Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “Well, Inspector, I took the glove away, and I looked at it smartly, and it was my opinion it had been cleaned at least once. Given the blood on it, no doubt the glove was smutty, but there was to the leather a look which sulphur and rosin give, that cleaned ‘feel’ which a glove tends to have more often than not. So, I take myself to my haberdasher, then to his brother, a glove cleaner, near Lamb’s Conduit Street.

  ‘What do you say, Richard? This glove been cleaned, do you think?’

  ‘Most definite. Cleaned not too long ago. Can tell by the feel of the leather. The rosin still lingers on it.’

  He lifted it to his nose and smelled. ‘Could be taken for oil, he said, but that is definitely a smell of rosin mixed with sulphur. The blood spots need attention. Someone cut who was wearing these?’

  “‘Aye, Richard. Whoever has done the cutting, he must beware soon enough.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what. There are no more than seven or so reg’lar glove cleaners in London. I think I can spare you their addresses. I knows for certain that two of ’em, next to Bow Street itself, use a fine kind of rosin, smelling like this yellow leather. A respectable cleaner, of course, keeps a client list, so you may discover your man—or, indeed, your woman—who is the owner.’

  “I went off, and according to his directions, I went here and there.’

  “‘No, sir, said one.’ ‘No record,’ said another. ‘Thank you, sir, never seen its like before.’

  I sat down after three hours. I was exhausted as a man can be, with no respite and the cold air taking its toll on my weakened state. I simply couldn’t find neither man, woman, nor child that had cleaned this lost mate. As I made my way south to the river, I wondered if all my efforts had been in vain. It was into the sixth hour of my search, and I decided—since the Lyceum was close by—I would visit its backstage and enquire once more. At the stage-door stood a young man, a quiet, modest gentleman who was conducting business with the keeper. When he stepped aside, I made my plea to the keeper himself, and in the midst of my request, the young modest man stepped forward.

  “‘I could not help but overhearing, sir,’ he claimed. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  “‘You, sir, are most obliging. But I am at a loss.’

  “Forthwith I lifted the glove and showed it to the modest young man, who with no hesitation broke into a smile.

  “‘You must excuse me, he said. But I must walk on and cannot stop here very long. But if you will accompany me a short distance, toward the City, I may be of help to you. I must begin my work within the hour, for I am forced to be in good time, and early, for the night.’

  “‘You work, sir, at night? But you do not impress me as a baker.’

  The modest young man said: ‘No, I am not a baker. Nor an actor.’ He began laughing, and we walked on a step or two before he spoke again. You may be astonished, sir, at what I do at night, considering your questions to the stage door keeper.’

  “‘How so?’ I asked, full of curiosity as well as doubt. Was I, perhaps, being taken advantage of?

  “‘I am a glove cleaner.’

  The words out of his mouth struck me as the most singular coincidence. ‘I cannot believe this, sir. You are leading me astray,’ I argued. ‘I must bid you a good afternoon.’

  “‘Yes, he laughed. I told you so. And this piece you carry. Well, it is another odd chance, and one which may shock you as well.’ I was not in the frame of mind to contradict the pleasant-seeming man. He dressed as a gentleman of modest means. He did not appear to be a strangler or a pick-pocket. I was strong enough, despite my injured face, to hold him down if need be. He took hold of the glove and turned it once more in his hands. He stroked its leather backing.

  “‘I’ve spent half my day,’ I said, ‘searching out cleaners and sellers of gloves.’

  “‘On account of these blood spots?’

  “‘Precisely.’

  “‘And you are, no doubt, a sergeant with the Metropolitan Police.’

  “‘I am, sir. A sergeant with the Detective Police, in fact.’

  “The man smiled and handed back the glove and raised his hand to point toward a broad house not forty paces away. ‘Bless you, sir, I know this glove and its mate well enough. It belongs to a particular party whose name I cannot recall for the moment.’ I feared as much. Here was the rub, the pull-off. But before my own disbelief could hamper my better judgment, the congenial chap said: ‘If you shall trust me, I can lead you to the man who cleaned this item and to the owner’s name.

  “‘Then you know for certain who did the cleaning?’

  “‘Rather so,’ he beamed. ‘My father himself.’

  “We went round to the broad building, up a set of clean stairs. There we found in a set of cleaner rooms an old man in a green apron, with a daughter on either side, rubbing and dabbing away at a lot of gloves. ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the old man. The daughters rose to curtsey, then resumed their work. The pleasant, modest young man told the story of the glove, and the old man gazed at it, turned it over in his hands, passed it to one daughter and then to the next, the latter rising from her chair and taking the liberty to walk with the glove into a second room. She returned with a box of slips and papers. She ran through the slips with her fingers, as fast as she could. She checked the slip, read with her lips moving in silence, a name, the description of the glove. Then she retreated into the second room, re-appeared with pen and paper and envelope.

  “‘Are you certain?’ I asked of her.

  “‘Certain of what?’ came her curt reply.

  “‘I must demand you are certain,’ I said. ‘For this is a matter of grave concern, and a matter also of life and death’.

  “The old man stood. He took the glove and checked it again while reading the name and address of its owner which his daughter had freshly written. ‘No doubt of it. The man is a regular patron. And he pays on time.’

  “I thanked the family and offered to buy them a supper in gratitude, but they would have none of it. With this envelope in hand, I made my way back here, to Vinegar Yard. I think its contents, sir, will be of paramount interest.”

  Without hesitation, Endersby tore open the envelope and read the name and address to himself. He handed the information to Stott, who had come forward. Stott read the contents, handed the envelope back and the three men stood in silence.

  “Click, click,” whispered Endersby.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Caldwell.

  “Stott, we have no time now. We have only our legs and our hearts to guide us. I want you to forgo sleep if need be. Get to Swan Yard, to Cake’s gentleman’s club, and ask for the cabby who serviced the man who called for Mr. Cake, on Friday last. The proprietor is reasonable, and he knows you are coming. Find out from the cabby where his fare went at one’clock or thereabouts on Friday night last. Ask, too, if the cabby can remember the clothing of his passenger and any outline of his features. Once you have this information, meet us if you are able, at the Gaff in St. Paul’s. If you cannot find us, then go on to Number 6 Cursitor Street, and bring a warm coat. Do not take to your bed, Stott, for I have a mission for you which will require of you much daring.”

  Stott remained still, taking in all that Endersby had said.

  “You, Caldwell, must perfect a limp to accompany your bruised face. And we are now off, with turban and string to catch us a costerman and his ruffian friends.” Endersby spoke with a direct, cold, earnest voice. “Remember, we are in the business of exacting the law and must not fail to believe that our means, often suspect, bring about a just end.”

  * * *

  In the distance loomed the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. Owen Endersby could never have pictured himself dancing in a lewd working-man’s theatre. Yet the moment he and Caldwell alighted from the hackney-coach and made their way down the streets of the City, no subsequent hesitation rose in his mind. Only a few words were spoken between them as they walked. Endersby had already drawn out his ruse, carefully plotting what kin
ds of responses he anticipated from the costers and what he must do in the event a knife was drawn and pointed at his throat. Their disguises were simple. Endersby wore his old canvas coat inside out, and Caldwell had pulled up his collar, put on a flat hat borrowed from the bar-keep in the tavern of Vinegar Yard.

  “Tie it up tight, if you please, Caldwell.”

  Endersby waited as his sergeant wrapped the turban around his head, his theory being that John the Pawn might recall him as the fussy fruit buyer of a few days ago. The broad end of Ludgate Street glistened with light snow. Caldwell practiced his limp and told Endersby he would attempt a posh accent tonight.

  “Add a touch of the fop, Caldwell. It’ll give the brutes a sense of advantage.”

  The jingling sound of a piano rose and fell in the misty air. As Endersby and Caldwell came closer, turning south into narrower quarters, the stretch of Earl Street before them took on a new shape. One of its shops on the ground floor had been torn open: its front entirely removed—door, wall and windows—and its gaping entrance strung with crudely painted canvass squares.

  “Them the performers, you figure?” said Caldwell.

  “I thought you’d decided on posh words, Sergeant.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. What has come over me? Be they the vulgar dancers, in those canvas portraits?”

  Endersby smiled at Caldwell’s quick turn. “You could have been a stager, I swear,” he said. Walking in single file—Caldwell as “The Lord” and Endersby as “his valet,”—the two of them strolled into the garish light seeping out the Gaff entrance. The color of the light shone orange-red—its source a candle hanging inside a giant paper lantern suspended just inside the cavernous entrance. Across from the Gaff itself, this same lantern light gleamed like sunset in shop windows. The red-orange faces caught in the reflection of the window glass were those of the rough crowd of twenty-year-old men in cloth caps and kerchiefs. The thin girls on their arms looked no older than thirteen or fourteen dressed up in soiled bonnets and tattered shawls. Outside, Endersby spotted the back-up constable he’d asked Fleet Station to bring in and he nodded to him as a signal that all was set. The constable tapped his baton on the pavement to the two men and watched as they joined the crushing figures. The mob pushed toward the money-takers, and greasy, soiled hands stretched out to tender their ha’pennies. Another police officer—from the local station— stood by the entrance to preserve order, and he occasionally shoved the boys off the pavement amidst swearing and shows of fists.

  Inside the Gaff, the air was fetid with tobacco smoke. The stage, a large platform of boards, dipped and warped, pulling against the nails hammered into its surface onto three wooden sawhorses. Streaks of red paint smeared the walls. Endersby looked up to note that the ceiling plaster of the room had been removed, though the white-washed beams still stretched from wall to wall. Above them was another storey, now open and gaping over the milling bodies below. The second-storey room displayed remnants of its former state as a parlour, its soiled wall paper daubed with large black letters announcing the performers. Like coarse playbills, thought Endersby, who marveled at the space, festive despite its ruin. Around him, such shoving and pushing; such puffing of pipes; such a dense damp stink of market dung, unwashed skin, sweat-soaked canvas and wool. The piano in the far corner—a low, battered instrument with keys as yellow as a tobacco chewer’s front teeth—pounded out a chord. A man wearing a long dress and a crown ambled onto the makeshift stage.

  Whistles, stamping feet and hollers greeted him. He curtsied, his tongue lolling from the side of his mouth. A young, broad boy in a leather apron came out behind him. A drum roll, the piano again and the two men began a lewd, pelvis-to-pelvis dance, each grinning at the audience and winking to the delight of the spectators.

  “Keep an eye out,” said Endersby to Caldwell, his voice lost in the tumult.

  Rag-tag couples began to dance. After a while, porter cans were passed around. A young woman, no older than Betty Loxton, rushed onto the stage after the bows of the two dancing men.

  “Alloo, Lucy Light,” cried a bunch of rough boys, their pipes smoking in their mouths.

  “There he is,” said Endersby. Caldwell followed the line of Endersby’s pointing finger. John the Pawn leaned against the wall directly across from the entrance curtain. Beside him was a haggard, pock-marked woman in a red bonnet.

  “Pineapple Pol, we assume?” asked the sergeant.

  “Perhaps, Caldwell. Let us perambulate.”

  “Hi, Lucy Light, freckled girl,” yelled out more of the boisterous young men. The girl appeared no older than fourteen, slim, her face all smiling. She started to sing and dance with her arms thrown up over her head.

  “Flash us, flash us, Lucy Light.”

  The girl broke into laughter and raised up her hem. John the Pawn lit his pipe and drew in smoke as Endersby meandered his way through the sweaty bodies. Pulling close his turban, Endersby tapped John the Pawn on the left shoulder.

  “Good evening, sir.”

  John the Pawn looked at Endersby then turned away. The inspector tried again.

  “What want you, man, with your tap tapping?”

  “But a word.”

  “I am busy, scab.”

  “A word, sir. Money is in it for you.”

  “What you say?”

  “Coin, sir.”

  “Get away, rum lot.”

  The dancing Lucy Light sauntered over and lit a cheroot on one of the thin gas jets. She puffed, then began a song which brought howls and much clapping.

  “Duck-legged Dick had a donkey, And his lush loved much for to swill…”

  Endersby tapped again and then stood back, anticipating that his persistence might bring the elbow of John the Pawn squarely on his jaw. The other man did not budge.

  “You are John Loxton, sir? John the Pawn. The man who does jobs?” asked Endersby, his voice pitched up to bolster his disguise.

  “Cool! Look there. Two Bow Street scars,” warned the haggard Pineapple Pol. She wiped her mouth with a dirty hand and drew on her pipe. Across from her and John the Pawn, two local policeman had entered the space, both of them wearing white leather gloves and brandishing their batons. A low whistle arose in the Gaff on their entrance.

  “Gentlemen, hope you ain’t doing arrests, since there is no cross chaps here,” cried Lucy Light from the stage. The costers and their gals laughed at the joke, and the boys in their kerchiefs tipped their caps to the policemen in mock salute.

  “Give it me,” said John the Pawn to Pineapple Pol. She was holding up a plug of tobacco. He tore off a bit.

  “You think, Pol, we ever find the git?” John the Pawn asked.

  “She’ll turn up here, sooner or later, the stupid gal,” she replied.

  “No, mam, I think not. Our Betty’s bolted.”

  “Scamming child. I shall beat her senseless when I sees her. She’s scamping. I told her no to scamping.”

  “Kind sir?” said Endersby once again.

  “Leave me be, plaguey man. Or you shall have the Bow Street scars over there upon you for your broken head.”

  “I beg a moment only. Look upon my master there, the pal over by the door with the bruised face.”

  “I know him not,” replied John the Pawn.

  “Who are you?” cried Pineapple Pol. “What scam are you playing?”

  “None, missus,” Endersby replied. “I come but as a gentleman’s man to ask John Loxton a favour.”

  “And who is that fool to send you?” Pineapple Pol asked, squinting her eyes. “What foolin’ are you up to?”

  “I beg only a favour. A cousin, you see, of mine…we is both in service…he knows of a chappy, a coster by the nickname of Peter the Stick.”

  “A rotten herring for sure,” laughed Pineapple Pol.

  “Get on with you, or I’ll crack your skull for you,” muttered John the Pawn.

  “My master, there, by the door. Him with the collar up and the flat hat. Beaten and hurt by a ter
rible footman, in employ to none other than Lord Harwood…a rascal. Mind, this same cousin of mine tells me that Peter the Stick and you, sir, was in a fleece, or at least a lark and a game, last Friday night. You and the Stick against some chappy in Doughty Street, what a ruckus was caused, so he tells me, and…”

  John the Pawn grabbed hold of Endersby’s cravat and pulled his face up to his stenchy mouth. With the odour of onions and rotten molars in his face, Endersby heard John the Pawn say, “ Lies and foolery. I sell but apples and plums. Get away.”

  “Kind sir, I but promised my master at least a word with you. He is sore oppressed. What with my cousin giving him some promise of revenge—hoping it’d be you and the Stick to do it on this pounce of Lord Harwood’s. I come only to buy a favour and pay for a kindness.”

  “Flash it, then.”

  “Pardon, sir?”

  “Flash it, fool. The coin.”

  From his inside pocket, Endersby slid out a sovereign. He held it to John the Pawn’s nose. Leaning in close, Pineapple Pol grinned and snatched the coin from his hands. “’Tis stinking fake,” she said, holding the sovereign out before her in a clutch of black-nailed fingers.

  “Nay, missus, genuine as the Queen’s arse, I swear,” said Endersby.

  Pineapple Pol broke into a cackle, coughed and turned the coin twice around.

  “Bless her, and her German prick,” she laughed again, her throat catching a harsh cough, forcing her to spit on the floor. In an instant, John the Pawn grabbed the sovereign out of his mother’s fingers. “Get out of my hands, Johnny boy,” she yelled, pawing at the air as he now held up the sovereign. “That is my privilege,” she bellowed.

  “No, mam, it ain’t. But ’tis mine,” John the Pawn growled, the words between them fierce. Slipping the coin into his upper pocket, John the Pawn followed this gesture with a reminder to his mother: he elbowed Pinapple Pol in the neck so hard, she tumbled against the wall. Her pipe clacked to the floor.