by J C Briggs
Dickens was wet, too. He had come back from Shepherd’s Bush on the knife-board, the narrow seat on top of the omnibus, as uncomfortable a ride as one might get in a coffin, but with the small advantage of being alive and in the open air, wet as it was. There had been room inside, but Dickens could never bear the smell of damp straw nor the smell of even damper clothes. Besides, the fat woman inside had given him such a look with her fishy eye that he had resisted the temptation to risk the smell so had climbed up on top. A man with an umbrella had attempted several times to poke out Dickens’s eye, but that was nothing compared to the man who squeezed next to him, sneezing and honking like a sick swan. Leprosy, thought Dickens gloomily, remembering Rats’ Castle and noting the sores on the man’s face. If I don’t catch influenza, then it will be leprosy. Leprous got off on Oxford Street. Too late, thought Dickens, watching a new passenger appear at the top of the stairs like a startled porpoise, dripping with water. Dickens felt the rain trickle down his neck. Home or Bow Street? The thought of a hot bath, a fire, and tea and cake was tempting, but Sam would want to know about Davey, and he wanted to know if there were news of Scrap. It was time he went to Crown Street and the Brims.
The omnibus disposed of him on Broad Street from where he hurried to Bow Street, arriving just at the moment when Mrs Elizabeth Jones, her face glowing despite the rain, was dashing in to find the superintendent. Dickens gazed at her shining face.
‘They are back! Scrap and Poll have come home. Charles, I could dance for joy.’
‘And, if we were not like to be arrested, I should join you in a polka. Let us get Sam, and be off. A cake – we must have a cake.’ Oh, glory, Davey restored, and Scrap and Poll.
‘We must, I promised them – on the way.’
The superintendent summoned, good-natured Rogers in his wake, his red face shining, the cake bought, they went to Crown Street, to Mr Brim’s stationery shop where they found a party beginning. Lemonade was ready, the plates were waiting for the cake. Tom Brim, aged five-and-a-bit, was sitting on the counter with Poll whose neck sported a red ribbon, and who seemed to be barking in time with the music. A man they had never seen before was playing a violin and Eleanor and Scrap were dancing madly to the tune. Mr Brim leant on his counter, watching it all, his eyes glittering, the tell-tale hectic in his cheeks witness to the disease that would kill him. But not yet, not yet, not until his children were a little older. Elizabeth Jones saw it all, and she, too, thought not yet.
Eleanor Brim danced another polka with Mr Dickens who had learned it from his daughters, and who had practised in the middle of one wintry cold night, fearful that the steps were forgotten. He had not forgotten them now. He and Miss Nell flew about the shop to great applause, while Sam Jones sat in the chair where Tom and Poll found room, too, and Elizabeth Jones took Mr Brim by the hand into the dance; though their steps were slower, Scrap saw that Mr Brim was happy, and he was, so he danced in and out of the whirling Eleanor and Mr Dickens, making up the steps. Constable Rogers joined him, and for just a little while, Dickens and Jones forgot about poor Robin and the unknown boy. And so they whirled, danced, and clapped to the wild, sweet music.
Then it was the cake and lemonade. The violinist was introduced to Dickens, Jones and Rogers. He knew of Mr Dickens, of course, had heard much about him from the Brims, how proud they were that Mr Dickens had put a nice dog in David Copperfield just for them – it was true. Eleanor and Tom had not much cared for Bill Sikes’s dog so Mr Dickens had promised them a spaniel with silky ears, though it had to be admitted that no dog could be as intelligent as Poll. Poll, who had known all along that someone would come for her. And Scrap, the hero of the hour. He had found her and Eleanor declared that she had believed all along that Scrap would come back with Poll.
The cake was just a scatter of crumbs on the counter, the lemonade a sweet memory on the tongue, and the music an echo in the ear. It was time to go and leave the reunited family. Dickens, Superintendent Jones and Elizabeth went out into the darkening November street where the air was suddenly cold after the warmth inside.
‘Home, Charles, I think. I am going home, too. Rogers, you go and spend an evening with your shining Mollie Spoon. She’ll be glad to see you, I daresay. They know where to find us if they want us. I sent Constable Feak to Hanover Street to see if he could find the French milliner, but there is no sign of her. We will continue our search tomorrow.’
Rogers went off, smiling. A night off. That was something. He certainly would go to see Mollie Spoon. He could not help smiling at the superintendent’s pun. Mollie did shine – for him, at any rate. He had met her during the course of the investigation into the murder of Patience Brooke. Now he wondered when the time might be right for him to ask her to marry him.
‘I had a thought,’ said Dickens, ‘about the masks. I found myself sketching them and drew a smiling mask and one with its mouth turned down.’
‘Comedy and tragedy?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘That’s what I thought, but I could not recall what the mask was like at the blacking factory. I wondered if it was a smiling mouth and if that was why it seemed so sinister – at least, not a child’s work. Have I imagined that the St Giles’s one had a downturned mouth?’
‘I cannot remember precisely, either. We could go to see on our way home. It is only a step. Elizabeth, would you mind?’
‘No – not that I am fond of a churchyard in the dark but with you two to protect me, I shall be safe.’
They walked up from Crown Street to Monmouth Street with its ghostly inhabitants hanging still about the second-hand clothes stalls; the bride was still there though it seemed that her military groom had taken his scarlet coat and gone to war. She was doomed to eternal spinsterhood, her net skirts getting yellower and dustier by the year.
It was early evening and the street was busy – there was the baked potato man with his little tin contraption, and the kidney pie man from whose portable oven sparks flew down the street every time he opened the door to hand a hot pie to a customer. There was all the hurry of coming home and getting out again; who was coming and who was going, it was hard to tell. The still centre of this turning world was the group of idling men gazing indifferently at the drunk in the gutter and the two scrawny women abusing each other like alley cats.
They crossed into Compton Street, passing the King’s Head where the poster advertised the prize of a gold repeater watch for the champion rat killer. No need to worry about that now, thankfully, thought Dickens, watching the men going in with their dogs in their arms or on tight leashes. There were plenty of bull terriers, little welsh terriers, and one melancholy, shaggy white dog with a scarred face, very like Sikes’s Bulls-eye, gave him a look which seemed to say that he’d had enough of it all and fancied something better. Dickens felt for him, but, seeing Sam and Elizabeth ahead of him, hurried on to the church.
They went in to look for the chalk mark on the old door at the side. Dickens could not help glancing at the cold tomb where they had found Robin Hart. Elizabeth saw the direction of his glance.
‘Sam told me. That poor boy – and his mother. What will become of her?’
‘She is safe for the present with Effie Scruggs, but they cannot look after her forever. I do not think she will survive the loss of her child.’
Elizabeth understood. She had lost her only daughter. Edith had died in childbirth and the child, too, but Elizabeth had had Sam. At first they had carried their grief with them like a large, unwieldy, heavy parcel that they could never put down, and which had to be handled with care lest it break one or the other. It was lighter, now, and they could sometimes put it down, resting for longer times when they could remember her with some of the joy she had brought them as a child.
Sam held his lamp up to the door. There was the mask with the mouth turned down slightly. The drawn in sightless eyes gave it a sinister look. Dickens wondered if it were more frightening than the other.
‘It is horrible,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I won
der what it means to the murderer.’
‘It may mean nothing,’ Sam responded. ‘It may be his way of leading us on, playing with us.’
‘If he is playing, then I might be right – he could be an actor, relishing his ability to disguise himself.’
‘The trouble is we do not know the man or the mask. We need to find the owner of that shawl – it is the only clue we have – and for all we know, it could have been dropped there before the murder. It might be no clue at all.’
‘And the toff as those girls called him – someone might have seen Robin Hart with a man.’
‘Yes, that is a lead. His mother cannot tell us anything about him, but he must have had friends, and he got money by taking messages so someone must have noticed him. I’ll get on to that tomorrow.’
They went out of the churchyard and made their way to Oxford Street to take a cab which would take Dickens to Devonshire Terrace and Sam and Elizabeth to Norfolk Street.
‘Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow,’ said Dickens by way of farewell. ‘At least we have Scrap and Poll back, and Davey has found himself again. It has not been such a bad day.’
‘Indeed not – I shall treasure the memory of your polka, Charles.’
‘When my biography is written I shall ask that my prowess as a dancer be included – as witnessed by Superintendent Jones of Bow Street. And now, a thousand times goodnight.’
They watched him as he went, his quick step taking him away, replacing his hat he had flourished in farewell,
Odd, thought Sam, how I always think of him walking alone, yet he is the best-known man in London – and the best loved, probably. He has a wife and eight children, but there is something in him, something in his eyes that I cannot fathom. Something missing, perhaps. He looked at Elizabeth who was gazing at the retreating figure, a curious expression of pity mingled with fondness.
10
THE MILLINER
Superintendent Jones was in his office next morning. Rogers had gone back to the blacking factory to check the chalk marks. Sam had no idea what it might really mean if the mask was smiling, but it seemed like something to do. Feak and Stemp were out looking for a French milliner, and he was here, thinking.
Motive. What’s his motive? Dickens would say and the superintendent agreed. In crime as in literature, there had to be motive. Greed, jealousy, revenge, power, the need to protect the self from danger. And, of course, there was sometimes no understandable motive – the murderer did it because he could. But then that was power, of course it was. It was the delight in having the power over the victim, and the triumph of getting away with it. Greed? He thought about the novels of Dickens he had read. What was Dombey’s motive? Greed. What was the motive of Jonas Chuzzlewit’s intention to murder his father? Greed. And Jonas had murdered Montague Tigg because he feared him.
Well, he thought, Dickens was an expert on greed – the ruthless desire to have at all costs, and greed could be avarice, but jealousy was a kind of greed. Carker in Dombey and Son – sexual greed, the desire for Edith Dombey was not out of love, and his motive was power, too, power over Dombey. Revenge. A powerful motive – witness Bill Sikes who had believed that Nancy had betrayed him and had clubbed her to death with his pistol.
So, he thought, where does our murderer fit into all this? Avarice was out – these boys were too poor. Why should the murderer fear two boys? Perhaps they knew something that might discredit the murderer. It was possible. And power? Yes, he had power over them. The little vignette of Robin Hart with the murderer’s arm round him – that suggested that the young man those girls had seen had power over the boy. A young man and a young boy. Dark-haired Katey in the churchyard had thought of that – her knowing eyes had told him. He, too, had thought of what that might mean, but why kill them? They knew nothing about the first boy. Mrs Hart could tell them nothing about her son, but someone might have known Robin Hart and whether he had a new friend. He wondered if Scrap knew him. Well, it was time to ask.
Rogers came back from Hungerford Stairs. He couldn’t really tell if the mask had a smile. ‘I dunno, sir, it might ’ave bin a smile, or it might just ’ave bin a scrawl.’
Comedy and tragedy, perhaps, perhaps not. And, if that’s what the masks meant, then what? Sam preferred something more concrete. And Rogers was able to supply it. He had met Constable Green who had been at the blacking factory with Inspector Harker. The boy had been seen – with a slight young man.
‘Where?’
‘Hungerford Market. Jack Green had been making his enquiries in the market ’cos anyone going down the stairs would ’ave to go through the market, and Jim, knowing that our boy had been seen with a young man, asked about a ragged lad, possibly a mudlark, in the company of a young man, a man who was probably a gent.
‘There was a lad who knew the dead boy – Jemmy, ’e called ’im. Knew ’im as Jemmy Kidd but ’oo knows, sir? The lad could ’ave ’eard the word kid and thought it was ’is name. The lad said ’e didn’t know where Jemmy lived. ’E was a mudlark, as we thought, scraped a livin’, as they all do, so the witness was surprised to see ’im with a toff, as ’e put it.’
‘Could he describe the young man?’
‘Not really – he noticed ’is top hat, ’is dark suit, and that ’e seemed young – probably because ’e was slight – the boy said ’e was thinnish.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘The boy didn’t see. You know ’ow crowded the market is. Anyway, Green is looking for anyone else who might have known Jemmy, whether he belonged anywhere, ’ad a family or what.’
‘So, we have a young man. Let us presume it is the same young man in both cases – the descriptions, though vague, fit. We have a possible, faintly possible, link to the theatre, and we have the shawl. And we have our experience which tells us to be suspicious of a young man who makes the acquaintance of young boys and kills them.’
‘You think it’s sex, sir?’
‘I do. What else would he want them for?’
‘Crime? Did ’e use them? Was ’e a kidsman – not a real toff, but a flash cove – usin’ ’em for stealin’? An’ when they wanted to get away, did ’e kill them, or did ’e just replace them when ’e’d finished with ’em?’
‘But, remember, Robin Hart belonged to someone. His mother would have known if he had been involved in something criminal.’
‘But, ’e might ’ave been new to it. The mother ’ad nothing. ’E might ’ave thought ’e was ’elpin’, not realising what it all meant. I dunno, sir, I think it’s just that we should – keep an open mind – that’s what you always say, sir.’
‘How right you are, Rogers. Thank you for reminding me.’
Rogers glowed. He admired his superintendent more than anyone, and he was determined to learn from him, to follow his methods and to get on. That’s what his ma said. ‘You look an’ learn, my lad, an’ you’ll be an inspector before you know it.’ An’ ’e would, he said to himself, yes, ’e would.
‘Mr Dickens comin’, sir?’
‘Yes, he’s coming from Shepherd’s Bush. He sent a message to say he’d come after dealing with Miss Sesina. You remember her?’
‘Not ’alf – frightened me to death, she did. Sparks flyin’ everywhere. A real temper, she ’as.’
Dickens came in. Rogers was right. Sesina’s temper had got the better of her, and as he arrived, summoned by Mrs Morson, Sesina was on her way. Sam Jones and Rogers could not help laughing as Dickens described what Mrs Morson had told him of how she had flounced and stamped her way to her bedroom, how she had flung her nightcap across the room, dressed herself in her own good time, and then declared that the rain was too bad for her to go out. Threatened with Mr Dickens, she had made her exit, threatening to air her many and varied grievances against the Home in a letter to Miss Coutts. Dickens had seen her when he was coming back; she was tripping jauntily up Notting Hill, looking in the shop windows with the air of one who might saunter in and buy something. ‘It was quite a perfo
rmance,’ said Dickens.
‘She oughter be on the stage,’ said Rogers.
‘Indeed she should – perhaps she’ll find a role as a tragedy queen. I cannot help thinking that she will find her way to Isabella Gordon. What a pair they will make. Still, nothing to be done. We tried to help, but it was not to be. Any news, Sam?’
Sam told him Rogers’s information about the boy, Jemmy, seen with a ‘gent’ at Hungerford Stairs, and the conclusions he and Rogers had come to, explaining that Rogers had suggested they keep an open mind about the relations of the young man with the two boys.
Constable Feak returned with news that he had found the French milliner who had moved her premises to Rose Street, not far from St Giles’s. He had spoken to a neighbour who had told him that Mamselle Victorine had lived there for about eighteen months. She was very quiet and reserved and no one knew her very well. She had few visitors, except customers, the woman supposed, and once or twice, she had seen a young man leaving out the back. The woman wondered if Mamselle had a lover, though she was so thin and plain, the neighbour doubted it.
‘How did you find her?’ asked Dickens, curious.
Feak, who looked about fifteen, and only just tall enough for regulation height at five foot nine, reddened. ‘Asked me mam.’
‘What?’
‘I know it sounds daft, sir, but I thought it’d be quicker. She knows a lot, me mam, an’ I thought, ’er bein’ a woman an’ that …’
