by Myers, Amy
Charles Dickens seemed to have stayed in a remarkable number of houses in Broadstairs, the Lionisers were beginning to feel, looking at their itinerary on Thursday morning. They seemed destined to study every single house exhaustively. It was perhaps only in the last ten years that Broadstairs had fully come to realise what treasure trove lay buried in its midst, and plaques began enthusiastically to sprout everywhere. Aged residents were suddenly objects of pilgrimage from such far-off places as America, and soon there were few people over sixty who did not have some hastily dusted-down anecdote, remembered, borrowed or adjusted, ready for eager visitors. The Lionisers somewhat mystified them, since they were perversely not content with the usual stories, but demanded to know dates, times and exact locations and had an annoying habit of checking these against vast volumes of Letters and Lives. Why books should know better than them was puzzling to Bradstonians, but they were anxious to please their visitors so did their best to comply.
The first call this Thursday morning was the very first house that Mr Dickens had rented on his very first never-to-be-forgotten visit to the village in 1837, No. 12 High Street. From this tiny house had flowed some at least of the immortal words that the world had come to know as The Pickwick Papers. Now thirty-five intrepid Lionisers were gazing at the outside of the small single-fronted cottage with its tiny parlour overlooking the street. The owner’s wife looked nervously out at the throng from behind her lace curtains. ‘Here,’ began Samuel Pipkin loudly, ‘Mr Dickens spent August and September 1837. Here he found inspiration—’
‘And pears,’ interjected Gwendolen, who had been reading her guide books. ‘There’s an old pear tree in the garden.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Figgis-Hewett,’ said Samuel crossly; he proceeded with his speech, only to be interrupted again by the owner’s wife who hesitantly opened the door, a less than enthusiastic expression on her face. It was agreed that only ten people should tramp round the tiny cottage at a time; the remainder were forced to mingle with the morning shoppers and then to walk on to the old St Mary’s Chapel, which once had held the shrine of Our Lady of Bradstow and to which passing ships would lower their sails in honour. But it had nothing to do with Mr Dickens, the Lionisers thought, impatient to be on their way.
Lord Beddington was gazing hopefully into Randalls, the bookmakers. True, Goodwood was over, but betting went on, thank goodness. The Charing Races were on this afternoon. He was debating between a horse called the Prince of Wales and an outsider called Pretty Polly. He decided on the latter, for once on impulse, not form. The Prince of Wales could hardly be said to be a good luck symbol at the moment.
‘Who do you think killed Sir Thomas, Lord Beddington?’ Angelina’s voice made him jump and he forgot all about Pretty Polly, and all about his chances of sneaking away from the Canterbury trip tomorrow to see the second day of the Kent versus Australia match. Dickens was all very well, but cricket was better. Faced with such a direct question, and from Mrs Langham, he felt obliged to reply. He could not take refuge in a timely snooze.
‘Plenty of people would like to have done,’ he said, more forthcoming than she expected. ‘Nothing against him myself,’ he added hastily, ‘but lots of rumours. Heard of the Barings Crisis?’
‘Yes,’ said Angelina doubtfully. It was a long time ago and her head had been full of balls and parties, not City uproars, when she was twenty-one.
‘Nine years ago, nearly. Barings nearly went down for over twenty million. That would have punched a few holes in the City’s sang-froid, I can tell you.’ He contemplated this thought for a moment. ‘The Government refused to intervene. Governor of the Bank of England stepped in. Organised a seven-million guarantee. Cracked the whip in the City. No banks to call in loans. Crisis averted, City settles down. Baring’s now stronger than ever.’
‘Thomas involved?’ asked Angelina, inadvertently falling into his Mr Jingle-like speech.
‘One bank refused to comply with the Bank of England and threatened to call in its brokers’ loans. Bank of England not pleased. Told him so. Changed his mind rapidly. Rumour has it Throgmorton’s bank did same thing – didn’t get found out. Did very nicely out of it, too.’ He didn’t add that he had too, and Throgmorton knew it.
‘Do you think anyone here knew of that?’
‘I did,’ rumbled Beddington virtuously. ‘My firm had one of the loans called in. It made me wary of Throgmorton – but it doesn’t make me a murderer nine years later.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean to imply—’
‘Yes, you did.’ A rare smile crossed his face. ‘You should try Pipkin. Try saying diamonds to him. Australian diamonds.’ He positively chuckled.
‘You don’t think, by any chance,’ said Angelina, taking advantage of his obvious and inexplicable good humour, and noting the untraditional and definitely garish silk handkerchief in his pocket, ‘that the poison was intended for you? Sir Thomas did not drink from your glass for any reason?’
Lord Beddington looked dumbfounded. ‘Me? No one would want to murder me, madam.’
‘There’s no one who bears you a grudge?’
‘Good heavens, no.’ He was almost hurt. ‘Except that young rascal of course. Can’t remember his name. One of the waiters. Ah, called after a tree. Poplar. That’s it. Came up before me on the bench once. Gave him a stiff sentence in a House of Correction to teach him better ways. I could tell he was a wrong ’un. Had a quick hand with the safe and an even quicker eye to the jewels. I had a notion we’d be hearing more of him. And, see, I was right!’ he concluded triumphantly.
‘But his being here is coincidence, surely? He had no reason to kill Sir Thomas, did he?’
‘You tell me, my dear.’ Glancing over his shoulder, he disappeared quickly into the bookmakers’. Pipkin was advancing to summon the next party.
Indefatigably the Lionisers prowled their way along Albion Street and surged up the narrow Fort Road, but this time they stopped before they got to Fort House. Their prey this morning was Lawn House, lying just below it on the hillside. Here Dickens stayed for his holiday one year, baulked of being able to rent Fort House as he desired. ‘A small villa between the hill and the cornfield,’ quoted Samuel rapturously. He had almost forgotten his previous dislike of Dickens, carried away by the opportunities for rhetoric that the Great Man was so unexpectedly granting him.
The owner opened the door and almost closed it again. He was used to groups of two or three respectful Americans, not prides of culture-hungry Lionisers.
Gwendolen was clad in dark grey and was wearing the hat she had just purchased from the Iduns Brothers Bazaar. This was not her usual choice of milliner, but it possessed the only dark-coloured hat in Broadstairs apparently. She had decided not to attend the funeral, believing now that dignified restraint was her best role. She had become rather confused as to what had actually happened between Thomas and herself. She was, however, quite astute enough to realise the purport of all Oliver Michaels’ carefully thought-out questions.
‘You mean, could I have administered poison to Sir Thomas? The idea is absurd,’ she announced loftily. ‘And, moreover, highly objectionable. I loved him. Besides, when could I have done it?’ she asked, more practically.
Oliver had his own ideas on this, which he could hardly put to Mrs Figgis-Hewett; they involved her dramatic appearance before the dinner began when he had worked out she could have added something to Sir Thomas’s drink in the confusion.
‘No, my dear young man,’ she smiled, assuming she had won her point, ‘if you seek a villain, look no further!’ Her finger shot out; it pointed to Samuel Pipkin.
Samuel was moving determinedly into position before the last house of the morning, the private dwelling on the seafront where Mary Strong had chased away donkeys from the grassland in front of her cottage, thus inspiring Dickens to create Miss Betsy Trotwood in David Copperfield, though he tactfully set her residence in Dover.
‘Donkeys, Janet,’ Gwendolen trilled again, but the will to fight had lef
t her, and she easily ceded place of honour to Samuel. He marched victorious into the parlour where David Copperfield himself had sat. And Charles Dickens too no doubt. It was notable that Samuel had made no mention of Thackeray for over forty-eight hours.
Angelina had worried how best to approach Mr Pipkin tactfully, but Oliver had no such social qualms.
‘Diamonds,’ he announced thoughtfully as Samuel emerged from the parlour into Nuckell’s Place. Samuel jumped, distracted from his next address on the beauty of the old Assembly Rooms. But he was no easy target. He was not to be swayed from duty. An eye on Gwendolen, he ostentatiously produced his copy of Our Watering Place and began to read.
‘“This is a bleak chamber in our watering place which is yet called the Assembly Rooms and understood to be available on hire for balls or concerts, and, some few seasons since, an ancient gentleman came down who said that he had danced there in bygone ages with the Honourable Miss Peepy, well known to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of innumerable duels.” Ah,’ Samuel commented, eyes now anywhere but on Gwendolen ‘how cruel is age, how poignantly Mr Dickens portrays it and how recognisable even today is Miss Peepy.’ Polite cough.
‘I am not a Miss Peepy,’ shouted Gwendolen, more infuriated than wounded. Angelina hurried to her in concern, but she shook her arm off. ‘I have been silent’ (this was news to the Lionisers) ‘but my lips shall be sealed no longer. Ask him about his diamond ventures in Australia and poor Thomas.’
Samuel turned red, then white. ‘I have nothing to say,’ he said and stomped off.
Gwendolen, thoroughly upset by the morning’s events but mindful of her appointment for dinner that evening, decided to slip into Mr Horrell’s, in order to purchase some of his advertised Special Skin Soap, In the doorway she met the subject of her dinner appointment himself. Lord Beddington, mindful of the same appointment, was rather optimistically emerging from the shop with a bottle of Lockyers Sulphur Hair-restorer, and six tablets of Amiral soap (‘Removes Burden of Corpulency’).
Auguste was singing an old song of Provence as he worked, then changed countries and song to ‘My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose’. Araminta was in his mind. He was content. He had spent much time on the pier with William and Joe and had returned to find his pupils assembled, eager to learn for once. They had all been hard at work ever since. He was cooking; murder was, for the moment at any rate, not in his thoughts, the sun was at last shining in the way it should do on a seaside holiday, and there were still three more days of holiday to go. Three days of Araminta. Moreover, to complete his joy, William and Joe, as if taking pity on him, had produced some delicious Dover sole and some more delicious John Dory with the promise of other delights to come. Perhaps for tomorrow he would prepare a true aioli de morue. No, he would not. Why should they eat salt fish, when William and Joe commanded the seas? Yesterday he had taught the class about the wonders of John Dory. Today they would enjoy a Saint Pierre au gratin for luncheon with a true salade niçoise. Tonight the sole. What should—
He never came to a conclusion for Angelina and Oliver came at just the wrong moment, just as the fish required the hand of the maître. Once again, he left the pupils to superintend the luncheon and departed into the small parlour to hear their story. Really, detective work was all very well, but not when it interfered with cuisine.
‘So you see, Mr Pipkin did have a real motive,’ said Angelina excitedly. ‘Lord Beddington explained that five or six years ago the Australian banking organisation broke down altogether and nobody stepped in to save it. Many people were ruined. Mr Pipkin had been advised to put his money into diamond mining and it was handled through this Australian bank. He lost nearly all his money. His adviser had been Thomas Throgmorton. Beddington thinks Pipkin thinks,’ concluded Angelina confusedly, ‘that Sir Thomas did it on purpose because he disliked Pipkin.’
‘But when could Mr Pipkin have given the poison to Sir Thomas?’ asked Auguste reasonably. ‘He was at the far end of the table; he had no opportunity.’
‘He could have done it beforehand when we met for drinks and everyone’s attention was on Mrs Figgis-Hewett,’ said Angelina, albeit with a feeling of disloyalty to a fellow female.
‘This is possible,’ admitted Auguste, ‘but doubtful. And does it not make the time problem even worse? Sir Thomas drank a lot of coffee, and as this is often given as an enema in atropine poisoning cases, it might have led to his being sick, perhaps even delayed the onset of symptoms. Yet I feel it is unlikely to have delayed it so long.’
‘So you don’t give us full marks, Mr Didier.’ Oliver was disappointed.
‘You carry out excellent research,’ said Auguste diplomatically. ‘But now it is for me, the analyst, to take over. We must sort out these ingredients and consider their relevance to the final dish.’
He puzzled about it when they had left. Two things occurred to him: firstly, that they were extremely anxious to divert attention away from Mrs Langham, which was natural enough. The second was the stirrings of a memory in his mind.
He returned thoughtfully to the Saint Pierre au gratin, only to discover that matters had not progressed well in his absence. He passed Sid and Algernon on the stairs having a heated argument, which stopped abruptly as he appeared. Alfred was nowhere to be seen, Emily and Heinrich were bickering over the mayonnaise, and James Pegg and Alice were silently working together on a salad.
At luncheon there was an odd restlessness among his pupils, which Auguste attributed to excitement at seeing what a true salade niçoise should taste like. Alice explained the real reason: ‘We’re all going bathing, Mr Didier. Why don’t you come? Miss Multhrop will be there,’ she teased.
Yes, why didn’t he?
‘That would be most pleasant,’ he said, gratified. ‘I have to visit Inspector Rose at three-thirty, but there is time to bathe as well.’
As if in anticipation of the coming treat, relations had thawed between the pupils. Alice now sat next to Alfred, Heinrich next to Emily, Algernon was chatting to Sid. Only James remained as abstracted as he had all day yesterday. In the evening Auguste had found him wandering around on his own. Auguste glanced at him curiously. Perhaps it was love of Araminta or perhaps, glancing at Alfred, it was pique that his lordship had reverted to Alice. Perhaps James still secretly adored Alice?
There was a scramble to finish luncheon, and due regard was not paid in Auguste’s view to the seriousness of the John Dory as a fish. The usual critique was reserved for the evening, in view of the common abstraction. Coffee was taken amid a rush to wash up the dishes, and at last, at two o’clock, they were free.
‘It’s too nice an afternoon to spend inside listening to a lecture,’ announced a Lioniser suddenly.
Mr Multhrop groaned. ‘No, no, the sun will hurt your complexion, dear madam. It is bad to take too much sun.’ He had a splendid tea arranged and could see his profits disappearing yet further.
But it was too late. The idea had borne fruit. Yesterday had been the group’s first taste of real sunshine and comparative warmth and it had fired their enthusiasm. There was a sudden rebellion – or, rather, a retreat. Faced with a lecture on ‘Dickens’s Use of Language in Hard Times’ or the delights of the Broadstairs sands, the Lionisers did not hesitate. They were going to break out of their self-imposed cage. Bathing, which before leaving London had been deemed suitable only for the lower classes, suddenly seemed a most adventurous and desirable way of spending an afternoon. Bathing dresses had been surreptitiously acquired, those provided in the machines, Araminta had assured them, being definitely not suitable for ladies and gentlemen of their status. Being now the proud possessors of these shocking and daring items, they were determined to try them out.
‘After all, bathing is a Dickensian-approved activity,’ pointed out one person, anxious to appease her conscience. ‘He did write to that American professor that Boz “disappears and presently emerges from a bathing machine, and may be seen – a kind of salmon-coloured porpoise –
splashing about in the ocean”.’
‘He bathed naked as was the custom, madam, for both men and women,’ pointed out Oliver wickedly and grandly. ‘We must do the same, to be true to the Master.’
‘Oh!’ cried the good lady, shocked, flustered and titillated.
‘He doesn’t mean it,’ soothed Angelina.
‘Don’t I?’ muttered Oliver, seizing her hand.
The attendant of the bathing machines was overwhelmed by the sudden rush for service as first the Lionisers’ committee, then Auguste Didier and his retinue arrived, with the rest of the Lionisers in hot pursuit. The latter were forced to repair to the waiting area where they enviously sipped ginger beer while waiting their turn and watching the old horses pull the machines into the water, one after another.
Auguste and Sid had made the mistake of sharing a machine. Since the machine began to move towards the water as soon as they were inside, changing in its damp, smelly and restricted confines was none too easy, despite the lure of their newly acquired bathing costumes. Auguste wondered if his blue one-piece button-to-neck stockinette costume were not too daring with its knee-length shorts and short sleeves. What would happen when this material got wet? He was rather glad that Araminta would be some way removed from him, and reflected that cold water might be no bad thing. Sid had chosen plain black drawers, constructed from his granny’s old skirt.
One by one, the men descended, Heinrich in demure body-concealing maroon jersey, Alfred in rakish red and white striped drawers with plain red jersey top, James in black stockinette, and Algernon in garish green stripes. Oliver was dashing in blue serge, Samuel Pipkin pumpkin-like in large enveloping flannel; Lord Beddington rivalled Sid in black drawers, though it is doubtful whether they were made from his grandmother’s skirt.
The men’s eyes automatically swivelled left to the women’s section at a tasteful thirty yards’ distance. Heinrich felt possessively protective as he recognised Emily’s head in a mob cap, the rest of her splashing up and down in grey serge knickers, tunic and blouse and black stockings. Alice, more sporty, boasted navy blue knickerbockers and striped jersey, without stockings, and serviceable yellow jaconet bathing cap.
