Children of the Tide (26 page)

The Time to Ponder

A
t the opening of the green door, Endersby recognized the familiar face of the lodging house owner. The hall led to a back room and an open courtyard. A large window revealed a courtyard packed with old mirrors, stacked upright one against the other. “I do clean-up, sir,” the owner explained. “After the funerals of them that has no will and testament. Them mirrors I sell at the auction houses nearby Piccadilly. Turn a profit, I do.” The rest of the house reeked of cooking, the walls browned by time and dirt.

“Now, milady,” Smallwood began. He led the woman into a side room. She was introduced as Mrs. Kermode. She peered at Endersby with wary eyes. But Smallwood regained her attention and told her directly who the men were in their disguises. “We are in search of a man. My fellow detective, Inspector Endersby, will provide you the details. Most concerned we are to find the chappy, as he is suspected of having murdered.” Mrs. Kermode gasped, then composed herself to listen attentively. Endersby related his story. He told of the gaff, the lace, the abandoned girls, the scar, and all other pertinent facts to help Mrs. Kermode form a picture in her mind of the culprit. She lit a clay pipe and pulled at her chin.

“Think, milady,” said Smallwood. “Recall the fellows of our district. A rummy bunch some of them.”

“For sure, sir,” Mrs. Kermode answered. She had a shrewd look about her. “I knows
you,
Mr. Endersby. But where be your Scots accent?” The woman grinned. She slapped Endersby hard on his right shoulder. “This chappy, this Malibran has rented the room for his ‘cousin',” she said, raising her voice on the word cousin. “Do you know of this man, Missus?” Endersby asked, teasing the woman with his sudden switch to his Scottish burr.

“Aye, sir. I know of
one
,” Mrs. Kermode said. “
He
be right in this very house, for sure. Up in my attic. Rents alone. Came in not an hour ago, I reckon.”

“How does he walk?” Endersby now said, pleased to hear that the man had come as arranged by Malibran. If the inspector's efforts were of any value, the case might be drawn to a close before nightfall. To be certain, Endersby asked: “Can you give me a sense of his manner?”

“Ah, Inspector. Limps he does. Stinks of a malady. Ne'er seen his full face for the long hair and a filthy linen binding. Claimed he knew of my house. A gentle sickly sort, for sure. I can see his poor hands all sooty from workin'. Worse of all, he is a shouter. Fights against a banshee, he does.”

“How do you mean, madam?” asked Endersby.

“There I be sitting smack in my own hall — just out there — minding my tallies. I hears this shoutin'. Jesus bless me, I runs out to the courtyard yonder. There he is, newly moved into the house, says he is a village man, and he stands shoutin' at himself in one of them old mirrors. Talkin' to his own reflection like it was his brother.”

Endersby looked to Smallwood who raised his eyebrows.

“What's the man's name, Mrs. Kermode?” asked Smallwood.

“I ask no name and take none neither. The chaps won't tell the truth any which way in a pinch. As long as they pays me and does no harm to me and mine I let 'em stay on.”

“Did this newcomer shout out any name in particular?” asked Endersby. Caldwell looked up at his superior. He had his notebook open at a clean page.

“None I recall hearin', Inspector,” said Mrs. Kermode. “He be in at the moment, if you wishes to speak to 'im directly.”

“Caldwell, run around outside of the house and warn your two fellow sergeants,” Endersby said quickly. “Check the rear entrances and the sides for doorways in and out. Smallwood, will you command one other constable to come post-haste to this spot, here, not far from the good woman's front door. I need him as well as your sergeants to witness the man who matches the description of our culprit. Alert him to the fellow's appearance. If he tries to run, Caldwell, you and the constable must give chase.”

“I shall do as you bid,” said Smallwood, beginning to move toward the door of the room. “I'll send along
two
, a good Scot lad named McNally and Constable Millar.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied Endersby. “Have them keep close eyes on the man.”

Smallwood and Caldwell opened the door, checked the length of the hall and then made their exit out the lodging house front door. In the mean time, Endersby rebuttoned his newly purchased old coat, mismatching the buttons to the holes so as to give himself a more dishevelled appearance.

“Now Missus,” Endersby said, turning to Mrs. Kermode. “I wish to meet this man, if you say he is in.” In the lodging house hallway, the inspector followed Mrs. Kermode to a back parlour near the kitchen. In a loud voice, Endersby said: “A kindly good evening to you, Missus. I've come to take me supper if you could be so obliging.” Mrs. Kermode winked at Endersby, placed her hands on her hips and leaned back. She thrust out her hand to play her role. “A penny then, sir,” she said in a voice too loud, “before you taste me vittles.”

At one of the bare tables sat the man in question. Long hair and a soiled bandage covered his face. His ankles were bound in bloodied rags and he wore only tattered stockings. His frock coat was gritted with mud. A necklace of leather holding a small pouch hung from his neck. And his smell, a fetid rot, surrounded him like a cloud. The other eaters — three bent men — had chosen seats at the far end of the room. The man did not look up as Endersby passed by him on his way toward another table. The fellow slurped his soup slowly, as if his teeth ached. Endersby noted his filthy hands.

“A fine good evening to you, sir,” Endersby said, addressing the man at his table. The man jolted. He stared at Endersby. He placed down his spoon. “Filth,” he said in a smothered voice, his left hand batting at the air as if there were swarms of flies. Endersby tapped his forehead. “Be a night of storms ahead, I predict.” A serving boy brought him a bowl. The inspector drank it down in gulps. He kept his eyes on the man; the gestures, the posture seemed similar to those of the figure with the pistol on the night Malibran attacked. Endersby rose and went out of the parlour. “Keep an eye out for him,” he said to Caldwell who had just returned through the front door.

“Two of Smallwood's constables are outside at the ready, sir,” Caldwell whispered. “Good. Call one in immediately. Have him stand here on guard.”

Caldwell ran out to the street and came back with a young constable. His face had a serious expression as he listened intensely to Caldwell's orders. The young policeman nodded his head in respect to Endersby and took his position by the dining parlour's entrance.

“Caldwell,” Endersby said, taking hold of his sergeant's arm. “Bring along our sack with the bait and come with me for a hasty look at our suspect's quarters.”

Mrs. Bolton lay alone on the top of her bed. A single candle burned. She got up and went into her kitchen where there were cooked pies and a jug of apple cider brought over by neighbours. She sat down by her hearth. Tomorrow would be sister Jemima's funeral.
Such shame she had taken her own life.
Jemima would not be buried in hallowed ground. “Oh, sad one,” Mrs. Bolton whispered out loud.

Mrs. Bolton fetched Jemima's written confession. The sheets were well crinkled by now from handling. At first they had seemed to Mrs. Bolton to be a massive lot. But after much re-reading, she realized there were but a few.

“Ashes to ashes.”

Mrs. Bolton read each sheet for the last time; she lay the pages on the embers and watched them blacken and curl before they floated up the chimney.

“Bless you, Jemima. I forgive you,” Mrs. Bolton said as the words of her tortured sister filled her mind:

I, Jemima Pettiworth, declare that all I have written here is the truth. I do not presume to enter into this state of confession, dearest sister, without due thought, trusting in my own memory but also in your kind belief that I may be granted by you and my Saviour manifold mercies and forgiveness for what I have done in my early life. I am not worthy so much as to lick up the crumbs under your table, dearest sister. But you are the same woman whose inclination is always to give comfort, to afford allowances, to condescend never to deliberate cruelty or false pride. Those two sins I now openly admit once ruled my sentiments many years ago.

For a time of ten years, as you well remember, I was hired as a ward matron at our county workhouse, a place which still stands not one mile out of our cosy village. My employment was honest; my work diligent. Ruling, feeding, and working young children — both male and female — comprised my duties. When I was but twenty-two years old, I fell in love with a master who, in light of his own sins, could not sustain his affections for me. Beginning from that terrible night when he fled St. Stephen's and abandoned me, I forced myself to hide my sadness. In my pride I believed, dear sister, you would mock me, say I was foolish. How I yearned for him, the cowardly man. I never divulged his name and to remain honour-bound, his name shall remain forever forgotten.

In the spring of 1808, I went up to London to see an old friend and as you remember, I stayed but eight months. A lie you believed, bless you. There in December, all alone, I gave birth. My son was so sickly, he perished within an hour of his first breath. I arrived back to our village one late January night. My grief had seduced me to wrap my baby, cold and dead, and carry him the long journey home to our village graveyard. My own hands dug his shallow grave. When you saw me the next day — you were so kind! — and said I looked ill, you took me in, fed me, and allowed me to live under your roof. I went back to the workhouse and was granted a new job as matron of the family ward. With money I had saved, I eventually purchased a headstone for my lost son.

In His Great Mercy, God did not grant me peace. I grew bitter. I felt the world had judged me, found me wanting, and scorned me. This inner bitterness began to seep out of me as if it were a boil leaking blood. Like Pharaoh in the story of Moses, I hardened my heart to misery in myself and in others. My only relief was lace making. It kept my mind occupied and my fingers busy. In the family ward, I began to take delight in punishing innocent creatures. There were three victims — I must regard them as such — who became my nemeses. I will not mention their good Christian names. One was a young mother who, jilted by her husband, was left pregnant. She came into my ward with a son and a daughter. The son was young, delicate, imaginative. The daughter was meek. Their poor mother struggled in birth and I was unable to aid her. When she delivered she bled profusely. Her son stood by watching and crying for his mother. I had to sop her blood with pieces of my lace while calling for help.

The boy never forgave me. “Naught to worry, naught to fret,” I cautioned him. He railed against me; he leaped at me, blaming me for his mother's death. I beat him numerous times. Then, when I beat his sister to relieve my own temper, the boy struck me. He was very protective of her. Once he tried to strangle me with his bare hands as I whipped her. His tender and vulnerable ways so resembled my own. I whipped him as a way of scourging myself. My worst punishment for him was the gag. To frighten him, I forced bits of my own lace into his mouth and tied a swath of muslin around his face to hold it in. He wept; he fought; I locked him in closets without food. Yet I did not feel relief nor remorse.

Eventually, my ways of sadness abated. The boy lived on and grew, surviving my cruelties. In that time, he hid from me, becoming familiar with the kitchens, the escape doors. Peculiar in nature, he often talked to himself, often imagining he had a friend or a twin. When the two children finally left the workhouse to toil for a farmer, I felt my burden had lifted. All through these years, I have never forgotten them. I do not believe they survived and I cannot recall ever knowing them in the street.

Could my sister have stuffed lace into a boy's mouth simply for cruel pleasure?
Mrs. Bolton wondered, and then whispered, “may that poor boy rest quiet in his adult years.”

Mrs. Bolton read on. She stirred the embers one last time and, after memorizing its final words, tossed the last page into the dying flames.

Oh dear sister, as I lie dying, I must release these words to set my soul and the souls of my victims free. I see before me in my penance only the fires of Hell. Almighty Jesus, may Your tender mercies strenghthen those more deserving than I. Take pity upon my dear sister and the three sad creatures of my past.

With this sentence, I end my humble confession … bowing my head in shame.