Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “I’ll appreciate another shilling, guv’nor, if you does have no objection.”

  Endersby opened his purse and handed the lad the shilling.

  Outside in the lane, he asked an oyster seller to point him to Blue Anchor Court. She nodded her chin toward a grimy half street with murky water running down the cobbles and groups of haggard men sitting on stools. A new frock coat? Legs in irons? A dredgerman’s cap? How many men could fit that description, Endersby wondered. And was any one of them the workhouse killer? An innocent man may buy lace as easily as a guilty one, he reminded himself. Was Luck guiding him or leading him astray? Just follow your leads, Endersby thought. They are all you have. Leave supposition behind for the moment. He shook out the cramp in his foot and began to walk slowly toward Blue Anchor Court.

  “Careful, dearie,” warned the oyster woman. “There be thieves and murderers down there.”

  “We’ll all be killed.”

  “Quiet!” the master shouted at the three trembling women. He turned his bony head toward Sergeant Caldwell. “Do you see, sir, what trouble you have brought?”

  Sergeant Caldwell stood at attention, his shoulders pressed back. It was his way of showing resistance to the five-foot bully facing him. The master of the Theobald’s Road Workhouse reminded Caldwell of a scrappy street dog: his set of yellowed teeth, his growl full of threat. “Sir,” Caldwell said, “It is my duty to inform you to lock down your coal chute for the safety of these matrons and their female wards. This is a measure of caution that the Metropolitan Police are demanding of every institution since the two murders were discovered.”

  The three matrons pleaded. The master took them aside. While the master tried to calm his staff, Caldwell examined the ledgers of recent arrivals of children, their names and ages. There were no Catherines. There were, on the present list, only seven girls of twelve years old. The rest were young women with small babies. Dread overtook Caldwell’s mind. Forcing the master to secure the workhouse had been difficult. Caldwell thought about his wife, Alice, safe at home in her bed. Surely to be safe is what every man, woman, and child needs in life. Caldwell flipped through the records. Very few female children had been registered in Theobald’s Road over the past year.

  He said goodbye to the staff and decided to walk around the yard of the workhouse. The building was jammed into a dark alley, its yard no larger than three horse-stalls. Sergeant Caldwell valued the training he’d received from Endersby. He’d learned to sharpen his eye for details, for unusual signs that might provide a clue. Finding one always brought him an immediate sense of accomplishment. Ducking under the roof of an old shed, Caldwell cocked his head and noticed a small wooden door, almost invisible in the gloom. It was makeshift and when he pulled it open he found it led to a smelly hut. A sudden movement inside the hut made Caldwell jump back. He reached for his leather cosh that hung inside his blue police jacket and his breath caught. The figure was bent, black with dirt. He had a beard, a large black hat. “Git away,” he yelled.

  “Stand still, sir!” Caldwell cried. The figure dashed at him, swinging a metal hook. His body reeked of filth. He rammed Caldwell to the ground. It was impossible to see the full face as it was covered by strings of hair and the rim of the hat. A heavy punch slammed into Caldwell’s right shoulder. He rolled on his side; another punch by his ear. Grunts and curses bounced off the walls of the hut as Caldwell turned to see the hook fly again. Caldwell’s left foot cracked the attacker’s ankle. Howling in pain, the man tumbled forward. Grabbing his assailant’s coat sleeve, Caldwell held tight. But the fellow kicked back, broke free, and clambered to his full height. Then he turned and fled. Out of the shed and between the buildings he stumbled, huffing, his boots dragging as if stuffed with bricks.

  “Halt,” Caldwell yelled. He chased the man into the broader street. A carriage blocked his way. He dodged around its back end and saw the man push aside two teenage boys. What strength he had, what speed for a man with bad legs, Caldwell thought. A woman screamed from a doorway. The filthy man pushed her down, ran into her shop and out its back door into a maze of alleys. Caldwell gave chase but his assailant seemed to evaporate like steam from a kettle.

  Panting, Caldwell picked up speed. A stink, a limp, a beard, a hook. The eight words had become like a child’s rhyme in his brain. He headed down one of the alleys, looked for broken doors, swinging gates. Back again down two more lanes, but there were no more indications of a man passing through. As he stood to write in his leather notebook, noting the time, the details of the incident, a dog barked inside a walled-up yard. Caldwell ran to its gate.

  “You!” he shouted to a young boy playing with the dog. “Did you see a man pass through here, lad? I am a policeman.” The boy turned to him and Caldwell saw that the child was blind. Caldwell pulled down his cap. Where had the figure gone? Was he, in fact, the culprit? It’s no use, Caldwell thought. There’s no profit in wondering about a fled rabbit. He popped a fresh clove into his cheek, checked the address of London Wall Workhouse and headed northeast, the Tower of London visible in the distance.

  Chapter Ten

  Friends in Need

  Chin up, back held rigid, Inspector Endersby did not dare move an inch farther. He had no desire to suffer the knife point currently tickling his throat. Three minutes walk through Blue Anchor Court and into the first lodging house, where he now was looking up, much against his will, at a low ceiling streaked with water stains. Sudden good fortune too frequently turns bad, Endersby reflected.

  “Clean’im,” said a rough voice behind Endersby’s back. Two young boys in large coats and broken top hats thrust their hands into Endersby’s coat pockets. They whistled as their hands dove in and out, their movements so quick Endersby could barely notice their touch.

  “Wot’s this great lump, d’ye see?” One of the boys pulled Endersby’s folded hat from his coat pocket. “Oh, Lor’, a fine piece.”

  “Oh d’ye see, a box a sweets,” said the other. “These’ll fetch four pence.”

  The rough voice at Endersby’s back said: “Hand’em here, rum boys, quick, quick.”

  The man holding the knife at Endersby’s throat wore an old shooting jacket with wooden buttons. His eyes followed the artful hands of the boys. “Three shillings,” cried one, as he slid his hand from underneath Endersby’s coat. The contents of the inspector’s trouser pockets were now on display in two sets of dirty hands: the shillings, a change purse, a clean handkerchief. “Giv’em,” said the rough voice. There was a shuffle of feet; from the corner of his eye Endersby saw a short fellow move slowly around him. The fellow wore a red plush waistcoat and a long military coat reaching to his boot tops. When he stopped in front of Endersby, the man holding the knife stepped back and Endersby lowered his chin. To his surprise, the fellow facing him whose voice had been so deep was a mere boy; his face was stubbled with light beard; his hat had a drooping feather in its crown.

  “Welcome, Master,” the boy-fellow said, his rough voice incongruous with his thin body. Endersby nodded: in a flash he knew he must play the charade to guard his disguise as best he could. His satchel at his feet had yet to be pilfered. And when it was, there would arise a dangerous situation between him and the lodgers — especially the boy-fellow with the rough voice.

  “You’ve a full purse for today? You a gonaff, then?” asked the boy-fellow.

  The two young boy-thieves snickered.

  Pitching his voice high and stuttering, Endersby said: “I beg pardon, sir. What is a gonaff? I am up from Kent, yonder, just this morning.”

  “Chumps, we ’ave a country squire come to visit. Lookee right smart,” said the boy-fellow. The two boy-thieves and the man holding the knife laughed. Endersby glanced around at figures clustered at the far end of the lodging house’s central room. On arrival, he had entered this room, a kitchen, long and smoke-filled. Tables and benches lined up in front of the hearth. The other figures did not show any concern or interest in what was happening to Endersby. He
was ignored in his predicament.

  “Welcome, Master, my name be Hawkins, Nicholas Hawkins, sir,” said the rough voiced boy-fellow.

  “How do you do,” Endersby said, thrusting out his right hand. In an instant, Nicholas Hawkins jumped back, his left hand clasping a short wooden cudgel. “Shall I crack your skull, Squire?” Nicholas Hawkins mocked, grinning before slapping the little club against his thigh. Endersby felt sweat gathering on his forehead. “Call me Nick the Hand,” said Nicholas Hawkins. The features of Nick the Hand held no threat — despite the draw of his brutal weapon. It was as if he were performing for Endersby, showing off his fighting skill; what was evident in his stance was a natural authority; he was the kingpin of this particular lodging house gang — small as it was.“I do beg your pardon, sir,” Endersby sputtered, taking off his round spectacles and wiping them on his sleeve.

  “A gonaff, my master, is a boy-thief,” explained Nick the Hand. “A picker of pockets. We, here, are all gen’lemen thieves,” explained the boy-fellow. “No harm done: handkerchiefs, coins, small purses — that be what makes us our livin’.”

  “I see. Well, well,” said Endersby. Before another second could pass, Endersby had to make sure he could grab and hold his satchel which lay at his feet. He conjectured that if he asked after his ‘lost brother,’ he might be able to distract his captors and find out more about the scarred man in the frock coat. Endersby began: “My wayward brother has come to the city and wasted our money on gin. He must return to Kent. That is the sole reason I am in London, to find him.”

  “Lookee, sir,” said Nick the Hand. “We are honest men ’elping each other. No burglars or smashers. So, why does you start here, to this particular house?” As Nick the Hand spoke, one of the boy-thieves bent down, stretched out his hand, and grabbed Endersby’s satchel. “The gin seller pointed me here,” Endersby replied, suddenly nervous. “Said he’d seen Will. A man with a long scar across his face, a beard and a frock coat.” The two boy-thieves began to fumble and search in the satchel.

  “Wot ‘ave we, my rum boys?” said Nick the Hand.

  The roll of lace recently purchased by Endersby fell to the floor. Down banged the brass ear trumpet, pencils and notebooks amidst oohs from the two boys.

  “You a scrivener, then, Master, a sensible letter composer?” asked Nick the Hand. He had walked closer to the boys and his words carried a hard note of suspicion. “Metal cuffs, Master? A cosh, ’ere, too.” Endersby stepped forward. Nick the Hand shoved him back, held his two lapels and shouted to the knife man to come forward. Like a trapped stag, Endersby was immediately surrounded while Nick the Hand slowly raised his short wooden club and pressed it against Endersby’s nose. “A Bow Street man, my rum boys. A Bobby? Or a spy. Where’s his policeman’s rattle?” A flurry of hands into pockets, boot tops, waistcoat lining. These fellows were not murderers, Endersby reasoned, but they might prove injurious; worse, they would not trust Endersby, nor grant him any information he was seeking. Thoughts stumbled about the inspector’s mind even as his canvas long-coat fell to the floor and his waistcoat became unbuttoned. “This be your notebook, Master?” asked Nick the Hand, holding high Endersby’s leather-bound note pad. “Your spyin’ words come to peach us out?”

  “Nick. There be no Bobby’s rattle,” whispered one of the boy thieves.

  “Walk ’im, Jack,” commanded Nick the Hand. Jack the Knife stuck his blade close to Endersby’s right ear as the two boy-thieves shunted Endersby into a corner. There, their collective fists pushed him onto a bench while Nick the Hand closely inspected the satchel, spreading its contents out on the table. In particular, the magnifying glass took his attention.

  “Yer a clever cove,” said Nick the Hand. “A good weasel. Wot you think, rumsters, we send our squire out with a beating? Let him hop the twig? Or do we take him to the Thames, to the waterboys, and see wheres they can take him?” The two boy thieves pulled on the rims of their hats: “Why not a beating and a visit to the Thames? He’s out to nab us, Nick, out to peach on us straight to the gallows.” Nick the Hand listened; he picked up the cosh and put it down. With some caution, he lifted up one of the soiled lace samples Endersby had carried from the crime scene to the market.

  “Wot’s this then?” he asked, his fingers dropping the fouled lace to the table.

  “A murder weapon,” Endersby answered quietly.

  “Ow, that’s a good’un, eh Jocko,” said one of the boy thieves to the man holding the knife. “Must’a used it on a canary?”

  “You, Mr. Bobby,” said Nick the Hand, “I reckon you be a detective policeman, a spy, too.”

  “Inspector Owen Endersby, Fleet Lane Station House. Not a spy, however, Mr. Hawkins. Rather I am a searcher. I am paid to solve murders.”

  The two boy-thieves looked at Endersby with rapt attention. One of Endersby’s methods in situations where he knew he was in danger was to soften his voice and speak his words slowly, carefully, without menace or anger. Nick the Hand looked at the soiled lace. He glared at Endersby.

  “Once, I was in Fleet Lane prison, Master,” Nick the Hand said. “As a boy. Caught for stealing a penny muffin from a muffin seller. Ten lashes, forty days of water and gruel.”

  Endersby now took a chance. Most likely, he figured, Nick the Hand or the knife man or the two boy thieves had been in workhouses. They had the forlorn look of those raised without affection.

  “You a St.Giles boy, or a Bethnal Green inmate, by chance, Mr. Hawkins?” Endersby asked.

  “Close enough. A charity boy out of Bow Parish, me mammy sick with the cough. She died. I buried ’er. I entered the workhouse, but I gave it up, true to speak, and took up the profession of thieving. Right good I was, till I found I could manage a crew. These boys and Jack my knife, we does very good, we do. Meat on the table every Sunday supper.”

  “That piece of lace,” said Endersby, “was found in the throat of a workhouse matron, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “Was she deservin’?” Nick asked.

  “She was a quiet weak woman, Mr. Hawkins. She had no defence. The villain strangled her, hard and slow, her breath viciously choked by that innocent slag of lace.”

  Nick the Hand lifted up Endersby’s police cuffs and dropped them with a clunk onto the bare floor. He kicked the table, looked over to Jack holding the knife, and stared at him for no more than an instant. At this point, Endersby’s years of confronting the criminal mind convinced him Nick the Hand was not about to do grave harm. Likely he wanted to avoid losing face with his crew.

  “Mr. Hawkins,” Endersby said. “Do you know the punishment for beating or harming an officer of the law?”

  “A beating, a cell in Fleet Prison?” said Nick with a flippant air.

  “Worse,” said Endersby.

  Jack the Knife spat at Endersby’s feet and said: “I knows it entails floggin’. And somethin’ evil beyond what we knows here.”

  “The hulks,” said Endersby. “Pits of hell. You may die in the hold of those prison ships before you reach the shores of Australia.”

  Silent terror fell over the crew. These men were poor and hungry — but free. The hulks were every felon’s nightmare: re-fitted ships made into prisons, anchored in the mouth of the Thames, three hundred men chained below deck in quarters designed for cannons and gunners, at best a space for a hundred fighting sailors. More cholera and lung cough than in any slum or coal mine. And the long voyage to a desert continent on the underside of the earth.

  Nick the Hand stood up. “All of you, scat away. I wishes to talk to this Squire Policeman alone.” Jack the Knife rose and confronted Nick the Hand: “Wot you mean? Cut a scam with ’im and leave us out. No, lookee here, Nick.” The two boy-thieves also stood, but they scuttled behind the big frame of Jack.

  “Rum boys, I loves you,” said Nick the Hand, his voice now gentle and without irony. “But don’t get me hot. I say, trust your Nick, he won’t peach on you. Scat, dash!”

  The dejected members of his crew withdrew, but stood
close by the kitchen entrance within earshot. Nick the Hand picked up Endersby’s metal cuffs, his magnifying glass, and other items and stuffed them back into the inspector’s satchel. He tossed the shillings across the floor toward his crew, who scrambled to secure the coins. Endersby decided to waylay Hawkins, to play into his pride: “I need your help,” he said, his voice low. Nick the Hand raised his chin.

  “I am willing to pay you and your crew,” Endersby said. “You are men of honour despite your profession. I admit, I too am often reviled by members of the public who disdain the police. But I must find this murderer. He has killed two women, kidnapped young girls, and may continue his devilry if I do not find him.”

  “How will you pay?” Nick the Hand asked.

  “A reward? Shillings and perhaps —”

  “Not for us a one-time purse, Squire. We’s business folk.”

  Endersby rubbed his chin. Could he propose a bribe and not insult or silence Nick the Hand? Endersby knew it could be a prickly arrangement. Making bargains with felons was not unheard of among police detectives. To hunt truly dangerous criminals — murderers, rapists — a detective had to rely on finding a reliable spy, a paid voice to give up names.

  Nick the Hand grinned. “Saleables, sir. Pay me in those.”

  “‘Saleables?’ Please, Mr. Hawkins, explain.”

  “Simple fare, Mr. Inspector. A leg or two of cooked mutton; a tin of cigars; a box of cheese. My rumsters and I, we can make much profit sellin’ these stuffs, bit by bit. You see? We gets to eat part of it, but sell the rest and find ourselves easy for a time, if you catch my wind.”