At Midnight in Venice

by J C Briggs

  ‘And you have no idea where he might be?’

  She was silent then and looked into the fire. He waited. Her face looked sad and the light showed him the lines about her eyes and mouth. Some secret sorrow, he divined.

  ‘This is very difficult, Mr Dickens. I had thought only that I could defend Rolando, to assure you that he has no involvement with Miss Pout, that you might look elsewhere for her, but you have a way of asking a question which demands the truth, but the truth is very difficult to tell.’

  ‘I will not press you, Mrs Marchant. I have no right.’

  ‘I have a son, Mr Dickens.’

  ‘You think Rolando may be with him.’

  ‘I think it might be so, but I do not know where my son is. I have not seen him for several years, and it is a great sadness to me.’

  ‘Your husband is dead?’

  ‘Many years ago — I have forgotten him. I did not marry for love, Mr Dickens, nor indeed for money, though my husband was a wealthy man, and I found out my error very soon. He did not love me, either. My name is actually Doireanne —’ she pronounced it “Doran” — ‘My husband called me Dolly. He was English. My sister’s name is Elvin after an Irish poetess who wrote a famous lament for her dead husband. Agosto Sabatini called her Elvina.’

  She looked sad, then. She poured him another glass of wine and smiled again, a mischievous, glinting smile in her eyes, ‘Doireanne came to woo the legendary hero, Finn, and gave him a magic potion.’

  How her eyes showed her changing moods — like the sea, brooding one moment and shining at another as the clouds moved over.

  ‘What did you write, Mr Dickens? “There is no disparity in marriage, like unsuitability of mind and purpose.” You know much about the human heart, and its sorrows, I think.’

  ‘David Copperfield’s words — not mine.’ Not wholly true, of course, but this woman, this stranger, saw too much. Bewitching, she was, and too frank, perhaps, yet he was drawn to her. She was unlike any woman he had met, but he could not tell her any truth about himself.

  She made no comment, but went on with her tale. ‘My husband was ambitious. He married me for my connections, my political connections. Sir Neptune was very much a rising man even in those days.’

  ‘You have known Sir Neptune a long time?’

  ‘My sister and I grew up in Ireland. Our father was a lawyer — Sir Neptune was the son of a clergyman connected to a powerful family … ours was a boy and girl love, but it was not approved by the Fane family. My father’s family is Catholic — Mr Fane, the clergyman, Protestant. And Sir Neptune’s father was an ambitious man. He had great plans for his son. That is why Sir Neptune was much with the family at the great house, Rookwood. When Miss Mary French, daughter of Sir Julius French, came to stay at the Fane family seat, Sir Neptune was encouraged to…’

  ‘He did not marry for love.’

  ‘No. I came to London with my husband. He had no objection to my friendship with Sir Neptune.’

  ‘You still loved Sir Neptune.’

  She did not answer that question. ‘My husband’s tastes were not mine. He had his own life and a long liaison with a married lady. However, he died of a stroke and I inherited his wealth.’

  ‘The other night when we met, I thought you seemed angry with Sir Neptune.’

  ‘He is angry with me. I knew you had been to enquire about Miss Pout. Naturally, he did not want me to talk to you. I am not sure he believes that Rolando went off with Miss Pout, but it suits him to pretend so. It is a way of concealing Mariana’s folly and he would not wish me to be defending Rolando.’

  ‘But she is ill.’

  ‘I believe so. She was hurried away to the relations very quickly. He would not discuss her with me. I told you he was furious about Rolando and he blames me, for it was I who persuaded him to engage Rolando. But, Mr Dickens, I feel certain that Rolando is not with Miss Pout.’

  ‘Then with your son?’

  ‘Possibly. I hope Rolando may contact me. His mother does not yet know he is missing.’

  ‘Your son might?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. I am afraid I cannot help you about Miss Pout.’

  ‘Ah, well, perhaps the police may turn up something and find a connection between Miss Pout and Jemima Curd. And now I must leave you. It was good of you to talk to me.’

  They rose and she gave him her hand. She took him out into the hall to get his hat and coat.

  ‘One last thing, Mr Dickens, before you go.’

  Something in her voice made Dickens pause in his preparations for leaving. He looked at her and saw that her eyes seemed to glint with unshed tears.

  ‘My son is Sir Neptune’s child.’

  ‘Does your son know?’

  ‘Some years ago, he found out his parentage. Convenience — Sir Neptune’s and mine, I admit — meant that I lied to him. I am too ashamed to tell you those details, but suffice it to say that he felt humiliated and angry. He did not like Sir Neptune, who was cold to him. He left this house and I have not seen him since.’

  ‘I am heartily sorry for that.’

  ‘You have many sons, Mr Dickens, I hear. You are fortunate in your happy family. Daughters, too?’

  ‘Yes, three, one a mere babe, Dora, whose little helplessness moves me every day. She is delicate and sometimes I fear…’

  ‘I should have liked a daughter — to play with and to dress in pretty things, but to be a woman in this world is not without difficulty — it is very easy to make mistakes, especially those of the heart.’

  ‘For men, too, I think. My heart was lost once upon a time, and not quite recovered.’

  Dolly Marchant saw something in his eyes. In company they had seemed to blaze with life and humour, and they had looked upon her with deep sympathy when she had told her tale of Sir Neptune, and when she had talked of her son. But now, she thought there was something darker there, some unforgotten sorrow.

  ‘There is more — you know of the stolen diamonds. They were never recovered. Lady Fane wears paste, but that is not known. I believe that my son stole them. I persuaded Sir Neptune to report that they had been found. I said I would get them back. My son would not use them for his own gain, I know that, but I cannot recover them until I recover my son. And that may never be. So much to regret.’

  Dickens took her hand as he saw the tears spill down her cheeks. He felt her warmth and the scent of her perfume as he put his arm about her. She yielded to his embrace and laid her head upon his breast. How well she fitted to him and when after a few moments she lifted her lovely face to his, he kissed her, a long, deep kiss such as he had not given any woman, even his wife.

  Charles Dickens did not go home. He walked swiftly away from Florence Cottage. He felt shaken to his very core. ‘Now you know all my secrets,’ Dolly Marchant had said when he was ready to go. And she had looked at him quizzically, but he dared not say what was in his heart, yet he felt the scar that he always imagined there pull as if it might open again. Heartache, that old unhappy want of something that resided within him.

  17: A Midnight Visitor

  It was midnight when Dickens finally arrived at Devonshire Terrace. Footsteps in the street were stilled now. Somewhere a dog howled, a lonely, lost, despairing sound. He thought of little Dan Curd howling his ‘Liar, Liar, Liar’, as if to the whole pitiless world. He heard the clocks strike the hour, at midnight a deeper sound than noon. It was bitterly cold. The stars were out — the cold stars that winked at a murderer who pulled a poor girl’s innocent ribbon tighter and tighter round her neck.

  He walked on and coming up to his own gate saw a figure there, the tall shadow of a man, motionless, whose head was thrown back as he, too, gazed at the stars as if he might read there some answer to a profound question.

  ‘No answer, eh?’ Dickens observed loudly and cheerily — in case the man were mad, or bad, or dangerous. He grasped his stick more tightly.

  ‘Mr Dickens?’ came the reply, and as the man turned, Dickens saw that
it was Pryor.

  ‘Mr Pryor, is it not? What brings you here? Star-gazing?’

  Pryor looked like a very ordinary man in his plain garb of greatcoat and hat. His splendour had departed.

  ‘No, sir, but the vastness of that great black empyrean is mysterious to me. I look sometimes and wonder at myself and my part in the universe.’

  Quite a philosopher, thought Dickens, and that word “empyrean” — he was wasted at Wisteria Lodge. ‘The meaning is hidden from we mortals, I fear, Mr Pryor; we cannot read the alphabet of the stars.’

  ‘No, sir, I —’

  ‘You wish to speak to me of something. Come into the house before we both freeze.’

  Dickens lit the lamps, stirred the slumbering fire, gave Pryor a glass of brandy and warm, and sat opposite him.

  ‘This is to do with Miss Pout, perhaps?’

  ‘In a way, sir, and to do with a little maid that was murdered — Miss Fane’s maid, Jemima Curd.’

  ‘I have heard of it.’ Better not mention his connection with the police. It was obvious that Pryor had something to confide to him that he had not told Jones or Rogers, who must have questioned him earlier.

  ‘I’ve thought about it since the police came. It is difficult, Mr Dickens — you’ve your duty to the family you serve. Sir Neptune’s a good employer, provided he gets his way, but then he’s an important man in Parliament. He has a temper — we know when to keep out of the way, which is more than —’ he stopped. ‘Lady Fane —’

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘I feel sorry for her — she is such a nervous woman and never well.’

  ‘And if she does not keep out of the way of his temper?’

  Pryor looked troubled. ‘He can be cruel, sir — I’ve heard him be very sharp with her and sometimes I think she’s frightened of him — you know like a little dog expecting a blow.’

  Dickens did not comment, but it fitted with what he had seen for himself. ‘But you feel compunction because of her and the children — you don’t want to bring misfortune to them.’

  ‘That’s it, sir, and I can’t complain of Sir Neptune. If you do your job efficiently and keep quiet, it’s not a hard job, sir, not like some. My father kept a small farm. That was labour, sir — though I sometimes wonder if a man in powder and gilt is a man at all, or one of those automaton figures, trained up to do another’s bidding, but there’s loyalty in it, I suppose.’

  Dickens understood. His own grandfather, William Dickens, had been butler to the great Crewe family in Cheshire and London. He’d stayed until his death. He must have been loyal to the Crewes — done his duty. His grandmother had served the Crewes for more than twenty-five years.

  ‘You need not stay forever — you have been educating yourself, I can tell.’

  Pryor looked surprised.

  ‘That word “empyrean”,’ Dickens said.

  Pryor grinned — he looked like a young man who knew himself and could laugh at himself. ‘I’m trying, Mr Dickens. I should like to be — I beg pardon, I should be telling you about Jemima.’

  ‘Go on.’ Dickens poured him some more brandy.

  ‘The police sergeant asked me what I knew about her, and I told him what we all knew we should say. No one told us what to say, but a servant knows what is due to the family. I could have told more and now it’s on my conscience. What I saw and heard made me think that I had a duty to poor Jemima — she was a good girl. And you had come about Miss Pout —’

  ‘Are the two girls connected?’

  ‘I think so. Sir Neptune threatened Jemima with the police. She was terrified. I saw her rush from the library. I heard him ask her about Miss Mariana and Mr Sabatini.’

  ‘Those two were lovers?’

  ‘Mrs Pick thinks that was what the row was about. Terrible screams and shouting from Miss Mariana’s room. Mrs Pick blamed Miss Pout.’

  ‘For running away with Mr Sabatini and breaking Miss Fane’s heart?’ Now, Dickens would see if Dolly Marchant’s version of the story was true.

  ‘No, Mr Dickens, I don’t believe that Miss Pout is with Mr Sabatini. I know they went on the same day, but I never saw anything between them. In my position, I see a lot of coming and going and when you see two people together, you get a sense of what they are to each other. I could see it in Miss Mariana when Mr Sabatini spoke to her — the blushes, the secret smiles, and his tenderness to her — when he helped her on with her coat for example, but I never saw that between Miss Pout and Mr Sabatini.’

  ‘Very observant, Mr Pryor.’

  ‘There’s more. I think Miss Pout had her sights a deal higher than the music man. I saw her with Sir Neptune — all shyness and blushes at first, but when I caught her looking at him there was something hard there, Mr Dickens, something calculating.’

  Dickens wasn’t surprised — he remembered her knowing look and Mrs Pout’s “Sir Neptune”. No wonder her daughter was ambitious. ‘And, Sir Neptune?’

  ‘He watched her, sir, and I saw them together, standing very close, and they spent a lot of time together in the library — supposed to be discussing the children, Master Alexander in particular. Now, he didn’t like Miss Pout at all — telling tales, I’ll bet she was. And, Master Alexander’s a taking sort of boy, one of those that servants get fond of.’

  ‘And what happened with Miss Mariana?’

  ‘The family doctor came, and another opinion was sent for, and then we were told that the poor young lady was to go to the country, and one morning, not long after the second doctor came, she was gone.’

  ‘In the night?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And all this happened after Jemima’s dismissal and the disappearance of Miss Pout and Mr Sabatini?’

  ‘Yes, sir, and I did wonder if Jemima might have gone to Miss Pout. She was very much Miss Pout’s pet. Jemima thought she was wonderful because Miss Pout gave her presents.’

  ‘Why do you think she would do so? You have painted me a picture of a hard young woman, out for herself.’

  ‘I think she was using Jemima. I think Miss Pout encouraged Miss Mariana and Mr Sabatini. There were secrets that Miss Pout wouldn’t want told.’

  ‘Nor Sir Neptune.’

  ‘That’s true, sir. I don’t like to say it, but someone wanted rid of Jemima.’

  ‘So they did — I shall have to tell the police what you have told me — I know Superintendent Jones very well. He will not use your name. He will have his own ways of using your information.’

  ‘If you’re sure, Mr Dickens.’

  ‘I am — you need have no fear.’

  Dickens took Pryor to the front door and bade him goodnight. ‘As I said, you need not stay in your present situation forever — perhaps you might begin to look elsewhere if…’

  He did not say more, but Pryor seemed to understand that he was thinking that ruin might come to Wisteria Lodge. A house in ruins like a house of painted cards.

  18: Mariana in the Moated Grange

  Dickens woke in his dressing room — Pryor had stayed very late. He had thought he would not disturb Catherine. Not that he had slept much — a night half-waking, half-dreaming, and the old familiar pain in his side which came on at times of anxiety.

  He had dreamt of his dead sister-in-law, Mary Hogarth, for the first time in many years. In his dream she had materialised like a spectre — had risen, it seemed, from some subterranean place, a cell. She had hovered before him, faintly at the edges, but distinct in the features of the face, a face that dissolved into Jemima Curd’s face and then the face of Flora Lambert, and, lastly, the face of Violet Pout wearing a necklace of red and gold beads.

  He had sat up then — he had last dreamt of Mary in Italy on All Soul’s Eve, and he had been thinking of that time in Ferrara and the cells in the castle there, and Venice, of course — that midnight scene by the canal. And the other three girls had come into his dream. They were connected, he felt sure; there was some quivering thread that linked them.

  Just a drea
m — but he had read somewhere how in dreams questions which have puzzled and perplexed the mind when awake find their solution. Perhaps his dream had revealed a truth. Not that it helped a bit, since he had no idea of what the truth was.

  He sat and thought — odd that he had not dreamed of Dolly Marchant, but then the whole of that experience seemed a dream in itself. He felt oppressed by a sense of guilt. Truth? Had Dolly Marchant told him the truth about Rolando and Violet Pout? He thought so, and Pryor had confirmed her view, but what if Sir Neptune were guilty of murder? Would she protect the man she loved? Or did she? She had not answered his question, but Sir Neptune was the father of her child. What to say to Sam? Had he compromised himself in this case?

  He sat on, unable to stir himself, aware of the sounds of the household — assorted footsteps coming up the stairs. Two pairs of skipping steps — Katey and Mamie going to their room on the next floor. Georgina’s quick feet. He heard her talking to Frank and Sidney, then Catherine’s heavier step which stopped at his door. Don’t come in. A baby’s cry and the footsteps went away. He waited until all was quiet and went downstairs for his breakfast.

  Just as he was going in, there came a great clatter of boots — someone hurtling down the stairs. Walter, it would be, Walter due back to school this morning — he was a weekly boarder. And late. His coat would be on the wrong peg as always.

  Walter saw his father’s face and his usually cheerful face fell. Dickens felt unaccountably angry. ‘Go to school like a gentleman.’

  ‘Yes, Pa, sorry.’ The boy hung his head and Dickens knew he had been unfair. Walter, aged nine, a steady, amenable boy, always good-natured. He saw Frank at the top of the stairs, ready to turn back. Little Frank, only six years, a handsome, fresh-faced boy, made nervous by his stammer. He thought of Dolly Marchant’s lost son and felt ashamed. ‘Oh, Wally, my boy, those boots. Think of your poor Pa’s addled brains.’