“Thank you, sir. I shall.”
“Remember, Caldwell, you and I are the first arm of a fairer form of justice.”
“We are indeed, sir.”
Caldwell now pointed toward the scene before them. Small barred windows in tight rows — each no more than a slit — dominated the facade of the workhouse. “A prison, no question,” Endersby said. With his hat straight on, his right hand clenched as if to rein in his “demon familiar,” the inspector climbed from the hansom and paid the driver. Sergeant Caldwell pulled the bell chain. The massive portal squeaked open to reveal a sour-faced man in a greasy frock coat. To Endersby he had a mean and hungry look.
“Good morning, sir. We are Inspector Endersby and Sergeant Caldwell, under the jurisdiction of Borne at Fleet Lane Station House.”
The sour-faced master signalled to the two men to step into the large front hall. A high-ceilinged space, it led off into various small corridors. At one end, on the left, an archway opened onto a long ward lined with beds on which sat a host of young girls, rigid, upright, as if an edict had stilled their tongues and feet. What struck Endersby was the eerie silence. A workhouse clatters and clangs with industry. At the entrance to the ward stood a small hearth where a boy was scrubbing the floor in front of a grate of cold ash.
“It is here the wretch was found dead,” explained the sour master.
“Did you see the body in its unfortunate state this morning?” asked Endersby.
“Briefly, sir, so briefly. It was very dark,” replied the master.
“Were you, in fact, the man who found the body, sir?”
“Me, Inspector? Why would you assume such a thing on my part?”
“Perhaps, you came upon it merely by accident?” Endersby squeezed his right hand to remind himself to remain even-tempered.
“It is not my place, sir, to be questioned thus. I would have little or no occasion to come down into this ward unless ordered to do so.” The master crooked his finger and the two policemen followed him up a shallow staircase to a bare room, where a woman in a duff-coloured bonnet was standing.
“Matron Agnes,” the master said. “These two gentlemen are the detective officers from the Metropolitan Police.”
On observing the reaction of the matron, Endersby immediately anticipated an adversary. He removed his hat in salute. “I beg your pardon, Matron,” Endersby said with feigned deference. “Inspector Endersby is my name. My sergeant-at-hand, Mr. Caldwell.” The matron let out a nervous breath. “Much too much confusion, here,” she said.
“Most pitiful, the murder of an innocent woman,” Endersby replied. “I believe there is also a child.”
“Don’t you be so certain, Inspector, of learning anything from little Catherine, sir.”
“If you have no objection, Matron, it is necessary for me and my sergeant to learn as much as I can from her and from others in this place about your matron’s demise,” cautioned Endersby.
“Well, that is your business,” she replied, her voice held in close. “The female child is but nine. Do not think young Catherine is stupid. She can be persuaded. You may meet with her at our convenience, sir.”
Taking note of the strange emphasis the matron placed on words, Inspector Endersby decided to waylay his sudden impatience with a command: “My present concern is the matter of the dead body. Master, I require of you smart assistance.” The sour-faced man turned to Endersby. “Gather all of the staff who work here. I mean by this, matrons, other masters, cooks, scullery maids, coal carriers. And have them meet me and Sergeant Caldwell within the quarter hour in the entrance hall.”
The matron stepped forward: “What you want, Inspector, is not —”
Endersby cut her off, his voice full of steel: “Second, and most important, send a runner immediately to fetch a surgeon and then another to notify the local coroner.” Sergeant Caldwell supported the inspector’s order by clearing his throat.
“Doubtless, this is of some necessity?” the peevish master queried.
“Dire necessity, sir,” responded Sergeant Caldwell.
“Look here, Officer,” the matron began. “I mind informing you that as far as I am concerned, the workhouse must continue with its duties.”
“Matron,” Endersby countered: “I cannot draw off into a corner to do my professional duties. A murder has been committed. A life taken. That fact, above all, takes precedence. I am sure you will agree that my investigation will have as much open time and space as it needs.”
Reluctantly, the matron begged pardon. She assented to Enderby’s request to inspect the body of the victim who, in her words, was attacked “in the blackest hours of the night before.” The inspector and his sergeant followed the matron to a chamber where the dead woman lay on a table. Her feet were laced into shoddy boots, the kind worn by coster women in the Covent Garden markets. Her hands were blue and a muslin cloth covered her head. Sergeant Caldwell took a lit candle and, bracing himself, lifted off the cloth. The light revealed a face twisted and swollen, the eyes open and bulging, the nose smudged with a dark substance.
“Who was it that found her?” asked Inspector Endersby.
“The two scullery maids. They are first up.”
“The area around the hearth was washed down this morning,” Endersby noted.
“I had her hearth chair removed as well. It was very plain, sir: I could not have the children see any more of this terrible crime than they had already witnessed on waking.”
“The children saw the body then? After the scullery maids had discovered its state?” The thought made Endersby shudder slightly.
“You, as a man of the law, Mr. Endersby, can plainly see what confusion we have endured.”
Ignoring the comment, Endersby turned to the matron. “This woman was in her forties, Matron?”
“The ledger of the parish notes the day of her birth but not the year. Matty was an orphan, brought here from the care of a Dame School near the sea at Brighton.”
“If I may be so bold, sir,” Sergeant Caldwell said, his voice lowered. “The servants and staff, I reckon, must be questioned promptly in case they talk amongst themselves and confuse their stories.”
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