Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “Fitz, you and Nick, retreat for now,” commanded Endersby. “Let Caldwell and I move on. When you can, wander back to your attic and let your men know Malibran’s ‘pity-man’ is on the run. No doubt he will go into hiding. Find out, if you can, where the bandaged man has gone. Knock on doors. No saying this chap is our murderer. But he is suspicious, as is Malibran.”

  “Fitz, too, can knock on any door,” Nick the Hand said with pride. “Crack ’im, we will.”

  “Gather Jack and your mites, Nick,” commanded Fitz. “Come morning, Bobby, you shall find yer culprit. Come to Nightingale at your wont. Malibran is hoping you didn’t recognize him in his black.”

  “I was stumped,” admitted Endersby, his fatigue now drying his throat. “Listen up, Fitz. If Malibran is bold, might he go back to his digs?”

  “Or to a cunny house, Bobby. Then to home,” Fitz said.

  Fitz and Nick the Hand started to walk off.

  “Where does Malibran lodge, Fitz?”

  “Planning a short visit are you, git? In Nightingale, Number Six. Up the top.” Fitz waved goodbye. Endersby’s mind tumbled. Bones and muscles ached. He had to lift his gouty foot a few times to alleviate the hot pangs. He yearned for his bed with every step forward, but he felt driven, his “demon familiar” now riding on his back, ready to jolt him into a fight. Beside him, Caldwell kept pace. His low moans of tooth pain inspired Endersby to imagine a future meeting between his own gloved fists and Malibran’s jaw bone. “Sergeant,” said Endersby. “Come. We have one last chore before us.”

  With renewed purpose, the inspector straightened his hat. He commanded Sergeant Caldwell to find a hansom at this late hour. “Onward, Caldwell. We shall walk if need be.”

  “You are certain, sir?” Caldwell said, the weariness in his voice making Endersby smile. “Sergeant,” Endersby said. “Bear’t that the opposed may beware of ... us!”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Monster in the Night

  The night now entered its final hour, the sun still biding its time before dawn. Down a dark alley, a few blocks east of Blue Anchor, there stood a small stone building: the Little Queen Street House of Orphans and Derelicts. A hidden place where, at the chime of the clock, a child rose from her bed, her blonde hair mussed from sleeping with her head ensconced between pillow and mattress. She was no more than nine. The ward held only seven beds, all for girls her age. Next door, a room contained older women who coughed and coughed and always woke the child. She began to wander. Her eyes were half-shut. In her troubled mind, the fire nightmare had come again: her momma, her papa, her brother danced in the flames and called out to her. A man in a black hat pulled her away from them, the smoke catching them all and making them disappear.

  “Matron?” the child whispered. “Where are you?” The child had been gently taught. She knew not to yell out, to scream in the night, for the matron was kind and she slept in a little room down the hall from the main ward. The child recalled the matron’s instructions: “If you need me, child, come to my door and tap with a soft hand.” She is like Momma, the child thought as she stepped past the few beds, her arms held out in front of her.

  In the hallway ahead there was the staircase and doors to the other parts of the house. The child had never ventured beyond them. She knew the staircase was not to be climbed. She knew the courtyard was open only for one hour a day — a small square of cobblestone surrounded by high grey walls. There, she played hopscotch and dog-chase with her bedmates, most of them tired and unhappy. The child liked to hold hands. She liked it when the matron held hers and walked with her. All she ever wanted was to hold hands and hear the trees rustle far away over the walls.

  Stopping, the child stared at the matron’s door. She liked the sound of the latch and the lock clicking open when the matron came out in the night with her candle. But what was that, the child wondered as she raised her fist to tap. On the staircase. In the corner where the staircase turned. Was it her Papa there? She lowered her fist and walked into the hallway. The air felt colder. A window up above the door to the courtyard gave some light to the stairs. “Papa?” the child whispered. The figure hiding in the shadow did not move. The child approached it. Papa, she thought; he has come out of the smoke. All she could see was a black shadow, a head all fuzzy with hair and long hands that hung down at the sides of the black body. “Papa?” she said again. The child knew her dream had come true. Papa had returned to rescue her. She ran up to him, her bare feet patting the cold stone floor.

  “It’s me,” she said, grabbing hold of the figure’s cold hand. She looked up into the face. The hair hid his eyes but the child knew it was her father. He was all black. He smelled like the river where they had once lived together. She pressed her head against his body. The figure’s other cold hand moved. It placed itself on the child’s head and stroked her hair. “I miss you,” the child whispered.

  Just then a noise from the top of the staircase. Male voices. A thin band of light under the door at the top, then footsteps. The child lost her grasp. Her Papa let her go, lifted her carefully and set her on the step below, his face close to hers for only a moment, his eyes looking into hers before he rose and began to move away. “No,” the child moaned. She stood up. “Papa, stay,” she whispered. But the door at the top of the stairs opened. The child ran back into the ward. The shadowy figure limped away, dragging himself toward another door at the end of the ward where he disappeared. The child found her bed. She buried her head under the pillow. Men stomped past her. Shouts and more shouts and a door shut with a bang.

  Alone, the child wept. But then she felt a warm shiver run through her body. Her Papa was still alive. He had touched her. She rubbed her hand and felt the oily dirt he had left behind on her skin. “Come back, Papa,” she said, her heart content. She fell back to sleep so quickly, she hardly had time to whisper “Papa” once again.

  Morning light was an hour away. Catherine Smeets and Little Mag had spent the better part of the evening before pacing in St. Pancras Workhouse, trying to stop the stinging from the beating given them by Matron Pickens.

  “Give me your hand,” Catherine said to Little Mag. “All are still asleep. We can bolt out the side door before light.”

  Holding her hands behind her, Little Mag shook her head: “I’m too weak, Catherine. I have a terrible ache.” Little Mag sank to the floor and Catherine could not make her budge. “Goodbye,” Catherine said before sneaking her way to the stairs. To her delight, she found the passage open. Down the hallway and out the side door she raced. I am like Nell, she thought, I can disappear in the streets. Where might she sleep and remain unharmed? Catherine had left behind everything, even her secret letters to her beloved uncle. There was no time to go back and fetch them. Quietly, she crossed the empty yard. Onto the wash house roof she climbed and balanced herself. Leaning out, she grabbed hold of the top of the wall and pulled herself up, her bare feet pushing her body until it lay across the narrow ridge of the brick. Catherine leaped out to land on the pavement outside the compound.

  Hurry! She scampered into the dim gold of the gas-lit street. How easy to escape, she thought. But her stomach reminded her she was hungry! Catherine found her legs could run hard. Down one street, through a narrow courtyard, and into a crooked lane leading to shelter under an overhanging partition of an ancient house. She found a dry spot, knelt down and folded her cold legs under her workhouse dress. Quiet, like a sleeping puppy....

  Up at the corner stood a ramshackle gin shop. At this late hour customers were stumbling out its door. One man pushed out and stood, his body leaning one way then another to find balance. What a grumbling he uttered, Catherine thought. She huddled closer to the wall. He was more a creature than a man. He dragged his feet along the cobble stones. Catherine could hear his voice better: “Where, oh, where?” it said. The whisper became a cough. “Where to find you?”

  Catherine wanted to dash away. This awful man could harm her. Slit her throat. She could now smell him as he dr
ew closer. If she ran, he would chase after her. Catherine shut her eyes to make the creature disappear. The spot where she lay was dim but not so dark she could rest invisible. The man’s boots scratched against stone. Catherine took a quick peek. As he passed under a street light, his face caught the gaslight. Oh, help me, Catherine’s inner voice cried.

  “Damn you,” the man said. He entered the archway where his boot tip struck against Catherine’s bent knee.

  “What’s this?” slurred the man.

  The monster bent down toward her. A scream caught in Catherine’s throat. “You, there,” the man barked. He reached into a pocket. He pulled out a wooden Lucifer match and flicked it with his thumbnail. In the wavering light Catherine saw a hairy chin, a terrible scar; her face grew rigid in terror. “Rest, little one,” the man whispered. A finger tilted Catherine’s chin. “Ah, you will do!” Catherine tried to jump up. She slapped the man’s hand away from her face. “You are the one,” the hoarse voice said.

  “Let me be!” Catherine shouted. Before she could blink, a sweaty palm clasped itself over her mouth. One arm held her close while the other slipped out a bit of rough cloth and covered her head. Blinded now, her nose barely free to breathe, Catherine felt herself being lifted up and carried.

  “Have no fear,” the man said. “Such a lovely sweet gal you are.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A Meeting of Fists

  Malibran’s club thumped to the floor. Stepping back, he collided with a table, knocking down his green concertina.

  “Where is the ruffian, sir? Your pity-man!” Inspector Endersby shouted.

  Early light seeped in through a patched window. The squalid room in Nightingale Lane stank of wet clothes. Malibran cowered in self-defense, facing the two intruders. Sergeant Caldwell blocked the doorway; Endersby stood in front of him, his face crusted with blood from his wounds. “We meet again not by chance, nor for your good fortune, sir,” Endersby said. “We shan’t leave until you tell us facts!” Endersby’s voice had become a deep rasp. His “demon familiar” was clearly on view — fists clenched, feet firmly planted — ready for assault. An old memory of a chase and a beating rushed into his mind. Relishing it, he wiped his mouth; what he desired at this very second was to hear the crack of jawbone against knuckle.

  “What’ll you pay, Bobby?” snarled the cornered Malibran. “You’ve lost me my pity-man for makin’ profit.”

  “I was at your mercy, sir, once....” snarled the inspector. “Now I give nor take no quarter. You and your man ambushed us. You no doubt helped him change his pelt and armed him. He may be a killer and you and he have beaten public officers of the law. Your bag of skin will lie in Fleet Lane prison forever!”

  “I take no threat from you. I ain’t no fool.” replied Malibran.

  Endersby grabbed hold of Malibran’s shoulders and shook them. A surge of power drove the inspector’s large belly against Malibran’s frail frame. His fist swung out; Malibran dodged the blow and the inspector’s knuckles tore into the plaster of the wall; on withdrawing his weapon of flesh, Endersby winced at the cuts splaying his skin.

  Malibran picked up his club and raised it over his head: “Get out, scum-Bobby, or this bludgeon will smash your brains.”

  “Caldwell!” shouted the inspector. The sergeant leaped forward and knocked Malibran off his feet. Endersby rumbled over to him, stomped his boot onto the prostrate man’s heaving chest. “Now, sir, it is time to tell a story.” He picked up the shaking man and shoved him onto a chair. He signalled to Caldwell who ran behind Malibran and held him fast, pulling his arms back. “You know this man. You have worked with him. What is his name and where does he come from?” Endersby shouted.

  “You deaf git,” replied Malibran, who struggled unsuccessfully against Caldwell’s iron grip. “I know not his name, as I told you. Nor nothing of him but that he came to Fitz for help.”

  “This evening you gave up a hot supper, Mr. Malibran. Was it to warn your pity-man we were on the chase?”

  Malibran shut his mouth. He looked down at his bare feet. Endersby stepped forward and, before Malibran could move, pressed his boot on Malibran’s right foot and crushed it down with his whole weight. “I can stand here, sir, quite comfortably if you wish it.” Malibran tried in vain to pull his foot free. On command, Caldwell yanked harder so that Malibran’s arms looked like two broken wings of a bird. Malibran yelled out: “You scummy policeman! I cannot walk nor earn my livin’ if you keep my foot — ahh!” Endersby did not relent. With each breath, he relished the discomfort of the squirming man before him. “I shall be quick, Malibran. You have but a foot to lose; I have children’s lives at stake. Tell me. Did you run to your pity man and betray our cause?”

  Malibran tried to spit in the inspector’s face, but Endersby’s hand was too quick — a sharp slap to the jaw sent the man reeling to the floor.

  “Yes, yes,” Malibran moaned. He began to cough. In less than a second, Malibran was again shoved onto the chair, his torso doubled over in pain. “Speak, man,” Endersby ordered.

  “I went to his digs, in Blue Anchor,” Malibran winced. “I told ’im I’d be his lookout, his protection. He’s like me, out to get a penny the best way we can. He brought the pistol on his own. I know no more, Bobby. Can you not leave us in peace?” The pleading voice and the fear in Malibran’s eyes touched Endersby. Here was an outcast, a lost soul. What privations had he suffered? And what real proof was there so far of the pity-man’s guilt other than his appearance, or rather, his similar characteristics to that of a man described by two frightened girls.

  “Caldwell, free the man,” Endersby said. A breath filled the inspector’s chest. The rabid fury of his demon calmed. Malibran slowly rose. His poorly nourished face reminded Endersby of the faces of the lost girls in the workhouse. These people are the flotsam of life, he thought. “You could lose profit, sir,” Endersby began. “But two women not unlike yourself in luck have lost their lives. If your ‘pity-man’ is a murderer, I must find him. He may kidnap an innocent girl. He may lead her and a matron to join the ranks of the dead.”

  Malibran’s eyes held fast the sorrowful gaze of the man who moments before was prepared to maim him. He reached out his hand: “Pity means nothing to me and my sort.” Endersby leaned back, fishing out two shillings from his waistcoat pocket. He knew enough of the wiles of criminal minds to figure he could not exhort any more from this man hardened by the world of London’s poor.

  “No reckoning where he will wander now,” Malibran lamented, fingering the shillings and rubbing his sore stomach. “He rooms here, sometimes, in Nightingale Lane. Other times, he strolls north. To Seven Dials slum, or thereabouts. Claims them lodging houses is cheaper. The man tells no one his name. Fitz and me, we thinks he was a soldier who deserted.” Endersby pondered the man’s words. Malibran looked up into the inspector’s face. “I don’t know if I can ever find him now.”

  “Inspector, sir?” Caldwell asked. “Shall we escort Mr. Malibran to Fleet Lane?”

  “Leave him be,” came the inspector’s response. London is like the sea and hides its bodies well, Endersby thought. Letting Malibran go free could prove helpful as he would most likely search out the pity-man for more work on the street. Malibran was worth following. Moving toward the door, Endersby felt a rush of despair. Time was rushing on. Only two days left to procure a conviction. Had the murderer struck again this past night if indeed the pity-man was innocent?

  Endersby went out of the room and down the stairs. Alone in the street, he raised his head and relished the first fingers of light emanating from the eastern sky. Caldwell soon stepped up to his side. His sergeant was a good man, always patient with him in spite of the rambles the two of them were forced to make in chasing culprits.

  “To your bed, Sergeant. We must let the wicked rest and go free for a time. I thank you for your constancy, sir. I value it much, indeed.” The inspector shook his sergeant’s hand. “Rest, Sergeant, and then let us meet as arranged to h
ear news, if any.” Caldwell nodded, his face twitching with his tooth pain. “And Caldwell, get yourself to a barber and have that molar pulled out!”

  “Goodnight, Inspector.”

  In a hansom cab that he found near the river, Endersby laid his head against the leather headrest. He began to catalogue his vices. He wondered if he’d ever balance his desire for justice against the fury of his “demon familiar.” His wife Harriet would no doubt be dismayed at him arriving home bloodied and injured. The cab rattled along deserted streets. Hungry dogs cowered in doorways alongside ragged children. Endersby’s pity went out to them. How sad a world where children starve and animals hide in fear. Crossing behind St. Paul’s, the sun peeking over the horizon, Endersby looked out at the mass of London, soiled, ramshackle, indifferent and cold. He yearned for his hearth; he wished to fill the hollowness in his heart with cheery, loving voices. He concluded that he was a man of good conscience who must be careful, always, not to allow his disdain for evil men destroy his better self.

  “Here it be, sir,” the cabby said, his voice tired from his long night. Endersby paid the man a few pennies extra: “For you, cabby, and your labouring horse.”

  “Harriet, my love?” Endersby called as he entered Number Six Cursitor Street. The inspector washed and bound his smashed fist. Searching in his leather satchel, he pulled out the bits of lace and the envelope of rust bits he’d picked from the two corpses earlier in the day. The pencil drawing made by the mute Catherine he set beside the other objects on a table. He ran his finger across his face, tracing out the line of the scar made by the child’s chilly finger. Was this line representing a scar or could the girl have seen only a shadow or a birthmark or a smudge of blood from a fight? To his seasoned eye, the objects seemed even more ambiguous than before. How sure could he be about the “pity-man” as a murderer?