Children of the Tide (8 page)

F
ish and
F
oul

S
tepping down onto the cobblestones in East London, Inspector Endersby reminded himself that he was in the business of executing the law. Thus, he ducked into a narrow doorway, pulled out a multi-coloured scarf from his satchel and wound it around his neck as if he had a cold. He folded his hat inside his pocket, giving himself a curious bulge on his right side. He mussed his grey-lined hair to seem eccentric
—
“mad north-north-west,” quoting his beloved
Hamlet.
Finally, he lifted from an inner pocket a pair of round spectacles he'd had made by a glass grinder in the Burlington Arcade, the lenses plain glass.

Rosemary Lane opened before him as he gazed through his spectacles at the buyers and sellers gathered this afternoon. The lane held tall leaning houses, home to dredgers, coal-whippers, watermen, tradesmen connected with the commerce of the Thames. Down the side streets sat rows of lodging houses, while on either side of the lane proper, merchants displayed their goods on pieces of carpet and mounds of straw. All about were dogs and dirt-blackened children, vegetable baskets, and fresh fish tables humming with flies. Near the south entrance, just as the matron from Shoe Lane had said, sat a man under a canvas umbrella, three chairs lined up beside him on which were piled and hung samples of lace. Next to the man sat a huge woman selling slabs of fresh eel and mounds of dried pulled pork. She had a booming laugh and she jostled the lace seller, knocking his elbow with her wide left hand.

“Afternoon, captin,” bellowed the woman. Endersby drew his mouth into a thin smile and wandered over to the lace samples.
Keep in mind,
he warned himself,
that the murderer may not have purchased lace but in fact stolen it, or brought it from where he was living
.

“It don't matter, sir, touch 'em,” said the lace seller. “That's the ticket. Good quality.” The lace seller had rum-slurred speech, but his eyes were sharp when Endersby inspected his samples. “You here on a lark, captin?” asked the woman with a merry bounce in her voice. “I've fine eel for your supper. You don't strike me as a cove,” she said. “You're a genl'eman, here to purchase.”

“Most likely,” Endersby said, his voice pitched high to squeak a little.

The lace seller reached into his pocket and drank from a small jug. Endersby said: “I search for a particular old form of lace to replace a border on a drape.”

“Take your pick, sir. The stained bolts are a penny a foot. The white and the coloureds, three pence a foot. All handmade, sir, by the Belg'ums.”

Endersby searched in his satchel for the lace samples found on the victims in St. Giles and Shoe Lane. He held up one piece, leaned into the lace seller to afford him a closer look, and requested if the merchant had any more of the same pattern and kind.

“Poor seller that one, a fact,” the lace seller mumbled. “A bolt or two … under the chair.” The lace seller rose with great effort. He pulled out a soiled bolt of coarse lace of the same pattern as the one found on the bodies. “Ah, I believe this is the particular I search for,” squeaked Endersby. The lace seller lifted out a pair of large scissors from one of his pockets. “Any length, sir, you wish. Give it you for ha'penny a foot.” Reeling from the jolt of coincidence, Endersby refused to believe his good luck. Was this, perhaps, Fate mocking his effort? The inspector rummaged in his trouser pocket for coins. “A peculiar run of lace, sir,” slurred the lace seller, “not pop'lar any more 'mongst those around here.”

“On second thought,” Endersby began, playing the charade. “This swag of lace I carry was given me by my brother. For his house down in Kent. He bade me be sure it was a
perfect
match.”

“No trouble, sir,” the lace seller said, putting up his scissors. “Let's put our 'eads together. Lookee, your swag next to the bolt; you're in luck, that's the tickle. The two are the same.”

Endersby stuttered: “You see, my good fellow, my brother claims he sent
his man
some time ago to buy from you. He has sent
me
today in
his
place and bid me buy more of the same lace since he tallied the length wrong. So I must be absolute.”

“His man, sir?” asked the lace seller. “No sir. No man-servant in the past few days purchased this bit of lace. We serve women; that's the sum.”

“Then indeed I have made an error, good merchant,” answered Endersby. “Yours may not be the place of his purchase.”

“I knows of no other who sells this particular lace stuff, captin,” said the woman, who looked vexed. The lace seller pushed back his hat and his eyes widened as he lifted his head: “Now, waits. A man you says. Yes, dear wife, cast your mind back to a few days past. That chap — sore-lookin' lot he was — with a dirty beard and a fine frock coat.”

“Ugly man, beg your pardon, captin, a red cut 'cross his face. He wore a dredgerman's hat over his brow. Peculiar smell, now that I recalls,” the woman added. “Like he had been sleeping in a stable.”

“Most astonishing,” squeaked Endersby, searching now for a way to find out more about the man. “Tragic,” he added: “My brother's manservant is a sad fellow, indeed. He cleans the stables and does light chores. I reckon my brother keeps him out of pity. He goes by … oh, the name escapes me at the instant. Was he in any way impertinent, sir?”

“He said not a word,” the lace seller pointed out. “Saw these very bolts, bought a shilling's worth of this same lace. Peculiar, I thought. Made me wonder, that's the brush. Why such a cove would wish for lace.”

“Did he purchase anything else?” said Endersby.

“Ow, captain, only lace. He looked hungry for a working man. And peculiar, for he had on a fresh frock coat of quality.” explained the woman.

“A frock coat. New, you say?” asked the inspector.

“Will you purchase, then sir?” asked the lace seller. “Seems your brother has need.”

“Two yards is all,” Endersby said, his eyes alert to any changes in tone of voice in the two figures before him. The heavy woman held out the lace while her husband used his scissors to cut off the required length. Once Endersby had paid and graciously thanked the couple, he ventured one last ruse: “I was not at liberty to tell you of one concern I still have,” he said.

The woman leaned forward. “A concern, captin?”

“My brother's man has run away to London once again. Yesterday evening, I was told. My brother is troubled by the matter and requested I search around. Have you by chance seen this same chap in his frock coat again?”

“Not at all,” replied the huge woman. “The day we sold him the lace he went off to the gin shop yonder at Hairbrine-court. Last I sees of him.”

“You are certain as well?” Endersby asked the lace seller.

“You be concerned about' im, I can see,” says the merchant. “He likes his drink.”

“So I feared,” said Endersby.

“An odd gen'leman, captin,” said the woman. “Enquire at the lodging houses near Hairbrine Court. Low places, sir, full of thieves and sickly men. But cheap and a place to sleep.”

Endersby considered the woman's words: “I thankee both once again.”

The couple went back to their chatter and Endersby tucked the recent purchase of lace into his satchel, along with the two samples he'd brought, and walked up the lane into the gin shop where a crowd of men and women sat in the gloom, drinking. The sweet smell of juniper and sugared water filled the air. The barkeep was a young lad of no more than twenty; a pipe lounged in the corner of his mouth; his left hand flashed cheap tin rings from every finger.

“Tuppence,” the lad spat out and slammed down a mug before the inspector. Endersby paid and then, by design, tipped out his change purse, allowing a couple of shillings to roll onto the serving board in front of the lad. “Careful, git,” the lad said. “You a fool boy, old man? Lose those you will.” The lad picked up the two shillings and stuck his hand out to Endersby as he poured out a mug for another customer. Endersby leaned into the lad and crooked his finger: “Keep 'em, lad, I'm on the lookout.”

The bar lad squinted, showed a mouth of few teeth, and bent closer. “Your wife run away, then, git. Turned slattern on you?” Endersby frowned and gave out a theatrical sigh of regret. “No lad, worse. My brother's gone missing,” he said, changing his story for the sake of variety. “Loves the gin. Comes up to London often. We're from Kent, yonder. Been looking for him now for two days.”

The lad held his face as if to say he found the whole story a fraud.

“A chap, you say?” said the lad.

“A stranger to you, I wager,” said Endersby. “I'd give a pound to know if you've seen him. A man with a beard, not old, a new frock coat, secretive in his manner.”

“You are certain, git?” mocked the barkeep. He puffed on his pipe. His face then wrinkled with thought. “Anything peculiar about 'im?” asked the barkeep. Endersby sat forward. Would he be in luck yet again? Although he did not want to put words or ideas into the barkeep's mind, he let slip that his brother had once been in a bad fight. “His face,” Endersby lamented, “was no match for his assailant and so came out the worst.”

“Stinks like a sewer?” asked the barkeep.“I reckoned that mark on his cheeks was from a tumble.”

“That be my poor Will,” said Endersby.

“He's hiding from you, git. Comes in here in the last few days, drinks a mug or three. If he be your kin, he stumbles off each time down toward Irish Bay, there.”

“Irish Bay, sir?” pleaded Endersby.

“Rotten Row, Irish Bay, all the same. Blue Anchor Court, just off the corner. No place for a coun'ry genleman like yourself.” The lad laughed. As Endersby was about to leave, the barkeep called out to him. “Come 'ere, git. Best you find this brother of yours. Summat happened to him besides his face. Bad legs, like he was beaten up in the docks. You knows, maybe he's been a week or more in Fleet Prison? Secured, I warrant. Got high old boots but they don't hide the ‘duck walk,' like he's still in leg irons.” Endersby shook his head as if he were in grief. The lad then poked him in the chest: his palm lay open.

“I'll appreciate another shilling, guv'nor, if you does have no objection.”

Endersby opened his purse and handed the lad the shilling.

Outside in the lane, he asked an oyster seller to point him to Blue Anchor Court. She nodded her chin toward a grimy half street with murky water running down the cobbles and groups of haggard men sitting on stools.
A new frock coat? Legs in irons? A dredgerman's cap? How many men could fit that description,
Endersby wondered. And was any one of them the workhouse killer?
An innocent man may buy lace as easily as a guilty one,
he reminded himself. Was Luck guiding him or leading him astray?
Just follow your leads,
Endersby thought.
They are all you have. Leave supposition behind for the moment.
He shook out the cramp in his foot and began to walk slowly toward Blue Anchor Court.

“Careful, dearie,” warned the oyster woman. “There be thieves and murderers down there.”

“We'll all be killed.”

“Quiet!” the master shouted at the three trembling women. He turned his bony head toward Sergeant Caldwell. “Do you see, sir, what trouble you have brought?”

Sergeant Caldwell stood at attention, his shoulders pressed back. It was his way of showing resistance to the five-foot bully facing him. The master of the Theobald's Road Workhouse reminded Caldwell of a scrappy street dog: his set of yellowed teeth, his growl full of threat. “Sir,” Caldwell said, “It is my duty to inform you to lock down your coal chute for the safety of these matrons and their female wards. This is a measure of caution that the Metropolitan Police are demanding of every institution since the two murders were discovered.”

The three matrons pleaded. The master took them aside. While the master tried to calm his staff, Caldwell examined the ledgers of recent arrivals of children, their names and ages. There were no Catherines. There were, on the present list, only seven girls of twelve years old. The rest were young women with small babies. Dread overtook Caldwell's mind. Forcing the master to secure the workhouse had been difficult. Caldwell thought about his wife, Alice, safe at home in her bed. Surely to be safe is what every man, woman, and child needs in life. Caldwell flipped through the records. Very few female children had been registered in Theobald's Road over the past year.

He said goodbye to the staff and decided to walk around the yard of the workhouse. The building was jammed into a dark alley, its yard no larger than three horse-stalls. Sergeant Caldwell valued the training he'd received from Endersby. He'd learned to sharpen his eye for details, for unusual signs that might provide a clue. Finding one always brought him an immediate sense of accomplishment. Ducking under the roof of an old shed, Caldwell cocked his head and noticed a small wooden door, almost invisible in the gloom. It was makeshift and when he pulled it open he found it led to a smelly hut. A sudden movement inside the hut made Caldwell jump back. He reached for his leather cosh that hung inside his blue police jacket and his breath caught. The figure was bent, black with dirt. He had a beard, a large black hat. “Git away,” he yelled.