At Midnight in Venice

by J C Briggs

  ‘Then be honest with her.’

  ‘I will.’ Dickens looked up at Jones and saw that he was smiling. He felt the tears start to his eyes, but he mastered himself and said, ‘Old’un — uncommonly wise, that’s wot you are.’

  Jones laughed. ‘Wisdom of age, is it? Now, get on and make your appointment.’

  Dickens went to Wellington Street. Harry Wills gave him his letters which he determined to go through methodically. He needed to steady himself before he wrote his note to Dolly Marchant. In going to see her about Violet Pout and Rolando Sabatini, he had only been enacting his obligation to Anne Brown. However, once Jemima Curd had been murdered and he had willingly involved himself in that, he had been going to see a potential witness. A beautiful woman in a candle lit room had dazzled his eyes. Dick Swiveller, indeed.

  The letters and the pressing business of Household Words completed, he began his note to Dolly Marchant. He did not want merely to ask if she would see him. That might — it would deceive her. He must prepare her, tell her that Violet Pout was dead, and that the police needed to find Rolando.

  I know you will understand my concern in the matter

  His pen made a blot. What an inky business this is, he thought, watching the blot soak into his words and spread. Here I am, temporising already, using my obligation to Anne to inveigle my way into her house. He wiped his pen and took another sheet of paper.

  I am most sorry to tell you that Miss Pout is dead. The police need to find Rolando. Of course, I do not believe he killed her — she was living with an artist in Clerkenwell, but Rolando is an important witness. The artist must be found and Rolando may remember something. I am closely acquainted with Superintendent Jones of Bow Street, who is in charge of this case, and the case of Jemima Curd. He would come to see you, but I have offered in his stead and wonder if you can tell me about any friends of Rolando’s, or

  He stopped again. He was going to write “of your son’s”, but it seemed blundering and insensitive. He remembered her tears when she had told him that she did not know if she would ever recover him. He wrote “of yours”, finished it with the usual politenesses, signed it, found an envelope and a boy to take the letter to the post, and sat down at his desk again.

  29: Behind Bars

  Dickens walked into Regent’s Park from York Terrace. He had made no mention of a visit to the zoo at home. There would have been cries of delight — everyone would want to come. And then there would have been yells of disappointment. Going to the zoo and no one allowed to go with him. What a sell.

  He went along the Broad Walk towards the north of the park where Mrs Marchant had asked him to meet her at the zoo. Her note had come in the morning, saying she would meet him at two o’clock. An odd choice, the zoo, he had thought, but he understood that a meeting in her house would be too intimate. The murder of Violet Pout and the reference to the police would have changed everything.

  He waited by the entrance, looking towards the Albany Gate entrance through which she would come from Lodge Road. There was no sign of her. Perhaps she would not come. Perhaps she regretted her confidences. People often did. They would tell you something secret about themselves; something of which they were ashamed; something that ate at them, and which found relief in confession. But you were not a priest. You were an ordinary mortal whom they would surely meet again at a dinner or the theatre. And when you saw them again they avoided you, even though you had made that sacred promise.

  That dangerous promise. Dickens thought of Jones’s words about necessary betrayal. Not that he had promised not to tell about her son and his father. But he knew that that kiss had been the sign and seal of an unspoken promise. He had kissed her again and again, and they had sat together as close as lovers. He had betrayed her.

  The temptation was to run from the place. But he must wait. And if she did not come then Jones must see her. He would write to warn her — he would give her another chance to tell him if she knew any more about Rolando Sabatini.

  Perhaps she was here, watching him as he watched for her, wondering if she could trust him. He remembered how she had spied on him at Osnaburgh Terrace. For whom had she been waiting then — in secret, in the dark? She had not explained. Sir Neptune? It was Mrs Sabatini’s house. Had she expected Rolando? But she had said she did not know where he was — she would not have lied to him — surely not. It was an uncomfortable thought.

  Dickens looked across the park and saw her. She walked slowly as if she were reluctant. He went nearer so that she would see him. She came towards him. Her face was pale under her dark green bonnet, very pale against the black trimming and ribbons, but there was softening fur at the collar of her dark green cape. She looked weary and fragile, but to him she was still beautiful. He made to take her arm, but she moved away and walked stiffly as they went into the zoo.

  They walked in silence until they reached an enclosure where Dolly Marchant stopped. Obaysch, the hippopotamus was one of Dickens’s favourites. He had watched him often, writing about him in Household Words as an easy, basking, jolly fellow, guzzling his milk and dates with complaisant pleasure — all five hundred pounds of him. But today, even Obaysch had a despondent look about him. He looked at his pool gloomily. Dickens could have sworn that he shivered. He went back to his bed.

  Dolly Marchant looked at Dickens. ‘Do the police suspect Rolando of these murders?’

  ‘No, truly, I do not believe it, but the Superintendent knows that Rolando is connected to all the people involved.’ Dickens told her about what they had found at Amwell Street. ‘Rolando is the one who mentioned an artist to St George Pierce. He said that Mariana was having her portrait painted. Superintendent Jones needs to know if Rolando can tell him the name.’

  ‘I know about Mariana — that she is with child. Sir Neptune told me. He blames Rolando.’

  ‘Is that why Rolando ran away, do you think? He found out about Mariana and was too afraid to confess?’

  ‘It is so out of character — I cannot believe that he would be so heartless as to abandon her … but, Sir Neptune —’

  ‘Is a formidable enemy.’

  She didn’t answer, but stood gazing through the bars. ‘Poor prisoners. Bars to keep them in. Poor Mariana in her moated grange. Sir Neptune described her madness. I understood his rage. Rolando is very young — and foolish because he is young.’

  ‘He must be very afraid. What will Sir Neptune do?’

  ‘Flog him, he said. That is what he came to see me about. He thinks I know where Rolando is. I do not. I told him. He does not believe me — for all that is between us.’

  He noticed how she rubbed at her wrist under her glove and how she winced. ‘What did he do to you?’

  ‘Nothing that he has not done before.’ Her voice was hard. ‘He has cruel streak and he will punish Rolando. He threatens to expose him as the vile seducer of an innocent child. The hypocrisy of it.’

  Dickens wondered if she had an inkling about Sir Neptune and Violet Pout, but he did not ask. He said, ‘Even if it exposes his own daughter?’

  ‘If he thinks it is to his advantage. Mariana is lost — what further harm can be done to her? There would be sympathy for Sir Neptune and now Lady Fane is very ill. I doubt she will recover. Sir Neptune would be the tragic figure. His party would stand by him.’

  ‘Then we must find this artist.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘The Superintendent — I have said I will help him. And you can help by telling me of Rolando’s friends, of anyone who might know where he is.’

  ‘You mean my son? Does the Superintendent know about him?’

  ‘When Violet Pout was found, I had to tell him. Two murders have been committed.’

  There was another silence and they walked on and stopped at the cage of the tawny lioness. Another prisoner. Dolly Marchant looked at her.

  ‘I suppose murder leaves everyone connected to it exposed to the world’s cold gaze. I don’t care for myself, but my son — he does not deserve —
’

  ‘The Superintendent will not expose your secret. He just wants to find Rolando. He is a good man, Dolly.’

  At the use of her name, she looked at him full in the face for the first time. ‘I do not know where my son is — I would tell you if I did, and I would tell you if I knew where Rolando is. I have not lied to you, Mr Dickens — about anything.’

  He felt his name as a blow. She believed he had lied to her, that he had deceived her. He had not meant to. He wanted to say that he had fallen for her, that he had been dazzled by her, that he was not like Sir Neptune Fane, but it was too late. She had turned away, closed to him.

  They walked back towards the hippopotamus. She stopped and looked about her. ‘I saw them — Rolando and Mariana — just about here. Last summer, in June, I think. The children were looking at the hippopotamus splashing about. They were with Miss Bedwin, the nurse. Rolando and Mariana were strolling on. Rolando saw me and came to meet me. I noticed a man go up to Mariana and Miss Pout who was tying the ribbons to Mariana’s bonnet which had slipped off. Miss Pout seemed to know him. They stood for a few moments then Mariana came up to me and Rolando. They looked happy — I should have known then.’

  ‘What about Miss Pout?’

  ‘I left Mariana and Rolando with the children. I was going home to — I overtook them on the path, deep in conversation.’

  ‘Can you remember anything about him?’

  ‘Not much — I remembered thinking if she had a lover and what Sir Neptune would say about that, but it wasn’t my business. His head was turned away from me —’ Dolly Marchant looked along the path, thinking about what she had seen — ‘I just had an impression of a tall, man in a light-coloured coat and straw hat and he — he was carrying a book —’ she turned to look at him again — ‘I see it now — a sketch book, the kind of book that my brother-in-law used. He is the artist.’

  ‘I think he must be. Thank you.’

  She gave him a half smile. ‘I am sorry I did not find out his name.’

  ‘Will you tell me of any of Rolando’s friends?’

  ‘I will think of any names and write to you. Your policeman should be able to find them. Now, I must go. It is too cold to stand about.’

  ‘Shall I walk with you?’

  ‘No. We should part here, I think.’

  She gave him her hand and he held it. ‘I am sorry.’ It was all he could think of to say.

  ‘So am I. I shall not forget our supper by the fire.’ She drew away her hand and walked away. He let her go.

  But the tender grace of a day that is dead/ Will never come back to me… Tennyson’s lines came to Dickens as he watched her walk across the park, her figure diminishing to a shadow, and at last disappearing.

  Dickens went home to eat a solitary lunch and to pick up any letters. He sat by the fire in his study. The house was quiet. Nothing had been gained from his meeting — just a vague description of a man in a straw hat. But so much had been lost, he thought. She had not lied to him. His was the sin of omission. Too many secrets.

  Absently, he glanced at his letters. He recognised his brother, Fred’s writing. It would be a plea for money, he supposed. Fred was like his father — a fool with money. Neither a borrower nor a lender be, so said Polonius. Fred was an inveterate borrower — usually from his brother. Dickens felt an urge to throw them all in the fire. Another lot of letters begging him to do something for each supplicant: to provide a greatcoat to go to India in; a pair of boots to take him to China; a hat to get him a situation in a government office; to give a pound to set him up for life; to save his wife’s life, his children’s lives — the penman blushes with shame at their destitution which seven and six, or better, a half-sovereign — dare he say a sovereign — called for tonight, will instantly alleviate. A man had asked him for a donkey once — he had been entreated to leave it at the gate for the man to call for. He had not at the time had a donkey about him.

  He set aside Fred’s letter and opened the next and his heart skipped a beat. It was from Francis Pryor:

  Mr Sabatini wanted to see Sir Neptune. He said he wanted to confess, that he had things to tell him about Miss Pout. He knows she is dead. I told him that it was impossible, that Lady Fane is very ill, and that Miss Mariana is away in the country. It was not my place to tell him anymore, but I told him of your interest in Miss Pout and that it was his duty to see you and reveal any information he might have. I told him that the police have been here.

  I hope I did right, Mr Dickens. I did feel for him for he was very distressed. He looked quite wild and I was worried, but when I watched him go away, I saw another fellow who seemed to look after him. I did not tell Sir Neptune of his visit…

  30: Old News

  ‘There’s a deal o’ cases where the woman — or girl — was never identified,’ Rogers told Jones. ‘They’d been advertised for but no one came forward. Inspector Shackell remembered a girl pulled from the New River back in ’47. She was never identified, but I went to see the man who found her. Shackell said I’d find him at The Three Kings. That’s where the inquest was. Toby Jeddler, he’s called, known as Jug. He remembered — after a bit o’ promptin’ in the form of a glass or two. He remembered because he found an umbrella nearby with the initials “A.M.”. But no one claimed it, or the poor girl. Jug said there was gossip that she’d been an actress or dancer at Sadler’s Wells, but that came to nothin’.’

  ‘Any signs of violence?’ asked Jones.

  ‘Well, the surgeon — not Bennett, by the way — testified that there were marks on her neck which might have been made by her bonnet strings which were tied tight round her neck — because o’ the water.’

  ‘Now that is interesting —’ Dickens came in, looking as though he had news.

  ‘Been anywhere exciting?’ asked Jones.

  ‘The zoo to see the hippo in the company of a lady — both equally charming.’

  ‘Good. Tell us about it in a bit. Alf and I have been delving into old cases.’

  ‘Drownings?’

  ‘Yes, it was something Ned Orrey said about a drowning before Jemima Curd’s. It made me think. Alf’s been up to Clerkenwell looking into a case which happened in 1847.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘The victim was never identified, but the surgeon testified that marks round her neck could have been made by her bonnet strings —’

  ‘Which were pulled tight round her neck,’ put in Rogers. ‘She’d been in the water too long for him to say more. The verdict was the usual one: Found Drowned.’

  ‘Alf traced the man who found her, Toby Jeddler, known as Jug —’

  ‘Ears?’ asked Dickens.

  Rogers grinned. ‘Drink — as I found out.’

  Jones continued, ‘He said gossip went that she was an actress or dancer at Sadler’s Wells.’

  ‘Could this Jug describe her?’ asked Dickens.

  ‘No — too much damage.’

  ‘Sadler’s Wells — no one knew more?’

  ‘No one came forward,’ said Rogers.

  ‘I wonder — artists, scene painters — makes you think.’

  Jones agreed, ‘It does, and there was an umbrella found with the initials “A.M.” — might be a lead, but after all this time…’

  ‘There’s another one, sir, I was about to say,’ Rogers added. ‘It’s a rum one, this is. Happened in ’48. A woman called Emma Golightly who’d been in the Female Penitentiary, convicted of robbery. A Mr Williams who believed she’d reformed found her a new situation, but she disappeared with another lot o’ stuff, and that was it until she was identified as drowned in the New River, but —’

  ‘The drowned girl wasn’t her, I take it?’ Jones asked.

  ‘Right, sir,’ Rogers replied, ‘she turned up a year later — someone recognised her and she went back to prison. O’ course no one could tell anything about the girl that was buried under the name of Emma Golightly.’

  ‘No one reported any missing girl?’ asked Dickens.

/>   ‘Not at the time — an’ a year later it was too late,’ Rogers replied. ‘No way of knowing who she was.’

  ‘It’s a dreadful thing,’ said Dickens, ‘these poor girls — no one to care a straw for them.’

  ‘Well, I did find some people who cared,’ Jones replied, ‘but not in Clerkenwell. An unidentified girl was found drowned up at the Barrow Hill Reservoir in 1846 — ’

  ‘Strangled?’ Dickens asked.

  ‘Same as the Sadlers Wells girl — bruising on the neck, possibly from the drag they used to pull her out, but the doctor at the inquest said that death was by drowning. And there are other things about this case which are very significant. It’s all written here, Alf. You read it while I take Mr Dickens to meet a Reverend Harvest at Willesden. His believes that a girl pulled out of the reservoir on Barrow Hill was his daughter —’ Jones counted on his fingers — ‘45, 46, 47, 48 —’

  ‘1844 — Ferrara and Venice.’

  31: A Lilac Gown

  Dickens and Jones took the train from Euston. It would take them to Willesden, which was still a relatively quiet rural village. The Reverend Archer Harvest was Vicar of the Church of St. Mary’s.

  Dickens told Jones about his meeting with Dolly Marchant when they were in the train, and gave him Pryor’s letter.

  ‘I honestly don’t believe that Mrs Marchant knows where Rolando is, even though he turned up at Sir Neptune’s house.’

  Jones looked at the letter. ‘Pryor says the lad wanted to confess.’

  ‘The relationship with Mariana, rather than murder, I think. If he loved her as much as Mrs Marchant told me, his desertion would weigh on him. No wonder he was wild and distressed.’

  ‘And someone was with him who didn’t go up to the house. Mrs Marchant’s son?’

  ‘I did think of that. Pryor didn’t see who it was. I’ll just have to hope that Rolando does come to me. He might since he obviously knows about Violet. It was in the papers.’