A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  “You just want to see the Hogarths.” Fred had deep circles under his eyes, as if he were thirty-four instead of fourteen. “I’m not going all the way to Brompton. I’ll go to a closer church.”

  “Then what?”

  His brother shrugged. “I have friends.”

  He didn’t like the idea of showing up in Brompton with just Julie Saville. It looked too much like courting. “No, Fred, you are coming with us.”

  “I’m not walking that far,” he whined. “It’s too bloody cold.”

  “I need you,” Charles snapped. “We have a lady present.”

  “Sorry,” Fred mumbled.

  Julie glanced between the two of them. “I didn’t have any brothers or sisters that lived. How amusing to watch you together.”

  Charles heard church bells toll. “There is an omnibus coming soon. If we leave now we can catch it.”

  * * *

  Three hours later, they had survived the service. He, Fred, and Julie had huddled in the back. He’d wanted to see Miss Hogarth, to bask under her warm smile, but he knew he couldn’t expect one with Julie in tow.

  She had seen them, though, when she’d taken one of the twins out after she had started to fuss, loudly. He had agonized under her puzzled glance at them as she walked by.

  Julie put her hand on his arm and smiled at Miss Hogarth, sensing with some feminine wile that she was important.

  Miss Hogarth had turned away, stone-faced when she’d caught sight of the gesture. Charles jerked his arm away from Julie, hoping Miss Hogarth had seen that too, afraid she’d think he had rejected her in favor of courting the actress.

  And maybe she had seen what he’d done, because she had greeted his party politely enough after the service, in the vestibule.

  “That is the actress Julie Saville,” he explained to her in a low voice after he raced ahead of his brother and Julie to speak to her privately for a moment. “I hired her to enact a plan.”

  “Oh?” Miss Hogarth smiled politely at an older woman who brushed by, her lips turned down as she saw them together.

  “Yes.” He leaned toward her ear. “I didn’t see Monsieur Rueff today.”

  “Neither did I.” Her bland tone wounded him.

  How could she think he’d want the actress? What did he have to do to prove himself worthy of a decent woman? “I thought I would have Miss Saville pretend to be a friend of Miss Rueff’s and see if we could obtain any information from the household.”

  “Oh.” A wrinkle that had appeared between her eyebrows cleared. “An excellent idea.”

  “I hope someone is home,” he fretted, as Fred and Julie reached them.

  Miss Hogarth’s eyes roamed up and down Julie’s figure. “You should trade your shawl for my cloak,” she said. “Yours is dirty and you don’t look like someone who would have a friend in Pelham Crescent.”

  Charles winced.

  “Are you sure?” Julie asked with a little smile. “It’s the mud of honest work. The Dickenses and I were digging for treasure in the wee hours.”

  “What?” Miss Hogarth asked, but then her sister Mary came up to them.

  As Mary fired questions, Miss Hogarth whipped off her cloak, gesturing impatiently at the shawl. Julie reluctantly traded them, still smirking.

  At least, Charles noticed, she’d done a good job with the repair to her dress. He’d found his little sewing kit that morning. Fanny had given it to him at Christmas but he’d never used it. Julie had talent as a seamstress. Unfortunately, that was no way to earn a living. The wages paid to women who worked sewing clothes was abysmal. She’d be a fool to do anything but act, given her talent.

  “Can I go home now?” Fred asked, bumping his shoulder against Charles.

  “May I present my brother Fred?” Charles asked. “This is Miss Hogarth and Miss Mary Hogarth, Fred.”

  “How do you do,” his brother said politely, exposing his dimples as he took an extra-long look at Mary. She took no interest in him, though both girls responded appropriately. Fred was a mere child to Mary, who was a year or so older than he.

  “Who is this?” Mary asked Charles, indicating Julie.

  “She’s our maid of all work,” Fred piped up.

  “Very temporarily,” Charles said. “Due to irregularities in her employment.”

  Mary’s clear gaze moved up and down Julie’s dress. The pink-and-black-striped fabric was discolored in places and the sleeves were not current, probably a hand-me-down from Angela Acton. Julie looked like the youngest daughter of an artistic family or a parlormaid on her day off.

  “You’ll have to keep the cloak on,” Charles said. “If we want to get into the Rueff household.”

  “Why aren’t you taking Kate?” Mary asked.

  “She’s already been on the street with me.” He cleared his throat and gave Miss Hogarth a last, long look, noting that today her ribbons were bright green. She’d worn green before, but not quite that shade. “We are planning a little deception to see if we can access Miss Rueff’s letters or any other sources of information, to see if she ever named her lover. Enjoy the rest of your day.” Miss Hogarth did not respond.

  He escaped with his two charges after he greeted the rest of the Hogarths, feeling like the ringmaster of a circus, leading his acts. They made fast work of their walk to Pelham Crescent, Charles in his best hat, Fred in a hand-me-down topper, and Julie in a bonnet that was the nicest part of her wardrobe.

  She caught him looking as they crossed the street. “Retrimmed from leftover bits,” she said, touching the velvet self-consciously. “I didn’t steal anything.”

  “I never said you were a thief, just that you were dealing in black market goods,” Charles said. “Now, there’s no point changing your name, but you should emulate Miss Lugoson in voice and manner. That might make you seem more familiar to the household and get us in.”

  “What about Fred?” she asked.

  “No help for it. He’s obviously my brother,” Charles said, patting Fred’s cheek as the boy crossed his eyes.

  “What do I need to know?” Julie asked.

  “An excellent question. Here is all the background I have for your role.” He outlined everything he knew about Marie Rueff.

  “I hope I don’t have to recognize any flora or fauna,” Julie said sourly. “Mushrooms make me sneeze.”

  “That’s strange,” Fred said. “I hate sparrows.”

  The pair of reprobates exchanged increasingly bizarre, probably fictitious facts about themselves until Charles spotted the correct street and directed his charges there.

  “There it is.” Charles squared his shoulders and marched onto the porch of the Rueff home. No sign of activity in the house next door this time. He rattled the door knocker and settled in to wait.

  After a couple of minutes, the door was answered by a footman. The family indeed had money if they were spending it on a man to open the door. Marie Rueff’s money being spent again, not that the poor girl had any use for it now. “Yes?”

  “I am Charles Dickens, an acquaintance of Monsieur Rueff, and this is Miss Saville,” he said. “Miss Saville was a friend of Miss Rueff’s, and she’s just returned from a long stay in Paris. She only just became aware of the tragic death.”

  When Charles turned to indicate Julie, she had a handkerchief out and was dotting her eyes. He couldn’t help but recognize the “CD” embroidery on the corner. His mother had given him new handkerchiefs for Christmas. So much for Julie not being a thief.

  The footman’s gaze swept the threesome. He stepped back from the door and allowed them entrance. Shocked at the ease of his deception, Charles kept a straight face as he ushered Julie ahead of himself.

  The footman directed them into a large reception room with bowed windows and a marble-fronted fireplace. Ice-blue walls gave the room a cool, frosty feel. A few watercolor paintings dotted the walls, not enough for the space. “I will see if Monsieur Rueff is at home.”

  After he left the room, Charles surveyed t
he trio’s dripping clothing and said, “Don’t sit on anything.”

  “Why not? That’s what it is there for,” Julie said.

  “The fabrics are very fine, and the footman did not take our coats. We aren’t welcome to make ourselves comfortable.” Charles walked along the walls, investigating the watercolors. He was struck by one picnicking scene. The man depicted might be Monsieur Rueff in happier days, which might make the young woman his late wife and the adolescent girl the late Marie Rueff.

  Before Julie could argue further, the door opened and Monsieur Rueff stepped in. He must have been right down the hall. Given his appropriate dress for services, Charles wondered if the man had planned to go, then felt too ill to leave his house.

  He looked even thinner than when Charles had last seen him at Lady Holland’s salon, and even more gray in the face.

  Glancing at them in confusion, Monsieur Rueff said, in a fading sort of voice, “What is this about?”

  Julie strode to him and held her hand out, not seeming to notice that she was approaching a man who seemed little more than a specter. “My dear monsieur! I did not know my friend had perished! How many splendid hours we have spent picking mushrooms and herbs in Fontainebleau Forest. My dearest wish when I returned was to see my sweet Marie again.”

  She had even managed to add some French inflection to her voice.

  “How very like her you are,” said Monsieur Rueff in a surprised tone, inflection coming back to his voice. “You could be my Marie come back to life.”

  Charles glanced at the picnic scene painting again. The girl and the woman both had red hair, but that was about all he could determine.

  “Oh, la, sir,” Julie said with a melodious chuckle. “She was so much more beautiful than me.”

  Monsieur Rueff stared at her, eyes wide. He licked his thin, colorless lips. “You must be her twin,” he said with flat emphasis. “I remember she had a friend like you, but I never knew her name.”

  “I am Julie. I am so pleased that she spoke of me,” Julie simpered. “Please, monsieur, might I have the letters I sent to her, as a remembrance? I lost hers in a fire.” She pointed down to the hem of her dress. She was taller than Miss Hogarth, and the pink-and-black stripes showed at her ankles. “I have very little left.”

  “How dreadful,” he exclaimed, almost sounding like a normal man with years left in his lifespan. “I shall have her casket fetched. You can look through them. No one has separated her correspondence. We will not need them much longer.”

  Charles took this to be a reference to the cancer Lady Holland suggested.

  “How delightful,” she exclaimed. “I am so grateful to you.”

  “Are you here with your family?” he asked, staring at Charles with confusion, his hands shaking slightly as he opened and closed them.

  “Perhaps you cannot place me, monsieur,” Charles said. “Lady Holland introduced us. You were with Matthew Post, the solicitor, at her salon?”

  “Ah,” he said slowly. “Please forgive me. I am not well. You are a relative of my Marie’s sœur jumelle?”

  “It is a tangled tale,” Charles said. “Mademoiselle is seeking employment in the theater, but she has had a most difficult time with her possessions being destroyed.”

  “I have been reduced to selling what little I have left,” Julie said. Like magic, she produced the Queen Elizabeth gold coin from her mitten. “See? This should be a treasure to pass to my children someday, but I must sell even this.”

  Monsieur Rueff exclaimed as he looked into her hand. His expression became almost tender as he stared at it. “What a lovely coin. I collect coins, as I’m sure my Marie must have told you.”

  The footman appeared in the doorway and said something in French. His master gave him a brief set of instructions in the same language before the footman asked for their coats and, taking them, departed again.

  Charles applauded Julie’s skill even as he felt horror at her duplicity. He suspected he’d never see their coin again. Fred met his eyes and shook his head slightly, his lip curling. Somehow, the actress had even had time to polish the coin, probably while the brothers had barricaded themselves into the kitchen, attempting to wash up before church.

  “Come, come, my dear,” Monsieur Rueff said, gesturing to a sofa. “Sit with me and speak of Marie.”

  Julie smiled politely, too into her role to even glance at Charles, and gamely launched into an anecdote about favorite dolls. Charles held his breath, hoping the story was too generic to possibly be wrong. The bereaved father seemed to accept every word as gospel, and even laughed at one point, though he then began to cough so harshly that Julie patted him on the back. It was positively eerie how animated Julie had made him, but then the clear signs of illness would resurrect.

  Some ten minutes later, a maid entered with tea. Another ten minutes passed and the footman reappeared with a small casket and a canvas satchel.

  “I shall look through the documents for your name,” Charles said, taking the casket while Julie continued to amuse in what sounded like the most rudimentary schoolroom French, albeit with an accurate accent. He noticed that she touched her bonnet, which she had not removed, from time to time. Perhaps she was concerned that Marie Rueff had a different hair color from her “twin.”

  Showing all due reverence, in case Monsieur Rueff ever took his eyes off Julie, Charles opened the casket and began to read through the letters. Schoolgirl stuff and in large handwriting, he didn’t see any names that he recognized. Nothing about the Lugosons, or Horatio Durant.

  He glanced up and saw circles of feverish red had appeared on the sick man’s cheeks. He hoped they weren’t injuring the bereaved father with their deception. No longer knowing if they had done the wrong thing or not in coming here, he kept going, just wanting to be done with this situation. But then, a few more letters in, the name “Carley” jumped out at him.

  Chapter 22

  So Miss Rueff had indeed known the Carley family, though it was just a casual mention of a garden party in their Brompton garden some eighteen months before, that was, six months before Miss Rueff’s death. Why had Miss Carley tiptoed around the question? He flipped through the rest of the letters, randomly pulling out three with no obvious attribution that he could claim had come from Julie.

  Julie glanced at him. “Did you find my letters, dear Cousin Charles?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “You can put them in here for safekeeping from the dreadful weather,” their host said, pushing the canvas satchel toward Charles with his foot. It shook.

  Charles stared at Monsieur Rueff, who despite his obvious frailty and possible fever, looked genuinely happy. Charles opened the satchel, his guilt diminishing. Inside was a great deal of green silk fabric. “There is something in here.”

  “It is a dress. It was sent by the seamstress just the day after.” Monsieur Rueff’s voice broke before he could finish his sad words. “It was never worn. Dear mademoiselle, I wish for you to have it, as a remembrance of my daughter. Her favorite color, no?”

  “Oh, oui,” Julie said, her eyes filling with tears. She took both of his hands in hers. “Merci, monsieur. Je suis désolé pour votre perte. I am so very sorry for your loss.”

  As soon as Charles could manage to extricate Julie, they departed. His daggerlike glares at her, out of sight of their host, prevented her from promising that she would visit again soon. Charles had a thousand questions for the man about his daughter, but could ask none of them. He was simply too ill. Besides, if the girl hadn’t kept letters about her lover, at least nowhere her father could find them, what would her father have known? He couldn’t ask the sick, grieving man if his seventeen-year-old had had any enemies.

  Though he rather suspected that, if Marie Rueff had been like Julie Saville, she might very well have had one or two.

  “Give it back,” he snapped, as soon as they had reached the main road.

  “What?”

  He glared at her. “The coin, Julie. And
my handkerchief, and whatever else you’ve stolen.”

  “Charles!” Fred exclaimed, putting his hand on his brother’s arm.

  She sniffed. “I just borrowed them. I thought they might be useful and they were. An actress needs props.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  She touched her cheek with her index finger. “I require one kiss as payment for their return.”

  Fred choked out a laugh. “How about you kiss me instead?”

  Indignant beyond speech at her attempt to manipulate and embarrass him, Charles held out his hand, a basilisk glare in his eyes, until she huffed and looked away after a two-minute standoff in the rain. She gave up the coin and the cloth. He knotted the queen into the handkerchief and shoved them deep into his waistcoat pocket. “That’s quite enough stealing. Once more and Miss Acton or not, you are out on your ear.”

  “What about my new dress?” she pouted.

  “You can have it. I hope it helps you find a new theater.”

  She snatched the satchel away from him. “Did you get any good information from the letters?” she asked, as if nothing untoward had happened.

  Only the fact that Fred was also listening made him answer. “It held confirmation that she did know the Carleys. We hadn’t been certain of that before. Nothing about Miss Lugoson, or any member of her family.”

  “Maybe she communicated with her lover through some person, rather than through letters,” Julie said. “I don’t think that footman likes girls. He looked at Fred more than me. You need to get a person into the household, or at least talking to the servants.”

  Fred growled and kicked a rock across the street. Charles heard a rumble of thunder, then rain clattered on the rooftops, sounding like hail, and they were hit by sharp pellets of rain. He pulled his brother close.

  “Can we take a hackney?” Julie said, a hand protectively over her velvet brim. “I don’t want my bonnet ruined.”

  “I’m not made of money,” Charles told her. “If we see a bus, I’ll pay for that.”

  * * *

  Charles sneezed the entire way back to his office from Greenwich the next day, grateful that William Aga had made the trip to Sudbury on his behalf. He wanted nothing more than a towel on his head and a hot rum punch in his hand, but first he had to write his article on the very dull political meeting he had sat through.