An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
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isn’t my speciality, as you know.’
‘You’ve still had no news of her, then?’
She was no longer talking about Martha Drewitt. He shook his head. ‘You?’
‘Not a word. When Ma died last year I thought she might have heard, might have got in touch, but … ,’ she stopped, and her expression hardened. She stood up. ‘Well at least I can say I tried. For Martha.’
He watched her walk to the door, his expression betraying no hint of the struggle inside. He wanted to help her, but common sense and self-preservation argued against it. She had her hand on the doorknob when he spoke.
‘I don’t suppose you have a photograph of Martha?’
‘As if!’
‘Could you give us a description?’
‘Will it help? Does that mean you’ll look?’
He nodded, common sense smothered into silence. ‘Wait here.’
He found Wainwright in the main hall, helping Sergeant Phelps process a couple of burglars. Wainwright was writing a list, as the sergeant pulled various items from the thieves’ pockets.
‘… three gent’s watches, one pinchbeck necklace, six, no, seven, silk handkerchiefs.’ He placed them on the counter, next to a paper packet. Pilgrim peered into it.
‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘It was gingerbread,’ said Wainwright dolefully. ‘My landlady gave it to me, but I made the mistake of bringing it down here.’
‘Don’t look at me, lad,’ sniffed Phelps. ‘I never touched it, I’m sure.’
‘Can I borrow the constable for a little while, Sergeant Phelps?’
‘Be my guest, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Bring your sketchpad, Wainwright.’
‘Of course, sir, certainly, sir.’
The young policeman’s eyes lit up with curiosity.
Curiosity turned to embarrassment when he was introduced to Frances. His long face flushed so hard that even the tips of his ears went pink.
‘This is Wainwright,’ Pilgrim explained to his niece. ‘He has a gift for capturing a likeness. Describe your friend to him as best as you can.’
Wainwright stared at Frances. ‘I don’t know as how I’d call it a gift, precisely,’ he stammered. ‘And I’m used to having the subject plain in front of me.’
‘Just do your best.’ Pilgrim felt a flash of irritation. ‘Why not sit at Tanner’s desk, by the window? The light’s better there.’
Wainwright nodded and did as he was told, pulling Tanner’s chair out for Frances to sit on. He drew up another chair and opened his pad. He pulled out a piece of charcoal, fidgeted indecisively with it, and then took a deep breath. ‘I might as well just start then, shall I? With the shape of the face. You can put me right as we go along.’
Pilgrim nodded. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
He went out and closed the door, then leaned against it. He felt the weight of eyes on him immediately, however, and turned to see Dolly watching from the other side of the corridor. ‘I thought you were going to visit laundries with that vest?’ he snapped.
‘I’m on my way now, sir.’
‘Then go.’ Pilgrim hesitated. ‘No. On second thoughts, stay here and keep an eye on that door. If Sergeant Tanner comes anywhere near it, find an excuse to send him in the other direction.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Pilgrim found an empty office, went inside, and closed the door. He leaned against it and shut his eyes. Frances was a shock. The last time he had seen her she was a skinny eleven year old, with missing teeth and scabbed elbows. The intervening years had been kind, in one way at least, transforming her into a beautiful young woman. An uncanny replica of her aunt: his wife, Bess. When he had seen Frances in his office he had thought for one heart-lurching moment that Bess had come back to him. He took some deep breaths, and went back out into the corridor.
A group of men had gathered at the office door. Dolly was standing in the path of Tanner and Charles Dickens, blocking their way.
‘You really don’t want to go in there, sir,’ he was saying to Tanner.
‘Why not?’
‘There’s a terrible … smell.’
‘A smell?’
‘The most dreadful smell of …’ Dolly cast around for a suitable scent.
Tanner pushed him to one side.
‘Stop wasting my time.’ He threw open the door and strode into the room. Dickens followed him.
Pilgrim lengthened his stride. As he reached the door, Dolly turned to him with a mute apology.
‘What’s your sort doing in here?’ said Tanner, inside the room.
Frances and Wainwright, who had been sitting with their heads close together over the sketchbook, got to their feet.
‘What sort would that be?’ asked Pilgrim.
Dickens glanced from Pilgrim to Tanner and back again, and stepped between them. ‘My dear Sergeant Pilgrim! What a pleasure to see you. Sergeant Tanner was just acquainting me with the details of the Grimwood case.’
‘Was he?’
Tanner’s face suffused with blood. ‘You’re not the only Detective Sergeant on the force.’
Pilgrim ignored Tanner and turned to Dickens.
‘This is my niece, Frances.’
‘Delighted to meet you, my dear,’ said Dickens. He beamed at Frances.
‘She’s giving a description of a missing friend to Constable Wainwright,’ said Pilgrim. ‘He helps out on occasion in the mortuary, as an artist.’
‘An artist, eh?’ Dickens took the sketch of Martha Drewitt from Wainwright. It showed a young woman, a little too round cheeked and heavy browed for beauty, but with a graceful neck and an abundance of hair. ‘Is it a good likeness?’ he asked Frances.
‘If it ain’t, it ain’t my fault,’ muttered Wainwright. ‘I’m used to drawing from life, in a manner of speaking.’
‘The features are right,’ said Frances, ‘but it lacks Martha’s vitality.’
‘That’s something I ain’t had a lot of practice at,’ said the artist, glumly.
‘Even so,’ said Dickens, ‘this is excellent, most accomplished. But I’m afraid you artists will very soon be out of a job, if photography takes off the way people say it will.’
‘It’ll never happen, sir. Oh, that photography’s all very well for takin’ images of corpses, and suchlike, but it ain’t art. When it comes down to it, it’s not much more than a ruddy fairground trick … beg your pardon, Miss.’
Everyone fell silent.
‘The gloves,’ prompted Dickens, ‘you were going to show me the gloves, Sergeant Tanner.’
‘Yes, sir, of course. They’re right here in this drawer.’ Tanner took out a pair of opera gloves and showed them to Dickens. ‘See, they have letters inside them, a “T” and an “R”.’
‘So they do.’ Dickens took one and sniffed it. ‘Sulphur and rosin. These have been cleaned recently, if I’m not mistaken. You might want to continue your investigation with glove cleaners, Sergeant Tanner. I’d say there can’t be above eight or nine regular glove cleaners in the city.’
Pilgrim took