s chin sagged. “It is my unfortunate duty, Mr. Metzger, to inform you that I was called to her lodging house today …” He cleared his throat. “After Mrs. Holmes was found murdered.”
The butcher turned away. There was a basin of fresh water, and Metzger took to scrubbing his hands aggressively with soap and water. When he spoke again, his voice was rough, clotted with emotion. “And Mrs. Pearcey, she sent that mob here, did she? Thinks I had something to do with it?” He turned back to Dupin. His hands were scrubbed clean, his fingernails shone. The pink of his cheeks had blotched, and he fought against the tears gathered in his eyes.
Dupin’s brow creased. “She may think that, and your neighbors, too, perhaps. For that, I am sorry. You should go home until their anger abates. I will keep an officer here to watch over your business.”
All the pieces were there, lined out in a tidy row of evidence. One only had to look to see the obviousness of them. This man had not killed May, but Dupin knew who had.
Mrs. Pearcey and the boy followed the officer into the station. She looked furious. Her cheeks and forehead were red, and wisps of her gray hair had come loose in the London wind, lending her the appearance of one who strayed too close to madness.
Dupin stood to meet them.
Mrs. Pearcey spotted Mrs. Watson behind one of the polished wooden desks and glared. “She ain’t his kin. I was told you’d found his family. What’s this all about then?”
“Yes,” Dupin said. “Mrs. Watson has kindly agreed to look after the boy for the time being, as his grandmother is too ill for travel.”
“I’ve spoken on the matter, Detective,” Mrs. Pearcey said. “He can stay with me, where he belongs.” She held the boy’s hand. He whimpered slightly.
Dupin went to her and placed his hand on Mrs. Pearcey’s white-knuckled grasp. “Here now, Mrs. Pearcey. It’s okay. Everything will be okay.” He pried her tightened claw off the boy’s hand, then ushered the child over to his desk. “Stay here, son.”
The boy sat, grabbed Dupin’s smoking pipe, and began to tap his fingers against the wood.
“Mrs. Pearcey,” Dupin said. “The reason I’ve brought you here today is to place you under arrest for—”
“Arrest!” Mrs. Pearcey hollered.
The scratching of pencils stopped as the secretaries’ attentions lifted from their paperwork. The officer who had brought Mrs. Pearcey in placed a hand on his baton.
Dupin waved a hand at the officer. “Yes, Mrs. Pearcey, you are under arrest for the murder of—”
“Murder!” Mrs. Pearcey cried.
The boy dropped the pipe onto Dupin’s desk with a clatter, his wail the desperate cry of a broken-winged bird. Mrs. Watson reached to comfort him.
Dupin could hear her soothing sounds and the boy’s muffled sobs. He clutched the sides of his coat.
Mrs. Pearcey planted her feet apart. Her fists dug into her hips, defiance written in the lines of her face. “The devil’s in you, Detective, accusin’ me like this. I’m a humble woman, I fear God, an’ I run a clean home. You want to keep t
he boy? Fine by me. I’ll offer you a good day and be on my way.”
“You will do no such thing, Mrs. Pearcey, not today. You see, there is proof of your crime. Your first telltale was the lie you told me.”
“The devil to you!” Mrs. Pearcey yelled.
“The devil, madam, has no part in this play. You told me you did not hear a sound this morning, yet when I picked up the dining chair, it made enough noise to bring you into the kitchen. Then there is the matter of the steak. You were aware of the fineness of its cut, yet it was still wrapped when I got there.”
Mrs. Pearcey’s jaw clenched.
“You saw it this morning when May arrived home from the market because you were in the kitchen with her. And her letter—were you there when she read it? Or perhaps you came in after? Either way, she would have been eager to share her good news with you. Good for her, bad for you. May was leaving and taking her son. You have always wanted children, told me so yourself, and you have not hidden your fondness for the boy.”
“Ain’t nothing wrong with that, as I see it,” Mrs. Pearcey said.
Dupin went on. “But there was something wrong with her relationship with the butcher, as you see it. You made your feelings on that matter quite clear. In fact, he told me about the time he came to call on May. The time you chased him from your home.”
“What of it! Them people got no business in our country, an’ she ain’t got no business raisin’ a child to see as such.”
“Raised how?” Dupin asked. “To be tolerant of others? To be caring and kind? Those ways must seem foreign indeed to a mind such as yours.”
Mrs. Pearcey grunted beneath the scowl inked in red anger across her face.
“Upon further inspection, I noticed a smudge of blood on the screen door.” Dupin glanced at Mrs. Watson and the boy, his tear-stained eyes wide as he watched Dupin in action. “It was a bloodless murder, so one could believe that Mr. Metzger left the mark, a smear of dried blood. Certainly there is blood in a butcher’s trade. But what of the dirt, I asked myself. How did plain garden soil come to be on that steak?”
