Children of the Tide (23 page)

“No, dearest, I have it,” replied Hilda. From her reticule she lifted out a chain and locket. “I cut another lock for you. See?” The lock was shown. Old Richard Grimsby held it for a moment and then on giving it to his son, he suddenly took hold of him and embraced him. The old man tried on this occasion to find words but he retreated instead into silence. Geoffrey Grimsby sat forward. “Hildy then took me in.”

“For the night, sir,” the woman said boldly. “I let him out by six as Mama awakened. He promised me …”

“I promised my Hildy a ring …”

“And a ceremony.”

“Yes, Hilda. A ceremony. On my way down the ladder I missed a rung. Smashed up my knuckles.” Hilda continued. “Mama was at the hearth making breakfast.”

“The old croc came out to fetch wood,” added Geoffrey. “I had to take refuge in the neighbour's stable, under the straw and horse dung.”

“Did the neighbour find you by chance, sir?” asked Endersby.

“No, sir, the groom found me. Said he'd spent his early breakfast watching us from his window. A happy fellow. Laughed when I told him about Margery and the ladder. Name of Balham, Arthur.”

“Caldwell, kindly go upstairs. Find Rance and send him to fetch Mr. Balham, the groom. Mr. Grimsby will supply the address. We will need him to write out his witness report and swear to its veracity at the magistrate's.”

“He will do it, sir. He is forthright,” Hilda said. Suddenly, without warning, she burst into tears. “Oh, Geoffrey, my Geoffrey. How hard done I have been by you, and our little one, too.” Geoffrey put his arm around the sobbing woman. Endersby alerted the guard to bring pen, ink and paper. “Miss Hilda. Master Geoffrey. It is not enough to swear to your innocence. You must declare it in writing. Constable, kindly lead these two up to the deposition room. Alert the clerk and have him supervise the writing of their stories. You do understand, that you will be asked to write the truth under oath and appear before a magistrate?”

The two lovers nodded. “Margery is ours, Hildy, my love,” young Grimsby said. “You and I, we are together. I swear I will change my ways. Father, please forgive me. I have been a foolish man.” The elder Grimsby came forward. “Geoffrey, you are surely forgiven. This has been a trial for me as well as for you, my son. Now, swear to the inspector that you are innocent of your suspected crime, and we'll put this unpleasantness behind us.”

“I swear, Poppa, I do swear. I was with my Hildy all the night.”

“Dearest one,” Hilda exclaimed.

“Nay, Hildy. Hear me out. I have been a scoundrel. A fool, too. Taking gin to soothe my fears. But being in here, in this prison cell, knowing I could lose you and be hanged for murder has brought me to my senses. I survived this so I can show my best side to you and our little one.” Hilda wept on his shoulder.

Endersby stood up slowly and left the cell. He told the constable guard to release the young Grimsby once his confession had been written. While climbing the stairs to the courtyard, the inspector felt a tinge of relief. The mystery was solved. Grimsby had a credible alibi. If the neighbour's groom was honest, his witnessing of the events would stand as evidence in support of young Grimsby's innocence.

The inspector went back into his office. “We have a confession, ladies and gentlemen. I thank you all for coming. Mrs. Grimsby, it appears you were right in your belief that your son could not have taken a life. Indeed, he has sworn to his Hilda to renew himself now that there is enough evidence to support his claim to innocence.” Much grumbling issued from Mrs. Barraclough, who snatched up little Margery and carried her outside. The elder Grimsbys rejoiced and thanked Endersby. On the pair's exit, the inspector instructed Tibald to go across the lane to the coffee house and have a server come over with a tray of hot coffee and toast.

Caldwell reappeared. “Constable Rance, sir, has reported there were no disturbances in two northern and one western district last night. No workhouse invasions. No dead bodies.”

“Most curious,” said Endersby. His face slowly formed into a frown. “And what now of Smeets? I am all at sea with him, the coincidence of his presence in London.” The inspector took the gaff he had found the evening before and, with Caldwell, went down to Smeets's cell. On opening the cell door, a cough and a deep moan issued out of the dim light.

“He is with fever, sir,” Caldwell said, touching Smeets's forehead.

“Constable,” Endersby said to the guard. “Fetch the surgeon, Mr. Reeves, of Number four Farringdon Street. Just up the way.” Endersby gazed into the soldier's pallid features. “Exhaustion and lack of food, I reckon, Sergeant,” Endersby said to Caldwell. The two men left the cell and returned to the inspector's office to wait for the surgeon to come. Placing the found gaff across the top of his desk, Inspector Endersby started rubbing his chin and letting his thoughts spill into spoken words: “Abandoned because it was no longer needed? Or lost in a panic of escape?”

“The gaff, sir?” inquired Caldwell who had poured out two cups of coffee left by the server.

“I am amused by our find,” was the inspector's response. “I have second thoughts about why the gaff was used … if Smeets is our villain.”

“How do you mean, Inspector?” asked Caldwell.

“A father in search of a daughter, a distraught man with no means. Why would Smeets take the time or the effort to carry such an instrument? Cumbersome it is; unnecessary in fact, if one considers that he is an angry, violent man. A soldier is trained to kill. Would Smeets have any need for a weapon such as this one?”

“You do enjoy your ponderings, sir,” Caldwell said, blowing on his steaming cup.

“I am full of questions, Sergeant, which lead me to more questions and few answers,” Endersby replied taking the corner from a bit of toast and chewing it slowly. “And young Catherine Smeets — disappeared. Fled? Murdered?” Endersby stopped speaking and started to pace. “Smeets claimed the uncle had been condemned to the hulks — one of the prison ships anchored in the estuary. We know the uncle's name — if Smeets can be trusted. Tobias Jibbs. We know his sentence. Now, look at this list from the Naval Office. You see, a Jibbs escaped not three weeks ago from the Greenwich hulks. Might this Jibbs have come up to London?”

“To search for his Catherine?” said Caldwell.

“For certain,” said Endersby. “And here in two of the child's letters found in the workhouse, she addresses her uncle as Bobo and Uncle Bo. A nickname for Tobias?”

“‘Unklebow' or ‘Knuckle Toe' or ‘Uncle Bobo' are one in the same?” asked Caldwell. Endersby paused and re-read the letter, his brow wrinkled by the turning of his mind. “However, and here is
the rub
, if I may,” Endersby said. “Surely Smeets fits the description of our culprit more precisely. He is certainly driven, angry, and capable of murder. He returned to London, went searching,
knowing
his daughter was in the city. Frustrated, he became distraught and violent. On the other hand, the uncle was sent away to the hulks and to his certain death. How would he
know
to come up to London? If he were able to escape the prison ships — highly unlikely — would he not have headed home to his village? If he wished to his Catherine again?”

“Remarkable, sir,” Caldwell said.

Endersby stopped pacing: “Listen, Caldwell … just a thought. A leap. Suppose the villain were not Smeets. Smeets comes searching to St. Pancras, shouts, bangs about. At
the same time
, in the same dark hour, the true villain has come — say, William More the dredgerman, or Malibran's pity-man — with his gaff. On hearing Smeets, he escapes out of panic and fear. He drops the gaff running and climbing over the wall.”

“Yes, sir,” said Caldwell thoughtfully.

“And Mr. Henry Lardle? What of Dr. Benton and his strange room?” Endersby said. “Lardle once killed and could kill again. What I need urgently from
him
is an alibi.”

“Proof as well, sir? If we can untangle the strands,” said Caldwell.

“Untangle indeed, sir,” replied the inspector. “But before we start to cut apart the knots, let us take ourselves to check on Smeets, then go off to visit the place where Mr. Lardle dwells.”

Dr. Reeves knelt down beside the sickly Sergeant Smeets and opened the patient's left eye. Endersby admired the doctor's use of a wooden tube, a French invention, one end pressed against the chest while the other end fit against the ear to determine the rhythmic beat of a man's heart.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Dr. Reeves said. “My first recommendation, Inspector, is to have this man moved to a dry warm place. I must remark that his fever is steady, likely caused by an influenza. This red streak across his face is not the pox, nor indeed a wound. Rather, I would venture to say it is a nervous disorder seen more often in the aged. It can
appear
like a scar or a healed wound in its bumpy nature for it swells with fluid.”

“Most informative, Dr. Reeves,” said Endersby. The morning damp permeated the cell; Endersby requested that Smeets be moved up to a chamber with a fire.

“I would rather recommend the public hospital nearby, Inspector,” Reeves said.

“Why so, sir?” questioned Endersby. He had little confidence in public wards. Endersby believed a trip to the hospital was but a cheap farthing ticket to the nearest undertaker's establishment.

“I can supervise the man's recovery there in more amenable quarters for the ill. My assistants I have trained myself.”

Dr. Reeves's words allayed Endersby's fears. “I will attempt my best, therefore, to accommodate your preference, Doctor,” said the satisfied inspector.

Caldwell had pulled out his notebook and was writing down the symptoms and causes outlined by Reeves.

“Commendable, sir,” Endersby said on noticing his sergeant-at-hand's initiative. “Might we make a habit of this, Caldwell?” Endersby asked. “A thorough record of all facets of a crime case — a doctor's as well as a magistrate's conclusions may set a precedent for us to study in future cases.”

“A fine idea, sir,” was Caldwell's response, making a note of his superior's suggestion.

“I have a question, sir,” said Endersby, once again addressing the doctor. “Sergeant Smeets is definitely an ill fellow. In pondering your remarks, I may conclude he is weak from lack of rest and food. In your estimation, could he have been strong enough in the past two days to have completed a fortnight's walking journey from the Scottish border to London, ransacked his way into a workhouse by using a coal chute, then — bear with me, Reeves — with renewed vigour, taken the life of two struggling women by strangling and thus depriving both of breath?”

“Incredible, Inspector,” said Reeves. “I might surmise that if this man had desire to wreak havoc, as you have described, he most certainly could have performed all of those feats. Men survive much deprivation, sir. Circumstances afford men the opportunity and, undoubtedly, the fire to commit many types of actions.”

“Thank you,” said Endersby.

“Inspector, I will notify St. Bartholomew's Hospital,” Dr. Reeves said. “I can arrange for this man's transport. Can the station house provide me with a night guard until this man has had proper rest?”

“Indeed, Doctor,” Endersby said, his mind rushing to frame a convincing argument to be presented to his money-tight superintendent. Twenty minutes later, he and Caldwell were climbing steep stairs in a building on Drury Lane. The court where Henry Lardle lived was in fact around the corner from St. Giles Workhouse. Greeting the last step of many, Inspector Endersby took a deep breath. He and Caldwell first knocked on the door of one Mr. Solomon Graves.“Lardle? Certainly. Good man.” Mr. William Graves pointed to the low door across from his on the other side of the attic hall. “Henry works hard for his coin. Nights mostly.” Mr. Graves smoked a pipe and, in his long night robe, he smelled of fried fish.

“Fish fryer, Covent Garden, sir,” was his prompt response to Endersby's next question about his profession. Caldwell then asked how long he had lived in this locale, how well he knew Mr. Henry Lardle and the woman he lived with. “Years, sir, on both counts. Worked with Lardle once upon a time. Selling laces. His woman is a good gal, not bright, but agreeable.”

“Mr. Graves, may I enquire about last Tuesday night. Where were you on that evening?”

“After frying. Here for supper. Sister here can vouch.” A red-headed woman in a night robe popped her head around the edge of the door. “Luvly morn, gents,” she said. “Tuesday, t'was left over veal chops. Then to cards with Mr Lardle and his Kate.”

“Kate is his wife?” asked Endersby.

“His helpmeet, sir,” the sister said with a wink. “Good at hawkin' celery. No talent for whist.”

“You played cards Tuesday. At what time?”