Ainsley inched toward the child’s body, carefully watching his footsteps in the gravel so as not to disturb any possible evidence. He doubted there would be anything, but Ainsley was nothing short of meticulous. The location seemed odd to the young surgeon. All of the other bodies had been found in urban dwelling areas, and this location seemed quite remote in comparison.
The dockyard was a maze of warehouse buildings with only enough leeway for one slender cart and no more between them. Empty crates and barrels were stacked along the outsides of the six-storey, red brick buildings. Planks and catwalks crisscrossed above the alleys between the warehouses, offering an advantageous view to the murder scene.
When Ainsley looked up he saw no lamp or source of light. “Was it a full moon last night?” Ainsley asked, shifting his gaze to look at Simms.
The detective shook his head. “We’d have noticed too. All manner of discord happens on nights of the full moon.”
Ainsley nodded, knowing Simms spoke the truth. “He’d have needed light then,” Ainsley reasoned, “A lamp of some kind to perform his work.”
“You think he cared much about precision?” Simms rebutted.
Ainsley looked toward the detective. “In a way, yes.” It was clear that accuracy was not the ultimate goal, however. It did not seem to matter how the act was carried out as long as suffering was the end result.
“Anything missing?” A familiar voice rose up from the crowd and when Ainsley looked he saw Theodore Fenton standing nearby, his notebook poised and pencil at the ready.
Ainsley stood and inched toward Fenton, using his broad shoulders to shield the girl from the reporter’s view.
“Trying to get the details for the evening edition then?” Ainsley asked, working hard to keep his anger in check.
The crowd began stepping back from the two men, as if expecting the duel to come to blows. Fenton too expected some physical altercation and flinched when Ainsley raised his hand to scratch the tip of his nose.
The doctor plucked the pencil from Fenton’s grasp and, reaching over the body, he ran the sharpened graphite over the bricks of the wall, ruining the writing utensil. When Ainsley presented Fenton with his pencil he raised an eyebrow and smiled slightly at the expression on the reporter’s face.
Ainsley turned to the constables. “Get him out of here,” Ainsley commanded, gesturing to Fenton. “Take him twenty blocks from here, I don’t care. Just don’t let him come back to my crime scene.”
The constables nodded, and walked over. They flanked Fenton on both sides, each taking an arm, and led the reporter off through the crowd.
Simms smiled when Ainsley turned back to him. “Better you than me,” Simms said.
Back at their task, they knelt side by side, looking over the body and speaking in hushed tones so the crowd could not hear.
“The organs,” Simms said, pointing to the mess of her midsection. “As mangled as the rest?”
“Cannot tell,” Ainsley answered after a time. “I’d need to take a look at the hospital. At first glance, I’d say everything is here.” Ainsley looked up, knowing the revelation would bring about more questions.
“He did not take anything?”
“Like I said, I need to look closer to be sure but”—Ainsley glanced over his shoulders—“I’d hate to do more here.”
Simms nodded and bid someone toward them. “Come forward then.”
Ainsley turned to where Simms gestured and saw a man in a bowler hat and loose clothing coming forward, a box on stilts in his fumbling grasp. The box had a brass cylinder on the front and a folded mass of black fabric attached to the back. Ainsley stood, backing away slightly, anticipating a debacle. The man placed the three stilts on the ground, displacing the gravel, and carefully placed a wooden box at his side. The man lost his grip on the stilted apparatus and it would have fallen had Ainsley not reached out for it. The man nodded in thanks and smiled slightly as he readjusted his hat.
“What is this?” Ainsley asked Simms, knitting his brow.
“Paris has been using cameras for over a year now, documenting crime scenes,” Simms said. “Inspector Wright commissioned this man specifically for this case.”
As if on cue, the man lost grip of his stilted camera again, forcing Ainsley to lunge to catch it. Instead of handing the camera back to the man, Ainsley positioned the legs into a tripod, negating the need for someone to hold it.
“Much obliged,” the cameraman said, with another dithering nod.
Ainsley watched as the man squinted toward the overcast sky and then back toward the body in front of him. “Right then,” he heard the man say before repositioning the stilted camera further back from the scene. “Everyone out of the frame then,” the photographer said as he folded the black fabric up over the top of the camera.
Simms cocked his head to the side and Ainsley followed him as they backed up and out of the scene. The crowd looked on in rapt interest, most likely never having seen something so technologically advanced. Once at a safe distance back, Ainsley crossed his arms over his chest and looked on as the photographer adjusted the brass tube on the front of the camera, checking and rechecking through the back of the camera box. The repetitive scene played out for what seemed like a lifetime before the photographer pulled the black fabric down the back of the camera. Unclasping his wooden box, he pulled a black square from a cache of similar objects and brought it beneath the black fabric with him. A moment later, the photographer placed the black square on top of his wooden box on the ground.
Intrigued, Ainsley watched, piecing together what little he knew about the science of photography. He knew the photographer had taken out the nickel plate from the black case and slid it somewhere in the back of the camera. The fabric was to prevent exposure to light, which would reach to the nickel prematurely.
Ainsley smiled despite himself. The entire process was enchanting.
After a short time, the photographer came out from under the fabric, careful not to lift the fabric too high and reached for the cap protecting the glass lens in the front cylinder. “Ready then?” the photographer said, positioning himself just behind the lens and out of view of the camera. “One, two, three.”
Ainsley narrowed his gaze, wondering why the man insisted on behaving as if he were doing a portrait for some wealthy family. The crowd fell into a nervous silence, afraid even the slightest noise would somehow disrupt the photograph and undo all the man’s careful work. Ainsley too found himself holding his breath as he waited to see what the man would do next.
After a long moment, the man replaced the cap on the lens and disappeared behind the black fabric. “That should about do it,” he said after stowing the protected nickel plate back into his square box. The man smiled at Ainsley and Simms. “Perhaps you gentlemen would like a picture at some point. I could give a good rate for men in uniform.”
Ainsley gave a glance to Simms, who waved the man off. “Just make sure you get the prints to us in a reasonable time, alright?”
The man tipped his hat and stepped back, kicking one of the legs of the tripod and then stumbling to catch the camera. Ainsley bowed his head to hide his smile. It was a miracle the man had survived so long in life without suffering a calamity of his own making.
“I will send the body to St. Thomas,” Simms said, turning from Ainsley to an approaching constable.
“Sir, this man says he saw the girl yesterday ’round the corner from ’ere,” the uniformed constable said as he approached. He gestured to a rotund man in tattered clothes who followed sheepishly behind the officer.
“Is this true?” Simms asked, taking on a commanding tone.
The sheepish man nodded. “Yes ’em. She was standing for a while near west building, and when I came back ’round near midday she’d taken a seat on an overturned crate.”
“You are sure it was this girl?” Simms asked. He knelt down by the girl’s head and lifted the handkerchief so the man could see.
The man nodded, glanci
ng to the body for a brief moment before turning away. A bead of sweat slipped down over his brow. “Yes ’em. She’s the very one.”
Simms nodded.
“Sir! Sir!” Another constable pushed through the crowd, a paper held in his hands. Finally bursting through, he looked to his notes. “I have a name, sir. One of the witnesses recognized her as Maryanne Blight, of the Limehouse orphanage.”
Ainsley’s heart stopped. The thought of another victim from Mrs. Holliwell’s orphanage made his stomach churn. “Are you sure?” Ainsley pressed, reaching for the paper in the man’s hand.
“Yes sir,” the constable answered, somewhat shaken by Ainsley’s directness. “The witness was quite convincing.”
Ainsley could not believe the words he saw on the paper. It was exactly as the constable had said, and seeing it in writing made it no less horrific.
“Who will tell Mrs. Holliwell?” Ainsley asked.
Simms let out a quick breath of air, his shoulders slumping suddenly at the thought. “Come with me then,” he said. “Your presence will help to soften the blow.”
Ainsley doubted the detective’s words. He was certainly a familiar face but he was no better acquainted with Mrs. Holliwell than any other on the force. In fact, it was his mother’s history with the charity that made Ainsley the worst person to perform such somber duties. An attack on his mother’s charity was like an attack on his family. The killings had become personal.
Chapter 16
Hearken, oh hearken! ye shall hearken surely
Margaret winced slightly as Lady Brant edged closer, a gleaming grey syringe poised at the ready. It was silly, really. Margaret was not squeamish in the slightest and yet the sight of that needle drew the blood down to her toes. The young girl in Margaret’s lap, no more than two years of age, squirmed as well and nearly slipped away had Lady Brant not held her to Margaret.
“Goodness, Margaret, you must hold the child,” Lady Brant admonished as she kept a firm grasp of the child’s arm.
“Yes, Lady Brant, my apologies.” Margaret held the girl in place, unsure if her grip was too tight, but leery of another reprimand.
Lady Brant said nothing as she slipped the needle into the child’s arm, focusing instead on the process of vaccination. Not a mother herself, Lady Brant had not the time nor the patience for children, a reality Margaret was reminded of again and again throughout that morning at the orphanage. Lady Brant was a woman of anatomy and medicine, lending her expertise to the administration of mandatory vaccines. She had invited Margaret along to stand in as mother, holding the children still and wiping runaway tears. The young girl was their first patient and Margaret could already tell it was going to be a long day.
Clutching the site where the needle pierced her skin, the girl slipped from her perch on Margaret and fled, sniffling back tears as she went.
“Make sure you mark their paperwork,” Lady Brant called as she refilled her syringe with another dose of smallpox vaccine. “Don’t want the government accusing us of not doing our due diligence.”
Margaret nodded and shifted her focus to the form beside her. “I thought the House was still debating whether the vaccine should be mandatory?” Margaret asked.
Lady Brant chuckled slightly and then looked over her half-moon spectacles at Margaret. “And why should the Lords doubt what they have already made law?” Margaret saw her mother’s friend shake her head in disagreement. “There is no better way to ensure healthy poorer classes than through mandatory vaccines. All this debate about vaccinations being harmful is hogwash. It’s saved many lives, Margaret dear, and the only ones wondering at its necessity are the ones who don’t know the first thing about science.” Lady Brant turned, the needle poised and ready. “Now, next child.”
Little one after little one, Margaret held them steady and forced herself to watch as Lady Brant pinched some skin on the upper arm before inserting the needle. After a time, Mrs. Holliwell approached, patting their most recent patient on the shoulder as they passed each other.
“This is not their favourite day,” she remarked as she looked over the sullen faces of the children who had already been treated and those who waited with apprehension. “I have prepared a special custard for them as a reward.”
Margaret smiled at this but her pleasure vanished when she saw the look of disapproval on Lady Brant’s face.
“Mrs. Holliwell, these children have no need of sweets any more than I have need of my womb.” Lady Brant clicked her tongue as she shook her head. Her face was stern and cold.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Margaret said, seeing the joy slip from Mrs. Holliwell’s face. It was hardly Lady Brant’s place to be advising the administration of the orphanage, and despite many meddling comments made to Margaret in the past, she could not see how Lady Brant had any vested interest in what the children were served for lunch. “Something to look forward to after a morning of discomfort.” Margaret smiled toward the children who still waited in line.
Lady Brant shook her head, obviously disagreeing, but she said nothing.
Disheartened, Margaret turned away. There could be no pleasing this woman and she had noticed Lady Brant’s admonishments were becoming more and more demeaning since Margaret’s mother died. Margaret could not remember a time when Lady Brant had ever been overly kind, but she hadn’t been quite so harsh either.
Margaret’s eyes scanned the room, secretly hoping there where not so many children yet to be treated, but instead her gaze found Ainsley slipping into the dining hall, followed closely by Inspector Simms.
“Peter?” Margaret stood.
“Margaret!” Lady Brant must have looked over as well, suddenly seeing the somber pair at the doorway, because no other words followed.
They watched as Ainsley and Inspector Simms weaved through the line of children, stopping at Mrs. Holliwell.
“Have you come to see Margaret?” Mrs. Holliwell asked, “She is doing remarkably well...” Suddenly her voice trailed off as her gaze found Inspector Simms. A wave of recognition came over her features and Margaret saw her hands begin to shake.
“Not in front of the children,” she said quietly.
Simms looked around them and nodded. “Is there another room?”
Inhaling forcibly, Mrs. Holliwell nodded and turned, ushering the two men away. Margaret followed, without care to Lady Brant and the task they had come to perform. Margaret knew of the last child found dead, the adolescent boy Ainsley had said resided at the orphanage. She hoped their visit brought news of the culprit’s apprehension.
Mrs. Holliwell led the group through the kitchen to a small office on the other side. She held the door as the three filed in and then closed it. Margaret watched as Mrs. Holliwell lifted a trembling hand to her mouth, as if to steady a quivering chin.
“Mrs. Holliwell,” Simms began. He glanced to the floor, as if searching for the words.
Ainsley licked his lips. “There’s been another,” he said gently. “Maryanne Bl—” But before Ainsley could finish Mrs. Holliwell let out a deep throaty growl and stumbled to the chair behind her. One hand went to her mouth, the other grasped feebly to Margaret’s skirt. Margaret sank beside her, eager to hold the sobbing woman in her arms.
“Peter, this cannot be,” Margaret pleaded in disbelief.
Ainsley’s gaze went from Mrs. Holliwell to Margaret but no words came. An uneasy quiet came over the room. The only sounds were that of Mrs. Holliwell’s gasps for air.
After a time, Ainsley knelt before them, holding Mrs. Holliwell’s hand before the woman calmed down enough to speak.
“How?” she asked. “Where?”
Ainsley glanced to Simms and then turned back to Mrs. Holliwell, pulling a clean handkerchief from his inside pocket. “They haven’t determined how,” he explained. “They found her in the dockyards.”
“Mrs. Holliwell, how is it you did not notice a child in your charge was missing?” Simms pressed, appearing less sympathetic than Ainsley or Margar
et.
“How can he ask that?” Margaret asked Ainsley incredulously. “He hasn’t the right—”
Ainsley put a hand out in front of him, bidding Margaret to calm down.
A sniffle escaped Mrs. Holliwell. “Maryanne was visiting her father. He had been at sea for nearly a year.” Mrs. Holliwell turned to Margaret, perhaps searching for a friendlier face. “He gave us money to help with her upkeep. If she was not housed here she’d have nowhere else to go. Two days ago we received word that his ship was expected to dock yesterday.” Mrs. Holliwell turned back to the detective. “She begged me to let her go surprise him as he disembarked. I hadn’t the heart to say no. I did not think her missing as much as I thought she was with her father.” Her last few words gave way to sobs and finally she sank into Margaret’s accepting arms.
The room became uncomfortable as the woman grieved, her tears marking the death of two children in her care. Simms shifted and Ainsley stood. When Mrs. Holliwell finally looked up to Margaret she spoke in near desperation. “The children are not safe in my care,” she wailed. “I cannot keep them safe!”
“No, no, don’t say that. That’s not true.” Margaret tried her best to soothe Mrs. Holliwell and after a time her loud sobs became slight whimpers.
“Perhaps we should come back another time,” Simms suggested. “Once you have had a chance to get over the shock.”
Mrs. Holliwell said nothing but Margaret nodded. Before Simms and Ainsley could take their leave, Elliot Holliwell pushed through the door. “What is it?” he commanded. “What have you told her?”
“Maryanne,” Margaret said, peering over Mrs. Holliwell’s shoulder. “They have found Maryanne.”
Elliot raked his hand through his hair and clutched the doorknob behind him as a brace.
“She was like my own child!” Mrs. Holliwell yelled in Margaret’s shoulder.
“Mother,” Elliot demanded, “this is why you cannot work here. Look what it’s done to you.”
Mrs. Holliwell looked away, as if trying to avoid the subject.
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