Children of the Tide. Jon Redfern
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Endersby nodded. “I can study this sad creature well enough on my own while you cajole witnesses and ply questions.” Sergeant Caldwell immediately relaxed his stiff posture: “Thank you, sir.”
“Mind you, talk alone with the scullery maids. I want their eyes to speak first, since they found the corpse. Also, check entrances — side, back, cellar — for signs of break-in, broken latches, and locks.”
“Thank you, Inspector.”
“‘For this relief much thanks,’” quipped Endersby, remembering the production of Hamlet that he had attended three nights prior at Covent Garden Theatre. As Sergeant Caldwell left the chamber, Endersby took off his hat and suede gloves. From his shoulder, he shrugged off a leather satchel with a thick strap. “This is my handy carry-all,” he explained to the matron. “Purchased years ago, when I worked my districts as a Bow Street Runner.” He shuffled the objects inside: handcuffs and a cosh, used to subdue resistant felons. Onto the table he piled a leather-bound notebook, a clutch of lead-tipped pencils, a turban cloth for disguises, a scarf, and an ear trumpet for checking heartbeats. “Ah, here it is,” he said. “My latest acquisition.” The inspector held up a square of thick magnifying glass. Leaning closer to the corpse, Endersby passed the glass over the face, then concentrated on the dead woman’s sunken cheeks. Black smudges reached halfway to her temples. He dabbed a wet finger and rubbed. Coal dust. He peered at the victim’s neck, its stiffness of muscle raising the chin to show a combination of marks.
“Did you know Miss Matty well?” asked Endersby, straightening.
“Little enough, Inspector. She was a bitter woman.”
Nodding, he continued. “I see here, Matron, just under the jaw line and across the centre of the neck, a thin blue-black bruise dotted with orange-coloured specks. I think this is the result of a hanging.” The line of injury marked the skin like a blue cord. It did not extend far beyond the front surface of the neck. “So not a true noose,” Endersby concluded out loud.
“These specks are bits of metal rust,” he continued. Matron Agnes watched him pull out a paper envelope. With the tips of his thumb and forefinger he lifted off a number of the tiny scales of metal from the surface of the neck and placed them inside the envelope. Endersby deduced, tentatively, that the murderer had pressed a hand, encrusted with coal dust, across the victim’s face and strangled the woman with a tool of some kind. But what had been the prime motive? Revenge? Vicious pleasure?
“Inspector, there is one item I have set aside,” said Matron Agnes. From a drawer in the table she handed Endersby a six-inch piece of mouldy, coarse lace. “This cloth,” she explained, “I pulled from Matty’s mouth and throat.” Endersby examined the lace close to the candle. He turned it over in his hands. “But why lace?” he suddenly asked. “And why, indeed, compound the method of murder with such a cruel gesture?” Endersby raised his head to see Matron Agnes wipe tears from her eyes. “Most peculiar, Matron. I am indeed sorry,” the inspector said. He pulled out another envelope and placed the bit of lace inside. “The magistrate,” he said, “demands proof of any items found near or on the body.”
“Why has this happened?” Matron Agnes cried.
“I cannot say as yet what I believe,” Endersby answered. “Items speak of their own accord and can help form a picture, if you wish. I apply logic as best I can. I presuppose this is murder, and this lace, which you have most wisely guarded, is strong evidence of a merciless killer.”
The two stood for a moment in the gloom of the flickering candle before walking back upstairs.
“Have we finished, Inspector?”
“One last request, Matron. I would like to see Miss Matty’s room.”
As he stepped quickly down the stairs into the vast cellar of the workhouse, Sergeant Caldwell winced from his tooth pain. He popped two cloves into his mouth and settled them on his throbbing molar. He couldn’t help wondering about all the poor thin girls he’d seen huddling in the wards. What a horror to think a parent could abandon a child.
“Good morning, sir,” he said to the scrub boy.
The boy nodded his head.
“Take me around, boy, to all the doors in the cellar and then on the upper floor.”
“To check locks, sir?” the boy asked.
“Yes, lad, to see if and where the killer broke in.”
“You won’t find any, sir,” the boy said leading Sergeant Caldwell up a back staircase.
“Won’t find what?”
“No signs, sir. First thing I did before I scrubbed the hearth was to check doors. The intruder never come in here by them.” The boy pointed to a door leading to an upper room. The lock was still on and there was no sign of any forced entry. Throughout the walk the same situation occurred. The workhouse had been sealed tight. Sergeant Caldwell wondered if the boy had performed some mischief, but as he watched him he saw he was clever, quick, and obedient.
“You were born in here, lad?”
“In’ere? Two floors up in the women’s ward. Never set eyes on me mammy.”
The boy’s bright voice cut into Caldwell’s heart. He did not think of himself as sentimental. How had this lad become so strong? So used to a lonely life? After inspecting all the doors and entrances, Sergeant Caldwell made a few notes in his notebook.
“Now, lad,” Caldwell said, his voice more cheerful, “gather all the workers here. Lead them to the hearth room. Fast as you can, young boy. I have questions to ask!”
Chapter Two
Tales of Woe
Matron Agnes led Endersby into Miss Matty’s small room, its only furniture a simple bed and a cupboard with two drawers. The cupboard contained a cloak, a pair of shoes, and an outdoor bonnet. A meagre life, the inspector thought.
“Can you recall if any other woman or man complained against her?”
“The scullery maids liked to tease her a little. Such was their way. Matty never complained, nor did they. Perhaps they saw in each other a similar misery.”
“Or loneliness?” the inspector added.
“We are a place full of much loneliness, sir,” Matron Agnes replied, a melancholy in her words.
“Did Miss Matty have any friends or acquaintances outside of the workhouse? People she met or spoke about?”
“She rarely talked to me. Her acquaintances were few — if any — that I could perceive.”
Endersby thanked the matron. On his way down to the entrance of the workhouse he peeked into a ward full of destitute women with small babies. What sorrow pervades the morning light, he thought. What thin hands and thin bodies are arrayed on the