by J. J. Durham
‘Possible, but not likely.’ Tanner faced him with a sneer. ‘What would you have me do; keep an eye on every slack cunny in the East End? The silly drabs go missing all the time.’ He thrust the sketch back at Pilgrim. ‘Tell you what, Sergeant Pilchem, why don’t you keep it? I know you have a soft spot for a trollop like that.’
Pilgrim punched him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
‘Bugger and galloping hell’s flames, Harry. I know Dick Tanner’s not the easiest man to get on with, but I can’t have my detectives brawling like navvies.’ Charley Field glared at Pilgrim, who was sporting a bruised chin and rapidly swelling eye.
‘Do you think Tanner will make a formal complaint?’ asked Pilgrim.
‘Shouldn’t think so. He’s a political animal.’
‘Unlike me.’
‘Unlike you. What the hell were you thinking?’
Pilgrim said nothing, but Field was not to be shaken off.
‘Was it Appler? Must’ve been a shock, finding him like that.’
‘No.’
‘Is it the boy?’ Field persisted, like a terrier with a rat. ‘Is the Bonwell case getting to you?’
‘No.’
‘I can put someone else on it if you want.’
‘It’s not the Bonwell case.’
Field’s expression grew sly. ‘Adolphus told me you had a visitor.’
‘Did he?’
‘An auburn-haired charmer. Adolphus was very specific.’
Pilgrim sighed. ‘It was Frances Reilly: Bess’s niece. She wants me to help her find a missing friend.’
‘You’re not going to do it?’
‘Is that an order?’
‘Don’t be bloody-minded. You can’t allow yourself to get dragged back into all that. Everything’s changed since those days.’
‘You certainly have.’
‘Yes, I have,’ agreed Field. ‘And I’m damn proud of it. Be reasonable, Harry. You have to put the past behind you.’
Pilgrim stared at Field for a long time.
‘You’re right, of course,’ he said at last, ‘about Frances. I’d already changed my mind about getting involved. I’m taking the train back to Great Barrow on the Bonwell case.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Field, ‘but don’t hang about. There’ll be an inquest into Appler’s death. Things could get sticky.’
‘I think he was innocent.’
Field sighed. ‘Innocent. Guilty. It’s irrelevant now. The case is closed.’
‘What about the dead girl?’
Field considered the question as he walked over his copy of Cross’s New Map of London, identical to the one in Pilgrim’s office. ‘Last year,’ he said, gazing up at it, ‘there were thirty-two murders in the metropolitan area. Thirty-two murders, eighty-four assaults, sixty house breakings, nine suicides, and twenty-eight rapes.’ He paused. ‘True, most of them were carried out by cretins, which made them easy to solve, but that still leaves a hellish workload.’ He swung around to face Pilgrim. ‘It’s an unending tide of shit, Harry, and we’re the only things stopping it from swamping this sorry cesspit of a city. Until the Commissioners see fit to appoint more than five of us, I have to choose the battles we fight.’
There was a beat of silence.
‘And no one has reported the girl missing,’ said Pilgrim, flatly.
‘That’s about the measure of it.’ Field caught Pilgrim’s expression and sighed. ‘I’m not saying it’s the way it should be. It’s just the way it is.’
The Reverend Horace Bonwell emerged from his front door, straightened his hat, and strode off down the frosty lane without seeing Pilgrim, who was standing behind one of the yew trees that flanked the rectory. Pilgrim wasn’t hiding, precisely, but he wasn’t sorry the minister hadn’t seen him. He waited until Bonwell had turned the corner towards the main street, then bounded up the rectory steps and pulled the bell. It jangled somewhere inside the building.
After a minute the door opened. Mrs Walsh glared suspiciously at his swollen eye and scabbed chin.
‘The Reverend’s out,’ she said.
‘Is he?’ said Pilgrim. ‘No matter. I’ve lost my pocketbook.’
‘Your … ?’
‘I think I may have left it here, the last time I called.’
‘I haven’t seen it.’ The housekeeper considered him. ‘Wait here.’
She vanished back into the house, leaving the door ajar. Pilgrim waited a few moments then followed her. He caught a fleeting glimpse of her skirt as it disappeared into the study, and then he headed for the parlour. He went directly to the bible, and opened it.
There was a family tree on the flyleaf, drawn in black ink in a neat hand. Below the marriage of Horace Bonwell and Alice Drake were two names – Patience and Faith – both marked ‘died in infancy’. He traced his finger up again, to the sibling line of Alice Drake, and stopped. Here was something interesting! Another name had been deleted. Not marked ‘deceased’ but simply scored out with one careful line. Stella Agnes. He tapped his finger on the page and closed the bible.
He could hear women’s voices. He followed the sound into the hall, and saw that the study door still stood ajar. The voices were raised, not loud enough for him to make out what they were saying, but loud enough for him to discern a note of panic. He pushed the door open.
‘Any luck?’ he asked cheerfully.
The two women froze, surprised in their search for the pocketbook. A flush crept up Mrs Bonwell’s throat and into her cheeks.
‘I said to wait,’ snapped the housekeeper.
Pilgrim ignored her, and nodded instead to her mistress. ‘So sorry for the inconvenience, Mrs Bonwell. May I help you look?’
He made a show of searching the floor, and then of inspecting the chair he had been sitting on during his last visit. He put his hand down the side of the cushion, and, after a second’s pause, pulled out his pocketbook, with the air of Little Jack Horner pulling out a plum.
‘Here we are. I knew I must have left it here somewhere.’ He made as if to leave, but then hesitated at the door. He turned to Mrs Bonwell. ‘I’ve had a long journey to get here, and it will be a long journey back. I was wondering … some refreshment? Tea, perhaps?’
Dismay flickered over Mrs Bonwell’s face, but it was vanquished by good manners.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘We’ll take it in the parlour, please, Mrs Walsh.’
‘I’ll put the pot on, ma’am. It shouldn’t take long.’ The housekeeper cast him a venomous glance.
Mrs Bonwell showed him into the parlour, where they sat in silence, apart from the ticking of the black marble clock on the mantelpiece. The room was oppressive, shaded from the fading effects of the sun with velvet drapes pulled almost completely over the window. The silence stretched. Pilgrim’s gaze flicked to the photographs on the table.
‘Do you and your husband have children, Mrs Bonwell?’ he asked.
‘The Lord saw fit to take them from us.’
‘It’s a hard thing, to lose a child.’
‘It was God’s will.’
He clenched his hands on his lap. The silence spun out again. He settled himself more comfortably into his chair, while she perched on the edge of her cushion as if it was made of knives. The clock ticked. Under his steady gaze Mrs Bonwell started to fiddle with the crucifix at her throat.
She actually jumped when the housekeeper entered with the tea tray.
‘Thank you, Mrs Walsh. I’ll pour.’
The housekeeper left.
Mrs Bonwell busied herself with the tea things, her hand trembling as she handed a cup to Pilgrim. As he took it, his gaze dropped to her wrist. There were several distinct marks around it: fingermarks. She tugged down the cuff of her blouse without meeting his eyes.
They sipped their tea. Silence stretched again.
Finally it snapped: Mrs Bonwell clattered her cup down onto the saucer.
‘My sister …’ she began. She stopped and started again. ‘You asked,
when you last came, whether we knew anyone in London.’ She hesitated. ‘My sister is in London. At least, I believe she is. She ran away, years ago. Horace … he forbids me to speak of her.’
‘What makes you think she is in London?’
‘She sends me a note, every now and then. Christmas. My birthday. I tear them up before Horace can see.’
‘Did you see the label on the parcel?’
She nodded.
‘And the writing on it?’ he asked.
‘I can’t be sure, but yes, it was similar to Stella’s.’
‘Her surname is Drake?’
Mrs Bonwell raised her eyebrows. ‘Unless she has married, but how … ?’
‘Can you describe her to me?’
She hesitated, her eyes searching his. She rose, and went to the sewing table that stood next to the window. She delved into one of the silk-lined pockets, and came out with a piece of card that she passed to Pilgrim. She seemed calmer for having made the decision to help him.
‘It was taken on her sixteenth birthday. She may have changed.’
The photograph showed a handsome girl with expressive eyes, and dressed in a high-necked gown, beside a display of flowers. A mischievous smile undermined the formal pose.
‘Why did she run away?’ he asked.
‘There was a young man. It caused quite a scandal. Father had died the year before, and Horace was her legal guardian. You can probably imagine …’
‘Yes, I can,’ said Pilgrim. The thought of the Reverend Bonwell on his high horse was not a comfortable one. ‘Was there a child?’
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. ‘I believe so.’
He released his breath, unaware he had even been holding it. ‘Male or female?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea.’
‘When was this?’
‘Four years ago.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
St Bartholomew’s Hospital had long occupied its site to the west of Smithfield, its classical facade dominated by a bullying statue of Henry VIII. Inside, the baroque reception rooms surrendered to a warren of smaller rooms and corridors. After descending a stone staircase and passing countless drab-painted doors, Pilgrim and Dolly at last found themselves admitted to the Coroner’s Office.
It was a gloomy room, lined with shelves laden with dozens of jars, filled with gelatinous samples. A human brain and a human foetus floated among them. The other contents were thankfully unidentifiable.
‘Sorry to keep you.’ Dr Hector Fairweather wiped his hands on his bloody apron. With his limping gait, bald head, and bristling moustache, he always reminded Pilgrim of a walrus he had once seen at the Zoological Gardens.
‘Hector.’ Pilgrim signalled for Dolly to step forward. ‘This is Constable Williamson, one of my new detectives.’
Fairweather nodded at Dolly. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t shake hands, lad.’
They were distracted by a noise coming from the corner of the room: the clink of glass on glass. Pilgrim and Dolly turned to find the source: a young man they had not previously noticed was sitting at a table laden with a number of large specimen jars. The young man gave them a baleful stare over the top of his spectacles.
‘Pay no attention to young Townsend,’ said Fairweather. ‘He’s helping us to catalogue our collection of matrices.’
‘Matrices?’ prompted Dolly.
‘Wombs.’
Dolly cast a horrified glance at the jars.
‘Come on through.’
Fairweather led the way into the mortuary examination room. The wooden peg that stuck out from the bottom of his trouser leg kept pace with his boot, step for step, and made a hollow sound whenever it struck the floor. Dolly’s attention was riveted by it.
The examination room was tiled from floor to ceiling and had a drain in one corner. A slab, rather like an altar, occupied the centre of the room, bearing a shape covered with a blood-spotted sheet. As they drew closer, Dolly’s face registered his distress.
Fairweather took a lid off a jar, and offered it to him. ‘Camphor,’ he said, ‘it’ll help with the smell.’
Dolly smeared his finger in the jar and glanced at Pilgrim for some clue what to do with it. Pilgrim rubbed his own finger under his nose to demonstrate. Dolly followed suit, and his expression betrayed his relief. Fairweather offered the jar to Pilgrim, and then pulled it back.
‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘Smallpox, wasn’t it? Quite common to lose your sense of smell that way.’
Fairweather pulled the sheet down to the boy’s shoulders. The marks around the throat were more noticeable than they had been before, but were upstaged by the crudely stitched incision that now ran from the boy’s sternum to his groin.
Fairweather caught Dolly’s expression. ‘No point wasting time on fancy needlework,’ he said.
‘He was strangled?’ asked Pilgrim.
Fairweather nodded. ‘Apart from the obvious trauma to the throat there is cyanosis, and considerable petechial haemorrhaging, particularly under the eyelids. The killer throttled the boy, probably with the kerchief. He didn’t exert enough force to do it cleanly, however. The trachea is still intact.’
‘It was a woman.’
They turned to see Townsend, who had followed them into the mortuary. He blinked at them through the thick lenses of his spectacles. ‘She wasn’t strong enough,’ he added, with a distinct transatlantic accent.
Fairweather nodded. ‘That would account for the trachea, I daresay.’
‘A man wouldn’t have made such a botch of it.’
Fairweather glared at him. ‘Don’t you have anything to do? I’m sure Dr Cuthbertson can find a use for you.’
Townsend slunk out of the room, giving the detectives another baleful glare over the top of his glasses as he went.
Pilgrim was still studying the corpse.
‘Do you think he suffered?’ he asked.
Fairweather shook his head. ‘I would say he probably lost consciousness early on. I doubt he would have felt the injuries to his neck. Some small mercy, I suppose. What do you want me to do with him?’
‘It’ll be another parish burial. And it had better be soon.’
‘Yes, it’s been a week or so. You really can’t smell him at all?’
‘No.’
The doctor pulled the sheet back over the boy. ‘There are times when I wouldn’t mind a dose of smallpox myself.’
‘Have you had any luck with the laundries?’ asked Pilgrim, as he and Dolly emerged from the mortuary.
‘’Fraid not, sir.’ Dolly rubbed the camphor from under his nose, leaving a mark on his sleeve like the track of a snail. ‘But I’ve only managed to visit half a dozen so far. Did you know there are more than a hundred and eighty laundries in London? I’ve organized some of A Division to help, but it’ll still take us days to get round them. Do you think we should be starting at Euston and working outwards?’
Pilgrim shook his head. ‘It’s the only station with trains to Essex, so it doesn’t necessarily follow that the killer lives nearby. Start with all the districts that begin with “F” – Fenchurch, Finsbury, Fulham …’ he hesitated. ‘Of course, the “F” might not be a district. It could be a name, in which case … ’
‘We’re well-buggered. Beg your pardon, sir.’ Dolly’s gaze slid away, and he shuffled his feet.
‘Is there something else?’
‘Dr Fairweather.’ Dolly coloured. ‘There’s a rumour in the barracks that he cut off his leg with a sabre when it got trapped under his horse at Waterloo. Is it true?’
‘No.’ Pilgrim saw Dolly’s look of relief and smiled. ‘It wasn’t a sabre. It was a bayonet blade.’
CHAPTER NINE
Dickens encountered Rebecca Wood by chance in the hallway of Urania Cottage. She was carrying an armful of sheets.
‘How are you settling in, my dear? Do you have everything you need?’
‘Yes, sir.’ She met his gaze calmly, but without enthusiasm. He thought she had gained a little weight in
the few days since he had seen her, which was no bad thing.
‘I’m looking for Mrs Wallace,’ he said.
‘She’s in the laundry.’
He nodded his thanks and hurried down the basement stairs, anxious to give the Matron his news. He heard her voice before he saw her.
‘No, my dear,’ she spoke slowly and patiently, ‘you fold it like so, with the outer corners tucked in.’
She looked up from the sheet as he arrived in the doorway. Kathleen Chalk also looked up, her mouth hanging open unattractively. She was their least intelligent resident, a borderline idiot, in his opinion. He regretted the impulse that had made him take her in, for he doubted she would ever be fit to emigrate.
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here today, sir,’ said Mrs Wallace. ‘Is there something amiss?’
‘No, not at all. On the contrary, in fact. Would you join me in the parlour for a moment?’
‘Certainly.’ She handed Kathleen the pillowcase. ‘Keep practising, dear. I’ll be back to see how you’re getting on in a few minutes.’
She followed him up the stairs and into the parlour, where he waited until the door was safely closed before flourishing an envelope.
‘Open it,’ he said.
The Royal Academy and the Mayor of London invite Mr Charles Dickens to a Reception and Grand Gala, Tuesday 16th February
She looked at him, puzzled.
‘Turn it over,’ he instructed.
She read the handwritten note on the reverse.
Dearest Charles, I thought you might like to bring Mrs Wallace to this reception, together with one or two of our more presentable girls. I judge it to be time we showed to the world at large the value of the work we are doing at our Cottage.
It was signed by their patron, Angela Burdett-Coutts.
‘A capital idea, don’t you think?’ said Dickens.
Mrs Wallace didn’t look as pleased as he had expected.
‘If you say so,’ she muttered.
He chose to ignore her tone. ‘We will have to select the girls carefully. They should be able to make at least a little conversation, and know how to behave in public. I saw Rebecca Wood just now in the hallway. I imagine she might do very well.’