Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “I thank you, friends,” Endersby said affecting his Scots accent. “Off you go, wee Geordie,” the men laughed as Endersby and Caldwell left the public house. After an hour of further searching, Endersby pulled his sergeant aside. “As I feared, Caldwell: the old proverb come to life. “Finding a needle in a hay rick.” Endersby bid his sergeant good night. He stood alone amidst the chaos and then went home. In bed, he could not sleep and so stared at the ceiling.

  What a blank expanse of plaster, he thought. He knew the name of the uncle, but was it of any use if he were impossible to find? Or if he were dead? Lardle, at least, has told a tale that bears analysis, he mused. Is there any sense to sending out warrants for the escapees from the hulks? Most would have vanished into the crowds by now, or were dead. And now the ‘pity-man’ and William More were new challenges, new blockades to the truth. Who, then, did the lace seller and the barkeep from Rosemary Lane actually see?

  Pondering for a time, Endersby crawled from under his cover and went to stir the embers in the hearth. As he stood up, an idea took shape in his mind. “What if…?” his inner voice asked. “Two are actually one. One by day, one by night.” The tumbling of names and suppositions grew so forceful, Endersby felt himself propelled toward his bed where he sat down on the edge. “But this makes sense,” he whispered. A memory crowded into his consciousness; it nudged the names aside; before the astonished inner eye of Owen Endersby four confused figures stood: young lovers, their faces lit from below as if by a row of gas jets along the edge of the Covent Garden stage. “Of course,” Endersby now said. “Confusion, mixed and mismatched. Then the juice of magic and all is made right. Such was A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream.”

  Endersby lay back. Like one of his French puzzles, the final section of the case clicked into place and presented a whole landscape, complete and balanced. “Ah well,” the inspector sighed. He now could plan his final campaign. Caldwell and he would have to play roles. A fight might ensue. But Superintendent Borne would have his conviction — if all efforts ended up with logical results. Endersby heaved one last breath as his eyes began to droop. Was it too much to hope sleep would come upon him before dawn broke on the third and last day of his investigation?

  Chapter Twenty-six

  New Facts for Old

  Superintendent Borne raised his eyebrows. He thrust his fingers into the pockets of his waistcoat but as it was new, and the pockets too tight, he had to struggle. Pouting, he gave up and stood before Inspector Endersby with his hands clasped behind his back. Fog pressed against the office windows and clocks through city struck the morning hour of eight; the damp, rainy weather had obscured London beneath a foggy shroud, turning it into an invisible city. Grey everywhere; muted voices and the slushy clip clop of horses were all that could be heard, as if the entire metropolis had sunk into the sea during the night.

  “Three felons captured? That is excessive, sir,” complained Borne, his face sleepy at this early meeting.

  “Proof pending, sir.”

  “Fine work, Inspector. Diligent labour. A conviction by sundown, do you think?”

  “Most likely, Superintendent.”

  “Likely? ‘Certainly’ is the word I’d prefer.”

  “There is as yet the matter of a confession from each. And a witness.”

  “As yet, you say? Endersby, you confuse me. Felons, proof, then I hear hesitation. We are men of action, sir,” Borne announced. He looked out the window at the fog as if gazing into a far horizon. “As yet are two words I do not understand. Caldwell and the other two, Mance and …”

  “Rance and Tibald, sir.”

  “Yes, yes. Industrious, hardworking?”

  “Most precocious, sir.”

  “Three felons. Three hangings, then?”

  “If it be so, sir.”

  “Do not depend, Inspector, on ‘ifs’ and ‘buts.’ We are not in the profession as a city detective police force to depend on haphazard surmise.”

  “How true, sir.”

  Borne began to pace. This action was familiar to Endersby: it was a sign that his superintendent was growing bored. There was not much else to report to him on this third and final day. The ultimate confrontation with Sergeant Smeets was to take place in an hour. The matter of the Grimsby affair remained unsettled; the guilt of Dr. Benton, Mr. Lardle and the pity-man had yet to be established. And a long shot — the dredgerman named More, if he were fact rather than fancy.

  “Carry on, then, Inspector. By tonight, a conviction. Or more,” Borne said, stifling a yawn.

  Endersby left the superintendent, went down the stairs, across the courtyard and up two steps to his own office. Entering, there appeared before the inspector a group of people arrayed in black, the tallest of which was Mr. Richard Grimsby. The man had come, as promised, at eight sharp. Beside him, seated in a chair, a woman in veils sat weeping. To Mr. Grimsby’s left stood a fine woman in a large hat; a younger version of herself slouched to her left, and between them, attached to both women’s hands, a blonde female of three years whose little mouth worked on a stick of yellow treacle.

  “Good morning, Inspector,” said the solemn-voiced Mr. Grimsby. The inspector bid all good morning and introduced himself using his full title and name. Caldwell stepped forward from behind the door. “I have taken the liberty, sir, to escort the family to your office.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.”

  The weeping woman raised her tear-stained face. “When may I see my dear one, my sweetest Geoffrey?”

  “I shall oblige you presently, madam,” replied Endersby.

  Mr. Grimsby presented Mrs. Barraclough, who curtsied, then her daughter Hilda, who raised one eyebrow in contempt. Hilda pointed down: “Little Margery.” The female child yanked the treacle from her mouth and greeted the inspector with a yellowish tongue.

  “Good morning to you all,” the inspector repeated.

  “I am here, Inspector, to exonerate my son of the suspicion of murder,” explained Mr. Grimsby. To which words, his wife moaned and spoke into her handkerchief, “Oh, dear. Oh my.” Sergeant Caldwell had his pencil poised and a clean page of his notebook open. The inspector sat down; the shuffling group of Grimsbys deposited themselves on chairs brought into the office by Rance and Tibald. It was Mrs. Barraclough who began the proceedings. She cleared her throat. Her knowing smile filled the grey morning with a sense of righteousness.

  “Plain and simple, sir. My Hilda, is in love with young Grimsby. Scar and all. A total of three years. In the beginnin’ my Hilda was open to suggestion. In particular, my Hilda was unwilling to take my stern advice. Nine months later, little Margery.”

  The child yelled out: “No!” Hilda smacked the child’s knee. In retaliation, little Margery threw her treacle stick to the floor.

  Mrs. Barraclough continued, her smile of triumph broad. “Three years or more, sir. Free vittles for young Geoffrey. A leech without parallel. But now I needs recompense, you see. Hildy works at hats, milliner. But I am left to guard the child with little money to clothe and feed the issue of yer son, Missus Grimsby.”

  Mrs. Grimsby moaned. Hilda interrupted: “Not true, Mama. Geoffrey is kind and good as gold.”

  “I ne’er saw any gold, Miss Hilda. And precious little goodness,” snapped the mother. Mrs. Barraclough steamed on, plowing through her story, descriptions of night entries to her flat on the part of Mr. Geoffrey Grimsby, fighting looks exchanged, love letters opened and a weeping daughter confronted.

  “No, mama,” sniffed Hilda.

  “A fine spectacle of appetite, sir,” Mrs. Barraclough resumed. “Nothing but trouble, strife, and now lovely little Margery.”

  Margery scowled at her grandmother and stamped her foot.

  Mr. Grimsby spoke up: “This is the history, Inspector. The facts of Tuesday last are of greater importance.”

  “Most certainly, sir.” Endersby said. “Facts need verification, however. Lack of bias. An observer of events whose interest in such is incidental.”

/>   “I may only speak for myself, sir. But here in my hand is a recommendation of one of my servants, a man of honest disposition who may speak for young Geoffrey’s character.”

  “I shall consider it. I wish to hear what you observed on Tuesday night and early morning, Mrs. Barraclough.”

  “Me, Inspector?”

  “You were at home during the day and night, were you not?”

  “I was, sir. I saw much. Not all of it to my liking.”

  “Please, take your time,” Endersby said, putting on a patient voice.

  “As is his habit,” the woman began, “Tuesday being no different from any other day, Mr. Geoffrey Grimsby arrives drunk after our supper. It being his usual hour. Demands to see his child.”

  “Mama,” said Hilda. “He comes to show her he loves her.”

  “Loves? Well, if yer in love with yer kin, you should —”

  “At what time did he arrive, Mrs. Barraclough?” Endersby interrupted.

  “At seven. As usual. Beats at the door,” the woman said, moving her arms in a theatrical gesture of knocking. “Curses me, as usual. I’d none ’f it. Took the broom to ’im when he gets particular loud. He come again at eight, then at nine, more gin in ’im. Impossible chap, sir. I am a workin’ woman as is my Hildy. He, well, he is a scoundrel, right n’ready.”

  “And then?” queried Endersby. Caldwell flipped over a page of his notebook and waited, his pencil poised.

  “Well, Inspector. The ruckus keeps up. All the evening. Him at the back door, the front door, the side. Him up a ladder. Him down. Hilda shouting out the window. Scamperin’ about on my floor above. I takes to my bed by half ten of the clock. Still the ruckus and racket. Bless me, sir. I chase him again with the broom from the ladder. ‘To see his little Margery,’ he says. Fool’s so gin-sodden he can hardly climb a rung.”

  “Do you keep a servant, madam?” the inspector asked.

  “A day woman. Cleans, cooks at her leisure.”

  “Is there another tenant in your building? A flat in the back, downstairs?”

  “Mr. Leech, sir. A peculiar gentleman.”

  “Might he have seen or heard the commotion you have described?”

  “Hardly, sir. He travels. Monday to Friday to Manchester. Then into the wilderness for all we knows.”

  “During the late night on Tuesday, you say you saw young Grimsby, given it was dark, as well as heard him?”

  “As if ‘twere sunshine. Most disagreeable.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “Mounting … climbing a ladder up to Hilda’s window.”

  “After midnight?”

  “Precisely, sir. Then afterward on the hour, so it seemed. To Margery’s room, as well. The fool thought I was to sleep.”

  “And later on. You were awake?”

  “Oh sir. Wot’s a poor abandoned woman to do? Young Grimsby invades my house. He romps about all the night and steals my sleep. He appears in the morning, down the ladder. Ruckus then, too. I sees and hears him at dawn, or just afore. If I scold, my Hildy will leave me behind. Give all her money to him. Send me to the workhouse, sir.”

  “Mama?” Hilda cried. “Do you believe —?”

  “Ingrate,” Mrs. Barraclough blurted out. From her frilly pocket she pulled out a handkerchief and blew her nose. “You will betray me. I knows it.”

  “Where and when did you last see Geoffrey?”

  “In the yard. In the stable in the lane. At dawn, then he begs me for a bit o’bacon and coffee. Oh, sir. I have enough to feed …”

  “Thank you, madam,” for your frankness. “It is necessary in a case of murder to ask all nature of pertinent questions.”

  “I can see, sir. Painful they be, too, for some of us.” Mrs. Barraclough shrugged her shoulder and threw a glaring look toward her daughter. “And Hilda?” the inspector asked.

  “He is kind and innocent, sir. You shall see,” Hilda replied softly. “He puts on acts, he does. But he is good in his heart when he feels loved.”

  Mrs. Grimbsy sat up. She lowered her handkerchief and looked into the eyes of Hilda. “He is that, young woman. He has his mother’s love.”

  With eyes then blinking into focus, Hilda turned back to address the inspector. The young woman began to relate her knowledge of Tuesday night. “Miss Hilda,” the inspector interrupted. “Please stand up and follow me.”

  Mrs. Barraclough grew pale. “What, sir? My daughter be innocent,” she said, pointing her trembling hand.

  “Caldwell,” Endersby said, his voice a sudden blast. “Take Miss Hilda to the cells below, on the double. You, sir, Mr. Grimsby, please come along. This is a matter of life and death. This is a matter of truth over sentiment. Your son’s life hangs in the balance.”

  Silence ensued. Faces paled. Hilda marched out on the arm of Caldwell. Rance and Tibald were commanded to stand guard. Mrs. Grimsby began to look faint, but her theatrics were cut short by her husband, who yanked sharply on her arm as he passed by. Below, in the corridor of cells, young Hilda took on a brighter air. She held her head high. She pulled off her bonnet to show a fine head of hair. When the inspector caught up to her and Caldwell, she turned to him with a gleam in her eye. She spoke out with conviction. “Thank you, Inspector, for relieving me of my mother!” she said frankly. “I can only tell you I love Geoffrey despite his many faults. He is innocent sir. That I can only prove by my own words, to which I will swear upon our holy book — I carry it with me in my reticule.” She pulled out a square, leather-bound volume. It was the size of a block of butcher’s butter. She opened it to show her name inside, the pages of thin paper. She read aloud a prayer from the section of Psalms and, with no hesitation, held the volume to her heart and swore she would tell the truth.

  “Most commendable, Miss Hilda,” the inspector said. “But I have to ask you to be patient. Come, and we shall test together the veracity of your love.” Hilda frowned. The inspector rephrased his reply ending with the words, “the ardency and truth of your affection.” Hilda smiled. “He is my love,” she said. “Through thick or thin,” she said, her voice trembling.

  To the elder Mr. Grimsby, the inspector said, “Now, sir, please be honest and address your son with respect and be diligent in your observations of him.”

  “I will, sir. I admit to you and to Miss Hilda that I am beginning to see why my son has been so distracted, or shall I say, so melancholy over the past while. Hard it is for me to reconcile my needs as a father and a professional with the behaviour of my son who so often has appeared as a … well, as a …”

  “A man without his loved ones, sir,” said Hilda. The elder Grimsby nodded and Endersby could see his face was full of remorse. The cell of Geoffrey Grimsby was opened by the guard. A lantern was carried in by Caldwell who stood aside as the two young lovers fell into each other’s arms. Much unrestrained kissing and hugging ensued. Hilda sat down next to Geoffrey on the narrow bench. His sober face grew wet with tears. “All is known, now, dear one,” Hilda said, her gentle attention reminding Endersby of the same tone of voice his beloved Harriet used when giving comfort. Hilda placed Geoffrey’s right hand on her heart. “Do you feel it beating, my love?” The tired young Grimsby nodded. Hilda then took her small bible, placed it under her lover’s hand, and held both together to her heart. “Now swear, dear one. Let us clear up this prattle.”

  “Drunk I was Tuesday night last,” young Grimsby began. “I am sorry for it. Sorry to you, Hildy and to you, Father. I have been most vexed. I am gin-sodden most days of the week.” Hilda patted his forehead. “The old crocodile would not let me see my Hilda nor my little angel. ’Twas past supper, I recollect.”

  Hilda said: “He came at ten. He hammered at the door. Mama would not unlock it.” Geoffrey then told of circling the two-storey building; finding the fire ladder, which lay in the narrow yard behind. “He climbed up half way to my window, but Mama shooed him down with a broom.”

  Geoffrey cleared his throat. “Waited for two hours in the dark till th
e crocodile went to bed. Climbed in my Margery’s little chamber. Hilda was there with the scissors. I wanted a lock, you see. I wanted a bit of my Margery to carry round with me. I even have the locket somewhere.”

  “No, dearest, I have it,” replied Hilda. From her reticule she lifted out a chain and locket. “I cut another lock for you. See?” The lock was shown. Old Richard Grimsby held it for a moment and then on giving it to his son, he suddenly took hold of him and embraced him. The old man tried on this occasion to find words but he retreated instead into silence. Geoffrey Grimsby sat forward. “Hildy then took me in.”

  “For the night, sir,” the woman said boldly. “I let him out by six as Mama awakened. He promised me …”

  “I promised my Hildy a ring …”

  “And a ceremony.”

  “Yes, Hilda. A ceremony. On my way down the ladder I missed a rung. Smashed up my knuckles.” Hilda continued. “Mama was at the hearth making breakfast.”

  “The old croc came out to fetch wood,” added Geoffrey. “I had to take refuge in the neighbour’s stable, under the straw and horse dung.”

  “Did the neighbour find you by chance, sir?” asked Endersby.

  “No, sir, the groom found me. Said he’d spent his early breakfast watching us from his window. A happy fellow. Laughed when I told him about Margery and the ladder. Name of Balham, Arthur.”

  “Caldwell, kindly go upstairs. Find Rance and send him to fetch Mr. Balham, the groom. Mr. Grimsby will supply the address. We will need him to write out his witness report and swear to its veracity at the magistrate’s.”

  “He will do it, sir. He is forthright,” Hilda said. Suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears. “Oh, Geoffrey, my Geoffrey. How hard done I have been by you, and our little one, too.” Geoffrey put his arm around the sobbing woman. Endersby alerted the guard to bring pen, ink and paper. “Miss Hilda. Master Geoffrey. It is not enough to swear to your innocence. You must declare it in writing. Constable, kindly lead these two up to the deposition room. Alert the clerk and have him supervise the writing of their stories. You do understand, that you will be asked to write the truth under oath and appear before a magistrate?”