the children recognize you, Mr. Potter?” Endersby asked.
“I imagine so, sir,” the coal carrier answered. “I hail them in the mornings, the young ones outside at least.”
“Given the days you deliver here — it being Wednesday today — were you by chance delivering coal anywhere near St. Giles Workhouse early this morning? Let us say close to three or even half past three o’clock?”
“Matter of fact, yes, sir. I was at Holborn, not ten minutes north. Haberdasher. Nine sacks.”
“Mr. Potter,” Endersby said. “I shall be brief. Do you in your night hours of delivery ever make note of the creatures on the streets which you traverse?” Endersby asked. “I mean other than the boy gangs, or the women of the night. Any unusual figures you might see and remember?”
“Man in a lady’s gown two early mornings ago, sir. Kimbawed by rum and beer. Hailed me, he did.”
“And anyone this past night, or near three or half three o’clock?”
“Near three or twenty past the hour, yes. While on delivery on Holborn. A chap came along, an odd one limping. Right bent, beard.”
“Did he speak to you, at all?”
“The cove! Head-on into the flank of my dray. Come up from Drury Lane. Like he was chased by a pack of dogs.”
“Did the gentleman reply in any way, perhaps curse or apologize for colliding with you, Mr. Potter?”
“Struck my wagon, he did, with a gaff! Said nothing. Stank like a dead horse. Went on his way along Holborn, toward Gray’s Inn.”
“A gaff. What do you mean?”
“Like what the dredgermen use, sir. The river scavengers. Long handle with a hook. For haulin’ in bodies, sir,” Potter said.
“Metal?” asked Endersby.
“Like the flounder fishers once used when I was a lad,” answered the coal carrier. “I see plenty men using them round the docks. Mind, the dredgers are a closed lot. A guild. No one works for’em unless for pittance.”
“ Did you by chance see the cove’s face?”
“A flash sir. Like he was cut. Or with a mark from birth.”
“You will be called upon by the parish clerk and the coroner today — later this morning, in fact — to tell your story again,” replied Endersby. “Alert the coal works of your whereabouts.”
“Thank you, sir.” Potter said. The inspector and Caldwell bid him goodbye. Then, without delay, Endersby asked Caldwell to write down the details of the coal carrier’s description: A MAN WITH A BEARD, A LIMP, A STINK, A DREDGERMAN’S METAL GAFF, AND A FACIAL MARK. Outside in the yard, as the two examined the side door’s lack of outer hardware they discovered a broken latch on the coal chute. “So far, Sergeant, scant proof provides us a logical connection. Entry of villain here — down the chute; exit of villain by the wooden side door. All of our conclusions based on coal dust.”
“Remarkable, sir,” answered Caldwell.
“And your professional opinion of the coal carrier, Sergeant?”
“Innocent seeming, sir. To be bold, I cannot conjure a motive for murder in a chap like him.”
“I stand beside you on that count, Sergeant. A man with brains cramped into the body of a labourer.” The two men stood close, their breaths visible in the crisp air.
“My first question, Caldwell.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“How did our culprit know about the side door and its particular latch?”
“Perhaps he played scout at first. Or was well acquainted with St. Giles. Perhaps he was once an inmate, like Potter, the coal carrier.”
“Certainly possible,” Endersby said. “Or a former master, perhaps? Disgraced and sent into the world without a reference?” Endersby walked a few paces toward the front portal. “Second question: a man brutally kills a matron in a workhouse, a place he may know in familiar terms. It seems he kills at random. Miss Matty was a shut-in creature without friends. Unless, of course, he did know her and hated her. He murders in a cruel manner, using a piece of lace, in order to search for a particular child. But to what end? We can discount the motive to take advantage in a way only the most disgusting of men find pleasing. For revenge? To recover a lost offspring? But then the villain leaves this child behind, unharmed. And what of the waif, herself? The child called Catherine?”
“You do love your ramblings, sir,” Caldwell said.
“The highways and byways of the criminal world, Sergeant, make up a most intricate topography.”
Standing by the front entrance of the workhouse, Endersby relaxed his shoulders. “Shall we walk a little?” he suggested. Caldwell agreed and he offered the idea they go to a coffee house close by and drink a pot to revive their spirits. “The coroner will soon arrive, sir. We have time,” Caldwell said, imagining members of the parish board descending on St. Giles Workhouse like avenging angels, fingers ready to point. “It is time, indeed, for reflection,” said Endersby. “Time to wonder about a child named Catherine.”
Chapter Four
Double Trouble
Endersby reluctantly stepped once more into the clammy dimness of the workhouse and was shown to a chamber on the second floor. A tin clock on the corridor wall banged out the hour of nine. The workhouse had begun to function again, noise and shouting filling the air. An inferno, indeed, thought Endersby. What a cat’s cradle of facts and suppositions. These thoughts ceased abruptly when the inspector saw, in the chamber before him, Matron Agnes bent over a thin, blonde girl. The child held a pencil. On a piece of foolscap she was diligently drawing out a large oval shape. When the child turned and looked up at him, Endersby noticed the deformity of her upper lip.
“Inspector,” said Matron Agnes, “this is young Catherine. She is the girl who was found outside the workhouse gate very early this morning. Do not mind that she is dumb, sir. She is a bright child.”
Catherine continued to decorate the oval shape in front of her.
“Can she read and write her letters?” asked Endersby.
“Better than many here,” answered Matron Agnes.
Stepping away from the child, Matron Agnes lowered her voice. “How fortunate, Inspector, that Catherine was not harmed in any way.”
“Indeed, Matron,” Endersby answered. “Have you posed any questions and received any answers?”
“With Catherine, one must always ask for a ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ Or to have her draw. She is clever with her pencil. The intruder carried her outside into the street and then left her, untouched. I have requested Catherine to draw me a picture of the man’s face. For she nodded when I asked if she had seen the fellow’s features.”
