Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “You poor creature,” said the older woman. Her arm lay around Catherine’s shoulders.

  “Uncle was sent on a ship with other bad men. Away to a country with elephants.”

  “The prison ships,” said the older woman with a shudder. “The hulks.”

  “You are the only people I know now,” Catherine said drying her eyes. The older woman took Catherine in her arms. “There, there, child. You have touched my heart.” Catherine felt like singing. “You may call me Mrs. Grimsby, child. You shall find comfort here, Catherine Smeets, with me and Mr. Grimsby.”

  A maid entered the room. “Mistress,” she said. “Mr. Grimsby asked me to tell you he wishes to speak with you.”

  “Tell him I am here. Tell him I have found a perfect mute for him.” The maid curtsied and with a look of doubt in her eyes she left to fetch her master. “Dear Catherine,” Mrs. Grimsby said. “We have a funeral at three o’clock this afternoon. This shall be your first. You shall head the procession. Walking in front of the hearse in your dress and veil. You do not speak, of course, or utter any sound since you are the mute. By no means must you smile. Keep a strong gaze and hold your head high. I shall have you carry a black candle as well. It is very effective.”

  “How shall I keep it lit, Mistress?”

  “Oh, dear one, we do not light it. In fact, you carry it turned upside down, the wick held toward the earth. It is what we call a symbol. You shall see.”

  Catherine took hold of Mrs. Grimsby and held her. As the door of the room flew open, Catherine turned to see an old ruddy-faced man enter. She held onto Mrs. Grimsby even tighter as the man came near. “Good morning, girl,” the old man said in a gruff voice.

  “Oh, dear Mr. Grimsby,” said his wife. “We have found an angel. She is to live with us from now on. Like a daughter.”

  “Is she, by Jove?” the old man said, his voice sour in his throat. “How fortunate for us, Mrs. Grimsby, to have an unlimited number of mouths to feed.”

  “Whatever do you mean, sir?” Mrs. Grimsby replied, somewhat peeved.

  “We shall need to bury half of London in the next fortnight if we wish to afford food and lodging for the victims of calamity in this world.”

  “Mr. Grimsby, sir. You are most unkind. Dear Catherine has suffered a terrible lot. She will be my ward. You need not bother your selfish self with her matters.”

  “Well, dear wife,” replied Mr. Grimsby, “you may alter your song once you learn of yet a graver situation at hand — one concerning your favourite offspring, young Geoffrey.” Letting go of Catherine, Mrs. Grimsby rose quickly. Her hands flew to her mouth as if to block a sudden scream from escaping. “Dear, sir,” Mrs. Grimsby pleaded. “Do tell me. Is my dearest boy safe?”

  “Hardly a boy, Mrs. Grimsby,” her husband replied. “Not in the matter at hand. Come with me. Bring along Miss Catherine. No need to shelter tender ears in this house of ill fortune.” Holding onto Catherine, Mrs. Grimsby followed her husband out of the parlour. The three made their way into the large front hall. Standing at the door was a square-built woman wearing frills and bows. By her elbow, a younger version, her daughter, a face puffy from weeping. Between mother and daughter, held fast by both hands, a short female child with a round face. She was no more than three years old. Her blonde hair was curled and stuffed under a straw hat.

  “My good woman, allow me to present to you my wife, Mrs. Grimsby,” older Mr. Grimsby said in a flat manner.

  “How do you do?” said a puzzled Mrs. Grimsby. She tightened her hold of Catherine’s hand. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your morning visit? We normally do not receive until between one o’clock and three in the afternoon.”

  “Visit?” said the woman in frills. Her voice reminded Catherine of the creaking of an old door. “Beg yer pardon, Missus. A visit of need, I dare say.”

  “Oh, please, do not hold me in suspense. A mother’s heart cannot bear bad news to be withheld so,” cried Mrs. Grimsby.

  “Well, mum,” replied the woman, her left hand rising to tap the elbow of her daughter. “This be my own flesh and blood, Miss Hilda. Born respectable, I might add, and once a fine girl. Father bolted when she was but thirteen. The Devil took her then, in mind and spirit. Soon enough, as I reckoned, the demon grabbed hold of her body. She danced a good ’un with one gin-fool, no other than yer son, Master Geoffrey.”

  “This is most vulgar,” said Mrs. Grimsby. “You are surely mistaken. Show her out, Mary, and be quick.”

  “No mistakin’, missus,” countered the woman in frills. “Even if yer be so high and mighty. But Hilda and me, we been traipsin’ around town for nigh two years to find the whereabouts of you, the parents of Master Geoffrey. Bills and expenses, sir, to be recompensed. A slippery one he is,” the woman said, a broad grin breaking over her face. The woman in frills was once a pretty woman, Catherine could tell on studying her face. Though plump now and wearing clothes too tight, she had handsome eyes despite her voice. Her daughter’s features carried the pink of youth; she had blue eyes and a hangdog look that reminded Catherine of Matron Pickens.

  “He did it,” blurted Hilda. Daughter Hilda stood forth and looked into Mr. Grimsby’s eyes. Catherine watched her pouty mouth push out a little and her eyes flutter. “Oh, kind sir,” she began, “you find me a sad woman, sir. Used, forgotten and abandoned to my singular mishap. Here, beside me, is little Margery. Such a likeness to your kind face, sir. As you can see. The Grimsby chin, here, and the brow, so like Master Geoffrey’s.” Hilda stepped back, her speech over and done, her head once again poised at an angle to show shame.

  Mrs. Grimsby was led to a chair where she sat down, her hand still grasping Catherine’s. At the same time, old Mr. Grimsby walked in a slow circle. Hilda brushed a bit of fluff from her skirt. The child began to kick the floor with one of her scuffed shoes. The mother in frills opened a cloth bag she had hanging from her wrist. Out of it came a penny, which she held up to the light in the foyer. Mr. Grimsby halted. He leaned forward to peer at the penny. “I’m very glad,” said the woman in frills, “to have the pleasure of meeting you, kind sir. I have great respect for the funerary profession and no one who practises such a fine art can be an object of indifference to me. Such a fine house. What shall one imagine of young Geoffrey? A son of great importance to you, I am sure, sir.” The woman spoke directly, the penny held up as if it were a talisman to protect the restless child at her feet.

  “He did it, it was him,” repeated Hilda, her voice puncturing the air still ringing with her mother’s well-turned phrases. “Hush, Hilda,” the mother said in a firm voice. “We can sees well who was the father.”

  Mr. Grimsby stood at attention: “You find me, Mrs. … but I do not know your name.”

  “Barraclough, sir. Mrs. Henry Barraclough, maiden name of Jimson, sir. From Surrey south. Hilda my one and only. Now, too, our sweet Margery.”

  On hearing her name, the child broke free of her mother’s grasp. She stood her ground. She put her two little hands on her hips. “Mammy,” she yelled. “I want to go!”

  By this time Mrs. Grimsby had regained her strength. Catherine let go of her hand as the distraught mother of Geoffrey rose from her chair. Catherine watched Mrs. Grimsby’s back straighten. Her head lifted and, with a voice full of feeling, she said to Mrs. Barraclough: “Mistress, your behaviour and your appearance at our respectable front door is not to be borne. You have come into our home bearing lies. You have displayed your shame to perfect strangers, using my son’s good name to further the disgrace of your own failings. I have nothing to say, nothing to give to you but a word of dismissal. Leave my house on this instant or I shall call for a policeman to escort you to the nearest station house.”

  Mrs. Barraclough did not show any sign of retreat though she lowered her hand holding the penny. She addressed Mrs. Grimsby in a voice held low in her throat: “No need, mum, fer threats. We ain’t here to rob you. But to get what’s fair. What’s comin’ to Margery as yer own flesh and blood. Hild
a, here, she’s with a milliner lady. Makes good hats. Not a slack-child, no indeed. I sees to that. But me, I must stay at home, you sees? To feed and tend my lovely grandchild here. So I come only fer help, missus.”

  Mr. Grimsby moved between the two women. He bent forward and lifted up the child’s face. He studied its features; he asked the child to remove her straw bonnet. She did so, dropping it to the floor. Her blonde hair tumbled out, ringlets falling to either side of her face. On seeing this, Mrs. Grimsby let out a little moan. “Oh, my goodness,” she said. She rushed into the parlour. Pulling open a drawer, she lifted out a small paper envelope. She returned to the foyer, her face now pale with anxiety. She stood before little Margery and fluffed the child’s light curls. From the envelope, Mrs. Grimsby drew a lock of light hair. A wisp of child’s hair, fine and blonde. Kneeling down before little Margery Mrs. Grimsby looked into the child’s face. “Oh, my,” she mumbled. With her right hand she pulled forward one of Margery’s ringlets. It had been recently cut with what appeared to be a pair of blunt scissors. Holding up the lock, Mrs. Grimsby matched it to the end of the cut ringlet. Miss Hilda gasped. So did her mother. Mrs. Grimsby stood up.

  “Mr. Grimsby,” she said. “Will you kindly escort Mrs. Barraclough into the parlour; I am feeling somewhat faint and will retire.” Mary led the visitors into the parlour as Mr. Grimsby placed his arms around his wife’s shoulders to steady her. Catherine stepped forward. “My dear one,” moaned Mrs. Grimsby, “please be so kind as to return to your room. The one I have shown you. There is too much here that is vexing for a child of your sweet nature.” Catherine Smeets curtsied to her newfound guardian. A rattle of a hansom cab outside the front door distracted her as she was about to leave. Hard knocks from the brass knocker forced Mr. Grimsby to release his wife and open the door himself. In the flood of morning light pouring into the foyer, two men stood at attention in top hats and gloves.

  “Mr. Richard Grimsby, sir?” asked one of the men.

  “Good morning, officers. I am he. How may I be of assistance?”

  “We have been sent, sir, from Fleet Lane Station House on orders from Superintendent Borne and Inspector Owen Endersby of the Metropolitan Detective Police.”

  Mrs. Grimbsy fainted to the floor. Little Margery dashed into the foyer waving her arms, her mother Hilda in pursuit. Mrs. Henry Barraclough cocked her head.

  “On what account, sir?” said a shaken Mr. Grimsby. “On suspicion of murder, sir” the officer replied. “A felony, sir. Your son, Mr. Geoffrey Grimsby, has been arrested and is being held in custody. We have been sent to inform you and to enquire if you would accompany us to Fleet Lane Station House to procure an identification of said son.” Hearing those words, Mr. Grimsby looked down at his feet. There he took a moment to look at his prostrate wife.

  “I shall, sir,” Mr. Grimsby replied. “Miss Smeets, please attend to Mrs. Grimsby. Mary, help Miss Smeets. Mrs. Barraclough, I beg of you a few words in private.” The shaken Mr. Grimsby took Mrs. Barraclough aside into a second parlour. Catherine watched their faces. Mrs. Barraclough spoke at a quick pace as if she were suddenly asked to recite a memorized passage. The woman’s hands flew up and down to emphasize a point, the older man listening with great concentration, widening his eyes on occasion, then bowing his head. He stood for a moment and seemed to blank out his face, losing all shape of sadness or anger. An instant later, he slowly walked back into the foyer. “Good day to you all,” he said politely.

  The women bowed in respect to Mr. Grimsby who took his hat, gloves, and walking stick and followed the two police officers toward a waiting hansom cab.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Forms of Things Unknown

  Sergeant Thomas Caldwell struggled. His knuckles turned white. He lay back, mouth open, and felt the pincers take hold. A stab of pain racked the left side of his mouth.

  “Steady, sir,” said the barber. “One yank and one shilling and you will be free of pain.”

  “Arrrrghhhhhhhh!”

  The barber held up the rotten tooth. Caldwell took a mouthful of gin and spit it into a basin next to the barber’s chair. The sergeant knew the man and trusted him. He cut his hair, shaved his chin and occasionally yanked out a tooth. Another swish of gin and payment of the shilling, and Caldwell was out to the street, a bloody handkerchief pressed to his face. At a public house he took a glass of Scotch whiskey and winced. In the mirror in front of him he gazed at his face: pale, drawn from pain, tired. I am a half-orphan in this life, he thought. No parents left. Only my Alice.

  The faces in the workhouse haunted him as he walked toward Fleet Lane Station House. He had spent much time thinking about them. Their sad eyes; their lost families. Family. A word he rolled over and over in his mind. A sudden joy brightened the grimy street in front of him.

  Why not rescue a young one from St. Giles? Or Shoe Lane? Alice and me could raise him. Love him like our own. Or her. A daughter. If Alice cannot have a baby we can choose a child from so many.Would Alice agree? This way she could be saved the toil of childbirth. Gain her strength. Love a needy child.

  These thoughts rested lightly on Caldwell’s mind as he spat blood one more time into the gutter. He wiped his mouth. Time to set aside wishes and hopes for a happy domestic life, he thought. Be prepared to report to his superior.

  The day would go well. He had solid facts to relate. And he could toss away his tin box of cloves and relieve Inspector Endersby of the offending smell.

  Inspector Endersby looked out of the window at the soot-filled air. An afternoon of confusion ahead, he thought. He stood in his jacket and waistcoat, hands held behind him in a pose of reflection. Though his early luncheon had been satisfying, he did not feel contented. What to make of the present situation two floors below in the cells of Fleet Lane Station House? “What indeed!” murmured Endersby. And, now, a packet of letters found by a surly matron in the St. Pancras Workhouse. All written by a ten-year-old named Catherine Smeets. How do these fit? he wondered.

  “Ah, Mr. Caldwell,” greeted the inspector as his sergeant entered. “I see you have paid your barber for your pain. By the way, how was your visit with Malibran? Did you ‘tail’ him? Follow him to any lair?”

  “Unsuccessful, Inspector. I waited in the street, called to his landlord, and was shown into his room — but there was no sign of him. Two witnesses in the area had seen him leave very late, return, and then go out again before dawn. Seems I missed his comings and goings.”

  “Pity, sir,” said Endersby.

  “I then walked to the Strand to look for him,” Caldwell continued. “I questioned a number of street folk. They told me Malibran has been out singing and earning his money in other streets. He does his one-man act on the Strand only at night, however, sir.”

  “And so this evening we shall pursue him along the Strand, Sergeant,” replied Endersby. “All is not lost for the moment. We have a surprise at present, awaiting us below, Mr. Caldwell.”

  Sergeant Caldwell’s eyes brightened. “Yes, Mr. Caldwell,” Endersby continued. “Let me recall to you our present situation. Two matrons, two murders, two workhouse Catherines as first witnesses, and now in the pens below, two likely felons. Two, sir. One for each murder, if you wish to be equitable in assigning guilt!”

  “Two felons, sir?”

  “Most remarkable they are in likeness as well — height, color, facial mutilation. Twins, perhaps, in action and motive.”

  “And alibis, Inspector?”

  “None as yet. And both refusing to divulge information. In fact, Sergeant, both claimed innocence at first. Our task is to strategize, sir.”

  On their way down to the lower floors of the station house, the inspector showed his sergeant the packet of letters. “Written to an imaginary uncle, it seems, Caldwell. A felon sent to Australia for a minor crime. Seems this young Catherine refused to believe he was dead.” Descending farther they found themselves in a broad stone corridor. On either side were heavy wooden doors. Each had a large han
dle and keyhole made of iron. The rooms behind them were low-ceilinged and without windows. Once they had held political rebels when the original structure was built hundreds of years before. Endersby did not like the lack of space or light. He believed the darkness oppressed men, made them too fearful to speak out. On approaching the cells of Sergeant Peter Smeets and Mr. Geoffrey Grimsby, the inspector ordered two large lanterns to carry into the gloom of each wretched space.

  “Now, Sergeant. Let us play at doubles, if I may borrow from the noble sport of lawn tennis.”

  Caldwell nodded. He stood at attention. Such was his relationship with his superior that Caldwell knew an adventure of some kind might soon take place. “Sergeant, I wish you to visit the cell of Mr. Grimsby. I know naught of him. He was arrested on the street this morning in a state of drunkenness. A fellow in a frock coat. A scar on his face. Much about him resembles the description we sent out. Kindly go to him, show him kindness, then begin to ask who he is, where he was ... well, you are familiar with our routine. I shall effect a similar discussion with Sergeant Smeets. I will use these letters if need be. After a half hour or so, let us convene here by the stairwell.”

  “Certainly, sir. If I may say so, sir, a fine opening manoeuvre.”

  “Cannons ready, then, Sergeant?”

  “Primed, Inspector.”

  Endersby checked his coat pockets one last time. In them he had gathered a number of items, including Catherine Smeets’ letters, the sergeant’s release papers, and the lace found on the two dead matrons. As the constable opened the door to Smeets’ cell, Endersby greeted him: “Sergeant, I do hope you are comfortable.”

  Smeets looked up as Endersby entered. One simple bench lined the far wall; it served as seat and sleeping platform. A foul-smelling chamber pot sat in the opposite corner. One candle stayed the deep gloom. The lantern carried in by the inspector threw shadows upon the gritty stone.