Children of the Tide (14 page)

A Meeting of
F
ists

M
alibran's club thumped to the floor. Stepping back, he collided with a table, knocking down his green concertina.

“Where is the ruffian, sir? Your pity-man!” Inspector Endersby shouted.

Early light seeped in through a patched window. The squalid room in Nightingale Lane stank of wet clothes. Malibran cowered in self-defense, facing the two intruders. Sergeant Caldwell blocked the doorway; Endersby stood in front of him, his face crusted with blood from his wounds. “We meet again
not
by chance, nor for your good fortune, sir,” Endersby said. “We shan't leave until you tell us facts!” Endersby's voice had become a deep rasp. His “demon familiar” was clearly on view — fists clenched, feet firmly planted — ready for assault. An old memory of a chase and a beating rushed into his mind. Relishing it, he wiped his mouth; what he desired at this very second was to hear the crack of jawbone against knuckle.

“What'll you pay, Bobby?” snarled the cornered Malibran. “You've lost me my pity-man for makin' profit.”

“I was at your mercy, sir, once....” snarled the inspector. “Now I give nor take no quarter. You and your man ambushed us. You no doubt helped him change his pelt and armed him. He may be a killer and you and he have beaten public officers of the law. Your bag of skin will lie in Fleet Lane prison forever!”

“I take no threat from you. I ain't no fool.” replied Malibran.

Endersby grabbed hold of Malibran's shoulders and shook them. A surge of power drove the inspector's large belly against Malibran's frail frame. His fist swung out; Malibran dodged the blow and the inspector's knuckles tore into the plaster of the wall; on withdrawing his weapon of flesh, Endersby winced at the cuts splaying his skin.

Malibran picked up his club and raised it over his head: “Get out, scum-Bobby, or this bludgeon will smash your brains.”

“Caldwell!” shouted the inspector. The sergeant leaped forward and knocked Malibran off his feet. Endersby rumbled over to him, stomped his boot onto the prostrate man's heaving chest. “Now, sir, it is time to tell a story.” He picked up the shaking man and shoved him onto a chair. He signalled to Caldwell who ran behind Malibran and held him fast, pulling his arms back. “You know this man. You have worked with him. What is his name and where does he come from?” Endersby shouted.

“You deaf git,” replied Malibran, who struggled unsuccessfully against Caldwell's iron grip. “I know not his name, as I told you. Nor nothing of him but that he came to Fitz for help.”

“This evening you gave up a hot supper, Mr. Malibran. Was it to warn your pity-man we were on the chase?”

Malibran shut his mouth. He looked down at his bare feet. Endersby stepped forward and, before Malibran could move, pressed his boot on Malibran's right foot and crushed it down with his whole weight. “I can stand here, sir, quite comfortably if you wish it.” Malibran tried in vain to pull his foot free. On command, Caldwell yanked harder so that Malibran's arms looked like two broken wings of a bird. Malibran yelled out: “You scummy policeman! I cannot walk nor earn my livin' if you keep my foot — ahh!” Endersby did not relent. With each breath, he relished the discomfort of the squirming man before him. “I shall be quick, Malibran. You have but a foot to lose; I have children's lives at stake. Tell me. Did you run to your pity man and betray our cause?”

Malibran tried to spit in the inspector's face, but Endersby's hand was too quick — a sharp slap to the jaw sent the man reeling to the floor.

“Yes, yes,” Malibran moaned. He began to cough. In less than a second, Malibran was again shoved onto the chair, his torso doubled over in pain. “Speak, man,” Endersby ordered.

“I went to his digs, in Blue Anchor,” Malibran winced. “I told 'im I'd be his lookout, his protection. He's like me, out to get a penny the best way we can. He brought the pistol on his own. I know no more, Bobby. Can you not leave us in peace?” The pleading voice and the fear in Malibran's eyes touched Endersby. Here was an outcast, a lost soul. What privations had he suffered? And what real proof was there so far of the pity-man's guilt other than his appearance, or rather, his similar characteristics to that of a man described by two frightened girls.

“Caldwell, free the man,” Endersby said. A breath filled the inspector's chest. The rabid fury of his demon calmed. Malibran slowly rose. His poorly nourished face reminded Endersby of the faces of the lost girls in the workhouse.
These people are the flotsam of life,
he thought. “You could lose profit, sir,” Endersby began. “But two women not unlike yourself in luck have lost their lives. If your ‘pity-man' is a murderer, I must find him. He may kidnap an innocent girl. He may lead her and a matron to join the ranks of the dead.”

Malibran's eyes held fast the sorrowful gaze of the man who moments before was prepared to maim him. He reached out his hand: “Pity means nothing to me and my sort.” Endersby leaned back, fishing out two shillings from his waistcoat pocket. He knew enough of the wiles of criminal minds to figure he could not exhort any more from this man hardened by the world of London's poor.

“No reckoning where he will wander now,” Malibran lamented, fingering the shillings and rubbing his sore stomach. “He rooms here, sometimes, in Nightingale Lane. Other times, he strolls north. To Seven Dials slum, or thereabouts. Claims them lodging houses is cheaper. The man tells no one his name. Fitz and me, we thinks he was a soldier who deserted.” Endersby pondered the man's words. Malibran looked up into the inspector's face. “I don't know if I can ever find him now.”

“Inspector, sir?” Caldwell asked. “Shall we escort Mr. Malibran to Fleet Lane?”

“Leave him be,” came the inspector's response.
London is like the sea and hides its bodies well,
Endersby thought. Letting Malibran go free could prove helpful as he would most likely search out the pity-man for more work on the street. Malibran was worth following. Moving toward the door, Endersby felt a rush of despair. Time was rushing on. Only two days left to procure a conviction. Had the murderer struck again this past night if indeed the pity-man was innocent?

Endersby went out of the room and down the stairs. Alone in the street, he raised his head and relished the first fingers of light emanating from the eastern sky. Caldwell soon stepped up to his side. His sergeant was a good man, always patient with him in spite of the rambles the two of them were forced to make in chasing culprits.

“To your bed, Sergeant. We must let the wicked rest and go free for a time. I thank you for your constancy, sir. I value it much, indeed.” The inspector shook his sergeant's hand. “Rest, Sergeant, and then let us meet as arranged to hear news, if any.” Caldwell nodded, his face twitching with his tooth pain. “And Caldwell, get yourself to a barber and have that molar pulled out!”

“Goodnight, Inspector.”

In a hansom cab that he found near the river, Endersby laid his head against the leather headrest. He began to catalogue his vices. He wondered if he'd ever balance his desire for justice against the fury of his “demon familiar.” His wife Harriet would no doubt be dismayed at him arriving home bloodied and injured. The cab rattled along deserted streets. Hungry dogs cowered in doorways alongside ragged children. Endersby's pity went out to them.
How sad a world where children starve and animals hide in fear.
Crossing behind St. Paul's, the sun peeking over the horizon, Endersby looked out at the mass of London, soiled, ramshackle, indifferent and cold. He yearned for his hearth; he wished to fill the hollowness in his heart with cheery, loving voices. He concluded that he was a man of good conscience who must be careful, always, not to allow his disdain for evil men destroy his better self.

“Here it be, sir,” the cabby said, his voice tired from his long night. Endersby paid the man a few pennies extra: “For you, cabby, and your labouring horse.”

“Harriet, my love?” Endersby called as he entered Number Six Cursitor Street. The inspector washed and bound his smashed fist. Searching in his leather satchel, he pulled out the bits of lace and the envelope of rust bits he'd picked from the two corpses earlier in the day. The pencil drawing made by the mute Catherine he set beside the other objects on a table. He ran his finger across his face, tracing out the line of the scar made by the child's chilly finger. Was this line representing a scar or could the girl have seen only a shadow or a birthmark or a smudge of blood from a fight? To his seasoned eye, the objects seemed even more ambiguous than before. How sure could he be about the “pity-man” as a murderer?

Wishing to soothe his mind, Endersby moved into his flat's little kitchen. He went to the pantry and ran his eyes over the remains of a pork pie. He began to pick. Soon, he was gobbling the pie, grabbing fistfuls of pastry and meat.

“Mr. Endersby?”

It was Harriet. Her voice so startled him he swivelled and dropped the pie platter.

“Good Jesus!”

Harriet stepped back. Her soft white hand rose to cover her mouth in surprise. Endersby immediately burned with embarrassment. “I beg your pardon,” he said. Harriet moved swiftly up to him and pressed her hand upon the cut marking Endersby's forehead. “Well, sir,” she said. Endersby took hold of Harriet's hand. She pulled it away.

“A fight, sir?” she said “Your ‘demon familiar,' Mr. Endersby, has finally got the better of you. And you have conveniently eaten all of our evening meal.”

Endersby bent down and picked up the platter. Harriet took it from him. She took water from a jug and bathed his cut. “Come,” she said as if speaking to a stubborn child. She took Endersby and led him into their bedroom. “Lie down, please,” she said. She took hold of both his hands and simply looked at him.

Endersby began to weep. “Forgive me, dearest one,” he said, his voice catching in his throat.

“Forgiveness granted,” she said.

“I am a lost man, Mrs. Endersby,” the inspector moaned. “I have beaten a man in rage. I have left you to starve.”

“You are a man in need of a night's sleep, my dear,” Harriet said. “You are a good man, a hardened man at times, but you are not lost.”

Endersby slowly sat up. He circled his arms around his Harriet and held her close as if he were a child seeking comfort in a thunderstorm.

“May I suggest, Mr. Endersby, that you retire to your study. Your snoring would keep me awake.” Endersby bent forward, kissed Harriet and headed toward the bedroom door.

“And, sir,” Harriet said pulling up the counterpane. “Remember we have the theatre later on this day. Shakespeare at Covent Garden.”

“Indeed, madam,” the inspector replied.

Endersby retreated to the couch in his study. Lying on his side, he gazed at his canvas long-coat drooped over a chair. His hat sagged from early morning rain. “What a sorrowful costume.” He grunted, then turned and fell into a restless sleep.

A Rogue and a Waif

W
hat a morning! The sun shone in the eyes of Inspector Owen Endersby as he stood beside his sergeant-at-hand, the two bidding a good day to each other in the entrance foyer to Fleet Lane Station House. Caldwell's face was less swollen this morning. The pungent odour of clove, however, remained on his breath.

“As to our methods, Sergeant. Two witnesses supposed our culprit may have worn leg irons. Do we have an escaped prisoner on our hands? Or is this conjecture?”

“A good point, sir.”

“I want you to follow Malibran, this morning. Tail him, if I may use a vulgar term. Up the Strand and along his route. Take along a constable to spell you off if you need time to investigate the area. If Malibran meets up with his ‘pity-man' to earn coin, arrest the chap and bring him here. It is in Malibran's interest to search out his pity man for the sake of profit.”

“Very good, sir. I shall start at Malibran's lodgings.”

“We have only words, sir, to guide us for now. Whether they are telling us truths, we shall soon discover.”

“Yes, Inspector.”

Caldwell left the Fleet Lane Station House and hired a cab to take him down to Nightingale Lane. Endersby ruminated on the facts he had: if the pity-man is a killer he rooms in Nightingale Lane or sometimes in Seven Dials. If he is
not
the murderer, then only two other clues can be counted as worthwhile. One is that the brute is an escaped prisoner — likely from the prison ships near Greenwich. Or, he may be a dock worker with his dredgerman's gaff.

A moment later, Contables Rance and Tibald entered the courtyard as the clock chimed eight.

“Good morning, Constables,” greeted Endersby. “Most punctual.”

“Good morning, sir,” they replied. Rance and Tibald were wearing black stove-pipe hats, blue uniforms and white leather gloves.
Sir Robert Peel had been accurate in his visionary policy,
Endersby thought. Dress a policeman like a gentleman and not a soldier and the public will respect him as a working member of a civil society.

“Constables, Sergeant Caldwell is off to chase down a Mr. Malibran. Let us hear of last night.”

Mr. Rance began: “Sir, as you may recall, I was sent to the Barbican to post guards and aid in a night watch. To my relief and that of the masters, no incident occurred.”

“Well spoken, sir,” replied Endersby. The constable's words aroused doubt, however. Had Endersby miscalculated? Was his logic not in tune with the criminal impulse, as the inspector once prided himself on being able to predict? Constable Tibald stepped forward: “Sir, in Theobald's Road there was a break-in of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” said Endersby.

“The locked coal chute had been tampered with, sir. And some children heard a man's voice yelling in the night.”

“Did anyone see the culprit?”

“Everyone said it was too dark. But this was found in the courtyard, by the gate.” Constable Tibald handed the inspector a black oilskin hat, a type worn by dredgermen on the Thames.

“This is a fortuitous find, Tibald.”

Endersby's mind raced. “Gentlemen, I want you two to explore prison ship records and the roster of hangings and escapees from London's prisons in the last three months. This may occasion you to travel to Newgate as well as searching our archives. The Naval Office will have information to guide you. Meet me back here no later than one in the afternoon. I shall take the air down at Wapping near the Docks.”

In a cab, Endersby hoped this latest find would not be a false lead.
But how coincidental,
he thought. The coal carrier met a man carrying a dredgerman's gaff. And now, in the inspector's hand, lay an oilskin hat, one similar to those worn by fishermen and dredgermen. As always Endersby needed to move quickly on any lead — especially considering he had only one day left to investigate these crimes.

At Wapping Street in east London, he stepped down from the cab. He deduced that this part of the river was near Nightingale Lane where the pity man often lodged. Might he work at the docks as well as play for coin with Malibran? “Wait and see, old gander,” he said and went into a wooden hut by the entrance to London Docks. Inside, he saw a man sitting in a chair and holding a writing quill.

“Only night help, Inspector. For coal retrieval and moving of bales. Our dredgermen are a proud lot. We don't hire them who was not in the business with their fathers.” Endersby told of the gaff and showed the man the oilskin hat. “By a workhouse, you say?” The man rubbed his chin. “Let me glance at our records, sir.” He opened a ledger and checked the employment lists laid out in columns. “We have taken on night workers for the past two weeks only. Strong backs needed to lift the tea chests comin' in from China.” Endersby scanned two pages. Each showed a column of Xs — marks of illiterate men, beside which were payment sums of one or two pennies up to a shilling. On the third page, the inspector noticed one full signature, that of a Mr. William More.

“Sir, I ask you about this man named More.”

“On and off, sir. Comes and goes. Likes his gin. Will work only from ten to one in the morning. Claims he has a sickly daughter.”

“Does he lodge here, sir?”

“Here and around. He is tight fisted. Claims he searches out the cheapest lodging houses so he can buys medicines.”

“What does he look like?”

The man sat back and blinked. “Ugly fellow. I only sees him in night light. Looks as if he has a wound on his cheek, from soldiering perhaps.” Endersby was taking notes with his lead-tipped pencil. “Does he wear anything peculiar?”

“Rags, sir,” answered the man.

“How does he walk?”

“Walk? The chap stumbles. Drags his feet like he was a cripple.”

“Thank you, sir.” Endersby went into the morning sun.
Does this similarity to the pity man add up to anything?
Endersby wondered. The inspector strolled along the dockside, watching the workers unload cargo. Many of the men looked tired; a few of them had scars on their cheeks and arms. Were these but marks of the trade? He asked a couple of men if they knew of William More.

“Yonder, sir,” replied one man with a crooked leg.

Endersby went into a chop house. He looked around but saw no one who resembled the culprit. A lone man by the window was smoking a pipe.

“Sir, I am looking for a Mr. William More.”

“Fled,” was the curt reply.

“You were acquainted with the man?”

“No, sir. But I worked by him. Cripple chap. Could read and write. Wrote letters for us all for a ha'penny.”

“Fled, you say?”

“North. I figure Seven Dials. Labour is needed there and lodging is cheap.”

“Was he a good looking man?” Endersby asked.

“What you after?”

“Endersby of the Metropolitan Police, sir. I am searching for a man with certain features.”

“He done break'ins?”

“He murdered two women.”

“Devil,” the man muttered. He relit his pipe. “Slice along his face. But I took little notice. A hazard of working with gaffs, sir.”

“Why Seven Dials, sir? And not Saffron Hill?” Endersby asked again.

The man pondered: “Has a sickly daughter, in a charity hospital. Best to be near her. So he says.”

“Did he ever mention her name?”

“Never to me. But the chap was peculiar. Said he was called More, then one day says he is called Kirkham, or such nonsense. A cracked git, I figured.”

Endersby indulged in a coffee and a plate of toast before searching again along the docks, talking to workers, describing the culprit. One or two had heard of a William More and knew he could write letters. “There be plenty with scars, here, sir,” one of the dredgermen pointed out. “Best to come by at night. New crews with hour-by-hour workers. You may meet him then.”

By now London's clocks were striking eleven, and back at Fleet Lane Station House Endersby ran into an excited Tibald dashing down the staircase. “Sir,” Tibald said, “we have a discovery.” Endersby followed his sergeant into the archives. Shelves held thousands of papers crammed into cubby holes, each hole bearing a date above it and a span of months. “We have found names, sir. From Newgate and here, Fleet Prison. Rance will soon return from the Naval Office.” Endersby perused the list of names and dates telling of executions and the rare escapee. Each name had a crime described beside it. “This one, sir, is from Fleet Prison,” said Tibald.
A man in his forties condemned to the hulks for kidnapping children from the street. Two of the females were sold to chimney sweeps in the north
.

“Name of Henry Quick,” read Endersby out loud. “Broke free while being transported to Greenwich, last December 5. Tibald, commendable. Keep this file open.” Rance appeared and showed a list he'd had copied from the Navel Offices of escapees from the prison ships. “A difficult undertaking to do, gentlemen,” Endersby said. On the list of recent escapees were three names: Tobias Jibbs, William More, Elijah Horn.

“Indeed,” mumbled Endersby. Rance then showed the inspector a secondary list of the dead. “William More, sir, was murdered — by strangulation — right after his escape,” Rance explained. “His body was found near the estuary a mile from the prison ships.”

“Do the dead walk, I wonder?” said Endersby. Rance and Tibald looked puzzled until the inspector told of his investigation at the docks earlier in the morning. “Good detective work, Constables. Let us walk in the courtyard and take the sun. We need to strategize.” As the three men walked outside, Endersby noticed a tall, gaunt gentleman looking around the foyer. “Yes, sir? Good morning,” Endersby said. The gaunt man approached with the caution of a child being summoned before a school head master. “Sir, you are Inspector Owen Endersby?”

“I am he.”

“I was told I might speak with you on a troubling matter.”

“You are most welcome to do so.”

Rance and Tibald stood at attention, eyes attending to the figure before them.

“There has been a ruckus, Inspector Endersby,” the gaunt man said. “In St. Pancras Workhouse. North. I was sent by our head mistress to fetch you. As of late yesterday she had heard of the murder incident at St. Giles Workhouse and of your name.”

“A body found, sir?” asked Endersby, trepidation and excitement further elevating his spirits.

“Not a dead one, if you mean that, Inspector,” the man replied.

“What then? I beg of you,” Endersby said, his right fist closing and opening to affect some calm in his restless body.

“A body found, sir, but one living. An intruder,” came the gaunt man's description.

“An intruder? Dangerous?” enquired Endersby. Rance and Tibald had taken out their notebooks and were scribbling down each word with their lead-tipped pencils.

“Searching for his daughter, he claims. A dirty fellow and drunk. Fists up most times.”

“Where was he found?”

“Hiding in the washhouse shaking with hunger. A soldier, we reckon, from his soiled uniform.”

“Curious, indeed,” said Endersby, his facial features now posed to show professional concern. It was his habit to take facts and immediately turn them into suppositions. In his younger days as a Bow Street Runner, he would have arranged for an immediate arrest in order to earn his commission as a “felon catcher.” An arrest notice was the next official step; instead, Endersby would indulge in a visit to St. Pancras to confront the soldier — the searcher — himself, a method he figured was the most honest way to proceed.

“We shall accompany you, sir, to St. Pancras on the moment. Constables Rance and Tibald are at your service, as am I.”

“I thank you, Inspector. We are in a state of some fear.”

“Why so?” asked Endersby. “Has the man threatened anyone?”

“The man is desperate mad. He is most concerned he shall die if he does not find his young daughter.”

“Did he call out her name, sir, by any chance?” Endersby took in a breath.

“He did. He said nothing after a time but her name. ‘Catherine,' she is. To him it is the catechism, I beg pardon. Over and over he said it.”

“Then we shall make our visit one that may afford the man some relief,” said Endersby.

The gaunt man followed Endersby and the two constables into the street where two hansom cabs were hired. On his way along High Holborn Street, Endersby planned his next strategy: a soldier searching at night for a workhouse child named Catherine. Has this evil become a contagion in the city? The desire for young orphaned females a sign of darker times ahead? Or, indeed, is
this
man the villain, trapped by his own desperation? Endersby looked ahead at the hansom carrying Tibald and the gaunt man. How slowly they were moving. Old London town had become harried, torn up, torn down. A dog-bite-dog world, the shrill whistles of the new steam-powered trains blasting away the cries of sickly children. One thing remained constant: fathers yearning for lost children. “Men who would murder to find them,” Endersby whispered as St
.
Pancras Workhouse loomed ahead at the far end of the street.