by J C Briggs
‘You are thinking about the broken bones — our woman might have drowned if she could not get out, but she would not necessarily have broken any bones.’
‘Unless she hit her head when she went in, thus fracturing the bones in the neck,’ Jones put in.
‘The skull shows no sign of damage, but a fall might well cause the fracture of the neck bones, though, as I said before, a body in a full water tank would very soon pollute the water.’
‘Then she went in or was put in once the house was closed up, five years since. The agent didn’t know if the tank was emptied then. I can’t think that a woman would use a tank as a hiding place — a child might and be trapped, but a woman —’
‘Could it be that she was dead when she was put in there?’ Dickens was thinking of murder, of a body hidden in the water tank — concealed for five years, perhaps.
‘It could be,’ said Doctor Symonds. ‘The broken neck could have a different cause.’
‘How might that occur, if not from falling into the tank?’ Jones asked.
Doctor Symonds looked at him. ‘A severe and sudden twist to the neck may break the second cervical vertebra as here.’
‘The hangman’s fracture?’
‘It is possible. There is evidence of tuberculosis of the neck vertebra, which would mean that there would be significant weakness in the neck, but, of course, it is not for me to speculate on the cause of death. Such a break in the vertebra might well be the result of a fall in a young woman who was suffering from tuberculosis of the bone. I can only tell you what I see.’
‘Can you tell her age?’
‘Approximately. These are the bones of a person between the age of sixteen and twenty-two. The posterior teeth — the dentes sapientiae —’ Doctor Symonds pointed to the skull — ‘are not protruded, but partly formed within the jaw.’
‘Any sign of dental work?’ Jones wondered if a dentist might be of help in the identification. Missing teeth might help.
‘None — the teeth are in very good condition. However, there is one more thing about the skeleton which may help you to identify your victim. Look at the hands.’
Dickens and Jones obeyed and saw what they had not seen before. The left hand had only four digits. The little finger was missing.
‘Could the finger bones still be in the tank?’
‘They could — they are very small bones —’
‘Could the woman have had a finger missing?’
‘She could, Superintendent, but it’s impossible to tell. However, look closely at the metacarpal of the little finger on the right hand. See how the bone is enlarged.’
‘What can you tell from that?’
‘Another sign that she had tuberculosis of the bone. There are other indications at the knee and elbow.’
‘That might be helpful. Was there anything of interest in the other items?’
‘We found the partial leather sole of a shoe — a woman’s shoe and some pieces of wool, which are here. You will see that I have cleaned them and the pattern is a green and purple check — a woman’s shawl, perhaps, and here is a bit of silk, discoloured, but once green. The silver buttons have no distinctive marks, but they are decorative. Again, a woman’s, perhaps. I should also add that my findings show that the body has been in the tank for a good number of years — certainly as many as five.’
Leaving the hospital, Dickens stepped aside from a dog gnawing at a very large bone. Dickens thought about the proximity of the burial ground, where he had seen very often the gleaners who collected bones from old graves, often dug up by dogs or brought to the surface by heavy rain. The state of the city’s graveyards was a civic disgrace. The dog gave him a look of sly triumph.
Jones was already striding across Portugal Street. As always, he knew where he was going. Dickens caught up with him in Gate Street. The Ship Tavern was their destination.
‘Cutlets?’ Jones asked as the landlord, Daniel Stagg, approached.
Dickens thought of bones. Pie? Sausage? Cheese would be safe, he thought, but Jones was already discussing the steak and kidney pie with Mr Stagg, whose recommendations could be relied upon. Dickens and Jones were old friends of the landlord. Two glasses of pale ale came while they waited.
‘I need to find out if that tank was emptied after Mrs Wyatt died. It occurred to me that it must have been empty and I had a horrible thought about an unconscious woman being trapped under that lid.’
‘Dear Heaven, Jones, that’s a horrible idea — worthy of Mr Poe. Someone would have heard something — she would have woken up and screamed her head off, surely.’
‘That’s true. And your very helpful story about poor Miss White made me think how unlikely it is that it was some sort of accident and —’
‘The hangman’s fracture — that’s a grim thought.’
‘It is, so I conclude that she was dead before she was put in the tank.’
‘Murder, then?’
‘Very possibly — probably. I need to find out about Miss Lambert — if she is missing — and the servants of the household. Mr Faithfull, the house agent, gave me the name of Mrs Wyatt’s solicitor and her brother, the clergyman. Anguish.’
‘Toothache?’ Dickens asked, looking at Jones, whose hand was at his jaw.
‘No, it’s his name.’
‘Whose name?’
‘Mrs Wyatt’s brother, the Reverend Henry Anguish.’
‘Good heavens, that’s a new one — born to suffering, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘I hope I shall not add to his woes by bringing news that Miss Lambert was the woman in the tank. But I shall have to ask about a young woman who may have had tuberculosis.’
‘Or a missing finger.’
‘Hmm — that would simplify the matter. I doubt I could be so lucky. The Reverend Anguish lives in St. John’s Wood — Hamilton Terrace.’
‘When shall you go?’
‘This afternoon, after I have been back to Bow Street. I am expecting news from Rogers, who is at the house agent’s now, looking at the furniture and other things from South Crescent, which are waiting to be auctioned.’
‘The Purloined Letter.’
‘What?’
‘Poe again — a story, the solution to which lies in the contents of a secret letter. I was thinking about a hidden letter — from the murderer. That’d be handy.’
Jones grinned. ‘If there is a murderer; I just wanted to see what evidence there might be about the occupants of the house. Secret letters I leave to novelists.’
Dickens laughed. ‘I suppose he’ll find a laundry list or something — a recipe for the cook’s steak and kidney pie.’
The pies and mashed potato had arrived and were, as always, very good, though Dickens found that bones would keep insinuating themselves. He pushed his plate aside.
‘Were you coming to see me about anything in particular?’ Jones asked. His plate was clean.
‘Not really — I just wanted to tell you about a missing young woman — well, two, in fact, and a young man.’
‘You’ve lost three!’
‘Not exactly. I was asked to make enquiries about the daughter of a friend of Anne Brown, Catherine’s maid, a girl called Violet Pout. She was governess for Sir Neptune Fane’s children —’
‘Fane? The Member of Parliament?’
‘Yes — you’ve heard of him?’
‘Not in a parliamentary way — there were some diamonds stolen about a year back and then they mysteriously turned up — all very hush, hush. That’s why I know the name. Anyhow, tell me about this governess.’
‘It seems she has run off with the music tutor. Not that the mother, Mrs Pout, believes that.’
‘Do you?’
‘I don’t know enough about the young lady, really, and I know nothing about the young man except that someone told me that he loved his mother and would not want to hurt her. This person — an artist who lives near the mother — also commented very astutely, I thought, that two young people from enti
rely respectable families would have no reason to run away, so I am none the wiser.’
‘And they’ve asked all the obvious people?’
‘They have, I have. I went to Sir Neptune’s. The couple disappeared at the same time and he believes they are together.’
‘The mother hasn’t been to the police at Chelsea?’
‘No — the usual thing — Mrs Pout doesn’t want a scandal.’
‘How long have they been missing?’
‘Three weeks or so — they went from Wisteria Lodge in the first week of November.’
‘Hm — not so long — does she think her daughter is in danger of some kind? If so, then she shouldn’t be worrying about a scandal. The young couple are of age?’
‘Over twenty-one.’
‘Then there isn’t much you can do. As far as you know neither has committed a crime, no one is in danger, and it sounds as if they went away by mutual consent. The police won’t be much interested. But you said two young women?’
‘One Jemima Curd, maid to Miss Mariana Fane, who, incidentally, has gone to the country. Jemima Curd left some days after Miss Pout. I had a suspicion that she might have known something, and Mrs Carlyle’s maid suggested that it was Miss Fane who had a tenderness for Mr Sabatini. I wondered if he had played her false with Miss Pout, but I can’t do anything about Miss Fane. I’m stumped.’
‘The maid — that strikes me as odd.’
‘It seems that she wasn’t wanted anymore, since Miss Fane had gone to the country.’
‘Which suggests a rather long stay in the country. You’d think the maid would have gone with the mistress.’
‘There was definite tension in Sir Neptune and his wife when I asked about Miss Fane. Sir Neptune talked about servants’ gossip. I wondered if Jemima Curd had been dismissed for talking too much.’
‘And now she can’t be found.’
‘I found out that her family was in pretty poor straits. They’ve done a flit from their lodgings, according to a neighbour. Jemima Curd was supposed to go back to see Mrs Pick, Sir Neptune’s housekeeper, about a possible new place. She was lodging with a Mrs Link in Ship Yard and just didn’t come back.’
‘You need to talk to this Mrs Pick.’
‘I know, but how? Sir Neptune Fane gave me the decided impression that the matter was closed as far as he was concerned.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t want to be involved in any scandal, either. It seems to me you have done all you can.’
Dickens looked downhearted. Jones knew that he liked to keep his promises, and that the sense of something unfinished would be like an itch that needed scratching, but he didn’t think he could help.
‘People go missing all the time.’
‘So they do. That’s the trouble with London, all sorts of people sucked down into the great whirlpool, gasping for breath, drowning in madness, malice — and mud.’
‘Depressing, I know, and families like the Curds flit from lodging to lodging — perhaps Jemima has caught up with them. Young couples vanish to other towns. The police only get involved when there is a crime committed.’
‘And as far as I know there hasn’t been.’
‘Then, it’s fortress Wisteria you need to conquer.’
‘We couldn’t use the old trick — policeman concerned about household security, spate of robberies? A uniform, old ’un, will work its way with the women.’
‘We? You mean me. I doubt it — too risky. If I sent Rogers, for example, I’d have to inform the Chelsea police. Sir Neptune would be bound to find out. If I didn’t inform them then there’d be enquiries about a man masquerading as a policeman. Too complicated. Now, I need to be back at Bow Street — are you walking to Wellington Street?’
‘I am. I might as well do something useful.’
8: The Raven is Hoarse
‘Sir.’
Dickens and Jones turned as they were about to cross Drury Lane. Constable Stemp caught up with them. He was dressed in a labourer’s garb of fustian breeches and an old jacket with a moth-eaten woollen scarf round his neck and a greasy looking cap on his head.
‘Peely never came back, sir, so I’ve been on the ’unt for ’im an’ his lad. Saw the foreman at first light. I asked ’im again about the days Peely was workin’ there an’ ’e remembered a boy ’angin’ about. Seemed to be thick with Peely so I guessed it was Micky Peel, an’ the foreman’s description made me sure. Peely’s given the stuff to that lad, I’ll bet.’
‘So you’ve tracked him down?’
‘I went to Fikey Chubb’s first. He wasn’t best pleased to see me.’
‘Nor you him, I daresay,’ said Jones.
Fikey Chubb, known fence and receiver of stolen goods who kept a shop as his front was not fond of the police. He had been rough handled by Stemp very often and had spent time in the Bow Street cells, leaving behind him a whiff of sulphur and the distinctly unpleasant smell of sweat and onions. He never washed.
Stemp grinned. ‘Stinkin’ devil, ’e is, dancin’ about like his feet was on fire, but ’e swore Peely ain’t been there. I tried all ’is known haunts. No one’s seen ’im so I went up to Bayham Street to see Mrs Peel, thinkin’ the lad would be there. She doesn’t want Peely back. Micky’s with his father and Mrs Peel gave me an address down near Hemlock Court. I took myself there. No Peely, but the lad was in the street with some others, playin’ about with stone marbles. ’E didn’t know where Peely was, an’ that was that, I thought, but the lads started throwin’ their stones again and my eye caught a glint of gold as one of the marbles rolled to my feet. It wasn’t a stone. It was this.’
Jones took a small glass object from Stemp. It was a button set in gold and the glass was dark red with little flecks of gold in it. ‘Looks like a waistcoat button — see where the shank was.’
‘I asked Micky where ’e got it. Course, ’e said ’e’d found it, but ’e looked a bit shifty so I gave ’im tuppence for it — said it was important evidence, and came away sharpish.’
‘You’re thinking it was stolen.’
‘Musta bin — looks expensive to me.’
‘It is,’ said Dickens who had examined it. ‘I don’t think it’s English. I think it’s Murano glass — from Venice. I saw a great deal of it when I was there. These gold flecks are very characteristic and I’ll bet the gold is real.’
‘I suppose he might have found it,’ Jones said. ‘A waistcoat button is an easy thing to lose.’
‘Especially after one of Daniel Stagg’s steak pies.’
‘There’s somethin’ else. Why I stopped you, sir. Rarx’s pawnbroker’s ain’t far from Hemlock Court. I wondered — with Peely lodgin’ hereabouts — whether ’e mighta pawned somethin’. ’E’d be in need of ready money if ’e ain’t bin to Fikey’s…’
‘Sound thought, Stemp. So Rarx it will be. Coming?’ Jones turned to Dickens, who looked slightly anxious, he thought. ‘Know Rarx, do you? Fenced the family silver?’
Dickens laughed. ‘No, I haven’t. I know of Rarx,’ he temporised, not wanting to admit to Jones that the man had shot at him with a blunderbuss and that he had escaped with a thief. He wasn’t sure that the Robin Hood argument would carry weight with Jones. Rarx wouldn’t recognise him, surely. ‘Yes, I’ll come.’
Rarx’s shop was on the corner of a little court next door to a gin shop, a low, dirty-looking dusty shop with a piece of glass in the door, displaying three red balls on a blue ground on which some faded letters could be made out. It seemed that Mr Rarx advanced money on plate and jewels, though who had plate or jewels to pawn in this benighted wilderness, Dickens could not imagine, except for those who had stolen goods to offer.
There were no plate or jewels of any value in the window. In their place lay a few old china cups, several sets of chessmen, some battered silver watches, most with no hands or just one, two or three flutes, a prayer book — Dickens could quite understand that a man living hereabouts might abandon his prayers and take to gin — some mouldy looking pictures
, blankets, sheets, hats, bonnets from what looked like the Napoleonic era, and a set of carpenter’s tools — no doubt pledged by the widow and never redeemed — or the carpenter had resorted in despair to the gin shop.
There were certainly no gold watches such as the one Magpie had shown Dickens. He saw then that there was a side entrance, no doubt for those of the more respectable kind who did not want to be seen. Perhaps it was through the side door that gold watches were taken and through which the likes of Peely took their stolen goods.
Dickens looked up to the window above Rarx’s shop, remembering the bottle smashed at his feet and the blunderbuss, and Magpie who lived somewhere in the alleys around, but Dickens could not have told where. The madcap dash from Rarx had been so confusing that he had no idea in which direction he had been whirled. He remembered that the gunshot had blown his hat off. Had he looked up? Had Rarx seen his face? Hardly. The narrow street had been lit only by a gas lamp.
A hideous cracked bell sounding like the cry of a raven heralded their entrance to the pawn shop where an ancient crone with hooded eyes and a nose the shape of a beak was looking over something gold. She looked like a vulture inspecting his dinner. She did not look up — her principle being that the longer the importunate customer waited, the more desperate he or she became. However, she started at the sound of Jones’s voice.
‘Mr Rarx, if you please,’ barked Jones.
‘Oh, Mr Jones, what a start yer gave me. What can I do for yer honour?’ She smiled ingratiatingly, her mouth opening like a money bag to reveal a glint of gold teeth.
‘I beg your pardon, Mrs Rarx —’ Jones could be ingratiating where necessary — ‘I should like to see Josiah — matter of business. Police business.’
Mrs Rarx continued to smile and rang a tarnished brass bell, which stood on the counter. She looked at Stemp, who was standing by the door. Dickens kept discreetly in the shadows. ‘Close the door, dearie, will yer, an’ turn the sign ter closed.’
Stemp obeyed. Mrs Rarx rang the bell vigorously again and they heard footsteps. A heavy curtain opened behind Mrs Rarx to reveal Josiah Rarx, whose hooded eyes proclaimed him as Mrs Rarx’s son, having the same look of a carrion bird. Dickens expected him to caw. ‘Rarx!’ he would cry. Perhaps it was he who had given the raven’s cry, not the bell at all. He made no sound now.