by Jon Redfern
“You were arrested this past night?” asked the inspector.
“Done my duty, sir. Done it. And on my ways to home by the St. Giles Workhouse I stood. Took a piss, you see by the gate. Wot then? A Bobby shakes his rattle, arrests me, holds a lantern to me face, looks me over and drags me in here.”
“On what charge, Mr. Lardle?”
“Bobby says, I am in suspicion of a murder,” came the response. “I say, stuff and nonsense. I work hard for my livin’, hard enough to keep me runnin’ about and no time for murder. No, sir. No time at all.”
“Tell me more, sir. Explain yourself,” coaxed Endersby, moving into the cell and standing next to Henry Lardle.
“Well, sir,” said Lardle, “it be a long story, but an honest one.”
“Please indulge me.”
Chapter Twenty-three
A Discovery
It was the appointed hour of three o’clock. Catherine Smeets pulled on a pair of clean stockings. “There you be, lovely as ever,” Mary said, lowering the black gauze veil over Catherine’s face. Mary led the way out of the dressing chamber and into the courtyard. The crepe gloves Mary had given Catherine scratched her skin but they made her hands look so regal that she imagined herself as a young princess. Before her stood a magnificent coach, its sides and ends made into windows of glazed glass. When the driver came forward with his whip, he was dressed all in black with a tall hat trailing a scarf of the same gauze, which masked Catherine’s face. Each of the funeral horses wore a headdress of purple-tinted plumes.
Out of the courtyard hall, four men carried the coffin of a tailor. Catherine felt her heart jump. She was an important part of this solemn ritual. She was the symbol, after all. After a moment of prayer the coffin was slid into the hearse, the door shut. The groom climbed into the driver’s seat along with the driver. Both men looked to Catherine, bowed their heads, and Catherine took her cue.
Holding the long black candle given her by Mary, Catherine walked slowly to the head of the procession and led them on toward the graveyard. Afterward, back in Mrs. Grimby’s parlour, Catherine felt happy. Mary held her in her arms. “Oh, lucky one. Such a mute I ne’er seen before.” Catherine felt warm all over. She stood up. “Look at me, Mary,” she cried. Spreading out her arms, Catherine twirled. “I wish only for one thing,” Catherine said and looked out the window at the afternoon light. “What is that, dear one?” Mary said.
“I wish my dear uncle could come back to see me. How happy. Oh, he would be so happy.”
“But has he gone for good, dear?” Mary said as the two of them gently rocked together on the settee. “Yes, I fear so.”
Mrs. Grimsby came into the room. Mary and Catherine stood up. “My lovely child,” Mrs. Grimsby said. “You behaved so well. Come, embrace me. You bring me such peace, my child. You are now with your new family.”
The elder Mr. Richard Grimsby struggled up from the chair in Inspector Endersby’s office at Fleet Lane Station House. The old undertaker had told a long tale about his son. “His present state of mind is not good. Discontentment with his lot has warped my young Geoffrey’s behaviour.” Putting on his hat, the older man said to Endersby: “I thank you for granting me more time to resolve this confusion. I believe the two of us can readily prove the nature of my son’s innocence in this matter with the facts I can present to you on the morrow.” Endersby accompanied the man into the foyer of Fleet Lane Station House. On his return to his office he found Sergeant Caldwell. His trustworthy colleague was seated in a small chair under the window. Bent over, wearing his spectacles, he was writing in his notebook.
“Sergeant, please finish your sentence,” said Endersby. His gouty foot burned; his injured hand itched; his mind felt heavy with facts and doubts.
“I would love some biscuit and tea,” Endersby mumbled.
“I beg your pardon, sir?” said Caldwell, checking his last paragraph.
“Musing, Caldwell,” came the inspector’s reply. “Gathering wool.”
“I have details, sir, to report,” said Caldwell. “I can have these notes re-written in ink by the supper hour.”
“I thank you for your efficiency, Caldwell. I, on the other hand, am at a loss. I have been bargaining with a father over the life of his son. A most curious phenomenon in which all will be made clear, I am assured, at eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Unusual, indeed, sir,” Caldwell said.
“Did Sergeant Smeets stay awake long enough to afford you reliable information?” Endersby asked.
“He is a dour fellow, sir,” said Caldwell. “In need of much prodding. Claimed he did not recognize the bits of lace. Most of the time he denied any knowledge of anything, sir.”
“I had much the same experience with him,” said Endersby. By now, the inspector’s mind had revived somewhat and a curious hunch took shape among his gathering thoughts. “Did you ascertain the name of the uncle?”
“Yes, sir.” Caldwell underlined the name and handed the sheet to his inspector.
“Most curious, Sergeant. So, this name may clarify a number of our clues. The puzzle is beginning to form a picture.” Endersby placed his hands behind his back and started to pace. “I have heard a most intriguing story from one Mr. Henry Lardle, who once worked as a dredgerman.”
“Yes, sir,” said Caldwell.
“I will tell you en route, but let us investigate this business a little longer before I come to any conclusions. We have a number of hours left of this particular afternoon so we must take full advantage. I need to look again in St. Pancras. We must also take a moment to visit a fine house in Bedford Square. For now, let the two of us make haste before the sun sets this evening.”
Within moments, the two men were sitting in a hansom cab. In his satchel, the inspector carried his square magnifying glass and his ear trumpet. Streets heading north were lined with purveyors of all goods, from bird’s nests and brass parrot cages to trombones and hot muffins. A rain squall pelted the hansom as it crossed Euston Square, then sun dried its canvas roof as the driver turned into the large court of St. Pancras Workhouse. The two men descended and went in.
“Ah, Inspector,” smiled the gregarious Matron Dench. “We are at your disposal — if I may use such a vulgar term in the presence of a professional gentleman.”
“I thank you, Matron Dench.”
“Come, sir,” said Endersby. “The March light is fading. You take the west and I shall take the east side of the outdoor court and stables. Mind the washhouse and the quarters for the blacksmith.” Endersby did not stir for a moment. It was his custom to look around a site, to picture himself as walking in a suspect’s boots, conjuring up his mood and his terrain of feelings. Endersby imagined Sergeant Smeets coming into this darkened court searching for a doorway, the coal chute — any entry — to effect a rescue of his daughter. In the case of Smeets, gin and deep fatigue might have undermined the man’s abilities to make judgements.
“The byways of the criminal mentality always astonish,” Endersby said aloud, to remind himself never to draw a conclusion before proof was established. He then began to walk. He kept his eyes to the ground. He circled the stables. He passed by the stalls where he had first encountered Sergeant Smeets. Looking toward the east side wing and the latched gate nearby, the inspector started thinking that perhaps this gate might have been chosen as the most convenient way out for Smeets. It was close to a fallow field; it was far from the entrance to the courtyard. What prompted the inspector was a hunch—similar to an itch. This was a feeling familiar to Endersby: this singular urgency always seemed to appear when he believed an important clue was about to turn up. His eyes slowly scanned the dead grass in front of the gate.
Endersby paused, a thin smile lighting up his face. “Ah, so you are hidden here, are you?” he murmured to himself. Endersby stepped forward, pulling off one of his suede gloves. A dredgerman’s gaff with its curved metal hook lay against the brick of the wall. Taking out his square magnifying glass, Endersby exam
ined the hook’s metal surface in the fading light. “Orange,” he whispered. He scratched the surface of the hook. “Rust flakes,” he said. “So, monster, you have dropped this in haste?” Endersby stepped back.
“Caldwell! Sergeant Caldwell!”
In less than a second, his sergeant was by his side.
“A find, sir?” asked Caldwell, eyeing the gaff.
“No doubt, Sergeant,” Endersby said. Sergeant Caldwell took hold of the wooden handle and turned the gaff in his hands. “A worn piece, sir. Rusted. Does this throw suspicion on your Mr. Henry Lardle as well as Sergeant Smeets?”
“Perhaps, Sergeant. Be not too hasty, however. Whoever it belonged to, it was abandoned. Was the villain in flight?”
“We do have a puzzle, sir.”
“But if we are clever we can match its pieces. I think we may have before us an unusual turn of the tide.” The two men continued their search until the light faded. “On the double, now, Caldwell,” the inspector said. “A doctor named Benton needs to tell us a story.”
Chapter Twenty-four
A Secret and A Dream
A short man opened the front door to Number Sixteen Bedford Square.
“Good evening, sirs,” he said. When he learned his callers were gentlemen from the Metropolitan Detective Police, he stepped back, wary but polite. “Please come this way, sirs,” the butler said. “May I take your hats?” The butler walked ahead and led Caldwell and Endersby into a small parlour with a fire in its grate. Presently, an ample woman appeared. On her face was a frown of concern and Endersby wondered if she might prove an obstacle, indeed a great wall to climb to get at facts.
“Mrs. Wells,” she replied to Endersby’s first question.
“You are well acquainted with Dr. Josiah Benton?” Endersby asked. Caldwell in the meantime had taken out his notebook and was quietly writing down all the questions and responses. “Well enough, sir. He is my employer,” Mrs. Wells reported. “Ten years now.” Endersby sensed tightness, hesitation. Was Mrs. Wells, like many guilty people, unable to disguise their fear of being found out? Earlier, while questioning Mr. Henry Lardle, Endersby had learned of the peculiar tastes of Dr. Josiah Benton. Might Mrs. Wells prove to be an accomplice in what seemed to be a horrific type of adult behaviour? “I know nothing of such, sir,” Mrs. Wells replied when confronted with Lardle’s observations. She blinked twice and twisted her mouth on hearing the wretch’s name.
“Sir, my position here is as cook,” she announced. “I manage the larder and the kitchen and I prepare each of Dr. Benton’s meals. That is all I am paid to perform, and it is all of what I am paid to know about. As to this Lardle man, I have no acquaintance with such a person.”
“How odd, then, Mrs. Wells,” the inspector continued. “He mentioned you and your name and the delights of your pastry — handouts he claimed — for he said he often came to the back entrance of this fine house and was met not only by the butler but frequently by you. In fact, Mr. Lardle felt quite at home here in Bedford Square. He praised Dr. Benton as a firm but fair-minded employer whose sole interest in him was his ability to search out, find and then procure a regular selection of young innocent girls.”
The stress the inspector put on the last three words brought a sudden blanching to Mrs. Wells’s face. Not a second later, her hands covered her teary eyes. “I cannot say, sir. I cannot say at all,” she said. “Is your employer at home, Mrs. Wells?”
“He was, sir. But he has stepped out at this hour for one of his daily strolls.”
“Do you know which way he has gone?”
“I cannot say, sir. I cannot,” the woman dried her eyes and puffed out her chest. “He is a good and honourable man, sir. Mr. Lardle does not know Josiah — Dr. Benton — as well as I do; he is kind and gentle and without fault.”
“I must insist, then, that you show me a room which Mr. Lardle stated had been set aside in this very house for Dr. Benton’s assignations with the young girls brought to his back door.”
“Oh, my, sir. Assignations? You make Dr. Benton sound like a reprobate. He is nothing of the sort.”
“Nevertheless, Mrs. Wells. I demand to see this place as proof of some kind to support Mr. Lardle’s claims.”
“A scum man, no question, sir,” Mrs. Wells blurted out.
“You admit then, you know of Mr. Henry Lardle?’
“I admit it,” Mrs. Wells said, giving in. “And I can say with much fervour that Lardle has somehow enchanted Dr. Benton.” The woman blew her nose and crossed her hands in front of her.
“With your permission, Mrs. Wells, I shall ask my sergeant-at-hand, Mr. Caldwell, to search the rooms of this house. I ask that you have a servant stand by the front and back doors and to call out if anyone — Dr. Benton in particular — wishes to come in or go out.”
Reluctantly, Mrs. Wells nodded and gave the orders. She then asked Inspector Endersby to sit down in the foyer by the stairs, where he continued his questions.
“Tell me, Mrs. Wells. What facts do you know of Lardle?”
“Little. He is unwashed. He was once in the army up north. He has poor lodgings and he wanders the streets at night.”
“Has Dr. Benton ever mentioned anything about his background?”
“Yes, Inspector. Mr. Lardle was once accused of murder. It seems he was found innocent of the charge. A woman, sir, I believe. A washerwoman.”
“Can you describe any of his features you can recall. His face, for example.”
“But, sir, you have met the man. You have seen his face.”
“His face has an odd mark, I agree, Mrs. Wells,” replied Endersby. “At least it is all I can see in the dim light of a prison cell.”
“Well, Inspector, it seems he was born with a puckered muscle in his cheek. Dr. Benton explained to me it was the result of a midwife’s poor skills.”
“This is all you know?”
“He is not violent so far as I can tell. And he has a woman.”
“A sister, a wife?”
“A woman, sir,” said Mrs. Wells, her mouth turning down. “He says she lives with’im, says she puts up with ’im and loves ’im.”
“Do you know where they live?” asked Endersby.
“I believe in a court on Drury Lane. Short by the St. Giles Workhouse. The butler knows for certain.”
“I thank you,” Endersby said politely. “Now, Mrs. Wells, difficult as this may be, I wish you to lead me up to this room Mr. Lardle has told me about. He has never seen it but he imagines it is a place ...”
“Come this way, sir,” Mrs. Wells said. “It is a most decent and sweet room, if I may venture my opinion.” Up the central hall stairs and onto the second floor, Endersby noticed fine wallpapers, a carved desk, a short passage leading to a little bedroom. The door was unlocked. “Please, Inspector,” Mrs. Wells said showing him in.
On the little pink table one of the teacups still sat half full of cold tea. The inspector looked about. The room indeed was unusual, but neat and suited to the tastes of a child, particularly a girl. “I have sometimes brought tea to Dr. Benton’s young visitors,” Mrs. Wells confessed. Endersby now watched the woman’s eyes. They shone with pride. Was Mrs. Wells in thrall to Dr. Benton and refused to see what his actions might imply? Was Henry Lardle correct in claiming that Dr. Benton, like many men of his station, was fond of physical pleasures with virginal girls? And was it therefore true that Lardle — a man once suspected of murder — had stolen girls from alleys and workhouses and killed any person who stood in his way of his weekly fistful of coins?
“I thank you, Mrs. Wells. In the best interest of Dr. Benton, I strongly suggest you do not tell him of what we have seen and heard today. I wish to discuss these matters with the man himself.” With her eyes tearing up again, Mrs. Wells nodded and led the inspector downstairs where Caldwell was waiting in the foyer. “Rooms empty, sir. No doctor hiding in closets or cupboards,” said Caldwell.
“Thank you, Sergeant. Mrs. Wells, please gather your servants an
d the butler here as quickly as you can.” The woman rushed into the kitchen. “A most intriguing place, Caldwell. I am somewhat at a loss at this moment to figure out how this Dr. Benton thinks.”
“In what way, sir?”
“Is he a miscreant? Is Lardle a true procurer of whores or is there some secret we have yet to uncover.”
Before Caldwell could comment, Mrs. Wells reappeared with the butler, a footman and three housemaids. “Thank you, all,” said Endersby, his voice gentle. “I must ask all of you to stand on your honour. Dr. Benton and his accomplice, Mr. Henry Lardle, are under suspicion for a crime.”
Two of the housemaids uttered cries of alarm. “My sergeant and I are members of the detective police and we now ask you to send us word when your employer returns home. I will ask you, Mrs. Wells, to be certain Dr. Benton is comfortable and not alarmed and that he stays indoors over the next twenty-four hours. You believe he is a good, honest man. Please advise him, then, on the matter of his safety and be aware that if he escapes for any reason, the law in its pursuit may be harsh.” The small group all bowed their heads. The gesture touched Endersby and he wondered about the nature of Dr. Benton and whether he was, indeed, capable of criminal activities. Mrs. Wells then ushered him and Caldwell out to the street. Bedford Square gleamed in the light, the brick fronts of houses shining with polished glass windows.
“Caldwell,” said Endersby. “First, please return to Dr. Benton’s and ask the butler for the address of Mr. Lardle. We shall take up the matter of his ‘woman’, if she exists. Then, to the station house nearby, and on my orders have two constables sent immediately to guard the front and back of Benton’s house. Explain the matter to the desk sergeant and be sure to counter any refusal by telling about the murders and our present case.
“Yes, sir. I will in haste.”
“I believe, Caldwell, we can rely on Mrs. Wells and her servants. I have an inkling that Dr. Benton will not bolt. For there seems to be something odd in this clean house.”