some people’s minds took time to grow. Like seeds, they lay dormant until a gesture, a cruel word, made them burst out of the heart and force the hand to take a life. But who had Miss Matty wronged?
On reaching the entrance hall, Endersby felt relieved to see Sergeant Caldwell standing by the hearth where the body had been found. Endersby hoped his sergeant had found a clue. A cook in a white apron, the sour haughty master, a tall, pinched-looking younger gentleman, and two other stern women were arranged in a wide circle about the sergeant. Closer to Caldwell stood two very haggard women.
“These are the scullery maids, sir,” Caldwell explained. The two reminded Inspector Endersby of the oyster-sellers he frequently visited in the dock streets near Limehouse: shabby in dress, smelling of dirty bare feet. “I tried to scream, I did,” said the first of the two. Endersby listened as the two interrupted each other with their tale of finding the body on the floor. “Did you notice anything in Miss Matty’s mouth when you found her?” Endersby asked. The two quickly glanced at each other: “Naught, sir, but her cheeks were fat out, like she had taken too much porridge from her bowl.”
“Was there anything lying on the floor? Other than the tipped chair?”
The two scullery maids shook their heads. Endersby thanked them and stepped aside to think for a moment. His gouty left foot started to pang. A bad omen, he thought, for he relied on his left foot to alert him to the swell of obscurity which often dogged an investigation. This morning he suffered a peculiar confusion from what seemed to be, so far, a murder with scant clues: the lace, the coal dust, the bruise and the bits of rusted metal. He looked at Sergeant Caldwell, who was finishing up the testimonies of the other workers. After they were dismissed, Caldwell gave a summary of his findings: the cook arrived at a later hour and was unaware of the killing; the masters had all been in bed, as had the two other matrons. None except the two scullery maids had acquaintance with Miss Matty. The two masters knew her by sight only. No sign of the coal carrier.
“No adult witnesses it seems, so far. And the doors and entrances, Sergeant?”
Mr. Caldwell grinned and spoke with clove on his breath. “Sir, the scrub boy took me around to the back and front entrances. Both showed no signs of forced entry from the outside. The locks were large and opened by a number of key turns. A villain, sir, would have needed a strong arm and a metal jack-bar to open either one of them. Both were locked all night. The windows here, as we have observed, are barred and high up. However, sir, there is a wooden side door. Near the stairs leading up from the laundry rooms. It has a latch, but only on the inside. On the outside, it is without hardware.”
“I wonder why?” queried Endersby. “Certainly to keep outsiders from entering via the yard. Dare we assume, Sergeant, that this door was the exit afforded to the culprit?”
“Possibly, sir, since the young child was found close to it by the workhouse gate.”
“Ah, indeed. The waif named Catherine. Do we know anything about her?”
“Not as yet, sir.”
“But, Caldwell, why was this particular child out in the cold? I wonder if there are many who try to escape from this dreadful place?”
“If I may suggest, sir, a child wishing to escape would surely have run far away from the workhouse gate.”
“Most surely, Sergeant.”
Endersby blinked his eyes; on raising his head only a fraction, he dispelled a number of swirling questions and returned his attention to the present situation.
“And the scrub boy, Sergeant?”
“Sir?”
“Did you question him at all?”
“Most efficiently, sir. He said he was asleep upstairs with the other boys. Seems the male wards and the family wing are all locked at night, so no passage between them and this female ward is possible until the morning when the masters unlock the doors and herd the inmates to their breakfasts.”
“Curious,” replied Endersby. “But with all these locked doors, how did the culprit move so freely? It would depend on where he entered, surely. Caldwell, I have a sense that this person knows well the layout of a workhouse. Knows of locked passages and open ones. How else could such a brutal act be committed if the man were stumbling about getting lost or at worst, being caught by a master and thrashed?”
“I shall keep this in mind, sir. The scrub lad also told me how difficult it was to mop up the coal dust.”
“Coal dust! Do we know where the coal chute is for the kitchen?”
“In the cellar, sir.”
“Kindly investigate it. See if there are signs of a forced entry, if the chute itself looks brushed or mussed in any way.”
“Mussed, sir?”
“The victim was heavily smudged with coal dust. We could presume it was a coal carrier who decided to end Miss Matty’s life. Or, in fact, we might discover that the culprit, whose profession remains, as yet, unknown to us, entered the building via the chute.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“By the by, find out the name of the coal carrier. Where is the chap? In the meantime, I will go to the young girls before me in the ward. Perhaps one of them can enlighten me. If we have some luck, perhaps one can remember witnessing the villain — although fear of the dark can create monsters.”
Endersby stood alone for a moment, his ears alert to the murmuring of the young girls in the ward. What human flotsam stood before him. The ever-present spectre of young Robert Endersby, his only child, now dead these twelve years, drifted into his conscious mind. Not unlike one or two of the children in this ward, his son Robert had been a weak three-year-old, eventually felled by a lung infection. Seeing so many young girls before him, Endersby felt pity, as each of them might be dead within a week or a month. “For their own safety,” Endersby grumbled, thinking back to a statement once made by a politician who supported workhouses for the poor as a way of teaching them to become “self-sufficient.”
Honing his mind as best he could, Inspector Endersby now looked with clear eyes. By each bed stood a young girl dressed in blue muslin. Heads lowered in obedience, bare feet, and a smell of sickly skin engulfed the space. When he approached one girl, she raised her face to him and showed a set of drawn features, the eyes ringed with mauve circles.
“Good morning, girls. My name is Endersby. I am a policeman.”
A muted round of “g’morning” greeted the inspector’s introduction. He asked the children to approach him and stand in a circle. The girls moved quickly, some stumbling. “Have you had your porridge, yet?” he asked. A cry of “No, sir,” flew up to the high ceiling. “Then I shall be quick,” Endersby said, looking into the homely faces of the unfortunate of his own society. Could any one of these young females tell a story recounting the events of last night? Would they be reliable as witnesses? Given the hardship in their young lives, how well could these storm-tossed children reveal the differences between phantom and flesh? With a gracious severity, he asked the oldest girl to step forward.
“Now, why don’t you tell me a story? You tell stories to each other, don’t you?”
A few of the girls blushed
