A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  “Except Miss Carley. The curse of having no family,” Charles said. “His executor just wants him buried and forgotten.”

  “I wonder if there are financial problems. From what you said that night, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  Charles nodded as the hackney stopped in front of the Chronicle offices. “You said you wanted a mystery. I have certainly given you that. I will see if I can get that interview with young Mr. Carley and see where that leads us. Meanwhile, I have to deal with Julie Saville.”

  Her tone went cool. “You don’t want a maid of all work?”

  “She’s meant to be onstage,” he said, not wanting to admit the full truth. “Thank you, Miss Hogarth, for taking care of me today. It meant a great deal.”

  She smiled at him with genuine warmth. “My pleasure. I am sorry you are saddled with that actress, but you have such an air about you so that you are a natural person to turn to for help.”

  “How kind of you to say.” Flushing, he opened the carriage door, leaving her to return home.

  Charles saw William coming down the street as he swung down from the carriage, a complicated maneuver involving dropping off steps while avoiding being tangled up with the driver and the reins.

  “How was Sudbury?” Charles called to him with an effort, due to his scratchy throat.

  “You get to go there tomorrow,” William said, tucking the hem of his coat closely against his body, trying to avoid the splash from Miss Hogarth’s hackney as it moved away.

  “Why?” Charles asked, feeling his nose prickle again.

  “Today’s meeting was canceled. I managed to speak to a couple of candidates, but the debate will be tomorrow night.”

  “Sod it,” Charles muttered. “And I still have to write the Greenwich article.”

  “Lucky you. I guess I’m free for the night.” William rocked back on his heels.

  “Can I ask you a favor?”

  He pulled out a cigar. “Another one? It will cost you.”

  “Not Sudbury again,” Charles said. “But I wonder if you have any thoughts, of something that might be done for Julie Saville. Angela Acton has been hitting her, and Percy Chalke has her receiving smuggled goods.”

  “Really?” William stuck the cigar into the side of his mouth.

  “Yes. I’ve had her at my rooms these past couple nights, but she’s a bit of a thief, and she’s asked me to kiss her, and it’s a disaster.”

  William guffawed around the cigar. “Sounds like you are in over your head.”

  “Yes. I don’t want a dalliance with her.” Charles rolled his eyes.

  “No, you want Miss Hogarth.” He grinned, clenching his teeth to keep his cigar in his mouth.

  “Maybe,” Charles admitted. “Do you have any ideas?”

  He sneezed as William put his finger to his chin. “You had better get out of the rain, my lad.”

  “Yes,” Charles agreed.

  “Is Miss Saville at the inn right now?”

  “Probably,” he said sourly. “She’s likely spent the day going through my things looking for any small portable items to turn into funds.”

  “Then she might be off to the pawnshop already.” William chuckled. “But if she’s there I will speak to her.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been a good friend today.” Charles clapped William on his very damp shoulder and opened the door. He hoped his head stayed in one piece long enough to get his article written, and his note to Bertram Carley, which he would post to the Carleys’ London residence. Then he’d have to get home and pack for the early stage. With any luck he’d find a few hours to sleep.

  * * *

  Charles wrote by lamplight, finally turning in his story at ten thirty. He had his ticket for the stagecoach and would have to leave about five for his trip to Sudbury. A boy had run out to get that and a meat pie for him a few hours before.

  He stumbled home, utterly exhausted by the effort of drying his nose and writing his story at the same time. Hopefully he had something clean to stuff into his carpetbag. He had a chance of getting home late the next night, instead of having to stay at an inn. That was some comfort.

  When he opened his front door he had the immediate sense that something was wrong. It was much too late to call for Fred but as he closed the door something flew at him in the near dark, striking him in the chest.

  Chapter 23

  “How dare you!” a woman screamed, pummeling Charles.

  Charles grabbed for arms, but they were moving fast and he was disoriented by the suddenness of the attack. He reached lower, dropping his head down, and attempted to grab her around the waist. He smelled greasepaint? Alcohol?

  “Julie?” Had William done something? He’d thought he could trust his friend.

  No answer. The woman kicked back, striking Charles’s calf with a booted foot. She put too much force behind the blow to be slim-bodied Julie.

  He swung her around, slamming her against the door. Julie had never reeked of gin and greasepaint. As he fought to keep her against the door, pressing his body against hers, her bonnet came loose. He blew hair out of his eyes and risked pulling off the bonnet.

  In the dark, he could just see that the hair wasn’t red. Probably blond.

  “Miss Acton?”

  “Where is she?” Angela Acton demanded. “Where is my Julie?”

  “Where is my brother?” Charles demanded. “If you hurt him I’ll see you hang for it, you mad bitch.”

  She snorted. “He’s left.”

  “When?”

  “He said I could wait for you, then he went out.”

  “Smart boy.”

  She shifted, and he pushed her back against the door.

  “I won’t hit you again,” she gasped.

  “You belong in Bedlam,” Charles growled. “I don’t trust you.”

  “Where is Julie?” she said in an eerily calm voice.

  “What did Fred tell you?”

  “Just that she wasn’t here.”

  That eerie voice again. The calm before the outbreak of fresh rage?

  “I have not been here all day,” Charles protested.

  “Was she with you?”

  “No.”

  She grunted. “You’re hurting my arm.” Her head twisted and he could smell her foul breath.

  “If I let you go will you promise to leave?” he asked.

  “What if that jade is hiding in the bedroom with your brother?”

  “When has Julie Saville ever hid from anything?” Charles asked. “She’s more likely to come at your eyes with her fingers.”

  “That’s what you think,” she said with an air of satisfaction. “She’s got my fire in her, and the inheritance of her father’s hair proves it.”

  Had he heard her correctly? Hellfire and damnation, his head ached so. “Her father? He had red hair? I’ve never heard who her parents are.”

  Miss Acton made an unsuccessful attempt to pull her arm away. “Julie’s father doesn’t know her. My parents sent me away because of Christiana, and even after my sister took her, they left me there.”

  “Where?” He tried to make sense of her words.

  “In Fontainebleau. There was a place they sent girls like me, like a convent school for sinners. Madame Rueff would come to see me sometimes. The Rueffs were in business with my father, fine cloth makers.”

  He felt sick. The pie turned over in his stomach. “And Monsieur Rueff?”

  “He was a fine figure of a man back then. Just a dozen or so years older than me.” Her arm moved. “Such beautiful hair.”

  “Marie Rueff was also a redhead,” Charles said. His brain felt too full for his skull. He stepped back from Miss Acton, releasing her. “Did you kill the girl, hoping to give your daughter with Monsieur Rueff Marie’s life?”

  Miss Acton turned around. He heard the fabric of her clothes slide against the door. With enough sense of self-preservation to move away, he grabbed for a matchbox and lit the candle that was in a holder on the mantelpiece. Onc
e he had sufficient light, he added coal from the hod to the fire.

  The woman moved toward him, looking like a monster out of a fairy tale, her hair a tangled mass around her face, her various shawls and cloaks transforming her body into a dark lump.

  “I didn’t kill anyone, Mr. Dickens,” she said. “I love my daughters, and I had no objection to Marie, either. After all, she was my Julie’s half sister.”

  Two daughters lost to her. No wonder she was mad. “Why doesn’t Julie know you are her mother?”

  “My parents removed me from France for obvious reasons. Julie was fostered there, then brought to England when she was six or seven.”

  “Too young to remember much.” But he remembered how convincing her accent had been. Something had remained of her childhood experience in France.

  “My parents fostered her with a cook of theirs who had married to an innkeeper years before. Julie was there until she was twelve and the cook became ill. I took her after the woman died and taught her my craft. She likes to make up stories about herself but that’s the truth.”

  “Why?”

  “I knew Christiana would never be mine, buy why not Julie? No one cared about a servant girl.”

  “But you didn’t tell her you were her mother.”

  “No. No one suspects, not even Jacques.” Angela laughed, a gentle tinkle. “I never see him anymore. He’s too ill to care about much of anything these days.”

  “You have been Monsieur Rueff’s mistress in recent years?”

  She fingered the trim of her sleeve, and gave him a coy expression.

  Charles knew she was playing a character now, as surely as he knew she was telling the truth about Julie.

  “Who killed Marie Rueff?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who killed Christiana?” In the same harsh tone.

  Her voice shrilled. “I don’t know. On Julie’s life, I don’t know.”

  “Was it your sister?”

  She sobbed once. “She could not have killed Marie.”

  “Why not?”

  “She’s too weak. She loved Christiana. I don’t know why, I’m just sure of it,” she screeched.

  “What about Horatio Durant?”

  “I don’t know who that is,” she cried, pushing at his shoulders.

  He skipped back. “Christiana loved him, hoped he’d court her in earnest. In fact, she seems to have claimed to a couple of people that she had a fiancé. He died a few days ago, after sending your sister a note saying he missed her and was sorry.”

  “Was my sister his lover?”

  Charles blinked. He hadn’t considered how deep that friendship went. “I don’t know.”

  Miss Acton lifted the candle and held it to her face. “I do things that shame me. I have a terrible temper. But I am not a murderess.”

  “If you weren’t an actress that tone of voice might convince me,” he admitted.

  “Someone is killing young people,” she said. “But I do not benefit from any of these deaths. Neither did Julie, or Percy.”

  “Your sister benefited.”

  “Not from all of the deaths. Marie Rueff could mean nothing to her.”

  If Miss Acton had thought Julie might benefit from the Rueff girl’s death, she had not taken advantage of it in the past year. “Does your sister know about Julie?”

  “You might think so, but no, I really don’t believe she does. Much too self-absorbed. Why would a servant actress interest her? My parents would not have told her. I had all the shame and my sister had all the reward. Her son inherits many thousands of pounds and my Julie is wandering the streets at night.”

  “That is Mr. Chalke’s fault.”

  “I need to keep Julie away from him. Now that I am aging and she is fully in bloom.” Her voice was as soft as a rose petal. “I worry. She’s just sixteen, you know. Where is she?”

  He had thought Julie older, though she looked so young. Hadn’t Julie even claimed to be older? He rather thought so. Maybe she believed it to be true. But he had never guessed who her parents were. Why had it not occurred to him at the Rueff house? Perhaps because it had not seemed to occur to her own father. “I do not know.”

  “You had better keep her safe, Mr. Dickens. If you think I am a murderess, think of what I might do if Julie is harmed.” She cackled.

  He stood, his feet rooted to the floor, ready to protect himself from the madwoman, while she walked away. The door opened and closed, but he still stood, a creature of stone, so many thoughts whirling in his head that the rest of him would not function.

  * * *

  Charles stumbled up the stairs at Furnival’s Inn at eight the next night, fresh off the stagecoach. He knew he didn’t have it in him to go to the office and turn in his story. While he’d scratched out his article during the time the coach had been empty enough to allow the elbow room, he’d decided his headache and the concern for Julie’s whereabouts were enough to allow him the rest of the night off.

  Aside from his physical complaints, he felt positively ill that he’d sent William to deal with Julie, not having any idea of what the girl had been through in her young life. Shuffled from one country to another, from one family to another, never knowing the affection of a decent parent. Not knowing her friend Christiana was her half sister, never meeting her other sister, Marie Rueff. No wonder she had become what she was.

  And both of the other girls were dead now. What if someone came after Julie? He’d never forgive himself.

  He leaned against the wall as he pulled out his key, then shakily inserted it into the lock. His legs felt like raw dough, all flesh and no hard structure, as they moved him inside.

  “I didn’t think I’d see you tonight,” Fred said, jumping up from the hearthrug as Charles closed the door.

  “Where were you last night?” Charles demanded, fresh concerns rising as he caught sight of his brother. “I was worried. We had a break-in.”

  “I visited with Mother,” his brother said. “Boz has a cold so I stayed up with him. I did wonder what had happened.”

  Charles checked Fred over. No sign of anything to disprove the story. He calmed down a fraction. “Angela Acton came looking for Julie. I wonder that you let her in, then scampered. I came home so late and left so early I wasn’t able to check our possessions and see that you took anything.”

  Fred looked confused. “You can’t expect me to know that a woman alone might be dangerous.”

  “Use better judgment,” Charles snapped, then sneezed mightily.

  “Your nose is all red,” Fred observed. He held something up.

  Charles’s eyes focused on the slice of bread and butter. He reached for it. “I have a cold, too. Please leave a note if you aren’t coming home. I was worried.”

  Fred chewed on his lower lip. “It doesn’t sound like you had time to worry. What happened with the actress? And where is Julie?”

  “I did worry, Fred. I’m responsible for you, you know that.”

  “I’m old enough to manage myself.”

  Charles leaned over him and fluffed his hair. “Sometimes. Anyway, I am glad you left, I suppose. Miss Acton attacked me, but we came to terms, after she told me Julie was actually her daughter.”

  “What?” Fred gasped.

  “I don’t know that Julie knows. I rather think not. I shall have to check with William Aga. I told him to talk to Julie and I haven’t seen either of them since. Blasted Sudbury.” He bit into the bread. Creamy butter soothed his sore mouth.

  Fred pointed to the table as he stood. “You have quite a lot of mail. Maybe the answer is there.”

  Charles set his hat on a chair and poked through the mail while he chewed. Nothing looked interesting until he found a letter addressed to him in an unfamiliar hand. He read it, Fred attempting to follow along over his shoulder, then dropped it to the table. “I shall have to go out again. What time is it?”

  Fred rubbed his eyes. “Why? It’s before nine. I haven’t heard the bells ye
t.”

  “He said he’d remain until ten,” Charles said. “Will you check with William? Make sure he knows where Julie is? Someone’s got to make sure she’s safe.”

  Fred puffed out his chest. “Yes, you can count on me, but where are you going?”

  “The Royal Oak. Bertram Carley is waiting there for me.” He picked up the letter again, and his hat. Fred followed, locking the door behind him, and walked down the corridor to William’s rooms while Charles returned to the street. At least he’d get something warm to eat, and the floor wouldn’t be moving under his feet.

  Thankfully, the public house was in Leather Lane, nearby. Bertram had chosen well. Charles arrived in front of the windows within minutes. He ducked inside the door. While he had never been there, he liked the look of the place. Situated on the ground floor of a two-story building, the inside was a pleasant mix of darkened beams and whitewash.

  He glanced around, hoping to find some mix of Carley features that would send him in the right direction, but he saw three young men sitting alone at different tables and none of them had any obvious sign of Carley.

  “Do you have any food left?” he asked the barman.

  “Stew.”

  “I’ll take a bowl of that and a brandy and water,” Charles said, his voice scratchy. “Do you know who Bertram Carley is?”

  “He’s at that table to the right of the fireplace,” the man said, scratching at his huge whiskers. “You must be Dickens. I’ve seen you about.”

  “That’s right. If your stew is good you will see me again,” Charles said, setting coins on the counter.

  The man whisked them away and poured his drink before disappearing into the back. Charles took a long sip, swallowing gingerly around his sore throat. He hoped the brandy would kill whatever was lingering there.

  Peering through the gloom, he could just perceive the outline of the young man the barman had indicated. He walked slowly in his direction, hoping to form an impression before he announced himself.

  Eventually, he made out more definite features from the light of the fire. A strong Roman nose, firm chin. Hair probably the same color as his sister’s. Having said that, he appeared tall and strong, not so different than Horatio Durant.