‘Possibly a brother,’ I said. ‘Not very unlike him, either. The hair could be prematurely grey, but the face is relatively young. The weight doesn’t help either. Could be three or four, or even five or six years older, but they certainly could have been brothers. And, as for a motive, it could be something to do with money. Inspector Field did seem astonished at the amount of money in Milton-Hayes’ bank account. Isn’t that right?’
‘That’s right,’ said Dickens, watching my face and puffing at his cigar.
‘And Milton-Hayes was not married. Had neither wife nor child. Right?’
‘Right,’ agreed Dickens.
I thought that he had probably guessed where my thoughts were leading me, but he said no more. Just allowed me to spell it out, step by step.
‘And so,’ I said, triumphantly, ‘given that his father is probably dead – after all Milton-Hayes was not a young man, why then who would inherit his wealth – and it was probably considerable – who would inherit it, but his brother?’
‘And his brother being …’
‘The canon,’ I said eagerly. ‘Why not the canon? He comes from Essex. Milton-Hayes came from Essex. Milton-Hayes had changed his name, probably from a name beginning with R U or R A, and Rutter is an Essex surname, so it’s likely, well, possible, anyway, that they were related. Were brothers, in fact …’ I allowed my voice to tail out when faced by his sceptical expression but my inner certainty did not waver. The men were alike, I thought. My father, who was not hopeful of a career as an artist for me, had nevertheless admitted that I had a good eye for detail. ‘He sees!’ My godfather, the artist David Wilkie, had exclaimed those words at my christening – much to the amusement of my mother who was of the opinion that her husband’s friend had mistaken me for a puppy or a kitten – but that seeing-eye had stayed with me. I was confident now that the something familiar that I had noticed about the canon had been, in fact, the resemblance to his brother, the man we had known as Edwin Milton-Hayes.
‘So he kills his brother – partly to avoid blackmail or that picture being sold, but also so that he could inherit the fortune. Once the canon knew that not only was his brother making money from the paintings that he sold, but that he was making each piece doubly valuable by extracting blackmail before the picture was finished, well, then he would have been tempted to kill his brother, ensure his own safety from ruin and disgrace, but also inherit the money that his brother had accumulated.’
Dickens took the stub of his cigar from his mouth, examined it and then ground out the remaining sparks upon the floral ridges of the weighty brass ashtray on the table in front of us. He was frowning heavily.
‘You may be right,’ he said eventually. ‘And yes, I did think that there was something familiar about the canon when your mother introduced us. And I did, also, think that the choice of pictures supposedly for a church hall was a very strange one. I wouldn’t like any daughter of mine to frequent a church hall that showed a picture like that abominable Forbidden Fruit or even the gambling one or the opium den, or any of them, come to think of it.’ He got to his feet and nodded across the floor to the landlord, delving into his pocket for his purse.
‘Well, Wilkie,’ he said. ‘We’re too late for the play, but not too late to pay a call.’
I waited while he paid the bill and we were both wrapped in overcoats and girded with our umbrellas by the solicitous landlord, and then as soon as we were outside the door, I said eagerly, ‘Scotland Yard.’
He did not answer, but raised an imperious umbrella and then when a cab stopped beside us and the cabbie peered down from his roof-top seat, he stepped forward and said something into the man’s ear.
EIGHTEEN
Sesina spotted him instantly. There had been some attempt at a disguise. He wore a coat that wasn’t his. An old frock coat, too small for him, stained with green mould and strange white patches – salt water perhaps – and on his head he wore a broken bowler hat, again stained and discoloured by sea water and age.
But at the back of his neck, beneath the rim of the bowler hat, a fringe of red hair appeared.
It had been Sesina’s monthly afternoon off. She had gone to Covent Garden, wandered around the stalls, bought a wizened apple to chew and recognized eventually that she was not enjoying herself, but that she was lonely and wanted some company. Since her friend Isabella had been murdered she had not had a single friend. Who could make a friend of Dolly or of Mrs Barnett? Both of them were nearly three times her own age. Feeling depressed she had wandered into Drury Lane and there, just outside the door to the theatre was a notice: ‘Experienced Housemaid Required. Good Wage Paid’.
Sesina stopped and looked at the notice. She was experienced, well-trained, also, thanks, she had to admit, more to Mrs Morson in Urania Cottage than to Mrs Barnett or even Mrs Collins. It hadn’t been a bad idea of Mr Dickens to train girls straight out of prison to be top-class servants. Gave them a way of earning money that didn’t involve selling themselves on the streets. A mug’s game that. End up in prison and then infected and before you knew where you was, you’d be in a grave with quicklime being shoved over you. Housework was boring, but better than that. She missed Isabella, though, missed someone to giggle with and to tease and to play jokes on.
Time she moved on, she thought, staring at the notice. A big theatre like Drury Lane would have to employ plenty of housemaids. Would be fun, she thought. And no emptying of chamber pots every morning. And might get a chance to become an actress. Sesina rather fancied the idea of being an actress. She thought that she’d be good. And she was so small that they could use her as a child if they wanted to.
‘How d’you fancy it?’ A hand went across her eyes, but Sesina wasn’t fooled. She knew that voice.
‘Oh, God, Hanny, take your filthy hand off my eyes.’ She spoke automatically, but her heart warmed a little. Long time since she saw Hannah. Had left her behind when she crashed out of Urania Cottage.
‘Going to apply?’ Hannah had taken her hand away. In the old days in Urania Cottage, she’d have shouted her head off at Sesina, used her fists, too, but now she looked a bit mellowed. Always fighting in those days.
‘You going to apply, Sesina – go on, do. I’m working there. Could put in a good word.’
‘What, a job in a filthy play house!’ Sesina enjoyed saying that, but her eyes lingered on the place. It would be empty during the morning, just the girls all together cleaning out the place, sweeping, dusting, washing floors, larking around and then a chance to see a play in the evening, helping the actresses, cleaning their rooms. Perhaps getting a chance to snaff a bit of rouge or face paint. Would be fun …
And then she thought about poor Mr Charles. She’d never see him again if she left the house in Hanover Terrace. Other side of London, wasn’t it?
‘Nah,’ she said decisively. ‘Got a good place next to Regent’s Park. Treat me like one of the family. Might even get meself a rich husband. This would be a rubbish job. Have to find me own digs, too! Nah, I’ll stay put.’ She tried to keep a note of longing out of her voice and averted her eyes from the placard.
And that was the moment when she saw him. Dressed in clothes that were not his own, a hat too big for him, his face almost covered by it. But he had been spotted.
Behind him, not too far away was a policeman, not looking left nor right, but keeping his eyes fixed on that tall figure ahead of him.
Sesina acted quickly. ‘That’s my lover boy. Quick, Hannah, talk to that peeler, keep him busy while I have a word with Mr Handsome.’
She didn’t wait to see what Hannah would do. She knew that they’d act as a pair. In a moment she was beside Mr Charles. From behind she heard Hannah’s laugh. Had a laugh like a peahen, Isabella used to say. She’d do her part, though, would Hannah; Sesina knew that. Wouldn’t let her down. Would enjoy it anyway. Depends on the policeman, though. Might be one of the serious types. The ‘follow orders’ type. Lots of them about. Sesina reached out, grabbed the sleeve of the
old dirty frock coat and pulled hard. ‘Down here, Mr Charles, this way, quick! There’s a peeler after you. Quick!’
It was taking a chance, going down that alleyway. All right if she was just by herself, she’d be down it in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, but he was like a sack of potatoes as she tried to haul him along. Would the peeler shake off Hannah and be after them? Had he spotted them turning away? Still, he’d be looking for a man on his own. Not a man and his girlfriend. Sesina looked up at Mr Charles anxiously. Very pale, but he didn’t seem sick. What was the matter with him? She had to drag him along. At this rate she’d never get him away from the peeler. On her own, she’d be fine. It would take just about a quarter of an hour, she reckoned. But Mr Charles was going so slowly. A dazed look on his face. Like he didn’t know what he was doing. She had to drag him along. Nearly to the end of the lane, now. She looked back over her shoulder and swore to herself. There was the peeler. Moving very fast, too. Hannah hadn’t been able to hold him for long. She swore again, and this time aloud.
That was a mistake. He never liked swearing. Very pious, he was. Not at all like his brother, Mr Wilkie. It made him move, though. Went a bit quicker. Out of the lane now and into the busy New Oxford Street. Had his hand up now. A cab.
Quick, she thought, looking anxiously over her shoulder. The policeman was gaining on them. No cab stopping, all got passengers inside. Only what you could expect on a lousy wet foggy day like this. There was one. Slow old horse, but better than nothing. She made to follow him in, but he slammed the door in her face.
Didn’t know what he was doing, poor fellow.
Sesina stood back into the protective shadow of a shop door and looked anxiously back at the peeler. No flies on him! He had seen everything and was going to follow. She watched anxiously as he climbed into the cab, hitching up his blue coat and taking off that very tall reinforced top hat that all the peelers wore to protect their heads. She looked after him anxiously and wished that she was around when Mr Charles arrived at Hanover Terrace. She’d keep an eye out in case the policeman arrived at the same time. He probably would. A better horse than the one poor Mr Charles had taken, she thought, but then was cheered by noticing the sheer number of carts, cabs, and omnibuses that cluttered the road. She was a fast walker and she could take short cuts through lanes and alleyways while the cab struggled through the traffic.
When she arrived at number 17 Hanover Terrace, all seemed very peaceful. The fog had lifted – never so bad here as it was right down near the river. The door knocker that she had polished this morning glinted in the last ray of sunlight. And then the cab with its slow, plodding horse turned into the terrace, and drew up in front of the door. Mr Charles got out. Took a long time delving into the pockets of that old frock coat. Looking for his purse. Her heart ached as she saw his white face. She tried to send a message to him and perhaps she succeeded because he abandoned his search of the borrowed frock coat and put his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat. Took out some coins. Not much of a tip, probably. The man went off without a word, whipped up his horse, splashed through a puddle, drenching his passenger.
Poor fellow. Hardly noticed. Almost stumbled on the edge of the pavement. Her heart ached for him. Needed someone to look after him. She hesitated for a moment at the steps down into the area. There was a cosy light coming from the basement window. The stove would be glowing hot, ready for cooking the evening meal. Dolly wouldn’t be there. She’d be up with Mrs Collins at this time in the evening. And Mrs Barnett always had a bit of a rest before she started on the dinner. ‘Need my lay-down,’ she’d say before she stumped off. If only she could get him into the kitchen, sit him down by the fire; let him warm up; run upstairs for a clean coat; bring down a towel and a hair brush; get him tidied up.
And then her breath shortened. Another cab had drawn up. A man in a blue coat, wearing a very tall top hat. A peeler. The very one. The one that had been following Mr Charles away back in Drury Lane.
‘The peeler is after you, Mr Charles. Come down here. Come quick while he’s not looking.’
He seemed a bit dazed, but she dragged at his sleeve and he responded, stumbling down the area steps after her.
Once they were in the kitchen she relaxed. Yes, she had been right. No one there. Gently she pushed him into Mrs Barnett’s cushioned chair and saw steam rise from his sodden clothes. And then, half expected, but a sickening blow. The front door bell. Someone had pressed it and then kept their finger upon it. Someone in authority.
Sesina took one worried look at him. He seemed almost as if he were drifting off to sleep, sitting there and staring at the hot, red glow from the range. She’d have to leave him and answer the door.
‘Stay there!’ she said imperatively, but as soon as she reached the bottom of the basement stairs, she knew that she was going to be too late. Dolly’s heavy footsteps came clumping down the hall. Still never mind. If it was that nosy policeman, Dolly would just tell him that Mr Charles was not at home. Was staying with his doctor.
Nevertheless, Sesina crept up the stairs and stood with the door to the hall just barely ajar.
No need to strain her ears. He was loud and clear.
‘I’ve a warrant for the arrest of Mr Charles Collins. I’ve just seen him go down the steps to the basement.’
Sesina did not wait to hear any more. She flew down the stairs, into the kitchen, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet.
‘Come on, Mr Charles, come on, the police are after you. They want to put you in prison.’
He heard that. He gave a half sob but she did not hesitate, just kept dragging him from the kitchen. As usual, he gave in.
A sound of a door opening above their heads. The door from the basement steps into the hall.
‘I’ll hide you.’ She whispered it into his ear, but he made no sign of hearing her. She didn’t wait for a response. Just exerted every muscle in her body to drag him along, across the landing and into her own room. Rapidly she stripped back the bedclothes, shed her shawl and her dress. And while he stared at her with horror in his eyes, she pushed him hard right in the centre of his back so that he stumbled and fell across the bed. The iron frame jumped but stood firm under his weight. In a second, she had gathered up his legs, thrust them onto the sheet and heaped the blankets on top of him.
‘Nobody here.’ Dolly sounded quite placid. But then Dolly always did take little notice of anyone who spoke to her, unless it was Mrs Collins or perhaps Mrs Barnett.
‘I saw her and I saw him.’ Rough-sounding man, that peeler. Most of them were. Stubborn, though.
‘Perhaps she’s gone to her room. Sesina, Sesina!’ Dolly raised her voice in a shrill cry. There was a sound of her heavy footsteps crossing over the landing.
Sesina didn’t hesitate. She unbuckled her shoes and in a second was beside Mr Charles in the bed. A work of a second to pull the blankets over the two of them, pull them right over his head. She began to sit up, to arrange an expression of annoyed surprise on her face, when suddenly he hit her. Hit her across the face.
‘Get away from me, you slut.’
Her head jerked back and there was a blinding pain beneath her left eye. She heard herself give a low moan, but he was on his feet, striding towards the door, flinging it open and shouting, ‘Do you want me, my man? Here I am.’
NINETEEN
Neither Dickens nor I said a word on our way to Scotland Yard. The expression on the face of my companion made me worried. I knew how much I would have to rely upon him, upon his forceful manner, his air of always being in the right and above all his influence over Inspector Field. But now Dickens bore the look of someone who was deeply troubled. I sensed that he felt unsure and that was not a usual state of mind for one of the most important men in London. From time to time, he sighed, crossed his legs and then rapidly uncrossed them again. He tapped on the window, a staccato, disjointed arrhythmic sound that set my nerves on edge. I said nothing, however. Let him work through his doubts while we were here i
n the privacy of our cab. Dickens was a born actor. Once we had arrived at Inspector Field’s office I was sure that he would rise to the occasion and play his part.
As we left Whitehall and turned into Scotland Yard I got a shock. There emerging from the door was a familiar figure. A well-dressed clergyman, settling his glossy hat upon his head and looking about him for a cab. I shrank back into the seat and looked across at my companion. Dickens made no move and did not open his mouth. And so I said nothing.
Inspector Field greeted us with great warmth and immediately sent for a pot of tea and apologized for not being more hospitable, giving us a complicated explanation about rules against alcohol. I hardly listened to him. Dickens bore a remote detached expression which filled me with foreboding and my fears were realized when he interrupted Inspector Field with an air of false bonhomie.
‘Don’t worry about me, inspector, I just chanced to accompany my friend, but it is Mr Collins who wants to talk to you.’
I anticipated an expression of surprise on the inspector’s face, but he immediately turned a commiserating and kindly face towards me.
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Collins,’ he said with an apologetic note in his voice. ‘I’m afraid that your brother left me with no alternative.’
Brother! My heart seemed to stop for a second and then to go on beating very slowly. I felt a cold sweat on my forehead and the large face of the inspector seemed to shimmer before my eyes. I took out my handkerchief, wiped my glasses and then, as unobtrusively as I could, dabbed the moisture from my brow.
‘My brother,’ I said hesitantly. What had happened? Surely by now Piggott had my brother safely somewhere in the middle of the English Channel and was well on the way towards the Isle of Wight.
‘He gave himself up, you see, Mr Collins. One of my men was following him, of course. A pair of them noticed him on the Strand. They work in pairs, Mr Dickens, you see.’ Inspector Field was imbued with the idea that the famous Mr Dickens was fascinated by every detail of the workings of the police force. Dickens, however, said nothing. Just looked gravely and sympathetically at me and it crossed my mind that he showed no surprise.
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