Prayers for the Dying

by Tracy L. Ward

  Without further thought, Ainsley pulled at the sleeves of his jacket, tugged off his shoes, and stepped up on to the railing.

  “You stay there,” Ainsley commanded to the boy before saying a silent prayer and hurling himself from the safety of the bridge.

  Ainsley was indeed thankful for the heat wave that had hit London in recent weeks. Even still, the cool tidal water snapped over him like an animal trap, sharp and unforgiving. The world was black even after Ainsley’s head broke the surface.

  “Here, here.”

  The voice of the boy was so much closer. Ainsley realized he had brought the boat close to his side and was reaching out one of the oars to him. A well-enough swimmer, Ainsley didn’t need assistance, at least not until he retrieved the body.

  “Follow me,” Ainsley said.

  With the boy directing him, Ainsley was able to find the body, which felt twice as heavy as it looked. Just as he turned back to the boat light encircled them. On top of the bridge a watchman stood, his lantern pointed directly at them.

  “Stop!” he boomed. “Police!”

  The boy stood in the centre of his boat, squinting against the light that showered down around them. “She drowned, sir,” he said in his tiny voice.

  “I’ll be the judge of that!” the officer yelled.

  Ainsley was too out of breath to argue. The swim to find her and the effort needed to pull her back to the mudflats was all he could focus on. The boy trailed alongside him, helping as much as he could but affecting little. At shore, Ainsley was able to pull her body from the water and lay it out over the weatherworn planks of a slender dock.

  “Do you know her?” the boy asked, suddenly no longer afraid and more riveted by the sight of the dead body. He scrambled up the ladder and knelt down alongside Ainsley.

  “No,” Ainsley answered, carefully positioning her body so she lay flat. He pushed the wet strands of hair from her face and thanked God it was not Julia. The victim’s eye was swollen purple and there was a slim pink slit etched deeply into the flesh of her throat.

  “Step away from the girl,” a deep voice boomed from behind them. Ainsley turned and again found himself blinded by the light from the watchman’s lantern.

  “It’s all right. I’m a doctor,” Ainsley said, assured that would set the man’s vehemence to rest.

  “I said step away.” The man raised his billy club as if to strike Ainsley and perhaps even the boy at his side. Instinctually, Ainsley positioned himself between the watchman and the boy, who recoiled in fear.

  “Get a hold of yourself man!” Ainsley yelled.

  He wanted to face the man, challenge him and the unnecessary force he was threatening to use against him but he was too late. A Yard constable appeared, one Ainsley did not recognize. “What is the problem here? There’s enough ruckus to raise the dead.” He saw the body and immediately scowled.

  “I saw him, sir,” the watchman said quickly. “He was holding the body under the water.”

  “Certainly not!” Ainsley yelled. He stepped forward, meaning to close the distance between them, but the constable raised his billy club and pushed Ainsley back.

  “You are coming with me,” the constable said, readying his handcuffs.

  “Keep your hands off me!” Ainsley yelled, ripping his arm away as the constable reached for him.

  “Sir,” he said with a sigh, “don’t make us convince you.”

  Simultaneously, the officers snapped the butts of the billy clubs in their opposite palms with a sharp snapping sound and Ainsley realized he was not in a position to argue. With his hand restrained at the wrists, he was escorted to the police carriage that waited at street level and was surprised when he saw the boy lifted up behind him.

  “You as well?” Ainsley asked.

  Their eyes met as the boy sat down beside him. “Should’ve kept rowing down the river.”

  The amused smile on Simms’s face was unmistakable as Ainsley watched him saunter down the basement steps at the Yard. From his seat, Ainsley glanced to the boy, who had been occupying himself for the last few hours reading the names and dates etched into the foundation stone of the Yard’s holding cells. The boy was named Louis, Ainsley had found out, and was taking lessons at St. Mary’s Church in the afternoons. Listening to him try to read was painful, but Ainsley did his best to help when he was especially stuck.

  Simms stopped in front of their shared cell and slid his hands into the pockets of his trousers. The arresting constable stood behind him, Ainsley’s jacket and shoes in his hands.

  “It seems there’s been a misunderstanding,” Simms said, looking over his shoulder at the constable.

  The constable’s head bowed.

  Ainsley didn’t move. The hours of relative solitude granted to him in that tiny cell was just what he needed to turn over all the information he had learned in the last few days. He knew that the girl he had pulled from the river that morning was another victim, dispatched in the same way as the others. He knew they all were related to the man found in Belgravia. He also knew that when he had told Simms all he had found during his last visit that Simms had made light of his claims, not because Ainsley was wrong but because he didn’t want to admit Ainsley was right.

  “Open the cell, constable,” Simms demanded.

  Fumbling, the young man pulled a sizable key ring from his pocket and unlatched the iron door. Louis only glanced over as the heavy iron door groaned open. He looked to Ainsley, who remained in his seat.

  “You are free to go to,” Simms said after a moment.

  “Not until you tell me all you know about the girls from the river,” Ainsley said, raising his gaze enough to look Simms in the eyes. “And Thaddeus.”

  A long breath escaped Simms, as if preparing himself for an undesirable task. Finally, he cocked his head toward the stairs that would lead them up to the main floor. “We should talk in my office,” he said.

  One look to Louis confirmed he was reluctant to go. Ainsley accepted his jacket and shoes from the constable and turned to Louis. Pulling a fistful of coins from his pocket, those that remained after his morning plunge, Ainsley handed them to him.

  “For your troubles,” Ainsley said.

  The boy’s small hands could barely hold the bounty and his excitement morphed into worry. “No, sir,” he said, “my mum will not like it. I did not properly earn it.” He reached out his hand to give it back.

  “But of course you have,” Ainsley said, slipping on his shoes. “You have kept me in good company all these hours.”

  “Tell your mum if she has a problem with it she should come speak to me,” Simms said before turning to the constable. “Make sure this boy gets back to his skiff.”

  The constable nodded sheepishly.

  Simms turned to Ainsley. “Sign the paperwork with Fisher and meet me in my office. We have a lot to discuss.”

  Sergeant Fisher gave a look of utter delight as Ainsley approached. When he had first arrived Ainsley shivered with the water of the Thames dripping from the fibers of his clothing. He was denied both his shoes and his jacket, which he had left at the crest of the bridge and was left to dry unaided.

  He knew he must look a fright; his fine tailored shirt and trousers wrinkled and tainted by the murky waters. He could feel a thin layer of filth on his skin, but banished all nagging thoughts of what it might be. His desire to clean himself was superseded by his need for answers. This was the first time since his return to London that Simms was willing to talk to him. The prospect of a meeting at last filled him with apprehension and relief as he stood at the chest-high desk.

  “Bought your way into his good graces again, I see,” Fisher muttered as he shuffled papers.

  “I beg your pardon?” Ainsley repeated the man’s words in his head. “I don’t believe I catch your meaning.”

  The desk sergeant smiled out one side of his mouth, but pretended he had not heard Ainsley’s remark.

  “He means you enticed him with the Queen’s likeness
.”

  Ainsley turned to his left, where a handsome young woman leaned against the desk, her arm and a delicate gloved hand on the glossy wood. Her white braided hat sat slightly askew on her ginger hair, which cascaded in tight curls around her plump face. She smiled when Ainsley looked at her. “Don’t look so shocked. My mother says there ain’t a watchman nor inspector who doesn’t respond in your favour when there was a little inducement to be hand.”

  “Sounds like your mother has experience in such matters,” Ainsley said.

  The desk sergeant presented a slip of paper and handed Ainsley a pen. “Sign there,” he said, pointing sharply.

  “She most certainly does,” the woman said, pushing her tongue into her upper lip.

  Ainsley signed the paper in front of him and handed it back to the sergeant, who looked as if he had already moved on to his next task.

  The woman offered her hand in greeting as she stepped toward Ainsley. Another inch and they’d be pressed into each other’s chests.

  “Delilah,” she said, a teasing smile producing a single dimple on her right cheek.

  Reluctantly, Ainsley took her hand and squeezed gently. “Dr. Peter Ainsley.”

  Her smile grew broad. “That’s not what that paper said,” she answered, stealing a peek over the counter. “I can be whatever you want me to be, but I’ve never been able to master gullible.” Delilah took a gloved hand and slowly trailed it up Ainsley’s arm to his shoulder. She lifted her gaze revealing round, green eyes. She moved her hand to touch his face, but he caught her wrist.

  “That’s enough,” he said, sternly. “Away with you.”

  She shrugged and pulled back her hand. “Very well.” She took one step back, but kept her eyes on him until Constable Cooper came into view. “Goodness David, you do cut a fine figure in that uniform.”

  Cooper approached with a wide, exuberant smile. He stopped short of scooping her into his arms. Ainsley could tell how much he wanted to.

  “Good morning, Miss Delilah,” he said, desperately trying to remain proper as Ainsley watched. He bowed awkwardly.

  Delilah slapped at his shoulder playfully. “David.”

  Ainsley turned back to Fisher and leaned in. “Is that all, Sergeant?” he asked.

  The man nodded and finally Ainsley was free to go.

  Simms’s office was just as Ainsley remembered. So tidy it was almost sparse save for the tiny framed picture of a young boy whom Ainsley still did not know the name of.

  Simms motioned for Ainsley to take a seat. He himself remained standing, choosing to lean into the low shelf that lined the bottom of his window. Clearly with much on his mind, he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down on Ainsley.

  “You are a stubborn ass,” he said sternly.

  Justifiably chastised, Ainsley nodded. He opened his mouth to speak but Simms continued, cutting him off.

  “You are arrogant, boastful, and a drunk.”

  “Yes,” Ainsley said quickly. “I admit I am all those things. I—”

  “You”—Simms pointed a finger directly at Ainsley—“believe you are above the law,” he bellowed, clearly annoyed. Simms exhaled steadily as he looked over the papers on his desk.

  “No, I do not,” Ainsley said quickly before Simms could continue his admonishment. “I will admit to many faults, but what happened that night was not purposely done.”

  “You expect me to believe that? You didn’t bait him? You didn’t beckon him into the ring with you?”

  Ainsley’s conviction waned. Nothing hurt more than the realization that he had lost Simms’s respect. His soul had paid the price for his misdeed and it appeared no amends could be made, not while Simms looked at him with such resentment.

  “The case consumed me. I wasn’t behaving like myself. I would never—”

  “If you think your actions should be applauded—”

  “Not applauded. Understood.” Ainsley licked his lips and looked down. “You remember what he did.”

  “We have a rule of law—”

  Ainsley stood suddenly. “I only did what you and everyone else in that room lacked the conviction to do! I did not face him for my own gain. He needed to be stopped.”

  Simms’s eyes burned into him, narrow and harsh. “The only reason why I have not arrested you is because I agree with you.”

  Afraid of falling over, Ainsley sat. “You agree with me?” he asked after a moment to collect himself.

  Simms nodded reluctantly. “No one in that place would collaborate. No one spoke against you. Not one single person.”

  “How did you know it was me?”

  “I knew.” Simms stretched his neck side to side as if finally relieved of a great burden. He pulled out the chair to his desk and sat down. “You are wrong about one thing, though. I did want him dead. I even wondered what I might do if given the chance. Would the strength of my conviction overrule my sense of righteousness? I hate what you did, but I don’t hate you for doing it.”

  The floor beneath Ainsley felt as if it would collapse at any second. The room spun as he sat there, blood rushing to his feet. The validation Simms offered was more than he ever hoped for. He raised a hand to his forehead and realized he was shaking. The words Simms spoke, while harsh, were just what he needed to hear.

  “You want to know what I have on Thaddeus?”

  Ainsley was brought back to attention when Simms slapped a slim file on the desk in front of him.

  “Almost nothing, at least not officially.” He knit his fingers together over the file and leaned into the table. “He arrived in London ten years ago with his family, or so I think. A brother, sister, mother, and uncle. He began as a boxer.” Simms scrunched up his nose and shrugged. “He was moderately successful until he decided it was time to determine who won from outside the ring. An informant told us of a man in Southwark enticing young men to rig bout results. The idea was to help rich socialites like yourself depart with their money. He started paying his fall guys for their troubles at first and then Thaddeus began collecting favours and secrets. What started off as small potatoes grew into blackmail and money laundering. Anyone found stepping out of line gets beaten or worse.”

  “Why doesn’t the Yard just arrest him? Have him charged?”

  Simms sighed and looked as if he wanted to hang his head. “Every time we get close a witness suddenly disappears. Their bodies are usually found floating face down in the Thames.” Simms pulled a crude map of London from the side of his desk and laid it over the file. “He has a compound here. It consists of a public house, a few warehouses, a few tenements that he rents to his workers and a house that he shares with his family.” He made a circle with his finger over a section of Southwark. “He controls most of this area here and is using his influence to grow into other territories.” He looked up to Ainsley. “You have to understand, in these communities they hail him as a hero. He protects them, keeps the other scoundrels out. No one steps out of line because they all know what he’s capable of.”

  “He intimidates them.”

  “And it’s working.”

  Ainsley placed his elbow on the arm of his chair and raised a finger to his mouth.

  “There’s something else I think you should know.” Simms hesitated.

  “What? What is it?”

  After moving the map aside, Simms opened the top of the dossier and pointed to the middle of a handwritten page to the line that said: married Julia Crandall.

  Julia Crandall?

  “I recognized her at your home. Your maid.”

  “No.” Ainsley fell back into his chair, his jaw clenched in an effort to settle the unsettled feeling that overtook him. “There must be a mistake.” Ainsley rubbed a shaky hand over his forehead and willed himself to stay seated when every cell in his body beckoned him to run from the room.

  Simms’s expression softened when their gaze met. “Julia Kemp is Julia Crandall, former ward of the Limehouse District Foundling Home. Estranged wife of Thaddeus Calvin. S
uspect in the murder of Edgar Calvin.”

  Seconds passed as Ainsley digested what Simms was saying to him. “Edgar Calvin?”

  “Thaddeus’ brother.”

  Chapter 13

  Margaret had spent most of the morning in her father’s room helping their new nurse, Edith, get acquainted with Lord Marshall’s needs. “He likes two pillows,” she said, bringing a recently starched pillow to the head of the bed and gingerly placing it behind her father’s head and shoulders. She purposely looked at him while she hovered over him, but he didn’t even dart his eyes to her. Instead, he stared blankly at the opposite wall, focused on nothing in particular. She turned to Edith, who was standing on the other side of the room, cleaning up the water and toiletries they had used to give Lord Marshall his daily bath.

  “He needs to be moved quite frequently,” Margaret reminded her.

  “Of course, m’ lady.”

  Edith was an older woman, who had started as a laundress at Guy’s Hospital as a young woman before becoming a nurse in her thirties. Nearing sixty now, she looked frail and tired, not the sort of person Margaret and Ainsley needed to assist their father, but Margaret was in no position to send her away.

  “Sometimes he drools out the right side.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” she said, walking toward Margaret.

  “And sometimes he can get a little—”

  A rap came at the door behind her. Aunt Louisa entered the room, a small card in her hand, and the open envelope it arrived in tucked behind it. “Seems we will have a visitor this afternoon,” she said, with a smile.

  Margaret turned. “Yes?”

  “Lord Benedict would like to come for a spell. He said he is most interested in sitting with Abraham for a while.”

  Margaret could do little to hide her surprise. Lord Benedict had been there two days prior and had shown little interest in meeting with her father. “That’s interesting,”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Margaret saw her father arch his back before hurling himself from the bed. A sound escaped him as he rolled, similar to the cry of a wounded animal.