A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  “I understand he is much sought after. Perhaps you could ask him to call on you in your own home.”

  “I am tired of it,” she said, her sudden petulance reminding him of her sister. “I think I shall return to France.”

  “What about Lord Lugoson?”

  “He is more at home there as well.” She shivered. “What if my daughter’s attacker comes for him?”

  He wondered if she sensed a dangerous flaw in her own character, one that might harm her child, or in some other agent. “Have you come to any further conclusions, my lady? I am now led to believe that Miss Rueff’s death was thought to be an accidental poisoning, therefore poison can clearly be suspected in your daughter’s death as well.”

  “It is the Garrick,” she said in a whisper. “Oh, my husband was capable of anything.”

  “Your husband, God rest his soul, is long deceased, my lady,” Charles said. Was the lady in danger of losing her mind?

  A candle, malfunctioning, flickered and went out to the right of them. Just the one light source vanquished, reflected in all the mirrors around them, seemed to leave behind an air of gloom. Of menace.

  “Did he die like your daughter?” Charles asked.

  She winced, as if her old head injury flared. “I still hear his voice. Oh, he didn’t suffer enough.”

  “Did he tell you to take Christiana’s life?” Charles said in a pregnant whisper.

  She turned fully to him, and gripped his shoulders in surprisingly strong fingers. “Christiana was the daughter of my heart. She was light itself, perfect. I would never have harmed her, whatever it cost my son.”

  “Do you suspect your son then?” Charles asked.

  Tears welled up instantly in her beautiful eyes, only slightly weathered at the far corners, running down her perfect nose and dripping onto her tender lips.

  “Dear me, you do,” Charles said. “And his father? Do you suspect the same?”

  She didn’t answer his question. “It wasn’t Angela, how could she have given my poor dear poison?”

  “I don’t know, but she’s a violent woman. She beats her own servant.”

  “An actress’s drama,” the lady said, not bothering to wipe away her tears. “You must find who did it, Mr. Dickens. I cannot live like this, wondering if my own child killed his sister for money.”

  Charles nodded, his heart swelling with pity for the beautiful baroness despite his lack of trust in her. “I promise you I will understand how your daughter came to die.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dickens.” She drew herself up, and removed her hands from his shoulders. “We shall drink this wine that was brought to me, and then you shall escort me home.”

  “Of course, my lady,” he said, sitting across from her as she gestured and taking the very full glass of wine that she offered.

  * * *

  Charles spent the next morning with a decidedly thick head, courtesy of sharing a decanter of very rich wine with Lady Lugoson. They had stumbled back to her house after drinking the decanter dry, and he had forgotten about William. All caution had been lost as well, drinking into the wee hours with a possible murderer.

  He forced himself to focus through the miasma of headache and stomach cramps, and managed to complete two articles before William came in from a political meeting, a cross expression on his face.

  “What happened to you last night?” he demanded, pushing his chair next to Charles’s.

  “Lady Holland asked me to watch over Lady Lugoson, who had come to her gathering.”

  “I heard about that. Did you get anywhere with her?”

  Charles ignored the question. “I want to go back to Dr. Keville. I wonder if I could get him and Dr. Manette into a room to talk through their patient histories.”

  William poked his index finger into the desk. “Either Miss Lugoson was poisoned or she wasn’t. No one will ever know unless a killer confesses. You have two dead girls.”

  “Lady Lugoson has begun to suspect her own son.”

  William snorted derisively. “He wasn’t in England when Marie Rueff died. But I guess she didn’t confess to anything.”

  “No, not even facts about her husband’s end, but I did meet Miss Rueff’s father. He did not seem like a killer. Two different deaths, unconnected except through the parish and a link to Fontainebleau.”

  “Different doctors.”

  “Yes. I am missing something both girls had in common. It wasn’t friends, or men, or hobbies.”

  “That you know of. Sometimes it takes time to uncover the truth. Will you give up?”

  “No, too much of my personal self-worth is tied up in the tale now. I want the Hogarths to see that I can solve this puzzle. After all, there are young girls in that family, living in the same parish.” He pushed back from his desk. “I’m sorry, William. I am too restless to do more than return to the doctor.”

  * * *

  Charles waited in Dr. Keville’s parlor for half an hour. Eventually, a very stout lady tottered out of his office and he was brought to the doctor by the same woman as before.

  “Mr. Dickens,” the doctor said, rising from his desk to shake his hand. “You look unwell, sir.”

  “I did not come for myself.”

  “Hmmm.” The doctor peered at him. “Reddened nose, glazed eyes, and your waistcoat fits differently than when I saw you last.”

  Charles put his hand over his abdomen. “What?”

  “You have the look of a man overly strained. Are you sleeping well? Bowels regular?”

  “I have always been restless,” Charles said. “The thought of Miss Lugoson keeps me up at night. And financial worries.”

  “Overimbibed recently?”

  “Last night.”

  “Lay off the drink and the rich food for a few days,” the doctor advised. “I’ll take your pulse.”

  Charles drew back. “I will take your advice, sir, and pay your bill, but I am here to acquaint you with Dr. Manette and his examination of Marie Rueff, the girl who died like Miss Lugoson did a year earlier.”

  “What did he suspect?” The doctor took his wrist.

  “Some natural poison, probably digested by accident. Miss Rueff was a forager.”

  “Like a mushroom?”

  Charles nodded. “Or noxious weed.”

  Dr. Keville let go of him and steepled his fingers. “It took both girls at least sixteen hours to die. It is possible that is what killed her. I have wondered if there was an emotional disturbance. Troubled people seem to attract one another.”

  “What troubled person attracted Miss Lugoson?” Charles asked.

  “I have treated a close friend of hers, who is very troubled emotionally.”

  “Who?” Charles demanded. “Mr. Durant? Miss Carley? Her own brother?”

  The doctor stiffened, as if he’d realized he’d said too much. “I cannot tell you.”

  “You must,” Charles said. “Lady Lugoson is afraid the killer is within her own family. This family must have peace or it will be torn to pieces.”

  The doctor sighed. “I will deny it if you use my name, but Miss Carley is not well.”

  “Miss Lugoson’s best friend is emotionally disturbed. By her friend’s death, of course,” Charles countered.

  “Even before that,” the doctor revealed. “She suffers from terrible jealousies.”

  Chapter 19

  Charles stared at Dr. Keville from his position on the other side of the desk, though the face in his mind’s eye was Miss Carley, of the bad hair and perfect complexion. Here was new information.

  “She has bodily attacked her own brother several times,” the doctor said in a low voice. “That is why he is away at school as much as possible, or traveling, to keep them apart.”

  “What causes these rages?” Charles asked.

  “Some perception of his receiving special treatment, I believe.”

  Charles shifted in his chair. “I’ve never even heard the son’s name.”

  “Bertram,” he said. �
��I would not have expected Miss Lugoson’s connection to Miss Carley, reformed by her return to England, to have lasted long.”

  “I know Miss Carley was jealous of her friend. I have heard her speak of it,” Charles said.

  Dr. Keville nodded. “Look there for your poison, rather than at the victim’s brother.”

  “But he inherited a great deal of money from his sister.”

  “I do not think young Lord Lugoson is disturbed.”

  Charles was not sure he agreed with the doctor, but at least he had a new angle to pursue and confirmation that Dr. Keville could see a natural poison at work. “Thank you for your insight. It is reason to continue in my labors.”

  “Do not forget to exercise,” the doctor said, as Charles rose. “It helps with the overconsumption.”

  Charles thought of all the many miles he had walked in recent weeks, despite the tightness of his waistcoat, a piece of clothing that seemed to squeeze around his innards ever more tightly as he departed the office.

  He ignored the omnibus that went by, resolving to walk home, and to drink nothing stronger than ale for the rest of the week, and no pudding either. After he made these resolutions, he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.

  Who was likely to be a murderer? Why, a deranged person, of course. A deranged person who had never denied she knew Marie Rueff, who had been in the local area for both murderers, and who might likely be very jealous of Miss Lugoson, due to her love for the same man.

  Why, of course the poisoner was Beatrice Carley! He had a skip in his step as he passed the bakeshop where he often bought dinner. While he contemplated not getting food at all, he needed to feed Fred, who was thin as a greyhound. He went inside and ordered a simple cut of meat with gravy, instead of pie.

  Back at home, with his brother fed, he wrote an energetic letter to Miss Hogarth, detailing his case. Ink spattered from his pen, decorating his page with droplets, as he rushed to lay out his thoughts.

  In the first, Miss Carley had emotional disturbances.

  She was known to have bodily harmed her brother.

  She resided near both girls.

  She had been present the night Miss Lugoson died.

  And last, she loved the same man as Miss Lugoson, a girl with more beauty and money than she possessed.

  The killer was found! He implored that she and her sisters keep a healthy distance from Beatrice Carley if ever an offer of friendship was made and sealed his letter for posting, feeling quite pleased.

  * * *

  Charles had hoped to seek counsel from Mr. Hogarth later in the day about his next steps, now that his head was clear. At the very least, Miss Carley must be confined somewhere so that she would never follow through on her fiendish impulses again.

  However, Mr. Hogarth had been called into editorial meetings all day, and by the time Charles left work, to fulfill his commitment to hunt coins with Fred that night, he had not seen his mentor.

  When he arrived home, he found a letter from Miss Hogarth. He held the letter with fond regard, knowing she must have responded to him immediately to have had a letter back to him by the last post.

  He opened it, expecting congratulations, but instead found words of gentle caution. Concern with the idea that they might destroy a young girl’s reputation when there were plenty of other suspects was paramount in her mind. Irritation surged, even as he respected that she stood up for her own opinions. Still, she was wrong and he was correct.

  To rebut her, he went to his writing desk and wrote a response.

  Dear Miss Hogarth,

  In regard to my previous missive, I believe Miss Carley is indeed our murderess. Who else is likely?

  I have enclosed a list of motivations of all our candidates:

  1. Beatrice Carley due to anger over Horatio Durant

  2. Lady Lugoson due to a desire to have her son inherit

  3. Lord Lugoson due to hatred of his half sister

  4. Christiana Lugoson due to misadventure

  5. Angela Acton due to fears over her daughter’s theatrical career exposing her

  6. Persons unknown or minor players in her life, including everyone who had been at the Epiphany party, persons such as Percy Chalke, Julie Saville, and the dance master who knew her, assorted parishioners

  What, Miss Hogarth, do you think I should do next, given this extensive list, in order to prove my theory?

  Of course, she’d see his point clearly and come around to his way of thinking. Before he had folded his pages, he heard a knock at the door.

  “Fred,” he called, hoping his brother would answer the door, but he didn’t appear. Was he even in the bedroom, as Charles had thought?

  He pushed out of his chair and took his candle to the door. Instead of William, whom he always expected, he saw a tall woman, cloaked and veiled.

  “Good evening, Mr. Dickens.”

  He recognized the soft, aristocratic voice with its faint hint of French. Lady Lugoson. Whom he had last seen two nights before, held up by her butler as Charles left her at her front door, even more cupshot than he had been.

  “My lady.” He heard the shock in his voice, saw her finger cover her lips in front of her veil, urging him to caution. Standing back from the door, he gave her room to come in, making sure his candle stayed well clear of her clothing.

  As soon as he closed the door, he rushed to the waning fire and added coal. A titled lady in his rooms? Who might ever have predicted this? He kept warm enough with fingerless gloves and a muffler around his neck, but didn’t expect a lady to tolerate a chilly room. Should he offer tea? Did he have any?

  “I am sorry it is so dark, my lady. I was busy at my desk.” He lit both of his lamps. When he had friends visiting, they knew to bring lamps of their own, if they lived nearby. He and Fred needed to sell their coins and buy more furnishings. Where was his brother anyway? He was supposed to be supervising the lad.

  “It is of no concern.” She drew off her cloak. Underneath she wore another mourning gown, this one a traveling dress, rather than the evening one she’d worn at Lady Holland’s house, but equally new and stylish. Lady Lugoson’s figure had not been damaged in the least by childbearing. The gathered material of her bodice displayed her tiny waist. Her more than thirty years did not show on her body, and in the flickering candlelight, did not show on what he could see of her face, either.

  Only good sense kept him from thinking she’d come here to attempt an assignation. He was much too far below her, and she, far too beautiful to need to play in lesser ranks. “Has something happened? With your son, perhaps? Some new development since I saw you on Tuesday night?”

  She lifted her veil, sharing the full effect of her marblelike face with him. “We did debate the school question, but he begged me not to part from him. Instead, we discussed returning to France.”

  From the standpoint of a grieving mother, he could understand why she would want to leave the scene of such unhappiness, but might she also be a poisoner attempting to escape the long arm of justice? Or removing her son from it?

  “I see,” he said. “Are you going soon?”

  A handkerchief appeared as if by magic. She dabbed at the corners of her eyes. “Not soon enough, there is no soon enough unless I might have saved her.”

  Charles, wordless at the delicacy of her speech, gestured her to one of the chairs pulled up next to the deal table. The coins were still out.

  She glanced down at them. “Elizabeth?” she asked, fingering one as she sat. “This is an interesting hobby.”

  He stood over the table, too uneasy to sit. “A project, with my younger brother. Fred is a bit younger than Lord Lugoson.” And seemingly not at home.

  “I see. History is a wise occupation for a young scholar.” She tilted one coin on its side and attempted to spin it, but it was far too battered to do so. It fell over, exposing its shield back. She shivered.

  “Are you chilled? Shall I put a kettle on?”

  “No. I don’t expect refre
shment at a bachelor establishment.” She crossed her hands over her waist and bent forward slightly.

  He wondered when she’d had cause to be in one before, but didn’t care to inquire. “Then what purpose brings you here, and without companion?”

  “My maid is downstairs in the carriage,” Lady Lugoson said, after a long sigh. “But I must know. Have you made any progress?”

  At this time of night? She could have sent a note summoning him to Lugoson House upon her convenience. What other plans did she have for this evening? “I had another interview with Dr. Keville, and as a result, I have come to the conclusion that Beatrice Carley is responsible for your daughter’s death. She would not deny knowing Marie Rueff, and she was jealous of your daughter’s success with a Mr. Durant, a young, aspiring politician.”

  “I doubt Miss Carley knew Marie,” the lady said, after a considering pause. “Monsieur Rueff is not political, and the Carleys are only interested in political people.”

  “Miss Rueff had a lover,” Charles said. “She tried to run off shortly before she died, but was stopped.”

  The lady’s feet shifted audibly on the floorboards. “I know nothing of that. Perhaps she killed herself out of despair at being thwarted. That age is so dramatic.”

  “There is no doubt of poison in her case,” Charles told her, watching his guest closely.

  “I am sure you are right, but Beatrice Carley is a stupid girl.”

  Why was Lady Lugoson so sure? “What if Miss Rueff won her lover away from Miss Carley, in the same way as Miss Carley might have felt your daughter won Mr. Durant away from her?”

  The lady’s fists closed, then opened again. “What poison could a foolish young girl obtain?”

  Was she irritated? “Anything an apothecary might carry. Anything that might be in the home. Poison is easy to obtain.”

  “It takes planning to poison.” She shook her head. “Beatrice is not a planner, not like her parents. She and her brother did not inherit their parents’ mental acuity.”

  Now he understood. She wanted to press him to some agenda. He gave her an opening. “Then who is your first suspect?”

  “It is still my sister.”