Children of the Tide (7 page)

“Come then, follow me, Sergeant.”

Hobbling a little with his gouty foot, the inspector mounted the steps to the first floor and entered a large window-bright room. A gathering of constables and other sergeants stood at attention.

“Gentlemen of the law, I wish you a good afternoon,” said Inspector Endersby as he lifted off his hat and pulled off his suede gloves. “Before I begin, may I remind you all as members of the Metropolitan Police Force what our purpose is as public servants. We have before us an unusual crime. We are to perform our duties dependent upon the public approval of our actions. Unlike our French compatriots abroad, we do not use fear or the ways of the military to mete out justice. You and I are not judges or hangmen; we are instead guardians of the peace.” The men stomped their boots in agreement.

“I desire, gentlemen, your strict attention to my proposal.” One of the desk sergeants took up pen and paper. Endersby instructed Caldwell to take a stand in the middle of the room. “Kindly describe the murderer, Sergeant,” commanded Endersby. “Use only the details based on what has been learned from the witnesses.” Caldwell began his profile, starting with a description of the culprit's overall appearance, elaborating afterward the remarkable facets which had impressed the young Catherines.

“A singular villain,” added Endersby. “Now, gentlemen. Write out copies of this verbal picture of the murderer-suspect and have a copy delivered to each of the station houses in quadrants north and south of St. Paul's. The villain, we surmise, will most likely strike again in the area near St. Giles, but have all detective branches alerted and warn constables to keep sharp eyes on anyone who resembles the man — his limp, beard, scar, and the weapons he carries.”

“Yes, sir,” was the resounding response, spoken in unison. Endersby thanked them; he subsequently commanded the station sergeant to release two constables on day duties to accompany Mr. Caldwell on this most demanding mission. Within moments, two young men appeared in full constable wear — black stove-pipe hats, white leather gloves and navy blue jackets.

“Mr. Rance, sir,” said the first one, tall, lean, dark-haired.

“Mr. Tibald, sir,” said the other, equally as tall, sloped-­shouldered and light-haired.

“We can forestall the cruel murder of another unfortunate. If our logic is correct,” Endersby concluded after explaining to his new recruits the strategy for the afternoon. The men had adjourned to a vacant office where on the wall attached, by tacks, was a large map of London. “Look gentlemen,” Endersby began. “Do you see the circle?” The inspector's right hand drew a line from St.Giles, along Holborn, to Shoe Lane. “In this quadrant of London,” he explained, “the city has erected six workhouses built to a standard with wards, some for children or prostitutes, others for destitute families and bachelors. I believe our searcher has begun his hunt in this area first — and that he will follow this circle, if he can, from Shoe Lane over to Wych Street, north again toward St. Giles and the Seven Dials, then again along Holborn where he may end at the Foundling Hospital. This is a poor, hobbled man,” Endersby reminded his three law men. “He must travel by foot — and slowly — given a noticeable limp described by one of our witnesses. I conjecture he will investigate any one of these places tonight and the next, if he has not done so already. He may murder as well as search for his Catherine if last night's crimes are an indication of his method.”

The two constables studied the map and turned to Sergeant Caldwell for instruction as to which one of the three of them would tackle the various workhouses. Caldwell outlined his agenda before Endersby stepped in to give his final words. “And, gentleman, be sure to ask questions. Ask of the masters and matrons if any similar action has taken place within the last month — in terms of break-ins. Enquire as to the appearance of any man or woman who has deposited a female child at any one of these workhouses in the past six months. Do not forget the Foundling Hospital near Mecklenburg Square. Young girls are often left there, despite the lack of funds needed to secure them a bed.”

Sergeant Caldwell, Constable Rance, and Constable Tibald followed the inspector through the courtyards and out into the street.

“Until nine o'clock this coming evening, then, sir?” Caldwell asked.

“At the coffee house across the way. All three of you. Sharp.”

Endersby's gaze subsequently turned eastward. Sound sleep would evade his next few nights as it was his habit to ponder as much as he could, given the clues he had gathered. “A tight puzzle,” he said to himself. He walked a few paces remembering the word,
UNKELBOW
, written out by the mute Catherine; if this clue meant the culprit had called out “Uncle Bow” then it followed that the child could have recognized him as
familiar
. This explained one peculiarity in the case: the two Catherines — so far — had been abandoned because neither child had
known
the intruder. With this thought in mind, Inspector Endersby immediately hailed a passing hansom cab.

“To Rosemary Lane.”

A Burden Indeed

I
t is not unusual in the great city of London to find, in a respectable family, one offspring who has somehow ignored the blessings of a good upbringing. This certainly was the case between Mr. Richard Grimsby, undertaker, and his youngest child — his only son — Geoffrey. In many particulars, father and son mirrored each other. The father had black hair (still), a large nose, high cheekbones and pinched eyes; likewise the son, with the exception that his younger eyes were pinched out of spite rather than age and experience. Mr. Richard Grimsby was proud of his accomplishments; Master Geoffrey was simply proud.

In their greater differences, chief among them lay in movement and appearance. Old Grimsby, as he was often called by his neighbours, skipped when he walked, his calves strong and well-exercised from years of morning walks. At sixty-three, his face brimmed with colour, his skin remained smooth from daily scrubbing, his chin, in particular, held firm against any fashionable addition of hair. Young Grimsby, on the other hand, sauntered; although only twenty-seven years old, his gait was hampered by a weak ankle obtained from a fall down the stairs of a gin house. Indeed, he limped. Most mornings, and lately most afternoons as well, his cheeks and forehead took on the colour of soured milk; and not two months ago, in defiance of his father's wishes, young Geoffrey permitted his chin to sport a bushy beard, often left untrimmed.

And, of course, there was the younger Grimsby's scar.

“An accident,” explained Old Grimsby when anyone enquired. “A boy's game at school — a rapier, I believe — Geoffrey's lack of attention to the sport at the moment of his playing.”

“A broken branch catching the face out riding” were the words young Geoffrey used. The scar drew great attention because of its length. It looked very much as if the sharpened point of a Toledo blade had cut across the right cheek, run over the nose and halted just under the left eye. Some women of Geoffrey's age — much to his delight — claimed they found the scar attractive. Frequently, they asked to run their fingers over it, their eyes bright with delighted horror at its shape and colour. Curiously enough, young Geoffrey Grimsby was well known in Marylebone for his scar, if not for much else. And without doubt he told its story to gain female sympathy and free glasses of gin.

Now on this damp March morning in Marylebone, one street west of Bedford Square, the older Grimsby sat at his dining room table. He blew on his tea in a saucer while Mrs. Grimsby, his wife and opponent for thirty-five years, clashed the hearth irons, mumbling to herself as to where the younger Grimsby had disappeared on this most busy, upcoming day.

“All the night and now all the morning,” Mrs. Grimsby repeated. “Gone, flown away like last January's snow. What shall we do, Mr. Grimsby? Two funerals, at half three, then at half four, and no bill set out, and our mute boy ill and absent from duty. We are too old to manage all of this ourselves, too old, too much in need of a thoughtful child to lift our burden.”

“
Lift
, my good wife? I fear that occasion will never come to pass.”

Below the dining parlour, in the entrance hall, there was sudden noise. A banging, a bumping. A door slamming, a voice snarling a profanity. Mrs. Grimsby went to the head of the stairs. The undertaker and his family lived above the shop, where coffins were made to order, shrouds sewn, and funerals orchestrated. Four black geldings were housed in the inner courtyard stable next to an ebony hearse.

“That you?” Mrs. Grimbsy hollered down the stairwell.

“No, Missus. ‘Tis the ‘Lord of Flies' himself.”

“Where have you been, son? Your poor father and I have —”

“Father is not poor, Mammy. Not a farthing gets past his tight fist.”

“Come up for your tea, son. There is much to do.”

“To do? Toodle do?” A slumping sound, another profanity and a chair toppled.

“Shall I come down, Geoffrey? Shall I?”

“Mammy, leave me be.” Feet stumbling up the stairs, then an appearance. Mrs. Grimsby recoiled: her only son's trousers were torn and splotched with street grime; his boots mud-speckled; his frock coat — a new purchase only last week — wrinkled with blotches of grease.

“What is this? What has happened, son?”

“Fisticuffs.”

Geoffrey Grimsby's knuckles were bleeding. His beard was wild, uncombed. His ankles purpled with bruises on top of scratches. Worse, the younger Grimsby's eyes were half-shut, his breath smelled of gin, and his entire body stank of the stable.

“Where have you been, young Geoffrey?” the elder Grimsby now asked, standing beside his wife at the top of the stairs. “He's been in a fight,” Mrs. Grimsby said. “So he says.”

“Young Geoffrey, clean yourself now. Get into the crepe and dark gloves. We have business to attend.” The father reached out to take the son by the shoulder, but the son pulled back and started to laugh loudly, a laugh not completely dependent on the looseness of alcohol but one, instead, of a darker variety, a laugh of consequence betraying bitterness and defeat.

“Father,” the son said, trying to stand at attention. “I shall take myself to my dressing chamber and not delay you nor the dead any longer.” He patted his frock coat. “Milord,” grunted the younger Grimsby, “I have waylaid my purse — money, cards 'n all. Dear, dear.”

With these words the young Grimsby made a valiant attempt to walk forward but then, with no warning, fell flat to the floor and began to snore. Mrs. Grimsby, having leapt to her feet when her son collapsed, wiped a tear from her eye. Such continuing behaviour often inspired her to fits of weeping. But it had not always been thus. Young Geoffrey had once been such a kind and gentle man. Yes, she could admit, he'd been spoiled as a child; but once he had attained responsible adulthood he had, for the most part, been a cooperative and agreeable man to have living as a bachelor under the family roof.
What was it now,
she wondered.
Had it been only three years since he had begun to change?
He refused to confide in her after that long-ago evening when he had come home elated, filled with a joy she suspected was caused by his having met and wooed a woman of his age. He had carried the look of a smitten man in love then, the gleam in his eye, the subsequent careful attention to his dress and his hair. But then, somehow rather slowly, he had soured. He had begun to curse. He acted as if he had been cheated of something — not just money in a card game. Had he discovered the pain as well as the pleasure of love and his disappointment had darkened every corner of his young life?

Mrs. Grimsby bent down to stroke her son's hair when she spotted something in his hand; gently pulling it open she found a small piece of fine blonde hair. “Mr. Grimsby, whatever do you imagine this to be?”

She stood and placed her find into the hand of her husband.

Old Richard Grimsby looked closely through his costly spectacles.

“It looks like a lock. A wisp of child's hair, perhaps. None of our affair. Come. We shall have the footman give Geoffrey a good wash and a few cups of tea so that we can proceed. And we must urge him to find us a mute-boy. No funeral is complete without the sorrowful sight of a child in black.”

“But Mr. Grimsby,” his wife said with some alarm. “Wherever could he find such a child on short notice?” Old Grimsby sighed: “The workhouse, madam. Children abound in workhouses. And can be for ready hire.” Fingering the lock, Old Grimsby handed it back to his wife and said: “I imagine you may toss this curl away.”

With that, Mr. Grimsby returned to his tea table. Standing alone by the stairs, her sleeping son at her feet, Mrs. Grimsby could not help but examine the lock further; she wondered if her son had been up to some mischief.
But what could that possibly be,
she asked herself.
Why a lock of hair?

My sweet lost boy,
she thought, slipping the blonde curl into her apron pocket before taking hold of Geoffrey's limp arm and, gently shaking him awake, helping him to stand.

Under sunnier skies west of London, not more than six miles distant, there lay a small tree-shaded village. One resident, whose cottage sat under a spreading oak tree, Mrs. Bolton by name, had tended her dying husband and now was helping her sickly sister. The invalid had for years lived a hardscrabble life, working for mere shillings a month. In truth, Mrs. Bolton rarely spoke of her sister's occupation although she accepted it as respectable to be a matron in the county workhouse.

Now as the village clock struck the hour for the midday meal, Mrs. Bolton spooned two ladles of broth into a bowl, placed the bowl on a tray and walked from her large kitchen toward a snug room at the rear of her cottage. She stepped lightly while at the same time calling out:

“Coming, Jemima. I'm coming. Be patient.”

Kicking the door open, Mrs. Bolton entered her sister's sick room. A window guarded the light with a thin curtain; a tiny hearth and a narrow bed soothed the aching body of Jemima Pettiworth, who opened her eyes at this moment and from under her covers, pulled herself up to reveal her soiled cap, night dress, and pale yellow complexion.

“Not this. Not this,” Jemima said, a low whine in her voice.

“Simple broth, Jemima. Sit forward. That's it.”

“You are
too
kind, sister,” Jemima said, a cruel edge to her words.

“Shall I or shall you?” asked Mrs. Bolton, holding up the spoon. Jemima snatched it and began to sip her broth with no further complaint. Mrs. Bolton sat in a chair next to the bed and waited. She ignored her sister's manner. After all, it came from her years of living in the workhouse. The old stone building lay beyond the village, isolated on a low hill, a mud road leading up to its gate. Its bell was placed in a tower to sound over the fields. The wards housed villagers, farmers, children, and the poor and needy of the parish that had lost the ability to survive independently, through injury or poor harvests. The children had been deposited in the workhouse from many venues around the countryside: some were orphans, some unwanted babies. All had suffered equally under the dominion of the impatient Jemima Pettiworth.

Now it is true that even in the meanest of breasts there hides a tenderness that must somehow express itself. In the case of Matron Jemima, now jaundiced and fading, this expression once took the form of lace making. Mrs. Bolton needed only to gaze around her sister's sick room to see framed samples of Jemima's fine handiwork. Beside these, there was on the mantel a runner of delicate lace flowers; on the back of the other chair, a draped net of cotton lace once used as a tea table cover. Jemima had an eye back then; even now on some afternoons, as she sat alone in her fetid chamber, she would rummage for her needle and hook and calmly pass an hour spinning out patterns.

“Enough,” Jemima said curtly, her spoon sinking into the bowl.

“Very well,” sighed Mrs. Bolton. She rose and took the tray. But she turned back to gaze at her sister who had in an instant changed from a cranky invalid into a wet-cheeked, weeping penitent. “Oh, oh,” Jemima cried, hands wringing, her hollow face staring ahead into the fire.

“But what is it, sister?” said Mrs. Bolton, setting down the tray.

“I cannot
speak
the words,” her distraught sister moaned. “I cannot hear them anymore or I shall go …”

“There, there. Such remorse. What may I —”

“Nothing!” Jemima howled. Then letting her voice crouch into a hoarse whisper, she said: “Nothing can be done now. I must hear them. They will never leave me.” With this pronouncement, Jemima Pettiworth fell back against her thin pillow.

“I see. Well,” said Mrs. Bolton. “I shall be in the kitchen, Jemima.” The tray was lifted, the door nudged open again. “You must climb from your bed today, Jemima. Move your legs. You are wasting away.”

“This bed shall be my coffin,” Jemima whispered. Mrs. Bolton muttered under her breath and returned to her hearth. Washing up, she heard rustling and lifted her eyes to see her sister, her yellow face like a mask, standing in the doorway of her sick room.

“Come along then,” said Mrs. Bolton, her voice encouraging. “Step by step.”

Jemima Pettiworth stepped into the parlour, opened the desk by the window and took out a sheet of writing paper. She held it to her chest as if it were a needy child; she then lifted it up to the light as if there was writing for her to read. Then she slowly crept back into her sick room. Once there, she let her spoken words float toward her sister in the kitchen:

“Sister, I beg of you,” Jemima said. “Bring me pen and ink. I have words I must write down before they burn away all of my strength.”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Bolton. “Whatever are you planning to pen, sister?”

“A confession.”