by J C Briggs
‘What was her name?’
‘Caterina da Vecelli.’
Dickens could not bear to tell what he had seen on his entry into Ferrara on November 10th, 1844 — he felt the shock of it too deeply, but he thought of something else — a picture from Italy. He felt in his pocket for the folded-up paper that Sam had given him. ‘Do you recognise this?’
Paladini studied the portrait of Flora Lambert. ‘It resembles a portrait from the Castello D’Este. There are some portraits still there, of the noble family, but the one I know is not signed — but this face is not the same, though the robe is exactly copied, and the way the head is posed and the hair — the colour of gold and roses. Did you recognise the picture?’
‘I knew it was a copy and thought it familiar. I must have seen it there — I saw many pictures. Do you know who is the subject of the original portrait?’
‘No one knows — there are so many mysteries connected to the D’Este family.’
‘Parisina Malatesta, for example.’
‘Ah, yes, we spoke of her.’
‘We did — I stood in that cell where Ugo D’Este, Parisina’s illegitimate stepson was kept until his execution.’
‘The old marquis, Niccolo D’Este, had another bastard son, Baldassare D’Este, a painter of many portraits of the family — all are lost, but some think the portrait I know may be by his hand. Some of his faces are seen in the frescoes in the Palazzo Schifanoia.’
‘But, alas, no one knows who she is.’
‘There is a story about Baldassare’s daughter, Cassandra, who was ravished by three youths of Reggio — perhaps this is she? Parisina’s own daughter, Ginevra, is said to have been murdered by her husband — a husband who was Parisina’s brother, a husband who also poisoned his second wife. The grandson of the Marquis, Niccolo III, married Lucrezia Borgia — and we know what she did. A family stained in blood, Mr Dickens, and a portrait of a lost girl — a girl whose story we shall never know.’
‘Tell me about the face in the portrait at the castle.’
Aurelio Paladini screwed up his eyes as if to recall the picture. ‘One hand touches the cross at her breast and she looks out at you. Her eyes are full of light. It is not a sad face — attento, we say, but in English…’
‘Wistful?’
‘I think so — as if the woman in the picture longs for something that is not in this world. Did you see it?’
‘I think I do remember now you describe it.’
‘It is not known what happened to Baldassaro’s daughter — I wonder about a convent, or the portrait might be any young woman who leaves this world for a cloistered one.’
Dickens thought about all the faces he had seen in all the portraits — he thought he remembered the picture from Castello d’Este. He supposed he might have thought what Aurelio thought, but he could not be sure now.
Aurelio Paladini was still studying the picture. ‘I wonder why the artist here in this picture painted a different face.’
‘I suppose to please her.’
‘Who is she?’
‘She is now dead — this was found among her effects. I was curious because I thought I had seen it before.’
‘Others think the picture might be by Francisco da Cossa — there are works of his in the Schifanoia. There is a face there, a face of great beauty. Her hair is red gold and her robe is deep green. She has a golden chain round her neck. She seems to look at a young man embracing a girl in a dress the colour of amber, but her expression is inward — she sees something else. Cossa was a friend of the great Lodovico Ariosto.’
‘The poet?’
‘Of Orlando Furioso.’
‘Yes, I saw his house in Ferrara.’
Just at that opportune moment, Luigi Mariotti returned to the table and expiated learnedly on Ariosto’s poem in which the lover, Orlando, whose long pursuit of Angelica ends in her betrayal and his madness. Dickens and Aurelio Paladini listened until Dickens felt it was the polite time to go — he did not want to talk again about the picture and drowned girls.
Aurelio Paladino took him to the door. ‘Your girl — did she drown?’
‘I don’t know — perhaps —’ Dickens thought for a moment and then said — ‘I wonder, Signor Paladino, if you could find out any more about the death in Ferrara?’
‘I will write to my mother. She will know — she takes an interest in her neighbours, especially the great ones.’ He smiled at Dickens. ‘Ferrara is a small town.’
‘I would be much obliged.’
Bidding farewell to Aurelio, Dickens went out into the street to find a cab to take him to Norfolk Street, hoping that Sam would be there.
Jones answered the door and took him into the parlour where his wife, Elizabeth sat by the fire, near which a table had been drawn up and there were the remains of a meal — two had sat together, enjoying each other’s company. A shared life.
‘I am so sorry to intrude, Elizabeth, on your quiet evening.’
‘You are always welcome, Charles. Let Sam and me clear the table — our little maid is in bed, and then I will leave you.’
‘No, no, my dear Elizabeth, I should like you to hear this, if Sam doesn’t mind. It is a curious story.’
‘Not in the least. Elizabeth knows what we are doing — Scrap enlightened her — most decoratively. Now sit down and share some of this wine while we clear the table.’
When it was done, Sam and Elizabeth listened as Dickens told his tale of the drowned girl at Ferrara — famed for her rose-gold hair and that he had seen her death without knowing, and that he had thought of his own murder when he had seen that mournful sheet of water and a blood red sunset. He told of how it matched his story of the girl in Venice which he summarised for Elizabeth’s benefit, and of the picture — copied from the one in Ferrara.
‘And this artist put Flora Lambert’s face in it, but it was not very good — why should he do that?’ asked Jones.
‘To please her, perhaps,’ Dickens replied.
‘I think so,’ Elizabeth said, ‘she would want a portrait painted by her lover — any woman would. I would.’
‘For Flora Lambert, it would set the seal on their relationship — she hadn’t much else,’ Dickens added.
‘And Marianne Fane was having her portrait done — you’re convinced there is a link?’ Jones asked.
Dickens thought about the girl he had seen in the asylum, and the portrait. ‘I am, Sam. The hair — the girl at Ferrara had golden hair — a red-gold you often see in Renaissance pictures, and Flora Lambert has reddish hair in the picture — very striking, though she was otherwise unremarkable; Mariana’s hair — I noticed because Doctor Jessop said she kept tearing it out — it was the same colour — very beautiful. Jemima Curd’s hair was wet so I didn’t think about it then…’
‘Let me think this out — the details are important: in 1844, two girls are drowned in Italy, strangled by their rosaries; in 1850, Flora Lambert is found in a water tank, thought to have died, or been murdered five years ago, so possibly in 1845; bones in her neck are broken and a rosary is found; in 1850, Jemima Curd is found in water, strangled by a ribbon — a detail that may or may not be a link to the earlier ones, but where does Mariana Fane fit? She is mad not drowned, even if her hair is the same colour as Flora’s and the girl’s in the picture.’
‘I don’t know — but I think it’s very odd. When we found Jemima in that reservoir, the scene reminded me of what I saw in Ferrara — I didn’t mention it at the time. I just felt a kind of shudder of recognition, and then I found out from Aurelio Paladini that I had seen a group of girls looking down at a dead body, and murder had come into my mind then — my own I grant you. It’s uncanny — fateful, inescapable.’
‘It is,’ Elizabeth said, ‘most strange, and rather chilling as if you had foreseen, or somehow known of the murders in Italy.’ She thought Dickens looked haunted.
‘It is like dreams in a way. Dreams which foretell the future — I once dreamed of a woman in a r
ed shawl. She turned and I saw that I did not know her — which is the way often in dreams — but she said her name was Miss Napier. And this is the uncanny part — at some event later I saw that red shawl and exclaimed “Miss Napier”, and it was she — the very Miss Napier of my dream. She was a perfectly ordinary woman and still lives — I hope.’
‘I sometimes dream of Edith and her child,’ Elizabeth said slowly, recalling the painful vision of her own dead daughter and the child that had died, too, ‘and in the dream, I see him as he might have been had he lived. I know him. How can that be?’
‘There are more things in heaven and earth. What do you think, Horatio?’ Dickens turned to Jones, who looked rather grave.
‘I think that what you both say is true — you dreamed the past and the future, but I am thinking of the present.’ Jones did not want to pursue the subject of Edith, their only daughter. He dreamed of her, too, always as the lovely child she had been and he always woke with his cheeks wet.
Elizabeth saw his face. She understood — it was painful ground. ‘I suppose what we want to consider is if these experiences help us with your present conundrum. Are these murders connected? And, if so, will he do it again?’
‘Admirably succinct, my love,’ said Jones, ‘and it doesn’t matter just now if they are connected because whether the murderer is your artist with a passion for golden hair, Charles, or whether it is Sir Neptune Fane, there is a woman linked to both — who may be in danger —’
‘Miss Pout,’ Elizabeth finished for him, ‘who is linked, too, to Mr Sabatini, though Sam told me, Charles, that his aunt speaks of him most affectionately.’
Dickens glanced at Jones, who shook his head very slightly. He had mentioned only an aunt, Dickens thought. He would not betray me — even to Elizabeth. ‘She did, though I suppose no one knows what another, however close, might be capable of.’
‘Especially if Violet Pout was, in part, responsible for Mariana Fane’s ruin,’ Jones pointed out.
‘Then, I must go back to see Cassie Hanlon — she has lodgings in Baker’s Row which leads into Amwell Street —’
‘Where you saw Violet Pout. Would Miss Hanlon object to me?’ Jones asked.
‘She has sense.’
‘Tomorrow morning then, at Bow Street, at nine.’
As Dickens walked home, he thought of Orlando, who in other works was Roland. Rolando enraged? Violet Pout, the betrayer. But Dolly Marchant had portrayed Rolando as a sensitive boy. She might be wrong. Love, betrayal, madness, murder. Those stories: Parisina and Ugo, Orlando and Angelica. That tale Aurelio Paladino had told him at the Palazzo Mariano. People hadn’t changed. Robes and furred gowns might hide all, but murder had been done for rage, for jealousy — for revenge — or, to rid the murderer of one who was dangerous to his peace, or his reputation. He thought of Sir Neptune Fane. Violet Pout knew too much about him — and his daughter.
24: Queen of Spades
Nine o’clock was too late. Jones met Dickens with the news. Violet Pout was dead — found at the Claremont Square Reservoir, that peaceful spot where Dickens had seen the afternoon sun glitter on the placid water and where he had seen that cheerful boy bowling his hoop.
‘She was found early this morning. Shackell knew her by her hair — she didn’t drown.’
‘Strangled?’
‘Yes, but not with a chain or a ribbon — bruises made by thumbs on her neck. She is with Doctor Symonds now. I would like a formal identification before I go to the family.’
‘I’ll come.’
Doctor Symonds was waiting in the hospital mortuary. Violet Pout lay with her silver hair pushed back from her forehead. Dickens looked down at the fine, straight brows, and the long silver lashes closed over the pale blue eyes.
He had not much liked her, but he thought now how fragile she looked now. She had been a self-centred, worldly girl, greedy for the good things, and hard because she could not get them, the daughter of a silly mother who had spoilt her and taught her nothing but ambition. But she was dead by a cruel pair of hands.
And below the lashes, her face was livid now and her tongue swollen and slightly protruded and the lips very dark. Her prettiness, however sharp and shallow, had been destroyed. Her mother should not see this.
Doctor Symonds drew back the sheet to expose the delicate neck. ‘See here, over the left wing of the thyroid cartilage, there is a mark of a crescentric form, and another, though fainter on the opposite side. I shall need to examine what is beneath the skin here, but the marks suggest manual strangulation. Doctor Bennett, who was called by Inspector Shackell, gave that as his opinion, too. I can tell you more when I have made a full examination.’
‘Would it be possible for us to look again at Jemima Curd?’ asked Dickens. He wanted to look at her hair.
Jemima Curd still lay in the mortuary. Dickens and Jones saw as the sheet was lifted that her hair had dried out — to the colour of rose-gold.
‘What now?’ asked Dickens, as he and Jones walked back to Bow Street.
‘I do not know that Lady Fane is very ill. I do not wish to distress Miss Pout’s family about the identification so I am thinking that —’
‘You might go to the house of her former employer to ask if someone might be willing to do it.’
‘I should have to ask Sir Neptune Fane if he will allow it — perhaps he, or a servant — it would be very handy if he would. I should like to see his face when he sees Violet Pout’s dead body, but he won’t do it.’
‘How do you know that Miss Pout was once in his employ?’
‘Heard it on the wind — no, she was reported missing — not by Charles Dickens, of course, whom I know slightly — only slightly, for he is a great man, naturally, too high for my ’umble station.’
‘A numble man, Mr Copperfield,’ laughed Dickens, ‘but, seriously, do you think Sir Neptune?’
‘Strangled manually — that’s a different thing from a necklace or a ribbon. I’ve thought about the picture and the rosaries and the ribbon — I think of murders which suggest something very different from two hands at the neck which speak of rage to me — impulse. A quarrel, a violent argument which ends with an angry man taking a woman by the throat and pressing very hard — not meaning to, perhaps.’
‘And the jewels and the similarity of the hair in the picture to the girl in Ferrara, to Jemima Curd, and to Mariana Fane tell a different story — murder as a fine art.’
‘Doctor Jobling — in your Martin Chuzzlewit — didn’t he say something like that?’
‘Yes, he did. It was almost a perfect murder — one drop of blood on the victim’s waistcoat. The murderer was supposed to be a medical man who picked his spot so exactly at the victim’s heart that there was just this pinprick of blood. Jobling maintains that if it wasn’t the doctor then the murder was an extraordinary work of art.’
‘Or he was lucky — murderers often are. The moment presents itself and like your man the murderer vanishes into the dark. No one saw a thing except two professional men in earnest conversation.’
‘Or a man and a woman in a loving embrace — Sir Neptune and Violet Pout. That’s a chilling thought.’
‘I don’t rule out your artist for her murder. Violet Pout’s hair was fair —’
‘But silvery — very different from the others.’
‘If that’s significant, it makes me think even more that I must consider Sir Neptune.’
‘And Rolando Sabatini?’
‘Anything is possible, and Miss Pout must have known about Miss Fane’s condition — dangerous for her.’
‘And for him.’
They walked on, each thinking of the possible suspects. When they arrived at the police station, Dickens turned to Jones. ‘How about this? Mariana Fane’s portrait — Violet Pout must have arranged that. Miss Fane could hardly have done it herself. The artist saw Miss Fane, saw her hair, and they went for sittings. Miss Fane is left alone with the artist. It is he who seduces her — Jessie Sharp told you that
Miss Fane became ill after an outing with Miss Pout.’
‘Why did he not kill Miss Fane?’ Jones asked.
‘Violet Pout was too close — she would have known. Perhaps she did know that the artist had seduced Miss Fane.’
‘All very plausible, were it not for the fact that we don’t even know that Miss Pout was living with an artist. We need to find that out. I suggest you make that trip to Baker’s Row to see Miss Hanlon. She will have heard about Violet Pout’s death. She may have found out something about where she lived and with whom. But I must go to Wisteria Lodge.’
‘I need to tell Anne Brown that her god-daughter is dead. I shall have to take her to Mrs Pout before I do anything else.’
‘Do you want to wait for me? I ought to do it — it should not be your burden.’
‘It should be — Catherine and I owe a great deal to Anne Brown. That is why I took up the matter in the first place.’
‘If you are sure?’
‘No, I would value your presence above all, but I owe a duty to Anne Brown and her closest friend — more so in that I did not much like Mrs Pout or her daughter. Little did I know.’
25: Reading the Signs
Pryor answered the door. When Jones enquired for Sir Neptune, the footman did not think that Sir Neptune would see him. Lady Fane was very ill. There were doctors.
‘Tell him, if you will, Mr Pryor, that the matter is urgent, but that I need only take a moment of his time.’
Pryor went to the library. He was back in a very short time to tell Jones that Sir Neptune would see the Superintendent for a few minutes.
Sir Neptune stood as he had before, one hand resting on the mantelpiece. He looked drawn and not at all pleased to see Superintendent Jones, who begged his pardon for intruding, an apology which Sir Neptune acknowledged with a curt nod.
‘I have very little time, Superintendent, so I would be obliged if you will be brief. I think I have said all I can about Jemima Curd.’