by J C Briggs
Scrap came back, every inch the street urchin with his ragged trousers, dirty face and a cap that resembled a dead cat in his hand. He offered it to Mollie. ‘Penny fer the music.’
‘Call that music,’ she laughed.
‘Mollie Rogers, you wound me to the quick — if you had seen me at my last soiree. Mind, it’s the only tune I can play on this.’ Dickens fingered the keys again and out he went with Scrap, putting the instrument in its box.
‘Clerkenwell, eh?’ said Scrap. ‘You’ll need these —’ he offered Dickens a pair of fingerless gloves — ‘diamonds in Clerkenwell, Mr D — wot yer thinkin’ of?’
Dickens put them on. ‘And there was I thinking my green spectacles were the crowning touch.’
‘I ’opes yer can see where you’re goin’. ’Oo we lookin’ fer?’ Scrap asked.
‘A lady — a nice looking lady with very fair hair. Name of Miss Violet Pout.’
‘She done the murder o’ that servant girl?’
‘I don’t think so, but she knew her and I think the girl, Jemima Curd, may have gone up to Clerkenwell to see her.’
‘Where we startin’?’
‘I have an idea about that. Here’s a cab.’
The cab driver looked a bit doubtful about the ragged boy and the man in the green spectacles. They dint look as if they had two farthing’s, never mind fare to Clerkenwell.
‘Two bob ter Clerkenwell.’
Dickens fumbled in his pocket for the coin, but he couldn’t resist saying, ‘A bob an’ a tune, sir. I’m a poor man.’
‘Two bob an’ none o’ yer tricks, you old rogue.’
The old rogue gave him the money and they climbed in.
Granted, Clerkenwell was notorious for its swarming alleys, its disreputable pubs, its crowded, dilapidated lodging houses, its population of prostitutes, thieves, fences, and its frequent murders, but there were still pockets of gentility. Dickens thought that Violet Pout — if, indeed, she were here — would be lodging in a better class of house, in Myddleton Square, perhaps, or Claremont Square which was built round a reservoir — the Carlyles had lived there once. Thomas had used to take a morning walk by the reservoir. Dickens had been round those squares when he had, some fifteen years ago, looked at a new house on the New River Estate — very pretty, he had thought, but too dear.
There were still professional men living up here: lawyers, architects, wine merchants, jewellers, watchmakers — and artists. And, Dickens had thought, while getting into his disguise, George Cruikshank, the artist had lived in Armwell Street for years — pity he had moved, but he had met George Hughes who also lived in Armwell Street with his wife Emily Nicholson, an artist in her own right. Just the kind of area an artist might live — Mr Tony, for instance. And some called Clerkenwell “Little Italy”.
The cab dropped them in St John’s Street by the reservoir where poor Jemima had met her death. She might, of course, have been in Clerkenwell looking for her drunken mother, but she had been strangled, and with a ribbon made of silk. Speculation, Dickens knew that, but what else could he do? He had promised Anne Brown that he would try to find Violet. Stick to that, he told himself.
A footpath known as Myddleton passage led from Sadler’s Wells into Myddleton Square. It was a dark and very narrow passage with a kink in it where, even now, in the early afternoon, it was black as pitch — just the sort of place a man might use as a shortcut to the new reservoir — just the sort of place in which a man might strangle a girl before emerging into the raucous crowds milling about Sadler’s Wells. Who would notice a man holding up a girl — drunk, they’d think, if they did notice. On one side of the passage ran the perimeter wall of the New River Head — it must have been seven feet high. On the other side was a wall broken at intervals by the doors to the gardens of the houses in Myddleton Square. They would be locked at night against intruders. Some looked as if they never were open. There was a gas lamp at the further end to which he and Scrap were walking. It wouldn’t give much light at midnight, say, and he couldn’t see any others. They waited, listening to the silence. No one came down the passage.
‘Gives yer the creeps, don’t it — feel as if I’m buried alive,’ Scrap said.
‘It does. Let’s go on.’
Dickens and Scrap came out into the square where the church of St Mark’s stood in the centre.
‘Let’s have a stroll round — get the lie of the land. See who’s about.’
They walked along the south side of the square, looking at the houses and noting the passers-by: a young woman carrying a small child, who looked at them over the nurse’s shoulder with wide eyes; a professional looking gentleman in a hurry; two ladies getting out of a cab and going up the steps to a house. Dickens looked up, hoping for a familiar face at a window. The east and north sides of the square were much the same. At the corner where the square opened into the street that led to Claremont Square, Dickens stopped.
‘What now?’ asked Scrap.
‘A little light music, I think.’
He lounged against the railings of a house. Scrap took off his hat, laid it down on the pavement and squatted beside it. Dickens began his rendering of “Home Sweet Home”.
It wasn’t long before above them a window opened and a shower of coins descended, some bouncing off Dickens’s top hat. ‘Clear off, can’t you? That’s a dreadful din. Call yourself a musician.’
Dickens looked up to see a head disappearing and the window closed with a defiant thud. Scrap picked up the money and they went round the corner into Claremont Terrace. Here the passers-by were more numerous, making their way up to Claremont Square or down into Amwell Street. Some looked at the blind man and his ragged boy pityingly and gave a penny or two. A very tall clergyman loped by and dropped two farthings into the hat, murmuring, ‘God bless you.’ More often, people hurried past, grimacing at the sound of the concertina. Two ragged urchins, black as a couple of sweeps, stopped and stared as Dickens paused and took up his tune again.
‘Play us another, old codger — we ain’t got no sweet ’ome ter go ter.’
Dickens couldn’t oblige. Scrap ignored them, too busy counting the money.
‘Come on ol’ buryin’ face, give us a polka.’
The two of them danced about, enjoying themselves hugely, one of them holding up his one leg of his torn breeches as if it were the skirt of a genteel lady. The other bowed and said, ‘Shockin’ din, ain’t it? Not much class about ’ere, miss.’
‘Sling yer ’ooks then if yer don’t like it,’ Scrap growled, his patience wearing thin.
‘Gran’pa deaf as well as blind, is ’e? Must be ter put up wiv that row —’ Scrap stood up threateningly — ‘Temper, temper, young ’un.’
‘No need ter get the spike on. Ta ta, then, goin’ ter the hopera we ’is.’
They ran off, screeching. Scrap turned to Dickens. ‘This ain’t no good, Mr D. We looks a pair o’ fools.’
‘You’re right. How much did we make?’
‘Ten pence that came from ’eaven, six pence and two farthin’s, a bone button — cracked, an’ a bit of ol’ cake.’
‘Not bad, considerin’ —’
‘The racket yer made.’
Dickens laughed. ‘All right, let’s go up to Claremont Square — I won’t play anymore.’
They went up to the reservoir which formed the centre of the square and had a look at the water that looked placid enough in the winter sun. There was a raised footpath all the way round. A nursemaid passed them, pushing her three-wheeled perambulator in which a pair of infant twins looked out at the world gloomily like a pair of elderly senators going to the Forum in their chariot, and expecting disaster. A boy followed, bowling his hoop, his face rosy in the cold and his cap perched rakishly on the side of his head. Going home for tea by the nursery fire, Dickens thought, as they darted aside from the wobbling hoop.
They looked at the houses — but they were very like the houses in Myddleton Square and the ones beyond in Armwell Street, an
d, he knew, in Lloyd Square and River Street. They saw plenty of young women and various couples, but none resembled Violet Pout, and there was no artist carrying a handy palette and brushes to proclaim his calling.
‘Call it a day?’ Scrap looked disappointed. ‘Nothin’ doin’.’
Dickens took off his green spectacles, looped the strap of the concertina box over his shoulder, and they went back towards Sadler’s Wells where the streets were rougher and more crowded. They passed a seedy looking pub. Scrap looked hungry — as always.
21: The Forlorn Hope
As its name suggested, The Forlorn Hope looked to be the last refuge of the gone to seed, never to bloom again. It looked like the lair of disbarred lawyers, unfrocked clergymen, out of work actors and down-at-heel ticket of leave men who drowned their sorrows in adulterated porter and played for pennies with greasy cards. There were labourers in leather aprons, hulking men who looked like coal-heavers, a few women who looked as though they might be touting for business, and a couple of toothless crones swigging gin.
The place was packed and reeked of tallow candles, tobacco fumes, stale beer and human degradation. Dickens went to the bar to buy a couple of glasses of pale ale and Scrap risked a worrying looking pie.
‘Give us a tune, mister,’ a woman shouted.
‘Blimey, Mr D, you ain’t —’ But Dickens couldn’t resist. He turned to the company and struck up “Home Sweet Home” to the yells of the crowd which rather too quickly turned to jeers.
Scrap hurried them to a rickety table near the door — they wouldn’t be staying long.
‘I ’opes one o’ them ain’t the cat’s meat man,’ said Scrap, stabbing the pastry with his fork. ‘No, it looks awright —’ he tried some meat — ‘ain’t half bad.’
Dickens looked about him as he drank his pale ale. Not the sort of place where Violet Pout might be found. It was no use — Sam’s men would just have to keep making their enquiries.
A woman walked towards them — a woman in dark green velvet. When he saw her red hair, Dickens thought for a wild moment that it was Dolly Marchant and his heart turned over, but when she sat down, he saw that the velvet was worn and patched and the voice told its own story.
‘Ain’t seen yer about ’ere before — lookin’ fer someone?’ She had seen Dickens looking about him. ‘Might be able ter ’elp. Name’s Cassie — Cassie Hanlon.’
‘Me and me lad, we’re lookin’ fer me daughter. She’s left ’ome. Thort she might be workin’ fer a Miss Pout. The boy, Dan’l, misses ’is sister.’
Scrap looked suitably downcast.
‘Don’t know ’er — what’s yer girl’s name?’ Cassie asked.
‘Jemima — Jemima Curd.’
She looked shocked. ‘Bleedin’ ’ell, mister, she drowned — Ned Orrey found ’er — murder, ’e sed. Perlice all over askin about ’er.’
Should have thought of that, thought Dickens. Too late now. Scrap burst into noisy sobs. Dickens ploughed on. ‘Oh, gawd, not my girl, not my lovely girl, oh, gawd, gawd ’elp us.’ He must have overdone it — suddenly a shower of beer was flung into Dickens’s face. Tragedy was not really his forte on the stage — comedy was more in his line.
A raddled filthy hag screamed at him. ‘Dirty bleeder, you ain’t my Georgie an’ e’s no son o’ mine.’ A pewter pot followed the beer and caught Dickens on the cheekbone. He stood up, and so did Katy Hanlon who screamed, too. The other hag screeched, ‘Imposter,’ and Mrs Curd — it must be she — shouted obscenities mingled with cries of ‘Murderer.’
A man with hands as big as hams snatched up Scrap by the collar. ‘Yer little bleeder,’ he shouted, shaking him like a dog. Scrap had his tankard in his hand and bashed the hulk in the face, simultaneously kicking him in the groin. Someone hit the hulk with an iron trivet and he went down like a log. Scrap wriggled free — the iron might be meant for him so he made a quick retreat under the table.
By now, the motley company had surged forward, some out of curiosity, most from a desire to join in and lynch the murderer. Mrs Curd leapt forward, her filthy claws ready to tear at Dickens’s face. She missed, but fastened her nails in his coat — he smelt the stink of fish — and worse. The table overturned and bottles and plates crashed down. Another woman yelled ‘Murderer!’
Dickens snatched up his concertina in its box and swung it by the leather strap, causing a momentary parting of the crowd as some ducked. The box struck a man’s face — Dickens heard the crack of bone.
Scrap darted from his refuge and through the temporary opening, shouting, ‘Perlice’ as he shot through the door, dodging a man who tried to stop him with a chair — the chair hit the wrong man, broke into pieces, and another brawl started.
‘Perlice,’ a voice shouted. ‘’E’s a bleedin’ rozzer.’
‘Copper’s nark,’ shouted another.
Make up your mind, thought Dickens, as he made another attempt to swing his weapon. A hand grabbed it and he was dragged forward, hanging onto the strap, and feeling his arm half-pulled from its socket, his filthy incubus still clinging to him and screaming, ‘Murderin’ bastard.’
The gamblers had started their own row — someone had nicked the money. Someone shouted that ‘’E’d do fer Jecks!’
‘Jecks,’ the cry went up.
Not a popular man, Jecks. He was flung to the floor.
‘Cheatin’ bastard.’ A wild-haired woman leapt on him, pummelling with her fists. Jecks roared and kicked out madly, catching another woman on the face. Blood spurted from her nose. Howling like a banshee, she joined her friend in the attack. Several men jumped in. Dickens’s own assailant let go of the leather strap so that he could fall upon Jecks instead.
Dicken staggered back and Mrs Curd dropped from him at last and was lost in the fury of blows, flying chairs, screeches and curses. A fist aimed a punch, but just in time, Cassie dragged him away to the door, losing half the back of her dress in the process. Some enemy had taken the chance for revenge.
‘Keep yer scabby ’ands off my Jemmy, Cassie ’Anlon, yer dirty tart.’
‘Wouldn’t touch ’im with a pig poke, Clem Trotters, get back ter yer stye.’
Clem Trotters lurched forward, but Cassie was too quick and they were out of the door in a trice just as Inspector Shackell was about to go in.
‘We bin attacked,’ Cassie shouted, ‘me an’ me friend — ’ere, where’s ’is lad?’
Scrap appeared. ‘Found a policeman. Lor, Mr Dickens, yer face is all over blood.’
Dickens looked a sorry sight, blood on his face, his coat torn, and his hat gone. Miraculously the concertina was still in his hand — the box had vanished.
Inspector Shackell took charge, sending in his burly constables with their rattles and truncheons. Some kind of order would be restored, no doubt.
‘Mr Dickens?’ he asked, astonished. ‘Who started this?’
‘Mrs Curd took me for a murderer — it influenced the company somewhat against me,’ Dickens replied.
‘You were asking about Jemima Curd?’
‘I was actually looking for a woman called Violet Pout. Miss Curd’s name came up — er — accidentally.’
Scrap hid his grin behind his hand and nodded. Cassie didn’t comment. She wasn’t a copper’s nark.
‘Want to press charges?’ Inspector Shackell asked.
‘No, no, but Mr Jones will be glad for you to take her to Bow Street.’
‘So, he will, you’ve done me a favour, Mr Dickens, we’ve searched all over.’
The noise was beginning to die down. The door flew open and the hapless Jecks flew out to land at the Inspector’s feet. He was a most pitiable object, but alive, if not kicking.
‘Hook it, Jecks.’ The Inspector was without pity.
Dickens helped Jecks to his feet — after all the beaten man had saved him from Lord knows what. It was his good fortune that everyone loathed Jecks. Jecks shambled away without a word. Inspector Shackell went in to arrange for Mrs Curd’s detention.
&nb
sp; Dickens turned to Cassie. ‘Miss Hanlon, I think you may have saved my life. I am much obliged. You didn’t think that I’m a murderer?’
‘Nah, knew yer was a toff, though — yer cuffs, see. Clean — starched probably. I worked as a laundress once. An’ yer boots is polished — I done that in me time.’
‘Very observant, Miss Hanlon, my thanks.’
‘Yer voice was good, but a few too many “gawds”, I’d say. Overdid that bit. The lad was good — regular urchin, I’d say for a gent. Oughter be on the stage.’
‘I am much obliged, Miss Hanlon.’ Scrap bowed, and winked at Dickens, who kept a straight face.
‘I owe you — the dress. My fault, I think,’ Dickens said.
‘Bloody Clem. I ain’t touched the greasy little runt, Jemmy, nobody would, not even fer ready money. All the same, them Trotters, swine at the piggin. It was Clem’s doin’.’ Cassie smoothed down her worn velvet, genteel as any lady.
‘Nevertheless, you must have a new one.’ Dickens took out all the coins from his pocket and dropped them into her hand. He thought about Cassie Hanlon’s sharp eyes. ‘Do you live about here?’
‘Lodgin’s at number four, Baker’s Row, off Amwell Street.’
‘If you could search about for a Miss Violet Pout, I should be very grateful. We were looking for her. She is tall and slender, with very pale hair — most distinctive, and rather pale blue eyes.’
‘Lady?’
‘Yes, she was a governess.’ Dickens fished in his pocket under the long coat for a card. ‘Wellington Street, over the Strand from Bow Street.’
Cassie Hanlon took the card. ‘Obliged fer the money, sir. Let yer know.’
‘She might be living with a man — an artist, possibly.’
‘Lady, is it?’ Cassie said satirically, and walked away, her head held high.
Dickens watched her. An independent girl, that one, and clever, too.
‘’Ow we getting’ ’ome?’ asked Scrap, having seen all their money vanish.
