Death at Hungerford Stairs

by J C Briggs

  ‘Ought we to follow him? I wonder where he is going.’

  ‘I think we might, Oliver. I caught a glimpse of his face. He looked exhausted and infinitely miserable. Perhaps we may be able to help.’ Dickens was not being hypocritical. He had felt a twinge of pity for that face, so young and yet so full of misery. Whatever he had or had not done, he needed to be helped. And, it would be useful to know where the boy was going.

  An empty cab came by. They asked the driver to follow the one they could see waiting to turn left into Regent Circus. Their cab caught up with the first as it turned. It went round the Circus into Coventry Street, left again into Princes Street and right into Old Compton Street.

  Dickens was anxious. He had hoped Theo Outfin would go anywhere but towards St Giles’s. However, his cab stopped at the bottom of Crown Street where they saw him alight. Dickens paid their driver and they got out of their cab just in time to see Theo Outfin walking listlessly into Crown Street. He looked like a man who did not know where he was going. They followed him. They were not far from Rose Street where Mademoiselle Victorine, that enigmatic milliner, lived. Theo turned into a narrow alley off Denmark Street; it was in these narrow lanes and twisting passages that the Moon family lived their desperate, uneasy lives. Dickens remembered the noise of banging, the dreadful wrenching sobs and Mrs Moon’s starved and worn countenance.

  In the mean little lane off Dulcimer Street, Mr Moon was asleep, befuddled by the gin that Mrs Moon had fed him to shut out the noise – if it was gin. How should she know? That’s what the woman two doors away called it. It was cheap, though – tuppence a jug. God knows she could hardly afford that, but she would have given him anything, methylated spirit, white spirit, laudanum, anything to shut out that noise. She might have poisoned him and he knew it. She could tell. When she came to him with the cup, he would look at her through the tears, and she would see in the little, knowing eyes that she thought must be like a snake’s, his fear of her and his hatred. And she wanted him dead – God forgive her – of course she did. He was a weight on their lives, so heavy that of late, Mrs Moon wondered if she could carry on at all.

  It was night and Kip and Tilly were in bed. She stood in the dank yard looking up at the veiled moon and the clouds through which she could just about see the faint, far-off pinprick of a star. What was the meaning of that distance? she wondered. Mrs Moon was not an ignorant woman. She could remember her childhood, ordinary, respectable – her father a modest farm worker who had sent her to the village school, her mother, loving, and Mrs Moon, a cherished child. How had she come to this? The sky gave no answer; it stretched away, on and on, the clouds deepening to black in the furthest distance, so far that as she looked, she felt her own smallness. What was she to those remote stars and planets and what were they to her, this sublunary woman with her feet planted in the mud and grime of the alley off Dulcimer Street?

  There was a noise at the yard door, a scratching – a dog, perhaps? Mrs Moon opened the door. She was not afraid; she was past fear except for Tilly, and Kip, of course. There was no one in the alley. Mrs Moon’s house was the end of the terrace. Next to her yard there was a bit of waste ground where someone had kept a donkey once. The children had fed it grass, sometimes going as far as the river to find it, and it would gulp carrot or turnip pieces from their hands. Once Kip had put little Lucy Moon on its back and they had persuaded the beast to walk around the brick-strewn ground. She remembered their joy – they loved that donkey and had cried when it was led away. Joyless, now, she reflected. Little Lucy gone, Mr Moon crippled, and Tilly – oh, Tilly – what would happen to her?

  Beyond the waste ground there was a workshop, a dilapidated affair of planks and bits of old doors where Harry Sutch, the carpenter who owned it, kept his wood and tools. On the other side of the Moons’ there was an empty house, practically falling down. Mrs Moon had forbidden Kip and Tilly to go in there. It was dangerous. Sometimes she heard noises from there but she had not seen anyone. What business was it of hers if some poor, homeless creature had found refuge there?

  She stepped into the yard and looked down past the empty ground, past the workshop to where the alley turned the corner into Dulcimer Street, then into the High Street across which were the grand squares with their quiet gardens where one could sit in a green-shaded peace, and the museum where they exhibited creatures from a past as distant as the stars above. She could walk that way; she would come eventually to the fields and gardens beyond the houses and squares, to the open country, to Kingsbury where she was born, and she would walk on like one of those tramping women she remembered passing through the village when she was a child. And she would never come back, ever.

  Mrs Moon began to walk, not knowing that she did so. Harry Sutch locked up his workshop and looked at her curiously as she passed him. Where could she be going? She simply stared ahead, he thought, as if she were seeing something far away, somewhere only she could see. Poor creature – she ’ad a lot to put up with. Harry had heard the man shouting; he had seen the children running away, given them a penny or two, once or twice. You ’ad ter feel sorry for that child with the white ’air – odd little thing, like a fairy or wot yer thought a fairy might look like, there not bein’ so many round St Giles’s. Harry walked away. Mrs Moon reached the end of the alley and stood looking towards Dulcimer Street. A boy came towards her. She recognised him – the boy, Scrap, who had come with the strange gentleman. Tilly had not stopped talking about him. A kind man. Strange eyes – hypnotic, almost, she thought. And he had brought the golden sovereign which she had in her hand though why she did not know.

  Scrap knew her, wondered where she was going, wondered where were Kip and Tilly. Seeing her far-away eyes, he knew that all was not well. ‘Mrs Moon, where yer goin’? It’s late. Where’s Kip and Tilly?’ He saw the glint of gold in her hand.

  Mrs Moon saw him clearly. ‘Kip, Tilly, I must get back. Tilly should not be alone with –’

  She turned back and started to run clumsily with Scrap following. They went back into the alley, stumbling towards the back door. Then the world exploded.

  Inside the house, Tilly had not been asleep. She had been watching her pa as he rolled and writhed in his restless sleep. She had heard him moaning and had felt sorry for him. She had heard the back door. Then she had crept down. How could she stop those sounds which tore at her childish heart? She stood motionless at the bottom of the stairs willing him to see her and love her. He woke up and saw the white child standing, staring at him with those strange eyes which looked black and malevolent in the gloom. He hated her and was afraid. Her eyes could kill him.

  He seized the lamp from the table by his chair and flung it at her. It caught the grimy curtain which burst into flames, and it fell with a crash on to the laundry basket in the middle of the floor, and more flames flared up. Through the orange blaze, father and child saw each other, the man’s eyes wide with horror. Tilly took a step forward, but the fire leapt at her as it licked at bits of paper and straw. She could still see him, trapped there in his chair. There was a clattering on the stairs. Kip ran down, grabbed her, and hauled her back up the staircase as the blaze took hold. Looking back, she could see nothing but red, gold, copper as the room was engulfed. The fire sprang after them. The crippled man’s screams filled the roaring air.

  Outside Mrs Moon and Scrap stood watching as the house filled with flame. Somewhere voices screamed ‘Fire!’

  Near the front of the house, Dickens and Oliver were swept up by the crowd which surged towards the house. Theo Outfin had vanished. Dickens realised which house was on fire. He ran with Oliver at his heels into the lane beside the carpenter’s wood store. At the back yard door of the house he saw Mrs Moon and Scrap. Banners of vermilion and gold flame flew in the air and showers of sparks blazed in fountains and cascaded down the darkness. It was terrible and beautiful. Mrs Moon and Scrap stared, transfixed, until Dickens and Oliver came to them.

  ‘Tilly? Kip?’ Dickens’s voice was urg
ent.

  The flames burnt in Mrs Moon’s eyes; she could not speak.

  ‘In the ’ouse, trapped. Oh, gawd, wot can we do?’ Scrap came to himself.

  ‘Up there!’ Oliver shouted.

  They looked up to the roof where Kip and Tilly crouched, working their way along the tiles to the wrecked house next door, the fire rearing at them like some wild tiger which might leap upon them in a minute. Dickens, Oliver and Scrap darted along the alley, hoping to find their way in to the yard of the old house. Perhaps Kip and Tilly could jump. Mrs Moon stood gazing up.

  They pushed into the yard of the house. Kip and Tilly were on the roof. There was a lean-to shed to which they might jump down. They saw that Kip had seen it. He stood upright, pulling Tilly with him. A flame reached out to snatch her. Then there was a roar, a terrible cracking as of timbers falling, and the roof fell in. Kip seemed to fall backwards and Tilly simply vanished into the furnace. A huge spume of flame spouted upwards with a great whoosh.

  Dickens ran back to the alley. Mrs Moon was not there. A sense of horror possessed him. Heedless of the danger, he pushed his way into the yard, feeling the searing heat, smelling the acrid stench of burning wood, and through the smoke and wavering flames, he saw her walking into the burning house. He saw a great flaming light spring up then she was gone in a whirl of fire blazing all about her.

  As at a distance, he heard the shouts of the firemen at the front of the house. There would be the burnished engine, the men with their leathern helmets and hatchets, the jets of water pumped out to still the fiery cauldron; there would be a cordon round the burning houses; there would be the police; there would be the volunteers manning the pumps; there would be the onlookers gasping and cheering; there would be the men, women and children swarming from their tenements, and the dogs, cats and rats leaping from the cellars, drains and hideous hovels, and at last the fire would die down, the beast tamed. But the firemen and their water could do nothing for Mrs Moon.

  And Tilly? In his lair, the giant woke and saw fire descending, and in that fire, he saw flying down towards him, ablaze in gold with silver about its head, the ghost of his nightmares turned now to a fiery angel come for him. Vapour filled the cellar, flames rushed at him, and that enlarged heart, damaged by terror and starvation, stopped.

  16

  THE MORGUE

  Dickens woke later than usual, exhausted from the events of the previous night. He had arrived home at nearly midnight, blackened with smoke. He could smell it still even though he had bathed and was wearing fresh clothes. His throat was sore too; it felt raw from the smoke he had inhaled. He thought about the terrible moment when he had seen Mrs Moon devoured by the flames before his helpless eyes. It had contained all the unbearable reality of a dream. And he thought of Tilly consumed in the fire, and Kip fallen from the roof. He had taken Scrap back to Mr Brim’s shop. He was worried about him. Scrap’s eyes had been so wide with horror when they had seen Tilly vanish. Thank God he had not seen Mrs Moon go to her blazing death. It was bad enough for him – he thought the sight would haunt him for the rest of his days. And, yet, he knew why she had done it. He remembered Kip’s terror as he had looked at her despairing face and his own thought that she might go under. And she had. And not just the Moon family. What about all those others whose houses had collapsed and who had been left homeless? The workhouse? Perhaps. Some other dismal cellar into which they would crawl and try to resume their maimed lives?

  Oliver had gone home afterwards. They had forgotten about Theo Outfin, but Dickens remembered him now. He hardly had the strength to think about it. Yet he had to go to Bow Street. Sam would want to know what he had found out – which was not very much. The misery of that young face – not exactly evidence, he thought. He did not know why but somehow, he doubted that Theo Outfin was a murderer. A deeply unhappy young man, yes, a man weary of his life, a man with something on his conscience, but surely not a killer. However, it was no use telling Sam that he had seen a face with despair written on it and did not believe it was the face of a murderer. Sam would be interested in his impressions, true, but it was not evidence. After breakfast, he would go down to see Sam.

  Sam was in his office. He had heard about the fire from Inspector Lang, who had been there. He knew about the dead girl, Tilly. And he knew that when the police had searched the abandoned house, they had found the child and the giant, both dead. And they had found a purse of sovereigns – Sam believed it must be the one that Dickens had taken out at Rats’ Castle and which had been stolen in the fight. Perhaps Tommy Titfer had taken it. He had certainly seen it. And since he was missing, perhaps his was the body that Scrap had seen being dragged by the giant – he would send a couple of constables to have a look round the alleys where Scrap had waited for Poll. And more strange and sinister, he knew of something else which he must tell Dickens.

  Dickens came in. Sam looked with concern at his white face and strained eyes. ‘A dreadful night – I heard from Inspector Lang about the death of Tilly.’

  ‘Have they found her?’

  ‘Yes, and the giant, too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They found him with the child in the cellar of that old house – the house had collapsed around them. She must have fallen into the cellar from the roof. He must have been hiding there.’

  ‘How strange, how terrible – he had lunged at her before. What did he think she was, I wonder, when he saw her first in the lane and then again? What does it mean that they were brought together in this death by fire? Both outcasts in their way – poor little girl – she was strange and beautiful in her odd way – not quite of this world, I thought when I saw her. And Mrs Moon, if you had seen – she walked into that flaming house after she saw them fall. I saw her like a column of fire and I could do nothing. Oh, the pity of it, Sam, the pity of it.’

  They fell silent then, thinking of that tragic family, gone in a moment. The clock ticked. Time moved on, leaving Tilly, Mrs Moon, the angry crippled man and the poor, bedevilled giant, all consumed by the flames, their bones fired by the heat to rest at last, cold in the grave.

  ‘Did they find Kip?’ asked Dickens after a while, thinking of the boy falling backwards on the burning roof.

  ‘He is alive and, mercifully, hardly hurt at all. When he fell –’

  ‘Yes, we saw him topple backwards.’

  ‘The neighbours who had gathered at the first cry of “fire” had held a sheet out, thinking that someone might escape from the upstairs window. Kip fell into that. He is being looked after by neighbours.’

  ‘That is something – though, poor lad, he loved little Tilly and his mother. I must try to do something for him. I think, perhaps, that he could replace Davey at the Home. Mrs Morson would be pleased to have a useful boy about the place. I liked Kip – he did not want to lie to his mother about the giant. A good lad, I thought. I will take him to Mrs Morson. Scrap will be glad – he was very distressed last night. I took him back to the shop. Mr Brim is very compassionate.’

  ‘I will ask Elizabeth to look after him. And there is something else. Another body was found in the ruins of the house. A boy.’

  ‘Who? I did not see anyone else although I suppose someone could have been in there.’

  ‘He was brought to the morgue – blackened with smoke, but not burnt, and when he was cleaned up I saw that he had been stabbed – a small puncture wound, exactly like those in Jemmy and Robin Hart.’

  ‘He has done it again. Oh, God, Theo Outfin was there. Oliver Wilde and I followed him and then we lost him in the crowd when the fire broke out. I had thought this morning – I must be wrong – I had hoped –’

  ‘What did you think?’

  ‘I saw his face – such despair. I thought he could not be a murderer. There was something so young, so hopeless about him, but now –’

  ‘And I have had the results of the post-mortem on Robin Hart. There is no evidence of sexual abuse. Neither was there for Jemmy. I had word from Inspector Harker. So, why
were they killed?’

  ‘What about the shawl – did Feak find Mattie Webb?’

  ‘No, the Du Canes are in Paris and Mattie Webb is with them – she is Mrs Du Cane’s personal maid, now. But they are back tomorrow. I will go myself. I know we promised Mrs Mapes that we would exercise discretion, but there is not time for that now. We need to know if she lost it or if it came into Theo Outfin’s hands somehow though for the life of me I cannot see how.’

  ‘No, it seems impossible – why should he steal it? What would he want it for?’

  ‘Then we are left with the mysterious man at Mademoiselle Victorine’s. I have a constable watching her house. Rose Street is also not far from the scene of the fire.’

  ‘What do we do about Theo Outfin?’

  ‘Watch him. That is all we can do. Is it possible for you to meet him through Oliver Wilde? Perhaps you might discover what it is that troubles him. You may be right, you know, it could be something else. Did Oliver tell you much about him?’

  ‘He thinks he is heavily in debt – that he is involved in illegal gambling. He thinks that Theo has become involved with a bad set. He does not appear to be a ladies’ man, however – Oliver told me that he pays no attention to Sophy’s friends, but that does not mean he has not had contact with other kinds of women through his friends. And since neither Jemmy nor Robin Hart was sexually assaulted, it does not seem that Theo Outfin used boys.’