Ghost of the Thames (8 page)

Sophy stared at his outstretched hand
and then hesitantly took the card.

CHAPTER 8

“Young. Brown hair. Medium height and
weight. No papers. No jewelry. Oddly enough, three pence in what
was left of a pocket in her skirt.” The inspector from the
riverfront police station read each line from the ledger before
arranging the ruler and pen next to the open book.

Whitewashed walls, neatly stacked
books, tidy desk. This was a room more likely to belong to a
seminarian than a river policeman.

Calmly, patiently, with no emotion
evident in either voice or demeanor, the thin man stood up from the
stool behind his desk and took down the ring of keys hanging from a
hook on the wall.

The policeman faced the visitors.
“You’re certain you wish to see the body?”

“Yes. Yes. Absolutely. I must,” John
Warren said gruffly.

Peter Hodgson helped his employer up
from the bench along the white brick wall. The man leaned on his
stout, ivory-headed cane for support and let the policeman pass in
front of him. As they followed behind, Hodgson watched Warren swing
his right leg awkwardly. The stiffness in his bad knee was clearly
bothering him more than usual today.

Five years ago, after taking a degree
at the new Royal Polytechnic Instutution in London, Peter Hodgson
had found a position with Warren & Company, a shipping firm
with close ties to the East India Company. In short time, he'd
gained the trust of the London managing partner, John Warren.
Today, he saw himself directly in line to take over the operations
as the old man's health continued to decline.

The long, low-vaulted passageway that
they entered had all the charm of a catacomb. A lantern hung on the
wall, casting a dim light on a dank corridor lined with stout cell
doors set into heavy stone. Small, thickly barred windows in each
cell door had been designed to let in air, but the foulness of the
atmosphere in the passageway could hardly have provided much
improvement. Hodgson could barely see the door that he knew they
would pass through at the far end.

As soon as they entered, though, the
inmates became aware of their presence, and the howling began as it
always did. Hodgson moved closer to his employer as the taunting,
menacing shouts and cruel remarks rang out, directed more at the
inspector than at the visitors.

The smell of vomit and urine and
excrement permeated the air, assaulting their senses. A few steps
into the passageway, both visitors raised their handkerchiefs to
their noses to avoid breathing the stench.

This was their third visit this week,
but familiarity had done nothing to make the ordeal even tolerable,
at least not for Hodgson.

As they passed one door, a prisoner
shoved a filthy arm through the bars and tried to seize Hodgson’s
coat. The young man leaped behind Mr. Warren, escaping the attack.
None of this seemed to have any effect on the inspector. The man
walked down the hall as if he were in deep meditation, mentally
preparing a Sunday sermon, totally unfazed by the chaos.

At end of the hall, the inspector used
one of the keys and opened a heavy iron-banded door. They stepped
onto a slippery stone landing, and the door shut behind them,
cutting off the noise. A dozen steps led up to a jailor’s yard, and
another dozen led down to the vault used as a morgue.

As they descended, John Warren was the
first to speak.

“When was this body found,
Inspector?”

“Brought in last night,
sir.”

“And how long do you believe it was in
the river?”

“Four or five days, I’d say. Of
course, it’s always difficult to be certain in such a case, but I’d
guess the deceased went in the river about the same time you say
your niece fell overboard.”

The inspector led them down the
stairs, and Hodgson stood at the older man’s elbow, ready to offer
assistance.

The smell of death was unmistakable.
The cobbled floor was slick, and the three men moved with care
toward the bodies. Two lay on benches and four more lay
unceremoniously on the floors, dingy sailcloth covering
them..

“Did all of these come in since we
were here last?” John Warren asked, pulling the handkerchief away
from his mouth to speak.

“
No, sir. We have at least
this many every night, sometimes twice this. These poor devils were
only brought in last night.”

“Which one is it?” John Warren asked
in a grave voice.

“This way.”

“Do you know how she died?”

“The night surgeon’s opinion was that
the girl died before entering the river. Our morning man says the
deceased clearly drowned after falling. Right now, we are writing
it down as ‘cause of death unknown’. Too much damage, and too much
time passed, if you know what I mean.”

Hodgson stood at his employer’s elbow,
watching him closely. Before this week, he’d never seen a corpse
dredged out of the river. It was the visible damage that the river
inflicted on the dead that bothered him most. Bloated torsos and
limbs, the ungodly ashen color of the skin, the missing eye or
noses, the flesh torn ragged by feeding fish. After that first
visit, he hadn’t been able to get a wink of sleep unplagued by
nightmares.

He wished to see an end to
it soon. He wanted
this one
be Catherine Warren, so he would never have to
return to this godforsaken place again.

The inspector lifted the cover off the
corpse’s face. Hodgson covered his mouth with the handkerchief
again and tried not to gag. Most of the flesh was entirely gone
from the face. If it weren’t for the shanks of long brown hair, he
wouldn’t even be able to tell this had once been a woman in
life.

John Warren visibly shuddered, but
stood his ground and studied the face. “What of her
clothes?”

“Those bits and pieces were all that
were left,” the inspector said, pointing at a small pile lying on
the bench at the foot of the corpse.

The old man limped to them and poked
at the fabric with his cane.

“No. No, I am certain of it,” he said
finally. “She is no relation of mine. This woman cannot be
Catherine.”

The corpse’s face was covered again.
The inspector led the two visitors up to the jailer’s yard, where
he opened an iron gate leading to an alleyway. Even with the river
so close, the fresh air—in Hodgson’s view—was a godsend.

“Thank you, Inspector, for notifying
me immediately when a body is brought in that fits my niece’s
description.” Warren paused by the gate. “Of course, I am still
hopeful that Catherine was able to swim to shore, even though my
people tell me that possibility is very unlikely, considering the
distance and inclement weather that night.”

"The inspector walked with them along
the refuse-filled alley to the front of the police station. “I
received notice that the coroner’s inquest is to be held next
week.”

“Yes, I received that notice, as
well,” John Warren replied. “Will you be there?”

“More than likely, sir. I very well
could be called in to testify. But maybe by then your niece will
show up at your doorstep, hale and hearty, and we’ll have no need
for judge and jury.”

“I wish for nothing more, Inspector,”
Warren said with a nod before preceding Hodgson into his waiting
carriage.

When they were a street away from the
police station, Hodgson voiced his concern. “Beg your pardon, sir.
But in identifying Miss Warren, your opinion must hold sway over
that of anyone else in London.”

“Naturally. What is your point,
Hodgson?”

“Well, sir. Just this.” He cleared his
throat, choosing his words carefully. “There is simply no
possibility that Miss Warren could have lived. So why not identify
one of the corpses we’ve seen this week as your niece. The coroner
will surely take your word and settle her estate in your
favor.”

The old man stared out the window for
some time before answering. “No. I cannot risk it. I do not wish to
draw attention to myself by acting too hastily.”

“Indeed, sir. Perhaps, though, as the
Bard says, the tide ‘taken at the flood’—”

“Save your Shakespeare, boy,” John
Warren snapped, cutting Hodgson off. “I know all about tide and
fortune. I’ve been watching both my entire life. I can be patient a
month more. Then all of it will be mine.”

CHAPTER 9

Sophy stood at the window in the
hallway and looked out at the street, knowing that change was
inevitable, and that her life was about to change once
again.

Two days before, Maddie had gone for
an afternoon out, and had never returned. Now no one at Urania
Cottage needed to guess who had stolen the ten pounds from under
Sophy’s pillow.

The absence of an adversary should
have made Sophy’s life easier, but it didn’t. The others openly
blamed her. They acted as if Sophy had ruined a life. They talked
as if she were the devil incarnate, sent to the Cottage to tempt
and ruin them, as well. Mrs. Tibbs’s mood, usually resembling a
grim gray autumn day, now moved resolutely into winter. Her
previously cool treatment of Sophy now became positively glacial.
Losing a resident was perceived as failure by the benefactors and
placed the matron in a difficult position. The letters she wrote to
her employer began to take on the length of some of Mr. Dickens’
own novels.

Sophy knew her time at Urania Cottage
was coming to an end. She feared, in fact, that Dickens’s next
visit would finalize the decision. She didn’t know what she would
do if it came to that.

Sophy moved down the hallway to the
window. It hadn’t been raining earlier, but right now a passing
shower was sweeping across the back yards of the neighboring
houses. The window was open slightly, and as she pushed it shut,
she saw what looked like ghostly apparitions swaying in the dark
yard of the Cottage. She knew what they were—a set of sheets and a
single dress, left hanging on the line. All the other wash had been
gathered and brought in. She didn’t have to look in her room to
know the items belonged to her.

Common sense said to sleep on the bare
mattress and wait for morning. The items were already wet. Still,
she knew the matron would be upset. She’d already scolded Sophy
repeatedly for her lack of attention and for losing things. The
fault of the stolen ten pounds lay with her.

Sophy hurried down the stairs and out
through the kitchen door, leaving it open. She quickly crossed the
yard, feeling the rain on her face and on her shoulders. Then, as
she gathered her belongings from the line, the rain suddenly
stopped. Everything was soaking wet; she would have to hang them
again on the line tomorrow. But that would be fine, so long as
Tibbs didn’t see them out there first thing in the
morning.

With her sheets and dress in her arms,
Sophy started for the house. Before she could reach it, though, she
saw the door swing shut.

“No!”

She reached for the handle, but to no
avail. Someone on the inside had turned the key in the
lock.

“Please open the door,” she said,
hoping whoever had locked her out was still on the other side. “Let
me in.”

There was no answer. The rain had
already soaked through her dress, and she was feeling the cold
dampness on her skin. The prospect of spending the night outside
was one that she preferred not to consider. She could bang at the
door and rouse the matron, but that would not help her position in
the house, at all. Even if she were to throw a pebble at one of the
bedroom windows and wake one of the girls, which of them would come
to her rescue? Not one.

Sophy thought of her options. There
was a key kept under an old watering can next to Mrs. Tibbs’s
kitchen garden. She’d used it the night she’d gone to Hammersmith
Village. Leaving the clothes by the door, she hurried to the hiding
place. The slate stones on the path were slick from the rain. When
she reached the garden, it took only a moment to see that the
watering can was there, but the key was missing.

“Of course,” she murmured to herself.
“They have thought of everything.”

Total darkness surrounded her as Sophy
stood up and stared at the windows of the house. How many of them
were watching her right now, enjoying her predicament?

“So they have locked you
out?”

The girl’s voice in the darkness
startled her, and as Sophy whirled around, she stepped back,
tripping on the watering can and falling backwards into the garden.
Looking up, she saw her ghostly friend had returned.

“Why do you always appear to me in
these late hours of the night?” Sophy asked, picking herself up out
of the dirt. Even in the darkness, she could see the mud covered
her arms from elbow to fingertips. The back of her dress was no
better.

“You see me best at night.”

“Why
must I see you?” Sophy asked, approaching her. “I do not wish
to see you.”

The girl gave no answer. Her white
dress and golden hair glowed in the yard like the moon. The weather
clearly had no affect on her.