Children of the Tide (25 page)

The hansom cab flew through the streets. It made a turn toward the river with Endersby urging the driver to speed his horse. An hour later, after much bustling, the inspector was standing in the ward of St. Bartholomew's Hospital among a group of familiar faces.

“Was this the man you observed, ladies and gentlemen,” Endersby asked of his small herd of curious onlookers from Rosemary Lane. “Nay. The chappy had a wound, not a rash from the pox,” argued the barkeep from the Blue Anchor Gin House.

“Hard to say,” proclaimed the lace seller. “Wot you think, lovey?” he said to his large wife, her apron sheathed in fish scales. “Perhaps. Not for certain, not for … well, no and yes.” All witnesses peered again at the face of Sergeant Smeets lying in his bed. “No,” said the boy thief. “Not 'im, no,” answered Nick the Hand.

“I thank you all,” replied Inspector Endersby. Rance and Tibald led the motley bunch out of the crowded ward of St. Bartholomew's. Sergeant Smeets dozed fitfully, his skin the colour of chalk. “Damnation,” the inspector whispered under his breath. How to find proof positive? These witnesses had proved unreliable. Endersby had to admit to having only scant leads despite his wish to blame Smeets. The only truths were the patient's violent behaviour, the found frock coat and Smeets's admission of needing to find his Catherine.

“I say, rum gull,” came the sound of a familiar voice. Standing large and florid in the hospital ward doorway was the Duke of the Docks himself, Mr. Fitz.

“How do you do, sir,” smiled Endersby. Perhaps Fitz might provide an answer.

“Robust,” laughed Fitz. “And you, Bobby-git?”

“I am still a desperate man. Here before us lies a chap who had cause to kill.”

“Good on you,” said Fitz, coming forward to the bed where Sergeant Smeets lay in sleep. The Duke of the Docks leaned over the soldier's face. Out came Fitz's massive hand; a hard shake to the soldier's arm caused the ward matron to bound forward. “Sir, I beg of you,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “Beg pardon, ducks, but I be on police business, eh Jack-boy?” Fitz said looking back at Endersby. “Have you ever seen this man in any of your lodging houses or on the streets where you rule,” asked Endersby. Fitz pulled out a silk handkerchief and blew his nose. “Not him, Jack,” he said with conviction. “This chappy ne'er saw a street corner in his life. Look at 'im agin, a gin-scum soldier from toe to cap.”

“You are certain, sir?” asked Endersby. Fitz laughed: “You doubt old Fitz, Bobby? This fellah's seen prison, e'en the hulks, I reckon, from his fevered looks.”

“Damnation,” the inspector whispered a second time. He slipped Fitz a coin in thanks and watched him waddle out of the ward. On his way home to his midday dinner, Endersby attempted to clear his mind.
It is the wayward way of Justice,
he mused. The inspector nevertheless felt proud of his detective work, the thoroughness of Caldwell, Rance, and Tibald. There was consolation in the fact that no workhouse murders and no kidnappings had taken place for two nights. “Yet, a felon still runs free,” he said out loud as the cab drove up Chancery Lane.

At Number Six Cursitor Street, the inspector got down. His growling stomach propelled him up to his set of rooms; he smelled the scones Harriet had promised him — a gift from their neighbour, Mrs. McLaren, to be followed by one of his favourites, sheep's trotters stewed in milk. Afterward, Endersby sat down in his study to work on his French puzzle. He could not concentrate. He stood up, paced, and punched his fists together. Time pressed on. He walked into the hall and pulled on his hat and coat.

“You look vexed,” Harriet said, bussing him on the cheek as he opened the door. “I suppose you shall abandon me this evening as well. To pursue your culprit.”

“Unfortunately, my dearest, I must,” replied Endersby. “Mrs. Endersby, I have been pondering your word from the other evening.”

“Which one? Was I in some way philosophical?” smiled Harriet.

“I have entertained your notion of retribution.”

“This is in reference to your case of the workhouse children?”

“Yes, it was a matter of lace. I question the nature of such recompense in this case. Brutish revenge?”

“Puzzling, dear,” replied Harriet. “Surely, the criminal mind is so fraught with wild sentiment we can only guess at what drives it to commit terrible acts.”

“In fact,” murmured the distracted inspector.

“You look so tired, dear Owen.”

“I am lost, Harriet. This case is not coming into the light.” Harriet took hold of her husband's hand. “It seems,” the inspector continued, “that Caldwell and I have run in a circle. Logic and action are out of match. And tonight, Death may again haunt the workhouses.”

“Have courage, my dear,” Harriet comforted. “Justice will prevail.”

“Do not wait up for me tonight,” Endersby cautioned, taking Harriet in his arms.

“The life of a detective inspector's wife, dear one, is often one of waiting.”

On his way to Fleet Lane Station House, Endersby diverted himself by reading the new theatre playbills posted on wooden fences. He often thought a detective's work was similar to that of an actor's. Both need to be keenly observant of human behaviour. “Such wondrous figures these players are,” the inspector said aloud. “Madame Vestris, Charles James Mathews, and William Charles Macready. Your names will blaze throughout history.” At the station house, Caldwell and he gathered together the gaff, the letters of Catherine Smeets, the lace, and the dregerman's hat and placed them in a large sack. “We may need these for bait,” quipped the inspector to his sergeant-at-hand. He dictated to Caldwell the story of Dr. Benton and his remarkable charity.

“A man would do that, sir?” asked Caldwell.

“Mrs. Barnes was remarkable in her own way. An odd mixture of decency and disdain.”

“Any conclusions, sir, regarding Sergeant Smeets?” Caldwell asked.

Endersby hesitated: “Mr. Fitz claimed he'd never seen Smeets. The other witnesses were not consistent.”

“I am sorry to hear that, sir,” Caldwell replied.

“By elimination we have isolated ourselves without a firm suspect, Sergeant,” Endersby went on, his mood darker. “This is our last day to effect our capture of a villain — Borne will allow us no more subsidy or time. This sack, if used to advantage, may aid us, as I entertain a hunch.”

“Chance and coincidence, sir. Like finding a coin on a beach of stones.”

“Admirably said, Sergeant.”

Mr. Smallwood and Company

A
s if in sympathy with Inspector Endersby's predicament, the fog lifted by mid- afternoon and allowed a pallid sun to warm the March streets of the great city. “At last some light on this underworld day,” muttered Endersby, sitting back in the slow-moving hackney coach.The quarter of Seven Dials presented itself without fanfare. Seven narrow streets formed a star pattern spreading out from a little square. Row houses ran in zig-zag fashion along slim alleys. The hackney pulled up to the Seven Dials Station House on Earl Street. Wild children shouted at the inspector and his sergeant as they paid the fare. A constable rushed out from the station house with a long stick.“Run ya filtee scallywags,” the constable shouted. Endersby learned the man's name a moment later: Constable Martin Healey, a burly man with a pair of fists as big as the fattened capons in Smithfield market. “Good aftynoon to yer, Inspectar,” Healey cried.

How different Earl Street Station House was from Endersby's home station. Quiet, solemn: a narrow passage led from the front door into a back room, where a large desk occupied most of the square footage. A smell of fresh varnish cut the air.“This way, Inspector.” Down a set of stairs to the area below where, in the former kitchen, a long table had been erected. Nearest the door, a wooden stool, and on it with his back toward the doorway, a figure perched in shirt sleeves and waistcoat.

“Owen? Rolly Endersby?” the figure asked without turning to look.

“How'd you guess, Tinytree?” answered Endersby.

“The gouty stomp is unmistakable. And the sway of the Endersby belly. But you are not alone. A thin chap is alongside.Two of you come to Smallwood. Shall you stay?”

The figure stood, turned. Embraces between the two inspectors. Pats on mutual stomachs leading to introductions.

“Sit, sit,” commanded the Earl Street detective. “Tea? Coffee?” he asked. “Or port?”

Endersby conceded to port while Caldwell requested coffee. “Here you are, then,” said Smallwood. “A bit of trouble, Rolly? A Gordian Knot to unravel?”

“Sadly so, Elias,” Endersby said.

Detective Elias Smallwood filled a room, not by girth but by height and loudness of voice. A moustache decorated his upper lip, its strands styled by wax and comb. A pair of black wire spectacles gave him the appearance of a man constantly amazed. The three men drank at leisure. After a time, with clay pipes lit, Smallwood introduced his assistants. “My
two
sergeants-at-hand, Rolly,” Smallwood boasted. Two men in plain clothes marched into the room. One, Sergeant Stendebach, born in Munich, raised in south London. The other from Denmark, family name of Ringdahl. “Gentlemen,” Inspector Endersby said.

“Now to business,” commanded Elias Smallwood. The other two men sat down. Endersby proceeded to review the workhouse murders, describing the culprit's features, the Catherine coincidence. Smallwood held up the written notice sent to all police stations. Endersby continued by outlining the alibis of his suspects and the problem of the ill Sergeant Smeets. “We have run in a circle, Elias,” admitted a dejected Endersby. “Another possible suspect is William More, a dredgerman. He works at night for short periods. He shares certain characteristics with the culprit. Above all, we also have a street performer, a pity-man, who fits the description. My deductions lead me to think More and the pity-man may be one in the same man. From our trailing his protector, we can conclude the pity-man is now residing in Seven Dials, in the lodging house with the green door in the main square.”

“You expect to nab him?” Smallwood said, his tone expressing doubt. “Elias,” replied Endersby, “we have here in our sack two items — a gaff and a hat — which may belong to him. And a collection of letters from a young ward of St. Pancras Workhouse.”

“Conjecture, Rolly,” Smallwood warned.

“Desperation, rather,” said Endersby. “There is also the figure of an uncle, a phantom figure if you will. His name is one of my clues — a Mr. Tobias Jibbs.”

“An uncle?”

“I am following a hunch, if you'll permit me,” Endersby explained. He revealed what he knew of Tobias Jibbs from Sergeant Smeets. “But can this drunken soldier be trusted in his storytelling?” wondered Smallwood.

Sergeant Stendebach spoke up: “A scar, a frock coat, and a limp? We have our street watchers. We can question them. The soup-house proprietors respect us and will give us honest replies.”

“Such cooperation,” said Endersby to Smallwood, “is no doubt a result of the respect with which you treat all folks in this sad quadrant.”

“I thank you, Owen, for the compliment. The poor are good people. Trust is always difficult to earn. But once earned, I find my spies are most reliable.”

“Commendable, sir,” said Endersby.

Sergeant Ringdahl raised a question: “If your suspect has taken refuge here in the ‘Dials,' do you imagine he will avoid anyone who looks official, or is dressed like a police officer?”

“No doubt of it, sir,” Endersby replied. “Therein lies our problem. If he fears any of us may be on a campaign of question and search, he may flee. Such a calamity would stall our investigation.”

Smallwood puffed on his clay pipe. “How do you wish us to aid you?”

“As you are well aware, Elias, I am fond of the theatre. My cohort, Mr. Caldwell, and I often have used disguises to discover clues.”

“As is usual with my superior,” Caldwell added, “we put ourselves at risk but with ingenuity we have been successful in most all of our endeavours.”

“So, you don costumes? Speak in accents?” asked Smallwood, obviously amused.

“Indeed, Elias. It is but one way to gather information. We use coin also, if need arises.”

“Or barrels of gin, sir,” Caldwell said.

“Indeed, Sergeant,” replied Endersby. “In this city of penny­counting superintendents, we must be clever, paying Peter while picking the pocket of Paul.” The Earl Street policemen all laughed. “Incognito, then, Endersby?” asked Smallwood. “We dress up, speak like Welshmen and set a trap?”

“If need be,” came the inspector's reply. “Such a ruse may give us opportunity. We have come here because of what we saw while following a chap called Malibran. The logic fits, you see. But since you are well known in this quarter, Elias, it may be difficult for you to join us. How well known are your two sergeants here?”

“Familiar they are, but known?” asked Smallwood.

“If we be in uniform,” answered Stendebach, “some folks recognize us. But if we were to dress like street beggars, we might be able to fool a number of people.”

“I can trust the lodging house owner to help in our game, if you wish it, Endersby,” said Smallwood.

“Most kind, sir. Please follow through. Time plays against us as the hours turn to evening.” Endersby stood up as did Caldwell. “May I propose that we, along with these two sergeants, go into Monmouth Street nearby and purchase some second-hand garments? We would need to dirty our faces with coal dust, gentlemen, if you are not adverse to such a procedure. Once we are properly attired we may — under your guidance, Smallwood — begin our search.”

“Off to Monmouth,” replied Smallwood. “I shall step out of the station and cross the square to the lodging house and alert the owner to our schemes.” Stendebach led Endersby, Ringdahl, and Caldwell out a back passage and onto the avenue known as Monmouth Street. In every doorway an eager merchant stood. It had been a few months since Endersby, in company with his dear Harriet, had visited the best known second-hand clothing street in the city. Signs announced who sold goods: from haberdasher's buttons to boots to heavy coats. A constable stood at one corner, truncheon ready to stop any who dared to pilfer. “This way, sir,” said Sergeant Stendebach, pointing to a doorway. Down into a basement room where a Mr. Rummage, a name that initially amused the inspector, had his shop.

“Sir, we are in some haste,” Endersby explained to the man. “Sore business to be concluded by means we hope you may provide.”

“Obliged, sir,” came the answer. Mr. Rummage was as tall as he was wide; his hands looked soft from his indoor trade. His son stood beside him, as thin as his father was fat. The three sergeants and the inspector set to work choosing long coats and torn hats, stockings, half- and full-length boots in multiple states of decay, and gloves with holes and missing fingers. “Three shillings for the lot, sir, if you'd be so obliging,” said Mr. Rummage. The items were wrapped, coin was given, the men retreated from the cellar to the street and back into the Earl Street Station House where, with much pulling and buttoning, they changed their clothes and smudged them with coal ash from the central hearth, the oily soot applied equally to hands and faces.

“Just in from the gutters, gentlemen?” joked Smallwood, seeing the four men on his return to the station house.

“Shall we be off, gents?” Endersby said, tipping his old hat at the men gathered around.

“A suggestion, Owen!” said Inspector Smallwood. “Stendebach and Ringdahl, you two men meander to the east and west sides of the Green Door Lodging House. Inspector, come with me. Caldwell, I think it best if you accompany us.”

“Thank you, sir,” the three sergeants replied. “Come along, Rolly,” smiled an amused Smallwood. “Perhaps the ‘Dials' will afford you posterity in one of its bawdy songs.”