Children of the Tide (29 page)

“Doctor, what has stained so much of this lower section?” asked Caldwell. McClure fingered the strands stained a blackish­brown colour. “Treacle? Rouge paint?” the inspector asked.

“Old blood,” responded McClure.

“Blood?” asked Caldwell.

“Most likely used to staunch a wound or wrap an injury is my guess,” said Dr. McClure. “The lace itself is one from a practiced lace-maker,” added Endersby. “The workmanship reminds me of the pieces done by my wife.”

Endersby pondered the piece and the doctor's analysis and then replaced the item inside its pouch and handed it to Caldwell to guard as a final clue. A knock at the kitchen door was followed by the entrance of two constables from Earl Street Station House. They carried a canvass stretcher on which they lay the body of Tobias Jibbs and brought it out the front door to the waiting wagon.

“Good evening, Inspector,” said Dr. McClure, extending his hand as the two men prepared to part ways on the street. “I admire your methods, sir. The idea of ruse and play is most engaging.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Endersby. “Thank you for your professional analyses.”

In the hansom cab on his way through London's evening streets, Endersby drew up his conclusions to the case. He planned his strategy to present to the magistrate and to Superintendent Borne. The descriptions given him over the past few days would be recorded; at least one of the children, one of the Catherines, would be asked to testify and then dictate her impressions for the police ledgers. If possible, Mr. Fitz might be persuaded to come and view the corpse of Jibbs. The facts of the case coincided well enough to the findings of the detective and his team: the odour of the legs, the fetter bruises, the frock coat, the letters.
In the end,
Endersby thought,
there is little doubt Mr. Jibbs was the murderer — even if the poor man had died before giving a confession.

At Fleet Lane Station House, Rance and Tibald met with the inspector. He informed them of the capture and then gave them orders for the next morning to make a full day's round of workhouses to determine whether any incidents had occurred during the night concerning murder or the fate of abandoned girls. “A caution only, gentlemen, in case we have made a
grave
error with Mr. Jibbs,” quipped the inspector.

“The coroner and magistrate must decide on the ultimate guilt of Mr. Jibbs,” Endersby further explained before dismissing the men to go home. He then went up to his office, where he sat for an hour with Caldwell and wrote up a brief description of the evening's events in language lugubrious enough in tone to satisfy the whims of Superintendent Borne.

“And what of Sergeant Smeets, sir?” enquired Caldwell, closing down his inkwell.

“What indeed?”

“May we still regard him as a suspect, sir?”

“We may
regard
him as such, but we cannot prosecute him in that role as we have no acceptable proof.”

“Thank you, sir. Shall I inform Doctor Reeves and Smeets himself?”

“I shall do that in the morning, Sergeant.”

Endersby sighed. “Our professional life of detection, sir, is so often fraught with doubt and half-truths. I am sure you would agree that the byways of the criminal mind are myriad.”

“As usual, sir, I do admire your ramblings,” replied Caldwell.

“I thank you, Sergeant,” Endersby said, letting out a tremendous yawn. The two men parted. To ease his foot and the band of tightness in his lower back, Endersby decided to walk home to Number Six Cursitor Street. Arriving at his front door, he was met by a jubilant Harriet. After a wash, a shave, and a change of bindings on his injured hand, Endersby donned his Persian smoking robe and sat down with his beloved Harriet at the dinner table.

“What delight,” sighed Harriet. “I always sleep more soundly on hearing your case is closed. But then again, I must warn myself that new cases will appear.”

“A life of sorrow, madam?” Endersby quipped, patting his lips.

“Worry, sir. Honest concern. It is the lot of a public servant's spouse to forbear the trials of her mate.” Later, by the fire, the tea table was crowded with hot toast and fried mushrooms. Harriet had prepared a black Indian tea, a blend saved for occasions of joy. When the two retired to their bed, candles extinguished, Endersby could not fall to sleep. He rubbed his knee; he scratched his head. Harriet sat up. She lit a single candle.

“Tell me,” she said gently, showing no impatience.

“Nothing at all, dear one, I swear.”

“Tell me of nothing, then,” she said, taking his large hand in hers.

“Why lace?” the inspector asked.

“Indeed,” mused Harriet.

“Still very puzzling,” Endersby then said.

Harriet stared into the tired eyes of her husband. A great yawn sprung forth from the inspector. “I do beg your pardon, madam.”

“Pardon granted,” Harriet said, pinching out the candle light. “By the by, a most curious-looking letter arrived for you in this evening's mail. It appears to be from the French embassy.”

“A letter?” Endersby replied, plumping his pillow.

“Important, I would imagine,” Harriet said.

“Best it wait until morning,” Endersby said, his eyes closing.

“Very wise of you, dear,” Harriet said. “Good night.”

“Good night, indeed,” said Endersby, his right arm slowly circling the shoulders of his wife as she lay back to rest her head close to his.

Trumpets Sound No More: An Inspector Endersby Mystery

by Jon Redfern

Winner of the 2008 Arthur Ellis Award for Best Crime Novel.

In 1840, the theatre world in London is shocked by the brutal killing of one of its youngest and most successful entrepreneurs, bludgeoned in his house. The discovery of a contentious theatre contract, a collection of promissory notes, and a walking stick, its bloodied ivory head in the shape of a dog, are the only leads. Inspector Owen Endersby, of the recently formed London Detective Police Force, is called upon to apprehend the culprit before Christmas Eve. The inspector has six days to chart the byways of the Criminal Mentality. The case soon involves street vendors, downstairs servants, money lenders and the greatest performers of the stage. Who had motive to batter the young man to death? Without the techniques of the modern-day detective, Inspector Endersby must root out the villain any way he can: by disguise, break-and-enter, bribery, mail-tampering, and physical force.

Put on the Armour of Light

by Catherine Macdonald

In June 1899, the Reverend Charles Lauchlan's industrious life as a young Presbyterian minister is knocked off the rails when he learns that his former university roommate has been arrested on murder charges.

The chief of police says it's an open-and-shut case, but Sergeant Setter — labeled as a misfit by his fellow officers — disagrees. Lauchlan and Setter become uneasy alliances in a search that takes them from the sleaziest bars to the most sumptuous drawing rooms of turn-of-the-century Winnipeg. On the way, Lauchlan uses his pastoral skills in ways never anticipated in the seminary. As time runs out he must risk everything, even his heart, in order to find the real killer.

Copyright © Jon Redfern, 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photo-copying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

All characters in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Editor: Laura Harris

Design: Colleen Wormald

Cover Design: Carmen Giraudy

Cover Image: © duncan/1890 istockphoto.com

Epub Design: Carmen Giraudy

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Redfern, Jon, 1946-, author

Children of the tide : a Victorian detective story / Jon Redfern.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-4597-2418-1 (pbk.).--ISBN 978-1-4597-2419-8

(pdf).--ISBN 978-1-4597-2420-4 (epub)

I. Title.

PS8585.E34218C45 2015 C813'.6 C2014-904270-1 C2014-904271-X

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