Death at Hungerford Stairs

by J C Briggs

  ‘Something will turn up – which I am, I may say, hourly expecting and in case of anything turning up, I shall be extremely happy if it should be in my power to improve your prospects. Farewell, Mr Jones, God bless you.’

  With Mr Micawber’s orotund rhetoric ringing in his ears, Sam went into the police station smiling. Dickens marched away whistling the College Hornpipe.

  He went home to have lunch and to think about what he would discuss with John Forster, his closest friend – apart from Sam, he thought. He had a scheme for a new periodical magazine. His notion was a weekly journal to be priced at three halfpence or two pence. He wanted it to appeal to the imagination and represent common sense and humanity at the same time, to contribute to the entertainment of all classes of readers – Posy included, Rogers, Feak, Mrs Feak, Sam, Elizabeth, Sir Edward Bulwer-Lytton – the queen herself. The hardest workers were to be taught that their lot was not necessarily excluded from the sympathies and graces of the imagination. This was to be discussed with Forster tonight – and he needed to think of a title. Mankind, perhaps. No, The Household Face or better still, The Household Voice – yes, he rather thought the Voice was it.

  He picked up his pen – time to answer the letters and to ponder the progress of David Copperfield. He thought again with sadness of the drowned figure of Mrs Hart and how he had thought of the river running to the wide ocean. He thought of the Yarmouth coast where storms raged and the wild wind whirled over the heaving sea.

  25

  DISGUISE

  Household Words – that was it, a very pretty name. That would be the name for the new periodical – with thanks to Mr Shakespeare. He would have to send a note to John tomorrow. He thought of the title as he was walking along Chancery Lane after dining with John. All was settled about the new publication, and he was ready to make a general announcement of the intended adventure.

  In the meantime, Liverpool. What if they were aboard the Cambria? He could imagine himself and Sam scouring the cabins. When news came that Maria Manning might be aboard the SS Victoria, a fast frigate had been despatched to catch the ship and apprehend the murderess – it had not been Maria Manning but a perfectly respectable American lady whose name was Rebecca Manning. He just hoped they would not put to sea before he and Sam could disembark – he had horrible memories of the sea voyage to America from Liverpool; the weather so violent, the ship flung on her side in the waves, beaten down, battered and crushed by the monstrous sea – no, he thought, let us find her before the ship sails.

  He walked on to Oxford Street where he came again upon the busy coffee stall where he was sure he had glimpsed Sesina. He could not resist having a look. He waited a while, scanning the crowds which came and went. He felt he ought to buy a coffee. The stallholder gave him a look which seemed to accuse him of taking up valuable space if he were not going to buy anything. It was quite good, hot anyway. Along the street came a group very like the one he had seen the night before – yes, there was the young man, he was sure – the one with the scarf and, yes, there was Sesina, looking lively in her finery. He stayed where he was. They might see him.

  The young man came first – tall, slender, elegant really in his flowing scarf. Sesina caught up with him and they approached near where Dickens was standing. He turned away to let them come in beside him. He felt the young man’s touch as he pushed in to get near the coffee tins, steaming in the cold air. Dickens turned now and looked into the laughing amber eyes of – Isabella Gordon.

  ‘Saw yer, Mr D – bet yer dint think it was me.’

  He was astounded. He had thought she could not surprise him again. He thought of that forlorn figure trudging out of Urania Cottage wiping her eyes with her shawl, yet here she was, her impudence restored, standing there with all the aplomb of a well-dressed toff. He had been right about one thing – he had known that Isabella and Sesina would find each other. Sesina looked less pleased to see him. Isabella was relishing his astonishment.

  ‘How do you come to be here and –’

  ‘Dressed like this? Suits me, don’t it?’ She swept off her top hat and he saw that her red hair had been cut. She looked like a boy, a handsome one at that.

  ‘It does, indeed. I should not have known you, though I recognised Miss Sesina here the other night.’

  ‘An’ yer come lookin’ for us. We ain’t comin’ back.’ Sesina was wary and suspicious. He had never liked her as much as he had Isabella whose wit and liveliness he had found attractive. Isabella was confident, her eyes sparkling still with the delight of his surprise.

  ‘Got our own lives now, Mr D. Don’t need no ’elp – sorry we made trouble for yer but the ’ome was not fer us – too quiet – too many rules – we wanted a bit o’life. An’ not all of us needs a man. Yer thought we all wanted ter marry, Mr D, but you was wrong.’

  ‘I did come looking, Isabella –’

  ‘Don’t use that name now – just Iz’ll do.’

  ‘Very well. I did come looking but not to bring you back – just to see if you were all right and I see that you are.’

  ‘Come fer a drink – tell yer the story.’

  How could he resist? Of course, he longed to know – it seemed impossible that she had transformed in such a few days.

  ‘We’ll take yer ter a place we know – promise yer’ll like it. Not far from ’ere.’

  Isabella led the way from Oxford Street into a network of lanes winding off Soho Square. They came to a pair of houses that looked as if they had been knocked into one. He knew what it was – one of the little private theatres, not quite a penny gaff, the kind which he had sometimes visited as a very young man working at the solicitor’s in Gray’s Inn. He had been to a theatre every night for three years and had thought of making the stage as his career. He even had an audition with George Bartley at Covent Garden – a swollen face had prevented him from attending.

  Well, he thought, perhaps he might have ended his days in a place like this – though it was not the worst he had ever seen. He couldn’t help laughing at the placards outside. ‘Astounding!’ they shrieked; ‘Startling!’ – I bet it is, he thought. ‘Don’t miss it!’ Apparently, Mrs Fitzjohn was the star, ‘a regular stunner’ in the highwayman line. So, that was it. Isabella had taken her cue from the appearance of Mrs Fitzjohn in her garb as a highwayman.

  They went in to find seats in a bar that had been set up in the area before the theatre proper. Dickens watched as Isabella strolled to the bar for all the world like a gentleman of fashion, even if the clothes were second-hand – from the wardrobe stock, he guessed. A woman’s eyes followed her hungrily and the girl at the bar looked at her with obvious admiration. He saw Sesina frown. Isabella came back with their glasses of gin. She lounged back in her chair and to his amazement – yet again – she took out a cigar and lit it, blowing out the smoke before her narrowed eyes.

  ‘Well, Mr D, ’ere we are – convincin’, ain’t I?’

  ‘To the manner born, Mr Iz – I give you my compliments.’ He raised his glass to them. ‘Now, you promised me a story.’

  ‘Yer won’t give us away, will yer, Mr Dickens? Ain’t no ’arm in wot we do.’ Sesina did not trust him entirely. She remembered only too clearly his sternness when he had dismissed her. He could be frightening, she thought – his eyes could see right through yer an’ ’e might think it want right. She wished Iz want so cocky.

  ‘I certainly will not. I am curious, though.Tell me.’

  ‘Remember Alice Drown, Mr D? Remember she walked out? Just vanished over the wall.’

  ‘I remember Alice very well – met her once at the theatre.’

  ‘Well, before she went, she said if we woz ever to do the same, she’d ’elp us out. She knew we wouldn’t stay – told us she woz gettin’ work in the theatre – the Victoria – well, we went there an’ she give us lodgins for the night an’ some money. Big ’eart ’as Alice. An’ she told us about this place – sed we could get work. When I sees Mrs Fitzjohn, I knew I could do the same – be saf
er, I thought, if one of us was a man an’ I’m the tallest, so. We does an act together, me an’ Ses – yer sed she woz an actress.’ She laughed, remembering the fireworks at the Home when she and Sesina had flounced and fomented rebellion much to the chagrin of Mrs Morson. Dickens laughed, too, though he was glad to think that they would trouble Georgiana no more.

  ‘And?’

  ‘We’re ’appy, Mr D. We likes the excitement an’ we don’t need no men – yer know wot our lives woz like – it’s a dangerous world fer women. I’ve ’ad a few beatins in my time, I told yer – an’ ’oo’d wanter bring kids inter this life, eh? I can’t remember my mother ’cept she woz always sick an’ there woz too many kids. Yer can’t love ’em all. Not for us. We likes our freedom – an’ we wanter keep it.’

  ‘An’ we don’t want no one takin’ it away. Leave us be,’ Sesina was fierce. ‘I been in prison an’ I ain’t goin back and Iz neither. We done our time. We gotta chance now.’ Sesina wanted to close the door on the past and throw away the key, but Isabella was enjoying her audience, crossing her legs in the narrow plaid trousers. He noted the bright waistcoat, the loosely tied cravat and the hair brushed to one side. By God, he thought, she has modelled herself on me! He did not know whether to be horrified or flattered, but he had to admit she made a very attractive young man. No wonder that woman had looked at her.

  ‘I am not going to spoil your chance, I promise.’

  ‘Yer see, Mr D, we belongs ’ere – backstage, we’re all the same, all in it together – it’s ’ard ter explain – it’s our own world,’ said Isabella.

  Of course he understood; he had acted in enough plays to know exactly what she meant. He knew all the anticipation of waiting in the wings, the whispered comments on the condition of the house, the last-minute adjustments to the costume, the sense of exclusivity that comes with being backstage – everyone, he thought, wants to be someone else.

  ‘Wanter see the show? Mrs Fitzjohn’ll be on,’ asked Isabella. ‘Best seats?’

  ‘Lead on.’ Dickens was intrigued to see Mrs Fitzjohn and her highwayman act. They went in to the theatre which was crowded with cheering spectators in the pit and in the boxes, but there was a place for them. The crowd was generally of the rougher sort but good-humoured enough. He saw the occasional little group of toffs come for a taste of low life, and to ogle Mrs Fitzjohn in her breeches and her high boots. She came on stage in a coat of green velvet and a scarlet and gold tricorn hat. Great stampings and whistles greeted her – the star of the show – and she began by firing her pistols into the audience to great applause. There was a great deal of singing and shooting of Bow Street Runners; a docile horse was brought on, hardly suitable for Gentleman Jack. It looked as if it couldn’t amble, never mind execute a gallop. A coach was brought on looking suspiciously like an old street cab and the coachman was shot dead. A lovely damsel fainted into Jack’s arms and the highwayman helped himself to a few kisses and several bags of clinking coins. Then followed an interlude in which two young ladies in sailors’ dresses performed the skipping hornpipe.

  Dickens enjoyed it all despite its tawdriness and the shabbiness of the properties. He could imagine Isabella taking Mrs Fitzjohn’s part – it was surely time for Mrs Fitzjohn to retire. Underneath the wig and paint he had an idea that she might be fifty. Isabella would relish the role of highwayman, especially the pistols, and Sesina would make a pert little damsel. Mrs Fitzjohn would deceive no one as to her sex, but Isabella – well, he had not known her until she spoke – she made a convincing young man in her disguise.

  Disguise thou art a wickedness – so, indeed. The answer came to him as he sat there thinking about Isabella. He remembered now the figure passing him near St Giles’s – a man with a woman’s face. And he thought about Sophy Outfin dressed in boy’s clothes – so like her brother, so like her brother. And Theo in his dream dressed as his sister.

  ‘I cannot wait,’ he whispered to Isabella. ‘Forgive me, I must go at once. I hope we shall meet again.’ He pressed a sovereign into her hand. ‘Take care of yourselves. Goodnight.’ Then he was gone.

  He hurried back to Oxford Street to take a cab to Norfolk Street where he hoped Sam would be in. He must speak with him at once. He leapt into the nearest cab – it seemed so slow that he wondered if the horse were back to its real job after its stint in the theatre. He almost leapt out again to run all the way, but it had been another long day and it seemed an age since he had played with the boys on the carpet. Heavens, one of Alfred’s wooden horses would be faster than this.

  At length, the cab got him to Sam’s house; there was a light downstairs which usually meant that Sam was home. He leant over the railings at the front of the house and tapped gently with his stick.

  The door opened to show Sam. ‘It is a bit early for the train, is it not?’

  ‘We shall not be going to Liverpool, Sam; we must go to Brighton again.’

  Sam let him in. He could tell that Dickens had something to impart – he saw how his eyes shone with triumph. He had found out something important or he had solved the mystery. They went into the parlour where Elizabeth was sitting sewing by the fire.

  ‘Elizabeth, forgive me. I know it is late but –’

  ‘You have news for Sam. May I stay?’ She had seen the flash of light in his eyes. How alive he was, she thought, so full of vitality, his face now so clear and eager.

  ‘Of course – you must stay. I shall want to know what you think of my ideas.’ He wondered then – what if he were wrong? Well, let us see what the rational Sam thought – and Elizabeth – they would both provide a counterweight to his wild fancy – and it did seem a little wild now. But, no – he was sure he was right.

  They sat before the fire after Sam had given him brandy and water.

  ‘Now, tell us all. We are agog – if you have solved this case, I shall ask the commissioner to appoint you instantly in my place and I shall take up blacksmithing – what say you, Elizabeth, to the country life?’

  ‘I say that if I do not hear what Charles has to say in the next second or two I shall expire, and you will be blacksmithing without a wife to wipe your fevered brow. Charles, please.’

  ‘I have been to the theatre – well to what passes for one. I was taken thither by Isabella Gordon and Miss Sesina – as I foretold, they are together.’

  ‘And this is important because –’

  ‘Miss Isabella is in disguise – dressed as a man and a convincing one at that. We went to a show featuring Mrs Fitzjohn in high boots and breeches as a highwayman, and while I was watching I thought of a man I had seen in St Giles’s – a man with a woman’s face, and I thought of Miss Sophy Outfin dressed as her brother as Mrs Mapes described. My thoughts turned naturally to Mademoiselle Victorine and her brother –’

  ‘Who never existed – we found out that in Paris.’

  ‘But we never understood why she pretended to send her brother to the Du Canes –’

  ‘Well, she would hardly send her lover, Michel.’

  ‘Indeed not. But, think, Sam – no one ever saw them together – we believed her to be Michel’s accomplice, and though the shawl was in the graveyard those two girls saw only a young man – or what they thought –’ He broke off, seeing Sam’s face register understanding. ‘You see, don’t you? There was no brother, there was no lover – only Victorine.’

  ‘Disguised as a man – that is what you thought when you saw Isabella.’

  ‘It was – she was so convincing. If I had not known her when she spoke to me I would have taken her for a young, attractive man.’

  ‘But, Victorine – she was – I don’t know what she was. Too slight, I suppose,’ Sam was not entirely convinced. ‘There was a case, years ago when I was a constable. A man called Bill Chapman appeared in court with a woman called Isabella Watson who was charged with assaulting her sister. Bill Chapman was with Isabella, but it turned out that Bill Chapman was a woman.’

  ‘There you are, then – it happens. It pro
ves my theory.’ Dickens was determined now. He had come thinking that Sam and Elizabeth might contradict him, but now that Sam seemed uncertain, he was sure.

  Sam saw the familiar gleam in Dickens’s eyes, but he, too, was determined to have his say. ‘Not quite. My point is that Mary Chapman was like a man. She was chewing tobacco, she had the gait of a man, the voice of a man – she looked like a costermonger.’

  ‘But you said yourself that you don’t know what Victorine was. We said she was sexless. And the witnesses, Sam – Mrs Twiss saw a young man coming from her yard, Constable Green’s witness at Hungerford Market said Jemmy was with a toff. The girls at St Giles’s Churchyard saw a man. People see a person dressed in man’s clothes – they don’t look any closer. It’s a man. They don’t think that it could be a woman. Why would they?’

  Sam didn’t reply. Dickens and Elizabeth looked at him, but he seemed to be abstracted as though he were listening for something.

  ‘Sam,’ said Elizabeth, ‘for goodness’ sake, tell us what you think.’

  Sam smiled back at them. ‘I think I hear the sound of the hammer on the anvil!’

  ‘You believe it?’ Dickens wanted a definite answer.

  ‘I do. You are right, Charles – it does make sense, but –’

  ‘But me no buts – remember the footman at the Du Canes – he described a slight, young man –’

  ‘Whom he was ready to believe was Victorine’s brother because there was a resemblance – it could not have been Michel. It’s impossible to believe that her lover resembled her. I was going to say, but why? Why would she dress as a man?’

  ‘Yes, why? Surely, it would have been easier for a woman to lure the boys? Would they not have gone more readily with a woman if she asked them to do an errand for her?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘That’s true, but whatever her reason, her disguise meant that we were looking for a young man – even when we went to her house, we had no thought that she was the murderer. Even when Rogers said it could have been a woman, we did not think of her. But, Charles, why must we go back to Brighton? We have been there and I have heard nothing from the Brighton police.’