Children of the Tide (6 page)

Lardle and Co.

A
t this same hour in fashionable Bedford Square, a distinguished-looking gentleman opened up the back door to Number Sixteen. The house was a three-storey brick affair with an iron gate and silk curtains at the windows. Number Sixteen lay a world away from Drury Lane, where the St. Giles Workhouse stood in early afternoon gloom. The gentleman's name was Josiah Benton, a physician and regular church-goer. He had not slept the whole night. He looked again at the clock in the hall behind him. “Where in blazes is the filthy man?” he mumured to himself. He felt a constriction in his throat. He brushed down his velvet waistcoat, his front pocket stuffed with coins ready to pay his hireling, Mr. Lardle, if the wretch would ever return from his search.

Dr. Josiah Benton was a proud man, highly respected for his accurate diagnoses of his patients' symptoms. Today, like all others in his work week, he had to ready himself for the exigencies of his surgery. No doubt, given his restless night, he would have to fill his stomach with coffee to keep his mind alert. A solitary gentleman one year short of forty, he had enjoyed being the son of a wealthy father and had learned much from his fine education; he had taken full advantage of his youthful travels, relishing the pleasures of drink and rich food. Fortunate he had been, but he was plagued these days by a pervading loneliness ever since his wife had decided to leave him two years before. Dear Dorothea. She had accused him of unnatural appetites, a phrase which frequently had amused Dr. Benton. For without doubt, Josiah Benton was a man of peculiar passions. He frequently gave in to his penchant for secret games — behaviour which his wife argued had undermined
her
notions of a proper marriage.

The one true tragedy in Dr. Benton's life was his lack of children. Dorothea had been barren. The absence of offspring had been another motive in the dissolution of their marriage.

“Ah, dear little ones,” Dr. Benton now sighed, the chilly air catching his breath. Pushing thoughts of his wife from his mind, Dr. Benton stepped back inside Number Sixteen. He went downstairs to the area kitchen in the basement where his cook was preparing his lunch. This sudden change of venue lifted his spirits. He nodded to Mrs. Wells, then walked up the servants' stairs into his surgery and looked through the list of patients he was to greet within the hour. His was a thin, well-formed body, carefully nourished except for the occasional glass of sherry and a monthly visit, incognito, to one of the opium houses in Soho. He brushed his waistcoat again, then with sudden delight marched out of his panelled office. He had heard, at last, the light tapping on the back door.

“No need,” he said to his eager butler who was rushing to raise the latch. “I shall attend,” Dr. Benton said. In fact, he
must
attend, given the business at hand. Of course, the hour was too late now for him to take advantage. If in fact the scum man had been able to do his duty. Often, the man arrived empty-handed. All Dr. Benton knew of him was that he was poor, and was once an orphan brought up in a workhouse. Pulling open the back door, the doctor viewed his hireling.

“The hour, Mr. Lardle,” scolded Dr. Benton. “I have been up all the night. I must to my surgery soon.”

The bedraggled fellow bowed his head in reply. He wore long unwashed hair; his face was masked by a poorly kept beard; a large black hat — a dredgerman's hat, the doctor surmised — covered much of his face, and if truth be told, he so often arrived in the dark that Dr. Benton had never had opportunity to look long or close enough at the man's rough features. This morning his hands were smudged. To the doctor's eye they suggested Lardle had been washing in coal dust. As always, the man had a stink; more likely his rotten teeth or his unwashed torso, Dr. Benton concluded.

“Nought to yer taste, Doctor Benton.” Lardle's head hung low, his face shadowed by his hat.

“What in blazes do you mean? None on the streets, by the bridges?”

“ Fled, sir. Dashed away when I comes close.”

“Donkey,” the doctor retorted. “You've smashed your knuckles?”

“Yes, sir. All night I been up and down, in and out. Searched every which ways, I did. Found two but not right they were, sir. Not for you. Scarred one of 'em was, not right. Not a fit, sir.”

“And the nanny houses?”

“As I been tellin' you, sir, they keep 'em indoors. Up the stairs.
You
must go to 'em.”

“How many times have I told you, Lardle, that is impossible.”

“Yes, sir,” said the man in a hoarse whisper.

“I suppose you want coin for your trouble tonight?”

“If it be no bother, sir,” replied the man, trembling in the afternoon drizzle. “And if yer wishes it, I found one last minute, near Covent Garden.” The dirty man raised his left hand and pointed to the brick archway leading into the courtyard of Dr. Benton's private lot. A woman in a bonnet, a face soured by poverty and illness. Damp feathers in her bonnet, hands gloved in shredded muslin.

“You are a mad dog,” snapped Dr. Benton. “Why bring me a scull, sir?”

Mr. Lardle signalled to the woman with his hand. She stepped forward and pulled with her a short, light-haired girl, no older than thirteen, thin, rouged, her tattered dress made of blue cotton. “Says her daughter is a good 'un, sir. Makes her mum a few coin a day for food. Been at it a couple o' years now.”

“Good God, Lardle.”

Dr. Benton stepped into the courtyard, waving the two figures to go back under the arch. He surveyed the upper and lower windows of his house to be sure there were no gawking house maids peering down at his doings. In the dimness of the archway, Dr. Benton examined the face of the young girl. She had been pretty but life had already hardened her face and taken two of her front teeth. The girl's mother stretched out her hand. “For my trouble, guvnor, if you'd be so pleased.”

“Come here,” Dr. Benton called to Mr. Lardle, who came hobbling over to the archway.

“Never humiliate me nor women of this ilk ever again, Lardle, and never at this daylight hour. You know what I want. You have done it before. When you search, you must put effort into it. Pay these pathetic creatures and then get yourself off to home.”

“But sir,” Lardle said, “I ain't got but tuppence.”

Dr. Josiah Benton grasped the coins in his pocket and tossed them toward the man. “Take these and go away,” he commanded before turning and moving back toward his back door. As he entered the house, Dr. Benton could hear the two street females giggling in a mocking fashion as they bent down to grasp the coins. “Come away, come away,” Mr. Lardle growled at the two of them. From the kitchen window, Dr. Benton watched them go and gave out a sigh of relief. He despised the tone his voice had taken, but it was the only way to deal with such people. Mr. Lardle most times could be trusted to be discrete. As long as he was paid.

“Sir?” said a female voice behind him. Dr. Benton turned to see his cook holding a wooden spoon.

“Your luncheon, sir, is ready,” she said.

“Good,” snapped Dr. Benton.

The woman gave a quick curtsey as Dr. Josiah Benton made his way toward the dining room. Sitting down alone, he said grace. An ache of despair filled his chest; such disappointment after his night vigil. “Now what to do?” he asked himself. “How desperate must I become? What must I do to find another?” he whispered, his mind full of doubt.

A Coincidence of Catherines

I
nspector Owen Endersby's first words on meeting Sergeant Caldwell at Fleet Lane Station House were precise. “We have before us, sir, a coincidence of Catherines.”

The two men shook hands as professional gentlemen and stepped inside the arched portal of the station. From within came the sounds of men's voices. Doors were opened and shut, but the sense of calm that pervaded the halls relieved Endersby after the panic and clamour in Shoe Lane. Caldwell had arrived at five minutes past one with the look of a man who needed a mug of beer. However, the business of the investigation was of greater importance for the moment and so his sergeant listened, eyes wide with disbelief, to what Endersby told of the murder in Shoe Lane, the coroner's session, and the frightening comparisons to the crime in St. Giles.

“There is a pattern, I fear, Caldwell, which presages a repetition of this foul act.”

“So it seems, sir,” Caldwell replied, his face showing concern. Endersby ruminated for a second then turned again to his sergeant-at-hand.

“We must assume both our Catherines were carried out of the workhouse to afford the villain time to look more closely into their faces. What he found was not suitable to his purpose.”

Caldwell then said: “But how can we alert all of London? Workhouses abound, as do the houses of correction.”

“Sergeant, ‘this sore task will not divide the Sunday from the week.' Mr. Hamlet, once again, Caldwell. There is much we must do! We shall set a strategy. First, we need to convince Superintendent Borne of its necessity.”

“Can we conclude a motive, sir?”

“Well, Sergeant, I have come to think the villain not only wants to find a singular child, but that his two murders — so far — may be a sign, a signature act, in the same manner as a name written on paper. These two murders show us a planning mind.”

Sergeant Caldwell pondered these words in silence while around him and his superior the halls of the station house continued to echo.

“To protect the innocent, Caldwell, I suggest we first mark out the locations of all the workhouses within walking distance of St. Giles and Shoe Lane and give them warning. I assume our villain is poor, lacking the means to travel too far, and he appears to have a halting limp. If he uses logic and if he has such intimate acquaintance with institutions of this kind, he might strike others in the most convenient fashion.”

“It does seem likely, sir.”

“Therefore, let us anticipate the monster. Sergeant, go into our registry of addresses within southern Finsbury district. We can draw out a circle of possible next ‘hits.' Visit each institution and check the ledgers! The workhouses are required by law to record births and deaths and other pertinent business. Most certain, the first names of the males and females will be noted down. We cannot eliminate, however, a workhouse where the name of Catherine is
not
recorded. But we can warn matrons to be vigilant. When and if we find more Catherines, we must speak with each child as soon as possible.”

“It is, sir, an uncommon name for the times. I have a question.”

“Certainly, Sergeant.” By this time, Endersby and Caldwell had strolled into the inner courtyard of Fleet Lane Station House. It was a narrow enclosure inside what was centuries ago a medieval fortress. “Might our villain,” Caldwell asked, “become desperate enough to strike during daylight hours?”

“Might he, indeed, Sergeant? Which would mean he may still be out in the streets, gaff in hand. With the workhouses opening their doors for deliveries of coal and food — it may be possible. We need to act with great speed.” Endersby's mind began constructing mental bridges going here and there. Walking farther on, their hands held behind their backs, the two men circled in unison the perimeter of the courtyard. The smell of London wafted into the courtyard — sewer stink and the usual pungent odour of the Thames.

“Caldwell,” said Endersby after a moment of meditation. “One final thought: have the workhouse masters lock down the coal chutes — no matter what exception may be raised. I will ask Superintendent Borne to allow us two constables to go around with you to warn other houses of the danger. Needless to say we must alert station houses and our seven other detective branches in all constabularies. A description of the murderer most certainly will be helpful.”

“And capture, sir? How will untrained workhouse employees tackle the villain if the occasion arises?”

“Ah, Sergeant, what a question. Will these parish folk believe us enough to gather men, station them, arm them?” Endersby stopped then started again.

“You and the other constables must use strong persuasion. Describe the manner of death. Go to the parish offices and demand cooperation. I shall instruct the other detective branches to alert their night constables and have each check workhouse yards more frequently on the assigned routes.” Inspector Endersby wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The pitiful memory of the two dead matrons had returned to his mind for the moment. But he felt sure he and Caldwell had begun a valid search.

“Let us hope, Caldwell, our detection methods will bear fruit,” Endersby said at last.

“Indeed, sir.”

“Any peculiarities at the coroner's session in St. Giles?”

“No, sir. The jury was most efficient in declaring murder. With your permission, I shall inspect the holding chambers here in this station. Street arrests from last night. Perhaps we have been fortunate with a capture.”

“What a wish,” Endersby said, raising his eyebrows. “I suggest you do so, Sergeant. And with haste. I, in the meantime, shall permit myself the pleasure of requesting the impossible from Superintendent Borne. As Prince Hamlet might utter, I shall endeavour to prove ‘the pith and marrow of our attribute.'”

Endersby straightened his hat and took in a deep breath. “Onward, Sergeant.” The two men shook hands and parted. Climbing a cramped staircase, Endersby came into the central rooms of the station house. Moving on, he crossed a hallway and stopped in front of a door on which brass letters spelling
SUPERINTENDENT
were attached by small nails. From under the door came the delicious smell of cooked food. Borne was taking lunch. In spite of the resistance his superintendent would present, the matter of murder must take priority. Endersby clenched his fist and knocked.

“Yes, no doubt. Just so,” responded Superintendent Borne.

A scrawny man dressed in poorly tailored wool and affecting a vain-glorious gaze, Borne displayed his usual impatience during Endersby's report on the workhouse murders. “A gaff and lace? Yes, yes.” Borne had worked his way up diligently from constable to appointed bureaucrat. He was efficient, mindful of his rank, often cantankerous. Endersby believed he was a man who paid scant attention to daily police work except when his budgets ran over limit. Endersby also knew Borne to be arrogant and unreasonable. He was an old-fashioned authoritarian trained by the Bow Street Runners. He showed little respect for the “new” detective branch, which in his mind wasted too much time searching rather than questioning miscreants. Justice, he always argued, must be hard, immediate, to strike fear in the public and thus deter the criminal mentality.“Sir Robert Peel,” he said once to Endersby, “is too much the reformer and not enough the law enforcer.”

With this knowledge of Borne in mind, Endersby decided to try a less aggressive approach in the hopes that his superintendent would be moved. Endersby explained his strategy. He asked Borne to grant him the time, the funds, and manpower to investigate the murders.

“This is a simple matter, Inspector. Install better locks. No further attacks can occur. The villain will disappear.” Borne sat down at his desk and shot a disgruntled glance at the plate of cooling food he'd barely started.

“Our victims are blameless women and children, sir,” said Endersby, a plea under each breath. “This devil will do anything.”

“Supposition, Inspector. We are discussing the problem of a coal chute. Nothing more.”

Endersby felt a tremor. His “demon familiar” stirred and he knew he must suppress it. Shifting his feet, taking in a breath, he removed any hint of a scowl from his face. In reaction, Superintendent Borne pinched his mouth. Borne stood up and slid his right hand into the front of his frock coat as if he were Napoleon Bonaparte about to give a command: “Inspector Endersby, may I remind you that these people — the children and their female guardians — are of the lower orders. The irresponsible laggards of our society. We place them in workhouses for their own good. The poor kill their own kind, sir; they breed and abandon their offspring. We can show pity, but to devote a man of your rank to an investigation of this kind is a waste of time and coin.”

Inspector Endersby clenched both his gloved fists. His hat dropped to the floor. Borne stepped from the behind the desk. He was about to speak when Endersby interrupted:

“With due respect, sir, the members of the lower orders are Christians, as are you and I. We cannot relinquish our bonds of human brotherhood when the killing of innocent women — women with souls, sir — has taken place. Our noble sovereign has but recently given birth to her first child and she has stated, in her joy, that
all
her subjects are equally beloved of her as is her infant, the Princess Royal, Victoria. Likewise, we men of the law must extend our protection to all. We cannot allow prejudice to rule our conduct.”

Endersby had countered Borne's obstinacy on several occasions with allusions to persons of higher social standing, be they the Queen or an admiral of the imperial navy. Borne removed his hand from his frock coat. He sniffed, looked down at his shoes, then stared Inspector Endersby straight in the eye:

“Inspector, I find your remarks impertinent. Perhaps you have misunderstood the meaning of my words. Our prime minister and founder of our detective police, Sir Robert Peel, has wisely stated our mission is to
prevent
crime and disorder. By finding the simplest way to do this shall result in greater trust and safety for
all
.”

Not to be out-maneuvered, Inspector Endersby formed a quick reply: “With due respect to you and to Sir Robert, our founder also stated that to preserve public favour we police must demonstrate absolute impartial service to the law. A murder has been committed; the law requires action. It is for this reason alone…”

“Inspector, please,” Borne said, his face reddening. “I am quite capable of quoting Sir Robert's nine principles. And I can see that if we continue in this manner, I shall not have the luxury of finishing my meal.”

Endersby did not move. Superintendent Borne sat down again. He picked up his fork and took hold of his cloth napkin. Endersby folded his hands together. He spoke in a flat manner as if he were defeated and was willing to succumb to Borne's dismissive manner: “What, then, sir, might be your suggestion in handling this matter?”

“Surely, Inspector, that is what your keen mind must conjure on its own. I have given my opinion. Do you wish me to issue an order? Please be advised, sir, our city has over eight hundred constables and at least twenty well-paid detective inspectors like you. We have a roster of crimes to investigate. I suggest you consider delegating duties and, if you wish, you may appoint two constables at most to give you aid. I can see no other recourse. But once better locks are secured in workhouse institutions, I reckon the murders will cease.”

“Most just of you, sir,” was Endersby's quiet response. Somehow without losing face, Borne had managed to recognize the severity of the situation Endersby had presented to him not minutes before.

“We have your permission, then, to proceed, sir?”

“Search and capture, Inspector.” Borne's voice was without enthusiasm. He then pronounced: “You have much to do, sir. I want facts, conclusions and arrests.”

“Thank you, sir. We already have some clues to lead us.”

“You make your duties sound like a child's game, Inspector. How clever. I grant a three day subsidy only for the workhouse matter. If, as you say, you have clues, follow them with speed. And warn the houses of the need to lock their coal chutes.” These last few words of Borne's were accompanied by a mocking chuckle.

“Report Monday next, Inspector,” Borne added. “Haste and dispatch.”

With simultaneous gestures, Endersby retrieved his hat from the floor while Borne snatched up his dinner knife and began to slice his pork cutlet. In the corridor outside of Borne's office, Endersby tapped his large stomach and then wrung his gloved hands: “Ledgers and new locks!” he said with some glee. Endersby pulled down his hat and when he stepped into the courtyard, Sergeant Caldwell was waiting.

“Any culprits in the cells, Sergeant?” Endersby asked.

“Only two women, sir, a lad, and a drunken man. No scar, no fearful faces, sir.”