“Then where do you lay your head, son?” Ainsley asked.
The boy swallowed and turned his head to look down the alley. “Limehouse Foundling Home,” he said quietly.
With those three words Ainsley’s bravado was extinguished. He knew the home and its head matron well. His mother, Lady Charlotte Marshall, had been particularly fond of the orphans there and regularly assisted by hosting events to raise money. She visited on occasion and often took Ainsley, his sister Margaret, and their brother Daniel there to assist. With her grave so recently dug and the loss still fresh, Ainsley heard the words as if they were a stab to his nearly broken heart.
Chapter 2
Turn, gently moved!
The foundling home was a grey brick building with three floors of matching rectangular windows and limestone sills. The building’s adornments ended there save for black iron grates bolted on the outside of the windows and a long fence that ran the length of the wall, protecting pedestrians from falling into the concrete trench that had been constructed to allow some light into the basement windows.
It looked smaller than Ainsley remembered. He hadn’t laid eyes on it in some years, long before medical school and even some years before when his mother retreated permanently to The Briar, their family’s country home. As if standing before a ghost from the past Ainsley took in the sight, awed by its persistence and dreading the forthcoming memories. He had returned to work in the hopes it would busy his mind and distract him from the pain caused by his mother’s death. Instead, his occupation had led him right to the most injured portion of his heart.
“You look as if you’ve returned home,” Simms said from his side, his grip firm on the boy they had brought back.
Ainsley swallowed nervously, looked to the boy and then back to Simms. “This was my mother’s charity,” he confessed.
Simms nodded, realizing the connection. “Will they recognize you then?” he asked. “As Lord and Lady Marshall’s son.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Confined to a mortuary in the basement of St. Thomas Hospital, Ainsley had never needed to worry about the two lives he led. Amongst the dead, he was Dr. Peter Ainsley, morgue surgeon. But when he walked amongst the living he slipped seamlessly into the role of Peter Marshall, second son and heir to the Montcliff earldom. Never before had the contrast been so abrupt.
“After you, Mr. Marshall.”
The connotations did not sit well with Ainsley and he scowled at the detective’s words. He hated his family’s fortune and titles more so than the expectations that came with it. His father and brother accepted their roles amongst society without protest. Ainsley, however, abhorred his.
With resignation, Ainsley ascended the stairs to the front door, and opened it wide to allow Simms enough room to escort the boy in. With the door closed, the temperature remained the same as it was outside, cool and damp, but the darkness of the place highlighted the conditions even more so. As a pungent smell of sick filled his nose, Ainsley cringed internally at the dank conditions and marked chill.
At the far end of the hall a woman came into view, swishing a rag mop side to side in a haphazard pattern, showing little care or interest in her task.
“Excuse me!” Simms called. The woman stopped moving the mop but did not look up. Instead, she leaned into the wooden handle, her long, greasy hair reaching for the floor. “Miss?” The detective gave Ainsley an unsure look.
Together they walked toward her, the boy being led with little force. As they drew closer the woman looked slightly to the side as if peering at them through her strands of hair and then turned her back to them.
“Ma’am?” Ainsley asked as he drew close. By the time they reached her, Ainsley realized there would be nothing to gain from a conversation with her. Touched by the faeries, her family must have said before depositing her at the foundling home. Her gaze was vacant and her features contorted in an unrelenting twitch.
They looked around the corner from whence she had come. A set of double, wooden doors, propped open by rusted iron doorstops, led into a large dining hall, lined with rough wooden tables and benches to match. Ainsley cocked his head toward the door and led the way.
Muted sunlight to guide them, Ainsley walked into the room and panned the expansive place. A few girls, no more than six years old, were hurriedly wiping tables and straightening benches. Then Ainsley’s gaze found Mrs. Glendora Holliwell, somewhat greyer since the last time they’d met, but then again Ainsley would have been about fourteen years old at the time.
“Mrs. Holliwell,” he called out, surprised at the reverberation of his voice. “Ma’am?” They began to walk toward her.
The woman turned, raising a hand to sweep some strands of hair from her cheek. She gave Ainsley and Simms the briefest of looks before her eyes fell on the boy. “Benjamin Catch!” she admonished. She placed her hands on her hips. “What have ye done now?” She was not angry, not as Ainsley would have expected from such a place. But then he remembered why his mother favoured Limehouse Foundling Home so much.
Mrs. Holliwell was unlike any other sorts who were willing to take such an assignment. Matrons at workhouses and foundling homes were more often brash, crude women, grateful for the meagre pay and free food, but rarely concerning themselves with the well-being of their charges. He was reminded instantly of the warm heart she showed the children and attention she gave them as if they were her own.
Ainsley saw the boy let out a breath, refusing to look at her as he had refused to look at any of them.
“Mr. Marshall?”
Mrs. Holliwell approached him, offering a hand and a warm smile. It was the colour and shape of her eyes that he remembered most and then his mouth salivated for her gingersnap cookies, warm from the oven.
“How have you been, Mrs. Holliwell?” He could not help but smile despite all the memories he had of her related so closely to those of his mother. Ainsley swallowed back the discomfort and grasped her hand with both of his.
“I was so sorry to hear of your mother’s passing,” Mrs. Holliwell said, placing her free hand over their grasp. “She was still quite young, was she not?”
Ainsley nodded.
At his father’s request, no doubt assisted by a large sum of money, the papers published nothing of Lady Marshall’s murder save to say she had passed away at the family’s London home. Though everyone in Ainsley’s family knew the true turn of events, and Simms as well, no one dared to speak of it.
Ainsley’s thoughts fumbled for something to say in response but found nothing. Mrs. Holliwell must have seen the hurt in his eyes for she did not press further and turned her attention to Benjamin and the inspector beside him.
“What is this about?” she asked hesitantly.
“I’m afraid we may have bad news, ma’am,” Ainsley explained.
Mrs. Holliwell’s gaze dropped to Benjamin and then back to Ainsley, who was still unsure how to explain his involvement with the investigation.
“I believe this boy knows the identity of an unfortunate soul found not far from here,” Simms explained. “One of the constables wished to question him. He tried to run and this gentleman was quick to give chase.” Simms indicated Ainsley as the bystander.
“That’s not—”
Benjamin’s protest was quickly hushed by Mrs. Holliwell. “I shan’t allow you to waste any more of these gentlemen’s time,” she said.
“He cried as if he knew the boy,” Ainsley said.
Benjamin’s face puckered, hard and angry. “I did not cry!” he snapped vehemently. The boy looked angrily at Ainsley but Mrs. Holliwell’s stern expression halted any further discord. He dropped his gaze to the floor and drew in a long breath. “It was Jonathon, ma’am.”
“Jonathon?” A sudden look of confusion slipped over her features.
Benjamin nodded and was quick to raise his hand to wipe a tear from his lower eyelid before it spilled over on his cheek.
“You are sure then?” Mrs. Holliwell asked, slouchi
ng slightly to look Benjamin in the eyes. “It was him, the murdered child?” The boy said nothing as more tears came. Seeing the boy’s sadness Mrs. Holliwell raised a hand to her mouth, and grasped at her stomach with the other hand.
“He is a charge here then?” Simms pressed.
She nodded, feebly, and reached for Benjamin as if to console him but he simply pushed her away. With a deep growl, the boy shook off any attempts to contain him and left the parlay. Finding a bare wall, he leaned against it, crossing his arms over his chest, and turned his gaze away.
Ainsley offered Mrs. Holliwell his clean handkerchief. She smiled as she accepted it.
Mrs. Holliwell looked at Benjamin sympathetically before using the delicate cloth to wipe her eyes. “They were close,” she explained amidst a slight sniffle. “I cannot imagine how this affects him.”
“Jonathon was a charity case here?” Ainsley asked.
Mrs. Holliwell nodded as if unable to speak, as more tears came.
“His last name, ma’am?” Simms asked, his notepad at the ready.
“Most here don’t have names until we give them one,” she explained. “Master Catch is so called because of his tendency to flee and our need to try to catch him.” She looked to Benjamin with a sweet, loving smile. “He’s been like that since he was five.”
“Five?” Ainsley choked.
She nodded. “Oh, yes. He and Jonathon have been with us so long. Jonathon came to us at two, I believe. Benjamin was brought in a few years later.”
“How did Jonathon come into your care?” Simms asked with a marked air of professionalism. He was neither soft nor hard. It was a manner which Ainsley would describe as neutral, if a bit unsettling.
“I believe he was brought to us by a woman who cares for many babies for their mothers.” Suddenly, Mrs. Holliwell appeared uncomfortable. “You understand, mothers of unfortunate circumstances. His mother never returned for him and this woman could not find him a home due to his combative personality.”
“Combative?” Ainsley asked, genuinely interested. He could hardly see any child the age of two having a combative personality, certainly not any more than other children his age.
“Jonathon was difficult to please. Abandoned children often experience such emotional discord but he was... less resilient than the others.” Her gaze drifted and then snapped back to Ainsley and Simms.
“Could he have quarrelled with someone?” Simms asked. “Did he have any issues with the staff here?”
“The staff?” Mrs. Holliwell looked genuinely put off by the accusation. “Are you saying someone here is responsible?”
Ainsley raised a hand as if to calm her but she turned from him, using her hand to wipe new tears. “I don’t think that is what the inspector is implying,” he said.
Simms raised his eyebrows when Ainsley looked to him. It appeared that was exactly was what he was implying.
“I cannot say anything was so bad,” she said, her voice muffled by the handkerchief.
“Anything you can tell us will help, ma’am,” Simms said.
Mrs. Holliwell turned, her composure returned. “Of course.” Her shoulders sank as she let out a breath. “There was an incident last week,” she began. “We had some carpenters here helping to fix a leak in the roof on the third floor. Jonathon had been out running a message to my son and when he returned Mr. Jarvis was replacing his bed to the corner.”
“Mr. Jarvis, the carpenter?” Simms clarified.
Mrs. Holliwell nodded. “Yes. He had to move the bed to get access to the ceiling but Jonathon did not know. He accused Mr. Jarvis of stealing his things. Mind you, I haven’t the faintest clue what would have been worth to steal. The children who live here possess very little.”
“May we see where he slept?” Simms asked.
Leaving Benjamin in the dining hall with the girls, Mrs. Holliwell led them up two flights of stairs.
The first thing Ainsley noticed was the thin layer of ice clinging to the inside of the window panes, encasing the glass and wood frame completely and distorting the little light that made its way inside. A breathy cloud circled their heads as they walked in.
Jonathon’s bed, like all the beds, was rusted metal, painted many times over and chipping away to the black iron beneath. Though unlike the other cots, Jonathon’s was placed against the wall at the darkest corner of the room.
As Simms, Ainsley, and Mrs. Holliwell marched down the slim aisle to Jonathon’s cot, Ainsley noticed all the beds were neatly made. The sheets were a dingy colour of grey, with thin blue stripes. There were no pillows or extra blankets and Ainsley could not imagine the thin fabric doing much to keep out the chill of a winter night.
“Sometimes the younger children sleep in the same bed to share warmth,” Mrs. Holliwell explained, as if obtaining access to Ainsley’s thoughts. “The older boys tend to shy away from such things.”
Ainsley nodded and Simms looked to a grate in the floor that should have brought heat to the higher rooms from the boiler.
“We have a strict ration of coal,” Mrs. Holliwell explained. “We cannot risk running out.”
“Do you have the address of that carpenter, ma’am?” Simms asked.
Mrs. Holliwell nodded. “I will be a moment.” She excused herself and slipped out of the room, leaving Ainsley and Simms to sift through Jonathon’s bedclothes. They pulled the bed from the wall and looked at the floorboards beneath in case the boy had need to hide anything. They examined the plaster walls, cracked and shedding in thin layers, and moved picture frames in search of possible hiding spots. There was but one shirt, not of any thickness, folded over the head of the bed.
“Interesting,” Ainsley said after they had exhausted all possibilities.
“What do you notice, Dr. Ainsley?” Simms asked.
“Where’s his boots?”
Without warning, Mrs. Holliwell returned, a small piece of paper in her hand on which she had scratched down the name and address of the carpenter. “This was the first time we had used Mr. Jarvis,” she explained. “I think Jonathon was caught off guard.”
“Do you remember what was said in the altercation?” Simms asked.
Mrs. Holliwell forced a smile and shrugged slightly. “I was helping some girls in the laundry,” she explained. “It’s in the basement. I only heard the yelling once I came up the stairs with a basket. I had never seen Jonathon such as that. He flew into a rage, he did, and was breathing hard, perspiring. He wouldn’t let me touch him.”
“What did the carpenter say?” Ainsley asked before realizing he was not supposed to let on he was helping the investigation.
“He told me Jonathon had yelled at him, though he never said what was said. We had to stop the other boys from entering their dormitory to give Jonathon some space.”
“Would you say that was typical for this boy?” Simms asked.
“I must admit we’ve had far worse instances here than that. A nearly grown boy yelling at a tradesman is the least of my worries. He was a good boy; that is why he was allowed to stay here for so long.” As if remembering the reason for the inspector’s visit, Mrs. Holliwell raised a hand to her cheek and lowered her gaze. “How did he die?” she asked quietly, as if not really wanting the answer.
Simms hesitated, giving a glance to Ainsley.
“He was stabbed,” Ainsley answered, not giving any details more than that.
Her breath stopped then and she covered her eyes with her hand. “I don’t understand how someone can do such a thing.” She choked back tears. “To a child.”
Forgoing professionalism, Ainsley stepped forward and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Her crying intensified and she turned into him slightly.
Mrs. Holliwell was right. There was no justification for killing a child, an innocent. Usually detached from his work as a morgue surgeon, Ainsley could not detach himself when children were involved.
“He was to go to Canada soon,” Mrs. Holliwell explained between sobs. “He’d been h
ired as a farmhand. Him and some of the other older boys. He was looking forward to it. Their Great Canadian Adventure, he called it.” Mrs. Holliwell raised her hands to her face and cried with vehemence.
“Mrs. Holliwell, are you missing any other children?” Simms asked, flipping his notepad to a previous page. “Girl, eight, black hair and brown eyes. Girl, maybe seven, blond hair, blue eyes.” Before he could get to the description of the third child found, Mrs. Holliwell shook her head and covered her face in the handkerchief Ainsley had given her.
“No,” she said suddenly.
“Forgive me, ma’am, but I had to ask.”
“Of course,” she said with a nod and sniffle. “There are no others. They are all accounted for.”
Simms nodded and looked to Ainsley. “I will interview the carpenter then,” he said, placing his notebook in his inside breast pocket. “I trust if you come across anything, you will let us know at the Yard.”
Mrs. Holliwell nodded.
The doctor and inspector walked down the aisle between the beds and left the room, but not before seeing Mrs. Holliwell slump down onto a bed and begin crying into her hands.
At the door that would lead them to the street they saw Benjamin Catch standing in the shadows. As the pair of investigators neared, Benjamin looked to them expectantly.
“You lied,” he said with a pointed gaze. “Why didn’t you tell Mrs. Holliwell you are a bobby like him?”
Ainsley gave a half-smile. “Because I’m not. I’m a doctor.”
“Why didn’t you tell her the truth?” Ben asked.
Ainsley looked back down the long hallway. “Because I made a promise to someone,” he answered earnestly. “I said I would keep it a secret for as long as I could.”
“So you lie to everyone to keep one person happy?” Benjamin pressed.
Ainsley heard Simms chuckle quietly behind him.
Ainsley kept his profession a secret for his father. A powerful man appointed to the House of Lords, Lord Abraham Marshall loathed his second son’s chosen career path and only conceded when Ainsley offered to use his mother’s maiden name. As a student and budding surgeon, the task had remained simple, but as time went on his position in medicine grew more difficult to hide.
The Dead Among Us Page 2
