Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “A handshake between honourable men, then, Mr. Hawkins.”

  “You understand me, Squire? I don’t take to two-faced dealing.”

  “Nor do I,” said Endersby, his voice firm, his eyes held on Nick the Hand’s serious face.

  Nick the Hand spit into the palm of his right hand. Endersby removed a suede glove from his. The two men shook. “And when can I deliver this fare?” asked the inspector.

  “Well, Squire, we have a delicate problem first to hash.”

  Endersby held still, unsure of what to expect. Nick the Hand signalled to his crew to cross the room. Once they had surrounded him and Endersby, Nick the Hand said: “Rumsters, our Bobby spy here is needy of us. No, do not mock. We have shook on a fare. But tell me and ’im honestly if you’ve seen this cove he is searchin’ for.”

  “A bearded man,” Endersby said. “He limps, has a scar across his face — right cheek over to left eye. Witnesses tell me he wears a new frock coat and a dredgerman’s black hat. At times, he may carry a gaff.”

  “Let me ponder. No, no I don’t conjure such a man in these parts,” said Jack the Knife.

  “The barkeep in Rosemary Lane said such a man came in to drink over the past few days,” said Endersby. “He was seen walking into Blue Anchor Court.”

  “There be lodgings about only for them who pay,” said Nick the Hand.

  One of the boy-thieves stepped forward: “I thinks I saw such a cow-hearted chappy, sir,” he said. “But two nights gone. At the gin shop, then later. Came he into this court, silent-like, not a word, a scar on his face to make the dogs bark. Pompin’ about in his shiny frock coat. And movin’ his legs like he wos in the chains.”

  “Did you see where he rested, lad?” asked Endersby.

  “He scampered, sir, once he’d paid a penny for some tobacco. Scat away down one’f ’em alleys nearby.” Nick the Hand then said: “I know a jim-cull who knows all hereabouts.”

  “Fitz?” cried one of the boy-thieves. “Old Fitz?”

  “He won’t budge, Nick. Tongue-tied he’ll be,” warned Jack the Knife.

  Nick the Hand scratched his nose. “No, I thinks with a bit of fare he’ll crow. Fitz bears a hard weight on ’imself, yet he’s no scag. He knows all.”

  “As soon as possible, Mr. Hawkins,” said Endersby. “Time affords men the chance to flee if they need to, especially under cover of darkness.”

  Nick the Hand did not hesitate. He pushed Endersby toward the kitchen door and barked at his crew to hurry up. “Mind you, Squire,” Nick the Hand said, pulling Endersby along by his sleeve, “you needs to charm Old Fitz with yer wit and yer coin if you want any favours. He owns a lot of houses round here, makes profit from beds as well as whores. So he deserves for respect, he does.” Endersby, ignoring the hot pangs of his gout, slapped on his hat. Now, he thought, I must be diligent. The streets wound out before him, lanes, alleys, arched passages, a feeling of apprehension at every turn as the gang pushed through mist and the sharp stink of rotting timber. Here indeed was a half-acre of Hades. Might this Fitz fellow divulge more substantial clues and information? The afternoon was passing. Clues were appearing. If only Fitz proved reliable. If only he and his men would tell their secrets. What a help he might be if, at least, this kingpin of the underworld was open to helping the police.

  Chapter Eleven

  My Brother’s Keeper

  Ten-year-old Catherine Smeets felt the bee kiss her ear. How happy she was: she had flown up the chimney of St. Pancras Workhouse and was now sitting at a grand table with the old Princess eating roast beef, boiled trout, and a great potato pie full of thick gravy and —

  “Wake up,” the voice said, Nell’s fingertip in her ear giving her one more little scratch.

  Catherine sat up with her needle and thread still in her hand. Nell pointed toward Catherine’s bare feet. Below her, folded on the floor, were ten huge linen sheets. Each had been mended and stitched by her aching fingers. Her stomach tightened; early supper was being served. The St. Pancras Workhouse rang with a bell and clanking pots. Matron Pickens’ footsteps came down the stairs. Opening wide her sleepy eyes, Catherine could see Little Mag and the sickly boy leaning against a laundry basket.

  “Well, well, girls,” Matron Pickens said, entering the room. She stood tall, her hand holding up her birch rod. All three girls sat at attention, pulling their needles in unison and humming. “Come, boy,” Matron Pickens said, shaking the pale child. He stood on wobbly legs and followed her out into the corridor. “Soup in one quarter of an hour, girls,” Matron said. “Do not come late unless you wish to feel this.” She shook her birch rod. “Tea will be at eight this evening so do not expect bread at this hour.” Matron Pickens then marched off with the boy dragging behind her.

  “Now!” Nell whispered.

  “But what of our poor boy, Nell?” Catherine asked. “He will not survive the day in here if Matron does not tend him.”

  Nell took hold of Catherine Smeets and shook her hard: “You are not his keeper. You can only fend for yourself. Like all of us. Now come or stay behind.” Catherine put down her needle and thread and with Little Mag followed Nell into the damp stone hall. “Hurry,” Nell whispered, grabbing the hands of both Catherine and Little Mag. Down the corridor, round the corner they scampered, mouths shut tight; they stopped, pulled up the floor stone and lifted out the bundle of rags — their cache of lard, potato skins, apple peels, and onions. “Stuff ‘em,” ordered Nell. Catherine and Little Mag lifted their smocks and hid the bundles inside the tops of their ragged undergarments. “Done then,” said Nell, pulling down her own smock. “Separate. You, Catherine, run to the kitchen, past the coal bin and up to the side door. You, Mag, come with me as far as the shed. We meet at the back gate by the washing tubs.”

  The girls parted. Catherine leaped up, raced by the coal bin and scaled the empty staircase to the side door, which she slowly pushed so as not to set the hinges creaking. Out into afternoon light she crept, clenching her fists twice to relieve her cramped fingers; her bare feet splashed through mud puddles until they reached the washing hut at the back of the workhouse. Under the eave, by the stone tubs, she knelt and waited in the shade.

  The bell rang. The workhouse doors closed. Voices full of eager shouts filled staircases and then disappeared into the cold breadth of the huge dining hall. The clunk of bowls and the mumble of prayer and then silence as broth was ladled out. Catherine held her aching stomach. She wondered about her father, Sergeant Smeets, if he’d ever felt hunger like this as a soldier. How could he have left me here? Sighing, Catherine peeked around the edge of the washing hut. A horse stood tethered by the blacksmith shed. Close to it, Little Mag and Nell were crouching. Nell straightened up, still holding tight to Little Mag’s hand, then looked both ways and darted out into the open ground between the blacksmith shed and the washing hut. Catherine watched them quicken their legs, two thin bodies galloping across the mud of the yard.

  A voice rang out from a high window:

  “You two, stop at once!” A spoon clanged against a pot. Catherine’s hand covered her mouth to stifle a scream.

  The sharp voice shouted again, the raspy hard cry of Matron Pickens. “That you, naughty Nell? And you, cripple Mag? Get back in here. Get now.”

  A thick-shouldered boy ran out from the blacksmith shed in pursuit of Nell and Little Mag. “Help,” Little Mag cried as she tripped and fell hard against the dirt of the yard. Nell let her go and ran like a frightened pony toward the washing hut. The thick-shouldered boy stuck his hand into his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. He came upon the struggling Little Mag and with a brusque hand pulled her up by her hair. Catherine, now breathless with fear, stood, ran toward the open gate at the back of the yard. Nell bumped into her and knocked her down and kept on running ahead, not looking back, until she reached the gate. She stopped, turned and called out: “Catherine, run.”

  Catherine Smeets stood but her shoulder shot with cold pain. Her breath escaped; she fell again an
d raised her eyes to see Nell flee into the street, dash between a carriage and four, and head into the push of pedestrians crowding the pavement.

  Marching footsteps came upon her: “You! Get up.”

  Matron Pickens grabbed Catherine’s panging shoulder. The birch rod stung the back of her legs. From out of Catherine’s undergarments tumbled the rags, the onions rolling, the lard bits dropping like baby’s tears onto the earth at her feet.

  “The latrines for you and the cripple child,” snarled Matron Pickens. “Naughty scum you two are,” as she pulled Catherine by her elbow toward the back archway. Inside, the two shivering girls grabbed each other’s hands and stood facing Matron Pickens.

  “You foolish savages,” Matron Pickens said. “Prodigals, you are. We must make sure you do not try this again. Never again shall you two be ‘fugitive and vagabond.’ Off to the cellar without your broth or tea. Expect a hard beating when I come down to discipline you. And no snivelling, cripple child.” As the two girls turned to walk down into the forbidding stairwell, Matron Pickens said one last thing: “Little Mag and Catherine. You two have done with your adventures.”

  Oh, how like an angel he is, thought Mrs. Grimsby as she stood in the doorway of her son Geoffrey’s bedroom and looked upon his sleeping body. Boots kicked off, new frock coat tossed onto a chair, his beard and his lovely pink scar. What a mark of his bravery, Mrs. Grimsby thought. She placed the tray with its bowl of soup and slice of buttered toast down on the table beside her son’s bed. Afternoon light seeped through the dusty curtains and made the room feel gentle, a cradling light for Mrs. Grimsby’s favourite child.

  I should not wake him as yet, Mrs. Grimsby thought to herself. Dear Geoffrey must soon rise, set up the horses for the funeral at half three. Then another at half four. And he must hire a mute boy to lead the procession. Yes, my most precious one must be clean and ready. Mrs. Grimsby had already commanded her kitchen maid to start boiling water for Geoffrey’s bath. She herself would tend to combing his hair, making sure his unruly beard was trimmed. But what was this? What could this be? Mrs. Grimsby frowned on looking more closely at Geoffrey’s hands. Under the nails lay black thick soot as if her beloved boy had been playing in the bin with coal chunks. Mrs. Grimsby took up a letter opener from the desk facing her son’s mussed bed. She sat next to him and ran the tip of the opener under each nail and deposited the oily black dust onto a handkerchief she had taken from her pocket.

  The clock struck the hour. No doubt Old Grimsby would soon come barging in with demands and reprimands and calling his only son a lazy good-for-nothing. Oh, what injustice, Mrs. Grimsby thought. But time flies, she reminded herself, rising carefuly and walking toward her son’s clothes closet. She opened its door and pulled out his long black suit and top hat with the crepe band and laid all on his dressing table, his hat perched on the seat of a chair. With a secret smile, Mrs. Grimsby bent down and drew out one of the drawers of the standing closet. What memories! There they lay as she had stored them. Ten years ago, maybe more — jackets of black velvet she had sewn for her young Geoffrey. Smart buttoned jackets for her blessed ten-year-old’s small body. And of course, the lace. What lovely flowing collars of white lace, suitable for the son of a king, she thought, a bonny King Charley of old. Lace collars and lace cuffs.

  Mrs. Grimsby held one of the little jackets up to her face and stroked her cheek with the velvet sleeve. My, oh, my, how her Geoffrey had once fought her; “no, no,” he had cried. He did not want to wear lace; but she had insisted until he gave in and stood — his cheeks red with shame — glaring at his father and mocking older sister. But then, lace is so becoming on a lad, Mrs. Grimsby thought, placing the jacket back into the drawer as she heard her jewel of a son begin to wake up.

  “Mammy?” Geoffrey mumbled. He sat up. Mrs. Grimsby went to him, led by her motherly instincts. Geoffrey rolled over and with eyes shut hugged her, his breathing heavy. She stroked his dampened hair and spoke soothing words. He fell back; he sighed; he groaned and whispered: “Oh, dear mammy, what have I become?”

  “There, there sweet one,” Mrs. Grimsby said, her hands holding his.

  “Shall I hold the bowl?” Mrs. Grimsby then said pointing to the tray she had brought to him.

  “Mammy leave me be,” Geoffrey grunted, his tone suddenly abrupt. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. It was as if a dark cloud had blackened out the sun. His foul mood had surfaced again, sudden and sharp. A coughing fit prompted Mrs. Grimsby to pat his back. “There, there,” she cooed. Her son’s left hand flew at her cheek. The smack sent her backwards. “Keep your hands off,” he shouted. Mrs. Grimsby forced a smile, rubbing the sting to cool it. Mrs. Grimsby regained her composure and reminded herself that Geoffrey was a quick, clever boy.

  Geoffrey kicked off his bedcover and began to wail. He buried his face in his hands.

  “What have I done?” he cried. “What have I gone and done?”

  “What is it, my precious?” Mrs. Grimsby said, her eyes widened in astonishment.

  “Get away, dear Mammy. You must not touch me. I am a cursed man.” Geoffrey began to rock back and forth. His hair tumbled over his forehead; his long pink scar reddened as if it had been suddenly inflamed.

  “Dear one, whatever is the matter? Tell your mammy, dear,” Mrs. Grimsby pleaded. With a brisk thrust of his right arm, Geoffrey pushed his mother away a second time, the violence of this strike knocking her against the dressing chair, sending his top hat tumbling to the floor. “Oh, Lord, my son,” she whimpered. “What have you done?” Geoffrey threw himself back against his pillows. “I am nothing, Mammy. Do not dirty your hands on me. I am a lost creature.” He kicked the foot board of his bed: “I shall be cursed, Mammy. Vengeance will come against me sevenfold for what I have done. Oh, my poor little one. I shall be cursed,” Geoffrey cried and fell into louder weeping. Mrs. Grimsby slowly made her way to the bedroom door. The sobs of her dearest one tore at her heart. Into the hall she tiptoed and then, lifting up her long skirt, she ran as fast as she could past the parlour, through the dining room and into Old Grimsby’s study where the stalwart man was standing before his looking glass adjusting his black tie.

  “What is it?” he snapped. “Where is your son?” he said, contempt frosting his words.

  “Oh, Mr. Grimsby. Our dear Geoffrey has gone mad. He has taken to weeping and remorse.” Mrs. Grimsby pulled out her handkerchief, soot-stained as it was, and wiped her moist nose.

  “Mad, indeed,” grumbled the older Grimsby. “Out of his mind with drink and lassitude, Mrs. Grimsby. And your endless fussing over him.” Mrs. Grimsby collapsed into the nearest chair, bent her frame forward and, with much effort, began to weep. “Heavens preserve us, Mrs. Grimsby,” chided the older Grimsby. “We have business to attend to, and work to do.”

  “But Mr. Grimsby,” his wife moaned. “Our Geoffrey is ill!”

  “Tut,” the Old Grimsby said. Then, turning toward the doorway, he shouted “Master Grimsby! Get up. Get out and find me a mute-boy. To a workhouse and quick. Bodies to bury!” The old man’s voice travelled down the hall and did not fade as it rushed into young Geoffrey’s bedroom. Rising from his damp pillow, the young Geoffrey screamed back: “Find a mute boy yourself, sir. As for me, I shall die here alone and damned!”

  Mrs. Grimsby stood up, determined to face her husband. “Sir,” she began, her voice quivering. “Your only son and male heir lies sickly. Can you not afford some sympathy for him?”

  “Damn him,” snarled the older Grimsby. He pulled out his watch and gasped at the time. “Labours to perform, madam,” he growled. He took her arm and steered her toward the door. “Get down to the horse stalls and alert the groom to hitch the geldings. Get on with you,” he commanded. Mrs. Grimsby stumbled forward, her eyes vacant with obedience to her harsh-voiced husband. The older Grimsby grabbed hold of one of his bamboo walking canes. He flexed it in his right hand. The sound was swift, a cutting sound pleasing to the patriarch’s ears. Then with purpose he marched from his
study. In the hall he shouted down the stairs to his hurrying wife:

  “Mrs. Grimsby,” he said, cracking the cane. “Ready yourself. For your only son is about to feel just how far his sickly madness will serve him.”

  Having taken the final forkful of his late luncheon, Dr. Josiah Benton sat back in his chair in what seemed to Mrs. Wells a more pleasant state of mind. His food had been prepared to perfection: a parsley soup followed by chicken in jelly. Mrs. Wells was standing just behind her master by the dining room entrance. His smile brought her joy; it was ample reward for labour well done. Mrs. Wells considered herself a kindly woman and an obedient servant, always at the ready to serve her educated and refined employer. For ten years she had lived as the cook at Number Sixteen Bedford Square. Without hesitation she had sympathized with Josiah when his tight-lipped wife had packed her trunks and moved to the country to be with her brother. How sad, how defeated the estimable doctor had appeared on that grey morning. This abandonment only added to Josiah’s daily sufferings: his insomnia, his lonely evenings. Mrs. Wells always wondered how much loss the doctor could bear considering what he had lived through in his childhood.

  Reflecting now on an event that he could never forget, Dr. Benton rose from the table and left the dining room. No matter how hard he tried to block out memory, the same dark scene rushed into his inner mind every hour of every day. A drowning, a terrible grief. A year before his twelfth birthday he had been visiting an aunt in the seaside resort of Brighton where the great palace of the king, George IV, had been opened to the public for viewing. The building was a fantasy of domes and Chinese dragons, coloured walls rarely seen outside a sultan’s tent. With him that day had been his blonde-haired younger sister, the nine-year-old Katherine Helena. Josiah’s afternoon visit to the Brighton seaside allowed him to dip his feet into cold sea water. His dear Katy likewise had followed suit, splashing her hands and bare feet in the waves. She had become so enchanted she ran into deeper water and been caught in an undertow. Young Josiah called to her. Father ran to the edge of the water to catch her bobbing body, hearing her last cries for help. Now there was only the memory and the guilt, a hard knot of sorrow that kept Josiah awake at night.