Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  Charley has seen mediums produce all sorts of eerie effects, from automatic writing to violins that play themselves, but he never supposed they were anything more than illusions, like those created by stage magicians. This is something else. Even if Sledge was somehow controlling the spiritual telegraph – and it’s hard to imagine how – and even if he learned of Charley’s connection with Rosa and her daughter, how would he know about the cameo? And why on earth would he link Rosa’s murder to one that happened … how long ago?

  He pulls out his list of criminals still at large and flips to the entry on William Hubbard. 1838. So, fifteen years ago. Though he’d lost track of the exact date, he remembers every other detail of the Eliza Grimwood case, right down to the color of her dress – yellow, beneath all that blood.

  Perhaps it was the brutality of the crime that made it so indelible: the poor girl – so lovely and well-mannered that one might take her for a society lady and not a prostitute – was stabbed multiple times and nearly beheaded. Or perhaps it was the fact that, as with Rosa, Charley knew the victim – not as a client, just as a copper. Or maybe because he worked so long and so hard to prove with evidence what he knew by instinct – that Hubbard, her cousin and probable pimp, was the culprit – only to watch helplessly as the courts set him free. After all this time, Charley’s failure still rankles him.

  Mr Dickens brought Hubbard to poetic justice, at least, by using him as the basis for the despicable Bill Sikes in Oliver Twist. Though Sikes, like Bucket, is a household name, Hubbard is all but forgotten. Few besides Charley would even recall the man’s name, let alone accuse him of another murder – especially since, shortly after he was acquitted, Hubbard hopped a boat bound for America.

  But they say, don’t they, that the departed know things we, the living, cannot. If Rosa’s spirit is to be believed, the bastard is back.

  EIGHTEEN

  Charley doesn’t give up the pursuit of Neck altogether; after all, the cove is guilty of so many other things, and even if he’s not directly responsible for Rosa’s death, he may still have had a hand in it. But now Charley has a new suspect, perhaps one who will prove less elusive.

  It could be a while before the Pillbeam connection lands him any clients; for now, he’s free to roam about the city, consulting his network of informants. Well, not totally free; he did promise Rosa – presuming it actually was Rosa – that he’d check on the welfare of her daughter. And even if it wasn’t Rosa’s idea, it’s still a good one. He pays a visit to Mrs Bramble’s, where he collects the cameo, then heads for the Priestley Orphans’ Asylum.

  The asylum lies in Lambeth, just across the River from Millbank, so he also makes a stop at his wife’s house, meaning to have Hanora wrap up some of the remaining Christmas treats. But it’s the house girl’s free afternoon, and she’s just leaving. ‘Off to visit the family?’ asks Charley.

  ‘Sure, and I am!’ she says brightly, then leans in to whisper, ‘not! The truth is, I’m after meeting Young Lochinvar. You won’t tell, will you?’

  ‘Not I. Could you give him a message for me? Ask him whether there’s been anything in the route-papers concerning a fellow named William Hubbard. I think he may have been involved in the murder of – of a friend of mine.’

  ‘Rosa, you mean.’

  ‘Yes. How did you—’

  ‘Lochinvar told me. I hope you don’t mind.’

  Charles shakes his head sadly. ‘I suppose not. You will ask him about Hubbard?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Just so’s I don’t forget, I’ll think of Old Mother Hubbard.’

  ‘One other thing, Hanora: Do you happen to know where Mrs Field has stowed my old walking stick?’

  ‘I do, sir. ’Tis in the wardrobe, in your room.’

  He actually prefers the old stick, a gnarled, unadorned length of ash, to the more elegant one, which he lost at Ah Choy’s – and which was, of course, a present from Jane. He fetches the stick, rounds up some raisins and nuts and oranges, and manages to escape without inciting a single argument or enduring any sort of lecture.

  When I say orphans’ asylum, you may picture something along the lines of Wanstead’s impressive institution, which resembles one of those sprawling stone country houses of the landed gentry – the sort of folk, in fact, who furnished the funds to build the place. Reverend Priestley’s asylum is considerably more modest. In fact, the premises was once a brewery, and a faint, musty bouquet of yeast and hop dust still issues from the bricks – this in addition to the vapors from Beaufoy’s Vinegar Yard, which lies only one street away. Well, there are certainly worse smells, and worse places for an orphan girl to end up.

  Priestley has no wealthy patrons, only a few dozen subscribers – including Mrs Bramble – who have been wheedled or, just as often, shamed into donating a paltry ten shillings per year, renewable upon the occasion of more wheedling. The Reverend and his small staff do the best they can with these limited resources. The orphan girls, ranging in age from five to ten years, are clothed in gray shifts that are unflattering but at least warm, and they’re fed two meals a day that are uninspired but at least filling.

  Charley conceals the bundle of treats inside his greatcoat – unfortunately, there’s not nearly enough to go around – and gets directions to the Reverend’s office from one of the matrons. The office and, in fact, the man himself are as modest in appearance as the rest of the place. Priestley looks pretty much the way you’d expect, given his name. He’s not an actual priest, of course, but he is a man of the cloth, and the cloth is black and a bit shiny at the knees and elbows. He appears serene and patient and good-humored, just the sort of fellow you’d be tempted to confess your sins to if he were a priest – and if you were the sort of fellow to make confessions, which Charley isn’t, though god knows he’d have more than enough material. The Reverend rises from his well-worn, well-organized desk to shake hands. ‘Good afternoon, Inspector.’

  ‘Have we met before?’

  ‘Not formally. Your wife is one of our subscribers, and I’ve seen you in her company.’ That must have been some time ago; Charley can’t recall the last time he and Jane were out together, nor does she keep him abreast of what charities she contributes to. ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ asks Priestley.

  ‘You have a new girl here, Audrey MacKinnon. I’d like to visit with her, if I may.’

  ‘Audrey? Oh, the daughter of the unfort’n’t who drowned herself?’

  Charley bristles, and it’s all he can do not to protest. But what’s the point? Though suicide is good for a shudder or two, what really fascinates people is murder – as evidence the plethora of penny bloods – and if he reveals Rosa’s true fate, the other girls and the staff will surely bombard her daughter with morbid questions. He simply says, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Actually, I believe we’ve found a family for her.’

  ‘Family? I didn’t know Rosa had any.’

  ‘An adoptive family, I mean.’ Priestley opens a cloth-bound ledger and runs a finger down the pages. ‘Yes, here we are. December 30th. She was taken by a couple from Lancashire.’ He glances up from the ledger. ‘You seem surprised, Inspector. We do our best to find good homes for our girls.’

  ‘It’s just that – well, it happened so quickly. She’d been here only a few days.’

  ‘Yes, but she’s a healthy, outgoing young girl. So many of those we take in, I regret to say, are rather sickly – physically or mentally, or both.’

  ‘Are you sure these people don’t just want her as unpaid servant?’

  ‘Quite sure. They’re a very respectable man and wife who are unable to have children of their own. I’m confident she’ll be very well looked after.’

  ‘Do you mind if I make a note of their name and where they live?’

  Priestley closes the ledger. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s against our policy. Sometimes a mother will give up a child, you know, and then come back for her later. That’s not fair to the adoptive parents, I think you’ll agree.’

  ‘I ha
ve no claim on Audrey. I’m just looking out for her welfare.’

  ‘As are we, Inspector, trust me.’

  ‘I’m trying.’ Charley sighs. ‘I just hope you’re right about this couple.’ He places his hands on the desk, leans in, and says, almost amiably, ‘If I find out otherwise, Reverend, I won’t be pleased.’

  If Priestley catches the implied threat, he shows no sign, only smiles serenely. ‘You won’t. Find out otherwise, I mean.’

  Charley takes out his little bundle of treats and places it on the desk. ‘Those were meant for Audrey. You may distribute them however you see fit.’ All he can do with the cameo is hang onto it, in hopes that he’ll see Audrey eventually.

  Though he’s still not completely certain that he communed with Rosa’s spirit, he feels he owes it to her to try contacting her again; if she is out there somewhere, she’ll want to know that her daughter is, as Priestley puts it, well looked after – even though Charley’s not completely sure of that, either. When young Wink, the porter, turns up at his office the following day, bearing Mr Poppy’s generous gift of gratitude, Charley has the boy carry a message to Professor Sledge, asking when he can sit in on another séance. The medium takes his time in answering; a week later a reply comes by post, saying that the next few sessions are completely full, but he’ll certainly let Charley know as soon as there’s a vacancy.

  Luckily, the detective has a number of new cases to keep him occupied and quell his impatience – and pay his rent. Mr Pillbeam’s connections have begun to pay off at last. Unluckily, most of them are of the usual uninspiring sort: collecting debts, recovering stolen property, evicting tenants – and, though it’s not really part of the job, sometimes helping them find new lodgings. None offers much of a challenge, but several at least have the virtue of novelty.

  One of the clients is a wife who suspects her husband of infidelity and has him followed; another is a husband who hires Charley to spy on his faithless wife. Neither assignment would be particularly unusual or interesting – except that the two are married to each other.

  The only truly intriguing case involves a prominent merchant who, despite the wintry weather, regularly wanders about the dark streets in his nightshirt and bare feet, accosting women. Though he’s been arrested several times, he always disavows any knowledge of his actions. Deducing that the incidents always take place during a full moon, Charley lies in wait one lunar-lit night and nabs the fellow – who is, of course, walking in his sleep, like the poor protagonist of Sylvester Sound, the Somnambulist.

  He wraps up all these cases successfully, and is well-paid and much praised, but he can’t help feeling a failure, for the one he actually cares about is no closer to being solved. It’s not for want of trying. In between those other assignments, he puts in so many hours pounding the cobbles, he sometimes he feels as if he’s back on the force. He’d almost forgot how much of his time as a sergeant and detective inspector was spent simply slogging about the city, looking for leads, questioning merchants and miscreants and madams and, most of time, getting nowhere. And he no longer has as much stamina as he did then. But at least his ribs have finally stopped hurting.

  He does manage to turn up a few coves who remember the name William Hubbard, but no one has heard it lately. The whole tedious and tiring process is made even more unpleasant by the fact that, if he wants a cup of coffee – and he does, quite often – he has to settle for the sickly stuff sold in coffee stalls and chop houses.

  Well, as Mr Dickens pointed out, there’s a case worth solving. The fact is, he’s more or less solved it already; it’s just a question of bringing the adulterers, if they may be called that, to justice – or at least enough of them to throw a scare into the rest. Armed with the results of the Scarecrow’s tests, he pays a visit to the offices of Household Words, which occupy the second floor of a town house in Wellington Street, quite near where he dropped off Miss Fairweather a few weeks ago – no, hard as it is to believe, it’s been over a month, now. If only he could be as relentless as time, perhaps he’d accomplish more.

  When he calls on Mr Dickens, he finds the Great Man at his desk – unfortunately. Charley was rather hoping to catch him in his apartment, which takes up the entire third floor; he’d like to have a look at the place. No doubt it’s a good deal grander than his own little bachelor diggings; apparently there’s even a housekeeper. As far as that goes, Dickens’ office is nothing to sneeze at – nicely carpeted, comfortable armchairs, artwork on the walls. Charley is gratified to note, however, that the man’s desk isn’t nearly as large or impressive as his own.

  It’s also gratifying that, despite his busy schedule, Mr Dickens takes the time to carefully look over Charley’s findings concerning the adulteration of coffee. ‘Yes, yes, this is excellent; it’ll make for a very provocative piece. I see you’ve even recorded the source of each sample. I think it’s best, though, if we don’t divulge actual names or locations at this point.’

  ‘You may be right. We could say that, if they don’t change their ways, then we will name names.’

  ‘Exactly. We’re too late for this week’s issue, but I’ll try to get it in next week. I’ll put one of my best men on it.’ Turning away, he calls out, in his best stage voice, ‘Mr Mumchance! Come here, please!’

  ‘Is this Geoffrey Mumchance, the poet?’ asks an astonished Charley.

  ‘I believe he’s given up poetry,’ murmurs Mr Dickens. ‘Thank god.’

  Apparently he’s also given up his attempts to appear Bohemian. His formerly unruly hair and beard are now quite ruly, his clothing is subdued, his sturdy boots have given way to brown lace-ups. He doesn’t seem nearly as melancholy, either; even his handshake has more ginger to it. ‘Inspector! It’s good to see you!’

  ‘Likewise,’ says Charley. ‘How’s that girl of yours? Emmeline, was it?’

  The ex-poet gives a broad, embarrassed grin. ‘Yes, though in fact it’s now Mrs Mumchance.’

  ‘Well done, lad.’

  ‘It’s all due to Mr Dickens hiring me on here. Emmeline’s parents are great admirers of his work.’

  ‘Speaking of work,’ says Mr Dickens gruffly, ‘may we get back to it? Mr Field has proposed that we do a piece on the deplorable state of Mocha – the beverage, that is, not the city. He’s provided the information; you will write it up. Does that suit you?’

  ‘Does it? I’ve been complaining about the swill they call coffee ever since I landed in London!’

  ‘Good.’ He hands Mr Mumchance the notes Charley has compiled. ‘Before you begin, why don’t you see if you can find us some swill that’s halfway drinkable?’ When Mumchance is gone, Mr Dickens says, ‘I hope you don’t mind my putting him on the story. It just occurred to me that you might have meant to write it yourself.’

  ‘No, no, I’m no good with words.’

  ‘Oh, come, Charley; you’ve told me some fascinating tales of police work – for example, the one about Fikey the Forger. I still recall what he said when you collared him: “Well, burn my body, if this ain’t TOO bad!”’ Mr Dickens is so amused, he has to dab tears from his eyes.

  Charley shrugs. ‘Oh, I can talk all right, I suppose; it’s putting things down on paper that gets me. I don’t know how you do it.’

  ‘To be honest, Charley, neither do I. It’s a mystery. But you have your own talents, and your friend the Scarecrow has his, and Miss Fairweather has hers. Which reminds me—’ Mr Dickens pulls out his fat wallet. ‘I promised you a bonus if you foiled her evil plans.’

  ‘I didn’t, though; she completely fooled me.’

  ‘Even so, you ushered her out before things got too out of hand.’ He holds out a pound note. ‘Go on. You earned it.’

  Charley gives a sheepish smile. ‘Well, the truth is, I collected my bonus already – from Miss Fairweather herself.’

  ‘Why, you cad! Well, you can use this to pay her back.’

  ‘All right, then. I expect she can use it. I don’t think she’s had much work lately, ever since—
’

  ‘Ever since I put her company out of business; I know. And I don’t regret doing it. Trust me, they had no right to inflict themselves on unsuspecting theatregoers. I do regret, however, that Miss Fairweather had to suffer in the process. She deserves better. And do you know what?’ Dickens pauses dramatically, his eyes wide. ‘She shall have it, and very soon! I’ve prevailed upon my friend Mr Elton to cast her in his latest theatrical spectacle, Faust and Marguerite! They begin rehearsing next month, at the Princess!’ He claps his hands together as if applauding his own performance.

  When the following week’s issue of Household Words appears, Charley wastes no time in purchasing a copy. It’s hard to imagine that anything very compelling could be made out of the Scarecrow’s tables of facts and figures, but Mr Mumchance has done it. There on page 570 is quite a lively essay titled ‘Foreign Matter.’

  The first sentence reads, ‘Despite the pounding it has taken over the years from violent criminals and bare-knuckle boxers, the nose of our good friend Inspector Bucket is still one of the sharpest in the city, and if he smells a rat, you don’t question him, you don’t hesitate; you put out the rattraps.’ The lad has recovered nicely from his weakness for poetry. Grinning, Charley tucks the journal into his coat pocket and heads for Isam Jones’s studio; it’s only fair that they read the piece and gloat over it together.

  As it turns out, Charley is forced to read it aloud, for ’Sam is having one of his bad days – sweating, coughing up blood, unable even to muster the strength to rise from his worn and faded fainting couch. But before he’s got through a single paragraph, the photographer interrupts him. ‘Charley?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What in god’s name are you wearing?’

  Charley pulls open his frock coat to reveal a bright blue silk waistcoat embroidered with complex circular Chinese designs. ‘It’s a gift from Mr Poppy, the opium master. He claims it has special powers that protect the wearer from harm. Unfortunately, it also makes me look a bit puffy.’ He fingers the fabric, which is a good half-inch thick. At the same time, the garment is incredibly light – no more than a pound or so.