by Jon Redfern
“What is this? What has happened, son?”
“Fisticuffs.”
Geoffrey Grimsby’s knuckles were bleeding. His beard was wild, uncombed. His ankles purpled with bruises on top of scratches. Worse, the younger Grimsby’s eyes were half-shut, his breath smelled of gin, and his entire body stank of the stable.
“Where have you been, young Geoffrey?” the elder Grimsby now asked, standing beside his wife at the top of the stairs. “He’s been in a fight,” Mrs. Grimsby said. “So he says.”
“Young Geoffrey, clean yourself now. Get into the crepe and dark gloves. We have business to attend.” The father reached out to take the son by the shoulder, but the son pulled back and started to laugh loudly, a laugh not completely dependent on the looseness of alcohol but one, instead, of a darker variety, a laugh of consequence betraying bitterness and defeat.
“Father,” the son said, trying to stand at attention. “I shall take myself to my dressing chamber and not delay you nor the dead any longer.” He patted his frock coat. “Milord,” grunted the younger Grimsby, “I have waylaid my purse — money, cards ’n all. Dear, dear.”
With these words the young Grimsby made a valiant attempt to walk forward but then, with no warning, fell flat to the floor and began to snore. Mrs. Grimsby, having leapt to her feet when her son collapsed, wiped a tear from her eye. Such continuing behaviour often inspired her to fits of weeping. But it had not always been thus. Young Geoffrey had once been such a kind and gentle man. Yes, she could admit, he’d been spoiled as a child; but once he had attained responsible adulthood he had, for the most part, been a cooperative and agreeable man to have living as a bachelor under the family roof. What was it now, she wondered. Had it been only three years since he had begun to change? He refused to confide in her after that long-ago evening when he had come home elated, filled with a joy she suspected was caused by his having met and wooed a woman of his age. He had carried the look of a smitten man in love then, the gleam in his eye, the subsequent careful attention to his dress and his hair. But then, somehow rather slowly, he had soured. He had begun to curse. He acted as if he had been cheated of something — not just money in a card game. Had he discovered the pain as well as the pleasure of love and his disappointment had darkened every corner of his young life?
Mrs. Grimsby bent down to stroke her son’s hair when she spotted something in his hand; gently pulling it open she found a small piece of fine blonde hair. “Mr. Grimsby, whatever do you imagine this to be?”
She stood and placed her find into the hand of her husband.
Old Richard Grimsby looked closely through his costly spectacles.
“It looks like a lock. A wisp of child’s hair, perhaps. None of our affair. Come. We shall have the footman give Geoffrey a good wash and a few cups of tea so that we can proceed. And we must urge him to find us a mute-boy. No funeral is complete without the sorrowful sight of a child in black.”
“But Mr. Grimsby,” his wife said with some alarm. “Wherever could he find such a child on short notice?” Old Grimsby sighed: “The workhouse, madam. Children abound in workhouses. And can be for ready hire.” Fingering the lock, Old Grimsby handed it back to his wife and said: “I imagine you may toss this curl away.”
With that, Mr. Grimsby returned to his tea table. Standing alone by the stairs, her sleeping son at her feet, Mrs. Grimsby could not help but examine the lock further; she wondered if her son had been up to some mischief. But what could that possibly be, she asked herself. Why a lock of hair?
My sweet lost boy, she thought, slipping the blonde curl into her apron pocket before taking hold of Geoffrey’s limp arm and, gently shaking him awake, helping him to stand.
Under sunnier skies west of London, not more than six miles distant, there lay a small tree-shaded village. One resident, whose cottage sat under a spreading oak tree, Mrs. Bolton by name, had tended her dying husband and now was helping her sickly sister. The invalid had for years lived a hardscrabble life, working for mere shillings a month. In truth, Mrs. Bolton rarely spoke of her sister’s occupation although she accepted it as respectable to be a matron in the county workhouse.
Now as the village clock struck the hour for the midday meal, Mrs. Bolton spooned two ladles of broth into a bowl, placed the bowl on a tray and walked from her large kitchen toward a snug room at the rear of her cottage. She stepped lightly while at the same time calling out:
“Coming, Jemima. I’m coming. Be patient.”
Kicking the door open, Mrs. Bolton entered her sister’s sick room. A window guarded the light with a thin curtain; a tiny hearth and a narrow bed soothed the aching body of Jemima Pettiworth, who opened her eyes at this moment and from under her covers, pulled herself up to reveal her soiled cap, night dress, and pale yellow complexion.
“Not this. Not this,” Jemima said, a low whine in her voice.
“Simple broth, Jemima. Sit forward. That’s it.”
“You are too kind, sister,” Jemima said, a cruel edge to her words.
“Shall I or shall you?” asked Mrs. Bolton, holding up the spoon. Jemima snatched it and began to sip her broth with no further complaint. Mrs. Bolton sat in a chair next to the bed and waited. She ignored her sister’s manner. After all, it came from her years of living in the workhouse. The old stone building lay beyond the village, isolated on a low hill, a mud road leading up to its gate. Its bell was placed in a tower to sound over the fields. The wards housed villagers, farmers, children, and the poor and needy of the parish that had lost the ability to survive independently, through injury or poor harvests. The children had been deposited in the workhouse from many venues around the countryside: some were orphans, some unwanted babies. All had suffered equally under the dominion of the impatient Jemima Pettiworth.
Now it is true that even in the meanest of breasts there hides a tenderness that must somehow express itself. In the case of Matron Jemima, now jaundiced and fading, this expression once took the form of lace making. Mrs. Bolton needed only to gaze around her sister’s sick room to see framed samples of Jemima’s fine handiwork. Beside these, there was on the mantel a runner of delicate lace flowers; on the back of the other chair, a draped net of cotton lace once used as a tea table cover. Jemima had an eye back then; even now on some afternoons, as she sat alone in her fetid chamber, she would rummage for her needle and hook and calmly pass an hour spinning out patterns.
“Enough,” Jemima said curtly, her spoon sinking into the bowl.
“Very well,” sighed Mrs. Bolton. She rose and took the tray. But she turned back to gaze at her sister who had in an instant changed from a cranky invalid into a wet-cheeked, weeping penitent. “Oh, oh,” Jemima cried, hands wringing, her hollow face staring ahead into the fire.
“But what is it, sister?” said Mrs. Bolton, setting down the tray.
“I cannot speak the words,” her distraught sister moaned. “I cannot hear them anymore or I shall go …”
“There, there. Such remorse. What may I —”
“Nothing!” Jemima howled. Then letting her voice crouch into a hoarse whisper, she said: “Nothing can be done now. I must hear them. They will never leave me.” With this pronouncement, Jemima Pettiworth fell back against her thin pillow.
“I see. Well,” said Mrs. Bolton. “I shall be in the kitchen, Jemima.” The tray was lifted, the door nudged open again. “You must climb from your bed today, Jemima. Move your legs. You are wasting away.”
“This bed shall be my coffin,” Jemima whispered. Mrs. Bolton muttered under her breath and returned to her hearth. Washing up, she heard rustling and lifted her eyes to see her sister, her yellow face like a mask, standing in the doorway of her sick room.
“Come along then,” said Mrs. Bolton, her voice encouraging. “Step by step.”
Jemima Pettiworth stepped into the parlour, opened the desk by the window and took out a sheet of writing paper. She held it to her chest as if it were a needy child; she then lifted it up to the light as if there wa
s writing for her to read. Then she slowly crept back into her sick room. Once there, she let her spoken words float toward her sister in the kitchen:
“Sister, I beg of you,” Jemima said. “Bring me pen and ink. I have words I must write down before they burn away all of my strength.”
“Oh, dear,” said Mrs. Bolton. “Whatever are you planning to pen, sister?”
“A confession.”
Chapter Nine
Fish and Foul
Stepping down onto the cobblestones in East London, Inspector Endersby reminded himself that he was in the business of executing the law. Thus, he ducked into a narrow doorway, pulled out a multi-coloured scarf from his satchel and wound it around his neck as if he had a cold. He folded his hat inside his pocket, giving himself a curious bulge on his right side. He mussed his grey-lined hair to seem eccentric —“mad north-north-west,” quoting his beloved Hamlet. Finally, he lifted from an inner pocket a pair of round spectacles he’d had made by a glass grinder in the Burlington Arcade, the lenses plain glass.
Rosemary Lane opened before him as he gazed through his spectacles at the buyers and sellers gathered this afternoon. The lane held tall leaning houses, home to dredgers, coal-whippers, watermen, tradesmen connected with the commerce of the Thames. Down the side streets sat rows of lodging houses, while on either side of the lane proper, merchants displayed their goods on pieces of carpet and mounds of straw. All about were dogs and dirt-blackened children, vegetable baskets, and fresh fish tables humming with flies. Near the south entrance, just as the matron from Shoe Lane had said, sat a man under a canvas umbrella, three chairs lined up beside him on which were piled and hung samples of lace. Next to the man sat a huge woman selling slabs of fresh eel and mounds of dried pulled pork. She had a booming laugh and she jostled the lace seller, knocking his elbow with her wide left hand.
“Afternoon, captin,” bellowed the woman. Endersby drew his mouth into a thin smile and wandered over to the lace samples. Keep in mind, he warned himself, that the murderer may not have purchased lace but in fact stolen it, or brought it from where he was living.
“It don’t matter, sir, touch ’em,” said the lace seller. “That’s the ticket. Good quality.” The lace seller had rum-slurred speech, but his eyes were sharp when Endersby inspected his samples. “You here on a lark, captin?” asked the woman with a merry bounce in her voice. “I’ve fine eel for your supper. You don’t strike me as a cove,” she said. “You’re a genl’eman, here to purchase.”
“Most likely,” Endersby said, his voice pitched high to squeak a little.
The lace seller reached into his pocket and drank from a small jug. Endersby said: “I search for a particular old form of lace to replace a border on a drape.”
“Take your pick, sir. The stained bolts are a penny a foot. The white and the coloureds, three pence a foot. All handmade, sir, by the Belg’ums.”
Endersby searched in his satchel for the lace samples found on the victims in St. Giles and Shoe Lane. He held up one piece, leaned into the lace seller to afford him a closer look, and requested if the merchant had any more of the same pattern and kind.
“Poor seller that one, a fact,” the lace seller mumbled. “A bolt or two … under the chair.” The lace seller rose with great effort. He pulled out a soiled bolt of coarse lace of the same pattern as the one found on the bodies. “Ah, I believe this is the particular I search for,” squeaked Endersby. The lace seller lifted out a pair of large scissors from one of his pockets. “Any length, sir, you wish. Give it you for ha’penny a foot.” Reeling from the jolt of coincidence, Endersby refused to believe his good luck. Was this, perhaps, Fate mocking his effort? The inspector rummaged in his trouser pocket for coins. “A peculiar run of lace, sir,” slurred the lace seller, “not pop’lar any more ’mongst those around here.”
“On second thought,” Endersby began, playing the charade. “This swag of lace I carry was given me by my brother. For his house down in Kent. He bade me be sure it was a perfect match.”
“No trouble, sir,” the lace seller said, putting up his scissors. “Let’s put our ’eads together. Lookee, your swag next to the bolt; you’re in luck, that’s the tickle. The two are the same.”
Endersby stuttered: “You see, my good fellow, my brother claims he sent his man some time ago to buy from you. He has sent me today in his place and bid me buy more of the same lace since he tallied the length wrong. So I must be absolute.”
“His man, sir?” asked the lace seller. “No sir. No man-servant in the past few days purchased this bit of lace. We serve women; that’s the sum.”
“Then indeed I have made an error, good merchant,” answered Endersby. “Yours may not be the place of his purchase.”
“I knows of no other who sells this particular lace stuff, captin,” said the woman, who looked vexed. The lace seller pushed back his hat and his eyes widened as he lifted his head: “Now, waits. A man you says. Yes, dear wife, cast your mind back to a few days past. That chap — sore-lookin’ lot he was — with a dirty beard and a fine frock coat.”
“Ugly man, beg your pardon, captin, a red cut ’cross his face. He wore a dredgerman’s hat over his brow. Peculiar smell, now that I recalls,” the woman added. “Like he had been sleeping in a stable.”
“Most astonishing,” squeaked Endersby, searching now for a way to find out more about the man. “Tragic,” he added: “My brother’s manservant is a sad fellow, indeed. He cleans the stables and does light chores. I reckon my brother keeps him out of pity. He goes by … oh, the name escapes me at the instant. Was he in any way impertinent, sir?”
“He said not a word,” the lace seller pointed out. “Saw these very bolts, bought a shilling’s worth of this same lace. Peculiar, I thought. Made me wonder, that’s the brush. Why such a cove would wish for lace.”
“Did he purchase anything else?” said Endersby.
“Ow, captain, only lace. He looked hungry for a working man. And peculiar, for he had on a fresh frock coat of quality.” explained the woman.
“A frock coat. New, you say?” asked the inspector.
“Will you purchase, then sir?” asked the lace seller. “Seems your brother has need.”
“Two yards is all,” Endersby said, his eyes alert to any changes in tone of voice in the two figures before him. The heavy woman held out the lace while her husband used his scissors to cut off the required length. Once Endersby had paid and graciously thanked the couple, he ventured one last ruse: “I was not at liberty to tell you of one concern I still have,” he said.
The woman leaned forward. “A concern, captin?”
“My brother’s man has run away to London once again. Yesterday evening, I was told. My brother is troubled by the matter and requested I search around. Have you by chance seen this same chap in his frock coat again?”
“Not at all,” replied the huge woman. “The day we sold him the lace he went off to the gin shop yonder at Hairbrine-court. Last I sees of him.”
“You are certain as well?” Endersby asked the lace seller.
“You be concerned about’ im, I can see,” says the merchant. “He likes his drink.”
“So I feared,” said Endersby.
“An odd gen’leman, captin,” said the woman. “Enquire at the lodging houses near Hairbrine Court. Low places, sir, full of thieves and sickly men. But cheap and a place to sleep.”
Endersby considered the woman’s words: “I thankee both once again.”
The couple went back to their chatter and Endersby tucked the recent purchase of lace into his satchel, along with the two samples he’d brought, and walked up the lane into the gin shop where a crowd of men and women sat in the gloom, drinking. The sweet smell of juniper and sugared water filled the air. The barkeep was a young lad of no more than twenty; a pipe lounged in the corner of his mouth; his left hand flashed cheap tin rings from every finger.
“Tuppence,” the lad spat out and slammed down a mug before the inspector. Endersby paid
and then, by design, tipped out his change purse, allowing a couple of shillings to roll onto the serving board in front of the lad. “Careful, git,” the lad said. “You a fool boy, old man? Lose those you will.” The lad picked up the two shillings and stuck his hand out to Endersby as he poured out a mug for another customer. Endersby leaned into the lad and crooked his finger: “Keep ’em, lad, I’m on the lookout.”
The bar lad squinted, showed a mouth of few teeth, and bent closer. “Your wife run away, then, git. Turned slattern on you?” Endersby frowned and gave out a theatrical sigh of regret. “No lad, worse. My brother’s gone missing,” he said, changing his story for the sake of variety. “Loves the gin. Comes up to London often. We’re from Kent, yonder. Been looking for him now for two days.”
The lad held his face as if to say he found the whole story a fraud.
“A chap, you say?” said the lad.
“A stranger to you, I wager,” said Endersby. “I’d give a pound to know if you’ve seen him. A man with a beard, not old, a new frock coat, secretive in his manner.”
“You are certain, git?” mocked the barkeep. He puffed on his pipe. His face then wrinkled with thought. “Anything peculiar about ’im?” asked the barkeep. Endersby sat forward. Would he be in luck yet again? Although he did not want to put words or ideas into the barkeep’s mind, he let slip that his brother had once been in a bad fight. “His face,” Endersby lamented, “was no match for his assailant and so came out the worst.”
“Stinks like a sewer?” asked the barkeep.“I reckoned that mark on his cheeks was from a tumble.”
“That be my poor Will,” said Endersby.
“He’s hiding from you, git. Comes in here in the last few days, drinks a mug or three. If he be your kin, he stumbles off each time down toward Irish Bay, there.”
“Irish Bay, sir?” pleaded Endersby.
“Rotten Row, Irish Bay, all the same. Blue Anchor Court, just off the corner. No place for a coun’ry genleman like yourself.” The lad laughed. As Endersby was about to leave, the barkeep called out to him. “Come ’ere, git. Best you find this brother of yours. Summat happened to him besides his face. Bad legs, like he was beaten up in the docks. You knows, maybe he’s been a week or more in Fleet Prison? Secured, I warrant. Got high old boots but they don’t hide the ‘duck walk,’ like he’s still in leg irons.” Endersby shook his head as if he were in grief. The lad then poked him in the chest: his palm lay open.