by J C Briggs
Mrs Shepherd was offering them tea. Jones declined. Dickens was glad. They couldn’t drink her tea while waiting to take away the doctor she so obviously admired — and needed.
‘I do not know how long he will be — it’s a difficult situation. The poor mother is very weak. So often, our patients are already weakened by hunger and poverty. It makes childbirth more dangerous, but Will is very good. The finest surgeon he has known, so Simon, my husband, says. Doctor Will has cared for her so assiduously — she is so young. Only about sixteen, and unmarried. Not that it makes any difference to us.’
Dickens had a sudden thought. ‘What is her name?’
‘Rose.’
He wasn’t surprised. It fitted. He didn’t look at Sam — he didn’t need to. So, they had been wrong the other night. It had not been money. But, what about Miranda Deverall? Sefton would have to explain that.
‘Has he been here long?’ Jones asked, hating himself, knowing he was trapping her just as he had ensnared Amelia Hodson and Martha Brimstone. They were guilty and deserved it, but Mary Shepherd was guileless. She didn’t ask about why Jones wanted to speak to Sefton — that’s how trusting she was.
‘A few weeks. He came suddenly one day to offer his services — for free. A bit like Poodles, I suppose. Just turned up on the doorstep.’ She smiled that touching smile again. ‘You cannot imagine how glad I was — Simon has been ill with bronchitis, and we so needed a doctor. It was as if Doctor Will had dropped from heaven.’
‘How long was he to stay?’
‘A few more days, I think. He was going to Canada, but he postponed his voyage for Rose’s sake.’
They heard the cry of a new born baby. How often Dickens had heard that cry. When we are born, we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools. Sefton had been a fool — he had thrown away his life for Plume.
They waited in silence then. Mrs Shepherd’s anxious eyes kept glancing at the door. They could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall. The door opened and Sefton came in. He looked only at Mary Shepherd who had stood up at his entrance.
‘Is she?’
‘She — they — will live. A breech birth, but the baby is lusty. The chloroform made it easier for her.’
Chloroform, thought Dickens, remembering the bottle in Doctor Plume’s surgery. What had he used it for? Not to ease a poor woman’s labour. Sefton was a good doctor, no doubt, but, a murderer, too. A mystery yet to be fathomed.
‘Oh, Will!’ Mary, heedless of the blood on his apron, went to embrace him.
When she had stood away from him, Sefton turned to the visitors for the first time.
‘I expected you. I just needed to… But, I am ready to go with you.’
He took off his apron.
Mary looked from Will to Jones. Something very grave in the policeman’s expression frightened her. She looked at Mr Dickens. She could hardly understand -his eyes were so full of sympathy.
‘Shall I come with you, Will? Do you need me?’
‘No, Mary, my dear. I must go by myself.’
She was very frightened now. Dickens could have wept for her.
‘You’ll come back?’ she asked, but she was looking at the Superintendent. He made no sign. ‘Will?’
‘I will write to you.’ Sefton’s voice was low, the voice of an exhausted man — a man who had come to the end of something.
They went down the worn stairs, past the wards and into the waiting room. Sefton took a coat from a peg and they went out into the crowded street. Dickens looked back to see Mary Shepherd standing at the door, watching. Her face was like a white flower in the darkness. Dickens raised his hand, but she simply stared.
At the doorway where Scrap was waiting, Jones paused.
‘You’ll find Mr Rogers down the alley next but one to the hospital. Go back to the shop with him. Tell him I’ll see him at Bow Street.’
Scrap looked at the man flanked by Mr Jones and Mr Dickens. Goin’ quietly then. Dint look like a criminal, an’ Mr Jones an’ Mr Dickens, they looked, well, as if they’d lost somethin’ rather than found wot they wanted. Queer business — a murderer wot looked like a — a good man.
A cab took Dickens and Jones and their prisoner back to Bow Street. Sefton did not speak. He looked directly ahead as they rolled by the great west door of the Abbey, into Princess Street, along great George Street and into Whitehall, past Downing Street, The Treasury, Horse Guards, The Admiralty, turning their backs on grandeur.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men — the old rhyme ran through Dickens’s head as he looked from Jones’s set face to the prisoner’s bleak one — couldn’t put Humpty together again. What was Sefton thinking now — of dead Plume and the Rose who, according to William Drage, had died out there on the marshes? He looked like one with his face turned to the other world. Years ago, he had seen acted in Paris an affecting play called The Children’s Doctor. He saw now in the black necktie, the loose buttoned black frock-coat, in the flow of the dark hair, in the eyelashes, in the very turn of his moustache, the exact realisation of the Paris artist’s ideal as it was presented on the stage. But, this was no romance. Here was tragedy.
Nought’s had, all’s spent, said the cab horse’s hooves, all’s spent. That’s what he felt — spent.
At Bow Street, they took Sefton to a cell. Dickens stood at the door. He was out of it now. Jones looked down at his prisoner, who spoke at last.
‘I killed Plume and Mr Brimstone.’
‘Are you prepared to tell me? I must have your confession — the whole story. I need to go to Newgate to secure the release of the girl who is accused of your crime.’
Sefton flinched at that. He glanced at Dickens who saw the emptiness in those dark eyes. Sefton knew what he had done.
‘Is it possible for me to write it all down?’ It was the voice of weariness, hopelessness, despair. Dry and cracked as though he had not spoken for an age. Like Miranda, thought Dickens.
‘If you will,’ said Jones. His voice was neutral — the policeman at his work.
Jones went out for paper, pen and ink. He did not look at Dickens. He placed the writing materials on a small table. ‘We’ll leave you to it.’
The murderer picked up the pen and dipped it in the ink pot. They left him to write his story.
Chapter 38: Confession
Dickens came back from Wellington Street two hours later. Constable Feak had come with Jones’s message: Sefton has finished.
Jones handed Dickens the papers. ‘This is for you — that is, he addresses his confession to you.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. I took the liberty of reading it — while I was waiting.’
Dickens sat down.
Dear Mr Dickens,
If I may be permitted to address you so. I write to you, honoured sir, for I believe, I trust, that you will think on this, and, perhaps, have some pity for my plight, though I know nothing can extenuate my crimes — they are unforgivable. I wish to tell my story to one whose understanding of human nature has made him the loved of all who have read his works.
I do not know you, of course, but you were so often spoken of in Chatham and Rochester where some of your boyhood was spent. I heard Reverend William Drage speak of those days when he lived at Ordnance Terrace; the beadle of Mr Drage’s church, Peter Weller, laughed heartily to find that you had used his name in Pickwick; Doctor Steele of Strood talked of your student doctors in Pickwick, Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen. He thought them very like the students he had known. So many remember you that I feel that I may ask for a hearing.
Yet, I know you — in a sense — because you have followed me. An avenging angel. I passed down Weymouth Street. I saw you, Mr Dickens. You gave some money to a little boy standing opposite Plume’s house. I gave him a sixpence. I saw you again with the Superintendent. You were in David Street outside a house where I saw Plume and a woman I thought must be his mistress. I knew then that you were on my trail. I knew you would find me. I felt fate weavi
ng its net about my feet. I saw your face in the window at the hospital so I write to you. I owe you — and the Superintendent — my explanation. You have sought justice and justice must be done.
I killed Lancelot Plume — that you and the Superintendent know already. Now I will tell you why, and how that led to the death of the innocent Arthur Brimstone.
Plume and I were partners in the medical practice we had taken over in Chatham. We were in a small way, but hoped for better. Lancelot Plume was a handsome, young man then, and many ladies liked his manner of sympathy and understanding — thus our practice began to grow. The poor people preferred me — I was rougher, I suppose, less forgiving of ladies and their nerves. Plume treated Mrs Brooks of Restoration House in Rochester — of whom more, later. Through her good report, we acquired other ladies.
In our house, we employed a local lady as our cook and cleaner — a hardworking woman with an invalid husband — and a pretty daughter who helped her mother sometimes. I mention no names for these are old wounds which must not be opened by the Superintendent’s scalpel — no good would come of your knowing who these people were.
I noticed that the daughter — let us call her Rose, for she had the softness and dewy brightness of that flower — seemed to blush so when Plume addressed her. He was kind to her, I thought — he said we could help the family by giving her extra work. She was about fifteen and her mother kept her protected from the young men. Rose was too young yet for all that nonsense, the brisk and fond mother explained.
One night, I came back late to our house. Plume came from his surgery, his face white and blood on his hands. It was Rose, he told me. She had come to him in desperation for she was with child and she had implored him to help her. Plume was very reluctant, he told me, but his pity for the girl, the knowledge of her certain ruin and her mother’s grief made him agree. He told me that she had confessed to having a lover, but she would not tell him the name.
I went into the surgery to see that the girl was dying. Plume should never have attempted the abortion — he was no surgeon. She was bleeding to death and there was nothing to be done. She died. Our horror was great — you know the law, I daresay, Mr Dickens. We were both guilty now. And what were we to say to the distracted mother?
Our decision was to bury her — out on the marshes. Surely, we reasoned, it were better for the mother to believe that her daughter was missing than to know of her disgrace and death. I will not pretend, either, that we did not think of ourselves, our practice, and our future. Plume had meant well — so I believed then.
We took her in a cart, out to the marshes beyond Cooling — you will know that desolate tract of wild land. There is a church there and beyond that the dark, flat wilderness where one sees the grim outline of the hulks lying out in the river. That sight frightened me for I thought of how I might find myself imprisoned there.
You will know very well, Mr Dickens, the thin, cold wind from the east, whistling its mournful tune, the rattling of the reeds, and somewhere out of sight, the harsh cry of some night bird which saw what we were about. You will see with my eyes, the brittle moon shedding its greenish light on the two men digging in the slimy clay, slipping, terrified of sinking; shedding its light on the white face of the girl who lay on the cold mud. Then, the face of the moon looked down as we bundled the poor remains of the innocent girl into the hole. We crawled back, and we hoped, God forgive us, that if we had not buried her deep enough, the flood would carry her away down the river.
Rose was missing — that was the tale. It was thought that she had drowned on her way to visit an aunt who lived beyond the marshes at Hoo. She was never found. Our cook left us — she is dead now and the invalid father, too. No trace of that poor family remains.
Our terror subsided. Young men are resilient, and our consciences were quieted because Rose’s story was heard only with pity — we had saved her from scorn, from disgrace — and her mother would know nothing except that her daughter was as innocent in death as in life. This is what I told myself. I now know that Plume felt nothing at all, for I know now that he was the seducer.
About a year after this event, Mr Brooks, the brewer of Restoration House, died and his widow turned more and more for comfort from Lancelot Plume. You will know that he married her, and came into a fortune with which he set up his fashionable practice in London.
He bargained with me — he would pay me something for his leaving, but since he had brought the fashionable patients, I deserved only what he had put in at the beginning. I felt the injury, and the coldness which had grown between us since the night on the marshes hardened into loathing. I was glad to see the back of him. I thought never to see or hear of him again. The practice failed without him, and I went to be a surgeon at the hospital in Fort Pitt above Chatham, but I could not stay. I used to look upon those marshes with terror at what I had done that night.
I came to London and gained my post at the lying-in hospital. Perhaps, by helping all those women in childbirth, I could make amends for Rose. I think I did. You know my reputation now. I did call on Plume, and I wished I had not. He had forgotten poor Rose. I spoke of her and how I could not forget that night. He laughed at my folly. What was the use, he said, of revisiting the past? It was gone. We were respected doctors — surely, we had paid for our youthful indiscretion. Were we to suffer for a mere servant girl whose own vice had brought about her death? It was her own fault. I knew that he lied.
But, I could not forget. I thought to go abroad, to Canada. I left Queen Charlotte’s. How could I rise to eminence when I had colluded in a girl’s death which brought misery to simple, good folk? But, then I heard of Doctor and Mrs Shepherd who have given up all chance of riches and fame. They needed a doctor to fill in for a short time. I would work for my bread only, at least for the weeks before I was to go to Canada. I was happier than I had ever been, but I knew that I must leave London and England forever.
However, the past came visiting again. On an October night of dreadful rain, I came across a girl on the steps of the hospital. She was soaked, half-dead with cold and fever. When I took her into the ward to examine her, I saw that she had given birth. It was puerperal fever. I knew that she would not live. I asked where was the child. I could not quite understand her. The effects of fever, I thought. First she said he was dead, and then that he was safe with a Mrs Martin. I could not discover more, but she managed to tell me her story. She had been a servant at a milliner’s near the workhouse in Marylebone. She had been seduced by a doctor and had become with child. She concealed her pregnancy for six months, but when the doctor found out he sent her to an abortionist whom she called Mother Hubbard. But the girl was too frightened — she had felt her baby quicken. It was alive in her womb and she could not let Mother Hubbard do her work. She lived in the poorest lodgings. Her intention was to find work after the birth and to leave the child to be kept by a woman she knew. I thought she meant Mrs Martin, but she spoke of Mrs Brimstone. She became ill and thought to go home — I don’t know where, but she could get no further than our hospital steps. The Doctor’s name was Plume. I had to see him again — to stop him.
I stood outside his fine house in Weymouth Street, and I watched. I saw the well-dressed ladies come in their carriages, and I saw him at his door, smiling his reassuring smile as an aristocratic lady got into a carriage with a coat of arms on its door. I found the lane at the back of his house, and one night I saw him come out with his doctor’s bag. I followed him to a house in David Street, and, later, in the lamplight I saw a woman bidding him goodbye, and I knew that they were lovers. Again, I followed him and saw a girl come out leaning on her friend. In the same lamplight, I saw the gleam of blood on her dress. I knew what he was doing.
It was near the house in David Street that I met Kitty Quillian. She lived at the house of Mr and Mrs Brimstone. I had heard that name, too, and I recognised Mr Brimstone — I had seen him in the lane behind Plume’s house. I had asked him if the door from which he came was Plume’
s garden door. He saw me with Kitty. It was Kitty who told me all about what happened at David Street. Plume had seduced her, but she had another lover whose child she had borne and she had left the house in David Street. It was Kitty who pointed out the midwife, Mrs Raspin, whom they called Mother Hubbard. I knew that name, too. I knew it all — I would stop him.
On the night of the murder, I saw Kitty in the street, opposite the house. She told me that Plume had a visitor, a friend of hers. I waited in the lane, hidden in a doorway. I heard Plume’s garden door open and close, and footsteps hurrying away. When all was quiet again, I went in. I could see him seated at his desk, his fair hair shining in the lamplight. He was holding a paper knife — it is in the desk at my lodging — a fine object, its handle silver, chased with gold — sharp, too.
I knocked on the glass panel of the door. He looked up, surprised, a little apprehensive — perhaps he thought his other visitor had come back. I took off my hat and he saw who it was. My face told him that I had come for a purpose other than to renew our acquaintance again. He might have seen a ghost for his face turned pale. I was, I suppose, a ghost of a kind for, with me, in his memory, was Rose whose ghastly face so often haunted my dreams. I know that she had not haunted him until then.
He let me in. I could not help admire the way he recovered himself, how he tried to feign the welcome of an old friend, how he asked me how I was faring, as if nothing had come between us but time, the innocent time that separates old friends whose lives have taken different paths. I told him all I knew. He listened, unmoved — what could I do to him? Who would believe me?
I challenged him. I would expose him. I would sacrifice my own career to stop him — I would tell the truth about Rose, about his seduction of her and her death and how we disposed of her body. And all those other things I had found out. I almost envied his mastery of himself for he looked at me as a man looks upon a madman. He lit a cigar — so coolly. He asked again, who would believe me. I would be the one confessing to a murder — a murder which he would deny. He would deny all — as would his connections. And as for Kitty Quillian, no one would believe a girl who had a bastard child. Folly, he said, smiling, all folly.
