by J C Briggs
Scrap who was as an acute reader of the human face as the great writer saw that Mr Dickens looked somehow worn and depressed, agreed immediately, but he said, ‘You ain’t got that squeeze box, I ’opes.’
He was rewarded by a pair of eyes that lit suddenly with laughter. ‘No, and come as you are. Toffs terday.’
Cassie Hanlon showed them the house in Amwell Street where she told them she thought she had seen Mr Dickens’s “lady” go in. It looked deserted; the shutters were closed at the windows on the first two floors. Dickens stepped back to look up. Those windows were shuttered fast, too.
There was a narrow passage running between this house and the next down which they went to see what was at the back. There was lane with mews opposite the back doors of the houses. The door to number ten led them into a yard. The back door to the house was locked. They scouted round the yard for some sort of tool to force the door. Scrap’s sharp eyes picked out a rusty trowel that he used to lever open the door, which gave eventually.
Scrap’s boots clattered through the empty rooms where there was nothing to see in their shadowy spaces. They smelt of dust and the air was stale. No one had lived here for a long time. They went up the stairs. On the first landing a window gave them some light and Dickens noticed the chips on the wooden rails and on the uncarpeted stairs he saw black smudges. He touched one with his finger — coal dust. Someone had carried coal up these stairs, and not so long ago. They looked around empty bedrooms, but there was no evidence of any recent fires. The grates were empty.
Another staircase, a narrow one, led up to the next floor. Servants’ quarters, perhaps? By some unspoken instinct they stopped. They listened, but no sound came from above. Scrap took off his boots and signalled to Dickens that he would go up. Light and quiet as a cat, he crept. There was a long corridor with doors — all closed. He made his way on tip-toe, listening at the closed doors. At the end of the corridor was a little round window all furred with dust and cobwebs. He rubbed at one of the little panes and looked out into the yard and the mews opposite.
He turned back to look along the corridor. There was no one here. At the top of the stairs, he called down his opinion. Dickens and Cassie came up.
Dickens saw more coal dust and a few small lumps of coal. The first door opened onto a tiny room where there was a truckle bed upon which lay tumbled sheets and pillows as if a sleeper had risen after a night of troubled dreams. A blanket had slipped to the floor. This was a servant’s room with a tiny fireplace in which the coals were cold; a cracked jug and basin on a marble-topped stand, and half out from under the bed a chamber pot. Dickens smelt the acrid smell of urine. He stepped forward and felt something crack under his foot and something rolled away as the other foot came down.
Over the floor were scattered a quantity of small beads — he looked at the wash stand and there dangling was a chain of beads. It was broken. It looked as though someone had made a grab for it and it had snagged on the finial of the mirror frame and the beads had scattered. He found the other part of the chain where it had fallen. He looked at the cross.
‘Rosary, ain’t it?’ Cassie Hanlon whispered, ‘my pa was Catholic — so Ma said. She kept ’is beads. Thought ’e might come back, I surpose. Didn’t though.’
He had done it here, thought Dickens. He had meant to strangle Jemima Curd with the chain, but it had caught and broken so he had used her ribbon — the silk one given by Mariana Fane — or Violet Pout, perhaps. She had been asleep in her bed, her red gold hair loose on the pillow. Had he come to kill her, or for something else? And when she had resisted, he had killed her.
Her box was under the bed, the initials burnt into it with a hot poker: J.C.
‘The girl wot woz murdered,’ breathed Cassie.
The box contained a Bible, a little book of religious pictures of garishly coloured saints and oddly-proportioned angels with yellow wings and smirking faces. These lay on a folded petticoat, darned, but once good. Perhaps Mariana had given her that. There was a stale smell — an ammonia smell. He lifted the petticoat. Underneath was a crumpled-up pair of drawers which smelt of urine and a rolled-up pair of stockings which smelt the same.
Odd, he thought, looking round. On a bentwood chair were carefully folded another pair of drawers, some stays and a camisole. Underneath the chair, a pair of boots had been neatly placed. Of all the things, those boots wrung his heart — so small and tidy, and innocent — about the size of his daughter Mamie’s feet. He remembered Jemima’s poor cold feet at the reservoir.
A crumpled white shift was flung on the bed. He had put the dress on her. That explained why she was naked under the dress when they had found her. He had done it here. He closed the lid.
Scrap who had gone exploring shouted out. ‘In ’ere, Mr D.’
Dickens closed the door carefully. Jones would have to see this.
Scrap was at the open door of the room opposite. Light flooded this room and showed them a worn velvet chaise longue, a couple of chairs which had seen better days, a bamboo table, and beneath the skylight someone had built a low platform on which stood a screen painted with a landscape seen through an arched window — the cypress trees told him that it was Italy. In front of the screen was placed a piano stool covered in worn velvet.
The streaks and circles of oil paint at a distance from the platform, beneath the skylight, showed where the artist had stood.
Dickens saw the playing cards spilled across the floor as if someone had tossed away a losing hand. He picked up the Knave of Spades.
‘A dark enemy, that is,’ said Cassie Hanlon. ‘Spades is always bad news. See, ’ere’s the nine — tidin’s of death it means.’
Dickens thought of Madame Emerald looking at his palm and the dark gleam in her black eyes and he remembered the cards on Mrs Pout’s table. ‘You believe in this?’
‘My ma was a gypsy — up Norland Hill. She woz allus right in ’er readin’s, cept about Pa.’
‘What does the Ace of Hearts mean?’
‘On its own, a letter, good news, or a visit from a friend — with Spades it foretells quarrelling.’
Mrs Pout had turned up the Ace of Hearts and he had visited, but with bad news. You might as well read the entrails of a goose — or was it a chicken — as the Romans had done. But he had once made a test of taking a book at random to see what message it might convey about a new book. The random book had been Tristram Shandy and his thumb had rested on the words: What a work it is likely to turn out. Let us begin it! He had begun Dombey and Son — and what a work it was! Cassie’s eyes were certain. Cassandra, he thought and felt that shudder of premonition.
He picked up another random card which he handed face down to Cassie who turned it over.
‘Knave of ’Earts — don’t mean much in itself. A man wot dreams only of pleasure, but two knaves, sir, that’s evil intentions, for sure.’
‘You know the police office on Lower Road, near Percy Circus?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Scrap, you must go with Miss Hanlon to tell Inspector Shackell and then go on to Bow Street for Mr Jones or Sergeant Rogers. Quick as you can.’
When they were gone, Dickens explored the adjoining room where there was a double bed, made up this time. No one had left this room in a hurry. The pillows and the sheets were not fresh and the counterpane was dusty. Under one of the pillows was a white nightgown, not very clean, but with lace and ribbons. But two had slept here. The artist and Violet Pout? Of her there was no sign. Had she left with all her things? Had she gone to meet that other lover, hoping to rekindle their affair? Or did the nightgown suggest that she had intended to return?
Violet Pout — she had fallen somehow. The grubby sheets, the stale nightgown were so at odds with what he had seen of her — so trim and neat in her grey costume and her pretty bonnet tied with blue ribbon.
He went back out into the corridor and looked through the little round window. He contemplated the mews on the opposite side of the lane and went down
stairs.
The building belonging to number ten Amwell Street looked unused. The big doors were locked. He peered through the keyhole and then looked in through a dingy window, but there was nothing to see — just a couple of empty stalls where once horses had been kept. There was a staircase leading up — to a groom’s or coachman’s quarters, he supposed.
There were signs of life a bit further down the mews. He heard a horse whinny and the sound of hooves scraping cobbles. He went to see. A young man was brushing down a horse — a sturdy little cob. There was a cart with sacks on it — sacks of coal.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
The young man turned and the horse shook its head. ‘Sir?’
‘Do you deliver coal?’
‘I does.
‘Did you deliver to the house across the lane?’
‘A couple o’ times.’
‘Who lived there? It seems to be empty now.’
‘Bin empty fer ages — since I rented ’ere. See, I gets the coal from the coal drop an’ comes back ere — rented fer the ’orse, only family I got. Compact and comfortable, the pair of us. But, a bit ago, I sees that someone’s moved in upstairs. The young lady asked me to bring some coal — Mrs Pout, she said her name was. Pretty girl, lovely ’air like silver — stuck up, though. Looked at me as though I woz the muck under ’er feet — wot she expect from the coal man?’
‘Was there a Mister Pout?’
‘Came down ’ere a couple o’ times — they dint use the front door, I don’t think. Dunno why. Saw ’im weighin’ up the ’orse. Looked as if ’e was measurin’ ’er — not that Polly minded it. Queer sort o’ cove —’
‘Why?’
‘Went out ter see if they was wantin’ more coal, but ’e just looked through me as if I want there. Dint speak an’ I dint see ’im again.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘Why d-yer wanter know? Police are yer?’
‘I’m making enquiries for a friend whose daughter has left home — with a man, they think.’
‘Yer think she mighta — wait a minnit — them girls wot was found in the reservoirs — yer don’t meantersay —’
‘I’m afraid so. One of the girls who died was my friend’s daughter. I think she was in that house so if you could tell me — the police are coming soon. It would help.’
‘Tallish — taller than you — or me, fer that matter. Clean shaven — thin face, darkish complexion. Dint look English ter me — mebbe a foreigner. ’Ard ter say, sir, only saw ’is face the once.’
‘Did they keep a servant?’
‘Yer mean the little girl — oh, blimey, she dead, too?’
‘Yes, I believe so — so if you do remember anything else, anything at all, please ask for Inspector Shackell at the police office near Percy Circle.’
‘I know it, an’ I will, sir.’
‘What’s that on your face?’ Jones asked Dickens, after he, Rogers and Inspector Shackell had been shown everything and they were standing in the yard. Shackell and his men were about questioning the neighbours, and Rogers was talking to the young coalman. There was no doubt, he thought, that Jemima Curd and Violet Pout had been here.
‘What?’
‘Dirty mark under your eye. Looking through keyholes does that.’
‘So, it does, Samivel.’ Dickens put his finger to his right eye and looked at the mark on the tip. ‘That’s oil, my lad, and I know exactly where it came from. Come with me.’ He took Jones to the mews and put his finger on the lock of the door. More oil. ‘This place has been used recently.’
Jones took some keys from his pocket. ‘Allow me.’
‘Skeleton key?’
‘Fikey Chubb gave them to me —’
‘Gave?’ Dickens had met Fikey Chubb.
‘Ah, well, he claimed they weren’t his. Someone left them on his counter — couldn’t tell who, of course. Naturally, I accepted the — er — gift. He’ll have plenty more.’
They heard the key turn easily in the lock — lucky that it had been oiled recently — and pushed open one of the doors. The stalls were empty. Upstairs was a hayloft. Hay was piled into one corner, damp now, but a pitchfork showed that somebody had made that pile.
They found Violet Pout’s box, and near the wall, an artist’s easel and some canvases. There was picture of a girl with rose-gold hair in a green velvet robe — a portrait without a face.
28: Betrayal
‘Shackell must find some trace of them,’ Jones said. ‘I told him to ask at the cookshops. They must have eaten something — bought it in, I should think.’
‘I don’t see Violet Pout slaving over the fireplace with a skillet,’ Dickens observed, thinking of Violet Pout’s ambition.
‘No, there were a few pots and pans, but nothing out of the ordinary. He was quick. Violet Pout was found yesterday — died in the night and he’s gone. Cleared the place out except for her box and the pictures and easel in the hay loft.’
‘He was an artist — that’s something we’re sure of now, and it links him to Mariana Fane. Why should he leave his paintings behind?’
‘Why should he leave Jemima’s room untouched? That’s a puzzle.’
‘Why should he do any of it, Sam? I can’t see what motive there is — not greed, not rage —’
‘Violet Pout — why hide her box if he didn’t kill her? If he did, why is it so different?’
‘The rosary was broken. He might —’
‘He could have used a ribbon as he did on Jemima Curd. Violet Pout’s murder seems different to me. Why does her murder suggest rage?’
‘One thing the coal man said struck me — when he saw the man looking at his horse, he went out to pass the time of day and the man didn’t speak, just looked through him. “Queer sort o’ cove”, he said.’
‘A lot on his mind, I daresay,’ Jones observed drily.
‘That picture without a face — he painted Flora Lambert’s face, but the gown’s the same — and the hair — not Violet Pout’s hair. Did he mean to paint Mariana Fane’s face, but the sittings stopped? And those pictures of a naked woman — again without a face.’
‘Violet Pout, perhaps?’
‘Could be, I suppose. Violet Pout’s nightgown was left under the pillow as if she were going back. Jemima Curd was naked under her dress.’
‘But no sign of sexual interference. She was a virgin. Doctor Symonds sent me his report. I’m waiting for more detail on Violet Pout.’
‘So what now?’
‘Rolando Sabatini — he’s the only one who knows them all: Sir Neptune, his household, Violet Pout, Jemima Curd and Mariana Fane, and he is the nephew of Mrs Marchant. She is the only connection with that elusive young man.’ Jones looked squarely at Dickens. ‘You said that she doesn’t know where he is.’
Jones’s words hung in the air as if they were written in the blackest of ink for Dickens to read, and he did so, understanding fully that Jones was telling him that if he knew something more, now was the time to tell it — there were two young women dead, probably a third, Flora Lambert, and — he thought the unthinkable — there might be others.
‘Mrs Marchant has a son by Sir Neptune Fane.’
‘You should have told me. What difference would it have made to her? You said enough to tell me that she was the lady with whom Sir Neptune had a long affair. Sabatini could well be with this young man — we might have found him by now. He’s the only one who knew about the portrait of Mariana Fane — who knew the artist, perhaps.’
Dickens felt like a razor the cutting of Sam’s words — the implication that deaths might have been prevented if he had not been dazzled. ‘I am profoundly sorry, Sam, but, in my defence…’
‘Go on.’
‘Mrs Marchant does not know where her son is. They are estranged. He left her when he found out the truth of his birth. She has not heard of him for several years. She did not tell me his name.’
‘Well, I must see her. I cannot leave her alone for your sake.’
Dickens felt his face burn. ‘I could go — you can trust me on this, Sam, I beg you.’
‘Secrets, Charles, always come to the surface in the matter of murder. You know that. Murder is a filthy business.’
‘Touch pitch —’
‘Exactly — there is always betrayal, what you might call a necessary betrayal. A servant must betray a kind master, a wife her husband, a friend his boyhood companion. You know the rest.’
‘I do — sometimes a mother her son. Oh, the damage the murderous act does — how the stone cast into the dirty water sends its ripples out to the very edge to muddy even the most innocent passer-by.’
‘Or drown ’em.’ Jones looked very sombre.
‘You feel that?’
‘Sometimes, and so do you, but we have a choice; for me retirement into shop-keeping; for you retreat to your books. Write about it, but keep your feet out of the mud, and we’ll both wring our hands in despair at the state of the world.’
‘We are all hurt in action — I’ve said that often enough.’
‘You weren’t entirely sure about Mrs Marchant — in the cold light of day.’
‘I don’t know now, but when she spoke of her son, it was with genuine regret, I think. I honestly don’t believe she knew anything, but I will ask again. You’ll let me go — if only to prove —’
‘It’s not a test, Charles, don’t ever think that. I won’t be wondering how far I can trust you. I can and do, but it worries me that if a time comes when you have to betray someone close to you, that the pain would be too great — even for you.’
‘Necessary betrayal, you said — in the interests of justice for the dead. I have already betrayed her confidence and I must confess it to her. If I had told her how involved I was with you, she might not have told me her history.’
‘She knew you were looking for Violet Pout. You told her about Jemima Curd and you will have to tell her about Miss Pout’s murder. How if she be a true woman? You would not have been dazzled by beauty alone, I think.’
‘There was something about her. She confessed her errors of the heart. Her honesty dazzled me.’
