precise. “We have before us, sir, a coincidence of Catherines.”
The two men shook hands as professional gentlemen and stepped inside the arched portal of the station. From within came the sounds of men’s voices. Doors were opened and shut, but the sense of calm that pervaded the halls relieved Endersby after the panic and clamour in Shoe Lane. Caldwell had arrived at five minutes past one with the look of a man who needed a mug of beer. However, the business of the investigation was of greater importance for the moment and so his sergeant listened, eyes wide with disbelief, to what Endersby told of the murder in Shoe Lane, the coroner’s session, and the frightening comparisons to the crime in St. Giles.
“There is a pattern, I fear, Caldwell, which presages a repetition of this foul act.”
“So it seems, sir,” Caldwell replied, his face showing concern. Endersby ruminated for a second then turned again to his sergeant-at-hand.
“We must assume both our Catherines were carried out of the workhouse to afford the villain time to look more closely into their faces. What he found was not suitable to his purpose.”
Caldwell then said: “But how can we alert all of London? Workhouses abound, as do the houses of correction.”
“Sergeant, ‘this sore task will not divide the Sunday from the week.’ Mr. Hamlet, once again, Caldwell. There is much we must do! We shall set a strategy. First, we need to convince Superintendent Borne of its necessity.”
“Can we conclude a motive, sir?”
“Well, Sergeant, I have come to think the villain not only wants to find a singular child, but that his two murders — so far — may be a sign, a signature act, in the same manner as a name written on paper. These two murders show us a planning mind.”
Sergeant Caldwell pondered these words in silence while around him and his superior the halls of the station house continued to echo.
“To protect the innocent, Caldwell, I suggest we first mark out the locations of all the workhouses within walking distance of St. Giles and Shoe Lane and give them warning. I assume our villain is poor, lacking the means to travel too far, and he appears to have a halting limp. If he uses logic and if he has such intimate acquaintance with institutions of this kind, he might strike others in the most convenient fashion.”
“It does seem likely, sir.”
“Therefore, let us anticipate the monster. Sergeant, go into our registry of addresses within southern Finsbury district. We can draw out a circle of possible next ‘hits.’ Visit each institution and check the ledgers! The workhouses are required by law to record births and deaths and other pertinent business. Most certain, the first names of the males and females will be noted down. We cannot eliminate, however, a workhouse where the name of Catherine is not recorded. But we can warn matrons to be vigilant. When and if we find more Catherines, we must speak with each child as soon as possible.”
“It is, sir, an uncommon name for the times. I have a question.”
“Certainly, Sergeant.” By this time, Endersby and Caldwell had strolled into the inner courtyard of Fleet Lane Station House. It was a narrow enclosure inside what was centuries ago a medieval fortress. “Might our villain,” Caldwell asked, “become desperate enough to strike during daylight hours?”
“Might he, indeed, Sergeant? Which would mean he may still be out in the streets, gaff in hand. With the workhouses opening their doors for deliveries of coal and food — it may be possible. We need to act with great speed.” Endersby’s mind began constructing mental bridges going here and there. Walking farther on, their hands held behind their backs, the two men circled in unison the perimeter of the courtyard. The smell of London wafted into the courtyard — sewer stink and the usual pungent odour of the Thames.
“Caldwell,” said Endersby after a moment of meditation. “One final thought: have the workhouse masters lock down the coal chutes — no matter what exception may be raised. I will ask Superintendent Borne to allow us two constables to go around with you to warn other houses of the danger. Needless to say we must alert station houses and our seven other detective branches in all constabularies. A description of the murderer most certainly will be helpful.”
“And capture, sir? How will untrained workhouse employees tackle the villain if the occasion arises?”
“Ah, Sergeant, what a question. Will these parish folk believe us enough to gather men, station them, arm them?” Endersby stopped then started again.
“You and the other constables must use strong persuasion. Describe the manner of death. Go to the parish offices and demand cooperation. I shall instruct the other detective branches to alert their night constables and have each check workhouse yards more frequently on the assigned routes.” Inspector Endersby wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The pitiful memory of the two dead matrons had returned to his mind for the moment. But he felt sure he and Caldwell had begun a valid search.
“Let us hope, Caldwell, our detection methods will bear fruit,” Endersby said at last.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Any peculiarities at the coroner’s session in St. Giles?”
“No, sir. The jury was most efficient in declaring murder. With your permission, I shall inspect the holding chambers here in this station. Street arrests from last night. Perhaps we have been fortunate with a capture.”
“What a wish,” Endersby said, raising his eyebrows. “I suggest you do so, Sergeant. And with haste. I, in the meantime, shall permit myself the pleasure of requesting the impossible from Superintendent Borne. As Prince Hamlet might utter, I shall endeavour to prove ‘the pith and marrow of our attribute.’”
Endersby straightened his hat and took in a deep breath. “Onward, Sergeant.” The two men shook hands and parted. Climbing a cramped staircase, Endersby came into the central rooms of the station house. Moving on, he crossed a hallway and stopped in front of a door on which brass letters spelling SUPERINTENDENT were attached by small nails. From under the door came the delicious smell of cooked food. Borne was taking lunch. In spite of the resistance his superintendent would present, the matter of murder must take priority. Endersby clenched his fist and knocked.
“Yes, no doubt. Just so,” responded Superintendent Borne.
A scrawny man dressed in poorly tailored wool and affecting a vain-glorious gaze, Borne displayed his usual impatience during Endersby’s report on the workhouse murders. “A gaff and lace? Yes, yes.” Borne had worked his way up diligently from constable to appointed bureaucrat. He was efficient, mindful of his rank, often cantankerous. Endersby believed he was a man who paid scant attention to daily police work except when his budgets ran over limit. Endersby also knew Borne to be arrogant and unreasonable. He was an old-fashioned authoritarian trained by the Bow Street Runners. He showed little respect for the “new” detective branch, which in his mind wasted too much time searching rather than questioning miscreants. Justice, he always argued, must be hard, immediate, to strike fear in the public and thus deter the criminal mentality.“Sir Robert Peel,” he said once to Endersby, “is too much the reformer and not enough the law enforcer.”
With this knowledge of Borne in mind, Endersby decided to try a less aggressive approach in the hopes that his superintendent would be moved. Endersby explained his strategy. He asked Borne to grant him the time, the funds, and manpower to investigate the murders.
“This is a simple matter, Inspector. Install better locks. No further attacks can occur. The villain will disappear.” Borne sat down at his desk and shot a disgruntled glance at the plate of cooling food he’d barely started.
“Our victims are blameless women and children, sir,” said Endersby, a plea under each breath. “This devil will do anything.”
“Supposition, Inspector. We are discussing the problem of a coal chute. Nothing more.”
Endersby