The Quickening and the Dead

by J C Briggs

  ‘Into the alleys?’

  ‘No, I was on Northumberland Street. He shot across the road — into Nottingham Street, I think it’s called. The Irish man said Satan wanted him. And he was terrified. What do you make of that?’

  ‘Interestin’. I dint ’ear that bit. I need ter get back ter meet the chief — ’e’ll want ter know about that if ’e ’asn’t found the lad. Satan’ll be some kind o’ gangmaster, we think. ’Ow long yer been ’ere? Queer sort o’ place.’

  ‘Only a few days, but I know what you mean — too quiet. Sinister. I’ll be glad to get out. Folk are frightened hereabouts. Of your Satan, p’raps?’

  ‘Should think so. If yer leavin’, mebbe yer could come with me to meet the Superintendent. Tell ’im what yer ’eard an’ about the boy. We meet at a chop ’ouse — could treat yer — an’ Pete.’

  Mog nodded. It took only a few minutes for the rum and tin mugs to be stowed in the chest, which Mog stowed on one shoulder. Pete perched on the other and out they went.

  Jones gave Dickens his scarf. ‘You two get off home — Charles, you could drop off Scrap at Norfolk Street, if you will.’

  ‘What about Mrs Plume?’

  ‘Too late, I think. I don’t want to go knocking at her door in the dark, and anyway, I need to try to find Stemp first. Then to Bow Street to see if Grove has found any trace of Will.’

  ‘Hospitals,’ said Rogers. ‘He might want to get the hand seen to.’

  ‘Good idea — we’ll get a couple of constables from Goss’s division to make enquiries.’

  ‘He’d perhaps go to the Workhouse Infirmary — worth trying Doctor Fuller,’ Dickens said.

  ‘Yes, I’ll tell them to mention my name. Mrs Plume tomorrow?’

  ‘I’ll come round from Wellington Street.’

  ‘Right. Let’s go.’

  Jones turned back to the door just as it opened. Stemp came in, accompanied by a man with a sea chest on one shoulder and a monkey on the other.

  ‘This is Mr Mog Chips and Pete — got me out of a cellar, and ’eard some interestin’ things, Mr Jones. I thought you should know about.’

  Stemp told his tale of the assault by Jimmy Brady and his father and Mog Chips added what he had heard about the Italian boy.

  ‘You saw him run off down Nottingham Street?’ Jones asked Mog.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Two days ago.’

  ‘Which explains why Satan still wants him —’

  ‘And that our murderer might not have found him,’ Dickens interrupted. ‘He was running away from the alleys.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Jones looked at the red mark where Jimmy Brady had kicked Stemp. It would ripen into a bruise by tomorrow. ‘Anything broken, do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t think so — I’ll be bruised about the ribs I expect. Nothin’ too serious.’

  ‘Still, you ought to see Mrs Feak — you could call there on your way home — you might have a cracked or broken rib. I was just about to organise a search party from Marylebone Street. It’ll be a search for Jimmy Brady and his father now. Rogers and I will need to go to Marylebone Police Station. It’s their patch and they need to deal with whatever’s going on down there. I’ll try to see Inspector Cuff — sensible man. Rogers and I know him. Mr Chips, where are you going now?’

  ‘Not sure. I’ll try to get a lodging at the docks — I might go back to sea.’

  ‘I would like to stay in touch with you — witness against Jimmy Brady and his father. Is that possible?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve some thinking to do. I can let you know where I’m staying.’

  ‘If you need lodgings, we’ve got room at the shop,’ Rogers offered.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Jones. ‘That way, I can reach you quickly. Scrap, while —’

  Scrap wasn’t listening. He was engaged in communion with Pete. Scrap had seen plenty of monkeys on barrel-organs, but had never met one like the courteous Pete whose bow had enchanted him and whose handshake he was now returning with a look of wonderment on his face. The monkey turned to Dickens, offering another handshake.

  ‘A most engaging little fellow, Mr Chips,’ he said. ‘I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Pete.’

  The monkey examined him gravely, and being satisfied with what he saw, bowed.

  ‘Sorry, Mr Jones,’ said Scrap, ‘you woz sayin’ somethin’.’

  ‘I thought you might take Mr Chips and Pete to the shop before you go on to Norfolk Street. Explain to Mollie about Mr Chips — and Pete.’ I hope Mollie doesn’t mind the monkey, he thought. Too late, now. Rogers had committed her to two house guests.

  ‘Right,’ Scrap agreed.

  ‘Take a cab then, all of you — Stemp you must go to Mrs Feak’s — and then home. Charles, you should go with them.’

  Dickens agreed. He could tell that Jones was anxious to be off. He had wanted to tell him about his idea of going to the Italian School, but it would keep. In fact, he thought, he could go now. He had looked at his watch to discover that it was only half-past five. Their sojourn in the alleys had seemed to last an age. Time had seemed very long there. In that ink black, Old Time had slept, and the world had stood still.

  Well, time had restarted — Jones was safe, and Rogers, Stemp was all right, Scrap and he were delivered from danger. Time for action. Clerkenwell.

  Chapter 29: The Italian School

  In the cab, Dickens bethought himself to take off the moustache and to comb his hair into its more natural style. He couldn’t see, of course, but he thought he might look more himself than the undertaker to whom Jones had likened him. He got out of his cab at the end of Field Lane, from where it was a brief walk up to Charles Street and thence into Greville Street. He knew this area well. Near Field Lane was the house to which the Artful Dodger had brought the unsuspecting Oliver Twist, the house from where Fagin had slunk, on a chill, damp, windy night not unlike this one, through the black mist and thick muddy streets to meet Bill Sikes in Bethnal Green.

  Dickens knew the seething streets off Field Lane and Saffron Hill, the countless dreary little shops, the filthy odours, the mud, the grimy public houses, the drunks, the fighting men and women, and the heaps of children screaming and shrieking, all the teeming life of the place. It was filthy and crowded, but it was alive — unlike those silent, dark, underworld alleys where a lad with a face lit by lurid flames had sent a knife whistling through the air.

  Had the boy meant to kill him? Perhaps not — if he had, the knife would have entered his heart, not hissed by his ear to end with a thud in the door beside him. Perhaps. Well, no need to dwell on that. He wasn’t afraid of this place. In his way, he owned these streets and alleys.

  Up beyond Saffron Hill was Clerkenwell Green where Mr Brownlow’s pocket was picked and Oliver Twist arrested. Hatton Garden was the site of the police court where Oliver’s case was tried by the magistrate Fang. The Three Cripples Inn in Bleeding Heart Yard where Sikes, Fagin and the villain Monks, Oliver’s half-brother, conspired the boy’s ruin. Along the way in Ely Place, David Copperfield had visited Agnes Wickfield. From where he stood he could look down to Snow Hill where Squeers had collected his boys at The Saracen’s Head. And he knew the Field Lane Ragged School well — and the Italian School.

  He went up Field Lane, turned left into Charles Street, bypassing Bleeding Heart Yard and went on into Greville Street where he went into the school to find a young Italian man in the hall.

  ‘Mr Dickens?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve come to enquire about an Italian boy — Guiseppe — I don’t know his other name.’

  The young man smiled. ‘It’s a common name around here.’

  ‘I know, but he is quite distinctive. He has a birthmark like a tear drop under his left eye. He might have come here a couple of days ago.’

  ‘I know him — he is here. Why do you want him?’

  ‘It’s a long story, Mr —?’

  ‘Bellini — Salvatore Bellini.’<
br />
  ‘The story concerns a murder and your boy, Guiseppe, might have seen it happen in an alley behind the house where it took place. The police are looking for him — they are afraid the murderer might have seen him, that he may be in danger. I thought of your school and wondered if he might have taken refuge here.’

  ‘He has not said anything about it — but he is frightened. I thought he was afraid someone was after him, but he would not tell me who.’

  ‘There is something else — when we — I mean I was with the police — when we were looking for him in the alleys near the workhouse at Marylebone, I came across a young Italian man whom we found out was after the boy, too. I don’t know his name, but I know he is dangerous — we think he may call himself Satan.’ Dickens saw the man’s face change to something like anger. ‘That means something to you?’

  ‘It does — there is a young man — a bad young man who was here a long time ago as a boy. He was bad then. He is called Saturnino Betti.’

  ‘Whom people called Satan — it fits.’

  ‘It is another long story. Have you time to hear it?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. The policeman, Superintendent Jones of Bow Street, will want to know about him.’

  ‘Then, come in to another room.’

  They went into what was a classroom of sorts where Mr Bellini motioned Dickens to sit.

  ‘You know our work here, how our noble Signor Mazzini started the school in 1841 because, when he talked to the little boys with their barrel-organs and their mice and rats, he found out about the masters who made them slaves. He found out about how the poor peasant boys were brought to England with promises of pay and good living, and how they came here to be beaten and starved. Signor Mazzini went among those men and some were brought to justice. But he wanted those boys to have a better life, so they come to the school in the evenings to learn to read and write, and to learn Italian history. He is most loved by all those boys — except a few — and most particularly Saturnino Betti, who even our noble Mazzini could not help. He was a cruel boy who sought to influence the others and Mazzini expelled him from the lessons. Then we heard no more of him until Mazzini went away to fight for the cause. Saturnino came back and took some of our boys away — he promised them riches, no doubt. Guiseppe Betti is his brother, and in the mind of Saturnino, he belongs to him to do with him what he will — to slave for him, I do not doubt. So he took him, too, for there is no father or mother to guard the boy.’

  ‘So, Guiseppe ran away — from the murderer and his brother?’

  ‘I would think so. He is a good boy — about ten years old, I think and not corrupted — yet. I hope.’

  ‘Will Saturnino come for him, do you think?’

  The Italian smiled. ‘Not now — for our hero is back. He has come secretly from Switzerland. You know that the French have defeated the republican Rome — Mazzini has fled for his life, but he is here, and when Saturnino Betti knows that, he will not dare to come here. Will your policeman need to speak to him about the murder?’

  ‘I do not think so — we have other witnesses and we are close on his trail, I believe. We just wanted to know if he was safe from Satan.’

  ‘We will take care of him, do not fear, Mr Dickens.’

  ‘May I leave something for him?’ Dickens held out a sovereign.

  ‘It will help us. I thank you, Mr Dickens. I will tell Signor Mazzini that you came.’

  ‘Give him my regards. Now I must go to give my news to Superintendent Jones.’

  Dickens went back to Bow Street. Sam might be back and he would want to know about Guiseppe. At least he was safe now and Jones could go or send someone to see Mazzini to find out if anyone else knew anything about Saturnino Betti.

  Jones was in his office with Rogers. They had seen Inspector Cuff and Sergeant Billie Watts, who had recruited more men to search the alleys for the Italian and Paul and Jimmy Brady. Inspector Cuff was in charge for the time being. Superintendent Goss was out of action, it seemed. He had found Thomas King who had murdered his father. In the struggle to force King up the steps from the cellar where he had been hiding, Goss had slipped and broken his ankle. Inspector Cuff had delivered this piece of news with a straight face — the straight face of a man who was trying not to laugh.

  ‘Not pleased — the Superintendent. I was sorry to have to leave him down in that dirty cellar, but I had to get King to the station. It took a while, too, before I could send someone back for him.’ His eyes seemed to shine with that suppressed amusement. ‘An hour or more, I’m sorry to say. Still, we’ll have to manage without him somehow, Mr Jones.’

  Cuff knew about Satan, and about Jimmy Brady and his da. Paul Brady was a petty kind of thief — not known to be particularly violent. One for the ladies, apparently, but the lad — well, he was a little brute. Cuff said they’d bring in both of them. And he’d been wanting to get in those alleys and flush ’em out. He heard the tales about Satan. He had been waiting for the go-ahead from Goss — he needn’t wait now. The attack on a policeman was enough.

  Jones told him that he believed that Arthur Brimstone had been murdered by the man who had killed Plume. He would investigate those two murders together and while Cuff was searching the alleys; perhaps he could keep an eye out for Kitty Quillian who seemed to have vanished.

  Jones and Rogers had come back to Bow Street to find out what Inspector Grove and his constables had discovered about Will. Nothing. He had vanished, too.

  ‘My hope now lies with Mrs Plume,’ Jones was saying to Rogers as Dickens came in. ‘Charles, I didn’t expect you here. I thought you’d gone home.’

  ‘No, I went to the Italian school. I was going to tell you that I’d thought of it, but events overtook us. But I bring glad tidings. The boy is safe.’ He told them about his talk with Salvatore Bellini. ‘I thought you might send someone to talk to Mazzini. He knows all about the one they call Satan, and he might know who knows him. If the boy was running away from Satan, it explains why he was hanging around the alley at the back of Plume’s house. Perhaps he thought he might take refuge with Mrs Bark — she’d been kind to him.’

  ‘And they were out — at his sister’s, so maybe the boy was waiting for them to come back and, unfortunately for him, he saw our murderer.’

  ‘I’ll send Grove to see Mr Mazzini. In the meantime, Inspector Cuff and Billie Watts have taken some men to search the alleys. Cuff said he’d send news when they found Jimmy Brady and his father. I asked them to keep an eye out for Kitty Quillian. And to enquire at the hospitals in case Will asked to have his hand seen to.’

  ‘I thought I’d go ter Mrs Feak’s,’ said Rogers, ‘see how Stemp is, make sure he’s all right.’

  ‘Good idea — then go home. You ought to see Mollie about that monkey.’ Jones gave Rogers a knowing look.

  Rogers grinned back. ‘I’m not puttin’ it off, sir, well not for a bit. Give ’em a chance ter settle in.’

  ‘Well, tell her Pete’s an important witness — with my compliments for her hospitality.’

  ‘I’m sure Pete will charm her — a very gentle beast and of a good conscience.’

  ‘If you say so, Mr Dickens. I’ll be off then.’

  When the cheerful Rogers had gone, Dickens saw that Jones was looking at him with a sombre face.

  ‘Thy thoughts, most reverend and grave elder?’

  ‘That I am glad not to find thee a grave man.’ Jones smiled, but Dickens knew he was thinking of the Italian and his knife.

  ‘Saturnino Betti?’

  ‘And his knife. That was a near thing.’

  ‘I was thinking about it. He could have killed me — if he’d wanted to. I’m certain of it, Sam. The knife went into the door frame. He wouldn’t have missed. He could have aimed for my heart, but he didn’t. Still, I’m much obliged to Scrap. Not that I wasn’t terrified out of my wits. Like Mrs Gummidge, I felt a visitation in the back — the creeps up the spine. Ugh —’ he shivered at the memory — ‘I was very glad to see that cow. I
shall double my order from Mr Josiah Evans, the dairyman.’

  ‘You’re probably right — about the knife, I mean. Still, it was a nightmarish experience down there. Cuff will sort it out, I’m sure. Goss is out of commission — broken ankle in pursuit of a murderer. He should have dealt with that place sooner. Cuff wanted him to, but Goss is touchy about his rank.’

  ‘Are you going home soon?’

  ‘For an hour or two. I shall come back here by nine o’clock when the beat constables change over to see if there’s any news. Inspector Walklate —’

  ‘Walklate — never! Night Inspector, is he?’

  ‘He is, appropriately. He takes over from Inspector Jolley. Don’t —’ Jones saw Dickens’s eyes light up — ‘a more lugubrious individual, you could not hope to meet. I’ll introduce you. He looks like a parson. But, he knows to send a reserve man for me if there’s anything urgent. You coming my way?’

  ‘I am, indeed — after I have met the melancholy Mr Jolley. Pity I can’t wait until nine to see the spectral Walklate glide through a solid wall into the station.’

  ‘Solid is the word. Big man is Walklate. Could knock a wall down with one meaty fist.’

  They went out into the Inspector’s office where Jolley stood at his window to hear the charges. He was as Jones had described him. There was an atmosphere of gloom about him; he looked like a man who knew the end of the world was coming, but out of pity for his fellow men, was keeping it to himself. He was about thirty-five with a thin, worried face, a long nose and dark hooded eyes, which were at present gazing with a kind of weary patience at a swarthy man who was enquiring if a gypsy woman had been taken in charge. There was a queue of other supplicants reporting on lost, stolen or otherwise misappropriated possessions, among which curious selection were a horse and cart, a small dog, a brooch, and a firkin of butter.

  The swarthy man had lost his gypsy woman — he couldn’t recall where. Gone off in her caravan, Dickens wondered. Nothing so picturesque. She was drunk when he’d seen her last. Jolley assured him that there was no gypsy woman in the cells — no dark one, no fair one, no tall one, no short one, no gypsy woman of any kind. The swarthy man retreated, rather crestfallen — she would turn up, he supposed.