The Quickening and the Dead

by J C Briggs

  ‘Why?’

  She seemed to recognise a sudden tone of authority in the tall, well-built policeman. She gave him a look. Something formidable in his face forced her to answer.

  ‘I thought her unfit for married life. She was not fit to be a mother — too weak, too nervous, but the young man insisted. I do not know why — Lavinia was not a girl to be loved. She had very little character. I thought it would be disastrous.’

  ‘Did you tell her so?’

  Her glance showed that she thought the question impertinent. ‘I said nothing.’

  No, you wouldn’t, thought Jones, but your silence was, no doubt, eloquent enough. He saw exactly why Lavinia had run away. Scared about the marriage, knowing what her mother thought, believing she was unfit, yet terrified of the long, relentless imprisonment that would be her future here. Not fit to be a mother. Ironic. Mrs Gray was not fit to be a mother. That prompted his next question.

  ‘Have you other children, Mrs Gray?’

  She saw him glance at the portrait, the only thing with any life in the room.

  ‘My son is dead.’ She closed her thin lips on the last word, and he knew they would get no more from her.

  ‘Thank you. Your information has been helpful. We will go to see your brother. Good day, Mrs Gray.’

  She looked surprised and a little puzzled. She thought she had told him nothing, yet he seemed satisfied. She did not know that she had told him all he needed to know about her. She inclined her head, and turned from them to the dying fire. They went to the door. Dickens looked back at the motionless black figure. Was she thinking about her dead daughter — or the son whose death had killed his mother as surely as the sword in his hand might have pierced her heart? Pity and revulsion. That’s what he felt as he followed Jones into the hall.

  ‘She hated that poor girl,’ Jones said.

  Dickens nodded. ‘What now?’

  ‘I am going to tell the housekeeper that we must see Lavinia Gray’s room.’

  ‘But, shouldn’t you have asked —’

  ‘I should, but I don’t much care what Mrs Gray thinks. Anyway, she can’t stop us.’

  ‘A cat in gloves catches no mice, eh?’

  Mrs Pook came into the hall. She told them that her mistress could not be disturbed until five o’clock when she would take in tea. The hours were strictly observed. She understood what the Superintendent wanted.

  ‘Poor Miss Lavinia,’ she said, ‘she hadn’t much of a life here, but she was gettin’ out. Mr Farleigh was a nice young man — he’d have looked after her. I don’t know. I can’t understand it, but if it helps her then you can go upstairs. I won’t say anythin’.’

  Jones asked if they might speak to her later in the kitchen. Then they went upstairs, treading quietly, to see what Lavinia’s room might reveal about her life — and death.

  Absence. Dickens felt the sense of emptiness here. A room in which a girl had suffered so much that she had lain down in that profound black pit of water. He imagined her desperate footsteps hurrying past the scattered lights gleaming sullen, red and dull, as the torches that were burning there to show the way to death. What had she felt there in that leaden winter night?

  Yet, it was an ordinary enough room: a brass bedstead with a white counterpane, an ebonised chair with a cane back, a wardrobe, wash stand with a marble top, a desk with some books held between a pair of cast iron bookends with a loving couple in relief on each, and an oil lamp. There was the faint scent of lavender — old already, Dickens felt. Ordinary — but, not a young girl’s room. It was too dark. There was a brown carpet with a pattern of muddy flowers, and heavy velvet curtains, almost black like the parlour furniture.

  A sad room — and most poignant of all was the white dress with its lovely Honiton lace gleaming faintly in the dimness. It was hanging on the wardrobe door like the ghost of a bride, still as death in the silent room. It would never be worn. It might be folded into an empty trunk to lie, yellowing, until it mouldered into fragments. Nothing left of the bride who was to wear it. Ginevra — the poem by Samuel Rogers — the poet whose breakfasts were legendary — Ginevra was the bride who had died, trapped in a chest — nothing left of her but the wedding ring, a few pearls and an emerald stone.

  Jones was looking on the desk. ‘See here — she had taken off her ring. She knew what she was going to do.’

  Dickens went over to look. The emerald stone shone, green as clear water, but there were shadows in its depths. There was a string of pearls, too, left where they had been taken off by the girl who was disrobing for death. And a little watch which she had unpinned from her dress. It had stopped, its little ivory face mute witness to the scene.

  Jones opened the drawer of the desk, but there was nothing. ‘No letters, no diary — nothing to tell us about her secret life — the life she lived in this room.’

  Dickens took a book from the row held by the bookends. ‘Might be something in one of these.’ He flicked through the pages of a volume of Tennyson’s poems, noting the pencil marks where she had indicated something important to her.

  He read some words aloud:

  ‘Twilight and evening bell

  And after that the dark…’

  Jones looked up. ‘What?’

  ‘Tennyson — poor child, brooding on death.’

  They riffled through the other books, but found nothing. There was nothing in the waste paper basket by the desk. Jones turned his attention to the fireplace where there were signs that someone had burnt paper. He used a pair of tweezers to extract a fragment which had not fully burnt. Dickens could see that there were words written on the charred piece:

  flies in the night

  In the howling storm.

  ‘A poem?’ Jones looked enquiringly at Dickens. ‘Tennyson, is it?’

  ‘I don’t think so — doesn’t sound like Tennyson — I don’t know. Could be — something in my mind.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Crimson — something linked to crimson. Crimson petal — no, that is Tennyson. I’ll have to think.’

  ‘Never mind — it might come to you. We’ll take it and the book.’ He put the paper in his notebook. ‘There’s enough evidence in the watch and jewels to say that she intended to kill herself. I’d like to talk to Mrs Pook. See what she can tell us about Lavinia’s life here.’

  They left the room to its silence and went downstairs to the kitchen. It was a quarter past four. They had time before Mrs Pook had to take in the tea.

  The kitchen was warm, warmer than anywhere else in the house. Mrs Pook and a maid sat at the table drinking their tea, and there was the smell of baking and a glow from the range. Jones wondered about the maid — could she have attended on Lavinia, and if so, what did she know about the padding in the clothes?

  ‘I need to know about Miss Gray’s life here, Mrs Pook, and —’ He looked at the maid.

  ‘This is Millie, sir. What can we tell you?’

  ‘Did you attend to Miss Gray, Millie?’

  ‘She never wanted much — just help with fastening her dress. I looked after her clothes.’

  ‘Tell me about the padding.’

  Millie looked anxiously at Mrs Pook, who spoke for her. ‘We knew she wasn’t eating — she said would Millie pad out the dresses. She didn’t want her mother to know —’

  ‘Didn’t they eat together?’

  ‘Not generally — Miss Lavinia had her meals on a tray in her room. That’s how we knew. She hardly touched anything, but we were not to tell the mistress. I was torn, sir, it didn’t seem right not to say, but Miss Lavinia was so … well, mistress could be so cutting, you know, so harsh. I didn’t want her to get into trouble, but I was that bothered, and so was Millie. What was we to do? We thought when she was married…’ Mrs Pook’s eyes filled. ‘Mr Farleigh was so kind, we thought she’d be better — he’d see that she’d eat, we thought.’

  ‘Was Mrs Gray always so harsh with her daughter?’

  ‘Well, I’ve been here about ten years. Mr Godfrey was al
ways the favourite — Mrs Gray loved that boy. She didn’t pay much heed to Miss Lavinia — but when he was killed, well, that’s when it started. Miss Lavinia was about fifteen then — about four years ago. Mr Godfrey was twenty-three, a good bit older, but he was always kind to her. I wondered sometimes —’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I shouldn’t say it, but I wondered if Mrs Gray never wanted her — p’raps she wanted another boy — I don’t know, but, when Mr Godfrey died, Mrs Gray went into herself, sort of silent, but disapproving — she seemed to be irritated by Miss Lavinia — not that she did anything, you know — but it was like she couldn’t stand her daughter.’

  ‘Then, you’d think she’d want her to marry, if only to get rid of her.’

  ‘I know, sir, but nothing pleased her. Even when Miss Lavinia was poorly —’

  ‘She was ill. When?’

  ‘About eighteen months ago — before Mr Farleigh met her.’

  ‘What was wrong?’

  Mrs Pook looked uncomfortable. ‘I don’t really know, sir — something private, I think.’

  ‘Millie?’ Jones looked at the young maid.

  ‘I wasn’t here then. Miss Lavinia had a maid then — Susan Carter, but she left.’

  Mrs Pook explained. ‘A nurse came to look after Miss Lavinia and Mrs Gray said Susan wouldn’t be needed any more — and she went. Quick, it was. Susan was upset, but she wouldn’t tell me anything.’

  ‘Where did Susan go?’

  ‘Home, sir. She went home to her family in Chalk Farm.’

  Dickens who had simply listened, spoke suddenly. ‘Did Doctor Plume attend her then?’

  ‘Yes, he did, but Miss Lavinia…’

  ‘What?’ asked Jones.

  Mrs Pook looked uncomfortable again. ‘She didn’t like him. Susan mentioned it. She used to ask that Susan stayed when he came, but she couldn’t. Mrs Gray didn’t like it. Suppose she thought Susan had no right, being only a servant. Mrs Gray thought a lot of the doctor.’

  Dickens asked. ‘Did he come often?’

  ‘Before her illness — Miss Lavinia was what you call delicate — she never would eat much — and Doctor Plume came when Mrs Gray asked him. After the nurse came, Miss Lavinia got better and she went to stay with Mrs Gray’s brother in Manchester Square — that’s where she met Mr Farleigh, and things seemed better for a bit, but when she came home, Mrs Gray was still nasty to her. Mr Farleigh came with Mr Gray, the mistress’s brother — he seemed keen on the engagement. But, Mrs Gray didn’t seem to like it an’ Miss Lavinia — I don’t know, sir, sometimes, I thought she was frightened. She wasn’t like a bride —’ Mrs Pook looked anxiously at the kitchen clock. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but it’s nearly time. I mustn’t be late with the tea. I don’t want Mrs Gray to know — p’raps I shouldn’t have…’

  Jones reassured her. ‘Don’t worry, Mrs Pook, we’ll go now — out the back way. Thank you for answering our questions. We’ll not trouble you again.’

  Chapter 9: The Invisible Worm

  ‘Well, constable,’ said Jones, ‘a canny question of yours about the doctor.’

  ‘I thought about what Mr Farleigh said — he didn’t like Plume. I wondered if he’d treated her for this mysterious illness.’

  ‘I wonder what the nature of his treatment was — was it some nervous disorder, what they call, hysteria? It would fit with what we know of her.’

  ‘And her personal maid was sent away — the one she trusted.’

  ‘Something to hide then. I’m a bit at sea here, Charles, but something tells me that our murdered Doctor Plume is linked to this suicide.’

  ‘And, don’t forget, Miranda Deverall, another young girl, is accused of his murder.’

  ‘Quite — very suggestive. And we want to know the connection between Miranda and the doctor. Elizabeth went to Newgate today. I suggest we go to Norfolk Street now to see if she has anything to tell us.’

  It was tea time in another warm kitchen, in a warm house where the sounds of happy children could be heard, and a dog barking. Dickens saw how Sam’s face relaxed and how he smiled, hearing the noise of his family. Sam and Elizabeth had adopted eleven year-old Eleanor Brim and her brother, Tom, aged six, and Poll, their dog. Their father had died of consumption earlier in the year. Elizabeth and Sam loved those children as if they were their own. Edith, their only daughter, had died some years before, giving birth to her dead child, leaving a space in their lives that they had never thought could be filled, but it had been. Scrap was there, too — a street boy who had run errands for Mr Brim and who had assisted Dickens and Jones in their earlier cases. A boy who was part of this family now. This was a mother, thought Dickens as he watched Elizabeth bending over the little boy, Tom, to tie his napkin. Poor Lavinia Gray.

  Jones and Dickens sat with them until Elizabeth had served the food, though she had waited patiently until Eleanor and Tom, and Poll, had got over the excitement of seeing Mr Dickens.

  ‘Poor Jip,’ Eleanor said. ‘Poor, poor Jip — our special dog.’ When he had first met these children in their father’s stationery shop, he had promised to create a nice dog for them in his new book — David Copperfield. Passionate dog lovers, they had not cared for Bull’s Eye, Sikes’s dog, though Dickens had explained that poor Bull’s Eye, ferocious as he was, had been made that way by the criminal Sikes. Still, he had promised them Jip, Dora’s dog. Now, he had to face the fact that he had killed him. He was, he thought, in his own way, a murderer. Oh, the unforeseen consequences of Jip’s death, which he had thought so aptly pathetic. Jip dies, almost at the same moment as his mistress. He’d killed Dora, too. What to say?

  Scrap, ever watchful of Eleanor Brim, spoke up. ‘Jip ain’t real, not like Poll’s real, Miss Nell. It’s only a story.’

  Oh, thought Dickens seeing his life’s work dismissed in that little word “only”, but the literary critic continued.

  ‘An’ stories ’as ter ’ave sad an’ ’appy bits, yer know. Makes ’em seem real — ain’t that right, Mr Dickens?’

  Sad and happy bits, forsooth — just what he thought himself. ‘Streaky bacon,’ he said. It was his theory — the alternation of tragic and comic scenes were the layers in streaky, well-cured bacon.

  ‘’Xactly,’ said Scrap, approvingly.

  ‘No bacon,’ said Tom. ‘Eggs and no bacon today.’

  They laughed, seeing Tom looking puzzled at his plate.

  ‘And Jip was very old, Eleanor, and he would have missed Dora,’ Elizabeth observed. ‘Now, Poll, here, is too young for such ideas. She looks a bit worried — she might like a biscuit.’

  Eleanor smiled and gave Poll her treat, but Dickens saw that there was a gravity about her eyes. Elizabeth glanced at him. She had seen it, too, and knew that the same look was still there sometimes when Eleanor thought of her father. Not your fault, her eyes said to Dickens. But he felt guilty all the same.

  They went into the parlour, leaving the children in the care of Posy, the servant girl whom Dickens had sent to them, having found her on the streets offering a pitifully shabby bunch of artificial flowers for sale. She had been apprenticed to a flower maker whose business had failed, leaving Posy on the street.

  ‘I’m sorry about Jip,’ said Dickens as they sat down.

  ‘We cannot protect her from everything, Charles. She is bound to think of her father — it’s still a vivid memory. Most of the time, she is happy — and carefree, but she’ll always be a serious little girl. Tom fares better — he is so young, but Eleanor has her own thoughts.’

  ‘What secrecy there is in the young — the secret agony of the soul.’ Dickens looked at the fire. They wondered what he was thinking — what had been the secret agony of the soul of the boy, Charles Dickens? How much of the suffering of the child David Copperfield had been his? Elizabeth had wondered about this to Sam — the boy, David’s suffering at his work in the bottle factory had seemed so real.

  ‘But, she has you two now — she can tell her secrets to you, Elizabeth.’r />
  ‘Unlike Lavinia Gray,’ Jones said, glad to change the subject. Eleanor’s too young gravity pained him, more than he liked to say. He loved the little girl, as much, he thought, as he had loved Edith. He wanted her to be happy.

  ‘Lavinia Gray?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘The girl who drowned before her wedding. Suicide, we believe. And that reminds me, I wonder if this means anything to you?’ Jones took out the piece of paper and handed it to her. ‘We wondered what it might mean, if anything.’

  Elizabeth read the words. ‘William Blake — The Sick Rose. I have a copy of his poems.’

  ‘Crimson joy,’ said Dickens. ‘I remember that bit — that’s why I thought of Tennyson’s crimson petal.’

  Elizabeth found the book. ‘Shall I read it?’

  ‘Do.’

  She read aloud:

  ‘O rose thou art sick.

  The invisible worm,

  That flies in the night

  In the howling storm:

  Has found out thy bed

  Of crimson joy:

  And his dark secret love

  Does thy life destroy.’

  She handed the book to Jones. Dickens looked over Jones’s shoulder, and they read it again.

  ‘The last two lines,’ said Jones, ‘do they mean what I think they mean?’ He looked at Dickens.

  ‘A lover — who destroyed her life — that would account for her state of mind. Not Richard Farfield. A secret. That’s why she was afraid of marrying him. I wonder if Mrs Gray knew.’

  ‘Or Doctor Plume — that mysterious illness Mrs Pook talked of — a pregnancy?’

  ‘What?’ Elizabeth sounded startled. ‘Plume was her doctor?’

  ‘Why? What are you thinking?’ Jones looked at her.

  ‘About Miranda Deverall — I saw her today, and she told me about him —’

  ‘She told you — you got her to speak about him. How?’ Dickens looked at her with admiration.

  ‘Well, you had prepared the way, Charles. I told her you had sent me, but, at first, she wouldn’t speak — I think she is so depressed that she wants only to be released from the world. I don’t think she cares about anything. I called her Miranda and she wept. I held her then. She has not been held in a mother’s arms since she was five years old. No one has held her to comfort her, to wipe away her tears, to murmur that sorrow will pass, that tomorrow will be better. No one has kissed that child’s eyes as she was falling asleep —’