Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “Matter of fact, yes, sir. I was at Holborn, not ten minutes north. Haberdasher. Nine sacks.”

  “Mr. Potter,” Endersby said. “I shall be brief. Do you in your night hours of delivery ever make note of the creatures on the streets which you traverse?” Endersby asked. “I mean other than the boy gangs, or the women of the night. Any unusual figures you might see and remember?”

  “Man in a lady’s gown two early mornings ago, sir. Kimbawed by rum and beer. Hailed me, he did.”

  “And anyone this past night, or near three or half three o’clock?”

  “Near three or twenty past the hour, yes. While on delivery on Holborn. A chap came along, an odd one limping. Right bent, beard.”

  “Did he speak to you, at all?”

  “The cove! Head-on into the flank of my dray. Come up from Drury Lane. Like he was chased by a pack of dogs.”

  “Did the gentleman reply in any way, perhaps curse or apologize for colliding with you, Mr. Potter?”

  “Struck my wagon, he did, with a gaff! Said nothing. Stank like a dead horse. Went on his way along Holborn, toward Gray’s Inn.”

  “A gaff. What do you mean?”

  “Like what the dredgermen use, sir. The river scavengers. Long handle with a hook. For haulin’ in bodies, sir,” Potter said.

  “Metal?” asked Endersby.

  “Like the flounder fishers once used when I was a lad,” answered the coal carrier. “I see plenty men using them round the docks. Mind, the dredgers are a closed lot. A guild. No one works for’em unless for pittance.”

  “ Did you by chance see the cove’s face?”

  “A flash sir. Like he was cut. Or with a mark from birth.”

  “You will be called upon by the parish clerk and the coroner today — later this morning, in fact — to tell your story again,” replied Endersby. “Alert the coal works of your whereabouts.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Potter said. The inspector and Caldwell bid him goodbye. Then, without delay, Endersby asked Caldwell to write down the details of the coal carrier’s description: A MAN WITH A BEARD, A LIMP, A STINK, A DREDGERMAN’S METAL GAFF, AND A FACIAL MARK. Outside in the yard, as the two examined the side door’s lack of outer hardware they discovered a broken latch on the coal chute. “So far, Sergeant, scant proof provides us a logical connection. Entry of villain here — down the chute; exit of villain by the wooden side door. All of our conclusions based on coal dust.”

  “Remarkable, sir,” answered Caldwell.

  “And your professional opinion of the coal carrier, Sergeant?”

  “Innocent seeming, sir. To be bold, I cannot conjure a motive for murder in a chap like him.”

  “I stand beside you on that count, Sergeant. A man with brains cramped into the body of a labourer.” The two men stood close, their breaths visible in the crisp air.

  “My first question, Caldwell.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “How did our culprit know about the side door and its particular latch?”

  “Perhaps he played scout at first. Or was well acquainted with St. Giles. Perhaps he was once an inmate, like Potter, the coal carrier.”

  “Certainly possible,” Endersby said. “Or a former master, perhaps? Disgraced and sent into the world without a reference?” Endersby walked a few paces toward the front portal. “Second question: a man brutally kills a matron in a workhouse, a place he may know in familiar terms. It seems he kills at random. Miss Matty was a shut-in creature without friends. Unless, of course, he did know her and hated her. He murders in a cruel manner, using a piece of lace, in order to search for a particular child. But to what end? We can discount the motive to take advantage in a way only the most disgusting of men find pleasing. For revenge? To recover a lost offspring? But then the villain leaves this child behind, unharmed. And what of the waif, herself? The child called Catherine?”

  “You do love your ramblings, sir,” Caldwell said.

  “The highways and byways of the criminal world, Sergeant, make up a most intricate topography.”

  Standing by the front entrance of the workhouse, Endersby relaxed his shoulders. “Shall we walk a little?” he suggested. Caldwell agreed and he offered the idea they go to a coffee house close by and drink a pot to revive their spirits. “The coroner will soon arrive, sir. We have time,” Caldwell said, imagining members of the parish board descending on St. Giles Workhouse like avenging angels, fingers ready to point. “It is time, indeed, for reflection,” said Endersby. “Time to wonder about a child named Catherine.”

  Chapter Four

  Double Trouble

  Endersby reluctantly stepped once more into the clammy dimness of the workhouse and was shown to a chamber on the second floor. A tin clock on the corridor wall banged out the hour of nine. The workhouse had begun to function again, noise and shouting filling the air. An inferno, indeed, thought Endersby. What a cat’s cradle of facts and suppositions. These thoughts ceased abruptly when the inspector saw, in the chamber before him, Matron Agnes bent over a thin, blonde girl. The child held a pencil. On a piece of foolscap she was diligently drawing out a large oval shape. When the child turned and looked up at him, Endersby noticed the deformity of her upper lip.

  “Inspector,” said Matron Agnes, “this is young Catherine. She is the girl who was found outside the workhouse gate very early this morning. Do not mind that she is dumb, sir. She is a bright child.”

  Catherine continued to decorate the oval shape in front of her.

  “Can she read and write her letters?” asked Endersby.

  “Better than many here,” answered Matron Agnes.

  Stepping away from the child, Matron Agnes lowered her voice. “How fortunate, Inspector, that Catherine was not harmed in any way.”

  “Indeed, Matron,” Endersby answered. “Have you posed any questions and received any answers?”

  “With Catherine, one must always ask for a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Or to have her draw. She is clever with her pencil. The intruder carried her outside into the street and then left her, untouched. I have requested Catherine to draw me a picture of the man’s face. For she nodded when I asked if she had seen the fellow’s features.”

  Endersby approached the table and looked over the shoulder of the young girl. She had drawn a large oval into which she had placed near the top two smaller ovals, side by side. Then below the small ovals, close to the bottom, a straight bold line. A man’s face as seen by a child. With much energy, little Catherine now drew a series of circles and lines that with some allowance for exaggeration could be interpreted as a man’s beard.

  “Well done, young girl,” Endersby said.

  Catherine looked up at him. She had no fear in her eyes. “This is the man you saw last night, did you?” asked Endersby. The girl nodded vigorously. Her left hand reached up and pulled at Endersby’s sleeve. Catherine then stood and pulled again until Endersby’s face was at the same height as hers. She blinked hard and widened her eyes and then clasped her right hand over her mouth.

  “What is it Catherine?” Matron Agnes asked. “Be quick, child.”

  Catherine slowly moved her right hand from her mouth and guided it with her pointer finger held up. She pressed the finger on Endersby’s right jaw. The tip was icy to the touch but Endersby stood as still as a tree. The finger began to move up and across his right cheek. It climbed, then dragged itself over his nose. The girl took in a breath and concentrated her gaze. Without lifting her finger from Endersby’s face, she continued her cold trail upwards across his left cheek, stopping under his eye. Catherine then turned back to her drawing and picking up the pencil she drew a similar line across the oval face.

  “A scar, perhaps, Catherine?” asked Endersby. The girl took her pencil and doubled the line; afterward, she smudged it with the tip of her finger.

  “I see, I see. Very clear,” said Endersby. “Catherine,” he then said, “did you know this man?” The girl shook her head. “Did he speak to you?” The girl seemed to freeze
in her place. Her eyes looked into the distance and she frowned and fussed and finally bent her head toward the table. “Catherine?” said Matron Agnes. The child sat still and did not respond. “Do not be too hasty to judge her, Inspector. She has tried her best.”

  “Thank you Matron. Thank you Catherine, you have been a good girl.”

  Matron Agnes subsequently made a small gesture that struck Endersby straight to his heart. Amidst this place of stone and gloom, Matron Agnes put her hand on Catherine’s head and patted it softly. “I thank you for your cooperation and attention, Matron,” Endersby said. As he turned to leave, young Catherine reached out and caught his sleeve a second time. She picked up her pencil and on the other side of the oval portrait, on the clean side, she began to write out a series of letters in an awkward hand. When she was done, she looked into the inspector’s face and pointed to the word.

  UNKELBOW.

  “Unkelbow?” Endersby asked, pronouncing the last three letters as if they described the limb of a tree.

  The girl shook her head. “Do not fool us, Catherine,” said Matron Agnes. “This is a nonsense word.”

  The girl stood and opened her little mouth and closed it in imitation of a person talking. She placed her hands on each side of her face, leaned forward, and again mimed the talking mouth. Catherine picked up the paper and shoved it at Endersby’s stomach. He read out the word again. “Unkelbow.” This time he said the word bow as in Bow Street, or as the twist in a ribbon. “What do you make of this, Matron?” Matron Agnes folded her hands in front of her and stilled her face. “I cannot imagine, sir. Children love to make up names and fantastical friends to keep them company. Do not forget the realms of fancy, Inspector.”

  “Indeed.”

  The child stamped her foot. The inspector obliged and said the word again. “Unkelbow. Unkelbo.” The girl nodded furiously. “Uncle Bow?”

  Again, a hearty nod from the girl. The inspector looked up into the matron’s face. “Uncle Bow. A family name?”

  Endersby examined both sides of the sheet and as he did so a light knocking at the door of the chamber commenced and within a few seconds a young constable from the Metropolitan Police was standing by Endersby’s right elbow. The constable’s hat and his white gloves caused young Catherine to stare.

  “I beg your pardon, Inspector Endersby,” said the constable.

  “Come Catherine,” said Matron Agnes, a cold tone returning to her voice.

  “Thank you Matron,” Endersby said, still pondering the cryptic letters on the page before him.

  “Sir, if I may?” enquired the constable.

  “And a good morning to you, young Catherine,” said Endersby as she was led out through the door and into the corridor.

  “Inspector Endersby?”

  “Ah, Constable.”

  The young man stood at attention. Endersby recognized a new recruit from the eager look in his eye.

  “Forgive me, Constable. My mind was engrossed in a puzzle,” said Endersby, folding the child’s drawing and putting it in his pocket.

  Sergeant Caldwell rushed in, his wool cap slightly askew and his eyes full of concern.

  “Sir,” Caldwell began.

  “Gentlemen, take your ease,” Endersby said. “One at a time.”

  Caldwell, of higher rank, spoke first.

  “Most dire, sir. Another body has been found, a body of one of the matrons at the House of Correction in Shoe Lane.”

  The constable’s words hit Endersby like a kick from a horse. His gouty limb twanged with such sudden pain he had to lift it from the floor to give relief. Another matron? In a workhouse? The building around him seemed to darken and Endersby wanted to light torches, as if to burn out the plague. Some contagion was spreading through the streets of his beloved city. He dared not raise his eyes for a moment in case he saw a monster in front of him. A smiling creature with bloodied hands. Taking a breath, putting his foot down, Endersby gathered himself, holding the rein tight on his rumbling anger, his hands closing into fists by his side.

  “Thank you, Caldwell.” Endersby was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “Now, Constable, what have you to say?”

  “Beg your pardon, sir. Most urgent, Inspector. Fleet Lane has instructed me to accompany you to the site described by your sergeant-at-hand. A matron murdered. And a child, sir, who I found by chance by the workhouse gate.”

  “Another child?” Endersby shivered. He was haunted by the loss of children. His mind flew to the little grave where his son, Robert, lay. A child once again, abandoned, left as good as dead, he thought. Time and tide wait for no man. Evil was gaining the upper hand. Endersby took but one instant to contract his brow, to concentrate on the sordid information he had been given. He turned to address Sergeant Caldwell.

  “Sergeant, the coroner will soon convene his jury and ask for witnesses. This workhouse will be topsy-turvy for a time but the magistrate will want as many clues as we have.” Endersby hunted in his satchel, pulled out the envelope holding the piece of lace and handed it to Sergeant Caldwell. “As befits your rank, sir, as Detective Sergeant of Capital Crime for the Metropolitan, I charge you to stand as my representative before the coroner.”

  “Yes, sir.” Caldwell immediately jumped to attention as if he were about to lead a charge of men into battle.

  “Be wary, sir,” Endersby then said, pulling Caldwell aside. “Listen carefully to all witnesses. Copy down any wavering from the truth — such as it is — that the staff here might indulge in. Present the lace. The surgeon will pronounce strangulation. If commanded, tell of the entry by coal chute. That should be sufficient to have a verdict for us to continue. I will tell you later what other clues — such as they are — have been afforded me by my interview with the child. The coroner, most likely, will have no need or show any interest as yet in her words.”

  “I shall be diligent,” answered Caldwell.

  “This bodes some strange eruption to our state,” mumbled Endersby.

  “Sir?” said Caldwell, his shoulders held back.

  “At ease, Sergeant. Hamlet once again. To your duty. We shall meet again today at Fleet Lane Station House. Let us say past noon or one o’clock.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Caldwell said, and headed toward the staircase.

  “Now, young constable, we have dire duties before us,” Endersby said, closing his satchel, straightening his hat, and indicating to the young recruit to lead on. The young man went forward and led Endersby out to the yard of St. Giles. Presently, in a rushing hansom cab, Endersby’s confusion lay somewhat abated even if his mind kept conflating clues and fears. With a second murder to be investigated, he reminded himself of Peel’s Sixth Principle to “exercise persuasion, advice, and warning.” As a professional detective he knew he must find proof rather than issue arrests on mere hearsay. And yet, how might he confront two such similar crimes happening in one night? He had to act quickly. He must not hesitate. He felt he was being chased by an ugly troll about to strangle him, an old memory from his boyhood that rose in his imagination as he pitied the second matron lying dead in Shoe Lane. He asked the constable to explain who he was and what had happened.

  “I’m a night watch constable, Colby, sir, responsible for Shoe Lane to Fleet Street and eastward to St. Paul’s. Early this morning, just before dawn, a gentleman from the Shoe Lane House of Correction approached me and requested I come to view a most unfortunate sight. A matron strangled in her parlour, a bit of cloth choked in her mouth.”

  “Recall the cloth, Constable. Anything peculiar about it — shape, colour?”

  “Sir, not to put too fine a point upon it, I reckon on inspection it seemed to be but a snag of old lace.”

  “Indeed,” Endersby replied.

  “And, sir, if I have your permission, I must recall, as well, a most horrific detail.”

  “Granted,” Endersby said, curtly.

  “The victim’s neck, sir, was bruised: a dark thick bruise. Given the toppled state of the vic
tim — in her chair, sir, lying back on the floor — I had the opportunity to imagine that she may have been strangled, sir, with a rope or some such item.”

  “Most astute, Constable.”

  The hansom pulled into a narrow yard in which there was a building of dark stone so similar to St. .Giles that one could conclude they were of the same lineage.“Before we descend, Constable, one final preliminary,” Endersby said. “Tell me of the child.”

  “Little to tell, sir. In my view, a most peculiar happenstance. On my way to alert constables and a surgeon at Fleet Lane Station House, I saw crouched in a doorway a young female dressed in the muslin worn by the wards of Shoe Lane. To be precise, she appeared unharmed. She had fallen asleep and was cold. On closer inspection, I noted she was light-haired, no more than ten years old. I brought her back to Shoe Lane whereupon the head Matron took her away.”

  “Most curious,” replied Endersby. Under his professional politeness Endersby felt a deep fear. A copy cat incident? One man trawling the workhouses of London to kill at random? And the abandoned girls?

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “Let us both keep our eyes open and our ears cocked, Constable. I will treat you, if I may, as a second set of my own senses. To verify what I see and hear. Are you agreed, sir?”

  “Most respectfully, sir. I am agreed,” the constable replied. While the recruit helped the inspector climb down from the hansom, Endersby’s gouty foot pinched him hard. Entering the grand portal, the inspector noted immediately a different atmosphere from St. Giles. Doors were slamming, voices shouting, people rushing by. “Pandemonium, Constable,” Endersby exclaimed, walking toward a large door that had just opened. In a room full of chairs, a cluster of men and women stood huddled like cattle in the rain. “Holla!” the inspector shouted. The fumbling crowd froze. A master approached, his hands shaking. Endersby quickly introduced himself and the constable. Like hungry dogs to a tossed bone, the others scrambled up to the inspector and began barking out their stories. Questions flew: who did this? Why our matron? Is the child dead or alive? “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to sit down,” Endersby commanded.