Children of the Tide

by Jon Redfern

  “Certainly, sir,” Caldwell answered.

  “And Caldwell. This day has passed and we have yet to locate Malibran. He claimed not to know where his ‘pity-man’ has fled, but my gut tells me differently. Send a constable to relieve the present guard at his lodgings in Nightingale Lane where we met earlier this morning. Tonight, Malibran might sneak out. Come to Number Six Cursitor Street at midnight. I will by then have returned from the theatre. We can attempt to locate Malibran along the Strand — if he is there singing.”

  Still, though his mind could endure much turmoil, Endersby was unable to relinquish his mood of uncertainty. The hansom he hired had broken free from London’s ever-growing river of early evening vehicles and found a path of quiet through back streets out of Bedford Square. Endersby meditated on his day: the gaff discovery was fortuitous — no question. But what of young Grimsby? What “matter to prove innocence” did his odd father hold in secret? Do not jump so eagerly to a conviction, old gander, Endersby thought. The cabby had to knock twice on the cab roof to awaken the dozing inspector on arrival at Number Six Cursitor Street. After a quick sponge bath in his study, the inspector joined his beloved Harriet at the dinner table. For this evening’s repast, Mrs. Endersby had requested that Solange, their young French cook, prepare an English-styled supper rather than the usual soup, fish, and fowl a la francaise.

  “Ah, splendid,” cried Endersby, napkin tucked under his chin, knife and fork raised.

  “Dear Mr. Endersby,” Harriet cautioned. “Be gentle, sir. We have time to eat. Do not gorge yourself.”

  “Madam, I thank you for your admonitory words. You shall not see a repetition of my ‘demon appetite’ as you witnessed earlier this morning.”On one platter set before them and fried whitings and potatoes; on another, suet dumplings; two plates of mutton cutlets with parsley, and one of the inspector’s favourites, cold calf’s tongue in a small dish with the boiled brains arranged around it. A light Spanish port was followed by a slice of Hampton cheddar.

  “Delicious indeed,” said the inspector, smiling, when they had finished. “And penny-wise,” added Mrs. Endersby. The two stood up from the table and walked arm in arm down to the street. A cab was hailed and the journey started toward Covent Garden Theatre. A fine breezy evening. “Lovers tonight,” Harriet said, looking into his eyes. “Confused but soon reconciled.”

  Endersby blushed a little. “Lovers?” he asked. “Not Macbeth, then?” Endersby looked confused.

  “In fact, not,” Harriet explained.

  “Forests and fairy glens are the fare.” With her profile framed by her bonnet, Harriet Endersby looked as lovely at forty-one as she had at twenty. A fine first mate, indeed, the inspector reflected: she weathers storms, bears the doldrums without complaint, steers a clear passage through roiling wave. Endersby lifted his arm and placed it snugly around Harriet’s shoulders.

  Sitting down in Covent Garden Theatre, Endersby noted to himself how this aristocratic theatre had changed. Boxes and private rooms had become much cheaper; the pit was always full now of clerks and salesmen rather than the cheroot-smoking dandies in silk Endersby had once seen as a boy. As always, the galleries resounded with the laughter and stomping feet of coal carriers, footmen and their wives, and large families eating their cold dinners on their laps.“Here, take two for now,” Harriet said, handing Endersby an open tin box full of homemade sugared almonds. Endersby’s back soon relaxed and by the time the drum rolls had finished and the baton of the conductor was raised, the inspector was in an open-hearted mood to watch the dream of a midsummer’s night.

  After the theatre, over late-evening tea by the hearth, Endersby looked into the eyes of Harriet, who was at work with her sewing kit.

  “I am at sixes and sevens, Mrs. Endersby,” the inspector mumbled.

  “How so, dear?” Harriet said, not looking up.

  “It is a piece of lace that bewilders me most,” he said.

  “Lace? How curious.”

  “Yes. It was found stuffed into ...”

  “Please, Owen. Spare me,” Harriet pleaded.

  “I beg your pardon, my dear,” he replied. “What concerns me most is ‘why?’ Why lace?”

  “What would possess a villain to choose such a particular item?” asked Harriet.

  “Malice, perhaps. Sporting cruelty.”

  “Retribution,” came Harriet’s word. “Lace is a special kind of cloth. Used in churches, on wedding gowns. It has a sacred quality. Perhaps the lace was used to bless or to mock a blessing.”

  “Mrs. Endersby,” the inspector said, delighted. “What a novel thought.”

  “Do you think so?” Harriet said, leaning forward to tap her husband’s knee.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  A Goose Chase of Sorts

  Resting in his study near midnight, Endersby sat at his games table and clicked together a wooden puzzle. Tonight and tomorrow may turn the world around, he thought. Like the final tableau of the play. Eventually, with Harriet sound asleep, the inspector went down to the street. Sergeant Caldwell was waiting below at the front door, a hansom readied to drive toward the Strand. “I venture to say Malibran may have outwitted us, Sergeant,” Endersby said sitting back on the carriage seat.

  “Outwitted, sir?”

  “If he did not perform on the streets today, he has had a head start scouting out where his pity-man has gone.”

  “If I may, sir. I would claim Malibran is too eager for coin to pass up a day’s work. Might he then take advantage of the night to search for his man? He knows where his pity-man likes to lodge since he helped him escape.”

  “Ah, Caldwell, a wise take. The escape was to a purpose, I wager. Malibran may have suggested a strategy and a new place for the man to go. In this fashion, he would then be able to secure his chap for more lucrative work.”

  “In the north, do you imagine, sir?”

  “Sergeant, much as I delight in our ruminations, my powers of deduction lead me only so far. Did the constable you sent to Nightingale Lane see either hide or hair of our man?”

  “He told me, sir, the dwelling of Malibran showed a light in its window. Malibran had returned just before nine o’clock and then went out again.”

  “Anyone with him?” Endersby asked.

  “He said he was alone.”

  “You are keen, sir,” said Endersby. “The Strand may offer us some good luck tonight.”

  The hour was five minutes to one o’clock in the morning. The wide street known as the Strand was still rushing with men and women. Jugglers and musicians clustered on corners under the gaslight. After asking a few of them if they had seen Malibran, Endersby learned from one of the fiddlers where Malibran had gone. “To a public house. There, he takes a late meal,” the fiddler said.

  “Come, sir,” whispered Endersby to his cohort.

  Through the crowds they found their way to the public house and by chance caught sight of Malibran as he marched up an alley northward.

  “You may have to stay ahead, Sergeant. My gouty foot will drag me down. Keep him in sight. I will try to keep up.”

  The trail became long and arduous. Malibran had slow legs, much to the relief of the inspector who was able to keep huffing along, sometimes ducking into doorways to escape detection. Endersby remembered, from his violent confrontation with the man, that the district of Seven Dials was where they most likely would end up. For an hour more the inspector and his sergeant kept out of sight. Malibran, meanwhile, began stepping into open gin shops and fish houses as the streets wound toward Holborn and the Seven Dials. He chatted with men sitting at the tables before carrying on his way. Gradually, as the darker slums presented themselves, Malibran spoke to faces in the dimly lit streets. What had begun as a walk had turned into a search: Malibran seemed in earnest to look around, ask questions of every other man he encountered, often shaking his head in response. Finally reaching the hub of Seven Dials, he took a penny ale at a corner public house and then moved on.

  “Wha
t in Hades, Caldwell, is the man up to?” The two policemen trailed Malibran along lanes that eventually gave way to a narrow square where a night fair was taking place. Booths selling pies and porter were set up in a circle, while in the centre of the square was a huge iron brazier full of dancing flames. Crowds of people watched a dog trainer and an acrobat. Malibran went into one house and immediately reappeared, playing his green concertina. His voice rang out as he entered the circle of light.

  “Sergeant, we have a show to watch,” Endersby said. Caldwell went around the brazier and stood to Malibran’s left, while Endersby circled to the man’s right. Malibran sang a foreign melody, his eyes shut. Finishing his display, he bowed to the crowd, passed his hat for coin and moved on. Close behind him, Endersby and Caldwell speculated on the final destination. “Malibran has led us on a fine goose chase,” said the inspector. “And I fear our monster may be running loose.” As the three men wound their way through the seven streets leading back to the hub of Seven Dials, it became clear that Malibran was going in and out of lodging houses.

  “Caldwell, pull down your hat. Here, take these spectacles.” Endersby opened his satchel and handed his disguise spectacles to his sergeant. “Play the fool. Go in behind Malibran as if you were looking for a room. Keep your face down.” Into one, then another, then a third, the tireless Malibran enquired of the lodging house managers.

  Caldwell reported back as he and Endersby resumed their trail, keeping steps behind their quarry. “He questions, Inspector, but Malibran receives a ‘No’ in every instance.” Malibran entered the hub. Endersby pulled his sergeant into a dark archway. “Go on, Sergeant,” he said.

  “Well, sir,” said Caldwell, “it seems all the lodging houses — so far — are full. Regulars mostly. Malibran asks after rooms. He never enquires about any particular person and never mentions a name.” Endersby watched Malibran walk into a large lodging house in the centre of the Seven Dials hub. He and Caldwell waited and were about to give chase when Malibran came out the door, lighting his pipe. He moved onward, heading south and east toward Nightingale Lane. “He’s going into that gin house, sir,” said Caldwell pointing to a small door with a red sign.

  “Go in, watch him, Sergeant. I will meet you there in a few moments.” The two men parted and Endersby pulled out his head wrap, wound it into a turban, turned his great coat inside-out and took a bit of dried cobblestone muck and smeared his cheeks. He crossed the hub and went up to the front door of the lodging house where Malibran had made his last stop.

  “In a jiffy. In a jiffy,” came a woman’s voice.

  The peeling green door of the lodging house creaked open. Endersby assumed the woman was the owner. Her lined face proved a dependable witness of her life of toil.

  “Ah, goodly sir,” she smiled. “No need to knock. We ain’t formal ’ere. Step in, sir. Step in.”

  “I wish to find lodging, Missus,” said Endersby affecting a Scots accent.

  “Oh, sir. You be a moment too late. The last gentleman who stepped in rented my only empty place. An attic room. We’ve no dormitories ’ere, sir. None like down t’ the river. But our prices is fair. You shall have to go elsewhere.”

  “Ah, Missus, what’s a fellah to do. This last ’un, he that took the final room …”

  The owner broke into an impish grin. “You looks, sir, like yer have a fine appetite if yer belly tells its story.” She chuckled and slapped her knee.

  “Well, Missus, if you needs know, I am not what I am!”

  “Come agin, yer. What foolishness. I have two strong scullery gals who could chase you out if my needs call for it.”

  “Ah, Missus, make no mistake. I am a good chap.”

  “I reckon you knows your business, sir,” the woman said, her face blushing a little. “Wot is’t you want, sir? I provide vittles if y’re hungry.”

  “Can you keep a secret, missus?”

  The woman broke into a loud toothless laugh. “I be as tight as a tomb.” Leaning toward the inspector, she pulled him into a small room near the front door of the lodging house. The house itself was small, a domestic dwelling once used by a family, and not like the large, warehouse-styled establishments down near Nightingale Lane.

  “I am looking for a special place, Missus. For my cousin, you see. Ach, he’s been in a bit of trouble up north, in a wee tumble with his penny-pinching sister, and needs to keep his head down for a time. I figure to find him a respectable place here in London. Do you see?”

  The woman raised up her chin. Her eyes lost their merriment. She clamped her hands onto her hips as if she were about to elbow the inspector out the door. “Wot yer up to, sir? Yer and that other chappy?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Nay, I am no fool, sir. Been in the lodging profession for twenty years. This has the stink of a scam.”

  “Missus,” pleaded Endersby. “I hope I have not offended. No, Missus. I am looking for a safe haven, you see.”

  “Enough, sir. You and that other chap, the one here not five minutes afore you tapped at my door; he comes in hoity-toity and says much the same wash as you! Lookin’ for a room for a relative. Cousin in a bind. Wot you two on about?”

  Endersby scratched his head. He shook it. “I be an honest Scot, Missus. I do not know this other man you speak of, not at all. And you persecute me, Missus. Persecute!”

  “But —”

  “Here, good lady. Here stands afore you an honest son of the North. And you —”

  “I beg pardon, sir. It was the coincidence of it, you see. That other chap, he says he has a cousin in trouble with his wife.” The woman winked, her eyes sparkling once again. “This bolter cousin needs a room for three nights or so. The other chap hands me three pennies to hold the room. Says his cousin will come by late afternoon tomorrow to move in. Now who can I believe?”

  “You can believe in me, Missus. As sure as sunshine.”

  “I can only trust the man with coin, sir. And you two are in cahoots. You be the relative come early, I wager. Come to get a free night. Out with you.”

  The woman pressed her bulk against Endersby, who gave in and tumbled into the hall where he found the door to the street. “I take no guff from a man such as you. Out.” Endersby tried to say another word when Caldwell stepped in. He recognized Endersby playing a role, grabbed him as if he were a lost child, ushered him into the street and pointed toward Malibran, now making his way along the street, his balance a little off from the gin he had taken. “Come sir,” said Caldwell out of earshot of the woman.

  “I thank you, Sergeant. We may have an easy chase on our hands. Seems Malibran has secured a room in this particular lodging house. No doubt this is part of his protection plan to keep his pity-man as a money-making companion. If he warned his pity-man about us coming after him, most likely he has also arranged for him to have this as his new place. The landlady of the lodging house tells me his so-called ‘cousin’ moves in tomorrow night. In fact, Malibran will get word to him with the address. We have a fine chance of greeting this pity-man face to face if tomorrow’s sun rises.”

  “I hope so, sir.”

  For the rest of the hour the inspector and his sergeant-at-hand followed Malibran out of Seven Dials, down Drury Lane, and then toward the river until, at last, they ended up once again in Nightingale Lane and watched their lead enter his tenement. The two policemen waited before they crept into the building and heard footsteps going up to the fourth floor. Caldwell tiptoed ahead. When Endersby arrived, somewhat out of breath, the door to Malibran’s room lay open. Lying flat on his face on the floor was Malibran, sound asleep and snoring. The inspector stepped in, took a quick look into the one cupboard, lifted the foul sheets but found no paper, no name, no address of any man or woman. Going downstairs, the two men heard Malibran moan in his sleep.

  “It is very late, Caldwell,” Endersby then said, “but London never sleeps and we have one other stop. We will need sharp eyes and patience.”

  The two of them got ou
t of a cab near the river. The Thames reeked of rotted fruit and wet hemp. “Do you think me mad, Sergeant?” The two men stood amazed: a long line of steam wheelers and sailboats were moored; men were hauling barrels, swinging nets full of chests; whistles from ship to shore created a cacophony of half-human sounds. “Here is where William More has been working. I have no other description of him other than what we know of our culprit. There is a curious problem with him. He calls himself by a dead man’s name.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Caldwell. “Do we call out for him on our first round?”

  “No, Sergeant. Instead, let us just look. Wander. I learned he works in the early hours of the night. But let us ask if any of his fellow labourers know of him. Or if they can tell us where he lives. These men can have no idea that I am a policeman given this turban on my head. Take me along by the arm as if you have me under arrest. That way we may become the butt of laughter, but we can ask questions. Play the wronged lender looking for his money back. But if the ‘pity-man’ proves to be an innocent, then we will suffer a great set back. By this walk-around we can afford ourselves a head start.”

  “A clever idea, sir, if I may say so.”

  “Only if it works in our favour, Caldwell.”

  The dock stretched for a mile and a half and the two men walked its length, examining workers’ faces by dim lantern light and asking after William More. No one at this hour knew of him. Many had worked since sundown but could not tell if More was a familiar face. Public houses were full; men of all shapes and sizes were eating, downing pints of porter. Jokes about Endersby losing money afforded the men some relief, but once again no one had heard of William More.

  “But listen up, covey. If you say he works early or late, come early, look for’im then. I say, you’ll get your money.” The other men laughed beside the worker who had spoken. “I heard of him,” one of the labourers at another table said. “He’s on mostly at sundown. Cripple fellah. Not much to say, but he pens a letter or two for a ha’penny.”