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Chapter One – Samson Shepherd
Charles
Church, the Boatman, and Joseph Hudson, the Wharfinger had stood huddled over
the red brick arch that spanned the new West Bridge, pipes aglow, debating the
stench, and what beast had caught up in the wharf posts or timbers, somewhere
near to the houses on the town side of the river.
On this day,
Tuesday January 1st, 1850, New Year’s Day, the stench was worse than
they had ever previously experienced.
Down on the
river, barely visible to the onlookers on West Bridge, and obscured completely
to the residents along the waterside, Thomas Parrott, fourteen years of age,
and well known to all in the area as one of the growing band of “river finders”
was trying to scratch out an existence.
Uneducated,
and compelled to scavenge for as long as he could recall, he had found the
river and its new industry cast-outs,
a welcome source of income.
From the
occasional dead dog that was highly valuable to the tanners in the borough (the
carcasses sped up the process and improved the quality of the tanning), to the off-cuts
of remnants of beast thrown into the waters from nearby butchers and
slaughterhouses, and which could be trimmed and the resulting “meat” passed on
for a few coins to unscrupulous victuallers or desperate paupers amongst the
drab streets nearby, this was Thomas’ working domain.
He was top
dog in the growing pack of likeminded boys and girls who were all competing for
what was salvageable along, or in the river, and who now had to fend for
themselves.
Thomas
steered the small rowing boat, which he had borrowed
(which was rotting and leaked, had to be bailed out every few minutes) along
the edge of the wharf and the jetties running down Bath Lane. Who it belonged
to he didn’t care, as it would be back before they knew it was even missing,
yet again, and as always.
As he peered
at the surface, littered with its assorted forms of rubbish and turds, the
light from his small oil lamp reflected off something paler, larger and more
buoyant than the other usual debris surrounding the boat.
He steered
the boat towards it, and leaned out over the side to examine the object, his
grimey hands prematurely hard and tarnished, from the years of graft that
should have been his childhood.
Instinctively
his hand recoiled in revulsion as the fingertips sank into cold, wet flesh, and
he realised that the face of a young boy was looking back at him, one eye open,
the other missing, as flesh pulled from the face and clung to his broken and
well chewed fingernails.
The motion brought
the rest of the body into view, gracelessly bobbing up alongside the boat,
bloated and rotting.
This was the
extreme stench that was annoying the residents, and that was puzzling Charles
Church and Joseph Hudson, back on the bridge.
Thomas’
meager meal, which he had consumed just before he had set out in the fog, projected
onto the bottom of the boat, and down the front of his already filthy rags,
that, through no choice, he was forced to wear day in and day out. The few
lumps of bread, and some vegetable off-cuts that he had scavenged from around
The High Cross, and that he had boiled earlier and gobbled up, his first food
of any nourishment for days, now lying onto the floor of the boat.
The young,
lifeless body in the water lay looking up at Thomas, its arms reaching out to
be helped, as Thomas struggled to find a voice, and cry out for help.
*****
For three
days and nights the fog had clung to the river and nearby dwellings, shrouding
them in a thick, swirling, sulphurous blanket, a blinding mix of fog and dense,
acrid smoke from the expanding housing, railways and the heavy Industry that
was rapidly emerging across the Borough.
Only the
flicker of oil and gas lamps by night cut through the gloom.
The River
Soar at West Bridge flowed, or, more rather laboured along, slowing from its
confluence inside the border from Nottinghamshire, through the countryside
between Loughborough and Abbey Meadows, before it transformed into the thick,
swirling, foul smelling, dirty, festering, noxious beast it became as it met the
developing Industry in the Borough of Leicester, beyond the Abbey ruins.
The few
residents and tradesman in the twenty-two premises along the Bath Lane, between
West Bridge Street and the new Iron and Brass Foundry opposite Bath Street,
were becoming acclimatised to the constant stench of the river.
It formed
their air. It was all that they got, and it was the best they got. Industrial
Leicester now denied them any alternative, the clean air and green trees of
just twenty years prior, lost to the smoke, filth and toxicity of the new age.
The river
had become an overflow and dumping ground for everything now required to feed,
clothe and equip the rapidly expanding population of the Borough, including
packaging and the odds and sods, leftovers of industrial waste, and for the
growing volumes of “bodily waste” that
the Borough could no longer cope with.
This was now
being mixed with the new dyes from the dye-houses along Bath Lane and The
Blackfriars, the chemicals from the foundries that were springing up and a new offensive cocktail mix was
formed every day, clawing and choking at residents and passersby.
As much as
the dwellings on Bath Lane housed people with prospering occupations, they were
still poor by most standards, but not as poor of those along Bridge Street and
the lower streets of the Blackfriars further North and West of the river.
Prosperity was coming at a price!
*****
Samson Shepherd,
just twenty-five years of age, Constable of the Borough of Leicester Police,
was stood in the muster room of the Town Hall Police Station, a few hundred
yards from the river, and towards the town centre, adjacent to St Martin’s
Church.
This was Shepherd’s
first night shift, having joined only days before Christmas of 1849, and
together with the other Constables who were commencing duty; he was waiting to
be briefed by Sergeant Wright, one of the three duty night shift Sergeants.
This was normally
completed, he was advised, before being marched out with the other twenty one Constables
of the night shift, as a column, and falling out onto his allocated beat.
Shepherd
quickly went through his uniform pockets to make sure he had his
“appointments”, together with a small notebook, pencils, and a few coins in
case he should require anything during the shift.
On each side
of his collar he bore the rank insignia of Constable 3rd
class…denoting his status as being “at or near the bottom of the pile!”…and his
collar number…52
The Public
entrance door to the Station was huge and heavy, measuring about five feet six
inches square and about three inches deep, with a small step down onto the muster
room floor.
This was the
only public entrance to the station, and even fourteen years on from the
formation of the Force, it was a rare event for public to wander in late at
night (without a little coercion or reasonable force).
Given the
size and weight of the door, the Constables inside were clearly surprised,
leaping to their feet, as it slammed open, and in ran a young urchin of about ten
or twelve years.
Breathless
and sweating he summoned their assistance, his small body travelling at such
speed, that as he had landed on the flagstone floor, sparks spat from hobnails
in his tatty boots.
“Quick …Tom’s
found a body in the river, at West Bridge, they’ve sent me to fetch the
Crushers…get yer arses down there quick…” before beating a hasty retreat back
out into the fog.
The fog
rolled into the Muster room from the passageway outside, creating an eerie
chill, even with Sheffield’s log fire burning in the corner.
Shepherd was
not surprised that such a young boy was out on his own, given the time and
inclement weather. Leicester would be full of youngsters, some much younger,
all looking for something to do…
Sergeant James
Sheffield, one of those originals, looked over his pince-nez, from a small,
high desk which separated the Muster Room from the Charge area, and upon which
sat the large, leather bound Charge Book, where details of those arrested were
recorded.
To his
right, a large fire burned in the grate, keeping him warm at least.
The three
cells within the station were already full with prisoners taken throughout the
day, and yet to be charged or released.
Sheffield
drew on his small grey clay pipe, and small aromatic plumes of smoke drifted
across the room, much to the annoyance of his colleagues, who were prohibited
from being seen smoking on duty…but Station Sergeant meant he had nowhere to
sneak off to for a “crafty one”, and so Head Constable Charters gave him dispensation.
Gathered
around him were a collection of bleeding, bruised and bedraggled Constables,
and their prisoners. Many of these were drunks, having spent their evening
roaming Leicester’s numerous hostelries, or were Dollymops and Bunters, the
girls of the night. Blood, vomit and urine were constant companions to the
Charge Sergeant.
The
respectable population was in their homes by now, with doors locked and
curtains drawn, no later than a few minutes after the Theatre closed. They did
not wish to expose themselves to the seedy
“other Leicester”.
Station “Charge Sergeant” Sheffield had not
requested such a role, but a serious assault on him in 1846, and some degree of
annoying and ongoing incapacity, had led to a decision to make him Leicester’s
first dedicated Charge Sergeant in 1847.
And so it
was…forty years of age and station bound! But, he was the font of all
knowledge, as he saw and knew most of Leicester’s criminal fraternity than any
other Constable…which held him in high regard with his colleagues.
Sergeant
Wright looked to his men…
“Beddows, it’s
probably a load of tosh, but I want you and Shepherd down to West Bridge,
pronto, and see what’s going on…mind with
this fog, and the word of an urchin like that, I fear it may be a wasted
journey…no stopping off for a wet on the way…and then straight to your beat
after…” bearing in mind that Beddows had
a chequered past when it came to the local hostelries.
Shepherd felt
elated, as for the first time in a week, he had got away without making tea for
everyone, which for some bizarre reason, also included any prisoners in the
station cells. This, he had been told, was the unique responsibility of the
“shift sprog” and a rite of passage.
Constable 42 John
Beddows, on the other hand was one of the originals. He had been promoted to Sergeant
fairly quickly, but in 1842 had a propensity to excess drinking, and had been reduced
to the rank of Constable 3rd class, by Head Constable Robert Charters,
who would have preferred to dismiss him.
A previous attempt
to dismiss another Sergeant for a similar offence had led to a written
complaint to the Watch Committee and the officer’s reinstatement at a lower
rank.
Bitter at the
way he had been treated, Beddows had seriously considered packing it all in,
but was keen that Police should become an honorable career, and as such gave up
the drink and took what was offered. Charters still looked upon Beddows with
some degree of contempt.
Beddows lived
with his wife in Tower Street, at the back of the County Gaol, in housing that reflected
the status of a Constable in the community…it was of poor quality and prone to
all the ills of most of the local housing and not much better than those in the
Rookeries off Abbey Street. Policing was a working class job!
Remaining as
a Constable, however, was a far better prospect than life back as a
frame-knitter, his original trade. And it paid more than the four shillings and
sixpence which is what he had previously earned and was still about the
expected income for frame knitters, all those years later.
As a third
class Constable, his weekly wage was now eighteen shillings, but this was still
over four times that of the average frame knitter.
Beddows was a
hard but fair man, and had been teaching Shepherd since he had joined in late
December. Constables got two weeks with a senior colleague before patrolling
alone.
Some of his
advice and methods were seen as questionable against Shepherd’s own values, but
generally he was more experienced than any other man in the Force. Shepherd recognised
that this was not a bad way to learn.
Beddows also
knew that Shepherd was the nephew of another of the originals, Constable George
Pearson, who had been badly assaulted during Chartist disturbances in the
Borough some years earlier, and who had died of his injuries.
Pearson had
been a great friend to Beddows during his discipline and reduction in rank, and
had never once judged him.
He had at
times seemed the only man who had still offered any humanity and respect given Beddows’demise.
Pearson, and
his wife Sarah had been very good friends indeed.
For that reason
alone, he had offered to take Shepherd out for his two week mentoring.
Donning their
hats, and dense serge capes, which would provide welcome extra warmth, the two Constables
set off towards West Bridge.
The two men would
have presented an impressive sight (had they been more visible) as they edged
through the fog, out of Town Hall Lane, onto Applegate Street, past the High
Cross and down, towards Thornton Lane, their ill-fitting hob-nailed boots striking
the cobbles with the tempo of a slow walking horse, the noise alone now highlighting
their presence.
Both took
extra care as they had passed by High Cross, where the debris from Christmas
markets had been ground into the cobbled pavements, leaving them slippery, even
without the damp from the fog, and with that smell of rotting vegetables that
prevails.
The lights
shone bright from the Nags Head and Golden Lion, whose rooms now looked
generally empty, passing close by their ornate saloon windows.
Beddows was
by now approaching forty years, but stood about 5 feet 10 inches tall in his
boots. He was considered tall for his generation. With his “stove-pipe” issue
Top Hat he appeared much taller. He was strongly built and had learned the art
of street fighting first-hand, and was hard in appearance, with a craggy,
weathered face, and steel blue eyes. His truncheon felt comforting, loosely
wrapped by its leather strap around his tunic belt.
This had been
his savior and given him the upper-hand in confrontations many a time, and he
had no doubt that he had personally reinforced the use of the term “Crusher” in
the Borough.
Shepherd was
now twenty five years of age, and of a similar height and build to Beddows. He
had a strong physique, and although not yet tested as a street fighter, he had
taken up boxing as a hobby and way of getting tougher and fit, back home in
Sutton Bonington. This had resulted in his nose being broken twice before, and
as he now thought, probably not for the last time.
A slight kink
at the bridge gave it a distinguished look! His hands were extremely large and
strong, and his knuckles hardened and scarred from his exertions.
However, with
wavy, sandy hair, freckled face and hazel eyes, he looked younger than his age.
A whisp of moustache coated his upper lip, but had already been subject of much
humour from his colleagues, and had been declared mere “bum fluff”!
“Perhaps it
should go?” he had thought to himself - more than once...
His Truncheon
felt alien, knocking against his right knee, wrapped around his belt in a
similar manner to Beddows, at Beddows’ advice.
About two
feet long and made of some exotic hard wood, Shepherd’s was new and bore the
Borough crest on the body. It was pristine, and had not yet been christened. He
did not relish using it, but knew there would be times ahead when it would be
his best friend.
The ability
to free it quickly and to loop the leather strap around his wrist, to deny any
attacker a chance to free it for their own use against him, made enormous sense
to Shepherd. The comfort of such thought gave him added confidence as he set
out with his senior.
They also
carried their rattles, again tucked into their belts, to summons assistance
should the need arise. At no time on a patrol should they be any more than two
hundred yards or so from their nearest colleague on the next beat. The beats
and patrols had been designed for such assurance.
Tonight,
drunks and ladies of the night moved out of their way and into the doorways.
Leicester appeared as if it was emptying, the cold and fog driving people
indoors, and with the pubs, hotels and beer houses closing their doors shortly,
this was not to be a night that anyone would want to stop and fight them!
*****
This was what
Samson Shepherd had joined for. This was his ambition, his desire.
To
investigate and detect crime and protect the community, and other such youthful
notions, just like his late uncle George must have once had.
The prospect
of a dead body, a corpse, a cadaver, whatever people might call it, didn’t hold
any obvious fear to Shepherd. He knew the living posed far more of a threat to
him in his new role.
His only fear
was how he would do his job, if in fact there really was a body!
He was no
stranger to death. Death was a fact of life in 1850, and he had seen relatives and
friends laid out after they had passed, often some days after they had passed
and starting to decompose. And he was accustomed to it, and the smell of such a
death, as was most of the population.
He had seen
violent death, but only of animals, and had watched in fascination (after
initial repugnance), as the local Butcher and slaughter man had dispatched their
cattle, sheep and pigs.
Ironically,
Shepherd had a love of fishing, and with the Trent at the bottom of his street
in Sutton Bonington, he was expert with both the fly and spinner, and had
regularly caught Salmon. The Trent in the 1840’s was clean either side of
Nottingham, and had an annual run of about ten thousand Salmon, with ten caught
by rod an line each day of the season.
Shepherd,
however, still cringed every time he had to dispatch one, striking it hard with
a wooden “priest”, administering “last rights” quickly, or as quickly as the
fish would die…it had nearly put him off fishing as a younger man.
He
anticipated that the effect of striking someone with his truncheon would likely
make the same sound, and he worried, could have the same effect. He was wary of
his own strength and what was to be tested of his moral and physical courage.
*****
As they walked
from Thornton Lane, down onto West Bridge Street, the sound of people gathered talking
could be made out through the fog.
The two large
gas lamps on the front of the Sailors’ Return Inn indicated that they were close
to the bridge and the voices seemed to be coming from the wooden staging along
the wharf on the town side of the river.
Walking into
Bath Lane, they took the short flight of steps and narrow alley down onto the
staging, and to a small group of river folk that had gathered at the bottom.
The Constables’
hobnail boots echoed off the wharf walls as they strode along the wooden
boards, with the creaking of ropes along the waterside which secured the
walkways in place, and the lapping of the obnoxious slurry on which they all were supported.
Audible
cracks could be made out as the ice gave way in the margins below the staging.
Beddows
mumbled “can you smell it lad? That’s old
death, that is…This buggers been there some days I’ll hazard!” Beddows
thought he would wind Shepherd up and test his metal, and there was nothing
worse than your first suspicious death to make a man nervous.
Beddows had
never used Sam’s given name, even after duty. He was always to be Shepherd, and
Beddows would be “Sir” until he said otherwise…unless a Sergeant (or Mr Charters)
was in earshot! Then it should return to plain “Beddows”, or else he’d be for
it, Beddows had threatened.
Shepherd had
only just become familiar with the normal and unpleasant smell of the Borough.
Coming from the countryside, the smells that were commonplace in Leicester were
alien to his nose.
The streets, with
their small cramped yards and terraces, together with their shabby occupants,
and the sewers, drains and ditches, and assorted heavy industry already combined
to smell worse than any corpse he had seen as a boy back home.
He had been
shocked, early in the previous year, when walking with his Aunt Sarah, from her
home near The Infirmary, down to and along the River Soar, from Leicester Newarke
Mill and along to near to The Castle, in order to view the new Locomotives at the
West Bridge terminus.
The river,
even then, had looked black and oily, or was it green and slimey? Or was it
both? Boiling eddies stained with dyes and chemicals, and the foul detritus of
modern living! He had doubted the prospect of ever catching a salmon from
Leicester.
However,
Shepherd could discern that this night the river smelt far worse than anything
he had ever smelled previously, and he had no option other than to rely upon Beddows’
experience as to why.
He was starting
to feel uneasy at what was to come. He wished the fog to be so dense that he
would not be able to see this corpse, but he knew his fear was now working
overtime and he was sweating and his breathing had hastened.
“Imagination
is far worse than the real thing”…or so Uncle George had told him! But now Beddows was
winding him up as well!
He had not
seen a drowned man before, but had memory of dead sheep which, when bloated, bobbed
up and down like empty barrels along the Trent, after floods had caught them
unexpected, and he anticipated something similar...
“No going
back now Sam?” he whispered silently to himself.
*****
“With me lad…”
ordered Beddows in an authoritative manner, climbing into the small but stable punt
that was to be manoeuvered by the Boatman, Church.
Gingerly,
Shepherd climbed aboard, one hand carrying a small tarpaulin sheet, and in the,
other a short-handled boathook, that Beddows had sourced from the boatmen. Shepherd could only imagine what purpose each
would serve, but dared not ask.
With both Constables
aboard, Church moved the punt slowly out from the wharf, only by two or three
feet, and in the direction of where the body had last been reported.
Silence had
fallen, and apart from the movement of the oar, the lapping slurry, and the
heavy breathing of the three men, nothing could be heard in the dense fog.
The light
from two large oil lamps they had also acquired lit an obscure path around the
front of the punt.
“Here he is”
said Beddows, “grab that hook, and come to me…” anxious that the moment did not
pass them by and thus require a second attempt.
Shepherd
knelt alongside his colleague, now aware of the strange palid object bobbing in
the surface just off to the side of the boat.
He did not
try and comprehend the vision, merely thinking of it as some inanimate object
and not dwelling on the fact it had once been a living thing.
“Got any
gloves Shepherd?” Beddows asked. There was a deliberate hint of sarcasm in
Beddows’ tone, as he suspected that Shepherd would not have been so well
equipped just yet.
Shepherd
reached into his cape and tunic, but he had left some at the station in his
hurry to respond. In any event, they were a present from Aunt Sarah, and he did
not wish to tarnish them. Constables had not yet been issued with warm or
practical gloves as part of their uniform.
“Typical”
laughed Beddows “You’ll have to hook the little bugger then, and we’ll have to
pull him on board. Just mind what you
are doing, and expect the unexpected”.
He sat back
for a moment, and knew what a gruesome task this might turn out to be, but he
chose to let Shepherd find out for himself, the hard way.
Shepherd
looked for something to hook, a piece of clothing or a belt, but it appeared
that the body was naked.
He
tentatively reached out with the rounded tip of the boathook, but slipped, and
the hook sunk into the boys bloated guts, sending out a strange soft wail and
the most obnoxious and putrid gas towards the occupants of the punt, before lodging
in the ribs of the grotesque image before him.
“Stupid
bugger, I said be careful” cursed Beddows, “now this is going to be grim, we’ll
have to pull him onboard as he is…”
He cursed
silently to himself, wondering now whether he should have intervened and shown
Shepherd, instead of letting Shepherd try…and he was now more than a tad
anxious about what the body would do to get its own back on him…as they always
did!
“You grab his
arm and pull him towards me” said Beddows, “and I will have the tarpaulin
ready. We need to get the tarpaulin under the body before we try and lift him…and
mind that bleeding boathook” desperately hoping Shepherd did not pull the boy’s
arm off in the process.
Shepherd was
already retching, and doing his utmost not to throw up and disgrace himself.
He took hold
of the nearest visible arm, shocked at how cold and loose the skin had become,
and gently pulled the corpse towards Beddows and the waiting tarpaulin.
Shepherd had
learned his first lesson, be careful with
decomposed bodies as they come apart a bit too easy! He dared not apply any
more force for fear of pulling off the arm, slimey and disgusting in his bare
hands.
Beddows
expertly pulled the tarpaulin under the head and along the body, passing behind
Shepherd effortlessly.
“Got you
first go!” cheered Beddows, glad that it hadn’t got any worse and he hadn’t
disgraced himself either. It was alright talking the talk, but he was not a
lover of decomposing bodies and the havoc they created, and Shepherd had done
alright actually…
Shepherd
noticed Beddows was wearing a pair of large black leather gloves, (that Beddows
had persuaded one of the tanners at one of his tea spots to knock up for him from trimmings). “R.H.I.P…” said
Beddows, smiling.
“R.H.I.P?”
asked Shepherd
“Rank has its
privileges, or in your case PITFALLS!”
chuckled Beddows
Together they
pulled the corpse onto the punt, tarpaulin, water, guts and all, laying it out
on the floor of the punt, the handle of the boathook now sticking out over the
side.
“You can take
us back in now Boatman” said Beddows, “You might want to get off before we
unwrap the poor little bugger…”
Beddows
wished that he had not got to go through the grim formalities, but now he was
being watched by Shepherd, he would have to show him the right way.
Charles
Church needed no second invitation to get off the punt, tying it off at the
main upright to the wharf, at a level where the corpse could be lifted straight
onto the boards at hip height. He then left the boat and went off to join the
waiting onlookers, at a safe distance, and out of view of what was to be
revealed.
“Remember
this” said Beddows. “This is the first crime scene…forget the river for now as
he could have gone in anywhere. Let’s not miss anything …We’ll have a look along
the riverbank later…”
Shepherd was in
awe at how calm and composed Beddows was, and admired his professionalism.
Beddows on
the other hand was “swanning” and underneath the calm exterior was a man
paddling like mad to keep up that very impression.
“Send one of
those little buggers back to the station Mr Church, tell them we need a Sergeant
down here, a detective if they can find one…if
they’re out of the pub yet!” directed Beddows.
“We need some
better lights as well…someone bring me some more lamps” he ordered brusquely,
resulting in two or three sets of footsteps stomping off, and then stomping
back, oil lamps in hand…cautiously set down a few feet from the punt, along the walkway.
“Keep your
eyes open lad, and have a pencil and paper to hand. Suppose you have got a
pencil and paper? Let’s see what we’ve got here” said Beddows in an almost
delighted, ghoulish manner…”and I don’t want to see your supper on the floor of the boat, understand?” he laughed
quietly.
His own
dinner had thought twice about making another appearance, but he had managed to
hold back, and the bravado now made him feel more confident… confident enough
to tease Shepherd!
Beddows
pulled back the tarpaulin, exposing the naked corpse. Shepherd gagged, felt the
bitterness at the back of his throat, and quickly swallowed again, retaining
the re-heated supper he had earlier.
In the
tarpaulin, was a young boy, with dull sandy hair, now stained and matted with
the filth from the river and riverbed, where he had probably rested for some
days. The body had settled on its back, the face tilted up and away from the Constables,
the arms splayed.
It was
apparent that there was no right eye, and the face was partly eaten, by fish or,
more likely, the rats that bred profusely and ran wild along the river (more densely
so than everywhere else, currently, in the Borough).
The body had
become very bloated, (prior to Shepherds little faux-pas) which had no doubt
brought it back to the surface, given how cold the air temperature felt, and
the skin was sodden, loose and peeling off from the bones.
The boy was
probably no more than five to eight years old, and was emaciated, which was
visible even in his current state. His fingers were badly decomposed and bones
showed where flesh should have been.
“First things
first” said Beddows…”Is he definitely dead?”
Beddows
remembered back to his own first sudden death, and a very sill looking young
physician asking him the same question. Seemed absurd, but it also sounded very
impressive…and he had recalled it and used it several times with new Constables
at their first body.
Shepherd
looked at Beddows’ dead pan face, looking for some assurance that this was a
joke…
“I bloody
well hope so Sir… if he’s not, I doubt if he’s feeling too well …” Shepherd
responded, seeking a little light-hearted relief and still looking for a
reassuring smirk (which failed to materialise!).
Beddows saw
the look, but denied him the relief…
“Don’t get
too smug young fellow me lad … remember” said Beddows…”First rule of deaths is
make sure they’re dead. If they ain’t it’s a physicians problem, if they are it’s
our problem, and then the Coroners, and he won’t be happy if you get it wrong!”
“God that sounded good” thought Beddows…
“Experience
tells me you’ve made the right decision with this one, been dead for some time,
like I said when I first smelled him…” Beddows smirked, at last.
“Somebody’s
son too…” said Beddows, on a more serious note… “But has he been missed? Will
we have any missing boys reported? I doubt it…just another unnecessary mouth to
feed, poor little sod!”
Shepherd
looked at the boys face, or what was left of it, moving his eyes slowly down
the body, until they reached the boy’s throat.
“Look sir”
Shepherd exclaimed…”His throat’s been cut…” shocked at the damage that was now
evident before them.
Beddows noted
the deep, gaping, vivid crimson gash, which had become clogged with weed, dirt,
and maggots, which now wriggled about and squirmed in the shallow water in the tarpaulin
beneath the corpse.
The corpse
had been fly-blown at some stage, and had become meat for their table, probably
in the first days, before it had settled in the mud at the bottom of the river.
Some physician would probably know roughly how long he would have been dead.
“Why remove
all his clothes?” enquired Shepherd…
“Could be
they were better than the ones on the one who killed him…or perhaps there was a
little…jiggery pokery…some of our dear residents are fond of young flesh, don’t
you know? Beddows replied, scratching his whiskers and wondering just the same
thing himself.
“What next
then sir?” enquired Shepherd, eager to learn more from Beddows’.
“Damn it”
cursed Beddows “We need to wait a while. This is going to be a long night. There’s
never a Sergeant around when you need one…?”
There was
nothing worse than sitting around with a dead body, especially on a night like
this, and there were warm tea spots that Beddows would have preferred to be
taking Shepherd.
…And Sergeants
were never on time when you wanted them, and heaven help you if you were late
for your point, when they expected you!
“Here, young
Thomas Parrott…do you think you’ve seen this lad before, looks like a scavenger
to me?” Beddows called towards the boy, now waiting with Mr Church and the
other bystanders…
Parrott was
still in shock, and trying to get any help from him at the moment was out of
the question. In any event, young Master Parrott had no desire to ever look at
that face again!
At ten
thirty, Beddows called to the boatmen to send for a local surgeon or physician,
as now they formally needed to confirm that life was extinct.
“Should have
thought of that earlier…” he thought to himself…tutting out loud and shaking
his head.
*****
Word quickly
spread from the small crowd of onlookers on the wharf, and soon a much larger
crowd filled the parapets of the West Bridge, having spilled out from the local
hostelries by the river, The Boat and Engine, or the Ship, or The Recruiting Sergeant,
and sought access to the alleyway and steps down to the wooden walkway.
A futile
gesture really, considering the dense fog and the fact that now a section of
rope had been tied across the walkway, denying entry to all but those meant to
be there.
Within a few
minutes the small part of the Borough’s population that was still awake would
hear through the grapevine that something was going on.
But in this
instance, it was the grapevine that first reached a Detective, Sergeant William
Roberts.
He had been
nestled into the back room of the Ship on Soar Lane, having a sociable pint (or
three) with the licensee, as was expected, and officially “cultivating informants”, or so he would profess.
Detectives in
pubs, drinking, was still a matter of divided opinion between the Watch
Committee and Robert Charters, but the results achieved by the first
detectives, Francis “Tanky” Smith, “Black Tommy” Haynes, and Herbert Kettle,
indicated that it was a valid means to tackle the growing gangs and crime they
were committing within the Borough and periphery.
It was not appreciated
by the uniform Constables and Sergeants, many of whom had numerous reprimands
for drinking on duty, who saw this as elitism and / or victimization.
There was a
large degree of suspicion of detectives by uniformed Constables, and vice
versa. Police regulations stated quite clearly it was an offence for a Constable
to be found on duty in a Public House.
To the Constables
what “regs” (regulations) should have
said was “get caught” not “be found”… as if you got caught it was your own
fault!
The old Beddows had “got caught” too often, and it was nearly his undoing…as his Constable
rank reminded him!
*****
Just after a nearby
clock (Probably on the tower of St Nicholas Church) had struck eleven, Roberts
stumbled onto the walkway, and grabbed at one of the small group of onlookers
from the original event, stopping himself from tumbling into the river.
At five feet
eight tall, with brown wavy, tousled hair, and large sideburns, dressed in a
suit of 3 piece tweed, much beyond the pocket of most Superintendants, and
wearing the new fangled “Bowler Hat” that had only gone on sale that last
Christmas, he was not only over-weight, and bright red faced, but well
over-dressed.
How he merged
into the population like the other detectives had done was beyond most Constables
belief.
Shiny brown
shoes to match the suit looked much more comfortable than the ill fitting police
issue boots worn by Beddows and Shepherd. Roberts looked more the Toff than
Copper…or more still … a variety house compare…
It must have
been clear to the small group of river folk that he was “under the influence”, as
he smelled somewhat like a small scale version of the new “Everards, Son & Wheldon”
Brewery which was now turning out a range of good beers across from the River
in Southgates.
This had
recently moved from a small building at Narborough Wood, close to Enderby, and
was now the largest Brewery in the Borough.
“Who’s
there?” called out Beddows
“Sergeant Roberts,
who do you bleedin’ think Beddows? What
you got that drags me away from my other… duties?”
he sneered.
Beddows held
Roberts in suspicion. He was a loner, and couldn’t be trusted. He was totally
unlike the other three detectives in the Borough, who had proved themselves
good spies and thief takers, and who were totally trustworthy.
Beddows saw
everything that had been wrong in the originals of ’36 in Roberts, as he was
not one to turn down free drink or coin to turn a blind eye if it was in his
benefit.
Beddows
waited his time, and had decided that Roberts would get his “come uppance” one
day…and avoided him like the plague as best he could.
That was not
to be the case, unfortunately, today!
“Who are you
lad?” slurred Roberts, looking towards Shepherd, a trickle of ale running from
the corner of his mouth as he hiccupped.
“Constable 52
Shepherd sir…” replied Shepherd, disbelieving that this was a Detective Sergeant,
one of the Borough’s finest…
“We’re taking
on sprogs now? Can’t be more than eighteen…what the buggery are we doing?...”
“… Anyways Beddows,
who says it’s a bleeding murder? That’s what they were saying in the Ship!” …grunted
Roberts.
Shepherd held
out his hand to assist Roberts into the punt, but aggressively, Roberts
declined any help, pulling back from Shepherd, before slipping and falling onto
his arse in the shallow and putrid swill on the floor of the vessel, soaking
the posh brown tweed trousers and leather shoes at the first attempt, his
bowler floating upside down behind him.
“You’ll pay
for that you little bastard, you did that deliberately…cost a few weeks pay it
will…” cursed Roberts.
Roberts felt
rather more indignant and wished he had the sense to have taken the hand, and
now he regretted it, but he would make sure that Shepherd regretted it more!
Shepherd
looked to Beddows, who shook his head briefly in response, before muttering
“Twat” under his breath.
“I suppose the
cause of death is that Boathook is it?” smirked Roberts
“Actually
sir, that was my fault, bringing him in to the punt” muttered an acutely
embarrassed Shepherd.
“Look here”
said Beddows “The little bleeders had his throat cut…” pointing to the deep wound
on display to the three men, but realising that he would likely get more of a
response from the wharf wall than from Roberts in that state.
“Could have
got caught up on wire…could have got cut by a boat hook or weed cutter…or you
could have done it with your boathook, just like the other hole he’s got now…so
why is it murder?” questioned Roberts, looking for a feasible excuse for not investigating
it as such.
“It looks
just like a cut that would be used to kill an animal…clean and determined…a
tear would be ragged and uneven…it’s surely suspicious” suggested Shepherd, cautiously.
“A fucking
expert already is he?” barked Roberts…”The little bleeders obviously a scavenger
and many of them don’t wear clothes like civilized folk… We’ve got no missing
kids – we never have these days. Who’s going to miss him anyway? We don’t need
a murder do we? We’ll have Charters climbing all over our backs and I don’t
need that thank-you…”
Beddows
responded “If it could be a murder, we should treat at it as a murder. You’re
the detective…The Coroner needs to know and that’s what matters…” aware now
that Roberts was looking to find a way to cuff this one.
“If you think
I’m …investigating… around after this
pile of filth, and by the rules, you’re off your head. Let me speak to some of
the boatmen, and they’ll say the cut looks like a weed cutter, save a lot of
bother. You sort out the Coroner, I’ll sort out the rest of the witnesses…I’m
off…”
Roberts
lurched from the boat, onto the walkway and off towards the Town, no doubt to
find another watering hole for the rest of the night, or sort out the shifty
witnesses as he suggested, more likely, and probably the both in the same
watering hole...some den of thieves and dodgy dealers no doubt! thought
Beddows…
Shepherd
looked at Beddows, astonished at what had just been said…
“Is that what
happens, if we don’t want to deal with something? We just get our own witnesses
and turn a blind eye to the truth?”
“I don’t”
said Beddows “and don’t ever let me see you treat any job like that. Roberts is
bad. Watch out for him…”
“…The Coroner
is not as green as Roberts might think. Let’s get a statement off the lad
Thomas Parrott and then we’ll get this corpse off to somewhere out of the
public eye. Roberts we worry about later…Now where’s that bleeding physician?”
After a few
minutes (that seemed like hours), Joseph
Wilson, Physician, of The Newarkes, announced his arrival at the steps to the
walkway, from where he made his way down to the Constables and the awaiting
corpse.
“My god, that
smells rancid…you know how to spoil a man’s evening…Constables?” pausing for a name
or names, in response.
“Beddows and
Shepherd sir…” responded Beddows. “Why is
it all the physicians are stuck-up toffs around here?” he thought to himself
Physician
Wilson looked a real, dashing Toff, turning out to a body, dressed in a very
formal grey Top Hat and tails…with a crisp white shirt, and grey cravat, worn
under a heavy woolen black overcoat. He obviously wore scent, which made
Shepherd sneeze.
A slight man,
of about 5 feet eight inches tall, with a waxed moustache, and an upright gate,
his voice was surprisingly effeminate, which made his age seem much less than suggested
by his appearance…
“The body was
found by a young lad, floating just off the bridge near to the walkway. He
appears to have been dead for some considerable number of days in my
experience…” stated Beddows, stating the obvious from the state of the body...
“I may be a better judge of that…” stated Wilson…
(who now looked younger even than Shepherd, and no doubt, fresh out of one of
the medical schools in London or Edinburgh)… to Beddows annoyance.
“The boathook
is my doing sir, an accident getting the body aboard the punt I’m afraid…but
the rest of the damage had already been done…” explained Shepherd
Wilson
examined the body, and concluded the boy was dead, pronouncing life extinct at
twenty minutes past eleven, much to everyone’s relief.
Shepherd was
relieved that he was actually dead,
whereas Beddows was just relieved that he was pronounced dead, so now they
could move on…
“He’s been
dead for probably five days or more. I can’t suggest anything better due to the
temperatures and the water damage. I would suggest that the wound is inflicted
and probably not by accident. I saw a similar wound on a body in London during
my dissection classes, and he had been held from behind and cut from left to
right as you would with a beast…he would have died of blood loss…I am afraid a
post-mortem is out as I am in a hurry, but I am happy to give my expert advice
to the coroner on what I have observed in some detail...” said Wilson.
“I’ll need a
statement from you to that effect before you leave then sir, if you wouldn’t
mind…” said Beddows, half expecting Wilson to tell him to call in the morning…
“So long as
you are prompt then…” came the reply, “I have a supper to finish”.
*****
The floor of
the yard store, at the back of the Bakers Arms, further along the river, and just
inside Bath Street, was about as cold as it got for storing bodies at this time
of the year. It had also, satisfactorily, served as a mortuary temporarily
before.
Without a
name or a family, and with no other option, the corpse of the young boy had
been carried to the Inn, where just before midnight, the Licensee, Joseph
Headley, acknowledged (for the second time in recent months) that the corpse
could be stored there until the Inquest could be convened.
He knew this
was likely to be within the immediate twenty four hours, and hoped that as the
body settled, it did not put off the customers or his family. It was probably
cold enough to get away with it this time of the year, he hoped.
He did not
care to examine, or even, merely look at the body out of curiosity. There was a
jury and Coroner who were to be paid to do just that!
The last one
he had taken in had lain in front of a fire for several days, one side was
cooked and the other side had gone off. It was the warmer weather, and the
corpse was rancid. He had helped his friend Jack Cooper, a nearby carpenter who
had made a cheap parish coffin, and the Constable, place the body in the box
before the Inquest.
The guts had
split, and Headley had been covered from the knee down in god knows what. His
boots still tried to get up and walk on their own to this day, he swore. Never
again!
He would also
prefer not to be seen as a suitable venue for inquests, but he could not legally
object. The Bakers Arms had a reputation as a well run and respectable Inn, and
Joseph Headley a convivial Licensee. This made the perfect venue for the
harrowing process of Coroners’ Inquest. And Coroner Mitchell liked his wines!
But, corpses
like that were bad for trade, and trade was already bad…for all Leicester’s new
found wealth.
Shepherd and Beddows
again looked at the boy’s corpse. There definitely was something deliberate
about the wound to the throat. This was not an accident. Shepherd and Beddows
were sure of it.
Shepherd
could see something but couldn’t put
his finger on it. It would come to him, it always did. He had an eye for detail
and an astonishing memory, so he had been told by many.
The yard store
gate was closed and padlocked, with the lifeless corpse, still wrapped in the
tarpaulin, laying out cold on the ashes that covered the floor of the store.
The top of
the store was open to the elements, so the cold and fog would blow in, and
hopefully mitigate the smell of decomposition.
No parish
coffin for this boy yet, less he could be identified and someone pay for one
themselves…
Joseph
Headley warned his wife Mary not to go wandering into the yard, and promptly
locked and bolted the inner door of the Inn onto the yard. His dogs scratched
and howled at the foot of the door…
…”And
whatever you do, don’t let these out – there’ll be nothing left for Mr. Mitchell
tomorrow,” he called to Mary.
Beddows and
Shepherd began the regulation slow walk back through the fog to Town Hall Lane to
seek orders for what was to be done next, and the temporary warmth of Sergeant
Sheffield’s fire.
*****
Shepherd felt
the numbing cold around his fingers, ears and feet, and realised how little
protection the basic uniform issued offered him.
The boots
were hard and desperately uncomfortable. He was slowly adding to a list of
“extras” that he hoped his Aunt Sarah would knit for him, such as extra thick
socks, and some more gloves (if he would need to dispose of them in future
events like that of this evening), and to be sure of the knowledge that they
would be warm.
The uniform
itself was coarse and scratchy, and itched like buggery with its high harsh
collared Tunic with broad sewn seams, and the matching trousers that were not
at all comfortable or practical for modern policemen.
His hat was
hard, which gave his head some protection from any blow, but the hardness made
it uncomfortable on his head, and he always ended up with a tight red band
around his forehead, and his hair sticking upwards…
In fact, at
that moment, he regretted that he was not tucked up in his Aunt’s house, where
he now lodged, in the modest but respectable end house of Twizzle and Twine
Passage, on Grange Lane, close to the Infirmary, Bridewell and Leicester Mill,
where he sat and painted on summer afternoons and evenings.
*****
He had moved
to Leicester determined to join the Borough Police, as had his uncle George
back in 1836.
George had also
been Samson Shepherd’s best friend and advisor, before him and his wife Sarah
(his mother’s sister) moved to Leicester from Normanton on Soar.
This occurred
when life as a frame knitter in Normanton, as elsewhere at the time, became
bleak. Leicester seemed to offer a brighter future for young families than
Nottingham, which still relied predominantly
on frame knitting and Lace at that time.
Shepherd’s
own Father, Samuel, was a hard, brutal, Agricultural labourer who was handy
with his fists, and too fond of the ale.
Samuel’s
brother, also called Samson Shepherd, had been the Licensee of The Stockynges
Arms at Gotham, and Samuel would spend more time in Gotham than at the family
home in Sutton Bonington, wandering off for days.
It was as a
result of beatings from his Father that Shepherd had learned to box, to defend
himself, and, too often, his mother and his siblings.
George had
coached him, and had counselled him, and had shown more love and respect than
his Father had ever done.
When George died,
as a result of being assaulted by Chartists in Leicester, during fierce and
bloody running battles on the night of 19th August 1842, Samson
Shepherd made up his mind he was going to join The Borough of Leicester Police.
Nobody had
ever been punished for that particular assault, let alone George’s death.
It was a
night that Leicester would remember for years to come, when large groups of
Chartists, led, amongst others by Thomas Cooper, descended on Leicester after
the “Battle of Mowmacre Hill”, and fought running battles with Police and
officials along Churchgate and through the town to Welford Road.
There the
Chartists erected a large banner pronouncing their moral victory and plight.
Ironically the
Chartist movement and key figures were to have a profound influence on
improving the lives and welfare of the residents of Leicester over coming
years, but in 1842 they were “the enemy” and seen by many as anarchists…
When he told
his parents what he wished to do, his Father rubbed his hands in glee…”one less
mouth to feed then, another blessing…”, but his mother, Charlotte, was
heart-broken.
Samson was also
anxious who would stick up for her and his siblings, but his younger brother
Matthew assured him he would do so, and began his own boxing lessons shortly
thereafter…
Aunt Sarah
had readily agreed to take him in during his attempt to join the Police, but
was apprehensive that he did not meet a similar fate to her husband.
Also, a
lodger and a few pounds extra each week would make her own life easier, so it
was a profitable and mutually agreeable arrangement, but she insisted that some
of his pay should also be sent back to his mother.
There was no
such thing as a Police Widow’s pension in 1850, well not for Sarah Pearson!
Chapter Two – Heroes and Villains
It was One
o’clock in the morning, and by the time that Sergeant Wright had been given a
thorough appraisal of events to date, and statement taken from the boy Thomas Parrott,
news had reached the Head Constable, Robert Charters, who Shepherd had only
spoken to once before, at his interview to join the Force.
Charters was
a respected Leader and a proven investigator in his own right, with experience
in Peel’s Metropolitan Police, before moving to Leicester to take over the
Borough from his predecessor Frederick Goodyer.
Charters was
a family man, and lived in the modest house that was located in the rear of the
quadrangle of buildings that formed the Town Hall, and from where he controlled
the Force.
It was a
quaint “Dolls’ house” with a little tan door, porch, and hanging baskets, and with
trailing honeysuckles that his wife, Mary tended.
The yard was
swathed in climbing plants, which was surreal as it seemed at times like it was
the only greenery still growing in the Borough, and the last a small few might
see before they were “necked”.
His wife, Mary,
was alleged to use more water, from a rain-water butt in the yard, for watering
the plants, than the rest of the occupants of the quadrangle did together for
drinking.
The butt,
dated 1773, which stood in the rear corner between the Station and the rear entrance
to the Great Hall provided better drinking water than the Conduit in Market
Place!
Alleged Reported Murders had been a rare event
since the Force had been created, (with only one previous in the Borough in
1846) and Charters wanted to know all, as he would be held responsible, no
doubt, for the outcome.
He was annoyed
that there was clear dispute between Beddows and Detective Sergeant Roberts,
neither of whom he particularly liked, but he more acknowledged Beddows’
experience.
He was also
keen to know Shepherd’s view.
Charters
stood tall and dignified, and had dressed in his full uniform, with its long
tailed coat, to enquire of events.
At 53 years
of age, he was as tall as both Beddows and Shepherd, but was balding, with
dark, wispy hair, greying over his ears, and with long grey sideburns. A
Geordie, with a strong but polished accent, he was sometimes hard to
distinguish when he shifted back into purer Geordie.
He was a
very stern looking man, and invoked not only respect from most of his men, but
in some, fear. This was not a bad thing in 1850 Leicester!
“So why
would Roberts think this not a murder? He is the detective after all…” enquired
Charters
“He seemed
more inclined to returning to his other
duties, or so he said…sir” replied Beddows
“He has
something more pressing than a possible murder investigation?” suggested
Charters
“That’s not
of my knowledge, or else for me to comment on Sir” replied Beddows, with a
strong hint of sarcasm…”God, he must know
Roberts is bent by now?” He thought to himself…
“Perhaps Sergeant
Roberts would prefer not to investigate anything, other than in his own
interest, is that what you are implying Beddows?” said Charters, his eyes
clearly watching Beddows’ face in anticipation of the answer…
“Some may
well think so, sir” replied Beddows…”I would have more confidence with Sergeant
Smith or Sergeant Haynes…” which was a straight and honest answer.
After a
short pause he added …“What does
worry me sir, is whether Roberts does not want us to investigate any murder, or for some reason, this particular murder…tonight, and if
so, why not? I have never seen him quite so determined to cuff something so
serious…”
“Beddows…you
have not always been of my favour. You were a Sergeant and a damn good one but
let drink ruin that reputation. However, you were a Sergeant, and you are one
of my most knowledgeable and experienced men, and put the drink behind you….
For that I do respect your views, and will consider them in what I chose to do
next…” smiled Charters
“So Shepherd,
what do you make of this sordid event?” enquired Charters, turning to his
latest recruit. A test of his self confidence and observation skills…
Shepherd
stood firm… “There was definitely a
distinctive clean wound on the boy’s throat, sir, and all his clothes were
missing from the body. I believe it is at least suspicious and justifies the
Coroners involvement, Sir”.
“A very
succinct appraisal…And how are your skills with the boathook?” asked Charters
mockingly, slipping back into broad Geordie and displaying a broader grin.
“I made a
terrible error, sir, and I will never let it happen again” Shepherd nervously
replied, unsure as to how Charters knew that detail, as Beddows hadn’t
mentioned it.
“How can I
be sure of your judgement, if it is as poor as your dexterity?” Charters smiled
again.
“I have seen
animals’ throats cut at slaughter, and I have seen animals that have been
caught on wire who have torn open their own throats in the throes of trying to
free themselves…and in my humble opinion sir, this poor lad had been
slaughtered…” Shepherd had confidently, verbally, underlined the importance of
the last five words of the sentence.
“I
understand Mr Wilson, the physician from The Newarkes who attended also is of
such an opinion?” asked Charters
“So it would
appear” agreed Beddows.
“Very good
then, a job for Mr Mitchell in the morning…and by then I want a search making
of the riverbank above West Bridge, and enquiries to establish if we have any
missing souls matching the description…
…and have a
report at my desk by morning, and a file to Mr Mitchell before you go off duty,
too” Charters directed.
In the meantime Charters would send word for
Detective Sergeants Francis “Tanky” Smith, and Thomas “Black Tommy” Haynes.
He suspected
that by now Roberts would probably not be in a fit state to assist, if even he
might be found, and he would deal with him when next opportunity arose.
Charters
suspected that Sergeant Roberts was to become a problem he could ill afford.
*****
It was now getting
on for three o’clock in the morning, and most of Leicester was asleep, bar a
small number of vagrants, rogues, and thieves, young and old, who dared to ply
their trade under the nose of the Police.
Most of the
Inns and Hotels were now closed, officially, but one or two imaginative
licensees had invented the notion of “friends of the licensee” who were
permitted to drink provided no cash was seen to exchange hands. Various means
of ensuring this had been adopted, and cash up-front before closing time was a
popular twist.
Every now
and again, bursts of laughter could be heard coming from somewhere in the
vicinity of the Market place, where no doubt, “mine host” was still serving!
Also, there
were some private beer houses, for which the Police had no powers, and they
blatantly flaunted the licensing laws. Many of these were in rear upper floors
of larger establishments, such as Factories and warehouses.
In the
Rookeries around Abbey Street and Belgrave Gate, the Irish would be in fighting
form no doubt, and pissed as newts, taking it out on each other… if nobody else ventured into their lairs
that they might set upon.
A day
without a fight was a sad day for its male population (and for a few Irish Ladies too), who were probably bored out
of their brains otherwise…
Shepherd had
not yet seen much of this side of Leicester as a Constable, as during his
previous week’s day shifts, life in the Borough had been different altogether.
Most of the
population that had scurried about him fell into the category of shop workers
and factory workers going to work (early shift at 5am), market traders, or the posh,
middle and upper classes shopping, together with their array of servants and
carriers.
The Borough
seemed boisterous and lively, full of energy…
During the early
evening it was the same posh, middle classes and upper classes, going off to the many Hotels and Inns, Variety
Halls (such as The Old Cheese), or the Theatre.
During the
day the roads were filled with carriages of all shape and size, with fine horses
pulling them, and then there were the carriers and deliverymen, with their
working horses, bedraggled and shabby in comparison, and the Farmers and
Slaughterers who would be moving their stock to or from the frequent Horse,
Cattle or other livestock markets.
But, mixed
in with each of these groups were a large and growing number of “opportunistic”
unemployed and paupers, with the same perpetual vagrants, rogues and
vagabonds…each looking for something to steal, or somebody to deceive, or some
fight to start.
They had
nothing else to do. The only other choice was being “selected” for the Union
Workhouse, a new but fearsome looking structure, recently built on the southern
edge of Highfields.
Behind the
railway station, and to the East of the Borough, it was where they knew they
would be broken with hard labour for the benefit of a roof over their heads,
and less food than the average frame worker.
Many consciously
chose vagrancy, many sought refuge in the seedier side of Leicester, in the
very poor areas, including the Rookeries.
Sex sold,
and consequently Dollymops, Toffers, Bunters, Mollies and Mandrakes wandered
abroad looking for trade, happy to wander into an alleyway or back to their Abbey or Cab, with the highest bidder.
Many
realised that imprisonment often gave them far more than they would have in the
community, namely a bed, food, exercise, a dry roof over their heads, and less
people to share with per cell than in any hovel around the Borough.
Thus, the
risk of committing crime was a calculated one, but often a “win-win” for the
criminal.
It had
become a “win-win” by 1850, because many of the offences that had naturally
borne the Death penalty during previous years, had been reduced to terms of
imprisonment, hard labour, an occasional whipping, or on a bad day for a more
significant offence, transportation to The Colonies.
Many
consequences were still no worse than trying to survive in an impoverished
Borough where unemployment fluctuated rapidly and work was certainly not
guaranteed. That did not fill your belly …where crime could!
Criminal life was a gamble that was
definitely worth taking for many!
*****
Shepherd had
been coldly surprised at the apparent imbalance or unfairness between sentences
for offences against or including Property, compared to offences against other persons.
The last day
shift of his first week, had seen him taken by Beddows to the criminal
Epiphany sessions held on Monday 31st December 1850, in front of John Hildyard
Esquire, Recorder for The Borough, in the Great Hall of the Town Hall
buildings.
Each of the
prisoners was brought either from the Borough Gaol, or charged at the Police
Station Charge Office, and immediately prior to sessions, lodged in a single, small,
dark cell which was located directly outside the yard entrance to the Great Hall.
The cell was
no more than ten feet long by four feet wide, and was below ground level by
about three feet, on a sodden ash floor. There could be up to twenty prisoners
for trial at each day of the sessions.
Each prisoner
in turn was marched in and stood in front of the Recorder and close to the jury
that would sit for such sessions, before hearing their sentence.
The
flagstones of the Great Hall showed heavy wear and tear between the yard door
and the area before the bench, with the most wear at the point where the
prisoners shuffled, nervously, awaiting their fate.
The Convictions
of the day included;
·
Henry Walter (16) Theft of meat - One month
imprisonment and a severe whipping.
·
James Smith aka (also known as) William Robinson
(30) Theft of handkerchiefs - Three months imprisonment.
·
Catherine Pratt (28) Theft of purse and coins -
Seven years transportation.
·
Jane Wood (45) Theft of six dozen yards of lace -
One week hard labour.
·
John Smith (12) Theft of purse, seven shillings and
glove - Ten years transportation.
·
William Geary (25) theft of a spade - Ten years
transportation.
·
John Watchorn (18) uttering counterfeit coins - 12 months
imprisonment.
·
Charles Harris (19) Attempted felonious stabbing -
Six months hard labour.
There
appeared to be no obvious tariff for sentences (other than the death penalty at
Assizes), and they were subjective,
more often than not, on the identity and status of the owner of the property or
against whom the offence had been committed, or the prisoner’s brazen gall in
denying such offence.
Shepherd was
also shocked at the plight of younger offenders, being treated in the same way
as those older criminals, or worse, as almost a moral lesson to the general
public.
“Perhaps this was the right thing to do, to
make a point and deter offenders?”
…but still
Shepherd was confused.
*****
Beddows set
off at standard slow pace from the Police Station, Shepherd at his side.
The pace had
been practiced, day after day, shift after shift, to ensure that he could get
round his given beat in regulatory time, and not to miss a point.
Shepherd
would not realise it, but he would sub-consciously pick up that pace himself,
and would find it came instinctively in days to come.
“We’ll have a
wander through the town and see what low-life is wandering around. I have a few
snitches who may be about and who might know of the murder by now, and throw
some light on it…” suggested Beddows.
…“The fog and
darkness will mean there’s no point in trying to see anything along the
riverbank by night yet…and we don’t know what we’re looking for in any case,
other than clothes or signs of violence…and that could have happened anywhere”.
Like a new
puppy, Shepherd walked at heel, his right hand now tucked inside his cloak,
mainly for a little extra warmth, but also to nurse the strap of his new
Truncheon, which he reflected, they may need to call upon...
Shepherd now
felt more conspicuous and uncomfortable than on any shift previously…and
vulnerable!
Just down
from the Police Station, at the entrance to St Martin’s (East), was number 12 Town
Hall Lane.
Gas lamps
were still lit in both upper and lower floor rooms, and every now and again,
women’s laughter could be heard from upstairs.
“That,
believe it or not, my lad, is the local knocking shop, or as you might hear it
called, “The cab” or “The Abbey”…not to be confused with the religious kind,
down along by the River…Know what one of those is lad?” tested Beddows.
Beddows had
already made up his mind that young Mr Shepherd was not that kind of a person,
but it had caught one or two others out over the years, and he had heard some
strange confessions …
“I think so
sir, but I have never been in one…” blushed Shepherd.
He was not
going to disclose that he was still also a respectable
virgin, and didn’t currently even walk out with a girl, which he could put down
to his lack of time in the Borough.
“Good to hear
it lad” said Beddows…to some degree relieved. ”The abbess is a woman called
“Manky Lil” Ryan … got a dose from a Matelot on home leave some years ago, and within weeks half of
Leicester’s male population were itching and scratching like buggery…
…dirty whore
she is. Right under the noses of Mr Charters, and the Judiciary and Mayor and
hoi polloi of Leicester…her and her Dollymops…Mind you, half the Hoi Polloi are
her Corinthians and I wouldn’t be surprised if the old Recorder don’t get so
lonely every now and again he pops in his self…so if ever you see Mr Hildyard
scratching his crown jewels just have a think about why that might be…” laughed
Beddows.
“What’s a
Corinthian?” enquired Shepherd naively…
“That’s what
they call the punters, the swells, the toffs, that pop in for a bit of tupping,
if you know what I mean…” laughed Beddows, recognizing that he was probably
talking a completely new language to the lad.
“She’s got a
couple of what we call “Toffers” – good looking young girls, pretty, and a bit
cleaner than most of the others she employs…they attract some very important
people… Come from miles around…they do…
… Keep a
lookout for some of the posh cabs that park up around the front of St Martin’s
churchyard… might look like they are in the big houses opposite, but more
likely they’re being exercised by their “Toffers”…exclusive treatment they
reckon! Don’t forget to fling them one up when they pass by; let them know you
know…”
Shepherd
sensed that Beddows liked to have an edge whilst out on his beat, and it
sounded like it might be a bit of fun on such a dark winters evening.
He would also
have to get used to all the nicknames and street language which he realised was
all new to him.
On the
opposite side was the King and Crown Inn, run by Joseph Keetley and his good
lady.
This was another favourite Inquest location Beddows Informed him, where
you could get a wet anytime of the day or night…as Mr Keetley had staff up all
night for his guests’ needs as they arose(with bedrooms for travellers over the
coach house entrance in Coronation Yard).
His brother
was a regular officer in the Indian Army and brings home some quality tea…as Beddows
reminded Shepherd he was now reformed from the grog!
At about half
past three, as the Constables approached the bottom of Town Hall Lane, Beddows
noticed some movement through the swirling fog, into an alleyway just inside Carts
Lane, and to the side of The Globe, which was now in complete darkness.
Pinching
Shepherd on the arm, he gestured, putting one finger over his mouth, and
reached inside his cape for his trusty truncheon.
Gingerly, the
pair moved across the junction and to the entrance to the alley, which Beddows
knew led down behind the shops on High Street.
Shepherd’s
hand also strengthened its grip on his stick, and the pair entered the alley.
A short way
down, almost obscured in the gloom, Beddows could see two figures stood upright
and close together.
Knowing also
that this was a dead end, and there was no other way out, Beddows challenged
the shadowy figures… “Constables – who goes there?”
This was
where Beddows was most confident. He was frightened by very little and was
street hard, especially when he had young fit arms and hands alongside him this
night.
Emerging
slowly, two small figures shuffled out into the diffused light of the street, generated
by the glow of three street lamps, high on the walls above the Globe, on Carts
Lane and at the corner of Silver Street.
Shepherd saw
a man of short build, about five feet five inches tall, and scruffily dressed,
emerge first, clearly surprised at being disturbed, and followed by a female of
a similar height, in a dark bustled dress, cloak and hat, her blouse undone and
hanging loose over her skirt…
“And what do
we think we are up to?” smirked Beddows, aware that they had disturbed what was
probably going to be a “Three penny upright” at this time of the night.
Beddows liked
the “we” concept as he felt much more
a part of the proceedings and he could tease them as he pleased…
Beddows
recognized the man as Edward Pawley, a carpenter and occasional undertaker, who
had a small yard and workshop at the bottom of Churchgate, at the side of the
new Star Foundry, and backing onto Short Street, where he could come and go
almost un-noticed.
“Well if it’s
not the inglorious under-handed undertaker of old Leicester town…Mr Edward
Pawley as I do recall?” Beddows said, mocking the man.
Pawley had
come to notice before as a suspected thief…the origins of his cheap timber at
times allegedly unknown to him…”it just turns up every now and again from kind parish
benefactors” he had once told Beddows…
Beddows also
noted that Pawley smelt like death and looked like death, pale and gaunt,
skinny and dark eyed, like a living corpse, but definitely the smell of death
had established itself in his shabby attire. It smelt recent and almost
familiar.
“And who are
you missus?” he asked, looking towards a very sheepish looking middle aged
woman, with round rimmed glasses and a pronounced hook nose…who was trying very
hard not to be too visible to the Constables.
Not one of
the Dollymops Beddows had seen before…
Shepherd
nudged Beddows and said “It’s a bloke, wearing a dress…look…”
Beddows
grabbed the “Woman” by the upper part of her already disheveled garb and pushed
her upright against the wall, causing the bonnet she had been wearing to fall
off, and dislodging a curly blond wig, from beneath which shone a balding pate,
confirming Shepherd’s observation.
“So, we’ve
got ourselves a couple of Mollies, have we? Fancied a bit of rough did we?” Beddows
baited the two men.
“Who was to
be been blind cupid tonight then? Or was it a quick blow job you had in mind?”
Sometimes
being coarse and firm got the reaction Beddows was looking for much
quicker…sometimes it just got him into a confrontation!
“You’ve got
it all wrong Constable…” uttered the man Pawley…”we’ve done nothing wrong, and
you can’t talk to us like that…”
“And what do
you say missus?” Beddows taunted the bald headed man…
”Hang about,
I know who you are…you’re Daniel Salt, from the Borough Planners office…”
“On what grounds do you feel you were entitled
to manhandle me like that Constable… Beddows….yes I believe it is…Constable Beddows…one
of the Force Drunks I do believe. You have just assaulted me Constable and that
is an offence don’t you know…as is drinking on duty…” Salt composed himself.
“…and so, you stumble out of the back door of
The Globe, and decide to assault two innocent people who were doing nothing
illegal as it happens, just to cover up your own little sins…as there I was
coming back from a pleasant evening of fancy dress at The Stokers Arms. How will
that go down with Mr Charters and the Night Watch Committee?” Salt minced…
Salt was
known to Beddows from some corruption scandal that had been exposed during the
planning submissions and building of the new Union Workhouse, and for which
numerous officials had been investigated and four of the Union Senior staff
dismissed for their part in it.
Salt had been
highly suspected of involvement and receiving “back-handers” but nothing could
ever be proven.
“You slimey,
perverse, obnoxious, devious, hook-nosed, effeminate, crooked little turd….”
Growled Beddows.
“Don’t ever
make threats to me like that again. You don’t intimidate me; let me make you
aware, you disgust me. Whatever your little perversions are, and of two of your
most depraved I am now aware, be warned, as the Law will catch up with you”.
Shepherd was
a little concerned about how confrontational this was becoming, so he moved
forward and stood quickly between Beddows and Salt.
“I am Constable
52 Shepherd. I must warn you that you have been officially stopped as a suspected person, and, together with a
reputed thief, you were acting in a suspicious manner, in an enclosed yard. We do
have every power, under the Vagrancy Act of 1824, to stop, search and question
you, and to use such force as is reasonable to detain you for such purposes…
… If you are
objecting to my rights as a Constable, we can also arrest you for that offence if
you would prefer. I too am sure that your arrest would not go down well within
the Borough. So, what do you have in your pockets…or is it a handbag tonight
with your…fancy dress?”
Beddows held
back a smile as he saw a bit of fire in Shepherd’s eyes!
“And I’m sure
you would also go down very well in
the Bridewell, The House of Correction, or for that matter the Borough Gaol, Mr
Salt, if you know what I mean. You would be very popular with some of the residents down there…” a now composed Beddows
responded.
“Now, both of
you turn out your pockets and handbags, like my colleague has just asked…PLEASE!”
Shepherd
noticed a definite look of fear in Pawley’s eyes, seeking eye contact with Salt.
Shepherd saw some
movement of Pawley’s hands, which he was holding behind his back, and something
roll onto the floor, and which Pawley attempted to moved away with his heel.
“What have
you just discarded Mr Pawley?” Shepherd asked, reaching down, cautiously, to
the object on the floor, behind the now sweating man.
Shepherd
opened a small rolled up piece of paper.
It was heavy, and upon opening the folds, inside Shepherd found four,
bright, new, Guinea coins.
“That’s a
nice sum of money for a back-street carpenter and occasional undertaker. PC Beddows
and I have to work hard for fourteen hours a shift to earn less than a quarter
of that much money each week. Where has it come from?” asked Shepherd.
“It’s too
much to pay for a knee-trembler Mr Pawley … far too much … even from a lady like this” taunted Beddows.
He wasn’t
over bothered about Mollies as a whole, but thieving, lying ones in a public
place got his goat.
“We won the
fancy dress prized down at The Stokers Arms…go and ask the landlord, or Mr O’Donnell,
the organizer, they’ll tell you…” replied Salt. “ It’s a very well patronised
event, and lots of money is paid in by people you will never have the pleasure
of mixing with…well to do people …and to have a good night…and that is where
the money comes from…”
“So why throw
it away then Mr Pawley?” asked Shepherd “Do you have so much money you don’t
need it?” applying as much sarcasm as he thought he could currently muster.
“It was in my
trousers; hidden so none could find it, and it fell out….you can’t be too
careful around this rotten place, full of robbers and cut-throats, not to
mention bent Policemen….” croaked Pawley.
He gulped and
realised he was probably getting a bit too brave.
Shepherd began
to “rub down” the nervous Mr Pawley…from his neck, downwards, lingering under
his armpits, and down through his jacket and trouser pockets, and the small of
his back…
Apart from
the stickiness of the clothing, and the smell of a practicing undertaker, which
gave Shepherd a desire to wash his hands there and then…he found nothing else.
Beddows was
doing the same, very cautiously, to Mr Salt. He had never put his hands up a
woman’s skirt with such trepidation…not for a long time!
“Mr Pawley,
here is your coin…I hope it has been worth its pain, or pleasure…?” mocked Beddows
“And, we will
bid you both a good night” said Beddows, “But remember, your cards are now
marked, and if I can find that you’ve been up to no good, then I’ll see you
before the Justices, god help me I will…or, should I say Sod Off?”
The two
figures skittered quickly into the fog, arm in arm, and onward to the safety of
some sordid den.
*****
“That’s just
how being a Constable is, Lad…” said Beddows.
“You go out
to do one thing, and come across something else that needs your attention, and
you still have to get on and do what you were supposed to be doing in the first
place….
… You did
well back there, I saw some fire, some initiative, and some moral courage, and
it was like having George alongside me again for a few moments. You could be a
good copper one day…”
“Should we
have arrested them?” asked Shepherd, unsure why they hadn’t
“For what?”
asked Beddows…
”They
weren’t actually doing anything just at that moment, but if they’ve been up to
no good, we will know soon enough. That’s when we’ll arrest them lad!”
Shepherd
felt content, with his first positive comments, and at the very reserved compassion
he could see hidden under Beddows’ hard exterior.
“George, not Pearson?” he thought to
himself…
The pair
walked onto High Street and down towards the Cole Hill where High Street met
Churchgate, Gallowtree Gate, Humberstone Gate and Eastgates, and where the coal
brought into the Borough was weighed and sold, by the old Assembly Rooms.
En route
they passed several of their colleagues who were doing the same old routine,
shaking doors handles and windows within their beat, and sourcing new, warm “tea
spots” and bolt-holes for during the cold wee hours.
This would
probably include addresses of agreeable ladies, alehouses, or somewhere they
could get their heads down if they could justify “missing a point”.
Beddows
wanted to go and find someone in particular, and he would most likely be around
Cole Hill, looking for scraps of coal and cinder at this time of the day.
Beddows and
Shepherd moved into a deep doorway to Elias Geary’s bakery shop, and watched
and waited through the gloom, for the right shadow to walk past.
Beddows lit
up his small clay pipe, and took an eagerly overdue puff, then hid its glowing
embers back under his cape…
“It’s what
capes were invented for lad, can keep a pipe going for hours, and no-one’s any
the wiser” smiled Beddows…”Never thought of partaking yourself?”
Shepherd
shook his head in disgust. There was enough foul smoke in the Borough without
adding to it himself.
And he
didn’t like the smell on Beddows’ breath…and imagined nor did Beddows’ wife
when he got close to her…
At about
quarter past four, sure enough, a small shadowy figure scurried past from
Eastgates, and started looking to the floor, just as Beddows had suggested.
The man was short,
with a noticeable stoop from a crooked back, and walked with a long stick, upon
which he bore his weight whilst bending down, and wearing a floppy cap and an
overcoat that had long since seen better days.
Totally
distracted by his quest, and holding a small cloth bag, which was rapidly
filling with the waste that nobody else had the audacity to scavenge., he was completely
oblivious when Beddows took him by the collar and “escorted him” back to the
deep doorway, and out of view of passersby, few that there were.
“Good
morning Mr Issitt. How are we this fine morning?” asked Beddows “apart from
smelling like you’ve just shit your pants, that is…” turning his nose away and
scowling.
“Well, very
well indeed Mr Beddows my dear… you scared the shit out of me…literally you did
…and to what do I owe this pleasure?” he replied, completely unmoved by “his
little accident”.
“We’re
looking to identify a missing lad…a young boy…no more than eight, with bright sandy
hair…possibly a scavenger…any ideas?” enquired Beddows.
“If he’s
missing, how do you know what he looks like to identify him then Mr Beddows?”
Issitt quipped, wishing he hadn’t as Beddows’ right hand flicked across the
side of his head and smacked hard against his left ear…
“Don’t try
and be smart with me Matthias Issitt…that coal belongs to the merchant, and I’m
sure he wants every penny its worth….fancy a few weeks hard labour again?”
“Sorry Mr Beddows…forgot
myself for a moment. Remiss of me…Now then…”he said, scratching his goatee
beard and picking out some dried morsel, or more probably an old bogey, which
he sucked off his fingers…”a missing boy is it, or would you be more interested
in missing boys?”
“What have
you heard Matthias? What’s been going round the streets, someone must have said
if someone was missing?” suggested Beddows.
“Not for me
to say Mr Beddows, not worth the risk. There’s some strange things going on
round here at the moment, and as you know kids is kids, and kids is
property…and it don’t pay to show too much interest in other people’s property…as
you well know my dear…” he said, looking nervously around.
“What you
might do, is look at the papers. Look at the adverts …seems to be there’s a lot
of ladies looking for people to look after young children at present…or so it
may seem. Not everything is as it appears. I’m going to say no more than that.
Look at the papers, and look at the adverts, and then see who’s put them in the
paper and where they are now…you might be surprised” grinned Issitt, now
looking relieved that he had given Beddows a little something.
“That’s got
to be worth a coin or two at least, Mr Beddows?” grinned Issitt, his black
teeth and stumps visible in what light made its way from the junction lamps.
“That’s only
worth a bag of coal scrapings and a loss of hard labour at the moment …” said Beddows,
grinning… "Know what I mean…?"
“…Now on yer
way, you little shit…If I like what I find out there might be a coin or two
down the line…if my Governor sees fit. …And by the way, get yerself cleaned
up…you stink!”
“A few
minutes and it’ll be hard enough and dry enough to shake out Mr Beddows, a bit
more turd for the pavements…Letting it dry never fails. Tip of the day Mr Beddows,
let it dry before you shake it down your trouser leg, remember that, saves a
whole lot of unpleasant mess!”
Matthias
Issitt scurried off laughing away, happy with his bit of business, and the
thought he was in Mr Beddows’ good books again for a while.
“Who was he?”
Shepherd asked
“Mr Issitt
used to be headmaster of the poor school, down St Mary’s, until he took a shine
to a little choirboy…never been the same since…nearly got lynched he did…and
has never taught again…like a pariah he is around schools and churches, but a
very clever man, and very knowledgeable…” Beddows replied
*****
Beddows and
Shepherd made their way back, into Cheapside, past the dripping water conduit
in the Market Place, and up towards Hotel Street.
The conduit
was still the main source for the Borough drinking water, and shortly, there
would be a queue forming, filling their containers to cart back to the nearby
hovels, where the water was rank and more often than not, infected…a daily
ritual of Borough life…
“How do you
go about getting your sources?” asked Shepherd, eagerly wishing to soak up the
skills he would need himself.
“Treat them
hard, but treat them fair, and make them know you’re fair…an odd coin here, or
a blind eye there, provided it’s nothing that can’t be overlooked…most of them
have a likeable streak somewhere, like Matthias Issitt…
… He’s now a
very poor man, eking out an existence every way he can, and because he’s a well
known character, most villains know him, and many will acknowledge him, and he
can stand next to them in a bar or in the street without them getting
nervous…then he becomes valuable!” explained Beddows.
”Mind you, looks
are deceptive. The old misers still got more bleedin money than you and me put
together… wouldn’t think so, would you?” Beddows laughed quietly, shaking his
head in disbelief
“The coal…I
didn’t think we could use discretion?” said Shepherd
“Sorry, I didn’t
hear you, what did you say?” smiled Beddows.
“I said…I
didn’t…” Shepherd ducked just in time to miss having his ear clipped too…”I
think I get the message Beddows” he smiled…
“Good lad,
you’re learning …”
At about
quarter to five, as they approached the Lion and Dolphin tavern, Beddows
grabbed Shepherd’s arm, not for the first time this shift, and pulled him back
into the nearest doorway.
Emerging
from the tap room door was a short, squat figure, swaying from side to side,
swearing at someone who neither Beddows nor Shepherd could immediately see,
back inside the Tavern.
The figure
was wearing a bowler hat, and the voice was well known to Beddows, and
recognizable to Shepherd, as that of Sergeant Roberts…
Straight
after, another figure came out from the same door, the dress and bonnet shape
standing out in the fog, and bade goodnight to someone in the doorway in a very
squeaky, but without doubt, male voice. “Night sweetie…” he called towards the
disappearing Roberts.
“That’s that
little shit Salt again…what’s he been doing with the good Sergeant Roberts?” said
Beddows… “Interesting…don’t think Roberts is a Mandrake, so I bet there’s coins
involved…and something underhand going on…Sweetie is it?”
Beddows and
Shepherd continued on, back towards the Police Station. At the same time, from further down near to Carts
Lane, two other figures came briefly into view…
This time it
was Shepherds turn to grab Beddows’ arm…
“It’s
alright lad, it’s only Tanky and Black Tommy…not met them yet have you?”
“I thought
I’d seen them both before at the Sessions, but neither of them looked like
that…”
“That’s why
they are good detectives lad, not like that other bastard Roberts…Don’t expect
them ever to look the same, that’s their specialty…” said Beddows…”You want to see their fancy dress box…”
*****
“Had an
interesting evening I hear, Beddows?” chuckled Tanky Smith.
“Yes
thank-you Tanky, I take it Mr Charters has spoken with you?”
“Don’t let
Mr Charters ever hear you call me Tanky, he’ll have you for that, but as we
know each other. But what about you young Shepherd? How long before you might
get to call me Tanky?”
“I don’t
know sir…I didn’t know you knew me sir…”
“I’m not a
sir, I’m a Sergeant…Beddows you rotten
bugger. Got another one calling you sir?” laughed Tanky, wagging his index
finger under Beddows’ nose
“As if I’d
do something like that…he can call me Beddows as of tonight…done alright the
lad has!” smirked Beddows, winking at Shepherd.
“Now then”
exclaimed Black Tommy “now we have got the pleasantries over and done with,
what about a bit of work…a little murder to be more accurate, and a missing
corpse…”
“We’ve been
down the Rookeries in the last couple of hours, and shaken a few branches so to
speak…pissed off a few of our Irish brethren, and inclined a couple of others
to tell us a tale or two…” explained Tommy Haynes.
“Do you know
why they call me Black Tommy?” said Haynes, starting to wind Shepherd up…
“No sir”
said Shepherd …”Sorry, Sergeant…could it be because your hair is very black?”
“Could be,
but tomorrow it could be blond or brown. Perhaps it’s because yesterday I
looked like a coalman and my eyes were the only bit of white on show, or
perhaps it’s because I’m a hard and serious and miserable bastard like when I
got woken up at three o’clock this morning, denying me a bit of snuggling up to
my lawful blankets’ rather large and comfortable milk jugs and warm derrière…and
that puts me in a black mood! Take your pick…” Haynes looked deliberately
menacing…
“Thank you Sergeant,
I’ll remember that…” Shepherd went quiet and looked puzzled.
“And why do
you think they call me Tanky?” Smith grinned, playing the same game as Haynes…
“I’ve no
idea Sergeant…”
“People say
I have been known to subdue some of
the more aggressive members of this community with my trusty night stick…and
that it has sounded like a dull “tank”…and so the ritual has been nicknamed
“tanking”…so I’m led to believe. Others say I spend so much time in those
bleeding Rookeries that I can’t say thank you anymore, and everyone gets the
Irish version…Tank you…!” suggested Smith in a passable Irish brogue.
“Neither
Tommy nor I give a shit what people call us, so long as it’s not late for
dinner…” Smith laughed…”But what matters to you is what we do, and how we do
it, and where we do it, and that more often than not…you and them won’t even know we are there!”
“Except
tonight when we shook the branches in the Rookeries, then they knew we were
there” laughed Haynes.
“Got away
without as much as a bloody nose or a fat lip… but not for the want of trying...
They’re miserable bastards, those Irish. Just want you out of their little
shit-holes, but can’t understand they’re in Leicester now, not Ireland…”
explained Smith.
Smith had a
well earned mistrust of the Rookeries. In the last few years the number of
Irish had gone up to nearly a thousand, and even though they were a quarter of
the whole population down there, they ruled the place, and made life hell for
other folk.
“Anyways, we
found a couple of snitches. Didn’t take too much persuading when we opened a
bottle of stout or two…or three with them down the Fox and Grapes….still open,
even now! It seems like we have a new industry
in buying and selling nippers, “Child farming” they call it…
…There are
so many nippers down the Rookeries at present they just want rid of them. Old
Fred Marvin in Willow Street has a new chimney boy from them every other week,
and half of them have never been seen again, so they say. Don’t suspect they’re
stuck up the chimney still, but you never know….
…Then folks
say that there are dozens going off to Nottingham to find work, while Leicester
struggles…it’s little wonder we don’t get them reported…the parents are just glad
to get rid of them.” explained Haynes.
“But this
child farming sounds much more sinister. Sounds like there is some group of
Toffs who are buying these young kids from adverts in the paper, and then some
go off and are used as pleasure or entertainment for our local perverts.” surmised
Smith…”Parents get some coins for their pains, which I’m sure eases the sorrow
of losing their loved one….”
“Eases their
guilt, more like, if they’re capable of feelings…” suggested Haynes, who was
more of a realist even than Smith.
“Strange
thing…” uttered Haynes…”The Micks are saying that it’s Black Annis who’s taking them…and
they’ll turn up sucked dry and all skinned and boned…and they say it was the
same in Ireland. When we told them Black
Annis was from Leicester, they laughed and said we were wrong, unless she’d
followed them over the water…they really believe it’s her…”
“You been
down the Rookeries yet Shepherd?” enquired Smith.
“No Sergeant,
not yet…don’t know that much about them either…” Shepherd replied
“Sounds like
Beddows needs to get you educated and pretty quick…” laughed Smith “cos that’s
where you’ll be spending a lot of your working life, and soon by the sounds of
it!”
“And by the
way…for both of you…a bit of advice” said Smith. “If you want to be successful
get rid of those bleeding hobnails from your boots. We could hear you for
miles…bet you never heard us, and we weren’t more than a few yards from you
several times tonight…”
“Good job
too…” laughed Haynes…”would have trod in old Matthias Issitt’s turd, if we
hadn’t heard what he proposed to do with it…”
*****
Leicester
had a modest Irish population long
before the famine of 1845, but it was 1845 that brought Irish immigrants across
to Leicester in such large numbers, with word of a growing town, and lots of
work in new factories, such as Corahs that were springing up.
When they
arrived, they drifted towards the parish of St Margaret’s, the largest in the
Borough, and containing some of the poorest housing that merited pulling down
back then, where their relatives and associates already were. Many had
relatives living in the Rookeries already.
Some of the
housing was actually converted pigsties, such as “Hextalls Yard” off Mansfield
Street, which was affectionately known as “pork shop yard” and which had up to
eleven people living in one converted sty. The eleven properties had over 60
occupants between them, and were owned by Abigail Hextall who still lived there
and ran the large lodging house at the end of the yard, and a renowned den of
iniquity it was too!
Most of the
houses in Abbey Street, and Green Street, and down along Belgrave Gate to the
Gas Works, were set in similar small yards, and these were filthy and
over-crowded, full of drunken Irish and lodgers, and the population seemed to
grow daily, just like a Rookery in nature, and hence the nickname the area had
earned.
Children
were prolific and died at an alarming rate, even without criminal intervention.
Yards were
dark and narrow, and houses may have had one or two windows at most, and were
built around common “privies”.
Everywhere
smelled like shit… and the people smelled like shit… and the people behaved
like wild pack animals…
It was here that the Borough Police was to
meet its most frequent problems.
There was so
much shit in the yards in fact, that the residents had now taken to shitting on
the floor in their own houses so they only had their own germs and smell to
worry about…let alone the rubbish and the rats amidst the common privies and
cesspits.
The yards
and alleys were not places to be found alone as a Constable…
The local
pubs were Irish pubs, such The Fox and Grapes, The Horse Breakers, and King
George III which was the haunt of the Irish Prize-fighters, “The Fancy” as they
were called, surrounded by “Bruisers” their minders, and fights at these
localities were always going to be bloody.
Anyone who
didn’t or wouldn’t fight would be called “Dunghill Birds” and given a severe beating
and “get done down” for their troubles. It was not a community in which to live
if you were a softy, English or Irish...
It was a
hard community, and it had its own hierarchy, and some Irish leaders were well
feared for a good cause.
*****
Chapter Three – Dark forces…
At eight
o’clock the following morning, in possession of the facts they had gathered
from the boy Thomas Parrott, Physician Wilson, their own observations, and of
enquiries by detectives Smith and Haynes, Beddows and Shepherd were sent to the
office of Oliver Mitchell, Coroner for the Borough, in New Street.
This would hopefully be the last task of the shift,
but Beddows knew they would both be required back early to facilitate the
inquest.
Since 1836 an
inquest had to be held for any unexpected or unnatural death occurring within a
Coroner’s jurisdiction.
It was an
offence for any person to fail to notify him of such an event.
An inquest
would be held at a convenient time, (within twenty four hours, preferably, of a
reported death of such nature) and location, with a jury of at least twelve
men, and the inquest was to be held once the Coroner and jury had viewed the
body in his presence.
Constables
had now become the Coroner’s Officers, and in the Borough, were Oliver Mitchell
Esquire’s eyes and ears. They prepared the evidence for him, sourced the jury,
and they presented the evidence and witnesses at the inquest.
Coroner Mitchell
had clearly had a rather enjoyable evening prior, and was rather feeling the
effects of excess. The last thing he really wanted today, the 2nd of
January, was a smelly corpse or a smelly jury.
“Good morning
Constables, a long night I perceive?” Mitchell smirked, looking across at their
tired and dark, bloodshot eyes, as he sat himself down at his polished desk on
the ground-floor of the opulent New Street premises.
New Street
was the place to be if you were of the manner and status of Coroner, and the
housing, much of which incorporated their own private offices, was about the
best you could get.
Number 10,
New Street was no exception, sitting half way along the street, with a large
bayed frontage, and more windows than Beddows could recall in any building
since the stealthy Window Tax had been introduced…
The Offices
of Mr Mitchell were spotless. They smelled clean, and wax polish could be
detected above the usual smells of the Borough. And, they were all very tidy,
unlike the office at the Police Station where everything was cramped and
untidy!
Mr Mitchell,
however, lived in a rather more modest,
but none the less posh house, in Cank
Street, nearer to the Market Place, and merely had his “official” offices as
Coroner for the Borough and South of the County, at 10 New Street.
Beddows believed
that the Coroner was a widower, and lived with just a house-keeper to see to
his every need, as he had never seen or heard reference to a Mrs Mitchell.
He was a
middle aged and well spoken gent, with a thirst for fine things, and a girth to
reflect his thirst!
Coroner Mitchell
also wore scent, and this matched his dapper and flamboyant dress style, with
fine mourning suits, high collared shirt and black neckerchief. He was however
a fine and outspoken supporter of the Police, and relied on them to facilitate
his role effectively.
The scent
also gave a pleasant air that was not something either man was accustomed to.
Amusingly, as
the Coroner grounded his ample bottom on his leather seat, a large, loud and
rasping fart rang out, followed by a ghastly foul air…
“Whoops…”chuckled
the Coroner…”Sorry about that one, think it was me, or have you brought the
corpse with you…” which he thought exceedingly funny…
”Thought I’d
rid myself of that on my walk here this morning…” his guts bubbling loudly and
audibly.
“The corpse
sir, is wrapped in a tarpaulin and awaiting yours and the Jury’s observation at
the Bakers Arms in Bath Street, if that is agreeable to you sir…” Beddows
smiled in return.
“Ah Good...so,
must have been me then…too much port with my veal I suspect…or the veal was
getting a bit mature perhaps?”
“The body is
secure, and from what we can establish from enquiries that have been made by
Detective Sergeants Smith and Haynes, it is likely the boy is of Irish origin, and
probably from the Rookeries, but unlikely that anyone will seek to admit
ownership of him…” explained Beddows, who by now was struggling and desperately
sought his warm bed...
“And it would
appear we definitely have a murder?” asked the Coroner, in a bright, cheerful
tone which Beddows though hopeful and eager rather than upset or disappointed.
“Yes sir,
naked and with a nasty cut throat… been dead for some days by the state of the
corpse and the views of Physician Wilson…rather unpleasant. That’s why I
thought they may require some of The Bakers Arms finest to get them through the
viewing…” suggested Beddows
“And Constable
Shepherd, before I forget…I hear you’re a dab hand with a boathook…?”
Shepherd look
amazed for the second time in the night, as nothing had been handed yet to the
coroner in writing, nor he nor Beddows had mentioned the error…
“My
boatmanship currently leaves room for improvement sir” Shepherd admitted,
acutely embarrassed not just as a further reminder to him of his accident, but
of the fact there was clearly a grapevine which operated much quicker than
Shepherd could comprehend.
“Never
mind…we live and learn…” concluded the Coroner, ushering the men towards the
door as more flatulence could be heard rolling in his belly…”See you both at
six, with a fine Jury no doubt, and the landlord’s best available?
“Yes sir“ nodded
Beddows, thankfully, his mind now firmly fixed on getting home for those few
short hours peace, before his earlier than planned start to their next shift.
As Beddows
and Shepherd left via the large, glossy, black painted door to 10 New Street,
daylight was now fighting a battle with the fog, and for the first time in
days, visibility was lifting.
It remained,
however, bitterly cold, the heavy frost crunching beneath their feet, as they
made their separate way home. Beddows looked forward to snuggling up to a warm
wife!
*****
During the
afternoon, Sergeant Tarrant, of the day shift, had identified and recorded the
names and addresses of 12 good men of the Borough, and instructed them to make
themselves present in good time for the Inquest at six o’clock at the given
location.
At Five
o’clock that afternoon, having reported to the Station after very little sleep,
and been reminded that they still had a night shift to patrol after the
Inquest, Head Constable Charters sent both Beddows and Shepherd off to The
Bakers Arms to prepare for the Inquest.
In their
possession were three files of paper.
In one, the
written evidence of Thomas Parrott, Physician Wilson, together with the
statements of themselves and Sergeants Smith and Haynes.
In the
second, the names of those convened to form the jury, together with their
addresses, for settlement of payment of one shilling, which each would receive
for their ordeal.
The third was
blank official papers that The Coroner would require to endorse and sign at
conclusion of the Inquest, and authorities to make payments to those listed in
the jury file.
“How did
Charters and the Coroner know about the boathook?” asked a tired and nervous
Shepherd.
His mind had
been active throughout most of the day, and he had slept fitfully, nagging
questions pounding away at him…
“Mr Charters
knows everything Shepherd, everything… his eyes and ears extend far beyond
ours, and he has more sources in high places than we will ever know…and usually
they are spot on! He and Mr Mitchell are thick as thieves, and dine together
frequently, exchanging news and views…so I suspect they were conversing long
before you and I visited Mr Mitchell this morning…” explained Beddows.
*****
As a clock
struck half past five, Beddows and Shepherd walked through the front door of
The Bakers Arms and were greeted by Joseph Headley, who was behind the bar with
a very fetching serving wench, busty and auburn haired, who was busy flirting
with Physician Wilson, and one or two of the assembled jurors.
The cold and
damp rolled in with them, causing the log fire to spit and splutter.
The Inn
smelled welcoming, and Mrs Headley appeared to be baking, judging by the meaty
smells wafting through the rooms, mingling with the tobacco smoke and wood smoke
from the fires.
“The room is
ready Mr Beddows, and I have a bottle of Mr Mitchell’s favourite red on his
desk…” announced Headley.
“I think I
know which would be my favourite red” said Beddows…eyeing up the barmaid…” and
his desk would be a fine place to consume her!”
“Joking
apart, I want to go and open up your store, and prepare the corpse. I take it
you would not wish to assist us?” said Beddows, tongue in cheek, aware of
Headley’s previous corpse.
“Once I have
opened up the store, I wish nothing more than a quick inquest, a quick removal
of the body, and to get back to my customers…” Headley replied.
Headley took
the keys to the yard store from the hook by the inner door to the yard, where
he had left them. The dogs had not even been allowed into the yard for fear of
them removing more flesh.
The Licensee
and two Constables walked to the store, the dogs securely locked in the entry.
“At least the
smell has diminished…” said Shepherd, expecting to be met by the odour of old
death which was now etched in his memory, and would remain there forever, so
George had once said…
As the
padlock was removed and the gate opened, it was plain to see why there was no
stench… as corpse, tarpaulin and all, were now nowhere to be seen…
“Mr Headley,
we have a problem…” exclaimed Beddows, nervously… “I thought you said nobody
had been to the store and nobody had been into the yard?”
“They are the
only keys, and only my wife and I have access to them. Mary would not wish to
be anywhere near a corpse, so I cannot explain what has happened…” replied
Headley, fearful of the consequences to his own reputation.
“Bollocks” Beddows
swore… “Bollocks! Mr Mitchell will be here in minutes, and we have lost a
corpse. Not just any corpse, just a murdered one! Jesus Christ, Shepherd…Head Constable
Charters will have our Baubles off for this cock-up…”
“Who would
want a decomposed, putrid, festering corpse?” asked Shepherd. “I thought body
snatching and resurrectionists were a thing of the past”.
“These are not
resurrectionists Shepherd. This is dark arts at work, this is someone who doesn’t
want a body at all, who doesn’t want a murder at all…get my drift?”
Beddows was
already picturing the good Sergeant Roberts and some of his miscreant
associates plotting the loss, saving Roberts a whole heap of work…
“What…
Roberts?” offered Shepherd, partly in disbelief, partly in feint recognition of
Beddows supposition…
“Roberts!” snapped
Beddows, angrily …
…”Smart lad,
thinking like a copper now, aren’t you?…Look here, look at the top of the
gate…something’s been dragged across and it’s all splintered and broke… the
gates have never been unlocked, they’ve took the corpse out over the top…”
*****
At precisely
five minutes to six o’clock, Head Constable Charters, The Coroner, Mr. Mitchell
and Mr. Mitchell’s scribe, Edward McPherson, entered the designated room at The
Bakers Arms.
Mr Headley
scurried out of view until Beddows and Shepherd had taken the wrath that was
coming.
Beddows and
Shepherd were already stood within the room, looking sheepish and clearly
concerned.
“Are we ready
then Beddows?” Charters asked of the Constable, sensing that something was
amiss.
“I am afraid,
sir, that we have the gravest of problems…the corpse has been stolen…” said Beddows, waiting for the
wrath to descend upon him yet again…
“What in the
Devils name has happened then?” Charters demanded, taken aback completely by
the revelation.
“Sir, if we
may have a word with you in private…” requested Beddows, realising the
implications of what he was about to suggest, and concerned that it may get out
if overheard…
“Gentlemen of
the Jury, Physician Wilson, young master Parrott…please could I ask you to
leave the room for a few moments, and we will send for you shortly…” said
Charters.
“Mr Mitchell
will, I am sure, will want to hear this…” suggested Charters.
“Sir, as we
explained last night, I had concerns regarding the actions of Sergeant Roberts.
He was adamant that as far as he was concerned, this was not a murder, and he was
clear he would “sort it out” said Beddows
“You are
suggesting Roberts has arranged for the corpse to disappear?” asked Charters.
“During the
night, whilst on our enquiries, we came upon a man called Pawley, a backstreet
carpenter and occasional undertaker, with premises off Churchgate…
…He was
caught in a compromising situation with what appeared to be a Dollymop, but who
turned out to be one Mr Daniel Salt of the Borough Planning office, dressed in
woman’s clothing…and we thought they were a couple of Mollies having a “three
penny worth”…
…Mr Pawley,
in the course of being questioned, slyly discarded a small object which was
found to contain four shiny new Guinea coins, an undertaker of his poorly means…”
“And what
does this have to do with Roberts?” asked Charters
“A while
later, whilst in The Market Place, we came upon Sergeant Roberts leaving the Lion
and Dolphin tavern in an inebriate state, in my expert opinion… offered Beddows,
wryly…
…shortly to
be followed out by none other than Mistress, apologies, Mister Salt…who was
heard to call him “sweetie…”
“And…?”
questioned Charters
“What do Sergeant
Roberts, an undertaker with four guineas, and a dubious Borough official have
in common? Why would Pawley have four guineas? Why would Roberts and Salt be
together? Sir, I smell a rat, as I feared originally” stated Beddows, now even
more sure that his deductions had some substance.
“A most
interesting hypothesis Beddows” replied Charters, also seeing the connections
that Beddows had outlined, and easing some of the anger that he had been
considering directing at the Constable.
“Now, about
the inquest…” interjected Mr Mitchell…” It would be unusual, but I believe not
unprecedented, to open an inquest without a corpse…”
“Do we have
the evidence and all the witnesses Beddows?” asked Charters, with more than a
hint of sarcasm, and still obviously embarrassed at the loss of a Coroners
Corpse.
“And a full
jury sir…” responded Shepherd, anxious that Beddows was still centre of
Charters’ attention and trying to divert his mind to other things...
“In that case
let us convene…” directed the Coroner.
*****
Twelve good
men took their places in the best room of the Inn, and were sworn in, as had
originally been intended.
Mr Mitchell
opened the Inquest and advised… ”Gentlemen, we have today, a remarkably unusual
inquest. You will be, I am sure, delighted to learn that you will not be
required to, or indeed be able to, view the corpse for which we have convened…yet
you will still receive your one shilling for your troubles…”
The witnesses
were called, commencing with young Thomas Parrott, the river finder…who
confirmed finding the body, and what a dreadful sight it was, he would say...
Constable Beddows
gave evidence that he attended West Bridge, together with Constable Shepherd,
where with the assistance of a local boatman, they recovered the naked body of
a young white male. The body had wounds, one as a result of an accident with a
boathook…which drew much laughter from the tense jurors…and a significant wound
to the throat.
Constable
Shepherd gave similar evidence, to the amusement of the jurors, and added that
he had seen similar wounds as a result of a slaughter man’s knife, not dwelling
on his own mishap for longer than necessary.
Physician
Wilson, gave evidence that he attended West Bridge, and examined the body of a
young male and pronounced life extinct. He was of the opinion that the wound to
the throat was a deliberate and unlawful act, probably caused by the boy being
held from behind and his throat cut from left to right causing the deep gash.
The boy had been dead for anything up to one week.
The evidence
of Detective Sergeants Smith and Haynes was accepted in statement form, and
indicated that early enquiries suggested that the boy was probably of Irish
origin, and possible from the Abbey Street area. It was unlikely with current
information that any parent or guardian would admit to knowledge of the boy.
Coroner Mitchell
asked that the jury consider the verdict, based entirely on the witness
evidence they had heard or presented in written form.
In the time
it took them to down a bottle of red, the Jury returned a verdict of “Murder by person or persons unknown…”
*****
Once the
Inquest had ended, and the jury dismissed, Head Constable Charters, Coroner Mitchell
and the two Constables remained within the best room at The Bakers Arms, and Mr
Mitchell began his assault on a second bottle of his favourite red, as was his
norm.
“My dear
Robert” said Mitchell…”Now you must set about finding my body, as well as the
person or persons responsible for his demise…and by the sound of it you have
some promising leads…”.
Mitchell was
quite amused with the event, rather than irate, as Charters had expected, and
saw that it had put Charters’ in an awkward position, and he had not seen him
so concerned, previously.
However, he
had heard what Beddows had said, and was optimistic that the dark forces would
be identified and the matter concluded, and he would make nothing more of it…
“Yes Mr
Coroner” Charters responded sternly, his eyes upon Beddows and Shepherd…”and
find them we will…” angry still at the loss of a body, but seething at the
thought of his corrupt Detective Sergeant’s involvement…
“Back to my
office, please, gentlemen…” Charters directed to Beddows and Shepherd.
*****
At about
seven o’clock that same evening, Beddows and Shepherd stood to attention in
front of Head Constable Charters at his desk, in the office beyond the Muster
Room in the Police Station. The door was shut firm.
“What a
shambles” stressed Charters…”Shambles!” he echoed…”How can we justify losing a
corpse?” His tone was much less than Beddows had anticipated.
“Sir” said Beddows
“For a long time now we have had the problem of where to keep bodies for The
Coroner, and none of the present arrangements can offer us total security. Most
of the Inns we use for Inquests have no secure storage. The physicians won’t
help with dead bodies, and the workhouse and infirmary only have them when
they’ve died there. I’ve been to bodies that have lain for days in the homes
where they died because there was nowhere to take them and nobody to bury
them…”
“I know that”
responded Charters, sympathetically… ”but we can’t afford to lose a body. Even
if it means someone having to guard it until an inquest has been heard…but that
won’t resolve this current situation…I will speak with the Borough Watch
Committee and see what chance there is of a Police mortuary…”
“Thank you
sir” said Beddows…
“Now then”
said Charters, “get hold of Sergeants Smith and Haynes, I want to speak with
you all about how we are going to deal with this…” at which point there was
knock at the door.
Standing
outside were Smith and Haynes…”You wanted us sir?” Smith smiled…
“We have
several tasks that need to be undertaken. Does anybody know where Sergeant
Roberts is at this moment?” enquired Charters, anxious to vent his wrath on the
miserable man, who had now vanished off the face of the Borough, but only when
the time was right.
“I’ve a
pretty good idea” said Haynes…”do you want me to bring him in sir?” hoping to
settle a few old scores with the good Sergeant, and see him sorted once and for
all.
“Not
immediately, but I want to know where he
goes and who he meets for the next day or so…he’ll be up to something I fear…”
said Charters . “You and Smith have that task…” at which point they left the
room and went off to their dressing up box…
“And you two,
you are off normal duties until I say otherwise, and I have two tasks for
you…First I want this man Pawley bringing in. Use your initiative. Secondly, I
then want Salt to know we have arrested Pawley, and then to see where he goes
and who he meets up with…do you understand?”
“…and I want
the body back first, and we can deal with that now. Then we can deal with the
Murder…as our suspects may have some light to throw on that…” said Charters
“Yes sir”
said Beddows “On it right away sir…” at which point they saluted Charters and
made off to the Muster Room, aware that things had turned out a lot brighter
than Beddows had expected.
*****
Churchgate
got increasingly shabby as you travelled down it from the “five ways” at The
Cole Hill, or Bere Hill as it was still
called by the older population, and towards the start of the Rookeries
along Mansfield Street and Sandiacre Street.
Beddows had
shaken the door handles to Pawley’s workshop every night, and several times a
night, when his beat had included the block between Churchgate and Abbey Street,
and before it had spawned into the slums that now existed there.
Only on rare
occasions had he found Pawley there, later than seven o’clock at night, and he
suspected only when he was doing something underhand.
The front of
Pawley’s workshop was via a small wicket door to a yard alongside The Star
Foundry, below Mansfield Street. The yard took you through to the small
workshop which occupied the rear, and backed onto Short Street, running
parallel with Churchgate.
Short Street
was one of those very narrow, cobbled streets, where you could lean out of
first floor windows and shake hands with the person in the opposite house.
At the rear
gates to Pawley’s workshop, the road widened slightly, to allow him to swing in
with a small cart, which could be shackled inside the workshop. Pawley had
occasional access to a mule from Delaney’s builders in Mansfield Street.
The workshop
itself was dark and smelt of filth, much like the rest of the Borough, but on a
scale where it was clearly part of the Rookeries, rather than other properties
on Churchgate, and therefore the smell was more noxious. Death permeated the
woodwork.
The yard to
the workshop had its own privvie, which smelt and looked like it had never been
emptied before, and even in the cold of winter, it was fly ridden.
To call
himself a carpenter was questionable. Pawley’s handy-work that could be found
in the premises was poorly sourced cheap timber, warped and probably recycled,
and tacked together with cheap horse-glue and even cheaper nails which he
“obtained” from over the wall at Star Foundry, Beddows suspected.
His
undertaking business comprised of pieces of old tea-chest plywood, the cheapest
you could imagine, which he knocked together to make very flimsy “Parish”
coffins.
These were
sold by him at a comparative extortionate cost, to grieving families that
wanted to send off a loved one with some degree of dignity, or to the Poor Law
union for those even less fortunate, who were buried in communal graves at the
expense of the parish, up at the newly opened Welford Road cemetery.
Many of them
fell to pieces the minute they were lifted with a body weight inside them, or
they warped when the juices of decomposition began to flow, as so often
happened with poorer families’ deceased, and then fell to bits.
Often, owing
to the long and pitiful working week, the only day a family could bury their
dead would be on a Sunday, if they were lucky enough to have any time given to
them for attending church.
Actually
making the arrangements meant not seeing an undertaker for days after the
death, so it could be two weeks between death occurring, arranging and then carrying
out a funeral.
The bodies
often were laid out by the “woman who does” in the deceased’s own home, and
remained there until the funeral or until the undertaker came for the body, by
which time it was often putrid. Often, the rest of the family was still living
in the same room as the corpse.
Joseph Dare,
and John Buck, Health and Social reformers in the Borough had both recently commented
on this most grave risk and pressed
the Borough for some alternative means for families to prepare and temporarily
store their dead.
In 1849
Welford Road cemetery had opened, and the Borough made provision of two
Mortuary houses inside the gates of the cemetery, where corpses could be laid
out or stored until such time as they could be buried.
This was good
for families that could afford removal and transportation fees, but to most, it
was still beyond their means, and the corpses remained rotting in their homes
until the funeral day…
*****
Beddows and
Shepherd made their way through the easing fog, round into Short Street. This
was the start of the area where they would be prone to attacks, and chased from
the Rookeries if they did not have the courage to stand firm.
A few
scallywags and urchins wandered through the darkness and made rude gestures or
a veiled threat to the Constables, but Beddows was not going to be put off.
One or two seemingly
disabled beggars sat in the shadows on each street corner looking for some
charitable mark that would offer a coin from a full purse and that nearby
thieves or pick-pockets could then target.
No doubt
though, that word would be going around the Rookeries that there were Constables
in their midst.
Beddows
hammered on the flimsy doors to the rear yard “Open up …Constables Beddows and
Shepherd…”
Beddows could
hear sawing noises from inside stop. “Must
be up to no good at this time of day…” he thought to himself…
After a few
moments, the sound of timber moving against timber could be heard, and Pawley
lifted the latch and opened the gate to the Constables.
“I was hoping
that last night was the last I would see of you two” Pawley said, sounding
disappointed.
“You should
be so lucky, Edward my old son…you should be so lucky…Why do you think we are
here then?” quizzed Beddows, looking for signs of fear or guilt on Pawley’s
Face…
“I suppose
you have come to taunt me for being found with that male “Three penny upright”
as you suspected, but like we said last night, it weren’t what you thought…”
“Oh we know
that now my dear, we know what you had really been up to and what you were doing
with the sniveling little shit Salt. It seems we are missing a body, a corpse,
and a stinky one at that, and you have that same smell upon you…even now…as you
did in the early hours of this morning…” Beddows growled, angry that he had not
made the connection there and then.
“I don’t know
what you are talking about, corpse, I haven’t seen a corpse for weeks…” came the
timid response.
Pawley sensed
he was caught out and was struggling to come up with anything more plausible.
“Don’t you
know that hampering the Coroner is an offence Edward? And not only that, this corpse
is a bit more important than most, know what I mean?” said Beddows, leaning
close to the man’s face, before pulling back on account of his foul breath.
“I’m not
saying anything; I don’t know what you are on about…honest…” Pawley squirmed,
deciding that it was better to say nothing, than incriminate himself
further…Beddows would have to prove what he had done…
“Well
anyways, I am arresting you on suspicion of stealing one dead body…oh, and one
tarpaulin belonging to Charles Church, just in case! That will do for
starters…and we’re going to have a look around your measly little workshop
before we take you in…understand. …” said Beddows
“How many copses have you got at the moment
then Edward?” asked Shepherd, anxious that he did not open or step in something
he might regret.
“Haven’t had
one for weeks – had no call lately, like I just said…” Pawley replied
“Don’t smell
that way to me…where’s your cart dear?” asked Beddows, noting that there was an
obvious item of Pawley’s trade missing.
“Cart?”
shrugged Pawley, trying to look oblivious to the Constable
“Yes, that tatty
old four wheeler that you ‘appropriated’ from off of old man Ginns, the Good and
genuine undertaker across the road there, when he threw it out. Don’t you think
I know these things… it’s my business to know. Just the thing you use for your
funeral activities as I recall…
… Chuck the
coffin on the back, fleece the family or the Union, then chuck it in a shitty
little pauper’s grave and say you’ve done the family or the parish a favour! I
don’t think so, you nasty little piece of work…” Beddows growled yet again…angry
that the Parish even patronised him.
“Oh that cart” Pawley replied…”I think some
rotten scoundrel must have stolen it Constable Beddows…it seems to be
missing…Must report it to a Constable when I see one that’s interested…”
“Very amusing
Edward…but we’ll see who laughs last…If I can connect you to the body, I might
even see you swing for this last night’s work...” Beddows laughed, standing on
Pawley’s right toes, and pushing his weight onto that side, grinding in the hobnails…
Pawley
suddenly went very pale and pissed his pants…and his eyes started to water…
“It looks
like I hit a nerve Edward my dear…one way or another…”Beddows grinned, hiding
his revulsion and holding back the thoughts he had to do the man much greater
harm…
“You’re
making a habit of this Beddows” said Shepherd…”How many more people will piss
or shit themselves today?”
“Some very
nervous fellows around Leicester lad…” Beddows replied...”And quite rightly so
at the moment…”
Read all the chapters from start to finish. Definately held my interest; finding the research has enhanced the content of what appears to be the start of an very interesting book!
ReplyDeleteThanks for the positive feedback. Researching 1850s Leicester was enlightening, and I hope when readers get a picture of what it was like, they will compare it to as it is today, and realise how lucky we all are! A scary and hard place to live. I hope the finished book delivers!
DeleteThanks
Phil
I love your descriptive style Phil and, being Leicester born & bred I look forward to reading the published article. Also love your company name.
ReplyDeleteBest regards
1456
Funny how we are only one number apart in our collar numbers! Wonder who you might be? Thank you for the positive feedback - hope the finished book is worth the wait - should be out spring time!
DeletePhil