by Jon Redfern
The two lovers nodded. “Margery is ours, Hildy, my love,” young Grimsby said. “You and I, we are together. I swear I will change my ways. Father, please forgive me. I have been a foolish man.” The elder Grimsby came forward. “Geoffrey, you are surely forgiven. This has been a trial for me as well as for you, my son. Now, swear to the inspector that you are innocent of your suspected crime, and we’ll put this unpleasantness behind us.”
“I swear, Poppa, I do swear. I was with my Hildy all the night.”
“Dearest one,” Hilda exclaimed.
“Nay, Hildy. Hear me out. I have been a scoundrel. A fool, too. Taking gin to soothe my fears. But being in here, in this prison cell, knowing I could lose you and be hanged for murder has brought me to my senses. I survived this so I can show my best side to you and our little one.” Hilda wept on his shoulder.
Endersby stood up slowly and left the cell. He told the constable guard to release the young Grimsby once his confession had been written. While climbing the stairs to the courtyard, the inspector felt a tinge of relief. The mystery was solved. Grimsby had a credible alibi. If the neighbour’s groom was honest, his witnessing of the events would stand as evidence in support of young Grimsby’s innocence.
The inspector went back into his office. “We have a confession, ladies and gentlemen. I thank you all for coming. Mrs. Grimsby, it appears you were right in your belief that your son could not have taken a life. Indeed, he has sworn to his Hilda to renew himself now that there is enough evidence to support his claim to innocence.” Much grumbling issued from Mrs. Barraclough, who snatched up little Margery and carried her outside. The elder Grimsbys rejoiced and thanked Endersby. On the pair’s exit, the inspector instructed Tibald to go across the lane to the coffee house and have a server come over with a tray of hot coffee and toast.
Caldwell reappeared. “Constable Rance, sir, has reported there were no disturbances in two northern and one western district last night. No workhouse invasions. No dead bodies.”
“Most curious,” said Endersby. His face slowly formed into a frown. “And what now of Smeets? I am all at sea with him, the coincidence of his presence in London.” The inspector took the gaff he had found the evening before and, with Caldwell, went down to Smeets’s cell. On opening the cell door, a cough and a deep moan issued out of the dim light.
“He is with fever, sir,” Caldwell said, touching Smeets’s forehead.
“Constable,” Endersby said to the guard. “Fetch the surgeon, Mr. Reeves, of Number four Farringdon Street. Just up the way.” Endersby gazed into the soldier’s pallid features. “Exhaustion and lack of food, I reckon, Sergeant,” Endersby said to Caldwell. The two men left the cell and returned to the inspector’s office to wait for the surgeon to come. Placing the found gaff across the top of his desk, Inspector Endersby started rubbing his chin and letting his thoughts spill into spoken words: “Abandoned because it was no longer needed? Or lost in a panic of escape?”
“The gaff, sir?” inquired Caldwell who had poured out two cups of coffee left by the server.
“I am amused by our find,” was the inspector’s response. “I have second thoughts about why the gaff was used … if Smeets is our villain.”
“How do you mean, Inspector?” asked Caldwell.
“A father in search of a daughter, a distraught man with no means. Why would Smeets take the time or the effort to carry such an instrument? Cumbersome it is; unnecessary in fact, if one considers that he is an angry, violent man. A soldier is trained to kill. Would Smeets have any need for a weapon such as this one?”
“You do enjoy your ponderings, sir,” Caldwell said, blowing on his steaming cup.
“I am full of questions, Sergeant, which lead me to more questions and few answers,” Endersby replied taking the corner from a bit of toast and chewing it slowly. “And young Catherine Smeets — disappeared. Fled? Murdered?” Endersby stopped speaking and started to pace. “Smeets claimed the uncle had been condemned to the hulks — one of the prison ships anchored in the estuary. We know the uncle’s name — if Smeets can be trusted. Tobias Jibbs. We know his sentence. Now, look at this list from the Naval Office. You see, a Jibbs escaped not three weeks ago from the Greenwich hulks. Might this Jibbs have come up to London?”
“To search for his Catherine?” said Caldwell.
“For certain,” said Endersby. “And here in two of the child’s letters found in the workhouse, she addresses her uncle as Bobo and Uncle Bo. A nickname for Tobias?”
“‘Unklebow’ or ‘Knuckle Toe’ or ‘Uncle Bobo’ are one in the same?” asked Caldwell. Endersby paused and re-read the letter, his brow wrinkled by the turning of his mind. “However, and here is the rub, if I may,” Endersby said. “Surely Smeets fits the description of our culprit more precisely. He is certainly driven, angry, and capable of murder. He returned to London, went searching, knowing his daughter was in the city. Frustrated, he became distraught and violent. On the other hand, the uncle was sent away to the hulks and to his certain death. How would he know to come up to London? If he were able to escape the prison ships — highly unlikely — would he not have headed home to his village? If he wished to his Catherine again?”
“Remarkable, sir,” Caldwell said.
Endersby stopped pacing: “Listen, Caldwell … just a thought. A leap. Suppose the villain were not Smeets. Smeets comes searching to St. Pancras, shouts, bangs about. At the same time, in the same dark hour, the true villain has come — say, William More the dredgerman, or Malibran’s pity-man — with his gaff. On hearing Smeets, he escapes out of panic and fear. He drops the gaff running and climbing over the wall.”
“Yes, sir,” said Caldwell thoughtfully.
“And Mr. Henry Lardle? What of Dr. Benton and his strange room?” Endersby said. “Lardle once killed and could kill again. What I need urgently from him is an alibi.”
“Proof as well, sir? If we can untangle the strands,” said Caldwell.
“Untangle indeed, sir,” replied the inspector. “But before we start to cut apart the knots, let us take ourselves to check on Smeets, then go off to visit the place where Mr. Lardle dwells.”
Dr. Reeves knelt down beside the sickly Sergeant Smeets and opened the patient’s left eye. Endersby admired the doctor’s use of a wooden tube, a French invention, one end pressed against the chest while the other end fit against the ear to determine the rhythmic beat of a man’s heart.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Dr. Reeves said. “My first recommendation, Inspector, is to have this man moved to a dry warm place. I must remark that his fever is steady, likely caused by an influenza. This red streak across his face is not the pox, nor indeed a wound. Rather, I would venture to say it is a nervous disorder seen more often in the aged. It can appear like a scar or a healed wound in its bumpy nature for it swells with fluid.”
“Most informative, Dr. Reeves,” said Endersby. The morning damp permeated the cell; Endersby requested that Smeets be moved up to a chamber with a fire.
“I would rather recommend the public hospital nearby, Inspector,” Reeves said.
“Why so, sir?” questioned Endersby. He had little confidence in public wards. Endersby believed a trip to the hospital was but a cheap farthing ticket to the nearest undertaker’s establishment.
“I can supervise the man’s recovery there in more amenable quarters for the ill. My assistants I have trained myself.”
Dr. Reeves’s words allayed Endersby’s fears. “I will attempt my best, therefore, to accommodate your preference, Doctor,” said the satisfied inspector.
Caldwell had pulled out his notebook and was writing down the symptoms and causes outlined by Reeves.
“Commendable, sir,” Endersby said on noticing his sergeant-at-hand’s initiative. “Might we make a habit of this, Caldwell?” Endersby asked. “A thorough record of all facets of a crime case — a doctor’s as well as a magistrate’s conclusions may set a precedent for us to study in future cases.”
“A fi
ne idea, sir,” was Caldwell’s response, making a note of his superior’s suggestion.
“I have a question, sir,” said Endersby, once again addressing the doctor. “Sergeant Smeets is definitely an ill fellow. In pondering your remarks, I may conclude he is weak from lack of rest and food. In your estimation, could he have been strong enough in the past two days to have completed a fortnight’s walking journey from the Scottish border to London, ransacked his way into a workhouse by using a coal chute, then — bear with me, Reeves — with renewed vigour, taken the life of two struggling women by strangling and thus depriving both of breath?”
“Incredible, Inspector,” said Reeves. “I might surmise that if this man had desire to wreak havoc, as you have described, he most certainly could have performed all of those feats. Men survive much deprivation, sir. Circumstances afford men the opportunity and, undoubtedly, the fire to commit many types of actions.”
“Thank you,” said Endersby.
“Inspector, I will notify St. Bartholomew’s Hospital,” Dr. Reeves said. “I can arrange for this man’s transport. Can the station house provide me with a night guard until this man has had proper rest?”
“Indeed, Doctor,” Endersby said, his mind rushing to frame a convincing argument to be presented to his money-tight superintendent. Twenty minutes later, he and Caldwell were climbing steep stairs in a building on Drury Lane. The court where Henry Lardle lived was in fact around the corner from St. Giles Workhouse. Greeting the last step of many, Inspector Endersby took a deep breath. He and Caldwell first knocked on the door of one Mr. Solomon Graves.“Lardle? Certainly. Good man.” Mr. William Graves pointed to the low door across from his on the other side of the attic hall. “Henry works hard for his coin. Nights mostly.” Mr. Graves smoked a pipe and, in his long night robe, he smelled of fried fish.
“Fish fryer, Covent Garden, sir,” was his prompt response to Endersby’s next question about his profession. Caldwell then asked how long he had lived in this locale, how well he knew Mr. Henry Lardle and the woman he lived with. “Years, sir, on both counts. Worked with Lardle once upon a time. Selling laces. His woman is a good gal, not bright, but agreeable.”
“Mr. Graves, may I enquire about last Tuesday night. Where were you on that evening?”
“After frying. Here for supper. Sister here can vouch.” A red-headed woman in a night robe popped her head around the edge of the door. “Luvly morn, gents,” she said. “Tuesday, t’was left over veal chops. Then to cards with Mr Lardle and his Kate.”
“Kate is his wife?” asked Endersby.
“His helpmeet, sir,” the sister said with a wink. “Good at hawkin’ celery. No talent for whist.”
“You played cards Tuesday. At what time?”
“We was all late for supper,” answered Solomon Graves. “Nine or ten it were. Then we took to some beer. We played for a time, then Henry goes out.”
“What time did he leave you, do you recall?
“Late,” countered his sister.
“When?” asked Caldwell.
“Oh, very late. Two or half past. Out and gone and not home again ’till light. Henry goes out and comes back at the beck and call of his employer. Night work as I said. Out last night again he was. Haven’t heard ’im this morning.”
“Do you know where Henry goes at night?” Endersby asked. Caldwell flipped a page of his notebook.
“No sir. Best to ask his Kate.”
The inspector and his sergeant bid their goodbyes and crossed the hall. The door opened to reveal a weeping Kate. The attic room had a slanted ceiling and sparse furnishings. Kate told the same story as her neighbour of the veal chops and card playing.
“Can you tell us where Henry went late on Tuesday night?”
“Same place as always. Oh mind, he don’t keep nuthin’ from me. Off to Mrs. Barnes. Does business with her when she has the time. Poor Henry. Got desperate, no luck in and out, so he went off to Covent Garden.”
“Where is this place, Mrs. Barnes and her …?”
“Nanny house, sir. You chaps go when you have your need.” Endersby knew they were the worst brothels — selling young girls to men. “Virgins,” they all claimed.
“Here,” Kate pointed to a pencil scrawl on the wall near the door. An address, the name of Barnes, other names, too. “Them others, theys the butcher, the pie man.” Caldwell copied down the address of Mrs. Barnes’ nanny house.
“I thank you, Miss,” Endersby said, gathering his energy. Sergeant Caldwell then told of Mr. Lardle’s stay at Fleet Lane Station House, the news of which brought a smile to Kate’s face.
“Not dead, then? Alive and well?” she asked, grabbing a shawl from a peg.
“Come then,” replied Endersby. “Caldwell, take her in. Get a deposition from her — written down or copied if she can’t write — about Lardle’s whereabouts on Tuesday night. Also, tap on Graves’ door again and have him and his sister write out what they told us. I will take myself to Mrs. Barnes.”
The village cemetery lay half a mile out, a turn down the road from the gate to the country house where the old princess lay dying in her bed. A day and a night had passed and still there was no news of Jemima Pettiworth. Before retiring the night before, Mrs. Bolton had decided to read her sister’s hand-written confession. What a tortured soul her sister had revealed; one that she had kept close to her heart all her waking life. As it was, the confession stirred the imagination of Mrs. Bolton. With the first light of morning, she knew she must investigate what her sister had written about — just to settle her own mind.
At the cemetery’s gate, Mrs. Bolton hesitated. Now that she had made the journey on her own, she surveyed the hallowed ground, a place so ominous in its isolation she wondered if it were wise to continue her search.
“Now, don’t be timid,” she scolded herself. The gate gave out a squeal of rusted metal as she pushed it open. She carefully picked her way through the overgrown cemetery to a corner partially covered with wild vines; in the midst of which sat a tiny gravestone. Mrs. Bolton bent down. Tears rushed into her eyes as she read the name and dates: Jonathan Pettiworth, Born and Died, December 12, 1808. “So here is where you rest, little lad,” Mrs. Bolton whispered. “Ah, Jemmy.” Mrs. Bolton had known only of her sister’s broken heart. Never any mention of a child, a stillbirth. Reflecting back to that time, almost thirty-three years ago, Mrs. Bolton recalled how her sister had fled the village for a time, in the early spring of 1808. “Gone to London, she had told me,” Mrs. Bolton said out loud to the tilting gravestones. “A lie I did not question back then,” she said.
Mrs. Bolton looked up to the sky. What if the beadle had come to her village door with news? Running from the graveyard, Mrs. Bolton kept on down the road, further from town. On the side of a hill stood a wide, three-storey structure with three great chimneys. Its walls of black seemed to have grown out of the hillside stone, and it had always appeared to Mrs. Bolton to be a building of elemental sorrow — for here the abandoned village children, the poor destitute farmers, and the widows of soldiers from the Napoleonic wars ended up living in cold squalor. Mrs. Bolton approached the iron gate to the county workhouse — St. Christopher’s Hospital — its old name arched in iron letters above the gate. She rang the bell.
Presently, a workhouse matron met Mrs. Bolton at the gate. The matron nodded in recognition to the kindly village woman. “I am sorry to hear of your sister’s disappearance, mum,” the matron said, opening the front door of the workhouse. “No news as yet,” came Mrs. Bolton’s reply. A cup of tea was offered and refused. Mrs. Bolton had come for one reason only. She explained her need. Permission was granted cordially; the matron then led Mrs. Bolton down a drafty hall to a large room full of drawers and shelves. “Our ledgers date back to 1799 when the hospital was built. I can bring you an extra candle for better light.”
Reading the spines of books numbered for the first ten years, Mrs. Bolton moved along the shelf until she came to the ledger for 1810. She laid the dusty
book on the table. There, between neatly drawn lines, were the lists of the inmates of the workhouse. Beside their names, ages were recorded along with a brief description: “orphan, abandoned baby, widow …” In her sister’s written confession, the exact names of the three people were not given. But they were described by age and by appearance. What had struck Mrs. Bolton as deeply sad was the cruel treatment Jemima had inflicted upon a jilted woman and her two out-of-wedlock children.
Up and down the lists Mrs. Bolton ran her finger. Three names, just three, she wanted to find, but the ages had to match her sister’s descriptions. At last: a single woman who gave birth to a stillborn and died. Her two other children — a boy and a younger girl, siblings — left to the workhouse. Mrs. Bolton stared at the names. So, Jemima’s story was true. No wonder she had felt the need to confess. More questions bothered Mrs. Bolton: why had her sister not written out the names of the three creatures in her confession? Had she feared recrimination?
Leaving the workhouse, Mrs. Bolton stopped along the way home, sat down on a stump and wept. No more than a few minutes passed and she was on her feet again. As she approached the village square a cold light seemed to cut across the fronts of the shops. Mrs. Bolton hurried her steps toward the great tree by her own snug cottage. It wasn’t until she turned the last corner leading to her front door that she saw a milling crowd. Step by step she made her way, the crowd parting to let her walk on toward the beadle who stood by the entrance to her home, his right hand lifting off his official beadle’s hat as she came closer.
“Poor dear. Such a pity. What a tragedy.” These words were whispered by the village crowd as Mrs. Bolton saw with much trepidation the beadle point toward a cart and horse. In it, a long wrapped object. “I am most grieved, Mrs. Bolton,” the beadle said. Mrs. Bolton touched the object. The beadle performed his public duty and lifted one corner of the wrapping. The crowd shuffled; many women covered their eyes. The soggy lace half covered her dear Jemima’s left eye. The beadle folded the wrapping back over the body.
