“I will, sir. Oh, I pray the Lord helps you to find her!”
Charles raced into the street, looking in all directions for any sign of the child. To his left, he could see several costermongers plying their wares along Columbia and eastward toward Birdcage Walk. To the right, he noticed two hansoms and an elegant coach parked near a three-storey house he knew to be an upscale brothel called the Empress Hotel. Two well-dressed women stood near the door to the bawdy house, one looking in his direction. Charles crossed Columbia and made for the women, keeping his manner light, for everyone here knew him to be with the police, and he had no wish to alarm them.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” he called pleasantly. “Has either of you seen a young girl in the past hour? A little under four feet tall, dark eyes and hair?”
The shorter of the two women wrapped a blue printed shawl around her shoulders and squinted into the afternoon sun. “Wearin’ naught bu’ a man’s striped shirt o’er top ‘er personals?”
“Yes!” Charles exclaimed as he reached their door. “Forgive me, Miss Irene, but she might be somewhat disoriented. The child is part of a murder investigation, and she came home with me this morning, for we do not yet know her name or address.”
“I said she looked all muddled, didn’t I, Ida?” the woman answered, glancing up at her tall companion. Turning toward the detective, she continued, “She run out no more’n quarter of an hour past, Mr. St. Clair. Walked that way. Over toward Johnny Pete’s place.”
“Thank you, Irene. And you as well, Miss... Oh, I’m sorry I don’t think I’ve met you,” he added, speaking to the taller woman.
“Ida, Mr. St. Clair. Ida Ross. I’m new. I just started two days ago, sir.” She appeared embarrassed. Ross looked no older than fifteen, perhaps younger, and St. Clair wondered what the girl’s story might be. Another tragedy waiting to happen, he thought.
“Thank you, then, Miss Ida,” he replied, bowing slightly. “If you see the child again, will you take her to my home? It’s right across the street. Number twelve. My housekeeper is there waiting.”
Ross nodded, clearly self-conscious. “Uh, yes, sir, Mr. St. Clair.” Her strawberry blonde hair seemed to redden as her cheeks crimsoned beneath a sea of pale freckles.
“We will, sir. I hope you find ‘er, Mr. St. Clair!” the shorter woman called as Charles ran west toward the public house known as Johnny Pete’s.
Once the detective had reached the next block, the taller girl pulled her emerald green jacket tightly about her shoulders. “He’s right nice for a copper.”
Irene Lester struck a match and lit her cigarette. “A real looker, too. And all over muscled, I’ll wager. Mrs. Hansen moons over ‘im all the time, she does, but don’t let ‘er know I told ya. Mrs. St. Clair, though. She’s a right piece o’ work. Never did understand how come he took up wif the likes o’ her. Come on then, Ida. We best go back in an’ earn our keep.”
“I’ll wait out here in case the little girl walks past, Irene. I did tell the inspector I’d keep watch.”
Lester laughed and sucked on the cigarette. “Watch all ya like. It won’t make no difference. Mr. St. Clair’s too nice ta step ou’ on ‘is missus, even though she does naught to keep ‘im. So, put them thoughts outa yer noggin’.”
“I’ll just keep watch. That’s all. You go on in, and I’ll come inside soon.”
The shorter woman laughed again as she re-entered the house, noticing that the new girl’s eyes continued to follow the policeman’s progress until he disappeared from their view.
The Greenway public house stood opposite the Mission School at the corner of Columbia Road and Gascoigne. Even with his long legs, it took St. Clair several minutes running at top speed to reach the pub, and he pushed through the heavy, glass and oak door, instantly recognised by everyone in the establishment.
“You ‘ere on business, Inspector?” asked a pretty barmaid as she distributed pints of ale to a table of four, middle-aged men.
Charles stopped to catch his breath, gulping for air. “I haven’t come to roust anyone, Myrtle. I’m searching for a small child. A girl.”
“Real sweet an’ pretty, wif dark hair?” the waitress asked. “She’s back there, Mr. St. Clair. Talkin’ wif Johnny Pete.”
Charles passed through a collection of postal workers, goods yard men, and several coopers on their lunch break from the Hanbury & Co. Brewery. “Gentlemen, I am not here to make trouble. I’m just looking for...”
“Hello, Captain,” the child called at seeing him. She sat on the pub’s sturdy brass and oak bar, her bare feet peeking from beneath the curved hem of his work shirt. “I saw this man walk past your window, and he looked familiar. I tried to wake you, but since you kept sleeping and I couldn’t find Mrs. Mary, I followed him on your behalf.”
John Peter MacArthur gulped at seeing the policeman. “Inspector St. Clair, sir, I ain’ done nuffin’ wrong. She jus’ come in, all on ‘er own, she did!”
“That’s true. I did,” she agreed as St. Clair picked her up from the counter. “Are you cross with me, Captain? I’m sorry to worry you, but I thought I ought to investigate.”
He felt such relief at finding the girl safe that his previous terror had dissolved into a mixture of elation and anger, but Charles shook his head, unwilling to cause her any distress. “No, little one. I’m not cross, but you did frighten me. I’d feared you’d gone, and that would make me very sad.”
She kissed his cheek. “We cannot have that,” she said with a bright smile.
“Thank you, Mr. MacArthur,” St. Clair said, and then to the girl, he asked, “Darling, what about this gentleman looked familiar? John, do you know her?”
“No, sir, I do not. Yet, she seemed to think me someone she knows.”
“I thought he was the man from the park,” she explained.
“The man you mentioned to me earlier?”
“Yes. The tall one with the funny accent,” she said. “But he isn’t. Should we go back to your house, Captain?”
He nodded. “Yes, I think we should, little one, else I shall have to issue you a warrant card,” he said, proudly. “You’d make a fine detective.”
“Would I?” she asked, giggling.
“You would indeed.” Charles wrapped his overcoat around her shoulders as the pair of them left the pub, neither noticing a curious man who watched from a corner near Columbia and Gascoigne Place. The man was quite tall, wore a colourful, plaid vest and walked with a limp. He scribbled something into a leather notebook as he observed the policeman and the girl, before vanishing into thin air.
Within a few minutes, the twosome passed the brothel, and the girl waved to Ida, who smiled and waved in return. “Glad you found ‘er, Mr. St. Clair!” she called, and the child tapped her protector on the shoulder.
“May we say hello?” she asked him. “She looks cold.”
“As do you, little one. Might it not have been wiser to put on your boots before rushing out to investigate?”
She giggled. “I didn’t wish to lose him, and my shoes were still drying by the fire in Mrs. Mary’s room. May I talk to her? Please?”
With Amelia due home by four, Charles had no wish to lose any more time, but he admired the child’s compassion for others. “Yes, we should say hello. Miss Ida, my houseguest would like to say thank you.”
The girl jumped out of his arms and ran up to the prostitute. “Do you live here?” she asked innocently.
The young woman bent down and touched the girl’s dark curls. “I do. It looks like the inspector is taking right good care o’ you, little miss.” Then she bent forward and whispered something to the child.
The girl’s face grew pale. “Really? How do you know?” she asked, and Ross touched the child’s cheek and whispered something in return. The girl nodded. “I shall, but you must be careful, too.”
“Oh, I’m all righ
t,” the young prostitute said aloud. “But you’ve nothing to fear, luv. You put your trust in Mr. St. Clair, my girl. Keep near him, and you’ll be all right.”
“Yes, I know,” the child replied. “He will take good care of me. I shan’t worry. He is the Captain, you know. Shouldn’t you go inside, Miss Ida? It’s quite cold out here without a coat. Do you need a coat? Perhaps, we could bring you one.”
“I’m plenty warm,” Ida lied. “She’s a right sweet thing, sir. I can see why you was worried. Thank you, little miss. You take care now, an’ mind wha’ the inspector says—I mean wha’ the Captain says.”
“Thank you again, Miss Ida,” Charles said, touching her hand briefly. “If you hear or see anything amiss, I hope you will tell me. I should get her back into the house. We’re on a bit of a deadline. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
She wanted to say more, but the detective had already lifted the child into his muscular arms and turned back toward his home. Ida Ross wished she had the courage to tell him the truth, but it was too late, so she climbed the steps back up to the doorway and returned to work.
Arriving back at his home, St. Clair carried the child inside, where both were greeted by a very relieved Mrs. Wilsham.
“Oh, sir, you found her! May the Lord be praised! Where was she then?”
The child ran forward and kissed the housekeeper, as St. Clair hung up his hat and coat. “I worried you both. I am sorry,” she said. “I thought I saw the man from the park.”
Charles carried her back into the parlour, where the fire had nearly burnt out. “Do you remember which park, little one?”
“The one near...” she started, but then her brows pinched together, as if she had reached a mental roadblock. “I’m not sure. It’s all rather mixed up. I could almost see it in my mind, like recalling a dream, but it’s gone now. I am sorry, Captain. Is it important?”
“Possibly,” he told her honestly. “Darling, I think someone tried to hurt you, and I only wish to find that man and arrest him. You say the gentleman in the pub looked familiar. Like the man with the accent.”
“A very strange accent. Not English,” she said as Wilsham brought in a fresh pot of tea and served a cup to the detective.
“Thank you, Mary,” he said kindly. “It’s already three, so if we’re to find a solution to this puzzle before four, then we’ll need to hurry. I should not have fallen asleep.”
The girl bit her lip, her eyes round with fright. “Will I have to leave when Mrs. St. Clair comes home?”
“Not if I can help it,” he promised her. “Darling, what else can you remember? Anything more about your cousin?”
“Paul?” she asked. “He’s tall and handsome, much like you, Captain. I think he’s somewhere else now, but I cannot remember where.”
“And what about this other memory? The one about the animal?”
“I... I don’t want to think about that,” she whispered, trembling, her eyes grown wide with fear.
“Yes, I know, darling, but it’s very important. Can you tell me what the animal did? Did he try to hurt you? You said he talked to you. What did he say?”
“He...uh, he... No, I do not wish to remember! He’ll... He’ll do things to me—awful things!” She tensed up, terror filling her dark eyes, and her head dropped backward, her mouth open wide. “I mustn’t tell! I mustn’t! I promised! No!” she screamed, kicking her legs. “Please, no!”
Wilsham rushed over, kneeling beside the chair, whilst St. Clair did his best to calm the child. “Little one, you are safe. He will not harm you. I shan’t let anyone hurt you—not ever again!” Her entire body had gone rigid, and her breathing increased into a rapid-fire, staccato pattern. Charles held her close, kissing her forehead. “Darling, it’s all right. We won’t talk about the animal. You’re safe. You are completely safe,” he whispered to her lovingly.
The detective prayed silently, beseeching the Lord for aid and intervention, and after several minutes, the girl began to relax, but her breathing remained shallow and swift, her small fists clenched. “Mary, would you fetch me a warm towel, please?” he asked.
Wilsham disappeared into the kitchen, and in a few moments returned with a moist linen towel she’d warmed in a pan on the stove. St. Clair took the cloth and placed it on the child’s forehead. Again he prayed, terrified that he’d caused her harm. Tears slid down his face as he held her, and the detective fought rising panic.
“You are safe, little one,” he whispered, kissing her cheek. “That animal will never touch you. Not here. Not whilst I live.”
Ten more minutes passed, an agonizingly long time, but at last the girl began to relax, and she pulled herself close to his chest, sobbing.
“No one will hurt you, little one. I promise,” he assured her.
She trembled still, and her breath caught as she wept. “And if—if I have to—to leave here?” she asked in gasps, her dark lashes beaded with tears.
“You will not leave here until we can send for Paul, and I will not desert you, little one. Not ever. Not so long as you need me.”
She continued to sob but soon fell asleep in his arms, and St. Clair, though weary, remained awake to guard her until Amelia returned at four. Whilst he waited, he talked with Wilsham, hoping the housekeeper had noticed anything that might help to identify the girl.
“Mary, sit, won’t you? You’ve been a great help with this child. She trusts you and likes you very much.”
“As she does you, sir, if I may say so. She talked about you often whilst we done the mornin’s chores. She’s a good little helper, though she don’t seem to know much ‘bout cleanin’.”
“About that, Mary,” he probed, “the girl told me that she’d never baked toast or even made a bed before. Did you learn anything else about what she has or has not experienced?”
Wilsham sat into a small armchair, the warm towel in her hand. “Well, sir, I’d say she’s done no cleanin’ nor bakin’, which is odd. Even at her age, most girls I know has done some housework. Her hands is smooth and soft, so I don’t think your missus is right about the girl bein’ a beggar. She’d have rough hands from sleepin’ on the streets an’ all, an’ she’d be right scrawny, I think. Bu’ she’s real healthy, though petite, you know.”
“Yes, that’s what I think, too. She recognised Westminster as being near Lambeth, even describing the businessmen, and she says she’s been there many times. Her accent and speech patterns are quite refined, don’t you think?”
Wilsham nodded. “She knows some fairly big words, too. She even spoke to me in French a bit.”
“Did she? I say, Mary, surely this girl isn’t part of some child procurement operation?”
“What is that, sir?”
He gazed at the girl’s serene, sleeping face, and kissed her forehead. “She is heartbreakingly beautiful, is she not? I fear a beautiful child like this is precisely the kind these procurers look for. Without being too descriptive, for it’s possible she may awaken and I’d not want her to be alarmed, it is an organisation that provides very young girls, often raised from infancy and kept pure and lovely, to, well,” he explained, clearing his throat, a trifle embarrassed. “Well, you see, these girls are sold to... Well, to evil men for their personal use. Do you understand what I mean?”
Wilsham’s face went white. “Surely, you do not mean that this precious girl may have been used in such a way? Might tha’ be this animal she speaks of? Would she remember it as such?”
“That is just what I fear, Mary. These men are evil. Pure evil, and a child might interpret such aberrant behaviour as animalistic in nature.”
“Do you find such in London, sir? Men wha’ uses girls such as this dear child?”
“Such men exist all across the world, I imagine, and yes, in London as well. This child seems to recall a man with a strange accent who frightened her in a park. Perhaps the woman found de
ad beside her tried to interfere—perhaps even came to her rescue. It’s important that I learn all I can before...”
“Before Mrs. St. Clair returns. Yes, sir. I’m sorry she said such to you about this child. It weren’t right. No, it weren’t. She’s been tore up since little Albert—I mean, well, you know what I mean, sir. Weren’t your fault, sir. No, it weren’t, an’ I know how much you miss that boy, sir. Each and every day.”
A flash of regret darkened his face for a moment, but St. Clair offered the housekeeper a weary smile. “You needn’t explain, Mary. I understand what you mean. Albert’s passing tore all our hearts, did it not? But God has given me a chance to help another child now, and I shan’t fail her as I did my son. Now, is there anything else you noticed or heard?”
Wilsham thought for a moment, then her eyes widened. “She’s got a bad scar on her little leg, sir. Like some animal tore it. Looks like it’s a year or more old, though.”
“Perhaps, that’s the source of her terror, but you say it looked older?”
“Aye, sir, but I saw some bruises on her back that looked real new.”
“Bruises sometimes take a day or two to emerge, do they not, Mary?” he asked.
“Yes, sir, they do. She’s a sweet child. She sung me a song in French whilst she tried her hand at workin’ a broom. She’d never swept afore neither, I reckon.”
St. Clair blinked, his eyes dry and weary. “Did she eat anything besides toast?”
“Not much. A bit of cheese and an apple. She said somethin’ though about havin’ lots of apple trees in her yard. Does that help?”
“I don’t think so, but it is one more reason to rule out the east end. Few houses here have fruit trees. The yard space is too limited. Did she say anything about someone named Paul?”
“Aye, sir, she did. Many times. She talked abou’ him like he were right special, but then she talked abou’ you a lot, too, sir. Callin’ you Captain.”
St. Clair smiled. “Really? Funny, I rather like that nickname. And she always takes on a happy look when she talks about this Paul person. At first, I’d thought this man might be involved in transporting or grooming her, if indeed she is part of such a dark operation as these procurement circles are, but she seems to trust him, does she not? So, what else did she say about him?”
Blood Lies Page 4
