Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “A fine good evening to you, sir,” Endersby said, addressing the man at his table. The man jolted. He stared at Endersby. He placed down his spoon. “Filth,” he said in a smothered voice, his left hand batting at the air as if there were swarms of flies. Endersby tapped his forehead. “Be a night of storms ahead, I predict.” A serving boy brought him a bowl. The inspector drank it down in gulps. He kept his eyes on the man; the gestures, the posture seemed similar to those of the figure with the pistol on the night Malibran attacked. Endersby rose and went out of the parlour. “Keep an eye out for him,” he said to Caldwell who had just returned through the front door.

  “Two of Smallwood’s constables are outside at the ready, sir,” Caldwell whispered. “Good. Call one in immediately. Have him stand here on guard.”

  Caldwell ran out to the street and came back with a young constable. His face had a serious expression as he listened intensely to Caldwell’s orders. The young policeman nodded his head in respect to Endersby and took his position by the dining parlour’s entrance.

  “Caldwell,” Endersby said, taking hold of his sergeant’s arm. “Bring along our sack with the bait and come with me for a hasty look at our suspect’s quarters.”

  Mrs. Bolton lay alone on the top of her bed. A single candle burned. She got up and went into her kitchen where there were cooked pies and a jug of apple cider brought over by neighbours. She sat down by her hearth. Tomorrow would be sister Jemima’s funeral. Such shame she had taken her own life. Jemima would not be buried in hallowed ground. “Oh, sad one,” Mrs. Bolton whispered out loud.

  Mrs. Bolton fetched Jemima’s written confession. The sheets were well crinkled by now from handling. At first they had seemed to Mrs. Bolton to be a massive lot. But after much re-reading, she realized there were but a few.

  “Ashes to ashes.”

  Mrs. Bolton read each sheet for the last time; she lay the pages on the embers and watched them blacken and curl before they floated up the chimney.

  “Bless you, Jemima. I forgive you,” Mrs. Bolton said as the words of her tortured sister filled her mind:

  I, Jemima Pettiworth, declare that all I have written here is the truth. I do not presume to enter into this state of confession, dearest sister, without due thought, trusting in my own memory but also in your kind belief that I may be granted by you and my Saviour manifold mercies and forgiveness for what I have done in my early life. I am not worthy so much as to lick up the crumbs under your table, dearest sister. But you are the same woman whose inclination is always to give comfort, to afford allowances, to condescend never to deliberate cruelty or false pride. Those two sins I now openly admit once ruled my sentiments many years ago.

  For a time of ten years, as you well remember, I was hired as a ward matron at our county workhouse, a place which still stands not one mile out of our cosy village. My employment was honest; my work diligent. Ruling, feeding, and working young children — both male and female — comprised my duties. When I was but twenty-two years old, I fell in love with a master who, in light of his own sins, could not sustain his affections for me. Beginning from that terrible night when he fled St. Stephen’s and abandoned me, I forced myself to hide my sadness. In my pride I believed, dear sister, you would mock me, say I was foolish. How I yearned for him, the cowardly man. I never divulged his name and to remain honour-bound, his name shall remain forever forgotten.

  In the spring of 1808, I went up to London to see an old friend and as you remember, I stayed but eight months. A lie you believed, bless you. There in December, all alone, I gave birth. My son was so sickly, he perished within an hour of his first breath. I arrived back to our village one late January night. My grief had seduced me to wrap my baby, cold and dead, and carry him the long journey home to our village graveyard. My own hands dug his shallow grave. When you saw me the next day — you were so kind! — and said I looked ill, you took me in, fed me, and allowed me to live under your roof. I went back to the workhouse and was granted a new job as matron of the family ward. With money I had saved, I eventually purchased a headstone for my lost son.

  In His Great Mercy, God did not grant me peace. I grew bitter. I felt the world had judged me, found me wanting, and scorned me. This inner bitterness began to seep out of me as if it were a boil leaking blood. Like Pharaoh in the story of Moses, I hardened my heart to misery in myself and in others. My only relief was lace making. It kept my mind occupied and my fingers busy. In the family ward, I began to take delight in punishing innocent creatures. There were three victims — I must regard them as such — who became my nemeses. I will not mention their good Christian names. One was a young mother who, jilted by her husband, was left pregnant. She came into my ward with a son and a daughter. The son was young, delicate, imaginative. The daughter was meek. Their poor mother struggled in birth and I was unable to aid her. When she delivered she bled profusely. Her son stood by watching and crying for his mother. I had to sop her blood with pieces of my lace while calling for help.

  The boy never forgave me. “Naught to worry, naught to fret,” I cautioned him. He railed against me; he leaped at me, blaming me for his mother’s death. I beat him numerous times. Then, when I beat his sister to relieve my own temper, the boy struck me. He was very protective of her. Once he tried to strangle me with his bare hands as I whipped her. His tender and vulnerable ways so resembled my own. I whipped him as a way of scourging myself. My worst punishment for him was the gag. To frighten him, I forced bits of my own lace into his mouth and tied a swath of muslin around his face to hold it in. He wept; he fought; I locked him in closets without food. Yet I did not feel relief nor remorse.

  Eventually, my ways of sadness abated. The boy lived on and grew, surviving my cruelties. In that time, he hid from me, becoming familiar with the kitchens, the escape doors. Peculiar in nature, he often talked to himself, often imagining he had a friend or a twin. When the two children finally left the workhouse to toil for a farmer, I felt my burden had lifted. All through these years, I have never forgotten them. I do not believe they survived and I cannot recall ever knowing them in the street.

  Could my sister have stuffed lace into a boy’s mouth simply for cruel pleasure? Mrs. Bolton wondered, and then whispered, “may that poor boy rest quiet in his adult years.”

  Mrs. Bolton read on. She stirred the embers one last time and, after memorizing its final words, tossed the last page into the dying flames.

  Oh dear sister, as I lie dying, I must release these words to set my soul and the souls of my victims free. I see before me in my penance only the fires of Hell. Almighty Jesus, may Your tender mercies strenghthen those more deserving than I. Take pity upon my dear sister and the three sad creatures of my past.

  With this sentence, I end my humble confession … bowing my head in shame.

  Chapter Thirty

  A Fall Too Tragic

  The tiny window in the attic room of Mrs. Kermode’s lodging house showed the first dimming of twilight. “A candle, sir,” said Endersby. A single narrow bed, shadow-filled corners, a rumpled collection of clothes too nondescript in the candle’s light to afford Endersby any immediate clues. A room barely large enough to house a child.

  “Such a sorrowful place,” Endersby said quietly.

  The inspector went to the window. His reflection in the panes showed a face pulled by fatigue. He unlatched the hook and looked out. “We must not presume our man will give in easily, Caldwell.” Tottering attic storeys, broken chimneys, steep runs of roof tile: a challenging above-ground course for any man to run over — or any other man to give chase. Directly below the lodging house dormer where he stood, Endersby saw the dark shape of the courtyard with its stacks of mirrors in their rotting frames. The inspector then began his round, holding up the lit candle, while Caldwell stood close to the door to listen for movement of any kind.

  “Do not hesitate, sergeant, if he comes. For he must come upstairs eventually.”

  Slowly, in a circle, Endersby toured the
tiny space, followed by his shadow on the dirt-smeared walls. He pulled back the soiled bed linens. Blood stains spotted the pillow. He lifted up the straw- stuffed mattress. The sheets held the stink of the man’s body. All along the edge of the single top sheet was oily dirt: coal smut. Under the bed was a pair of old military boots and a small canvas bag. The inspector shook the bag.

  “Sergeant,” Endersby said. “Look on this.”

  The contents of the bag lay spread on the bedsheet.

  “It is the same lace as we have brought with us,” Caldwell said.

  “No doubt. Yes, lift it … the pattern, the twists, the cut edge of one piece like the edge of the other. Rosemary Lane lace for curtains.”

  “And for murder, sir,” replied Caldwell.

  They fell silent again for an instant.

  “Why lace?” murmured Endersby. “Now, sergeant, we begin Act One of our Punch and Judy show.” Out of the sack brought from Fleet Lane, Caldwell pulled the rusty gaff found at St. Pancras and the dredgerman’s hat and laid them across the bed. Endersby in turn removed from his bulging pocket the letters of young Catherine Smeets. Blowing out the candle, the inspector and his sergeant left the room; they came down the three flights of stairs to the main floor hall. There, Mrs. Kermode sat at her table, counting coins. Smallwood had returned and, to the delight of Endersby, had put on a mackintosh and a squashed top hat as a disguise. Tapping the edge of the hat in greeting, Smallwood lounged by the street door, picking his teeth. Just then, the suspect appeared in the doorway of the dining parlour.

  “Coward,” he shouted, his eyes half closed. His gait was uneven as if he had drunk too much gin. The stench from his legs rose in the air of the hall. Mrs. Kermode held her nose: “Sir, I beg of you. To the public washhouse. There be water and soap for a ha’penny.” The man swivelled on the spot. His arms flew up above his head and his fists formed as if he were about to strike the landlady.

  “Aye, eee, aye, madam!” he said in a ghastly whisper.

  Endersby readied himself. The man, however, held his stance as if he were posing for a sculptor. A second was all, then in a quick change, he began knocking his fists together above his head in imitation of a dancer doing a jig. The fellow turned, his stockinged feet tapping lightly in time to his moving fists.“Watch him,” Endersby said quietly to Caldwell. Endersby sat down on a chair in the hall and nonchalantly lit his clay pipe. He flicked his match end in the direction of Smallwood, who picked up the cue by sniffing his nose. The suspect danced a little more, oblivious to those around him. Presently, the patter of rain was heard against the window panes. A clap of thunder followed quickly, drowning out the sound of tapping feet. The man halted, his eyes widened in terror. He froze, still as a marble statue. Not a feature quivered.

  “Open up! Open up the hatch, for mercy’s sake!” he suddenly screamed, his body jolting back to life. His shriek rang through the house. “We will perish!” he howled, stamping the floor with one of his sore legs. Dragging himself toward the stairs the maddened man covered his face. “Devils,” he moaned, his heavy steps pounding up the stairs to the attic.

  “Now, men. Now!” Endersby hissed. “Our fellow will find the incriminating evidence in his room. Stay on guard. He may come down these very stairs with a weapon. If we hear a clatter on the roof, be prepared to set chase. Caldwell, ready?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  Caldwell slipped away from the stairwell, where a slow clomping of feet was heard. “He’s coming down,” Endersby said, sitting to relight his clay pipe. Smallwood and Caldwell posed, pretending to be passing time. Meanwhile, the rain lightened as the cast of players in the hall began talking to each other. Smallwood stationed himself in front of the street door; Endersby’s post was near the other end of the hall leading to the kitchen. Caldwell remained in between the two, resting against Mrs. Kermode’s small table. The footsteps above them slowed, as if the man was reconsidering his descent. They started again from the second landing and came down the final flight to the first floor.

  The suspect was panting, like a dog after a chase. He held the gaff and wielded it like a walking cane. His pockets in his frock coat were stuffed with papers. “Good evening, sirs,” he said in a hoarse voice. The felon did not catch the eye of any of the three men posed in the hallway. He made no sign of demanding how his room had been invaded and objects left there. Endersby could see the man was aware, yet unsure. “Good evening, sir,” Endersby said. “A fine evening it is,” his accent coming forth. “Wet, I reckon, with the March wind.”

  “Ah, ah,” replied the suspect.

  “So, sir,” Endersby now said. He tapped his pipe. “You have letters to write, I imagine. I see you have equipped your pockets with paper. But is it not past the afternoon hour, sir? I know of only one mail delivery after five of the clock.”

  “Ah, ah, a storm at sea. Delays. Must fly, must dash — off to the country, sir, a pudding to purchase.” The man pronounced his nonsense in an elevated tone, his head turning from side to side as if he were bothered by gnats. “Devil take’em, I wish,” he said, bowing his head. As he stepped toward the front door, Endersby stood up from his chair.

  “Mr. William More,” he said. “Or more precisely, Mr. Tobias Jibbs. Do not go, sir.”

  “The tide has come in,” the man replied. He turned to face Endersby, who now held up the piece of lace found in the suspect’s attic room. “Lace, sir,” the inspector said.

  “Ah,” cried the man, raising the gaff. “The tide came in as I pulled him, pulled …” As Tobias Jibbs elevated his weapon further, Smallwood leaped forward, grabbed the gaff from behind and yanked it out of the man’s hand. Jibbs dashed back toward the stairwell. His arms were hard and strong. Driven by the need to escape, he struck Caldwell on the chin, the blow sending the sergeant to the floor. Endersby began marching toward him from the end of the hall. Smallwood leaped over the prone Caldwell. He swept up his right arm but found it blocked by Jibbs, who feinted and landed a punch to Smallwood’s nose. In the midst of the tumbling, Jibbs reached the stairs, the steps resounding with his boots retreating toward the rooftops.

  “After him, chaps,” yelled Endersby.

  Up the men went, into the empty room and toward the opened window. “Caldwell,” ordered Endersby. His faithful sergeant climbed out onto the slanted roof. Smallwood pointed to the figure inching his way along the brick edge of the adjoining building’s roof. “There, sergeant,” Smallwood said. Endersby stood by as Caldwell slid down and placed his feet on the roof edge. Attached to it ran a dented metal gutter. “Are you safe, sir?” asked Endersby as Caldwell tested the strength of the edge. “And sound, sir,” came the sergeant’s response.

  From his vantage point in the attic window, Endersby watched Tobias Jibbs making slow progress along the next building’s edge. Much of the brick and mortar of the houses had long begun to crumble. Showers of broken masonry rained down as Jibbs made his way past two dormers, their windows boarded up. Endersby could hear the man yelling out curses, his thin body making cautious movements. The open courtyard below now flickered with shadows from lanterns lit by Mrs. Kermode and her two kitchen servants.

  “Owen, allow me,” said Smallwood. He had taken both bed sheets, twisted and tied them in a series of knots. He secured the makeshift rope to the doorknob of the entrance door, tossed the other end out the window to climb down beside Caldwell. Smallwood hoisted himself over the windowsill and slid down the incline to the stone edge. The two policemen began to inch their way toward Tobias Jibbs, Smallwood grasping the sheet line and one of Caldwell’s sleeves.

  “Filth!” Jibbs yelled at the men trying to follow him. By now he had reached an attic dormer window kitty-corner to his rented room. He had moved along and around the L-shaped angle of the roof edge joining the houses attached to Mrs. Kermode’s dwelling. Endersby counted the rooftops to where Jibbs had made his way — two separate houses facing the courtyard. Would Caldwell and Smallwood be able to tackle the culprit on such a narro
w ledge? Jibbs grabbed the side of one of the blocked-up dormer windows. With his other hand he pounded hard on the rotted wood until the board fell inwards and he scrambled through the space into the dark interior. “Smallwood,” shouted Endersby. “Stay put. Caldwell, can you give chase?”

  “Certainly, sir,” the sergeant shouted back.

  “Careful, Sergeant, go slowly along. Be aware he may attack you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Caldwell shouted back.

  “I shall go down to the street,” Endersby called to Smallwood. Endersby hurried through the room and down the flights of stairs. Rushing into the street, he commanded the guarding constable to accompany him.

  “At your service, sir,” came the young man’s reply. “McNally’s the name.”

  The two men left the central square and jogged briskly along the street adjacent to the lodging house. It was muddy, the houses dark and marred by broken windows. Endersby counted out the house fronts and stopped at the one that he believed Jibbs had entered. He told the constable to shine his bull’s eye lantern up the facade. The weak beam of light showed only broken timber and shabby windowsills. The dormer on the roof facing the street had been bricked up. “Ah,” said Endersby. “He cannot run out to the front roof, then.” The inspector ordered the constable to kick down the street door. A swarm of broken bits of wood flew into the air and dust blew out of the abandoned foyer.

  “Your lantern, sir,” said Endersby, taking hold of the bull’s eye. The two men stepped inside. The lantern’s beam showed collapsed doors, huge holes in the wooden floors. The dust-smothered staircase looked intact — except for the broken banister bowing out over the hall like the folds of an accordion. The sound of slow footsteps could be heard above the inspector, on the second floor. The constable pulled out his truncheon and inched toward the foot of the stairs.