The Art of Murder

Chapter 49

Whitechapel, 6 October 1888 'This bleedin' sack just gets 'eavier and 'eavier,' Eddie Morestone moaned. 'And stop fucking wrigglin' around, ya bastards!' he snapped, hoisting the sack a few inches above the slurry running along the floor. At thirty-two, Eddie was already an old man. The life of a tosher was a hard one, but he had come from a desperate family. His father and two uncles had been mudlarks whose work had involved finding anything of value they could in the sewage-filled banks of the Thames. At times their job had required them to pull a bloated dead body on to a barge or the sand banks, and to strip the poor soul of anything the waters had not aleady claimed: gold teeth, rings, crucifixes… anything that would fetch a profit. Eddie had worked on the river for two years but he hated the water and when a friend had suggested they go into partnership together as toshers, trawling through the East End sewers for rats that could be sold for baiting dogs in the gambling dens, he'd jumped at the chance.

The friend, Jimmy Grafter, had died five years ago, a victim of cholera – 'the downside to the job' Eddie would joke darkly to anyone who would talk to him; anyone that is who could bear his stink. After Jimmy was taken, Eddie got himself a new partner, Quick Tom, a kid of twelve at the time who still deserved his nickname. He was already carrying the partnership, and Eddie's days down the sewers were numbered; they both knew it.

'Tom, slow down a sec, will ya?' he called into the darkness ahead.

'I wanna get 'ome,' the boy snapped back, keeping up the pace. He had his own sack of restless rodents to drag along. Then, out of pity, he stopped to let Eddie catch up. Sighing, he waited for the older man to slosh his way level, panting as he advanced. Tom was holding their only source of illumination, a small lamp poised just in front of his nose. It cast sinister shadows across his pox-scarred face.

'Cheers, son,' Eddie wheezed.

It was then that they heard the scraping sound.

''Ello,' Tom said, a grin appearing through the filth coating his face. 'Sounds like a big'un.'

'It's comin' from over there.' Eddie gave a brief nod towards a point further along the tunnel to their left.

They crept forward lightly. 'What the…?' Tom exclaimed then.

'What is it?'

'It's a bloke!'

What?' Eddie sidled up and dropped his sack at his feet, ignoring the way it undulated with the movement of the angry rats inside it. 'Well, fuck me!'

Tom bent down beside the crumpled figure. 'He's been tied up, the poor sod.'

'Is he alive?'

'Dunno.'

Eddie crouched down and noticed the knife and a soggy box containing smears of something that looked like chocolate beside an opened bottle of wine. 'Somefink strange 'appened 'ere,' he noted. 'What're the knife and the bottle about?' Before Tom could reply, Eddie turned away and lifted the man's drooping head. Archibald Thomson's face was pale and a thick rope of dried vomit ran from his mouth, down his neck and across his shirt.

'He's breathin',' Tom said, and turned to Eddie with a glint in his eye. 'You finkin' what I'm finkin'?'

Eddie leaned forward and shook the man then tried to force open his eyes. Archibald shuddered.

'He's a gent,' Tom observed, studying the wretched figure's clothes. 'Check 'is pockets, Ed.'

Eddie thrust his hand inside Archibald's jacket and fished out a wallet. 'Weren't robbed then.'

'Nah. Anyfink in it?'

Eddie pulled out a handful of crumpled notes. 'Must be at least five pounds 'ere.'

Tom whistled. 'Nice one,' he said, pulling out a fob watch. 'Gold bleedin' chain and all.' He winked at Eddie. 'Come on. Let's grab the stuff and go. And don't forget the knife,' he added, nodding towards it where it lay a few feet away. 'Could be worth a bit.'

''Ang on.'

Tom looked at him, screwing up his eyes and tilting his head.

'Fink, Tommy, fink! Don't ya reckon there might be a reward out for this bloke? He's obviously a gent, and must be worth a bob or two. Someone should be very grateful we found 'im alive.'

Tom gave the older man a doubtful look.

Eddie could almost see the kid's mind ticking over. 'Well?'

'All right,' he said after a long pause. 'But we'll take the money on 'im. No one need be any the wiser, eh?'