Children of the Tide (27 page)

A
F
all Too Tragic

T
he tiny window in the attic room of Mrs. Kermode's lodging house showed the first dimming of twilight. “A candle, sir,” said Endersby. A single narrow bed, shadow-filled corners, a rumpled collection of clothes too nondescript in the candle's light to afford Endersby any immediate clues. A room barely large enough to house a child.

“Such a sorrowful place,” Endersby said quietly.

The inspector went to the window. His reflection in the panes showed a face pulled by fatigue. He unlatched the hook and looked out. “We must not presume our man will give in easily, Caldwell.” Tottering attic storeys, broken chimneys, steep runs of roof tile: a challenging above-ground course for any man to run over — or any other man to give chase. Directly below the lodging house dormer where he stood, Endersby saw the dark shape of the courtyard with its stacks of mirrors in their rotting frames. The inspector then began his round, holding up the lit candle, while Caldwell stood close to the door to listen for movement of any kind.

“Do not hesitate, sergeant, if he comes. For he
must
come upstairs eventually.”

Slowly, in a circle, Endersby toured the tiny space, followed by his shadow on the dirt-smeared walls. He pulled back the soiled bed linens. Blood stains spotted the pillow. He lifted up the straw- stuffed mattress. The sheets held the stink of the man's body. All along the edge of the single top sheet was oily dirt: coal smut. Under the bed was a pair of old military boots and a small canvas bag. The inspector shook the bag.

“Sergeant,” Endersby said. “Look on this.”

The contents of the bag lay spread on the bedsheet.

“It is the same lace as we have brought with us,” Caldwell said.

“No doubt. Yes, lift it … the pattern, the twists, the cut edge of one piece like the edge of the other. Rosemary Lane lace for curtains.”

“And for murder, sir,” replied Caldwell.

They fell silent again for an instant.

“Why lace?” murmured Endersby. “Now, sergeant, we begin Act One of our Punch and Judy show.” Out of the sack brought from Fleet Lane, Caldwell pulled the rusty gaff found at St. Pancras and the dredgerman's hat and laid them across the bed. Endersby in turn removed from his bulging pocket the letters of young Catherine Smeets. Blowing out the candle, the inspector and his sergeant left the room; they came down the three flights of stairs to the main floor hall. There, Mrs. Kermode sat at her table, counting coins. Smallwood had returned and, to the delight of Endersby, had put on a mackintosh and a squashed top hat as a disguise. Tapping the edge of the hat in greeting, Smallwood lounged by the street door, picking his teeth. Just then, the suspect appeared in the doorway of the dining parlour.

“Coward,” he shouted, his eyes half closed. His gait was uneven as if he had drunk too much gin. The stench from his legs rose in the air of the hall. Mrs. Kermode held her nose: “Sir, I beg of you. To the public washhouse. There be water and soap for a ha'penny.” The man swivelled on the spot. His arms flew up above his head and his fists formed as if he were about to strike the landlady.

“Aye, eee, aye, madam!” he said in a ghastly whisper.

Endersby readied himself. The man, however, held his stance as if he were posing for a sculptor. A second was all, then in a quick change, he began knocking his fists together above his head in imitation of a dancer doing a jig. The fellow turned, his stockinged feet tapping lightly in time to his moving fists.“Watch him,” Endersby said quietly to Caldwell. Endersby sat down on a chair in the hall and nonchalantly lit his clay pipe. He flicked his match end in the direction of Smallwood, who picked up the cue by sniffing his nose. The suspect danced a little more, oblivious to those around him. Presently, the patter of rain was heard against the window panes. A clap of thunder followed quickly, drowning out the sound of tapping feet. The man halted, his eyes widened in terror. He froze, still as a marble statue. Not a feature quivered.

“Open up! Open up the hatch, for mercy's sake!” he suddenly screamed, his body jolting back to life. His shriek rang through the house. “We will perish!” he howled, stamping the floor with one of his sore legs. Dragging himself toward the stairs the maddened man covered his face. “Devils,” he moaned, his heavy steps pounding up the stairs to the attic.

“Now, men. Now!” Endersby hissed. “Our fellow will find the incriminating evidence in his room. Stay on guard. He may come down these very stairs with a weapon. If we hear a clatter on the roof, be prepared to set chase. Caldwell, ready?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

Caldwell slipped away from the stairwell, where a slow clomping of feet was heard. “He's coming down,” Endersby said, sitting to relight his clay pipe. Smallwood and Caldwell posed, pretending to be passing time. Meanwhile, the rain lightened as the cast of players in the hall began talking to each other. Smallwood stationed himself in front of the street door; Endersby's post was near the other end of the hall leading to the kitchen. Caldwell remained in between the two, resting against Mrs. Kermode's small table. The footsteps above them slowed, as if the man was reconsidering his descent. They started again from the second landing and came down the final flight to the first floor.

The suspect was panting, like a dog after a chase. He held the gaff and wielded it like a walking cane. His pockets in his frock coat were stuffed with papers. “Good evening, sirs,” he said in a hoarse voice. The felon did not catch the eye of any of the three men posed in the hallway. He made no sign of demanding how his room had been invaded and objects left there. Endersby could see the man was aware, yet unsure. “Good evening, sir,” Endersby said. “A fine evening it is,” his accent coming forth. “Wet, I reckon, with the March wind.”

“Ah, ah,” replied the suspect.

“So, sir,” Endersby now said. He tapped his pipe. “You have letters to write, I imagine. I see you have equipped your pockets with paper. But is it not past the afternoon hour, sir? I know of only one mail delivery after five of the clock.”

“Ah, ah, a storm at sea. Delays. Must fly, must dash — off to the country, sir, a pudding to purchase.” The man pronounced his nonsense in an elevated tone, his head turning from side to side as if he were bothered by gnats. “Devil take'em, I wish,” he said, bowing his head. As he stepped toward the front door, Endersby stood up from his chair.

“Mr. William More,” he said. “Or more precisely, Mr.
Tobias Jibbs.
Do not go, sir.”

“The tide has come in,” the man replied. He turned to face Endersby, who now held up the piece of lace found in the suspect's attic room. “
Lace
, sir,” the inspector said.

“Ah,” cried the man, raising the gaff. “The tide came in as I pulled him, pulled …” As Tobias Jibbs elevated his weapon further, Smallwood leaped forward, grabbed the gaff from behind and yanked it out of the man's hand. Jibbs dashed back toward the stairwell. His arms were hard and strong. Driven by the need to escape, he struck Caldwell on the chin, the blow sending the sergeant to the floor. Endersby began marching toward him from the end of the hall. Smallwood leaped over the prone Caldwell. He swept up his right arm but found it blocked by Jibbs, who feinted and landed a punch to Smallwood's nose. In the midst of the tumbling, Jibbs reached the stairs, the steps resounding with his boots retreating toward the rooftops.

“After him, chaps,” yelled Endersby.

Up the men went, into the empty room and toward the opened window. “Caldwell,” ordered Endersby. His faithful sergeant climbed out onto the slanted roof. Smallwood pointed to the figure inching his way along the brick edge of the adjoining building's roof. “There, sergeant,” Smallwood said. Endersby stood by as Caldwell slid down and placed his feet on the roof edge. Attached to it ran a dented metal gutter. “Are you safe, sir?” asked Endersby as Caldwell tested the strength of the edge. “And sound, sir,” came the sergeant's response.

From his vantage point in the attic window, Endersby watched Tobias Jibbs making slow progress along the next building's edge. Much of the brick and mortar of the houses had long begun to crumble. Showers of broken masonry rained down as Jibbs made his way past two dormers, their windows boarded up. Endersby could hear the man yelling out curses, his thin body making cautious movements. The open courtyard below now flickered with shadows from lanterns lit by Mrs. Kermode and her two kitchen servants.

“Owen, allow me,” said Smallwood. He had taken both bed sheets, twisted and tied them in a series of knots. He secured the makeshift rope to the doorknob of the entrance door, tossed the other end out the window to climb down beside Caldwell. Smallwood hoisted himself over the windowsill and slid down the incline to the stone edge. The two policemen began to inch their way toward Tobias Jibbs, Smallwood grasping the sheet line and one of Caldwell's sleeves.

“Filth!” Jibbs yelled at the men trying to follow him. By now he had reached an attic dormer window kitty-corner to his rented room. He had moved along and around the L-shaped angle of the roof edge joining the houses attached to Mrs. Kermode's dwelling. Endersby counted the rooftops to where Jibbs had made his way — two separate houses facing the courtyard. Would Caldwell and Smallwood be able to tackle the culprit on such a narrow ledge? Jibbs grabbed the side of one of the blocked-up dormer windows. With his other hand he pounded hard on the rotted wood until the board fell inwards and he scrambled through the space into the dark interior. “Smallwood,” shouted Endersby. “Stay put. Caldwell, can you give chase?”

“Certainly, sir,” the sergeant shouted back.

“Careful, Sergeant, go slowly along. Be aware he may attack you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Caldwell shouted back.

“I shall go down to the street,” Endersby called to Smallwood. Endersby hurried through the room and down the flights of stairs. Rushing into the street, he commanded the guarding constable to accompany him.

“At your service, sir,” came the young man's reply. “McNally's the name.”

The two men left the central square and jogged briskly along the street adjacent to the lodging house. It was muddy, the houses dark and marred by broken windows. Endersby counted out the house fronts and stopped at the one that he believed Jibbs had entered. He told the constable to shine his bull's eye lantern up the facade. The weak beam of light showed only broken timber and shabby windowsills. The dormer on the roof facing the street had been bricked up. “Ah,” said Endersby. “He cannot run out to the front roof, then.” The inspector ordered the constable to kick down the street door. A swarm of broken bits of wood flew into the air and dust blew out of the abandoned foyer.

“Your lantern, sir,” said Endersby, taking hold of the bull's eye. The two men stepped inside. The lantern's beam showed collapsed doors, huge holes in the wooden floors. The dust-smothered staircase looked intact — except for the broken banister bowing out over the hall like the folds of an accordion. The sound of slow footsteps could be heard above the inspector, on the second floor. The constable pulled out his truncheon and inched toward the foot of the stairs.

“Tobias Jibbs,” cried Endersby. “We have come to arrest you in the name of the law.”

Footsteps crept along the upper hallway toward the back end of the abandoned house. As they did, thin strands of dust filtered down through the cracks “Come down peacefully, sir.” The footsteps continued. Endersby heard the man panting, breaking open doors. “Filth!” Jibbs shouted. “Get away.”

“Now, McNally. We must set chase,” Endersby commanded. The young constable wiped his mouth and leapt onto the first few stairs of the staircase leading up to where Tobias Jibbs was pacing. With a crack, the bottom four stairs caved in, taking young McNally down into a heap of billowing splinters. His truncheon rolled into the hallway. Endersby watched his body thump onto a pile of sharp ends. The young man groaned.

“Constable,” Endersby cried out, pushing through the rubble to grab hold of the young policeman's hand. The inspector helped him stand. Blood streamed from McNally's forehead. “Speak, man,” Endersby shouted. “Sir, I … I can stand.” Above, Jibbs had run toward the front of the house. Endersby heard him kick at the rotten mullions. With his constable injured and the way up partially destroyed, Endersby fought back a surge of anger. Jibbs' kicking and cursing increased. “Devil. Fool!” Jibbs shrieked. His words galvanized Endersby's conscience. He could not allow the man to escape. Proof positive was evident: Jibbs' ownership of the lace condemned him. Endersby clenched his fists. He wiped dust from his mouth.

“Sir,” Endersby yelled into the darkness. “You are in search of your Catherine. She is alive, sir. She is unharmed.”

The kicking and shouting stopped abruptly.

“Catherine is safe, sir. She was found living in St. Pancras Workhouse,” Endersby said. An anguished moan filled the air, startling young McNally who, edging closer to the inspector, attempted to stem the flow of blood from the wound on his forehead. “Is the man mad?”

“From grief, sir,” Endersby said quickly. “Stay your ground, Constable.”

Young McNally stepped forward to resume his place with his truncheon held high. A dark figure appeared and stopped at the top of the stairs. Endersby took hold of the lantern and pointed it up. The sudden illumination showed the figure's left arm rising to cover its face. “Ah, Mr. Jibbs,” Endersby said in a polite voice. “Uncle Bo. Your beloved niece longs to see you after all these months.” Tobias Jibbs stepped back. His knees buckled to the floor. The pale lantern beams caught his blackened hands. “No child I love shall die in a workhouse,” Jibbs cried.

“Mr. Jibbs,” said Endersby, “if you shall come down slowly, the stairs will hold you. I will lead you to your niece, for she is close by in Seven Dials.”