At Midnight in Venice

by J C Briggs

  ‘Of him?’

  ‘I don’t know, but something very odd happened. Someone had asked about Miss Fane, when might she be coming back to London, and it was then she seemed almost to collapse and in the bustle of assisting Lady Fane to a chair, I heard a whisper — that Miss Fane is ill — that she is at Hammersmith being cared for. Some kind of nervous collapse was mentioned.’

  Dickens looked at her. ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking — Hammersmith?’

  ‘Doctor Winslow’s hospital?’

  ‘It fits — that word “suffering”, used by Lady Fane about her daughter and hastily contradicted by Sir Neptune. Lady Fane’s fear; Miss Fane’s sudden departure, and the insistence that she is down in the country; Lady Fane’s inability to respond to a simple question — and — and — the sudden dismissal of Jemima Curd.’

  ‘And, now I think of it, Mrs Pick was flustered when I told her that Jemima was a particular friend of Fanny’s — Mrs Pick knows something.’

  ‘She must. These all point to some illness in Miss Fane, and we know that in Hammersmith, Doctor Forbes Benignus Winslow has established a private mental asylum.’

  ‘Some hysteria brought about by the disappearance of Rolando Sabatini and Miss Pout?’

  ‘He betrayed her? Well, well, no wonder Sir Neptune was not pleased to see me. Not that it gets me much further forward except that it explains why Sir Neptune was so reluctant to say more than that he could not help me. Can’t blame him, though — if it were my daughter…’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I met someone else, a certain Mrs Marchant — the sister of Mrs Sabatini.’

  ‘That is an intriguing connection.’

  ‘It is, and more intriguing is Mrs Marchant’s relationship with Sir Neptune — she was with him in the conservatory.’

  Jane gave him an eloquent look. ‘Where Lady Fane did not want to go.’

  ‘I sensed some hostility between Sir Neptune and Mrs Marchant and yet I had a sense of closeness, too. She has asked me to call on her the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘In the meantime, if I hear anything, I will let you know. In the circumstances, I can hardly put my nose into Wisteria Lodge again even to enquire about Lady Fane.’

  ‘No, I think not. I had the distinct impression that Sir Neptune was not pleased to find me talking to Mrs Marchant.’

  ‘I’ll send a note to you. Time may reveal something.’

  ‘And many unexpected lights may shine upon us — with luck. Now, I must give you goodnight, and my compliments to Mr Carlyle.’

  It was of Jemima Curd that Dickens thought as he rode home in a cab. She must have known that her mistress was ill. Did she know about the mental asylum — if that were where Miss Fane was being cared for? If that were true, had Jemima Curd been paid to disappear? According to Jane Carlyle, Mrs Pick had not expected her. Perhaps her story to Martha Gambol and Mrs Link about going to see Mrs Pick was just a story and she had been paid enough to support her family and they had all gone to new lodgings.

  13: Of Coals and Coffins

  Mrs Fudge served tea, bread and butter, and information for which Sergeant Rogers was thrice grateful. She had given up the laundry, she informed him, on account of a legacy. Not much, but enough to make her comfortable in her son’s house. He was a coal merchant and had done well for himself by marrying the only daughter of James Merritt. Dead, Mr Merritt, but Simon Fudge kept the name for his wife’s sake. In any case, it was a good business. ‘Made sense, dint it, ter keep the old name?’

  These things Rogers already knew from her former neighbour in Percy Street, not far from South Crescent where she had lived when she served Mrs Wyatt. However, the hot tea was welcome, as was the bread and butter for a man who had walked a mile or so from Bow Street to South Crescent and back again to Hemlock Court where Mrs Fudge was sitting in somewhat grimy state in the parlour. And Rogers was patient. His opportunity would come.

  ‘Not but what there ain’t plenty o’ laundry. ’Tis the coal dust, see —’ she wheezed — ‘gets on the chest. The smuts is dreadful. Most of our laundry goes ter Mrs Gambol down the street,’ she informed him with some complacency, ‘but I does the lace and the delicates. She ain’t much used ter the sorts o’ things I did fer Mrs Wyatt.’

  Rogers finished his tea. He had worked out his strategy. Mrs Fudge would relish a sensation and sensation would loosen her tongue about Miss Lambert. He leaned forwards. ‘Now, Mrs Fudge, what I have to tell you is very confidential — a police matter, you see, an’ it’s about South Crescent. A body — well, bones to be exact — the bones of a young female, and our enquiries have led us to suppose it may be Miss Flora Lambert.’

  The effect was as gratifying as he hoped. Mrs Fudge almost choked on her bread and butter. ‘Miss Lambert? But she went off to ’orspital, or clinic — Miss Peach was right put out, an’ Mrs Peartree. Me an’ my daughter, Polly, wot’s now in Australia an’ doin’ very well — not but wot I misses ’er, I can tell you, Sergeant — we ’elped with cleanin’ an’ closin’ up the ’ouse after Mrs Wyatt passed. It can’t be.’

  ‘She never went to the clinic, Mrs Fudge — we found that out. Now, I was wonderin’ if you know anythin’ about a young man, a foreigner we’ve been told she was friendly with?’

  ‘Seen Miss Peach, ’ave yer?’ Her little eyes were sharp. She wouldn’t have missed much. ‘In such a takin’, she woz, when Miss Lambert took ’im ter South Crescent — an’ Mrs Peartree. Pair o’ old cats — dint believe in any Mr Peartree, I can tell yer. That furriner drinkin’ wine in the drawin’ room. I ’eard Miss Peach tellin’ Miss Anguish. Poor Miss Lambert, she led a bit of a dog’s life with them three, an’ ’e seemed a nice young man for all ’e woz a furriner.’

  ‘Do you know where he came from?’

  ‘Italian, she told me.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Lambert — told me all about him one day. It woz my day for takin’ the sheets off the beds an’ there she woz in ’er room, cryin’ ’er ’eart out. They offended ’im, she sed, an’ ’e woz proud, see, poor but proud, an’ ’e woz an artist, an ’e woz paintin’ ’er picture — mind, I got the impression she woz payin’ fer that, not that I sed anythin’ — but she woz afraid ’e wouldn’t come back. Lost ’im, she sed. Desperate, I thort she woz. I felt that sorry cos she woz poorly, too, pains in ’er ’and. See, my Polly woz ter marry Fred Littimer an’ ’e — well, I wasn’t sure ’e woz ter be trusted — I knows wot girls feel, an’ poor Miss Lambert wasn’t no beauty, not like my Polly — pretty as a picture, she is — lovely hair, though Miss Lambert, reddish-blonde, it woz and very thick. My Polly’s dark, though, just like —’

  Rogers interrupted. ‘You met him?’

  ‘The Italian? Once in the street. Mr Tony, she called him. You think she went off wiv ’im, an ’e — well, ’e woz an’ ’ansome young man. ’Adn’t much ter say fer ’imself, though, just bowed ter me. Very perlite, I thort.’

  ‘Can you describe him?’

  She screwed up her eyes so that they almost disappeared. ‘Tall, I thinks, an’ dark ’air — on the long side, an’ a beard, short. Dark eyes — looked away from yer. Odd fellah, now I thinks of it. Thin face — don’t serpose ’e ’ad much food. She was a skinny little thing, too. Now, my Polly takes arter me — a fine figure, I woz, though I don’t serpose yer’d think it. I’ve filled out since I woz doin’ the laundry work.’ She helped herself absently to yet another thick slice of bread and butter.

  She certainly had, Rogers observed — a fat little woman wedged in her chair like an old feather mattress, but she looked at him with her shrewd eyes. ‘Bones in the old cistern, eh? Yer really think Miss Lambert woz done in? By the furriner?’

  ‘We don’t know, Mrs Fudge, but we’d like to find him. You don’t know where he lived?’

  ‘Nah, she niver said. She went away soon arter an’ I thort it woz all over wiv ’er bein’ poorly. An’ ’e so good-lookin’. Still, yer niver know what folk might do. Why,
my Aunt Caroline knew a woman ’oo knew Mr O’Connor wot woz killed by Mrs Manning — she woz a furriner — Mrs Manning, that is — French or Swiss or somethin’ o’ that kind. Stands ter reason, don’t it.’

  Hearing that enigmatic conclusion, and deeming it not very helpful, even though it was true that Mrs Manning had been foreign, Sergeant Rogers made to depart. Mrs Fudge remained in her chair. At the door, he thought of something the Superintendent had told him concerning Mr Dickens and Hemlock Court.

  ‘Do you know the Curd family?’

  ‘Oh, yes, they used ter live in a room at Mrs Todgers down the way. Gone now. A bit since — they couldn’t pay the rent. Went in the night, the Lord knows where — workhouse, I’ll wager.’

  ‘And the daughter, Jemima?’

  ‘In service at Chelsea. Best of ’em — pretty little thing an’ looked it when she came back a time or two. Good food, see, and good air. Quite rosy-cheeked. Someone came askin’ about ’er the other day, so Mrs Gambol said — private investigator — rum lookin’ cove wiv starin’ eyes. Looked right through yer, she said. My son saw ’im. Yer could talk ter Mrs Gambol or Simon.’

  Rogers felt an urge to laugh. No need, he thought. He knew who the private investigator with the staring eyes was — not that he would repeat that unless to his wife, Mollie, but she’d be indignant. Very fond of Mr Dickens was Mollie.

  ‘No-one hereabouts knows of the Curds?’

  ‘Try Worships in Little Shire Street — the coffin-makers. Some relation works there. Anyway, his name’s Nolly Turner.’

  Rogers made his way to Little Shire Street. The sound of hammering directed him to the workshop above which a sign bore the legend: Worship and Churchyard, Carpenters and Coffin-makers. The hammering naturally brought to mind coffin nails — two coffins, one empty and one with its lid on, bearing a brass plaque with an inscription upon it, were propped up, one on each side of the door.

  He called out and the hammering stopped. A cheerful young man — in spite of his calling — appeared at the open door with hammer in hand and nails in his mouth.

  ‘Mr Turner?’

  The young man eyed Rogers’s uniform, nodded, and vanished inside to be replaced by another young man who did not look so cheerful — perhaps more affected by the trade, or, more likely, by a policeman asking for him. He gave Rogers a suspicious look.

  ‘I’m looking for Mr and Mrs Curd, who lived in Hemlock Court. Are they relations of yours?’

  The young man took the nails from his mouth and put them in the pocket of his leather apron. ‘Moved on.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Work’ouse — ’Olborn Union up Gray’s Inn Street. Bound ter ’appen.’

  ‘And Miss Jemima Curd?’

  Nolly Turner’s hard stare softened. ‘Went fer a job.’

  ‘Do you know where?’

  ‘Up in Clerkenwell, she sed, goin’ ter be a maid for some old friend. Excited, she woz, sed she’d tell me all about it when she was certain.’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘Few weeks ago, I thinks. Can’t be sure — sed she’d get her parents an’ the other kids outa the work’ouse when she woz sure o’ the job. Seemed excited — sed it was a good job. I woz glad. Jemima’s a worker, but ’er parents ain’t no use — Uncle George, ’e’s as weak as water, an’ is wife’ll drink ’erself ter death one day. Can’t do nothin’ fer folks like that — work’ouse it’s gotter be. Pity about them kids, though. Jemima tried ter —’

  ‘She didn’t give you her friend’s name?’

  ‘Nah, just sed it woz a chance. See, sir, some of us wants ter get on. Yer might think this ain’t much, but there’s chances in coffin-makin’. Folks gotter die. We did good business in the cholera.’

  Well, that was one way of looking at it, thought Rogers, but when he thought of last year’s outbreak, he could only think of the suffering of those he had seen, sick and gaunt with horrible white tongues, wrinkled skin, and terror in their sunken eyes. The blue death they called it. He had seen a man die in the street, his face contorted and horribly discoloured. He glanced involuntarily at the coffin with its lid.

  ‘Pity about that’un. Customer sed it want needed — dunno why. Still, it makes a good show fer us. Brings in the customers.’

  Sergeant Rogers went on his way, pondering upon this mystery. Buried alive, p’raps an’ rescued — there were stories in the paper o’ things like that an’ then you heard of folk risin’ from the dead. He wondered if you’d be welcome back. Not if they’d got their hands on all your worldly goods an’ had to give ’em back.

  He supposed it could happen. P’raps Mr Dickens would know. He knew a lot of peculiar things. Rum cove — Mrs Gambol had that bit right.

  14: Time’s Curtain Parted

  At Bow Street, Constable Stemp handed a box to Superintendent Jones. ‘Mr Faithfull’s boy brought it. There’s a note.’

  So there was. Mr Faithfull had apparently discovered the contents of the box in an old chest from South Crescent which had been put, mistakenly, into an auction lot comprising some articles from another house. Mr Faithfull had recognised the chest which had been in the long-dead Mr Wyatt’s study — a room never used. There was no key, but Mr Faithfull, mindful of the bones, had instructed one of his men to open it.

  Not more bones, Jones hoped, but Mr Faithfull had usefully made a list of the contents in his neat hand. Jones opened the box and withdrew the items according to the list:

  One rope of pearls — property of Mrs Wyatt

  A leather-bound volume of sermons with a packet of ten sovereigns hidden in the spine — the book bearing the signature, George Henry Lambert Wyatt, 1784.

  An emerald ring — property of Mrs Wyatt

  A pair of diamond earrings

  A water-colour sketch of a young woman

  Jones gazed at the portrait. It wasn’t signed. He looked up at Stemp. ‘Go over to Wellington Street, will you, and ask Mr Dickens to step over. Tell him we’ve found something — don’t tell him what.’

  As Stemp went out, Sergeant Rogers arrived from Hemlock Court.

  ‘These were sent from Faithfull’s — found in a chest which had been put with the wrong auction lot. Stemp’s gone for Mr Dickens.’ Jones held up the picture. ‘This might be Miss Flora Lambert. Mr Dickens saw a portrait of her at the Anguish house.’

  ‘An’ the other stuff?’ Rogers asked.

  ‘Mr Faithfull seems to know that some of the jewels belonged to Mrs Wyatt. The chest was locked and the key missing.’

  ‘Miss Lambert hid them, you think — a sort of dowry, p’raps — if she was goin’ away with Mr Tony?’

  ‘That might well be the case. Find out anything from Mrs Fudge?’

  ‘She saw Miss Lambert with Mr Tony — tall, dark hair, beard — not much help, I know. She thought he was an odd sort, but then he was foreign, she said as though that explained it. But she did say that Miss Lambert had been cryin’ one day because Mr Tony was offended by the servants an’ she thought he’d leave her. Desperate, Mrs Fudge said, desperate, she was.’

  Jones looked at the coins and jewels on his desk. ‘Was she now?’

  ‘An’ I found out somethin’ else. I remembered that Mr Dickens’d been to Hemlock Court about that missin’ girl, Jemima Curd, so I asked. It seems that a Mrs Gambol, Mrs Fudge’s laundry woman had been visited by a private investigator —’ Rogers grinned at his chief — ‘I didn’t go into that —’

  ‘Very wise. Did she give a description of this — er — detective?’

  ‘I wouldn’t care to repeat it, sir.’

  ‘For the purposes of elimination, sergeant?’ Jones wanted to know.

  ‘Ah, well, if you put it like that — rum cove, according to Mrs Gambol.’

  Jones chuckled. ‘I’ll save that one up. What did you find out about Jemima?’

  Dickens came in just in time to catch the name. ‘Jemima Curd?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Rogers replied. ‘I found Mrs Fu
dge living in Hemlock Court an’ she told me a bit about Miss Lambert. I remembered you’d been to Hemlock Court so I asked about Jemima Curd. Mrs Fudge directed me to one Nolly Turner at the coffin-maker’s — turns out to be a relative an’ he told me that the Curds are in the Holborn Union an’ he knew that Jemima had gone for a post in Clerkenwell — to be a maid for some old friend.’

  ‘Clerkenwell’s a long way from Chelsea,’ Dickens said. ‘I might take a walk in the workhouse — research, of course, but, hold on, Stemp said you had something to show me — quite a mystery he made of it.’

  ‘Do you recognise this portrait?’ Jones asked.

  Dickens took the paper. ‘It’s Flora Lambert — if that was her likeness I saw at the Anguish house. Where did you get it?’

  ‘Mr Faithfull, the house agent, found it in an old chest —’

  ‘Mr Poe, what did I tell you?’

  ‘No letter, but these —’ Jones pushed the jewels and coins in Dickens’s direction — ‘an old chest without a key, an old chest in an unused room. The sovereigns were neatly packed into the spine of an old book.’

  ‘The Mysteries of Udolpho, was it?’

  Jones gestured to the book, ‘Sermons by some long-gone Wyatt.’

  ‘That nobody’s ever read, I’ll bet. She —’ said Rogers.

  ‘Who?’ asked Dickens.

  ‘Rogers has a theory. Enlighten Mr Dickens, Alf.’

  ‘Miss Lambert — I was thinkin’ — did she hide them in preparation to run off with Mr Tony? She didn’t know when Mrs Wyatt was goin’ to die — it might have been ages. Mrs Fudges said she was desperate upset — afraid Mr Tony might leave her.’

  ‘The jewels belong to Mrs Wyatt, according to Mr Faithfull,’ Jones said.

  Rogers warmed to his theme. ‘Mrs Wyatt wouldn’t know they’d gone — she’d be too ill, and Miss Lambert would know where they were kept, access to the keys an’ if Mr Tony wanted money before —’

  ‘He committed himself,’ Dickens supplied, ‘but why didn’t she take them with her?’