Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  The inspector began his questioning. After a time, he sent the young constable to inspect the coal chute. He then singled out the head master and ordered the others to return to their duties. Endersby viewed the victim, who had been placed conveniently on a pallet next to the female ward. What astonished Endersby were the similarities between this murder and the one he had just investigated not seven streets away in St. Giles. The magnifying glass revealed a bruise. And there were tiny bits of metal rust and a length of the same lace.

  Why lace? Endersby asked himself again. He took the sample, opened his satchel and placed the lace in an envelope. While doing so, he listened as the master confirmed that no one had witnessed nor heard the crime being committed. “It was I who found her,” he explained, describing his discovery of the body during his morning round. Tracing the footsteps of sooty coal dust that led from the parlour into the corridor, Endersby remarked on their shape and state of preservation.

  “Master,” Endersby then said. “Will you allow me to speak to any of the children? Those who are calm enough to tell me stories?” The master hesitated. He appeared so distracted it was as if the inspector’s words had been uttered in a foreign tongue. A woman appeared and asked the master to come upstairs, so Endersby decided he could no longer wait for permission. He would have to act before pertinent evidence was destroyed. The girls of the only open ward, the one next to the parlour where the body lay, were restless and agitated as he questioned them — some claiming to have heard a man whispering in the night, one certain it was her dead father come to rescue her. He asked if any one of their rank was missing. On asking once again about the intruder, most heads shook.

  “He surely stinks,” one child said, her voice hoarse from shouting.

  “Did you see him?” Endersby asked, hoping for a description.

  “No, sir,” came the reply. “My head was under my pillow.”

  All the girls said they had hidden their faces. Dark figures are the bane of childhood, thought Endersby as he thanked the crowd. Here in Shoe Lane there were fewer than twenty females, the oldest perhaps eleven years, skeletal reminders of the injustice of the metropolis. Endersby clenched his fists. These shadows of children had become targets of a roving killer.

  A round, squat woman appeared in a white bonnet. “A most horrible deed; I am struck to the marrow with fear.” The matron curtsied.

  “The found child, Matron. I wish to see her, if I may.”

  Endersby followed her out the front portal while she explained that the child was being tended in the kitchen at the back of the House of Correction. Sudden spring rain fell lightly. As Endersby adjusted his broad-brimmed hat and his suede gloves, his mind took on the task of preparing questions. Up to this point, no one had mentioned the child’s name. He tapped the matron on her shoulder to ask but, as he reached out, she sprinted ahead through the kitchen door and announced the presence of a detective policeman.

  An older woman stood up and turned to Endersby. “I am Matron Bickerstaff. We thank you, Detective, for your attention this morning.” Without further hesitation, this matron clapped her hands. A door leading to a second chamber opened to show a large fireplace with a roaring fire. Beside it was positioned a large copper tub. Through the doorway, Endersby watched as two women took hold of a child and led her before the hearth. A dripping bed sheet was held up before the flames. Matron Bickerstaff entered the room, undressed the shaking child and wrapped the now steaming bed sheet around the child’s skeletal body. Endersby stood amazed at this spectacle of charity. Once the child was dried, she sat in a chair by the fire where she was joined by Endersby and Matron Bickerstaff. “I am Inspector Owen Endersby of the Metropolitan Detective Police. Allow me, Matron, to speak with the child.”

  The girl held her arms tight to her sides. Endersby sensed the child might be too exhausted, too shaken, to speak freely. Children in workhouses, he knew, were so often brutalized that they cowered into silence. Feeling her discomfort, Endersby dipped his hand into his pocket and brought out the tin of his wife’s candied chestnuts. “Would you care for one, Miss?” he said, politely offering the tin as if the girl were a woman of his social rank. He flipped open the top. The child’s eyes widened. “These confections were made by my wife. They are very sugary. My favourites.” Without hesitation, the child took one, bit into it, and then took another in her other hand. Endersby offered one to Matron Bickerstaff who chose a large glistening chestnut the size of a sovereign coin. She then cautioned the child to speak honestly to all the questions the inspector might ask.

  “Good morning, child,” Inspector Endersby began, chewing.

  The child bowed her head: “Good morning, sir.”

  “Have you ever stepped out of Shoe Lane before, on your own, where you found yourself in the street?”

  The girl raised her eyes toward the matron who in turn lifted her eyebrows.

  “Once before, sir. Only once with Annie, sir.”

  “And what did you and Annie find on your outing in the street?”

  The child’s face brightened.

  “A hurdy-gurdy man, sir,” she said, her voice bursting forth from her sunken little chest. “’Twas the only time, sir,” she whispered. Endersby leaned forward: “Did you see a hurdy-gurdy man last night, then?”

  The child shivered a little and said, “No, sir.”

  “Then tell me, young one …”

  “My name be Catherine, sir,” the girl proclaimed with sudden pride. “My dead mammy gives me that name. And not Cath-er-INE, but Cath-er-IN!”

  “Indeed,” replied Endersby, his gaze taking on a more serious aspect. Young Catherine had blue eyes, her blonde hair was cut short. “Then, Miss Catherine, tell me how you got out of your bed and onto the street last night?”

  “I didn’t ‘got,’ sir. I was taken.” The matron quickly looked toward Inspector Endersby. “Taken?”

  “A ghost, sir.”

  “Astonishing, Miss Catherine. You have acquaintance with ghosts?”

  “Oh, no sir. But one. He came in last night. I knows about ghosts ’cause me and Annie always tells the stories.”

  “Did you see him, Miss Catherine? What did he look like?”

  “I hears him. He tiptoes up and down. He has a stink like a ghost — all dead smell.”

  “Catherine,” the Matron interrupted. “The plain truth.”

  The girl bowed her head. The inspector waited, but she seemed hesitant now to continue. Endersby took out his handkerchief, folded it in half and handed it to the sullen child. She took it but did not look at it. “If he were here now, Miss Catherine,” Endersby whispered, “put my handkerchief over your nose. He must smell if you say he did.”

  Catherine slapped the handkerchief to her face. She pulled it off quickly and smiled. “He did so stinks, sir.” The inspector then learned how Miss Catherine was whispered to in the dark — just her name.

  “He called you Catherine?” Endersby asked, to make sure. The girl bowed her head. “Sweet, he calls me, too,” she said. “Catherine,” the inspector asked, leaning in close as if he were about to share a secret. “Did your ghost tell you his name?” The girl blinked. She blushed: “Knuckle Toe.” The sound of these two words were broken by her embarrassed laughter. Endersby said: “Knuckle Toe?” The child responded with a quick nod. Endersby reminded himself that both Catherines had been wakened in the dark. What they heard was so unfamiliar they perhaps confused dream and reality.

  “You are very helpful, Catherine.” Endersby then asked if she’d seen the man’s face.

  “Wot a terrible face he has. A big worm runs across it.”

  “Show me, Miss Catherine. Draw out with your finger,” said Endersby, intrigued.

  The girl puckered her face in disgust and then reluctantly drew a line across her right cheek, over her nose and up under her left eye.

  “Did the man say anything else to you? Did he give you anything?”

  “No, sir. He said me name again. ‘Catherine, Catheri
ne,’ over and over like he forgets it.”

  “Did he take you anywhere?”

  “In the courtyard. Then he runs off, like he’s a scaredy scaredy.”

  The inspector opened his candy tin and offered another to Catherine. “One fer Annie, too?” she asked.

  “Most certainly.”

  Moments later the girl was led from the chamber and Matron Bickerstaff invited Endersby to view the body once again. “The coroner and surgeon will have to inspect this sad woman, as you may know,” the inspector explained. “It is common procedure before a verdict on cause of death is announced.” The matron could not look long at the corpse’s contorted face. She told Endersby she knew the woman well enough, that she was partly blind, but that she had a gentle hand, much like her own, and did not punish her wards like the masters did the boys. Endersby asked about the victim’s friends and enemies, but like Miss Matty in St. Giles, the victim had preferred her own company. After looking again at the bruised neck, Endersby pulled out the envelope containing the found piece of lace.

  “Curious, Matron, this lace. It appears to be of the same cloth as the fragment found on the victim at St. Giles, where a similar incident occurred last night.”

  “May I look at it closely, sir?”

  Endersby spread the lace on a table. Matron Bickerstaff examined it, holding her hands to her sides so as not to touch a weapon of death.

  “If I may, I could be of some assistance, Inspector.”

  The woman proceeded to tell him that as head matron she had the responsibility to provide clothing and shoes for the female inmates. Her parish stipend was small and so she frequented the second-hand clothing and cloth markets in Rosemary Lane. “In the Lane there is a seller of second-hand lace. All types and shapes. Some old, many well kept and affordable. I believe there may be other lace sellers in Monmouth Street but since lace does not sell readily to the poor, it is not a popular item for profit.”

  “This segment here is lace for curtains or drapes,” Endersby guessed. “It seems too coarse for dress trimming.”

  Matron Bickerstaff bent and looked at the thick patterns and the unrefined cotton stitches. “I agree, sir, that this is border lace for curtain windows. The man in Rosemary Lane has a stall right near the south entrance. I have seen him often. Although he looks unfortunate, having little exchange of coin for his goods, he is cheerful enough.” Endersby thanked the matron for her information. “I have one other query, Matron”

  Matron Bickerstaff held her gaze on Endersby’s face. “I surmise that this man-cum-murderer is desperately looking for a child. One named specifically Catherine.”

  “Frightening prospect, Inspector. A damning name to have if that is the case.”

  “If I am correct, I ask you why this culprit does his searching at night. Could he not simply come to the front door of any workhouse and ask for a Catherine, to see her in broad daylight?”

  “Only, Inspector, if he has a licence. The Poor Laws and the parish do not allow children out of our protection unless the caller be bona fide. This is to prevent exploitation, as you can imagine. We have frequently turned away merchants and factory owners who seem suspect to us. And we rarely, nowadays, let our children out to chimney sweeps for the work is too dangerous. I pity those who are forced into such terrible labour.”

  “But if one were a relative, a repentant parent searching for a child?”

  “The same rule applies. A man in particular must have a reference or an affidavit as to his identity and his ability to nourish and protect a child. Females have often, in the past, been stolen — yes, from workbenches in factories or elsewhere — and taken into brothels and nanny houses to service wretches of all manner.”

  Endersby pondered the matron’s words, then offered his thanks and bid her goodbye. What should be his first foray, he wondered? To locate a lace seller — and perhaps find a lead to the murderer’s whereabouts? It was feasible the killer planned his crime and bought lace for a reason. Or, just as likely, he might have stolen or taken lace simply because it was at hand. Endersby had few clues to lead him forth. And he was not comfortable with the observations of the children, for doubt coaxed him to believe their words contained more fantasy than truth. What of the name: Uncle Bow? Knuckle Toe? And the scar, the worm? A frightening mark to young eyes. These thoughts bullied Endersby even as Wanton Time, as he liked to call it, pressed upon him to wait for the surgeon and the coroner.

  Just before noon, the coroner arrived at Shoe Lane House of Correction and began his session. The parish officer presented summonses to a jury of peers — coal carriers, drivers, a coffee-stall keeper, two dustmen, and two cabmen, halted on their way to a fare. The coroner instructed his jury to study well the evidence: Endersby was called to display the lace, to tell of the matter of the coal chute and to draw a comparison to the murder at St. Giles. The makeshift jury, standing around the coroner in the workhouse dining room, listened to the child and adult witnesses, learned of the gaff, and then heard the surgeon’s conclusions. After deliberation, a fair-minded verdict was announced and the coroner demanded Endersby to take the found items to the magistrate for recording and then proceed to seek out the responsible villain.

  Out in the air after the proceedings, Endersby decided to walk the short distance from Shoe Lane across Farringdon Street into Fleet Lane Station House. What mist and damp! The streets were astir: cabs, pedestrians, ragged children running. Fleet Prison itself loomed as the inspector limped along, mindful of his gouty foot. Endersby protested his deep fear that a madman was running loose in the streets. Why lace? What drives a man to such means? Such beasts we are as men, he thought, reprimanding himself on his own illicit love of punching jaws.

  Chapter Five

  A Bit of Onion

  Ten-year-old Catherine Smeets drew in a quick breath. She kept her head down. Next to her, and on both sides of the long scuffed table, girls her age frantically licked thin gruel from wooden bowls. Here, in St. Pancras Workhouse, the food was scant. In the other workhouses of London, like St. Giles two miles south, pots of porridge with a shred of meat were standard fare for the midday meal. This was not the case in St. Pancras, where a small bowl of gruel was all that was served at each meal. This moment of rest would soon be finished; all children at the tables would rise shortly at the clap of the matron’s hands and march off to start the toil of the afternoon after a morning of scrubbing floors.

  Catherine Smeets put down her wooden bowl. Her right hand shot out; she grabbed a second half onion from the serving platter — a treat only on Wednesdays in St. Pancras — and glanced up at Nell sitting kitty-corner on the opposite side. Nell jammed her eyes right, then left and blinked twice. Catherine slipped the bit of onion under the hem of her blue muslin shift. For later, she thought. For our plan.

  Matron Pickens approached on her inspection walk. Nell tapped her right hand once. Catherine bent again over her bowl and felt Matron Pickens brush by her back, the whish of her birch rod cutting through the cold air.

  “Girls,” Matron Pickens announced, “extra for those who get all windows washed before supper. Whippings for those who dawdle or whine.” Matron Pickens spoke with a scratchy throat, as if she had swallowed broken pebbles for her midday meal. Nell once said Matron Pickens was a puppet and not a human, like the Judy in the Tom Fool shows.

  Now the final prayer was intoned by Master Jenkins, who was standing by the iron stove with his hat on, his hands raised up before his face. He had a ringing voice, his thanks to the parish elders and to Jesus echoing off the high stone walls of the dining ward. This afternoon the boys of St. Pancras were to be sent to chop wood for the parish. “A good day’s labour, boys, meant to show you the joys of honest work,” shouted Master Jenkins. Catherine never could understand how blistered hands were rewards. This same afternoon she and Nell and Little Mag were to be sent down below into the laundry to mend sheets.

  Catherine Smeets slowly stood up with her mates. She still had a trace of rose in her
cheeks even though she had been in St. Pancras three months, ever since her father, Sergeant Peter Smeets, had abandoned her at the front door in late December and gone off to Scotland to join his regiment. Oh, how she missed him and her mother, dead these past two years of the fever. But mostly her uncle, her mother’s only brother. How brutally he was treated. How good he tried to be in fighting against her drunken father. But all of that life was gone. Forever, thought Catherine.

  The line of girls marched to the archway and split into sections, then into groups of three and four. Matron Pickens clapped her hands. Nell, Little Mag, and Catherine scampered down the damp stone stairs into a basement of low ceilings and grimy walls. “Skip along,” whispered Nell, always the boldest one. Little Mag had a shrunken left foot but she could keep up with the other two. After a moment, all three stopped and panted. Catherine’s head ached. The dark corridor drew Catherine’s mind back to her mother’s bed, back when her uncle looked after her. He often folded her in his arms and told Catherine the story of a brave peasant girl who had rescued a child princess from a witch.

  “Hurry with it,” Nell now said, shaking Catherine’s arm. “We’ll wait by the sheet bin. If the puppet comes we’ll give out a loud coughin’.”

  From Nell’s hand and from Little Mag’s, Catherine took their bits of stolen onion. She pulled out the bit she had hidden at table and cupped all in her left hand. She ran swiftly to the far end of the corridor, knowing she must not dawdle. Time was always measured in seconds in the workhouse. From under one of the floor stones, Catherine pulled out a thick bundle of rags —two layers to protect and keep cool the onions, bits of hardened lard, cooked potato skins and dried apple peels.

  “There, there,” she whispered to the rags, folding them carefully. “You shall have good use soon enough,” she said. Fearful of delay, she shoved the wad under the stone, tamped the stone down with her bare foot. She scurried back against the slimy wall into the laundry room where, to her relief, only Nell and Little Mag were sitting, their needles already threaded. Long worn sheets lay over their laps and spread onto the floor.