Death at Hungerford Stairs

by J C Briggs

  ‘I must go, Sam, and fetch Kip – he will be waiting and so will Mrs Morson at Shepherd’s Bush. I will come back later.’

  ‘And I must go to the Du Canes. If Theo Outfin did not take that shawl then someone else must have done – unless Mattie Webb simply lost it, which will leave us back where we started – in the dark.’

  They went their separate ways, Dickens walking swiftly to Dulcimer Street where Kip waited for him. They would take a fly, the one-horse carriage, faster than a cab or the omnibus. Kip was waiting patiently at the little chandler’s shop owned by Mrs Peplow, the neighbour who had looked after him. He had a little box – kind Mrs Peplow had taken away his scorched clothes. She had known that he should not smell the fire on them, that he should never wear them again to be reminded of that terrible night. God knows, she had thought,’e’d remember it well enough without the sickenin’ reminder of flame and smoke every time he undressed. She had found him some good, if darned, clothes, some underclothes, a shirt, jacket and trousers, and a pair of stout boots someone had left for repair and never come back for. And she had put an extra shirt and trousers in the little box, along with some soap and a comb – she did not know exactly where Kip was to go, but she wanted him to have something. She didn’t want him to look like a pauper.

  Dickens opened the door to the neat shop, the cracked bell jangling as he entered, to see Kip waiting. He saw Kip looking forlorn, like a parcel no one wanted to claim. The boy looked up at him listlessly – poor lad, he thought, he has lost that spark which gave life to his eyes. He thought of Davey when he had found him in the streets – there was the same look of incomprehension in Kip’s eyes. Nothing made sense. All that he had known and loved had been torn away in that sudden explosion of flame and sparks. But there was hope, even though Kip did not know it yet. Dickens thought of Davey who had been lost and found again – there would be no grandfather to come from the sea, but there would be Mrs Morson and James Bagster and Punch, the horse – and a donkey – and a garden, and by and by, Kip would be healed.

  ‘Are you ready, Kip?’ he asked. ‘I am going to take you where you will be safe, near the country where there is a garden and fields, a horse and soon, a donkey to look after. Will you come with me?’

  Mrs Peplow came out from the back of the shop with a bag of apples and some barley sugar.

  ‘Goodbye, Kip – don’t forget to come back and see us.’ She knew he would not. Why should he ever want to see that burnt-out house again?

  ‘Ta, Mrs Peplow – I won’t forget yer. Thanks for the clothes and things.’

  It was time to go. Dickens bade farewell to Mrs Peplow, promising that Kip would be cared for. She believed him, the well-dressed man who had unaccountably turned up to rescue the boy. Nice eyes – understandin’, she thought. Somethin’ special about ’im. Kip had said he was Mr Dickens. Well, she knew of the Mr Dickens, but it couldn’t be ’im, course not, ’ow would Mrs Moon ’ave known that Mr Dickens? Lawyer, p’raps? Still, whoever, ’e was, it was good of ’im to find a place for Kip – she’d not ’ave left the boy on the streets, but better for ’im to be somewhere else, to try to forget what he had seen. ’E was a good boy – she had always thought so.

  Kip, his box and Mr Dickens boarded the waiting fly which took them on to Oxford Street then to the Uxbridge Road and on to Shepherd’s Bush. Kip looked with interest at the passing scenes, the traffic, the great white houses of Hyde Park Terrace and Connaught Place – he had never been out of St Giles’s, out of the dark knots of alleys and brooding tenements that he had called home.

  ‘Wot’s in there?’ he asked as the fly rolled past Kensington Gardens where he could see the mass of trees, black against the winter sky.

  ‘It’s called Kensington Gardens – a huge park, Kip, full of flowers and grass in the summer – you will go there some day, perhaps.’

  ‘Ain’t niver seen a park. Me and Tilly –’ He stopped and Dickens saw the tears pooling in his eyes. What comfort could he give? None. Better for him to talk about her – not to be like poor mute Davey whose terrors might never be told.

  ‘Tilly?’ he said, gently.

  ‘Miss ’er, and Ma, not Pa – ’e’s better off. Sick, yer know. But why, Mr Dickens, why’d Tilly ’ave ter go?’

  ‘I do not know, Kip, and that is the truth. None of us can know. It happens sometimes. We lose the people we love, and we have to go on without them – do the best we can.’ He remembered Catherine’s sister, Mary, who had died at seventeen and whose ring he still wore. The scar of her loss had never healed over – she had left a blank which could never be filled. But that was no help to the child seated next to him. ‘You have to do the best you can, Kip. Think of your mother – she would want you to make the best of your life. All mothers want that. And, think, she and Tilly are safe now. Nothing can harm them again. They sleep well.’

  ‘Nothing can ’arm them.’ Kip repeated the words. ‘They sleep well – are yer sure, Mr Dickens? Are yer sure?’

  ‘I am. And I am sure that Tilly would want you to be as happy as you can.’

  ‘I’ll try, Mr Dickens.’

  ‘It won’t be easy, Kip – you will not forget them and you will be sad at times because you have lost them, but it will get better. I know it.’

  They were silent then, Kip trying to understand Mr Dickens’s words and Dickens thinking of the losses he himself had endured. Yet, he was still here, and life did bring good things – he was fortunate, indeed.

  Kip remembered something. Somethin’ fer Mr Dickens. ‘Mr Dickens, Scrap asked me about a boy called Robin – did I know ’im – ’e sed you woz lookin’ fer ’im or somesuch – can’t hardly remember now. Important, Scrap sed.’

  Dickens let it pass – no need to talk about murder just now. ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘Yer, ’e woz abaht, yer know – sed ’is ma woz poor so ’e did erran’s an’ that.’

  ‘Who for – can you remember?’ Probably just the stationer Sam had mentioned.

  ‘Did some errands fer a French lady, ’e sed, she made ’ats – dunno where.’

  But I do, thought Dickens, I do indeed. ‘Did he say anything about her?’

  ‘Dint like ’er, frightnin’, ’e sed – dunno why – any ’elp ter yer?’ Kip looked at him anxiously. He wanted to do something for him. Mr Dickens ’oo’d bin good to ’im. An’ Tilly, too – he remembered the golden sovereign – could it ’ave burnt in the fire? ’E dint know – dint matter, anyways.

  ‘A very great help, Kip, thank you.’ Kip smiled properly for the first time that day.

  They arrived at Lime Grove and the Home where Mrs Morson and James Bagster waited for the boy.

  ‘Kip, is it?’ said James Bagster, looking down at the boy who held on to his little box, looking round the kitchen with anxious eyes. Mrs Morson had made sure that the girls, as Dickens always called them, were not present. ‘Would you like to meet the horse, Punch?’

  Kip looked up to the man with the kind eyes. He felt the warm pressure of a firm hand on his shoulder. He looked at the lady who smiled at him and at Mr Dickens who nodded. It woz awright, he thought, and just a little of the ache for Tilly lessened.

  Some people had it, thought Mrs Morson as she watched the tightness in the boy’s eyes loosen – a kind of grace in them, a loving-kindness as natural as breathing. James Bagster had it. She remembered his goodness, his patience with poor, mute Davey and his quietness with Patience Brooke whose life had ended in a pool of blood on the steps out there. Still, no use remembering that now. And Charles had it – she saw how the boy trusted him, how he waited for Charles to tell him it would be all right.

  ‘Yes, Kip, go and meet Punch – he will be glad of your company when Mr Bagster is busy. I will come back to see you. And remember what we talked about today. You will be brave, I know.’

  Kip smiled and went out with James Bagster’s hand on his shoulder. He would be safe.

  ‘A good man, James – he will know what to say, how to comfort
him.’

  ‘And you, Charles, and you. What a story that was about the fire – how terrible to see that poor woman go into the flames.’

  ‘I shall never forget it. Before my helpless sight – if only she had waited, known that Kip would live. But I did not know then. I knew why she had done it – there was nothing left.’

  ‘She had no children to go on for – when my husband died in that desolate place in Brazil my only thought was to get my children to safety. If they had not needed me, I don’t know that I might not have died there too.’

  ‘Thank goodness you did not – who else would I have found to cope with Isabella Gordon and her cohorts?’

  ‘But I could not in the end.’

  ‘None of us could – no news of them, I suppose?’

  ‘Not a word – I do wonder where they are now.’

  ‘Together, I am certain. Sesina needed Isabella. Still, Jenny Ding has done well, and Lizzie Dagg – when you think what they were when they came. You have done well with them – and we cannot save them all.’

  ‘Well, you have saved Kip and Davey. Captain Pierce writes that he is well though he does not speak yet – it is early days. I have hopes.’

  ‘I, too. And now I must go.’

  He told her that he could not stay longer – he must get back to London to see Sam. He would let her know when the inquest on the Moon family was to be held. Mrs Morson and James Bagster would accompany Kip, and the burial would be at Kensal Green where Dickens thought James, whose son-in-law was a gardener there, could take the boy. Dickens would pay for the funeral. She must let him know how Kip was and he would come as soon as he could.

  ‘Meanwhile –’

  ‘Yes, Charles, is there something else you wish me to do?’ asked Mrs Morson.

  ‘Get a donkey.’

  ‘A donkey? Why on earth do I need a donkey?’

  ‘Kip does – he had one – or knew one – I’m not sure which – as a child. Scrap seemed to think it important.’ He smiled, ruefully, ‘So I said there would be one – and one should never make promises one cannot keep.’

  ‘Indeed, no – any particular kind? Colour?’ She smiled back at him. It was so like him, busy as he was, to remember such a detail, something that might please this boy who had lost everything.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know – aren’t they all the same? The ones I see seem all to be a kind of muddy brown.’

  ‘Donkey brown, they call it.’ They both laughed.

  ‘Make sure it has a nice nature – you know what donkeys are, always objecting to go in any direction required of them. I knew a donkey once, by sight – we were not on speaking terms, but I thought he was – not to compromise the expression – a blackguard – taken in by the police, he was.’

  ‘I am sure we can trust James to find a suitably decorous donkey – perhaps a country donkey will be less –’

  ‘Inclined to criminality than a city fellow,’ Dickens finished for her. They laughed together. ‘Well, I must return to our investigations – a complicated case, this, but Kip told me something interesting, something I must tell Sam as soon as I can.’

  He was back in Bow Street within the hour – Sam had returned from the Du Canes and was waiting to tell Dickens what he had found out about the shawl. Looking at his friend’s face, he knew that there was news. Dickens told him first that Kip was safely stowed with James Bagster.

  ‘But, there is more?’

  ‘Yes, Kip remembered that Scrap had asked him about Robin Hart. Fortunately, he did not seem to know that he had been murdered. He seemed to think I was looking for him and I let him think that. But he told me that Robin had run errands for a French woman who made hats.’

  ‘Did he now?’

  ‘And, Robin did not like her – she frightened him, Kip said. I thought it was interesting.’

  ‘It is – very – and you will find it more so when you hear what I found out at the Du Canes.’

  ‘You saw Mattie Webb?’

  ‘I did – she lost the shawl.’

  ‘Not in the churchyard – that would be –’

  ‘No, she lost it at the Du Canes – she was hurrying in late, she said, and it caught on a bush or something. She left it, intending to go back for it – she did not dare be any later but once she had reported to the housekeeper she knew she could retrieve it. However, when she went out again, it was gone.’

  ‘So, we do not know who took it?’

  ‘This is the interesting bit. I asked her if she recalled any visitors that day and she remembered because something unusual happened. Mademoiselle Victorine –’ Dickens’s eyes widened – ‘was to deliver a hat for Mrs Du Cane. Yes, she is still the milliner for Mrs Du Cane.’

  ‘She lied to us – well, at least she gave the impression that she had lost her wealthy clients.’

  ‘She did. But, apparently, Mrs Du Cane kept her on because she liked the hats and was not put off by her manner; indeed Mattie feels that her mistress is such a great lady that she hardly notices Mademoiselle Victorine. Mrs Outfin was, it seems, of a more querulous disposition –’

  ‘But you said “was to”, the implication being that she did not arrive.’ Sam waited while Dickens thought for a moment. He saw Dickens’s face change – his expression showed the moment when he worked it out.

  ‘Someone else came! Who?’

  ‘Her brother.’

  ‘But, she told us that he is dead! Another lie – then the shadowy figure that the neighbour believed was a possible lover does exist. But, why should she pretend that the young man was her brother. It makes no sense.’

  ‘A footman took in the hat box – the young man told him that Mademoiselle Victorine was unwell and that he, her brother, had brought the hat because his sister had promised it that day.’

  ‘Did you speak to the footman?’

  ‘I did and I asked him if he could describe the young man. He was vague, as you can imagine. The encounter lasted no more than a minute or two – his impression was just of a youngish, slight man, rather nervous, he thought, anxious to be away. Could have been her brother.’

  ‘If the brother were not dead,’ observed Dickens gloomily.

  ‘But, say he is not – say she lied because she knew – or suspected what he had done. She said he had died in Paris – perhaps that is where he is now.’

  ‘Or, the lover – we need to know if the brother is dead – or even if she had a brother. She might be lying about that.’

  ‘Then we must ask her – she must be made to tell us whom she sent to deliver that hat – we have to suppose that whoever he was, he took the shawl though what for I cannot imagine.’

  ‘Perhaps he knew it was Victorine’s work and wanted to return it to her.’

  ‘Then, why was it in the churchyard?’

  ‘Because she is his accomplice. It must be, Sam. Think about it – she befriends the children and he kills them. She lures them to him by some pretence – perhaps she sent Robin on an errand to give a message to someone at the churchyard or she took him there, promising some payment – I don’t know, but she left Robin with him – the girls in the churchyard did not see anyone else with Robin.She left because she had done her part.’

  ‘Motive?’

  ‘Hers? She loved him – brother or lover – would do anything for him. And, remember what we thought about her – cold, indifferent, so closed up – but she has one loyalty, one obsession – him.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter for now – we can theorise all we like. It is more important that we question her. Now! I’ll get Rogers. We will send him round the back of the house – the beat constables have been keeping an eye on the place but have not reported any man coming out. I didn’t really believe in the young man – I was more concerned with Theo Outfin. Let us hope we are not too late.’

  20

  THE HOUSE OF QUIET

  They hurried from Bow Street up to Short’s Gardens then through Seven Dials to Crown Street where Dickens had followed Theo Outfin into the l
anes where the Moons lived, and where they had lost him in the sudden surge of the crowds at the cry of ‘fire’. He was glad that Theo was not now a serious suspect. Would he live? he wondered.

  It was dark now and the streets were full, but he could not help scanning the faces, looking for that pinched countenance with the thick spectacles which had concealed, perhaps, the face of a woman who had been prepared to help a killer. He remembered what Rogers had said when they had first discussed the shawl – it could be a woman. He had reminded them of Mrs Manning – ‘’Ard as nails’, Rogers had said.

  And she was. Dickens had read all about the case of cold-blooded Maria Manning who had shot her lover, Patrick O’Connor, through the back of the head, having invited him to a meal. She had directed him to wash at the sink where a hole had been dug and quick lime bought in readiness to dispose of the body. When the shot did not kill Patrick O’Connor, Maria looked on while her husband Frederick had finished him off by battering his head with a crowbar – Maria had watched impassively. Then, according to some newspaper reports, she had sat down to dine on the goose which she had cooked for three. The body was in the hole by the sink. Greed and envy had been her motives – envy of O’Connor’s money – and she was caught trying to sell off some share certificates. The search for her and her husband had been relentless – an inspector and a sergeant had been sent to Paris, but in the end she was found in Edinburgh. Oh, indeed, a woman could be as ruthless as a man – more so in Maria Manning’s case, perhaps.

  They were at Rose Street, outside the house where no lamp burnt. They knew at once that she was not there. Rogers went round the back into the little alley to find the back door from which the neighbour had declared that she had seen a young man emerge. Perhaps she had, but he was not there now. A labouring man came by, his boots striking on the cobbles. He looked at the policeman curiously, but passed on without comment. Dickens and Jones came round from the front. They would go in. The yard door opened easily, but the back of the house was dark.