Inspector Endersby clenched both his gloved fists. His hat dropped to the floor. Borne stepped from the behind the desk. He was about to speak when Endersby interrupted:
“With due respect, sir, the members of the lower orders are Christians, as are you and I. We cannot relinquish our bonds of human brotherhood when the killing of innocent women — women with souls, sir — has taken place. Our noble sovereign has but recently given birth to her first child and she has stated, in her joy, that all her subjects are equally beloved of her as is her infant, the Princess Royal, Victoria. Likewise, we men of the law must extend our protection to all. We cannot allow prejudice to rule our conduct.”
Endersby had countered Borne’s obstinacy on several occasions with allusions to persons of higher social standing, be they the Queen or an admiral of the imperial navy. Borne removed his hand from his frock coat. He sniffed, looked down at his shoes, then stared Inspector Endersby straight in the eye:
“Inspector, I find your remarks impertinent. Perhaps you have misunderstood the meaning of my words. Our prime minister and founder of our detective police, Sir Robert Peel, has wisely stated our mission is to prevent crime and disorder. By finding the simplest way to do this shall result in greater trust and safety for all.”
Not to be out-maneuvered, Inspector Endersby formed a quick reply: “With due respect to you and to Sir Robert, our founder also stated that to preserve public favour we police must demonstrate absolute impartial service to the law. A murder has been committed; the law requires action. It is for this reason alone…”
“Inspector, please,” Borne said, his face reddening. “I am quite capable of quoting Sir Robert’s nine principles. And I can see that if we continue in this manner, I shall not have the luxury of finishing my meal.”
Endersby did not move. Superintendent Borne sat down again. He picked up his fork and took hold of his cloth napkin. Endersby folded his hands together. He spoke in a flat manner as if he were defeated and was willing to succumb to Borne’s dismissive manner: “What, then, sir, might be your suggestion in handling this matter?”
“Surely, Inspector, that is what your keen mind must conjure on its own. I have given my opinion. Do you wish me to issue an order? Please be advised, sir, our city has over eight hundred constables and at least twenty well-paid detective inspectors like you. We have a roster of crimes to investigate. I suggest you consider delegating duties and, if you wish, you may appoint two constables at most to give you aid. I can see no other recourse. But once better locks are secured in workhouse institutions, I reckon the murders will cease.”
“Most just of you, sir,” was Endersby’s quiet response. Somehow without losing face, Borne had managed to recognize the severity of the situation Endersby had presented to him not minutes before.
“We have your permission, then, to proceed, sir?”
“Search and capture, Inspector.” Borne’s voice was without enthusiasm. He then pronounced: “You have much to do, sir. I want facts, conclusions and arrests.”
“Thank you, sir. We already have some clues to lead us.”
“You make your duties sound like a child’s game, Inspector. How clever. I grant a three day subsidy only for the workhouse matter. If, as you say, you have clues, follow them with speed. And warn the houses of the need to lock their coal chutes.” These last few words of Borne’s were accompanied by a mocking chuckle.
“Report Monday next, Inspector,” Borne added. “Haste and dispatch.”
With simultaneous gestures, Endersby retrieved his hat from the floor while Borne snatched up his dinner knife and began to slice his pork cutlet. In the corridor outside of Borne’s office, Endersby tapped his large stomach and then wrung his gloved hands: “Ledgers and new locks!” he said with some glee. Endersby pulled down his hat and when he stepped into the courtyard, Sergeant Caldwell was waiting.
“Any culprits in the cells, Sergeant?” Endersby asked.
“Only two women, sir, a lad, and a drunken man. No scar, no fearful faces, sir.”
“Come then, follow me, Sergeant.”
Hobbling a little with his gouty foot, the inspector mounted the steps to the first floor and entered a large window-bright room. A gathering of constables and other sergeants stood at attention.
“Gentlemen of the law, I wish you a good afternoon,” said Inspector Endersby as he lifted off his hat and pulled off his suede gloves. “Before I begin, may I remind you all as members of the Metropolitan Police Force what our purpose is as public servants. We have before us an unusual crime. We are to perform our duties dependent upon the public approval of our actions. Unlike our French compatriots abroad, we do not use fear or the ways of the military to mete out justice. You and I are not judges or hangmen; we are instead guardians of the peace.” The men stomped their boots in agreement.
“I desire, gentlemen, your strict attention to my proposal.” One of the desk sergeants took up pen and paper. Endersby instructed Caldwell to take a stand in the middle of the room. “Kindly describe the murderer, Sergeant,” commanded Endersby. “Use only the details based on what has been learned from the witnesses.” Caldwell began his profile, starting with a description of the culprit’s overall appearance, elaborating afterward the remarkable facets which had impressed the young Catherines.
“A singular villain,” added Endersby. “Now, gentlemen. Write out copies of this verbal picture of the murderer-suspect and have a copy delivered to each of the station houses in quadrants north and south of St. Paul’s. The villain, we surmise, will most likely strike again in the area near St. Giles, but have all detective branches alerted and warn constables to keep sharp eyes on anyone who resembles the man — his limp, beard, scar, and the weapons he carries.”
“Yes, sir,” was the resounding response, spoken in unison. Endersby thanked them; he subsequently commanded the station sergeant to release two constables on day duties to accompany Mr. Caldwell on this most demanding mission. Within moments, two young men appeared in full constable wear — black stove-pipe hats, white leather gloves and navy blue jackets.
“Mr. Rance, sir,” said the first one, tall, lean, dark-haired.
“Mr. Tibald, sir,” said the other, equally as tall, sloped-shouldered and light-haired.
“We can forestall the cruel murder of another unfortunate. If our logic is correct,” Endersby concluded after explaining to his new recruits the strategy for the afternoon. The men had adjourned to a vacant office where on the wall attached, by tacks, was a large map of London. “Look gentlemen,” Endersby began. “Do you see the circle?” The inspector’s right hand drew a line from St.Giles, along Holborn, to Shoe Lane. “In this quadrant of London,” he explained, “the city has erected six workhouses built to a standard with wards, some for children or prostitutes, others for destitute families and bachelors. I believe our searcher has begun his hunt in this area first — and that he will follow this circle, if he can, from Shoe Lane over to Wych Street, north again toward St. Giles and the Seven Dials, then again along Holborn where he may end at the Foundling Hospital. This is a poor, hobbled man,” Endersby reminded his three law men. “He must travel by foot — and slowly — given a noticeable limp described by one of our witnesses. I conjecture he will investigate any one of these places tonight and the next, if he has not done so already. He may murder as well as search for his Catherine if last night’s crimes are an indication of his method.”
The two constables studied the map and turned to Sergeant Caldwell for instruction as to which one of the