by Jon Redfern
“If you are looking for payment for doing your duty as a London citizen, may I suggest you approach my superintendent, a man most generous in his capacities to reward and punish.”
Mr. Peacock fell silent. Endersby asked to be taken to the tavern, the Crown and Spit. On their way, he pondered the Cake murder, hoping that the new-found evidence was safe for the time being. Concluding a murder case was always a difficult business, as Endersby’s years with the City of London had taught him. Capture was important; charges to be made had to be accurate; the courts were often ruled by biased judges—these things, however, could not concern him. He had proof and motive, and all he needed now was a confession from the felon. All would then fall into its necessary order.
“Here we are, Inspector.” Mr. Peacock opened the door to the tavern.
A man was waiting for him at a table. He stood, showing due respect by removing his cap. Endersby called for a round of gin and hot water, hoping his gesture might loosen the man’s tongue but also encourage the truth. In fact, as his questions proceeded, Endersby was impressed by the clear, detailed accounts of how the drowned man had been one of the madmen with the torch. “Lead ’im to the other fire-setter,” said Mr. Peacock, prompting the man with his elbow. The man picked up a small stick and led the inspector and his sergeant out a back door of the tavern. Down two streets they went, through a broken archway into a dark courtyard full of hens and dung; finally, they came into an open field thick with mud. In the distance, a wooden shack buttressed a long wall of tin slatting. Endersby could hear the river beyond the wall. A muddied, scab-covered lot of several men and women huddled by the door of the wooden shack. Each was holding a stick. Endersby approached, and one of the women of the lot ran over to him. “You the guv, then? You the Runner?”
“Detective Endersby. And this is Sergeant Birken.”
A thumping came suddenly from behind the closed door of the shack.
“The villain is in there,” explained the woman in a hoarse whisper, pointing to the thumping door. “The burner. The torch-man from St. Giles.”
A moan not unlike the screech of a colicky baby shot out of the shack. Cries and more thumps were issued as Endersby walked into the huddled crowd of watchers, the stench of their clothing making him cough. The woman whispered to the group that Endersby was a policeman.
“Get away, sir,” said one of the grubby figures, a man with a palsied face. “He is ours. He run from the tavern like a horse on fire—like them poor beasts he killed himself. We got him in here. We can corner him.” Endersby leaned into the door of the shack. “Who’s there?” he shouted. The justice-seekers raised their weapons. A volley of harsh curses and kicks began on the other side of the shack’s door. The inspector pressed his ear against a crack. “He’s working at something,” he said to Birken. The ragged vigilantes all planted their ears to the side of the shack.
The door of the shack burst open, catching the crowd off guard. A figure in rags flew out, scrambled past the astonished justice-seekers, broke through one of the tin slats, and ran toward the river.
“Let’s grab him,” screamed the men.
“Wait!” shouted Endersby. But the disorderly gang had scurried. The woman in the lead bashed down another tin slat, and the crowd crawled through the opening.
“After them, Birken. We want the poor madman alive if we can catch him first.”
Endersby and Birken gave chase, clambering through wet mud and sharp-edged tin before stepping onto a long parapet of wooden piles tilted into the bank of the Thames. Ahead of them, the stumbling, ragged felon. The mob after him yelled and hollered, arms waving, their make-shift weapons poking up as if to tear the sky. Birken blew his whistle. Along the precarious ledge, he and Endersby placed their feet with care. The fleeing man sailed into the air, jumping down from the ledge onto the river’s bank. The human hounds wanting his blood halted, pulled back, lowered their arms. An inhuman cry arose from where the harried arsonist now held his ground. Birken pushed ahead. He blew his whistle again. Finally, Endersby arrived, his chest heaving. The huddling mass fell silent. Before him, Endersby beheld a sight full of desperation: the bedraggled madman stood with a razor held above his head.
“God curse you all,” he shouted, the spit spraying from his mouth. In an action fast and horrific, he sliced open his wrists, his howls mixed with a choking laughter. The unfortunate villain fell shaking to the muddy earth, fresh blood spurting from his cuts. “Come, Birken,” commanded Endersby. They climbed down to the mud below. Taking hold of the shuddering man, they struggled to lift him up. Birken pulled out his handkerchief and tried to staunch the wounds, pressing his weight down on each of the wrists in turn to retard the blood flow. To the mass of ugly humanity above, Endersby shouted out for help.
Just then a woman with a haggard face broke through the callous onlookers and tumbled her way down to the flat below. “He is a brother in Christ,” she screamed. When she reached the three men, and in particular the failing culprit, her eyes widened. The slowly failing arsonist was turning white from pain and exhaustion.
“Hurry, woman, give us a hand,” shouted Endersby in a gruff command. But the woman could not budge. The gawkers above froze in amazement as the murderer’s body shook with spasms, his voice whimpering.
“Oh, mercy,” the haggard woman cried. She stretched out her hand and touched the creature’s cold forehead, a sheepish look in her eyes. “He has come to this,” she said, “so far from his mother’s womb.” Endersby loosened his grip on the man, grabbed the woman and shook her. “Take this,” he growled, forcing his handkerchief into her grimy hands. The woman immediately did Endersby’s bidding: she wrapped the cloth tightly around the man’s right wrist. By this time, Birken had done likewise to the left, and now ran off up the bank blowing his whistle to summon a Peeler. At that same moment the mob scattered, turning away from the scene as if it were nothing more than a wave lapping the shore. Endersby held the man’s head up; the haggard woman wept, her face covered by her stringy long hair.
“Thus, is justice,” said Endersby, with resignation. In the distance, gulls cried out over the water.
“God help us all,” murmured the woman who raised her head. Birken and a constable were presently loping along the bank, coming toward Endersby and the bleeding man. Standing up, the woman shouted at them and began waving her arms until the two men arrived and knelt down to help.
* * *
Back in Scotland Yard, Endersby prepared to meet with Superintendent Borne. He waited in the second parlour and tapped his gouty foot to distract his mind. When Borne broke into the room, he stumbled on the door jamb and clacked into the door itself, banging it against the wall. He regained his composure, though his cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“Fine work, Inspector Endersby.”
Endersby got to his feet. He lifted off his hat.
“We have confessions in writing, sir. I had a clerk at the tavern take them down.”
Endersby pulled two folded sheets from his satchel. Borne glanced at them in a cursory fashion ,and for a moment was not sure where to place them. He decided to shove them into his coat pocket for the moment.
“Caldwell? Has he done much more on the Cake business?”
“We have proof positive.”
“Good heavens, Endersby, such confidence. You have been busy night and day, it seems.” Owen Endersby noted a touch of jealousy in his superintendent’s tone of voice.
“Only doing our duty, sir, following your exact demands.”
“Indeed,” said Borne. He waited. He turned down his mouth. Endersby watched Borne’s eyes cast about the room, searching perhaps for some object to comment upon. At last, with a brief sigh, he engaged his inspector once again. “You shall, of course, arrest the felon?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“But why waste time and money. Get to it.” Borne had taken on a stiff, commanding manner.
“Right away, sir,” said Endersby, putting on his hat, knowing
he could now leave and get on with his work.
“Shall I accompany you in your arrest, Inspector?” the superintendent suddenly asked. “It has been a while since I have done such a duty. I might find pleasure in it once more, and to be sure, I think it proper I come as a gesture of police dedication. A good show from a public official.”
Endersby reacted without thinking, hoping his response, despite its lack of truth, would stop Borne in his tracks. “The felon has been taken into custody already, and is at this moment to be formally arrested—that is, the paper work and the record keeping are to be completed. He is being held in the station near Doughty Street.”
“Why there, for the sake of Jove? Surely we are not granting that constituency credit for this arrest?”
“Convenience, sir. And the crime was committed in a house nearby, so I felt it was appropriate if further questioning and clarification were needed.”
“You felt, did you?”
Endersby hesitated, his tongue beginning to regret the lie. If Borne persisted, the strategy for the day would collapse, the conviction based on the confession might be severely hampered. Physical evidence was but one element in the edifice of crime solving, but as all detectives in the city knew, the confession, the heart-felt, soul-revealing glimpse at the dark motive of murder, was the cornerstone.
“I see, I see,” Borne then said, distracted. He had lost interest. He turned and walked toward his office. He carefully opened the door, looking down first before stepping forward.
“Carry on, then, Inspector. And have a jolly Christmas Eve supper.”
Endersby found his way to Vinegar Yard. He took another hot gin and water to ward off the chill of the streets. Sergeant Stott had secured a small room on the second floor and had, with the generosity of the bar-keep, found a safe hiding place for the muslin bag. Endersby knew it was essential that the proof be guarded, but also close at hand for the upcoming evening’s work. He climbed the stairs, paused to catch his breath, entered the room, and with a key provided by the trustworthy bar-keep, unlocked a cupboard.
On its bottom shelf, under a pile of washing-up cloths, lay the muslin bag. Endersby pulled it out and opened it. At a nearby table, he spread out its contents, examining each of the pieces and making sure he could connect them with the testimonies he had heard at the coroner’s inquest not four days earlier. He wondered how he would question his suspect, and if, indeed, with hidden witnesses—Caldwell and Stott—how he might exact a true confession. This could prove to be the stalling point.
“Indeed, old gander. So plan your way well,” he cautioned himself.
Placing the bag back in the cupboard, Endersby felt a quick surge of disappointment. The case was coming to an end. If he succeeded, the intense connections he had made would dissipate. He regretted that he had to move on; he would no longer have the privilege of haunting the backstage world of the theatre. He had enjoyed questioning the artists and the workers of that ephemeral kingdom of make-believe. No, he must move on, his reason forcing him to re-enter the sordid streets of London.
“Such is the way,” he then said, and turned the key.
* * *
Betty Loxton stood up from her bath. Mrs. B. had left her a cloth. She dried herself while she pondered her fate. Tonight she would fly. Tomorrow…well, Christmas was the Lord’s birthday. Our Saviour loves and forgives us, Betty thought. She could not remember much of his story. He said that children were to come unto him. He made a blind man see. He could, if need be, bless a wretched coster girl and forgive her her sins. He must, Betty thought.
She dressed and could no longer sense herself as a complete being, any more than she could imagine herself as a dog or a toad. She had never seen a toad and wondered how she knew of such a thing. Yet she figured that at this time of day, such a matter was hardly important. A man had been murdered. She had been acquainted with him—slightly--but her heart, her fourteen-year-old soul, had been miraculously touched by this brief encounter. She knew now that his death had brought forth strange feelings in her. It must be a kind of love, she thought. Her own kin had been part of his ill fortune; she had been aware, too…but, no, do not let that terrible day shadow your life; do not be clamped and beaten down by its presence. She lifted up her shawl, but then she put it away again. She searched in the costume room, going first through a trunk full of skirts and gloves. Then through another she found pieces of red cloth once used for brigands’ sashes, she’d been told, for Mr. Planche’s play. She pulled one of the sashes and wound it around her head, shawl-like. This will do. Slipping on her shoes, she found her way to the back door and climbed the steps into the bracing, bumping street.
When she reached the arcades of Covent Garden, she was shaking with such fear; she wondered if she might faint. She did not look for her brother’s old stall. The tobacco shop was open. Plums, oranges and all kinds of holiday greenery filled the inner court. Even as the fear of a beating so hard she would cough blood made her hesitate, Betty Loxton walked forward into a small shop, its windows full of dolls, and whistles. She found a penny whistle painted yellow. A parrot adorned the mouth piece. It was wrapped in plain paper for her. She curtsied and left the place with the door tinkling behind her. Across the courtyard, she caught a glimpse of Clare, her little sister.
“Clare,” she blurted out, but the girl kept going.
Betty ran under the arcade, down a side lane and onto Long Acre, where she saw her sister in her bonnet carrying a large basket of lemons. Clare’s body was tilted to the right as she hauled the heavy object down the street. She stopped ahead. Now Betty saw her sister try to lift the basket onto her head, like Pineapple Pol had taught both of them to do. The basket toppled, the lemons spilling into the sludge of the gutter. Betty waited in the distance. She dared not run up to help her poor little lamb. Ah, Clare, she sighed. Now her sister, pale, thin, dirty, knelt in the street, and Betty saw in her face all the despair of the world. How she wished she could help her. How she wanted to take her away from this grimy pit. But all she could do was watch little Clare bend, retrieve, spit on each lemon, place one after the other into the basket. Finally, her face showing anger and fatigue, Clare tried again and with greater skill, placed the basket on her bonnet and marched off, her left arm steadying her teetering load.
Betty wanted to cry. The tears refused to come. She ran back to the door of Old Drury. On her entrance she heard the voice of Henry Robertson Dupré. He was holding a newspaper, and his cravat was tied loosely. His face was wrenched into a frown, and as he began to ascend the stairs to his attic office, he stopped and gazed about the backstage.
“Good morning,” he shouted.
The gruff stage manager dropped the whistle from his mouth. “Good morning, Mr. Dupré.” Betty heard the two men test each other: Dupré asked if all was ready; the stage manager responded by complaining there was so much to prepare for tonight’s great performance that he was tired, at a loss, fearful the whole matter might not come to pass.
“Buck up, my good fellow,” came Dupré’s answer. “You are the master stage manager of London. You shall do it.”
Dupré climbed higher. Betty tip-toed up behind him, and at his door she spoke to him in a soft voice.
“Good heavens, Loxton. Do not startle me so.”
Betty unwound her shawl, and from her pocket produced the whistle in its paper. She handed it to Dupré.
“What is it now?” he grumbled. He stepped into his office. He threw off the plain paper and stared at the whistle. “I have no time today for jests, Miss Loxton. Get yourself downstairs and to your tasks.”
He handed back the gift, his arm out behind him as he walked toward his desk. Betty had to scamper to take the whistle before Dupré let it drop to the floor. Without a second’s hesitation, she understood that she was right. That she was in no harm, in the end, but wise in what she had prayed for, had prepared for. She took the whistle. She picked up the discarded paper from the floor and left the room. It was then, as she descen
ded the stairs, she realized to whom she must give this trinket.
First, she went down the hall to Mr. Weston’s door. Then she listened at Miss Root’s. After checking the foyer, the back stage, the hallways to the upper and lower saloons, she clambered down to the mezzanine below the stage and she found him, watching a carpenter rig one of the mechanical trees onto a trap. She ran up to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
“Here you are, Carrot.”
Young Reggie Crabb blushed as he unwrapped the plain paper. He held the whistle up. The carpenter and he pointed to the painted parrot.
“For Christmas, Carrot. For Old Drury’s prince of princes,” Betty said, her r’s rolling, her o’s rounded.
“I thank you, Miss Betty.” Reggie Crabb blushed. “But I have naught for you.”
“Oh, but you have.” Betty’s face ran with tears. She threw her arms around Reggie’s neck. The carpenter let out a sly whistle. Crabb pulled away. He was red and grinning.
“Come on, then,” said Betty. “Hurry up here. We’ll do your rounds together.”
“Right you are,” cried young Crabb. He picked up the whistle and blew it hard.
Betty wiped her face. “May I?” she asked the carpenter. She pointed to the tree, its leaves and branches of painted canvas. The two dimensional object was braced to the trap door surface by a wooden T and two bolts. The carpenter smiled, and Betty climbed onto the trap itself. She grasped one of the branches of the tree. The wooden support wiggled. “It is sturdy, miss,” said the carpenter. “Shall we try it?” Betty reached out to Reggie Crabb. He took her hand and climbed onto the trap. The two of them held hands and leaned into the canvas trunk.
“Trap six,” shouted the carpenter.
A creak, a jiggle, the trap mechanism clanged into place, and the ropes on either side began to roll. With breaths held, Reggie and Betty began to rise. “Hold on,” Betty said. Up and up, the trap itself steady, the tree pointing into the opening straight above, a little square of stage sky.