“Delicious tea,” he commented. “A special blend?”
“Yes, Jacksons of Piccadilly makes it for me. Do you like the bergamot?”
“It is strong, but I do like it.”
“Try it with a dot of cream,” she urged. “I am famous for my tea.”
He allowed her to doctor his cup, and they spent a pleasant half hour discussing her committee work in the temperance movement, before she suddenly seemed to realize that she was talking to a mere journalist, and not someone of her own class.
He admired the progress of the shell she was embroidering, then departed with good grace, warmed by the delicious tea and genteel surroundings. As he walked into the midafternoon mist, Charles realized his interview with Mrs. Carley might have gone better if Miss Hogarth had been present. Surely Miss Carley might have been invited downstairs, with proof that he wasn’t attempting to court her.
He walked south toward Piccadilly, returning himself to the Chronicle’s offices on the Strand, in order to ask Mr. Hogarth if he might include his daughter in the next step in his investigation. He also planned to write to Lady Lugoson to have her arrange an interview with Émile Dubois, the dance master. With any luck, she might answer him this time.
Chapter 11
On Monday, Charles was finishing an article about a parliamentary debate in the Chronicle offices when the post arrived. He found a note from Lady Lugoson, inviting him to call that afternoon. She indicated that Monsieur Dubois would be on the premises, as she’d made arrangements to settle his account.
Charles jumped up from his desk. He didn’t have a moment to waste if he was to reach Brompton in time.
“What’s the rush?” William inquired as Charles wiped ink from his fingers and cleaned his pen.
“I’m going to interview the dance master,” Charles said. He’d caught his fellow reporter up on his investigation the night before, over a little dinner he’d hosted in his apartment.
“Folly with a foppish frog,” William alliterated.
“We shall see. Do the French like poison?” He waved at a boy and handed his article over, instructing him to take it to Thomas Pillar, the under-editor.
“Medici, Borgia,” William mused. “No, they were Italian. The French just like to cut.” He mimed a slicing motion at the back on his neck.
“A kinder way to die,” Charles said, remembering Miss Lugoson’s agony.
Mr. Hogarth appeared in the doorway. “Charles. A word.”
“Yes, sir.” Charles grinned at William, then grabbed his outerwear and walked across the floor to greet his mentor.
Mr. Hogarth handed him a messy sheath of papers. “Here ye go. I made some notes on yer sketch.”
“Thank you. Anything in particular I should pay attention to?”
“I would make sure to give the characters in these pieces their dignity. Ye can poke fun, but allow them something. The little, dumpy bride, for instance. Give her some positive attribute.”
Charles nodded. “Leave the reader with an overall positive impression?”
“Indeed. Ye will do very well, Charles. Not everything needs to be a tragedy.”
“Yes, sir. Speaking of tragedy, I am to go to Lugoson House this afternoon.” He cleared his throat. “May I call upon Miss Hogarth and ask her to accompany me? I am to interview Miss Lugoson’s dance master.”
Mr. Hogarth crossed his arms. “What is the story there?”
“Lady Lugoson thinks her sister might have poisoned her daughter. I went to the theater and was unable to see Miss Acton, but I did meet her young assistant, and she suggested Miss Lugoson could be dead of a broken heart. I had the sense that she had known her dance master in France, or at least, she pined for France.”
“If Lady Lugoson did not turn off the dance master, I cannot imagine he broke the girl’s heart or dishonored her.”
Charles shrugged. “A man of principle?”
“Or a hired killer.” The editor tilted his head. “Miss Acton could have paid him to poison the girl.”
Charles pulled on his gloves. “Anything is possible. I do wish we knew if she really had been poisoned.”
“Impossible to know. Someday I’m sure medical men will be able to determine such things.”
The light went on in Mr. Hogarth’s eyes just as Charles had, no doubt, the same thought. “I could write about the state of medicine in light of poison.”
Mr. Hogarth nodded. “Not yer area of expertise, but an interesting path of inquiry.”
“It gives me an excuse to speak to doctors.”
“I recall there is some way to detect arsenic,” Mr. Hogarth said, his gaze drifting to the ceiling. “We reported on complaints in the House of Lords about the high cost of a trial in Kent some time back, and the expense was for arsenic testing.”
“I’ll see if I can recover the article,” Charles promised. “But I had better leave for Brompton now.”
“Must be a treatise on poisons you can access,” Mr. Hogarth mused, turning away. He began to whistle.
“I’ll add that to my list,” Charles called.
* * *
When Charles arrived at the Hogarth home, he presented his letter from Lady Lugoson to Mrs. Hogarth.
“I am too busy to join ye, Mr. Dickens,” she said at the door with an air of exhaustion. She had an apron with a damp streak down it over a dress with frayed cuffs. “Mondays are washing days.”
He leaned toward her. “Would Miss Hogarth be able to come? It’s just across the orchard and Mr. Hogarth is aware I was going to visit here.”
She handed him the letter. “It’s her duty to watch the bairns while Mary helps me with the wash, this time.” Mrs. Hogarth sighed.
“I am sorry.” He thought quickly. “But how often will a fine lady ask me to call? Surely it does your daughter good to claim one such as her as an acquaintance.”
Mrs. Hogarth gazed at him and chuckled. “Very well.” She left Charles in the hall.
He could hear her calling for Kate, telling her to tidy herself and accompany him to Lugoson House. He pulled off his hat and attempted to straighten his flattened hair. Settling himself onto the bench above the boots, he whiled away the time considering the situation at the Garrick. How could he get to Miss Acton? Would a letter of introduction from Lady Lugoson suffice, given that he was already known to her supposed paramour?
Miss Hogarth appeared twenty minutes later, in a fresh white wool dress patterned with blue flowers. She clapped her hands when she saw him. “Tea at Lugoson House? What a treat.”
She gave him a wink, with a decidedly conspiratorial air.
Charles came to his feet grinning, his arms already full of her cloak. “We had better hurry. I can see the clouds through the window and we don’t have long before another rainstorm hits.” Not to mention her mother’s tolerance would be low for a long excursion.
She fastened her cloak securely while he rebuttoned his coat and handed her her gloves and bonnet. “You have a cheerful air about you today, Mr. Dickens.”
“When I can spend time with you it makes for a very good day.” Their gazes met for an instant before she shyly turned away. He opened the front door while she called her good-byes back into the house; then they were alone under lowering skies.
“What is our intent?” she asked, as they walked down the road so they could access the front entrance of Lugoson House.
He told her about Julie Saville’s suggestions about Dubois, the dance master.
She pursed her lips. “Dance lessons are one of the few ways a girl like Miss Lugoson can be alone with a man. Miss Saville could be correct.”
“But even she considered Miss Lugoson a child,” Charles argued.
She chuckled gaily. “Girls are very capable of deception.”
Charles knew that to be true, given his long, unsuccessful courtship of Maria Beadnell. “Are you? A girl capable of deception?”
“Goodness, Mr. Dickens, such a question,” Miss Hogarth said in a musing tone. “I sho
uld hope not. I have never had reason to lie.”
He liked her answer. “You have a most happy family. I like that.”
She touched his arm, but didn’t linger. “Is your family not happy?”
“It is complicated,” he said. “My father is a difficult man, but my mother does support him. We do have some good relatives.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.” He spoke of his extended family, everyone who might impress her and her parents, until they came to the outside of Lugoson House. It had an air of disuse today, if not neglect, like Carley House.
Panch let them in, then informed them that Monsieur Dubois was already closeted with his ladyship. They were brought to a formal parlor, rather chilly, with no tea service in sight. Another family portrait hung over the fireplace in this room, of a constipated-looking young man in the fashion of Beau Brummell’s heyday. He had a Caesar haircut forming his blond hair to his thick skull, which was the only feature tying him to Lord Lugoson or the late Miss Lugoson. Still, the era of his attire made him likely to be their father, now deceased.
Charles reflected that he’d rather be at Mrs. Carley’s dilapidated mansion, drinking her tea, than in this grander house with no sign of warmth or comfort. Miss Hogarth tried to control her shivers, but the tip of her nose went very pink and she said little while Charles paced.
“I am sorry for the chill,” he apologized.
Her hands rubbed up and down her shoulders. “It is of no matter.”
“I wish I could take you in my arms,” he said daringly.
Despite the cold, her cheeks colored. “Mr. Dickens.”
“Well?” he demanded. “Don’t you wish the same thing?”
“Only if our thoughts were the same on certain matters,” she said delicately. Before she could say more, the butler returned and brought them to the room in the back.
The dance master stood upon their entrance, and bowed rather vaguely in Miss Hogarth’s direction. Charles was conscious of the insult toward the dashing girl, but they greeted Lady Lugoson and were introduced to the instructor in turn.
Émile Dubois was a starvation-shaped man in his late twenties, with very tight clothing. While clean and manicured, he had an air of genteel desperation that Charles often saw in his own mother, and a Continental dash that marked him as a foreigner. Perhaps he had no energy to be polite to anyone not likely to put bread on his table.
Charles was disappointed. How could he get to the heart of the matter with Christiana Lugoson’s mother present? He didn’t want to slander the girl, but they needed the truth.
When they were all seated around an empty deal table, Charles took the lead, knowing he couldn’t keep Miss Hogarth there long. “Are you from Fontainebleau, monsieur?”
Dubois nodded.
“Had you taught Miss Lugoson for many years?”
“Oui, since she was a girl of twelve. Very graceful girl.” Lady Lugoson smiled faintly at this praise of her daughter. She was as pale as Dubois, and her neck appeared thinner than ever. Had she been eating?
“Was she in love with you?” Charles asked bluntly.
Next to him, Miss Hogarth squeaked. He shot a glance at her, then realized he might have been more graceful in his questioning.
“Mais non,” Dubois protested, with a glance at Lady Lugoson.
“Really?” that lady said. “I rather thought she was. It gives me comfort now, to think she had experienced calf love, at least.”
Monsieur Dubois cleared his throat, his eyes darting from side to side. “I am sorry to say, my lady.” He paused to clear his throat again. “Miss Lugoson was secretly engaged.”
“What?” said the other three all together.
“To whom?” Lady Lugoson asked.
“Not me,” he said, with a quick Gallic wave of his hands. “I know my place and I have a wife already. I do not know the gentleman in question. She said she liked to dance, but she would never need to go to balls and find a husband.” Dubois finished his heavily accented speech with a flush.
“What clues do you have about this gentleman’s identity?” Charles asked.
“None,” Dubois insisted in injured tones.
Lady Lugoson drew herself up, as if coming out of a trance. “I have paid you your fees, monsieur. I would suggest, for your future, not to hide young girls’ secrets from families.” She sniffed. “Or something terrible might be the result.”
Dubois stood, and bowed, then quickly left the room before Charles could press him. He’d lost control of the interview to Lady Lugoson.
“If the goal of every young girl is to find a husband, is it not a good thing to find one, even if she isn’t officially out?” Charles asked.
Lady Lugoson let out a short bark of laughter. Or despair. “It depends on the gentleman. The family must know. There can be no secrets, as a girl’s parents are likely to know a great deal more about gentlemen than young girls. Finances, character, all the things of which they know nothing.”
“I think it unwise,” Miss Hogarth agreed. “While a girl might think she knows best, most parents have their best wishes at heart. Assuming her family does not have financial or moral difficulties.”
Charles considered her words, guessing she meant them as a warning to him as well as relevant to the situation. Was the Lugoson family in financial or moral difficulty? There was no sign of financial hardship. Staff seemed sufficient, and no expense had been spared on doctors that terrible day, when he’d given instructions for help. But morality was another issue, not perhaps in Lady Lugoson herself, but in her sister. Also, there were the rumors about Miss Lugoson’s parentage. How had such an innocent-looking girl lived such a complicated life? He glanced up at the portrait, looked again on that sweet young child she had been.
“Do you believe the dance master?” Charles asked.
Lady Lugoson sighed, her gaze returning to the door. “If this man my daughter considered herself engaged to was attached to the theater, I would well believe it.”
“So you do not think it was Dubois?”
“I didn’t have the sense he liked my daughter very well,” Lady Lugoson admitted. “And a wife tucked away somewhere? I did not know that either.”
“Then who? Someone like Percy Chalke?” Charles asked, wondering about the dance master’s true character.
Lady Lugoson shook her head. “No, he’d have been much too old. Christiana was a girl. She liked girlish things.”
“Why would Julie Saville have thought Dubois was the one?”
The lady straightened. “You are telling me that someone else thought my daughter was secretly engaged?”
“Something like that,” Charles said, not wanting to admit the bald facts. “An employee of your sister’s, who, incidentally, I was unable to see, due to Mr. Chalke’s refusal.”
“He controls her,” Lady Lugoson said. “Poor Angela.” She glanced around. “Shall I order tea? There is a chill in the air.”
“I must return home,” Miss Hogarth said gently. “My mother needs me.”
Charles clenched his fists. He knew she had to go, but they needed more time. And food. “We might be able to figure out the gentleman’s identity if we can trace your daughter’s last day or so,” Charles said. “Do you think you could write down what you know? We could return tomorrow for another interview.”
Lady Lugoson nodded. “We called on Mrs. Decker. Poor woman, alone for the holidays with her husband gone.”
“Would you give me your card again? I will call on her before I return home,” Charles said. “Since I am in the neighborhood. Then I will return for your list of your daughter’s activities tomorrow.”
“Very good.”
Charles glanced around the richly furnished though uncomfortable room. A house like this might contain a well-filled library. “Was your husband a book collector? Did he have many volumes?”
“Certainly,” she responded.
“Could I use the library tomorrow? To see if there are any books on natu
ral history or medicine that might be of use to me?”
Lady Lugoson blinked. “For what purpose?”
“I believe arsenic is the only poison currently detectable in the body. But that doesn’t mean observations regarding other poisons haven’t been made. Maybe I can find something in a book.”
“Very well.” She rose and yanked the bellpull. “I will have my calling card brought to you, and speak to the servants about my daughter’s movements on Epiphany when she wasn’t with me. Please do visit Mrs. Decker. She might remember something I do not. She did see my poor girl twice that day, after all.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Charles and Miss Hogarth rose as well.
They followed her into the hall, and waited while their outerwear and the calling card were delivered. Then, before they knew it, they were back on Fulham Road, in the cold.
Chapter 12
“Can you see Mrs. Decker?” Charles asked once they were outside.
Miss Hogarth’s exasperated expression mimicked that of her mother’s. “Briefly. I really must go back soon.”
“What do you think of this secret engagement business?” Charles asked, as they walked toward the more modest but still palatial Decker home.
“I am against secrets. A young woman should have a good relationship with her parents, and respect them enough to not hide such things. It is the path to ruin.”
“What about a young man who is destined for great things, but the girl’s parents don’t believe it?” Charles spoke from bitter experience.
“Everyone can have their little prejudices, but where can a secret engagement lead?” Miss Hogarth asked. “No young man should wed until he can afford a wife, after all.”
Charles smiled a secret little smile. Now, with his double income from the Chronicles, he could afford a wife. Unlike his past courtship of Maria Beadnell, he knew well that Miss Hogarth’s parents liked and respected him.
So, instead of pursuing her remarks from that cold room some forty-five minutes before, he asked, “So you would say Christiana Lugoson was on the path to ruin?”
“Between the theater obsession and a possible lover, I would say yes. Her mother had no control over her. The Lugosons have all but died out, and with only a younger brother, she had no one watching over her.” Miss Hogarth sighed. “But poison? Why? If only we could know for certain.”
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