Sweet Things Dying - Chapter XIX

In which Cole follows a lead and meets a new suspect...

XIX

Over a supper of cold beef, horseradish, cheese and warm ale, Cole sat and skimmed through the pages of four newspapers. Every article focused on Heather. All took the narrative of her death far off the course he’d since developed in his mind. Any idea held that Heather had died in some backroom surgery should have stalled then. The place of her murder, he learned, had been identified and it was far from any barbershop on Cable Street.

He chewed absently as he read:

A glade near the Regent Canal has been discovered as the place of young Heather Bloom’s murder, said the Wednesday evening edition of the Daily Telegraph. The article continued, It was happened upon early this morning by two boys who had stopped in the area on their walk to school. The glade is a common place of play for many of the local children but the cold and damp weather of late has kept them from the place, leaving its terrible secrets unknown for more than a week.

Situated behind the Tallmast Tavern on the north bank, the thicket is a dense tangle of beech tress and briar shrubs enclosed by a crumbling stonewall. A carpet of dead leaves and a scattering of craggy rocks lay within, sloping down through low, over-hanging branches to the Thames foreshore. Many boys use the place to play games, skip on their classes and smoke cigarettes. Whatever the motives of the two boys this morning, their adventure was hastened by the discovery of a woman’s belongings, including a bonnet and torn bits of fabric since determined to have come from Miss Bloom’s dresses.

The fact that her body was recovered from the water not far away all but confirms her attendance at the location, her corpse likely dragged from the thicket and disposed unceremoniously into the cold murk.

Knowing something of the murder, the boys fled to the Tallmast and related their finding. The proprietor of the tavern and a number of its patrons, some the worse for drink, descended on the glade in great excitement and confirmed the boys’ claim.

Aside from the bonnet and fabric, it was stated that a number of branches appeared broken with the ground much disturbed with scuffs and footmarks, as though a struggle between two or more individuals had occurred.

The police were sent for and by 9 a.m. – nearly thirty minutes after the find was made – they descended on the scene, which by then had attracted many more passers-by. The police struggled to clear the glade of all curiosity seekers as they inspected the grounds and took possession of the materials found therein. By this time, the ground and brush were much disturbed and a detective who arrived there noted little else of use beyond what appeared to be drag marks in the soil leading to the river. The connotations derived are unmistakable, however the full extent of the fate Miss Bloom met within the glade may only be guessed at.

All the papers relayed the same details, suggesting the reporters likely got much of it right. But this news was forced to share the broadsheets with another mortar burst of print. A written statement, from the pen of Reverend Bloom, had been issued to the Central News offices that day. All the newspapers who subscribed to the agency had crammed it into their evening editions under bold banners such as “Father of Murdered Girl Speaks!” and “Reverend Bloom Shares Family’s Dismay.”

Cole swallowed the last of his ale, scooped froth from the bottle with his finger and sucked it clean as he, for the third time, read over Bloom’s pitiful and critical words:

For perhaps the first time in my life, I find myself troubled to discover the proper words to express my feelings as both a father and a reverend. Those who attend my regular sermons know that I am never short on words. However, they are often words meant to salve and inspire. Today, it is difficult to express any thoughts beyond sorrow and anger, and not only as a father and a Man of God – but as a citizen of this great city.

It is no secret now that our beloved daughter, Miss Heather Bloom, has fallen prey to the sin and depravity that flows through London’s streets as freely as the sewage that runs beneath it. She, a lady of youth and virtue, has become yet another victim to the immorality of the men who are becoming all too frequent occupiers of what, in my own youth, had been a more pious and God-fearing England. Ask any reverend or loyal parishioner if they have noticed a sharp decline in recent years in attendance to Sunday services, and they will unanimously tell you, “yes!” And at the same time, ask any police detective and physician if they have grown busier as a result of violence and they, too, will scream, “yes!” This is no coincidence. Men have steadily begun to distance themselves from God and position themselves closer to beasts, sacrificing righteous behaviour for selfish indulgence. And with that goes the innocence and the innocent of the people who once filled this city.

I pen this letter less for my own daughter whose time has come too soon, but for the daughters out there yet affected, and I beg that proper attention be given to the decline of our city. I beg that we do all that is possible to slow it so that their virtue and their lives not be needlessly cut short by the savages. The savages who indulge in drink and lust and sacrifice their own eternal souls so that they may satisfy their wicked cravings. No mother and no father should endure the pain my own family has been burdened with these past days. My position under God has been the only blessing throughout this ordeal, for He continues to speak to me, to comfort me with the knowledge that our Heather is now in His arms in His Kingdom. She shall never again know pain nor fear, He tells me, but that is little comfort to the poor innocents who still wander out streets, stalked by human predators who ill-consciously serve the objectives of Satan because they have never indulged in the words of God. It is therefore an imperative that if England is to survive into the Twentieth Century that we not continue to lose sight of the enlightened guidance that has brought us thus far. Get your men and boys back into church. Force them to give up their barbaric sport and games in the streets and parks and engage themselves in service to their church. Tell your misdirected girls and women to find community and comfort at the altar of Christ, and not at the public house or the music halls. Tell them to put down their novels and penny dreadfuls, and to pick up their Bibles.

I do not expect that those who are to be blamed for what has happened to our Heather shall ever feel earthly justice. But that is of little matter. For if they do not seek the salvation of our Lord, their penalty shall be far greater in the end. I should, however, wish upon them forgiveness with my very own lips were they to attend my services one Sunday morning and ask for it. I should work with them to seek piety and righteousness despite their evil acts if it should set them straight and keep them from harming other innocents. For they, too, were once innocents, born pure. Life and the negative influence of our progressive culture are more responsible for misshaping them. As a father and a soldier of Christianity, I shall wish nothing more than that the purity of their birthright be restored and for all London to forgive them should they wish to seek such forgiveness. For vengeance and hate toward the guilty are just as much corruptions of a man’s soul as the other sins that drive him to do wrong.

So I ask that all of you, all of London and all of England, seek a return to decency under God with the promise that He will deliver it.

Cole crumpled the newsprint and threw it at the grate. It fell short. He stared at it from the bed, tried to ignore it. At last, with gritted teeth, he sprang up and kicked the slowly unfurling ball into the blaze where it flared, blackened, and fell to dust upon the coals.

Of all the madness that filled London’s papers any given day.

To blame the metropolis – its people.

To accept no blame himself, with his fairy tale God as his forgiveness balm.

Did the man enjoy it? Find delight in the tears and sorrow others spilled for his sake?

Cole bought none of it. Had seen too much of the other side of the matter to be fooled. And the fact that Bloom, with his sad missive, had tried to play others for fools only added to the certainty that he was far more involved in matters than was yet wholly clear.

Would the police see it as Cole had? Quinn knew as much as he did. If so, they had yet to act, which only bespoke to how circumstantial the facts were, however convincing they may seem. While Cole saw much of value in the circumstances, the police would be more cautious and dig for something more tangible before acting on their conclusions.

The spectacle of the glade – the possible stage upon which the murder occurred – stuck a thorn in Cole’s ideas, though against all else that was known it did little but divert attention from what was logically obvious amongst better stated facts.

The glade might be where the body had been disposed into the river – likely, it was. As a stage for her final struggle and murder it seemed just that – a stage whereupon the audience that was all of London would now turn its expectant eyes, minds firing with all sort of wild theories and baseless accusations about drunken sailors and roving gangs who had set upon the girl with lustful ire.

Horseshit, he thought, staring out at the darkening street, but seeing only his own face in the window.

But how could any man of God be complicit in an act so heinous? Either directly, or as one who knew the truth but concealed it for his own good name? It was a simple answer. Men of God, after all, were either childishly naïve – if well-meaning – or proud and boastful liars using their position for the power it gave them over others. They held faith in God but believed in themselves more. He was certain Bloom was one of the latter. So tied up was the reverend with his station in life, not even the life of his daughter could usurp it.

Steps creaked on the floor outside his door. Cole turned from the window. An envelope shot beneath the door, followed by a single sharp knock. The footfalls retreated.

Cole snatched it off the floor. It was from Stewart. The journalist had been quick in his research; perhaps sacrificed writing his evening article for it. Cole owed him for that.

There were no salutations or personal remarks. Just a point-by-point list of facts, formed under the two headings Cole had asked him to dig into: Abortionists and Charities. Under the former, Stewart was careful to note many were just speculative based on word-on-the-street information. The latter gave a definitive outline of the places around the East End where Bloom had focused his missions.

As always, Cole read and reread until he’d memorised all relevant data. Once finished he breathed deeply. There were plenty of soup kitchens, women’s shelters, and orphanages, even small local shops run by members of Bloom’s congregation, in receipt of his charity. All of this was to be expected. Even seeing that Tommy Thorne’s engraving business had received some small stipend did not surprise Cole. But was it not strange to see a Jewish barbershop in a separate parish receive recent donations from an Evangelical church?

The records that Stewart had uncovered were dated as recently as late November and went back to the start of the year. The Cable Street barber was the newest addition to the list, with the first donations being made in October and continuing for each week thereafter. To date, a little more than three pounds – about ten shillings per week – had been given over from the church’s coffers. Not an insubstantial sum. When Cole ran his eyes over the columned figures aligned by Stewart, he saw that, in fact, the Jewish barber, of all places, was being gifted quite handsomely by comparison to the shelters and orphanages. Surely these latter institutions would be more deserving of compensation. It seemed that Bloom felt he owed something to the barber.

Cole could hazard to guess why.