An Act of Mercy

by J. J. Durham

  Stella Drake was climbing onto the girder that served as a parapet halfway along the bridge. She wobbled, and then stood upright. It was a deadly drop to the railway line below.

  Pilgrim bent over, gasping for breath, not daring to take his eyes off her. A distant train whistled on the track. Her foot slipped on the wet metal. He darted forward. ‘No! Stay there.’ She regained her balance, and shuffled around on the narrow girder to face him. ‘Stella, please.’

  ‘How do you know my name?’

  ‘I’ve met your sister, Alice. In Great Barrow.’

  She clenched her fists.

  ‘Did she get … ?’ Her face crumpled, and she swayed.

  Pilgrim flung up his hand as if to stop her from falling. But again, she managed to steady herself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘she did.’

  ‘Did Horace bury him properly?’

  Pilgrim stared at her, lost for words.

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s something, at least.’ She paused before speaking again. ‘You think me a monster.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head, wanting to distract her from the fact that he was inching closer.

  ‘It wasn’t the way you think,’ she said. ‘I tried to do it gently. I waited until he was asleep but I couldn’t … I wasn’t strong enough … ’ She broke off with a wail. ‘What else was I supposed to do? We’d have ended up in the workhouse. And what would have become of him then? Do you have any idea how they treat children in there? Like animals. Worse than animals.’ She paused, dashed her tears away with the heel of her hand. ‘It was a kindness, what I did. You wouldn’t understand.’

  ‘I know you don’t need a neckerchief to kill a child,’ he said. ‘Poverty will do it just as well.’

  ‘Poverty?’ She looked scornfully at his mud-spattered evening clothes. ‘What would you know about poverty?’

  ‘I lost my boy that way.’

  The train whistled again, coming closer on the track below. The bridge started to vibrate.

  ‘Come down.’ Pilgrim held out his hand, steady as steel. ‘Let me tell you about him.’

  The train rumbled closer, the vibration increased. Her feet skittered involuntarily on the wet metal.

  ‘His name was Jonathan,’ he continued, ‘he died of pneumonia because I couldn’t afford to keep him warm. When he died … ,’ he broke off. ‘I woke up one morning, and my wife had gone too.’ All the time, he was edging closer to the bridge. ‘Come down, Stella. You don’t have to do this.’

  She smiled at him. ‘Doesn’t it say in the bible that the wages of sin is death?’ She lifted her chin. ‘No one escapes His punishment, and I’m tired, so tired of trying.’ She sniffed. ‘He’ll punish Horace too.’

  ‘Horace?’ Pilgrim’s mind whirled.

  Stella stared at him. There was defiance in her eyes, and something else too: a mute appeal. For what? Absolution? Understanding? Pilgrim caught his breath. ‘Bonwell,’ he muttered. ‘The bastard!’

  The train was almost under the bridge. He was out of time. On impulse, he dropped onto his knees. ‘Come down.’ He had to shout to be heard above the noise.

  ‘I can’t. Don’t you see? It’s a mercy.’ Her expression smoothed.

  He ran towards her. There was an ear-splitting whistle as she stepped backwards off the bridge into a cloud of steam. He coughed, blinded by the vapour, his ears ringing, his lungs scalded. Gradually, however, sight and sound were restored to him. Stella had gone.

  He groaned and bent over. The rumble of the train gradually faded into nothing, and, as it did, it was replaced by another sound. A woman’s sobs. He dashed to the girder and hoisted himself up to look over it. Two white hands clung to the other side.

  ‘I couldn’t do it.’ Her face twisted with fear and pain as she looked up at him. ‘May God forgive me!’

  He reached out to grasp her wrists and felt her bones move under his fingers. The girder was pressing into his stomach and the weight of her body meant that he couldn’t get a secure grip on her hands. The parapet was so high he was forced to stretch on his toes. There was nothing he could brace his legs against to get the purchase necessary to pull her up.

  Another whistle blew. A second train was coming, this time from behind him. The bridge began to vibrate again. He looked about. There was no living thing in sight.

  ‘I’m going to get help.’

  ‘No!’ she shrieked. ‘Don’t leave me!’

  The vibration increased. It juddered through his bones and made the flesh on his face shiver.

  ‘I’m slipping!’

  ‘No!’ He knew that if she lost her grip on the metal he wouldn’t be able to hold on to her wrists without her weight dragging them both over the parapet.

  The train thundered towards them, relentless. Her eyes stared up, two holes carved into her face, but he couldn’t look down into them. He watched her fingers instead, noting with horrible fascination how white they were as they slid slowly, inexorably, off the metal. There was nothing he could do. The engine burst out of the tunnel. Steam swept over them. As it cleared, Stella Drake finally lost her grip on the girder.

  For a few seconds he took all of her weight, until he felt himself being pulled over the parapet with her. Then he let go of her wrists.

  He wanted to close his eyes, but couldn’t. He saw her twist in the air as she fell. She landed on the edge of a speeding coal truck and bounced off it, spinning into the next truck, her legs and arms flung out at improbable angles. She bounced again and landed. He saw her for a moment, lying broken on the coal, before the train sped her away from him.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘Well done, sir,’ said Phelps. ‘I hear the baby killer came to a bad end, but it was no more than she deserved.’

  Pilgrim’s expression gave nothing away. He had only spent an hour at the mortuary, yet the news had beaten him to Whitehall.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Nigh on two o’clock, sir. Inspector Field was in here just before midnight, in his fancy duds, asking if I’d seen you. He didn’t look pleased.’

  The Gala. He imagined that Charley might forgive his truancy in the light of Stella Drake’s … what? Her capture? Her just reward? If he’d succeeded in saving her she would have either been hanged, or sent to the Bedlam hospital. Perhaps her death had been a kindness, in comparison.

  He was too tired to think straight. He went upstairs to the office, and, not bothering to turn on the lamp, went to the window and looked out.

  The sky above the rooftops was vast, unfathomable. It made him anxious, as if he was nothing but a speck of soot that might rise up and float off at any moment. He pushed away from the window and lay down on the sofa in the light from the corridor. The upholstery sagged in the middle so that his backside was almost on the floor. But he was beyond caring. He pulled his overcoat over his head and slept.

  He woke a little while later, unsure what had disturbed him. His heart was pounding, and sweat cooled on his face in the breeze from the open window. The light in the corridor had gone out, leaving only moonlight spilling across the floor and silvering the edges of the furniture. For once, there was no noise, from neither the cells below nor the street. The air was filled with that supernatural hush that comes in the hour before dawn. So why was his heart pumping so? He must have had a bad dream. Gradually, his panic ebbed away, leaving only a residue of guilt. He pushed away the thought of Stella Drake, and tugged the coat back up to his chin. The wool was soft against his skin. Comforting. He fell asleep again.

  ‘Get up. Get up, sir. There’s another of them horrible packages for you!’

  Wainwright’s voice, close to Pilgrim’s ear, dragged him back to consciousness. He groaned and sat up.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Right here, sir. It was on your desk in plain view when I came in.’

  He pushed himself up and went to the desk to see what Wainwright was gabbling about. It was larger than the last p
ackage, but wrapped in identical canvas, addressed in red ink to ‘Sergeant Pilgrim’.

  There was no one else in the office, apart from Wainwright, and the sky outside the window was still dark. Outside the open window. Hadn’t the window been closed when he had fallen sleep? Was that what had woken him in the night? He strode to the window and looked out. The office was one floor up, but a drainpipe ran less than a foot from the frame; an easy scramble from Great Scotland Yard. Pilgrim heaved the window shut.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘About half six, sir.’

  ‘Your shift doesn’t start till seven, does it?’

  ‘No, sir. But I promised Dr Fairweather I’d do some drawings for him this morning, and I’d left my charcoals here.’

  They both looked at the package.

  ‘I hope it’s not that ruddy baby.’ The young constable voiced what they were both thinking.

  ‘You’re spending a lot of time at St Bartholomew’s, lately,’ said Pilgrim, in an attempt to distract him.

  ‘Inspector Field says we should cooperate with the hospital. Pathology, he says, is the way forward for detection.’ Wainwright’s attention hadn’t strayed from the package.

  ‘On you go, then,’ said Pilgrim.

  ‘Beg pardon, sir?’

  ‘To St Bartholomew’s.’

  ‘Don’t you want me to hang about, like, while you open it?’

  ‘If it’s what we both think it is, you’ll see it soon enough.’

  ‘As you say, sir. I’ll be off then.’ Wainwright found his charcoals and went reluctantly out of the door.

  Pilgrim took a deep breath and examined the parcel more closely. The canvas was definitely the same as both the last package and the one used to wrap the woman in the Hackney carriage. It was distinctive, more coarsely woven than usual. Perhaps that was a possible line of enquiry? The string was sturdy, unremarkable, and tied securely around the package.

  He took out his pocket knife and carefully sliced the string from the parcel, and then unwrapped the canvas. Inside there was a sturdy carton, packed with straw. He put his hand into it. At first he could feel nothing, but he searched around in the straw and his fingers closed on something hard. He pulled it out. Another box. A cigar box this time, of plain wood, stamped with the words ‘Vincente Martinez Ybor’. He let go of the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The cigar box was too small to contain a foetus. It was wrapped with string that had a piece of paper tucked underneath. He pulled it out and unfolded it.

  ha ha. Were you expecting something else, Harry? I do like to keep you on your toes. I took this special for you, thinking you might like to give it to your wife, but that’s not likely, is it? Give it to a sweetheart then, or maybe one of them whores you like so much.

  The paper shook in his hand. He put it down and leaned on the desk. Rage sluiced through him, white-hot, and strangely cleansing. When it had passed, he opened the cigar box. Inside, packed in more straw, was a necklace. He lifted it out. It was constructed of black oval links with a black pendant the size of a penny, carved into the shape of a rosebud.

  ‘Where the buggering bloody hell did you get to last night?’ Charley Field crashed into the room and stopped. ‘What’s that?’ His gaze had dropped to the cigar box, straw, and canvas.

  Pilgrim laid the necklace back in the box. ‘Another present from our killer,’ he said.

  Field joined him. ‘Another note?’ He picked it up. He read the message and his eyes flew back to Pilgrim. He opened his mouth to speak, but Pilgrim forestalled him.

  ‘Did you hear I solved the Bonwell case last night?’ he said. His anger swelled. ‘That’s where the buggering bloody hell I got to, instead of fawning around at your Lord Mayor’s Gala.’

  Field narrowed his eyes. ‘Don’t start on me, Harry. I’m not your whipping boy.’ He flicked the note with his index finger. ‘This fellow seems to know an awful lot about you.’

  Pilgrim shrugged.

  ‘If I was playing by the rule book, I’d take you off the case.’

  Pilgrim glared at him.

  ‘Fortunately for you, I’m not a great one for rules.’ Field blew out his cheeks. ‘Is the Bonwell killer in the cells, then? Was it the mother?’

  ‘She’s in the mortuary. She fell under a train.’

  Field raised his eyebrows. ‘An accident?’

  ‘What else would it be?’

  ‘I thought she might have killed herself,’ Field said, matter-of-fact. He picked up the note again and frowned at it. ‘I hope you’re being careful, Harry.’

  Pilgrim decided to change the subject. ‘We need someone to come down from Great Barrow to identify Stella Drake. Can you arrange it with Chief Inspector Moxton?’

  Field nodded. ‘I’ll send a telegram. I’ll be glad to get the old bastard off my back.’

  Dolly and Tanner arrived within seconds of each other. They both spotted the package on Pilgrim’s desk and came to examine the necklace.

  ‘What’s it made of?’ asked Dolly.

  Tanner picked it up and weighed it in his hand. ‘It’s too heavy for Bog Oak or Whitby jet. I’d say it was French jet. Heavier, but cheaper.’

  Pilgrim raised an eyebrow. Tanner scowled.

  ‘My father had a pawnshop,’ he muttered, by way of explanation, and stomped to his own desk.

  ‘Wainwright is at St Bartholomew’s,’ Pilgrim told Dolly. ‘Can you follow up on that foetus? Where it was found, and how many months old? Where it is now? I have to go. Mr Dickens has arranged for me to meet one of his Jewish acquaintances.’ He turned to Tanner. ‘Do you still have that hamsa earring?’

  Tanner opened his desk drawer. ‘I have them both.’ He tossed one to Pilgrim. ‘Rather you than me. Yids make my skin crawl.’

  Isaac Simmons was a wealthy businessman in Whitechapel, owning, amongst other businesses, the Black Lion Inn, a grocery on St Giles High Street, and a hatter’s shop on Middlesex Street. He was a privileged member of the Great Synagogue, and a leading light of the League of Commerce. He had agreed to speak to the police, as long as the detectives would visit him at his office on Middlesex Street, and his friend Charles Dickens was present.

  The office was expensively furnished with mahogany panelling and a massive partner’s desk. Simmons himself was equally substantial, with a barrel chest, a full beard, and a shrewd, self-deprecating air.

  ‘We’re trying to discover the identity of a young woman,’ Pilgrim told him. ‘We think she might be a member of your community. Are you aware of anyone who may be missing a daughter, a wife, or a sister? She’s about eighteen years of age. Long dark hair. Blue eyes.’

  ‘There are more than forty thousand of our people in the city,’ said Simmons. ‘I fear that your description fits many of them. Can you not be more specific?’

  Pilgrim frowned. He hadn’t thought to ask Wainwright whether he had made a sketch of the girl’s head.

  ‘This young woman,’ continued Simmons, ‘this child … I take it she’s dead?’

  ‘Sadly, yes.’

  ‘What makes you believe she is Jewish?’

  Pilgrim reached into his pocket for the earring and gave it to Simmons.

  Simmons frowned. ‘I hate to disappoint you, Sergeant, but the hamsa is a Mussulman talisman as well as a Jewish one.’ He handed the earring back. ‘However, I will make some enquiries.’

  ‘We would be very grateful, Isaac,’ said Dickens.

  Simmons tilted his head to consider Dickens. ‘How is it that you are involved in this matter, my friend?’

  ‘I had wanted to write about one particular investigation, but the business turned out rather more complicated than expected. I imagine I shall write about it in due course.’

  ‘I look forward to reading it.’

  ‘In the meantime, if you have any news, Isaac, you know how to reach me.’

  The two men shook Simmons’ hand and took their leave.

  When they were back in the cab, Dickens sighed. ‘I
apologize, Sergeant. I understood that the hamsa was purely a Hebrew symbol. It seems I’ve led you down another blind alley.’

  Pilgrim shrugged. ‘Our murderer is playing games.’ He hesitated. ‘I received another parcel from him this morning. Not a body part this time, thankfully, but a woman’s necklace.’

  Dickens looked interested. ‘Made of jet, by any chance?’

  Anna Summerson clapped her hands. ‘Gran’ma’s necklace! Have you got the earbobs too? I’m only asking for the sake of having the complete set. It wouldn’t do to wear both at once. My Gran’ma, she said, “Anna”, she said, “you’ve got to be careful with jewellery, on account of it’s possible to over-egg the pudding. Wear a necklace, or earbobs, but never both together else you’ll look no better than a wreath done up for Christmas”.’ She put out her hand for the jet choker.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Pilgrim, ‘but I need to keep this.’

  The girl flushed. ‘What do you mean? That’s mine, that is.’

  Dickens stepped in. ‘You will get it back, my dear, just as soon as the investigation into your cousin’s murder is complete.’

  ‘You’ve not got ’im yet, then? Seems an awful long time to be investigatin’ a murder.’

  ‘We haven’t caught him yet,’ said Pilgrim. ‘But we will.’

  He and Dickens excused themselves and made their way back down the stairs of the lodging house. Pilgrim’s face was set.

  Dickens glanced at him. ‘Perhaps Sergeant Tanner hadn’t made the connection between the necklace in the package and Eliza Davis’ missing choker?’ he suggested.

  Pilgrim said nothing. Dick Tanner had many faults, but he wasn’t dim-witted.

  ‘Can I drop you somewhere?’ he asked Dickens. ‘I have to get back to Whitehall.’

  ‘And I’m telling you, it’s no way to run an investigation, Charley.’

  Pilgrim slammed his hand down on the desk, making the other men jump. In the time he had spent in the carriage he had worked himself into a rare temper. It was a measure of how far he had forgotten himself that he had called Field by his first name in front of Tanner. ‘Not only do I have to put up with Charles Dickens poking his nose in at every opportunity, but now I find out that he,’ he pointed at Tanner, ‘has deliberately been keeping information from me.’