Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  It was Harriet’s laugh, very quick and warm, and then her dropping of the card book into her evening bag that enchanted him. “Such boldness in a man purported to be so shy,” she said, taking his hand and following him into the first dance.

  Endersby smiled now at the recollection. He felt ready to let her gentle breathing lead him into sleep in spite of his worry that the next morning might bring recriminations, or worse.

  * * *

  Each second, along with every step, Betty Loxton feared for her back. Down Drury Lane to the corner of Longacre, along the pavement past shops, bins, shut doors. Then at home, the doorway to her family’s upper flat guarded by the drunken doorkeeper. “Get along, if thou can,” spat the foul-breathed creature. A step into the damp hall where John the Pawn was waiting.

  “Give it me,” he said from the shadows. She handed him her empty basket and her empty purse. “Where have you been?” His voice promised a beating.

  Betty lied: “To the City and back, and was robbed.” John the Pawn’s hand struck hard. She slapped her palm on the splintered floor to break her fall.

  “Bring the pennies tomorrow. Steal them, if you must.”

  John the Pawn shoved her back out, slammed the door and slid the bolt. No matter how hard Betty pounded, no matter how loudly she shouted, no light came on, no sister’s footsteps sounded on the inner staircase.

  Betty ran alone down Longacre, turned into James Passage, entered the open court of Covent Garden. Dogs roamed the arcade, sniffing for scraps. Betty scurried under a barrow and pulled an oily sheet to cover her head. She lay down on her throbbing shoulder and smelled cabbage and horse dung. She ran her fingertips over her lips; her insides ached from fear. But then she recalled her afternoon in the harness and her soft magical flight across the width of Old Drury’s stage. What a good warm supper afterwards, and of course Mr. Dupré’s sweet words: “I adore you, little Betty.” Indeed, she was now a favoured one. Oh, how nice it was to have a hot bath. Oh, how she had trembled on her flight up to Mr. Dupré’s private room under the roof of the great theatre. Yes, she was afraid at first of his way with her on the long sofa, his slow approach to her as the evening wore on, his stroking and kissing and finally, oh, yes, finally his violent thrusting and his cry. But all this meant she was forever special to him. Her tears fell hard. He had hurt her, held her too hard, but that was a man’s way. She was used to hurt. And she knew too well love can hurt as much as it can soothe. Tears slowly gave way to a secret smile which warmed Betty’s cold face.

  Presently rain was pelting the pavement, and shivers from the night’s damp shook even Betty’s toes. A sigh of wind flapped the canvas awnings in the court, and a stench of rotting meat hovered over the oily sheet and wrinkled Betty’s nose. Many feelings had run through her mind, most of them joyous, most of them about Mr. Dupré, his long eyelashes, pudgy belly, halting breath. But you shall be fine, Betty said to herself. You have shillings in your pocket, hidden deep down so John the Pawn cannot take them. Although she knew her family needed her, she was useless to them unless she brought them money. The cold piercing her skin made her life seem momentarily hopeless. But with another smile, she chased away her fear. “I now have what I want,” she whispered to the street. “It is not as if I shall starve. Not I.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Tuesday, December 22, 1840

  Owen Endersby rose at six o’clock in the morning to a deep grey light. Fog pressed against the windows. He dressed alone and in silence, choosing a black patterned waistcoat. His head ached, and he feared the gout would punish him even more today. Later, after his ample breakfast, as he rode along in the cab to the station in Fleet Lane, he wondered what surprises would face him in the coming hours, three days before Christmas.

  “At last you are here, sir.” The admittance sergeant opened a second door into the superintendent’s private parlour where a fire was burning high. “He was found near the river, sir, by a couple of scavengers. They took his wallet and coin but were Christian enough to report his whereabouts to a night watchman.”

  Sergeant Caldwell lay on the sofa. His right eye was shut tight in a bulge of purple skin. A bloody bubble oozed from his lower lip. Scratches under dirt smudges covered his cheeks. The sergeant at hand dabbed his mouth with a cloth dipped in white vinegar. Caldwell lifted up his swollen left hand. He managed to say two pain-filled words: “Grisi brothers.”

  Endersby scanned the stifling room and began to pace. Everything he had been thinking about the Grisi family was proving right. They were violent, unpredictable, lawless. Such evidence as Caldwell’s face convinced him that action must be taken immediately. Beating an officer of the Metropolitan Detective Force was a crime punishable by imprisonment. Witnesses would have to be found. That would be the greatest hurdle. The London public in some quarters remained wary of the police, fearful that many were as corrupt as the old Bow Street Runners. Plain clothes policemen, the Runners worked on commission as felon-catchers, caring only for the money they were able to obtain. Justice to them always came second.

  Disagreeable as these thoughts were, Endersby admired his sergeant’s courage. Would Superintendent Borne deem this attack worthy of investigation? What if no witnesses could testify to the Grisis’ actions? Borne despised publicity. He respected his sergeants, but occasionally he would back down from defending their honour and safety if he sniffed a scandal.

  The door to the parlour opened, and Superintendent Borne rushed in. This morning his frock coat hung loose on his right shoulder, his trousers had one leg tighter than the other. “Disgraceful,” was his opening salvo.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Endersby, battle nerves readied. Borne pranced toward the hearth. His shiny boots caught Endersby’s eye. They were new and too big, and their stiff squeak distracted him.

  “We have a calamity, Mr. Borne,” Endersby said. “I shall deal with it this morning.”

  “Deal?” snorted Borne.

  “I shall need assistance, at least two men. And a pre-signed warrant.”

  Borne, not to be outranked, waved his hand in a dismissive action. Endersby anticipated a pompous speech to sally forth. “Quite,” was the first word. Then the voice turned decisive. “You shall have all. And without delay.”

  Borne made an about-face, marched across the room to shake Caldwell’s free hand and mumbled a few official words of encouragement. At the door in three paces he called out: “Stott and Birken. Now, on the double.”

  Sergeant Caldwell managed to tell what he could remember. Endersby gathered his two-man force and assured Caldwell the culprits would regret their actions. Stott was large, burly, and square. Birken stood six feet, was similar in build, but wore a beard on his chin. “Gentlemen,” said Endersby, “look on your fellow sergeant and remember.”

  Endersby thrust the warrant into his pocket. He watched Stott and Birken strap their official police batons inside their long-coats. As soon as they hired a cab, it took only six streets and a number of turns before the Thames appeared under them. Crossing Waterloo Bridge, the cab drove south to Aston’s Palladium. The sky remained low although the fog was thinning. Inside Aston’s foyer, Inspector Endersby heard only the echo of his boots on the paving stones. The pay-box master was hunted down and taken into a small room. Birken nudged him with a bulky elbow to sit. Endersby enquired politely but firmly as to the whereabouts of the Grisi brothers. Shrugs came forth as answers. Endersby haltered his bucking anger, found his way around the pay-box master’s chair and from behind, leaned over the trembling man. “I shall not ask you a second time, my fellow. Murder, let alone assault, shall be at your doorstep. Your reputation will not recover quickly if you must spend a grimy holiday in the outer court of Newgate.”

  “I am at a loss,” peeped the shivering man.

  “You shall be at a greater one, without doubt.” Endersby’s hand flew out before he could stop it. His fingers grasped the man’s shoulder and with a force surprisingly brisk rattled the pay-box master as if he were
a stick puppet. “Now, sir,” Endersby started again. “Perhaps you could convince me to find the cousin, the chap with the fur cloak. Might he know where the two miscreants have fled?”

  “He takes his breakfast at the tavern nearby, The Swan and Reed.”

  “And Miss Rosa Grisi?”

  The pay-box master shuffled his feet. “I beg of you. I truly do not know where she is. Her cousin, the agent you speak of—Signor Fieno—has never divulged to me her lodging place. He says she demands it be kept a secret. And indeed, sir, last night we had great cause to demand where she lives.”

  “You had cause?”

  “You see, the woman did not appear for her performance. We had to replace her ride at the last minute. I can assure you, our patrons were most displeased.”

  “And the reason?” Endersby tossed a glance to Stott, who puckered his mouth.

  “Signor Fieno announced his star rider was indisposed and begged the patrons to show pity for her. The audience jeered him…so, we were at a great loss.” The man retreated into a silent pout. No doubt there was something amiss. But was it an indisposition or a ruse to shelter guilty men? Endersby nodded to his two men-at-arms. Stott and Birken brushed by the pay-box master, with Endersby close behind. Out into the air they marched together, a solid line of three bulky men, words between them scarce, their arms swinging to make up for the solemn silence of their company.

  The Swan and Reed was painted blue and it held a straggling number of mechanics taking porter with their cheese. One of the booths near the back presented an elegant man lifting a knife and fork. Before him were a glass, a wine bottle and a plate of cooked ham. The man wore a fur cloak, and his black hair had been neatly combed. A small pistol gleamed conspicuously in his lap.

  “Ah, Signor Fieno.”

  The man looked up, startled. He reached for the pistol. Endersby shoved his bulk hard against Fieno’s arm, and the pistol clattered to the floor. Stott came around the left side of Endersby and lifted the Italian cousin by his shoulders, dragging him quickly out the side door into a narrow lane.

  Birken grabbed the pistol then clapped his hands. “Gentlemen,” he cautioned the other customers, “enjoy your vittles in peace. Mind your own business if you know what’s best.”

  Just past the laneway was a small court strung with washing. Stott slammed Fieno up against the brick wall. The beleagured man’s fur cloak slipped off his shoulders, to reveal a fine silk frock coat and a large bulge in his upper pocket. Signor Fieno clutched the bulge, but Endersby patiently pried away the man’s hand, reached into the inside pocket and extracted a short leather cudgel. Turning it about, Endersby noted its fine sheath and concluded it was not of English manufacture. He stepped back. He allowed Birken to pat Fieno’s waist and legs in a rough examination for other weapons.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Fieno. My sergeants tend to work somewhat quickly. If they are injurious to your person, do not hesitate to let me know. Your two young cousins, the Grisi chaps—I did not catch their first names—are well acquainted with pummelling.”

  Signor Fieno did not move.

  “Silent, are we, Mr. Fieno? Let me refresh your knowledge of English manners. Beating a public officer of the law is punishable with exile, certainly flogging.” Endersby held up the arrest warrant. It contained only the Grisi brothers last names, but he decided to risk a ploy.

  “I have here a warrant for your arrest and that of Miss Rosa Grisi.”

  Still Fieno did not speak.

  “The charges, you ask?” Endersby said. He touched Stott on the shoulder, and the young sergeant tightened his grip. Birken was directed to lean closer to Fieno and breathe nonchalantly on the man’s left cheek.

  “The charges are straightforward enough. You, for beating and subduing one Sergeant Caldwell. Miss Rosa Grisi for the suspected murder of Mr. Samuel Cake.”

  Fieno finally responded with a sly grin. “You are clever, sir. But not so much that you can frighten me with falsehoods.”

  “Do elaborate,” Endersby said.

  “Our Italian police are much more subtle in their ways. Yours, it is such a schoolboy trick. You English are a naïve people.”

  “I thank you for the compliment. Do the Italian police resort to floggings? It is one of our favorite past times for chiding the recalcitrant.”

  Fieno frowned. “You speak too quickly for me.” He then peered at Endersby, and his eyes at first looked full of doubt, soon changing to cold contempt. “Ah, now I see. Now, I know who you are.”

  Endersby lifted his hat in mock salute.

  “What a play-actor you are, Lord Carlton.” Fieno broke into a light laugh. “Of course, I suspected you were a police. But I was believing the other man who accompanied you was truly a stupid American.”

  “The charges stand, Signor Fieno. The Grisi family has been accused of the beating of Sergeant Caldwell. Habeas corpus, sir. Bloodied from top to toe.”

  “He has died?” For the first time, Signor Fieno’s cool composure fell away.

  “Were you present at the beating, sir?”

  “I was only told of it. I am swearing to you the truth. Both my foolish cousins were drunk. They said they saw your sergeant always looking at them, always bothering them, never letting them walk anywhere unless he was with them—close by. I thought, well, he is police, maybe, and they, my cousins, are afraid of the police, and they attacked him.”

  “Attacked him because you excited the two ruffians to do the deed.”

  Fieno shrugged and turned down his mouth as if to say he was in no way responsible for the foolish actions of the two Grisi brothers.

  “Do you often inspire your cousins to violence, Mr. Fieno? For that matter, do you hire them out for such work, along with the questionable Miss Rosa Grisi?”

  “You are speaking nonsense, sir.” Fieno’s tone had turned arrogant.

  “Do you think so? Are you certain you do not find some pleasure in setting the three of these cousins of yours onto rampages—beating others, holding up knives to innocent by-standers like poor Lord Carlton, or smashing houses in fashionable districts where streets like Doughty Street are found?”

  “You can say all you wish, Mr. Police. My business is the theatre. My profession is to guide and look after Miss Rosa Grisi, one of the greatest performers you will ever see in this wet, filthy city.”

  “And why then was the inimitable Miss Grisi absent from the theatre last night? Surely you cannot afford to lose the money such a performer must garner for you and your paltry cousins.”

  Insulting a man’s family, especially an Italian’s, brought out the usual response. Signor Fieno shoved forward. He thrust out his chin. Fury widened his large brown eyes. “You are a dog, Mr. Police.”

  “Inspector Owen Endersby. May I also present my trusty co-workers, Mr. Birken, Mr. Stott.”

  Stott once again pinned Fieno to the wall with his broad hand.

  “Shall we continue like this for a while, sir, or shall we simply come to the truth?”

  Fieno looked away and retreated into silence.

  “I see,” huffed Endersby. He took Birken aside and whispered in his ear.

  Birken, at first, looked shocked. When Endersby elaborated, the man’s face softened and a smile of delight appeared. “What an idea, Inspector,” Birken said. He then went to his fellow sergeant, whispered succinctly into his ear and said “Do it fast, Stott. It’s an Endersby trick.” Stott held Fieno hard in his grip as Birken began to unbutton the man’s coat, then his waistcoat and the buttons of his trousers.

  “Ma, che fai? Che fanno, signore?”

  “I find it rather warm here, do you not, Mr. Fieno?” asked Endesrby. “I imagine it is our close quarters.”

  The Italian struggled in vain. The quick-handed sergeants had all his outer garments removed in less than fifty seconds, including his brushed boots. The half-naked man began to shiver in the cold air. Birken folded the clothes neatly over his arm. Stott then let go of Fieno, and the three policemen step
ped back.

  “Shall we walk, then, sir?” asked Endersby.

  “Cane!”

  “Still, too warm? I beg your pardon.” Endersby came up to the man and as Stott held him again, Endersby yanked off all the rest of Fieno’s clothes. The final piece of linen fell from the man’s frame, a sorry length of rag, leaving him stark naked, his chest and legs covered in thin black hair.

  “A fine December morning, Mr. Fieno. A good English morning.”

  To be expected, the poor shivering victim struck out with his right arm, but Endersby jumped back. Then the angered Italian tried to run, holding his hands over his genitals, but Birken grabbed him, shook him hard, held him by his elbows. Endersby, sensing that a final move in this game was necessary, nodded quickly to Stott. His sergeant prepared himself, his mouth turned down in a ferocious frown. Striking a nonchalant pose, Endersby looked up at the sky for a moment as Stott made a fist and directed it rather firmly into Mr. Fieno’s cold stomach.

  Stott was about to hit Fieno a second time when the coughing, bent man raised his hands in defeat.

  “What do you want?” he cried, the sound strangled in his throat. Birken took hold of Fieno and helped him straighten. His eyes had now lost lustre; one arm hung limp by his side, his left hand deftly covering his groin.

  “First, I demand a confession from you,” said Endersby. “About your two cousins and their deed against Sergeant Caldwell.”

  “In fact, yes, yes,” blurted out Fieno. His lips were turning blue. He was crestfallen, distraught.

  “Then, a simple and hasty introduction to Miss Rosa Grisi.”

  “No, she will not allow it.”

  “Stott,” commanded Endersby. The sergeant jumped at Fieno and pulled his head back by the hair. “I do apologize, sir, for our methods,” said the inspector. “We are in a hurry, you see. We could, if you wish, resort to much stronger persuasion. Do we not still have the chair at Fleet Station? You know, the one with the straps?”