by J C Briggs
Rogers remained in the hall while Jones was shown into the library.
‘I am much obliged to you, sir, for agreeing to see me.’
‘It must be brief, Superintendent, I have an important dinner engagement with a member of the House. It is a matter of grave importance.’ He did not ask Jones to sit.
So is this, thought Jones, but he merely said, ‘I am making enquiries about a former servant of yours, a Miss Jemima Curd.’
Sir Neptune’s hand rested on the mantelpiece. He picked up an ornament and put it down again, staring at it for a few moments. ‘Oh, yes, I vaguely recall the name. The servants are Mrs Pick’s business, and my wife’s — when she is well enough.’
‘Would it be possible to speak to your wife?’
‘Certainly not, Superintendent. My wife’s health is very delicate just now.’
‘Miss Curd was your daughter’s personal maid, I believe.’
‘Yes, she was a nice kind of girl — so my wife said — Mariana seems to have liked her.’
‘Why did she lose her post?’
‘My daughter has gone to the country for an indefinite period — she is delicate like her mother so Miss Curd was not needed.’ His words came slowly, rather more slowly, Jones thought, than was necessary to answer such straightforward questions. ‘I believe she was paid and Mrs Pick would, no doubt, furnish her a character for another post.’ He looked at Jones. ‘Why do you want to know about her — not in trouble, is she?’
‘No, sir, she is dead — she was found in the new reservoir in Clerkenwell.’
Sir Neptune paled. ‘How very distressing — suicide, was it?’ Seeing the surprise in Jones’s face, he went on quickly, ‘I thought perhaps, having lost her post, she might…’
Jones did not comment on that, but he stored it away. ‘No, it was murder. Jemima Curd was strangled and her body put in the reservoir. Perhaps the murderer thought she might sink and not be found.’
Sir Neptune held Jones’s gaze. ‘I am afraid I cannot help you, Superintendent. Servants come and go. We cannot be responsible for what they do afterwards. We were as fair to her as was possible in difficult circumstances — I mean that my wife is ill and Mariana is not strong. It has been a great anxiety and I have many matters of parliamentary business, you understand.’
‘You do not know where she went.’
‘I imagine to her family.’
‘Her father is dead; the mother has disappeared, and there are two younger children in the workhouse. Jemima’s death is a tragedy for them.’
Jones waited, wondering whether Sir Neptune would show any interest in the two children.
Sir Neptune’s face took on a look of concern. ‘That is a pity. Perhaps something can be done for them.’
‘They are at the Holborn Workhouse in Gray’s Inn Street.’
‘I will send someone to find out what can be done. Now, Superintendent, I must go. I am sorry I cannot help you further.’
Almost out-manoeuvred by the politician — thought Jones — almost letting him have the last word. Sir Neptune was ringing at the bell-pull by the mantelpiece.
‘I should like to speak to Mrs Pick and the other female servants. I should like to know if they can provide information about where Miss Curd went when she left here and whether she ever talked about her family or friends.’
Sir Neptune looked as if he might dispute the point, but he thought better of it. ‘Of course, I see that you must.’
‘And my sergeant will question the male servants.’
‘Very well. Mrs Pick will assist you.’
A tall footman took Jones downstairs to see Mrs Pick in the housekeeper’s room and Rogers was shown to the butler’s pantry.
Tears started in Mrs Pick’s eyes and she sat down suddenly, groping in her pocket for a handkerchief. She had listened to Jones’s account of Jemima Curd with horror. Jones gave her time to compose herself.
‘Murdered, you say?’
‘Yes, tell me about her.’
‘She was a dear little thing. Brought up by an aunt who had taught her well. She was a humble girl and very meek and gentle. Miss Mariana —’ Mrs Pick put her handkerchief to her eyes. Jones waited. ‘Oh, dear, Mr Jones, who could have done such a wicked thing?’
‘I don’t know — yet, but I do want to you to tell me where she went after she left here.’
‘Her aunt had died so I thought she might go to her parents — I don’t know exactly. It was all so sudden and she was very upset. I gave her five shillings to tide her over.’
‘Why was it so sudden?’
Mrs Pick’s face was very red. She dabbed at her eyes again. ‘Only that Miss Mariana was to go to the country — delicate, she is, like Lady Fane.’
‘Miss Fane was taken ill suddenly?’
‘Not exactly — just in need of good air, Sir Neptune said. She’d not been eating and was sick and faint… Sir Neptune was very worried and Lady Fane…’
Mrs Pick looked down, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. There was something, Jones concluded, but Mrs Pick was unwilling to say. Jemima Curd had been sent off — not with her pay, only with Mrs Pick’s charity.
‘Jemima didn’t come back at all?’
‘Oh, no, sir, that wouldn’t have done. Sir Neptune ordered — said —’ she wept again. When she looked up her eyes seemed to plead with him to ask no more — ‘Jemima went home, sir, that’s all I can tell you.’
Jones understood. Jemima Curd had been sacked. What had she done to be dismissed so summarily? And Mrs Pick was very afraid for her job. He did not want to entrap her, but he would have to speak to the others. ‘Did Jemima have her own room, or did she share with another maid?’
‘One of the under-housemaids, Jessie Sharp.’
‘I shall have to speak to her.’
‘I don’t think, sir —’
‘You need not worry, Mrs Pick; Sir Neptune has given his permission. Jessie Sharp may know something about Jemima’s family or any friends she might have had. She had no follower?’
‘Oh, no, sir, she was a very good girl.’
‘Where will I find Jessie?’
‘She will be in her room on the top floor. I can bring her down.’
‘No, I will see her upstairs. She will be more comfortable in her own room.’
Mrs Pick took him up the back stairs to the attics where Jessie Sharp had shared the room under the eaves with Jemima Curd. He recalled the attic room at Mrs Wyatt’s. Flora Lambert — he had almost forgotten about her and Dickens’s Italian artist. Well, Flora Lambert was long dead. Jemima Curd was his priority now.
Jessie Sharp was about the same age as Jemima — not a pretty girl, but her round face and boot-button eyes suggested guilelessness. She looked frightened of the large policeman and glanced at Mrs Pick as if for permission to speak.
‘You need not be frightened, Jessie,’ said Mrs Pick, ‘the Superintendent wants to know about Jemima.’
‘What’s ’appened to ’er?’
Mrs Pick sat next to her on the narrow bed. ‘Poor Jemima is dead, Jessie. Someone killed her and the policeman wants to find out who did it.’
Jessie Sharp looked too stunned to cry. She gazed at Jones with uncomprehending eyes. ‘Jemima’s dead? Killed? ’Oo done it?’
‘I don’t know, Jessie, but with your help I might be able to find out.’
‘Wot can I do? I don’t know nothin’ about killin’ no one.’
‘I know that, Jessie, but perhaps you can tell me about Jemima.’
Jessie looked at Mrs Pick again. Jones did not want Mrs Pick to be there and stifle Jessie Sharp by her presence. Jessie’s eyes would ask that permission at every question. He would have to be firm.
‘You may go now, Mrs Pick. I am sure that Jessie will be able to tell me a little bit about Jemima.’
‘If you are sure, Superintendent.’ Mrs Pick was reluctant.
‘I am, and Jessie will be quite all right with me, won’t you, Jessie?’ He smiled at her.
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‘Yes, sir.’
Mrs Pick had no choice. Jones sat down on the ticking mattress of the other bed. ‘You stay there, Jessie. Are you quite comfortable?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, tell me about Jemima. Did she like being maid to Miss Mariana?’
‘Oh, yes, sir, and Miss Mariana gave her presents — some chocolates. Jemima shared em — that’s wot she’s like, always shared cos I dint get presents. Niver ’ad a present. We ate ’em up ’ere. No one knowed. Niver ’ad sich sweet things. An’ she give Jemima ribbons an’ Jemima give me one — a red one, an’ she ’ad a blue one. Lovely hair, Jemima ’ad —’
Now, the little round-faced girl wept, remembering her friend’s generosity and their secret simple joys. Just a child, Jones thought, so he waited and wished he could have given her a chocolate. She was as simple as six year old Tom, his adopted son, whose tears dried for a chocolate.
‘She was your good friend, I know, Jessie, and that is why you must be a brave girl and help me.’
‘Miss Violet gave Jemima presents, too. Jemima liked ’er. I dint much — she niver gave me nothin’, an’ she laughed at me an’ called me Sharp as if she woz the mistress, but Jemima thort she was beautiful. She give Jemima five shillin’s wunce — don’t know wot fer. Jemima sed she couldn’t tell — it was private, but Jemima give me a shillin’ so I dint mind.’
‘When did Miss Mariana become ill?’
‘One time when they’d been out shoppin’, Miss Pout brought Miss Mariana home, sed she’d fainted, an’ she looked ever so pale, an’ then after she dint seem the same. I dunno — like her mother. Some ladies is like that, sir — don’t matter ’ow rich they is. In bed some days — breakfast in bed, they ’as, an’ they sits by the fire, an’ they ’as tea on a tray —’ She looked wistful, Jessie Sharp, who had never had breakfast in bed or tea on a tray.
‘Can you remember when this was?’
‘Dunno, sir, mebbe a few months ago — I asked Jemima about it, but she sed it woz private to Miss Mariana.’
‘And when did Miss Mariana go to the country?’
‘A few weeks ago — for the fresh air. In the night, it woz. Her aunty came, Mrs Pick sed.’
In the night, thought Jones, how very odd a time to go innocently into the country. Perhaps Dickens was right about the asylum. He turned back to the subject of Jemima — Jessie Sharp had told him enough about Miss Mariana — and plenty about Miss Violet Pout.
‘Did Jemima ever mention going to Clerkenwell to you?’
‘Don’t think so, sir. I niver saw ’er — she went that sudden, an’ I’ll niver see ’er no more.’ The tears came again and she wept into her apron.
There was nothing more he could say except that she had been very helpful and he pressed two shillings into her little hand.
She looked at the money and up at Jones. ‘A present, sir, fer me?’
‘Yes, you have been a great help. Thank you.’
Jones went down the stairs to find Sergeant Rogers waiting. They made their way back to Bow Street.
‘Nobody knows anything but that Miss Mariana Fane is in the country and poor Jemima lost her place — funny thing, sir, they all say the same.’
Jones heard Rogers’s dry tone. ‘Not all, Sergeant. I had a very interesting talk with a little maid called Jessie Sharp who didn’t know what she knew.’
16: A Secret Told
Dickens walked from Devonshire terrace to St John’s Wood. He had had scarcely time to change his dress, having taken a detour from Bow Street to Conduit Street in order to ask his friend Doctor Elliotson about a visit to the Hammersmith Asylum. Doctor Elliotson had been willing to take him the next morning.
He felt ill at ease: those children and the dead man, that poor drowned girl, and that queer scene at the reservoir, that memory of Ferrara which seemed to hang over him like a waking nightmare.
He hurried round Regent’s Park and made his way up Lodge Road to Grove Cottage, which turned out to be a modest house and a discreet one with a wrought iron gate almost grown over with bushes.
He stood uncertainly for a few moments, thinking about discretion and Sir Neptune’s hand on Mrs Marchant’s back and wondered what had passed between them in that conservatory into which Lady Fane would not trespass. He did not really know anything about her, except that she was beautiful — and that she had spied on him. And, of course, she was Rolando Sabatini’s aunt and that was why he was there. He opened the gate.
The moon led his way along a path to a gravelled area at the front door. He saw that the path forked, the two arms leading to the back of the house. He walked along the path through the garden up to a smartly painted door with shining brass furniture. The door knocker was a coiled serpent — what an odd choice. Not as grand a house as Wisteria Lodge, but very well kept, a pretty house, a discreet house. A house for a single lady — was there a Mr Marchant? He felt a twinge of disappointment. But she had asked him to come to see her at “my house”.
A pretty young maid answered his knock and he waited in the narrow hall as she went to inform her mistress, gazing at the pictures. Pictures from Italy. He wondered whether Rolando’s father had painted them.
He was shown into the drawing room where Mrs Marchant waited. She gave him her hand upon which there was a beautiful emerald ring. He kissed it, feeling for a moment as if he were in a play or a novel of the silver-fork kind, though, as yet, he did not know his part.
‘Mr Dickens, I am very glad to see you.’
‘And I, you.’ She was as beautiful as he remembered in her dark green velvet with her red hair coiled at her neck, which was encircled by a thin gold chain at the end of which an emerald rested on her bosom. Emeralds sparkled in her ears.
‘But you look very cold and exhausted. You have had a busy day?’
‘I have — much walking about, and —’
‘Before you tell me, let me ask if you have dined.’
‘No, I had not time.’
‘Well then, let me ask cook to prepare something that we can eat here by the fire. I sometimes take a light supper here.’
There was a small round table by the fire upon which were glasses and a carafe of wine very similar to the one he had seen at St George Pierce’s. It looked very inviting.
‘Is there anything you would like — a little cold chicken? Some cheese? An omelette?’
‘Anything at all.’
‘Then do sit down while I speak to Mrs Evans. Help yourself to some wine.’
Dickens sat down and poured some wine into a lovely red glass. Venetian, he supposed. He felt the warmth of the wine and the fire and closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, Mrs Marchant was sitting opposite him across the table, arranging some little dishes and silver cutlery. She put some chicken, a little cucumber and some potatoes on a plate for him. He experienced again that sense of unreality as if he were someone else entirely — yet it was very comforting and oddly familiar. The firelight and dim lamps gave a feeling of intimacy.
He thought of the early days of his marriage when Catherine would watch anxiously as he ate. When they were innocently happy — at Furnivall’s Inn before the splendours of Devonshire Terrace. When had he and Catherine sat thus together by the fire? Well, that was his fault.
When he had finished, she rang the bell and the maid came to clear the plates. Dolly Marchant poured more wine and said, ‘You look better. Now tell me what has made you so anxious?’
‘A girl was found dead in the new reservoir at Clerkenwell.’
‘Drowned? Not Violet Pout?’
‘No, the girl was murdered, strangled. It was Jemima Curd.’
Dolly Marchant’s hand flew to her breast. ‘Miss Fane’s maid?’
‘Yes, I am afraid so.’
‘Poor child. How dreadful. She seemed a nice little thing — I saw her once or twice at Wisteria Lodge. Did she live in Clerkenwell?’
‘Her father was in the workhouse there and two younger childre
n. Mr Curd has died of pneumonia. I was there when he died — he was a poor, wretched creature, half-starved. The two younger children have nothing now — not a hope in the world.’
‘There is no mother?’
‘A drunkard and no earthly use to her children. Their only hope was Jemima and she lost her place when Miss Mariana was sent to the country after Mr Sabatini and Miss Pout disappeared. It seems that Jemima had hopes of a position with an old friend — I wondered about Violet Pout.’
‘I do not know, Mr Dickens. I cannot tell you anything about Jemima Curd.’
‘You are willing to tell me about Mr Sabatini and Miss Pout.’
‘My sister is in Ireland. I thought Rolando had gone with her, but he has not. I thought he might come to me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he was in trouble.’
‘About Miss Pout.’
‘No, about Miss Fane.’
‘Ah.’ So, it was as he had surmised. Rolando had betrayed Miss Fane.
‘He told me that he loved Mariana Fane and wanted to ask Sir Neptune for her hand. I told him to wait. Miss Fane is only seventeen, charming and pretty, but far too young and so is he. Besides, Sir Neptune would have been furious.’
‘That is why she was sent away.’
‘Not exactly — it is all rather complicated. I need to explain clearly. When Rolando told me, I said he must leave Wisteria Lodge immediately before Sir Neptune found out. I thought he should go to Ireland. If after six months he felt the same, he could return and I would speak to Sir Neptune.’
‘You are sufficiently in his confidence.’
She looked straight at him. ‘I am. Of course, Rolando did not take my advice. Then I found out that he and Miss Pout vanished on the same evening. Sir Neptune was as angry a man as I have ever seen him, but I could not believe it. It was impossible that Rolando should behave in that way.’
‘Could not he have found solace with Miss Pout? She is a very attractive young lady — he might have been tempted.’
‘No, Mr Dickens, I do not believe it. Miss Pout is a pretty girl, but there is something calculating and worldly about her. You would understand if you knew Rolando. He is charming and sensitive — unworldly, too — and he adores his mother.’