A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  Mr. Hogarth nodded. “It goes to relations. My Kate does not come with the money of an aristocrat.”

  “No, but she comes with a good mind, a stout heart, and the best of connections,” Charles said with feeling. “I would keep her safe by solving this mystery.”

  “I’m not worried about her being hurt by this amorphous murderer,” Mr. Hogarth said. “But I am worried about the expectations that may grow where ye are concerned. All this talk of a wife, Charles. I have faith in yer talents, but ye’ve only had a steady income for a few months. If the evening paper fails, ye’ll be back to yer old salary.”

  “I will not fail,” Charles said, staring his mentor in the eye. “You can count on me.”

  Mr. Hogarth nodded. “I well believe it, as I must, but ye must promise me that ye will treat my daughter’s heart with tenderness, and not make promises that are less than disinterested.”

  “Her well-being is paramount to me,” Charles promised. “I assure you I have been everything that is proper in my dealings with her.”

  “Very well then. Shall we call it a night? There are a great many speeches to attend on the morrow.”

  “Yes,” Charles agreed, though as the claret wore off he could feel himself coming back to life. This would be a night for one of his rambles, yet again.

  * * *

  After everyone had left, Charles sat next to the freshly stoked fire to fully read William’s stories about Marie Rueff for the first time. Fred clattered away at the washbasin in the other room, cleaning up the rest of the dishes.

  The first story featured more about Miss Rueff’s father and his business interests in Jamaica. It seemed that her French father had married an English sugar plantation heiress. The mother, long dead, had left a substantial fortune for the daughter. She’d grown up as a grand heiress, but then the Baptist War had hit their plantation hard. Though the slaves hadn’t been emancipated until after Miss Rueff had died last year, their plantation had essentially been destroyed three years before. The fortune had been used to restore the plantation, leaving the girl essentially penniless and the father still in possession of his late wife’s lands. These French relations would not have received much.

  Charles turned to the second article. William had continued investigating, obviously concerned by some aspect of the story. He’d discovered that Jacques Rueff had a fiancée. Had she wanted the girl dead so that her future children would inherit everything that the family had left?

  Monsieur Rueff himself appeared to be a murky figure, rising out of France to marry an heiress, but no hint of a previous profession existed in the articles.

  Charles read the description of Miss Rueff’s death carefully. Described by her maid to William, it sounded exactly the same as Miss Lugoson’s end. The maid wasn’t named, but William might remember her. Her words about her mistress seemed tender and genuine.

  Charles set down the papers and dropped his chin into his hand. Marie Rueff had lost most of her fortune, but was still her father’s heir. Christiana Lugoson, a double heiress, through both her mother’s family, and her supposed father’s. In the Rueff case, the father seemed to have taken her fortune to advance the family’s business interests. In the Lugoson case, the family may have wanted the money back in the control of the male heir.

  Could Jacques Rueff or his fiancée have trained Lord or Lady Lugoson on the means they had used to kill Miss Rueff?

  Charles stood, a little unsteady on his feet, and stirred the fire. Fred came out of the kitchen, wiping his reddened hands on a towel.

  “Going to bed?” Charles asked.

  A yawn split his face. “Yes. You?”

  “Taking a walk. I need to order my thoughts.”

  “Bitter night.” Fred pointed at the ice forming outside the window.

  “I never mind that,” Charles said. “I’ll bundle up warmly.”

  Fred blinked in his wake while he fetched sturdy shoes, thick coat, muffler, and gloves.

  “See, I’ll even cover my nose,” Charles said, but Fred had gone bleary-eyed. “Go to bed,” he instructed, opening the door.

  He walked into the crisp air. Wind blew, seemingly right through him, but no rain or snow marred his way. All was gray and black and dreary, just like the state of his mind, filling in the blanks of William’s prose about the Jamaican slave revolts and Marie Rueff’s final hours.

  He walked toward Gray’s Inn, thinking to suit his mood to damp grass and leafless trees. Treading the paths there, he could free his mind and imagine himself, however improbably, out in the countryside if he narrowed his vision.

  As he walked north, his footsteps made squelching noises on the pavement. The city, never entirely silent, seemed sleepier than usual, the thick clouds overhead dampening the sound. Ahead, a fat tomcat paraded past him, followed by a thin dog, unlikely friends. At least he didn’t see any children about. They were always the hardest sight, ragged little beggars, attempting to survive the cold.

  He heard sharper footsteps, behind him now. Some lawyer, going back to his rooms after a night’s revelry? But the shoe impressions didn’t seem heavy enough to be a man’s.

  Walking faster to stay warm, he turned left, ancient buildings hovering on either side, keeping silent secrets in the night. Behind him, the steps continued, matching his pace. He didn’t like the feeling of being followed in the dark. Clouds moved swiftly, covering and uncovering the moon, and the gaslight only offered yellow pools around their lamp bases.

  A narrow opening, the entrance to some Georgian building, offered a solution. He ducked in, waiting for the other nighttime trespasser to pass.

  Chapter 14

  Twenty seconds later, a figure passed, hesitating in the doorway. He saw a slim body under a voluminous, tattered cloak, a shawl wrapped over the head.

  “Julie?” he called, recognizing her. “Are you following me?”

  “Mr. Dickens,” she said, pulling off her shawl so that he could catch a glimpse of red hair in the moonlight.

  “What do you want?” he asked.

  “I was coming to your door, but then I saw you leave.”

  Her expression indicated she saw nothing out of the norm about her behavior, but he found it very odd. “You behave like a spy.”

  “I was curious about where you were going.”

  “Curiosity killed the cat.”

  She stepped closer to him. “Yes, but at least the cat found out the truth.”

  “What do you want?” he repeated as he stepped out of the dark space.

  She huddled against one side of the entryway, and pulled up the shawl again, tucking the edges into her cloak. “Mr. Chalke wants to see you.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “The theater is quiet, and you never seem to sleep.”

  “What bad thoughts are keeping Mr. Chalke awake tonight?”

  “You’ll have to ask him,” she said solemnly. “Will you come to the Garrick with me?”

  He thought of Kate Hogarth, their walks through the daylight, pursuing murder with teatime calls and plates of seedcake. Then arrived this girl in the night, all cold, frost-breath and eyes burning from a face just a little too thin.

  “Of course I’ll go with you, but I wish he’d let you sleep,” he said, suddenly feeling cross, and restless.

  “Are you drunk?” she asked.

  “Not very.” His toes, chilled and blocky, demanded movement. He took one step, then another, heading onto a grassy space, dotted with large trees.

  Julie followed him. “You, Charles Dickens, need a wife to put you warmly to bed, instead of sending yourself into the streets to do ever more thinking. It is bad for your constitution.”

  “I thank you not to concern yourself with me,” he snapped.

  She drew back. “I’m only concerned. You will burn out. I can see it in your eyes.”

  “I have ambitions that cannot be bound solely to the daylight,” he said stiffly.

  “Yet, unlike me, you have a position that
pays well, in the daylight. No one sends you out on moonlight errands.”

  “You didn’t have to follow me,” Charles said, moving under a tree as two men passed on the dirt path, one humming a rowdy tune. “You are playing a game in your own head, wandering behind me, attempting to frighten me. You should have been honest, stopped me right at the hitching posts.”

  She stepped closer to him. He smelled onions and greasepaint. “But where would be the fun in that?”

  “You chase dramatics like a fool.”

  “Don’t be harsh, Mr. Dickens.” Her voice had lowered to a purr. She lifted her hand, gracefully, like a siren.

  He glanced away. He would not be moved. “Miss Acton should be more of a mother to you. You are of tender years, yet.”

  “She is even less motherly than her sister,” Julie said with a bitter laugh. “Oh, yes. Think about that while I take you to Mr. Chalke.”

  Charles turned away. He saw a glint out of the corner of his eye, despite the lack of gas lamps nearby. But the moon had picked something out. He bent down, seeing the edge of something next to an exposed tree root. Taking off his glove, he dug in the dirt with one finger, until he pulled out a lump.

  “What is it?” Julie asked.

  He rubbed the lump against damp, mushy grass until the shape emerged. “An old coin.”

  “How old?”

  “I won’t know until I can get it in the light. People have lived in this area for six hundred years or more.”

  “It’s hard to imagine. Our lives are so small in comparison.” Her breath warmed his cheek as she tried to look at the coin.

  “They aren’t,” Charles said, rising. “We have a duty to ourselves, and to those shoulders we stand on, to make life better.” He tucked the coin into his pocket and pointed to the path.

  “I’ve never had much interest in history.”

  “You perform Shakespeare. Surely you want to know what is behind the plays.”

  She shrugged. “I just like the attention from the pit. That tells me what is worthy. It doesn’t matter what the ancient story is behind the words.”

  Charles wanted to be baffled by her attitude, but he knew far too many people thought much the same. If his sketches, or the plays he wanted to write, made some feel differently, he would consider his time well spent.

  They passed a corner gin shop. The old seventeenth-century building that had stood on the corner had been pulled down, something that had perhaps been there when Shakespeare’s plays had first been performed, and instead, the new shop was all light and large windows and imposing signs. Charles paused, forgetting himself, wondering who the patrons were of such an exalted space.

  Julie shook his arm. “Come on, then. We are taking too much time.”

  She was right, for the Garrick was utterly dark when they arrived. “Now what?” he asked, still feeling the sparks of nervous energy rushing through his veins.

  “He’ll be at the public house on the corner,” said Julie with an air of confidence. “Angela kicked him out of the house.”

  “Is that normal, or is Miss Lugoson’s death still making waves?”

  “Theater people are always volatile, as are drunks,” Julie said. “I rarely see the difference.”

  “Then why don’t you change professions?”

  “Maybe I will.” She turned with a snap of her cape and marched down the street. “Here we go. The Baited Bear.”

  Charles could see firelight through the windows, illuminating the shadowy outlines of the patrons. He pulled open the door underneath the wooden sign with a leashed bear burned into it. The public house was one he’d attempted to drink in before, not one of the new upscale shops, but there hadn’t been time before the performances began. Inside, which was surprisingly well lit, a number of men sat at tables, probably theatergoers who found the warm rooms and the companionship within more comfortable than their lonely, damp beds.

  Julie led him unerringly toward the best spot in the public house, a table directly in front of the vast fireplace. Percy Chalke, wrapped in a woolen shawl, sat at the table, slumping a bit, and alone. He hadn’t washed his hair recently, and grease made the blond go brown.

  Charles judged the light to be excellent for the time of night, and sat down next to the actor-manager. Julie disappeared as he took off his coat and unwound his muffler. He set the coin on the table.

  Chalke yawned and gave a gentle burp, no hint of hostility in his manner. “What’s that?”

  “Found a coin over by Gray’s Inn. Looks old.”

  “Set it here.” Chalke moved a plate, empty but for bread crumbs, in between them.

  Charles placed the coin on it and the other man dumped the dregs of his ale over the coin. They pushed it around with their fingers, then Charles fished it out and dried it with his handkerchief.

  “It’s a woman,” he said with surprise.

  “With a crown,” Chalke grunted. “May I?”

  Charles nodded and Chalke held it up to the firelight. “Letters around the outside. Some of it is worn away but I think it’s Elizabeth.”

  “Silver,” Charles said.

  Chalke nodded. “You could pawn it.”

  “Make a necklace out of it, for a lady,” he countered.

  “Julie seems fond of you,” Chalke said.

  “She’s not for me. Too young.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Almost twenty-three.”

  Chalke chuckled. “You think you’re quite a man of the world, I suppose.” His eyes were pocketed in deep wrinkles.

  “Why don’t we hold off on the insults,” Charles said, the warmth starting to make his eyes feel heavy. “Why did you want to see me? I don’t care to have actresses accosting me on the street all hours.”

  “Now I know you don’t fancy her,” Chalke said. “I might have thought I was doing you a favor, though you are fair enough of face to find your own.”

  “I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself.”

  “Listen, Dickens,” Chalke said, bending his head toward Charles. “I do believe Christiana was murdered.”

  “Oh? I thought the pendulum was swinging the other way.”

  “Not at all.”

  He decided to be blunt. “Miss Acton said the girl was her daughter.”

  “Yes.”

  “And yours?”

  Julie returned with two half-pints of ale. As she set the tankard down in front of Charles, froth overflowed onto the coin. “Oh, you cleaned it,” she said with a delighted smile. She bent over it. “A woman? How lovely. May I have it?”

  Charles closed his hand over the coin. “No, you may not.”

  She sniffed and flounced off.

  “You have another young lady in mind,” Chalke observed. “That is why our Julie doesn’t move you.”

  “None of your business,” Charles rejoined. “Now, as to the question. Was Miss Lugoson your daughter?”

  “No,” Chalke said, in a tone so disinterested that Charles believed him.

  “Then who was Miss Acton’s lover before you?”

  Chalke’s bland tone increased the shock of his words. “I believe he was the late Lord Lugoson.”

  Charles had been about to pick up his mug, but his fingers faltered around the handle.

  To disguise his tremble, Charles slid the Elizabethan coin off the public house’s sticky table and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket, to make sure no light-fingered young actress liberated it from his possession.

  “What is the time line?” he asked. “One sister bears a child, the other marries the man.”

  Chalke drummed his fingers on the table. “Lady Lugoson is the elder by two years.”

  “How old is Julie?” Charles’s gaze wandered over to the actress, flirting with a couple of sturdy young men who apparently had nothing to do but drink and play after midnight.

  “About sixteen.”

  He frowned as he did the math in his head. “Miss Acton must have been little more than a child when
she bore Christiana.”

  “Thirteen or fourteen.”

  “And a merchant’s daughter?” He was frankly confused. “How did this happen?”

  “Lord Lugoson was a friend of Mr. Acton’s.” Chalke raised his tankard to his lips and drained half the vessel, leaving a foamy moustache on his upper lip.

  Charles’s mind whirled with several possibilities, all disgusting. “Miss Acton must have had expectations before Lord Lugoson married her sister, then.”

  “He couldn’t marry such a child, so they sent her away. He married the elder daughter, and then passed off Christiana as theirs. I doubt she had much of a say in the matter.”

  “Leaving Miss Acton to what?”

  Chalke drained his tankard. “What you see.”

  “An actress, not a woman who would attract minor nobles.”

  “She wasn’t left penniless, at least. Her family behaved honorably.”

  “Why haven’t you married her?”

  “If there had been a child of mine, I would have offered, but it has never happened.”

  Charles pushed his tankard to the man. He wasn’t thirsty. As Chalke nodded his thanks, Charles inquired, “I assume something in this sad history leads to why you think the girl was murdered.”

  “Everything in this world comes down to money. Lady Lugoson wants her own child to inherit all the family money, and so much of it was in Christiana’s hands.”

  “So you think she killed her daughter?”

  “Poison?” Chalke sipped from the fresh tankard. “That is a family weapon, a womanish weapon.”

  Charles had a sense of more unsaid thoughts tumbling through Chalke’s brain. “Do you think she’s done it before?”

  Chalke gave a phlegmy sniff. “I am amazed Lord Lugoson lasted as long as he did. She must have loathed him, and once she secured an heir for the family, he had the mark of death on him.”

  Now, in his cups, Charles saw the thespian emerge. He suspected the conversation would descend to one long monologue. “Were these deaths the same?”

  “I would not know. You were not an eyewitness to the first. I believe he died at home after a short illness.” Chalke sneered. “Tended by his loving wife, who then vanished almost overnight to France. Didn’t even stay past the funeral. Couldn’t stand to wear mourning for a man she loathed.”