by J C Briggs
Francisco lit his gondolier’s lamp and Aurelio took it. He climbed out onto the ledge and helped Dickens up beside him. Francisco sat back in his boat to wait. He was used to the eccentricities of his customers — the English men, especially. They often wanted to see things which were out of the way, but a rotting ruin where no one lived? Still, he would be paid whatever his customer chose to do, and Aurelio Paladini, too. He didn’t grudge the man his tip on this occasion. He just didn’t like him pretending to be a gazzero.
Aurelio pushed open the dilapidated door which led into a narrow passage where the walls ran with water and Francisco’s oil lamp cast shadows and the light caught drops of green water. There were stone steps leading upwards to another door.
Dickens placed his feet in the hollows worn by those who had gone before him, and grasped the iron hand rail to stop himself slipping. The steps were green with algae in parts and treacherous. Already he felt that nobody had been here for years — centuries, perhaps. He looked up to see Aurelio’s cloak swirl as he turned to look down. He experienced again that sense as if he had stepped back in time. Count Aurelio Paladini returning from the carnival, and who was he? Signor Dickens, in love with the count’s beautiful sister whom he had seen leaning from a casement one enchanted night.
He heard the creak of wood and went gingerly up to the top. Another door led into a large chamber with a marble staircase and a marble floor strewn with straw and old bits of furniture. They went up the marble staircase and into what was once the great salon. Here there were cracked gilt chairs from which horsehair stuffing poked out of mouldering velvet, a drunken old sofa listing on its two remaining legs, a fallen statue with a cracked head. The glory that was Rome, thought Dickens, looking at the senatorial nose which had broken off, and the stone-blind eyes in which cracks seemed like tears.
The room had an aged smell of time and decay. The air was very cold, stifling in the stillness and profound silence. No one had been here. There had been no laughter, no music and no open casement. Aurelio was removing one of the boards from the windows so that a greenish light came in. It looked worse now, just a wreck of a place. Dickens looked up to see the crumbling frescoes on the ceiling. He could make out half a face, a hand with only three fingers, a bit of a once muscular arm — the artist’s work decaying bit by bit. Someday there would be nothing left.
‘Ecco!’ Aurelio exclaimed, pointing.
There was a torch, burnt out of course. Someone had been here. Someone had seen the monk and the maiden. His heart beat faster. He looked at Aurelio who was picking up the torch.
‘It is cold, Signor Dickens; there is nothing to say that someone was here last night.’
Dickens looked round the decaying chamber. It was odd, though — someone had been here at some time, but when he looked again, he could see that there were other torches in blackened sconces, one of which had slipped from its mooring. Perhaps the torch had simply fallen to the floor.
‘I suppose not. I shall never know — a mystery. Whose was this palace?’
‘There is a story,’ began Aurelio, grinning, holding the torch.
There would be, and it would cost him. ‘Tell all,’ Dickens said. He could never resist a story.
‘It concerns the Count — Count Mariano, whose family had great wealth and lived here. The count’s wife betrayed him with her husband’s friend, the Count Dellombra — a handsome man with the hair of deep black —’
Dickens couldn’t help smiling. ‘Dellombra — an odd name, though with his black hair, I suppose —’
‘Strange, it is, but true, Signor Dickens —’ Aurelio grinned again — ‘True as any story told by candlelight at dusk and stranger yet — if you permit?’
Dickens nodded. He did want to know the fate of the dark count.
Aurelio continued. ‘The black Dellombra fell sick and died. Shortly after, the countess fell sick, and knowing that the shadow of death was upon her, she asked her maid to keep the vigil in the long night. The countess breathed her last, and the maid heard the footstep coming up the stairs and into the chamber up there.’ Aurelio pointed upwards to where the peeling cherubs pointed too. ‘Count Dellombra had come in the dark night for his beloved. He raised her up, and down the steps they went, the maid lighting the way to the lowest cellar. The count struck the torch from the maid’s hand and all was shadow. Then they vanished. The maid told her story, after which she, too, sickened and died. She haunts the palazzo now, seeking her mistress, no doubt. The place has been empty since.’
‘Lighting her way with a torch?’ Dickens grinned back at Aurelio.
‘I do not say so, signor, but it is possible. Anything is possible in this haunted city.’
‘And the count?’
‘Suicide.’
‘So many tales of love and death. I saw the castle at Ferrara.’
‘I know it well.’ Aurelio’s dark eyes looked troubled suddenly then he smiled again, ‘The story of Parisina Malatesta and her lover — these things do not happen in London?’
‘I suppose they do, but not me — I am glad to say.’
They laughed together and shook hands. Dickens gave Aurelio his money — a generous sum. He forbore to tell him not to gamble it away, and refused his offer to find him una bella signorina — a real one this time. Francisco took him back to the Danieli. He would be leaving for Verona tomorrow.
Thursday, November 14th 1844,
Verona
To John Forster
So, now, my dear Forster, you know all of my meeting with Signor Aurelio and my exploration of that ruined palace, and the story of the count and his lady, the chilling tale of the maid and her torch.
But here is a most horrible sequel to the story of my monk and the maiden in Venice. The next day I came to Verona and read in a newspaper of a poor girl dragged from the canal, strangled by her rosary. Speculation is that her beads caught on a piece of ironwork and wound themselves tight around her neck so that she could not free herself.
I know no more. Perhaps I saw her death at that dreamy midnight and the monk came in because I had dreamed him in that dark cell under the Doge’s palace.
Now that is Venice for you — impossible — something past all writing of or speaking of — almost past all thinking of. A dream of beauty and wickedness for which my maiden and my monk are, perhaps, just a metaphor…
PART II: DEATH BY WATER, LONDON, 1850
1: Strange Meeting
Something swished above Charles Dickens’s head. There was a grunting sound. And a face. A hanging face. A dead white face. The face of a devil — or what you thought the devil would look like if you met him in a dark alley. An upside-down face. A face in your face. A long arm, limp and dangling. And something black, hanging like a large ugly bird or huge bat. Dickens thought of vampires.
The whites of two upside-down eyes stared into his. Dead? Dickens stepped back. To walk into a dead man hanging, what a horror. The eyes blinked and opened. Alive. Humorous. And, by God, the upside down mouth was smiling. He could see strong white teeth. Very much alive, then.
‘Help me down, would you? Caught my cloak on the window there.’
Dickens looked up. Sure enough the thick cloak was caught on a window latch.
‘I’d be much obliged if you could hurry it up. Damned uncomfortable and I ought to be on my way sharpish.’ A courteous, laughing voice — a little breathless, of course, in the circumstances.
‘By all means.’ Dickens grasped the man’s armpits and held him steady while he pulled the cloak free. There was a tearing sound, then the man was on his feet, his back to Dickens. Astonishingly, he leapt in the air, did a somersault and landed behind Dickens, who turned to face him as he was sweeping up a plumed hat from the mud.
The window above flew open and a bottle dislodged Dickens’s hat and shattered on the stone. Then there was the loud report of a gun, which knocked him off his feet.
Someone shouted, ‘Gerrout of it, yer divil. I’ll blow yer brains out next t
ime.’
The sound of a police rattle followed, then running feet. The acrobat hauled Dickens to his feet and lugged him away round a corner into an alley so narrow that he was dragged along, tripping and stumbling over his own feet.
The alley twisted into another and another. It was as if they were going round in ever-decreasing circles. Dickens felt dizzy, but the acrobat whirled him on, holding his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. An obliging door opened and up they went, up narrow stairs, and into a little room where a young woman sat upside down, it seemed. The room was turning round him.
‘Jianna, my love, meet Mr Charles Dickens.’
Dickens could hardly speak, so intent was he in getting his breath back, but he managed a crooked bow to the woman seated before him. He had an impression of a pale oval in the shadows, hair parted in the centre and two dark eyes looking at him gravely.
‘Sit down, my dear sir. Brandy, I think.’
Dickens sat on a threadbare chaise longue to which the acrobat had pointed with the air of a man inviting him into his salon. The young man handed him the brandy in a cracked glass. Dickens drank it up and felt the world come into focus again. The white face was gone and in its place there was an ordinary human face, quite brown and glowing, with a pair of shining brown eyes and a tousle of chestnut hair.
‘Much obliged — you have the advantage of me, sir.’
‘The advantage is all yours, Mr Dickens. Your face is known to so many. How could I not know you, sir? The obligation is mine. You rescued me from my difficulty.’
‘We are even, I think — your friend with the shot gun?’
‘Ah, Mr Rarx — pawnbroker. I am his particular enemy. I have a habit of removing certain valuables and some things not so valuable for my true friends whose need is greater than his. A redistribution of wealth, you might call it.’
‘Robin Hood?’
The acrobat laughed. ‘They call me Magpie — a snapper-up of not unconsidered trifles.’
‘Had you a particular trifle in mind?’
‘I did — I do.’ Magpie burrowed into the pocket of his dilapidated black velvet cloak. ‘A watch — gold and very precious to the man whose rightful property it is. I felt that Mr Rarx had held it long enough.’
‘I see that Mr Rarx might well have been somewhat discomposed. Will he send the police after you?’
‘He does not know me — except in this.’ Magpie picked up the mask he had thrown down. ‘Disguise, sir. The black cloak, the white mask — you understand the soubriquet.’
Dickens nodded. What an extraordinary man — threadbare, shabby, yet clearly educated. There was something aristocratic about the arched brows and long nose — an Elizabethan in his ruffled shirt, the collar of which resembled a ruff, and that black and white striped waistcoat — Dickens had owned one just like it. Perhaps Magpie had picked it up at a second-hand clothes stall. And his companion in her dark velvet dress could have been a princess — in this light anyway. Had he stumbled into a fairy tale, or a play?
‘You are an actor, perhaps?’
‘Actor, acrobat, troubadour, conjuror, fortune-teller, truth-seeker, righter of wrongs — not unlike yourself, sir, in the last.’
‘Or some of the others.’
Magpie grinned. ‘A magician they say.’
‘Truth-seeker today — or tonight,’ Dickens clarified. ‘I am looking for a young woman — two, in fact. I only know that the first might live in Hemlock Court.’
‘Hemlock Court — not far from here. Just off Carey Street — who do you wish to find?’ Magpie asked.
‘A servant girl. Her name is Jemima Curd. She was employed in the household of — let us say — a man of some repute — and I wish to find her in connection with the disappearance of another young woman, employed in the same household, the daughter of a friend of mine who is, naturally, worried beyond endurance. It may be that she vanished with a young man.’
Magpie gave him a sly look. ‘Ah.’
‘I thought to try the servant girl — I wanted to find out if she knew of any relationship between the young lady and the young man. My friend knew nothing of any love affair.’
‘I suppose a young lady living from home might not tell her father — or mother?’
‘She has only her mother — I suppose she might not tell. But whatever the case, the girl is missing and her mother has asked me to try to find her.’
‘I know Hemlock Court — do you wish me to show you?’
‘It is far too late now — I shall find it tomorrow. Off Carey Street, you say?’
‘Go down Shire Lane into Little Shire Lane from where the first right turn takes you into Hemlock Court.’
‘I am much obliged, Mr —?’
‘Magpie will suffice, Mr Dickens. Shall I take you from here into Drury Lane?’
‘If you will — I confess, I do not know quite where I am now.’
Magpie was on his feet, wrapping himself in the black cloak. He left the mask where it was and put on a shapeless hat. Dickens bowed to Jianna. She was very beautiful, but there was a quality of remoteness about her. She was like a painting in her velvet gown, a painting of an unfathomable woman. She regarded him seriously, and in some way, without interest. He realised then she that she had not spoken a word.
2: Hemlock Court
Dickens knew Little Shire Lane, a tumble of wooden houses with projecting gables overhanging so that the lane became a tunnel, dark even in the morning. An infamous rookery of crooked houses linked by secret passages, trap doors and hidden panels which had once provided escape routes for vagabonds, thieves, sharpers, and the smashers, the counterfeiting gangs who had inhabited the Retreat, a rambling double house.
Hemlock Court, as poisonous as its name suggested, was reached by another narrow lane. The smell was of stale fish and blood from the slaughterhouses which proliferated in this dim corner of St Clement’s, and of soot and coal from number nineteen, the premises of James Merrit, coal and wood merchant. A man in a leather apron lounged at the door. He did not know of Jemima Curd, but Mrs Gambol, the laundress two doors down might help.
He picked his way along the muddy court and knocked at number seventeen. Mrs Gambol — who looked as if she never would — or had — eyed him suspiciously. She carried a piece of hard soap which looked like a bit of a mantelpiece.
‘Mrs Gambol?’
‘’Oo wants ter know?’ The bit of mantelpiece came dangerously near.
‘I am in search of a young lady called Jemima Curd.’
‘Wot fer?’
‘It is in connection with her former employer.’
‘Lost ’er place, I’m told. Them Curds is no better for watchin’. Flitted, anyway, weeks back.’
‘You don’t know where?’
‘In the night — they allus does that. Could be anywhere.’ Mrs Gambol waved her soap vaguely.
Indeed, they could, thought Dickens, thinking of the muddle of dark courts and passages. ‘Did you know Jemima Curd?’
‘Little thing — pretty. Best of ’em, I serpose, but them Curds —’
Dickens interrupted before she expiated once more on the sins of the Curd family. ‘As far as I know she was not dismissed for any wrongdoing, Mrs Gambol, only that she was no longer required by the family.’
‘So, wot you want ’er fer?’
‘I hope she may have some information about a missing person.’
‘Perlice, are yer?’
‘Private investigations.’ Dickens put his hand in his pocket. ‘I am authorised to pay for information — by my employer.’
Mrs Gambol’s sharp eyes narrowed. ‘’Ow much?’
‘Depends on what your information is. Three shillings, if it’s useful. For example, the whereabouts of Jemima Curd, or the name of anyone who might tell me more about the family.’
‘Awright.’ Mrs Gambol turned in the doorway and shouted, ‘Martha! Martha!’
A younger version of Mrs Gambol appeared with red arms fresh from the copper and a
wide red face. ‘Ma?’
‘Tell this gent wot yer knows about Jemima Curd.’
The girl looked from her mother to Dickens.
‘Go on, tell ’im — yer knows somethin’, I daresay. I saw yer gossipin’ when she came back. Wot she tell yer?’
‘Sed the governess ’ad gone off wiv the Italian — that’s why she lost ’er place — the young lady got sick an’ woz sent away ter the country so Jemima wasn’t needed no more. She woz goin’ ter be a lady’s maid for the young lady. Jemima sed there woz ructions. The ’ousekeeper sed she’d try ter get another place fer Jemima.’
‘Do you know where?’ Dickens asked.
‘Dunno, sir. Jemima was ter go back ter see Mrs Pick an’ she musta cos I ain’t seen er since.’
‘Did she go before her family went away?’
‘No — they’d gone when she came back. Jemima dint know where they woz.’
‘When did she come back here?’
‘Dunno — coupla weeks ago, mebbe.’
‘Where did she stay?’
‘Mrs Link’s down Ship Yard, little alley on the left there’s two ’ouses. Mrs Link’s is on the left.’
‘Much obliged, Miss Martha and —’ he looked at Mrs Gambol’s open red hand — ‘Mrs Gambol, here is your money. If you hear anything more about Jemima you can reach me at my office at Wellington Street. Ask for Mr Wills. I’ll pay, of course.’
The thick hand closed over the three shillings. Mrs Gambol nodded.
Dickens turned back towards Little Shire Lane to the turning into Ship Yard.
Mrs Link told him the same story as Martha had. Her sympathy was all for Jemima Curd. A good girl, she said, who’d done well at the household of Sir Neptune Fane — shame, it was that she’d lost her place and her family.
‘Bad lot, sir. Mother’s a drunk, an’ Mr Curd, a poor weak, shambling thing — never could keep a job. Picked rags, they did for a few pence. Relied on poor Jemima for a few bob. She came when she could — you know what it’s like when you’re in service, sir. She’d treat them to a Sunday dinner, a little bit of mutton an’ a few roast potatoes. She’d take it to the baker’s for cookin’.’