A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  “Think it will stop raining tonight?”

  They both heard the clap of thunder. With a shudder, Charles went to pull the curtains. The sky was too cloud-filled to allow much light. “Doubtful. But even Julie doesn’t know quite where our cache is. It will keep.”

  * * *

  On Sunday night, Charles remembered he had to attend a political meeting out near Putney late the next morning. Accordingly, he traveled by water the next morning to dutifully record the happenings of the meeting before making his weary way to Brompton late that afternoon. At least there could be no doubt of Miss Hogarth’s having received his message by now.

  “Ye are soaked tae the bone!” exclaimed Mrs. Hogarth when he arrived at her door. Her son had to help him take off his thoroughly damp coat. His muffler had become a sponge.

  “Can ye feel yer feet?” she asked.

  Charles stared down at his discolored shoes. “I think I’d prefer snow.”

  “Get them off. Let’s get them and ye tae the fire,” she scolded.

  Five minutes later, he had a cup of tea in his hand and a pair of Mr. Hogarth’s slippers on his frozen feet. “They won’t allow us entry if we delay much longer,” he pleaded. “Mrs. Carley has been very difficult.”

  Miss Hogarth entered the room, looking lovely in pale blue wool, her hair tied back with matching ribbons. Charles forgot his aches and pains and gave her his brightest smile.

  “You poor thing,” she cooed, rushing over to pat his shoulder. “At least your clothes stayed dry.”

  His trousers hadn’t. He pointed to the circles of damp around his knees. “The fire will soon mend me, and we can be on our way.”

  She blushed and turned away. He shouldn’t have teased her so, making her look at his limbs. “I don’t mind the wet, but my feet were sliding around in my shoes.”

  She looked doubtfully at his shoes and socks, drying over the fender. “It will take too long to dry them. I’ll find you some of Father’s.”

  She rushed away. Charles closed his eyes, pleased to be so cared for. Miss Mary brought him a slice of bread with butter and a comb for his hair, and he was quite set to rights by the time Miss Hogarth reappeared with a pair of thick, rather clumsily knitted socks, and boots.

  “Father wears them over his shoes,” she explained. “They will work, I think.” She held up the socks.

  “Did you knit those?”

  “I did.” Miss Mary giggled. “Terrible job, but I’m better now. Father never wears them.”

  The heels were turned in such a manner that they did not look like they would fit comfortably on a human foot, but Charles struggled into them, grateful that his feet were too frozen to feel bulky seams.

  “I wish we kept a carriage,” Miss Hogarth fretted as she caught Charles limping slightly as they went to the door a few minutes later.

  “I am built for hard use,” Charles said, smiling at her. “You needn’t worry. But I cannot wait for spring.”

  “It is too bad you needed to go to one of your meetings just when Mrs. Carley wrote,” she said, opening the door.

  “Yes, but I need to earn a living, so I don’t mind. Still, let us go before it is full dark. I don’t want to give Mrs. Carley another chance to turn us away.”

  * * *

  Thankfully, they arrived after just a quarter-hour walk in the rain. Miss Hogarth had been so warmly bundled that water only marked the bottom inch of her skirt.

  The Carleys’ Brompton house displayed itself in less dilapidated fashion than the city abode. A newer building, part of a line of terraced houses that some speculator had built at the start of the century, the furnishings were simpler, though there were still some grand works of art, probably too large to fit on the walls of the London establishment.

  “That must be ancient,” Charles said, looking at the floor-length portrait of a cavalier, resplendent in a metal breastplate and short cape, to the right of the fireplace in the parlor.

  “My husband’s ancestor,” Mrs. Carley said, coming into the room. “He died in the Battle of Langport.”

  “Your husband is from Somerset?” Miss Hogarth asked, proving the quality of her historical education.

  “As am I. We’re distant cousins, in fact.”

  Now that Charles thought about it, he could see that all members of the family had the same small eyes, set deeply beside their long, narrow noses. He wondered exactly how distant the cousinship was.

  “I am glad to hear Miss Carley is feeling better,” Miss Hogarth said, as a maid brought in a tea service. “I have been so eager to see her again, after what we went through together when her dear friend died.”

  “She has been quite prostrate with grief,” Mrs. Carley announced.

  Charles recalled Miss Carley’s violent sobbing that night, even though at that early point in the evening, her friend may have been thought able to recover. He also remembered that, while life had gone on for him, it had only been three weeks, and for those who loved Miss Lugoson, the loss was very fresh. He made clumsy remarks to that effect.

  “Indeed,” Mrs. Carley said. “Tea?”

  Charles and Miss Hogarth sat on opposite sides of Mrs. Carley. He felt a sense of déjà vu when the tea was passed out. “Your teacups are the same in both houses?”

  “I bring this set with me,” Mrs. Carley said, holding up her distinctive shell cup. “It is like traveling with my mother.”

  “Very sweet,” Miss Hogarth murmured, cupping the warm vessel in her hands.

  The parlor door opened again, setting the fire to fluttering, and Miss Carley entered the room. She wore an unflattering dress patterned with brown and gold flowers. Her sleeves were heavily flounced from elbow to wrist, though the end result, given the woebegone state of the girl, was not the fashionable look she’d been attempting.

  No, Miss Carley, though she had a good complexion, would never be the domestic angel her friend would have been. She looked only a step above a governess.

  Without speaking, she took a teacup from her mother and sat at the edge of her chair next to Miss Hogarth. Her back was straight, yet her shoulders still seemed to slump. Her hair lumped unflatteringly along the back of her short neck.

  “Are you well?” Miss Hogarth asked sympathetically, lifting her hand as if to pat the other girl. “Such a dreadful time you must have had recently.”

  “I cannot think of my dear Christiana without crying yet,” the girl admitted.

  Her handkerchief, unlike Fred’s disgusting cloth, was pristine and edged with lace. When she lifted it to dot at her nostrils, Charles saw they were red and sore. She really had been ill. Or crying.

  “Let me say another name,” Miss Hogarth said. “Marie Rueff. Did you know her?”

  Miss Carley blinked slowly, then shook her head in the negative.

  “She was a fellow parishioner at St. Luke’s?” Miss Hogarth clarified uncertainly.

  “We worship in London,” Miss Carley said. “Almost never out here.”

  Charles noticed that she had not quite answered the question. “I see. Do you know anyone French?”

  “What an odd question,” Mrs. Carley said. “One does meet French people from time to time.”

  He tried again. “I apologize. The Rueffs are French.”

  “Clearly,” Mrs. Carley said.

  Charles decided he’d better take a turn in another direction. “We’ve been told that Miss Lugoson was in love, but the name we were given for her suitor seems to be wrong.”

  “Why, that’s no business of yours,” Mrs. Carley said.

  “It was Horatio!” Miss Carley shrieked over her mother, tears welling in her eyes.

  Miss Hogarth raised her eyebrows. Charles spoke quickly, not wanting to lose the chance in case the girl descended into hysteria. “Mr.—?”

  “Durant. Horatio Durant.” She let out a keening sigh, then blew her nose, the tears freely dripping. “We were both in love with dear Mr. Durant. But she was winning his love. Christiana was everything I am not
.”

  “You must have hated her,” Miss Hogarth said in the most conversational of tones.

  “No.” Miss Carley’s small eyes widened, tears dotting her stubby eyelashes. “No, no. She had sparkle, and such dreams. No interest in a conventional life. If she had her way, she’d never have married a man like Mr. Durant. But she liked to pretend they were engaged. She said it was to keep other suitors away from her.”

  So Miss Carley stayed doggedly with her friend, hoping to take this man on the rebound? Charles admired her tenacity. “Who is this gentleman?”

  “A young man of wealth and connection,” Mrs. Carley said, shaking her head. “With a good future, given his political bent.”

  “He is a protégé of Father’s.” Miss Carley caressed the words.

  “Miss Lugoson was in love,” Charles said carefully. “But you thought she would not accept his suit if it were offered.”

  “She wanted to be an actress.” Miss Carley nodded to herself and took a sip of her tea.

  “Her mother would never have allowed that,” Mrs. Carley said, laughing lightly. “Oh, the ideas these girls have as they end their time in the schoolroom. But thoughts soon turn to more sensible things when they come out, and as a mother, you learn not to worry overmuch.”

  “Now Christiana never will.” Miss Carley applied her handkerchief again. “Be sensible, I mean.”

  “There is some thought that Miss Lugoson met her end by foul means,” Miss Hogarth ventured.

  Charles noticed she had set down her teacup and was clasping her hands quite tightly in her lap. Not quite as bold as she wanted to be.

  “Oh, good heavens,” Miss Carley said, her voice muffled by her exertions with her handkerchief, as her mother shook her head. “Don’t be silly.”

  “You don’t think she had any enemies?” Miss Hogarth asked.

  “She was everything that was good,” Miss Carley declared, closing her hand around her soaked handkerchief. “I’d never believe such foolishness.”

  “This is what comes of spending time with theater folk,” her mother declared. “Such dramatics.”

  Of course, these people did not seem to know Marie Rueff. They might have thought differently if they knew how similar the deaths were. But Charles suspected they’d come to the end of what they could learn. When Miss Carley sneezed loudly, he paid his respects one last time and removed himself and Miss Hogarth from the parlor.

  Twenty minutes later, they were halfway returned to mutton stew and Mrs. Hogarth’s warm fire. Charles had been mired in his thoughts regarding the interview and Miss Hogarth had been quiet as well. He still had some irritation with her regarding the Pelham Crescent incident and did not know how to bridge the new gap between them. “How are we going to find this Mr. Durant?” he asked.

  “I’ve met him,” Miss Hogarth said.

  “How? Where?” Charles stopped under a tree. One drip fell off a branch and slid chillingly down his neck. The temperature had dropped since they had first ventured out. Snow might be coming.

  “St. Luke’s, of course.”

  “And?” Charles demanded, swiping at his neck.

  “Very handsome. He escorted his mother to a ladies’ tea last year. She passed away at the beginning of last fall.”

  “Do your parents know him? His father?”

  “I never heard of a father. I assume he’s on his own, now.”

  “Pelham Crescent?” Charles asked sourly.

  “Sydney Street. Quite a new house that his mother built.”

  “He’s a gentleman?”

  “Yes. I think I understood the mother had property in Dorset.”

  He considered her. “You seem to know quite a lot.”

  “I am of an age to learn things about people,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “Even if they are the sort to consort more with a Miss Carley than a Miss Hogarth.”

  “You are fine enough for any man,” Charles declared gallantly.

  She touched his arm. “That is so very kind of you, Mr. Dickens. But I am afraid I am not simpering enough for the average man. I’d rather be out walking the streets, solving our mystery, than be sitting with some Mr. Durant’s mother, sipping tea, hoping she finds me worthy of mention to her son.”

  “You like a challenge, I can see that. Perhaps you would prefer a man who is a project, rather than one who already has the world laid out at his feet?”

  Cold breath puffed from her mouth in an egg shape. “The truth of that remains to be seen. But as to our business?”

  He considered. “With Mrs. Durant being deceased, how does a Miss Carley come to a Mr. Durant’s attention?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Carley would bring him to dinner, or invite him to a party. Mr. Durant is very charming, a good guest.”

  “Without a Mr. Carley, or a Lord Lugoson, for that matter?” he inquired.

  “Oh, I see. How would Miss Christiana Lugoson have seen him?” She worried at her upper lip for a moment. “Goodness, she wasn’t out. Her brother is too young to have been his friend. Mr. Durant must be older than you are.”

  “A theater enthusiast?” Charles asked.

  “I have no idea.”

  “I will think of something,” Charles said, racking his brain for an idea. How did one meet respectable strangers without an introduction?

  “I know you will,” Miss Hogarth said.

  The light went on. “I shall go to his house, collecting for charity,” Charles said. “Anyone might turn up at a house doing that, and we will be dressed perfectly respectably. I’ll take William with me.”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “What will you collect for?”

  “Some charity to distribute clothing to the mudlarks, perhaps,” Charles said, thinking of those ragged children he had seen on the riverbank.

  “That sounds like a very nice charity. Do you know any mudlarks?” she asked uncertainly.

  He winked at her. “I like all strata of society. If you can teach me about the upper class, I can return the favor with the low.”

  The rest of the way home, he regaled her with his story of Lucy Fair and the other children he’d met under Blackfriars Bridge.

  When they reached her door, Miss Hogarth took his hand, very tenderly, and said, “They sound a very sensible cause indeed, Mr. Dickens, and it does you credit to think of them. We shall solicit my father, so you have a sponsor, and a letter of introduction.”

  “This charity will do wonders for getting me in any door,” Charles declared, trying to sound like a man worthy of Miss Hogarth’s hand.

  She nodded. “You have the best ideas, Mr. Dickens. No wonder you are such a good journalist.”

  Charles’s heart swelled, and the Pelham Crescent conversation seemed almost as far away as his humiliating life of a decade before as he spent the evening cosseted by the delightful family. By the time he left to walk home, he had a letter of introduction in praise of his charity from Mr. Hogarth and a series of radiant smiles from the Hogarth sisters that had his head in a whirl.

  Chapter 17

  William Aga gleefully joined Charles as an officer of the newly created Charity for Dressing the Mudlark Children of Blackfriars Bridge. The pair hitched a ride to a public house on Kings Road, close to Sydney Street, on a newspaper wagon after they were finished at their office the next evening.

  “Do you suspect this man of being the poisoner?” William asked, as they stepped into the Spotted Dog for a pint before heading north.

  “Why would a gentleman murder two girls?” Charles countered.

  “If they were expecting his bastard babes?” William set coins down on the counter as the barman appeared with their drinks.

  “No one has suggested either girl had expectations,” Charles said.

  “What are you hoping to get out of the meeting, then?”

  “At this moment, Lady Lugoson is the obvious killer. Though I doubt she killed Marie Rueff, that death would have inspired her actions. Although, Angela Acton is suspicious as well. I don�
��t like that she beats Julie.” He glanced at the barman when he came their way. “Do you have anything to eat?”

  “Game pie.”

  “I’ll take a slice of that. Do you want anything?”

  “No.” William had a look of confusion. “What do you mean, Julie is being beaten? That lovely sprite?”

  “So she claims. I saw a bruise on her face.”

  William swore under his breath. “I hope it is Angela Acton then, so the old bag hangs for her crimes.”

  “That’s harsh. Many a mistress has offered correction to a sassy servant, and Julie has a mouth on her.”

  “She’s a darling,” William said. “I won’t hear a word against her.”

  “I find her troublesome. I never know when she will turn up, and I’m not convinced she isn’t adverse to a bit of light-fingered action.”

  William shrugged. “She’s got to survive. What’s her story?”

  “No idea. At least there’s been no indication Percy Chalke is violent toward her. I’d be concerned about that.”

  The barman came back with a large slice of pie. Charles’s mouth watered at the sight of the hot water pastry lined with bacon, and the thickly diced meat inside.

  “That’s enough for two,” William said, but Charles mock-snarled and pulled the plate toward him, forcing his friend to ask for his own.

  “You know we are in a fashionable area when the public house food is this good,” Charles said a few minutes later, half of his pie already gone. “But back to our topic. Since Miss Lugoson spent time with this Mr. Durant, then he might have insight into her. In regard to Miss Rueff, we still don’t know if she might have taken the fatal dose herself. There has been that suggestion of foraging.”

  “You cannot have wasted three weeks upon this death and not have it be murder,” William said, his lips shiny with bacon grease.

  “At least some good will come from it, for the mudlarks, at any rate.”

  “And Miss Catherine Hogarth,” William said. “What is going on there?”

  “She wants a fine house on a fine street,” Charles told him. He glanced down and found only one last bite left on his plate.