by Jon Redfern
On the inspector’s head sat a rounded cap, a red tassel hanging down over his left ear. His great chest was enfolded in a long-sleeved gown of satin that was patterned with Madras flowers. A twisted red rope belt hugged his ample waist and thus, his “Persian Gentleman’s” smoking outfit was complete.
“It is indeed the latest fashion in Paris,” said Mrs. McLaren. “I believe our dear Queen’s husband Prince Albert himself wears much the same in private chambers.”
“So the fashionable intelligence informs us,” said Harriet Endersby. “I was most fortunate. I purchased the cloth from a delightful gentleman in Soho Square, a Mr. Nejad. He claims he is from Persia itself.”
“How intriguing,” said Mrs. McLaren.
“Persia?” questioned Inspector Endersby. “The family name is foreign, certainly.”
“My dear Owen,” replied Harriet Endersby. “Do you doubt my powers of observation? The man most certainly had the dark handsome eyes of a gentleman from that region. He said he was from Tabriz. And his charming accent was neither that of an Englishman or a Frenchman.”
“My dear, I do beg pardon,” said Inspector Endersby. “My objection was not to your superior ability to determine national origin, but rather to express some doubt that a gentleman from so far away would be selling goods in Soho Square.”
Harriet answered with a smile of affection: “You are too suspicious by half, sir.”
“Good evening to you both,” said Mrs. McLaren, rising and heading toward the door. Both Mr. and Mrs. Endersby wished her a good night and thanked her once again for bringing over one of her delicious homemade meat pies for their dinner. “You are too, kind, my dear,” said Harriet as the two women bid goodbye.
Later, after their dinner, Endersby helped his wife to clear the table since it was the maid’s night out. “My, how wonderfully logical you are, dear husband,” Harriet said after having listened to Endersby’s strategies of bargaining with Mr. Fitz between bites of pie smothered in chutney.
“We are a new breed, my dearest Harriet,” Endersby said, pouring boiling water into the scrub sink. “Caldwell and I attempt to solve crimes after they have occurred using deduction, reliable witnesses and proof. The old Bow Street Runners years back used brute force to get confessions. We employ science. No more leading of ruffians to the gallows on mere conjecture.”
“Yes, dear Owen, I know.” Harriet smiled.
“Am I making speeches again, my love?” asked Endersby, his face warm from the steaming basin.
“You are tired, dear one,” Harriet replied. “How fortunate we are in London to have men like you to keep us safe.” With that, Harriet left the dishes and pots to soak, kissed her husband, and said: “We shall have tea in the parlour in half an hour.”
Endersby retreated into his small study to work on a new wooden puzzle he had recently purchased in the Burlington Arcade. Sitting down at a small table, he unwrapped the brown paper, examined the wax seals and the large stamp from the French customs. He read the bill of lading from the English shop and then touched the puzzle itself. Each piece of cherry wood had a bevelled edge and each could fit into three others to make up a larger picture. Ingenious, he thought: how very rational of the French. He clicked the pieces together for a time, his mind relaxing.
“Tea, dearest,” came Harriet’s voice. Endersby and his Harriet sat alone by their cosy hearth with a pot of black Indian, Harriet’s favourite. It was their nightly custom to take tea and to sample one of the many cheeses the inspector enjoyed. Such culinary indulgence was limited by their household budget. A detective-inspector’s salary was low, though adequate — food, taxes, servant’s wages and fuel were all accommodated. The French puzzles Endersby purchased, however, were saved up for, a penny at a time. Best of all, the theatre they both loved was affordable — if only once every two weeks.
Harriet re-filled his cup: “I suppose you will soon leave to meet your constables, as you warned me?”
“I must, Mrs. Endersby. In their company, I will also consort with gentlemen from the criminal classes to help me locate the villain.”
“Gentlemen?” Harriet asked. “You are lenient, Mr. Endersby.”
“It is the only recourse I have at the moment.”
“Two young girls named ‘Catherine,’ you said?” Harriet asked. “Picked out of the crowd as if they had been lost and forgotten.” Harriet sighed, sitting back in her chair.
“Sad young things. Soiled cargo on the sweep of the tide.”
“How terrible,” Harriet said. “And to think of all the labour you do — you and your constables.”
“I thank you for that recognition, Mrs. Endersby,” said the inspector, pulling out his watch and noting the time. “But I must be off.” Endersby rose, kissed Harriet, who in turn embraced him and smoothed down his mussed hair. She carried a candle and went down the stairs with him to the street, where he hailed a hansom cab and instructed her, “Do not wait up for me tonight, my dear one. I shall be very late.” Harriet patted his cheek affectionately and added: “And most certainly hungry!” The cab from Number Six Cursitor Street clattered through gas-lit alleys and passages full of roaming people, costermonger barrows, riders on horses with fine bridles. At Fleet Lane Station House, the inspector descended and walked briskly across the lane to a brightly lit coffee house. On entering, he spotted Sergeant Caldwell, Constables Rance, and Tibald sitting in one of the wooden booths; set before them were a large pot of coffee and plates of buttered toast.
“Good evening,” Endersby said as the three younger men stood. “Gentlemen, I asked you to investigate a number of workhouses in the northern district.”
Caldwell spoke first and told about the man he had found in the hut — but lost after a chase. In London Wall Workhouse he discovered only old men and boys. Constable Tibald reported on ledgers, entries, the lack of Catherines, and the new locks put on the coal chutes.
“Curious,” said Endersby, stirring his coffee.
“Sir,” said Constable Rance. “I was sent to the Foundling Hospital. The ledgers were most detailed but no Catherines were written on the lists of the living or the dead. But this Sunday past a man paid the hospital a visit. A gin-smelling, scarred man came to the door and asked to see the ledgers. On demanding his reasons why, the matron was told he was looking for a young female of ten years with the first name of Catherine. The matron refused the man entry and did not divulge the records of the ledgers. By law, she cannot do so. Once he had been told he could not search inside the man walked away. The matron said she felt pity for him as he had a limp.”
“May we assume,” said Endersby, “that this chap, perhaps, was our culprit? If so, it seems he showed himself first in daylight, attempting a more legitimate form of searching than what we have witnessed in St. Giles and Shoe Lane.”
The four men sat momentarily in silence. Mr. Caldwell obliged his superior by noting down the details of each constable’s story. “We are facing a desperate man,” noted Endersby. “I suppose he shall try at least two workhouses this night, if he is continuing his search. He is compelled to do so, I wager.”
“How to proceed then, sir?” asked Caldwell. “Detective branches in all station houses know of our story, here in central London. Constables are on the alert.”
“Let us deduct first,” smiled Endersby. “We shall cancel out the Foundling Hospital for the moment. St. Giles and Shoe Lane have been visited — with horrific consequences. I have discovered from my own investigation that a fellow survived his first days here in London as a wandering street beggar. He resembles the descriptions of our culprit and to my mind is suspicious. So, we have one or more possible suspects at loose. Let us assume that he may choose to continue his nightly search.” The men made note of the inspector’s words. Endersby stood up.
“Mr. Caldwell, you shall come with me for a roast beef supper.”
“In truth, sir?” Caldwell asked, somewhat in surprise.
“Mr. Rance, you shall take your cosh and da
rkee lantern and return to Baribcan and post guards. You, Mr. Tibald, shall follow Mr. Rance’s example, but you shall acquaint yourself more fully with the masters and children at the Theobald’s Road. If there be any rattlings, any cries, do your duty.” Endersby quickly paid the bill. The golden light of the coffee house gave way to the blue cold of Fleet Lane, where the men agreed to meet next morning at eight o’clock sharp in Fleet Lane Station House. With little else to say, they parted company.
“Are you not well, sir?” asked Caldwell.
“Well enough for an aging man, Sergeant. I fear this night. We are not gaining ground.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“Sergeant, let us look forward. We have an adventure before us. Kindly be prepared for a supper with thieves and in the meantime, hail us a hansom.”
“Most certainly, Inspector.”
A half moon shone through cloud. Gulls cried out to each other over the river. The night promised rain.
“There it be, sir. Yonder.”
The Irish juggler pointed to a three-storey brick building in Blue Anchor with an upper roof built at a steep slant. In it sat a small dormer window, now dark. “I seen the pity-man at that window, sir. Tis the same place Malibran spoke of, the same lodging house.”
“I ask you,” Endersby said, “why Mr. Malibran has declined to join us this evening?” Fitz grunted at Endersby’s elbow, “A wayward man, Inspector. Take no account.”
Nick the Hand appeared round the corner of the suspect’s building. He ran up to the little group: Endersby, the Irish juggler, Sergeant Caldwell, and Fitz, all huddled in a darkened archway. “Not a peep, Inspector Bobby-git,” Nick the Hand said. “A stinkin’ rot of a house, fittin’ for one killin’ women.” Fitz spoke up in a hoarse whisper: “Did you put Jack the Knife down at the foyer, lad? And yer two nippers at the back?”
“I did, Fitz. No chance if a bolter be in there hidin’. My two boys can trip ’im.”
Endersby stepped forward. He and Caldwell stood ready in ambush, eyes peering into corners. The party of thieves had finished their joint of beef at midnight, meat with roasted Irish spuds washed down with pints of porter. Now it was in whispers the five men spoke. Endersby remained puzzled by the absence of Malibran, but he had to be content to pass the evening hoping for the limping ‘pity-man’ — the possible killer — to show his face. Silence fell among the men as they waited. An hour passed. What horrors were being committed as they lingered, the inspector wondered. The night grew blacker. Where was the man? Could one truly trust the word of thieves? Caldwell began to cough; his jaw was bound in a fresh cloth and he chewed cloves to dull the pain in his molar. Another hour dragged on. The Thames lay quiet; no steamboat wheelers churned upstream. The night seemed too still for comfort. Was this becoming a foolish gamble?
“Look, sir,” Caldwell whispered. Out of the dark, a bearded figure slowly hobbled down the alley toward where the five men stood. Thin, bent, head covered by tangled strands of hair. The voice was grumbling. In the figure’s right hand was a staff — a broom handle, or a gaff, thought Endersby. A few hesitant steps and then the figure stopped. He looked around, checked the street running to the river. He then held his gaze on the men in the archway. Coming closer, he looked directly at the group as if he knew they were there, waiting. A soiled bandage covered up most of the face. The man’s trousers did not fit well — inside out they looked — and high military boots ran up to the knees. A limp, a stink, a beard. The bandaged head lifted; the figure tried to peer at Endersby as a mole might from a narrow tunnel.
“Who are you?” asked the figure.
“Endersby,” said the inspector.
“Don’t you observe the cobbles, you,” the figure said. “Move out, you move out.”
“Your name?” asked Endersby.
“Mr. Bub. Beezle Bub, the Devil take you,” the figure answered. From his mouth burst forth a guffaw that ceased abruptly not a second after. Endersby now dared to test the figure by stating the first name of the girls taken from the workhouses.
“Miss Catherine,” Endersby began. “She is at home, is she?”
“Very likely,” the stranger answered. “Yet, very likely not.”
The figure cocked his head toward the inspector. “She asked after you,” Endersby said. Nick the Hand and Fitz now stepped forward out of the shadowy archway. Endersby and Caldwell waited for the figure to respond. If he wished to run, he would be blocked by Nick and Fitz.
“By Heaven,” the man said. A pain-filled cry rose from the creature’s throat. His right hand pulled out a pistol. Caldwell rushed out to grab the hand. The pistol fired, missed its mark, a puff of smoke trailing out the barrel. Dropping the gun, the man swung the wooden staff and struck Endersby on the forehead. With sudden speed, the bandaged man jabbed the staff into Caldwell’s chest, forcing the sergeant to fall back with a moan. The figure swivelled and began to scuttle away. “Grab him,” shouted Endersby. The cohorts reeled; the Irish juggler ran into the fray, about to give chase.
But all then halted. A shout cut the air. Endersby turned to see a man. A swirling figure in a broad hat, a bandana over his lower face, a black cloak. He came flying out of a narrow alley hidden in the gloom, a club held high.
“Holla, holla!” the man shouted. From a side pocket in his cloak, the figure also brandished a long knife.
“Gentlemen, stand aware!” yelled Endersby. He and Caldwell stood side-by-side shouting orders to the other three to join them in making a offensive phalanx, an ancient Roman army manoeuvre Endersby had read about in the books of Livy. All five advanced in unison, swinging fists, knocking the limping man in the chest while attempting to elbow the man in the broad hat who backed off a pace, holding up his long knife. Nick the Hand jumped the line and kicked the knife from the man’s hand, sending it clattering over the cobblestones. Endersby and Caldwell then strode toward the figure, their arms held wide as if to catch a runaway horse. “Stand, sir,” Endersby commanded. The man spat at the inspector, raised his club and charged. The club found its first mark along Nick the Hand’s shoulders, who tried to trip the attacker but failed. Endersby’s arm subsequently suffered a heavy thunk. In a blink, the club’s end shot forward — aiming at the inspector’s right eye. Ducking, Endersby struck back with clenched fists, his “demon familiar” filling his eyes with rage. The crack of a jaw bone gladdened him for a moment but his pounding was not strong enough, for he glimpsed the man swing again, his arms flailing like those of a wrestler in the Blackfriar Sporting Ring. Full of fury as wild as a maimed bull’s, the man in the broad hat slammed into Fitz, even though Endersby kept smashing his knuckles into the man’s nose.
“Caldwell, look sharp,” shouted Endersby, catching his breath. His sergeant-at-hand scrambled toward the figure with the bandaged face who shouted in panic and stumped away into a darkened passage. In the meantime, the man in the broad hat tried to strike again but Endersby rushed him, kneed him hard, reaching out to grab his neck. The felon moved fast, much to Endersby’s dismay, and slipped out of grasp, escaping in the opposite direction to where the bandaged figure had run.
“After the bandaged man,” Endersby shouted. Caldwell started up toward the passage. Endersby wiped blood from his face. His gouty foot was now throbbing from his physical effort. “Irish, follow the other fellow. Watch out for his club.” The juggler jogged off, darting in and out of alley entrances. Endersby fell into a halting step behind his sergeant. They stumbled into the murk of the passage. No gaslight shone. Cobblestones wriggled loose and tripped their hurrying feet, but footsteps clumping ahead led the two to push on. Walls and broken barrows kept blocking the policemen’s attempts to grab the figure; only a man familiar with this passage could find his way in haste. “Keep on, Caldwell!” A door squealed open, then shut. Onward, further, the cobbles turned into slushy mud and sewage. A stink of mould. Caldwell’s voice rang out like a cry in a storm: “Stop, you — hold!”
Inspector Endersby tripped. He fell, hands first,
into a puddle of muck. Caldwell stopped and ran back, searching for his superior. “No, sergeant, keep apace. Get on,” croaked Endersby. Caldwell set off again, but soon after reappeared, his boots and trousers splattered with slush. “Gone, sir,” he mumbled as he reached down his hand to help Endersby stand. “Like a phantom,” replied Endersby. Appearing together out of the passage, the two men heard Nick the Hand’s voice echo in the street: “The gaffer’s leaked out!”
When the four exhausted men gathered together, they looked defeated. “No luck, Bobby,” admitted Nick the Hand. Under the archway, Fitz was cursing. “He bobbed us, the ratter. Betrayed us. That was Malibran in the black cloak.”
“You sure, Fitz?” asked Endersby.
“Malibran?” said Sergeant Caldwell.
Endersby wiped his face. “Did you know of this, Fitz?”
“You take me for a shit-hole stick? No, sir! The son of a leech, he crossed us, no scratch for no scratch, the buggered fool.”
“He was no good cheese,” said Nick the Hand, rubbing the back of his neck.
“So how and why did Malibran show up?” the inspector asked.
“Ah, covey,” answered Fitz. “The two’s in cahoots. If that be yer culprit all bandaged up, then Malibran and him have a gig. The pity-man knew we was on the lookout. That’s why he had the pistol. Malibran dressed him up in disguise. Malibran loves coin, Inspector. He needs the cripple git to earn him.” Fitz spat out a bit of tobacco after his explanation. “Let’s at ’im,” said Nick the Hand. Inspector Endersby thought quickly: if I let the street men fight each other, no good could come.
