Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  Mrs. Wells watched her master go upstairs to his rooms. Whenever he became quiet and thoughtful, he went to the second floor of the house to relax. Mrs. Wells gave orders to the parlour maids to clear the table. After these chores, she told the others she would be busy for a time, and then made her way up the servants’ stairs to the second floor where she knew her master was spending time in his special room. She meandered down to the door of the small bedroom at the back of the house. She walked on her tiptoes so she would avoid creaks in the floor boards. She had never spent much time inside the doctor’s “quiet” room. Still, the hidden aspect of it, its secret nature, got the better of her common sense. No doubt, if Josiah invited her again, she would … but for now, she was pleased simply to be by its shut door. She could hear the doctor walking slowly back and forth as if he were ruminating on a patient’s file. Most times, this was all she ever heard and it made her feel happy that this good man was finding some peace from the pressures of his surgery.

  Ignoring the kitchen clatter down below, Dr. Josiah Benton looked about carefully at what he always imagined was the interior of a huge meringue cake. Always amazing, always delightful, he thought, checking the door to the small back bedroom was locked. The narrow bed covered by its muslin veil, the two little chairs and the table, all in pink, each one clean and neat. The table remained set as if for a child’s afternoon tea party. The walls glowed like summer roses as did the silken curtains. “Ah,” Dr. Benton sighed, crossing his hands behind his back. He went and stood alone by the pale window, the room around him casting its fantastic spell.

  Today, oddly enough, as she leaned against the door, Mrs. Wells did not hear the usual footsteps pacing. She recognized a sound which brought alarm into her heart. Could it be the sound of a grown man weeping? She ventured to flatten her ear against the keyhole. No doubt of it — sobs and sniffles. And then she heard the anguished questions:

  “Oh, where are you my sweet one?” Josiah said. “Where must I go to find you, my quiet child. Where?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Barrels of Piccadilly

  “A hard task, Mr. Sender’s Key,” said Fitz, using the rhyming slang of Cockney London. “Our vicinity breeds scars and limps.” Mr. Patrick Jeremiah Fitz was round: his belly, his nose, his goiter. He reclined in a bishop’s chair, wearing multi-coloured rags and a fur collar. Always merry, his toothless mouth formed a perfect “O” when he laughed. “But Malibran can help. We had a scum fellow drop in a while back. Not old, not young, bitten up by Fortune, I’d wager.You can help, Malibran. Can’t you, chucky?” A dark man with a waxed moustache and yellow coat stepped away from the wall. In his right hand was a green concertina, common among street singers along the Strand. In this attic in Nightingale Lane late afternoon light revealed other men about the room, each displaying a trade — a penny profile-cutter with his scissors, a juggler and a doll-fixer, his paint brushes and glass eyes displayed in small boxes.

  “What’ll you pay, Bobby?” said Malibran, his voice hoarse from singing.

  Nick the Hand spoke up: “Saleables, Malibran. For profit.”

  “I’ve no need of ‘em,” Malibran said. “For what I know I need a pound note, nothin’ less.”

  Fitz broke into a sharp laugh. “The beak here carries no blunt! All gone to Nick and his crew to buy vittles. You’re no covey,” he said to Malibran.

  “I’ve nothing,” Inspector Enderbsy admitted. “I am at your mercy.” Endersby was apprehensive among these street folk. He sensed their distrust of him as a man of the law.

  A quick-flying sovereign from the hand of Fitz hit the floor at Malibran’s feet. “Speak up. This’n I will make pay me back,” Fitz said pointing to Endersby. “I take no fork-out from you, Fitz,” Malibran growled. He picked up the coin and tossed it back into the wide lap of its donor. “Nought for nought,” Malibran said, turning back to his corner. The other street men grumbled; some lit up their pipes and stared at Endersby, standing bewildered before Fitz on his throne. Endersby, stepped toward Malibran. “I will ask you, sir,” the inspector said, “to help me. Agreed, you have seen better times. But we live in a dark age. I can promise you food, if you wish, or a warm coat in exchange for words. Words that may save the lives of a number of innocent children. A monster roams about. If you know of him, you can judge best if he should be allowed to continue his deeds. With your aid, I can better navigate the ship of the law.”

  The assembly of men listened in silence to Endersby’s plea. Nick the Hand began to whistle very low, his lips held close to give the sound of a mournful wind. “Wot?” Malibran shouted at the others. Fitz, the profile cutter, and the juggler began to whistle low, joining in a chorus under Nick the Hand. “I ain’t no fool-mouth,” yelled Malibran. The whistling reached a wave. Malibran paced while looking hard at Endersby. He then pushed the inspector aside, strove up to Fitz, and gave a quick bow of respect.

  “No name that I know of, told me nothing of ’imself, no question the git-scag had a jag marking his face, a sword cut, like a soldier’s,” Malibran confessed. “Fitz and me, we found the scum at the door, a beggin’. I helped him out for seven, eight days, getting scraps, teachin’ ’im to beg proper and play the ‘pity-man.’ He shallowed by puttin’ out his hand; his sore legs had bindin’s but Fitz said to take ’em off to gather more coin from the passing crowd. He was honest enough, paid me my share. For a week we did it. We worked always by day, searching out the parish churches and some afternoons he’d stand by workhouse gates with me. Two evenings ago he took gin with me and then moved off. Didn’t say where.”

  Fitz said: “We help our wanderin’ brothers as long as they pays us back.” Endersby suspected Malibran was too wily to divulge more without receiving money. Perhaps this pity-man was but one of many lost men who worked the streets; they found lodgings in all parts of London and lent a hand to others as part of their code of honour. “Mr. Fitz, you and Malibran have told me much. But still I am lost. How could I set up spies to help me track this man — or any like him — in case he be the monster killing innocent women?”

  “Monster?” roared Fitz. “Bogey-man? You reckon this ‘pity-man’ be your culprit?”

  “I can only wager, Mr. Fitz. Fate grants me speculation only, not the eye of the prophet.”

  These words brought out a ripple of laughter from the men. Fitz slapped his knee. Endersby realized that sentiment — heartfelt — and even his own wit had short shrift with these men of hard luck. He decided to appeal to vanity. “All great generals, particularly our grand Duke of Wellington, had to resort to trackers to find out where his prey lay. I need your power, Mr. Fitz, as Duke of the Docks, to do the same.” Fitz stood. He asked the company of street men to gather near his throne.

  “This heavy-swell here ain’t out to nab us. Murder is no slam,” Fitz said in a grand tone of voice. “Wot’s here is blood. You passengers of our streets see all, know all the masters of the lodging houses. And the cribs.” Fitz stretched out his right arm and raised his palm toward the others. “We be here to stump this Bobby, and to nab the murdering covey,” Fitz proclaimed. “He be worse than any. Killin’ women. Lay on, chuckies, there be vittles and honour for your pains, I wager. If the pity-man be him.”

  The juggler stepped forward. “I be from Dublin, sir. I went about with the scag a couple of times, down near the river. If you wishes it, I can shows you tonight at where he sometime come and go.” Malibran shoved the juggler’s shoulder. His face wrinkled with anger: “Wot, Irish, you get in a string with this git-bobby, with a trap for nothing but a boiled chop? I knows best where the scum sleeps. He’s come back to Blue Anchor, near the fancy-house.”

  “With your permission, Mr. Fitz,” said Endersby, “I could square this Dubliner, Nick and his crew, you yourself, Mr. Malibran, and any others a roast beef supper with potatoes at the corner of Fenchurch Street and Lark Lane — if I may have the chance to spot the culprit where Mr. Malibran claims he lives. And to have bodies help apprehend him if need ari
ses. I need to question him, take a look at him. I do not wish to arrest him on a false supposition.” Fitz reached for his pipe and applied a taper to its bowl. “To put up a sell, nab the scar?” Fitz said, thinking out loud. “I might allow my workin’ men to give you help, sir. We needs income as much as hot suppers. You in turn must scratch me, and scratch me where I do itch.” Endersby waited for the demand. Fitz trained his gaze on the herd of street men: “We ’ave here, my fellows, a Bobby-gull with a conscience. But we are men of few means. Gin is a boon. My men need it to keep ’em warm. I can sell it for profit on the docks. Bring tonight five barrels of finest clear Piccadilly. Scouts and aids then we’ll be.”

  “Agreed, Mr. Fitz,” Endersby replied, not knowing where his next words might take him. “Mr. Fitz,” Endersby then said. “I have but three days to put an end to this brutality. On orders from my superintendent. I must work on absolute guarantees or the culprit will vanish. If the man in question gets away somehow this night, or if we be mistaken in our search, I will still insist on your help.”

  Fitz lifted up his pipe. His eyes did not waver from looking straight into Endersby’s features. “Done,” he then said to the inspector. Climbing down from his chair, Fitz walked among the cluster of men who stood slack-jawed in anticipation. “Mr. Bobby-Endersby will give you who want it your instructions as to how to procure your roast beef,” Fitz announced. The congregation gathered hats and portables and stood at attention. Endersby gave the address of the chop house again, told the men to bring clubs and rope and ended with the statement: “Gather at ten o’clock.”

  Inspector Endersby entered the open street a free man once again. Nick the Hand and his crew flew off down an alley with the promise of a reunion later in the evening. Endersby now felt his mind manacled by a new set of problems to solve. And a thorn of doubt pricked: who was this Malibran? Was his resistance a matter of money only? He had spent days and nights with the ‘pity-man’ on the streets. If this scarred man was the murderer, was Malibran an accomplice in stealing girl children to sell to the nanny-brothels where virgin girls were prized for their so-called “healing” powers? All was possible, Endersby thought, given the desperation of street men.

  A blur of pedestrians and carriages greeted the pondering inspector as he slowly walked past the mass of the Tower of London, then north toward Cheapside and St. Paul’s Cathedral. At Lark Lane, Endersby entered a chop house run by a cousin of his old friend, Inspector Smallwood of Seven Dials. With an advance of ten shillings, Endersby had the proprietor set aside an upstairs room with tables and chairs and a joint of beef to be served sharp at ten o’clock. Leaving by a side door, Endersby continued on, noting the old women, London’s gutter-scroungers, searching for cigar stubs and lost pennies up and down the back lanes. Street-sellers of drink lined the curbs in this far eastern end of the city. Here were food stalls charging a ha’penny for Endersby’s favourite, lard-smeared baked potatoes. He hired a hansom just in time to save himself from gluttony and drove off to Covent Garden. He went into a gin merchant’s and ordered the barrels of Piccadilly. Once the barrels of gin were marked for delivery, Endersby hired another hansom and drove home to Number Six Cursitor Street to dine with his beloved wife, Harriet, wondering all the while how he’d convince his reluctant superintendent to pay out coin to men of London’s underclass.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Madness for a Penny

  The ragged fellow in front of Mr. Henry Lardle hung down his head. Early evening light from the one window spread narrow shadows against the slanted ceiling. What else could Mr. Lardle do? Should he stay angry? No good would come of harsh words. He tossed a glance at the dirty walls. An attic mouldy and pungent as a sewer tunnel. A penny more a week — if he could squeeze such a coin out of Dr. Josiah Benton’s fist.

  “Luvly?” he called out. He listened. “My Kate? Gone ’ave you, my dear?”

  Sadly, Henry Lardle resumed his gaze at the pathetic fellow in front of him who now raised his head and leaned forward as Lardle did himself. Such a weathered, wind-torn chap to look at, Henry concluded. His beard was scruffy. His cheek ugly as ever. What a filthy pair of hands! “Look at ’em,” he scolded.

  “You need a good washin’.”

  The face in the mirror did not smile. Henry did not despise it; he did not pity it, though he knew it so very well. How cruel the world had become, he mused. “You still have time. Best to keep on,” Henry said to himself. “Doctor Benton pays you; Simple work, really. A young one here and there. No harm done, not really. Better than a dredgerman’s wage, or a soldier’s, if you thinks about it. Given a coin, a young gal will do almost anything.”

  With that bit of advice, Henry stood. He walked to the bed and removed his frock coat and sat down to ease the pain in his legs. Carefully, he slid off one boot and then the other. He lay down, wishing he had a plug of tobacco in his pipe. At least he had a couple of farthings for a gin or two. “Never miss out on your gin,” he cautioned. Lucky he was to have found cheap, no, cheaper lodging. Tonight he would capture at least one gal to earn his money. Not like last night — ooh, last night, what a ruckus. In and out, up and down. Not Benton’s type, they wasn’t. Best to lie low now until night falls, he cautioned himself. “It ain’t my doing in the end,” he said aloud, as if Dr. Benton were standing in front of him. “You gets what you pays for,” Lardle whispered, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

  “Best try and rest. No violence tonight,” he promised himself. “No need for hurting.” And with that, Henry Lardle slipped into calm sleep.

  As evening fell over the tree-filled village five miles west of London, Mrs. Bolton finished her sweeping up and placed her trusty twig broom back into the closet. The two

  candles near the hearth were extinguished. From the bedroom of her sister, Jemima, came the sounds of sighing, of scratching quill upon paper. “Dear Jemima?” Mrs. Bolton said quietly to the locked door leading to her sister’s room. “May I get you anything before I retire?” Silence. Mrs. Bolton let out a breath of relief.

  She turned to walk through her kitchen to the far room at the other end of her cottage.

  There, in her large canopied bed, the same one she had once shared with Humphrey Bolton, her long-dead husband, she would rest her head and her mind from her long day. She had fetched many sheets of paper for her frantic sister and carried into that same fetid bedroom two hot meals, both of which were refused with her sister’s quick brush of a hand.

  And there was the lace to fetch. Poor Jemima had demanded to see all her oldest pieces; an assortment of items once made by her in her youth. And now, just as her feet stepped across the threshold of her sleeping chamber, Mrs. Bolton’s ears heard a long low groan. Then a scratchy voice called out: “Sister, sister dear.” Mrs. Bolton imagined her sickly sibling fallen from bed, her head marked with blood from an injury. Mrs. Bolton turned and rushed through the house until she reached the door of Jemima’s bedroom. “What is it, Jemima?” The lock was slipped open. The pale, drawn face of her sister looked into Mrs. Bolton’s eyes. “I need a quill, dear sister. A fresh quill.”

  “At this hour?” Mrs. Bolton replied.

  “Yes, I beg of you. I plead,” was Jemima’s barely audible reply.

  “But I have none. I brought you the last two at luncheon. We are clean out, sister, dear.”

  A cold hand with skin as rough as the bark of a dead tree shot out and took hold of Mrs. Bolton’s right wrist. “I shall die, then, sister,” was Jemima’s response. “My heart shall crack.”

  “Nonsense, Jemima! Get into bed and to sleep. I will fetch new quills tomorrow morning at Mr. Burleigh’s stationery shop.”

  The hand squeezed harder. “Fetch a quill now, sister! Now, before I fall into darkness.”

  Never before had Mrs. Bolton heard her sister Jemima speak in such a way. Mrs. Bolton feared the worst: Jemima had collapsed into madness. “Oh, dear, Jemima,” Mrs. Bolton said. She yanked her arm free. She found herself in apron and cap, dashi
ng out the side door into the mucky yard, toward her hen house and goose pond. Into the stench of the hen house, past the laying roosts and beyond to a trough full of dried corn and one young white goose all aflutter, from which she pulled and pulled out two tail feathers — hard to manage with such flapping and squawking — and then a journey back, slipping and sliding, Mrs. Bolton’s vision fixed only on one spot, the pale loitering face of her mad, clutching sister who, on being handed the fresh quills, said nothing, slammed the door shut, and began to hum a frenetic tune that Mrs. Bolton, hearing it from behind the closed door, could not recognize.

  With her breath barely recovered, Mrs. Bolton then found her way to her own room, whereupon she felt the bloody scratches on her arms. “Oh, my,” she whispered through a yawn.

  Mrs. Bolton subsequently fell onto her mattress in a grand flop, already half asleep before her cheek touched the down-filled pillow. From across her swept floors floated a late-night descant of sounds: the scratch of a newly plucked goose quill and the child-like singing of her desperate sister.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Reckoning of Sorts

  “Splendid, Mr. Endersby. Most gallant.”

  The admiring voice belonged to none other than Harriet Endersby, the inspector’s wife. Blue-eyed and clever were but two words Endersby used to describe the love of his life. In moments of reverie he often delighted in the phrases that had joined the two of them in holy matrimony twenty-one years before: to love and to cherish, till death us do part. At this instant Harriet Endersby was sitting at her round card table across from her neighbour, Mrs. McLaren. The motive for her commending words was the appearance of her husband in an outfit made by Harriet from a pattern she had purchased in Regent Street. “Oh, do turn again, dear one,” she said.