by J C Briggs
While Jones was speaking to one of the constables seated at a desk, Dickens slipped out into the barrack-like room beyond into which bustled a stout, livid-faced woman and her gaunt companion. Between them they had a shaggy-looking individual as their prisoner, holding on so tightly to his canvas coat that it took on the appearance of a straightjacket. His feet did not touch the ground. When the two women dropped him, Dickens could see that he was a small, handsome, curly-headed boy of perhaps seven. The boy looked quite unconcerned when the stout woman explained in shrill tones that he had robbed her shop. The policeman took him away to the cells, telling the woman that she must appear before the magistrate in the morning to substantiate her charge.
Jones came through and they made their way out of the station.
‘That child —’ Dickens began.
‘The Artful Dodger — not that he dodged this time. Nor a few times before. The number of children brought here, either as prisoners, or as having been lost, is between five and six thousand a year. And how many do we save? Very few, too few. It’s depressing. Talk about progress.’
‘I know — is there any earthly thing that boy can do when his new sentence is served, but steal again, be imprisoned again and again flogged? There are six hundred and fifty-six gentlemen in the House of Commons. I wonder, do none of them care to walk these streets to see and hear what such childhood is and what escape it has from being what it is — it’s enough to break the heart and hope of any man.’
‘I’ve never seen ’em, but they act fast enough when they’re robbed and complain if we don’t catch the thief. Write it all down, Charles — pitch it to them, strong as you can in that magazine of yours.’
‘That I will — a nice little piece about Bow Street might make a few folk sit up and take notice.’
They walked out into the street, crossing over Long Acre to make their way to Oxford Street.
‘I meant to ask about Miranda,’ Dickens said as they approached Jones’s house in Norfolk Street. ‘What did Elizabeth say about her?’
‘She went to Newgate yesterday and intended to go today. Mollie was going to look after Eleanor and Tom at the shop. Elizabeth says she has eaten. She says nothing about Plume, or of what happened, only of her childhood, her father and mother. It’s very sad — she talks as if she might go back there — home, she says, she wants to go home. She talks as if her father is still alive. Elizabeth daren’t contradict her — she’s afraid she might retreat into silence again. And Elizabeth is worried about what we might do with her when we get her out of Newgate.’
‘She must have a home — not the home at Shepherd’s Bush. The girls there are very different from Miranda. I’ll write to Miss Coutts — she might know of someone, someone who would give her a proper home, who would understand what she has suffered. Tell Elizabeth, I shall do all in my power.’
Jones was sure he would. Charles Dickens kept his promises.
Chapter 30: Enter a Partner
Rogers had gone to Euston Station to catch the early express for Manchester. Inspector Hardacre had telegraphed. He had found Mrs Hodson and Mrs Brimstone, and he would bring the women to London Road Station where Rogers would take charge of them. They would get the very next train back to London. As far as Jones was concerned, they were both suspects — Mrs Hodson for Plume’s murder and Mrs Brimstone for her husband’s. Not that he thought either of them guilty, but there was reason enough to have them in custody. There was also the question of Kitty’s baby and the evidence against them provided by Bertha Raspin. The three witches, Jones thought grimly.
The dependable Inspector Cuff had been to see Jones at nine o’clock after Rogers had gone. There was no news from the hospitals that Cuff’s men had been to — a glazier had gone to the Workhouse Infirmary with a cut hand, but no one had heard of anyone resembling Will. Two other constables had found Paul Brady — at home, in his bed with a drink or two inside him. Jimmy Brady had run off when they came out of the cellar where they had left Frank Stemp. Paul Brady hadn’t been able to stop him and the family hadn’t seen him since. It was Cuff’s opinion that they were all frightened of Jimmy — mother, father and the odd little daughter who had a black eye. Mrs Brady would have helped him, Cuff had been sure, but she had been wary of her husband. Paul Brady had been brought to Marylebone Police Station and charged with the assault and kidnap of a policeman. He’d be up before the magistrate later that morning — in Newgate by dinner, Cuff had said with satisfaction. Cuff intended to go back to Mrs Brady’s later to see if she could tell him where Jimmy might be. And the Italian had disappeared — with his masked accomplice.
‘I’ve a name for him,’ Jones had said. ‘Saturnino Betti.’ He gave Cuff the details he had learned from Dickens the night before. ‘The creature in the mask was probably one of the boys he’d lured from the Italian School. I’ve sent Inspector Grove there to see if he can find out any more. I’ll let you know.’
‘I’ve got my men knocking on doors and telling folk we’re after him. People might start filling those alleys and lanes again. They’ll feel safer now. Not that they like us much down there, but they probably like even us better than Satan.’
‘I think I’ll go to see Mrs Brady,’ Jones said. ‘I want to ask her about Kitty Quillian — the girl who we think was seen with Plume’s murderer, and who was near Plume’s house on the evening of the murder. I’ll ask about Jimmy, too.’
Cuff agreed and went on his way. Jones sat thinking while he was waiting for Dickens. On his way home he had been tempted to call on Bridie O’Malley to see whether Michael had turned up. But he had thought better of it — Bridie might not be too pleased to see him. Thinking about Michael had made him remember something odd — something that he had paid no attention to because the name O’Malley had distracted him. It was what the murderer had said to Michael when he gave him the two shillings. The two shillings were odd in themselves. A cold-blooded murderer give a tramp two shillings? Why? And stranger still were the words that had accompanied the shillings. “Get a good meal and give up the drink.”
Kind words of advice and money for a meal — those two things did not square with a man who had murdered Doctor Plume, Arthur Brimstone, possibly Kitty Quillian, and who had been after the Italian boy. Plume had known his murderer. They were sure of that. Someone from his past. Someone who had killed Plume, but who, perhaps, had not intended to — and then, as often with murder, had found that he had to go on — or give himself up. And that led to Arthur Brimstone? What had he known? Had he met the murderer? That was something to find out from his wife.
And there seemed to be still in the murderer — Will, perhaps — some reserve of his old self — the self that gave his name politely — even to a tramp, the self that cared enough about that same tramp to give him money for a meal. A gentleman then, whose old self elbowed aside the murderer, and saw a man in need. Someone whom Plume knew. “Give up the drink.”
Another doctor? That was a possibility. Mrs Plume ought to know if there were any doctor in Plume’s past who might have a grudge. Dickens should be here soon.
Jones made to go up the steps of number 11 Weymouth Street when the door opened and a tall young man came out. He was wearing a black coat, gauntlets and carrying a travelling bag in one hand and a top hat in the other.
‘I am here to see Mrs Plume. Superintendent Jones of Bow Street.’
‘Oh — about Doctor Plume.’
‘Yes, is Mrs Plume well enough to see us?’
‘I’d say so — she’s out of bed. A bit — er — delicate, but I’m sure she can talk to you. Brought the undertaker, have you,’ the young man said, glancing at Dickens who had come in his disguise, albeit with a new moustache. The other, he had assumed, must be lying on the floor of the cab he had taken to the Italian school. The new one was a little larger, to be sure, but firmly attached to his upper lip as he had assured Jones who had merely looked at it with an eyebrow raised. Dickens bowed his head in what he thought was a suitably sombre
manner. It wouldn’t do to laugh.
‘No, this is Mr —’
‘Vholes,’ said Dickens, seizing inspiration. He had seen the name on a passing cart. ‘Solicitor for the young woman accused of Doctor Plume’s murder. Recent evidence suggests that she is not the guilty person.’
‘Oh, I see — well — er —’ The young man seemed at a loss.
‘You are?’
‘Martin Brooks.’
‘Of —’ Dickens nearly said “Sheffield”, but he stopped himself in time — suppose the young man had read of David Copperfield whom Mr Murdstone had, for reasons of his own, named Brooks of Sheffield.
‘Manchester — but I’m on my way back there. My train leaves in thirty minutes.’
‘And your business here, sir?’
‘I am Mrs Plume’s stepson.’
Jones was astonished. No one had mentioned a stepson. That fool, Goss — he wondered whether Goss had withheld that information wilfully. How like him. ‘Stepson,’ he repeated.
‘Yes, not his son. Thank the stars. I’ll let you in.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Brooks, but I will have to delay you. I shall need to ask you some questions.’ Jones was firm.
‘I see. I just came to see my stepmother — I suppose I can take a later train.’
They went into a well-furnished drawing room where a good fire was blazing. Dickens glanced up at another portrait of the doctor — that smile again, as if he knew something others did not. Killed for what he knew? What he knew about the murderer? That was a thought. Well, the murderer had wiped the smile off Plume’s face. Uncharitable, I am. But he could not like the man, could not feel pity for him — he thought of poor Miranda Deverall and Lavinia Gray. Oh, Plume had secrets — perhaps this young man knew something.
Martin Brooks stood uncertainly in the centre of the room. He had left his travelling bag in the hall, but he had not taken off his coat or gloves. Jones eyed the gloves — did one of them conceal a cut hand?
‘Do you wish me to fetch my stepmother?’
‘Not for the moment, Mr Brooks. I should like you to tell me something of Doctor Plume — your history and so on.’
Brooks motioned Jones to sit and he sat down opposite. Dickens remained standing nearer the door, behind Jones so that he could see Brooks’s face. The young man had forgotten him.
‘Where to start? I’m not sure what you want to know.’
‘About your family and Doctor Plume, if you will.’
‘My father was a brewer — in Rochester — in partnership with his brother. I had a happy childhood. But my mother died when I was eight — it’s a long time ago. Seventeen years, but I haven’t forgotten her. She was lovely — all sparkle, full of life and funny. My father loved her — and so did I. It was as if the light went out of our lives when she died. When I was ten, my father married Mrs Plume — Miss Julia Lamb, she was then. She was a cousin of my aunt’s — he wanted someone to look after me, I suppose. I didn’t mind. I knew her and she was kind. A little woman, silly and affectionate. My father was fond of her — now, I think that … she wasn’t my mother. He was busy and, well, she was there. I had my aunt and uncle, too, and cousins. And then my father died — a riding accident.’
Enter Plume, thought Dickens, to comfort the grieving widow, I’ll bet.
‘Was Plume your family doctor?’ Jones had obviously had the same thought.
‘No, he was my stepmother’s doctor — his practice was in Chatham. I don’t know why — something about nerves, I remember. My father didn’t care for him, but he indulged her — because he didn’t love her, I suppose. Felt guilty. I went away to school. When I came home for the holidays, she was to marry him. My uncle frowned a lot — whispers in the parlour with my aunt — that sort of thing — money talk. My father left her twenty-thousand pounds and Plume was a doctor with not much of a practice.’
‘What did you feel about it?’ Jones had his eye on the gloves.
‘Not much — I had my mother’s money and the rest of my father’s. And anyway, I was fifteen. I had my horses, my cousins. I just hoped that I could stay with them.’
The room was warm. Martin Brooks was sitting near the fire. He began to take off the left-hand glove. There was something awkward about the movement of is right hand. He winced as if it were painful.
‘You’ve hurt yourself?’ Jones asked.
Dickens held his breath. Surely this open-faced young man with the bright blue eyes who had loved his mother and spoke with a kind of tolerant affection of Mrs Plume, could not be the murderer. But, what was it he had said? He was not Plume’s son, thank the stars — he hadn’t much liked the doctor, that was clear.
‘Sprained my wrist.’
He peeled off the left hand glove and then the right — there was no bandage, no sign of injury. Dickens breathed again.
Martin Brooks put the gloves on a side table and resumed his story. ‘I stayed with my uncle and aunt. Then I came to London to read for the law — at Gray’s Inn.’
‘Did you see much of your stepmother and Doctor Plume?’
‘I made a duty call now and then — for her sake.’
‘You didn’t like him.’
Martin Brooks smiled. ‘I suppose I gave that away. No, I didn’t. I realised that this house and the fashionable practice were built on my father’s money — not that I minded for her, but he was so complacent, so patronising. It was as if he had got it by his own efforts, and he didn’t want me here. Didn’t want people to know that he’d had nothing until he married a wealthy widow.’
‘What was he like with your stepmother?’
‘She didn’t complain. I don’t know. There was a kind of contempt sometimes for her. He’d be sharp. I could tell she was hurt. She didn’t deserve that — she’s silly, not very bright, but good at heart. I didn’t come very often, only when I thought he’d be out. And he often was.’
‘Did she know where or why?’
‘I doubt it — he was master here. She’ll be better off without him. I’m sorry — shouldn’t have said that. The man was murdered after all, and she is upset.’
‘You don’t have any ideas about the murder?’
‘Well, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t my stepmother. I was in Manchester and she was visiting my aunt.’
‘I rather think it might be to do with something in his past. Do you remember anything about his life in Chatham that could shed light on this matter. Any enemies there?’
‘I really don’t know. Plume left his practice when he married my stepmother. There was a partner — don’t know what happened to him. He might still be there.’
‘Do you remember his name?’
‘No — my stepmother will probably remember. She went to the surgery in Chatham.’
‘I ought to see her now.’
‘I’ll take you to her. I’d better stay with her — to reassure her. I’ll get a train later.’
Martin Brooks led them to another room where the widow was seated on a velvet sofa before another fire. A small, rather faded woman — about forty, Dickens guessed, her faded prettiness not enhanced by the hideous widow’s cap and the unrelieved black of her gown. She looked bewildered and lost in the weeds like a child in clothes too big for her. And she looked afraid when Martin came in with the two strangers.
‘Ma,’ said Martin gently, ‘nothing to worry about. This gentleman is a policeman and he wants to know about Doctor Plume’s old partner in Chatham. The other gentleman is a solicitor. Nothing to concern you.’
‘But why? That girl did it. Lancelot tried to help her and she stole his money. The policeman said.’
Jones sat down. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Plume, but we now know that the girl didn’t kill your husband. I need to know about the past.’
‘The past — so long ago. It can’t — Lancelot left it behind him. He wanted to start afresh here in London.’
‘What did he want to leave behind?’
‘A quarrel — Mr Sefton was angry. He said Lancelo
t should pay, but Lancelot said he owed him nothing. Mr Sefton said that he couldn’t afford to keep the practice on his own, but Lancelot told me that Mr Sefton had no right to any money. We should forget him.’
‘Who is Mr Sefton?’ Jones knew he must be patient.
‘Frederick Sefton — Lancelot’s partner.’
‘Is he still in Chatham?’
‘I don’t know. We never spoke of him. I don’t know anything about him.’
Jones saw the tears running down her cheeks. She wouldn’t know anything, he thought. But there was certainly something — except his name wasn’t Will. But then, Michael might have been wrong. Sefton was a doctor — with a grudge.
‘Can you remember the address of the practice in Chatham?’
‘Clover Lane.’
‘Thank you. We will try to find him.’
Martin Brooks showed them out. Jones asked him the address of his old home in Rochester.
‘The Brewery was at Restoration House, but they’re not there now. My uncle died and his widow, my aunt, lives with her daughter at Strood — at the vicarage there. Agnes married the Reverend Henry Stevens.’
Restoration House, thought Dickens. He remembered it. He’d last been in Rochester two years ago. He remembered the house of old red brick, built in the time of Charles II, and he had seen the empty brewery buildings. Perhaps someone else lived there now. But, he knew Chatham and Rochester very well. It was where he had spent a happy childhood — before his father had brought them to London, before his father had been imprisoned in the Marshalsea, before the blacking factory.
On his last visit, he had stayed at The Bull in the High Street and he had been to see the Reverend William Drage in Minor Canon Row by the Cathedral. He might know about Sefton — he’d know of the doctors in Chatham as well — that is, if Sefton were still there. He could have gone back after the murder of Brimstone, and if he were not there, someone might know his history.
