At Midnight in Venice

by J C Briggs

  ‘Nor wine, neither,’ Mrs Peartree supplied her twopennorth — well, half-pennyworth.

  ‘We don’t hold with strong drink —’ Miss Peach sniffed and Dickens thought about the brandy and warm he had rashly taken at lunch. He almost stepped back, but Miss Peach had more to relate — ‘an’ Mrs Wyatt dyin’ in her bed. Well, Miss Anguish told her a thing or two about that an’ he didn’t come again an’ I checked the spoons an’ Mrs Wyatt’s jewellery box.’

  At the mention of jewels, Jones drew out the rope of beads from his pocket. ‘Do you recognise this?’

  Miss Peach stared at it as if he had a live snake in his hand. ‘No, I do not — nasty heathen thing, it looks to me. Catholic, is it? That Italian’s?’

  Jones put it back in his pocket and showed them the waistcoat button, but they shook their large heads. ‘Do you know if Miss Lambert continued to see him?’

  ‘Don’t know what she did in her time off, but we know what she didn’t do an’ that was her job — poor Mrs Wyatt. If we hadn’t been there, the Lord knows what the old soul would have done. Still, it was peaceful at the end, God rest her.’

  ‘What was his name?’

  ‘Tony, she called him, Tony, forsooth. Mr Tony is an artist, she said, as if he were royalty — such a song and dance about a beggarly foreigner.’

  ‘Only Tony, no other name?’

  ‘I don’t remember. Patience?’

  ‘No more do I.’

  ‘So this Mr Tony did not come to take her to Malvern?’ Jones persisted.

  ‘No, she went off with her box in a cab, and then we shut up the house and moved here,’ said Mrs Peartree. ‘Mrs Wyatt left us well provided for, the dear good woman. We take only respectable folk here — single ladies only, no men, thank you very much — not of any kind.’ She gave Dickens a look which suggested that if he thought to ask for sanctuary here, he would be given very short shrift. He wondered what kind he was.

  Jones asked for the address of Mrs Fudge. Though indignant and complaining about all the prying and poking into respectable folks’ business, Miss Peach complied.

  With that, Dickens and Jones departed, escorted to the front door by Miss Peach as if she were their gaoler. As they crossed the street, Dickens glanced back to see Miss Peach supervising the girl in the sweeping of the steps. Ridding the premises of the contamination of their unworthy masculine selves, no doubt. He chuckled.

  ‘Antonio,’ he said, ‘I’ll wager Antonio. Five bob, eh, old un? Want to raise the stakes?’

  Jones laughed. ‘No, I do not. I’ll admit you may be right. However, it’s not much help without another name.’

  ‘Ah, but I can ask amongst my artistic friends. Someone will know him. We know he’s an artist —’

  ‘Or, said he was. Still, you can ask and I’ll be grateful for that even if it costs me five bob.’

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Bow Street. I should like to see if there is any news from that place in Malvern.’

  A letter was waiting from the Manor Park Sanatorium. Jones opened it in his office while Dickens looked on, holding his breath.

  Jones put down the letter.

  ‘Well?’ Dickens asked.

  ‘There was no patient by the name of Flora Lambert, and there was no Doctor Lucas, not now, not ever.’

  ‘It is she, then. Must be.’

  ‘Flora Lambert left South Crescent in a cab with her box and was never seen again. Now we think that her bones were in that water tank which had not been used for a couple of years. So where did she go in that cab?’

  ‘She went to Signor Tony, I’ll bet,’ said Dickens. ‘She was in a hurry. What a life she must have led with those two black spectres and a possibly querulous old invalid —’

  ‘Not to mention Miss Anguish listening to tales about her.’

  ‘Quite, and I think about the lover, the mysterious Mr Tony — an artist, and probably handsome where she was rather plain. I saw a little desk portrait of her. She wasn’t much to look at, and she’d be lonely — four years of servitude — and longing for something — some romance in her life.’

  ‘You think that in her loneliness she might have been duped, seduced by a handsome foreigner?’

  ‘She was no beauty, but she had expectations in the event of Mrs Wyatt’s death. Money lends charm to the meagrest form.’

  ‘So why did he kill her if he was interested in her money?’ Jones asked.

  ‘You’re right, it doesn’t make sense. She hadn’t even received the legacies when she left so he could hardly expect to make off with her fortune.’

  ‘So Mr Tony didn’t kill her. The bones are not those of Miss Lambert and she is living a perfectly happy life with Mr Tony somewhere in —’

  ‘But the money, surely she would have claimed it,’ Dickens interrupted. ‘No one could deny her whether or not she had eloped with an Italian artist.’

  ‘True, therefore something surely would have been heard of her. And, moreover, our witnesses say that she left — with her box — so who brought her back to South Crescent and why, and was she dead when she was brought back?’

  ‘Mr Tony killed her and, knowing of the tank, hid the body there.’

  ‘That’s the best I can think of that the moment,’ Jones agreed. ‘But what the motive could be, I cannot think.’

  ‘Wot a mystery it is, as my coachman, Topping, is wont to remark. Wot a go is natur’, he tells me, before fading out of the room, and leaving me none the wiser — which is where we are now.’

  ‘I have to say your philosophical coachman is no help at all. But I’ll tell you what — no second name, only Mr Tony. Why is that?’

  ‘He didn’t want to be identified if — when — did he plan to kill her? That brings us back to motive — lor, Sam, what a coil this is.’

  ‘We’ll leave motive for now. I’ll send Rogers to interview Mrs Fudge — see if we can find out more about Mr Tony. She may have seen him. Now, what about your missing Miss Pout?’

  ‘Plunging into the very vortex of society, I am, Mr Weller — a swarry, as the genteel folks say.’

  ‘And where is this vortex to be?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Ah, well, I am bidden to accompany Mrs Carlyle to a reception at Wisteria Lodge tomorrow evening.’

  ‘How d’you manage that?’

  ‘Mr Carlyle is unwell — indigestion at the thought of gluttons feeding, so Mrs Carlyle, knowing my sympathetic interest in the family, has asked me to escort her. She has hopes that we may hear something to our advantage. She has sharp ears, Mrs Carlyle. I may say that I do not expect Sir Neptune Fane to greet me as a long-lost friend, but curiosity drives me on. You never know, beans may be spilt. However, I must fade from your presence now I think of it for I must dress the part.’

  ‘And what part may that be?’

  ‘Humble literary man — and quiet as a cat watching the mousehole, fixing my charmed gaze upon on my victim.’

  ‘Some cat.’

  ‘Some mouse.’

  12: The Goldfish Bowl

  The long room glittered with diamonds and hundreds of branched candles, all these lights doubled in the gilded mirrors; there was the heady perfume of flowers, the sound of laughter and music. Servants flitted about offering champagne in crystal flutes on silver salvers. Sir Neptune, it seemed, or Lady Fane, perhaps, spared no expense for the fashionable crowd assembled here.

  Lady Fane greeted Mrs Carlyle, who explained that Mr Dickens was escorting her as Mr Carlyle was indisposed. She hoped it was not a presumption, but she found such occasions a little intimidating, and Mr Dickens had been so good and so gallant to accede to her request. Dickens smiled as if he were merely a cipher, and concealed his amusement. Jane Carlyle intimidated by anything — there were those who found her sharp tongue more than a little cutting when she had a mind to it.

  Lady Fane murmured polite nothings, but she did not seem at ease. He noted the same anxious fluttering of her hands that he had seen before. Her eyes darted nervously as she w
aved them on to join the crowd of fashionable guests.

  Jane whispered that she would waft away and talk to her gossips. ‘I see Lady Morgan — she knows what’s what.’

  ‘You’ll not be too intimidated?’ Dickens asked mischievously.

  She tapped him with her fan, but her eyes were amused and off she went, an elegant figure in her dark red gown.

  Dickens looked about him, recognising many of the faces — politicians, mostly of the Conservative persuasion, Sir Neptune’ party. He saw his friend, Lord Lytton, tall and red-haired, stooping over a dark-haired man. Ah, Mr Disraeli. There were Lord Walpole and Lord and Lady Barnet. A rising man, Sir Neptune, expected to take high office if the Conservative party were to win the next election, and given the disarray of the Whigs, that did not seem impossible. For himself, Dickens had liked Peel who had died in July, and it was the Peel faction who supported Lord John Russell’s ministry against those in his own party who disliked Russell’s educational and religious policies. Prime Minister Russell, he liked, too. He had dined with him on several occasions. Lord John approved the work of the Sanitary Commission which Dickens firmly supported — he was to be part of the deputation going to address Lord John in the New Year. Not, he thought, that the sanitary arrangements of the poor were much considered by Sir Neptune’s well-dressed guests.

  He saw the aptly named Sir Octavius Pouncey, the Honourable Member for Verbosity, bearing down on him. ‘No surrender,’ was his frequent cry as if this sceptred isle — another favourite of the patriot — were to be invaded instantly by Pictic hordes or another Armada. Dickens darted away to pay his attentions to Lady Pancras, ancient as the old church, deaf as a marble effigy and, if rumour were true, nothing saintly in her past. He smiled and gestured like a demented puppet to which antics she screamed, ‘I am not deaf, Mr Disraeli.’ He apologised without enlightening her, kissed her gloved hand, and faded into another group which included Joseph Paxton.

  The talk was of the Great Exhibition to be held the next year and the building in Hyde Park. While Paxton answered questions about the design and building of the Crystal Palace, Dickens kept his eye on a gilded mirror in which he could see the reflection of Sir Neptune, who was at the centre of a group of admirers. He saw the Foreign Secretary, Lord Palmerston — a Whig, but always at the best houses, and still flirting at the age of sixty-six. He was talking to a rather beautiful woman with red hair and very pale skin, whose elegant white shoulders emerged from a sea-green dress.

  Groups formed and reformed as if by some unseen command — all part of this clockwork household. This reception demonstrated how the curtains had closed on the sordid drama of the governess and the music tutor and had opened on a shining scene. In the mirror he watched the play as if it were a kind of dumb show, seeing the mouths opening and closing, and thought of bright gold and silver fish in shining glass bowls, gasping round and round their little world. The candlelight rippled like water. There a cod fish, eyes staring and face wetly pale; there a set of shark’s teeth, and there six pennorth of sprats who might well be gobbled up if they did not take care.

  ‘Mr Dickens.’

  He turned and there was the beautiful copper-haired lady in her sea-green dress with aquamarines at her ears and throat and a wreath of green leaves decorating her hair — most striking and unusual. A mermaid, perhaps. He bowed.

  ‘I have wanted to meet you, Mr Dickens, but I had not expected to see you again so soon.’

  Dickens was used to people wanting to meet him, but the words “again” and “soon” were a puzzle. He would have remembered her. She was certainly very beautiful. ‘I am afraid I do not —’

  Her striking green-blue eyes glinted with amusement. ‘I saw you at Osnaburgh Terrace.’

  ‘At Mr St. George Pierce’s?’ Perhaps she had seen him coming out.

  ‘At number seven.’

  ‘You were there.’

  ‘I am afraid I was spying on you.’

  So there had been someone at that window. ‘You are Mrs Sabatini?’

  ‘No, Mr Dickens, I am Dolly Marchant, Mrs Sabatini’s sister.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to her about Mr Rolando Sabatini and Miss Pout — Miss Pout is the god-child of my wife’s maid, Miss Anne Brown. Miss Pout’s mother is most anxious about her daughter —’

  ‘I will talk to you, but not here, I think. Come to my house — perhaps you would call — the day after tomorrow at seven o’clock. Grove Cottage in Lodge Road, St. John’s Wood, the first house beyond the Catholic Church.’

  ‘I am much obliged, Mrs Marchant.’

  Dolly Marchant turned to go, but her way was obstructed by Sir Neptune, who appeared quite suddenly. Had he been spying on them?

  ‘Mr Dickens, a pleasure, of course, but I had not expected to receive you again so soon. You know Mrs Marchant?’

  A curious echo of Mrs Marchant’s words — perhaps Sir Neptune had been listening. His brown gaze was as frank as it had been before, but Dickens detected a slight edge to his voice. Now was it for him or for Mrs Marchant?

  ‘I have only just had the honour of meeting Mr Dickens. I did not know you were acquainted with him,’ Mrs Marchant said easily enough, but Dickens noted a glint of anger in her eyes, though her lovely mouth smiled.

  ‘Mr Dickens came here to enquire about Miss Pout and Rolando — it seems that one of his — er — servants — is connected to Miss Pout.’

  Sir Neptune turned to Dickens who nodded. The emphasis on “servant” made it a trifling matter and suggested a kind of bafflement that Dickens should be concerned with a servant’s problem. Sir Neptune did not like him at all. ‘Mr Dickens came to enquire on his servant’s behalf. I told him that unfortunately we could not help. I gave him your sister’s address. Perhaps Mrs Sabatini can assist?’

  ‘Mrs Sabatini is not at home at present.’ Dolly Marchant was curt to Sir Neptune, but something flashed between them like a spark of fire on glass. She turned to Dickens. ‘I will certainly let you know, Mr Dickens, when she returns.’

  ‘I am much obliged, Mrs Marchant, and to you, Sir Neptune. I thank you for your hospitality.’

  Dickens moved away as someone tapped him on the shoulder — Doctor Humphrey Palmer and his wife in puce that matched her complexion exactly. He was glad to see them, though Palmer was an old windbag. However, he could smile and smile at the doctor’s discourse while watching. He manoeuvred himself so that he could watch Sir Neptune and Mrs Marchant.

  They were walking towards a pair of glass doors which led into a conservatory. He could see lights in there, seeming to reflect off glass. Sir Neptune had his hand on her back. It was a curiously intimate gesture. However, there was tension in her shoulders. She carried herself very straight. They did not speak.

  Then they were gone, his view of them obscured by a tall woman in a garishly striped turban with a diamond fixed to a peacock feather. Madame Emerald, whoever she was, took his proffered hand and gazed at it as if she were reading his fortune. She seemed to be. He felt a slight shudder as she turned his hand in hers which felt scaly. She wore a ring in the shape of a snake’s head in which two red eyes glinted. A bracelet of the same kind adorned a bony wrist. Charlatan, he thought. How on earth did she come here? A fairground entertainment for the guests, he supposed.

  ‘Mr Dickens, you —’ She looked at him then and he saw something in her dark eyes which made him wonder. What could she see?

  ‘No future, Mr Dickens,’ some wag called out and there was general laughter during which others put forward their hands and Dickens stepped away. What on earth was she going to say? Some nonsense, he thought, but there had been something fearful in those black eyes.

  He looked towards the glass doors which were now closed. What was happening in there? There was something between Sir Neptune and Dolly Marchant, an odd mixture of hostility and intimacy. And, now he thought of it, Sir Neptune had referred to Rolando not Mr Sabatini as he had when Dickens had asked his questions. There must be some closeness. Yet Mrs Mar
chant had not referred to her invitation to Dickens to visit her. She had only said that she would contact him about Mrs Sabatini.

  He thought about what Mrs Carlyle had said about devoted husbands. As far as he had seen, Sir Neptune had not been near his wife. But, no, there he was, most solicitously bending over Lady Fane who was seated near the glass doors with Mrs Carlyle. Sir Neptune was leading his wife towards another door. They went out and Dickens saw how Lady Fane leant upon her husband. Dolly Marchant was nowhere to be seen.

  Mrs Carlyle came to him. ‘She is ill. I think we should slip away. I will tell you all when we get home.’

  Mrs Carlyle went to retrieve her cloak. The tall footman brought his hat and coat. He waited in the hall.

  ‘Mr Dickens.’

  Madame Emerald was beside him. ‘Take care, sir. There is darkness coming.’

  Before he could reply, Jane came and Madame Emerald went up the stairs.

  ‘An odd creature,’ Jane observed.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Of her — I have no patience with all these fads. Seances and fortune-telling — all nonsense, though she has her believers. The Queen herself takes an interest, it is said.’

  ‘A crystal ball might be handy at the moment. I could do with seeing the future.’

  ‘Well, cross my palm with silver and I’ll tell you what I have learnt this evening.’

  At Cheyne walk, Dickens and Mrs Carlyle took a glass of the famous wine of Constantia and a biscuit.

  ‘You first,’ said Dickens, raising his glass.

  ‘Lady Fane is in a most fragile state. When I sat with her, I thought she might faint and suggested she might like to go into the conservatory where it might be cooler. She seemed very agitated, but then Sir Neptune came out of the conservatory and took her away. She looked frightened —’