The Endicott Evil Page 15

  “Now just a minute . . .” I quickly got out even as I stabbed my foot in between the door’s trajectory and the jamb. “Might I speak with the landlord for a minute?”

  “Ya might pull back a bloody stump if ya don’t git yer buggered foot outta me door,” the boy warned, and then wagged a fireplace poker through the gap in the stalled door to back up his threat.

  I cannot say exactly why, but the sight of this scrawny rascal with his smudged face, unkempt heap of wiry black hair, and dockworker’s glower suddenly infuriated me. Or perhaps the problem was that he reminded me of myself at something near that age, so that I could not stop myself from reaching out and yanking the wielded poker as I heaved against the door, effectively springing it open and sending the young scamp sprawling backward onto the floor. “I am a gentleman and will not be threatened,” I announced as I stepped inside.

  “Ain’t no gentleman I know wot sends a mere boy to the floor like a worn boot,” a harsh, gravelly female voice informed me.

  I glanced to my left and found an emaciated elderly woman in a shabby nightgown with a raggedy knitted shawl of indeterminate color clutched across her shoulders and a foul cheroot clenched between her lips.

  “Madam . . .” I started to say, which made her laugh and reveal that she had no teeth. Even so, the cheroot hung to her lower lip as though it had been sewn there. “I meant no disrespect to the lad. . . .” I forced myself to continue as the fetid smell of unwashed bodies and ill-kept food began to swirl into my nostrils. “But I am here on official business, and this youngster would not permit me so much as an explanation. . . .”

  “’E weren’t taught ta wait fer no explanations,” she sneered, plucking the slim cigar from her mouth and staring at the opposite end of it. “Get me a light, ya little bugger,” she snapped at the boy, who immediately scrambled back to his feet and fled the room. “So wot’s this official business . . . ?” she said with a sniff as the boy rushed back and dutifully put a match to the end of her cigar.

  “Mr. Nettle has been implicated in the recent death of Adelaide Endicott,” I began to explain, even though I had no idea what exactly it was that I hoped to get from her. “I have some further questions for him. I’m afraid they are critical if we have any chance of proving his innocence in the matter.”

  “Wot makes ya think ’e’s innocent?”

  Her question surprised me because I had not expected it, and for that reason I acted the fool. “Do you believe him capable of murder?”

  She puffed on her cigar and swatted the boy away. “You ain’t no gentleman. . . .” she pronounced as she studied me over the glowing end of her cigar, “. . . you’re an arse.” The boy giggled and the old woman turned on him. “Git outta ’ere, ya little pox. You ain’t worth a shite yerself. Lettin’ this big, wet oaf inta me ’ouse.”

  The boy bolted from the room and I cursed myself for having been so brusque with him. He was, after all, only trying to take care of himself, and in that I could not fault him. “How long have you been renting to Mr. Nettle?”

  She gave a dismissive shrug of her bony shoulders and coughed a minute before answering. “Week or so, I s’pose. Ya’d ’ave ta ask the little nob. ’E remembers things better’n I do.”

  “Which room is his?”

  “Top a the stairs and to the left. Keeps it nice and neat. I like that in a man. Most of ’em is pigs.” She glared at me and did not bother to smile.

  “I’d like to see the room.”

  “I’d like ta ’ave tea with the feckin’ Queen,” she shot back, starting to laugh again before it quickly turned into another hacking cough. “Bring me a drink a somethin’. . . .” she hollered toward the tiny kitchen as she caught her breath again.

  I was still standing at the front door, dripping rain onto her filthy, greasy floor, and I didn’t imagine she would notice the difference. Or care if she did. The boy’s swift return stilled my thoughts as he handed her a glass of dark ale that she slugged back as though it were water.

  “I’d offer ya a drink,” she said as she sloughed the emptied glass back at the boy, “but you ain’t stayin’.” She gave a raspy chuckle that exposed her blackened gums again and my stomach curdled. “Now git outta me ’ouse or I’ll shoot ya dead where yer standin’ and ’ave this little shite ’ere toss yer arse onta the street for the curs ta fight over.”

  And sure enough, somewhere during her wheezed diatribe she pulled a well-used pistol from beneath the cushion of the lopsided chair she was reclining on, and I could only curse myself for not having considered it. Of course she was armed. And even though the weapon looked hazardous to fire, there was no doubt that it would leave a wound as likely to become septic as it was to kill.

  “Forgive me,” I said, nodding curtly but keeping my eyes riveted on the old woman. “Perhaps you can tell me when Mr. Nettle is expected back, and I will return at that time.”

  “I ain’t ’is keeper,” the woman answered sharply.

  I cast a glance at the boy but could tell he wasn’t about to contribute an unbidden word to what was left of this conversation. “Of course,” I managed to pry out of my throat as I took a careful step backward, reaching for the door behind me. “I am sorry to have disturbed you.” Neither of them responded as I swung the door wide and stepped back through it, popping my umbrella up and feeling relieved by the cold, fresh air that immediately snapped against my face. The house was a horror, and I hoped the boy would have a chance to break free as I had.

  The rain had subsided to a drizzle during my brief visit inside the boardinghouse though my mood had not similarly lifted. I had come all this way and learned nothing without even managing to gain access to Mr. Nettle’s room. Colin would be disappointed, but what really needled me was that I had made such a point of how capable I was back at our flat. The thought of returning home with nothing but the stink of tobacco on my clothing was enough to spur me to action. I would not allow that to be the case.

  So with nary a glance back at the decrepit building I had just been evicted from, I headed to the end of the street and took two quick turns into the alley that ran parallel to it. This would not be the first time I had done what I had in mind, though it had certainly been many years. Not since Maw Heikens had used me for just this sort of clandestine activity had I dared attempt such a thing. And as I stared up at the harsh metal fire escapes clinging to the backs of the buildings, I could not deny that I was twenty years past the wispy boy of middle teens who eagerly bowed to Maw’s every whim for the solace of the opiate she doled out.

  Everything about the alley was dull and gray, and even the incessant rain could not diminish the inherent level of its dreariness or filth. Garbage was piled against the backs of the buildings as though it had sprouted from the very earth and begun to grow there. So much grime and filth clung to the compressed structures that it was difficult to tell where one ended and the next began. I was finally forced to count the fire escapes until I came to the seventh set, knowing this was the building where Mr. Nettle resided.

  It almost came as no surprise when I realized there was no ladder from the bottom landing to the ground on Mr. Nettle’s building. These places were as ill-kept as the people who lived within.

  The next building over had a ladder hitched up into its ribbing, but it looked better than eight feet off the ground and I doubted I could get purchase on it even with a running start. The metalwork on the building next to that one had its ladder extended almost all the way down, so I decided I would make my way up to the roof from there and then come back to the building where Mr. Nettle lived. I would use the ladder on his building to descend back to the second floor where I knew his room to be.

  My ascent proved to be more arduous than I had anticipated given the wetness of the rungs. As I rose up the ironwork, my boots persisted in slipping, leaving me no choice but to drop my umbrella back to the cobbles so I could grip the ladder with both hands. By the time I reached the third-floor landing I was wet enough that I no longer
needed to care about the drizzle.

  A variety of black pipes, both straight and curiously angled, rose up from the roofs around me like stiff dark weeds, each one belching a mixture of smoke and soot that was instantly seized by the spitting rain and flung back down in an oily sludge. My coat and hat would be ruined, but I didn’t care.

  I made my way back to Mr. Nettle’s building, stepping easily over low-slung brick dividers that served no other purpose than as a demarcation between the buildings so that work done on one rooftop would not also mistakenly be done on another. Though I doubted there had been any work up here in my lifetime.

  The ladder that led down the back of Mr. Nettle’s building looked dubiously attached to the roof’s lip, but I had no other choice, so I decided to ignore the possibilities. I carefully made my way down to the landing of the second floor, lowering myself hand over hand as my boots fought to make purchase. Although the whole structure groaned and rattled under my footfalls, I paid it little mind since the few windows that faced the alley were all closed against the wind and rain. I imagined myself the first person on this contraption since its assembly and only hoped it would not abruptly give way, pulling free of the building and pitching me to the hard cobbles of the alley below.

  It was a relief to finally reach the second floor. I stood a moment with my back to the wet brick and felt the cold rolling off it in spite of my layers of clothing. Its dampness was the least of my concerns, as only a bathtub could have made me wetter than I already was.

  I sucked in a quick breath and peeked through the single window that let onto the fire escape landing, spying a dingy hallway on the other side with no one about. There was one door on the left and one to the right, which I knew from the woman downstairs was where Mr. Nettle was staying. A staircase led up to the floor from the far end of the hallway and another beside it rose up to the next level. Thin, well-trodden carpet covered the landing and short hallway, threadbare to the floorboards beneath in many spots, but it would likely be enough to dampen the sounds of my footfalls.

  I waited another moment to be sure I heard no movement from within, no one coming up the staircase or descending from the floor above, but there was nothing. If anyone was about, they weren’t up here. I hesitantly reached forward, my heartbeat drumming in my ears, and grabbed the window, giving it a gentle tug. It moved fairly easily though not smoothly. I had expected it might, as it undoubtedly spent the whole of the summer months wide open.

  I prodded it about halfway before cautiously sliding in through the gap and delicately nudging it back down. There would be no hasty exit from this place unless I burst through the glass and swung down the ten or so feet to the ground, no simple feat if the landlady was also firing her corroded old pistol at me. It was enough to give me pause, though it was far too late for that, and so, after pulling in a deep breath in an effort to cease my thundering heartbeat, I crept to Mr. Nettle’s door and pressed an ear to it.

  No sound issued forth, but then I had not expected it to. Though my ingress had been circuitous it had not been time consuming, and beyond that I could not fathom a reason why Mr. Nettle would ever hurry to return to this place.

  I eased the door open just enough to glimpse inside and still felt relief when I found the tiny space unoccupied. I slipped in and coaxed the door shut with the utmost care so that the click of its latch reseating itself could not have been heard by a passing mouse.

  The room, such as it was, lay before me. A single space with a small bed pushed against the wall opposite me, so close one full step would bring me right up to it. There was a small window on the outside wall, barely larger than one foot square, with a requisite crack running across the lower left corner. A plain wooden stand, well worn with nicks and scratches, stood beneath the window with an old pitcher and bowl atop it, both looking as misused as the piece of furniture they sat upon. These things, I was certain, came with the room. Hardly a recommendation to live here.

  I glanced around, but there was little else to see beyond a trunk on the floor flung open and brimming with neatly folded clothing, a straight-backed chair beside it piled with items clearly waiting to be laundered. It appeared, given what little Mr. Nettle had, that I was on a fool’s errand. As I took in this meager assemblage of possessions, I could imagine no reason why he would have murdered Adelaide Endicott, for surely her death had brought him to the lowest form of subsistence other than living on the street.

  Determined to complete my undertaking, I hurriedly riffled through his trunk, taking care to leave it precisely as I had found it. There was mostly clothing inside, along with a few books and a ledger that bore the truth of how little he had been paid by the Endicotts, and a small framed picture of a pretty young girl.

  I attacked the items piled on the chair next, but made short work of it as I did not relish pawing through someone else’s soiled garments. I hastily held his jackets and shirtsleeves up to the little window to see whether there might be any reside of phosphorous powder on them, but the grayness of the day did not cooperate in allowing me to catch any glimpses of those startling colors. In desperation I even forced myself to fumble through his pant and vest pockets in hopes of finding some damning note, but there was no such thing, and I was left to feel I had accomplished nothing more than a respite from the rain.

  A cursory glance beneath the bed revealed, as would be expected in such a diminutive space, a single pair of shoes; polished and tended that had obviously been worn while serving Adelaide Endicott. I pulled the pair out and stared at them a moment. The care and attention that had been bestowed upon them spoke of a man who both understood his place and took pride in it. These were boots I would slip on my feet without hesitation and yet here they sat, buffed and shined and shoved under a dilapidated little bed to await their time once more.

  So thorough was the devotion paid them that a slight mar, something I doubt I would ordinarily have noticed, caught my eye near the right front of the outer sole on the right shoe. It looked like a smudge that reached up no more than a half inch toward the toe cap, and though I could see a dab of polish had been applied to it, it was still evident due to its slightly duller sheen.

  I stood up and took the shoe to the window in an effort to get a better look, turning the shoe over and finding a similar but larger mark on the bottom of the sole, approximately the size of a half crown but with edges that looked as jagged as an eggshell. I brought the shoe toward my face to take a quick sniff, and that was when I heard the door open behind me.

  “Ain’t that a fine sight,” a boy’s voice clucked.

  It took a long moment before I could finally get myself to lower the shoe and glance around. I felt as if I had been caught at a most inglorious task and, in some ways, I suppose I had. “Aren’t you a clever young man,” I said as I turned fully around to face him. “And I thought I was being ever so quiet.”

  “Yer makin’ enough noise ta wake up me wretched ol’ auntie downstairs. An’ if ya do that I’ll as likely let ’er shoot ya as not.”

  A tight smile came easily to my lips as I realized that the woman downstairs had not sent him up and that his first inclination was not to tell her he had discovered me here. “My apologies,” I answered with a small nod of my head. This lad was no fool and I was certain I knew what would earn me his silence. “You must allow me to pay you for your trouble,” I continued as I slowly reached my free hand into my pocket, pulling out several shillings and a farthing.

  The boy snickered. “Ya think ta give me a ’andful a change? Auntie’s gotta gun an’ you can believe she’ll fire it. I’ll take a pound or I’ll start ’ollerin’ so loud you’ll ’ave the ’ole buildin’ and the one next door down on yer ’ead.” As though to assure me of his threat he took a half step backward, halting just outside the threshold where his youthful scream was bound to have its greatest impact.

  “A bloody pound . . .” I heard myself repeat even as I dug into my vest pocket again and pulled one free.

  To my sur
prise, rather than take it from me, the boy stepped back again, now fully out in the hallway. “Ya done in there?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I grumbled, taking the shoe still clutched in my right hand and shoving it and its mate back under the bed where I had found them.

  “Then get outta there and be quiet, ya ruddy tosser.”

  This boy, I could not help thinking, was masterful. He would probably end up owning half the row houses in Whitechapel if left to his own devices. So I did precisely as he instructed, moving the few steps out of Freddie Nettle’s cramped quarters and delicately easing the door shut behind myself. “Now what?” I asked, the pound note still held in my other hand.

  “Drop the pound on the floor and git yer arse back out the winda ya came in through,” he hissed.

  “Back . . . ?” I gaped toward the window and the rickety fire escape beyond and realized there was no other way. I could not simply toddle down the stairs without risking a lead pellet from the woman he called Auntie. “Yes,” I had to agree, staring into a young face as filled with amusement as it was with gratification.

  The pound note fluttered to the floor without a care, landing between us, and the boy’s eyes filled with such yearning that I felt a tug of regret at my throat. He looked up at me and his face went hard again. “Go on. . . .” he commanded, obviously not willing to collect the pound until I was gone. And again, I thought him ever the smarter for it.

  With nothing left to do, I turned back to the window and pried it halfway up just as I had done before, only this time I was struck by the groan it released as the stiles scraped against the jamb. No wonder the lad had heard me. Wearing a sheepish look, I glanced back over my shoulder and found both the boy and the pound note gone.

  I hurried out the window and was down in the alley in nothing more than a minute, having decided to jump the ten feet to the ground rather than climbing up and over as I had done before. Though I landed harder than I had intended, nothing was incurred beyond the injury to my pride and disappointment at having accomplished little more than having spent a pound.