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.”
Endersby approached the table and looked over the shoulder of the young girl. She had drawn a large oval into which she had placed near the top two smaller ovals, side by side. Then below the small ovals, close to the bottom, a straight bold line. A man’s face as seen by a child. With much energy, little Catherine now drew a series of circles and lines that with some allowance for exaggeration could be interpreted as a man’s beard.
“Well done, young girl,” Endersby said.
Catherine looked up at him. She had no fear in her eyes. “This is the man you saw last night, did you?” asked Endersby. The girl nodded vigorously. Her left hand reached up and pulled at Endersby’s sleeve. Catherine then stood and pulled again until Endersby’s face was at the same height as hers. She blinked hard and widened her eyes and then clasped her right hand over her mouth.
“What is it Catherine?” Matron Agnes asked. “Be quick, child.”
Catherine slowly moved her right hand from her mouth and guided it with her pointer finger held up. She pressed the finger on Endersby’s right jaw. The tip was icy to the touch but Endersby stood as still as a tree. The finger began to move up and across his right cheek. It climbed, then dragged itself over his nose. The girl took in a breath and concentrated her gaze. Without lifting her finger from Endersby’s face, she continued her cold trail upwards across his left cheek, stopping under his eye. Catherine then turned back to her drawing and picking up the pencil she drew a similar line across the oval face.
“A scar, perhaps, Catherine?” asked Endersby. The girl took her pencil and doubled the line; afterward, she smudged it with the tip of her finger.
“I see, I see. Very clear,” said Endersby. “Catherine,” he then said, “did you know this man?” The girl shook her head. “Did he speak to you?” The girl seemed to freeze in her place. Her eyes looked into the distance and she frowned and fussed and finally bent her head toward the table. “Catherine?” said Matron Agnes. The child sat still and did not respond. “Do not be too hasty to judge her, Inspector. She has tried her best.”
“Thank you Matron. Thank you Catherine, you have been a good girl.”
Matron Agnes subsequently made a small gesture that struck Endersby straight to his heart. Amidst this place of stone and gloom, Matron Agnes put her hand on Catherine’s head and patted it softly. “I thank you for your cooperation and attention, Matron,” Endersby said. As he turned to leave, young Catherine reached out and caught his sleeve a second time. She picked up her pencil and on the other side of the oval portrait, on the clean side, she began to write out a series of letters in an awkward hand. When she was done, she looked into the inspector’s face and pointed to the word.
UNKELBOW.
“Unkelbow?” Endersby asked, pronouncing the last three letters as if they described the limb of a tree.
The girl shook her head. “Do not fool us, Catherine,” said Matron Agnes. “This is a nonsense word.”
The girl stood and opened her little mouth and closed it in imitation of a person talking. She placed her hands on each side of her face, leaned forward, and again mimed the talking mouth. Catherine picked up the paper and shoved it at Endersby’s stomach. He read out the word again. “Unkelbow.” This time he said the word bow as in Bow Street, or as the twist in a ribbon. “What do you make of this, Matron?” Matron Agnes folded her hands in front of her and stilled her face. “I cannot imagine, sir. Children love to make up names and fantastical friends to keep them company. Do not forget the realms of fancy, Inspector.”
“Indeed.”
The child stamped her foot. The inspector obliged and said the word again. “Unkelbow. Unkelbo.” The girl nodded furiously. “Uncle Bow?”
Again, a hearty nod from the girl. The inspector looked up into the matron’s face. “Uncle Bow. A family name?”
Endersby examined both sides of the sheet and as he did so a light knocking at the door of the chamber commenced and within a few seconds a young constable from the Metropolitan Police was standing by Endersby’s right elbow. The constable’s hat and his white gloves caused young Catherine to stare.
“I beg your pardon, Inspector Endersby,” said the constable.
“Come Catherine,” said Matron Agnes, a cold tone returning to her voice.
“Thank you Matron,” Endersby said, still pondering the cryptic letters on the page before him.
“Sir, if I may?” enquired the constable.
“And a good morning to you, young Catherine,” said Endersby