by Carol Hedges
Daisy does not intend such a thing to happen to her. All her life she has waited for this moment: her entry into society. The mantelpiece in the drawing room is stacked with cards and invitations. Her wardrobe is stacked with pretty dresses and accessories. She is primed and ready to conquer every young and eligible male heart in London. Nothing can possibly go wrong.
****
Inspector Greig has a reputation also. In his case it is for keeping a cool head in times of stress. It has been hard won, and right now it is being sorely tried by the director of the Bayswater, Paddington & Holborn Bridge Metropolitan Railway Company, who has hastened hot foot from his office to harangue him.
Montague Wandle is a very large man in a very loud suit with a very shiny top hat and a grievance. Which he is currently airing. Young engineer Fred Grizewood, reluctantly dragged along as ballast, hovers uneasily in the background.
“Now, you look here,” Wandle says, thumping Greig’s desk with a large fist. “I have a timetable. One week to complete the current works. Cut and cover and move on. And right now, thanks to you, I shall fall behind schedule. Now then - what do you have to say!”
The Inspector says nothing. His expression is almost as wooden as his desk.
“I’m sure the men will be returning to work tomorrow,” Engineer Grizewood says from some outlying part of the room in an effort to defrost the conversation.
“Will they though?” Wandle snaps. “With policemen swarming all over the site, and asking questions of everybody? Hardly conducive to putting in a full day’s hard graft.”
“Perhaps it may have escaped your notice sir, that the bodies of eleven infants were discovered on the site this morning?” Greig’s voice drips icicles.
“Well, they ain’t there now, are they?”
“So, what is it, exactly, that you wish me to do?”
Wandle glares at him.
“Call off your men of course. Leave the site. It’s clear that none of my navvies had anything to do with it and I want them to get on with what they’re paid to do.”
The young engineer gives Greig a beseeching glance.
“WHEN my officers have completed their inquiries and WHEN I am satisfied with what they report, and WHEN the coroner has delivered his verdict, I will let you know. Sir. And now good day to you,” Greig says coldly, rising to his feet to indicate that the interview is over.
Wandle gapes at him.
“This is your final word?”
“It is my final word indeed.”
Wandle also heaves himself to his feet, his face mottled with anger.
“Then I shall be writing a stiff letter to the Home Secretary,” he splutters as he heads for the door.
“That is your choice.”
Greig wonders why people always think a letter to the Home Secretary is such a terrible threat, given that said letter will probably languish unread for weeks in a pile of others on the desk of one of the many under-secretaries, before being discarded into the nearest waste paper receptacle.
But that is not his problem. His problem is the upcoming coroner’s inquest and the outcome resulting from the decision reached. If the deaths are recorded as accidental, or debility from birth, as they so often are in these tragic cases, then there is nothing more he can do.
****
A bright May morning a few days later. The sun shines down upon the hansoms, growlers, vans and bumpers crawling at twelve miles an hour along the traffic-filled streets. It shines down upon old women squatting in the gutters with their herbs, apples, matches and sandwiches in trays around their necks.
It shines down on the carts of costers selling coals, flowers, fish, muffins, tea and crockery. It shines down upon a bare wooden table in a side room of the Cat and Salutation pub, where eleven small and emaciated bodies lie ready for viewing by the jury of the Westminster coroner.
If death had a smell it would be this mix of stale ale, tobacco and sawdust, Greig thinks gloomily. He stands by the open window awaiting the jury’s arrival. Proximity to the dead, even on a warm sunny day, leads to a lowering of the spirits and a sense of finality.
The total absence of sound makes the whole occasion even more depressing. Usually there are at least a few sobbing relatives in the vicinity. Even if they are faking their grief. He glances across at Sergeant Ben Hacket who is clenching and unclenching his fists and trying not to focus upon the pitiful naked bodies with their bashed in skulls, broken rib cases and tiny limbs bent out of shape.
The door opens, and one by one the members of the jury file in to view the bodies. Greig scans their faces as they pass by him. Their expressions vary from detached interest to pity. Silently they stare, silently they file out. When the last juror has gone, Greig nods to Hacket and they leave the temporary mortuary, closing and locking the door behind them.
Crossing the road, the two police officers enter the coroner’s court, where the jury is just taking its places on the row of chairs provided. One side of the big central table is occupied by reporters from the main London newspapers, already busy scribbling and sketching the witness box and the coroner, who sits at the head of the table, perusing a summary of the case.
To Greig, who has attended many inquests, it is a familiar scene, as is the noisy presence of members of the public, the idlers and curiosity-mongers, who always turned up at a court hearing, a crime scene or a hanging. The air is already fragrant with the smell of oranges and unwashed bodies.
What is unfamiliar is the speed with which this inquest has been arranged. Somebody has been pulling strings behind the scenes he thinks, as he takes his place. Fairly important strings. Though he notices they have had to bring in the Middlesex coroner to do it.
Sergeant Hacket clears his throat, shuffles his piece of paper nervously. Greig nods encouragingly.
“You’ll be fine, Ben. Speak slowly and clearly, and answer any questions as truthfully as you can.”
It is the young man’s first public inquest hearing and as he was also the first officer at the scene, it is his duty to present the police report to the coroner. Greig has come to support him. He has decided that young Hacket has the makings of a good officer. Once he gets used to the way of life, and stops seeing spelling and punctuation as optional extras.
The inquest opens with the autopsy report, read out in the flat, detached tone always adopted by pathologists everywhere who are called upon to deliver a medical analysis of the dead.
Greig listens intently, focusing on the implications of the words. Upon this will depend whether the jury decides a criminal act has taken place. Upon that will decide whether he has a case to investigate.
“I have been working on the remains of the infants that the police brought in three days ago,” the surgeon says, his face devoid of any expression. He could be reading out a washing list. “There were eight females and three males. After making a study of the ossification of the skeletal bones, I was able to assign ages to each cadaver.”
“Given the non-fusion of the petro-mastoid bones, I predicate that nine of the infants were in their first year. This is confirmed by the still separation of the two halves of the frontal bone of the skull. The other two were in their second year - as witnessed by the lack of jointure of the arch and body of the vertebrae.”
“Well, well. You can tell all that just from looking at the bones,” the coroner marvels.
The pathologist gives him a tight-lipped stare.
“If you doubt my opinion, I am happy to lend you a copy of Quain’s Osteology, where you can check the ossification tables for yourself,” he remarks tartly.
Wisely, the coroner decides not to rise to this.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“What do you want to know?”
“How they died.”
The pathologist consults his notes.
“Impossible to say precisely, though the protrusion of the ribs would suggest that insufficient nutrition may have contributed. Eight bodies show evidence of damage to the spi
nal column and various breakages to the lower and upper limbs, from which I assume human intervention, accidental or deliberate, caused their demise.”
“Can you give any indication as to the times of death?”
“All the deaths occurred recently, that is within the last six to eight months. Several of the bodies were found to have been wrapped in old copies of the Telegraph, so it was possible to date their demise pretty accurately.”
The press scribbles, the coroner makes notes, the onlookers whisper and point. Hacket is called to the witness box and makes a very competent job of giving his report. All this time Greig studies the jurors intently.
Do not come back with a verdict of accidental death, he wills them silently. Do not think for a moment this is chance or accident, or that there is insufficient evidence. It is murder, and you must find it so.
He thinks of the tiny bodies lying broken and un-mourned upon the pub table. I will hunt down whoever did this to you, he promises them. I will track your murderers to wherever they are hiding, and I will get justice for each and every one of you.
****
Next morning Inspector Greig enters Bow Street police office to discover a small selection of Hind Street residents lurking in the waiting area. They have turned up to be interviewed after the inquest jury returned a unanimous verdict of murder.
Also in the group is the Metropolitan Police’s arch-nemesis Richard Dandy, chief reporter on The Inquirer, the paper that prides itself on speaking for ‘The Ordinary Man in the Street’. He has turned up on the off chance of obtaining a story, and is already deep in conversation with one of the residents.
“Morning Inspector,” Dandy calls out. “Did you read this morning’s headline? ‘The Barbarity of the Brutally Butchered Babies’. My readers are going to be Very Shocked and Disgusted.”
Greig folds his arms and glares.
“These are police premises. And I’ll thank you to vacate them.”
Dandy gets out his notebook, removes a stub of pencil from behind one ear and licks the end.
“I’ll just write that down, if you don’t mind.”
“I forbid you from writing anything down while you are here.”
Dandy pauses, pencil mid-air.
“Would you like to explain to my readers exactly why not?”
“I don’t have to explain any of my actions to you.”
“Can I write that down?”
“Certainly not.”
“Can I write down that you said I shouldn’t write down that you said -”
“Just. Get. Out!” Greig says between gritted teeth.
The small crowd of residents stare from Greig to Dandy. They understand that a fight is going on, although they can’t see any blood. Dandy tosses Greig an evil grin, tips his hat jauntily to the audience and saunters out, humming.
Greig glowers at his retreating back, then turns to the desk constable.
“Where is everybody?”
“Inspector Atherton’s got a couple of Mary-Anns in the interview room. Night patrol picked them up at the top of the Haymarket. Bold as brass and wearing women’s clothing. Constable Davis is in with him. Sergeant Hacket and Sergeant Williams are getting the prisoners ready for court. I don’t know where anybody else is.”
Greig sighs.
“Right. I’ll use the charge room. Can you get it ready, please.”
As the constable hurries to do his bidding, Greig beckons to the small group of residents, who have quickly morphed from Interested Bystanders to Upright Citizens Here to Aid the Police in Their Inquiries.
“Good day, ladies and gentlemen. Who would like to be interviewed first?”
Lunchtime finds Inspector Greig in the Superintendent’s office, reporting back on his morning’s work.
“The first person I saw was Mr Bracegirdle Hemyng who lives at number 16. He says that as far as he was aware, the occupants of number 9 were a respectable couple who took in washing. Says that he frequently saw baskets being delivered and there was always washing hanging in the back yard.”
“Baskets can be used for many things, though.”
“Indeed. His wife says she occasionally passed the couple in the street or saw them buying food in the market, but they were not on greeting terms. Liked to keep themselves to themselves, is how she put it.
“Then there was the Irish family in number 12. They lived the closest. The man calls himself Baron Coleraine, though I suspect that isn’t his real name. He and his three sons work for the company building the railway. The wife and two daughters sell whatever is in season in the streets around the area.
“He says both he and his wife regularly heard babies crying in the house. They saw a steady stream of young women arriving. And others with bundles that could have been babies. They assumed these were delivering washing, or handing over their children to be minded while they were at work.
“He also saw the man feeding small bloody lumps to his cats. He thought they were lumps of meat. I now wonder whether they were aborted foetuses.”
“Does he know the names of the couple?”
“He thinks they were called Mr and Mrs Hall. Mr Sydney Sprowle who rents out rooms at number 18 was able to give us a pretty good description of them. I’ve left him with the police artist to see if we can get a likeness.”
“You know what this is about?”
“I believe the couple were indulging in the crime of baby minding for financial gain and panicked when their operations were about to be disturbed by the notice to quit.
“I believe they deliberately murdered such infants as were still alive and in their charge, and then fled the area. I also think it likely that more infant deaths may have taken place at number 9 Hind Street - the amount and whereabouts of the children we may never know.”
“And you still want to investigate it? I’d say your chances of success are practically nil. Cases like this crop up regularly. It is almost impossible to track down the perpetrators and even if you do, they always claim the children were ailing when they died. It’s not worth pursuing. Besides, I’d have thought a nice murder was more up your street.”
Greig breathes in sharply.
“And is this not murder? Or do the deaths of innocent babes not count in this great city of ours?”
The Superintendent looks at him sharply. Nine months ago, Greig arrived from the Edinburgh Police with excellent references. His conduct since joining Bow Street has been impeccable - more than can be said for his predecessor, who was known for taking bribes and letting off prostitutes in return for ‘favours’ of a fourpenny upright nature.
An honest man. An upright man. A good thief-taker too if his record is to be believed, the Superintendent thinks. A man to be relied on. Yet not a man he warms to. And right now, there is something in Greig’s voice and in the set expression on his face that he can’t define, but it is making him feel uncomfortable.
He shrugs.
“Then the case is yours.”
“Thank you. I shall need an assistant - may I ask for Sergeant Ben Hacket. He was at the building site when the bodies were uncovered, and he gave a good account of himself at the coroner’s inquest.”
The superintendent nods.
“He could do with being taken under someone’s wing and it may as well be you as anyone else - there are some here who’d teach him the wrong way to go about things.”
“I’ll be on my way then.”
As the strains of the Bluebells of Scotland whistled slightly flat fades into silence, the Superintendent reminds himself that Inspector Greig is practically a foreigner, coming from where he does, north of the border. Thus, allowances have to be made.
Meanwhile Greig makes his way up to the first-floor recreation room, where Sergeant Hacket is enjoying a brew and a gossip with a couple of day constables.
“I shall be at the Lamb & Flag having a bite of luncheon. Report to me in the charge room in an hour, sergeant. We have matters pertaining to the investigation that we need to di
scuss.”
The Lamb & Flag Public House and Dining Rooms has served as Greig’s preferred watering-hole since his arrival in London. Not just for the food, which is hot, plentiful and seems to originate from recognised farm animals, but for the ambience.
The Lamb & Flag is an off-the-beaten-track, spit and sawdust, slap-bang sort of establishment, patronised by the sort of people who show no interest in anything beyond their plate of dinner. This suited Greig. He didn’t want to be bothered with badinage, police or otherwise, while he is eating.
Nor did he want to be recognised as belonging to the forces of law and order. Occupying the same seat in a corner box, he always keeps his head down and his street coat buttoned up while he busies himself with his meal and a copy of the Daily Mail.
After finishing his lunch, Greig returns to Bow Street, where Sergeant Hacket is waiting for him in the entrance. Greig walks him away from the station.
“I have decided that we shall be working undercover, sergeant,” he tells the young man. “Our story will be that we represent the railway company and are seeking to trace the couple who lived at number 9 Hind Street. We will not mention what we uncovered. The minute they get an inkling of police interest, they will be off like the wind and we will never track them down.”
“Haven’t they already gone?”
“Yes, but not far. My experience is that most people in their situation stay in the area they know, maybe moving only a few streets away only. They have their supply lines and their contacts in place. So, we will start by getting to know the local area, the shops and pubs, the places where people hang out.”
A frown crosses Sergeant Hacket’s open young face.
“Isn’t what we’re going to do ... well ... kind of lying, sir - given that there is no money and we don’t work for the railway company. Not that I’m saying it’s wrong,” he adds hastily.
“The two pillars of successful detection are information and confession,” Greig says. “These are the only things you need to concern yourself with. We’re wading in murky waters, sergeant, and it’s going to get a lot deeper and a deal murkier before we’re done, believe me.”
