Children of the Tide (24 page)

“We was all late for supper,” answered Solomon Graves. “Nine or ten it were. Then we took to some beer. We played for a time, then Henry goes out.”

“What time did he leave you, do you recall?

“Late,” countered his sister.

“When?” asked Caldwell.

“Oh, very late. Two or half past. Out and gone and not home again 'till light. Henry goes out and comes back at the beck and call of his employer. Night work as I said. Out last night again he was. Haven't heard 'im this morning.”

“Do you know where Henry goes at night?” Endersby asked. Caldwell flipped a page of his notebook.

“No sir. Best to ask his Kate.”

The inspector and his sergeant bid their goodbyes and crossed the hall. The door opened to reveal a weeping Kate. The attic room had a slanted ceiling and sparse furnishings. Kate told the same story as her neighbour of the veal chops and card playing.

“Can you tell us where Henry went late on Tuesday night?”

“Same place as always. Oh mind, he don't keep nuthin' from me. Off to Mrs. Barnes. Does business with her when she has the time. Poor Henry. Got desperate, no luck in and out, so he went off to Covent Garden.”

“Where is this place, Mrs. Barnes and her …?”

“Nanny house, sir. You chaps go when you have your need.” Endersby knew they were the worst brothels — selling young girls to men. “Virgins,” they all claimed.

“Here,” Kate pointed to a pencil scrawl on the wall near the door. An address, the name of Barnes, other names, too. “Them others, theys the butcher, the pie man.” Caldwell copied down the address of Mrs. Barnes' nanny house.

“I thank you, Miss,” Endersby said, gathering his energy. Sergeant Caldwell then told of Mr. Lardle's stay at Fleet Lane Station House, the news of which brought a smile to Kate's face.

“Not dead, then? Alive and well?” she asked, grabbing a shawl from a peg.

“Come then,” replied Endersby. “Caldwell, take her in. Get a deposition from her — written down or copied if she can't write — about Lardle's whereabouts on Tuesday night. Also, tap on Graves' door again and have him and his sister write out what they told us. I will take myself to Mrs. Barnes.”

The village cemetery lay half a mile out, a turn down the road from the gate to the country house where the old princess lay dying in her bed. A day and a night had passed and still there was no news of Jemima Pettiworth. Before retiring the night before, Mrs. Bolton had decided to read her sister's hand-written confession. What a tortured soul her sister had revealed; one that she had kept close to her heart all her waking life. As it was, the confession stirred the imagination of Mrs. Bolton. With the first light of morning, she knew she must investigate what her sister had written about — just to settle her own mind.

At the cemetery's gate, Mrs. Bolton hesitated. Now that she had made the journey on her own, she surveyed the hallowed ground, a place so ominous in its isolation she wondered if it were wise to continue her search.

“Now, don't be timid,” she scolded herself. The gate gave out a squeal of rusted metal as she pushed it open. She carefully picked her way through the overgrown cemetery to a corner partially covered with wild vines; in the midst of which sat a tiny gravestone. Mrs. Bolton bent down. Tears rushed into her eyes as she read the name and dates:
Jonathan Pettiworth, Born and Died, December 12, 1808.
“So here is where you rest, little lad,” Mrs. Bolton whispered. “Ah, Jemmy.” Mrs. Bolton had known only of her sister's broken heart. Never any mention of a child, a stillbirth. Reflecting back to that time, almost thirty-three years ago, Mrs. Bolton recalled how her sister had fled the village for a time, in the early spring of 1808. “Gone to London, she had told me,” Mrs. Bolton said out loud to the tilting gravestones. “A lie I did not question back then,” she said.

Mrs. Bolton looked up to the sky. What if the beadle had come to her village door with news? Running from the graveyard, Mrs. Bolton kept on down the road, further from town. On the side of a hill stood a wide, three-storey structure with three great chimneys. Its walls of black seemed to have grown out of the hillside stone, and it had always appeared to Mrs. Bolton to be a building of elemental sorrow — for here the abandoned village children, the poor destitute farmers, and the widows of soldiers from the Napoleonic wars ended up living in cold squalor. Mrs. Bolton approached the iron gate to the county workhouse — St. Christopher's Hospital — its old name arched in iron letters above the gate. She rang the bell.

Presently, a workhouse matron met Mrs. Bolton at the gate. The matron nodded in recognition to the kindly village woman. “I am sorry to hear of your sister's disappearance, mum,” the matron said, opening the front door of the workhouse. “No news as yet,” came Mrs. Bolton's reply. A cup of tea was offered and refused. Mrs. Bolton had come for one reason only. She explained her need. Permission was granted cordially; the matron then led Mrs. Bolton down a drafty hall to a large room full of drawers and shelves. “Our ledgers date back to 1799 when the hospital was built. I can bring you an extra candle for better light.”

Reading the spines of books numbered for the first ten years, Mrs. Bolton moved along the shelf until she came to the ledger for 1810. She laid the dusty book on the table. There, between neatly drawn lines, were the lists of the inmates of the workhouse. Beside their names, ages were recorded along with a brief description: “orphan, abandoned baby, widow …” In her sister's written confession, the exact names of the three people were not given. But they were described by age and by appearance. What had struck Mrs. Bolton as deeply sad was the cruel treatment Jemima had inflicted upon a jilted woman and her two out-of-wedlock children.

Up and down the lists Mrs. Bolton ran her finger. Three names, just three, she wanted to find, but the ages had to match her sister's descriptions. At last: a single woman who gave birth to a stillborn and died. Her two other children — a boy and a younger girl, siblings — left to the workhouse. Mrs. Bolton stared at the names.
So, Jemima's story was true. No wonder she had felt the need to confess.
More questions bothered Mrs. Bolton: why had her sister not written out the names of the three creatures in her confession? Had she feared recrimination?

Leaving the workhouse, Mrs. Bolton stopped along the way home, sat down on a stump and wept. No more than a few minutes passed and she was on her feet again. As she approached the village square a cold light seemed to cut across the fronts of the shops. Mrs. Bolton hurried her steps toward the great tree by her own snug cottage. It wasn't until she turned the last corner leading to her front door that she saw a milling crowd. Step by step she made her way, the crowd parting to let her walk on toward the beadle who stood by the entrance to her home, his right hand lifting off his official beadle's hat as she came closer.

“Poor dear. Such a pity. What a tragedy.” These words were whispered by the village crowd as Mrs. Bolton saw with much trepidation the beadle point toward a cart and horse. In it, a long wrapped object. “I am most grieved, Mrs. Bolton,” the beadle said. Mrs. Bolton touched the object. The beadle performed his public duty and lifted one corner of the wrapping. The crowd shuffled; many women covered their eyes. The soggy lace half covered her dear Jemima's left eye. The beadle folded the wrapping back over the body.

“I thank you, sir,” Mrs. Bolton said mustering her strength and with as much politeness as possible she added a few more words to the crowd around her. “Thank you. Thank you all. I must rest now, thank you.” Mrs. Bolton stepped into her cottage. She shut the door and fell into a chair next to the hearth. Her heart was beating so fast she thought it might leap up into her mouth. Closing her eyes, she whispered a short prayer and then, recollecting her thoughts, she walked unsteadily to the back of her little house. “If it is true, then so let it be,” she said, as she lay down on her bed and pondered once again the reasons why her sister had written to expiate her long-ago crimes.

Innocents and Sinners

A
fter much knocking, Inspector Endersby was relieved to see the red door click open. Before him towered a tall, elegant woman with red lips and a cap of fine lace. From her ears hung ruby drops.

“Early, sir,” the woman said with a subtle sneer.

Endersby clenched his fist. He removed his hat and announced who he was and why he had come.

“Not again, sir. Who sent you? Lord Harley? The Lord Mayor?”

“Mr. Henry Lardle, in fact, if you are Mrs. Barnes.”

“Foolish Henry? Why he runs about like a slave for that sad man. Step in, sir. You look frosted from this morning.” The hearth was lit in a small parlour painted in gold. In the next room there was a velvet curtain drawn aside to show seven beds. Each was draped with white tulle and sleeping in each was a young girl of no more than twelve years old. “Business is brisk, Inspector,” smiled Mrs. Barnes. She went and pulled the curtain closed and returned to sit by the fire. For his part, Endersby managed to lift his chin and breathe steadily enough to control his urge to yank the woman off her seat, drag her into the room of girls and remonstrate.
But then,
he thought,
a woman of this young age may have been a survivor of just the same kind of establishment
. She acted as if she were twenty-five or more but, on careful examination, Endersby became convinced Mrs. Barnes was no more than eighteen. She had poise; she seemed to have good health, if her teeth were an indication. And she ran a business.
How does one evil balance another
? the inspector thought.

“I will not take much of your time, Mrs. Barnes. I should alert you to the fact that you will be called to the magistrate to account for your acquaintance with Mr. Lardle. And indeed Dr. Benton.”

“Have they committed a crime, sir? Shall I act as witness?” she said in dismissive manner as if she were making a jest.

“Or an accomplice,” replied the inspector, a sharp edge to his voice.

“How so?” Mrs. Barnes calmly asked.

“Tuesday last, two workhouse matrons were murdered and two young females from their establishments were found abandoned on the street.”

“How am I to proceed, Inspector?” the woman asked. “I run a nanny house, not a place of hard labour.”

“Mr. Lardle has been arrested, Mrs. Barnes. On suspicion of murder.”

“The poor git,” she laughed. “I cannot see him ever wishing to return to a workhouse. For any reason.”

“He may or he may not have done so. But it is you and you alone who can verify if indeed he was prompted to do so. In search of females.”

Mrs. Barnes stood up and laughed again. “You, sir, are a respectable man, I assume. Married?”

“Happily so, if the business of my life is of any interest.”

“Inspector, it seems to me that the business of
my
life is yours. May I ask why you are enquiring after smelly Lardle? You seem bent on finding out some sordid truth.”

“An alibi, Mrs. Barnes. You can do the decent act of telling me the truth about Mr. Lardle and his whereabouts on late Tuesday night last.”

“Decent? Can you provide me with recompense?”

“In what manner?” said Endersby, his gut beginning to churn.

“Sir, I am in the business of provisions. Like any honest merchant. Information to you is valuable and if it can help a customer then I am glad to share. But I must have something in return. I live in a world of favours, sir, favours given out for money or assurances.”

“What is it you wish?”

“I wish to be left to my living, sir. You may or may not have the power to disturb me here or my girls, but who may I trust? Must I grovel to you or to any official and then bear the rancour of my patrons to safeguard my livelihood?”

“I am not at liberty to grant you any form of protection, Mrs. Barnes. I put no trust in your kind of business. But I am not one to act the moral judge, either, if no capital crime is being committed.”

“You are a man of intelligence,” she said, her face losing its mocking smile and taking on a more pensive look. “Mr. Lardle, sir, is the working slave of a man. But it is indiscrete of me to mention to you of what our business arrangement consists.”

“Do you read, Mrs. Barnes? You speak well, as if you were trained in the Inns of Court.”

“You flatterer. You and your kind like to praise me for my wit. How I learned to speak well was hard come by, sir. Let that be enough.” Endersby sat back, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. “I want to save the lives of innocent women, Mrs. Barnes. And to protect children. All I can promise you is that if you can provide any information about Mr. Lardle and his actions last Tuesday, I may be able to stop a monster that is killing the females of this city.”

Mrs. Barnes reacted by quickly raising her hand to her throat as if to protect it from a murderer's knife. She took a moment to speak; Endersby could see that his words had touched her in a profound manner.

“Mr. Lardle comes here two or three times a week,” Mrs. Barnes said, moving away, her back turned toward Endersby as if she wished to hide her features.

“He is employed by a Dr. Benton to procure young blonde girls of ten or twelve. Once or twice I allowed Lardle to lead away girls from my establishment to the doctor's house in Bedford Square. I do not know what occurs exactly between them, but I will reveal the girls are returned to me the next morning untouched.”

“Go on, please.”

“I admit I became fearful, sir. Mr. Lardle was taking away these members of my house and using my good graces to earn his coin with some payment to me. I accommodated him for a time until I realized it was to my disadvantage. On Tuesday last he came past midnight, his usual hour. He waited until three or four in the morning once my regular clients had come and gone. I do not let him into this part of the house but allow him to stay in the area kitchen below, where he speaks with my cook and maid. At four o'clock in the morning I came down with two girls, not of my prettiest, but thin and young enough for the tastes of Dr. Benton. Mr. Lardle had been taking porter and was not in the clearest state of mind to accept my offer. He did not become belligerent but he was insistent that I find him two other girls, cleaner girls he said.”

“Were the girls ill, sickly?”

“None of my girls are so, Inspector. But Mr. Lardle claimed his employer wanted innocent girls. By that he meant ones whose hair was blonde, cheeks more round and rosy. Girls like
that
are two to three pounds, sir, and poor Lardle had only a pound at best. Whether he kept back more money was of some concern for me. Dr. Benton is a comfortable man with a good profession.”

“So you refused him.”

“I did, sir. Told him that if his master wished the better kind, he must visit me here. I must reap the reward of my own risks, sir.”

“Did you send Lardle away?”

“After some argument, yes, I sent him off. It was close to dawn when he left. I imagine he will not come back here.”

“You would swear this to the magistrate?” said Endersby quietly. “And your maid. Is she honest?”

“Do you mean, sir, that she will appear before the magistrate?” The woman laughed. “If you wish it, Inspector. But I assure you Lardle is not a violent man. He has a doxy; he favours cards over any other sport.”

Endersby rose. He knew he would have to bring Mrs. Barnes to appear in the court but for now he was satisfied that she had provided an alibi for Mr. Lardle and his actions. On leaving the nanny house, he was at odds and ends. His mind was turning, both with remorse and from his “demon familiar” reeling from its containment. No time like the present, sir, he said to himself. He hired a hansom cab, arrived at Number Sixteen Bedford Square. He spoke briefly to the two constables on guard. “Sir, the man in question returned late. He has not left the house,” one constable reported. Endersby thanked the two men and knocked softly on the front door. Almost immediately, it was opened by the butler, who took him straightaway into Dr. Benton's surgery.

“Good morning, sir,” the doctor said. Endersby introduced himself. The doctor did not show any alarm. On hearing of Mr. Lardle's arrest he showed some concern and then, with little hesitation, he invited the inspector to follow him upstairs.

“Sir,” the doctor began. “I am an honest man. A man without children.” He walked on and as he turned the corner to enter the back part of the house, the doctor and the inspector were met by Mrs. Wells.

“Good morning, Inspector,” she said, blushing right away and lowering her eyes.

“You are acquainted with Mr. Endersby are you Wells?” Dr. Benton asked.

“I came the other day, Mr. Benton, to enquire after Mr. Lardle,” Endersby said. “And about your dealings with him.”

“What did you discover, sir?” the doctor asked, no hint of fear or trepidation in his voice.

“I saw the pink room, Mr. Benton. I have also just come from a visit to the establishment of Mrs. Barnes.”

“A most unfortunate place,” was the doctor's answer. “How ignorant and cruel men can be in thinking that virgin bodies can somehow cure them of a venereal ailment. In Paris, such places are rife and I believe they are now a plague in our own great city.”

Inspector Endersby marvelled at the matter-of-fact behaviour of Dr. Benton. He saw no embarrassment in his mien. Was he unaware of his actions? Was he a man pretending to have moral character — in spite of the implications raised by his hiring of girls? “This past Tuesday night, sir, you remained at home.”

“Wells, was I at home late Tuesday?” asked Dr. Benton.

“All the night, sir, as I recall. Up and down, if I may be so bold to say.”

“Come, Inspector, let me show you something,” said the doctor. Mrs. Wells gasped. “Do not fret Wells. You and I have done nothing but good.”

Into the pink room, Endersby observed once again the small furniture, the little bed and table. Dr. Benton opened up a cabinet full of dolls and small boxes. “It is here, Inspector, I entertain my guests. Young girls, sir. They are not expecting kindness but I give it to them. I hand them a coin if they ask, I have Mrs. Wells bathe them if they wish. I also have Mrs. Wells tell me if these girls are in any way sickly or injured.”

“Is this true, Mrs. Wells?” Endersby asked. The woman whose face was now wet with tears nodded her head. “Dr. Benton does his best.”

“You do not favour these nanny houses, Dr. Benton?” Endersby said bluntly.

“Sir, I was a married man. I could not have children of my own. When I suggested to my wife that we indulge our passion — or
my
passion — for having young ones in our lives, she grew appalled and then angry. When I began this practise of ‘saving' the young girls, she said I was mad, without conscience. She decided to leave the marital home soon after.” Dr. Benton told the story slowly with a hint of sadness. He then sat down on the little bed.

“Please, Josiah,” Mrs. Wells pleaded, stepping forward.

“No, Wells. I must reveal. You see, Inspector, I had a great loss as a child. My dear Katherine Helena, my sister.” The man's voice broke but he pulled his head up and went on, his throat clearing every so often as he spoke.

“She drowned because of my negligence.”

“Not true, sir,” Mrs. Wells said, her voice soft. “You must not keep that burden to yourself. It was an accident. Your father told you so in his letter before he died.”

“She drowned, Inspector. And since that day I swore I would protect the young when and however I could. Thus, you see around you in this room, my feeble attempts at clearing my conscience. You may think me mad. I know I should go to a judge or a magistrate and demand that Mrs. Barnes and her ilk be condemned. But you and I know the nature of man in this city. How cruel life can be for the sick and poor and the vulnerable.”

Endersby stood silent for a moment. “Mr. Lardle is often gruff, sir, as am I with him,” admitted Dr. Benton. “But he is not a bad man.” Dr. Josiah Benton rose. He shut the door to the cupboard. He then allowed the inspector to see a small book listed with the names of all the girls he had seen over the past three years, their ages, the medicines he had given them for free to cure their ailments. “I have offered these orphans to leave the nanny houses and forgo the streets. Set them up for adoption in the Foundling Hospital. Mrs. Barnes, to her credit, has allowed me at times to do so. Some of the young girls are too frightened, too lost to move from her attentions. She, herself, was a victim of this cruel practise. In fact, sir, I lent her money at one time, thinking she would become an honest woman. But I could not influence her beyond that.”

The inspector took a moment. Was there any reason to doubt this man's words? Lardle had an alibi. As did Dr. Benton himself. He, too, would be required to write a deposition under oath and appear before the magistrate. Endersby put on his hat. He shook Dr. Benton's hand. He realized he could not condone nor condemn the man for his peculiar actions. Much good came from this sordid manner of treating the young but Endersby could not do anything but marvel at the fortitude of the man.

“Thank you, sir,” the inspector said on leaving. “I shall send a constable to fetch you and your servants to appear before the magistrate.”

In the street once again, Endersby gathered his thoughts.
What to make of such a morning?
A young woman without compunction selling girls' bodies, a doctor tending to them as if they were his own children? The city is a strange world of the mad and the good,
Endersby concluded. He informed the two constables of their present duty to accompany Dr. Benton and his household to court as soon as possible. On checking his pocket watch, he realized he must hurry. The hours were passing too quickly. The killer could still be at large. Endersby knew that speed and purpose were not enough: there was the moral imperative of life itself. “Onward,” he whispered to himself and in spite of his gouty foot, his scabs, and insistent appetite, he moved on.