Sinistrari

by Giles Ekins

  Percy Gutteridge was well liked around his beat, he always ready to listen and help where he could – he was more honest than most although always willing to accept a glass or two of gin and a bottle or two of brandy or scotch might come his way at Christmas. An odd guinea or two might pass across his palms should he decide to turn away from a street scam such as ‘Find the Lady’, Pinky Neville always took care of him that way, but all in all he was a good copper, steady, methodical, not too much given to original thought. He had been a constable for all of thirty-five years and was sure to pass into retirement at the same rank.

  He grimaced slightly as he stepped down from the pavement to cross the street; he had a corn on the knuckle-joint of his little toe, and this was giving him some discomfort. He was ready to end his shift and go home to soak his feet in a bowl of hot salted water. There would be a mug of hot tea at his elbow, stiffened with a tot or of rum, whilst Maud, his wife, chattered away about absolutely nothing – which was just as well since PC Gutteridge took absolutely no notice of her prattling – hadn’t done for years.

  He patrolled in that steady measured pace that long years on the beat had taught him. It was a pace that gave him time to look around, to greet passers-by, to listen to complaints or clip a cheeky youth about the ear yet ensuring that he covered every yard of his beat during the course of his shift. He crossed by Pimlico Road, and turned down Royal Hospital Road, passing by the Chelsea Royal Hospital and heading towards the Chelsea Physic Garden1 further on down the road. He always enjoyed the Physic Garden with its exotic smells of lavender, camomile, rosemary, and thyme and other, unknown, herbs and the constant sweet song of the birds attracted to the garden. He stopped for a second to breathe in the freshness of the warm scented bouquet before moving on.

  He continued on, heading further south towards the extremities of his beat, then he would turn northwards, taking a circuitous reverse route back to Maxton Street Station and the end of his shift.

  At the corner of Quiberon Street, the Widow Francombe called to him and with a gentle sigh of resignation, Percy stopped to listen, knowing what her concern would be before she even spoke. She was a little shrivelled old woman, a widow since before Gutteridge had joined the force. Her husband Major Edmund Francombe had been killed in the First Sikh War, at the Battle of Ferouzabhad in India, and she had lived on her slender widow’s mite ever since, the house on Quiberon Street having come to her through her husband’s estate.

  She had a complaint, every night, she said, a tramp tries to peer through the curtains of the room at the rear of the ground floor that she had made into her bedroom, being no longer able to manage the stairs. She had made the same allegation, without fail, at least once a month for the past dozen years or more, but PC Percy Gutteridge always had time to listen.

  He reassured the old dear once again, telling her that action was taken at the highest level to ensure her safety. ‘Even Sir Charles Warren, the Commissioner himself was aware of her case,’ he assured her, ‘and every step was being taken to apprehend the villain. She could rest assured that she was safe in her bed of a night’. She was plucking anxiously at his sleeve as he sought to comfort her and so he almost missed the black coach as it passed by him. Even then he only took belated notice because one the black horses drawing the coach whinnied a greeting to a mare pulling a hansom cab in the other direction. However, although he was across the road, Percy Gutteridge could clearly see the ornate gilt S painted on the door.

  ‘Give me a moment, ducks,’ he said and pulled out his notebook from the breast pocket of his tunic, flipping through the pages to find the note he wanted, nodding to himself as his suspicions bore out.

  ‘A conscientious copper, he always studied at length the bulletins circulated to all police stations and this particular bulletin had been specifically raised by Sergeant Morning at yesterday’s muster and briefing. He checked his notebook again; he made a note of all particular instructions and satisfied himself that the coach he could still see might well be the coach that the Criminal Investigation Division sought.

  As he watched, the coach turned sharply left between tall gates set in a high brick wall and was quickly lost from view.

  He waved a hurried farewell to Mrs Francombe, who, observing the policeman’s sudden interest in the black coach, had by now convinced herself that the occupant of the coach must be the monster who peered through her curtains and that nobody, nobody, was safe from his perverted clutches. Certain that she was about to be abducted and sold into white slavery, the Widow Francombe scuttled back into her house and locked herself in, ensuring that all thirteen locks and bolts on her front door were secured. The rear doors had not been opened since the spring of 1875; the locks were now rusted tight and could never be prised open again, no matter how assiduous the application of lubricating oil. The sliding sash windows, at front, and at the rear where she now had her bedroom, had also been nailed shut.

  PC Gutteridge kept his eye on the tall gates, now closed to behind the coach. He strode swiftly down the gates, tried to peer through the gap by the hinges but could very little except a gravel driveway which turned away to the left between a row of manicured rhododendron bushes, bursting pink with heavy bloom, which backed onto a thick stand of sycamore and elm trees. A small brass plaque to the side of the left hand gate, almost obscured by a thick curtain of ivy that trailed over the wall ivy, read:

  ‘Blackwater House

  No Trespassers or Tradesmen No vagrants or vagabonds’

  He carefully wrote down the address in his notebook, made a note of the time according to his heavy hunter watch and continued on his beat. He would report his sighting to the Sergeant on his return to Maxton Street Station.

  The report of PC Gutteridge’s sighting of a black coach with a distinctive S motif on the door was duly telegraphed to Scotland Yard.

  ‘THE REGISTERED OWNER OF THE PROPERTY, SIR,’ Gutteridge reported to Collingwood, reading carefully and slowly from his notes, as if afraid that the words might disappear if not understood at first reading, is a Mister Edward Sinistrari. He bought the premises some twenty-one months ago, May of the year before that it would have been.’

  On receipt of the reported sighting, Collingwood had hurried down to Maxton Street Police Station, interviewed PC Gutteridge and, with the station Commander’s permission, instructed him to make discreet follow up enquiries, trusting that his local knowledge would be of advantage. Never underestimate the local bobby’s nose for his patch was a credo that Collingwood thoroughly believed in.

  ‘Then, sir, I checked with Beale & Co, the agents who sold the house, but they was unable to give me any details, since the purchase was made through solicitors, Edmunds, Edmunds, Sleight and Rackham on Kings Road. Beale’s never had direct contact with the purchaser. The solicitors can only say that they received their instructions through the post and payment for the property and all the conveyancing costs, legal fees etc. were made by a Bankers Cheque drawn on Portmans Bank in the Strand. So, seems like no one ’as ’ad any direct dealings with the owner. ‘Oo’ever this Sinistrari is, he keep himself well to himself. Neighbours have never seen ’im. All that’s ever seen is that black coach going in and out. There is no register, no details anywhere of his birth, nationality unknown although it is thought ’e is not English born.’

  ‘Deliveries to the premises?’

  ‘Yessir, of course. Adams the grocer, Millford the bakers, sometimes Fenders the grocers for more speciality goods,

  Justerini and Brookes the wine merchants, Horace Pipe of Russell Square the tobacconist.’ Collingwood noted with some surprise that he and this enigma Sinistrari patronised the same tobacconist, he would question Horace Pipe about that but if Sinistrari had been as careful covering his tracks there, as he seemed to have been elsewhere, Collingwood doubted it would prove a fruitful visit.

  ‘Filos Butchers. Pendlethorps, the feed merchants,’ continued Gutteridge. ‘That’s all the regulars, they never gets beyond the gate.
When there is a delivery, the delivery boy rings the bell by the gate, some sort of manservant comes down, not English, some foreigner, ’e takes the goods through the gate, only opened up just enough to pass the goods through mind and pays cash. Mister Sinistrari does not have an account with any of the local merchants. Just one last thing, sir, four nights ago the neighbours noticed quite a bit of to-ing and fro-ing, half a dozen coaches and carriages in and out of the house. They noticed because normally it’ a quiet as the grave, ‘ceptwise for just that one coach. But every three months or so, for one night, there is all these to-ings. Maybe a party of some sorts. That’s just about it, sir.’

  Four nights ago, thought Collingwood, ‘the day after Katherine Pellew, Katie Cornfields went missing?’

  PC Gutteridge closed his notebook, pleased that CID had allowed him to pursue enquiries about Blackwater House locally

  ‘Thank you, Gutteridge, that’s good work.’ ‘Thank you Sir,’

  MR MARCUS EDGELEY JP, THE MAGISTRATE AT MARLBOROUGH STREET COURT had been reluctant to grant Collingwood a Warrant to search the grounds and premises of Blackwater House.

  ‘The police,’ he said, puffing out his pendulous cheeks as he spoke, ‘have no reasonable cause to assume that the missing girl, Katherine … er Pillow, a common prostitute by all accounts, was to be found at the premises.’ Edgeley rambled on; the gist of his pronouncement being that it was only was five days since the presumed sighting of the missing harlot, a class of society not renowned for punctuality or regular habits. More over the sighting of the missing woman, alleged to have climbed into a black coach with an emblazoned motif, of which there must be hundreds pursuing their lawful business, had been at night, in the rain, by a witness, whose reliability cannot be relied upon, being another common prostitute. ‘I am inclined, Chief Inspector,’ the magistrate continued pompously, ‘to disallow your ill-considered request – one simply cannot enter willy- nilly, at the whim of a common street prostitute, the home of an English gentleman.’

  ‘As you will, Your Worship,’ Collingwood answered calmly, inwardly seething at the stupidity of the magistrate but careful to keep his feelings well hidden, ‘However, I must bring to Your Worship’s attention the fact that there are already three dead girls and very considerable attention has been drawn to this fact in the newspapers. The Police Gazette, and in particular The Pall Mall Gazette have commented most unfavourably as to the failure to apprehend this fiend. Indeed The Times itself ran a leader on this very matter only a few days ago. I fear, that should it subsequently prove that this unfortunate girl, prostitute or no, had indeed been at Blackwater House, much blame will be attached to those who did not do all that they might. I believe questions are already being raised in the House.’

  Marcus Edgeley, who coveted a knighthood with every single fibre of his body, tried to weigh up the political advantages of the situation. If he granted the Warrant and a prominent citizen was outraged by the intrusion, he might well be held culpable. However, if he failed to do so and the most infamous murderer of the day should escape, he might well be blamed. On balance, he decided, better to allow the Warrant and if there were any subsequent complaint, then blame the Police, rather than do nothing and be held accountable for his failure in the future. And if Collingwood actually apprehended the fiend, his own part in that success would be beneficial to his ambitions. He puffed out his cheeks again as he pictured himself at his club, pontificating on the fact that the Police case for the warrant had been ill presented and half-hearted at best, but he, Sir Marcus Edgeley had seen the larger scope and insisted upon the search. A good job somebody had the courage of his convictions, what?

  ‘On reflection, Inspector, I will reluctantly grant the Warrant, however, be very aware that the sensibilities of the residents come foremost. You will conduct the search with the utmost decorum and the minimum of disruption. The householder is to be treated with all due deference, as befits a personage of rank. I will hold you personally responsible should offence be given to the householder. Good day, sir.’

  PC PERCY GUTTERIDGE SWUNG LUSTILY ON THE HEAVY WROUGHT iron pull chain that worked the bell on the gates at Blackwater House. The metallic chime could be heard echoing across the still grounds. Gimlet peered through the crack by the hinges of gate as two other uniformed policemen on temporary loan from Maxton Street Station pounded on the gate with their wooden truncheons, setting up a rhythmic tattoo. A squalling flock of crows burst up from their rookery perched up in the highest of the sycamore trees, squawking raucously in complaint at being disturbed so rudely.

  ‘Nothing, Guv,’ Gimlet reported from his squinted observation, ‘‘Quiet as the grave, as quiet as a nunnery when all the nuns ’as nipped round to the monastery next door.’

  ‘Police, open up,’ bellowed Gutteridge, almost deafening Collingwood as he shouted close by to his left ear. ‘POLICE!’

  ‘Nothing,’ Gimlet reported again. ‘Not a dickey bird. Mebbes ’e’s flown the coop, gone out the back door.’

  ‘According to the Borough Surveyor’s plans, Gimlet, there only a small wicket gate on the rear wall and we’ve got that covered.’

  ‘Yeah, s’right, remember that now.’

  ‘POLEEEEEECE,’ Gutteridge bellowed again, startling up the rooks again who were just beginning to settle back into the trees, squabbling amongst themselves as they did so.

  PC Banks, one of the uniformed PC’s on loan, rattled at the gates again in a forlorn hope that they might suddenly open before him. Open before him like the door to Aladdin’s cave, Collingwood thought, he had read the ‘A thousand and one Tales of the Arabian Nights’ to his daughter Lucy when she had been a child. ‘Open Sesame,’ he whispered to himself.

  ‘Nothing for it, Gimlet, one of us will have to go up over the wall and open the gate from within.’ PC Banks, tall and solid, with a smattering of acne pustules erupting across his shining face, as eager to please as a pet puppy, immediately offered, ‘I’ll do it Sir.’

  The other constable, PC Allen, also offered but far less eagerly. Gutteridge, older and wiser, nodded half-heartedly, as if he thought he ought to offer, but did not really want to.

  Gimlet, who knew he would be the one to go, said nothing, but began to pace up and down the pavement, peering up at the wall to ascertain the best spot to try to climb over. The wall was more than six feet high, solid red brick in construction, with the joints in the brickwork well buttered up with mortar. In some places, there was a thin frosting of efflorescence where the lime-salts in the mortar had crystallised, but this brushed away to fine powder as he ran his hands across the brickwork and Gimlet had to dust it down from his jacket front. He pulled at the curtain of ivy by the brass name plaque, but this give no support and tore away in his hands.

  The wall was topped with a row of six-inch wrought iron closely spaced spikes, as were the gates. The wall, although higher by some inches than the gates, seemed to offer the best approach.

  ‘Ere, you two,’ Gimlet shouted, calling the constables over to him. ‘Give us a leg up ’ere.’

  The PCs formed a stirrup with their linked hands, Gimlet put his booted foot into the stirrup, and facing the brick wall gave the nod to be lifted up. Gimlet, short and as slender as a whippet, was easily lifted up by the bobbies. As he reached the top of the wall, the coppers stretched their arms up above their shoulders to give him an extra boost. Carefully he grasped the vicious spikes and slowly raised himself upright, balancing one foot either side of the spikes. The hobnails on the soles of his boots scraped loudly in the ears of the watching police below as he gently manoeuvred himself into position to jump down to the other side. Swivelling on the heel of his left foot, Gimlet slowly raised his right foot, adjusted his balance slightly, and swung his right leg slowly so that he stood balanced on the inner edge of the wall, both heels hard up against the rusty spikes. He now faced into the grounds of Blackwater House. Collingwood slowly released his pent up breath, noticing as he did so that the other policeman had also been
holding their breaths as Gimlet had gingerly performed his balancing act across the high wire of spikes that waited patiently to skewer him should he slip.

  ‘Gimlet, can you see anything, tell me what you see.’

  ‘Not a lot, Guv, I can see the roofs of a house, not a very big one by the looks of it, lots of trees and bushes and that. Looks quiet, no sign of nobody about. No smoke or nothink from the chimleys. I’ll jump down now and open the gates.’

  ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Cautious is me middle name, Guv.’

  Gimlet slowly raised his arms and bent his knees, like a high diver, ready to jump. As he leapt, the double vented tail of his tweed jacket flared out behind him like a flapping sail in a storm and Collingwood shouted a stifled warning, ‘Gimlet , your coat,’ but it was too late. Gimlet dropped away but the spikes snatched eagerly at the fluttering coat-tail. There was a wrenching tear, the thick woollen cloth ripping on the spikes, but they held fast onto their prize, abruptly halting Gimlet’s jump like the drop at the end of a hangman’s rope. The thud as his plummeting body hit the brickwork vibrated through the wall like the sullen beat of bass drum, followed by a yelp of pain.

  ‘Gimlet; are you all right, speak to me, Gimlet. Are you hurt?’

  Gimlet’s voice, a bit shaky, snaked over the wall. ‘Bit shaken up, Guv, bit battered and bruised, reckon I’ll ’ave taken an inch or two off’en me hide, but likely as not I’ll survive. If only I could get down but I’m stuck fast; strung up tighter than a butterfly pinned to a display card.’

  Between them, Collingwood, Gutteridge and Allen lifted PC Banks up to the wall but he was unable to free Gimlet’s jacket up from the spikes, his weight dragging the jacket tight over the spikes was too much for Banks to lift as he swayed uncertainly in the grasp of the other policemen. A crisply starched nanny, strolling down the pavement with her charge in a wicker -hooded perambulator saw the group of men attempting to climb the wall ahead of her, and despite three of them being in police uniforms, she hurriedly crossed the road across to the other side.