Children of the Tide (16 page)

“His name, Matron?”

“Smeets, I recall. Sergeant Peter Smeets.”

“And his daughter, young Catherine? Is she here in St. Pancras?”

“I shall have Pickens fetch her at this moment.”

Returning to the huddled group, Head Matron Dench commanded Matron Pickens to bring young Catherine Smeets into the stable yard. Matron Pickens bowed her head. “What is it, Pickens?” asked the Head Matron.

“She's fled, ma'am. Run out.”

“Are you certain, Pickens? She's not hiding in the yard or the latrines?”

“No, Matron. Her bed was left empty, most of her rags still in the bundle. The cripple-girl, Mag, shared the knowledge with me that Smeets had bolted.”

Sergeant Smeets leapt to his feet. His face contorted — his eyes wild. He rushed at Matron Pickens. “You filthy slag,” he screamed. “You let her flee. You killed her, scab.” His fists found their mark: the nose, then the matron's right cheek, and finally the sagging breast. The soldier grabbed the woman's throat. Blackened fingers squeezed hard. His right hand pressed down upon her mouth and nose. Rance and Master Cox leapt into the fray. Eventually, after much wrestling, the two combatants were parted. Matron Pickens stepped back, sniffing, and wiped her bloodied nose.

“Pickens, take your leave at once. Get to!” shouted Head Matron Dench. The dazed woman dashed out of the shade into the stable yard. Meanwhile, the writhing Sergeant Smeets was thrown into the chair in front of the horse stalls. Constable Rance ran behind and took hold of the man's elbows and pulled them back. Smeets stamped his feet.
What rage and injury,
Endersby thought.
Here, indeed, was a man who could kill in an instant.

Endersby returned his attention to the items Constable Tibald had brought from the workhouse. He offered to spread the contents of the bag on the ground before them. As he began to take out each piece, a silence fell over the witnesses. First appeared a narrow piece of knitted cloth. It resembled a belt and on it were blotches of dark colour. Next, a small packet of papers. These were hastily unwrapped by the inspector with the head matron reading over his shoulder. “Indeed, we have a legal document. Sergeant Peter Smeets dishonourably discharged for insubordination and petty thievery.” He read on. He lowered the papers. He requested Rance lift up the back of Smeets' shirt.

“We shall attend to your wounds, presently, Sergeant,” Endersby said in a calm voice.

The shirt was lifted from the man's back. Scoring the soldier's back, from shoulder to buttock, were huge scabs — formed over welts made by a flogging. “Flogged twenty lashes,” Endersby read out, returning his gaze to the papers. “Insulting a senior officer; inciting a riot in a tavern.”

Endersby requested Tibald to cover the man. “Sergeant Smeets, you are a fortunate man. The gallows is the more usual punishment for such acts.”

“Inspector, what should we make of this item?”

Constable Tibald now drew out a new-looking frock coat of fine weave. Endersby felt its sleeve. The puzzle now formed a complete picture in his mind, its contours fitting Smeets into the facts of the case. Such a number of matching pieces allowed Endersby to draw a conclusion of dire consequence. “Search the pockets. Turn the bag inside-out, Constable,” said Endersby. Tibald did so. A razor, a smudged towel. “Shake it hard, sir,” Endersby said.

“There is nothing left, sir,” was the constable's response.

Endersby now took a stance.”Where is your hat, Sergeant Smeets?” The distracted man felt his head. “My hat?” he sputtered. “Lost, lost,” he mumbled.

“Matron Dench, I wish to speak with Matron Pickens and the cripple-child to discover, if possible, other pertinent facts to support my fear that this man before us, Sergeant Peter Smeets, may in fact be a villain of a more heinous kind.” A groan rose out of Sergeant Smeets's throat. “For the meantime, Rance and Tibald, kindly escort Sergeant Smeets to Fleet Lane Station House on suspicion of felony — the murder of two matrons: one at St. Giles, the other at Shoe Lane.” Head Matron Dench gasped.

“Murder?” screamed Sergeant Smeets. “I ain't killed no one, git.”

Endersby pointed his finger at the two constables and they moved with great speed to haul the swearing man toward the street, cuffs now locked to his wrists.

“Are you certain in this action, sir?” asked the head matron once they were alone in the quiet of the stable yard. “Would this man murder,” she asked. “Would he risk punishment and lose the chance to see his only daughter?” Endersby thought carefully about what her words implied. Here was one byway into the criminal landscape of Sergeant Smeets's mind. Smeets had motive for killing — his anger at Matron Pickens proved he was capable of violence like that of a bear protecting her cub. Could this same fury have killed two other women?

“The criminal mind, Matron Dench,” replied Endersby, “is myriad, maze-like. I cannot disagree nor at the same time agree with your words about love of child and punishment. Men act on their hearts and guts. There are dark sides, however, which we representatives of the law often cannot fathom. And so, I must decide for the moment if a man is a
possible
suspect given all signs. In the case of Smeets, he resembles the culprit in many ways. Note, as well, his attack on Matron Pickens at the mention of his daughter. It is my duty to investigate Smeets if only to prove myself mistaken.”

“Admirable in your tactics, sir,” replied Head Matron Dench. “I shall lead you to Pickens and the child we call Little Mag.”

A
F
ine
F
renzy

T
he beadle stood in the doorway and raised the tip of his hat.

“Oh, Beadle,” cried Mrs. Bolton, morning sun dappling her doorstep. The clock by the front door began to chime eight o'clock. Yesterday, Mrs. Bolton had been a contented woman. Twelve hours ago she was looking forward to the village being fully awake: wagons and pedestrians with market baskets flowing along the high street. But now, ill fortune had darkened her view.

“Mrs. Bolton,” said the beadle, holding up his staff of office. “Run off, you say? Please, good woman, explain how.” The beadle stood six feet, narrow in frame, precise in diction. Ever polite, he was most charitable to those in his parish needing his assistance.

“Come in, sir,” Mrs. Bolton said. Into the bedroom she led the man in his long coat to the bed where her ill sister had once lain: the walls had been stripped of all lace samples, the bed abandoned. “Beadle, my Jemima has fled. As you see, the walls bear none of her handiwork. She was so proud of her lace.”

“Fled! To where do you imagine, Mrs. Bolton?” The beadle removed his hat. He moved efficiently about the sick room. His head leaned close to the walls to inspect the spaces where items had been removed. Investigation was but one of his responsibilities as a parish official. Eventually, he would have to sit down and write up a brief description of the morning's events — including the flight of one Jemima Pettiworth.

“Oh, Beadle,” cried Mrs. Bolton. “I have discovered more.”

Around the cosy house the two of them went. One trunk had been ransacked — all lace items removed. The dining table lay bare of its lace cloth. Near the backdoor to the yard, a handsome hanging of flowers in a vase — Jemima's masterwork, according to her sister — no longer covered the water stain in the wallpaper. “Oh, dear,” moaned Mrs. Bolton. “Where would she go?”

“My precise question, Mrs. Bolton, is
where
and
how.
Once we determine this, we may discover Miss Pettiworth's whereabouts.”

These last words struck Mrs. Bolton directly in her heart. The blow was such that she had to sit down and fold her hands in her lap. “I cannot imagine — I am afraid to do so — what has happened. I fear she may be mad.”

“This shall be our tactic, Mrs. Bolton. We will effect a search. Come along, good woman. We can look for witnesses around the village.”

As she shut the door, Mrs. Bolton remembered one item. She ran back through her cottage, into the sick room, and looked in the cupboard. On greeting the beadle again, she said: “My sister was writing a confession, Beadle. On what subject or for what reason I do not know. The pages have disappeared with her, along with the lace.”

“A confession? Did she have a secret to hide? A feeling of guilt for a crime of some sort? Proof of a guilty conscience, Mrs. Bolton,” said the beadle. “Therefore, if this be true, we have a reason for her flight. Now this may prove disastrous.”

“How so?” asked Mrs. Bolton, locking her front door.

“From what I know of the human heart, the guilty tend to search for recompense or punishment. If indeed your sister has committed a wrongdoing she will need to confront her feelings of guilt and remorse. The conscience is somewhat like a bladder, if I may be vulgar in my comparison. Once the bladder is too full, it can only relieve itself, it can only let out its contents in a rush. This same principle of ‘rushing,' as I deem it, applies to the guilt-racked mind. It is forced to free itself of the pressure, if you will. Thus, madness, flight — or worse ....”

“Worse, Beadle?” Mrs. Bolton's eyes were on the verge of tears.

“We shall not entertain such a thought, my good woman. Your sister is a Christian, a soul of the parish.”
Village folk up at an early hour would have seen her,
thought Mrs. Bolton,
some kindly farmer tilling his field spotting a woman in a nightdress carrying bundles, her voice humming a mad song.
Up and down the village the beadle and the widow walked side by side. The church warden shook his head; the baker shrugged, the hat maker, the blacksmith — each gave a sorrowful glance and a shake of the head. After an hour touring the village, the beadle led the widow to the nearest farm near the roadway. Neither farmer nor wife nor any of the farmer's nine children had seen a woman rushing by in a nightdress.

The road home seemed long to Mrs. Bolton. Her feet were heavy, as if she wore shoes of iron. At her front door, the beadle promised to spend more of his morning asking in the market if any pedlars had seen the mad Jemima. “Good cheer, Mrs. Bolton,” he said, tipping the edge of his hat.

Mrs. Bolton went toward her back door. “My goodness,” she said. “What is this?”

Conspicuous on the chair by the back door was an object. It was square in shape, wrapped in a pillow cover. On top there lay a number of ink-stained quills. “Jemima?” said Mrs. Bolton. She picked up one of the used quills. She slipped off the pillow cover. To her delight she found a neat collection of notepaper. On every page lay her dear sister's precise handwriting. “Her confession, perhaps?” Mrs. Bolton wondered and took the bundle toward the hearth. Her eyes were eager and fearful at the same moment as she picked up the first of the sheets of the confession her sister had left behind.

Down Fleet Street he scampered, his high boots rubbing his ankles raw, the rhyme and chaos of the city like a stiff breeze mussing his thoughts. Mud from the still-wet pavement spotted his frock coat. What Geoffrey Grimsby wanted were wings. Falcon, eagle — his peace of mind for a pair of feathered arms! Behind him, the ominous clack of a policeman's wooden rattle. Before him, men in hats, women in bonnets. Morning sun glowered off church steeples.

“Halt, sir!” A commanding voice rang out. Another shouted: “Stop, villain! In the name of the Metropolitan Police Force.”

As ever, the gin on his breath tasted sweet — even after a night of drinking and trying to wash away his sorrows. The sweat forming on his brow glistened as he ducked into an alleyway. To his dismay, a wall suddenly rose up to meet him and stopped his stumbling footsteps. How his head ached! How fatigued he had become with his life, his failures, his need for secrecy. How he wished he could be loving to all even though he had done so much harm in his desperation.

A hand from behind took hold of his right shoulder. He refused to buckle under as he struggled to wrench himself free, forcing his breath to puff. The hand held hard. On turning around he saw the ruddy face of young man in a top hat, his hands gloved in white leather. Another man in similar clothing held a rattle and a wooden truncheon.

“Stand, sir,” said the first man. The policeman's gloved hand moved the sweaty hair from the brow. The second policemen held up a piece of paper. He read it in spurts, looking up into the face and nodding, then reading again, slowly, checking out features — a scar, frock coat, boots.

“Your name, sir?” asked the policeman.

The answer slid forth in a gin-slurred jeer: “The Devil himself, sir.”

“Come now, sir. Your true name.”

“Mr. Geoffrey Grimsby. Undertaker. Son of Mr. Tightwad Grimsby himself.” A drunken giggle issued forth with these words. “I ask what this commotion is all about. It is most inconvenient for a man of my station to be chased and accosted in such a vulgar manner.”

“Mr. Grimsby,” the policeman said in grave tones. “I am to arrest you, sir, on suspicion of a felony.”

“A what?” Grimsby spouted.

“Your scar sir, your manner, your appearance fit this description given us by the chief detective of Fleet Lane Station House.” The other policeman waved the paper at Grimsby who snatched it and read it quickly, his eyes squinting in gradual horror at the details arrayed before him in neat official writing.

“A felony? This is most ridiculous,” young Grimsby announced. He thrust the paper back into the hand of the policeman.

“One of serious consequence,” came the policeman's reply.

“
Serious,
Officer?” enquired Grimsby, trying to pull forward the tails of his frock coat.

“We are to arrest you on suspicion of murder most foul. Come along, Mr. Grimsby. We ask no trouble.”

“Murder?” whined the young undertaker, his arm held by the first policeman as the other clapped a set of iron cuffs on his wrists.

“Murder, indeed, sir.”