Читать книгу Children of the Tide - Jon Redfern - Страница 9

Double Trouble

Endersby reluctantly stepped once more into the clammy dimness of the workhouse and was shown to a chamber on the second floor. A tin clock on the corridor wall banged out the hour of nine. The workhouse had begun to function again, noise and shouting filling the air. An inferno, indeed, thought Endersby. What a cat’s cradle of facts and suppositions. These thoughts ceased abruptly when the inspector saw, in the chamber before him, Matron Agnes bent over a thin, blonde girl. The child held a pencil. On a piece of foolscap she was diligently drawing out a large oval shape. When the child turned and looked up at him, Endersby noticed the deformity of her upper lip.

“Inspector,” said Matron Agnes, “this is young Catherine. She is the girl who was found outside the workhouse gate very early this morning. Do not mind that she is dumb, sir. She is a bright child.”

Catherine continued to decorate the oval shape in front of her.

“Can she read and write her letters?” asked Endersby.

“Better than many here,” answered Matron Agnes.

Stepping away from the child, Matron Agnes lowered her voice. “How fortunate, Inspector, that Catherine was not harmed in any way.”

“Indeed, Matron,” Endersby answered. “Have you posed any questions and received any answers?”

“With Catherine, one must always ask for a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Or to have her draw. She is clever with her pencil. The intruder carried her outside into the street and then left her, untouched. I have requested Catherine to draw me a picture of the man’s face. For she nodded when I asked if she had seen the fellow’s features.”

Endersby approached the table and looked over the shoulder of the young girl. She had drawn a large oval into which she had placed near the top two smaller ovals, side by side. Then below the small ovals, close to the bottom, a straight bold line. A man’s face as seen by a child. With much energy, little Catherine now drew a series of circles and lines that with some allowance for exaggeration could be interpreted as a man’s beard.

“Well done, young girl,” Endersby said.

Catherine looked up at him. She had no fear in her eyes. “This is the man you saw last night, did you?” asked Endersby. The girl nodded vigorously. Her left hand reached up and pulled at Endersby’s sleeve. Catherine then stood and pulled again until Endersby’s face was at the same height as hers. She blinked hard and widened her eyes and then clasped her right hand over her mouth.

“What is it Catherine?” Matron Agnes asked. “Be quick, child.”

Catherine slowly moved her right hand from her mouth and guided it with her pointer finger held up. She pressed the finger on Endersby’s right jaw. The tip was icy to the touch but Endersby stood as still as a tree. The finger began to move up and across his right cheek. It climbed, then dragged itself over his nose. The girl took in a breath and concentrated her gaze. Without lifting her finger from Endersby’s face, she continued her cold trail upwards across his left cheek, stopping under his eye. Catherine then turned back to her drawing and picking up the pencil she drew a similar line across the oval face.

“A scar, perhaps, Catherine?” asked Endersby. The girl took her pencil and doubled the line; afterward, she smudged it with the tip of her finger.

“I see, I see. Very clear,” said Endersby. “Catherine,” he then said, “did you know this man?” The girl shook her head. “Did he speak to you?” The girl seemed to freeze in her place. Her eyes looked into the distance and she frowned and fussed and finally bent her head toward the table. “Catherine?” said Matron Agnes. The child sat still and did not respond. “Do not be too hasty to judge her, Inspector. She has tried her best.”

“Thank you Matron. Thank you Catherine, you have been a good girl.”

Matron Agnes subsequently made a small gesture that struck Endersby straight to his heart. Amidst this place of stone and gloom, Matron Agnes put her hand on Catherine’s head and patted it softly. “I thank you for your cooperation and attention, Matron,” Endersby said. As he turned to leave, young Catherine reached out and caught his sleeve a second time. She picked up her pencil and on the other side of the oval portrait, on the clean side, she began to write out a series of letters in an awkward hand. When she was done, she looked into the inspector’s face and pointed to the word.

UNKELBOW.

“Unkelbow?” Endersby asked, pronouncing the last three letters as if they described the limb of a tree.

The girl shook her head. “Do not fool us, Catherine,” said Matron Agnes. “This is a nonsense word.”

The girl stood and opened her little mouth and closed it in imitation of a person talking. She placed her hands on each side of her face, leaned forward, and again mimed the talking mouth. Catherine picked up the paper and shoved it at Endersby’s stomach. He read out the word again. “Unkelbow.” This time he said the word bow as in Bow Street, or as the twist in a ribbon. “What do you make of this, Matron?” Matron Agnes folded her hands in front of her and stilled her face. “I cannot imagine, sir. Children love to make up names and fantastical friends to keep them company. Do not forget the realms of fancy, Inspector.”

“Indeed.”

The child stamped her foot. The inspector obliged and said the word again. “Unkelbow. Unkelbo.” The girl nodded furiously. “Uncle Bow?”

Again, a hearty nod from the girl. The inspector looked up into the matron’s face. “Uncle Bow. A family name?”

Endersby examined both sides of the sheet and as he did so a light knocking at the door of the chamber commenced and within a few seconds a young constable from the Metropolitan Police was standing by Endersby’s right elbow. The constable’s hat and his white gloves caused young Catherine to stare.

“I beg your pardon, Inspector Endersby,” said the constable.

“Come Catherine,” said Matron Agnes, a cold tone returning to her voice.

“Thank you Matron,” Endersby said, still pondering the cryptic letters on the page before him.

“Sir, if I may?” enquired the constable.

“And a good morning to you, young Catherine,” said Endersby as she was led out through the door and into the corridor.

“Inspector Endersby?”

“Ah, Constable.”

The young man stood at attention. Endersby recognized a new recruit from the eager look in his eye.

“Forgive me, Constable. My mind was engrossed in a puzzle,” said Endersby, folding the child’s drawing and putting it in his pocket.

Sergeant Caldwell rushed in, his wool cap slightly askew and his eyes full of concern.

“Sir,” Caldwell began.

“Gentlemen, take your ease,” Endersby said. “One at a time.”

Caldwell, of higher rank, spoke first.

“Most dire, sir. Another body has been found, a body of one of the matrons at the House of Correction in Shoe Lane.”

The constable’s words hit Endersby like a kick from a horse. His gouty limb twanged with such sudden pain he had to lift it from the floor to give relief. Another matron? In a workhouse? The building around him seemed to darken and Endersby wanted to light torches, as if to burn out the plague. Some contagion was spreading through the streets of his beloved city. He dared not raise his eyes for a moment in case he saw a monster in front of him. A smiling creature with bloodied hands. Taking a breath, putting his foot down, Endersby gathered himself, holding the rein tight on his rumbling anger, his hands closing into fists by his side.

“Thank you, Caldwell.” Endersby was surprised at how calm his voice sounded. “Now, Constable, what have you to say?”

“Beg your pardon, sir. Most urgent, Inspector. Fleet Lane has instructed me to accompany you to the site described by your sergeant-at-hand. A matron murdered. And a child, sir, who I found by chance by the workhouse gate.”

“Another child?” Endersby shivered. He was haunted by the loss of children. His mind flew to the little grave where his son, Robert, lay. A child once again, abandoned, left as good as dead, he thought. Time and tide wait for no man. Evil was gaining the upper hand. Endersby took but one instant to contract his brow, to concentrate on the sordid information he had been given. He turned to address Sergeant Caldwell.

“Sergeant, the coroner will soon convene his jury and ask for witnesses. This workhouse will be topsy-turvy for a time but the magistrate will want as many clues as we have.” Endersby hunted in his satchel, pulled out the envelope holding the piece of lace and handed it to Sergeant Caldwell. “As befits your rank, sir, as Detective Sergeant of Capital Crime for the Metropolitan, I charge you to stand as my representative before the coroner.”

“Yes, sir.” Caldwell immediately jumped to attention as if he were about to lead a charge of men into battle.

“Be wary, sir,” Endersby then said, pulling Caldwell aside. “Listen carefully to all witnesses. Copy down any wavering from the truth — such as it is — that the staff here might indulge in. Present the lace. The surgeon will pronounce strangulation. If commanded, tell of the entry by coal chute. That should be sufficient to have a verdict for us to continue. I will tell you later what other clues — such as they are — have been afforded me by my interview with the child. The coroner, most likely, will have no need or show any interest as yet in her words.”

“I shall be diligent,” answered Caldwell.

“This bodes some strange eruption to our state,” mumbled Endersby.

“Sir?” said Caldwell, his shoulders held back.

“At ease, Sergeant. Hamlet once again. To your duty. We shall meet again today at Fleet Lane Station House. Let us say past noon or one o’clock.”

“Certainly, sir,” Caldwell said, and headed toward the staircase.

“Now, young constable, we have dire duties before us,” Endersby said, closing his satchel, straightening his hat, and indicating to the young recruit to lead on. The young man went forward and led Endersby out to the yard of St. Giles. Presently, in a rushing hansom cab, Endersby’s confusion lay somewhat abated even if his mind kept conflating clues and fears. With a second murder to be investigated, he reminded himself of Peel’s Sixth Principle to “exercise persuasion, advice, and warning.” As a professional detective he knew he must find proof rather than issue arrests on mere hearsay. And yet, how might he confront two such similar crimes happening in one night? He had to act quickly. He must not hesitate. He felt he was being chased by an ugly troll about to strangle him, an old memory from his boyhood that rose in his imagination as he pitied the second matron lying dead in Shoe Lane. He asked the constable to explain who he was and what had happened.

“I’m a night watch constable, Colby, sir, responsible for Shoe Lane to Fleet Street and eastward to St. Paul’s. Early this morning, just before dawn, a gentleman from the Shoe Lane House of Correction approached me and requested I come to view a most unfortunate sight. A matron strangled in her parlour, a bit of cloth choked in her mouth.”

“Recall the cloth, Constable. Anything peculiar about it — shape, colour?”

“Sir, not to put too fine a point upon it, I reckon on inspection it seemed to be but a snag of old lace.”

“Indeed,” Endersby replied.

“And, sir, if I have your permission, I must recall, as well, a most horrific detail.”

“Granted,” Endersby said, curtly.

“The victim’s neck, sir, was bruised: a dark thick bruise. Given the toppled state of the victim — in her chair, sir, lying back on the floor — I had the opportunity to imagine that she may have been strangled, sir, with a rope or some such item.”

“Most astute, Constable.”

The hansom pulled into a narrow yard in which there was a building of dark stone so similar to St. .Giles that one could conclude they were of the same lineage.“Before we descend, Constable, one final preliminary,” Endersby said. “Tell me of the child.”

“Little to tell, sir. In my view, a most peculiar happenstance. On my way to alert constables and a surgeon at Fleet Lane Station House, I saw crouched in a doorway a young female dressed in the muslin worn by the wards of Shoe Lane. To be precise, she appeared unharmed. She had fallen asleep and was cold. On closer inspection, I noted she was light-haired, no more than ten years old. I brought her back to Shoe Lane whereupon the head Matron took her away.”

“Most curious,” replied Endersby. Under his professional politeness Endersby felt a deep fear. A copy cat incident? One man trawling the workhouses of London to kill at random? And the abandoned girls?

“Anything else, sir?”

“Let us both keep our eyes open and our ears cocked, Constable. I will treat you, if I may, as a second set of my own senses. To verify what I see and hear. Are you agreed, sir?”

“Most respectfully, sir. I am agreed,” the constable replied. While the recruit helped the inspector climb down from the hansom, Endersby’s gouty foot pinched him hard. Entering the grand portal, the inspector noted immediately a different atmosphere from St. Giles. Doors were slamming, voices shouting, people rushing by. “Pandemonium, Constable,” Endersby exclaimed, walking toward a large door that had just opened. In a room full of chairs, a cluster of men and women stood huddled like cattle in the rain. “Holla!” the inspector shouted. The fumbling crowd froze. A master approached, his hands shaking. Endersby quickly introduced himself and the constable. Like hungry dogs to a tossed bone, the others scrambled up to the inspector and began barking out their stories. Questions flew: who did this? Why our matron? Is the child dead or alive? “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you to sit down,” Endersby commanded.

The inspector began his questioning. After a time, he sent the young constable to inspect the coal chute. He then singled out the head master and ordered the others to return to their duties. Endersby viewed the victim, who had been placed conveniently on a pallet next to the female ward. What astonished Endersby were the similarities between this murder and the one he had just investigated not seven streets away in St. Giles. The magnifying glass revealed a bruise. And there were tiny bits of metal rust and a length of the same lace.

Why lace? Endersby asked himself again. He took the sample, opened his satchel and placed the lace in an envelope. While doing so, he listened as the master confirmed that no one had witnessed nor heard the crime being committed. “It was I who found her,” he explained, describing his discovery of the body during his morning round. Tracing the footsteps of sooty coal dust that led from the parlour into the corridor, Endersby remarked on their shape and state of preservation.

“Master,” Endersby then said. “Will you allow me to speak to any of the children? Those who are calm enough to tell me stories?” The master hesitated. He appeared so distracted it was as if the inspector’s words had been uttered in a foreign tongue. A woman appeared and asked the master to come upstairs, so Endersby decided he could no longer wait for permission. He would have to act before pertinent evidence was destroyed. The girls of the only open ward, the one next to the parlour where the body lay, were restless and agitated as he questioned them — some claiming to have heard a man whispering in the night, one certain it was her dead father come to rescue her. He asked if any one of their rank was missing. On asking once again about the intruder, most heads shook.

“He surely stinks,” one child said, her voice hoarse from shouting.

“Did you see him?” Endersby asked, hoping for a description.

“No, sir,” came the reply. “My head was under my pillow.”

All the girls said they had hidden their faces. Dark figures are the bane of childhood, thought Endersby as he thanked the crowd. Here in Shoe Lane there were fewer than twenty females, the oldest perhaps eleven years, skeletal reminders of the injustice of the metropolis. Endersby clenched his fists. These shadows of children had become targets of a roving killer.

A round, squat woman appeared in a white bonnet. “A most horrible deed; I am struck to the marrow with fear.” The matron curtsied.

“The found child, Matron. I wish to see her, if I may.”

Endersby followed her out the front portal while she explained that the child was being tended in the kitchen at the back of the House of Correction. Sudden spring rain fell lightly. As Endersby adjusted his broad-brimmed hat and his suede gloves, his mind took on the task of preparing questions. Up to this point, no one had mentioned the child’s name. He tapped the matron on her shoulder to ask but, as he reached out, she sprinted ahead through the kitchen door and announced the presence of a detective policeman.

An older woman stood up and turned to Endersby. “I am Matron Bickerstaff. We thank you, Detective, for your attention this morning.” Without further hesitation, this matron clapped her hands. A door leading to a second chamber opened to show a large fireplace with a roaring fire. Beside it was positioned a large copper tub. Through the doorway, Endersby watched as two women took hold of a child and led her before the hearth. A dripping bed sheet was held up before the flames. Matron Bickerstaff entered the room, undressed the shaking child and wrapped the now steaming bed sheet around the child’s skeletal body. Endersby stood amazed at this spectacle of charity. Once the child was dried, she sat in a chair by the fire where she was joined by Endersby and Matron Bickerstaff. “I am Inspector Owen Endersby of the Metropolitan Detective Police. Allow me, Matron, to speak with the child.”

The girl held her arms tight to her sides. Endersby sensed the child might be too exhausted, too shaken, to speak freely. Children in workhouses, he knew, were so often brutalized that they cowered into silence. Feeling her discomfort, Endersby dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out the tin of his wife’s candied chestnuts. “Would you care for one, Miss?” he said, politely offering the tin as if the girl were a woman of his social rank. He flipped open the top. The child’s eyes widened. “These confections were made by my wife. They are very sugary. My favourites.” Without hesitation, the child took one, bit into it, and then took another in her other hand. Endersby offered one to Matron Bickerstaff who chose a large glistening chestnut the size of a sovereign coin. She then cautioned the child to speak honestly to all the questions the inspector might ask.

“Good morning, child,” Inspector Endersby began, chewing.

The child bowed her head: “Good morning, sir.”

“Have you ever stepped out of Shoe Lane before, on your own, where you found yourself in the street?”

The girl raised her eyes toward the matron who in turn lifted her eyebrows.

“Once before, sir. Only once with Annie, sir.”

“And what did you and Annie find on your outing in the street?”

The child’s face brightened.

“A hurdy-gurdy man, sir,” she said, her voice bursting forth from her sunken little chest. “’Twas the only time, sir,” she whispered. Endersby leaned forward: “Did you see a hurdy-gurdy man last night, then?”

The child shivered a little and said, “No, sir.”

“Then tell me, young one …”

“My name be Catherine, sir,” the girl proclaimed with sudden pride. “My dead mammy gives me that name. And not Cath-er-INE, but Cath-er-IN!”

“Indeed,” replied Endersby, his gaze taking on a more serious aspect. Young Catherine had blue eyes, her blonde hair was cut short. “Then, Miss Catherine, tell me how you got out of your bed and onto the street last night?”

“I didn’t ‘got,’ sir. I was taken.” The matron quickly looked toward Inspector Endersby. “Taken?”

“A ghost, sir.”

“Astonishing, Miss Catherine. You have acquaintance with ghosts?”

“Oh, no sir. But one. He came in last night. I knows about ghosts ’cause me and Annie always tells the stories.”

“Did you see him, Miss Catherine? What did he look like?”

“I hears him. He tiptoes up and down. He has a stink like a ghost — all dead smell.”

“Catherine,” the Matron interrupted. “The plain truth.”

The girl bowed her head. The inspector waited, but she seemed hesitant now to continue. Endersby took out his handkerchief, folded it in half and handed it to the sullen child. She took it but did not look at it. “If he were here now, Miss Catherine,” Endersby whispered, “put my handkerchief over your nose. He must smell if you say he did.”

Catherine slapped the handkerchief to her face. She pulled it off quickly and smiled. “He did so stinks, sir.” The inspector then learned how Miss Catherine was whispered to in the dark — just her name.

“He called you Catherine?” Endersby asked, to make sure. The girl bowed her head. “Sweet, he calls me, too,” she said. “Catherine,” the inspector asked, leaning in close as if he were about to share a secret. “Did your ghost tell you his name?” The girl blinked. She blushed: “Knuckle Toe.” The sound of these two words were broken by her embarrassed laughter. Endersby said: “Knuckle Toe?” The child responded with a quick nod. Endersby reminded himself that both Catherines had been wakened in the dark. What they heard was so unfamiliar they perhaps confused dream and reality.

“You are very helpful, Catherine.” Endersby then asked if she’d seen the man’s face.

“Wot a terrible face he has. A big worm runs across it.”

“Show me, Miss Catherine. Draw out with your finger,” said Endersby, intrigued.

The girl puckered her face in disgust and then reluctantly drew a line across her right cheek, over her nose and up under her left eye.

“Did the man say anything else to you? Did he give you anything?”

“No, sir. He said me name again. ‘Catherine, Catherine,’ over and over like he forgets it.”

“Did he take you anywhere?”

“In the courtyard. Then he runs off, like he’s a scaredy scaredy.”

The inspector opened his candy tin and offered another to Catherine. “One fer Annie, too?” she asked.

“Most certainly.”

Moments later the girl was led from the chamber and Matron Bickerstaff invited Endersby to view the body once again. “The coroner and surgeon will have to inspect this sad woman, as you may know,” the inspector explained. “It is common procedure before a verdict on cause of death is announced.” The matron could not look long at the corpse’s contorted face. She told Endersby she knew the woman well enough, that she was partly blind, but that she had a gentle hand, much like her own, and did not punish her wards like the masters did the boys. Endersby asked about the victim’s friends and enemies, but like Miss Matty in St. Giles, the victim had preferred her own company. After looking again at the bruised neck, Endersby pulled out the envelope containing the found piece of lace.

“Curious, Matron, this lace. It appears to be of the same cloth as the fragment found on the victim at St. Giles, where a similar incident occurred last night.”

“May I look at it closely, sir?”

Endersby spread the lace on a table. Matron Bickerstaff examined it, holding her hands to her sides so as not to touch a weapon of death.

“If I may, I could be of some assistance, Inspector.”

The woman proceeded to tell him that as head matron she had the responsibility to provide clothing and shoes for the female inmates. Her parish stipend was small and so she frequented the second-hand clothing and cloth markets in Rosemary Lane. “In the Lane there is a seller of second-hand lace. All types and shapes. Some old, many well kept and affordable. I believe there may be other lace sellers in Monmouth Street but since lace does not sell readily to the poor, it is not a popular item for profit.”

“This segment here is lace for curtains or drapes,” Endersby guessed. “It seems too coarse for dress trimming.”

Matron Bickerstaff bent and looked at the thick patterns and the unrefined cotton stitches. “I agree, sir, that this is border lace for curtain windows. The man in Rosemary Lane has a stall right near the south entrance. I have seen him often. Although he looks unfortunate, having little exchange of coin for his goods, he is cheerful enough.” Endersby thanked the matron for her information. “I have one other query, Matron”

Matron Bickerstaff held her gaze on Endersby’s face. “I surmise that this man-cum-murderer is desperately looking for a child. One named specifically Catherine.”

“Frightening prospect, Inspector. A damning name to have if that is the case.”

“If I am correct, I ask you why this culprit does his searching at night. Could he not simply come to the front door of any workhouse and ask for a Catherine, to see her in broad daylight?”

“Only, Inspector, if he has a licence. The Poor Laws and the parish do not allow children out of our protection unless the caller be bona fide. This is to prevent exploitation, as you can imagine. We have frequently turned away merchants and factory owners who seem suspect to us. And we rarely, nowadays, let our children out to chimney sweeps for the work is too dangerous. I pity those who are forced into such terrible labour.”

“But if one were a relative, a repentant parent searching for a child?”

“The same rule applies. A man in particular must have a reference or an affidavit as to his identity and his ability to nourish and protect a child. Females have often, in the past, been stolen — yes, from workbenches in factories or elsewhere — and taken into brothels and nanny houses to service wretches of all manner.”

Endersby pondered the matron’s words, then offered his thanks and bid her goodbye. What should be his first foray, he wondered? To locate a lace seller — and perhaps find a lead to the murderer’s whereabouts? It was feasible the killer planned his crime and bought lace for a reason. Or, just as likely, he might have stolen or taken lace simply because it was at hand. Endersby had few clues to lead him forth. And he was not comfortable with the observations of the children, for doubt coaxed him to believe their words contained more fantasy than truth. What of the name: Uncle Bow? Knuckle Toe? And the scar, the worm? A frightening mark to young eyes. These thoughts bullied Endersby even as Wanton Time, as he liked to call it, pressed upon him to wait for the surgeon and the coroner.

Just before noon, the coroner arrived at Shoe Lane House of Correction and began his session. The parish officer presented summonses to a jury of peers — coal carriers, drivers, a coffee-stall keeper, two dustmen, and two cabmen, halted on their way to a fare. The coroner instructed his jury to study well the evidence: Endersby was called to display the lace, to tell of the matter of the coal chute and to draw a comparison to the murder at St. Giles. The makeshift jury, standing around the coroner in the workhouse dining room, listened to the child and adult witnesses, learned of the gaff, and then heard the surgeon’s conclusions. After deliberation, a fair-minded verdict was announced and the coroner demanded Endersby to take the found items to the magistrate for recording and then proceed to seek out the responsible villain.

Out in the air after the proceedings, Endersby decided to walk the short distance from Shoe Lane across Farringdon Street into Fleet Lane Station House. What mist and damp! The streets were astir: cabs, pedestrians, ragged children running. Fleet Prison itself loomed as the inspector limped along, mindful of his gouty foot. Endersby protested his deep fear that a madman was running loose in the streets. Why lace? What drives a man to such means? Such beasts we are as men, he thought, reprimanding himself on his own illicit love of punching jaws.