Children of the Tide (18 page)

F
orms of Things
U
nknown

S
ergeant Thomas Caldwell struggled. His knuckles turned white. He lay back, mouth open, and felt the pincers take hold. A stab of pain racked the left side of his mouth.

“Steady, sir,” said the barber. “One yank and one shilling and you will be free of pain.”

“Arrrrghhhhhhhh!”

The barber held up the rotten tooth. Caldwell took a mouthful of gin and spit it into a basin next to the barber's chair. The sergeant knew the man and trusted him. He cut his hair, shaved his chin and occasionally yanked out a tooth. Another swish of gin and payment of the shilling, and Caldwell was out to the street, a bloody handkerchief pressed to his face. At a public house he took a glass of Scotch whiskey and winced. In the mirror in front of him he gazed at his face: pale, drawn from pain, tired.
I am a half-orphan in this life,
he thought.
No parents left. Only my Alice.

The faces in the workhouse haunted him as he walked toward Fleet Lane Station House. He had spent much time thinking about them.
Their sad eyes; their lost families. Family.
A word he rolled over and over in his mind. A sudden joy brightened the grimy street in front of him.

Why not rescue a young one from St. Giles? Or Shoe Lane? Alice and me could raise him. Love him like our own. Or her. A daughter. If Alice cannot have a baby we can choose a child from so many.Would Alice agree? This way she could be saved the toil of childbirth. Gain her strength. Love a needy child.

These thoughts rested lightly on Caldwell's mind as he spat blood one more time into the gutter. He wiped his mouth.
Time to set aside wishes and hopes for a happy domestic life,
he thought. Be prepared to report to his superior.

The day would go well. He had solid facts to relate. And he could toss away his tin box of cloves and relieve Inspector Endersby of the offending smell.

Inspector Endersby looked out of the window at the soot-filled air.
An afternoon of confusion ahead,
he thought. He stood in his jacket and waistcoat, hands held behind him in a pose of reflection. Though his early luncheon had been satisfying, he did not feel contented. What to make of the present situation two floors below in the cells of Fleet Lane Station House? “What indeed!” murmured Endersby. And, now, a packet of letters found by a surly matron in the St. Pancras Workhouse. All written by a ten-year-old named Catherine Smeets.
How do these fit?
he wondered.

“Ah, Mr. Caldwell,” greeted the inspector as his sergeant entered. “I see you have paid your barber for your pain. By the way, how was your visit with Malibran? Did you ‘tail' him? Follow him to any lair?”

“Unsuccessful, Inspector. I waited in the street, called to his landlord, and was shown into his room — but there was no sign of him. Two witnesses in the area had seen him leave very late, return, and then go out again before dawn. Seems I missed his comings and goings.”

“Pity, sir,” said Endersby.

“I then walked to the Strand to look for him,” Caldwell continued. “I questioned a number of street folk. They told me Malibran has been out singing and earning his money in other streets. He does his one-man act on the Strand only at night, however, sir.”

“And so this evening we shall pursue him along the Strand, Sergeant,” replied Endersby. “All is not lost for the moment. We have a surprise at present, awaiting us below, Mr. Caldwell.”

Sergeant Caldwell's eyes brightened. “Yes, Mr. Caldwell,” Endersby continued. “Let me recall to you our present situation. Two matrons, two murders, two workhouse Catherines as first witnesses, and now in the pens below, two likely felons
. Two,
sir. One for each murder, if you wish to be equitable in assigning guilt!”

“Two felons, sir?”

“Most remarkable they are in likeness as well — height, color, facial mutilation. Twins, perhaps, in action and motive.”

“And alibis, Inspector?”

“None as yet. And both refusing to divulge information. In fact, Sergeant, both claimed innocence at first. Our task is to strategize, sir.”

On their way down to the lower floors of the station house, the inspector showed his sergeant the packet of letters. “Written to an imaginary uncle, it seems, Caldwell. A felon sent to Australia for a minor crime. Seems
this
young Catherine refused to believe he was dead.” Descending farther they found themselves in a broad stone corridor. On either side were heavy wooden doors. Each had a large handle and keyhole made of iron. The rooms behind them were low-ceilinged and without windows. Once they had held political rebels when the original structure was built hundreds of years before. Endersby did not like the lack of space or light. He believed the darkness oppressed men, made them too fearful to speak out. On approaching the cells of Sergeant Peter Smeets and Mr. Geoffrey Grimsby, the inspector ordered two large lanterns to carry into the gloom of each wretched space.

“Now, Sergeant. Let us play at doubles, if I may borrow from the noble sport of lawn tennis.”

Caldwell nodded. He stood at attention. Such was his relationship with his superior that Caldwell knew an adventure of some kind might soon take place. “Sergeant, I wish you to visit the cell of Mr. Grimsby. I know naught of him. He was arrested on the street this morning in a state of drunkenness. A fellow in a frock coat. A scar on his face. Much about him resembles the description we sent out. Kindly go to him, show him kindness, then begin to ask who he is, where he was ... well, you are familiar with our routine. I shall effect a similar discussion with Sergeant Smeets. I will use these letters if need be. After a half hour or so, let us convene here by the stairwell.”

“Certainly, sir. If I may say so, sir, a fine opening manoeuvre.”

“Cannons ready, then, Sergeant?”

“Primed, Inspector.”

Endersby checked his coat pockets one last time. In them he had gathered a number of items, including Catherine Smeets' letters, the sergeant's release papers, and the lace found on the two dead matrons. As the constable opened the door to Smeets' cell, Endersby greeted him: “Sergeant, I do hope you are comfortable.”

Smeets looked up as Endersby entered. One simple bench lined the far wall; it served as seat and sleeping platform. A foul-smelling chamber pot sat in the opposite corner. One candle stayed the deep gloom. The lantern carried in by the inspector threw shadows upon the gritty stone.

“Rum-gull,” mumbled Sergeant Smeets. “Why I 'ave to wear fetters in this bog?”

“Irons,” replied the inspector, “are a necessity, Sergeant, for keeping both prisoner and guard at ease.”

“Cheeky git you are,” came the sergeant's reply. He was sober, now. His eyes were ringed with dark circles. His ankles had been washed and bandaged and his hands no longer resembled those of a coal carrier's.

“Sergeant, I read in your release papers that you were stationed at Dumfries, just north of the Scottish border.”

“Wot of it?”

“Sixteen days ago you were discharged after a lashing. Given two shillings as leave pay.” Endersby held the papers up while reading them by lantern light. He folded the soiled sheets and put them away in his pocket for the time being.

“Enough fer drink, Bobby.”

“You made good time walking from Dumfries to London. All effort for the sole purpose of finding your daughter.”

“None of that be yer business, rum-dog. Splittin' wenches is all I cares about,” the sergeant said, his leering smile showing a number of lost front teeth. Endersby had instructed a constable to bring food and there was evidence on the bench of a half-eaten lump of bread. Sergeant Smeets wiped his eyes and lay down on the bench, stretching out his legs and placing his head on his folded-up frock coat.

“A fine frock coat, Sergeant. A better fit than your tunic?” questioned the inspector. Endersby was now leaning his frame against one of the stone walls, his face in shadow.

“Won at cards, pup,” came the tired reply.

“How so, Sergeant? You claimed you lost musket and scabbard at cards. How came you to procure a coat of such good weave?”

“Killed a man-slag for it,” the sergeant then said, his voice low and lazy.

“I presume your murder of the man took place after he had removed his coat?”

“Ha, sir. A wise goat you are.”

“No blood on it. No sign of musket powder. Or perhaps I am being a fool,” Endersby said, playing his game of questions. “Of course, you were more clever than I first thought. You, sergeant, strangled the gull once he was in his cups. Took the coat right off his back.”

“Hi ho, Bobby-dog. Such a tale-spinner you are. I killed 'im with bare hands
and
a knife
and
my musket, all for a weave. A good'un!” The sergeant's voice had fallen into a whisper. He was beginning to doze and Endersby feared he might lose his attention. On impulse, Endersby leapt out of the shadows. He grabbed hold of the sergeant's shirt front, lifted him up to sitting position and shook him vigorously.

“
Murder
, Sergeant. You have admitted to a crime of great import. Drawing, lashing and hanging await you. Now speak up, where did this happen? I will trace it down if I must. I will send constables into the cities where you stopped and enquire of gravediggers and police officers about a strangled man.”

The sergeant tried to break free. Endersby shook him again. He slapped the sergeant's left cheek. He hauled him up to his feet. Nose to nose he stood, fighting the soldier's stinking breath. The sergeant began to cough, forcing Endersby to hold him at arm's length. Once again, the inspector shook Smeets, this time until his coughing let up.“Gull, dog, wot do it matter?” sputtered Sergeant Smeets. “I killed ‘im. Or I didn't kill'im. All the same to me.”

“You, sir, are a liar. Jests are but forms of lies,” Endersby hissed, his “demon familiar” rising, his fists ready to strike. Wisely, the inspector took a breath. Chin raised, he let his body and anger calm.
No more fisticuffs,
he warned himself. “Where did the killing of this man take place?” Endersby asked, letting Smeets go. The soldier sat down. He shrugged. He then began to rub his head with his hands and rock back and forth. Here again was this agitated action of remorse Endersby had witnessed earlier at St. Pancras.

“What is the matter, Sergeant?” Endersby asked. The sergeant wailed: “I shall die now. I will die and ne'er see my sweet one again.” Endersby sat down on the bench beside the sergeant. One of his methods of investigation was to unsettle his captives by showing them first brutal authority then brotherly kindness. Such an approach often placated the criminal mind, Endersby would argue. Reaching out, Endersby squeezed the sergeant's shoulder. Bending forward, Endersby could see fear and doubt in Smeets's eyes. Would this give way at last to a truthful confession?

Endersby remained quiet beside the rocking man. After a moment's reflection, the inspector considered the discharge papers: these were proof of Sergeant Smeets's whereabouts in the last two weeks, given the state of the man's boots and his haggard appearance. Taking a new tack, Endersby instead showed Smeets one of the letters written by his daughter to her uncle.

“Glance at this, sergeant,” Endersby said. Smeets sat up and took hold of the letter.

“Well, what do you make of it?” Endersby said.

The soldier looked bewildered; he turned the letter over a few times, peering at the writing and tracing out some of the words with his finger. “I ain't no letter writer. Canna read much beyond a dot.”

“Allow me to read to you what I have.” Endersby took the letter and bent close to the lantern. He read the contents out loud, slowly, emphasizing each single word.

“Ow, ow,” the sergeant moaned, remorse filling his throat. Smeets sat up boldly. Endersby finished by repeating the last two words: “Your Catherine.”

“T'was my temper, Bobby, that done it,” the sergeant said. He wiped his eyes. Endersby noted again the man's capacity for tender feeling.

“How do you mean, Sergeant?” Endersby asked, folding the letter.

“He was my dead wife's brother. A good fellah. Good to my sweet Catherine. We all lived in the village near Frogmore. He struck me one night for hittin' my own daughter. I was a looby lout. All he wanted was to protect her. I was jealous of 'im. I charged 'im with hittin' me, a sergeant of Her Majesty's. Arrested he was. Poor gull. T'was him taught my little one to read.”

“What happened to him?”

“Sentenced to the prison ships, the hulks. The judge sent 'im off to Australia. Gone forever. Or dead of fever.” Endersby knew the hulks were pitiless places. Old navy ships refurbished to house felons since the land prisons were overflowing. The prisoners were sent to work on canals and roads where many died of disease.