by Tim Mason
10
Tom Ginty’s mother, Martha, was jointing a chicken in the scullery of the Fortune of War when someone came kicking at the tradesmen’s entrance. “Pull the bloody bell, can’t you?” she cried.
“Martha!” The voice belonged to Jake Figgis. Martha put down the knife, wiped her hands on her apron, and moved to the door. Jake stood just outside, holding the handles of a wheelbarrow laden with freshly butchered meats.
“Where’s Tom?”
“What do you mean?” said Martha. “He’s with you.”
“No he ain’t.”
“What?”
“Must run, I got this lot to deliver! Tell Tom to ’op it!” Jake lifted his wheelbarrow and moved off. Martha stood stock-still for a moment. Then she ran up a topsy-turvy series of stairs to the room at the top of the public house where she and her son lived. She flung open the door. She called his name. Surely he’d answer. He’d pop out of the corner cupboard, laughing. A bad joke, yes, but nothing more than that. He’d emerge from the blanket on the little pallet that soon would be too short for him. Still asleep, Tom! At this hour? Even though she’d seen him out the door that very morning, before the first rays of sun had penetrated the caverns of tottering tenements, even though she’d heard him say “Ta, Ma” over his shoulder, Martha waited for her boy to appear in that bare room to prove to her that God and his angels did, in fact, exist and Jesus did suffer the little children to come unto him.
Adding young Tom Ginty to his collection had been the work of a moment. Rising before dawn, Decimus Cobb had chosen a priest’s cassock and a broad-brimmed Roman hat. He’d be a country padre, pushing a barrow filled with burlap sacks to market.
Which is precisely what Tom had taken him for, in the short distance between the Fortune of War and Smithfield Market. A kindly, priestly smile in the morning darkness and a mumbled question. Asking directions, perhaps. Tom had leaned in closer, the better to hear the parson. A swish of black cloth, something moist over his nose and mouth, and then a quick glimpse of deep-set dark eyes, giving way to blackness.
A history of the man eventually was pieced together from bits and scraps and much speculation. It is doubtless faulty, but it’s all anyone has:
He was plucked from the streets some twenty years earlier, hollow-eyed and filthy, and placed in one of the new “ragged schools,” created to deal with London’s ever-growing population of destitute orphans. On his first day the matron stripped him and put him under the pump for a scrub. It took her some moments before she realized what she was looking at. Then she stood shrieking in the yard until the master came to see what was the matter. Whether out of compassion or curiosity, the master decided to keep the boy on. Since he had no name he cared to divulge, Master called him Will Tailor. After a largely mute first year the boy began to excel in his studies. He became ardently devout, committing to memory long passages of Scripture. A woman appeared at irregular intervals, who may or may not have been a mother, but she never stayed for long. His abilities and a soaring soprano voice won him a place at St. Paul’s, where he had a superior education and a position in the choir until his voice broke at the age of fourteen. By then he had distinguished himself in the sciences. He liked to take things apart to see how they worked, especially living things, and he seemed not to mind that this stopped them living.
He was given a new name by the man who adopted him when he was still a choirboy. Artemus Cobb was a manufacturer of ladies’ undergarments, and his whalebone corsets had made a wealthy man of him. The Chorister was twelve years old when he officially became Decimus Cobb and was moved into the single man’s townhouse in Half Moon Street, off Piccadilly. Three years later his adoptive parent died from a fall in San Gimignano while visiting with his boy the monuments of Tuscany. The house in Piccadilly, with no family to contest it, seemed to become Decimus’ property by default. Apart from a considerable stash of coins, which young Decimus had found hidden in the master bedroom, the corset fortune likely went to the Crown. To Decimus it hardly mattered; by then his sidelines were beginning to be highly lucrative. A professed desire to become a surgeon led to a scholarship, and his pious manner and studious ways had found favor in the Royal College of Surgeons, eventually attracting the attention of Professor Richard Owen.
Today, the grown-up Decimus was enjoying a cool, not-too-odiferous breeze off the river as he made his way from the market to Half Moon Street. Such a relief after yesterday’s heat and the discord of the night before! He carried in one hand a compact wooden case, which he called his “kit.” From his other hand swung a net bag containing bread, cheese, sausage, and a couple of hens. He had a hungry crew waiting at home, and food—offered or withheld—was one of the means he employed to manage them.
Oh, look! There’s Mr. Dickens! Where is he off to now? Some theatrical business or other, I’ll wager. A bony little man, really. Will he see me as he passes? Ha! Looked me right in the eyes! Wait until I tell the children!
This sort of thing was always happening. It’s why Decimus loved living in the West End.
Tom Ginty opened his eyes experimentally. He saw nothing. He closed and opened them again and felt a surge of fear pulse through his body.
Please God, no, not blind, it’s just a dark place, i’n’it, that’s all.
The boy was horizontal. He raised a hand tentatively; it was stopped by a wooden surface less than a foot above his body. He moved it to his right and met another wall within inches. Fear threatened to overwhelm him.
Coffin.
He couldn’t give way to terror or tears. He would think of sunlight and air. His mother’s face, laughing. These were things that still existed; he just had to find them again, that’s all. He would begin by breathing. In, out. In, out.
Inexplicably, he slept. His eyes sprang open again to pitch darkness and the sound of a key turning quietly in a nearby lock.
The light was searing when the lid above him rose. Tom struck upward, blindly, with all his strength. His fist barely brushed the hated face: the gliding man’s head jerked backward with a surprised gasp. Tom set his legs in motion, scrabbling to find purchase, his fingers seeking the borders of the coffin. The lid began to descend.
“Not quite ready, are we,” said Decimus in a sorrowful voice.
Tom roared inarticulately, frantically, as the lid came down on the fingers of his right hand, and the roar turned into a scream. The top rose up again by a couple of inches.
“Careful, butcher’s boy, that’s your cutting hand—mustn’t do yourself an injury.”
The boy thrust his fingers into his mouth, the lid fell again, and darkness was all.
Part II
11
As he wearily approached No. 2 Bow Street, Inspector Field found his maid of all work, Bessie Shoreham, in an agitated state on the front step.
Last bloody thing I need.
He hadn’t slept the night before, or had dreamt he hadn’t slept, hearing the onrushing iron wheels of the new railroad approaching at a frightening speed but never arriving, hour after hour. Then he was in a palatial home, walking behind a kitchen maid—or was it a cook?—who held something terrible close to her breast—what was it?—as she proceeded slowly from one corridor to the next. As slowly as she moved, he never could catch up with her. Somewhere a piano was playing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
In the light of day, on the job, he had been frustrated in his ongoing pursuit of a headmaster, strongly suspected of poisoning his children’s governess. Throughout the day Kilvert and Llewellyn had waited expectantly for their superior to tell them about his interview with Karl Marx. When Llewellyn finally cleared his throat and started to ask outright, Field had told him to shut it in a voice that had been audible throughout the station house. Now here was his servant, standing at his door, wringing the hem of her apron and dancing from one foot to the other.
“Master!” she shrieked.
“Hush, Bessie!”
“There’s a woman!” she said, lowering
her voice to a whisper loud enough to be heard across the road and jerking her head spasmodically in the direction of the house. “And a man!”
Field digested this useful information and hurried past her into his home, Bessie following him down the steps to the kitchen. Jane Field was pouring out cups of tea for a distraught-looking young woman seated at the table and a young man who stood nervously behind her chair. The woman looked up at Field hungrily; he’d seen her before somewhere. A barmaid. The young man’s hands, clutching a hat, seemed to be stained a dull red. Field looked with raised eyebrows at his wife.
“Mr. Field,” said Jane, “this is Martha Ginty and this is a friend of hers . . .”
“Figgis, ma’am. Jake Figgis, sir.”
Detective Field waited for elaboration, but Mrs. Field was putting the kettle back onto the range, and neither of the strangers seemed likely to speak. Bessie brought her apron hem to her mouth and hissed through it, “It’s about a boy!”
“Yes, that’ll do, Bessie!” said Field with a little more heat than he’d intended. The servant huffed indignantly.
“Tea, dear?” said Jane.
“What’s this about a boy?”
The woman at the table looked up at him, her eyes red. “My Tom never come home.”
“Yes? And why are you here?”
“Neighbors said you were Mr. Bucket.”
“I am not Mr. Bucket. Your neighbors were mistaken.” Jane turned and stared at him darkly from the stove.
“You’re the police, sir,” said the young man named Figgis.
“Of course I am, but why are you here in my home?”
“Because of my boy, sir,” said Martha Ginty.
“Has your boy committed a crime?”
“No, sir, never!”
“Then the police are not interested in him, ma’am! I am not interested in him!”
Bessie made a convulsive noise behind her apron, which might have been a sob, and the kettle began to whistle. Jane lifted it off the range and refilled the pot without taking her eyes off her husband.
“What Mr. Field means is,” she said, “he needs more information before he can interest himself in the case.”
“Case? My dear, what case?”
Jane sat down next to Martha and stroked one of her hands. “He’s very clever, my husband. Once he knows the particulars, he’ll set his mind to it and all will be well.”
“Mrs. Field, there are hundreds of lads and lasses who go missing in London every year,” said Field as reasonably as he could. “It happens all the time, every single day.” He turned to Martha. “How long has your boy been gone?”
“Near two days, sir.”
“Two days!” cried the detective. “Two days! He isn’t even missing yet!”
“He is, though,” said Martha Ginty with quiet fervor. “He’s a good boy and works hard, but the night before he went missing he told me he didn’t want to go to work.”
“So he did a bunk, didn’t he, Mrs. Ginty! I sometimes feel like doin’ the same! Today especially!”
Jake Figgis cleared his throat. “There was a man, sir, askin’ for him at the stall. Scared him, the man did. Tom tol’ me about him, but I di’n’t listen.”
“What stall is this, then?”
“Smithfield Market, sir.”
Field stared intently at the young man with the red-flecked hands. “A butcher’s stall.”
“Yes, sir.”
“One of your colleagues is named Merrydew.”
“Aye,” said Jake with a wondering glance at Martha.
Field turned to the young woman. “You work in a tavern hard by the market, I believe,” he said. “The Fortune of War, is it? You’re a barmaid there?”
“Scullery, sir.”
“Mickie Goodfellow’s the landlord, isn’t that about right?”
Jane beamed. “You see? Mr. Field is that clever, you wouldn’t believe it!”
“Right,” said the detective, drawing back a chair and seating himself at the table. “Tell me about this man who scared the boy.”
“Tom said he moved funny,” said Jake.
“Smooth-like,” said Field.
“That’s right,” said Jake with rising wonder. “Like he was skatin’, Tom said. I didn’t notice it meself.”
“You mean to say that you saw this man, too, Mr. Figgis?”
“Aye. Spoke to me. Said he was kin to Martha here, and where was Tom?”
“But he wasn’t kin?” Field asked the woman.
“No, sir.”
“Tall, fair-haired gentleman, was he? With deep-set eyes?” Jake nodded, and Field smiled for the first time all day. “Did he give a name?”
“No, sir. He were just about your height, sir, but his eyes is what struck you. Sunk in, they were.”
“Let’s all have something to eat, Mrs. Field.”
“Bessie?” said Jane. “Fetch the cakes from the larder.”
“And me not be there if my Tom comes home?” said Martha, rising. “You’re most kind, Mrs. Field, and I thank you for it, but I’ve stopped away too long as it is.” Jake stood and took her by the arm.
“You’ll get your boy back, Mrs. Ginty,” said Jane. “Mr. Field will see to that.”
The others looked expectantly at Field, but he glanced quickly away, unable to bear the hope in their eyes.
“Mr. Field?” said Jane.
The inspector looked up. “D’ you know a Cory? Or a Cory something?”
Martha and Jake shook their heads.
“What about medical men? Surgeons?” Jake glanced at Martha and she bit her lip.
“Not to speak to, no, sir,” she said.
Touched a nerve?
“Not to speak to,” repeated Field. “But in some fashion?”
“Lots o’ folk come to pub.”
“Is the Fortune of War especially popular with medical people, would you say, Mrs. Ginty?”
“With some, maybe,” said Martha.
“That’s odd,” said Field. “I should have thought, with St. Bart’s Hospital so close, the tavern would be overrun with doctors.”
“Yes, sir.”
She’s coloring up to the roots of her pretty black hair, I wonder why.
“Ah, well,” said Field, “we’ll do what we can do, which I’m afraid is very little. If you think of anything further, Mrs. Ginty, do let me know. Good night, Figgis.”
When they had gone Field sat at the table staring at his hands while Bessie and Jane prepared his tea. As the two women came and went, Jane glanced anxiously at her husband, knowing that something was troubling him. Perhaps he’d thought of something having to do with Mrs. Ginty’s boy? Perhaps he already knew something, and it was too terrible to tell. Finally she stood behind her husband and put her hands on his shoulders. “Mr. Field?”
“Am I happy, Jane, do you think? Are you?”
“What?”
“Is my life miserable?” he asked. Jane took her hands from her husband’s shoulders, suddenly hurt and confused. “Mr. Marx said it is,” continued Field. “When we die, what will we say of our lives?”
A shrill voice from the door chimed in. “Won’t be no time for talk,” said Bessie, wiping her hands on her apron. “You’ll be whisked to ’eaven or ’ell that fast, and for all eternity!”
Field was shouting. “For God’s sake, woman, was I addressing you?”
Bessie shrieked and pulled her apron up to her mouth, giving way to cascading tears.
But the inspector’s face had lit up suddenly. “The bloody apron again!”
“Language, sir!” said his wife sternly. “Language!”
Bessie was in full cry. Jane threw a protective arm around her bony shoulders and ushered her to the stairs, glowering back at her husband all the while.
“For shame, Mr. Field!” she hissed. “And no, your life ain’t miserable, nor so I thought, sir!”
The two women disappeared up the stairs. Field took the stopper from a stone bottle and poured himself a finge
r of gin. “The killer brought it back,” he said in wonder as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into the drink. “Nicked the apron in the morning, returned it when finished, and the boy saw him! Why in God’s name didn’t he stuff the bloody thing down a drain?”
12
Tom searched the darkness desperately for his mother’s face. What would she do when he didn’t come home at the end of the day? Had the end of the day arrived yet? Was it the same day or some other? If the sun neither rose nor set, would time stand still? He’d seen a madman once, crossing the market, his hair matted, gibbering to himself and swatting at the children who danced after him. Was that what was in store for him? Was he there already? If he had just a thimbleful of water, he could make a plan. Just a small drink and he would stop thinking all these thoughts, he would breathe again and hope.
I di’n’t see nothin’, he would say. I don’t care who you are nor yet what you done. I’d never split on you. Let me go an’ you’ll never see nor hear o’ me again.
Was he saying it aloud? His throat felt ragged, perhaps he was shouting. Maybe he had been screaming all along, the same things, over and over again for hours. Or days. Who could tell?
There were muffled voices, very near. Something like hope filled him so abruptly it left him nauseated.
They’ve come, they’re goin’ to make an arrest, they’ll be settin’ me free, oh God please God please.
No. It was the hated voice, talking calmly. Even as Tom made lavish promises to the deity in return for deliverance, he heard other voices as well.
“I want to see!” A young girl?
“Careful,” the hated voice was saying as the coffin lid edged up, “it bites!”
There was muffled laughter. Tom squinted as light penetrated the box.
“Ginger hair spells trouble, it never fails,” someone cackled, an old woman, perhaps.
“Nonsense, Mrs. Hamlet,” said Decimus. “Granted, he has been making a racket.”