Children of the Tide. Jon Redfern
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