Trumpets Sound No More

by Jon Redfern

  “Scamp boy,” she yelled, but she rose up quickly, forcing a laugh, her eyes narrow with anger.

  Endersby was not surprised to see her raise her fist to retaliate but then to reconsider. In one clear way, she had common sense: her son’s violence cowed her, and it gave to Endersby a clear configuration of the kind of deed the man was capable of doing, to either a young girl like Betty or a grown man the size of Samuel Cake. With Betty’s confessional words in his mind, and his own desire to make the ruse work, Endersby sallied forth again.

  “There is another of those—and a guinea, too—if you shall but hear out my master,” Endersby said, winking at Pineapple Pol. “He is most insistent, sir. Most brutal in remark if he do not get his way.”

  Endersby was aware of John the Pawn’s change of heart, for now the costerman was fingering the sovereign, having slipped it from his pocket to pass it across his blackened teeth. Knocking the tobacco from his pipe, John the Pawn grabbed hard the upper arm of Endersby, and with a wry smile said to him to lead on and no farting on the way.

  Midway through the crowd, John the Pawn stopped still and looked furtively around the room. He hesitated, looking back at Pineapple Pol, who was re-lighting her pipe. He took a moment to wipe his mouth. He yanked Endersby’s arm. “That your master, yonder?”

  Caldwell turned and sneered at Endersby on his approach.

  “Stinking dog, what has taken you so long?”

  “Here is one, sir. The one does jobs. John Loxton.”

  John the Pawn glanced up and down at Caldwell’s clothes. “He is no master, plaguey man. Look at his shabby dress and stinker hat.”

  “Look at my face,” said Caldwell. “Shall I come to such a place as this in lawn and silk?”

  Caldwell managed to lisp his words, the sound making John the Pawn grin.

  “And who beat you, sire?” The costerman’s voice was full of mockery.

  “That was a wretched arrogant footman,” said Caldwell, dismissive in his manner, his arm fluttering, as if he were batting a fly from his cheek. “In Lord Harwood’s employ. A gad of a man.”

  This was the second time this evening that Endersby realized that Caldwell was a man of some playfulness. In the aura of his sergeant’s most convincing performance, Endersby was struck by the power of Caldwell’s play-acting, let alone the look of hardy belief on the face of John the Pawn.

  The coster is waiting this out, Endersby thought. Waiting and weighing the risk.

  “The poxy shit would not lower the steps for me to my carriage,” Caldwell went on. “Claimed he was only footman Number One, doors only, and that Second Footman was off ill. Stuff and shit I said to ’im and struck his curling mouth. Whereupon the rascal knocked me down.”

  John the Pawn slapped his knee. “Serves you right. Serves you so, pricky Jack.”

  “How dare you, sir. I come to you for a favour.”

  “How dare I? This is how.” John the Pawn shoved Caldwell to the wall. He pressed his bulk against him and looked hard into the sergeant’s eyes. “Aye, you been properly thumped. Rumbled to a bruise.”

  Having crossed the room unbeknownst to her son, Pineapple Pol sidled up to Caldwell. “This is the plum, Johnny lad?”

  “Get you hence, mam. Get on.”

  “You leave me be, lad,” she said. “What you roughing this poor pal up so? He is kindly enough.”

  “Indeed, missus,” cowered Endersby. “It is but a small favour we come for.”

  “What is your cousin’s name, sir? The one that knows Peter the Stick,” asked John the Pawn, still holding Caldwell to the wall.

  “Gaffy is what he’s called. He is a cutter, sir, in Holborn.”

  “How does he know a coster, then, fool?”

  “His sister, sir. She knows well of Peter.”

  John the Pawn let Caldwell go. He stepped back and gazed about the room now filled with dancers and a tumbler on the stage tossing balls into the air. If the ruse were to hold, Endersby could not afford further delay. He did not want John the Pawn to doubt any longer. He pulled another coin from his pocket—a mere shilling—but he hid it in his fingers so that in the light it could not be easily read.

  “What of this matter, then,” barked Caldwell. He flashed an uncertain glance at Endersby, who held his arm fast.

  “We are undone, master,” said Endersby, making his voice quiver in mock subservience. “Here is a man of no consequence. Peter the Stick has lied.”

  Such an utterance caused Pineapple Pol to grab John the Pawn and swing him around. “Move on ’em, lad,” she urged. There was a glare of anger in John Loxton’s face tagged by a flicker of disappointment as Endersby started to walk away, slipping the coin back into his pocket. Acting true to his disguise as a pandering servant, Endersby allowed Caldwell ahead of him and diverted him toward the Gaff’s entrance to the street.

  “You, plaguey man,” John the Pawn shouted at them. “Come back. I see your coin. What is it you wish of me?”

  Pineapple Pol laughed at her son. “You lost ’em now, Johnny lad.” In answer, Caldwell turned to see John the Pawn shove Pineapple Pol into the crowd behind him, the scrawny woman laughing and pointing at him like a witch in the Pantomime.

  “How do we know we can trust you?” hissed Caldwell. By now he was halfway toward the curtained archway leading out to the street.

  The coster hesitated for a second; he then leapt forward, trotting after Endersby and Caldwell and almost crashing against them in the entrance. “Come into the street, gits” he said, pushing past the two men to hold open the curtain for them. Outside, the sky was now full of cloud. Endersby’s back-up constable was waiting by the doorway ready to witness. The bitter chill caused breath to smoke in the air. John the Pawn stood in front of the two men, gulls he figured, from the way he was grinning. It was clear to Endersby the costerman must honour his pride, or lose the coin. And so the ploy was set in motion.

  “You can trust me,” John the Pawn said.

  “I think not, if your playing with us is such,” whimpered Caldwell.

  “I hears, sir, you thumped a man good, Friday last,” ventured Endersby. “Some ponce from the theatre.”

  “Aye, you heard rightly, wormy man. Tell your master we did a good one on ’im, too.”

  “Sir, stories do not interest me,” said Caldwell in a haughty manner. “I bid you good night. We must find another, for it is heartily worth my while.”

  “Stay, sir. I can attest,” said John the Pawn. “I can show you if you wish. ’Tis but a cab ride north to Doughty Street. The house stands empty.”

  “And you, sir, in your coster’s wisdom, have a key to the place?” sneered Caldwell, leading the man on. “And can you also beat away the poor man’s servants?”

  “The man had none, I swear to you.”

  Caldwell affected a pealing laugh. “Such a jest,” he cried. With a surreptitious toe, Caldwell knicked Endersby in the shin, who responded with a slight grimace but also a nod. Endersby was also noting the details of John the Pawn’s admission. To the two seasoned policemen, it was obvious the costerman was well acquainted with the place, but the facts on its lack of servants had been reported in the gutter press. Could John the Pawn read? Would he have cared to find out the consequences of his rumbling? Rumours amongst the costers would have flown—a few facts of the case were public knowledge. What Endersby needed was a confession of a singular fact. One known only by John the Pawn himself. The press had not described the crime scene but only reported the coroner’s proceedings. Endersby remembered that all the confessions at the inquest concerned the body, the possible manner of murder, witnesses’ recall of visitors and such. What was needed from John the Pawn was an admission of an action only he could have performed or commanded during those dark lawless hours.

  “Don’t believe it,” said Endersby. “The man was rich. So said the press. And do you read at all, sir?”

  “Well, enough, serving man,” John the Pawn answered with some hesitation. “But I tell y
ou, come and witness. The house had little furniture, bare as a bone it was. Me, my mam’s brother Thomas and Peter the Stick, we does our best up and down the place, smashing. Scared the rheumey man off, we did. He daren’t come in while we was there.”

  “But I need you to beat the rascal footman, not frighten him away.” Caldwell had now affected a piercing whine.

  “Fair enough,” said John the Pawn. “We thought he’d be at home. We thought it, and we brought a club, my cousin Thomas from south of Surrey.”

  “All supposition, my man, but not evidence of deed,” said Caldwell.

  John the Pawn rubbed his forehead. He was angry now. “Damn you, sir. I have had enough. I swear we went to beat a man that hurt my own flesh and blood. We wants to thrash him. We even nailed the shutters tight so no one could see us. And we smashed up the glass in his door.”

  There, at last. Two single facts Endersby was waiting for.

  “Nailed shut?” cried Caldwell, to emphasize the point.

  “Yes, man. Hard shut with Jew seconder nails. Cheaper by the handful, I warrant. We thought the noise might amuse the chappy.” John the Pawn pounded one fist against the other as if to illustrate his hammering method.

  “And the back window, sir?” Endersby asked, carefully.

  “Smashed. So’s to show ’im we’d been round the place. Since he warn’t at home—and he never came—we left soon enough. What with our ruckus, the scabs from Gray’s Inn be upon us in no time.”

  “After you nicked his silver and coin?” Endersby said, to goad.

  “Ha, the rub. There was none of either. A bare bone, I tell you. And the man staying out all hours. We could do what we done, in fact.”

  “Enough, John the Pawn,” said Caldwell.

  Endersby then gave the sign. They had arranged en route to the Gaff that when the jig was up, Endersby would pull at his left ear.

  John the Pawn spotted this, lofting a suspicious glance at Caldwell and the inspector through mist and red light. “You ’ave an itchy ear, wormy man?” The costerman bent forward as if to blow his nose. He completed the gesture by suddenly reaching for a knife hidden in his left boot. “You plaguey gits, this be a scam,” he yelled. He waved the knife high and jerked his torso into an attack posture, aiming the knife’s snout end at Endersby’s chest, he took short, frantic jumps forward. The back-up constable watching by the Gaff’s door rushed into the scene, for now it was certain this was a game of life and death. The constable dashed in front of John the Pawn. His baton came down swiftly cracking the costerman’s wrist.

  “Halt, scoundrel!” the constable shouted. The knife bounced on the cobbles. John the Pawn made a tentative start to recover, a start inspired by seeing Caldwell pull out a police baton from under his disguise. It was the bear pit, indeed, with the dogs on the winning side, but it took fully half a second before John the Pawn got his legs (and his wits) and began truly asserting himself. Poking hard with his elbows, he first knocked the wind out of the constable who had been bold and brave enough to initiate the sally. He then tried to run, but Caldwell came round his right side and slammed his full weight into John the Pawn’s back, grabbing hold and twisting up his fisted right arm.

  “Let me be, scummy rat,” the struggling costerman cried. Endersby pulled from his satchel—closely hidden under his coat—a pair of cuffs with a latch and chain.

  “No, no you don’t,” cried the John the Pawn, his eyes wide with terror. Clamping them on, Endersby watched John the Pawn howl, his voice breaking into panic laughter. Caldwell then completed the routine: he lifted his coat and produced a link chain attached to his waist. To it, he clamped a second set of smaller links and fed them through the slots of John the Pawn’s cuffs—in the end a kind of steel umbilical cord securing criminal to constable.

  “I done nothing, gentlemen. You got no proof of me. I was telling you tales, you gulls.”

  “There were two witnesses to you leaving Doughty Street, John Loxton. They can attest.” Endersby knew he’d just taken a risk in bending the truth. His and Caldwell’s remarkable ruse had developed nicely into a capture. The inspector’s offense was simply justified by the costerman’s actions, and so Endersby would not really have to face any tough opposition to his methods. Besides, he also surmised the costerman could never challenge him.

  “You’re fools. Scum.” John the Pawn said, his attempt at disdain failing to gain attention. The beleaguered felon broke out of his fury with an attempt at ineffective authority: hands clasped in irons trying to hide themselves under his coat, he demanded the inspector take his pipe from his upper pocket, fill it with plug and light him up. “A gesture of police courtesy, you understand, guv,” the costerman said. “As is my rights as a British subject.”

  “You can wait on that pleasure, my man,” said Endersby dismissively.

  “Who in Hell’s dominion are you in the end, sir?” John the Pawn demanded.

  “Inspector Owen Endersby, Mr. Loxton. My worthy sergeant, Caldwell. And a respectable constable from Scotland Yard. At her majesty’s service.”

  John the Pawn turned down his mouth. He began to breathe hard. He shook his tethered hands. He fought back tears. He took his manacled wrists and swept them over his eyes. He laughed again, swaying his head from side to side. He tried, without success, to spit at the inspector’s shoes, but soon relented, his resignation drooping his once proud brutish shoulders. “You ever seen a man so knocked over with surprise?” said John the Pawn, his voice lying low in his throat. “I mean me, inspector. You grubs took me. You nabbed me. But, I wager, you ain’t done it much. I was the dupe.”

  “Come along, Mr. Loxton,” said Endersby. “Most like you come peaceably, decorum being the greater part of a thief’s manner.”

  “Well, I ain’t no shit-bucket thief. I’m an honest, back-broken worker. Never a scam in my life.”

  “Until this Friday last.”

  A scream behind the party rent the air. Pineapple Pol was rushing into the street. The young constable turned in time to catch her arm. Much of her subsequent movements took the form of slugs, kicks, choppings of the jaw. The constable held her still.

  “What, Johnny lad, what is this? They nabbed you,” she screeched.

  “And you, mam. You were in the cart, after all. ’Twas you that drove us north.”

  “Ungrateful pig,” she yelled, a gob of her spit flying into her son’s face courtesy of her quick forward head thrust. The constable held her wrists behind her as Caldwell found another set of cuffs in his pocket.

  “I hope you’ll let me have my coat, sir,” John the Pawn said, his voice suddenly polite, if guarded.

  “You attacked Mr. Cake’s house out of spite then, sir,” asked Endersby, unwinding his costume turban.

  “Eye for an eye. Simple justice.”

  “Not English law, however,” Endersby reminded him.

  “Off to the ‘factory’ then,” John the Pawn said. And with that, Pineapple Pol was duly secured while Caldwell held fast to her glum son. Endersby spoke briefly to the other constable about keeping an eye on the place. Without further delay, a hackney coach was summoned. The young constable climbed aboard, hauling behind him a swearing, coughing Pineapple Pol. Around the street, a few peering young people circled. This was, however, a common sight. Arrests for thieves, window breakers, drunks, slag women for hire—the daily bread and lard of this rough, mean quarter of the city. While Endersby commanded the cabby the route first to Fleet Street and then Newgate Prison, Caldwell draped John the Pawn’s coat over the costerman’s shoulders and shoved him into the cab, next to his squalling mam.

  Sticking his head out the cab window, the costerman grinned and said to Endersby, “I ne’er been to Newgate, myself. Do you think me mam will like it?”

  “For one thing, Mr. Loxton, the wintry wind blows hard through its stone walls.”

  John the Pawn saw it was no use carrying on further. Sitting back in the cab, he closed his eyes as Caldwell tapped the roof, and the hackney co
ach proceeded to drive on to Fleet Street. Alone, now, cold and hungry, Endersby walked back into the noisy confines of the Gaff. He hoped he might see the sad little waif, the sweet Betty Loxton and her dancing feet. The smoke was pungent and blue. The stage was full of antic jugglers. Endersby remembered that Stott might appear, and so he scanned the room, the two doorways, the back shadows for any sign of him. Alas, all he could find were runts and brutes, drunken girls with faces smeared by beer.

  “Nowhere,” Endersby said under his breath. The freckled girl called Lucy Light returned to the stage, dancing with a man in a bear’s head mask. “What a folly,” Endersby said out loud to no one in particular. Betty should be here, he thought, but he sensed she had decided never to return to the place, its smoke and laughter no longer enticing her to sing. Leaving the noise, Endersby walked for a long while westward out of the City. He drew in his mind the by-ways and highways of the case, a map of its motives and opportunities.

  “Propensity,” he whispered.

  He was convinced he knew who the murderer was. But he needed more—crucial items and a confession—to close up the case. To this target he planted the word “conviction.” Now to get one, he mused. Here was the final challenge—the rub. Indeed, it was the key piece of the Cake puzzle.

  * * *

  Sergeant Stott was waiting on the steps of Number 6 Cursitor Street. His face was brisk from the cold. Even his large, beefy hands looked blue. “Did you not call up to my wife, sergeant?”

  “No, sir. I thought it too late.”

  “She is a woman used to the strange hours of policemen. Come inside, then, and warm your hands. I need them soon enough to be dexterous and quick.”

  The front door closed behind the two men. The street lay quiet and misty, a breeze rising from the river. Smoke from chimneys floated like fog over the eaves of the houses. A light appeared in the far left second floor window of Number 6 Cursitor Street. Behind it, Endersby listened to what Stott had to say about the cabby and his fare on Friday night last. Endersby did not flinch at the descriptions, nor did he leap to a conclusion right away. Stott, who was precise in his way of speaking, told his tale methodically. Endersby then instructed him on his next set of duties to be performed in the subsequent hours of the night.