[MC] "Dearest Diary" -- A Tale of Murder (M)

Taking a short break from editing my novel, I am penning this short story, a murder mystery of sorts, set in the early nineteenth century. I've never dabbled at length in the Victorian period, nor have I done anything involving police-work or crime, so helpful criticism would be most appreciated!

So here is what I have so far, and thanks for reading!

"Inspector!"

I turned from my paper and removed my glasses, setting them down on table. A young messenger boy approached the café where I was enjoying the serenity of an early afternoon tea, a fervor in his face from an undoubtedly prolonged run, and stood panting before me. Ragged and filthy in appearance, his message assuredly must have been coming from the lower wards.

"Yes?" I said, unconvinced that this message could be anything but the news of a beating of one of his friends or the killing of yet another prostitute.

"Beggin’ your pardon, sir...." He held out his hand, like the little shaver he was.

"Very well." I dug into my pocket and retrieved two pennies. "Yours...once the message is delivered."

The boy licked his lips and stared at the chips of copper, a desperate look of hunger on his drawn face. Denying his mistrust of those with money to spare, he leaned toward me and whispered in my ear.

My eyes widened and I looked him square on. "You better not be blagging to me, boy.

"Honest, sir." He stared again at the penny in my grip. "I swear my life upon it!"

I leaned in closer. "Show me...and this two pence becomes a shilling."

A smile growing on his face, the prospect of food and shelter at the forefront of his mind, he took off and began running to the south – to the lower wards.

Grabbing my coat and top hat, I hurriedly exited the café, telling the host to hold my bill until my return, and climbed into my waiting carriage. Poking my head out, I motioned to the driver and pointed south. "Follow that child!"

Doing as instructed, the driver gave the horse a gentle whip and the carriage lurched forward, rocking like a ship over the worn and uneven cobblestones. Passing through the safe and inviting streets of northern London, we soon moved through into the lower districts: the degenerate and foul collective of the poor and the iniquitous. Houses of ill repute, pubs, and gang-houses lined the rows, with filth and sewage running openly in the streets. No policemen or aristocracy to be seen, I had indeed crossed the line into the impoverished rectory of sin.

Forlorn children of the abominable conditions before me clamored at my carriage, my driver scarcely able to continue to follow the boy on up ahead. Many times did the heavy wheels and the clopping shoes of the horse nearly crush them to death, but thankfully they had the wit to stay clear of those.

Coming to a stop near a dilapidated hotel, my messenger boy stood in front of a dark alley overshadowed by the tall buildings that framed it, and was staring down it’s length. I dared leave the relative safety of my carriage and step down onto street level, pushing away begging, soiled hands as I made my way to the boy’s side.

"Here?" I asked of him, still unconvinced of his tale. Curiously, as I neared the alley the clawing hands of the depraved ebbed and they dared not draw any nearer than that.

He nodded and pointed into the darkness. "In there...behind the old shack."

Pursing my lips, slightly unnerved by the actions of the wretched populace, I pressed on down into the dark alley, my right hand tucked into my coat and grasping the small club I had concealed there. Many times before had I been lured into such situations, only to find out it was a trap set by someone wishing to be rid of one certain inspector on their case – I could not be too careful while in this part of the city.

About halfway down the alley I spied an empty old shed, the timbers and tiling rotted and falling apart. Bits of straw, broken bottles, and strips of molded fabric lay beneath, suggesting a makeshift shelter, though it obviously had not been occupied recently. Lifting my head to the left as my eyes adjusted to the faint light, my lips parted at what I saw beyond.

A pair of fine red shoes lying in a stagnant puddle, and a lifeless body five meters beyond.


--------------------

"Here you are, Inspector." A young policeman handed me a cup of coffee as I scrawled hasty notes upon a bit of paper. "Not the best of stuff, but as good as you’re going to get in this place."

"Thank you, officer." I took the cup and set it down on a near ledge, returning to my notes.

"Well, sir?" he pried. "Who is she?"

My brow furrowed and I let out a sigh. "I do not know."

The man kneeled down next to the body and looked closer. "Doesn’t look like a street trollop from the wards, I can tell you that much."

I grabbed him by the shoulder and firmly pulled him back, trying to keep him from contaminating the scene with his obtuse presence. "Yes, thank you for the coffee, officer. Now, if you please...."

"Yes, sir." Taking the hint, he nodded and walked back out of the alley.

Lighting another lamp that I placed at the woman’s head, I drew a quick sketch of her form on my pad. Clothed in a crimson red dress, expensive by the looks of it, and adorned by an array of silver jewelry, I found myself to be baffled. What was a woman of stature doing down here in the wards? And dead, but not robbed? Her earrings alone would pay for six months food and rent, let alone the necklace which was studded with small, invaluable diamonds.

I gently moved her head to the side, looking for signs of what might have caused her death, but could find none. No bludgeoning, no stabbing or shooting, the police surgeon was going to have to delve into this one in more detail. Poison was my guess, but at that point I could only conjecture. I supposed that the cause could have been something medical to do with disease or illness, but that seemed unlikely given her unspoiled looks. Or maybe drowning, but her hair was dry and well kempt. Judging by the state of the body and the coldness of it, she must have been deposited here sometime the evening before. The way the body was lying prostrate said to me that considerable attention was given to place her there, to lie her in repose in a kind and honorable manner, be it in a filth-ridden alley.

Whomever committed this deed must have cared for her, and at least known her – this was no random slaying.

I looked upon her as she lay there, cold and alone in a dark alley. She was a handsome woman, twenty years of age at the most, with riveting dark hair and intense blue eyes. I lifted her left hand – no wedding ring. She must have been a child of wealth, or had a suitor who doted upon her lavishly. Either way, she would assuredly be reported as missing within the afternoon, which would greatly assist in finding her killer.

A bustle of noise broke me from my inner thoughts. Lifting my head and pivoting toward the opening of the alley, a man with a large black portfolio was having some trouble with the policemen guarding the entrance, them denying him access.

"Let him through!" I said with a cut of annoyance.

Releasing their hands upon him, the man fixed his hat, gave the two young officers a glare, and came to my side.

"Well, old man?" the gentlemen prodded, offering a friendly hand. "Who’s the poor soul this time?"

"I cannot say." I took his hand and stood up. "Good to see you again, Chauncey."

"And you, Inspector." He unwound a couple of strings that sealed his portfolio and opened it wide, revealing some large sheets of white paper. "No details at all?"

"Other than supposed stature, none."

"And no missing persons reported?"

I shook my head in response. "None that would carry such a high prominence as this."

"Very well then." He took in a deep breath. "The usual?"

"If you please. And make haste – I want copies made and sent around all of upper London by the end of the afternoon. The longer we stall, the harder it will become to solve, as the killer is undoubtedly already on the run."

"You’re the Inspector." Chauncey found a near crate and sat down, finding the best angle of light to assist his hand. Pulling out a bit of charcoal from his pocket, he began sketching her face.


--------------------

Nothing. Twenty sketches being carried all around upper London, and no word on the identity of this poor woman. No reports had been filed on her behalf either, making me begin to wonder. Perhaps she was dressed up to look the part when she was still but a resident in the impoverished tracts of the lower wards, but I still harbored my doubts. No personages would throw such fine jewelry away in such a frivolous manner, not even the wealthy. And why had the body not been rifled through by the local folk? That remained the most cryptic of all.

I found myself back at my café, sipping at some tea, awaiting the police surgeon’s report. I had the body delivered to him over two hours ago and placed her at the upmost of importance on his list, and still no reply. I had half a mind to go down to his shop and do the autopsy myself if it would quicken the results, for as of right now I had no leads to work on.

"Inspector?" The elderly waiter was at my side, for who knows how long, awaiting my answer to his unheard question.

I shook myself from my thoughts and looked upon him. "Forgive me, I must have wandered. Yes?"

"Should I bill your household, sir?"

"Oh, no that won’t be necessary. I will pay now."

The man bowed gratefully as I handed him some coin. "I’ve been meaning to ask of you, Inspector, we do not have your address, in case you should desire to do so in the future."

I stood up and grabbed my coat and hat. "I am a man of the moment, sir. I do not believe in debt, if I can forgo it."

"Very well, and thank you, sir." He politely bowed again before returning to his duties.

Stepping out into the building evening air, I climbed aboard my waiting carriage and plopped down in the back, letting out some of my frustrations with a deep purge of breath. "To the coroner’s den, driver!"

Acknowledging the request with a nod, he cracked the whip on his pony and the cab lurched forward.

The stench of death. My senses were overwhelmed by it as I entered the subterranean lair of the police surgeon, Robert Drudge. An almond-shaped, red-faced man, scarcely able to stomach his work, I found him sitting at his desk, a flask in his fist, starring at a blank sheet of paper, as if he were commanding it to write upon itself with the sheer power of his will.

"Mister Drudge?" I cautiously entered his office.

"Yes, come in." He hastily stashed his flask within the desk, acting as if it were never there. "What can I do you for, mister...."

"Inspector," I reminded him with just my title.

"Oh!" He stood up, nearly knocking the desk over with his overarching belly. "Apologies, Inspector. I...um, didn’t recognize you."

"For sure." I motioned for him to sit down as I did in the chair across from him. "So? What news of our girl?"

"Girl?"

I frowned and leaned on his desk, the fury of a patient man smoldering in my eyes. "Perhaps if the blundering novice had not been at the drink while on duty, he would have done me the great favor of an autopsy this day. I have a murderer to catch, mister Drudge."

"Oh, yes! You mean the rich girl!" He feigned a smile, though it became painfully obvious he had not soberness of mind at the moment. "There are many girls that come through here...don’t want to get them mixed up."

I remained silent and glared.

"Perhaps you better come with me." He made for the door and left the office, heading toward what was colloquially known as ‘the den’.

Me following behind him, he brought us to his place of worry: a cavernous tunnel beneath the streets of London that housed the grim responsibilities of those charged with the care and keeping of the soon-to-be inhumed. The den lay littered with all kinds of odd devices and visceral equipment, and the stains upon the wooden tables and stone floors could not be ignored. That smell I encountered upon first entering the small space became more prevalent here, and it was all I could do to refrain from gagging.

"Here she is." The coroner pulled back a lone white sheet, revealing the maiden that was found in the alley, holding a handkerchief to his nose as he did. "Bloomin’ shame – she’s a pretty one."

"Yes." I leaned in closer, capturing her face in my eyes. "And? What have you found?"

"Nothing. No cuts, no wounds, no bruises. No traces of any poison I know of in her stomach, and all her organs seemed intact enough."

"Enough?"

"Well...there’s some minor signs of white plague starting to build in her lungs, but it was very early on – she wouldn’t have known."

I pursed my lips. "And so you brought me out here because...why?"

"These." He covered her back up and reached for a near box that contained her personal effects. Rifling through it’s contents, he produced the pair of silver earrings. "I may not be much help in determining cause of death at the moment, but at least I can offer some insight as to her identity."

My eyes propped open at the thought of a clue.

"Here." He handed me one, while keeping the other and flipping it over. "See this marking?" He pointed to a thin etching upon the silver. "That’s Jeremy Witherstone’s mark. I’ve...purchased from him before"

"A jeweler?"

"A restorer, actually. He has not the means to create such fine pieces, but can repair them with ease, and for much less than the usual fee. But...he’s a bit of a low-liar, you see. His only desire in exchange for such a cheap repair is that he then can re-brand the item in his name."

"Cover a jeweler’s brand? That’s theft!"

"Most of what he deals with are stolen items at the start of it. He knows it, but also could never prove it and needs the business. Could you blame him? He’s a good lad, and has found a decent way to earn a living in the wards where coin is rarer than God. True, it’s illegal work he does, but what down in there isn’t?"

I conceded the fact and offered out my hand, silently requesting the other earring. "And where might I find this Witherstone?"

"His shop is in Whitechapel, at the end of Thrawl Street."

"I’ll send an officer out." I pocketed the earrings. "Keep me informed if you determine the cause of death, or if anything else comes to mind. And I mean that. Anything."

"Aye," he said with a nonchalant waive and returned to his office and his flask.

As I exited the den, the dark of night blanketing the city, I pulled my coat close around me and stepped back into my carriage. I then rapped twice on the roof with a knuckle, ready for some rest as I wait for the coroner or my dispatched officer to send word. "Driver...take us home."

I sat in my worn reading chair smoking my pipe, contemplating the order of things. If I did not receive some solid standing from Witherstone’s shop or the continued autopsy of the poor girl, she would be passed over and forgotten, her body laid to rest in some remote corner of London, never again to be seen or heard from again. Such a rich life she must have had, being so young and alive. Despite the hardships of the common man in this enlightened age, it was in the burgeoning youth that I placed my faith – the old merely die, and those caught tween are content to suffer their own devices.

A knock echoed through my drafty halls, jostling me from my reverie. Collecting myself and lying my pipe upon a near tray, I hustled to the door, prayerful from some news. Taking off the latch, I pulled the heavy oak timbers wide, revealing a young officer, gingerly holding his hat in his hands.

“Yes?”

The officer handed me a cleanly-folded note and gave me a nod before donning his cap and briskly leaving my step, an idle fear in his gait. I thought him odd, but closed the door and returned to my chair, curious of what dark secrets the note may tell. Gently pressing the sheet against my knee, I read the scribbled hand, my brow furrowing in response.

Dark secrets indeed.

“Who was that, love?” my wife, Elsa, said from the upper floor beyond my sight.

“Just an officer delivering some news, dearest. I’m afraid I have to head out and see to it immediately.” I returned to the door and retrieved my coat and hat. “Don’t wait up – I will be late in returning.”

Hastily donning my warm apparel, I set out into the chilly night on foot, my employer’s household being the destination in mind.


--------------------


“Calm yourself, Inspector!” said Captain Grildowe as I stood before him, leaning over his desk in am imposing manner. “You have no proof other than the words of a jewel thief and a criminal – hardly convincing evidence of foul play by a member of the gentry. Now, unless you have some reputable source to validate your claims, I believe we are done here.

“Look at the time, Inspector. Rest on it, and resume the case in the morning.”

The anger swelling in me had about reached it’s nefarious pinnacle. “So that’s it, then? You would suffer a woman to the grave without justice and let this stand? A killer is on our streets, walking free and unchallenged! Do you desire to have the weight of another woman’s life upon your conscience for failure to act?”

The captain stood to his feet, smoothing his moustache as he did. “Need I remind you of your station? It is your place to solve such heinous crimes, not mine. But in that venture, I will not have you harboring such wild accusations, potentially damaging the reputations of honorable, law-abiding men. Until you have proof of your claims, I will not support you in any seizure or search of any persons or residence outside of the lower districts.”

“Even if I am right?”

He frowned, letting out a sigh. “Law and order is not always in the right, Inspector. But it is just that: the law. Even if truth be plain as day, fact can tarnish it. Find me fact, Inspector, and I will grant your motion. Until then, I bid you good night.”

Knowing I would have better luck trying to dislodge an oak with my bare hands, I conceded my losses and bid the Captain good night.


--------------------


Like a prowler in the dark, acting as the fiends of my attention do, I crept through the shadowy places and sped my way to the east. Some of the wealthiest of London’s gentry made their nests here, preying upon those less fortunate, claiming to be saviors of right and good. I scoffed at the notion, for I found myself to be in the middle; neither poor nor rich, neither wrong nor right.

But at this very moment, I knew the difference. Be the Captain’s orders as they were, I forwent the restrictions of his command and decided to go ahead with my plan: find the girl’s identity, as well as her murderer, regardless of class or caste.

She deserved some solace for her immature passing, as both an Englishwoman and a victim.

There it was: the household of Lord Crenshaw, the name imprinted upon both the note handed to me earlier as well as my mind. It was he that Mister Witherstone implied had bought those earrings – the only lead I had. If I could not find some sign or connection to the girl’s case, then I would relent. Otherwise, I would risk hell itself if any trace of her appeared here.

Avoiding the uniformed men that made up my peers, I threw myself over the high wall that separated Lord Crenshaw’s estate from the rest of London, softly landing in a patch of soft-tilled earth. Assured that suspicion had not been aroused, I moved along the edge of his house like a cat, inching toward a softly flickering light on the back steps.

No soul was stirring, to the best of my knowledge, and the lamp must have been left alight by mistake, to my great luck. Staying away from the direct blankets of yellowy light, I moved around to the other side and there I spied a compost box: a receptacle of household waste. Daring to look, holding a hand over my nose and mouth, all I could see were the remains of the week’s feasting, as well as the ‘undesirable’ parts of animals.

Such waste when it came to the higher classes.

About to turn away, I spied something out of the edge of my vision. In the far corner, half-buried in the refuse, outcropped the edge of a book, the white papers within gently whispering as a soft wind blew threw the yard.

For what luck or folly would chase me home, I took it.

Tucking the filth-ridden tome into the folds of my coat, keeping it tight so the smell would not escape too much, I vaulted back over the wall and continued on home, waiting until I was safe within it’s confines before producing it again.

By brows knit as I stared at the title. The book was a diary, the hand indicating it to be a woman’s. Lizbeth was the name so articulately penned upon it’s face. I nodded to myself upon seeing that, for I knew that Lord Crenshaw had no daughters, only sons.

Wiping away the soil with a bit of cloth, I folded the book open, distraught to see the majority of the pages had been ruined by it’s careless placement. Though at this point I found myself to be convinced that it could not be anything but intentional. Thumbing through page after page of animal fat-soaked bleeding lines, I soon began to feel that bitter cut of despair.

There were hundreds of girls in London named Lizbeth – that lead alone would get me altogether nowhere.

And then I came to the final page, my last bastion of hope within it’s sheets. Miraculously, it had survived, with but a minor smudging around the edges, and so I poured over it’s contents time and time again, creating a picture of unfolding events in my mind.

14 September, 1822

Dearest Diary,

He’s done it again. That’s thrice now that he has shown his true face in error, but I, being such a fearful caitiff, daren’t act upon it. I caught him within yet another twisted lie when I was in the city this morning: his wife is nowhere near dying as he so tells, but is happily rotund in her comfort. With her own words she told me of what a good and plentiful man her husband was, her face beaming with such pride of her class and station at the thought of her blessed Jonathan. Disgusted with my own self and what sordid beliefs I had been convinced to partake in, I bid her farewell and came straight home.

Not even the wine or the warmth of the night’s fire in this empty house gives me the slightest of consolation.

And I, the mistress of a married man, continue to desperately ignore the truth even now as I think upon it. Should I pursue it? The defamation of both his character and mine own? Should I expose him for what he is: a tramp of a man and a prevaricator? Or can I stomach this fallacy for my own benefit? I have never lived such a life as this, one of exuberant luxury, and this place, what he called ‘our house’ even though there was a home with another family that he called his own on the other side of London, becomes more and more hollow by the day. Is this what I am relegated to for the remainder of my youth until he tires of me? The beck and call of a conniving and dishonorable man?

But then what choice have I? If I were to reveal him to the world, destroy his reputation of a man of the people, then assuredly I would be out on my ear, back onto streets like the urchin I once was before him and his tale of loneliness on account of his sick spouse came to fruition. But then he would receive his just deserts: the loss of the trust of his wife, and perhaps his station. But what good would come of it? He is a man of simple taste and pleasure; he would continue on and be none the lesser for it.

Men.

He said his wife was not a year away from the grave, the insidious and perpetual curse of consumption worming throughout her body, but the look of her this morn gave me no such inkling. He said he wanted to marry me, spoke so eloquently of his desire to live the rest of his life in my arms and move us both to the country where we could remain forever. He said I was he beloved, his destiny put forth since before time was time.

And I, being so young and full of fluff, consumed every word and took it as my own.

I am decided. Tomorrow is the eve of the election, and there will be many of Jonathan's acquaintances present when the protests begin. On the steps of the Old Bailey, shall I make myself known to the world, and we shall see what happens.


- Lizbeth

The name Jonathan burned most brightly in my mind. Lord Jonathan Crenshaw.

Slamming my fist on the table in combined relief and frustration, I then went over to the liquor cabinet and poured myself a glass of scotch to help me sleep the night.