Children of the Tide. Jon Redfern
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to view the body once again. “The coroner and surgeon will have to inspect this sad woman, as you may know,” the inspector explained. “It is common procedure before a verdict on cause of death is announced.” The matron could not look long at the corpse’s contorted face. She told Endersby she knew the woman well enough, that she was partly blind, but that she had a gentle hand, much like her own, and did not punish her wards like the masters did the boys. Endersby asked about the victim’s friends and enemies, but like Miss Matty in St. Giles, the victim had preferred her own company. After looking again at the bruised neck, Endersby pulled out the envelope containing the found piece of lace.
“Curious, Matron, this lace. It appears to be of the same cloth as the fragment found on the victim at St. Giles, where a similar incident occurred last night.”
“May I look at it closely, sir?”
Endersby spread the lace on a table. Matron Bickerstaff examined it, holding her hands to her sides so as not to touch a weapon of death.
“If I may, I could be of some assistance, Inspector.”
The woman proceeded to tell him that as head matron she had the responsibility to provide clothing and shoes for the female inmates. Her parish stipend was small and so she frequented the second-hand clothing and cloth markets in Rosemary Lane. “In the Lane there is a seller of second-hand lace. All types and shapes. Some old, many well kept and affordable. I believe there may be other lace sellers in Monmouth Street but since lace does not sell readily to the poor, it is not a popular item for profit.”
“This segment here is lace for curtains or drapes,” Endersby guessed. “It seems too coarse for dress trimming.”
Matron Bickerstaff bent and looked at the thick patterns and the unrefined cotton stitches. “I agree, sir, that this is border lace for curtain windows. The man in Rosemary Lane has a stall right near the south entrance. I have seen him often. Although he looks unfortunate, having little exchange of coin for his goods, he is cheerful enough.” Endersby thanked the matron for her information. “I have one other query, Matron”
Matron Bickerstaff held her gaze on Endersby’s face. “I surmise that this man-cum-murderer is desperately looking for a child. One named specifically Catherine.”
“Frightening prospect, Inspector. A damning name to have if that is the case.”
“If I am correct, I ask you why this culprit does his searching at night. Could he not simply come to the front door of any workhouse and ask for a Catherine, to see her in broad daylight?”
“Only, Inspector, if he has a licence. The Poor Laws and the parish do not allow children out of our protection unless the caller be bona fide. This is to prevent exploitation, as you can imagine. We have frequently turned away merchants and factory owners who seem suspect to us. And we rarely, nowadays, let our children out to chimney sweeps for the work is too dangerous. I pity those who are forced into such terrible labour.”
“But if one were a relative, a repentant parent searching for a child?”
“The same rule applies. A man in particular must have a reference or an affidavit as to his identity and his ability to nourish and protect a child. Females have often, in the past, been stolen — yes, from workbenches in factories or elsewhere — and taken into brothels and nanny houses to service wretches of all manner.”
Endersby pondered the matron’s words, then offered his thanks and bid her goodbye. What should be his first foray, he wondered? To locate a lace seller — and perhaps find a lead to the murderer’s whereabouts? It was feasible the killer planned his crime and bought lace for a reason. Or, just as likely, he might have stolen or taken lace simply because it was at hand. Endersby had few clues to lead him forth. And he was not comfortable with the observations of the children, for doubt coaxed him to believe their words contained more fantasy than truth. What of the name: Uncle Bow? Knuckle Toe? And the scar, the worm? A frightening mark to young eyes. These thoughts bullied Endersby even as Wanton Time, as he liked to call it, pressed upon him to wait for the surgeon and the coroner.
Just before noon, the coroner arrived at Shoe Lane House of Correction and began his session. The parish officer presented summonses to a jury of peers — coal carriers, drivers, a coffee-stall keeper, two dustmen, and two cabmen, halted on their way to a fare. The coroner instructed his jury to study well the evidence: Endersby was called to display the lace, to tell of the matter of the coal chute and to draw a comparison to the murder at St. Giles. The makeshift jury, standing around the coroner in the workhouse dining room, listened to the child and adult witnesses, learned of the gaff, and then heard the surgeon’s conclusions. After deliberation, a fair-minded verdict was announced and the coroner demanded Endersby to take the found items to the magistrate for recording and then proceed to seek out the responsible villain.
Out in the air after the proceedings, Endersby decided to walk the short distance from Shoe Lane across Farringdon Street into Fleet Lane Station House. What mist and damp! The streets were astir: cabs, pedestrians, ragged children running. Fleet Prison itself loomed as the inspector limped along, mindful of his gouty foot. Endersby protested his deep fear that a madman was running loose in the streets. Why lace? What drives a man to such means? Such beasts we are as men, he thought, reprimanding himself on his own illicit love of punching jaws.
Chapter Five
A Bit of Onion
Ten-year-old Catherine Smeets drew in a quick breath. She kept her head down. Next to her, and on both sides of the long scuffed table, girls her age frantically licked thin gruel from wooden bowls. Here, in St. Pancras Workhouse, the food was scant. In the other workhouses of London, like St. Giles two miles south, pots of porridge with a shred of meat were standard fare for the midday meal. This was not the case in St. Pancras, where a small bowl of gruel was all that was served at each meal. This moment of rest would soon be finished; all children at the tables would rise shortly at the clap of the matron’s hands and march off to start the toil of the afternoon after a morning of scrubbing floors.
Catherine Smeets put down her wooden bowl. Her right hand shot out; she grabbed a second half onion from the serving platter — a treat only on Wednesdays in St. Pancras — and glanced up at Nell sitting kitty-corner on the opposite side. Nell jammed her eyes right, then left and blinked twice. Catherine slipped the bit of onion under the hem of her blue muslin shift. For later, she thought. For our plan.
Matron Pickens approached on her inspection walk. Nell tapped her right hand once. Catherine bent again over her bowl and felt Matron Pickens brush by her back, the whish of her birch rod cutting through the cold air.
“Girls,” Matron Pickens announced, “extra for those who get all windows washed before supper. Whippings for those who dawdle or whine.” Matron Pickens spoke with a scratchy throat, as if she had swallowed broken pebbles for her midday meal. Nell once said Matron Pickens was a puppet and not a human, like the Judy in the Tom Fool shows.
Now the final prayer was intoned by Master Jenkins, who was standing by the iron stove with his hat on, his hands raised up before his face. He had a ringing voice, his thanks to the parish elders and to Jesus echoing off the high stone walls of the dining ward. This afternoon the boys of St. Pancras were to be sent to chop wood for the parish. “A good day’s labour, boys, meant to show you the joys of honest work,” shouted Master Jenkins. Catherine never could understand how blistered hands were rewards. This same afternoon she and Nell and Little Mag were to be sent down below into the laundry to mend sheets.
Catherine Smeets slowly stood up with her mates. She still had a trace of rose in her cheeks even though she had been in St. Pancras three months, ever since her father, Sergeant Peter Smeets, had abandoned her at the front door in late December and gone off to Scotland to join his regiment. Oh, how she missed him and her mother, dead these past two years of the fever. But mostly her uncle, her mother’s only brother. How brutally he was treated. How good he tried to be in fighting against her drunken father. But all of that life was gone. Forever, thought Catherine.