by Lee Strauss
Dr. Manu Gupta, a striking Indian man in his mid-thirties, welcomed both her and Boss warmly, as was his custom.
“Always a pleasure,” he said, “but usually the news you come with is not.”
“I’m afraid you’re correct in that assessment,” Ginger replied. “I’m in search of a young boy, nine years old with blond hair. I do hope that you’ve not had anyone of that description come to you in the last couple of weeks?”
She removed a copy of the boy’s sketch and handed it to the pathologist.
Dr. Gupta stared intently at the drawing for a long moment before saying, “To my memory there have not been any unidentified cadavers come into the mortuary that closely resemble this drawing. However, one can never be sure. The faces do take on a little bit of a different aspect in death, as you well know. We can go and take a look at the unidentified children’s bodies that have come to us in the last few days. I think there are two in there now. That will rule out a few things at least.”
Ginger decided to leave Boss for a few moments in Dr. Gupta’s office whilst she and the doctor went to view the bodies. Boss seemed to particularly enjoy lying down on the pathologist’s office chair, which made Dr. Gupta chuckle.
The bodies were kept in strict refrigeration, but Ginger knew that sometimes a cadaver could start to decompose if left waiting for identification too long. In addition, the smell of chemicals was sometimes very strong and she was sure Boss would appreciate being spared an assault of that type on his sensitive nose. One of the bodies turned out to be a young girl around the age of twelve. The other was a younger boy around eight, but he had strikingly dark hair—he was possibly of Indian descent like Dr. Gupta. There was no resemblance to the boy that Ginger had seen at St. George’s.
“It’s never a good day when we have to admit young children into our mortuary,” Dr. Gupta said. “God rest their souls.”
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Gupta,” Ginger replied, happy to leave the corpses behind.
“Don’t mention it. I shall be sure to keep an eye out, but let us keep hoping that your young friend never does come to my attention.”
Ginger left the building a few minutes later with Boss tucked under her arm. She was glad to step out onto the street, inhale fresh air, and feel the sun on her face again.
“Well, that is one road that I am glad turned out to be a dead end,” she said to Boss as she climbed back into her Crossley.
Instead of driving back to the office, Ginger decided to first drive to Hartigan House. Seeing those two dead children at the mortuary had made her suddenly want to see Scout, even though she had just seen him that morning. It was as if she wanted to hear the voice of a living child again. She also was interested to know if Scout had any ideas regarding the missing boy. Scout had lived on the streets of London for much of his eleven years and might have some insights that were not obvious to Ginger or the other adults involved in this search.
Ginger found her ward in the stable giving her Akhal-Teke gelding, Goldmine, a brushing.
“I’ve already done up Sir Blackwell,” he said with a toothy grin, nodding his head in the direction of Basil’s Arabian. “Just finishing up ’ere.”
“Take your time,” Ginger replied. “We can talk whilst you work. I only had a question about a street lad who’s gone missing.”
Scout’s cap poked out from around Goldmine’s neck. “Who’s ’at?”
“A lad called Eddie. A little younger than you, with blond hair. Has a chipped front tooth.”
Scout shrugged. “Can’t say I know ’im.”
“Do you think a boy like Eddie might have just wandered off to another area of London and established himself in another place, so to speak?” Ginger asked. “I mean, I don’t think we really would have any way of knowing if he did decide to do that. Maybe he had a falling out with one of the young lads at the mealtimes at St. George’s and decided to move on.”
“That would be ’ard to believe, missus. Getting a good meal reg’lar and ’aving good mates to watch yer back is sometimes the difference between makin’ it or not. We rely on each uvva. All of us had one fing in common: we were always ’ungry.” The lad stared down at his feet as if ashamed for a moment, then looked up at Ginger. “The folks at St. George’s is kind to the street kids. I fink a smart bloke like Eddie would know not to run off to try to find sumfin’ else.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Ginger added.
“I know the workhouse he was at sometimes, the workhouse at Dowgate. It’s not far from St. George’s. I ’eard it’s a decent place as far as those sorts of places go. Terrible food and thin soup, but a lad could live on it. Maybe ’e’s back there.”
Ginger made a mental note to get Felicia to visit Dowgate Workhouse.
“If there’s any way I can ’elp, just let me know,” said the boy sincerely.
Ginger gave her ward a pat on the back. “Thank you, Scout. I have to leave again, but I’ll be back for supper. You’ll join us again, so be sure to clean up.”
“Yes, missus.”
Ginger smiled and raised a brow. Scout was officially her ward, but she was intent on making him more than that. In her heart, Scout was already her son.
At Ginger’s look, Scout corrected himself. “Yes, Mum.”
Ginger and Boss climbed into the Crossley. She had a bit of a drive ahead of her to Hanwell, which was situated on the outskirts of London. It was time to start digging a little deeper.
Chapter Five
Ginger, with Boss right behind her, stepped out of the Crossley directly in front of the huge red brick building known as the Hanwell Residential Industrial School. The school was well known to most Londoners, but Ginger had mixed feelings towards it. It was an imposing structure with adjoining wings for children’s dormitories, superintendent offices, medical wings, several sports halls, classrooms, and workshops for training. Altogether, the school could accommodate eight hundred students. Children, chosen from among the poorest, were sent here by the authorities from all over the city. They were trained for industry with programmes for literacy, carpentry, and much more. A strong emphasis was placed on moral discipline and the school had a reputation for harsh treatment, especially for boys. Ginger knew this, but also knew that there were far worse places a boy could end up. Unlike the mortuary, Ginger harboured some hope that Eddie had somehow come here, perhaps having been randomly picked up near St. George’s Church by one of the school’s admittance officers.
After asking for directions at the main reception, Ginger made her way to the northeast corner of the site, to a T-shaped administration building where children were housed on arrival at the school. She passed several large classrooms and one large and noisy workshop where children seemed to be engaged in building wooden furniture. The smell of teak oil and sawdust was suddenly in the air which, of course, made Boss sneeze as he trotted resolutely beside Ginger, his little claws clicking away on the tiled floor. Ginger was somewhat pleased to see that the children she observed had clean and decent uniforms and, in contrast to the gaunt faces at St. Georges, a certain childhood chubbiness to their faces. This was a good sign. The general atmosphere was one of earnestness and focus.
A rather dour-looking woman in a dreary slate-blue frock, who sat behind the counter of the admittance station, examined the sketch. “I can think of one boy that has come here recently that could match this drawing.” Ginger’s heart skipped a beat. Perhaps the search was going to end with positive news. The woman shot Boss a disapproving look that made Ginger fear a reprimand was coming, but she merely continued. “He was admitted under the name of Theodore Smith. As is the case for a lot of children we have here, a family name is sometimes hard to come by. They often just make one up and we have neither the means, nor the time to search for birth records. So the last name could be suspect. However, ‘Theodore’ could be a long form for Eddie, I suppose. Theodore was admitted three weeks ago.”
“Is there any way I could meet him now?” asked
Ginger hopefully.
“The schedule I have here shows that he is at the moment doing exercise. If you exit this building at the rear and walk across the courtyard, you’ll come to a sports field. You should spot him from the sideline. Just ask the games master to point him out to you.”
It took a few moments for Ginger to find the sports field. She then headed for a middle-aged man who stood on the side of it. He was very tall, about six feet four inches, was dressed in grey tweed trousers and waistcoat and black leather cleated football shoes. A flat cap rested on his mass of curly hair, and around his neck he wore a whistle that appeared to be well used. He was apparently enjoying shouting instructions to a group of young boys engaged in a game of football on a grass field. It seemed to Ginger that the lads had not much organisation on the field and were running pell-mell after the ball. Boss barked once, which was rare. Ginger had to actually hold him back on the leash slightly.
“I’m sure they would appreciate you entering the game, Boss,” she said with a chuckle. “But your renown as a footballer has probably not reached this field yet.”
Ginger scanned the field as she approached the tall man, but could not see any sign of Eddie. Perhaps he was on an adjacent field. “Excuse me. My name is Mrs. Reed, and I represent Lady Gold Investigations.” With a surprised look, the man turned his attention from the boys to Ginger.
“Bloomin’ ’eck. A lady private investigator? One o’ my lads must’ve done somefin’ this time.” He let out a low whistle. “Weatherby’s my name.” Mr. Weatherby crouched down low to give Boss a pat and rough shake on the head with both hands. “And ’ow are you, me ’ole mucker, eh?” Boss wagged his tail stub furiously and licked the man’s hand.
“None of your lads are in trouble as far as I know,” Ginger said, as the man rose back to his full height. “I’m simply looking for a child who may have gone missing. I’m told that you have a young lad named Theodore on your field this morning.”
“Yes, he came in a few weeks ago by one of our admittance officers. He was all on ’is own all right. Not much of a footballer, ’e is. But that’ll change.” He pointed to the goalkeeper on one of the teams. “There ’e is, in goal today as you can see.”
Ginger’s heart sank as soon as she saw the boy. It was obvious the lad was much heavier and taller than the missing boy, and didn’t resemble the sketch Oliver had given her at all.
Eddie wasn’t here.
Chapter Six
The next morning at the office of Lady Gold Investigations, Ginger and Felicia sat down to compare notes.
“If I don’t see the inside of another taxi for a while, it will be alright with me,” Felicia said. “I’ve already checked with every workhouse within a ten-mile radius of St. George’s Church. Five in all. It was a rather depressing and very full day. That’s why I didn’t make it back to Hartigan House until the evening. Some of those places are simply ghastly. I’ve never encountered so many sad faces all in one day.” Felicia took a bite of a fresh scone and dusted the crumbs from her chin. “I showed the picture to the main officer at each one of them. They were quite helpful for the most part. None of the boys I saw even came close to the sketch, though there were several that went by the name of Eddie.”
“Oh dear.” Ginger sank deeper into her chair.
“However,” Felicia continued after a sip of tea, “at one of the last workhouses I visited, the Lion’s Head Union Workhouse, the warden gave me an interesting tip.”
“What’s that?” Ginger asked, looking up from the sketch of their Eddie she was absentmindedly looking at for the hundredth time.
“He told me that there is a rumour about the master of a workhouse south of London in Croydon. Apparently, he runs a small workhouse that is not officially connected with the authorities or with the local parish.”
“Why would he do that?”
“Most workhouses, as deplorable as they are, still have to abide by certain minimal laws such as length of working day and severity of punishments. That is outlined in The Poor Law Amendments.” Felicia had a twinkle in her eye and she nodded slightly, as if Ginger should be impressed by her research.
“Most workers are engaged in industries such as shoemaking, tailoring, and even crushing bones for fertiliser,” Felicia continued. “Furthermore, many workhouses exchange lodging for several hours’ work each day. Workers are not prisoners and children are not allowed to be kept working past a certain time. The rumour is that this particular workhouse master not only has a disregard for any of these rules, resulting in even more deplorable working conditions, he also keeps the children captive, and they are not allowed to leave at any time. In effect, making it a prison.”
“How shocking!” gasped Ginger, her eyes wide open.
“He ‘employs’ children only, since they eat less food and are more easily controlled by force,” Felicia added. “The person I talked to at Lions Head told me that there is also suspicion that the workhouse, ironically called ‘Fool’s End Workhouse’, is a front for organised illegal addictive drug trade.”
“What makes you think Eddie has ended up in such an out-of-the-way, hellish place?” Ginger asked.
“Two reasons. Number one is that the master of this workhouse, a Mr. Crealy, apparently has the practice of driving around parts of London in a lorry and luring children with the promise of food and then simply kidnapping them in broad daylight.”
“This story just keeps getting worse,” Ginger said in amazement. “And number two?”
“I drove to Fool’s End as my last stop of the day.” Felicia leaned in with a look of earnestness. “I think I saw him. I think our little Eddie is there.”
A thrill of excitement bubbled in Ginger’s chest. “How sure are you?”
“Unfortunately I can’t be certain.” Felicia let out a small huff. “Crealy wouldn’t allow me past the admittance office. He seemed friendly enough at the outset, but when I pulled out the sketch he suddenly grew hostile. No manners at all, that one. I had a mind to give him some words of my own.”
“Well, then how did you see the boy?”
“On my way out, as I was going through a small courtyard, I looked up at a second-storey window and I saw a boy standing there looking out. My view of him was fairly clear. Although I have never met him, to me he looked just like this Eddie.” Felicia tapped the sketch with a long painted fingernail. “I waved at him and he waved back. He looked a very sad, poor lad. Then someone came and pulled him away from the window.”
Ginger sat up straight. “I am going in there.”
“Are you going to take Basil?” Felicia asked, unmasked concern in her eyes.
“I don’t think it would do any good. Until I can prove that a crime has been committed, Basil wouldn’t get any further than you did. One has to have a reason to approach a judge for a warrant to search a place of business. One must almost catch them red-handed. No, taking Basil in there at this point will only threaten Crealy and God knows then what might happen to little Eddie.”
“What on earth do you plan to do?” Felicia asked, “If I didn’t make it very far, and even Basil cannot take a step further, then what?”
Ginger held up a palm, stopping Felicia short. “Mr. Crealy is about to get another unexpected visit. I believe a change in tactics is in order.” Ginger pushed away from her desk and rose to her feet. “Come along, Felicia, we’re going to shop for some clothing in a way that you have never done before.”
Chapter Seven
Originally starting out as the Salvation Army’s ‘salvage brigade’ in 1897, the idea of salvaging and re-using clothing had started to catch on as more and more people flooded into the city. After the war, shops had started to sprout up to sell used clothing that still had some wear left in them. Ginger understood that these types of shops were a godsend to many people who simply could not afford new clothes for their children or for themselves. She predicted that soon there would be many more shops like this one across England. William Booth had died a sh
ort while ago, in 1912, but his charitable legacy lived on.
“They are going to think we are lost,” Felicia said. “And I would tend to agree.”
The building, which was a narrow shop sandwiched between a French café and a tailor’s shop, had a small window display. There were several wickerwork mannequins set up that were wearing various forms of garb. Felicia stopped on the pavement to look at one of them that had been dressed in a blue cotton frock with a springtime floral design and a straw hat which boasted an extravagant white feather.
“Oh, this one isn’t bad,” Felicia remarked.
Ginger laughed. “You can try it on.”
“Not on your life!” Felicia exclaimed. “Someone’s already worn that. No telling who, either.”
“I want t’ find a new ’at,” Scout chimed in. Ginger and Felicia had called into Hartigan House to collect the boy, who was more than happy to have a part to play in rescuing young Eddie. “I’ll bet they ’ave one my size.”
“Go ahead and look,” Ginger said, “You might find one to your liking.”
“Thanks, Mum!”
As they entered the shop, two of the lady attendants working at the counter immediately looked up in surprise. The younger woman said, “Why, Lady Gold! I never expected to see you in this shop.” About the same age as Felicia, she was pleasant looking with very kind, smiling eyes.
Ginger was not embarrassed, but she was surprised. “Have we met?”
“I’m dreadfully sorry, where are my manners? We have not been introduced, but I have seen you before in your wonderful boutique shop. Last time I was there I bought a lovely French hat. Such a hat is not easy to find and I have worn it twice already to social engagements we have hosted at our manor. I’m Miss Littleton.” She offered her hand.