by J C Briggs
‘The matter concerns a Miss Pout, Miss Violet Pout, who, I believe, was recently in your employ.’
Sir Neptune’s face did not change, but Jones noticed how his hand clenched involuntarily. He turned fully to Jones, putting both hands behind his back.
‘She was, but she left us. I do not know what her subsequent fate has to do with us.’
‘She is dead — she was found strangled at the Claremont Square Reservoir, not far from where your other former servant, Miss Curd, was found strangled.’ It was blunt — the obvious link between the crimes could not but be suggestive. Jones did not quake — he merely waited in a silence that had become suddenly weighty.
Sir Neptune regarded him steadily, though his face paled. ‘I am very sorry for it, but since both these deaths occurred in Clerkenwell, I fail to see what they are to do with this house.’
He did see, thought Jones, of course he did — only a fool, or a man with something to hide would not. Sir Neptune Fane was no fool, and the more he asserted his house’s distance from these events, the more Jones must probe even though the man might just be protecting his daughter’s reputation — and his own.
‘I shall want to question your household again —’ Jones chose his next words with blade-like exactness — ‘your other servants may know something of her private life.’
Sir Neptune’s voice was cold. ‘My servants do not have private lives. I suppose you must ask your questions, but I beg you to be discreet. My wife is very ill — the doctor is with her now.’
‘Of course, sir. I will not do it now, but I do have another request, which is to ask if you or anyone in your household would identify the body. I need to confirm her identity before I approach her mother.’
‘But you said it was Vi — Miss Pout. Do you tell me now that you are not certain?’ He was angry now — he could not conceal it. Jones noticed a muscle twitch in his cheek.
‘I am certain, but I need an official identification.’
‘And you expect me —’
‘I thought that you might be willing — for her family’s sake.’
Sir Neptune turned back to the fire. Jones saw by the movement of his shoulders how he made the effort to calm himself, but his voice was tight. ‘My duty is to my wife, Superintendent — not to a former servant.’
A man capable of rage. Jones thought of Jemima Curd’s dismissal. ‘Perhaps one of your male servants would come with me to the mortuary now.’
‘Very well, Pryor, the footman, may go with you.’ He rang the bell.
‘I am grateful, Sir Neptune.’
‘I think you ought to know, Superintendent, Miss Pout left us with a young man, our music tutor, Rolando Sabatini. I believe that there was some kind of liaison between them. Jemima Curd knew of it. I tell you now because I think you might do well to search for him. He is connected to both these young women, and has turned out to be a thoroughly disreputable character.’
Connected to you, too, and you are not so reputable a character, either, thought Jones, but he merely said he would certainly enquire about Mr Sabatini.
Pryor appeared and Sir Neptune asked if he would go with the Superintendent. Pryor assented gravely but with admirable composure, and went away to change out of his uniform. There was another long silence. Sir Neptune still stood at the mantelpiece. Jones saw what strain he was under as he looked at the fire — contemplating the ruin of his life, Jones wondered. That tell-tale movement in his cheek continued to beat, and the hand that had grasped the bell-pull clenched and unclenched.
He turned to Jones suddenly, as if he could bear the silence no longer. ‘I must ask you to excuse me, Superintendent. I must go to my wife. Perhaps you would care to wait in the hall for Pryor.’
‘Certainly, sir, I am obliged to you. Good day, Sir Neptune.’
Jones went slowly down the stairs, breathing out as if he had held in his breath for ages. He hoped that the risks he had taken would not come back to haunt him. The library door remained closed. Pryor was waiting with Jones’s hat, which he took his time to put on and buttoning his coat slowly. There was no sound from upstairs.
Pryor offered no word until they reached the steamboat. Jones led him to a quiet place by the rails and they watched as the steamer manoeuvred its way into the current. The river was leaden grey with a blank sky above, but Pryor breathed in the cold air and breathed out like a man released from confinement.
At last he spoke. ‘You are sure it is Miss Pout.’
‘Yes, she was murdered — strangled.’
‘Like poor Jemima.’
‘It is similar, but I don’t want to go into detail at this stage. However, I must tell you so that you have no fear of any deception that Mr Dickens has told me of your conversation. You may trust him not to reveal it to anyone else.’
‘I do — there is something about him that gives you confidence. He was kind to me. He listened.’
‘He does. And you need not fear that your place at Wisteria Lodge will be jeopardised. I made no mention to Sir Neptune of your visit to Mr Dickens.’
‘I shall not worry, Mr Jones; I doubt I’ll stay there much longer — my fancy dress is beginning to feel too tight. I have savings — and ambitions.’
‘I will confess to one deception. You do not need to identify Miss Pout. Mr Dickens has done that already.’
‘I’m glad of that, sir, I shouldn’t like to see her.’
‘Sir Neptune pointed me in the direction of Mr Sabatini — for both murders.’
Pryor smiled ironically. ‘I doubt that, Mr Jones, he was a nice young fellow — wouldn’t hurt a fly. The romantic sort — very fond of Miss Mariana, he was. He shouldn’t have left her, though — that was cowardly. To my mind, at any rate. I think Lady Fane must have found out. I suppose he was scared of Sir Neptune.’
‘And you thought Sir Neptune and Miss Pout had an affair.’
‘It was my impression — I can’t say for certain, but you get a feeling about folk. Miss Pout was the sly sort. She’d get what she wanted, and Sir Neptune — well, Lady Fane is always ill. They have separate rooms — if you take my meaning. Sir Neptune has no time for his wife — I sometimes thought he wouldn’t be sorry if she died. She is never well. And now — I don’t know if she will recover.’
‘It wasn’t his habit to dally with the maids?’
‘Oh, no, Mr Jones, nothing like that — beneath his dignity, I should think, but Miss Pout — who’d know?’
‘Only someone with very sharp eyes.’
Pryor grinned. ‘It was the way she looked at him — when he wasn’t looking — greedy and calculating, and sometimes like the cat’d got the cream. He watched her, too.’
‘Would she spill the beans about Sir Neptune — a spot of blackmail, perhaps after she left?’
‘Sir Neptune had a letter two days ago. I handed him the letters before he went out — on the salver. It is his habit to skim through them and take the important ones with him. One seemed to disturb him. He usually handed Lady Fane’s letters for Mrs Pick to take up — I’d noticed her name on one envelope. She didn’t get many, but he didn’t say anything, just dismissed me. He looked angry.’
‘You didn’t recognise the handwriting?’
‘No, I only saw the word “Lady” and handed over the lot.’
‘Pity — it might have helped. Still, the idea of a letter that angered him makes me wonder.’
Pryor looked out at the river. They were out of Lambeth Reach and had passed under Vauxhall Bridge and the huge fortress that was the Penitentiary House. Then they were approaching Westminster Bridge just by the Houses of Parliament. Pryor stared at the great palace. The wind got up, a brisk chill wind that pierced the very bones.
At last Pryor turned his raw face to the policeman. ‘Sir Neptune’s an important man in the Conservative party — he’s at the centre of things. Lord Derby comes to Wisteria Lodge, Mr Disraeli, and others. You hear things. They seem to think that there’ll be a Conservative government soon e
nough. Sir Neptune has a lot to lose.’
‘About Miss Mariana?’
‘You know, sir, don’t you? You’ve pieced it together.’
‘I have — and Miss Fane’s illness adds to Sir Neptune’s troubles.’
‘Miss Pout knew all about Miss Mariana and Mr Sabatini — encouraged it, I reckon.’
‘Why, do you think?’
‘Gave her power — Miss Mariana was very dependent on Miss Pout — Lady Fane kept to her room. It was as if —’ Pryor thought about it — ‘as if Miss Pout wanted to worm her way into being the centre of things. She’d think she had power over Sir Neptune. She’d think what if Lady Fane was to die, she’d be the new one. But why she left I can’t really tell. I mean Mr Sabatini would have been blamed for Miss Mariana losing her mind…’ His honest face looked genuinely puzzled. Jones thought that he did not know about the pregnancy. He wasn’t going to tell him — for the poor girl’s sake. It might well come out — but not from him.
‘Did you ever hear of Miss Mariana having her portrait done?’ Jones asked.
‘No, sir.’
‘Where did Miss Pout and Miss Mariana go on their outings?’
‘Shopping, the zoo, walks in the park — ordinary things.’
‘Did Mr Sabatini go with them?’
‘To the park or the zoo sometimes with the other children and the children’s nurse. I suppose he could have met her at other times secretly. I doubt that Miss Mariana would want to something underhand, but Miss Pout might have arranged it. She could have persuaded her.’
The steamer arrived at Waterloo Bridge and they disembarked to stand on the pier.
‘Was Sir Neptune at home last night?’
‘I can’t say, Mr Jones. He always came and went as he pleased, especially when the House was sitting. Sometimes he would be away all night, or for days. He had his own life. We were used to it. I wasn’t expected to sit up.’
‘Where did he stay?’
‘He had rooms at the Albany. Mr Jones —’
‘Yes?’
‘Do you really think that Sir Neptune — I mean —’
‘I know what you mean, and I don’t know. I have to consider it. You said yourself, he has much to lose. He is an important man on the brink of great power, perhaps. Murder has been done for less.’
‘What shall I do?’
‘Carry on as normal.’
‘And if I find out anything more?’
‘You can come to me, or to Mr Dickens, wherever your conscience directs you. Now, you can go back to Chelsea whenever you feel the time is appropriate.’ Jones smiled at him. ‘I am obliged for your time and your thoughts.’
They parted. Jones went back to Bow Street to ponder on what he had discovered: whether one or two murders had been done by a powerful man upon whose face he had read signs of great disquiet, and whether Dickens’s golden-haired girls had been murdered by quite another. Dickens had read signs in that red sky over the New Reservoir. Which were true?
No use, he thought, looking for portents in today’s blank winter sky. He had a visit to make to the Albany in Piccadilly where wealthy men kept rooms.
26: Ace of Hearts
Anne Brown had gone to her room to rest. Catherine would look after her. On their way to Violet’s home, Anne had told Dickens a good deal about Mrs Pout and her married life.
It had been a most painful interview with Mrs Pout, her son and daughter-in-law. Thank goodness they had been present, and Anne. Poor Mrs Pout had been stunned — all her dreams, her ambitions, her foolish plans for the daughter she had loved collapsed. The daughter who was to have the life she had been denied when she had stood at the counter of the grocer’s shop in her neat apron after she had accepted the clumsy advances of the forty year old Herbert Pout who had hardly believed his good fortune. That pretty Abigail Carter had accepted him had seemed a kind of miracle. Not that Herbert Pout’s mother thought so. ‘Too young,’ old Mrs Alice Pout had declared, ‘too flighty’, but he had persisted.
And he had sometimes repented his stubbornness — Abigail Pout could be sulky and sharp-tongued. He never knew what she wanted, but James, his son, was like him, a steady fellow, good-hearted and loyal. And his little daughter, come much later, had delighted him. Violet — Abigail Pout had dreamed of violets before the child was born, violets which foretold complete success in all undertakings. Herbert Pout did not believe in such stuff, but just like a flower the little girl was with her mother’s fair hair, only more like silver. Angel’s hair, he had told her. She could have anything she wanted, her little face and blue eyes lighting up at each new toy, each new ribbon, each new dress, or shawl, or scented gloves.
‘She must go to a good school,’ Abigail had argued, ‘she is exceptional, she must do more than serve in a grocer’s shop.’ Herbert had felt wounded at her disdainful tone — the grocer’s shops had bought her finery, but he had agreed. Violet wanted to be a lady — so it must be, but he feared that he would lose his pretty child. She would be too high for them. Not that Abigail saw that. She would rise with her daughter. It was fortunate that Herbert Pout was dead before he lost her entirely.
When Dickens and Anne Brown were shown in, Mrs Pout was seated in the parlour where she had dreamed her dreams and where she and Violet had devoured The Ladies’ Oracle and consulted the cards which lay on the table now. Perhaps she had hoped for a sign. She had turned up the Ace of Hearts — portending good tidings — and the hope that had sprung up, died down when Dickens broke the news. In the parlour where her husband had dropped dead of a stroke — she hadn’t seen that coming — Abigail Pout wondered repeatedly: Did Sir Neptune know? What had he said?
Dickens said he did not know, but that he was sure that they would lament Violet’s death. He did so, too, and Anne.
‘But, Sir Neptune — surely he would want to see her, to condole with her, to mourn the death of the lovely governess. Surely, Sir Neptune had admired Violet; surely Lady Fane had known that Violet was exceptional…’
I hope not, thought Dickens uncharitably, but he murmured agreement.
James Pout had interrupted. He wanted to know what Violet was doing in Clerkenwell. Had his sister lived there with Rolando Sabatini? No, his mother had cried. She had never believed that Violet would run away with a music teacher. It was a mistake — Violet so foolish as to ruin herself — never! She hadn’t seemed to take in the idea of murder.
Dickens told them that he had no idea — he knew only what the Superintendent had told him. He had made very discreet enquiries of the Superintendent whom he knew quite well. He had thought that he and Anne should break the news. He was profoundly sorry, but it was a matter for the police now.
The young Mrs Caroline Pout, a plump pretty woman, tried ineffectually to stop the tide of incoherence with some gentle patting and shushing murmurs, but Abigail Pout shook her off petulantly.
‘Sir Neptune and Lady Fane would bring their own carriage to the funeral, wouldn’t they? They could hardly travel in the mourning coaches — there must be mutes and plumes. Caroline would have to see about the mourning dresses. Silk, they would be. She would like a lock of Violet’s hair. Never was there such beautiful hair — almost silver. Angel’s hair, her father had said.’ Here, Mrs Pout burst into tears.
Caroline was quick with the smelling salts. She looked helplessly at Dickens and Anne.
Dickens thought of the silver hair pushed back from the dead face, and the swollen tongue. He felt deeply sorry for the foolish woman — the reality would crush her when she finally understood it.
James Pout had accompanied them to the shop door. ‘Don’t mind her,’ he said, ‘it’s the shock. I’m shocked myself — I can hardly understand it.’
‘I’ll come back soon to sit with her,’ Anne offered.
‘When will the inquest be?’ James Pout asked.
‘There will be one this afternoon,’ Dickens replied, ‘but it will be adjourned. Inspector Shackell, who was at the scene, will tell the magistrate
that he and Superintendent Jones are making further enquiries.’
‘I can’t understand it. Who would — I mean — this man you said she was living with — who —’
‘I cannot say, Mr Pout. I can only say that the Superintendent is pursuing his enquiries. I am very sorry.’
‘I should like to see her … she was a takin’ little thing when she was an infant, seven years younger than me. Could get me to do anything…’ His eyes filled at the memory of the little fairy thing he had loved. ‘My father loved her. I must do it for him.’
Dickens offered to go with him to the mortuary at King’s College Hospital, but James Pout declined.
‘I am much obliged for what you have done already, Mr Dickens. It was good of you and Anne to come, but I’ll go alone to do this. It is what’s fitting.’
They left him, moved more by a good man’s memory than by the mother’s tears.
Anne Brown was very quiet in the cab. Dickens waited patiently. At length she spoke, ‘She was a silly girl, I know, and vain of her prettiness. Her mother’s doing, but she might have grown out of it. Except she hadn’t time. It is cruel — for all of them.’
She had wept then, and Dickens took her gloved hand in his and held onto it until they came along the New Road and near to Devonshire Terrace. She turned to him. ‘You know more, sir, I think.’
‘Not much, my dear Anne. I can only say that I do not believe that Violet went away with Mr Sabatini — I think she was involved with someone else, but I do not know who.’
‘And that person killed her?’
‘It could be, but Anne, be assured, Mr Jones will find him.’
27: Knave of Spades
Clerkenwell again. Dickens would take Scrap. He needed company — Scrap, whose trenchant observations always cheered him up. Scrap who had had nothing until Dickens had come across him in the stationery shop, and Sam Jones and Elizabeth had taken under their wing. Scrap, whose heart was as true as steel.