Children of the Tide (12 page)

Madness for a Penny

T
he ragged fellow in front of Mr. Henry Lardle hung down his head. Early evening light from the one window spread narrow shadows against the slanted ceiling. What else could Mr. Lardle do? Should he stay angry? No good would come of harsh words. He tossed a glance at the dirty walls. An attic mouldy and pungent as a sewer tunnel. A penny more a week — if he could squeeze such a coin out of Dr. Josiah Benton's fist.

“Luvly?” he called out. He listened. “My Kate? Gone 'ave you, my dear?”

Sadly, Henry Lardle resumed his gaze at the pathetic fellow in front of him who now raised his head and leaned forward as Lardle did himself.
Such a weathered, wind-torn chap to look at,
Henry concluded. His beard was scruffy. His cheek ugly as ever. What a filthy pair of hands! “Look at 'em,” he scolded.

“You need a good washin'.”

The face in the mirror did not smile. Henry did not despise it; he did not pity it, though he knew it so very well.
How cruel the world had become,
he mused. “You still have time. Best to keep on,” Henry said to himself. “Doctor Benton pays you; Simple work, really. A young one here and there. No harm done, not really. Better than a dredgerman's wage, or a soldier's, if you thinks about it. Given a coin, a young gal will do almost anything.”

With that bit of advice, Henry stood. He walked to the bed and removed his frock coat and sat down to ease the pain in his legs. Carefully, he slid off one boot and then the other. He lay down, wishing he had a plug of tobacco in his pipe. At least he had a couple of farthings for a gin or two. “Never miss out on your gin,” he cautioned. Lucky he was to have found cheap, no, cheaper lodging. Tonight he would capture at least one gal to earn his money. Not like last night — ooh, last night, what a ruckus. In and out, up and down. Not Benton's type, they wasn't.
Best to lie low now until night falls,
he cautioned himself. “It ain't my doing in the end,” he said aloud, as if Dr. Benton were standing in front of him. “You gets what you pays for,” Lardle whispered, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Best try and rest. No violence tonight,” he promised himself. “No need for hurting.” And with that, Henry Lardle slipped into calm sleep.

As evening fell over the tree-filled village five miles west of London, Mrs. Bolton finished her sweeping up and placed her trusty twig broom back into the closet. The two

candles near the hearth were extinguished. From the bedroom of her sister, Jemima, came the sounds of sighing, of scratching quill upon paper. “Dear Jemima?” Mrs. Bolton said quietly to the locked door leading to her sister's room. “May I get you anything before I retire?” Silence. Mrs. Bolton let out a breath of relief.

She turned to walk through her kitchen to the far room at the other end of her cottage.

There, in her large canopied bed, the same one she had once shared with Humphrey Bolton, her long-dead husband, she would rest her head and her mind from her long day. She had fetched many sheets of paper for her frantic sister and carried into that same fetid bedroom two hot meals, both of which were refused with her sister's quick brush of a hand.

And there was the lace to fetch. Poor Jemima had demanded to see all her oldest pieces; an assortment of items once made by her in her youth. And now, just as her feet stepped across the threshold of her sleeping chamber, Mrs. Bolton's ears heard a long low groan. Then a scratchy voice called out: “Sister, sister dear.” Mrs. Bolton imagined her sickly sibling fallen from bed, her head marked with blood from an injury. Mrs. Bolton turned and rushed through the house until she reached the door of Jemima's bedroom. “What is it, Jemima?” The lock was slipped open. The pale, drawn face of her sister looked into Mrs. Bolton's eyes. “I need a quill, dear sister. A fresh quill.”

“At this hour?” Mrs. Bolton replied.

“Yes, I beg of you. I plead,” was Jemima's barely audible reply.

“But I have none. I brought you the last two at luncheon. We are clean out, sister, dear.”

A cold hand with skin as rough as the bark of a dead tree shot out and took hold of Mrs. Bolton's right wrist. “I shall die, then, sister,” was Jemima's response. “My heart shall crack.”

“Nonsense, Jemima! Get into bed and to sleep. I will fetch new quills tomorrow morning at Mr. Burleigh's stationery shop.”

The hand squeezed harder. “Fetch a quill now, sister! Now, before I fall into darkness.”

Never before had Mrs. Bolton heard her sister Jemima speak in such a way. Mrs. Bolton feared the worst: Jemima had collapsed into madness. “Oh, dear, Jemima,” Mrs. Bolton said. She yanked her arm free. She found herself in apron and cap, dashing out the side door into the mucky yard, toward her hen house and goose pond. Into the stench of the hen house, past the laying roosts and beyond to a trough full of dried corn and one young white goose all aflutter, from which she pulled and pulled out two tail feathers — hard to manage with such flapping and squawking — and then a journey back, slipping and sliding, Mrs. Bolton's vision fixed only on one spot, the pale loitering face of her mad, clutching sister who, on being handed the fresh quills, said nothing, slammed the door shut, and began to hum a frenetic tune that Mrs. Bolton, hearing it from behind the closed door, could not recognize.

With her breath barely recovered, Mrs. Bolton then found her way to her own room, whereupon she felt the bloody scratches on her arms. “Oh, my,” she whispered through a yawn.

Mrs. Bolton subsequently fell onto her mattress in a grand flop, already half asleep before her cheek touched the down-filled pillow. From across her swept floors floated a late-night descant of sounds: the scratch of a newly plucked goose quill and the child-like singing of her desperate sister.

A Reckoning of Sorts

“
Splendid, Mr. Endersby. Most gallant.”

The admiring voice belonged to none other than Harriet Endersby, the inspector's wife. Blue-eyed and clever were but two words Endersby used to describe the love of his life. In moments of reverie he often delighted in the phrases that had joined the two of them in holy matrimony twenty-one years before:
to love and to cherish, till death us do part.
At this instant Harriet Endersby was sitting at her round card table across from her neighbour, Mrs. McLaren. The motive for her commending words was the appearance of her husband in an outfit made by Harriet from a pattern she had purchased in Regent Street. “Oh, do turn again, dear one,” she said.

On the inspector's head sat a rounded cap, a red tassel hanging down over his left ear. His great chest was enfolded in a long-sleeved gown of satin that was patterned with Madras flowers. A twisted red rope belt hugged his ample waist and thus, his “Persian Gentleman's” smoking outfit was complete.

“It is indeed the latest fashion in Paris,” said Mrs. McLaren. “I believe our dear Queen's husband Prince Albert himself wears much the same in private chambers.”

“So the fashionable intelligence informs us,” said Harriet Endersby. “I was most fortunate. I purchased the cloth from a delightful gentleman in Soho Square, a Mr. Nejad. He claims he is from Persia itself.”

“How intriguing,” said Mrs. McLaren.

“Persia?” questioned Inspector Endersby. “The family name is foreign, certainly.”

“My dear Owen,” replied Harriet Endersby. “Do you doubt my powers of observation? The man most certainly had the dark handsome eyes of a gentleman from that region. He said he was from Tabriz. And his charming accent was neither that of an Englishman or a Frenchman.”

“My dear, I do beg pardon,” said Inspector Endersby. “My objection was not to your superior ability to determine national origin, but rather to express some doubt that a gentleman from so far away would be selling goods in Soho Square.”

Harriet answered with a smile of affection: “You are too suspicious by half, sir.”

“Good evening to you both,” said Mrs. McLaren, rising and heading toward the door. Both Mr. and Mrs. Endersby wished her a good night and thanked her once again for bringing over one of her delicious homemade meat pies for their dinner. “You are too, kind, my dear,” said Harriet as the two women bid goodbye.

Later, after their dinner, Endersby helped his wife to clear the table since it was the maid's night out. “My, how wonderfully logical you are, dear husband,” Harriet said after having listened to Endersby's strategies of bargaining with Mr. Fitz between bites of pie smothered in chutney.

“We are a new breed, my dearest Harriet,” Endersby said, pouring boiling water into the scrub sink. “Caldwell and I attempt to solve crimes
after
they have occurred using deduction, reliable witnesses and proof. The old Bow Street Runners years back used brute force to get confessions
. We
employ science. No more leading of ruffians to the gallows on mere conjecture.”

“Yes, dear Owen, I know.” Harriet smiled.

“Am I making speeches again, my love?” asked Endersby, his face warm from the steaming basin.

“You are tired, dear one,” Harriet replied. “How fortunate we are in London to have men like you to keep us safe.” With that, Harriet left the dishes and pots to soak, kissed her husband, and said: “We shall have tea in the parlour in half an hour.”

Endersby retreated into his small study to work on a new wooden puzzle he had recently purchased in the Burlington Arcade. Sitting down at a small table, he unwrapped the brown paper, examined the wax seals and the large stamp from the French customs. He read the bill of lading from the English shop and then touched the puzzle itself. Each piece of cherry wood had a bevelled edge and each could fit into three others to make up a larger picture.
Ingenious,
he thought:
how very rational of the French.
He clicked the pieces together for a time, his mind relaxing.

“Tea, dearest,” came Harriet's voice. Endersby and his Harriet sat alone by their cosy hearth with a pot of black Indian, Harriet's favourite. It was their nightly custom to take tea and to sample one of the many cheeses the inspector enjoyed. Such culinary indulgence was limited by their household budget. A detective-inspector's salary was low, though adequate — food, taxes, servant's wages and fuel were all accommodated. The French puzzles Endersby purchased, however, were saved up for, a penny at a time. Best of all, the theatre they both loved was affordable — if only once every two weeks.

Harriet re-filled his cup: “I suppose you will soon leave to meet your constables, as you warned me?”

“I must, Mrs. Endersby. In their company, I will also consort with gentlemen from the criminal classes to help me locate the villain.”

“Gentlemen?” Harriet asked. “You are lenient, Mr. Endersby.”

“It is the only recourse I have at the moment.”

“Two young girls named ‘Catherine,' you said?” Harriet asked. “Picked out of the crowd as if they had been lost and forgotten.” Harriet sighed, sitting back in her chair.

“Sad young things. Soiled cargo on the sweep of the tide.”

“How terrible,” Harriet said. “And to think of all the labour you do — you and your constables.”

“I thank you for that recognition, Mrs. Endersby,” said the inspector, pulling out his watch and noting the time. “But I must be off.” Endersby rose, kissed Harriet, who in turn embraced him and smoothed down his mussed hair. She carried a candle and went down the stairs with him to the street, where he hailed a hansom cab and instructed her, “Do not wait up for me tonight, my dear one. I shall be very late.” Harriet patted his cheek affectionately and added: “And most certainly hungry!” The cab from Number Six Cursitor Street clattered through gas-lit alleys and passages full of roaming people, costermonger barrows, riders on horses with fine bridles. At Fleet Lane Station House, the inspector descended and walked briskly across the lane to a brightly lit coffee house. On entering, he spotted Sergeant Caldwell, Constables Rance, and Tibald sitting in one of the wooden booths; set before them were a large pot of coffee and plates of buttered toast.

“Good evening,” Endersby said as the three younger men stood. “Gentlemen, I asked you to investigate a number of workhouses in the northern district.”

Caldwell spoke first and told about the man he had found in the hut — but lost after a chase. In London Wall Workhouse he discovered only old men and boys. Constable Tibald reported on ledgers, entries, the lack of Catherines, and the new locks put on the coal chutes.

“Curious,” said Endersby, stirring his coffee.

“Sir,” said Constable Rance. “I was sent to the Foundling Hospital. The ledgers were most detailed but no Catherines were written on the lists of the living or the dead. But this Sunday past a man paid the hospital a visit. A gin-smelling, scarred man came to the door and asked to see the ledgers. On demanding his reasons why, the matron was told he was looking for a young female of ten years with the first name of Catherine. The matron refused the man entry and did not divulge the records of the ledgers. By law, she cannot do so. Once he had been told he could not search inside the man walked away. The matron said she felt pity for him as he had a limp.”

“May we assume,” said Endersby, “that this chap, perhaps, was our culprit? If so, it seems he showed himself first in daylight, attempting a more legitimate form of searching than what we have witnessed in St. Giles and Shoe Lane.”

The four men sat momentarily in silence. Mr. Caldwell obliged his superior by noting down the details of each constable's story. “We are facing a desperate man,” noted Endersby. “I suppose he shall try at least two workhouses this night, if he is continuing his search. He is compelled to do so, I wager.”

“How to proceed then, sir?” asked Caldwell. “Detective branches in all station houses know of our story, here in central London. Constables are on the alert.”

“Let us deduct first,” smiled Endersby. “We shall cancel out the Foundling Hospital for the moment. St. Giles and Shoe Lane have been visited — with horrific consequences. I have discovered from my own investigation that a fellow survived his first days here in London as a wandering street beggar. He resembles the descriptions of our culprit and to my mind is suspicious. So, we have one or more possible suspects at loose. Let us assume that
he
may choose to continue his nightly search.” The men made note of the inspector's words. Endersby stood up.

“Mr. Caldwell, you shall come with me for a roast beef supper.”

“In truth, sir?” Caldwell asked, somewhat in surprise.

“Mr. Rance, you shall take your cosh and darkee lantern and return to Baribcan and post guards. You, Mr. Tibald, shall follow Mr. Rance's example, but you shall acquaint yourself more fully with the masters and children at the Theobald's Road. If there be any rattlings, any cries, do your duty.” Endersby quickly paid the bill. The golden light of the coffee house gave way to the blue cold of Fleet Lane, where the men agreed to meet next morning at eight o'clock sharp in Fleet Lane Station House. With little else to say, they parted company.

“Are you not well, sir?” asked Caldwell.

“Well enough for an aging man, Sergeant. I fear this night. We are not gaining ground.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Sergeant, let us look forward. We have an adventure before us. Kindly be prepared for a supper with thieves and in the meantime, hail us a hansom.”

“
Most
certainly, Inspector.”

A half moon shone through cloud. Gulls cried out to each other over the river. The night promised rain.

“There it be, sir. Yonder.”

The Irish juggler pointed to a three-storey brick building in Blue Anchor with an upper roof built at a steep slant. In it sat a small dormer window, now dark. “I seen the pity-man at that window, sir. Tis the same place Malibran spoke of, the same lodging house.”

“I ask you,” Endersby said, “why Mr. Malibran has declined to join us this evening?” Fitz grunted at Endersby's elbow, “A wayward man, Inspector. Take no account.”

Nick the Hand appeared round the corner of the suspect's building. He ran up to the little group: Endersby, the Irish juggler, Sergeant Caldwell, and Fitz, all huddled in a darkened archway. “Not a peep, Inspector Bobby-git,” Nick the Hand said. “A stinkin' rot of a house, fittin' for one killin' women.” Fitz spoke up in a hoarse whisper: “Did you put Jack the Knife down at the foyer, lad? And yer two nippers at the back?”

“I did, Fitz. No chance if a bolter be in there hidin'. My two boys can trip 'im.”

Endersby stepped forward. He and Caldwell stood ready in ambush, eyes peering into corners. The party of thieves had finished their joint of beef at midnight, meat with roasted Irish spuds washed down with pints of porter. Now it was in whispers the five men spoke. Endersby remained puzzled by the absence of Malibran, but he had to be content to pass the evening hoping for the limping ‘pity-man' — the possible killer — to show his face. Silence fell among the men as they waited. An hour passed. What horrors were being committed as they lingered, the inspector wondered. The night grew blacker.
Where was the man? Could one truly trust the word of thieves?
Caldwell began to cough; his jaw was bound in a fresh cloth and he chewed cloves to dull the pain in his molar. Another hour dragged on. The Thames lay quiet; no steamboat wheelers churned upstream. The night seemed too still for comfort.
Was this becoming a foolish gamble?

“Look, sir,” Caldwell whispered. Out of the dark, a bearded figure slowly hobbled down the alley toward where the five men stood. Thin, bent, head covered by tangled strands of hair. The voice was grumbling. In the figure's right hand was a staff —
a broom handle, or a gaff,
thought Endersby. A few hesitant steps and then the figure stopped. He looked around, checked the street running to the river. He then held his gaze on the men in the archway. Coming closer, he looked directly at the group as if he knew they were there, waiting. A soiled bandage covered up most of the face. The man's trousers did not fit well — inside out they looked — and high military boots ran up to the knees. A limp, a stink, a beard. The bandaged head lifted; the figure tried to peer at Endersby as a mole might from a narrow tunnel.

“Who are you?” asked the figure.

“Endersby,” said the inspector.

“Don't you observe the cobbles,
you
,” the figure said. “Move out,
you
move out.”

“Your name?” asked Endersby.