Trumpets Sound No More Page 2

  “Do we know the name of the victim as yet, Sergeant?”

  “Not as yet, sir. I apologize, but I neglected in the rush of things to ask the name from the neighbour’s servant. I can go now if you wish and enquire.”

  “I think we can wait for the moment. I’d like to poke around first and view the body.”

  “That would be best, sir. If I may be so bold to say.”

  “I am an inquisitive man, indeed, Sergeant Caldwell.” The sergeant was about to respond again, but Endersby cut him off. “I see the street is curious soon enough.”

  Faces peered out from behind curtained windows. Two boys gazed from across the laneway. Doughty Street was clean and lined north to south with rows of brick houses. At either end of the street were iron gates, one of which was manned by a porter in mulberry-coloured livery. Damask curtains betrayed the comfortable wealth of many of the lease-holders. A maid in a canvas apron was washing down the steps of the house opposite and she stood up, her brush dripping, to stare at Inspector Endersby and his retinue of police.

  “Caldwell.”

  “Inspector?”

  “Best send one of these constables to fetch a surgeon. And have him obtain the beadle while he’s at it. The coroner, I assume, has been summoned?”

  The constable in the white gloves answered. “The night-watch sergeant sent word from the station, sir, so we were told.”

  “Inspector Endersby is my name.”

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  “Under the jurisdiction of Borne and the central Metropolitan.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Where is your detective branch at Gray’s Inn?” inquired Endersby.

  The other constable, the one who had knocked on the inspector’s door, explained. “One’s off with a broken arm. He was in a tussle last week with a bounder. The other has a sickly wife, sir, as the sergeant explained. Such was the situation this morning that my superintendent suggested I run to you and to your sergeant, Mr. Caldwell.”

  The two constables stood at attention in the manner taught to all members of London’s constabulary. Sergeant Caldwell sent the one in the white gloves to fetch the surgeon and the beadle.

  “Shall we, gentlemen?” Endersby then said.

  Caldwell stepped forward immediately. “Inspector.”

  Caldwell held open the gate to the stairs leading to the area below street level and the front entrance to the lower kitchen. Endersby made his way first down the curved staircase. Over his shoulder hung a leather satchel with a broad strap, a legacy from his days as a Bow Street Runner. Endersby had put on his suede gloves and long-coat of coarse canvas, his usual plainclothes costume, which his wife Harriet called his “hunting” outfit.

  “You next, Constable,” commanded Caldwell. He then clicked the gate shut and hurried down the steps behind the others, passed them and stood at attention before the kitchen door. It had the standard four panes of glass, two of which were broken. Caldwell snapped his fingers at the constable, as if to cue him for a line. The young policeman quickly responded. “The door was ajar when we arrived on the scene. There was bits of glass all over.”

  “I can see,” said Endersby. “Notice, gentlemen, the door has neither latch nor lock. Only a simple turn knob. Why would someone shatter the glass?”

  “Odd, sir,” said Caldwell.

  “Perhaps the owner of this house had no fear of thieves?” said Endersby.

  “Curious, sir,” replied Caldwell. He stood stiffly, in a posture he had perfected over the past two years of working with Endersby. It had become his way, even though it was forced and bordered on belligerence. The men entered the house into a large, low-ceilinged kitchen with a deep hearth and a simple wooden table upon a slate floor. A single cup with tapers and candles sat on the wide mantel. There were no spoons, no pots nearby. No cabinets nor bins cluttered the corners. The floor in the kitchen and hallway was dirtied with muddy footprints.

  “Such sparseness,” said Endersby, popping one of his wife’s candied chestnuts into his mouth.

  “This table appears new and unused, sir,” said Caldwell examining its surface by brushing his hand over the top. The constable then said: “Makes one wonder if a ghost lives here.”

  “One does now for sure, Constable,” quipped Endersby. “Ah,” he then cried and leaned forward. Endersby studied the muddied slates along the hallway leading from the kitchen toward the back of the house. From his satchel he pulled out a brown paper envelope, the kind his brother-in-law sold to law clerks. “Caldwell, put a smudge of that stuff on this envelope. That’s it. Now come to the light. Well, well, we have boot track here.”

  Sergeant Caldwell put on a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles. Inspector Endersby examined the lump of dried mud lying on the flap, picking out a piece of apple peel from the brown-coloured mass. Then a corner of green. “Cabbage.”

  Caldwell sniffed. “So it is, sir.”

  Endersby shoved the wad of mud into the envelope. “From the looks of all this mud, there was a host of visitors. Big feet.”

  “Men with large boots, surely,” reiterated Caldwell.

  With a huffing and puffing, there appeared at the front kitchen door a bent man in his sixties. He was wrapped in a madras house-coat, a tasseled Turkish cap perched on his head. His face carried a most perplexed expression. He paused to catch his breath. “What a terror,” the bent man said.

  Caldwell leapt toward him. “State your business, sir.”

  The old man recoiled in alarm.

  “Sergeant Caldwell,” said Endersby, “please, let me handle this gentleman.”

  Endersby calmly introduced himself and his men. The affronted gentleman straightened in response and regained his composure. About him was an air of one who spends too much time with books as sole companions. There was, as Endersby noted, a parchment-like look to his skin.

  “Ratcliff,” replied the man testily. “What a ruckus. My servant tells me the fellow is deceased.”

  “I have yet to see the body, sir,” answered Endersby. “You are, I presume, the neighbour from next door, the one who sent for the police?”

  “Most certainly. I shall grant my neighbour one thing. He was quiet enough most times.”

  “Did you speak with him yesterday?”

  The bent man shook his head and lifted his right hand in a wave of dismissal. “I knew little of his habits. Mr. Cake kept himself close. My servant tells me he was in the theatre. That is all. But then, I keep to home.”

  “Can you suggest if any of your servants might know more about this Mr. Cake?”

  “Servant, sir. I have only one. He is partly deaf and hears little and sleeps most days. If this be murder, God save us. God save us all.”

  “And what of these crashing noises you heard?”

  “Much banging indeed. And late in the night. I heard windows smashed. And yelling. I thought gypsy bands had invaded.” The neighbor then queried in a shaking voice if the former Mr. Cake had been dead some time.

  “I cannot predict as yet, Mr. Ratcliff. Not until a surgeon comes.”

  “But what shall come of this, sir?” the old man wondered.

  “An investigation, Mr. Ratcliff. If we do our duty, and with your aid, we can discover a culprit.”

  “But are we safe? Have we become victims of a rowdy gang?”

  “These questions are, as yet, to be answered, sir.”

  “God help us. What can we do but wait and see?”

  “Would you surmise the hour in which you heard these various noises?”

  “Oh, my. Late, sir. After midnight. I was up and about, reading and thinking. But what else? I am confused at present, what with lack of sleep.”

  “You will remain indoors for the day, will you, sir?”

  “Indeed. Most likely. I must keep guard, do you not think?”

  “I shall come presently to speak with you, if I may. I can offer some advice in securing your home, if you wish it.”

  “Indeed, and thank you.
Then I shall depart from you gentlemen, if I may?” Ratcliff threw a disdainful glance toward Sergeant Caldwell. “I have been up half the night and need my rest.”

  “Mr. Ratcliff,” replied Endersby, “please, sir, will you also make yourself available this day for the coroner’s inquest. Be prepared to answer more questions about this matter—about times, people you may have seen.”

  “I have informed the constables already of what I have seen. And I shall do so at your request for the coroner.”

  With this word, the neighbour mounted the area stairs into the street.

  Endersby allowed a moment for Mr. Ratcliff to walk out of earshot. Impatient, Caldwell scratched his head under his low-crowned hat. He sucked on his teeth. In reaction to this and to all the new information he had just encountered, Endersby decided to walk and ponder. “I shall take but an instant,” he said, not looking Caldwell in the eye. With little hesitation, Endersby turned and walked about the ground floor of the house, from room to room. He took his time, glancing into corners, peering through shadows. Cupboards presented empty shelves; rooms echoed like deserted caverns. To his deft eye, the place seemed even more odd than before. He returned, pensive, and announced: “The other rooms here are empty. The back door leading to the yard and alley also has no latch or lock. The door is intact.”

  “Inspector?”

  Endersby turned around to see the constable in the white gloves at the front kitchen door stepping aside for a blond man carrying a black leather satchel. Caldwell kept his distance, waiting for his superior to greet the man. A gentleman, too, but years younger than the neighbour, his status confirmed as a professional in his top hat of brushed beaver, his knee-length coat fastened by brass buttons. The warmth of his quick smile did not extend to his bare right hand, chilly from morning cold as it took hold of the inspector’s.

  “I beg your pardon,” said the man. “I am John Sloane, surgeon.”

  “Good morning, sir. You have come in good haste.” Endersby smiled. Fond of surgeons, especially the young ones, Endersby particularly respected their new metal gadgets and medical language.

  “Edinburgh, Mr. Sloane? I detect a Scots accent.”

  “Yes, Mr. Endersby.”

  “You look young for a member of the Royal College.”

  The surgeon smiled. “The college has a wide open door, Mr. Endersby. I am proud to be of service.”

  Sergeant Caldwell then suggested each of the men take a candle upstairs to the first floor, as the shutters there had been nailed closed and light from the grey sky was insufficient for viewing the body.

  “Nailed shut?” asked Endersby.

  Caldwell replied, “We could not open the two in the parlour, sir, without damaging the wood.”

  With a tilt to his chin, Inspector Endersby went ahead up the staircase leading to the first floor of 46 Doughty Street. On reaching the top step, he paused for a quick breath, the surgeon, Caldwell and the two constables directly behind him in a line. Endersby noticed a back room, its window smashed. He told Caldwell to check it out and see if there might be a weapon or some item left behind by the intruders. With a taper, the constable in the white gloves illumined each of the men’s candles then waited with the others in the hall leading to the dark front parlour. “Light me again, please,” Endersby asked.

  “It seems the intruders came up here as well. Look at this mud. Caldwell?”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Caldwell from the back room. “Right away, sir.”

  Caldwell joined his superior, who was holding the others back from proceeding.

  “One indulgence, gentlemen. Caldwell, hand me the envelope once again. Do you see it? This particular mud. Here is a separate set of foot prints, the mud entirely different in color.”

  Caldwell bent down and scooped up a piece of dried, reddish earth.

  “What do you make of it?” Caldwell asked.

  The surgeon stepped forward and glanced over Caldwell’s shoulder. “I can enlighten you,” said the surgeon. “That reddish muck is from Mecklenburgh Square close by. I have a house there. Workers are digging a foundation to replace a burned out building.” The surgeon lifted his boot, and in the candlelight Endersby could make out the same color of mud stuck to the man’s toe and heel.

  “Extraordinary,” Endersby said. “What a bunch came calling on Mr. Cake.” Before proceeding, Endersby took a few moments to instruct and remind his present entourage to touch nothing and to be careful not to move any object without his permission. “All of you swear to make no hasty judgments,” he then counselled. “After all, we are dealing in grave matters. Sic Gloria transit mundi.”

  “Hollah. Hollah?” They heard a voice from downstairs.

  “Who is there? Come up,” Caldwell shouted.

  A quick-stepping gentleman in a yellow frock coat and broad woollen hat appeared at the foot of the staircase. He brandished a brass-tipped staff. “Good morning,” he blared and rushed up the stairs.

  “You are the beadle, sir?” asked Endersby.

  “No doubt of it,” the man replied. “No doubt at all. I was told one of you was the esteemed Mr. Owen Endersby of the Bow Street Runners.”

  “I am he, sir. But we no longer claim that appellation.”

  “I beg your mercy, sir. No doubt you mistook my attempt at light humour at this early hour.”

  “Did I, perhaps, beadle? And your name?”

  “Thaddeus Arne. I am pleased to meet you.” The beadle quickly shook hands with all the men and adjusted his hat, which had been knocked to the side of his head by his rushing up the stairs. “No doubt, from what this young policeman has described, I reckon we have a corpse badly done in.”

  “So it seems,” replied Endersby. “What do you know of the former Mr. Cake?”

  “A fine, upstanding gentleman. Never once did he come to me with complaint. I understand he was associated with the theatre in some capacity. He was a successful gentleman, given the size of this fine house. Mr. Samuel Cake, Number 46, yes, this building belonged to him—a new lease-holder as our record indicates.” The beadle had brought with him a ledger from which he read out the information on Samuel Cake.

  “Was he an actor, Beadle?” asked Endersby.

  “I do not know, sir. I record only the lease-holder’s name and his lot number. It is my little efficiency, peculiar to me in our parish. But I find such information helps me to remember names. I am notorious for my forgetfulness.”

  “Can you recall any complaints against Mr. Cake?”

  “Against him?” The beadle flipped hurriedly through his pages to the end of the ledger. He asked the constable beside him to hold his candle closer. The beadle’s fingers raced down the page of numbers beside which were minutely written short entries. “None, sir. Not a one. A most respectable man. Although we never saw him at service on Sunday. But no, no complaint, no judgments, no inquiries as to his business or welfare.”

  “I thank you for your kindness, beadle. Gentlemen, we must go to the parlour. Please step very carefully and keep your gaze down for any items we may locate which could be relevant to Mr. Cake’s demise.”

  Six men now in single file hugged the wall, candles held up as in a procession. Shadows jumped onto cornices and ceiling mouldings. The men paused at the entrance to the parlour. Inspector Endersby ventured in first. Broken glass and overturned furniture filled the room. Jagged nails hemmed the shutters, refusing the thinnest crack of light to enter. The grate held a meagre handful of fresh coal. A sofa, legs pointed at the ceiling, lay beside two toppled chairs, their cane kicked out of them. The only object left standing was a desk with its drawers gaping open. It was as if, Endersby thought, the desk had bravely held its ground against the marauders. He took two more steps in, signalling to Caldwell and the surgeon to accompany him. The beadle sighed and one of the constables coughed; outside, the street was stirring with chatter and the passing of horses.

  In the corner across from the cold hearth lay a cold and more frightening object: the body
of Samuel Cake. Reddish mud led away from the redder stain surrounding the body. Cake sprawled, dressed in a red sash, a cloak and boots; his beaver hat sat right side up a few feet from his battered head.

  “Mr. Sloane, if you please,” Endersby said in a respectful voice. “Poor chap,” he whispered as the surgeon knelt down and opened his medical bag. From a pocket, the surgeon lifted a mirror the size of a saucer and held it to the mouth of the corpse. Cake’s hair was mussed and crusted with dried blood. Endersby walked to the opposite side of the body, across from the surgeon, and raised his candle. The wall closest to him was splattered with large drops of blood.

  Caldwell was suddenly beside him. “Smashed good and hard, I’d say, sir.”

  Endersby reached down and picked up a walking stick. Its ivory head was shaped like a dog’s. The muzzle was bloodied, and bits of dried hair and flesh stuck to the metal ring under the head. Endersby held his candle closer. Two initials in brass were inscribed on the handle: S.C. Caldwell took hold of the walking stick and placed it on the mantel.

  “What physical force caused this?” Endersby said to the surgeon. “Gaze at the skull, pummelled and cracked. One of the eyes is slightly swollen, do you see?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “A blow before death, if my experience of beaten bodies can give us guidance,” said Endersby.

  By now the surgeon had opened Cake’s jacket and shirt and listened to the heart with a brass instrument that the beadle, Thaddeus Arne, exclaimed resembled an ear trumpet. “Indeed it does,” was the surgeon’s curt answer.

  “Mr. Cake, he was kimbawed right hard,” the constable in the white gloves added. The room fell silent again as the surgeon passed his candle across the pale bluish face. Cake’s hands lay stiff, fingers curled on the parquet. Inspector Endersby questioned the surgeon if Mr. Cake had been dead a long time.

  The surgeon stood up. He wiped his hands on a flannel. “Probable but not certain, sir, this man died four to six hours ago.”

  The bystanders did not move or make a comment. The surgeon then asked the beadle if anyone on the street was related to Mr. Cake.

  “I believe not. No doubt we can discover some kin,” was Thaddeus Arne’s hasty reply. The surgeon turned to face Inspector Endersby and his sergeant. “Mr. Cake has died of severe blows to his head. The skull appears cracked in two places—on the crown and over the right ear. There is also some bruising by the shoulder, which suggests he was struck there by the same instrument, but that his clothing cushioned the blows thus creating a bruise. The weapon most likely was that walking stick on the mantel since the cuts in the flesh of the cheek and chin were caused by sharp edges, similar to those of the stick head’s carved shape. I shall write these details on requisition and present them to coroner.”