Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “Caldwell,” said Endersby after a moment of meditation. “One final thought: have the workhouse masters lock down the coal chutes — no matter what exception may be raised. I will ask Superintendent Borne to allow us two constables to go around with you to warn other houses of the danger. Needless to say we must alert station houses and our seven other detective branches in all constabularies. A description of the murderer most certainly will be helpful.”

  “And capture, sir? How will untrained workhouse employees tackle the villain if the occasion arises?”

  “Ah, Sergeant, what a question. Will these parish folk believe us enough to gather men, station them, arm them?” Endersby stopped then started again.

  “You and the other constables must use strong persuasion. Describe the manner of death. Go to the parish offices and demand cooperation. I shall instruct the other detective branches to alert their night constables and have each check workhouse yards more frequently on the assigned routes.” Inspector Endersby wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The pitiful memory of the two dead matrons had returned to his mind for the moment. But he felt sure he and Caldwell had begun a valid search.

  “Let us hope, Caldwell, our detection methods will bear fruit,” Endersby said at last.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “Any peculiarities at the coroner’s session in St. Giles?”

  “No, sir. The jury was most efficient in declaring murder. With your permission, I shall inspect the holding chambers here in this station. Street arrests from last night. Perhaps we have been fortunate with a capture.”

  “What a wish,” Endersby said, raising his eyebrows. “I suggest you do so, Sergeant. And with haste. I, in the meantime, shall permit myself the pleasure of requesting the impossible from Superintendent Borne. As Prince Hamlet might utter, I shall endeavour to prove ‘the pith and marrow of our attribute.’”

  Endersby straightened his hat and took in a deep breath. “Onward, Sergeant.” The two men shook hands and parted. Climbing a cramped staircase, Endersby came into the central rooms of the station house. Moving on, he crossed a hallway and stopped in front of a door on which brass letters spelling SUPERINTENDENT were attached by small nails. From under the door came the delicious smell of cooked food. Borne was taking lunch. In spite of the resistance his superintendent would present, the matter of murder must take priority. Endersby clenched his fist and knocked.

  “Yes, no doubt. Just so,” responded Superintendent Borne.

  A scrawny man dressed in poorly tailored wool and affecting a vain-glorious gaze, Borne displayed his usual impatience during Endersby’s report on the workhouse murders. “A gaff and lace? Yes, yes.” Borne had worked his way up diligently from constable to appointed bureaucrat. He was efficient, mindful of his rank, often cantankerous. Endersby believed he was a man who paid scant attention to daily police work except when his budgets ran over limit. Endersby also knew Borne to be arrogant and unreasonable. He was an old-fashioned authoritarian trained by the Bow Street Runners. He showed little respect for the “new” detective branch, which in his mind wasted too much time searching rather than questioning miscreants. Justice, he always argued, must be hard, immediate, to strike fear in the public and thus deter the criminal mentality.“Sir Robert Peel,” he said once to Endersby, “is too much the reformer and not enough the law enforcer.”

  With this knowledge of Borne in mind, Endersby decided to try a less aggressive approach in the hopes that his superintendent would be moved. Endersby explained his strategy. He asked Borne to grant him the time, the funds, and manpower to investigate the murders.

  “This is a simple matter, Inspector. Install better locks. No further attacks can occur. The villain will disappear.” Borne sat down at his desk and shot a disgruntled glance at the plate of cooling food he’d barely started.

  “Our victims are blameless women and children, sir,” said Endersby, a plea under each breath. “This devil will do anything.”

  “Supposition, Inspector. We are discussing the problem of a coal chute. Nothing more.”

  Endersby felt a tremor. His “demon familiar” stirred and he knew he must suppress it. Shifting his feet, taking in a breath, he removed any hint of a scowl from his face. In reaction, Superintendent Borne pinched his mouth. Borne stood up and slid his right hand into the front of his frock coat as if he were Napoleon Bonaparte about to give a command: “Inspector Endersby, may I remind you that these people — the children and their female guardians — are of the lower orders. The irresponsible laggards of our society. We place them in workhouses for their own good. The poor kill their own kind, sir; they breed and abandon their offspring. We can show pity, but to devote a man of your rank to an investigation of this kind is a waste of time and coin.”

  Inspector Endersby clenched both his gloved fists. His hat dropped to the floor. Borne stepped from the behind the desk. He was about to speak when Endersby interrupted:

  “With due respect, sir, the members of the lower orders are Christians, as are you and I. We cannot relinquish our bonds of human brotherhood when the killing of innocent women — women with souls, sir — has taken place. Our noble sovereign has but recently given birth to her first child and she has stated, in her joy, that all her subjects are equally beloved of her as is her infant, the Princess Royal, Victoria. Likewise, we men of the law must extend our protection to all. We cannot allow prejudice to rule our conduct.”

  Endersby had countered Borne’s obstinacy on several occasions with allusions to persons of higher social standing, be they the Queen or an admiral of the imperial navy. Borne removed his hand from his frock coat. He sniffed, looked down at his shoes, then stared Inspector Endersby straight in the eye:

  “Inspector, I find your remarks impertinent. Perhaps you have misunderstood the meaning of my words. Our prime minister and founder of our detective police, Sir Robert Peel, has wisely stated our mission is to prevent crime and disorder. By finding the simplest way to do this shall result in greater trust and safety for all.”

  Not to be out-maneuvered, Inspector Endersby formed a quick reply: “With due respect to you and to Sir Robert, our founder also stated that to preserve public favour we police must demonstrate absolute impartial service to the law. A murder has been committed; the law requires action. It is for this reason alone…”

  “Inspector, please,” Borne said, his face reddening. “I am quite capable of quoting Sir Robert’s nine principles. And I can see that if we continue in this manner, I shall not have the luxury of finishing my meal.”

  Endersby did not move. Superintendent Borne sat down again. He picked up his fork and took hold of his cloth napkin. Endersby folded his hands together. He spoke in a flat manner as if he were defeated and was willing to succumb to Borne’s dismissive manner: “What, then, sir, might be your suggestion in handling this matter?”

  “Surely, Inspector, that is what your keen mind must conjure on its own. I have given my opinion. Do you wish me to issue an order? Please be advised, sir, our city has over eight hundred constables and at least twenty well-paid detective inspectors like you. We have a roster of crimes to investigate. I suggest you consider delegating duties and, if you wish, you may appoint two constables at most to give you aid. I can see no other recourse. But once better locks are secured in workhouse institutions, I reckon the murders will cease.”

  “Most just of you, sir,” was Endersby’s quiet response. Somehow without losing face, Borne had managed to recognize the severity of the situation Endersby had presented to him not minutes before.

  “We have your permission, then, to proceed, sir?”

  “Search and capture, Inspector.” Borne’s voice was without enthusiasm. He then pronounced: “You have much to do, sir. I want facts, conclusions and arrests.”

  “Thank you, sir. We already have some clues to lead us.”

  “You make your duties sound like a child’s game, Inspector. How clever. I grant a three day subsidy only for the workhouse matter. If,
as you say, you have clues, follow them with speed. And warn the houses of the need to lock their coal chutes.” These last few words of Borne’s were accompanied by a mocking chuckle.

  “Report Monday next, Inspector,” Borne added. “Haste and dispatch.”

  With simultaneous gestures, Endersby retrieved his hat from the floor while Borne snatched up his dinner knife and began to slice his pork cutlet. In the corridor outside of Borne’s office, Endersby tapped his large stomach and then wrung his gloved hands: “Ledgers and new locks!” he said with some glee. Endersby pulled down his hat and when he stepped into the courtyard, Sergeant Caldwell was waiting.

  “Any culprits in the cells, Sergeant?” Endersby asked.

  “Only two women, sir, a lad, and a drunken man. No scar, no fearful faces, sir.”

  “Come then, follow me, Sergeant.”

  Hobbling a little with his gouty foot, the inspector mounted the steps to the first floor and entered a large window-bright room. A gathering of constables and other sergeants stood at attention.

  “Gentlemen of the law, I wish you a good afternoon,” said Inspector Endersby as he lifted off his hat and pulled off his suede gloves. “Before I begin, may I remind you all as members of the Metropolitan Police Force what our purpose is as public servants. We have before us an unusual crime. We are to perform our duties dependent upon the public approval of our actions. Unlike our French compatriots abroad, we do not use fear or the ways of the military to mete out justice. You and I are not judges or hangmen; we are instead guardians of the peace.” The men stomped their boots in agreement.

  “I desire, gentlemen, your strict attention to my proposal.” One of the desk sergeants took up pen and paper. Endersby instructed Caldwell to take a stand in the middle of the room. “Kindly describe the murderer, Sergeant,” commanded Endersby. “Use only the details based on what has been learned from the witnesses.” Caldwell began his profile, starting with a description of the culprit’s overall appearance, elaborating afterward the remarkable facets which had impressed the young Catherines.

  “A singular villain,” added Endersby. “Now, gentlemen. Write out copies of this verbal picture of the murderer-suspect and have a copy delivered to each of the station houses in quadrants north and south of St. Paul’s. The villain, we surmise, will most likely strike again in the area near St. Giles, but have all detective branches alerted and warn constables to keep sharp eyes on anyone who resembles the man — his limp, beard, scar, and the weapons he carries.”

  “Yes, sir,” was the resounding response, spoken in unison. Endersby thanked them; he subsequently commanded the station sergeant to release two constables on day duties to accompany Mr. Caldwell on this most demanding mission. Within moments, two young men appeared in full constable wear — black stove-pipe hats, white leather gloves and navy blue jackets.

  “Mr. Rance, sir,” said the first one, tall, lean, dark-haired.

  “Mr. Tibald, sir,” said the other, equally as tall, sloped-­shouldered and light-haired.

  “We can forestall the cruel murder of another unfortunate. If our logic is correct,” Endersby concluded after explaining to his new recruits the strategy for the afternoon. The men had adjourned to a vacant office where on the wall attached, by tacks, was a large map of London. “Look gentlemen,” Endersby began. “Do you see the circle?” The inspector’s right hand drew a line from St.Giles, along Holborn, to Shoe Lane. “In this quadrant of London,” he explained, “the city has erected six workhouses built to a standard with wards, some for children or prostitutes, others for destitute families and bachelors. I believe our searcher has begun his hunt in this area first — and that he will follow this circle, if he can, from Shoe Lane over to Wych Street, north again toward St. Giles and the Seven Dials, then again along Holborn where he may end at the Foundling Hospital. This is a poor, hobbled man,” Endersby reminded his three law men. “He must travel by foot — and slowly — given a noticeable limp described by one of our witnesses. I conjecture he will investigate any one of these places tonight and the next, if he has not done so already. He may murder as well as search for his Catherine if last night’s crimes are an indication of his method.”

  The two constables studied the map and turned to Sergeant Caldwell for instruction as to which one of the three of them would tackle the various workhouses. Caldwell outlined his agenda before Endersby stepped in to give his final words. “And, gentleman, be sure to ask questions. Ask of the masters and matrons if any similar action has taken place within the last month — in terms of break-ins. Enquire as to the appearance of any man or woman who has deposited a female child at any one of these workhouses in the past six months. Do not forget the Foundling Hospital near Mecklenburg Square. Young girls are often left there, despite the lack of funds needed to secure them a bed.”

  Sergeant Caldwell, Constable Rance, and Constable Tibald followed the inspector through the courtyards and out into the street.

  “Until nine o’clock this coming evening, then, sir?” Caldwell asked.

  “At the coffee house across the way. All three of you. Sharp.”

  Endersby’s gaze subsequently turned eastward. Sound sleep would evade his next few nights as it was his habit to ponder as much as he could, given the clues he had gathered. “A tight puzzle,” he said to himself. He walked a few paces remembering the word, UNKELBOW, written out by the mute Catherine; if this clue meant the culprit had called out “Uncle Bow” then it followed that the child could have recognized him as familiar. This explained one peculiarity in the case: the two Catherines — so far — had been abandoned because neither child had known the intruder. With this thought in mind, Inspector Endersby immediately hailed a passing hansom cab.

  “To Rosemary Lane.”

  Chapter Eight

  A Burden Indeed

  It is not unusual in the great city of London to find, in a respectable family, one offspring who has somehow ignored the blessings of a good upbringing. This certainly was the case between Mr. Richard Grimsby, undertaker, and his youngest child — his only son — Geoffrey. In many particulars, father and son mirrored each other. The father had black hair (still), a large nose, high cheekbones and pinched eyes; likewise the son, with the exception that his younger eyes were pinched out of spite rather than age and experience. Mr. Richard Grimsby was proud of his accomplishments; Master Geoffrey was simply proud.

  In their greater differences, chief among them lay in movement and appearance. Old Grimsby, as he was often called by his neighbours, skipped when he walked, his calves strong and well-exercised from years of morning walks. At sixty-three, his face brimmed with colour, his skin remained smooth from daily scrubbing, his chin, in particular, held firm against any fashionable addition of hair. Young Grimsby, on the other hand, sauntered; although only twenty-seven years old, his gait was hampered by a weak ankle obtained from a fall down the stairs of a gin house. Indeed, he limped. Most mornings, and lately most afternoons as well, his cheeks and forehead took on the colour of soured milk; and not two months ago, in defiance of his father’s wishes, young Geoffrey permitted his chin to sport a bushy beard, often left untrimmed.

  And, of course, there was the younger Grimsby’s scar.

  “An accident,” explained Old Grimsby when anyone enquired. “A boy’s game at school — a rapier, I believe — Geoffrey’s lack of attention to the sport at the moment of his playing.”

  “A broken branch catching the face out riding” were the words young Geoffrey used. The scar drew great attention because of its length. It looked very much as if the sharpened point of a Toledo blade had cut across the right cheek, run over the nose and halted just under the left eye. Some women of Geoffrey’s age — much to his delight — claimed they found the scar attractive. Frequently, they asked to run their fingers over it, their eyes bright with delighted horror at its shape and colour. Curiously enough, young Geoffrey Grimsby was well known in Marylebone for his scar, if not for much else. And without doubt he told
its story to gain female sympathy and free glasses of gin.

  Now on this damp March morning in Marylebone, one street west of Bedford Square, the older Grimsby sat at his dining room table. He blew on his tea in a saucer while Mrs. Grimsby, his wife and opponent for thirty-five years, clashed the hearth irons, mumbling to herself as to where the younger Grimsby had disappeared on this most busy, upcoming day.

  “All the night and now all the morning,” Mrs. Grimsby repeated. “Gone, flown away like last January’s snow. What shall we do, Mr. Grimsby? Two funerals, at half three, then at half four, and no bill set out, and our mute boy ill and absent from duty. We are too old to manage all of this ourselves, too old, too much in need of a thoughtful child to lift our burden.”

  “Lift, my good wife? I fear that occasion will never come to pass.”

  Below the dining parlour, in the entrance hall, there was sudden noise. A banging, a bumping. A door slamming, a voice snarling a profanity. Mrs. Grimsby went to the head of the stairs. The undertaker and his family lived above the shop, where coffins were made to order, shrouds sewn, and funerals orchestrated. Four black geldings were housed in the inner courtyard stable next to an ebony hearse.

  “That you?” Mrs. Grimbsy hollered down the stairwell.

  “No, Missus. ‘Tis the ‘Lord of Flies’ himself.”

  “Where have you been, son? Your poor father and I have —”

  “Father is not poor, Mammy. Not a farthing gets past his tight fist.”

  “Come up for your tea, son. There is much to do.”

  “To do? Toodle do?” A slumping sound, another profanity and a chair toppled.

  “Shall I come down, Geoffrey? Shall I?”

  “Mammy, leave me be.” Feet stumbling up the stairs, then an appearance. Mrs. Grimsby recoiled: her only son’s trousers were torn and splotched with street grime; his boots mud-speckled; his frock coat — a new purchase only last week — wrinkled with blotches of grease.