A Tale of Two Murders

by Heather Redmond

  When he burst through his front door, he could smell the delicious meaty scent of sausages. Cabbage wafted through the air, too, less enticing but hearty and filling. Laughter bubbled in the parlor, his brother’s and Julie’s.

  “Julie and I have cooked dinner,” Fred announced proudly. “We didn’t think you would be here in time.”

  “I can eat Julie’s portion. You need to gather your things,” he told the actress. “You are going to Brompton this evening.”

  Julie untied the towel from her waist. “I am? Why?” She brushed strands of hair, fluffed from the heat of the fire where they had cooked their makeshift meal, back into place.

  “We think we can get you work with the Carley household. It removes you from the area for now, and you’ll be next door to Lugoson House and two doors down from the Hogarths.”

  “I’ve never been to Christiana’s home,” Julie said, a little wistfully.

  “You need to eat,” Fred protested.

  “I’m not hungry,” Julie claimed.

  “Lady Lugoson wrote you a reference,” Charles said coaxingly. “Mr. Hogarth has it. Get your things and I’ll take you back to the office.”

  “What things?” she asked, a hint of temper appearing in her voice. “I fled the theater with the clothes on my back.”

  “Servants have their clothes paid for. We’ll make sure they promise to give you time off to audition if we can find a theater who wants you. It’s just temporary. Miss Acton needs time to calm down. We need time to sort out who the real murderer is.”

  “I don’t want you gentlemen hurt.” She clasped her hands together. “I suppose I have to go, if Miss Acton is searching for me here.”

  “You can’t continue to sleep on William’s sofa,” Fred said, wide-eyed and earnest. “It isn’t proper.”

  She laughed. “I’m not proper. I’m an actress. But I am hungry, can we eat first?”

  Charles gave in. “Quickly.” They split the food three ways, and sat on the hearthrug, a battered, stained affair taken from the Dickenses’ kitchen.

  “Who is going to cook for your birthday party with me gone?” she asked, sucking on greasy fingers.

  “I’ll bring food in from a bakeshop. No one expects food really. As long as I get some good drink,” Charles said. “We’d better go.”

  She took Miss Hogarth’s cloak from a peg and wrapped it around herself. Charles saw the Elizabethan coins were stacked on the mantelpiece. Whatever thieving instincts she’d initially come with seemed to have dissipated. He couldn’t quite understand her, but then, she was just a girl, not a proper young lady like Miss Hogarth, and raised indifferently, no less.

  He took her arm on the wet stairs, then they walked, side by side, to the Chronicle. Mr. Hogarth greeted her kindly enough at his office door, and said he’d let Charles know what had happened the next morning.

  “Where will I go if the Carleys don’t want me?” she asked, betraying anxiety for the first time.

  “We’ll find you a bed for the night. Don’t worry,” Mr. Hogarth told her, as William passed by, on his way from Thomas Pillar’s office back to the newsroom.

  “Hello, Miss Saville, what brings you here?” His gaze seemed unusually intent.

  “I’m going to Brompton,” she said pertly. “Moving up in the world.”

  “I’ll tell you about it in a moment,” Charles said. “Fancy a brandy and water? I have a new public house for you to try.”

  “Lead on,” William said, as Mr. Hogarth led Julie out of the door, where he had a hackney waiting. Charles could see his friend’s gaze following the girl.

  * * *

  The next morning, Mr. Hogarth sent a boy to fetch Charles into his office. Charles perched on the edge of a chair in his mentor’s office, watching pipe smoke wreath Hogarth’s gray head.

  “Took Miss Saville to Mrs. Carley,” Hogarth said.

  “Did you find success?” Charles asked.

  “Yes. She agreed to take the girl on when she read Lady Lugoson’s recommendation.”

  “What is she going to do?”

  “I think the better question is how is she going to do? Miss Saville told me she considers the position a lark. As far as she’s concerned she’s acting the part of a maid to humor ye.”

  Charles sighed. “Thank you for taking her there, at least. I do need to keep my promise and send those letters to theatrical managers. William and I scratched out a few more last night. I did go to the theater almost every night for three years, and I made an effort to get to know people, but he knows more of them.”

  “Have them send word directly to Carley House,” Mr. Hogarth advised. “Ye need to be done with the situation.”

  “Why? I feel somewhat responsible.”

  Mr. Hogarth pulled out his pipe, shaking it for emphasis. “I have come to the conclusion that Angela Acton killed Christiana Lugoson. Her own daughter. That means Julie Saville is a murderess’s daughter, brought up under verra low circumstances.”

  Charles didn’t want to hear it. “I know, but—”

  “I helped ye rescue Julie from the awkward situation at your rooms.” He reached for his tin of tobacco and opened the lid. “If she stayed there, I believe Julie would have expectations of ye, Charles.”

  “I have no interest in that way,” Charles protested. “I never made any move in her direction. She’s an actress, not a proper young girl.”

  “But did she make a move in yers?” He fixed Charles with a hard-eyed gaze before packing his pipe.

  “Once,” Charles admitted. But he drew himself straighter instead of shrinking before those fierce Scottish eyes. He’d done nothing wrong. “But it did not please me. What could I do? She was injured. She needed help. I had nothing better to offer.” He lifted his hands.

  Mr. Hogarth made a very Scottish noise in the back of his throat. “How do ye feel about my daughter? It is not kind to my Kate to have a vivacious young girl in yer home, badly raised and supervised.”

  His old side pain flared. He kept his expression calm. “I don’t disagree with you, sir. I am most humbled by your criticism. I honor your daughter and would never want her to think my help was less than entirely innocent.”

  “Then ye are done with Miss Saville?”

  “I—” Charles hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Good,” Mr. Hogarth said, his tone going casual, “because Kate is coming into town this afternoon, and I know she would like to see ye.”

  Chapter 25

  That afternoon at his desk, Charles had his head buried in a selection of old issues of the Chronicle, attempting to come to terms with Walker Ferrand’s political history and the recent Peterborough election, which had caused so much uproar with stories of irregular practices among the candidates. He had puzzled his way through a few of the more insulting claims when he heard a feminine voice, which stood out in this masculine bastion. Looking up, he saw Miss Hogarth at the door to the newsroom, and had the rare opportunity to regard her without her noticing.

  Standing next to her father, she looked very fine in a close winter bonnet that allowed her blond curls to frame her face. The blue color accentuated her heavily lidded eyes, even from several feet away. Rosy cheeks and lips made the cold day obvious, and demonstrated how a little wind suited her. He admired her curvaceous figure, clad in the Scottish tartan dress he’d seen before, while her father helped her remove her cloak, then they both came toward him.

  He forced his gaze back to the pile of papers, not wanting to be caught staring.

  “Charles,” Mr. Hogarth said. “My daughter finds herself with some hours to spare this afternoon.”

  “How delightful,” he exclaimed, keeping his expression neutral as he heard William snickering softly behind him. “I’m happy to accompany her. Did you have some shopping to do, Miss Hogarth?”

  “I thought we might go to Cecil Court,” Miss Hogarth said as soon as her father, smiling vaguely, had moved out of earshot, humming a tune.

  “What is there?”
Charles asked.

  “Rooms to let,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  Charles stood with alarm as William guffawed. He turned and stared down his friend, who coughed an apology before returning his attention to his work.

  “Oh?” Charles asked.

  “I know where Percy Chalke and Miss Acton live,” she told him. “I had the address from young Lord Lugoson. He was out walking in the orchard yesterday and shared his theatrical enthusiasm with me.”

  “Oh dear. Does he want to be an actor now?”

  Miss Hogarth put her tongue in her cheek. “I believe he is more of a theatergoer than a participant, but he is also a hero-worshipper of his aunt.”

  “I have hoped to avoid them, rather than interact,” Charles told her. “She is a dreadful termagant.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Lord Lugoson also told me they are considering joining a traveling circuit. Sending some production out on the road with their theatrical troupe.”

  Charles lowered his voice. “So they aren’t home?”

  Her tone matched his. “Right. They went north to investigate the possibility. And my father is certain that Miss Acton is, well, responsible.”

  He drummed his fingers against his upper lip. Did Mr. Hogarth realize his daughter wanted to drift into a possible murderess’s path? “What do you think we could find?”

  “I don’t know, but what an opportunity.” Her eyes twinkled. “You’re up to a little mischief, aren’t you, Mr. Dickens?”

  He shook his head, but said, “Not always.” Not with her present. Hadn’t he tried to uncover the mysteries behind Christiana Lugoson’s death because he was worried about the safety of the Hogarth girls?

  “I dare you to come with me,” she said with an encouraging smile.

  “Your father would not approve.”

  “He did. He asked you to entertain me.” She smiled encouragingly. “This is how I want to be entertained.”

  “You are certain they are not home?” He stared hard at her, while William laughed softly behind him.

  “Yes. I am as sure as I can be.”

  “Very well.” He went and took his coat and hat from its peg, and then walked out onto the street with her, impatient now to have the adventure over with as quickly as possible. “So where do they live?”

  “The street, where, my father was happy to tell me, Mozart once lived.”

  He had to strain to hear her over the noise on the street. Two carriages had collided and the drivers were shouting at each other. “He would know where a musical genius lodged.”

  She stood on tiptoes to speak into his ear. “Yes, he had to play some music for me.”

  He found it hard to speak with the tingle of her warm breath in his ear. Had she no idea what that did to a man? Of course not, she was an innocent. Though he had played the same trick on her not too long ago.

  He saw a coffee cart and pulled her in that direction. They both refreshed themselves before they continued their walk. He needed the warmth of a hot beverage in his belly to counteract the chill wind and the attractive girl.

  “Are you looking forward to your birthday?” she asked, taking his arm as they navigated past the odiferous remains a horse had left on the street.

  “Oh yes. I’m glad to be moving into the most productive and useful phase of life.”

  “I have the sense that your childhood was difficult,” she said softly.

  “Not my childhood, no. Quite idyllic. We lived in Portsmouth. I often think of those times. But there were difficulties later on.”

  “Oh?”

  He chuckled. “I would like to have a life of steady progress, rather than these wild upswings and downturns. We moved more than I would have liked when I was young. For different business reasons, of course, but that wasn’t always why.”

  “We came all the way from Scotland,” Miss Hogarth pointed out as they turned onto the court, a long row of shops on each side with apartments overhead. “I do miss our family there, but here we are.”

  He turned in a circle. “What number?”

  “Eleven. Just over the bookseller there.” She pointed to a red brick building, heavily darkened by smoke.

  “Let’s see if we can get in.” Charles had no idea what to do. Should they talk to neighbors? Try to break in? He was distracted by the sight of a coin shop down the block but Miss Hogarth towed him toward the bookshop.

  Instead of bright coins, rows of books were stacked inside the wide, tall windows, anonymous in their leather bindings. Charles could see dust at the top of one stack as Miss Hogarth opened the door.

  She poked her head in the door. A bell tinkled. When they stepped in, a hush fell over them. No customers were in the shop and all the paper seemed to insulate the walls from the noise of the street.

  “Do you know Miss Acton or Mr. Chalke?” Miss Hogarth asked the gray-bearded proprietor, who was cutting pages in a leather-bound book on the countertop.

  “Never heard of ’em,” he said, glancing up as he wiped his hands on his apron. “Why?”

  “They live upstairs,” Charles interjected, describing the pair.

  “Oh, I seen ’em,” the bookseller said agreeably. “But they never come in ’ere.”

  “Which door do we use to go upstairs?” Miss Hogarth asked.

  “On the right. It’s never locked at this time of day.” The man fingered his beard. “Can I interest you in Rookwood? We just had in a new shipment.”

  “Oh,” Miss Hogarth said, but Charles shook his head.

  “Just the stairs today, thank you,” he said.

  They went back outside of the shop. “Have you read Rookwood? It’s quite the runaway seller.”

  “I’ve perused it. We passed a copy around at the newspaper,” Charles said. “Your father must have it?”

  “Yes. Do you remember this line at the very beginning?” She quoted, “‘Before a terrible truth comes to light, there are certain murmuring whispers . . .’”

  “There have been a great many of those in this story,” Charles agreed. “But I am more concerned about your safety than pursuing whispers when you are present.”

  He pulled open the boot-marked door to the right of the bookshop. “This doesn’t look like the home of a flourishing manager.”

  “Theater management is a difficult way to make money, I believe,” Miss Hogarth said. “And I am not worried, Mr. Dickens. You shall protect me.”

  “Indeed I shall.” Charles smiled at her. “But I do love the theater. It’s a secret fancy of mine, I must admit.”

  They walked up the narrow flight of steps single file. It smelled of onions and spilt ale, but the atmosphere was surprisingly peaceful for an environment where Angela Acton lived. Perhaps the peace of the bookshop pervaded the place.

  They found four doors on the landing. “Number three,” Miss Hogarth said. “According to her nephew.”

  Charles, not knowing what else to do, walked to the door and knocked. For all he knew it would cause the other three doors to open, if this was a floor of voluble types rather than people who kept to themselves. Instead, the door itself opened.

  A woman, black-haired, overripe, and in her forties, wiped her hands on a stained apron. “Sorry. Just doing the blacking.”

  “I thought Julie Saville worked here,” Charles said.

  “Oh, that Julie is an actress. She earns her bed and board by caring for Miss Acton’s clothing, but I haven’t seen her around lately. Not sure where she’s gone to,” the maid said.

  “My name is Catherine Hogarth,” Charles’s companion announced. “We’ve been sent by Lord Lugoson. Have you worked for Mr. Chalke very long?”

  “Mary Contadino,” she said promptly, eyebrows flying up at the name of a lord. “Three years now, but Mr. Chalke isn’t here today. I don’t think he’ll be back until tomorrow.”

  “Milord had some questions,” Charles said.

  “Oh?” The maid wiped her hands again and glanced about nervously, as if the young lord might
be lurking in the corridor.

  “How do you find Miss Acton?” Charles asked. “We were friends of her niece Miss Lugoson, and I imagine the death of her niece has hit her very hard.”

  Mary Contadino wiped her hands yet again, smearing the black mess she’d been using on the stove deeper into the wrinkles on the sides of her fingers. “Such a sweet lady. I’ve heard her cry many a tear since Epiphany. They had been so busy with panto season that they’d been sleeping at the theater before. Just work, work, work.”

  “Would you say she is sweet to Julie?” Miss Hogarth asked, a minute amount of skepticism in her voice.

  Her words tumbled over each other with increasing speed as she spoke. “They are dramatic with each other. Very much alike, really, but Miss Acton is a perfect angel to me. Never an unkind word, and ever so neat. Makes keeping up these rooms so much easier.”

  “Did you ever meet Miss Lugoson?” Charles asked, since the maid seemed willing enough to chat.

  Mrs. Contadino leaned against the door frame. “I did, yes, but never in December, because of the panto. Very dedicated to the Garrick, are my players. It’s a very relaxing month for me. I just deliver them a bit of food, and take the washing back and forth.”

  “What about Horatio Durant? Did he ever visit?” Miss Hogarth asked.

  Mrs. Contadino frowned and rubbed her nose, leaving a faint stain of lampblack and grease on her skin. “I’m not familiar with the name. Is he an actor? That’s all that comes here.”

  “No,” Charles said. “Not an actor.”

  “If he wasn’t wanting to be in the theater, Mr. Chalke wouldn’t have time for him,” Mrs. Contadino said. “It’s all theater with those two. No talk or interest in anything else.”

  “Do they do research for their parts? I know Mr. Chalke specializes in Richard III. Do they do things like research poison, for instance?”