by Jon Redfern
Wishing to soothe his mind, Endersby moved into his flat’s little kitchen. He went to the pantry and ran his eyes over the remains of a pork pie. He began to pick. Soon, he was gobbling the pie, grabbing fistfuls of pastry and meat.
“Mr. Endersby?”
It was Harriet. Her voice so startled him he swivelled and dropped the pie platter.
“Good Jesus!”
Harriet stepped back. Her soft white hand rose to cover her mouth in surprise. Endersby immediately burned with embarrassment. “I beg your pardon,” he said. Harriet moved swiftly up to him and pressed her hand upon the cut marking Endersby’s forehead. “Well, sir,” she said. Endersby took hold of Harriet’s hand. She pulled it away.
“A fight, sir?” she said “Your ‘demon familiar,’ Mr. Endersby, has finally got the better of you. And you have conveniently eaten all of our evening meal.”
Endersby bent down and picked up the platter. Harriet took it from him. She took water from a jug and bathed his cut. “Come,” she said as if speaking to a stubborn child. She took Endersby and led him into their bedroom. “Lie down, please,” she said. She took hold of both his hands and simply looked at him.
Endersby began to weep. “Forgive me, dearest one,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.
“Forgiveness granted,” she said.
“I am a lost man, Mrs. Endersby,” the inspector moaned. “I have beaten a man in rage. I have left you to starve.”
“You are a man in need of a night’s sleep, my dear,” Harriet said. “You are a good man, a hardened man at times, but you are not lost.”
Endersby slowly sat up. He circled his arms around his Harriet and held her close as if he were a child seeking comfort in a thunderstorm.
“May I suggest, Mr. Endersby, that you retire to your study. Your snoring would keep me awake.” Endersby bent forward, kissed Harriet and headed toward the bedroom door.
“And, sir,” Harriet said pulling up the counterpane. “Remember we have the theatre later on this day. Shakespeare at Covent Garden.”
“Indeed, madam,” the inspector replied.
Endersby retreated to the couch in his study. Lying on his side, he gazed at his canvas long-coat drooped over a chair. His hat sagged from early morning rain. “What a sorrowful costume.” He grunted, then turned and fell into a restless sleep.
Chapter Seventeen
A Rogue and a Waif
What a morning! The sun shone in the eyes of Inspector Owen Endersby as he stood beside his sergeant-at-hand, the two bidding a good day to each other in the entrance foyer to Fleet Lane Station House. Caldwell’s face was less swollen this morning. The pungent odour of clove, however, remained on his breath.
“As to our methods, Sergeant. Two witnesses supposed our culprit may have worn leg irons. Do we have an escaped prisoner on our hands? Or is this conjecture?”
“A good point, sir.”
“I want you to follow Malibran, this morning. Tail him, if I may use a vulgar term. Up the Strand and along his route. Take along a constable to spell you off if you need time to investigate the area. If Malibran meets up with his ‘pity-man’ to earn coin, arrest the chap and bring him here. It is in Malibran’s interest to search out his pity man for the sake of profit.”
“Very good, sir. I shall start at Malibran’s lodgings.”
“We have only words, sir, to guide us for now. Whether they are telling us truths, we shall soon discover.”
“Yes, Inspector.”
Caldwell left the Fleet Lane Station House and hired a cab to take him down to Nightingale Lane. Endersby ruminated on the facts he had: if the pity-man is a killer he rooms in Nightingale Lane or sometimes in Seven Dials. If he is not the murderer, then only two other clues can be counted as worthwhile. One is that the brute is an escaped prisoner — likely from the prison ships near Greenwich. Or, he may be a dock worker with his dredgerman’s gaff.
A moment later, Contables Rance and Tibald entered the courtyard as the clock chimed eight.
“Good morning, Constables,” greeted Endersby. “Most punctual.”
“Good morning, sir,” they replied. Rance and Tibald were wearing black stove-pipe hats, blue uniforms and white leather gloves. Sir Robert Peel had been accurate in his visionary policy, Endersby thought. Dress a policeman like a gentleman and not a soldier and the public will respect him as a working member of a civil society.
“Constables, Sergeant Caldwell is off to chase down a Mr. Malibran. Let us hear of last night.”
Mr. Rance began: “Sir, as you may recall, I was sent to the Barbican to post guards and aid in a night watch. To my relief and that of the masters, no incident occurred.”
“Well spoken, sir,” replied Endersby. The constable’s words aroused doubt, however. Had Endersby miscalculated? Was his logic not in tune with the criminal impulse, as the inspector once prided himself on being able to predict? Constable Tibald stepped forward: “Sir, in Theobald’s Road there was a break-in of sorts.”
“Of sorts?” said Endersby.
“The locked coal chute had been tampered with, sir. And some children heard a man’s voice yelling in the night.”
“Did anyone see the culprit?”
“Everyone said it was too dark. But this was found in the courtyard, by the gate.” Constable Tibald handed the inspector a black oilskin hat, a type worn by dredgermen on the Thames.
“This is a fortuitous find, Tibald.”
Endersby’s mind raced. “Gentlemen, I want you two to explore prison ship records and the roster of hangings and escapees from London’s prisons in the last three months. This may occasion you to travel to Newgate as well as searching our archives. The Naval Office will have information to guide you. Meet me back here no later than one in the afternoon. I shall take the air down at Wapping near the Docks.”
In a cab, Endersby hoped this latest find would not be a false lead. But how coincidental, he thought. The coal carrier met a man carrying a dredgerman’s gaff. And now, in the inspector’s hand, lay an oilskin hat, one similar to those worn by fishermen and dredgermen. As always Endersby needed to move quickly on any lead — especially considering he had only one day left to investigate these crimes.
At Wapping Street in east London, he stepped down from the cab. He deduced that this part of the river was near Nightingale Lane where the pity man often lodged. Might he work at the docks as well as play for coin with Malibran? “Wait and see, old gander,” he said and went into a wooden hut by the entrance to London Docks. Inside, he saw a man sitting in a chair and holding a writing quill.
“Only night help, Inspector. For coal retrieval and moving of bales. Our dredgermen are a proud lot. We don’t hire them who was not in the business with their fathers.” Endersby told of the gaff and showed the man the oilskin hat. “By a workhouse, you say?” The man rubbed his chin. “Let me glance at our records, sir.” He opened a ledger and checked the employment lists laid out in columns. “We have taken on night workers for the past two weeks only. Strong backs needed to lift the tea chests comin’ in from China.” Endersby scanned two pages. Each showed a column of Xs — marks of illiterate men, beside which were payment sums of one or two pennies up to a shilling. On the third page, the inspector noticed one full signature, that of a Mr. William More.
“Sir, I ask you about this man named More.”
“On and off, sir. Comes and goes. Likes his gin. Will work only from ten to one in the morning. Claims he has a sickly daughter.”
“Does he lodge here, sir?”
“Here and around. He is tight fisted. Claims he searches out the cheapest lodging houses so he can buys medicines.”
“What does he look like?”
The man sat back and blinked. “Ugly fellow. I only sees him in night light. Looks as if he has a wound on his cheek, from soldiering perhaps.” Endersby was taking notes with his lead-tipped pencil. “Does he wear anything peculiar?”
“Rags, sir,” answered the man.
“How does he walk?”
“Walk? The chap stumbles. Drags his feet like he was a cripple.”
“Thank you, sir.” Endersby went into the morning sun. Does this similarity to the pity man add up to anything? Endersby wondered. The inspector strolled along the dockside, watching the workers unload cargo. Many of the men looked tired; a few of them had scars on their cheeks and arms. Were these but marks of the trade? He asked a couple of men if they knew of William More.
“Yonder, sir,” replied one man with a crooked leg.
Endersby went into a chop house. He looked around but saw no one who resembled the culprit. A lone man by the window was smoking a pipe.
“Sir, I am looking for a Mr. William More.”
“Fled,” was the curt reply.
“You were acquainted with the man?”
“No, sir. But I worked by him. Cripple chap. Could read and write. Wrote letters for us all for a ha’penny.”
“Fled, you say?”
“North. I figure Seven Dials. Labour is needed there and lodging is cheap.”
“Was he a good looking man?” Endersby asked.
“What you after?”
“Endersby of the Metropolitan Police, sir. I am searching for a man with certain features.”
“He done break’ins?”
“He murdered two women.”
“Devil,” the man muttered. He relit his pipe. “Slice along his face. But I took little notice. A hazard of working with gaffs, sir.”
“Why Seven Dials, sir? And not Saffron Hill?” Endersby asked again.
The man pondered: “Has a sickly daughter, in a charity hospital. Best to be near her. So he says.”
“Did he ever mention her name?”
“Never to me. But the chap was peculiar. Said he was called More, then one day says he is called Kirkham, or such nonsense. A cracked git, I figured.”
Endersby indulged in a coffee and a plate of toast before searching again along the docks, talking to workers, describing the culprit. One or two had heard of a William More and knew he could write letters. “There be plenty with scars, here, sir,” one of the dredgermen pointed out. “Best to come by at night. New crews with hour-by-hour workers. You may meet him then.”
By now London’s clocks were striking eleven, and back at Fleet Lane Station House Endersby ran into an excited Tibald dashing down the staircase. “Sir,” Tibald said, “we have a discovery.” Endersby followed his sergeant into the archives. Shelves held thousands of papers crammed into cubby holes, each hole bearing a date above it and a span of months. “We have found names, sir. From Newgate and here, Fleet Prison. Rance will soon return from the Naval Office.” Endersby perused the list of names and dates telling of executions and the rare escapee. Each name had a crime described beside it. “This one, sir, is from Fleet Prison,” said Tibald. A man in his forties condemned to the hulks for kidnapping children from the street. Two of the females were sold to chimney sweeps in the north.
“Name of Henry Quick,” read Endersby out loud. “Broke free while being transported to Greenwich, last December 5. Tibald, commendable. Keep this file open.” Rance appeared and showed a list he’d had copied from the Navel Offices of escapees from the prison ships. “A difficult undertaking to do, gentlemen,” Endersby said. On the list of recent escapees were three names: Tobias Jibbs, William More, Elijah Horn.
“Indeed,” mumbled Endersby. Rance then showed the inspector a secondary list of the dead. “William More, sir, was murdered — by strangulation — right after his escape,” Rance explained. “His body was found near the estuary a mile from the prison ships.”
“Do the dead walk, I wonder?” said Endersby. Rance and Tibald looked puzzled until the inspector told of his investigation at the docks earlier in the morning. “Good detective work, Constables. Let us walk in the courtyard and take the sun. We need to strategize.” As the three men walked outside, Endersby noticed a tall, gaunt gentleman looking around the foyer. “Yes, sir? Good morning,” Endersby said. The gaunt man approached with the caution of a child being summoned before a school head master. “Sir, you are Inspector Owen Endersby?”
“I am he.”
“I was told I might speak with you on a troubling matter.”
“You are most welcome to do so.”
Rance and Tibald stood at attention, eyes attending to the figure before them.
“There has been a ruckus, Inspector Endersby,” the gaunt man said. “In St. Pancras Workhouse. North. I was sent by our head mistress to fetch you. As of late yesterday she had heard of the murder incident at St. Giles Workhouse and of your name.”
“A body found, sir?” asked Endersby, trepidation and excitement further elevating his spirits.
“Not a dead one, if you mean that, Inspector,” the man replied.
“What then? I beg of you,” Endersby said, his right fist closing and opening to affect some calm in his restless body.
“A body found, sir, but one living. An intruder,” came the gaunt man’s description.
“An intruder? Dangerous?” enquired Endersby. Rance and Tibald had taken out their notebooks and were scribbling down each word with their lead-tipped pencils.
“Searching for his daughter, he claims. A dirty fellow and drunk. Fists up most times.”
“Where was he found?”
“Hiding in the washhouse shaking with hunger. A soldier, we reckon, from his soiled uniform.”
“Curious, indeed,” said Endersby, his facial features now posed to show professional concern. It was his habit to take facts and immediately turn them into suppositions. In his younger days as a Bow Street Runner, he would have arranged for an immediate arrest in order to earn his commission as a “felon catcher.” An arrest notice was the next official step; instead, Endersby would indulge in a visit to St. Pancras to confront the soldier — the searcher — himself, a method he figured was the most honest way to proceed.
“We shall accompany you, sir, to St. Pancras on the moment. Constables Rance and Tibald are at your service, as am I.”
“I thank you, Inspector. We are in a state of some fear.”
“Why so?” asked Endersby. “Has the man threatened anyone?”
“The man is desperate mad. He is most concerned he shall die if he does not find his young daughter.”
“Did he call out her name, sir, by any chance?” Endersby took in a breath.
“He did. He said nothing after a time but her name. ‘Catherine,’ she is. To him it is the catechism, I beg pardon. Over and over he said it.”
“Then we shall make our visit one that may afford the man some relief,” said Endersby.
The gaunt man followed Endersby and the two constables into the street where two hansom cabs were hired. On his way along High Holborn Street, Endersby planned his next strategy: a soldier searching at night for a workhouse child named Catherine. Has this evil become a contagion in the city? The desire for young orphaned females a sign of darker times ahead? Or, indeed, is this man the villain, trapped by his own desperation? Endersby looked ahead at the hansom carrying Tibald and the gaunt man. How slowly they were moving. Old London town had become harried, torn up, torn down. A dog-bite-dog world, the shrill whistles of the new steam-powered trains blasting away the cries of sickly children. One thing remained constant: fathers yearning for lost children. “Men who would murder to find them,” Endersby whispered as St. Pancras Workhouse loomed ahead at the far end of the street.
Dr. Josiah Benton finished dressing and went downstairs for his morning eggs and tea. He had slept well, if only for a few hours. How wonderful the day appeared to him. How successful he felt, privileged to be a hearty man. As he drank his tea he kept raising his eyes up toward the back end of the house, toward the little bedroom in the upper hall which now had become for him the most lovely of places.
“Good morning, sir,” said a bustling Mrs. Wells. “Here, Dr. Benton, are the weekly bills for your audit, sir.”
“Thank you, Wells,”
Dr. Benton replied his voice so merry he imagined he had swallowed a lark with his toast and jam. “I shall not be in surgery today, Wells. I will have Johnston cancel appointments. No one must come upstairs for any reason this morning until after I have taken luncheon. Please inform the butler and upstairs maids.”
“Certainly, sir,” Mrs. Wells replied, laying down her bundle of household bills before leaving the dining room. Dr. Benton read his pocket watch. He would call Wells into his confidence, as usual, once he had made his first foray into the little back bedroom. He smiled and stood up and wiped his mouth of crumbs. With all this movement and thought, Dr. Benton was precise, holding in his excitement and his eagerness to bound up the stairs and thrust himself into the little back bedroom in all his joy. But no. He must remain decorous. There was time. Mr. Lardle had done well. Mr. Lardle had come through. What was a fistful of shillings when what awaited upstairs was a world of peace, of caring.
Dr. Josiah Benton now climbed the stairs. He reached the second floor and pulled in a breath. He entered his sleeping chamber. Pulling out a small key from his upper pocket, he unlocked a drawer in his bureau. He lifted out a small paper box. The smell rising from it was delicious. Chocolate, sugar, a hint of rose petal. Moving next toward his toilet table, he removed his frock coat. He decided this morning to wear red velvet. He pulled on his smoking jacket, its lapels quilted with a gold fabric that reminded the kind doctor of fields of autumn wheat. He quickly washed his hands. Checking his fingernails, he then sprinkled his finger tips with a touch of French cologne, a bottle he had purchased not four months ago in Paris, in the Palais Royale.
“And so, sir,” he exclaimed to himself. A not unpleasant feeling of elation, of being light-headed overtook Dr. Josiah Benton as he whisked himself out of his sleeping chamber, toward the door of the little back bedroom. No time to waste. “No, no,” he smiled to himself. He pulled out his second key. He inserted it into the keyhole of the little back bedroom and slowly pushed open the door. There, there, he thought, there she lies. So endearing, so innocent, so blonde. I must be gentle at first. I must not frighten the darling thing. She will be obedient, he thought. She will so appreciate what I will do.
