by J C Briggs
‘Writing on the plight of child criminals?’
‘Something on those lines. I’ve a piece for 14 December — A December Vision — thirty thousand children, hunted, flogged, imprisoned, but not taught. Disease, triumphant in every alley — a few darts at the noisy fools and greedy knaves who talk about it and do nothing. Don’t get me started again — I’m off to the workhouse to find Fuller. And so, farewell until I meet thee next.’
Jones smiled as he watched him walk away with his familiar quick, light strides. He’d read what Dickens had written before about the orphans, the ragged schools, the workhouses, Newgate — all the ills of society. What a passionate man Dickens was — such fire, such tremendous energy, and yet such tenderness. He thought of him moistening Mary Brady’s lips with the brandy. Poor woman. Newgate, then, to see her husband.
Dickens made his way up East Street, turning right into Paddington Street and then into Northumberland Street and the Workhouse Infirmary. Doctor Fuller was in his dispensary. Dickens told him about Mrs Brady and the doctor said that he would see Mrs Brady as soon as he could — tomorrow morning. He would give her something for the pain. There was not much else he could do.
‘Did you find your missing girl? Kitty Quillian?’
‘No, we did not. Superintendent Jones is following a possible lead. You didn’t have a man come in with a cut hand yesterday or this morning?’
‘I’m afraid not. A constable enquired last night. We don’t get many accident cases. Half our patients are children with chronic diseases, and the other half are adults with the same. TB, other lung disease, skin diseases, lepra — all the consequences of poverty and hunger. And I must get back, Mr Dickens. I’ll do what I can for Mrs Brady.’
Dickens went away across Nottingham Street where the sailor had seen the Italian boy. He had liked the look of Mog Chips. He wondered whether he would go back to sea. If not, then Dickens thought he might send him down to Devon with a message for a certain Captain Pierce. Captain Pierce was the grandfather of the mute boy, Davey, who had been employed at the home for fallen women in Shepherd’s Bush — Dickens had rescued him from the street. He ought to write to the Captain — perhaps Mog Chips would take the letter. Somehow he thought Mog and the Captain would get on well. It was an idea.
A few minutes from Nottingham Street and he was in Devonshire Place and walking up to number 1 Devonshire Terrace. He thought how quickly the workhouse and its attendant slums were left behind. Here was quiet and comfort, warmth and ease. Double city, he thought, double lives. There was harassed Doctor Fuller, doing what he could on a pittance; there in Weymouth Street had been Doctor Plume, whose well-furnished house sheltered a blackguard.
And are we not all two — he reflected, coming to the iron gate behind which he led his private life — the private one and the one our public life calls forth? He thought of Jones and the secret sorrow of the death of his daughter, Edith. And himself? A man might keep secrets even from himself, so deeply buried were they. But secrets came to the surface, unbidden sometimes. A wave of something like sickness would sometimes assail him — the old, unhappy want of something, something that even his wife and nine children could not supply.
And this other doctor, if doctor he be? What secret had he kept? Had it been a fever in his blood, at last running so high that he came to confront his enemy?
Chapter 32: Trapped
Paul Brady was a man who lived in the moment. He took his pleasures without much thought of the consequences. He liked a drink, he liked a talk at The Neptune, he liked a game of cards, and he liked the company of a young woman. He had liked Kitty Quillian — lively, good-humoured and willing. She made him feel — well, like a man again. A man who could please a woman. Mary was …
Well, sure, Mary was sick, but what could he do about that? It wasn’t his fault. Jesus, he gave her what he could — sure it was as much as a man could do. He knew that Satan — whatever they called him — was a bad ’un, but, Christ, he needed the money. There was Kitty and her baby to think of. What was a man to do?
Jones watched him as he listened to the man and his excuses. Not a bad man, weak and wanting a good time, heedless of his sick wife and that poor child. And careless of the son whose badness he pretended not to see, but Jones didn’t want to hear anymore.
‘I’m not interested in your doings with Satan — that’s for Sergeant Cuff to deal with, though it was my constable you attacked — and you’ll go down for that. I want to know about Kitty Quillian.’
‘Kitty?’ Paul Brady looked confused.
‘Where is she?’
‘I don’t know and that’s the truth, sir. I’ve been lookin’, but no one’s seen her. I can’t understand it — she — we — I was goin’ to marry her after…’ He looked down. Guilty about Mary, Jones thought. Paul Brady shook off the thought of his wife. ‘She was a good girl, Kitty, and she was fond of little May. It would have been all right except —’
‘Jimmy?’
‘Ah, well — there was a bit of difficulty, to be sure. Jimmy is — Kitty was — she said he frightened her. She said she’d seen him followin’ us. I didn’t see that, but sure — it would have been all right. I’d have seen to that.’
Jones didn’t ask how. He very much doubted it. He could see that Jimmy would be too much for Kitty to deal with. Perhaps she had vanished because of Jimmy. But, then she wouldn’t have left the child.
‘What about the child? Your wife said you were the father.’
‘Sure, ’tis true, sir. An’ I can’t understand it — Kitty loved that little boy. That’s why I needed the money, sir. I was a desperate man. I —’
Oh, stow it, thought Jones. He was curt. ‘She was seen with a man by several people — a man I want to find in connection with the murder of Doctor Plume. What can you tell me about that?’
‘She told me that some fella had asked her about the doctor — asked where he could find him. He had business with the doctor so he told her, an’ he offered her some money for information — for your baby, he said. He was all right. She said he was all right. She told him what she knew about the goings on. And, then, after the doctor was killed and that girl was taken by the police, Kitty disappeared —’
Paul Brady stopped suddenly. Jones saw the sudden fear in his eyes. He had realised the significance of Jones’s statement, that he wanted to find a man in connection with Plume’s murder.
‘That girl didn’t do it?’
‘No.’
‘And you’ll be thinkin’ that the murderer is the man Kitty met? And that could mean… Oh, Jesus.’
‘Exactly, Mr Brady.’
‘But, she said he was all right — he was interested in her and the child. He gave her money — said it was for the baby. Hoped she’d be happy. It doesn’t make sense, sir. Why would he kill Kitty?’
It didn’t make sense. Once again, the murderer confounded Jones. The man who gave money to Kitty for her baby was the man who had given money to Michael O’Malley and told him to give up the drink. Jones didn’t answer. Paul Brady didn’t know where Kitty was. He couldn’t waste any more time.
‘The baby — you know that Kitty didn’t take him? How?’
‘I saw Mr Brimstone. He said they’d look after him till I could make some arrangement. Sure, I would have — I was going to when —’
Would have. Would have. Too late, Jones thought, but he didn’t say it. No point. It was time he went to meet Rogers. He could find out about the baby from Mrs Brimstone.
Sleek. That was the word. Sleek as a cat, Mrs Amelia Hodson. At Bow Street, Jones regarded the woman who had left Miranda Deverall to face a charge of murder.
There was something polished about the smooth, dark green velvet pelisse and the matching bonnet which she had taken off. He saw the dark, shining brown hair and the deep blue eyes. Yes, she was very attractive, indeed, and she knew it. He could tell by the way she looked back at him with the suggestion of a smile on the full lips — assessing him, wondering if sh
e could charm him.
He let the silence continue while he read his notes. She could wait. Silence might unnerve her. It often did with suspects. They wanted you to be the first to break it so that they could feel that they still had the power of their secret. Not that the secret meant guilt, not always. But murder had a way of uncovering the secrets of all those who were linked to the act itself. Murder was the stone cast onto the waters, the sudden, violent smack rending the placid surface, but then the ripples rolled outwards to the very edge of the lake, and even those at that edge felt the cold touch of the water.
The secrets might not be germane to the case, but they rose out of the dark water, and hitherto ordinary, unremarkable lives were never the same again.
But, he knew her secrets and she didn’t know how much he knew, and that gave him the power. He knew that she hadn’t killed Plume. But, she didn’t know that. More power to him. Rogers had told her that she was wanted in London in connection with the murder of Doctor Lancelot Plume.
Jones had written down the evidence he would put before the magistrate: Mrs Hodson had left London immediately after the murder. The accused, Miranda Deverall, had lived in her house. Mrs Hodson was concerned in the case of the missing Kitty Quillian who had worked for her. She was associated with Mrs Martha Brimstone whose husband had been murdered, too.
Jones had laughed to himself while he was writing. He could see very well how he might portray the two of them. Harpies. And he could add the association with Mrs Bertha Raspin, already on remand in Newgate, accused of procuring abortion. Mrs Raspin, it was alleged, had been frequently at Mrs Hodson’s house to treat young women… He could pause there, he had thought. Let the magistrate draw his own conclusions.
There was plenty against Martha Brimstone, too — she had left London to take up residence with Mrs Hodson. She had left just after the police had visited her house in search of Kitty Quillian. Her husband had been murdered. He, Superintendent Jones, had reason to suspect her.
Besides, he would tell the magistrate, there was the disappearance of Kitty Quillian’s child. He had spoken to the child’s father who had told him that Mrs Brimstone had promised to take care of the baby. When the police searched the house, the baby was missing and there had been no baby in Manchester where Mrs Brimstone had been discovered with her associate, Mrs Amelia Hodson. Associate — nice word. Very suggestive.
The evidence would serve, he thought, keeping his eyes down. They wouldn’t be found guilty of murder. But, they might be brought to trial on other grounds. Brimstone implicated in abortion and the stealing of a baby — not that he thought Kitty’s baby would be found. There might not be enough evidence to convict Mrs Hodson of anything — but, for now, he would be glad to see her on remand, if only for what she had done to Miranda Deverall. And that’s where he would begin.
He looked up. She sat perfectly still. Unmoving and unmoved. Time to set the ripples rolling.
‘Annie Deverall?’
She was surprised. She hadn’t expected this. There was the hint of a flush at her jawline.
‘Miranda Deverall as I know her now. You didn’t stay in London to help her. Why? She had been sent to you by Mrs Catherine Murray, your cousin who was her stepmother. You were responsible for her, were you not?’
She was annoyed. He saw the thinning of the generous lips and a flash of fire in the blue eyes. A glimpse of what she might be when charm failed her. ‘I couldn’t do anything with her. She was so sulky and awkward. It was hopeless, and she didn’t want to be a milliner. I would have sent her back to Catherine, but she went off. There was nothing I could do about it. I was sorry for her, of course.’ She tried a smile which was meant to tell him that she had done her best. He ignored it.
‘Why do you think she killed Doctor Plume? You must have thought so since you made no attempt to defend her — the girl who had been put in your charge.’
‘I have no idea — he tried to help her. She wouldn’t eat. I asked him to see what he could do for her. But she wouldn’t co-operate. Sullen and silent. Doctor Plume couldn’t understand her. God knows, he tried.’
‘He seduced her. I know it. I found it out, and you knew it. Was that your motive for killing him?’
She was rattled now. ‘I didn’t kill him. There was no reason.’
‘But you were his mistress.’ She opened her mouth. ‘No need to deny it. Surely, you were angry, distressed, to realise he had betrayed you?’
‘No, I —’
‘What? You knew about what he had done to Miranda — seduced her, aborted her child and you felt nothing. You just accepted the situation — let the girl go and carried on your affair with him?’
She was trapped. To save herself from a charge of murder, she had to condemn herself as an accessory to abortion and to the ruthless abandonment of a girl for whom she had been responsible. And to being a pandar for her lover. She couldn’t answer. It suited Jones.
‘You can work out the answer to that one when you are on remand. I shall be putting my evidence before the magistrate tomorrow morning. As far as I am concerned, you are a suspect for the murder of Lancelot Plume. I have no doubt that you will be remanded in Newgate along with Mrs Brimstone who is suspected of the murder of her husband. I am sure the magistrate will be interested in the fact that both of you fled London after the murders, and that you were found together in Manchester. And Kitty Quillian, who worked for you and lived at Mrs Brimstone’s, is missing. As is her child.’
He left her then. He wasn’t sorry that he’d trapped her. He thought of what Elizabeth and Charles had told him about Miranda Deverall. Amelia Hodson deserved all she got. Now for the grieving widow.
He watched Martha Brimstone before he went into the cell. She looked insignificant, a dowdy nobody compared with the smoothly polished Mrs Hodson, but he knew what she’d done. That expressionless face, the colour of stale lard, gave nothing away, and she was sly — slyness hung about her like a smell of old cooking. She wouldn’t be easy to crack. Perhaps he should try the deceptive mildness. Softly, softly.
He went in and stood before her. She looked up at him with little, black opaque eyes, behind which, he thought, she would be thinking how to free herself.
‘I didn’t kill my husband. You can’t say I did.’
‘But you left London and he was found dead in your back yard — you need to explain.’
‘We were to meet at Euston after —’
‘After what?’ Jones kept his tone mild.
‘Just a few erran’s.’
Jones merely nodded. ‘But, you didn’t wait for him — your husband.’
‘I thought he’d get a later train.’
‘You were not worried, alarmed, that he didn’t come?’
He saw her think about this. ‘No, I —’
‘Of course, you wouldn’t be,’ Jones’s voice was reasonable. ‘You knew he was dead.’
‘I didn’t know. I didn’t kill him. I didn’t.’
‘If you want to avoid a murder charge — and your situation is a grave one — then you must tell me what you did on the evening of the murder. What errands did Mr Brimstone carry out that night?’
Like Amelia Hodson, she was in a trap — the trap in which she had ensnared herself — and she knew it. Jones watched her eyes darting to the bars of the cell and back to the policeman. Jones waited, never taking his eyes off her, a cleverer cat than Amelia Hodson.
‘He went to see a Mrs Cartwright — she wanted to adopt a baby. Well, I had one spare. Kitty Quillian left it — didn’t care tuppence, that one, so I thought it best to find it a new home — a good one, too. Cartwrights are well off folk. They’ll look after it. Better off.’ She looked at him defiantly.
It was probably true. If Kitty were dead — which seemed more and more likely — the baby would have ended up in an orphanage. He thought about Eleanor and Tom Brim — but he and Elizabeth hadn’t paid for a child. Mr Brim had asked them to take care of his children. And they loved them as if they w
ere their own. But, so would Mrs Cartwright, perhaps. However, it didn’t make Brimstone’s conduct right — she couldn’t know that Kitty wouldn’t come back. And that word “spare” told him that, for her, it was business. He wouldn’t debate the matter with her.
‘The address?’
‘They aren’t there. Gone to France. You won’t find ’em.’
‘Someone there will remember your husband — if you want a witness, that is — it’s up to you.’
She was sullen, hearing the sarcasm. ‘Montague Square, twenty-eight. Rich folks.’ As if that made it right.
‘And the arrangements were?’
‘He was to tell the Cartwrights to meet me at Saint Pancras Church. I gave ’em the baby —’
‘How much?’
She didn’t want to tell.
‘I said, how much?’
She heard the iron in his tone. ‘Fifty guineas.’
‘And then?’
‘I went to wait for Arthur, but he never came so I went. That’s it.’
‘And your husband — who else might have reason to kill him? Any other doctors you were dealing with?’ That was as far as Jones wanted to go. The name Sefton would warn her that there might be someone else he suspected.
‘What d’yer mean “else”? I had no reason —’ she thought of herself first — ‘an’ I don’t know who might have done it —’
‘A pity that — useful for you if you could point the way to someone else.’
It wasn’t, but he didn’t need any more. He’d have to decide what to do about the baby later when they knew for sure what had happened to Kitty. He had enough evidence from the three witches. What he didn’t tell Martha Brimstone was that he intended still to make much of the murder to the magistrate tomorrow morning. Let her sweat.
Chapter 33: The Voice of Old Time
Brooker and Briggs, Burgess and Bailey, Budden the fat boy and one eyed Sparks, Dartle and Edwards, Parsons and Pordage, Tapley and Tupman and Weller and Wren. Weller and Wren, Weller and Wren…
