by J C Briggs
Scrap paused as they all heard Stemp’s quick breath. ‘Wot I saw, sir.’
‘So you did, Stemp — and whatever, or whoever it is, may account for the fact that there’s no one about. Not a ghost, I’ll bet — someone up to no good. What then, Scrap?’
‘I ducked into a doorway, an’ I waited — I thought the lad might think I’d gone, an’ then I thought I’d make a run for it. Dint know which way I woz goin, neither, but I met Mr Stemp — an’ that’s it, really — ’cept, there’s somethin’ wrong in that place, Mr Jones. Wot about that Italian boy?’
‘I’m sure you’re right, Scrap. And we need to find him. But not tonight. In daylight. There might be people about then. And we can ask questions. Rogers can take you back to the stationery shop, now — you’ve done enough for one day.’
Scrap looked up at Jones, a challenge in his eyes, ‘I’d rather go ter Norfolk Street if yer don’t mind. Mrs Jones’ll wanter know.’
Jones nodded and Dickens saw him smiling at the boy — some secret understanding they shared. The cherishing of Elizabeth Jones, that was it, he thought. Something lovely to set against all this darkness.
‘Right — tell her —’
‘We’re awright — nothin’ ter worry about.’
‘A cab, then, Scrap — it can drop Mr Rogers at Crown Street. Mollie will want to know that all’s well, too. Alf, I’d like you to go to Mrs Brady’s in Bones Alley in the morning. Ask about Kitty Quillian and see if you can find out about her son. The boy you met, Scrap, I think he’s a lad called Jimmy Brady. Stemp, you can go back to The Neptune tonight. Just keep your ears open. We’ll meet you at the chop house at 12.30 tomorrow. I’ll need to get to court with Mrs Raspin — I want her out of our way. Scrap, you meet us at the chop house, too — you can show us the way to the Italians’ house.’
Scrap went out with Rogers and Stemp.
‘How’s your Italian?’ Jones asked Dickens.
‘Good enough, I think. Shall I come here to meet you before you go to the chop house?’
‘Yes. In the meantime, would you care to sit in while I question Mother Hubbard?’
Mrs Raspin sat in her cell, wearing her respectable black coat and bonnet, and clutching her umbrella. She looked like a woman waiting for a train, a perfectly ordinary middle-aged woman who had nothing on her conscience but a few sharp words, perhaps, to a little servant or to an ordinarily irritating husband.
She looked up at Jones. Dickens saw that her fright had passed — there was a calculating look in the little, hard eyes. Goat’s eyes, he thought, yellowish, with a curious black line across the pupil. He suspected that she had one of those adaptable natures — she’d make the best of it. In prison, she’d work her way up to wardswoman or the prison hospital, where she would jolly along the female patients with common sense and handy tips.
But Jones was speaking. Dickens made himself concentrate.
Jones had seen her eyes, too. Time to give her a bit of a jolt, take her by surprise. And he needed to know if their suspicions about Kitty Quillian’s child were right.
‘Kitty Quillian’s baby — where is it?’
She was surprised into the truth which was never her first instinct. ‘At the Brimstones’ house.’
‘I know that. I want to know what they’ve done to Kitty and what is to happen to the baby.’
‘I don’t know what’s ’appened to Kitty. Martha Brimstone said she’d gone — left ’em ’oldin’ the baby —’ she attempted a chuckle, but seeing Jones’s face, decided against it. ‘Martha said she’d gone off with a fancy man —’
Jones glanced at Dickens. Martha Brimstone hadn’t told them that, but then she’d tell a different story to whoever was listening — she was clever enough. Still, it was worth pursuing.
‘What man? Or just gossip? The truth, if you please. Lying won’t reduce your sentence. You look stout enough for a transport ship.’ It was unlikely she’d be transported, but she didn’t know that. She flinched and Jones saw that he’d hit home.
‘Someone give ’er that baby — an’ she ’ad money to pay Martha Brimstone. An’ I saw ’er meself with ’im — a gent.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Only saw ’em once — I can’t remember much.’
‘Try.’ Jones was implacable, his voice iron.
‘Tallish, spectacles, big ’at, dark coat — that’s all I can remember. It’s the truth, sir.’
Another fleeting glimpse of the man in the dark hat and coat — a shadow, thought Dickens, darkening all before it, a silent something, a muffled human shape, passing under a gas lamp behind Plume’s house. And in the alleys, perhaps, seen by Scrap and Stemp.
‘When?’
‘Week or two ago — I dunno, sir, but I thought that she musta gone with ’im like Martha said.’
‘And the child — what are Martha Brimstone’s intentions? You must know.’
‘Mrs Brimstone wanted a baby, sir, for a rich lady — don’t know who. I —’ she broke off, understanding that she must incriminate herself.
‘Your part in this?’
‘There was a girl ’ad a baby — couldn’t keep it so I was ter give —’
‘Give?’ Jones was contemptuous.
‘I was ter — ter arrange fer Mrs Brimstone ter tek it ter the lady, but the baby died so I think Martha’ll give —’
‘I think you mean sell, as you were going to sell the baby that died — buying and selling babies, abortion — that’s your trade, is it not, Mrs Raspin?’
She had to admit it and she had to tell the frightening policeman everything. It all came out, water out of a tap you couldn’t turn off. She couldn’t stop herself. She told them about Doctor Plume and how Mrs Amelia Hodson, who was his fancy woman, employed her to assist in the abortions, and how, when he wasn’t there, she and Mrs Hodson managed it themselves, and how she delivered the babies of young women who were accommodated with her or Mrs Brimstone, and given a percentage of the fee to be paid by those who adopted the babies. Good ’omes, they went ter, she tried to justify herself. No ’arm done.
‘Evie Finch.’ Jones leapt on her last words. ‘No harm, eh?’
‘Said she was goin’ ’ome — told ’er ter stay, but she wouldn’t. What was I supposed ter do? ’Eadstrong that one.’
There was nothing more to be said. They knew enough — not that they hadn’t guessed it all. They left her, sitting on the rough cot in the cell. When Dickens looked back, he saw that she still held on to her umbrella, waiting for the train that would never come. A police van would take her to Newgate where she would wait for her trial. And they must find the man in the dark coat so that Miranda Deverall could be brought out of Newgate into the light.
Chapter 23: A Shadow As Yet
‘Soup?’ Jones asked, peering into a pan on the kitchen range.
‘An honest and stout soup, it smells to me — rice and barley, perhaps?’ Dickens suggested.
Jones tasted what was on the spoon in his hand. ‘You’re right — it tastes very good, too.’
‘Then I will — it might put some heart into us.’
‘And fresh bread, and a nice bottle of claret here, I see.’
Jones brought over the bowls of soup and Dickens cut the slices of bread.
‘There now, we look compact and comfortable, as the father said ven he cut his boy’s head off, to cure him o’ squintin.’
‘Thank you, Mr Weller, I’m obliged,’ Jones said, raising his glass to his guest.
They had walked from Bow Street to Jones’s house in Norfolk Street. A light supper, Jones had offered — before they discussed the case.
‘Or cases,’ Jones observed when they had finished the soup. ‘There are separate matters here, I think. Raspin, Brimstone and Mrs Amelia Hodson are all connected by the trade in abortion and live babies. And Plume was in it, too. But I don’t think any of them killed him — they fed off him. We’ve got Raspin, Plume is dead, Hardacre will find Hodson, I’m sure, and we can go back to Mrs
Brimstone’s now we have the evidence from Mrs Raspin. We can close down their operation, at least. And that leaves us clear to pursue the murder of Plume.’
‘The stranger in the low-crowned hat seen by Lawson in the alley and seen with Kitty Quillian, and by me with the Italian boy. What do we make of that?’
‘Well, the stranger is seen at Plume’s — Plume dies. The stranger is seen with Kitty Quillian — she vanishes. He is seen by you with the Italian boy — the boy disappears. That’s what worries me.’
‘It answers my question as to what Kitty was doing in the alley after Miranda Deverall had left the house. She was waiting for him — because she knew him.’
‘Very likely, but we don’t know him — that’s our problem. I sent Inspector Grove to the houses of the patients whose names we found in the records. I hadn’t time to tell you.’
‘What did he find?’
‘Miss Emily Dixon’s mother is a widow living with two unmarried daughters. The brother is a clergyman living in Devon with his wife and six children. In fact, Mrs Dixon and her daughters were just back from Devon themselves. Mrs Sarah Wilkinson’s husband has married again.’
‘The funeral baked meats —’
‘Exactly — he married six months after his wife’s death. He had no complaints about Doctor Plume’s treatment of his wife. She died of a heart attack — nothing to do with the doctor. She was a frail woman, apparently, always ailing, weak heart which killed her.’
‘I wonder — convenient for him if he had someone else lined up.’
‘Grove was suspicious, but since the matter has no bearing —’
‘What if he killed Plume because Plume knew he wanted his wife dead? What if — I see it, Horatio, in my mind’s eye — what if Plume arranged it —’ Dickens was off in pursuit of murderous Mr Wilkinson, a gentleman who, if not entirely innocent of a certain relief at his wife’s death, had not, in fact murdered Plume, though it might be argued that Plume’s overlarge prescriptions of morphine had killed her. It hadn’t suited Mr Wilkinson to ask too many questions. Besides, the young and lovely Selina Dean was waiting.
‘He was on his honeymoon at the time of Plume’s murder. Sorry to disappoint you.’
‘I had it wrapped up then, Sam — damn the fellow. Honeymoon, indeed. Where, I’d like to know.’
‘Paris, I’m afraid.’
‘I might have guessed.’
They drank their wine in silence for a while until Dickens spoke up again. ‘Motive? What’s his motive?’
Jones thought. ‘I don’t know. Money? Did Plume have debts? Gambler?’
‘I wonder he had the time — he seems to have been very busy with his assortment of patients. Someone he knew something about? Someone to whom he was a danger? Someone whose good name he could injure?’
‘Plume the blackmailer — to add to his other sins. What else?’
‘Jealousy, perhaps — some woman he’d betrayed, or some man —’
‘Something in the past, maybe. Suppose our dark stranger is from Plume’s past — about which, I may say, we know nothing. I should have gone back to Mrs Plume. Well, I shall. There must be someone who can tell us about him — even if his wife isn’t yet fit to speak. Solicitor, maybe.’
‘The past — it never goes away, Sam. It’s always there, behind, or in front of you like your shadow or the shadow of your shadow, creeping silently with you like a thief in the night — like our murderer. I think of him shadowing that poor boy and Kitty Quillian.’
‘Plume had a secret life, we know that. Suppose there was some secret in his past, something or someone he thought he had left behind.’
‘Someone with a grudge — someone who hated Plume for something he had done. Someone who got to know Kitty Quillian.’
‘Someone who offered her money.’
‘I assume so —’
‘My God — that’s it. That’s what Elizabeth said.’
‘When? What did she say?’ Dickens was baffled.
‘When she was telling us what Miranda Deverall had told her about Kitty Quillian and the night of the murder, I asked her if Kitty Quillian went with her, and Elizabeth said “I assume so” because the maid recognised Kitty, but, and I’d forgotten this detail because it didn’t seem important at the time, Billie Watts told Rogers that the Plume’s maid saw Kitty Quillian — on the other side of the road. She didn’t see her with Miranda.’
‘So, what if?’ Dickens thought for a bit. ‘What if she went there on behalf of the murderer to find out if Plume was in and saw that Miranda was there? Our stranger is round the back. Kitty goes to tell him, tells him about Miranda. They wait, see Miranda come out. Our man goes in. Kitty waits for him and off they go.’
‘Then Kitty learns about the murder and Miranda’s arrest. He’d realise she knew so —’
‘You think she’s dead?’
‘She had a child — she wouldn’t have just left it. Think about it. We think it must be Plume’s child. If so, why wasn’t she persuaded to get rid of the child? She must have wanted it — she left Mrs Hodson’s. She lodged with the Brimstones — they knew Mrs Hodson. Why didn’t she go elsewhere? And where did her money come from?’
Dickens thought about the questions. ‘Suppose the child wasn’t Plume’s. It makes sense. Plume would have made her abort the child. He’s done it twice before — at least — Lavinia Gray and Miranda Deverall. Why should Kitty be different? Because there was someone else — someone who supported her and her child.’
‘Mrs Brimstone might know, or Mrs Brady. I’ll get Rogers to go to the Brimstone house before he goes to Mrs Brady’s. In fact, I’ll send Feak as well. The two of them can get some answers. Mrs Brimstone told Raspin that Kitty had gone off with her “fancy man”, so she knew about him. And I want to know what she knew.’
‘He’ll be easier to crack — the husband. He looked very shifty to me, frightened of something — and not just his wife.’
‘Good idea — Rogers and Feak can bring them to Bow Street — interview them separately.’
‘And the boy?’
‘I can’t help thinking of your seeing him in the street — that was days ago. He wouldn’t keep him alive.’
‘Unless the boy got away — he might have done. Our man couldn’t have taken him off the street without a struggle. There were people about. In any case, the boy would have known him if he was in the alley that night — surely, he’d have run away.’
‘He might. I hope…’ But Jones didn’t sound very hopeful as he stared into his empty glass. ‘Perhaps he’s still about those alleys — and that’s another thing. All that talk of Satan. Something criminal going on there, but I’ll pass all that on to Goss. It’s his patch. We’ll have a word with that Italian family — they might know something about the boy.’
‘We’ll go to the alleys at 12.30?’
‘Yes, but I must go to Plume’s house first. You might come with me — observe. You could be a lawyer for Miranda Deverall.’
‘I’ve a very convincing false beard — and a wig, if you like. My own mother wouldn’t know me.’
Jones laughed. ‘I was thinking more of a dark suit and spectacles — something simple that would prevent her from recognising you. I don’t want to complicate the matter by having Charles Dickens with me.’
‘It shall be done — not even a moustache — a small one? I had one in Italy — glorious it was, trimmed at the ends. Very shapely and charming.’
‘I’m sure it was, but no, if you please — I don’t want to spend my time worrying that your moustache might fall off.’
‘No faith, Samivel, you’re a disappointment to me. However, I shall go home and find me a suitable suit and spectacles.’
They stood at the door, looking out at the fog descending. The opposite side of the street was fading away and the gaslight looked green and eerie. Jones looked weary, Dickens thought. ‘Worried?’
‘In a fog, that’s what I feel, Charles. Suppose this, suppose that — I’m like
a man stumbling around in the fog, reaching for something to hold on to, only to find that the thing has vanished. I don’t want to fail —’
‘We’ll not fail,’ Dickens said with more confidence than he felt. Lady Macbeth had failed for all her vaunting words. ‘Tomorrow then.’
Dickens went home. The house was quiet. Bed, he thought. He would sleep in the dressing room. No sense in disturbing Catherine. He hoped she would be asleep. She had not seemed well since the birth of Dora, born in August 1850. Catherine complained of headaches and sickness, and she was nervous and unwilling to stay at other houses. The baby, too, was delicate. Poor little Dora, whom he had named in honour of Dora Spenlow in David Copperfield. Thank goodness for Georgy. Georgina Hogarth was Catherine’s sister who had lived with them for eight years, taking over the running of the household from Catherine. He could count on her good sense and loyalty.
He went upstairs. Halfway up he felt a sudden weakness, a kind of giddiness overtook him so that he sat down on the stair, listening to the silent house, strange in the dark. Stillness and solitude. Something awful, he always thought, in being surrounded by familiar faces asleep — in the knowledge that those who are dearest to us and to whom we are dearest, are profoundly unconscious of us. He listened to the ticking of the clock in the hall. Time going on. Time ticking on for Miranda Deverall, whose trial would come on soon, and who had every reason, a jury might find, for murdering Plume, unless the murderer be found.
He thought of Sam in the doorway of his house, peering into the fog, looking for the answer. Sam, who was never afraid, who looked the world in the eye, whose face had nothing to hide, but showed himself exactly as he was, every inch of him an honest man. They were alike, he and Sam, wanting to make sense of things, wanting to create order, to see justice done, to put things right. In a novel, the writer could put things right — the lovers could be united, the child could find its home, the parent could find the child, the wrong-doer could be punished, the murderer brought to justice.
