After ten minutes of searching at the opposite end of the room from his spirited companion, Charles found a couple of volumes of Culpepper and sat down at a large round table in the center of the room with these old herbals. A globe, perhaps an antique from the age of the Stuarts, rested in the center, but plenty of space existed along the perimeter.
Miss Hogarth appeared at his side some twenty minutes later with a thick journal. “What does Culpepper have to say?”
He glanced up at her, schooling his expression. “Lots of treatments for poison. Haven’t found a mention of a poison itself.”
“I think this is the right journal.” Her dust-and-lemons scent made his nose twitch. “It has the name Mary, Lady Lugoson, inscribed on the flyleaf and the date is about right. 1775.”
“Much too early for the current Lady Lugoson to have known her.”
“She might have started it then and kept updating it all her life. If Lord Lugoson was much older than our Lady Lugoson, his mother was probably a young woman in 1775.”
“True. See if you can read the handwriting.”
She opened the book. “It isn’t too faded, just dusty.”
Charles stood and pulled back the chair next to his. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”
She smiled, her gaze still downcast, and sat in the chair. He pushed it closer to the table, then returned to his seat, distracted by the scent of lavender he now discovered in her hair. When he glanced up a couple of minutes later, he saw she was smiling. A more perfect moment could not have been. All they needed were tea and buns.
“Do you like to bake, Miss Hogarth?”
“I like all forms of cookery,” she said lightly. “For I like to eat.”
He grinned, then turned his head back to his volume.
Miss Hogarth was just saying, some twenty minutes later, “Fascinating diary, but certainly no mention of poison,” when the door opened without warning. The gangly form of Lord Lugoson appeared in the doorway.
His slanted nostrils were pinched and had a reddish hue. While he had been dressed in the finest fabrics, inexpert hands had tied his cravat and he had a dusting of fluffy, boyish whiskers on his face. He looked like fifteen trying to be older and failing miserably.
Coming toward them, he pointed at the books. “My mother told me you were here. Why are you reading about poison?” he asked, and then turned down his mouth in a fair imitation of a turtle.
“We aren’t, my lord,” Charles explained. “We were trying to read about it, however.”
The lordling pulled out an inlaid enamel snuffbox and opened it. The medallion portrait in the center appeared to be the actress Sarah Siddons.
As he took a pinch of snuff, Charles said, “That must be from the same era as this journal. Was Mary your grandmother?”
Miss Hogarth closed the journal so Lord Lugoson could see the cover. He sneezed dramatically, not bothering to cover his nose with a handkerchief, spraying the journal and Miss Hogarth’s hand with the contents of his nose.
“That is what I think of my family,” he said dramatically, before turning on his heel and stomping through the room.
“Come back, please, my lord,” Miss Hogarth called. She set down the journal and pulled a handkerchief from a hidden pocket in her skirt.
Lord Lugoson hesitated at the doorway. “Why? No one ever wants to speak to me. Just come to pay court to Mother. Expect he wants to marry her.” His stare reminded Charles of the butler, Panch.
Good Lord. Surely Panch wasn’t Lord Lugoson’s father?
“I’m a bit young for your mother, no matter how beautiful she is,” Charles demurred. “No title, either, I’m afraid.”
“My sister used to pour over Debrett’s,” he said in a scathing tone. “Planning for her time in the marriage market.”
“Isn’t that a good thing to do?” Miss Hogarth asked as Charles wondered why Miss Lugoson would do that if she were secretly engaged.
“As if she was worthy,” he sneered.
“Why do you say that?”
“Common,” the boy spat. “Just as common as Aunt Angela.”
“You didn’t like her because of what she had in common with your aunt?” Miss Hogarth asked. “If your sister was looking for a husband, surely she wasn’t truly about to become an actress.”
The boy’s hands went to his hair. He pulled at the blond locks, disordering them mightily, then stormed from the room.
“My stars,” Miss Hogarth said. “He obviously didn’t like his sister.”
“Or whatever she was,” Charles said. His suspicions about Miss Lugoson’s parentage increased. Lord Lugoson seemed to know something, despite his tender years. The air of despair troubled him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Dickens?”
“The details are rather lurid,” Charles admitted.
“Oh?” Miss Hogarth closed the library door and took her seat next to Charles. “You must tell me, otherwise I might miss something important.”
“Your mother might disagree.”
“Father wouldn’t and ye work for him. Besides, ye already know I want to be engaged in the mystery.”
“Well played.” Charles leaned close, amused by the Scottish that had turned up in her usually careful speech. “You are your father’s daughter. Rumor has it that Miss Lugoson could actually be Angela Acton’s daughter, father unknown.”
“Oh, my,” Miss Hogarth breathed.
“Too scandalous for you?”
She tossed her head. “Not at all.”
He cleared his throat. “Apparently, no one believed Lady Lugoson was expecting. One of those situations where a lady went away for a time, then returned with a baby that no one knew was coming.”
Miss Hogarth’s hands went to her scarlet cheeks. “Why? Why would Lord Lugoson have wanted that?”
“As he is deceased, we shall never know.”
“I suppose fashionable people don’t think as respectably as we do,” Miss Hogarth said. “The mere idea of passing off my sister’s child as my own. I would never.”
“I am sorry to put such indelicate thoughts in your head.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” She dismissed the thought with a wave. “I’ve assisted at my mother’s lyings-in. And I’m coming to the time of life when such things will be my world as well. It’s the deceit that troubles me.”
“If indeed it happened,” Charles cautioned.
“The young lord and Miss Lugoson did look so much alike, but if they are cousins it stands to reason.”
“I did not have the impression that any other mother was suspected,” Charles said. He set Culpepper aside and went back to the shelves for more fruitless searching.
Miss Hogarth shivered. “I don’t like this house. Ours is so pleasant, so homey and fun.”
And untidy, compared to the austerity of Lugoson House. It did not truly feel peopled, unlike the rambunctious Hogarth abode. “I will take you home. I glanced over all the shelves and did not find much. If the poisoner comes from here, I doubt they found any ideas in the library.”
“Unless those volumes have been removed.”
He tapped his finger alongside his nose. “Now you are thinking like a villain, my dear Miss Hogarth, but for now, I think we are done here.”
Chapter 13
After Charles returned Miss Hogarth to the care of her mother and arrived home himself, he felt too restless to stay in his rooms, scratching away at his sketches while Fred attempted to memorize some of Lord Byron’s poetry. Charles went to see William Aga, in order to take his tormenting thoughts off Kate Hogarth and the sensual fire in her eyes when she’d demanded her amusement. In his sitting room, William was whittling a piece of driftwood cast up by the Thames into an obscene bust.
“Ach. You made me cut off a nipple,” William cried, shaking his fist at Charles. He set down his knife and patted the breast of his carving.
“You’ll have to take them down a size and re-create,” Charles said.
“Whe
re is the fun in that?” William pushed back his chair. “We can always find another piece of wood. What do you say? A mudlark evening?”
“By all means,” Charles agreed. “Low tide should be around midnight. We won’t be able to see anything, mind.”
“I just want a piece of wood thick as my leg,” William said. “Don’t need to see much for that.”
“Change your clothes,” Charles suggested. “I’m in my oldest rags but you still have the whiff of journalist about you.”
“Very well, maestro.” William stood and pointed at a small table by the door, where he tossed his key and mail. “I finally acquired those articles for you about Marie Rueff. Bring them to the lamp and take a look while I refresh my wardrobe.”
Charles yawned as he sat down with the yellowing newspapers. He’d be better off with a cup of coffee than reading material. He scanned through the articles. Words jumped out at him like Fontainebleau, poison, age seventeen.
“Find anything?” William asked, coming back into the room as he knotted a thick muffler around his neck.
“Yes,” Charles said, forcing his jaw closed around another yawn. “Very suspicious. Much to consider.”
“A walk shall clear our heads.”
“I agree.” Charles put his hat back on.
They went out into the darkened court and moved toward the street. Most of the lights were out in surrounding buildings. Even the watermen for the stagecoach stop had found their beds at this hour. They headed south toward Fleet Street, then south again, to the worksite that was Blackfriars Bridge.
“I wonder when they will give it up,” Charles said, staring at the old Portland stone bridge with its eight stone arches. Wooden structures were built around the base of the closest pilings, ready to reinforce the old wood. Out on the river, a wherry passed underneath one of the central arches, lanterns dappling the water as it sliced through the river.
“Devil it,” William swore, and moved his boot. “Foot went right through an icy patch.”
“Spring must be coming,” Charles joked. “But I don’t see how we’re going to find a good piece of wood for your new lady in all this muck.”
Dark shapes moved from behind the closest piles. He counted four of them, all smaller than the two men, stick figures dressed in rags. Friends or foes?
William pulled his boot from the puddle and went toward them, fearless, holding up his lantern to his face. “It’s me, lads.”
“Old William,” called a girl.
“Give us sixpence,” begged another.
“Or a shilling,” suggested the third, cocky as a rooster.
Charles moved behind William, ready to block any attempts at pickpocketing.
“These are proper men of business,” William said, glancing back at him, amused. “My mudlark friends. Little Ollie, Poor John, Lucy Fair, and Brother Second.”
The boys, ranging from the size of a five-year-old to an eight-year-old but probably older, nodded solemnly at him in turn, little more than shining eyes in the moonlight. The girl, whom he judged to be the mother hen of the group at about twelve, curtsied with grave dignity.
Charles crossed his arms and rubbed his gloves down his coat, feeling chilled, perhaps in sympathy for their less than adequate clothing. Lucy Fair had a ragged shawl, but the boys only had thin jackets. They must be used to being wet all the time, but January was such a cruel month. “How do you know these fine gentlemen and lady?”
“They learn all kinds of interesting tidbits,” William said. “Why, there isn’t a drowning victim or a suicide that escapes their notice.”
“We finds the bodies,” said little Ollie, exposing his missing front teeth.
“Good pickings,” said the oldest boy, Poor John. Cold breath wreathed his bare head when he spoke.
“I want another proper piece of wood,” William said. “Have you saved me a good one?”
“It will cost you a shilling,” Brother Second said, holding out his hand.
“I’ll see it first,” William said jovially, but his eyes belied his air of trust.
Brother Second nodded to Little Ollie and he dashed back to the pilings, his holey boots trailing water. Charles saw something glinting a foot ahead in the muck and stepped carefully around an icy patch.
“Wot is it?” asked Lucy Fair, following him.
These sharp-eyed children weren’t going to let anyone take their treasures away. Charles didn’t blame them, but he still bent down and pulled his glove off and stuck his hand straight into the muck. His fingers found a sharp point and a long rectangle of something hanging off it.
With a squelching sound, the item came free. Ignoring the girl’s protest, he moved closer to a puddle that was too large to be completely frozen over and dipped the item in, before reaching in his pocket for a handkerchief. He set the item in it, then began to clean it off.
“Silver,” the slim girl said, ducking under his elbow. “Not completely tarnished.”
“I must have seen a stray corner,” he said, exposing a lady’s comb, or what remained of it, as some of the tines were missing. A long, tarnished rectangle of silver centered the piece, with a fancy feather detail floating off the top. “An attractive piece.”
“Worth a bit,” the girl said bitterly. “And you the one to find it, lucky devil.”
He could see a streak of dirt on her face as the moon passed out of a cloud. She had round cheekbones that seemed too large for her face and chapped lips. Her hair was knotted into a braid flung over her shoulder on top of her shawl, and tied at the bottom with a piece of unbraided rope.
“Might be a piece of history,” Charles said.
“Oh, that. It’s no older than me mother.” She flipped her braid to the other shoulder.
“I’ll make a bargain with you,” Charles said. “I’ll give this to you, but only if you promise to treat me the way you do William. We work together, you see, at the newspaper.”
“You want us to tell you things before we tell him?” she said, eyeing him.
“No, but I want to be safe when I’m down here, and have my questions answered fairly when I ask them. Do we have a bargain?” He held out his chilled, bare hand, muck-free courtesy of the puddle.
She nodded. “I’ll tell the others.”
“Here you go, then.” He handed her the silver comb.
She broke into motion, running toward the boys, her braid flying behind her, a rare moment of childish exuberance.
By the time Charles had stretched his glove over his aching, damp fingers and returned to the little group, William had obtained a nice stout column of oak, about two feet long.
“A good prize,” Charles observed.
“I want to get this home to dry,” William said. He inclined his head. “Gentlemen.”
The boys didn’t take much notice of them, too excited by Charles’s find. He detailed it to William as they walked away.
“Must have been pulled out of some lady’s hair by the wind,” William said.
“No one goes out on the river without covering their head,” Charles said. “Maybe it fell out of the hair of a suicide.”
“You should write fiction,” William said, clapping him on the shoulder.
“I don’t know when I would find the time,” Charles said, as they found the street again. “But I’m sure there will be quite a tale in Christiana Lugoson’s death, whenever I get to the bottom of it.”
“Did my Marie Rueff articles make you any more certain about your theories?”
“Her father came here from Fontainebleau, where the Lugosons lived as well,” Charles said. “I didn’t read the details of her death yet.”
“Do you think the poison came from France?”
“If so, why did she survive four months after coming here? What triggered the murder? I’m only just coming to terms with the idea that Lady Lugoson or her unpleasant son may have had a part to play in her death.”
“You can get arsenic easily enough. Any rat catcher or apothecary would
have it.”
“The symptoms don’t match arsenic poisoning,” Charles said, as their strides quickly ate up the short distance back to the inn. “What other options are there?”
“Anyone who had a garden could grow many poisonous substances,” William suggested, his breath blowing smoky plumes into the chilly air.
“The Lugosons have one, but most people in Brompton would as well. Anyone who knew plants could probably find what they needed in a graveyard.” Both girls had attended St. Luke’s.
“Or even a park. What will you do now?”
“I need to speak to her dear friend. Try to get to the truth of her supposed romance.” Charles still wasn’t sure about that. Miss Lugoson seemed a contradictory creature.
“Ah, romance. Not enough of that in my life lately.” William sighed.
“A wooden breast is not the same as a real one.”
“Very true.”
They turned left on Fleet Street and walked toward St. Dunstan-in-the-West, the recently finished church rebuilt on the graveyard of the medieval structure.
“My romancer friend,” Charles teased. “Why don’t you attempt to work your wiles on Beatrice Carley? Not a pretty girl, but her father is an MP.”
“Wealthy?” William inquired.
“Hard to say. I found their London house to be run-down, but they also own a home in Brompton.”
“Far above my touch.”
“Clearly, but if her friend was willing to be romanced by a French dance master, who can say what mischief Miss Carley may accept? Still, her mother is a dragon.”
William made an amused noise. “Not like the Hogarths.”
Charles drew himself up. There were no finer people than the Hogarths. “Not at all. Miss Hogarth has been trusted into my care a couple of times now.”
“I believe you shall wear the romancer’s cornet now. Have you kissed her?”
Charles shook his head. “But she has touched me. You know, those little touches, on my arm, my hand and such.”
William hummed in singsong fashion. “She likes you.”
“I think she does. But also, she likes our endeavor. She’s quite captivated by our hunt for her neighbor’s killer.”
A Tale of Two Murders Page 11