Children of the Tide (19 page)

“Could a man escape the hulks, Sergeant?” Endersby's question hung in the air.

“Not him. Too frail he'd be. He'd die soon enough like some starved dog. Poor scag, he and my wife raised in a filthy workhouse. He ne'er forgot that place.”

“When was the uncle condemned to the hulks, Sergeant?” the inspector asked.

“Christmas last.”

“Did your daughter Catherine know anyone in London, Sergeant?”

The poor man resumed rocking. “I left her here. All alone. God curse me, sir.” Endersby waited for a moment: “Is your daughter a strong girl, Sergeant. Will she survive on the streets?”

The sergeant gazed into the dark emptiness of the cell. “
Please,
find her, gull. Rotten I am, but I'd do anything for my sweet.” Through the flickering lantern light, Endersby looked hard at the broken man. Words of Prince Hamlet jumped into the inspector's mind:
a countenance more in
sorrow than in anger
.

“You say you'd do anything, Sergeant. For your daughter.”

“Yes, gull. Anything.”

“Does killing come easy to you, Sergeant? You are a trained soldier. Do you find it a simple act to accomplish?”

“Wot you mean?”

“If you saw, say, Matron Pickens, the tall woman you met today at St. Pancras. Let us picture her beating your Catherine. Hurting her, making her ...”

“I'd cut her slaggy throat. Choke her if she give me reason.”

“Have you ever been in a workhouse, Sergeant? Ever there as a child?”

“But once. For a fortnight when a lad. Them matrons were demons. The scags gave the whip every morning and night if you spilled a bit of porridge.”

“Can you remember Tuesday last, Sergeant. Where you were? At night, what did you do?

“Sleepin', gull. You try settin' foot after foot for a fortnight, livin' on bits of bread and drippin'.”

“When did you start to look for Catherine?”

The sergeant fell silent. He began to enter the trance-like state Endersby had seen moments before as if it were a recurring fever in one afflicted by consumption.

“Sergeant?”

“Leave me be, Bobby-gull. I can take no more. I killed the fellow, I killed 'em all, if that be the truth you want to hear.”

Realizing he had come to a standstill with the sergeant, Endersby decided to allow the fellow a moment of peace. He paced as the sergeant lay back, exhausted, on the bench. A tap, and in the doorway, at attention, was Sergeant Caldwell. “Half hour, sir.” The inspector walked quickly toward his sergeant. “Carry on with this suspect, Sergeant. Here, take one of these pieces of lace. Show it to him. Ask if he knows of Rosemary Lane. He is tiring. Bring him some hot coffee. Push him. He needs a new voice to keep him awake. Get more about the uncle, especially his
full true name
if the man can remember it. He is a hard one, Caldwell. I have not as yet nudged him into a confession. I shall go to Mr. Grimsby.”

“Beware, sir,” cautioned Mr. Caldwell. “Grimsby is a fighting fellow. Denies everything. He is open to suspicion and yet, sir, there is remorse in his voice. He seems a man playing a part.”

“I thank you, Sergeant, for your warnings. I will stoke the engine, full steam ahead!”

“Thank you, sir,” smiled Mr. Caldwell.

Endersby walked a few paces. He let his mind take a rest on the present maze of thoughts about Sergeant Smeets. Forming a plan, he entered the cell where Grimsby was confined. Young Grimsby sat on the edge of the prison bench inside his dim cell. He was wearing a stained frock coat, his face covered in stubble, his scar like a stretch of red ribbon flowing across his face. Endersby introduced himself and asked the young man to give his name.

“Grimsby, sir, Geoffrey. Son of Richard Grimsby, undertaker, in Marylebone. What the devil have I done to place me here, sir? I demand you call for my father at once.”

“To answer your first question, Mr. Grimsby, you have been arrested on suspicion of murder. Second, your father has been sent for and may arrive at any moment.”

“Preposterous,” chimed young Grimsby. His breath smelled of gin. “Never raise my hand to touch a bee nor a fly for that matter.”

“Neither bees nor flies are the law's concern, Mr. Grimsby,” came the inspector's sharp reply. “Rather, we are more concerned with the death of two elderly women, strangled to death by a villain in the night.”

“How
dee
do?” smirked Grimsby. “None of my taste, sir. The sordid underworld of Bow Street is beneath my purview.”

“Indeed, sir?”

Young Grimsby sat forward and rubbed his forehead. Endersby looked into his face. “You have a scar, sir,” he said. “How did it come about?”

“A tree branch. Cut me while riding.”

“On Tuesday last, where did you spend your time?”

“I refuse to be badgered, Inspector. I wish to speak with my father.”

“Two women were murdered, Mr. Grimsby. Brutally, in fact. One in the St. Giles Workhouse and the other in Shoe Lane.”

“Never been there, not in my life. Oh, yes, once to Bethnall Green Workhouse to fetch a boy for our mute. Sickly one he was. Scummy places, Inspector.”

“It would suit your present situation to tell me about your comings and goings on Tuesday last, Mr. Grimsby. I suggest you try and remember.”

Grimsby coughed. He stood up. “You remind me of my mammy, Inspector. Always
at it,
always wanting to know who I know, where I go. Cannot a young man have his pleasures without endless questioning?”

“Murder is what we are speaking about in this instance, Mr. Grimbsy. A hanging matter in deed and in outcome,” Endersby quipped.

“Betrayed I was, Tuesday night last,” Grimsby began. “To the gin house, then to my Hilda. Then out into the street with a firm shove from her wicked mother.”

“And then?”

Young Grimsby laughed. He shrugged his shoulders. “Cold on Tuesday late, as I recall.”

Endersby could see the man was fearful. But he was holding back. What secret was he not willing to reveal? “Hilda?” Endersby said, prompting the bedraggled young man. Grimsby raised his face. “This be a sordid den, sir. Too damp for my liking.” Grimsby kicked the floor with his cracked boot. He looked toward the cell door, which stood open behind the inspector. A young constable was standing by it and with him in shadow was another gentleman with a top hat and a cane.

“Father?” cried young Grimsby. Inspector Endersby turned and commanded the constable to come in with the other gentleman.

“Good day, Inspector,” said the elder Mr. Grimsby. “A fine place for you, son, I see,” he said, his voice hard with sarcasm.

“Father, sir, this lot have me caught up for murder. A lark, sir. A false accusation,” pleaded young Grimsby. Endersby noted immediately how young Grimsby had changed. Indeed, it seemed he was playing a series of parts, like an actor in repertory. How well he could show disdain; how masterful his sudden switch to pleading. And yet the inspector also noted a vulnerable air about him.

“I beg your pardon, sir,” Endersby said to the elder Mr. Grimsby. “Your son was arrested on suspicion only. His appearance matched precisely to that of a culprit who we believe is running loose in London, having killed innocent women in two workhouses.”

“A new sport of yours, son?” the stone-faced father replied. “Gin addled your senses, then? Forced you to indulge in greater violence to drive you further into crime and cruelty?”

“Father?” young Grimsby wailed. “Father, please help me. You know I am not ...” The young man's eyes were full of sadness. The father, in response, lowered his head so as not to show the flicker of emotion distorting his features. Endersby wondered if this were a case of “like father, like son.” Was the father also playing a part at this moment, straining to hide his real self?

“My son, sir,” the elder Grimsby said turning his attention toward the inspector. “My young Geoffrey is a reprobate. His character does not speak well of my own efforts to raise him properly. I offer you and your professional colleagues an apology. My whipping cane, sadly, has had no effect whatsoever.”

Endersby considered the man's hard words. Was this a jest, perhaps? More ominously, were these words to be understood as a father's condemnation of his own flesh and blood?

“Capable of murder, you believe, sir?” Endersby said, his voice cool. Mr. Richard Grimsby did not flinch. “Foolhardiness leads to a decadent state of mind,” the father replied. He then turned to his son. “Empty your pockets, sir. On the double.” Young Grimsby was shaking. He tore into his pants pockets and turned them out. The same procedure was applied to his frock coat, pockets both on the inside and the outside.

“Where is the licence I sent with you to the workhouse?” enquired the older man. “Where is the two pounds I trusted you to carry to procure a child to play the mute for our processions?”

“Lost, Father,” the young Grimsby replied, his low tone full of contrition.

“Not lost, son. Tossed by you, both the license and coin into the hands of a gin seller.”

“No, Father, no,” the young man said. He sat down. Shoulders forward, a short series of sobs started gurgling in his throat. The elder Grimsby stepped close to his son and reached out his hand. He was about to touch him, but then he stepped back. It seemed to Endersby, the older man was torn between disdain and compassion.

“What would you have me do, Inspector?” the elder Grimsby then said. “I know so little of this scalliwag's adventures. He was refused by Her Majesty's military service on account of his weak foot. I am at a loss.” As he spoke, the elder Grimsby moved closer to Inspector Endersby. He leaned toward the inspector and said: “There is a matter I best speak to you about out of my son's earshot. If you will indulge me, sir?”

“Indeed, sir,” Endersby replied. He showed the older man out and followed him into the corridor. Young Grimsby stood up frantically and dashed toward the door: “Father, you are a brute, a stingy cruel old man!” he shouted. The constable caught young Grimsby as he tried to bolt out the door. “Keep him under lock and key for the time being,” commanded Endersby.

“Father! Father? Oh where is my mammy?”

“Come, Mr. Grimsby. We may speak in the offices upstairs.”

The older Grimsby nodded in assent. He had grown ashen as a consequence of the encounter with his son. “Are you feeling ill, sir?” Endersby asked. The older man took hold of the inspector's arm for support. “I am ill at heart, sir. Most perturbed! I cannot stay and witness this scene a moment longer. Please, take me into the open air or I may fall prone at your feet.”

“Constable, kindly lead this gentleman upstairs to my office.” At the same moment, another young constable arrived from the far end of the stone corridor. He stood at attention in front of Endersby.

“Yes, Constable,” the inspector said.

“Sir, following your orders. We have secured a gentleman earlier this morning who closely resembles the description of the culprit you have set down in your description.”

“
Another?
” said Endersby. “Indeed. Lead on, Constable.”

Following the young man down the corridor, Endersby came to one of the wooden doors which the constable swung open. Taking up a lantern, Endersby stepped into the cell. In front of him was a man sitting in ragged clothes, with filthy hands, the air about him full of human stink.

“Your name, sir?” Endersby commanded, lifting up the lantern to grasp a better view of the man's dirt-covered features. He could see the face, shadowed by a soiled hat. It was hard in the lantern light to determine if the mark upon the face was a scar or a defect in the left cheek.

“Lardle, sir,” came the croaky response. “Mr. Henry Lardle. At your service.”

“You were arrested this past night?” asked the inspector.

“Done my duty, sir. Done it. And on my ways to home by the St. Giles Workhouse I stood. Took a piss, you see by the gate. Wot then? A Bobby shakes his rattle, arrests me, holds a lantern to me face, looks me over and drags me in here.”

“On what charge, Mr. Lardle?”

“Bobby says, I am in suspicion of a murder,” came the response. “I say, stuff and nonsense. I work hard for my livin', hard enough to keep me runnin' about and no time for murder. No, sir. No time at all.”

“Tell me more, sir. Explain yourself,” coaxed Endersby, moving into the cell and standing next to Henry Lardle.

“Well, sir,” said Lardle, “it be a long story, but an honest one.”

“Please indulge me.”

A Discovery

I
t was the appointed hour of three o'clock. Catherine Smeets pulled on a pair of clean stockings. “There you be, lovely as ever,” Mary said, lowering the black gauze veil over Catherine's face. Mary led the way out of the dressing chamber and into the courtyard. The crepe gloves Mary had given Catherine scratched her skin but they made her hands look so regal that she imagined herself as a young princess. Before her stood a magnificent coach, its sides and ends made into windows of glazed glass. When the driver came forward with his whip, he was dressed all in black with a tall hat trailing a scarf of the same gauze, which masked Catherine's face. Each of the funeral horses wore a headdress of purple-tinted plumes.

Out of the courtyard hall, four men carried the coffin of a tailor. Catherine felt her heart jump. She was an important part of this solemn ritual. She was the symbol, after all. After a moment of prayer the coffin was slid into the hearse, the door shut. The groom climbed into the driver's seat along with the driver. Both men looked to Catherine, bowed their heads, and Catherine took her cue.

Holding the long black candle given her by Mary, Catherine walked slowly to the head of the procession and led them on toward the graveyard. Afterward, back in Mrs. Grimby's parlour, Catherine felt happy. Mary held her in her arms. “Oh, lucky one. Such a mute I ne'er seen before.” Catherine felt warm all over. She stood up. “Look at me, Mary,” she cried. Spreading out her arms, Catherine twirled. “I wish only for one thing,” Catherine said and looked out the window at the afternoon light. “What is that, dear one?” Mary said.

“I wish my dear uncle could come back to see me. How happy. Oh, he would be so happy.”

“But has he gone for good, dear?” Mary said as the two of them gently rocked together on the settee. “Yes, I fear so.”

Mrs. Grimsby came into the room. Mary and Catherine stood up. “My lovely child,” Mrs. Grimsby said. “You behaved so well. Come, embrace me. You bring me such peace, my child. You are now with your new family.”

The elder Mr. Richard Grimsby struggled up from the chair in Inspector Endersby's office at Fleet Lane Station House. The old undertaker had told a long tale about his son. “His present state of mind is not good. Discontentment with his lot has warped my young Geoffrey's behaviour.” Putting on his hat, the older man said to Endersby: “I thank you for granting me more time to resolve this confusion. I believe the two of us can readily prove the nature of my son's innocence in this matter with the facts I can present to you on the morrow.” Endersby accompanied the man into the foyer of Fleet Lane Station House. On his return to his office he found Sergeant Caldwell. His trustworthy colleague was seated in a small chair under the window. Bent over, wearing his spectacles, he was writing in his notebook.

“Sergeant, please finish your sentence,” said Endersby. His gouty foot burned; his injured hand itched; his mind felt heavy with facts and doubts.

“I would love some biscuit and tea,” Endersby mumbled.

“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Caldwell, checking his last paragraph.

“Musing, Caldwell,” came the inspector's reply. “Gathering wool.”

“I have details, sir, to report,” said Caldwell. “I can have these notes re-written in ink by the supper hour.”

“I thank you for your efficiency, Caldwell. I, on the other hand, am at a loss. I have been bargaining with a father over the life of his son. A most curious phenomenon in which all will be made clear, I am assured, at eight o'clock tomorrow morning.”

“Unusual, indeed, sir,” Caldwell said.

“Did Sergeant Smeets stay awake long enough to afford you reliable information?” Endersby asked.

“He is a dour fellow, sir,” said Caldwell. “In need of much prodding. Claimed he did not recognize the bits of lace. Most of the time he denied any knowledge of anything, sir.”

“I had much the same experience with him,” said Endersby. By now, the inspector's mind had revived somewhat and a curious hunch took shape among his gathering thoughts. “Did you ascertain the name of the uncle?”

“Yes, sir.” Caldwell underlined the name and handed the sheet to his inspector.

“Most curious, Sergeant. So, this name may clarify a number of our clues. The puzzle is beginning to form a picture.” Endersby placed his hands behind his back and started to pace. “I have heard a most intriguing story from one Mr. Henry Lardle, who once worked as a dredgerman.”

“Yes, sir,” said Caldwell.

“I will tell you en route, but let us investigate this business a little longer before I come to any conclusions. We have a number of hours left of this particular afternoon so we must take full advantage. I need to look again in St. Pancras. We must also take a moment to visit a fine house in Bedford Square. For now, let the two of us make haste before the sun sets this evening.”

Within moments, the two men were sitting in a hansom cab. In his satchel, the inspector carried his square magnifying glass and his ear trumpet. Streets heading north were lined with purveyors of all goods, from bird's nests and brass parrot cages to trombones and hot muffins. A rain squall pelted the hansom as it crossed Euston Square, then sun dried its canvas roof as the driver turned into the large court of St. Pancras Workhouse. The two men descended and went in.

“Ah, Inspector,” smiled the gregarious Matron Dench. “We are at your disposal — if I may use such a vulgar term in the presence of a professional gentleman.”

“I thank you, Matron Dench.”

“Come, sir,” said Endersby. “The March light is fading. You take the west and I shall take the east side of the outdoor court and stables. Mind the washhouse and the quarters for the blacksmith.” Endersby did not stir for a moment. It was his custom to look around a site, to picture himself as walking in a suspect's boots, conjuring up his mood and his terrain of feelings. Endersby imagined Sergeant Smeets coming into this darkened court searching for a doorway, the coal chute — any entry — to effect a rescue of his daughter. In the case of Smeets, gin and deep fatigue might have undermined the man's abilities to make judgements.

“The byways of the criminal mentality always astonish,” Endersby said aloud, to remind himself never to draw a conclusion before proof was established. He then began to walk. He kept his eyes to the ground. He circled the stables. He passed by the stalls where he had first encountered Sergeant Smeets. Looking toward the east side wing and the latched gate nearby, the inspector started thinking that perhaps this gate might have been chosen as the most convenient way out for Smeets. It was close to a fallow field; it was far from the entrance to the courtyard. What prompted the inspector was a hunch—similar to an itch. This was a feeling familiar to Endersby: this singular urgency always seemed to appear when he believed an important clue was about to turn up. His eyes slowly scanned the dead grass in front of the gate.

Endersby paused, a thin smile lighting up his face. “Ah, so you are hidden here, are you?” he murmured to himself. Endersby stepped forward, pulling off one of his suede gloves. A dredgerman's gaff with its curved metal hook lay against the brick of the wall. Taking out his square magnifying glass, Endersby examined the hook's metal surface in the fading light. “Orange,” he whispered. He scratched the surface of the hook. “Rust flakes,” he said. “So, monster, you have dropped this in haste?” Endersby stepped back.

“Caldwell! Sergeant Caldwell!”

In less than a second, his sergeant was by his side.

“A find, sir?” asked Caldwell, eyeing the gaff.

“No doubt, Sergeant,” Endersby said. Sergeant Caldwell took hold of the wooden handle and turned the gaff in his hands. “A worn piece, sir. Rusted. Does this throw suspicion on your Mr. Henry Lardle as well as Sergeant Smeets?”

“Perhaps, Sergeant. Be not too hasty, however. Whoever it belonged to, it was abandoned. Was the villain in flight?”

“We do have a puzzle, sir.”

“But if we are clever we can match its pieces. I think we may have before us an unusual turn of the tide.” The two men continued their search until the light faded. “On the double, now, Caldwell,” the inspector said. “A doctor named Benton needs to tell us a story.”