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Chapter One – Samson Shepherd

Charles Church, the Boatman, and Joseph Hudson, the Wharfinger had stood huddled over the red brick arch that spanned the new West Bridge, pipes aglow, debating the stench, and what beast had caught up in the wharf posts or timbers, somewhere near to the houses on the town side of the river.

On this day, Tuesday January 1^st, 1850, New Year’s Day, the stench was worse than they had ever previously experienced. 

Down on the river, barely visible to the onlookers on West Bridge, and obscured completely to the residents along the waterside, Thomas Parrott, fourteen years of age, and well known to all in the area as one of the growing band of “river finders” was trying to scratch out an existence.

Uneducated, and compelled to scavenge for as long as he could recall, he had found the river and its new industry cast-outs, a welcome source of income. 

From the occasional dead dog that was highly valuable to the tanners in the borough (the carcasses sped up the process and improved the quality of the tanning), to the off-cuts of remnants of beast thrown into the waters from nearby butchers and slaughterhouses, and which could be trimmed and the resulting “meat” passed on for a few coins to unscrupulous victuallers or desperate paupers amongst the drab streets nearby, this was Thomas’ working domain. 

He was top dog in the growing pack of likeminded boys and girls who were all competing for what was salvageable along, or in the river, and who now had to fend for themselves.

Thomas steered the small rowing boat, which he had borrowed (which was rotting and leaked, had to be bailed out every few minutes) along the edge of the wharf and the jetties running down Bath Lane. Who it belonged to he didn’t care, as it would be back before they knew it was even missing, yet again, and as always.

As he peered at the surface, littered with its assorted forms of rubbish and turds, the light from his small oil lamp reflected off something paler, larger and more buoyant than the other usual debris surrounding the boat. 

He steered the boat towards it, and leaned out over the side to examine the object, his grimey hands prematurely hard and tarnished, from the years of graft that should have been his childhood.

Instinctively his hand recoiled in revulsion as the fingertips sank into cold, wet flesh, and he realised that the face of a young boy was looking back at him, one eye open, the other missing, as flesh pulled from the face and clung to his broken and well chewed fingernails.

The motion brought the rest of the body into view, gracelessly bobbing up alongside the boat, bloated and rotting. 

This was the extreme stench that was annoying the residents, and that was puzzling Charles Church and Joseph Hudson, back on the bridge.

Thomas’ meager meal, which he had consumed just before he had set out in the fog, projected onto the bottom of the boat, and down the front of his already filthy rags, that, through no choice, he was forced to wear day in and day out. The few lumps of bread, and some vegetable off-cuts that he had scavenged from around The High Cross, and that he had boiled earlier and gobbled up, his first food of any nourishment for days, now lying onto the floor of the boat.

The young, lifeless body in the water lay looking up at Thomas, its arms reaching out to be helped, as Thomas struggled to find a voice, and cry out for help.

*****

For three days and nights the fog had clung to the river and nearby dwellings, shrouding them in a thick, swirling, sulphurous blanket, a blinding mix of fog and dense, acrid smoke from the expanding housing, railways and the heavy Industry that was rapidly emerging across the Borough. 

Only the flicker of oil and gas lamps by night cut through the gloom.

The River Soar at West Bridge flowed, or, more rather laboured along, slowing from its confluence inside the border from Nottinghamshire, through the countryside between Loughborough and Abbey Meadows, before it transformed into the thick, swirling, foul smelling, dirty, festering, noxious beast it became as it met the developing Industry in the Borough of Leicester, beyond the Abbey ruins.

The few residents and tradesman in the twenty-two premises along the Bath Lane, between West Bridge Street and the new Iron and Brass Foundry opposite Bath Street, were becoming acclimatised to the constant stench of the river. 

It formed their air. It was all that they got, and it was the best they got. Industrial Leicester now denied them any alternative, the clean air and green trees of just twenty years prior, lost to the smoke, filth  and toxicity of the new age.

The river had become an overflow and dumping ground for everything now required to feed, clothe and equip the rapidly expanding population of the Borough, including packaging and the odds and sods, leftovers of industrial waste, and for the growing volumes of “bodily waste” that the Borough could no longer cope with.

This was now being mixed with the new dyes from the dye-houses along Bath Lane and The Blackfriars, the chemicals from the foundries that were springing up and a new offensive cocktail mix was formed every day, clawing and choking at residents and passersby.

As much as the dwellings on Bath Lane housed people with prospering occupations, they were still poor by most standards, but not as poor of those along Bridge Street and the lower streets of the Blackfriars further North and West of the river.  

Prosperity was coming at a price!

*****

Samson Shepherd, just twenty-five years of age, Constable of the Borough of Leicester Police, was stood in the muster room of the Town Hall Police Station, a few hundred yards from the river, and towards the town centre, adjacent to St Martin’s Church.

This was Shepherd’s first night shift, having joined only days before Christmas of 1849, and together with the other Constables who were commencing duty; he was waiting to be briefed by Sergeant Wright, one of the three duty night shift Sergeants.

This was normally completed, he was advised, before being marched out with the other twenty one Constables of the night shift, as a column, and falling out onto his allocated beat.

Shepherd quickly went through his uniform pockets to make sure he had his “appointments”, together with a small notebook, pencils, and a few coins in case he should require anything during the shift.

On each side of his collar he bore the rank insignia of Constable 3^rd class…denoting his status as being “at or near the bottom of the pile!”…and his collar number…52

The Public entrance door to the Station was huge and heavy, measuring about five feet six inches square and about three inches deep, with a small step down onto the muster room floor. 

This was the only public entrance to the station, and even fourteen years on from the formation of the Force, it was a rare event for public to wander in late at night (without a little coercion or reasonable force).

Given the size and weight of the door, the Constables inside were clearly surprised, leaping to their feet, as it slammed open, and in ran a young urchin of about ten or twelve years.

Breathless and sweating he summoned their assistance, his small body travelling at such speed, that as he had landed on the flagstone floor, sparks spat from hobnails in his tatty boots.

“Quick …Tom’s found a body in the river, at West Bridge, they’ve sent me to fetch the Crushers…get yer arses down there quick…” before beating a hasty retreat back out into the fog. 

The fog rolled into the Muster room from the passageway outside, creating an eerie chill, even with Sheffield’s log fire burning in the corner.

Shepherd was not surprised that such a young boy was out on his own, given the time and inclement weather. Leicester would be full of youngsters, some much younger, all looking for something to do…

Sergeant James Sheffield, one of those originals, looked over his pince-nez, from a small, high desk which separated the Muster Room from the Charge area, and upon which sat the large, leather bound Charge Book, where details of those arrested were recorded. 

To his right, a large fire burned in the grate, keeping him warm at least. 

The three cells within the station were already full with prisoners taken throughout the day, and yet to be charged or released.

Sheffield drew on his small grey clay pipe, and small aromatic plumes of smoke drifted across the room, much to the annoyance of his colleagues, who were prohibited from being seen smoking on duty…but Station Sergeant meant he had nowhere to sneak off to for a “crafty one”, and so Head Constable Charters gave him dispensation.

Gathered around him were a collection of bleeding, bruised and bedraggled Constables, and their prisoners. Many of these were drunks, having spent their evening roaming Leicester’s numerous hostelries, or were Dollymops and Bunters, the girls of the night. Blood, vomit and urine were constant companions to the Charge Sergeant.

The respectable population was in their homes by now, with doors locked and curtains drawn, no later than a few minutes after the Theatre closed. They did not wish to expose themselves to the seedy “other Leicester”.

Station “Charge Sergeant” Sheffield had not requested such a role, but a serious assault on him in 1846, and some degree of annoying and ongoing incapacity, had led to a decision to make him Leicester’s first dedicated Charge Sergeant in 1847. 

And so it was…forty years of age and station bound! But, he was the font of all knowledge, as he saw and knew most of Leicester’s criminal fraternity than any other Constable…which held him in high regard with his colleagues.

Sergeant Wright looked to his men…

“Beddows, it’s probably a load of tosh, but I want you and Shepherd down to West Bridge, pronto, and see what’s going on…mind with this fog, and the word of an urchin like that, I fear it may be a wasted journey…no stopping off for a wet on the way…and then straight to your beat after…” bearing in mind that Beddows had a chequered past when it came to the local hostelries.

Shepherd felt elated, as for the first time in a week, he had got away without making tea for everyone, which for some bizarre reason, also included any prisoners in the station cells. This, he had been told, was the unique responsibility of the “shift sprog” and a rite of passage.

Constable 42 John Beddows, on the other hand was one of the originals. He had been promoted to Sergeant fairly quickly, but in 1842 had a propensity to excess drinking, and had been reduced to the rank of Constable 3^rd class, by Head Constable Robert Charters, who would have preferred to dismiss him. 

A previous attempt to dismiss another Sergeant for a similar offence had led to a written complaint to the Watch Committee and the officer’s reinstatement at a lower rank. 

Bitter at the way he had been treated, Beddows had seriously considered packing it all in, but was keen that Police should become an honorable career, and as such gave up the drink and took what was offered. Charters still looked upon Beddows with some degree of contempt.

Beddows lived with his wife in Tower Street, at the back of the County Gaol, in housing that reflected the status of a Constable in the community…it was of poor quality and prone to all the ills of most of the local housing and not much better than those in the Rookeries off Abbey Street. Policing was a working class job! 

Remaining as a Constable, however, was a far better prospect than life back as a frame-knitter, his original trade. And it paid more than the four shillings and sixpence which is what he had previously earned and was still about the expected income for frame knitters, all those years later. 

As a third class Constable, his weekly wage was now eighteen shillings, but this was still over four times that of the average frame knitter.

Beddows was a hard but fair man, and had been teaching Shepherd since he had joined in late December. Constables got two weeks with a senior colleague before patrolling alone. 

Some of his advice and methods were seen as questionable against Shepherd’s own values, but generally he was more experienced than any other man in the Force. Shepherd recognised that this was not a bad way to learn.

Beddows also knew that Shepherd was the nephew of another of the originals, Constable George Pearson, who had been badly assaulted during Chartist disturbances in the Borough some years earlier, and who had died of his injuries. 

Pearson had been a great friend to Beddows during his discipline and reduction in rank, and had never once judged him. 

He had at times seemed the only man who had still offered any humanity and respect given Beddows’demise. 

Pearson, and his wife Sarah had been very good friends indeed.

 

For that reason alone, he had offered to take Shepherd out for his two week mentoring.

Donning their hats, and dense serge capes, which would provide welcome extra warmth, the two Constables set off towards West Bridge.

The two men would have presented an impressive sight (had they been more visible) as they edged through the fog, out of Town Hall Lane, onto Applegate Street, past the High Cross and down, towards Thornton Lane, their ill-fitting hob-nailed boots striking the cobbles with the tempo of a slow walking horse, the noise alone now highlighting their presence.

Both took extra care as they had passed by High Cross, where the debris from Christmas markets had been ground into the cobbled pavements, leaving them slippery, even without the damp from the fog, and with that smell of rotting vegetables that prevails.

The lights shone bright from the Nags Head and Golden Lion, whose rooms now looked generally empty, passing close by their ornate saloon windows.

Beddows was by now approaching forty years, but stood about 5 feet 10 inches tall in his boots. He was considered tall for his generation. With his “stove-pipe” issue Top Hat he appeared much taller. He was strongly built and had learned the art of street fighting first-hand, and was hard in appearance, with a craggy, weathered face, and steel blue eyes. His truncheon felt comforting, loosely wrapped by its leather strap around his tunic belt.

This had been his savior and given him the upper-hand in confrontations many a time, and he had no doubt that he had personally reinforced the use of the term “Crusher” in the Borough.

Shepherd was now twenty five years of age, and of a similar height and build to Beddows. He had a strong physique, and although not yet tested as a street fighter, he had taken up boxing as a hobby and way of getting tougher and fit, back home in Sutton Bonington. This had resulted in his nose being broken twice before, and as he now thought, probably not for the last time. 

A slight kink at the bridge gave it a distinguished look! His hands were extremely large and strong, and his knuckles hardened and scarred from his exertions.

However, with wavy, sandy hair, freckled face and hazel eyes, he looked younger than his age. A whisp of moustache coated his upper lip, but had already been subject of much humour from his colleagues, and had been declared mere “bum fluff”! 

“Perhaps it should go?” he had thought to himself - more than once...

His Truncheon felt alien, knocking against his right knee, wrapped around his belt in a similar manner to Beddows, at Beddows’ advice. 

About two feet long and made of some exotic hard wood, Shepherd’s was new and bore the Borough crest on the body. It was pristine, and had not yet been christened. He did not relish using it, but knew there would be times ahead when it would be his best friend.

The ability to free it quickly and to loop the leather strap around his wrist, to deny any attacker a chance to free it for their own use against him, made enormous sense to Shepherd. The comfort of such thought gave him added confidence as he set out with his senior.

They also carried their rattles, again tucked into their belts, to summons assistance should the need arise. At no time on a patrol should they be any more than two hundred yards or so from their nearest colleague on the next beat. The beats and patrols had been designed for such assurance.

Tonight, drunks and ladies of the night moved out of their way and into the doorways. Leicester appeared as if it was emptying, the cold and fog driving people indoors, and with the pubs, hotels and beer houses closing their doors shortly, this was not to be a night that anyone would want to stop and fight them! 

*****

This was what Samson Shepherd had joined for. This was his ambition, his desire.

To investigate and detect crime and protect the community, and other such youthful notions, just like his late uncle George must have once had.

The prospect of a dead body, a corpse, a cadaver, whatever people might call it, didn’t hold any obvious fear to Shepherd. He knew the living posed far more of a threat to him in his new role.

His only fear was how he would do his job, if in fact there really was a body!

He was no stranger to death. Death was a fact of life in 1850, and he had seen relatives and friends laid out after they had passed, often some days after they had passed and starting to decompose. And he was accustomed to it, and the smell of such a death, as was most of the population.

He had seen violent death, but only of animals, and had watched in fascination (after initial repugnance), as the local Butcher and slaughter man had dispatched their cattle, sheep and pigs.

Ironically, Shepherd had a love of fishing, and with the Trent at the bottom of his street in Sutton Bonington, he was expert with both the fly and spinner, and had regularly caught Salmon. The Trent in the 1840’s was clean either side of Nottingham, and had an annual run of about ten thousand Salmon, with ten caught by rod an line each day of the season.

Shepherd, however, still cringed every time he had to dispatch one, striking it hard with a wooden “priest”, administering “last rights” quickly, or as quickly as the fish would die…it had nearly put him off fishing as a younger man.

He anticipated that the effect of striking someone with his truncheon would likely make the same sound, and he worried, could have the same effect. He was wary of his own strength and what was to be tested of his moral and physical courage.

*****

As they walked from Thornton Lane, down onto West Bridge Street, the sound of people gathered talking could be made out through the fog. 

The two large gas lamps on the front of the Sailors’ Return Inn indicated that they were close to the bridge and the voices seemed to be coming from the wooden staging along the wharf on the town side of the river.

Walking into Bath Lane, they took the short flight of steps and narrow alley down onto the staging, and to a small group of river folk that had gathered at the bottom.

The Constables’ hobnail boots echoed off the wharf walls as they strode along the wooden boards, with the creaking of ropes along the waterside which secured the walkways in place, and the lapping of the obnoxious slurry on which they all were supported. 

Audible cracks could be made out as the ice gave way in the margins below the staging.

Beddows mumbled “can you smell it lad? That’s old death, that is…This buggers been there some days I’ll hazard!” Beddows thought he would wind Shepherd up and test his metal, and there was nothing worse than your first suspicious death to make a man nervous. 

Beddows had never used Sam’s given name, even after duty. He was always to be Shepherd, and Beddows would be “Sir” until he said otherwise…unless a Sergeant (or Mr Charters) was in earshot! Then it should return to plain “Beddows”, or else he’d be for it, Beddows had threatened. 

Shepherd had only just become familiar with the normal and unpleasant smell of the Borough. Coming from the countryside, the smells that were commonplace in Leicester were alien to his nose. 

The streets, with their small cramped yards and terraces, together with their shabby occupants, and the sewers, drains and ditches, and assorted heavy industry already combined to smell worse than any corpse he had seen as a boy back home.

He had been shocked, early in the previous year, when walking with his Aunt Sarah, from her home near The Infirmary, down to and along the River Soar, from Leicester Newarke Mill and along to near to The Castle, in order to view the new Locomotives at the West Bridge terminus.

The river, even then, had looked black and oily, or was it green and slimey? Or was it both? Boiling eddies stained with dyes and chemicals, and the foul detritus of modern living! He had doubted the prospect of ever catching a salmon from Leicester. 

However, Shepherd could discern that this night the river smelt far worse than anything he had ever smelled previously, and he had no option other than to rely upon Beddows’ experience as to why. 

He was starting to feel uneasy at what was to come. He wished the fog to be so dense that he would not be able to see this corpse, but he knew his fear was now working overtime and he was sweating and his breathing had hastened. 

“Imagination is far worse than the real thing”…or so Uncle George had told him! But now Beddows was winding him up as well!

He had not seen a drowned man before, but had memory of dead sheep which, when bloated, bobbed up and down like empty barrels along the Trent, after floods had caught them unexpected, and he anticipated something similar...

“No going back now Sam?” he whispered silently to himself.

*****

“With me lad…” ordered Beddows in an authoritative manner, climbing into the small but stable punt that was to be manoeuvered by the Boatman, Church.

Gingerly, Shepherd climbed aboard, one hand carrying a small tarpaulin sheet, and in the, other a short-handled boathook, that Beddows had sourced from the boatmen.  Shepherd could only imagine what purpose each would serve, but dared not ask.

With both Constables aboard, Church moved the punt slowly out from the wharf, only by two or three feet, and in the direction of where the body had last been reported.

Silence had fallen, and apart from the movement of the oar, the lapping slurry, and the heavy breathing of the three men, nothing could be heard in the dense fog. 

The light from two large oil lamps they had also acquired lit an obscure path around the front of the punt. 

“Here he is” said Beddows, “grab that hook, and come to me…” anxious that the moment did not pass them by and thus require a second attempt.

Shepherd knelt alongside his colleague, now aware of the strange palid object bobbing in the surface just off to the side of the boat. 

He did not try and comprehend the vision, merely thinking of it as some inanimate object and not dwelling on the fact it had once been a living thing.

“Got any gloves Shepherd?” Beddows asked. There was a deliberate hint of sarcasm in Beddows’ tone, as he suspected that Shepherd would not have been so well equipped just yet.

Shepherd reached into his cape and tunic, but he had left some at the station in his hurry to respond. In any event, they were a present from Aunt Sarah, and he did not wish to tarnish them. Constables had not yet been issued with warm or practical gloves as part of their uniform.

“Typical” laughed Beddows “You’ll have to hook the little bugger then, and we’ll have to pull him on board.  Just mind what you are doing, and expect the unexpected”. 

He sat back for a moment, and knew what a gruesome task this might turn out to be, but he chose to let Shepherd find out for himself, the hard way.

Shepherd looked for something to hook, a piece of clothing or a belt, but it appeared that the body was naked. 

He tentatively reached out with the rounded tip of the boathook, but slipped, and the hook sunk into the boys bloated guts, sending out a strange soft wail and the most obnoxious and putrid gas towards the occupants of the punt, before lodging in the ribs of the grotesque image before him.

“Stupid bugger, I said be careful” cursed Beddows, “now this is going to be grim, we’ll have to pull him onboard as he is…”

He cursed silently to himself, wondering now whether he should have intervened and shown Shepherd, instead of letting Shepherd try…and he was now more than a tad anxious about what the body would do to get its own back on him…as they always did! 

“You grab his arm and pull him towards me” said Beddows, “and I will have the tarpaulin ready. We need to get the tarpaulin under the body before we try and lift him…and mind that bleeding boathook” desperately hoping Shepherd did not pull the boy’s arm off in the process.

Shepherd was already retching, and doing his utmost not to throw up and disgrace himself.

He took hold of the nearest visible arm, shocked at how cold and loose the skin had become, and gently pulled the corpse towards Beddows and the waiting tarpaulin. 

Shepherd had learned his first lesson, be careful with decomposed bodies as they come apart a bit too easy! He dared not apply any more force for fear of pulling off the arm, slimey and disgusting in his bare hands.

Beddows expertly pulled the tarpaulin under the head and along the body, passing behind Shepherd effortlessly. 

“Got you first go!” cheered Beddows, glad that it hadn’t got any worse and he hadn’t disgraced himself either. It was alright talking the talk, but he was not a lover of decomposing bodies and the havoc they created, and Shepherd had done alright actually…

Shepherd noticed Beddows was wearing a pair of large black leather gloves, (that Beddows had persuaded one of the tanners at one of his tea spots to knock up for him from trimmings). “R.H.I.P…” said Beddows, smiling.

“R.H.I.P?” asked Shepherd

“Rank has its privileges, or in your case PITFALLS!” chuckled Beddows

Together they pulled the corpse onto the punt, tarpaulin, water, guts and all, laying it out on the floor of the punt, the handle of the boathook now sticking out over the side.

“You can take us back in now Boatman” said Beddows, “You might want to get off before we unwrap the poor little bugger…”

Beddows wished that he had not got to go through the grim formalities, but now he was being watched by Shepherd, he would have to show him the right way.

Charles Church needed no second invitation to get off the punt, tying it off at the main upright to the wharf, at a level where the corpse could be lifted straight onto the boards at hip height. He then left the boat and went off to join the waiting onlookers, at a safe distance, and out of view of what was to be revealed.

“Remember this” said Beddows. “This is the first crime scene…forget the river for now as he could have gone in anywhere. Let’s not miss anything …We’ll have a look along the riverbank later…”

Shepherd was in awe at how calm and composed Beddows was, and admired his professionalism. 

Beddows on the other hand was “swanning” and underneath the calm exterior was a man paddling like mad to keep up that very impression.

“Send one of those little buggers back to the station Mr Church, tell them we need a Sergeant down here, a detective if they can find one…if they’re out of the pub yet!” directed Beddows.

“We need some better lights as well…someone bring me some more lamps” he ordered brusquely, resulting in two or three sets of footsteps stomping off, and then stomping back, oil lamps in hand…cautiously set down  a few feet from the punt, along the walkway.

“Keep your eyes open lad, and have a pencil and paper to hand. Suppose you have got a pencil and paper? Let’s see what we’ve got here” said Beddows in an almost delighted, ghoulish manner…”and I don’t want to see your supper on the floor of the boat, understand?” he laughed quietly. 

His own dinner had thought twice about making another appearance, but he had managed to hold back, and the bravado now made him feel more confident… confident enough to tease Shepherd!

Beddows pulled back the tarpaulin, exposing the naked corpse. Shepherd gagged, felt the bitterness at the back of his throat, and quickly swallowed again, retaining the re-heated supper he had earlier.

In the tarpaulin, was a young boy, with dull sandy hair, now stained and matted with the filth from the river and riverbed, where he had probably rested for some days. The body had settled on its back, the face tilted up and away from the Constables, the arms splayed. 

It was apparent that there was no right eye, and the face was partly eaten, by fish or, more likely, the rats that bred profusely and ran wild along the river (more densely so than everywhere else, currently, in the Borough). 

The body had become very bloated, (prior to Shepherds little faux-pas) which had no doubt brought it back to the surface, given how cold the air temperature felt, and the skin was sodden, loose and peeling off from the bones.

The boy was probably no more than five to eight years old, and was emaciated, which was visible even in his current state. His fingers were badly decomposed and bones showed where flesh should have been.

“First things first” said Beddows…”Is he definitely dead?” 

Beddows remembered back to his own first sudden death, and a very sill looking young physician asking him the same question. Seemed absurd, but it also sounded very impressive…and he had recalled it and used it several times with new Constables at their first body.

Shepherd looked at Beddows’ dead pan face, looking for some assurance that this was a joke…

“I bloody well hope so Sir… if he’s not, I doubt if he’s feeling too well …” Shepherd responded, seeking a little light-hearted relief and still looking for a reassuring smirk (which failed to materialise!). 

Beddows saw the look, but denied him the relief…

“Don’t get too smug young fellow me lad … remember” said Beddows…”First rule of deaths is make sure they’re dead. If they ain’t it’s a physicians problem, if they are it’s our problem, and then the Coroners, and he won’t be happy if you get it wrong!”

“God that sounded good” thought Beddows…

 

“Experience tells me you’ve made the right decision with this one, been dead for some time, like I said when I first smelled him…” Beddows smirked, at last.

“Somebody’s son too…” said Beddows, on a more serious note… “But has he been missed? Will we have any missing boys reported? I doubt it…just another unnecessary mouth to feed, poor little sod!”

Shepherd looked at the boys face, or what was left of it, moving his eyes slowly down the body, until they reached the boy’s throat.

“Look sir” Shepherd exclaimed…”His throat’s been cut…” shocked at the damage that was now evident before them.

Beddows noted the deep, gaping, vivid crimson gash, which had become clogged with weed, dirt, and maggots, which now wriggled about and squirmed in the shallow water in the tarpaulin beneath the corpse. 

The corpse had been fly-blown at some stage, and had become meat for their table, probably in the first days, before it had settled in the mud at the bottom of the river. Some physician would probably know roughly how long he would have been dead.

“Why remove all his clothes?” enquired Shepherd…

“Could be they were better than the ones on the one who killed him…or perhaps there was a little…jiggery pokery…some of our dear residents are fond of young flesh, don’t you know? Beddows replied, scratching his whiskers and wondering just the same thing himself.

“What next then sir?” enquired Shepherd, eager to learn more from Beddows’.

“Damn it” cursed Beddows “We need to wait a while. This is going to be a long night. There’s never a Sergeant around when you need one…?” 

There was nothing worse than sitting around with a dead body, especially on a night like this, and there were warm tea spots that Beddows would have preferred to be taking Shepherd.

…And Sergeants were never on time when you wanted them, and heaven help you if you were late for your point, when they expected you!

“Here, young Thomas Parrott…do you think you’ve seen this lad before, looks like a scavenger to me?” Beddows called towards the boy, now waiting with Mr Church and the other bystanders…

Parrott was still in shock, and trying to get any help from him at the moment was out of the question. In any event, young Master Parrott had no desire to ever look at that face again!

At ten thirty, Beddows called to the boatmen to send for a local surgeon or physician, as now they formally needed to confirm that life was extinct. 

“Should have thought of that earlier…” he thought to himself…tutting out loud and shaking his head.

*****

Word quickly spread from the small crowd of onlookers on the wharf, and soon a much larger crowd filled the parapets of the West Bridge, having spilled out from the local hostelries by the river, The Boat and Engine, or the Ship, or The Recruiting Sergeant, and sought access to the alleyway and steps down to the wooden walkway.  

A futile gesture really, considering the dense fog and the fact that now a section of rope had been tied across the walkway, denying entry to all but those meant to be there.

Within a few minutes the small part of the Borough’s population that was still awake would hear through the grapevine that something was going on.

But in this instance, it was the grapevine that first reached a Detective, Sergeant William Roberts. 

He had been nestled into the back room of the Ship on Soar Lane, having a sociable pint (or three) with the licensee, as was expected, and officially “cultivating informants”, or so he would profess.

Detectives in pubs, drinking, was still a matter of divided opinion between the Watch Committee and Robert Charters, but the results achieved by the first detectives, Francis “Tanky” Smith, “Black Tommy” Haynes, and Herbert Kettle, indicated that it was a valid means to tackle the growing gangs and crime they were committing within the Borough and periphery.

It was not appreciated by the uniform Constables and Sergeants, many of whom had numerous reprimands for drinking on duty, who saw this as elitism and / or victimization.

There was a large degree of suspicion of detectives by uniformed Constables, and vice versa. Police regulations stated quite clearly it was an offence for a Constable to be found on duty in a Public House. 

To the Constables what “regs” (regulations) should have said was “get caught” not “be found”… as if you got caught it was your own fault! 

The old Beddows had “got caught” too often, and it was nearly his undoing…as his Constable rank reminded him!

*****

Just after a nearby clock (Probably on the tower of St Nicholas Church) had struck eleven, Roberts stumbled onto the walkway, and grabbed at one of the small group of onlookers from the original event, stopping himself from tumbling into the river.

At five feet eight tall, with brown wavy, tousled hair, and large sideburns, dressed in a suit of 3 piece tweed, much beyond the pocket of most Superintendants, and wearing the new fangled “Bowler Hat” that had only gone on sale that last Christmas, he was not only over-weight, and bright red faced, but well over-dressed. 

How he merged into the population like the other detectives had done was beyond most Constables belief. 

Shiny brown shoes to match the suit looked much more comfortable than the ill fitting police issue boots worn by Beddows and Shepherd. Roberts looked more the Toff than Copper…or more still … a variety house compare…

It must have been clear to the small group of river folk that he was “under the influence”, as he smelled somewhat like a small scale version of the new “Everards, Son & Wheldon” Brewery which was now turning out a range of good beers across from the River in Southgates. 

This had recently moved from a small building at Narborough Wood, close to Enderby, and was now the largest Brewery in the Borough.

“Who’s there?” called out Beddows

“Sergeant Roberts, who do you bleedin’ think Beddows? What you got that drags me away from my other… duties?” he sneered.

Beddows held Roberts in suspicion. He was a loner, and couldn’t be trusted. He was totally unlike the other three detectives in the Borough, who had proved themselves good spies and thief takers, and who were totally trustworthy.

Beddows saw everything that had been wrong in the originals of ’36 in Roberts, as he was not one to turn down free drink or coin to turn a blind eye if it was in his benefit. 

Beddows waited his time, and had decided that Roberts would get his “come uppance” one day…and avoided him like the plague as best he could. 

That was not to be the case, unfortunately, today!

“Who are you lad?” slurred Roberts, looking towards Shepherd, a trickle of ale running from the corner of his mouth as he hiccupped.

“Constable 52 Shepherd sir…” replied Shepherd, disbelieving that this was a Detective Sergeant, one of the Borough’s finest…

“We’re taking on sprogs now? Can’t be more than eighteen…what the buggery are we doing?...”

“… Anyways Beddows, who says it’s a bleeding murder? That’s what they were saying in the Ship!” …grunted Roberts.

Shepherd held out his hand to assist Roberts into the punt, but aggressively, Roberts declined any help, pulling back from Shepherd, before slipping and falling onto his arse in the shallow and putrid swill on the floor of the vessel, soaking the posh brown tweed trousers and leather shoes at the first attempt, his bowler floating upside down behind him.

“You’ll pay for that you little bastard, you did that deliberately…cost a few weeks pay it will…” cursed Roberts. 

Roberts felt rather more indignant and wished he had the sense to have taken the hand, and now he regretted it, but he would make sure that Shepherd regretted it more!

Shepherd looked to Beddows, who shook his head briefly in response, before muttering “Twat” under his breath.

“I suppose the cause of death is that Boathook is it?” smirked Roberts

“Actually sir, that was my fault, bringing him in to the punt” muttered an acutely embarrassed Shepherd. 

“Look here” said Beddows “The little bleeders had his throat cut…” pointing to the deep wound on display to the three men, but realising that he would likely get more of a response from the wharf wall than from Roberts in that state.

“Could have got caught up on wire…could have got cut by a boat hook or weed cutter…or you could have done it with your boathook, just like the other hole he’s got now…so why is it murder?” questioned Roberts, looking for a feasible excuse for not investigating it as such.

“It looks just like a cut that would be used to kill an animal…clean and determined…a tear would be ragged and uneven…it’s surely suspicious” suggested Shepherd, cautiously. 

“A fucking expert already is he?” barked Roberts…”The little bleeders obviously a scavenger and many of them don’t wear clothes like civilized folk… We’ve got no missing kids – we never have these days. Who’s going to miss him anyway? We don’t need a murder do we? We’ll have Charters climbing all over our backs and I don’t need that thank-you…”

Beddows responded “If it could be a murder, we should treat at it as a murder. You’re the detective…The Coroner needs to know and that’s what matters…” aware now that Roberts was looking to find a way to cuff this one.

“If you think I’m …investigating… around after this pile of filth, and by the rules, you’re off your head. Let me speak to some of the boatmen, and they’ll say the cut looks like a weed cutter, save a lot of bother. You sort out the Coroner, I’ll sort out the rest of the witnesses…I’m off…” 

Roberts lurched from the boat, onto the walkway and off towards the Town, no doubt to find another watering hole for the rest of the night, or sort out the shifty witnesses as he suggested, more likely, and probably the both in the same watering hole...some den of thieves and dodgy dealers no doubt! thought Beddows…

Shepherd looked at Beddows, astonished at what had just been said… 

“Is that what happens, if we don’t want to deal with something? We just get our own witnesses and turn a blind eye to the truth?”

“I don’t” said Beddows “and don’t ever let me see you treat any job like that. Roberts is bad. Watch out for him…” 

“…The Coroner is not as green as Roberts might think. Let’s get a statement off the lad Thomas Parrott and then we’ll get this corpse off to somewhere out of the public eye. Roberts we worry about later…Now where’s that bleeding physician?” 

After a few minutes (that seemed like hours),  Joseph Wilson, Physician, of The Newarkes, announced his arrival at the steps to the walkway, from where he made his way down to the Constables and the awaiting corpse.

“My god, that smells rancid…you know how to spoil a man’s evening…Constables?” pausing for a name or names, in response.

“Beddows and Shepherd sir…” responded Beddows. “Why is it all the physicians are stuck-up toffs around here?”  he thought to himself

Physician Wilson looked a real, dashing Toff, turning out to a body, dressed in a very formal grey Top Hat and tails…with a crisp white shirt, and grey cravat, worn under a heavy woolen black overcoat. He obviously wore scent, which made Shepherd sneeze.

A slight man, of about 5 feet eight inches tall, with a waxed moustache, and an upright gate, his voice was surprisingly effeminate, which made his age seem much less than suggested by his appearance…

“The body was found by a young lad, floating just off the bridge near to the walkway. He appears to have been dead for some considerable number of days in my experience…” stated Beddows, stating the obvious from the state of the body...

 “I may be a better judge of that…” stated Wilson… (who now looked younger even than Shepherd, and no doubt, fresh out of one of the medical schools in London or Edinburgh)… to Beddows annoyance. 

“The boathook is my doing sir, an accident getting the body aboard the punt I’m afraid…but the rest of the damage had already been done…” explained Shepherd

Wilson examined the body, and concluded the boy was dead, pronouncing life extinct at twenty minutes past eleven, much to everyone’s relief. 

Shepherd was relieved that he was actually dead, whereas Beddows was just relieved that he was pronounced dead, so now they could move on…

“He’s been dead for probably five days or more. I can’t suggest anything better due to the temperatures and the water damage. I would suggest that the wound is inflicted and probably not by accident. I saw a similar wound on a body in London during my dissection classes, and he had been held from behind and cut from left to right as you would with a beast…he would have died of blood loss…I am afraid a post-mortem is out as I am in a hurry, but I am happy to give my expert advice to the coroner on what I have observed in some detail...” said Wilson.

“I’ll need a statement from you to that effect before you leave then sir, if you wouldn’t mind…” said Beddows, half expecting Wilson to tell him to call in the morning…

“So long as you are prompt then…” came the reply, “I have a supper to finish”.

*****

The floor of the yard store, at the back of the Bakers Arms, further along the river, and just inside Bath Street, was about as cold as it got for storing bodies at this time of the year. It had also, satisfactorily, served as a mortuary temporarily before.

Without a name or a family, and with no other option, the corpse of the young boy had been carried to the Inn, where just before midnight, the Licensee, Joseph Headley, acknowledged (for the second time in recent months) that the corpse could be stored there until the Inquest could be convened.

He knew this was likely to be within the immediate twenty four hours, and hoped that as the body settled, it did not put off the customers or his family. It was probably cold enough to get away with it this time of the year, he hoped. 

He did not care to examine, or even, merely look at the body out of curiosity. There was a jury and Coroner who were to be paid to do just that!

The last one he had taken in had lain in front of a fire for several days, one side was cooked and the other side had gone off. It was the warmer weather, and the corpse was rancid. He had helped his friend Jack Cooper, a nearby carpenter who had made a cheap parish coffin, and the Constable, place the body in the box before the Inquest.

The guts had split, and Headley had been covered from the knee down in god knows what. His boots still tried to get up and walk on their own to this day, he swore. Never again!

He would also prefer not to be seen as a suitable venue for inquests, but he could not legally object. The Bakers Arms had a reputation as a well run and respectable Inn, and Joseph Headley a convivial Licensee. This made the perfect venue for the harrowing process of Coroners’ Inquest. And Coroner Mitchell liked his wines!

But, corpses like that were bad for trade, and trade was already bad…for all Leicester’s new found wealth.

Shepherd and Beddows again looked at the boy’s corpse. There definitely was something deliberate about the wound to the throat. This was not an accident. Shepherd and Beddows were sure of it. 

Shepherd could see something but couldn’t put his finger on it. It would come to him, it always did. He had an eye for detail and an astonishing memory, so he had been told by many.

The yard store gate was closed and padlocked, with the lifeless corpse, still wrapped in the tarpaulin, laying out cold on the ashes that covered the floor of the store. 

The top of the store was open to the elements, so the cold and fog would blow in, and hopefully mitigate the smell of decomposition. 

No parish coffin for this boy yet, less he could be identified and someone pay for one themselves…

Joseph Headley warned his wife Mary not to go wandering into the yard, and promptly locked and bolted the inner door of the Inn onto the yard. His dogs scratched and howled at the foot of the door…

…”And whatever you do, don’t let these out – there’ll be nothing left for Mr. Mitchell tomorrow,” he called to Mary.

Beddows and Shepherd began the regulation slow walk back through the fog to Town Hall Lane to seek orders for what was to be done next, and the temporary warmth of Sergeant Sheffield’s fire.

*****

Shepherd felt the numbing cold around his fingers, ears and feet, and realised how little protection the basic uniform issued offered him. 

The boots were hard and desperately uncomfortable. He was slowly adding to a list of “extras” that he hoped his Aunt Sarah would knit for him, such as extra thick socks, and some more gloves (if he would need to dispose of them in future events like that of this evening), and to be sure of the knowledge that they would be warm.

The uniform itself was coarse and scratchy, and itched like buggery with its high harsh collared Tunic with broad sewn seams, and the matching trousers that were not at all comfortable or practical for modern policemen.

His hat was hard, which gave his head some protection from any blow, but the hardness made it uncomfortable on his head, and he always ended up with a tight red band around his forehead, and his hair sticking upwards…

In fact, at that moment, he regretted that he was not tucked up in his Aunt’s house, where he now lodged, in the modest but respectable end house of Twizzle and Twine Passage, on Grange Lane, close to the Infirmary, Bridewell and Leicester Mill, where he sat and painted on summer afternoons and evenings.

*****

He had moved to Leicester determined to join the Borough Police, as had his uncle George back in 1836. 

George had also been Samson Shepherd’s best friend and advisor, before him and his wife Sarah (his mother’s sister) moved to Leicester from Normanton on Soar. 

This occurred when life as a frame knitter in Normanton, as elsewhere at the time, became bleak. Leicester seemed to offer a brighter future for young families than Nottingham, which still relied predominantly on frame knitting and Lace at that time.

Shepherd’s own Father, Samuel, was a hard, brutal, Agricultural labourer who was handy with his fists, and too fond of the ale. 

Samuel’s brother, also called Samson Shepherd, had been the Licensee of The Stockynges Arms at Gotham, and Samuel would spend more time in Gotham than at the family home in Sutton Bonington, wandering off for days.

It was as a result of beatings from his Father that Shepherd had learned to box, to defend himself, and, too often, his mother and his siblings.

George had coached him, and had counselled him, and had shown more love and respect than his Father had ever done.

When George died, as a result of being assaulted by Chartists in Leicester, during fierce and bloody running battles on the night of 19^th August 1842, Samson Shepherd made up his mind he was going to join The Borough of Leicester Police.

Nobody had ever been punished for that particular assault, let alone George’s death.

It was a night that Leicester would remember for years to come, when large groups of Chartists, led, amongst others by Thomas Cooper, descended on Leicester after the “Battle of Mowmacre Hill”, and fought running battles with Police and officials along Churchgate and through the town to Welford Road. 

There the Chartists erected a large banner pronouncing their moral victory and plight.

Ironically the Chartist movement and key figures were to have a profound influence on improving the lives and welfare of the residents of Leicester over coming years, but in 1842 they were “the enemy” and seen by many as anarchists…

When he told his parents what he wished to do, his Father rubbed his hands in glee…”one less mouth to feed then, another blessing…”, but his mother, Charlotte, was heart-broken. 

Samson was also anxious who would stick up for her and his siblings, but his younger brother Matthew assured him he would do so, and began his own boxing lessons shortly thereafter…

Aunt Sarah had readily agreed to take him in during his attempt to join the Police, but was apprehensive that he did not meet a similar fate to her husband.

Also, a lodger and a few pounds extra each week would make her own life easier, so it was a profitable and mutually agreeable arrangement, but she insisted that some of his pay should also be sent back to his mother. 

There was no such thing as a Police Widow’s pension in 1850, well not for Sarah Pearson!

Chapter Two – Heroes and Villains

It was One o’clock in the morning, and by the time that Sergeant Wright had been given a thorough appraisal of events to date, and statement taken from the boy Thomas Parrott, news had reached the Head Constable, Robert Charters, who Shepherd had only spoken to once before, at his interview to join the Force.

Charters was a respected Leader and a proven investigator in his own right, with experience in Peel’s Metropolitan Police, before moving to Leicester to take over the Borough from his predecessor Frederick Goodyer. 

Charters was a family man, and lived in the modest house that was located in the rear of the quadrangle of buildings that formed the Town Hall, and from where he controlled the Force.

It was a quaint “Dolls’ house” with a little tan door, porch, and hanging baskets, and with trailing honeysuckles that his wife, Mary tended.

The yard was swathed in climbing plants, which was surreal as it seemed at times like it was the only greenery still growing in the Borough, and the last a small few might see before they were “necked”.

His wife, Mary, was alleged to use more water, from a rain-water butt in the yard, for watering the plants, than the rest of the occupants of the quadrangle did together for drinking.

The butt, dated 1773, which stood in the rear corner between the Station and the rear entrance to the Great Hall provided better drinking water than the Conduit in Market Place!

Alleged Reported Murders had been a rare event since the Force had been created, (with only one previous in the Borough in 1846) and Charters wanted to know all, as he would be held responsible, no doubt, for the outcome. 

He was annoyed that there was clear dispute between Beddows and Detective Sergeant Roberts, neither of whom he particularly liked, but he more acknowledged Beddows’ experience. 

He was also keen to know Shepherd’s view.

Charters stood tall and dignified, and had dressed in his full uniform, with its long tailed coat, to enquire of events. 

At 53 years of age, he was as tall as both Beddows and Shepherd, but was balding, with dark, wispy hair, greying over his ears, and with long grey sideburns. A Geordie, with a strong but polished accent, he was sometimes hard to distinguish when he shifted back into purer Geordie. 

He was a very stern looking man, and invoked not only respect from most of his men, but in some, fear. This was not a bad thing in 1850 Leicester!

“So why would Roberts think this not a murder? He is the detective after all…” enquired Charters

“He seemed more inclined to returning to his other duties, or so he said…sir” replied Beddows

“He has something more pressing than a possible murder investigation?” suggested Charters

“That’s not of my knowledge, or else for me to comment on Sir” replied Beddows, with a strong hint of sarcasm…”God, he must know Roberts is bent by now?” He thought to himself…

“Perhaps Sergeant Roberts would prefer not to investigate anything, other than in his own interest, is that what you are implying Beddows?” said Charters, his eyes clearly watching Beddows’ face in anticipation of the answer…

“Some may well think so, sir” replied Beddows…”I would have more confidence with Sergeant Smith or Sergeant Haynes…” which was a straight and honest answer.

After a short pause he added …“What does worry me sir, is whether Roberts does not want us to investigate any murder, or for some reason, this particular murder…tonight, and if so, why not? I have never seen him quite so determined to cuff something so serious…”

“Beddows…you have not always been of my favour. You were a Sergeant and a damn good one but let drink ruin that reputation. However, you were a Sergeant, and you are one of my most knowledgeable and experienced men, and put the drink behind you…. For that I do respect your views, and will consider them in what I chose to do next…” smiled Charters

“So Shepherd, what do you make of this sordid event?” enquired Charters, turning to his latest recruit. A test of his self confidence and observation skills…

Shepherd stood firm…  “There was definitely a distinctive clean wound on the boy’s throat, sir, and all his clothes were missing from the body. I believe it is at least suspicious and justifies the Coroners involvement, Sir”.

“A very succinct appraisal…And how are your skills with the boathook?” asked Charters mockingly, slipping back into broad Geordie and displaying a broader grin.

“I made a terrible error, sir, and I will never let it happen again” Shepherd nervously replied, unsure as to how Charters knew that detail, as Beddows hadn’t mentioned it.

“How can I be sure of your judgement, if it is as poor as your dexterity?” Charters smiled again.

“I have seen animals’ throats cut at slaughter, and I have seen animals that have been caught on wire who have torn open their own throats in the throes of trying to free themselves…and in my humble opinion sir, this poor lad had been slaughtered…” Shepherd had confidently, verbally, underlined the importance of the last five words of the sentence.

“I understand Mr Wilson, the physician from The Newarkes who attended also is of such an opinion?” asked Charters

“So it would appear” agreed Beddows.

“Very good then, a job for Mr Mitchell in the morning…and by then I want a search making of the riverbank above West Bridge, and enquiries to establish if we have any missing souls matching the description…

…and have a report at my desk by morning, and a file to Mr Mitchell before you go off duty, too” Charters directed.

 In the meantime Charters would send word for Detective Sergeants Francis “Tanky” Smith, and Thomas “Black Tommy” Haynes. 

He suspected that by now Roberts would probably not be in a fit state to assist, if even he might be found, and he would deal with him when next opportunity arose. 

Charters suspected that Sergeant Roberts was to become a problem he could ill afford.

*****

It was now getting on for three o’clock in the morning, and most of Leicester was asleep, bar a small number of vagrants, rogues, and thieves, young and old, who dared to ply their trade under the nose of the Police.

Most of the Inns and Hotels were now closed, officially, but one or two imaginative licensees had invented the notion of “friends of the licensee” who were permitted to drink provided no cash was seen to exchange hands. Various means of ensuring this had been adopted, and cash up-front before closing time was a popular twist.

Every now and again, bursts of laughter could be heard coming from somewhere in the vicinity of the Market place, where no doubt, “mine host” was still serving!

Also, there were some private beer houses, for which the Police had no powers, and they blatantly flaunted the licensing laws. Many of these were in rear upper floors of larger establishments, such as Factories and warehouses.

In the Rookeries around Abbey Street and Belgrave Gate, the Irish would be in fighting form no doubt, and pissed as newts, taking it out on each other… if nobody else ventured into their lairs that they might set upon. 

A day without a fight was a sad day for its male population (and for a few Irish Ladies too), who were probably bored out of their brains otherwise…

Shepherd had not yet seen much of this side of Leicester as a Constable, as during his previous week’s day shifts, life in the Borough had been different altogether. 

Most of the population that had scurried about him fell into the category of shop workers and factory workers going to work (early shift at 5am), market traders, or the posh, middle and upper classes shopping, together with their array of servants and carriers. 

The Borough seemed boisterous and lively, full of energy…

During the early evening it was the same posh, middle classes and upper classes, going  off to the many Hotels and Inns, Variety Halls (such as The Old Cheese), or the Theatre. 

During the day the roads were filled with carriages of all shape and size, with fine horses pulling them, and then there were the carriers and deliverymen, with their working horses, bedraggled and shabby in comparison, and the Farmers and Slaughterers who would be moving their stock to or from the frequent Horse, Cattle or other livestock markets.

But, mixed in with each of these groups were a large and growing number of “opportunistic” unemployed and paupers, with the same perpetual vagrants, rogues and vagabonds…each looking for something to steal, or somebody to deceive, or some fight to start. 

They had nothing else to do. The only other choice was being “selected” for the Union Workhouse, a new but fearsome looking structure, recently built on the southern edge of Highfields. 

Behind the railway station, and to the East of the Borough, it was where they knew they would be broken with hard labour for the benefit of a roof over their heads, and less food than the average frame worker. 

Many consciously chose vagrancy, many sought refuge in the seedier side of Leicester, in the very poor areas, including the Rookeries. 

Sex sold, and consequently Dollymops, Toffers, Bunters, Mollies and Mandrakes wandered abroad looking for trade, happy to wander into an alleyway or back to their Abbey or Cab, with the highest bidder.

Many realised that imprisonment often gave them far more than they would have in the community, namely a bed, food, exercise, a dry roof over their heads, and less people to share with per cell than in any hovel around the Borough. 

Thus, the risk of committing crime was a calculated one, but often a “win-win” for the criminal.

It had become  a “win-win” by 1850, because many of the offences that had naturally borne the Death penalty during previous years, had been reduced to terms of imprisonment, hard labour, an occasional whipping, or on a bad day for a more significant offence, transportation to The Colonies.

Many consequences were still no worse than trying to survive in an impoverished Borough where unemployment fluctuated rapidly and work was certainly not guaranteed. That did not fill your belly …where crime could! 

Criminal life was a gamble that was definitely worth taking for many!

*****

Shepherd had been coldly surprised at the apparent imbalance or unfairness between sentences for offences against or including Property, compared to offences against other persons.

The last day shift of his first week, had seen him taken by Beddows to the criminal Epiphany sessions held on Monday 31st December 1850, in front of John Hildyard Esquire, Recorder for The Borough, in the Great Hall of the Town Hall buildings.

Each of the prisoners was brought either from the Borough Gaol, or charged at the Police Station Charge Office, and immediately prior to sessions, lodged in a single, small, dark cell which was located directly outside the yard entrance to the Great Hall. 

The cell was no more than ten feet long by four feet wide, and was below ground level by about three feet, on a sodden ash floor. There could be up to twenty prisoners for trial at each day of the sessions. 

Each prisoner in turn was marched in and stood in front of the Recorder and close to the jury that would sit for such sessions, before hearing their sentence. 

The flagstones of the Great Hall showed heavy wear and tear between the yard door and the area before the bench, with the most wear at the point where the prisoners shuffled, nervously, awaiting their fate. 

The Convictions of the day included;

·         Henry Walter (16) Theft of meat - One month imprisonment and a severe whipping. 

·         James Smith aka (also known as) William Robinson (30) Theft of handkerchiefs - Three months imprisonment. 

·         Catherine Pratt (28) Theft of purse and coins - Seven years transportation. 

·         Jane Wood (45) Theft of six dozen yards of lace - One week hard labour. 

·         John Smith (12) Theft of purse, seven shillings and glove - Ten years transportation. 

·         William Geary (25) theft of a spade - Ten years transportation. 

·         John Watchorn (18) uttering counterfeit coins - 12 months imprisonment. 

·         Charles Harris (19) Attempted felonious stabbing - Six months hard labour. 

There appeared to be no obvious tariff for sentences (other than the death penalty at Assizes), and they were subjective, more often than not, on the identity and status of the owner of the property or against whom the offence had been committed, or the prisoner’s brazen gall in denying such offence.

Shepherd was also shocked at the plight of younger offenders, being treated in the same way as those older criminals, or worse, as almost a moral lesson to the general public.

“Perhaps this was the right thing to do, to make a point and deter offenders?” 

…but still Shepherd was confused.

*****

Beddows set off at standard slow pace from the Police Station, Shepherd at his side.

The pace had been practiced, day after day, shift after shift, to ensure that he could get round his given beat in regulatory time, and not to miss a point. 

Shepherd would not realise it, but he would sub-consciously pick up that pace himself, and would find it came instinctively in days to come.

“We’ll have a wander through the town and see what low-life is wandering around. I have a few snitches who may be about and who might know of the murder by now, and throw some light on it…” suggested Beddows. 

…“The fog and darkness will mean there’s no point in trying to see anything along the riverbank by night yet…and we don’t know what we’re looking for in any case, other than clothes or signs of violence…and that could have happened anywhere”.

Like a new puppy, Shepherd walked at heel, his right hand now tucked inside his cloak, mainly for a little extra warmth, but also to nurse the strap of his new Truncheon, which he reflected, they may need to call upon... 

Shepherd now felt more conspicuous and uncomfortable than on any shift previously…and vulnerable!

Just down from the Police Station, at the entrance to St Martin’s (East), was number 12 Town Hall Lane. 

Gas lamps were still lit in both upper and lower floor rooms, and every now and again, women’s laughter could be heard from upstairs.

“That, believe it or not, my lad, is the local knocking shop, or as you might hear it called, “The cab” or “The Abbey”…not to be confused with the religious kind, down along by the River…Know what one of those is lad?” tested Beddows. 

Beddows had already made up his mind that young Mr Shepherd was not that kind of a person, but it had caught one or two others out over the years, and he had heard some strange confessions …

“I think so sir, but I have never been in one…” blushed Shepherd. 

He was not going to disclose that he was still also a respectable virgin, and didn’t currently even walk out with a girl, which he could put down to his lack of time in the Borough.

“Good to hear it lad” said Beddows…to some degree relieved. ”The abbess is a woman called “Manky Lil” Ryan … got a dose from a Matelot on home leave  some years ago, and within weeks half of Leicester’s male population were itching and scratching like buggery…

…dirty whore she is. Right under the noses of Mr Charters, and the Judiciary and Mayor and hoi polloi of Leicester…her and her Dollymops…Mind you, half the Hoi Polloi are her Corinthians and I wouldn’t be surprised if the old Recorder don’t get so lonely every now and again he pops in his self…so if ever you see Mr Hildyard scratching his crown jewels just have a think about why that might be…” laughed Beddows.

“What’s a Corinthian?” enquired Shepherd naively…

“That’s what they call the punters, the swells, the toffs, that pop in for a bit of tupping, if you know what I mean…” laughed Beddows, recognizing that he was probably talking a completely new language to the lad.

“She’s got a couple of what we call “Toffers” – good looking young girls, pretty, and a bit cleaner than most of the others she employs…they attract some very important people… Come from miles around…they do…

… Keep a lookout for some of the posh cabs that park up around the front of St Martin’s churchyard… might look like they are in the big houses opposite, but more likely they’re being exercised by their “Toffers”…exclusive treatment they reckon! Don’t forget to fling them one up when they pass by; let them know you know…”

Shepherd sensed that Beddows liked to have an edge whilst out on his beat, and it sounded like it might be a bit of fun on such a dark winters evening. 

He would also have to get used to all the nicknames and street language which he realised was all new to him.

On the opposite side was the King and Crown Inn, run by Joseph Keetley and his good lady. 

This was another favourite Inquest location Beddows Informed him, where you could get a wet anytime of the day or night…as Mr Keetley had staff up all night for his guests’ needs as they arose(with bedrooms for travellers over the coach house entrance in Coronation Yard).

His brother was a regular officer in the Indian Army and brings home some quality tea…as Beddows reminded Shepherd he was now reformed from the grog!

At about half past three, as the Constables approached the bottom of Town Hall Lane, Beddows noticed some movement through the swirling fog, into an alleyway just inside Carts Lane, and to the side of The Globe, which was now in complete darkness.

Pinching Shepherd on the arm, he gestured, putting one finger over his mouth, and reached inside his cape for his trusty truncheon.

Gingerly, the pair moved across the junction and to the entrance to the alley, which Beddows knew led down behind the shops on High Street.

Shepherd’s hand also strengthened its grip on his stick, and the pair entered the alley.

A short way down, almost obscured in the gloom, Beddows could see two figures stood upright and close together.

Knowing also that this was a dead end, and there was no other way out, Beddows challenged the shadowy figures… “Constables – who goes there?” 

This was where Beddows was most confident. He was frightened by very little and was street hard, especially when he had young fit arms and hands alongside him this night.

Emerging slowly, two small figures shuffled out into the diffused light of the street, generated by the glow of three street lamps, high on the walls above the Globe, on Carts Lane and at the corner of Silver Street.

Shepherd saw a man of short build, about five feet five inches tall, and scruffily dressed, emerge first, clearly surprised at being disturbed, and followed by a female of a similar height, in a dark bustled dress, cloak and hat, her blouse undone and hanging loose over her skirt…

“And what do we think we are up to?” smirked Beddows, aware that they had disturbed what was probably going to be a “Three penny upright” at this time of the night.

Beddows liked the “we” concept as he felt much more a part of the proceedings and he could tease them as he pleased…

Beddows recognized the man as Edward Pawley, a carpenter and occasional undertaker, who had a small yard and workshop at the bottom of Churchgate, at the side of the new Star Foundry, and backing onto Short Street, where he could come and go almost un-noticed. 

“Well if it’s not the inglorious under-handed undertaker of old Leicester town…Mr Edward Pawley as I do recall?” Beddows said, mocking the man.

Pawley had come to notice before as a suspected thief…the origins of his cheap timber at times allegedly unknown to him…”it just turns up every now and again from kind parish benefactors” he had once told Beddows…

Beddows also noted that Pawley smelt like death and looked like death, pale and gaunt, skinny and dark eyed, like a living corpse, but definitely the smell of death had established itself in his shabby attire. It smelt recent and almost familiar.

“And who are you missus?” he asked, looking towards a very sheepish looking middle aged woman, with round rimmed glasses and a pronounced hook nose…who was trying very hard not to be too visible to the Constables. 

Not one of the Dollymops Beddows had seen before…

Shepherd nudged Beddows and said “It’s a bloke, wearing a dress…look…” 

Beddows grabbed the “Woman” by the upper part of her already disheveled garb and pushed her upright against the wall, causing the bonnet she had been wearing to fall off, and dislodging a curly blond wig, from beneath which shone a balding pate, confirming Shepherd’s observation.

“So, we’ve got ourselves a couple of Mollies, have we? Fancied a bit of rough did we?” Beddows baited the two men. 

“Who was to be been blind cupid tonight then? Or was it a quick blow job you had in mind?”

Sometimes being coarse and firm got the reaction Beddows was looking for much quicker…sometimes it just got him into a confrontation!

“You’ve got it all wrong Constable…” uttered the man Pawley…”we’ve done nothing wrong, and you can’t talk to us like that…”

“And what do you say missus?” Beddows taunted the bald headed man…

”Hang about, I know who you are…you’re Daniel Salt, from the Borough Planners office…”

 “On what grounds do you feel you were entitled to manhandle me like that Constable… Beddows….yes I believe it is…Constable Beddows…one of the Force Drunks I do believe. You have just assaulted me Constable and that is an offence don’t you know…as is drinking on duty…” Salt composed himself.

 “…and so, you stumble out of the back door of The Globe, and decide to assault two innocent people who were doing nothing illegal as it happens, just to cover up your own little sins…as there I was coming back from a pleasant evening of fancy dress at The Stokers Arms. How will that go down with Mr Charters and the Night Watch Committee?” Salt minced…

Salt was known to Beddows from some corruption scandal that had been exposed during the planning submissions and building of the new Union Workhouse, and for which numerous officials had been investigated and four of the Union Senior staff dismissed for their part in it.

Salt had been highly suspected of involvement and receiving “back-handers” but nothing could ever be proven.

“You slimey, perverse, obnoxious, devious, hook-nosed, effeminate, crooked little turd….” Growled Beddows. 

“Don’t ever make threats to me like that again. You don’t intimidate me; let me make you aware, you disgust me. Whatever your little perversions are, and of two of your most depraved I am now aware, be warned, as the Law will catch up with you”. 

Shepherd was a little concerned about how confrontational this was becoming, so he moved forward and stood quickly between Beddows and Salt. 

“I am Constable 52 Shepherd. I must warn you that you have been officially stopped as a suspected person, and, together with a reputed thief, you were acting in a suspicious manner, in an enclosed yard. We do have every power, under the Vagrancy Act of 1824, to stop, search and question you, and to use such force as is reasonable to detain you for such purposes…

… If you are objecting to my rights as a Constable, we can also arrest you for that offence if you would prefer. I too am sure that your arrest would not go down well within the Borough. So, what do you have in your pockets…or is it a handbag tonight with your…fancy dress?”

Beddows held back a smile as he saw a bit of fire in Shepherd’s eyes!

“And I’m sure you would also go down very well in the Bridewell, The House of Correction, or for that matter the Borough Gaol, Mr Salt, if you know what I mean. You would be very popular with some of the residents down there…” a now composed Beddows responded. 

“Now, both of you turn out your pockets and handbags, like my colleague has just asked…PLEASE!”

Shepherd noticed a definite look of fear in Pawley’s eyes, seeking eye contact with Salt. 

Shepherd saw some movement of Pawley’s hands, which he was holding behind his back, and something roll onto the floor, and which Pawley attempted to moved away with his heel.

“What have you just discarded Mr Pawley?” Shepherd asked, reaching down, cautiously, to the object on the floor, behind the now sweating man.

Shepherd opened a small rolled up piece of paper.  It was heavy, and upon opening the folds, inside Shepherd found four, bright, new, Guinea coins. 

“That’s a nice sum of money for a back-street carpenter and occasional undertaker. PC Beddows and I have to work hard for fourteen hours a shift to earn less than a quarter of that much money each week. Where has it come from?” asked Shepherd.

“It’s too much to pay for a knee-trembler Mr Pawley … far too much … even from a lady like this” taunted Beddows. 

He wasn’t over bothered about Mollies as a whole, but thieving, lying ones in a public place got his goat.

“We won the fancy dress prized down at The Stokers Arms…go and ask the landlord, or Mr O’Donnell, the organizer, they’ll tell you…” replied Salt. “ It’s a very well patronised event, and lots of money is paid in by people you will never have the pleasure of mixing with…well to do people …and to have a good night…and that is where the money comes from…”

“So why throw it away then Mr Pawley?” asked Shepherd “Do you have so much money you don’t need it?” applying as much sarcasm as he thought he could currently muster.

“It was in my trousers; hidden so none could find it, and it fell out….you can’t be too careful around this rotten place, full of robbers and cut-throats, not to mention bent Policemen….” croaked Pawley. 

He gulped and realised he was probably getting a bit too brave.

Shepherd began to “rub down” the nervous Mr Pawley…from his neck, downwards, lingering under his armpits, and down through his jacket and trouser pockets, and the small of his back…

Apart from the stickiness of the clothing, and the smell of a practicing undertaker, which gave Shepherd a desire to wash his hands there and then…he found nothing else.

Beddows was doing the same, very cautiously, to Mr Salt. He had never put his hands up a woman’s skirt with such trepidation…not for a long time!

“Mr Pawley, here is your coin…I hope it has been worth its pain, or pleasure…?” mocked Beddows

“And, we will bid you both a good night” said Beddows, “But remember, your cards are now marked, and if I can find that you’ve been up to no good, then I’ll see you before the Justices, god help me I will…or, should I say Sod Off?”

The two figures skittered quickly into the fog, arm in arm, and onward to the safety of some sordid den.

*****

“That’s just how being a Constable is, Lad…” said Beddows. 

“You go out to do one thing, and come across something else that needs your attention, and you still have to get on and do what you were supposed to be doing in the first place….

… You did well back there, I saw some fire, some initiative, and some moral courage, and it was like having George alongside me again for a few moments. You could be a good copper one day…”

“Should we have arrested them?” asked Shepherd, unsure why they hadn’t

“For what?” asked Beddows…

”They weren’t actually doing anything just at that moment, but if they’ve been up to no good, we will know soon enough. That’s when we’ll arrest them lad!”

Shepherd felt content, with his first positive comments, and at the very reserved compassion he could see hidden under Beddows’ hard exterior. 

“George, not Pearson?” he thought to himself…

The pair walked onto High Street and down towards the Cole Hill where High Street met Churchgate, Gallowtree Gate, Humberstone Gate and Eastgates, and where the coal brought into the Borough was weighed and sold, by the old Assembly Rooms. 

En route they passed several of their colleagues who were doing the same old routine, shaking doors handles and windows within their beat, and sourcing new, warm “tea spots” and bolt-holes for during the cold wee hours. 

This would probably include addresses of agreeable ladies, alehouses, or somewhere they could get their heads down if they could justify “missing a point”.

Beddows wanted to go and find someone in particular, and he would most likely be around Cole Hill, looking for scraps of coal and cinder at this time of the day.

Beddows and Shepherd moved into a deep doorway to Elias Geary’s bakery shop, and watched and waited through the gloom, for the right shadow to walk past. 

Beddows lit up his small clay pipe, and took an eagerly overdue puff, then hid its glowing embers back under his cape…

“It’s what capes were invented for lad, can keep a pipe going for hours, and no-one’s any the wiser” smiled Beddows…”Never thought of partaking yourself?”

Shepherd shook his head in disgust. There was enough foul smoke in the Borough without adding to it himself. 

And he didn’t like the smell on Beddows’ breath…and imagined nor did Beddows’ wife when he got close to her…

At about quarter past four, sure enough, a small shadowy figure scurried past from Eastgates, and started looking to the floor, just as Beddows had suggested.

The man was short, with a noticeable stoop from a crooked back, and walked with a long stick, upon which he bore his weight whilst bending down, and wearing a floppy cap and an overcoat that had long since seen better days. 

Totally distracted by his quest, and holding a small cloth bag, which was rapidly filling with the waste that nobody else had the audacity to scavenge., he was completely oblivious when Beddows took him by the collar and “escorted him” back to the deep doorway, and out of view of passersby, few that there were.

“Good morning Mr Issitt. How are we this fine morning?” asked Beddows “apart from smelling like you’ve just shit your pants, that is…” turning his nose away and scowling.

“Well, very well indeed Mr Beddows my dear… you scared the shit out of me…literally you did …and to what do I owe this pleasure?” he replied, completely unmoved by “his little accident”.

“We’re looking to identify a missing lad…a young boy…no more than eight, with bright sandy hair…possibly a scavenger…any ideas?” enquired Beddows.

“If he’s missing, how do you know what he looks like to identify him then Mr Beddows?”

 Issitt quipped, wishing he hadn’t as Beddows’ right hand flicked across the side of his head and smacked hard against his left ear…

“Don’t try and be smart with me Matthias Issitt…that coal belongs to the merchant, and I’m sure he wants every penny its worth….fancy a few weeks hard labour again?” 

“Sorry Mr Beddows…forgot myself for a moment. Remiss of me…Now then…”he said, scratching his goatee beard and picking out some dried morsel, or more probably an old bogey, which he sucked off his fingers…”a missing boy is it, or would you be more interested in missing boys?”

“What have you heard Matthias? What’s been going round the streets, someone must have said if someone was missing?” suggested Beddows.

“Not for me to say Mr Beddows, not worth the risk. There’s some strange things going on round here at the moment, and as you know kids is kids, and kids is property…and it don’t pay to show too much interest in other people’s property…as you well know my dear…” he said, looking nervously around.

“What you might do, is look at the papers. Look at the adverts …seems to be there’s a lot of ladies looking for people to look after young children at present…or so it may seem. Not everything is as it appears. I’m going to say no more than that. Look at the papers, and look at the adverts, and then see who’s put them in the paper and where they are now…you might be surprised” grinned Issitt, now looking relieved that he had given Beddows a little something.

“That’s got to be worth a coin or two at least, Mr Beddows?” grinned Issitt, his black teeth and stumps visible in what light made its way from the junction lamps.

“That’s only worth a bag of coal scrapings and a loss of hard labour at the moment …” said Beddows, grinning… "Know what I mean…?"

“…Now on yer way, you little shit…If I like what I find out there might be a coin or two down the line…if my Governor sees fit. …And by the way, get yerself cleaned up…you stink!”

“A few minutes and it’ll be hard enough and dry enough to shake out Mr Beddows, a bit more turd for the pavements…Letting it dry never fails. Tip of the day Mr Beddows, let it dry before you shake it down your trouser leg, remember that, saves a whole lot of unpleasant mess!”

Matthias Issitt scurried off laughing away, happy with his bit of business, and the thought he was in Mr Beddows’ good books again for a while.

“Who was he?” Shepherd asked

“Mr Issitt used to be headmaster of the poor school, down St Mary’s, until he took a shine to a little choirboy…never been the same since…nearly got lynched he did…and has never taught again…like a pariah he is around schools and churches, but a very clever man, and very knowledgeable…” Beddows replied

 

*****

Beddows and Shepherd made their way back, into Cheapside, past the dripping water conduit in the Market Place, and up towards Hotel Street. 

The conduit was still the main source for the Borough drinking water, and shortly, there would be a queue forming, filling their containers to cart back to the nearby hovels, where the water was rank and more often than not, infected…a daily ritual of Borough life…

“How do you go about getting your sources?” asked Shepherd, eagerly wishing to soak up the skills he would need himself.

“Treat them hard, but treat them fair, and make them know you’re fair…an odd coin here, or a blind eye there, provided it’s nothing that can’t be overlooked…most of them have a likeable streak somewhere, like Matthias Issitt…

… He’s now a very poor man, eking out an existence every way he can, and because he’s a well known character, most villains know him, and many will acknowledge him, and he can stand next to them in a bar or in the street without them getting nervous…then he becomes valuable!” explained Beddows.

”Mind you, looks are deceptive. The old misers still got more bleedin money than you and me put together… wouldn’t think so, would you?” Beddows laughed quietly, shaking his head in disbelief

“The coal…I didn’t think we could use discretion?” said Shepherd

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you, what did you say?” smiled Beddows.

“I said…I didn’t…” Shepherd ducked just in time to miss having his ear clipped too…”I think I get the message Beddows” he smiled…

“Good lad, you’re learning …” 

At about quarter to five, as they approached the Lion and Dolphin tavern, Beddows grabbed Shepherd’s arm, not for the first time this shift, and pulled him back into the nearest doorway. 

Emerging from the tap room door was a short, squat figure, swaying from side to side, swearing at someone who neither Beddows nor Shepherd could immediately see, back inside the Tavern. 

The figure was wearing a bowler hat, and the voice was well known to Beddows, and recognizable to Shepherd, as that of Sergeant Roberts…

Straight after, another figure came out from the same door, the dress and bonnet shape standing out in the fog, and bade goodnight to someone in the doorway in a very squeaky, but without doubt, male voice. “Night sweetie…” he called towards the disappearing Roberts.

“That’s that little shit Salt again…what’s he been doing with the good Sergeant Roberts?” said Beddows… “Interesting…don’t think Roberts is a Mandrake, so I bet there’s coins involved…and something underhand going on…Sweetie is it?”

Beddows and Shepherd continued on, back towards the Police Station.  At the same time, from further down near to Carts Lane, two other figures came briefly into view…

This time it was Shepherds turn to grab Beddows’ arm…

“It’s alright lad, it’s only Tanky and Black Tommy…not met them yet have you?”

“I thought I’d seen them both before at the Sessions, but neither of them looked like that…”

“That’s why they are good detectives lad, not like that other bastard Roberts…Don’t expect them ever to look the same, that’s their specialty…” said Beddows…”You want to see their fancy dress box…”

*****

“Had an interesting evening I hear, Beddows?” chuckled Tanky Smith.

“Yes thank-you Tanky, I take it Mr Charters has spoken with you?” 

“Don’t let Mr Charters ever hear you call me Tanky, he’ll have you for that, but as we know each other. But what about you young Shepherd? How long before you might get to call me Tanky?”

“I don’t know sir…I didn’t know you knew me sir…”

“I’m not a sir, I’m a Sergeant…Beddows you rotten bugger. Got another one calling you sir?” laughed Tanky, wagging his index finger under Beddows’ nose

“As if I’d do something like that…he can call me Beddows as of tonight…done alright the lad has!” smirked Beddows, winking at Shepherd.

“Now then” exclaimed Black Tommy “now we have got the pleasantries over and done with, what about a bit of work…a little murder to be more accurate, and a missing corpse…”

“We’ve been down the Rookeries in the last couple of hours, and shaken a few branches so to speak…pissed off a few of our Irish brethren, and inclined a couple of others to tell us a tale or two…” explained Tommy Haynes.

“Do you know why they call me Black Tommy?” said Haynes, starting to wind Shepherd up…

“No sir” said Shepherd …”Sorry, Sergeant…could it be because your hair is very black?”

“Could be, but tomorrow it could be blond or brown. Perhaps it’s because yesterday I looked like a coalman and my eyes were the only bit of white on show, or perhaps it’s because I’m a hard and serious and miserable bastard like when I got woken up at three o’clock this morning, denying me a bit of snuggling up to my lawful blankets’ rather large and comfortable milk jugs and warm derrière…and that puts me in a black mood! Take your pick…” Haynes looked deliberately menacing…

“Thank you Sergeant, I’ll remember that…” Shepherd went quiet and looked puzzled.

“And why do you think they call me Tanky?” Smith grinned, playing the same game as Haynes…

“I’ve no idea Sergeant…” 

“People say I have been known to subdue some of the more aggressive members of this community with my trusty night stick…and that it has sounded like a dull “tank”…and so the ritual has been nicknamed “tanking”…so I’m led to believe. Others say I spend so much time in those bleeding Rookeries that I can’t say thank you anymore, and everyone gets the Irish version…Tank you…!” suggested Smith in a passable Irish brogue.

“Neither Tommy nor I give a shit what people call us, so long as it’s not late for dinner…” Smith laughed…”But what matters to you is what we do, and how we do it, and where we do it, and that more often than not…you and them won’t even know we are there!”

“Except tonight when we shook the branches in the Rookeries, then they knew we were there” laughed Haynes.

“Got away without as much as a bloody nose or a fat lip… but not for the want of trying... They’re miserable bastards, those Irish. Just want you out of their little shit-holes, but can’t understand they’re in Leicester now, not Ireland…” explained Smith. 

Smith had a well earned mistrust of the Rookeries. In the last few years the number of Irish had gone up to nearly a thousand, and even though they were a quarter of the whole population down there, they ruled the place, and made life hell for other folk.

“Anyways, we found a couple of snitches. Didn’t take too much persuading when we opened a bottle of stout or two…or three with them down the Fox and Grapes….still open, even now!  It seems like we have a new industry in buying and selling nippers, “Child farming” they call it…  

…There are so many nippers down the Rookeries at present they just want rid of them. Old Fred Marvin in Willow Street has a new chimney boy from them every other week, and half of them have never been seen again, so they say. Don’t suspect they’re stuck up the chimney still, but you never know…. 

…Then folks say that there are dozens going off to Nottingham to find work, while Leicester struggles…it’s little wonder we don’t get them reported…the parents are just glad to get rid of them.” explained Haynes.

“But this child farming sounds much more sinister. Sounds like there is some group of Toffs who are buying these young kids from adverts in the paper, and then some go off and are used as pleasure or entertainment for our local perverts.” surmised Smith…”Parents get some coins for their pains, which I’m sure eases the sorrow of losing their loved one….”

“Eases their guilt, more like, if they’re capable of feelings…” suggested Haynes, who was more of a realist even than Smith.

“Strange thing…” uttered Haynes…”The Micks are saying  that it’s Black Annis who’s taking them…and they’ll turn up sucked dry and all skinned and boned…and they say it was the same in Ireland.  When we told them Black Annis was from Leicester, they laughed and said we were wrong, unless she’d followed them over the water…they really believe it’s her…”

“You been down the Rookeries yet Shepherd?” enquired Smith.

“No Sergeant, not yet…don’t know that much about them either…” Shepherd replied

“Sounds like Beddows needs to get you educated and pretty quick…” laughed Smith “cos that’s where you’ll be spending a lot of your working life, and soon by the sounds of it!”

“And by the way…for both of you…a bit of advice” said Smith. “If you want to be successful get rid of those bleeding hobnails from your boots. We could hear you for miles…bet you never heard us, and we weren’t more than a few yards from you several times tonight…”

“Good job too…” laughed Haynes…”would have trod in old Matthias Issitt’s turd, if we hadn’t heard what he proposed to do with it…”

*****

Leicester had a modest  Irish population long before the famine of 1845, but it was 1845 that brought Irish immigrants across to Leicester in such large numbers, with word of a growing town, and lots of work in new factories, such as Corahs that were springing up.

When they arrived, they drifted towards the parish of St Margaret’s, the largest in the Borough, and containing some of the poorest housing that merited pulling down back then, where their relatives and associates already were. Many had relatives living in the Rookeries already.

Some of the housing was actually converted pigsties, such as “Hextalls Yard” off Mansfield Street, which was affectionately known as “pork shop yard” and which had up to eleven people living in one converted sty. The eleven properties had over 60 occupants between them, and were owned by Abigail Hextall who still lived there and ran the large lodging house at the end of the yard, and a renowned den of iniquity it was too!

Most of the houses in Abbey Street, and Green Street, and down along Belgrave Gate to the Gas Works, were set in similar small yards, and these were filthy and over-crowded, full of drunken Irish and lodgers, and the population seemed to grow daily, just like a Rookery in nature, and hence the nickname the area had earned. 

Children were prolific and died at an alarming rate, even without criminal intervention.

Yards were dark and narrow, and houses may have had one or two windows at most, and were built around common “privies”. 

Everywhere smelled like shit… and the people smelled like shit… and the people behaved like wild pack animals…

 It was here that the Borough Police was to meet its most frequent problems. 

There was so much shit in the yards in fact, that the residents had now taken to shitting on the floor in their own houses so they only had their own germs and smell to worry about…let alone the rubbish and the rats amidst the common privies and cesspits.

The yards and alleys were not places to be found alone as a Constable…

The local pubs were Irish pubs, such The Fox and Grapes, The Horse Breakers, and King George III which was the haunt of the Irish Prize-fighters, “The Fancy” as they were called, surrounded by “Bruisers” their minders, and fights at these localities were always going to be bloody.

Anyone who didn’t or wouldn’t fight would be called “Dunghill Birds” and given a severe beating and “get done down” for their troubles. It was not a community in which to live if you were a softy, English or Irish...

It was a hard community, and it had its own hierarchy, and some Irish leaders were well feared for a good cause.

*****

Chapter Three – Dark forces…

At eight o’clock the following morning, in possession of the facts they had gathered from the boy Thomas Parrott, Physician Wilson, their own observations, and of enquiries by detectives Smith and Haynes, Beddows and Shepherd were sent to the office of Oliver Mitchell, Coroner for the Borough, in New Street.

This would hopefully be the last task of the shift, but Beddows knew they would both be required back early to facilitate the inquest.

Since 1836 an inquest had to be held for any unexpected or unnatural death occurring within a Coroner’s jurisdiction. 

It was an offence for any person to fail to notify him of such an event. 

An inquest would be held at a convenient time, (within twenty four hours, preferably, of a reported death of such nature) and location, with a jury of at least twelve men, and the inquest was to be held once the Coroner and jury had viewed the body in his presence.

Constables had now become the Coroner’s Officers, and in the Borough, were Oliver Mitchell Esquire’s eyes and ears. They prepared the evidence for him, sourced the jury, and they presented the evidence and witnesses at the inquest.

 

Coroner Mitchell had clearly had a rather enjoyable evening prior, and was rather feeling the effects of excess. The last thing he really wanted today, the 2^nd of January, was a smelly corpse or a smelly jury. 

“Good morning Constables, a long night I perceive?” Mitchell smirked, looking across at their tired and dark, bloodshot eyes, as he sat himself down at his polished desk on the ground-floor of the opulent New Street premises.

New Street was the place to be if you were of the manner and status of Coroner, and the housing, much of which incorporated their own private offices, was about the best you could get.

Number 10, New Street was no exception, sitting half way along the street, with a large bayed frontage, and more windows than Beddows could recall in any building since the stealthy Window Tax had been introduced…

The Offices of Mr Mitchell were spotless. They smelled clean, and wax polish could be detected above the usual smells of the Borough. And, they were all very tidy, unlike the office at the Police Station where everything was cramped and untidy!

Mr Mitchell, however, lived in a rather more modest, but none the less posh house, in Cank Street, nearer to the Market Place, and merely had his “official” offices as Coroner for the Borough and South of the County, at 10 New Street.

Beddows believed that the Coroner was a widower, and lived with just a house-keeper to see to his every need, as he had never seen or heard reference to a Mrs Mitchell. 

He was a middle aged and well spoken gent, with a thirst for fine things, and a girth to reflect his thirst!

Coroner Mitchell also wore scent, and this matched his dapper and flamboyant dress style, with fine mourning suits, high collared shirt and black neckerchief. He was however a fine and outspoken supporter of the Police, and relied on them to facilitate his role effectively.

The scent also gave a pleasant air that was not something either man was accustomed to.

Amusingly, as the Coroner grounded his ample bottom on his leather seat, a large, loud and rasping fart rang out, followed by a ghastly foul air…

“Whoops…”chuckled the Coroner…”Sorry about that one, think it was me, or have you brought the corpse with you…” which he thought exceedingly funny…

”Thought I’d rid myself of that on my walk here this morning…” his guts bubbling loudly and audibly.

“The corpse sir, is wrapped in a tarpaulin and awaiting yours and the Jury’s observation at the Bakers Arms in Bath Street, if that is agreeable to you sir…” Beddows smiled in return.

“Ah Good...so, must have been me then…too much port with my veal I suspect…or the veal was getting a bit mature perhaps?”

“The body is secure, and from what we can establish from enquiries that have been made by Detective Sergeants Smith and Haynes, it is likely the boy is of Irish origin, and probably from the Rookeries, but unlikely that anyone will seek to admit ownership of him…” explained Beddows, who by now was struggling and desperately sought his warm bed...

“And it would appear we definitely have a murder?” asked the Coroner, in a bright, cheerful tone which Beddows though hopeful and eager rather than upset or disappointed.

“Yes sir, naked and with a nasty cut throat… been dead for some days by the state of the corpse and the views of Physician Wilson…rather unpleasant. That’s why I thought they may require some of The Bakers Arms finest to get them through the viewing…” suggested Beddows

“And Constable Shepherd, before I forget…I hear you’re a dab hand with a boathook…?”

Shepherd look amazed for the second time in the night, as nothing had been handed yet to the coroner in writing, nor he nor Beddows had mentioned the error…

“My boatmanship currently leaves room for improvement sir” Shepherd admitted, acutely embarrassed not just as a further reminder to him of his accident, but of the fact there was clearly a grapevine which operated much quicker than Shepherd could comprehend.

“Never mind…we live and learn…” concluded the Coroner, ushering the men towards the door as more flatulence could be heard rolling in his belly…”See you both at six, with a fine Jury no doubt, and the landlord’s best available?

“Yes sir“ nodded Beddows, thankfully, his mind now firmly fixed on getting home for those few short hours peace, before his earlier than planned start to their next shift.

As Beddows and Shepherd left via the large, glossy, black painted door to 10 New Street, daylight was now fighting a battle with the fog, and for the first time in days, visibility was lifting. 

It remained, however, bitterly cold, the heavy frost crunching beneath their feet, as they made their separate way home. Beddows looked forward to snuggling up to a warm wife!

 

*****

During the afternoon, Sergeant Tarrant, of the day shift, had identified and recorded the names and addresses of 12 good men of the Borough, and instructed them to make themselves present in good time for the Inquest at six o’clock at the given location.

At Five o’clock that afternoon, having reported to the Station after very little sleep, and been reminded that they still had a night shift to patrol after the Inquest, Head Constable Charters sent both Beddows and Shepherd off to The Bakers Arms to prepare for the Inquest.

In their possession were three files of paper. 

In one, the written evidence of Thomas Parrott, Physician Wilson, together with the statements of themselves and Sergeants Smith and Haynes. 

In the second, the names of those convened to form the jury, together with their addresses, for settlement of payment of one shilling, which each would receive for their ordeal. 

The third was blank official papers that The Coroner would require to endorse and sign at conclusion of the Inquest, and authorities to make payments to those listed in the jury file.

“How did Charters and the Coroner know about the boathook?” asked a tired and nervous Shepherd. 

His mind had been active throughout most of the day, and he had slept fitfully, nagging questions pounding away at him…

“Mr Charters knows everything Shepherd, everything… his eyes and ears extend far beyond ours, and he has more sources in high places than we will ever know…and usually they are spot on! He and Mr Mitchell are thick as thieves, and dine together frequently, exchanging news and views…so I suspect they were conversing long before you and I visited Mr Mitchell this morning…” explained Beddows.

*****

As a clock struck half past five, Beddows and Shepherd walked through the front door of The Bakers Arms and were greeted by Joseph Headley, who was behind the bar with a very fetching serving wench, busty and auburn haired, who was busy flirting with Physician Wilson, and one or two of the assembled jurors.

The cold and damp rolled in with them, causing the log fire to spit and splutter.

The Inn smelled welcoming, and Mrs Headley appeared to be baking, judging by the meaty smells wafting through the rooms, mingling with the tobacco smoke and wood smoke from the fires.

“The room is ready Mr Beddows, and I have a bottle of Mr Mitchell’s favourite red on his desk…” announced Headley.

“I think I know which would be my favourite red” said Beddows…eyeing up the barmaid…” and his desk would be a fine place to consume her!”

“Joking apart, I want to go and open up your store, and prepare the corpse. I take it you would not wish to assist us?” said Beddows, tongue in cheek, aware of Headley’s previous corpse.

“Once I have opened up the store, I wish nothing more than a quick inquest, a quick removal of the body, and to get back to my customers…” Headley replied.

Headley took the keys to the yard store from the hook by the inner door to the yard, where he had left them. The dogs had not even been allowed into the yard for fear of them removing more flesh.

The Licensee and two Constables walked to the store, the dogs securely locked in the entry.

“At least the smell has diminished…” said Shepherd, expecting to be met by the odour of old death which was now etched in his memory, and would remain there forever, so George had once said…

As the padlock was removed and the gate opened, it was plain to see why there was no stench… as corpse, tarpaulin and all, were now nowhere to be seen…

“Mr Headley, we have a problem…” exclaimed Beddows, nervously… “I thought you said nobody had been to the store and nobody had been into the yard?”

“They are the only keys, and only my wife and I have access to them. Mary would not wish to be anywhere near a corpse, so I cannot explain what has happened…” replied Headley, fearful of the consequences to his own reputation.

“Bollocks” Beddows swore… “Bollocks! Mr Mitchell will be here in minutes, and we have lost a corpse. Not just any corpse, just a murdered one! Jesus Christ, Shepherd…Head Constable Charters will have our Baubles off for this cock-up…”

“Who would want a decomposed, putrid, festering corpse?” asked Shepherd. “I thought body snatching and resurrectionists were a thing of the past”.

“These are not resurrectionists Shepherd. This is dark arts at work, this is someone who doesn’t want a body at all, who doesn’t want a murder at all…get my drift?” 

Beddows was already picturing the good Sergeant Roberts and some of his miscreant associates plotting the loss, saving Roberts a whole heap of work…

“What… Roberts?” offered Shepherd, partly in disbelief, partly in feint recognition of Beddows supposition…

“Roberts!” snapped Beddows, angrily …

…”Smart lad, thinking like a copper now, aren’t you?…Look here, look at the top of the gate…something’s been dragged across and it’s all splintered and broke… the gates have never been unlocked, they’ve took the corpse out over the top…”

*****

At precisely five minutes to six o’clock, Head Constable Charters, The Coroner, Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Mitchell’s scribe, Edward McPherson, entered the designated room at The Bakers Arms. 

Mr Headley scurried out of view until Beddows and Shepherd had taken the wrath that was coming.

Beddows and Shepherd were already stood within the room, looking sheepish and clearly concerned.

“Are we ready then Beddows?” Charters asked of the Constable, sensing that something was amiss.

“I am afraid, sir, that we have the gravest of problems…the corpse has been stolen…” said Beddows, waiting for the wrath to descend upon him yet again…

“What in the Devils name has happened then?” Charters demanded, taken aback completely by the revelation.

“Sir, if we may have a word with you in private…” requested Beddows, realising the implications of what he was about to suggest, and concerned that it may get out if overheard…

“Gentlemen of the Jury, Physician Wilson, young master Parrott…please could I ask you to leave the room for a few moments, and we will send for you shortly…” said Charters.

“Mr Mitchell will, I am sure, will want to hear this…” suggested Charters.

“Sir, as we explained last night, I had concerns regarding the actions of Sergeant Roberts. He was adamant that as far as he was concerned, this was not a murder, and he was clear he would “sort it out” said Beddows

“You are suggesting Roberts has arranged for the corpse to disappear?” asked Charters.

“During the night, whilst on our enquiries, we came upon a man called Pawley, a backstreet carpenter and occasional undertaker, with premises off Churchgate…

…He was caught in a compromising situation with what appeared to be a Dollymop, but who turned out to be one Mr Daniel Salt of the Borough Planning office, dressed in woman’s clothing…and we thought they were a couple of Mollies having a “three penny worth”…

…Mr Pawley, in the course of being questioned, slyly discarded a small object which was found to contain four shiny new Guinea coins, an undertaker of his poorly means…”

“And what does this have to do with Roberts?” asked Charters

“A while later, whilst in The Market Place, we came upon Sergeant Roberts leaving the Lion and Dolphin tavern in an inebriate state, in my expert opinion… offered Beddows, wryly…

…shortly to be followed out by none other than Mistress, apologies, Mister Salt…who was heard to call him “sweetie…”

“And…?” questioned Charters

“What do Sergeant Roberts, an undertaker with four guineas, and a dubious Borough official have in common? Why would Pawley have four guineas? Why would Roberts and Salt be together? Sir, I smell a rat, as I feared originally” stated Beddows, now even more sure that his deductions had some substance.

“A most interesting hypothesis Beddows” replied Charters, also seeing the connections that Beddows had outlined, and easing some of the anger that he had been considering directing at the Constable.

“Now, about the inquest…” interjected Mr Mitchell…” It would be unusual, but I believe not unprecedented, to open an inquest without a corpse…”

“Do we have the evidence and all the witnesses Beddows?” asked Charters, with more than a hint of sarcasm, and still obviously embarrassed at the loss of a Coroners Corpse.

“And a full jury sir…” responded Shepherd, anxious that Beddows was still centre of Charters’ attention and trying to divert his mind to other things...

“In that case let us convene…” directed the Coroner.

*****

Twelve good men took their places in the best room of the Inn, and were sworn in, as had originally been intended.

Mr Mitchell opened the Inquest and advised… ”Gentlemen, we have today, a remarkably unusual inquest. You will be, I am sure, delighted to learn that you will not be required to, or indeed be able to, view the corpse for which we have convened…yet you will still receive your one shilling for your troubles…”

The witnesses were called, commencing with young Thomas Parrott, the river finder…who confirmed finding the body, and what a dreadful sight it was, he would say...

Constable Beddows gave evidence that he attended West Bridge, together with Constable Shepherd, where with the assistance of a local boatman, they recovered the naked body of a young white male. The body had wounds, one as a result of an accident with a boathook…which drew much laughter from the tense jurors…and a significant wound to the throat.

Constable Shepherd gave similar evidence, to the amusement of the jurors, and added that he had seen similar wounds as a result of a slaughter man’s knife, not dwelling on his own mishap for longer than necessary.

Physician Wilson, gave evidence that he attended West Bridge, and examined the body of a young male and pronounced life extinct. He was of the opinion that the wound to the throat was a deliberate and unlawful act, probably caused by the boy being held from behind and his throat cut from left to right causing the deep gash. The boy had been dead for anything up to one week.

The evidence of Detective Sergeants Smith and Haynes was accepted in statement form, and indicated that early enquiries suggested that the boy was probably of Irish origin, and possible from the Abbey Street area. It was unlikely with current information that any parent or guardian would admit to knowledge of the boy.

Coroner Mitchell asked that the jury consider the verdict, based entirely on the witness evidence they had heard or presented in written form.

In the time it took them to down a bottle of red, the Jury returned a verdict of “Murder by person or persons unknown…”

*****

Once the Inquest had ended, and the jury dismissed, Head Constable Charters, Coroner Mitchell and the two Constables remained within the best room at The Bakers Arms, and Mr Mitchell began his assault on a second bottle of his favourite red, as was his norm.

“My dear Robert” said Mitchell…”Now you must set about finding my body, as well as the person or persons responsible for his demise…and by the sound of it you have some promising leads…”. 

Mitchell was quite amused with the event, rather than irate, as Charters had expected, and saw that it had put Charters’ in an awkward position, and he had not seen him so concerned, previously. 

However, he had heard what Beddows had said, and was optimistic that the dark forces would be identified and the matter concluded, and he would make nothing more of it…

“Yes Mr Coroner” Charters responded sternly, his eyes upon Beddows and Shepherd…”and find them we will…” angry still at the loss of a body, but seething at the thought of his corrupt Detective Sergeant’s involvement…

“Back to my office, please, gentlemen…” Charters directed to Beddows and Shepherd.

*****

At about seven o’clock that same evening, Beddows and Shepherd stood to attention in front of Head Constable Charters at his desk, in the office beyond the Muster Room in the Police Station. The door was shut firm.

“What a shambles” stressed Charters…”Shambles!” he echoed…”How can we justify losing a corpse?” His tone was much less than Beddows had anticipated.

“Sir” said Beddows “For a long time now we have had the problem of where to keep bodies for The Coroner, and none of the present arrangements can offer us total security. Most of the Inns we use for Inquests have no secure storage. The physicians won’t help with dead bodies, and the workhouse and infirmary only have them when they’ve died there. I’ve been to bodies that have lain for days in the homes where they died because there was nowhere to take them and nobody to bury them…”

“I know that” responded Charters, sympathetically… ”but we can’t afford to lose a body. Even if it means someone having to guard it until an inquest has been heard…but that won’t resolve this current situation…I will speak with the Borough Watch Committee and see what chance there is of a Police mortuary…”

“Thank you sir” said Beddows…

“Now then” said Charters, “get hold of Sergeants Smith and Haynes, I want to speak with you all about how we are going to deal with this…” at which point there was knock at the door. 

Standing outside were Smith and Haynes…”You wanted us sir?” Smith smiled…

“We have several tasks that need to be undertaken. Does anybody know where Sergeant Roberts is at this moment?” enquired Charters, anxious to vent his wrath on the miserable man, who had now vanished off the face of the Borough, but only when the time was right.

“I’ve a pretty good idea” said Haynes…”do you want me to bring him in sir?” hoping to settle a few old scores with the good Sergeant, and see him sorted once and for all.

“Not immediately, but  I want to know where he goes and who he meets for the next day or so…he’ll be up to something I fear…” said Charters . “You and Smith have that task…” at which point they left the room and went off to their dressing up box…

“And you two, you are off normal duties until I say otherwise, and I have two tasks for you…First I want this man Pawley bringing in. Use your initiative. Secondly, I then want Salt to know we have arrested Pawley, and then to see where he goes and who he meets up with…do you understand?”

“…and I want the body back first, and we can deal with that now. Then we can deal with the Murder…as our suspects may have some light to throw on that…” said Charters

“Yes sir” said Beddows “On it right away sir…” at which point they saluted Charters and made off to the Muster Room, aware that things had turned out a lot brighter than Beddows had expected.

*****

Churchgate got increasingly shabby as you travelled down it from the “five ways” at The Cole Hill, or Bere Hill as it was still called by the older population, and towards the start of the Rookeries along Mansfield Street and Sandiacre Street.

Beddows had shaken the door handles to Pawley’s workshop every night, and several times a night, when his beat had included the block between Churchgate and Abbey Street, and before it had spawned into the slums that now existed there.

Only on rare occasions had he found Pawley there, later than seven o’clock at night, and he suspected only when he was doing something underhand.

The front of Pawley’s workshop was via a small wicket door to a yard alongside The Star Foundry, below Mansfield Street. The yard took you through to the small workshop which occupied the rear, and backed onto Short Street, running parallel with Churchgate. 

Short Street was one of those very narrow, cobbled streets, where you could lean out of first floor windows and shake hands with the person in the opposite house.

At the rear gates to Pawley’s workshop, the road widened slightly, to allow him to swing in with a small cart, which could be shackled inside the workshop. Pawley had occasional access to a mule from Delaney’s builders in Mansfield Street.

The workshop itself was dark and smelt of filth, much like the rest of the Borough, but on a scale where it was clearly part of the Rookeries, rather than other properties on Churchgate, and therefore the smell was more noxious. Death permeated the woodwork.

The yard to the workshop had its own privvie, which smelt and looked like it had never been emptied before, and even in the cold of winter, it was fly ridden.

To call himself a carpenter was questionable. Pawley’s handy-work that could be found in the premises was poorly sourced cheap timber, warped and probably recycled, and tacked together with cheap horse-glue and even cheaper nails which he “obtained” from over the wall at Star Foundry, Beddows suspected.

His undertaking business comprised of pieces of old tea-chest plywood, the cheapest you could imagine, which he knocked together to make very flimsy “Parish” coffins. 

These were sold by him at a comparative extortionate cost, to grieving families that wanted to send off a loved one with some degree of dignity, or to the Poor Law union for those even less fortunate, who were buried in communal graves at the expense of the parish, up at the newly opened Welford Road cemetery. 

Many of them fell to pieces the minute they were lifted with a body weight inside them, or they warped when the juices of decomposition began to flow, as so often happened with poorer families’ deceased, and then fell to bits.

Often, owing to the long and pitiful working week, the only day a family could bury their dead would be on a Sunday, if they were lucky enough to have any time given to them for attending church.

Actually making the arrangements meant not seeing an undertaker for days after the death, so it could be two weeks between death occurring, arranging and then carrying out a funeral.

The bodies often were laid out by the “woman who does” in the deceased’s own home, and remained there until the funeral or until the undertaker came for the body, by which time it was often putrid. Often, the rest of the family was still living in the same room as the corpse.

Joseph Dare, and John Buck, Health and Social reformers in the Borough had both recently commented on this most grave risk and pressed the Borough for some alternative means for families to prepare and temporarily store their dead.

In 1849 Welford Road cemetery had opened, and the Borough made provision of two Mortuary houses inside the gates of the cemetery, where corpses could be laid out or stored until such time as they could be buried. 

This was good for families that could afford removal and transportation fees, but to most, it was still beyond their means, and the corpses remained rotting in their homes until the funeral day…

*****

Beddows and Shepherd made their way through the easing fog, round into Short Street. This was the start of the area where they would be prone to attacks, and chased from the Rookeries if they did not have the courage to stand firm.

A few scallywags and urchins wandered through the darkness and made rude gestures or a veiled threat to the Constables, but Beddows was not going to be put off.

One or two seemingly disabled beggars sat in the shadows on each street corner looking for some charitable mark that would offer a coin from a full purse and that nearby thieves or pick-pockets could then target.

No doubt though, that word would be going around the Rookeries that there were Constables in their midst.

Beddows hammered on the flimsy doors to the rear yard “Open up …Constables Beddows and Shepherd…”

Beddows could hear sawing noises from inside stop. “Must be up to no good at this time of day…” he thought to himself…

After a few moments, the sound of timber moving against timber could be heard, and Pawley lifted the latch and opened the gate to the Constables.

“I was hoping that last night was the last I would see of you two” Pawley said, sounding disappointed.

“You should be so lucky, Edward my old son…you should be so lucky…Why do you think we are here then?” quizzed Beddows, looking for signs of fear or guilt on Pawley’s Face…

“I suppose you have come to taunt me for being found with that male “Three penny upright” as you suspected, but like we said last night, it weren’t what you thought…” 

“Oh we know that now my dear, we know what you had really been up to and what you were doing with the sniveling little shit Salt. It seems we are missing a body, a corpse, and a stinky one at that, and you have that same smell upon you…even now…as you did in the early hours of this morning…” Beddows growled, angry that he had not made the connection there and then.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, corpse, I haven’t seen a corpse for weeks…” came the timid response. 

Pawley sensed he was caught out and was struggling to come up with anything more plausible.

“Don’t you know that hampering the Coroner is an offence Edward? And not only that, this corpse is a bit more important than most, know what I mean?” said Beddows, leaning close to the man’s face, before pulling back on account of his foul breath.

“I’m not saying anything; I don’t know what you are on about…honest…” Pawley squirmed, deciding that it was better to say nothing, than incriminate himself further…Beddows would have to prove what he had done…

“Well anyways, I am arresting you on suspicion of stealing one dead body…oh, and one tarpaulin belonging to Charles Church, just in case! That will do for starters…and we’re going to have a look around your measly little workshop before we take you in…understand. …” said Beddows

 “How many copses have you got at the moment then Edward?” asked Shepherd, anxious that he did not open or step in something he might regret.

“Haven’t had one for weeks – had no call lately, like I just said…” Pawley replied

“Don’t smell that way to me…where’s your cart dear?” asked Beddows, noting that there was an obvious item of Pawley’s trade missing.

“Cart?” shrugged Pawley, trying to look oblivious to the Constable

“Yes, that tatty old four wheeler that you ‘appropriated’ from off of old man Ginns, the Good and genuine undertaker across the road there, when he threw it out. Don’t you think I know these things… it’s my business to know. Just the thing you use for your funeral activities as I recall…

… Chuck the coffin on the back, fleece the family or the Union, then chuck it in a shitty little pauper’s grave and say you’ve done the family or the parish a favour! I don’t think so, you nasty little piece of work…” Beddows growled yet again…angry that the Parish even patronised him.

“Oh that cart” Pawley replied…”I think some rotten scoundrel must have stolen it Constable Beddows…it seems to be missing…Must report it to a Constable when I see one that’s interested…”

“Very amusing Edward…but we’ll see who laughs last…If I can connect you to the body, I might even see you swing for this last night’s work...” Beddows laughed, standing on Pawley’s right toes, and pushing his weight onto that side, grinding in the hobnails…

Pawley suddenly went very pale and pissed his pants…and his eyes started to water…

“It looks like I hit a nerve Edward my dear…one way or another…”Beddows grinned, hiding his revulsion and holding back the thoughts he had to do the man much greater harm…

“You’re making a habit of this Beddows” said Shepherd…”How many more people will piss or shit themselves today?”

“Some very nervous fellows around Leicester lad…” Beddows replied...”And quite rightly so at the moment…”