by Joan Lock
Best frowned. But by whom? He shrugged. Who could say – it might come to him later. Certainly not by Helen nor one of his young relatives nor … He began to turn away again then froze and closed his eyes, remembering the moment. Oh no. It couldn’t be. Please. It just couldn’t be.
He forced himself to turn back and examine the body carefully. The face proved too distorted for him to identify positively but nonetheless he felt sure. Quite, quite, sure. The heavy stomach was gone but the row of safety pins down the side of the dress remained and the tear in the side of her left boot which had caused her to stumble even more as she ran back up the garden.
Nella. It was Nella. That poor child.
Oh, God. How much more of this could he take?
Chapter Fourteen
‘ ’Ow can you be sure it’s ’er?’ said Cheadle. ‘You admit you couldn’t tell it was ’er face.’
‘I just know. The brooch, the dress, the boot … ’
‘All right, all right. So she went for a day on the river – just like Martha.’
‘She wasn’t with Martha.’
‘I never said she was,’ exclaimed the chief inspector irritably. ‘You said she’d already left John Street so there was no reason she’d be with a girl that weren’t nice to ’er, was there?’ He paused. Then, as though speaking to a slow child, went on, ‘So she went for a nice day out, just like everybody else did.’
‘She wasn’t on that boat,’ Best insisted doggedly.
‘ ’Ow can you say that!’ demanded Cheadle, then pulled back and became less aggressive. Best imagined Mrs Cheadle had instructed him to be kind to his sergeant, because he had been through such a terrible experience – but Cheadle kept forgetting. ‘You was watching Martha, wasn’t you? The boat was packed to the gunnels.’ He sighed. ‘Briscoe was on that boat but you never saw ’im, did you?’
He was right, of course. In theory.
Cheadle had been waiting at the Royal Mortar Hotel when Best had arrived back from Beckton that evening. Ostensibly he’d come to confer with Best about the case and check that his officer was all right. But Best knew the old warhorse couldn’t resist being at the heart of things, seeing what was going on up front. He’d never lost his copper’s nose nor his desire to be where things were happening – even though Mr Vincent kept telling him to spend more time supervising his men. Given all this, Best was surprised Cheadle was not being very receptive to his suspicions about Nella.
‘We’ll know for sure after the post-mortem,’ Best said, confidently.
‘A post-mortem wouldn’t identify ’er,’ said Cheadle stubbornly, as he cut firmly into his boiled bacon.
‘No, but it should help us find out if she was murdered,’ said Best, being equally stubborn.
Cheadle put down his knife and fork. ‘Where’s this murder idea from? These people kill babies, not the customers. That would be bad for trade – wouldn’t it? We’d look a bit stupid if it got out we chased after them for killing customers!’
Ah, so that was what this was all about? Cheadle realized that Vincent looked down on him because he was ill-educated, but even Vincent had to admit the man knew about criminals. If he made a fool of himself in that direction he’d have nothing left. They might even get rid of him. Make him retire.
It wasn’t only Cheadle’s lack of polish that could be held against him by the grandly named Director of Criminal Investigation. There was also the fact that he had not spotted the corruption flourishing in the Detective Branch under his very nose since way back in 1873.
Of course, their original chief, Superintendent Frederick Williamson had also had the wool pulled over his eyes, but he was altogether smoother, better educated and a more acceptable chap. He had managed to come up smelling of the roses he cultivated in his spare time and to appear more sinned against than sinning. Indeed, following a Home Office enquiry he was actually promoted to chief superintendent.
What had made it even more galling to Cheadle was that previously, whenever the department was having difficulty with a case, the cry would go up that what was needed was a civilian in charge, an educated ‘gentleman’ civilian of course, who, due to his superior intellect, would be more able in catching murderers than stupid policemen. Indeed, a civilian in charge had been one of Vincent’s recommendations to the inquiry. Well, now they’d got one – him.
Cheadle had been kept on because he was clearly honest and the newly enlarged department needed more senior officers to keep a close watch on it, not fewer.
So, it was not surprising that Cheadle was feeling less secure under their new gentleman’s rule than that of the more kindly Williamson who at least had been the son of a policeman. Best tried to reassure him.
‘The post-mortem will tell us how she died and we can just take it from there.’
Cheadle stared at him over the half specs Mrs Cheadle had insisted he acquire and said slowly, ‘They aren’t doing no post-mortems on the bodies.’
Best’s head shot up. ‘What do you mean? They must!’
‘No they mustn’t,’ said Cheadle with irritating smugness. ‘They done a specimen one. Found that person died of drowning – then applied it to all the others.’
Best was astounded. ‘But that’s ridiculous. All the murderers from miles around will be bringing their victims’ bodies here and dumping them.’
‘Think they’ll not notice that people have been shot or had their heads battered in?’ The chief inspector pushed his huge body back up from where it had slid down the chair and shrugged. ‘Anyway, they ’ad no choice. There’s too many bodies and they’re getting more putrid by the minute.’
Best was silent for a moment, then took a deep breath. ‘So, what we’ll have to do is ask for a special post-mortem for Nella.’
‘No,’ said Cheadle, vehemently stabbing his last potato. ‘Over my dead body.’
*
Best had pleaded exhaustion and escaped to his bed where he took refuge in the newspapers. He wanted to get up to date. He was furious at having been caught out by Cheadle over the post-mortems. But he was also trying to distract himself from the burning question, what to do about Nella?
In Best’s experience, if one thought hard about a thorny problem then left it, filled one’s mind with other matters, then went back to it again, with luck, solutions just popped into one’s head.
The Press was deep in the argument as to which boat was to blame and doing much breast beating about inadequate life-saving apparatus provided on passenger steamers.
Filling many columns were reports on where the latest bodies had surfaced and how many, and survivors’ tales. Most of the latter, Best couldn’t help noticing, related to men. Quite a few survivors, he also noticed, were those who at least had some idea of how to swim. Two young brothers named Thorpe had managed to keep themselves afloat for a long while until picked up while their sister, who had also been taught to swim, had even struck out and reached the river bank – an event regarded with great wonderment. Certainly none of the women Best had seen drowning seemed to have any idea even how to tread water, and their heavy clothes could not have helped. He must teach Helen how to swim as soon as possible, he told himself vehemently.
There was no child resembling Joseph’s description among those in the long and sad list of people still being sought by relatives. But he duly made his appearance among those found. Alongside were descriptions of two other unidentified little boys now being cared for in the Plumstead Infirmary. Both of these knew their names but, apparently, not where they lived, although one of them had declared that his mother sold sweets.
Best noticed that the great British letter writers had already begun sending their customary barrage of information and advice. A flag officer informed Times’ readers that collisions on the Thames were ‘incessant’. How could it be otherwise?
Steamers of all sizes and decriptions, sailing vessels, lighters, barges, and pleasure boats throng the reaches from before daylight till long after dark. Add to this fogs and
mists and, not least, the smoke from factory chimneys …
Little was heard of these collisions because they occurred between smaller sailing vessels and lighters which, he claimed, never made any attempt to avoid collisions but left it to the steamers.
Given all this, no one should even contemplate going aboard a river steamer without a lifebelt. It need not be cumbrous or even unsightly – just a neat and handy cork belt fitted around the waist and over the shoulders would prove adequate to support a person in the water for hours. For females it could be made ornamental or attractive if desired.
The flag officer himself always wore an ordinary coat with an airtight lining. This could be inflated ‘with his own breath’ in a few seconds. He had often tried it out and it supported him and another in an upright position.
Best couldn’t help but smile at the vision of the upright flag officer in his inflatable overcoat. He knew this would be the first of many such bizarre suggestions.
Thus distracted, his thoughts went back hopefully to the question of what to do about Nella, but nothing popped up nor even emerged gradually. He had been right in the first instance: the problem was insurmountable. He desperately wanted a post-mortem on Nella. Cheadle was adamant that she did not need one. Cheadle was his chief: if Cheadle said no, it was no.
Come on, said Best to himself, people are always pointing out that you have devious foreign blood in your veins; use it. Think. At last, very gradually one or two options began to suggest themselves. All of them were risky, there was no doubt. Very risky, if he wished to remain a detective at Scotland Yard and not be sent back to pound the beat among the stews of the East End. But, he felt, he had to do something for poor little Nella’s sake.
Should he threaten to go to Vincent – or the newspapers? No, he couldn’t do that. Should he suggest they just do a quiet inspection themselves, or possibly ask a friendly and discreet pathologist to take a look? Both these ideas could backfire, he realized. What then? He didn’t know – so he thought some more and by the time he turned off the bedside oil lamp he had decided on a possible strategy.
It was a rather more relaxed and cheerful chief inspector who sat across the breakfast-table from Best this Friday morning. He was clearly enjoying his break from the Yard and doubtless felt more secure, now that the post-mortem business appeared to have been sidestepped.
Best had the sense to keep off the subject of Nella, at least for now. Instead, he described his experiences during and after the collision. The detective sergeant knew how to tell a story, and this after all, was already being described as the biggest civilian disaster in the country’s history. From the moment Best recalled how, to save his life, he had had to leap on to the anchor chains, Cheadle became totally engrossed. He loved his food but when Best got to the part where he had been dragged into the water by a desperate survivor the chief inspector even allowed his bacon to cool and his egg solidify under his hovering knife and fork.
‘Sounds as is you acquitted yourself well, my lad,’ he said suddenly, his eyes surprisingly moist. Then, to Best’s astonishment, he leaned over and patted him on the arm.
Given the sequence of events, it seemed quite natural that they should arrive at the subject of bodies. The forward part of the Princess Alice had been raised on Wednesday, the day after the collision. Many bodies had come with it – all of people who had been trapped in the saloon deck. These included a soldier in the 11th Hussars; the barmaid, who had £3 takings in her pocket, and a young woman with a little boy clinging around her neck, his toy trumpet entangled in her hair.
As these bodies were being brought out and transferred to The Heron, Best related, there had been a sinister and dramatic moment. The Bywell Castle had steamed by on its way to the sea – on board, a new captain and crew.
More to the point was that today, Friday, they were to attempt to tow the fore part to the south bank when further bodies would probably be discovered. The authorities were also planning to try to raise the larger and heavier aft part wherein even more sad discoveries would be made.
‘It’ll be mayhem here again today,’ Best said. ‘And the weekend will bring more droves of sightseers,’ he took a deep breath. ‘So, I suppose we’d better hurry and get a message sent to Islington police asking them to call at John Street to find out how we can contact Nella’s family.’
Cheadle’s toast halted abruptly en route to his mouth. His eyes narrowed. ‘You said,’ he enunciated slowly, ‘that you couldn’t say definitely it was her.’
‘No. That’s right,’ Best admitted innocently, ‘that’s why we need her family to identify her, isn’t it?’
‘But if you can’t identify her and she ain’t in the lists of the missing … ’
‘There are plenty of other unidentified bodies which nobody seems to be claiming. It’s obvious that some people don’t even realize that their relatives went on the trip. If we can, we should let them know.’
‘But if you can’t say—’
‘I recognized the brooch.’
‘Ten a penny.’ Cheadle’s face was reddening.
‘And the dress.’
‘Common as muck.’
‘Her hair colour is similar as well, and the way she wears it.’
‘Mousy and scraped back, I bet. Don’t mean nothing.’
Best sighed. ‘And, of course, I’ll have to mention finding her in my report – seeing as how Nella comes into it earlier.’
‘All right! All right!’ Cheadle exploded. ‘As long as you’re dropping this stupid murder business!’
‘I’d like to,’ said Best with pained sincerity. ‘I really would. But when Mr Williamson and Mr Vincent read what she said when I last spoke to her, they’re bound to wonder why I … ’
The chief inspector looked as if he was about to have a heart attack. His eyes bulged and choking sounds came from his mouth. Eventually he forced the words out very, very slowly, ‘What – she – said?’
‘Yes,’ said Best guilelessly, shaking his head as though he wished he wasn’t always so obliged to tell the truth.
‘Tell me,’ said Cheadle through gritted teeth, ‘what – the – woman – said.’
Best took a deep breath. ‘She said, “I’m afraid of them. If they sees me talking to you they’ll kill me”.’ He shook his head again, sadly. ‘I thought maybe it was just her imagination – her being so young and all … or it could be just a figure of speech. But there was real fear in her eyes, terror even and—’
‘All right! All right!’ snapped Cheadle. ‘Don’t over-egg the pudding! This ain’t the Alhambra on a Saturday night!’
‘You’re such a terrible fibber, young Best,’ exclaimed a laughing Helen. ‘It will get you into no end of trouble one day!’
Then she grew serious. ‘Do you really think that poor girl was’ – she mouthed the word ‘murdered’ just in case Joseph woke up. He was asleep in Best’s arms, having refused to leave his side since he arrived at Helen’s house that evening. Joseph wouldn’t know what it meant but might make it one of his favourite new words, some of which came out clearly even if those around it made no sense.
‘I don’t know, really I don’t. But it seemed so odd her being there at the gasworks. I could swear she wasn’t on the boat,’ he shrugged, ‘but I could be wrong – there were so many on the way back.’
They both sat silent for a minute. The horror of it once again sweeping back unbidden, accompanied by disbelief. The number drowned was now thought to be about 650. But nobody really knew and probably never would, it was admitted.
Best nodded down to Joseph. ‘Still no claimants?’
She shook her head. ‘Not one.’ She pushed a strand of hair out of her eyes and looked at him. ‘I’m not sure what we are going to do if no one comes for him.’
‘How has he been?’ Best asked, when the sleeping Joseph had finally been spirited away and the kissing had stopped for a moment.
‘Cries for his mother a lot, of course. But sometimes, if we can distract
him with toys and games, he will play happily for a while.’
They were sitting side by side in her parlour. She turned to look at him. ‘I notice that some of the children’s homes have offered to take the orphans.’
Best looked at her, aghast. ‘We couldn’t do that to Joseph. We’re all he’s got!’
‘I didn’t say we should! But we need to think about all the possibilities. We’re in no position to keep him, are we – and Dr Barnardo’s has a very good name … ’ Her face had grown pink and her eyes angry.
Best said nothing. This took them back to the very reason they were not yet married. Why she had made him wait so long. Did this mean she was not going to marry him after all? He just couldn’t bear to ask just then. How could he have become so fond of such a hard-hearted woman!
She read his thoughts and turned on him. ‘I want to paint!’ she exclaimed angrily. ‘Just like you want to be a detective! Why is that so hard to understand?’
Chapter Fifteen
The nineteen inquest jurors were culled largely from Powis Street, Woolwich’s most important business venue and its surrounds. They included two silversmiths, an upholsterer, a milliner, an auctioneer, a grocer, a bootmaker, a carriage dealer and a publican.
It was six days after the collision and all were ranged around the long oval table in the meeting-room of the Town Hall. Occupying the centre chair was Mr Charles Joseph Carttar who had served as West Kent coroner for no less than forty-six years, having succeeded his father in the post at the age of twenty-one. Carttar’s mind was still sharp. Indeed, he had presided over the celebrated inquest on Harriet Staunton at Penge only the previous year, as a result of which four persons had later been convicted of starving the poor girl to death.
