Children of the Tide by Jon Redfern

discovered.”
    The three matrons pleaded. The master took them aside. While the master tried to calm his staff, Caldwell examined the ledgers of recent arrivals of children, their names and ages. There were no Catherines. There were, on the present list, only seven girls of twelve years old. The rest were young women with small babies. Dread overtook Caldwell’s mind. Forcing the master to secure the workhouse had been difficult. Caldwell thought about his wife, Alice, safe at home in her bed. Surely to be safe is what every man, woman, and child needs in life. Caldwell flipped through the records. Very few female children had been registered in Theobald’s Road over the past year.
    He said goodbye to the staff and decided to walk around the yard of the workhouse. The building was jammed into a dark alley, its yard no larger than three horse-stalls. Sergeant Caldwell valued the training he’d received from Endersby. He’d learned to sharpen his eye for details, for unusual signs that might provide a clue. Finding one always brought him an immediate sense of accomplishment. Ducking under the roof of an old shed, Caldwell cocked his head and noticed a small wooden door, almost invisible in the gloom. It was makeshift and when he pulled it open he found it led to a smelly hut. A sudden movement inside the hut made Caldwell jump back. He reached for his leather cosh that hung inside his blue police jacket and his breath caught. The figure was bent, black with dirt. He had a beard, a large black hat. “Git away,” he yelled.
    â€œStand still, sir!” Caldwell cried. The figure dashed at him, swinging a metal hook. His body reeked of filth. He rammed Caldwell to the ground. It was impossible to see the full face as it was covered by strings of hair and the rim of the hat. A heavy punch slammed into Caldwell’s right shoulder. He rolled on his side; another punch by his ear. Grunts and curses bounced off the walls of the hut as Caldwell turned to see the hook fly again. Caldwell’s left foot cracked the attacker’s ankle. Howling in pain, the man tumbled forward. Grabbing his assailant’s coat sleeve, Caldwell held tight. But the fellow kicked back, broke free, and clambered to his full height. Then he turned and fled. Out of the shed and between the buildings he stumbled, huffing, his boots dragging as if stuffed with bricks.
    â€œHalt,” Caldwell yelled. He chased the man into the broader street. A carriage blocked his way. He dodged around its back end and saw the man push aside two teenage boys. What strength he had, what speed for a man with bad legs, Caldwell thought. A woman screamed from a doorway. The filthy man pushed her down, ran into her shop and out its back door into a maze of alleys. Caldwell gave chase but his assailant seemed to evaporate like steam from a kettle.
    Panting, Caldwell picked up speed. A stink, a limp, a beard, a hook . The eight words had become like a child’s rhyme in his brain. He headed down one of the alleys, looked for broken doors, swinging gates. Back again down two more lanes, but there were no more indications of a man passing through. As he stood to write in his leather notebook, noting the time, the details of the incident, a dog barked inside a walled-up yard. Caldwell ran to its gate.
    â€œYou!” he shouted to a young boy playing with the dog. “Did you see a man pass through here, lad? I am a policeman.” The boy turned to him and Caldwell saw that the child was blind. Caldwell pulled down his cap. Where had the figure gone? Was he, in fact, the culprit? It’s no use, Caldwell thought. There’s no profit in wondering about a fled rabbit. He popped a fresh clove into his cheek, checked the address of London Wall Workhouse and headed northeast, the Tower of London visible in the distance.

Chapter Ten
    F riends in Need
    C hin up, back held rigid, Inspector Endersby did not dare move an inch farther. He had no