Children of the Tide (13 page)

“Mr. Bub. Beezle Bub, the Devil take you,” the figure answered. From his mouth burst forth a guffaw that ceased abruptly not a second after. Endersby now dared to test the figure by stating the first name of the girls taken from the workhouses.

“Miss Catherine,” Endersby began. “She is at home, is she?”

“Very likely,” the stranger answered. “Yet, very likely not.”

The figure cocked his head toward the inspector. “She asked after you,” Endersby said. Nick the Hand and Fitz now stepped forward out of the shadowy archway. Endersby and Caldwell waited for the figure to respond. If he wished to run, he would be blocked by Nick and Fitz.

“By Heaven,” the man said. A pain-filled cry rose from the creature's throat. His right hand pulled out a pistol. Caldwell rushed out to grab the hand. The pistol fired, missed its mark, a puff of smoke trailing out the barrel. Dropping the gun, the man swung the wooden staff and struck Endersby on the forehead. With sudden speed, the bandaged man jabbed the staff into Caldwell's chest, forcing the sergeant to fall back with a moan. The figure swivelled and began to scuttle away. “Grab him,” shouted Endersby. The cohorts reeled; the Irish juggler ran into the fray, about to give chase.

But all then halted. A shout cut the air. Endersby turned to see a man. A swirling figure in a broad hat, a bandana over his lower face, a black cloak. He came flying out of a narrow alley hidden in the gloom, a club held high.

“Holla, holla!” the man shouted. From a side pocket in his cloak, the figure also brandished a long knife.

“Gentlemen, stand aware!” yelled Endersby. He and Caldwell stood side-by-side shouting orders to the other three to join them in making a offensive phalanx, an ancient Roman army manoeuvre Endersby had read about in the books of Livy. All five advanced in unison, swinging fists, knocking the limping man in the chest while attempting to elbow the man in the broad hat who backed off a pace, holding up his long knife. Nick the Hand jumped the line and kicked the knife from the man's hand, sending it clattering over the cobblestones. Endersby and Caldwell then strode toward the figure, their arms held wide as if to catch a runaway horse. “Stand, sir,” Endersby commanded. The man spat at the inspector, raised his club and charged. The club found its first mark along Nick the Hand's shoulders, who tried to trip the attacker but failed. Endersby's arm subsequently suffered a heavy thunk. In a blink, the club's end shot forward — aiming at the inspector's right eye. Ducking, Endersby struck back with clenched fists, his “demon familiar” filling his eyes with rage. The crack of a jaw bone gladdened him for a moment but his pounding was not strong enough, for he glimpsed the man swing again, his arms flailing like those of a wrestler in the Blackfriar Sporting Ring. Full of fury as wild as a maimed bull's, the man in the broad hat slammed into Fitz, even though Endersby kept smashing his knuckles into the man's nose.

“Caldwell, look sharp,” shouted Endersby, catching his breath. His sergeant-at-hand scrambled toward the figure with the bandaged face who shouted in panic and stumped away into a darkened passage. In the meantime, the man in the broad hat tried to strike again but Endersby rushed him, kneed him hard, reaching out to grab his neck. The felon moved fast, much to Endersby's dismay, and slipped out of grasp, escaping in the opposite direction to where the bandaged figure had run.

“After the bandaged man,” Endersby shouted. Caldwell started up toward the passage. Endersby wiped blood from his face. His gouty foot was now throbbing from his physical effort. “Irish, follow the other fellow. Watch out for his club.” The juggler jogged off, darting in and out of alley entrances. Endersby fell into a halting step behind his sergeant. They stumbled into the murk of the passage. No gaslight shone. Cobblestones wriggled loose and tripped their hurrying feet, but footsteps clumping ahead led the two to push on. Walls and broken barrows kept blocking the policemen's attempts to grab the figure; only a man familiar with this passage could find his way in haste. “Keep on, Caldwell!” A door squealed open, then shut. Onward, further, the cobbles turned into slushy mud and sewage. A stink of mould. Caldwell's voice rang out like a cry in a storm: “Stop, you — hold!”

Inspector Endersby tripped. He fell, hands first, into a puddle of muck. Caldwell stopped and ran back, searching for his superior. “No, sergeant, keep apace. Get on,” croaked Endersby. Caldwell set off again, but soon after reappeared, his boots and trousers splattered with slush. “Gone, sir,” he mumbled as he reached down his hand to help Endersby stand. “Like a phantom,” replied Endersby. Appearing together out of the passage, the two men heard Nick the Hand's voice echo in the street: “The gaffer's leaked out!”

When the four exhausted men gathered together, they looked defeated. “No luck, Bobby,” admitted Nick the Hand. Under the archway, Fitz was cursing. “He bobbed us, the ratter. Betrayed us. That was Malibran in the black cloak.”

“You sure, Fitz?” asked Endersby.

“Malibran?” said Sergeant Caldwell.

Endersby wiped his face. “Did you know of this, Fitz?”

“You take me for a shit-hole stick? No, sir! The son of a leech, he crossed us, no scratch for no scratch, the buggered fool.”

“He was no good cheese,” said Nick the Hand, rubbing the back of his neck.

“So how and why did Malibran show up?” the inspector asked.

“Ah, covey,” answered Fitz. “The two's in cahoots. If that be yer culprit all bandaged up, then Malibran and him have a gig. The pity-man knew we was on the lookout. That's why he had the pistol. Malibran dressed him up in disguise. Malibran loves coin, Inspector. He needs the cripple git to earn him.” Fitz spat out a bit of tobacco after his explanation. “Let's at 'im,” said Nick the Hand. Inspector Endersby thought quickly:
if I let the street men fight each other, no good could come.

“Fitz, you and Nick, retreat for now,” commanded Endersby. “Let Caldwell and I move on. When you can, wander back to your attic and let your men know Malibran's ‘pity-man' is on the run. No doubt he will go into hiding. Find out, if you can, where the bandaged man has gone. Knock on doors. No saying this chap is our murderer. But he is suspicious, as is Malibran.”

“Fitz, too, can knock on any door,” Nick the Hand said with pride. “Crack 'im, we will.”

“Gather Jack and your mites, Nick,” commanded Fitz. “Come morning, Bobby, you shall find yer culprit. Come to Nightingale at your wont. Malibran is hoping you didn't recognize him in his black.”

“I was stumped,” admitted Endersby, his fatigue now drying his throat. “Listen up, Fitz. If Malibran is bold, might he go back to his digs?”

“Or to a cunny house, Bobby. Then to home,” Fitz said.

Fitz and Nick the Hand started to walk off.

“Where does Malibran lodge, Fitz?”

“Planning a short visit are you, git? In Nightingale, Number Six. Up the top.” Fitz waved goodbye. Endersby's mind tumbled. Bones and muscles ached. He had to lift his gouty foot a few times to alleviate the hot pangs. He yearned for his bed with every step forward, but he felt driven, his “demon familiar” now riding on his back, ready to jolt him into a fight. Beside him, Caldwell kept pace. His low moans of tooth pain inspired Endersby to imagine a future meeting between his own gloved fists and Malibran's jaw bone. “Sergeant,” said Endersby. “Come. We have one last chore before us.”

With renewed purpose, the inspector straightened his hat. He commanded Sergeant Caldwell to find a hansom at this late hour. “Onward, Caldwell. We shall walk if need be.”

“You are certain, sir?” Caldwell said, the weariness in his voice making Endersby smile. “Sergeant,” Endersby said. “Bear't that the opposed may beware of ... us!”

A Monster in the Night

T
he night now entered its final hour, the sun still biding its time before dawn. Down a dark alley, a few blocks east of Blue Anchor, there stood a small stone building: the Little Queen Street House of Orphans and Derelicts. A hidden place where, at the chime of the clock, a child rose from her bed, her blonde hair mussed from sleeping with her head ensconced between pillow and mattress. She was no more than nine. The ward held only seven beds, all for girls her age. Next door, a room contained older women who coughed and coughed and always woke the child. She began to wander. Her eyes were half-shut. In her troubled mind, the fire nightmare had come again: her momma, her papa, her brother danced in the flames and called out to her. A man in a black hat pulled her away from them, the smoke catching them all and making them disappear.

“Matron?” the child whispered. “Where are you?” The child had been gently taught. She knew not to yell out, to scream in the night, for the matron was kind and she slept in a little room down the hall from the main ward. The child recalled the matron's instructions: “If you need me, child, come to my door and tap with a soft hand.”
She is like Momma,
the child thought as she stepped past the few beds, her arms held out in front of her.

In the hallway ahead there was the staircase and doors to the other parts of the house. The child had never ventured beyond them. She knew the staircase was not to be climbed. She knew the courtyard was open only for one hour a day — a small square of cobblestone surrounded by high grey walls. There, she played hopscotch and dog-chase with her bedmates, most of them tired and unhappy. The child liked to hold hands. She liked it when the matron held hers and walked with her. All she ever wanted was to hold hands and hear the trees rustle far away over the walls.

Stopping, the child stared at the matron's door. She liked the sound of the latch and the lock clicking open when the matron came out in the night with her candle
. But what was that,
the child wondered as she raised her fist to tap. On the staircase. In the corner where the staircase turned.
Was it her Papa there?
She lowered her fist and walked into the hallway. The air felt colder. A window up above the door to the courtyard gave some light to the stairs. “Papa?” the child whispered. The figure hiding in the shadow did not move. The child approached it.
Papa,
she thought;
he has come out of the smoke.
All she could see was a black shadow, a head all fuzzy with hair and long hands that hung down at the sides of the black body. “Papa?” she said again. The child knew her dream had come true. Papa had returned to rescue her. She ran up to him, her bare feet patting the cold stone floor.

“It's me,” she said, grabbing hold of the figure's cold hand. She looked up into the face. The hair hid his eyes but the child knew it was her father. He was all black. He smelled like the river where they had once lived together. She pressed her head against his body. The figure's other cold hand moved. It placed itself on the child's head and stroked her hair. “I miss you,” the child whispered.

Just then a noise from the top of the staircase. Male voices. A thin band of light under the door at the top, then footsteps. The child lost her grasp. Her Papa let her go, lifted her carefully and set her on the step below, his face close to hers for only a moment, his eyes looking into hers before he rose and began to move away. “No,” the child moaned. She stood up. “Papa, stay,” she whispered. But the door at the top of the stairs opened. The child ran back into the ward. The shadowy figure limped away, dragging himself toward another door at the end of the ward where he disappeared. The child found her bed. She buried her head under the pillow. Men stomped past her. Shouts and more shouts and a door shut with a bang.

Alone, the child wept. But then she felt a warm shiver run through her body. Her Papa was still alive. He had touched her. She rubbed her hand and felt the oily dirt he had left behind on her skin. “Come back, Papa,” she said, her heart content. She fell back to sleep so quickly, she hardly had time to whisper “Papa” once again.

Morning light was an hour away. Catherine Smeets and Little Mag had spent the better part of the evening before pacing in St. Pancras Workhouse, trying to stop the stinging from the beating given them by Matron Pickens.

“Give me your hand,” Catherine said to Little Mag. “All are still asleep. We can bolt out the side door before light.”

Holding her hands behind her, Little Mag shook her head: “I'm too weak, Catherine. I have a terrible ache.” Little Mag sank to the floor and Catherine could not make her budge. “Goodbye,” Catherine said before sneaking her way to the stairs. To her delight, she found the passage open. Down the hallway and out the side door she raced.
I am like Nell,
she thought,
I can disappear in the streets.
Where might she sleep and remain unharmed? Catherine had left behind everything, even her secret letters to her beloved uncle. There was no time to go back and fetch them. Quietly, she crossed the empty yard. Onto the wash house roof she climbed and balanced herself. Leaning out, she grabbed hold of the top of the wall and pulled herself up, her bare feet pushing her body until it lay across the narrow ridge of the brick. Catherine leaped out to land on the pavement outside the compound.

Hurry!
She scampered into the dim gold of the gas-lit street.
How easy to escape,
she thought. But her stomach reminded her she was hungry! Catherine found her legs could run hard. Down one street, through a narrow courtyard, and into a crooked lane leading to shelter under an overhanging partition of an ancient house. She found a dry spot, knelt down and folded her cold legs under her workhouse dress.
Quiet, like a sleeping puppy....

Up at the corner stood a ramshackle gin shop. At this late hour customers were stumbling out its door. One man pushed out and stood, his body leaning one way then another to find balance.
What a grumbling he uttered,
Catherine thought. She huddled closer to the wall. He was more a creature than a man. He dragged his feet along the cobble stones. Catherine could hear his voice better: “Where, oh, where?” it said. The whisper became a cough. “Where to find
you?
”

Catherine wanted to dash away. This awful man could harm her. Slit her throat. She could now smell him as he drew closer. If she ran, he would chase after her. Catherine shut her eyes to make the creature disappear. The spot where she lay was dim but not so dark she could rest invisible. The man's boots scratched against stone. Catherine took a quick peek. As he passed under a street light, his face caught the gaslight.
Oh, help me
, Catherine's inner voice cried.

“Damn you,” the man said. He entered the archway where his boot tip struck against Catherine's bent knee.

“What's this?” slurred the man.

The monster bent down toward her. A scream caught in Catherine's throat. “
You,
there,” the man barked. He reached into a pocket. He pulled out a wooden Lucifer match and flicked it with his thumbnail. In the wavering light Catherine saw a hairy chin, a terrible scar; her face grew rigid in terror. “Rest, little one,” the man whispered. A finger tilted Catherine's chin. “Ah,
you
will do!” Catherine tried to jump up. She slapped the man's hand away from her face. “You are the one,” the hoarse voice said.

“Let me be!” Catherine shouted. Before she could blink, a sweaty palm clasped itself over her mouth. One arm held her close while the other slipped out a bit of rough cloth and covered her head. Blinded now, her nose barely free to breathe, Catherine felt herself being lifted up and carried.

“Have no fear,” the man said. “Such a lovely sweet gal you are.”