by J C Briggs
‘Inquest adjourned — like Jemima’s. The police seeking further evidence as to the family and friends of the deceased. Shackell knows the magistrate at Clerkenwell so it gives us some time. By the way, Pryor didn’t know if Sir Neptune was at home on the night of Violet’s murder — he comes and goes as he pleases — and he wasn’t at his apartment in the Albany. I checked. I still have my doubts about him. Pryor told me that he had received a letter which angered him. He thinks it was addressed to Lady Fane, but he kept it.’
‘Violet Pout? Spot of blackmail, do you think?’
‘I did wonder — blackmail’s a dangerous game. Sir Neptune has a lot to lose.’
‘So he does.’ Dickens thought about Dolly Marchant’s arm. ‘I had the impression from Mrs Marchant that Sir Neptune … might be … capable of violence.’
Jones heard the hesitations — another betrayal? He did not ask for more, but he thought of violence against a woman. ‘I thought the same — that he was a man capable of rage. You said that you thought Lady Fane was frightened of him.’
‘I did — I thought it was about Violet Pout and Mariana, that she was frightened to speak of some possible scandal, but when I thought back, she seemed frightened when she came in — before she knew what I was at Wisteria Lodge for. Of course, they knew about Mariana’s pregnancy by then. I wonder if he had raged at his wife, blamed her for not keeping her eyes on her daughter.’
‘Plausible, but without any evidence against him…’
‘What about the Reverend Harvest?’
‘I’ll give you an outline — I hope to get more information from Harvest. In August 1846, he applied to the magistrate at Marylebone to have a body exhumed — the body of an unidentified girl found drowned in June in the reservoir on Barrow Hill —’
‘A stone’s throw from Regent’s Park where Violet Pout and Mariana Fane met a young man with a sketch book.’
‘Quite so. The verdict was the usual “found drowned”, and she was buried by the parish. The Reverend Harvest had reason to believe it was his daughter, Susan. Inspector Maxwell of Marylebone told me the story. The mention of the bruising on the neck and the other details were significant enough to lead me to write to the Reverend Harvest and make an appointment.’
‘A clergyman’s daughter.’
‘There’s more. She was companion to an old lady, Mrs Emmeline Danby, living in Charles Lane, St John’s Wood.’
‘Like Flora Lambert!’
‘Just so — whose aunt and uncle live in Hamilton Terrace and who was killed we believe in 1845.’
‘But not necessarily the first.’
Jones looked at him gravely, ‘Nor the last. That’s what frightens me.’
‘1850 — he failed with Mariana. He killed Jemima.’
‘Not Violet Pout then.’
‘Her hair was a very different colour. I wonder about Susan Harvest’s hair.’
‘We’ll ask. This artist, he must have lived in the vicinity of the park. The old lady, Mrs Danby, died and Susan Harvest disappeared. She was still writing home, supposedly from Charles Lane, after Mrs Danby’s death when she was supposed to have gone home. Now, I am hoping that Reverend Harvest can tell us more about his daughter’s life at Charles Lane and what was in those letters.’
The Reverend Archer Harvest was a widower whose sister lived with him to look after his children, the eldest of whom had been Susan. He was a tall, spare man with a pale, narrow face and the stooped shoulders and vague eyes of the scholar behind his spectacles. It was the face of a good man, but a man who had passed through a terrible strait, the record of which had never faded. Anguish might have been his name.
They went into his study and when the door closed sounds of voices became muted and then ceased. The Reverend Harvest bade them sit down. Jones introduced himself and Mr Charles Dickens, whose interest in Susan’s disappearance had to do with the disappearance of the daughter of a friend who was also found drowned. Mr Harvest expressed his pleasure at meeting Mr Dickens, whose works he had read, of course, and with great pleasure. David Copperfield was his favourite — his own childhood had been blighted by the loss of his mother and his adoption by a stern uncle.
‘My wife and I wanted a loving home for our children, Mr Dickens — a home in which warmth and safety would be theirs, and from which they could go to fulfilling and worthy lives. Had my wife lived, she would not — that is — our dearest Susan would not have wanted —’ His face was drawn and he looked away from them at a picture on his desk.
Dickens saw how the death of the cherished child was still a raw wound — and in such circumstances. Lost and found drowned. How would a father bear that?
Harvest recovered himself and turned to Jones. ‘You wish to know more about Susan — it will help in your enquiries?’
‘I hope so, sir. I am investigating several cases of girls who were drowned and unidentified — Mr Dickens’s friend’s daughter had some connection, I think, with St John’s Wood, and so did another girl.’
‘I do not know what happened to my daughter, Superintendent. But you seem to think that her death may be linked to the other girls?’
‘I do. Is it possible for you to tell us about Susan?’
‘I pray for her every day — I trust that whatever wrong she did, our blessed saviour will forgive her. Your Little Em’ly was forgiven by the good Daniel Peggotty, was she not, Mr Dickens? Foolish, girlish dreams led to Susan’s ruin. I think she may have been involved with a young man. Your writing showed the feeling of your heart for that lost girl. How I thought of my dear Susan when I read of poor Martha and her desire for the forgetful waters of the river — but Susan did not kill herself, I feel certain, though that question was raised at the inquest.’
‘She was led astray, you think, by a designing man?’
‘I had better begin at the beginning so that you will understand her more thoroughly — if you will permit me, Superintendent. You need to know her innocence.’
‘We will listen, Reverend Harvest, to whatever you wish to tell us. We are very sorry.’
‘Susan was thirteen when her mother died, and for the next three years she became a mother to the younger ones — my boy, Cecil, was just one year old. I had five daughters, the youngest, Grace, was three. By the time Susan was sixteen, my widowed sister came to live with us. Susan was to go to school in London — my sister felt it was time she had some enjoyment from her responsibilities and was willing to pay her fees. She made a friend at the school, the daughter of a wealthy man living in Belgrave Square. He invited Susan to accompany the family to Italy at the end of their schooldays — in 1844 when they were eighteen. As you can imagine, it was an opportunity we had never thought — for any of our children.’
Italy, Dickens thought, but he did not look at Jones. They waited while a young girl brought in some tea. Reverend Harvest introduced her as Anna. She was a very pretty girl with a grave, silent face, dressed in grey with a neat lace collar. Her reddish-gold hair was gathered in a heavy knot at her neck.
When she had gone out, Reverend Harvest continued, ‘Anna is sixteen — the same age as Susan when she went to school. She is content to stay with her aunt and me, and her younger sister. I am glad to say. Her older sisters are married. My son is at school.’
‘She is like Susan?’ Dickens ventured.
‘She is — and I am glad. I see Susan as she was — not as she became. She wrote many letters from Italy — of her visits to all the famous places, Florence, Bologna, Venice, of course, and the interesting people she met. The letters were full of excitement — of visits to artists’ studios, galleries, theatres, but…’
‘There was some anxiety about her?’
‘Only that I feared that the company of wealthy people and the luxury, and the dizzying pleasure, might be too much of a contrast to our quietness here. What was she to do when she returned? I had thought governess or teacher, but, Mr Dickens, your Ruth Pinch did not have an easy time with her manufacturing employer. I
worried that she might find it lonely, but when Susan returned home, another opportunity presented itself. Susan was restless — she missed her friend, Miss Masters, and she wanted — she knew not what. An old parishioner of mine, Mr Octavius Nash, had an elderly cousin, Mrs Danby, who needed a companion. Susan was delighted. She would be in London — I think she thought to renew her friendship with the Masters family. My sister and I agreed. Mr Nash took her and all seemed well.’
‘She wrote of her life in London?’
‘She wrote regularly to me and to her sisters. She seemed content at first. Mrs Danby was a timid, gentle and undemanding lady. Susan pushed the wheeled chair into the park; the spring was fine and they visited the zoo and sometimes Susan was allowed to go shopping with Mr Nash’s wife. Susan sent us her sketches of the animals in the zoo and the plants in the Botanic Garden. But when winter came, into her letters crept a note of dissatisfaction. She had written to Miss Masters in Belgrave Square and had hoped to meet her, but nothing came of it. There were fewer outings, more reading to Mrs Danby and long hours alone. Susan came home for Christmas. She seemed unhappy —’
‘She did not say why?’
‘Only that she wanted to stay at home — perhaps try to be a governess, perhaps in the future. However, she agreed to go back so that Mr Nash had time to find another companion. Oh, that I had kept her, Mr Dickens — her sisters wanted — but I was conscious of an obligation to Mr Nash. In the New Year — 1846 — her letters appeared more cheerful. She had found a friend — a lady with whom she spent some time — Isabella, she called her. They walked in the park, made some visits to friends.’
‘No other name?’ asked Jones.
‘I am afraid not. Her letters became infrequent. Anna wrote to her asking for news, and so did I. She was very sorry, she wrote back, but she had been occupied — Mrs Danby had been unwell, but now the spring had come, she was much improved. Then the letter came from Mr Nash to announce Mrs Danby’s death. He bade me to tell Susan that Mrs Danby had remembered her in her will —’
‘He thought Susan had been at home?’
‘Yes, she had gone back after Christmas, but after about two months — in March — Susan had expressed her wish to come home and told Mr Nash that I had sanctioned this. Susan left with a present of money and Mr Nash found a new companion. He was surprised and offended when I did not write to him, but thought that I was embarrassed by Susan’s desertion. I went to London and told my story. He and I tried to trace Susan and the mysterious Isabella and then after months of searching, in August, Mr Nash received an anonymous letter — I have it —’
They waited. Reverend Harvest took it out of a drawer in his desk and handed it to Jones. It was an uneducated hand and the paper was the torn off sheet of a thick piece of paper. The printed words read: look inter the inqwest on a pore girl taken from the barrer reserver in er lilac dress in june it wos
Dickens felt the paper — it wasn’t letter writing paper. It was the thick, ridged paper that an artist might use. Torn from a sketch book. He did not say anything.
The Reverend Harvest sat down again. ‘Mr Nash went immediately to the police at Marylebone and found that a girl had been taken from the reservoir in June and no one had claimed her. He sent for me. My sister and I went to the police. A piece of cloth taken from the dress had been preserved. My sister knew it — she had made the lilac dress for Susan’s trip to Italy. When Susan came back, the hem of the dress was torn. My sister repaired it, but the thread she used was a darker colour — she knew it, Superintendent Jones, and she knew that the white straw bonnet found with the girl with its pink and white ribbons was Susan’s, too. She and Susan had trimmed that bonnet together.
‘Mr Nash and I went to the magistrate to ask that the body be exhumed. He said I must apply to the coroner and the parish authorities — if they felt that the evidence was substantial, they could direct the body to be exhumed.’
‘But you did not do that,’ Jones said.
‘There was so much horror attached to such practices at the time. There was that dreadful affair of the murderer, Jonathan Balls, who had poisoned so many of his family, his own children. The papers were full of the hideous details — it was unbearable, and to think of my poor girl — ’
Of course they knew the case. Jonathan Balls, a grandfather of eighty-one, had committed suicide. His own daughter had reported him. Eleven exhumations had been carried out. The Home Secretary had reported to the House of Commons that Balls could have killed twenty members of his own family. All the grisly details of the exhumations had been in the papers. No wonder Reverend Harvest had shrunk from the idea.
‘And then I thought what if it were not my daughter — some other’s daughter, whose sleep I would disturb — those poor remains to be profaned by the hands of strangers. I found I could not —’ Mr Harvest looked at the picture again. They waited for him to recover his composure — ‘Mr Nash spoke against it, too, for the sake of my other children. He advised me to let it rest. Perhaps some other evidence would come to light, he said, and he would continue to make enquiries. There was nothing more — except…’
Reverend Harvest took off his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes.
‘My curate spoke to me about Susan after he knew that I had enquired after her. He had walked with her at Christmas. He thought she was troubled, that she had something on her conscience. She asked whether love could ever be wrong — he told her that it was the purest thing a woman could aspire to, provided that the man was worthy of such love, and provided that he was honourable. He did not tell me at the time. He thought — and rightly so — that Susan was, perhaps, beginning to feel for someone and that she did not know the right of it. He advised her to tell me or her aunt. We would counsel her and he was sure that she would never be wrong in her choice. He believed that — naturally, he would — of one of my daughters. He married my eldest daughter, Lucy.’
‘Susan did not give a name?’ asked Jones.
‘No, she never did, and she did not speak to me or my sister, or even to Lucy, who is nearest to her in age. Had it been an attachment formed with a man of whom we could approve, she would have told us, surely.’
‘I think she would, from what you have said about your lives here. It does seem that she may have been led astray — she was lonely, it seems, and perhaps, this Isabella encouraged her in the relationship. Susan would be too innocent.’
‘She was trusting, Mr Dickens — why should she not be? Here, in our village, there is no one she could not trust, but she went amongst strangers.’
Jones stood up. ‘I will do all I can, Reverend Harvest, to find out about Susan, and I will write to you of what I find.’
‘You are hopeful?’
‘Given the similarity of the cases, I am. In each case there is a man whose identity we do not yet know, but we will find him.’
‘If, Superintendent, you do find out what happened to my girl, if you come to believe, as I do, that she lies in an unmarked grave, then I beg you, help me bring her home this time.’
Reverend Harvest stared out of his study window to the graveyard beyond. They followed his gaze to look at the bleak winter scene where there were ancient yew trees which stood black against the ashen sky and gravestones so green and so old that they seemed to be growing from the very earth in which they stood.
‘Susan must lie with her mother who loved her, and to whose arms she must return.’
‘I will do all I can, sir.’
‘And I, too, will see what my influence will do,’ Dickens added.
With that pledge, they shook hands with Reverend Harvest who turned back to his Bible.
Dickens and Jones went back to the station to wait on the wooden platform by the little wooden office. It was quiet and they stood looking down the line towards London.
‘Would it be possible?’ asked Dickens.
‘I am sure — if we can find enough evidence to say that the girl from Barrow Reservoir is Susan Harvest, and you know so
me powerful people — the Prime Minister himself.’
‘I do — I shall ask his advice.’
On the train they had a carriage to themselves. For a while they watched the countryside unfold while they collected their thoughts.
‘Italy, Regent’s Park, sketching, a young man who might be an artist, a secret love affair, gone missing, found drowned — it is all very telling,’ observed Dickens.
‘It is.’
‘Though we do not know how Susan met her death. It could have been suicide.’
‘I don’t think it matters at the moment. What matters is that we find out as much as we can about Susan’s life in St John’s Wood and before. There will be Mr Nash to see, and any servants of Mrs Danby’s, the man who found the body — I’ll ask Maxwell about that — and Miss Masters who lived in Belgrave Square — probably married now, but we should be able to find her.’
‘And the mysterious Isabella?’
‘Ah, that might be more difficult, but she must have lived somewhere near Regent’s Park. I shall need Inspector Maxwell’s help there. You and I will see Miss Masters and we’ll see the finder of the body after I’ve talked to Maxwell. Rogers I will send to Mr Nash.’
‘The anonymous letter.’
‘Yes, I saw you feeling the paper.’
‘From an artist’s sketchbook, perhaps, Sam — torn off.’
‘Written by a servant, I would guess — someone who worked for an artist.’
‘Someone with a conscience, it seems.’
32: Daughters of the House
At Bow Street, Jones found Mr Octavius Nash in the Royal Blue Book and sent Rogers with Inspector Grove to ask questions about Mrs Danby and her servants, and to get any addresses. He found Mr Masters in Belgrave Square.
Miss Georgiana Masters was married and lived in Bedford Place, where two rows of identically cream-coloured houses gazed at each other across the broad street as if each row had withdrawn the hem of its garment and retreated into self-satisfied perfection and never a step further would they make. No question of meeting half-way here. It was quiet, too, away from the noise of Holborn and Great Russell Street — even the carriage horses seemed to go by on velvet hooves.