Читать книгу Children of the Tide - Jon Redfern - Страница 8

Clues in the Coal

Caldwell led his superior down two staircases, through a kitchen, and into a cramped room containing the blackened coal chute. Thomas knew the case was already causing the inspector doubts. He knew Endersby’s gout would soon slow him down as much as his own toothache was draining his energy.

Standing in the doorway of the coal room, Endersby gazed first at the space, his way of pondering and examining a room before drawing a conclusion.

“Enter carefully, sir,” Caldwell cautioned, holding up a lit candle. “Stay to the right, sir. I shall explain.”

“I see it has been left open. This bottom flap,” Endersby said at the coal chute. He poked his head up the chute, which came down from the yard at a steep slant. The chute was mussed. Caldwell imagined a body had slid down it, kicked open the bottom flap and landed on the floor. The usual coal pile from a delivery had already been cleared into bins and into smaller buckets for haulage up to various hearths. Endersby noted immediately even a light brush of an elbow procured a sooty, oily stain. “Notice, sir,” said Caldwell, “a faint boot mark on the inside of the chute’s flap.”

“May we assume, Caldwell, the intruder pressed his boot to open the flap as well as to break the velocity of his slide?”

“Likely, sir. And see, we can make out even in this light at least six pairs of distinct boot marks leading from the chute toward the door over there.”

Endersby turned up one of his own boots; there was black dust on the sole and a shadowy print left behind on the floor. Caldwell did the same and when the two made their way to the door, they were careful to walk beside the other foot prints, comparing their own boot marks to them. “A telltale sign of some import,” Endersby said. “Note, the left boot has a worn heel — see the shape. And look at the right. The print is smudged and indistinct.” Caldwell bent down and slipped on his wire-rimmed spectacles.

“Most certain, Inspector, the left heel is not truly rounded on the outside. It seems as if the right boot were dragged on the floor as the culprit walked.” Endersby examined the boot mark from another angle. “The young girl I spoke to in the ward told me she saw a figure late in the night and he walked about as if he had a broken limb.” The two men closely examined the other prints. Outside the door to the coal room, the floor had already been washed, the footprints mopped away. “I question, Sergeant, the manner in which the culprit left the building. He did not return here and climb back out; the chute slant is too steep.”

“It is, sir.”

“And when did all of this skulking about take place? Shall we retrace the route the culprit may have taken from this coal chute to the upper ward?”

Endersby fell in behind his sergeant, who carried the candle aloft. “Sergeant. A partial sooty handprint,” said the inspector, joining him on a step. “A narrow palm, sir,” Caldwell replied. The inspector looked hard and said: “This little blotch of dried blood is, in fact, a scab left stuck to the brick.” Sergeant Caldwell slipped on his eyeglasses again.

A sudden slapping sound made the two men turn. Before them stood a round-faced man in a leather apron, his face and hands blackened by coal dust. He scowled and beat a thick leather strap against his apron.

“Who’s the cove that thinks I am a murderer?”

“Who are you, sir?” Caldwell said in a loud voice.

“Andrew Potter, sir. Coal carrier and devout Christian. I do not like my character slandered, sir, by the likes of you.”

Endersby stepped from behind Caldwell and introduced himself and his sergeant-at-hand. “Mr. Potter, there has been a mistake. We do not think nor do we accuse you of murder. We are in St. Giles to investigate…. You speak with a good tongue, sir.”

“For a coal carrier, sir? Yes. I take no offence at your observation. Mam was a teacher. Gave me a good tongue, a head for reading. Fell ill to the pox. Left me in this place, this St. Giles. Sent out to work at fourteen in the coal works, sir.”

“A body of one of the matrons has been found in the front foyer, near the hearth. I assume, Mr. Potter, you have been informed of this terrible discovery.”

Potter nodded. “Some here thinks I am the culprit, that I killed poor Miss Matty. Me, who works seven days hard labour a week — all night, rain or snow.”

“Are you innocent, sir?” Endersby asked outright.

The coal carrier drew back. “Never hurt a soul. Usual for me to come here Tuesdays and Fridays, to St. Giles,” he said, “just before dawn, load four sacks in the chute out yonder. Matron Agnes pays with ready money.”

“Do the children recognize you, Mr. Potter?” Endersby asked.

“I imagine so, sir,” the coal carrier answered. “I hail them in the mornings, the young ones outside at least.”

“Given the days you deliver here — it being Wednesday today — were you by chance delivering coal anywhere near St. Giles Workhouse early this morning? Let us say close to three or even half past three o’clock?”

“Matter of fact, yes, sir. I was at Holborn, not ten minutes north. Haberdasher. Nine sacks.”

“Mr. Potter,” Endersby said. “I shall be brief. Do you in your night hours of delivery ever make note of the creatures on the streets which you traverse?” Endersby asked. “I mean other than the boy gangs, or the women of the night. Any unusual figures you might see and remember?”

“Man in a lady’s gown two early mornings ago, sir. Kimbawed by rum and beer. Hailed me, he did.”

“And anyone this past night, or near three or half three o’clock?”

“Near three or twenty past the hour, yes. While on delivery on Holborn. A chap came along, an odd one limping. Right bent, beard.”

“Did he speak to you, at all?”

“The cove! Head-on into the flank of my dray. Come up from Drury Lane. Like he was chased by a pack of dogs.”

“Did the gentleman reply in any way, perhaps curse or apologize for colliding with you, Mr. Potter?”

“Struck my wagon, he did, with a gaff! Said nothing. Stank like a dead horse. Went on his way along Holborn, toward Gray’s Inn.”

“A gaff. What do you mean?”

“Like what the dredgermen use, sir. The river scavengers. Long handle with a hook. For haulin’ in bodies, sir,” Potter said.

“Metal?” asked Endersby.

“Like the flounder fishers once used when I was a lad,” answered the coal carrier. “I see plenty men using them round the docks. Mind, the dredgers are a closed lot. A guild. No one works for’em unless for pittance.”

“ Did you by chance see the cove’s face?”

“A flash sir. Like he was cut. Or with a mark from birth.”

“You will be called upon by the parish clerk and the coroner today — later this morning, in fact — to tell your story again,” replied Endersby. “Alert the coal works of your whereabouts.”

“Thank you, sir.” Potter said. The inspector and Caldwell bid him goodbye. Then, without delay, Endersby asked Caldwell to write down the details of the coal carrier’s description: A MAN WITH A BEARD, A LIMP, A STINK, A DREDGERMAN’S METAL GAFF, AND A FACIAL MARK. Outside in the yard, as the two examined the side door’s lack of outer hardware they discovered a broken latch on the coal chute. “So far, Sergeant, scant proof provides us a logical connection. Entry of villain here — down the chute; exit of villain by the wooden side door. All of our conclusions based on coal dust.”

“Remarkable, sir,” answered Caldwell.

“And your professional opinion of the coal carrier, Sergeant?”

“Innocent seeming, sir. To be bold, I cannot conjure a motive for murder in a chap like him.”

“I stand beside you on that count, Sergeant. A man with brains cramped into the body of a labourer.” The two men stood close, their breaths visible in the crisp air.

“My first question, Caldwell.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“How did our culprit know about the side door and its particular latch?”

“Perhaps he played scout at first. Or was well acquainted with St. Giles. Perhaps he was once an inmate, like Potter, the coal carrier.”

“Certainly possible,” Endersby said. “Or a former master, perhaps? Disgraced and sent into the world without a reference?” Endersby walked a few paces toward the front portal. “Second question: a man brutally kills a matron in a workhouse, a place he may know in familiar terms. It seems he kills at random. Miss Matty was a shut-in creature without friends. Unless, of course, he did know her and hated her. He murders in a cruel manner, using a piece of lace, in order to search for a particular child. But to what end? We can discount the motive to take advantage in a way only the most disgusting of men find pleasing. For revenge? To recover a lost offspring? But then the villain leaves this child behind, unharmed. And what of the waif, herself? The child called Catherine?”

“You do love your ramblings, sir,” Caldwell said.

“The highways and byways of the criminal world, Sergeant, make up a most intricate topography.”

Standing by the front entrance of the workhouse, Endersby relaxed his shoulders. “Shall we walk a little?” he suggested. Caldwell agreed and he offered the idea they go to a coffee house close by and drink a pot to revive their spirits. “The coroner will soon arrive, sir. We have time,” Caldwell said, imagining members of the parish board descending on St. Giles Workhouse like avenging angels, fingers ready to point. “It is time, indeed, for reflection,” said Endersby. “Time to wonder about a child named Catherine.”