A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  “You don’t think you can rise to that?”

  “Not this year, certainly. I’ll have to find the time to study the law to move up in the world.”

  “You’re only twenty-two. You have time.”

  “She is obviously ready to consider a serious suit.”

  “And you are not?” His voice went up, as if questioning the truth of Charles’s statement.

  “Not in that manner. No, a girl who wanted to live in three snug rooms in Furnival’s Inn, with the hopes of better things, that would be different.”

  “You are certain that is not her? After all, her father knows your prospects and introduced you.”

  “The father may not know what the daughter wants.”

  “If she likes you, even loves you, her expectations will learn to match your prospects,” William said.

  Charles set his fork down, thinking of what his father had brought his mother to, from a comfortable life to an unsteady dependence on her children. He didn’t want a girl to lower herself to him, he wanted to raise himself to her, but pride forbid further discussion, even with William. “On to the matter of the moment. We had better take our begging box to Durant’s home.”

  William finished his last bites as Charles paid the barman for the excellent pie and they left, enjoying the well-lit streets, despite the encroaching dark.

  “We’re looking for a new house, last in a row of five. Apparently, Durant’s mother signed on to a scheme to build with four other families.”

  They walked along with the tide of men returning home from their labors. Carts went by, with tradesmen attending to sell off the last of their goods before families barred their doors for the night.

  “This must be it,” Charles exclaimed, stopping. “I didn’t realize the house would be so near the burial ground.” The last of the stucco-fronted terraced houses looked fresh and prosperous. A number of lights were on in the front of the house, so Charles had no concerns about calling.

  He marched up the steps and rang the bell. Not a minute later, a parlormaid with a pretty, narrow face and very dark hair opened the door.

  “Good evening. I would like to see Mr. Durant, if you please,” Charles said.

  “Who is calling?”

  “Charles Dickens and William Aga of the Charity for Dressing the Mudlark Children of Blackfriars Bridge.”

  “Oh, Mr. Durant don’t see people he don’t know,” she said, starting to push the door closed.

  “We are from St. Luke’s,” Charles said, a quick lie. “I have a letter of recommendation.”

  “I’ll take it,” she said, clearly bored.

  He handed her Mr. Hogarth’s note and she took it, closing the door, leaving them on the step.

  “Not a friendly household,” William quipped.

  “He might be inundated by charitable requests,” Charles said.

  “If we are barred entrance, it is not particularly bad for him. But I meant to tell you, Lady Holland has invited us around again tomorrow night for another of her salons. Are you game?”

  How he was coming up in the world, to receive an invitation this desirable. “I cannot say no, though I am about ready to move out to this area. I spend much too much time to-ing and fro-ing.”

  The door opened again and the parlormaid gestured them inside, still surly. The house was not large and Charles saw a room made up as a study across the hall, which might have been a second parlor in another sort of household, before they handed over their coats and were ushered into the room to the right. A fire was laid but not lit, and the room had the damp air of disuse.

  “The receiving room of a man who does not receive,” William said, running his finger along a china vase and coming away with a dark trail of dust.

  Charles picked up the lamp that the maid had left. Other than that, the only light was that of the gas lamp on the street outside the window. He held up the light source and walked along the walls. “Castles,” he said. “Someone has collected amateur paintings of castles.”

  “Some ancestor did them,” William said, brushing the dust off his hands over the fire grate.

  Just then, the door opened. Charles turned with his lamp and saw a man with broad shoulders, a warrior’s body, and the face of an angelic child. His hair, a brownish bronze, hung tightly ringletted around his soft forehead. Those Cupidish, puckered red lips opened. Charles recognized the man as the mourner he’d seen hanging back, glared at by Mr. Carley, at Miss Lugoson’s funeral.

  “Dear me, it is cold,” said he, rushing forward to light the fire. “Drat that maid.”

  “You are Mr. Durant?” Charles inquired.

  “Indeed I am. You are Charles Dickens?”

  “I am, and this is my fellow member of the Society, William Aga.”

  Mr. Durant rose and shook both their hands. “I am sorry to hear about the plight of these children, but I’d understood that mudlarking was a source of income.”

  “An uncertain one, and this particular group of children is very young,” Charles said. “Ollie in particular pulled at my heartstrings.”

  Mr. Durant peered nearsightedly at them. “I do not think I have seen you at St. Luke’s.”

  “I reside in Holborn at the moment, but I am considering a move.”

  “I must have misunderstood my maid,” Mr. Durant said. “Will you sit? We shall draw our chairs quite close to the fire for warmth.”

  They nodded and pulled unornamented chairs of worn green velvet toward the fire, setting a loose circle.

  “That’s better,” said their host. “I never use this room. Where did you acquire my name?”

  “The Carleys are acquaintances of ours.”

  “I see.” Mr. Durant’s lower lip went between his teeth and he bit down, quite hard. “They are not often at St. Luke’s either.”

  “I was at Miss Lugoson’s bedside when she expired,” Charles said gently. “I thought we might discuss her.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “The truth is, sir, that Lady Lugoson has discovered certain mysteries in her daughter’s life, and she commissioned me to find answers.” When Mr. Durant nodded thoughtfully, Charles went on. “I saw you at her funeral. You knew her?”

  “Yes, of course. Our fathers were friends, long ago. I am, or was, some eight years older than she, but Lady Lugoson asked me to dine when they returned, and I called on the family regularly after that.”

  “What about the Rueffs, also of the parish? Did you know them as well?”

  The man considered. “The name is familiar to me, but not the family.”

  Charles sighed inwardly. He was beginning to think that no one person had killed both girls. The connection was so tenuous, and through the parents only.

  “When did you last see Miss Lugoson?”

  “At St. Luke’s, the Sunday before she died,” he said promptly.

  “You were not at the Epiphany party?”

  “A bad lung inflammation caused me to take to my bed for a few days.”

  “So you saw her two days before she died, then became ill the day before?”

  “If you say so.” Mr. Durant’s straightforward manner had no hint of subterfuge or political thinking.

  “Can you tell us the manner of your illness?” asked William, joining the conversation for the first time. “Perhaps it was the same illness that Miss Lugoson suffered from.”

  Mr. Durant looked up at the ceiling. “I was wracked by chills, and then by fire. A fever, obviously. Before that, a sore throat. After, a cough that kept me breathless for days. I thought I would never be well again.”

  “Very sorry,” Charles said. “It was definitely not the same illness.”

  “It was very unpleasant, but I never felt close to death.” He shook his head.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, did Miss Lugoson like to forage, or make her own herbal concoctions?” Charles inquired.

  Mr. Durant laughed heartily. “No. She liked to read plays, and practice thrilling speeches, and dance. Never
took walks, always the carriage, would not have known an elm from an oak.”

  “Do you think she had enemies?” Charles asked.

  “Her aunt didn’t seem to like her much. I escorted the family to the Garrick Theater a couple of times to see a play, then the panto, and met Miss Acton afterward.”

  “Do you think her aunt might have poisoned her?” Charles asked.

  “Why?” Mr. Durant asked blankly. “Why would anyone kill such a girl?”

  “Money,” William said. “She was an heiress.”

  “I’m well aware of that, as a man must be.”

  “Were you considering offering for her?”

  “I was in no way promised to her, nor had any affectionate words been offered. She was not yet out, and I am in no hurry.”

  “Would it surprise you to know Miss Lugoson claimed she was engaged to some people?” Charles was unsure of exactly the financial state of the Durant household. Dusty rooms were a sign of careless housekeeping, but were they a sign of relative poverty as well? He could not say, but perhaps Lady Holland might offer insight at her salon.

  “She was a fanciful creature. Definitely not engaged. Tell me why you asked about the Rueff family,” Durant said, seeming to sharpen.

  “The daughter of that house, also an heiress, died in the same manner one year before. Her father came from the same village where the Lugosons lived until recently.”

  “Have you spoken to her parents?” Durant asked.

  “No, she has only a father. We should solicit him for our Society as well.”

  “Yes, do that,” Durant said slowly.

  “Any other suggestions or insights?” Charles asked. “For Lady Lugoson’s sake?”

  Mr. Durant reached into his pocket, pulling out a handful of shillings. “For your Society, as I assume these mudlarks are real.”

  “Very much so,” Charles assured him, placing the money in a little cloth bag he had bought for the purpose of looking official. “Any final thoughts on Miss Carley, for instance?”

  “I see the Carleys often, as I have hopes of a political career myself,” Mr. Durant said. “But we did not speak of Miss Lugoson.”

  “Why not? Miss Carley and Miss Lugoson clearly spoke of you.”

  Mr. Durant seemed startled by this. “The question always is, do you marry for connection, for wealth, for friendship, or for love?”

  “Miss Lugoson had the wealth, but her father, who was the best connection, was deceased. Miss Carley has the connections now,” William said.

  Mr. Durant nodded. “None of this mattered because the girls were not yet out. I was focused on my career. Not standing for an election now, still learning, but in the next five years or so . . .”

  “Very good,” Charles said, tiring of the chilly, dark room, and this rather vacant gentleman. “Thank you for your donation and suggestion that we apply to Monsieur Rueff for additional support.”

  Chapter 18

  Charles arrived at Holland House with William the next night, somewhat more at ease than the first time he had been invited more than two weeks before. In these interactions he’d had with the political class, the Carleys, Mr. Durant and such, he hadn’t found any finer humanity than that available at the Hogarth dinner table. He knew himself to be self-educated to the highest standard, and a keen observer of human behavior. He no longer felt himself unequal to such company.

  Lady Holland seemed to be in something of a flutter when he saw her in the first drawing room. “Mr. Dickens,” she exclaimed as he went to greet his hostess. She fussed with her skirts, then straightened her rope of pearls, from which descended a diamond-and-ruby pendant.

  “My lady. What an honor to be remembered,” Charles said, bowing over her hand.

  “I thought of you especially, given the awkwardness of the situation.” The corners of her lips turned down, deepening her jowls.

  “What is wrong, dear lady?”

  William winked and moved on to give them some privacy. She took Charles’s arm and drew him into a corner love seat. Behind them was a triangular table with a stunning silver candelabrum. It held three deliciously scented beeswax candles. A spot for relaxation, but the lady’s mood made him tense.

  “It is Lady Lugoson,” she said.

  “Is she ill?” Charles asked, concerned despite himself, though he knew all too well that the woman might be a filicide.

  “She is here,” Lady Holland hissed.

  “In your house? She came to your gathering? Less than a month after her daughter died?”

  She nodded, jowls wobbling with the vehemence of her movements. “She is in the Gilt Chamber.”

  How extremely odd, Lady Lugoson was proving to be. “Whatever for?”

  “I had a footman shut the door. He is standing guard.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Can you escort her home, Mr. Dickens? She cannot see anyone. Just a penny short of distraught, I think. Ready to fly into a rage. I wonder if she had planned to find a second husband just before her daughter came out, and now all of her plans are ruined.”

  “Does she need money?”

  “Not that I have heard.”

  He frowned. “Did she ask after someone specific?”

  “Why?”

  “She might have a specific marital target, though my thoughts incline in another direction. Do you know Jacques Rueff?”

  “Yes, of course. He doesn’t live far.”

  “You know his daughter died in the same manner as Miss Lugoson, and poison was suspected at the time.”

  “She was murdered?”

  “It was thought she poisoned herself with something she had gathered. Herb, mushroom, something of that nature.”

  “I see.” The lady played with her fan.

  “Is it possible that Lady Lugoson took action against her own daughter? She could have had the idea from Monsieur Rueff.”

  “No.” Lady Holland shook her head again. “He is not such a man. And if Lady Lugoson wants a husband, it was the wrong time to kill her daughter. I think you are wrong, Mr. Dickens. You are not in possession of all the facts yet.”

  “But the money,” he said. “You were the first person to tell me that the girl was Angela Acton’s daughter, not Lady Lugoson’s.”

  Her hands stilled. “Was I right?”

  Charles nodded.

  “Still, Christiana was accepted as such. Now, Lady Lugoson cannot remarry this year.” Lady Holland patted his leg. “I shall introduce you to Monsieur Rueff to satisfy your curiosity, then you will remove Lady Lugoson.”

  “Agreed,” Charles said, helping her to rise. “He has a fiancée, I believe?”

  “Or he did. That talk has died out, given his finances and his health.” Lady Holland directed him toward her card room, pausing to introduce him to half a dozen distinguished men along the way, all Whig party members. Charles had seen half of them in political meetings over the past months, but had never met any personally. He didn’t see William at all and wondered where he had gone.

  Lady Holland nodded in the direction of a table. Four men were playing whist, glasses of port at their elbows. Charles took them in. All graying, evening dress in good condition, comfortable men. One of them, though, seemed to droop more than the others.

  “Rueff?” he whispered, inclining his head toward the one whose head seemed too heavy for his neck to hold up. His hair held the remains of flame around his ears and neck, though it was grayed above, and his scalp shone through at the top.

  She nodded. “After this, the Gilt Chamber, Mr. Dickens.”

  He waved his hand in a mockery of a handshake and they went toward the gamers.

  “Gentlemen, if I may interrupt? I’d like to introduce you to my young friend, the journalist Charles Dickens.” She went around the table, introducing each one.

  “Very pleased,” Monsieur Rueff said in a faded voice, with no hint of interest in Charles whatsoever.

  Matthew Post, across from Rueff, a solicitor, was the only man who s
eemed to recognize his name. “A pleasure, Mr. Dickens. I take the Morning Chronicle and read it assiduously each day.”

  Charles glanced sideways at Monsieur Rueff, but the man, with deep bags under his eyes, his skin an unflattering shade with no hint of pink in it, didn’t seem to have listened.

  “I have some thoughts on one of the candidates,” Mr. Post said. “Perhaps I can steer you to a certain fact that is sure to discredit the man in the eyes of your readers.”

  “Very good, thank you, Mr. Post.” Charles allowed Lady Holland to whisk him away after a promise to call on Mr. Post at his offices in Gray’s Inn sometime in the near future.

  “Has Monsieur Rueff always been like that?” Charles asked.

  “No. He slowly decayed after his wife died, and his daughter’s death completed the process. Now, he only waits for death. I think something is eating him from the inside.”

  “Like an actual cancer, rather than guilt?”

  “Yes. He did not kill his daughter. Either it was a mishap, or some greater mechanism you have yet to see. His former fiancée is perhaps the culprit? I believe she returned to France instead of staying to care for him.”

  With that, Lady Holland left him with the footman who guarded Lady Lugoson. He let Charles into the Gilt Chamber and closed the door. Charles’s eyes were dazzled by all the gold decorations for a moment. Light flashed around the room, creating a dizzying aspect. When his eyes adjusted, he saw Lady Lugoson, regarding the bust of a man with long, curly hair.

  “What brings you out on a winter’s night, my lady?” Charles asked, coming up next to her.

  Her profile was serene. She didn’t seem startled by his appearance in the room. “I was restless. I thought Lady Holland a friend, but she seemed horrified by my arrival.”

  “It is very soon for you to be at a party,” he said gently.

  “One day passes like another, until I lose all sense of time. I used to vary the color of my dresses by the day, an anchor to reality. Now, all black,” she said, gesturing down her ebony skirt.

  “Lady Holland said you were looking for someone?”

  “I had thought to find Charles Greville,” she said carelessly, picking up a glass of wine. “He amuses me.”