by Jon Redfern
To Cecil William Redfern, 1917–2013
Table of Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction Quote
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgements
I’d like to thank the following individuals for their many contributions to this book:
my first readers — Kathy Eberle, Catherine Gildiner, Victor Pianosi
my gate-keeper and logician — Joan Redfern
my first critic — Jim Nielson, member of the Balfour salon
my fellow word-lover — Laura Ferri Forconi
my tireless and ever-supportive agent — Chris Bucci
my acquisition editor at Dundurn — Diane Young
my sharp, smart Dundurn text editor — Laura Harris
my one and only Gladys
my readers
LONDON, 1841, a teeming metropolis, a city of gaslight, new railroads, and steam-powered factories. Gangs roam the night streets; child thieves prey upon the old and the naive. The Metropolitan Detective Police are using new methods of criminal investigation, based on scientific thinking. Their efforts are an essential in England’s march toward the modern age. Over all her citizens, young Queen Victoria reigns as a wife, a sovereign, and a new mother. Her first child is a tiny princess, whose smile of innocence shines like a beam of light over troubled seas....
Chapter One
A Dark Blue Line
“Hold still, Mr. Endersby!”
Inspector Owen Endersby pulled in his stomach. His wife Harriet gave him another gentle punch. “Breathe in,” she scolded, and pushed the final button of his waistcoat into its hole.
“Now, hurry, dear one, and take this tin of chestnuts with you.”
The inspector kissed his wife on her cheek. He pulled on his canvas coat and clumped down the stairs from their three-room flat at Number Six Cursitor Street, flung open the street door, and balked at the shrouded buildings before him. A chill morning mist muffled London’s parish church bells, striking seven times to remind the city that its’ workday was about to begin.
Along the glistening cobbles of Drury Lane, Inspector Endersby’s hired hansom cab rushed its way toward the St. Giles Workhouse. Endersby huddled under the hansom’s half roof to avoid the drizzle, his rotund figure of fifty-one years sporting his favorite plum-coloured waistcoat, his broad hat, and suede gloves.
“Faster, cabby,” he shouted. Beside him Mr. Thomas Caldwell, his sergeant-at-hand, pulled down his cap of wool and shivered. He wondered if his superior felt as uncomfortable as he did. They had been called to duty one hour before six o’clock, the reason being a dead body found strangled in the St. Giles Workhouse — discovered cold and staring — in full view of forty very frightened workhouse orphans.
“Ugly news, sir,” said Mr. Caldwell, flinching. A toothache, which had plagued Caldwell for a fortnight, sent a jolt of pain through his lower jaw. Chewed clove wasn’t helping; its scent made his superior wrinkle his nose.
“Indeed,” answered Inspector Endersby, “most wicked, Mr. Caldwell. Surely there is enough suffering in St. Giles and in all the wretched workhouses of this city without the addition of murder. And a female at that.”
“Most brutal, sir.”
“I imagine, Sergeant, the clove is helping?”
“Not as yet, sir.”
“How unfortunate.”
Inspector Endersby lapsed into silence, allowing dark thoughts to crowd his mind. Trepidation always preceded his observation of a corpse. Any mention to him of workhouses and their cruelty toward children roused a deep anger in his heart. Many times he had passed the filthy courtyards of the city’s eight workhouses and seen their young inmates marching around them in circles, their faces wan, their eyes sad like those of inmates he’d seen in the yard of Fleet Prison. What was worse, an animal urge tempted him to use his fists to mete out preliminary punishment. In his twenties, as a Bow Street Runner, Endersby once had license to use hard force. He had resorted to punches and kicks to subdue his villains. To his later chagrin, he would admit how he enjoyed the sport of cracking bones. “My demon familiar,” he named the urge. Now, daily, he was afraid of its potential, fearing this morning he might strike out at the bullies running the wards in St. Giles.
“Was anything else uncovered — besides the found corpse, Sergeant?”
“The policeman also discovered one of the child inmates outside the workhouse gate at a very early hour. The found waif, it seemed, was in a state of some mental agitation.”
“Outside the gate? Was the waif harmed?”
“Apparently not.”
Endersby leaned back as the hansom cab continued on. The thoroughfare bustled with figures rushing off to shops and work yards, heads bent to avoid the gentle rain. London had grown larger since the end of the Napoleonic Wars. Endersby often remarked how the streets never presented anything less than a moving mass of human souls. Two million living in the greater city; one child out of six lived poor and abandoned.
“I assume, Sergeant, that you find your new marital life blissful?” Endersby said to break the silence. It was a courtesy question. Over the past year his feelings toward Sergeant Thomas Caldwell had changed. At one time he had disliked his sergeant, finding him abrupt and presumptuous. But when he had saved Endersby’s life in the summer of last year, stepping in front of him to block an attacker’s knife, his respect grew. They had become friends. Endersby thought of himself as a scientific man — a policeman in a new age where rank took second place to consideration.
“Yes, sir. Most comforting,” Caldwell replied, smiling quickly at his superior’s question.
“You’ve been wedded three months now?”
“Four and half, sir, to be precise,” Caldwell answered.
“Plans for the future?” Endersby lowered his voice. The matter of children, of babies in particular, brought out a tenderness of feeling in the inspector, one mixed with deep sorrow. He and his dear Harriet had suffered the death of a son early in their marriage and had been unable to have another.
“My Alice wishes to have one right away.”
“And you, sir?” asked Endersby.
“Of two minds I am, Inspector. Money. Alice’s health.”
“These are difficult decisions, indeed.”
Endersby opened his mouth to speak again but changed his mind. The task at hand was brutal. A murder of an innocent woman. He noticed Caldwell’s lips held tight with anticipation. “Stir your horse, sir,” Endersby commanded the coachman. Time was pressing. A crime site had to be viewed early on before the blood and the clues were mopped up and hidden forever from the detective’s eye.
In less than ten minutes, the inspector and his sergeant were delivered down a narrow passage that led to the gate of the St. Giles Workhouse.
“Shall I draw up procedure, Sergeant?” Endersby asked.
Endersby and Caldwell planned what each would do just before the body and murder scene were examined. What satisfaction there was in
working in this fashion, Endersby thought. During his first years as a junior policeman, the inspector had worked alone, obeying the dictates of the magistrate’s court in Bow Street. Then, arrests were swift, too often based on hasty conclusions, class distinction, and malice. Now his role as a detective inspector was based on principles of impartiality and judicial equity, as laid down by the founder of the Metropolitan Police, Sir Robert Peel.
“This morning, Sergeant,” Endersby began, “stand close. If you observe anything amiss, as I am sure both of us shall, take a note. If you see a need for a different tack, do not hesitate to speak.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall.”
“Remember, Caldwell, you and I are the first arm of a fairer form of justice.”
“We are indeed, sir.”
Caldwell now pointed toward the scene before them. Small barred windows in tight rows — each no more than a slit — dominated the facade of the workhouse. “A prison, no question,” Endersby said. With his hat straight on, his right hand clenched as if to rein in his “demon familiar,” the inspector climbed from the hansom and paid the driver. Sergeant Caldwell pulled the bell chain. The massive portal squeaked open to reveal a sour-faced man in a greasy frock coat. To Endersby he had a mean and hungry look.
“Good morning, sir. We are Inspector Endersby and Sergeant Caldwell, under the jurisdiction of Borne at Fleet Lane Station House.”
The sour-faced master signalled to the two men to step into the large front hall. A high-ceilinged space, it led off into various small corridors. At one end, on the left, an archway opened onto a long ward lined with beds on which sat a host of young girls, rigid, upright, as if an edict had stilled their tongues and feet. What struck Endersby was the eerie silence. A workhouse clatters and clangs with industry. At the entrance to the ward stood a small hearth where a boy was scrubbing the floor in front of a grate of cold ash.
“It is here the wretch was found dead,” explained the sour master.
“Did you see the body in its unfortunate state this morning?” asked Endersby.
“Briefly, sir, so briefly. It was very dark,” replied the master.
“Were you, in fact, the man who found the body, sir?”
“Me, Inspector? Why would you assume such a thing on my part?”
“Perhaps, you came upon it merely by accident?” Endersby squeezed his right hand to remind himself to remain even-tempered.
“It is not my place, sir, to be questioned thus. I would have little or no occasion to come down into this ward unless ordered to do so.” The master crooked his finger and the two policemen followed him up a shallow staircase to a bare room, where a woman in a duff-coloured bonnet was standing.
“Matron Agnes,” the master said. “These two gentlemen are the detective officers from the Metropolitan Police.”
On observing the reaction of the matron, Endersby immediately anticipated an adversary. He removed his hat in salute. “I beg your pardon, Matron,” Endersby said with feigned deference. “Inspector Endersby is my name. My sergeant-at-hand, Mr. Caldwell.” The matron let out a nervous breath. “Much too much confusion, here,” she said.
“Most pitiful, the murder of an innocent woman,” Endersby replied. “I believe there is also a child.”
“Don’t you be so certain, Inspector, of learning anything from little Catherine, sir.”
“If you have no objection, Matron, it is necessary for me and my sergeant to learn as much as I can from her and from others in this place about your matron’s demise,” cautioned Endersby.
“Well, that is your business,” she replied, her voice held in close. “The female child is but nine. Do not think young Catherine is stupid. She can be persuaded. You may meet with her at our convenience, sir.”
Taking note of the strange emphasis the matron placed on words, Inspector Endersby decided to waylay his sudden impatience with a command: “My present concern is the matter of the dead body. Master, I require of you smart assistance.” The sour-faced man turned to Endersby. “Gather all of the staff who work here. I mean by this, matrons, other masters, cooks, scullery maids, coal carriers. And have them meet me and Sergeant Caldwell within the quarter hour in the entrance hall.”
The matron stepped forward: “What you want, Inspector, is not —”
Endersby cut her off, his voice full of steel: “Second, and most important, send a runner immediately to fetch a surgeon and then another to notify the local coroner.” Sergeant Caldwell supported the inspector’s order by clearing his throat.
“Doubtless, this is of some necessity?” the peevish master queried.
“Dire necessity, sir,” responded Sergeant Caldwell.
“Look here, Officer,” the matron began. “I mind informing you that as far as I am concerned, the workhouse must continue with its duties.”
“Matron,” Endersby countered: “I cannot draw off into a corner to do my professional duties. A murder has been committed. A life taken. That fact, above all, takes precedence. I am sure you will agree that my investigation will have as much open time and space as it needs.”
Reluctantly, the matron begged pardon. She assented to Enderby’s request to inspect the body of the victim who, in her words, was attacked “in the blackest hours of the night before.” The inspector and his sergeant followed the matron to a chamber where the dead woman lay on a table. Her feet were laced into shoddy boots, the kind worn by coster women in the Covent Garden markets. Her hands were blue and a muslin cloth covered her head. Sergeant Caldwell took a lit candle and, bracing himself, lifted off the cloth. The light revealed a face twisted and swollen, the eyes open and bulging, the nose smudged with a dark substance.
“Who was it that found her?” asked Inspector Endersby.
“The two scullery maids. They are first up.”
“The area around the hearth was washed down this morning,” Endersby noted.
“I had her hearth chair removed as well. It was very plain, sir: I could not have the children see any more of this terrible crime than they had already witnessed on waking.”
“The children saw the body then? After the scullery maids had discovered its state?” The thought made Endersby shudder slightly.
“You, as a man of the law, Mr. Endersby, can plainly see what confusion we have endured.”
Ignoring the comment, Endersby turned to the matron. “This woman was in her forties, Matron?”
“The ledger of the parish notes the day of her birth but not the year. Matty was an orphan, brought here from the care of a Dame School near the sea at Brighton.”
“If I may be so bold, sir,” Sergeant Caldwell said, his voice lowered. “The servants and staff, I reckon, must be questioned promptly in case they talk amongst themselves and confuse their stories.”
Endersby nodded. “I can study this sad creature well enough on my own while you cajole witnesses and ply questions.” Sergeant Caldwell immediately relaxed his stiff posture: “Thank you, sir.”
“Mind you, talk alone with the scullery maids. I want their eyes to speak first, since they found the corpse. Also, check entrances — side, back, cellar — for signs of break-in, broken latches, and locks.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“‘For this relief much thanks,’” quipped Endersby, remembering the production of Hamlet that he had attended three nights prior at Covent Garden Theatre. As Sergeant Caldwell left the chamber, Endersby took off his hat and suede gloves. From his shoulder, he shrugged off a leather satchel with a thick strap. “This is my handy carry-all,” he explained to the matron. “Purchased years ago, when I worked my districts as a Bow Street Runner.” He shuffled the objects inside: handcuffs and a cosh, used to subdue resistant felons. Onto the table he piled a leather-bound notebook, a clutch of lead-tipped pencils, a turban cloth for disguises, a scarf, and an ear trumpet for checking heartbeats. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “My latest acquisition.” The inspector held up a square of thick magnifying glass. Leaning closer to the corpse,
Endersby passed the glass over the face, then concentrated on the dead woman’s sunken cheeks. Black smudges reached halfway to her temples. He dabbed a wet finger and rubbed. Coal dust. He peered at the victim’s neck, its stiffness of muscle raising the chin to show a combination of marks.
“Did you know Miss Matty well?” asked Endersby, straightening.
“Little enough, Inspector. She was a bitter woman.”
Nodding, he continued. “I see here, Matron, just under the jaw line and across the centre of the neck, a thin blue-black bruise dotted with orange-coloured specks. I think this is the result of a hanging.” The line of injury marked the skin like a blue cord. It did not extend far beyond the front surface of the neck. “So not a true noose,” Endersby concluded out loud.
“These specks are bits of metal rust,” he continued. Matron Agnes watched him pull out a paper envelope. With the tips of his thumb and forefinger he lifted off a number of the tiny scales of metal from the surface of the neck and placed them inside the envelope. Endersby deduced, tentatively, that the murderer had pressed a hand, encrusted with coal dust, across the victim’s face and strangled the woman with a tool of some kind. But what had been the prime motive? Revenge? Vicious pleasure?
“Inspector, there is one item I have set aside,” said Matron Agnes. From a drawer in the table she handed Endersby a six-inch piece of mouldy, coarse lace. “This cloth,” she explained, “I pulled from Matty’s mouth and throat.” Endersby examined the lace close to the candle. He turned it over in his hands. “But why lace?” he suddenly asked. “And why, indeed, compound the method of murder with such a cruel gesture?” Endersby raised his head to see Matron Agnes wipe tears from her eyes. “Most peculiar, Matron. I am indeed sorry,” the inspector said. He pulled out another envelope and placed the bit of lace inside. “The magistrate,” he said, “demands proof of any items found near or on the body.”
“Why has this happened?” Matron Agnes cried.
“I cannot say as yet what I believe,” Endersby answered. “Items speak of their own accord and can help form a picture, if you wish. I apply logic as best I can. I presuppose this is murder, and this lace, which you have most wisely guarded, is strong evidence of a merciless killer.”