one half pounds of oakum. He was given a day to rectify that or it would be loss of privilege – no meals for two days.
He endured the night of hacking coughs, the tuberculous hours, yet again, wondering why exactly Nimrod Frost had chosen him for this, and the morning bell clanged the Unfaithful to work again. After hell broth on the fifth day his hands red raw but his quota achieved, Lestrade made his first contact – a knot of men of varying ages, their skins the colour of the workhouse walls. Yes, they had known Richard Brown. How old was he? God knew, they didn’t. Everybody looked the same age in here. All they knew was that he had worked on the canal side and when his rheumatics got too much, he came in here. Nice enough bloke. Honest. Mine you, he died funny.
‘Oh?’ Lestrade was all ears.
‘Where did tha say tha knew ’im from?’
‘In the docks,’ Lestrade hedged.
‘Liverpool?’
‘Yes. How do you mean, he died funny?’
‘Well,’ another inmate chimed in, ‘’e were all reet one mornin’, then be night time, ’e were gone.’
‘And ’is face,’ whispered another.
‘What about it?’ asked Lestrade.
‘Grinnin’ ’e were, like the devil ’isself.’
Lestrade felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, where the short crop given by the warder three days ago was still smarting from the nicks of the razor.
‘I seen plenty of dead men. They die every day in ’ere – and t’womenfolk, and t’kids,’ another went on, ‘but nothing like ’im. He was smiling with ’is eyes bright and ’is teeth bared. Like a rabid dog, ’e were.’
‘I saw ’im die. I were wi’im.’ All eyes turned to the Little Fly in the corner.
‘Tha never said,’ another chided him. ‘I thought ’e were alone in bed.’
‘Nay, I were going to ask ’im for some snout when ’e went rigid. He screamed out – you all must’ve ’eard it.’
They hadn’t.
‘’E arched ‘is back a couple of times, like ’avin’ a fit, like, and ’e died. It were all over very quick.’
So was the conversation. A warder rang a bell deep in the bowels of the workhouse and the inmates scattered, like the zombies of a Gothic novel – the undead going about their business. Silence, but for the coughs, reigned.
It had been confirmed. Lestrade’s ravaged fingers curled painfully round the mallet again. The classic symptoms of strychnine poisoning. But this time Lestrade had to go further. He had to see the doctor who pronounced Richard Brown dead – and there was only one way to do that. He waited until the moment was right, heart pounding with the concentration, sweat breaking out on his forehead, then crushed his thumb with a mallet. He rolled sideways, crying out in agony. A warder was at his side, prodding him with his truncheon, ‘You there, Lister. What’s t’matter wi’ ye?’
Lestrade held up the blackening digit.
‘Malingering bastard,’ was the warder’s only comment, and he went away. Lestrade knelt there in pain and surprise until he passed out. The rest was easy.
When he awoke he was in a different room. Not the dormitory of the East Wing, but in a hospital room.
‘Oh, so you’re awake are you?’ A burly woman with a starched but grubby apron stood before him, sleeves rolled to reveal muscles not out of place on a circus strongman, hair strained back in a silver bun. ‘Malingering bastard,’ she grumbled, tucked Lestrade in bed even harder and stalked off, bellowing orders to other unfortunate inmates, whose terminal tuberculosis or tertiary syphilis had brought them to their last days in the infirmary of the Manchester House of Industry, Openshaw district.
It was the best part of a day before his quarry arrived, a sallow-faced man in his mid-forties, shabby frock coat and faded silk vest. He handled Lestrade’s thumb with something less than a charming bedside manner, but was alarmed when the inspector yanked him down to pillow level with his good hand. ‘I am Inspector
He endured the night of hacking coughs, the tuberculous hours, yet again, wondering why exactly Nimrod Frost had chosen him for this, and the morning bell clanged the Unfaithful to work again. After hell broth on the fifth day his hands red raw but his quota achieved, Lestrade made his first contact – a knot of men of varying ages, their skins the colour of the workhouse walls. Yes, they had known Richard Brown. How old was he? God knew, they didn’t. Everybody looked the same age in here. All they knew was that he had worked on the canal side and when his rheumatics got too much, he came in here. Nice enough bloke. Honest. Mine you, he died funny.
‘Oh?’ Lestrade was all ears.
‘Where did tha say tha knew ’im from?’
‘In the docks,’ Lestrade hedged.
‘Liverpool?’
‘Yes. How do you mean, he died funny?’
‘Well,’ another inmate chimed in, ‘’e were all reet one mornin’, then be night time, ’e were gone.’
‘And ’is face,’ whispered another.
‘What about it?’ asked Lestrade.
‘Grinnin’ ’e were, like the devil ’isself.’
Lestrade felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck, where the short crop given by the warder three days ago was still smarting from the nicks of the razor.
‘I seen plenty of dead men. They die every day in ’ere – and t’womenfolk, and t’kids,’ another went on, ‘but nothing like ’im. He was smiling with ’is eyes bright and ’is teeth bared. Like a rabid dog, ’e were.’
‘I saw ’im die. I were wi’im.’ All eyes turned to the Little Fly in the corner.
‘Tha never said,’ another chided him. ‘I thought ’e were alone in bed.’
‘Nay, I were going to ask ’im for some snout when ’e went rigid. He screamed out – you all must’ve ’eard it.’
They hadn’t.
‘’E arched ‘is back a couple of times, like ’avin’ a fit, like, and ’e died. It were all over very quick.’
So was the conversation. A warder rang a bell deep in the bowels of the workhouse and the inmates scattered, like the zombies of a Gothic novel – the undead going about their business. Silence, but for the coughs, reigned.
It had been confirmed. Lestrade’s ravaged fingers curled painfully round the mallet again. The classic symptoms of strychnine poisoning. But this time Lestrade had to go further. He had to see the doctor who pronounced Richard Brown dead – and there was only one way to do that. He waited until the moment was right, heart pounding with the concentration, sweat breaking out on his forehead, then crushed his thumb with a mallet. He rolled sideways, crying out in agony. A warder was at his side, prodding him with his truncheon, ‘You there, Lister. What’s t’matter wi’ ye?’
Lestrade held up the blackening digit.
‘Malingering bastard,’ was the warder’s only comment, and he went away. Lestrade knelt there in pain and surprise until he passed out. The rest was easy.
When he awoke he was in a different room. Not the dormitory of the East Wing, but in a hospital room.
‘Oh, so you’re awake are you?’ A burly woman with a starched but grubby apron stood before him, sleeves rolled to reveal muscles not out of place on a circus strongman, hair strained back in a silver bun. ‘Malingering bastard,’ she grumbled, tucked Lestrade in bed even harder and stalked off, bellowing orders to other unfortunate inmates, whose terminal tuberculosis or tertiary syphilis had brought them to their last days in the infirmary of the Manchester House of Industry, Openshaw district.
It was the best part of a day before his quarry arrived, a sallow-faced man in his mid-forties, shabby frock coat and faded silk vest. He handled Lestrade’s thumb with something less than a charming bedside manner, but was alarmed when the inspector yanked him down to pillow level with his good hand. ‘I am Inspector
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