“It’s hard for women. If they have brains how do they get to use them?”
“By teaching others. Running a pleasant, comforting home,” Charles said promptly. “Not as simple as it seems, to run a household on a budget.”
Ahead of them, alongside the neo-Gothic façade of the new church, they saw a trio of women pass under a streetlight. One of them dropped her shawl to her shoulders, exposing a flash of red before rearranging it over her hair again. The other two women crossed the street, carrying baskets.
“They look much too respectable to be out at this hour,” William observed.
Charles had stopped, as the third woman, shorter than the others, turned around. Moonlight shone down on her, exposing features he recognized. “Julie Saville.”
“Who?” William asked, peering into the streetlight.
“The actress. Remember her? From Richard III?”
“Ah yes, the pretty one.”
Julie came toward them, almost passing, but then she saw Charles and stopped. “You are out late, sirs.”
“As are you,” Charles answered. “Quite a way from the Garrick.”
“It happens,” she said saucily. “When you work for a manager it is hard to find time to rest.”
“I thought you worked for Miss Acton.”
“It is the same thing.”
“Then, what business would Percy Chalke have at a church?”
“Never you mind.”
Irritated at her superior manner, Charles poked into her basket, and pulled out a handful of bright silk skeins. “Smuggled?”
Julie tugged them out of his unresisting hand and stuffed them back into her basket. “I do what I’m asked. I’m taking them to a weaver.”
“Aren’t you ever allowed to sleep?” William asked.
She grinned. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead. For now, I need to earn my bread.”
“You’re a lively one, girl,” William said. “If you ever need a place to nap, come see me at Furnival’s Inn.”
Charles pulled his friend away from the laughing girl. “Speaking of beds, let us find our own. I think I’m finally weary enough to sleep.”
* * *
At his desk at the Chronicle the next afternoon, Charles went through the stack of mail the postboy had placed on the edge of his desk. He hoped to hear from Lady Lugoson, if her headache had cleared enough for her to function, but instead, he found a note from Mrs. Carley. Had Lady Lugoson convinced her to let him see her daughter, Miss Carley?
He pulled the sealing wax away and opened it. “Blasted woman.”
“What?” William asked, coming over to lean against his desk.
“Mrs. Carley claims Beatrice is ill and can’t be seen.”
“Do you believe it?”
“I would imagine she was prostrate with grief in the immediate aftermath of Miss Lugoson’s death, but it’s been over two weeks now. Lady Lugoson did as asked and still the mama bear refuses me access.”
“Does Miss Carley have a weak chest? Illness is rampant at this cold time of year.”
“I have no idea.” Charles flourished the letter. “It is obvious from this note that Lady Lugoson did do as we asked. In fact, she must have sent her request yesterday. But she cannot budge Mrs. Carley. I have no greater weapon.”
“There is Lady Holland.”
“A peripheral figure,” Charles said. “I have half a mind to some subterfuge.”
“Oh?”
Charles winked. “What could we do with Julie Saville?”
“She could sneak in as a housemaid, swinging those saucy hips of hers.”
“Or claim to be a friend, come to call. She’s the right age.”
“She played a queen,” William said. “And all that hair.” He mimed combing through it. “I wonder if she’s as fiery below.”
“Come to the theater with me tonight,” Charles said impulsively, ignoring the crude question. “We can challenge her to find a way to get to Beatrice. Miss Lugoson was supposedly her friend, after all. She’s bound to want to help.”
“What’s on the playbill?” William said, folding his arms.
Charles laughed. “Quit playing hard-to-catch, you rogue. I know you want another look at her.”
* * *
Accordingly, they met at the Garrick Theater that evening. The Garrick wasn’t one of those theaters that did a long run of a popular show. Instead, they had several rotating amusements. Even their pantomime was still running, though according to the bill pasted to the low stone wall down the street, it was to be finished at the end of the month, until Christmastime came again.
“Panto tonight?” William complained. “We won’t even be able to see Julie amidst all the spectacle.”
“I don’t know how much spectacle Percy Chalke can afford, if he’s going to smugglers for supplies,” Charles said. “It isn’t fifty years ago. Who goes in for smuggling these days?”
“It’s still rampant in Kent, my lad,” William said. “You have a lot to learn.”
“I’ll have to go there and investigate myself,” Charles said, out of curiosity. “Let’s see if we can make it through another night at the Garrick.”
The grand spectacle amused the audience wholeheartedly. Percy Chalke had spared no expense, as it happened. He and Angela Acton played Harlequin and Columbine, the star-crossed lovers, and in yet another age-traded role against Miss Acton, Julie Saville played the fairy godmother. Charles noticed William’s gaze was glued to the stage during the girl’s lithe acrobatic feats. He knew what delights his friend imagined.
“Glorious,” William gushed, when the performance had ended. “Takes me back to my childhood.”
“The theater was only three-quarters full.”
“Panto is on the decline,” William said, “but when done like that I remember how popular it was. My father took me to the Covent Garden theater as a child, to see Grimaldi play.”
“That must have been quite a show. I have no idea who played the Clown tonight.”
“My eyes were only for Miss Saville,” William confessed.
They left the theater and went to the backstage door. A cluster of men were grouped around it, hoping for a chance of making one of the chorus girls their own, but Charles and William used their newspaper credentials to get past the door manager. They found Julie backstage, still in her fairy godmother gown, though she’d taken off her stage makeup. Thankfully, there was no sign of Percy Chalke.
“You again?” she said. “Looking for Miss Acton?”
“Wanted to see you,” William said, his voice muffled.
Charles glanced at his worldly friend to see the man was blushing. He mentally brushed away Julie’s worldly indifference. “Can you play an upper-class girl?” he asked brusquely.
“Why?” Julie brushed at her net skirt overlay. A sequin fell to the floor, the glitter extinguished.
“I’ve had no luck speaking to Miss Lugoson’s friend Beatrice Carley,” Charles explained.
Julie lifted her eyebrow and pursed her lips slightly. The mere slant of her head changed something indefinable. Charles forgot about the silly old-fashioned dress, the red hair.
“How do you do this evening?” she asked.
“You’re imitating Lady Lugoson,” Charles snapped. “Obviously, you know her.”
Julie inclined her chin gracefully, a tiny movement. Her face seemed thinner, more refined. Sucking in her cheeks, perhaps. Charles was fascinated by performers. He’d wanted to be one himself before he found himself in a well-paid position as a journalist.
Before their eyes, Julie’s wide mouth transformed with a grin. She laughed merrily, and William clapped.
The deceptive creature might be useful to further their search for the truth about Christiana Lugoson.
As William ceased his clapping, and Julie’s laugh died away, Charles saw Angela Acton approach. With Percy Chalke nowhere in sight backstage, would Lady Lugoson’s sister finally speak to him?
The actress still wore her
white shepherdess costume and full stage makeup, though her towering wig had disappeared. Red paint smeared her lips, adding a curved bow to her thin upper lip, and circles of rouge dotted her cheeks. Underneath lay a pallor that couldn’t be denied.
“An epic performance,” Charles said with enthusiasm, shifting on the worn floorboards. “Bravo.”
Miss Acton stopped next to Julie. “Are these your friends?”
“I am Charles Dickens from the Morning Chronicle and this is my colleague William Aga,” Charles said, finding it hard to believe she didn’t know of them when they knew so much about her.
“If you were here to review our performance you’d have come a month ago,” she said in a languid voice.
The gaslight did not quite illuminate enough for Charles to see her eyes, but he suspected her pupils would be pinpricks. She had the air of a laudanum drinker. Had Julie and Percy Chalke not told her anything, or had she forgotten?
“We are here upon a mission from your sister,” Charles said.
“Is she hoping to have me admit to strangers that Christiana was my daughter?” Miss Action said with a strange laugh.
William’s mouth dropped open as Julie made an inarticulate noise. Charles asked, “Was she?”
Miss Acton’s head lowered in a nod, then rose again, her expression one of quiet anguish. “If you are Mr. Dickens, then you were there for her last moments in this world.”
“I was,” he agreed, satisfied that she knew his role.
“Was her suffering as bad as my sister claims?”
“I cannot lie to you,” Charles said. “I am sure Lady Lugoson told the truth. But her pain was not continuous.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Did she ask for me?” “Not in a way I would recognize,” he said. “But I did not know the story then.”
She let out a very long sigh, as if a snake hissed. “I refuse to believe my daughter was murdered.”
“On what basis?”
She clasped her hands prayerfully. “She was a child. An innocent child.”
Charles’s gaze slid to Julie as Miss Acton made her statement. Julie’s attention had focused on William. They seemed to be communicating without words. “Then you don’t believe she had any inappropriate relationships with men, like her dance master or others?”
“I have complete faith in my sister,” Miss Acton whispered. “I must. I cannot bear it, otherwise.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Charles said formally.
“Why must my sister persist in this delusion?” Miss Acton asked. “Christiana must not have been murdered.” Her tortured eyes filled with tears.
One sister was deluded, but which one? “Did you know Jacques Rueff or his daughter, Marie? He came from Fontainebleau, and his daughter died on Epiphany night, 1834.”
Her hands went to her cheeks, a gesture reminiscent of her sister. “In the same manner?”
“Yes.”
She licked her lips. “I did not hear the details.”
* * *
A number of the Evening Chronicle staff members were still at the office late the next night. Charles, mindful that he had yet to host a dinner for the group, impulsively invited the men to dine at Furnival’s Inn. William ducked into a wine shop for him on the walk and he chose a roast from a cook shop. The merry group settled around Charles’s deal table, teasing Fred, the youngest in the room, while William and a couple of their friends went to fetch all of his chairs.
Ten minutes later, Charles held his newly purchased knife over the roast and sliced away. “The food may be nothing special, but I have a bottle of truly exceptional claret,” he announced to the cheer of the half dozen men.
“But he won’t let me have any,” Fred groused, inciting more laughter.
After they had eaten their meager repast, Mr. Hogarth opened his instrument case and pulled out a violin. William improvised some lyrics to sing along while a couple of the others clapped their hands and Fred danced a hornpipe with a solicitor who lived across the hall.
Charles watched the merry group, drinking steadily from his claret cup. John Black, the Morning Chronicle’s editor, about the same age as Mr. Hogarth, sat down next to him, twin cup in hand. “You’ve made fast friends with this group of blackguards after only a few months,” he observed.
“We roam so much, chasing after political speeches, that it is nice to find everyone at home in London.”
“How are your sketches coming along?”
“Very well, thank you. I cannot tell you how sincerely I appreciate the opportunities you have provided me. Why, I was just thinking I now made enough to support a wife.” He emptied his cup.
“Marriage is a difficult undertaking,” Black warned. “You may have heard of my marital disaster.”
“You married a friend’s mistress, did you not?” He winced. Drink had lowered his caution.
The editor was cup-shot enough not to mind. “To my shame. Dreadful woman. Never make a decision based on lust,” the editor advised. “She’s done nothing but demand money since.”
Meanwhile, Charles knew, Black supported yet another woman, along with his wife and child. But he still managed to find the money to be known as one of the largest book collectors in the industry.
“Where does your family come from?” he asked, curious about this complex man.
“Up north. Simple farm people, were Ebenezer and Janet, my parents. They all died when I was young, and I was taken up by my uncle, no better educated or employed than they were.”
“How did you escape the drudgery?” Charles asked.
“I see you in myself,” Black told him. “My uncle gave me a bit of education, and opportunities to work with my mind, instead of just my back, but mostly I read.”
“I have wondered what might have become of me, without my father’s library,” Charles said.
“Ebenezer Black had no such thing,” Black said. “But the local subscription library was my dearest friend. I owe a great deal to my uncle.” He fell silent.
Charles refilled both their glasses, as Mr. Hogarth shifted from “Maggie Lauder” to a less lively air, “Loch Lomond.” The mood darkened as John Black began to sing.
Charles sniffed back emotion as Black reached the part in the song about true loves never meeting again. He saw his brother had tears running down his face. Who had Christiana Lugoson been in love with, and was the man mourning her now in secret?
He could stand it no more and held up his hand imploringly, until Mr. Hogarth set down his bow and drew attention to Charles in his chair.
“No wee birdies for you?” Black asked.
“Your song reminded me that there might be a man out there who loved a girl who died in front of me,” Charles said feelingly. He stood up, setting his cup on the table, and went to stand next to the fire. “I pose a question to all of you, gentlemen.”
His dramatic pause caused even William to set down his cup and center his attention on Charles’s face.
“Was Christiana Lugoson murdered or not?” Charles asked the group.
“What have ye learned?” asked Mr. Hogarth.
“That she was an actress’s daughter, not a lady’s. That she died in the same manner as a girl whose father came from the same village in France where she once resided. That her brother hated her. If he truly was her brother, even a half brother. That she may have had a lover.” Charles paused for breath.
“Then what is the verdict?” asked Black.
“That anything might be going on behind the gilded doors of the aristocracy,” called one of the senior Chronicle men.
“It’s all about the money for them,” said the solicitor. “Follow the money.”
“The girl was supposedly a great heiress,” Charles said.
“What about the other dead girl?” asked the solicitor.
“Good question,” William said. “I remember she had a dowry.”
“I did read that,” Charles said. “Her fortune went to a French cousin.”
“There you go,” said the senior journalist.
“I can’t chase these deaths to France,” Charles said. “Besides, they occurred here, and the only French person I’ve met in the course of following this story was the dance master, who is an unlikely candidate for lover.”
“Was he the other dead girl’s dance master?” Thomas Pillar asked.
William chuckled. “Good question. Blame the Frenchman, whenever possible.”
“What is our verdict?” Charles asked. “Am I wasting my time?”
“Inconclusive,” said John Black. “But certainly something is rotten in the Lugoson family.”
“Who receives Christiana’s money? Does it return to France?” Mr. Hogarth asked.
“It was Acton money, and Lord Lugoson’s personal fortune,” Charles said. “So I shouldn’t think so.”
The men lost interest at that, and returned to drinking and discussing the general election presently being polled. There was still most of a week to go before the final poll. Fred yawned in the corner, ready to fall asleep now that the music was done.
Charles took the empty platter that had held the meat and placed it in his washbasin, then, with Fred’s help, returned for plates and a few stray cups. Mr. Hogarth met him on his return journey to the parlor.
“I need to ask ye something, Charles,” said the older man.
“Anything,” Charles said, thinking it was about one of his sketches.
“What are yer intentions toward my daughter?”
“What is your concern?” Charles countered.
“We have given ye a great deal of latitude to pay calls with her in the neighborhood, but ye must remember ye are pursuing a possible murderer. Mrs. Hogarth has expressed a concern for Kate’s safety.”
“I am certain I can keep Miss Hogarth safe.” He paused. “Though admittedly, the secrets we are uncovering are not always appropriate for a young lady’s ears.”
“Should I forbid her to continue paying calls with ye?”
“Until we know for sure what happened, I cannot be easy in my mind about the fate of other young girls in Brompton,” Charles said. “Most assuredly there is a tie to France here, but all the money does not go to France. If we follow the money?”
A Tale of Two Murders Page 12