A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  “Bertram Carley?” He took another drink and swished it around his mouth.

  “Mr. Dickens?” The young man bounded from his chair and held out his hand. “Thank you for coming.”

  “My pleasure.” Bertram’s movements showed him to be young indeed, as did his face full-on. Younger than Charles, he had the same excellent skin as his sister, but the hair did not detract from the high, noble forehead. Fortune had favored one Carley offspring but not the other. Features that were too masculine on Miss Carley’s face were perfect on her brother’s.

  Bertram pulled out the opposite chair and Charles sat, grateful to have the warmth of the fire at his back. Cold and damp from the long day in a stagecoach still needed to seep from his bones.

  “I’ll get you another of those,” he said with a nod to his almost empty glass, leaving Charles to remove his coat and hat.

  The barman set a spoon and bowl down on the table, then another brandy and water a few minutes later. Bertram took his seat again. “I am surprised I do not know you, Mr. Dickens. I understand you are reading law as well?”

  “In theory, but I have a busy life as a parliamentary journalist, and recently I have begun to write sketches.”

  “How wonderfully industrious,” Bertram exclaimed. “I am merely doing what I can to follow in my father’s footsteps. After some foolishness last year, I have dedicated myself to my studies, but of course I have years of training left.”

  “I was thrown on my own devices from a young age,” Charles replied. “So earning a living has been paramount.”

  “You’ve found a good one,” the other man said, taking a drink from his tankard. “It is better than being dependent on your parents. I had a small legacy from a relative, and spent it all on scheming.”

  “What kind of schemes?” Charles asked.

  “I fell in love with an heiress,” Bertram said frankly. “At eighteen, when I could not have known less about me or her. She was seventeen and I spent a great sum of money on presents and plans, renting a carriage and rooms, so we could hide away while the banns were read. You know, all that romantical novel sort of thing.”

  “What happened?”

  “We were caught. None of it ever happened. I have three rooms’ worth of furniture moldering in some warehouse, and no money to spend, and no heiress wife.” He laughed as if he found it genuinely funny now.

  “Who was the girl?”

  “I thought you knew,” he said, his open expression conveying surprise. “It was Marie Rueff.”

  “You were her secret lover?” Charles asked.

  “Yes.” One shoulder jerked. “Such a tragedy that she died. I hadn’t seen her in some time before that. As you can imagine, she was basically a prisoner after we were found out.”

  Charles stared closely at him, trying to discern his level of distress. “Her father doesn’t seem very aware.”

  “I understand he is dying,” Bertram said frankly. “But when I saw him last, he was still well. So angry. Barred me from the house, said I would never marry his daughter, even when we were of age, because I was untrustworthy.”

  “Are you untrustworthy?” Had Bertram flown into a rage after, decided to kill what he could not have?

  “We were impetuous, dramatic.” He shrugged. “But Marie was wealthy, beautiful, unhappy. It made sense to me to give her what she wanted, which was her own establishment, her own life. Her father had planned to wed someone she disliked, you see.”

  “I met a Mrs. Appleby, who told me that a party was going on before Christmas, with lots of French people at it, and that was the night Miss Rueff attempted to escape with you.”

  “It was the night her father was having a party, yes,” Bertram agreed.

  “You said you hadn’t seen her in some time before she died. Christmas is not that long before Epiphany. All of this happened, what, a couple of weeks before she suddenly died, presumably of poison?”

  Bertram let go of his tankard and let his hands fall to his lap. “No, it was right at the beginning of December.”

  “So your aborted elopement was about five weeks before she died?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And you do not see any link between the two events?”

  “I did not poison her. I loved her.” His hands moved to the table. He folded one across the other. “I thought she might have harmed herself in despair.”

  Charles couldn’t decide if he believed the young man. “Were you still engaged at that point? Were you hoping to marry her when she was older?”

  “I had no contact with her after that fateful night,” he said in a calm voice. “I know nothing about her from then on.”

  Charles thought he detected some small heat under the quiet words. “Would her father have killed her?”

  “With poison?” Bertram snapped. “Of course not.”

  “Then what is your theory of her death?” Charles asked.

  The young man shook his head. “I don’t have one. I fought with my parents. They said I was too young to marry. I pointed out that she had money, and my father said she had no connections, which were just as important in politics. He counseled me to wait three or four years before I locked myself into matrimony.”

  “Did you agree with him?”

  “I knew that there was no hope of seeing Marie again until she was out, which was about a year away.” He shrugged again. “A year is a long time. Would I have tried to see her at parties then? Yes, I suppose so.”

  Charles narrowed his eyes. “Unless you had fallen in love with someone else. Christiana Lugoson, for instance?”

  “Are you trying to link me to multiple dead girls?” Bertram demanded. “No, I was not in love with my sister’s friend. My sister irritates me. I’d be unlikely to even like any of her friends.”

  “What about Horatio Durant?”

  His eyes widened. “What are you accusing me of?”

  “He is dead, too, and your sister was in love with him.”

  He sighed. “My father said that Horatio Durant was financially embarrassed and he believes the young man committed suicide because he was ruined.”

  Charles played with his glass. “Since your father was mentoring Mr. Durant, I assume he would know these things.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe you are right.”

  “So, we have a girl in love with you who was poisoned, perhaps by her own hand, a girl who was friends with your sister who was likely poisoned, and a man whom your sister was in love with who committed suicide.”

  “You want my sister to be a murderess,” Bertram said slowly. “Because you think she is connected to everyone.”

  “Angela Acton is more connected to both dead girls than I realized,” Charles said. “I don’t know about Mr. Durant, but your father’s theory may be sound.”

  “It makes sense to me,” Bertram agreed.

  “What is your opinion of your sister?”

  He looked down his nose at Charles. “My opinion is, that if my sister is a murderess, both my father’s career and my own are over,” he said, standing up. “I know you are a journalist, but I hope you do not attempt to print any salacious information about my family. You have no proof of anything, and multiple suspects. I would caution you to be very careful.”

  “I have nothing to attempt to put into an article,” Charles assured him, standing as well. The room seemed to rock and sway in front of his feverish, dazed eyes. “The Chronicle did print information about Miss Rueff’s death last year, and certainly all of these deaths are news, but we have supposed nothing. That is not at the heart of this. Lady Lugoson asked me to uncover the truth, as has her son.”

  “She wants to know if her sister is a madwoman,” Bertram said. He fixed Charles with a stare, then turned and left.

  Charles reseated himself, smiling. Bertram Carley was a fool. He’d just admitted to a lie. He knew very well who Angela Acton was. Charles had never mentioned her madness. And lies, well, they led to truths.

  Charle
s stood up and ran out the door. He saw Bertram on the street, a few feet away. “Wait,” he called.

  “What?” Bertram walked back toward him, adjusting his hat.

  “Look, my intentions aren’t bad. I’m having a little party on Saturday night. It’s my birthday, and people are coming to my rooms in Furnival’s Inn. Why don’t you come and see that I associate with honest people?”

  He crossed his arms. “Why do you care what I think?”

  “Because Lady Lugoson asked me to understand her daughter’s death,” Charles said. “And I might still need your help.”

  Bertram sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

  “You never know who might help you in your career,” Charles said.

  The young man nodded. “You’ll have my answer in my attendance, or lack thereof.”

  He walked away, and Charles ducked back into the public house. He’d left his coat on his chair, and his food on the table.

  He considered another brandy and water, but finished his stew instead. It tasted wonderful, though he had trouble swallowing some of the meat. After that, he walked the short distance to his rooms.

  He felt much better upon returning home, warm and fed, than he had just off the stagecoach. Confusion struck him though, when he saw the cozy domestic scene in his sitting room.

  Fred, Julie, and William all sat around the deal table. Charles could see they were examining the collection of Elizabethan coins. So Julie hadn’t absconded with them. Even the gold one winked from the table. And she was safe. He had the sensation that his blood ran through his veins a little more smoothly now.

  “Did you find your friend?” Fred asked, still puffed up, proud of himself for his little party.

  “Yes, and I see you have found ours. Where have you been, Julie?” Charles demanded.

  “She slept in front of my fire last night,” William said. “I apologize. She fell asleep and I didn’t want to wake her by going out of the door.”

  “You can dock my pay,” Julie said with a saucy grin.

  “Your—I mean, Miss Acton was here looking for you,” Charles said. “We are going to have to deal with that situation, but I need my bed, so please keep the noise down.” He escaped before he did something foolish like tell her who her mother was.

  Chapter 24

  Hard at work the next morning on his article about the debate at Sudbury, he didn’t glance up from his pen until he saw the long, black skirt. Muttered comments from the reporters around him drifted through the room as he said a confused “Good morning” to the skirt. As she greeted him he recognized the voice.

  Lady Lugoson.

  He pushed back his chair and stood. “What brings you into London, my lady?”

  “I had some business at my husband’s bank,” she said, looking as lovely as ever despite the mourning attire. “Is there somewhere we can speak?”

  “Let me see if one of the editors’ offices can be borrowed.” He went down the aisle, hissing to one of the boys to bring tea to Mr. Hogarth’s office, then poked his head into the room. It was empty and he could see his mentor bent over Thomas Pillar’s desk in the alcove past the offices.

  He darted down the hallway. “Excuse me, sirs. May I borrow your office? Lady Lugoson has arrived unexpectedly.”

  Mr. Hogarth blinked through the puff of smoke that rose from his pipe. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  Charles nodded, then went to retrieve Lady Lugoson. She was entirely out of place in the newsroom, but William was speaking to her intently. He heard the name “Rueff.”

  “Did you know Monsieur Rueff has died?” William asked.

  “No.” Charles turned to Lady Lugoson. He had looked as if his days were numbered, but this was very soon. “Such sad news.”

  “Not unexpected, poor man.” She sighed.

  “I have a private office for us, if you’ll follow me,” Charles said.

  When he had her seated and the tea had arrived, he closed the door and sat in Mr. Hogarth’s second chair. “Is that why you came? To tell me about Monsieur Rueff’s sad demise?”

  “I’m not sure how sad it was. He has followed his wife and only child into eternal bliss.”

  “Only ch-child?” Charles stuttered.

  Lady Lugoson frowned.

  “What about Julie Saville?” he asked.

  Lady Lugoson tilted her head and blinked. “What about her? She is Angela’s maid, and does some acting herself.”

  “You don’t know that your sister claims Julie Saville is her daughter with Monsieur Rueff?”

  Lady’s Lugoson’s chest jerked as she let out an inaudible cry. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Charles said in a sober voice. “Miss Acton claimed Julie Saville is her daughter.”

  The lady’s nostrils worked, as if she couldn’t take in enough air. “Good heavens. She is so very debauched.”

  “I think she is unhinged,” Charles said. “But not lying in this case. Monsieur Rueff said Julie could have been his daughter’s twin. That made me think your sister was telling the truth, though Rueff didn’t recognize her as such.”

  “He met her?”

  “Yes. I brought her to him, pretending Julie was an old friend who had just heard about Miss Rueff’s death.” Charles cleared his throat awkwardly. His cold was much improved, but not entirely gone. “I wanted to find out who her secret lover had been.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Bertram Carley, as it turned out.”

  “How odd. I would not have thought either of the Carley children had the ability to take action to go with their ambitions,” Lady Lugoson said.

  Charles changed the subject. “I don’t know if Miss Acton killed your Christiana, but she shouldn’t be walking the streets.”

  “She’s a very sick woman, but she’s also unmarried and has money. It is hard to harness a woman like that.”

  Charles knew the same thing to be true of the woman sitting next to him. Another sister, same issues. “Would you like to pour?”

  As Lady Lugoson complied, he asked, “What do you think? Is it possible that Julie is your niece?”

  “I would believe anything right now. But with poor Jacques dead, we will never know. Julie will never get a penny from the Rueff family.” She spoke with a surprising lack of interest, given that Julie had been friendly with Christiana, never realizing they were half sisters.

  Charles spoke slowly, hoping to engage her attention. “I would like to remove Julie from Miss Acton’s employ. She doesn’t know who she really is, and there can be no doubt that her mother has hit her multiple times. Do you have any ideas?”

  All Lady Lugoson said was “She is a good actress?”

  “Yes. I wish I had better connections in the theater. I have written letters to those managers whom I know, but there has been no time for a response.” Guiltily, he realized he hadn’t even sent those letters yet. He looked at the lady expectantly.

  “Why not send her to Carley House?” Lady Lugoson suggested after a long pause. “Mrs. Carley called on me yesterday with Beatrice and was complaining that she couldn’t get good help in Brompton.”

  “Does she often call?” Charles wondered if Bertram had come to see him after the rest of his family had left for Brompton.

  “When she is out our way. I rather think she’s keeping an eye on my son for Beatrice.”

  “Really?” Charles found that hard to believe. Miss Carley seemed too eager for love to wait so long.

  Lady Lugoson shook her head, keeping her gaze locked on Charles. “But that’s a long proposition. It will be a decade or more before he is ready to wed. Beatrice will be firmly on the shelf. They need to look elsewhere.”

  Especially if Miss Beatrice Carley was a mad poisoner. “Have you had any more thoughts about poor Mr. Durant?”

  Lady Lugoson pulled a handkerchief from her delicate silk bag. “He must have loved my Christiana more dearly than we knew. I am sorry for it. It would have been such a comfort if she had kn
own.”

  A comfort to know a young man of promise would kill himself if you died? Charles wanted to shudder. “I have had word that he was ruined.”

  Lady Lugoson dotted the corners of her eyes with her handkerchief. “I am not surprised. His mother was the one with the business acumen.”

  Mr. Hogarth came into the office, apologizing for his absence. “How nice to see you, Lady Lugoson.”

  She forced a smile in his direction before replacing her handkerchief in her bag.

  “We were just speaking of Monsieur Rueff’s passing,” Charles told him.

  “I am sorry to hear that. I never knew him well, but of course did see him at St. Luke’s.” Mr. Hogarth put his pipe on his desk. Thin smoke trailed from the nearly extinguished tobacco, covering the scent of ink and paper.

  “A sad loss,” Lady Lugoson agreed.

  “Do you think you could write a character for Julie?” Charles asked her. “Since she was a friend of your daughter’s?”

  “Oh, I can write something.”

  Charles jumped up from his chair and grabbed a quill, ink, and a piece of paper. “If you do it now, perhaps Mr. Hogarth could take Julie with him when he returns home this evening, and bring her over to Carley House, since they are in Brompton presently.”

  Lady Lugoson nodded. “I suppose we had better get the girl out of London before Angela finds her.” She bent her head over the paper and dipped the quill into the ink.

  “We will give ye a moment to yourself,” Mr. Hogarth said, rising.

  Charles drew him into the corridor. “I told Lady Lugoson that Miss Acton claims Julie is her daughter. Which would make her Christiana’s half sister. But Lady Lugoson scarcely reacted.”

  “It’s a shocking notion.”

  “She must be used to shock by now,” Charles said. “She said Mrs. Carley might have a staff opening in Brompton. At least this would get Julie out of London and my rooms.”

  “It really is not a good idea to have her there,” Mr. Hogarth agreed. “I will take her. Why don’t you go to the inn and gather her things? I will say our good-byes to the lady.”

  With no regrets, Charles dashed to the row of pegs on the wall, found his coat and hat, and left the building. He walked home, whistling, trying to decide what he could afford for his birthday flare-up, only three days away. Some excellent refreshments were required. His birthday, and Miss Hogarth would be coming. Of course he needed Julie out of there. He’d seen no sign of her doing any actual work, like cleaning the place.