“Poison?” Mrs. Contadino laughed. “I’ve never seen either of them read anything except a script or an accounts book. What is Lord Lugoson after, anyway?”
“It is a very long story,” Charles said. “I don’t think we are going to find his answers here.”
“Thank you for speaking to us,” Miss Hogarth added.
As soon as the maid shut the door, Charles took her arm, reversed their path, and went back to the street. “I suppose I can’t take you into a public house for a conversation,” Charles said.
“No, there really isn’t anywhere a young lady can go,” Miss Hogarth said, leaning against him. “But we can return to my father’s office and speak there.”
He didn’t want to lose her touch. “Let’s walk slowly.” He looked at the overcast sky. “The rain has let up, and the version of Miss Acton that we heard described today did not sound like the one I’ve met.”
“It is possible that Julie Saville merely drives Miss Acton crazy,” Miss Hogarth said, moving them past the bookshop toward the street corner. “I sense you’ve had your troubles with her.”
“I don’t trust her.” Charles pressed his arm against hers. Her cloak had started to smell more like the Hogarths’ scents of hearth and beans than the rosemary and cedar of the chest where it had been before. “I never know what to expect. She’s unsettling and I’m glad she’s gone to the Carleys.”
“So no insight into poison, or any connection to Horatio Durant,” Miss Hogarth mused. “And one had the sense that Miss Acton wouldn’t have had time to poison anyone around Epiphany.”
“No, panto season seems the wrong time for an actress to murder anyone,” Charles quipped.
“We have a hole in our murder plot,” she said with a sigh. “Now what do we do? Father was so certain.”
“Let us go through our list of suspects,” Charles said. “If we leave out Chalke and Acton, there is Horatio himself.”
“Dead,” Miss Hogarth said. “Oh, there is another of those carts. Maybe they have broth?”
Charles kept her arm in his hand as they crossed the street, careful on the slippery, malodorous cobblestones. They stopped in front of a cart holding metal urns. The proprietor was happy to sell them cups of beef broth. They stepped under a nearby overhang on an old building, and stood against the wall, holding their tin cups.
“So you think death exonerates him?” Charles asked.
“There are better candidates. Lady Lugoson, Beatrice Carley.”
“Her brother,” Charles said in the same spirit, having lost his pique that she hadn’t accepted his deliverance of Beatrice Carley as villain. “Though he did not seem the murderous type.”
“But you’d believe it of his sister or of Lady Lugoson?”
“I want to say it is a woman, poison being a womanish weapon, but with Lady Lugoson it makes little sense, unless we assume she needed her adopted daughter’s money for her son.”
“Horatio would have acquired it. He might have changed his mind about marriage for the sake of the money.”
“Yet he didn’t, a point in his favor. We know the Lugosons couldn’t have killed Marie Rueff because they were in France.”
“I don’t like that. So Beatrice Carley killed Christiana out of jealousy for Horatio Durant’s heart, and Marie Rueff because she tried to run away with Beatrice’s brother?”
Charles finished his broth. “Monsieur Rueff had no reason to kill his daughter that we know of. Much less Miss Lugoson. Beatrice Carley is a better candidate.”
Miss Hogarth took his cup and returned both of them to the broth seller, then they continued on their way, dodging puddles and other effluvia. “That’s not much of a reason for Beatrice to kill Marie Rueff.”
“We don’t know what other relationship they might have had. After all, Miss Rueff knew the Carley family.”
“Very true,” Miss Hogarth sighed. “What about that dance instructor that we thought was in love with Miss Lugoson?”
“I had no sense he was involved,” Charles said. “No passions invoked there.”
A carriage slowed next to them. Mr. Hogarth stuck his chin out of the window.
“Father?” she gasped, separating from Charles by a couple of inches.
Had her father been spying on them? Charles felt overly supervised by his mentor, and didn’t think Miss Hogarth much cared for the interruption either, but was glad they had been behaving fairly appropriately.
“There’s a storm coming in. Time to go home. I was coming to look for ye,” he called.
Charles pressed her hand. “Good-bye, Miss Hogarth, and thank you for the conversation.” He helped her into the carriage and watched it drive away, then decided to go home and get dry. Why not take the rest of the day to work on a sketch? They were an excellent source of income for him.
* * *
The next morning Charles had to go to another political meeting, and worked late at the office, writing his article. He’d consulted with Fred and they had decided to fund his birthday party with one of the coins. He took the least fine of the silver coins to the coin merchant he’d seen in Cecil Court, upon his return to London, and sold it for enough to invite his mother and sisters to preside over quite a nice bachelor birthday party the next night.
“We’re going to be busy all day shopping,” Fred said, writing a list of what he needed to purchase.
“Just the drinks, and the drinking vessels,” Charles said. “I wrote Mother with instructions for what I wanted her to cook for the party, and I’ll pay her for the ingredients.”
“I had better take the money to her in the morning.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right. She might not have enough.” Charles divided up the money he’d received from the coin sale and pushed half across the table to his brother. “I’ll go out for a box of glassware in the morning and bring it back before going to the wine shop in the afternoon.”
“I will probably have to stay with Mother until she comes with the girls.”
Charles glanced around, feeling the slightest bit disheartened by that. “It’s difficult to clean by candlelight, but we’d better. Didn’t Julie do anything other than go through my possessions when she stayed here?”
“Ate what little food we had put by, used an enormous amount of water.” He reflected. “She did empty the chamber pots.”
“Filled them up herself,” Charles muttered. “Oh well. Do you want to tidy the tables or wash the floor?”
“Wash,” Fred said. “The kettle is full. Won’t be any trouble to mop the floor.”
Charles nodded. “If I put everything on the tables into my carpetbag, it should do, then I can dust the surfaces. It should still be fairly clean tomorrow, if we don’t burn too much coal.”
“We’ll be gone all day,” Fred pointed out.
He grinned and punched his brother’s shoulder. “An excellent point, dear boy.”
They worked merrily away, singing tunes they knew. Fred danced a hornpipe with his mop and Charles sang a moving Scottish ballad while holding his carpetbag to his chest, in mournful imitation of a man about to leave his lady love.
He put it down once the deal table was dry of the wet water wash he’d given it, and he pulled out a bowl of beeswax polish his mother had made so he could shine it up.
“Are you going to buy any chairs?” Fred asked, squeezing out his mop as he finished mopping the bedroom floor.
“I might have the money for another secondhand one. I’ll see what is available in the stalls if I have time. Hopefully, William can lend us his, but we won’t have time to help him carry them here.”
“Someone will go over for you.”
“Sure. Whoever comes first can do a bit of fetching and carrying for the cause,” Charles said, rubbing the leftover polish into his hands. At this time of year, he could polish up his fingers every day, just to keep them more mobile in the cold.
He’d heard the church bells ring ten times before the rooms were cleaned to his satisfaction. Th
ey’d used too many candles, but the work was complete.
“Is there any ale left in the jug?” he asked. “I could stand to wet my whistle.”
“I’ll check,” Fred said, and went to the cupboard just as a knock came at the door.
“That will be William,” Charles said. “Maybe he’ll bring the chairs tonight.” He went and opened the door to find Julie Saville, cheeks red and panting visibly.
His heart sank. Why was she back? “Are you in some distress?” His thoughts tumbled together. What was she doing here? He’d thought her safely out of the way of the Hogarths.
As if to mock him, she wore Miss Hogarth’s old cloak. He checked the passage, saw it was empty, then jerked her inside, before dropping her arm like a hot poker. When she unfastened the cloak, Charles saw the neat uniform of a parlormaid.
“Very nice.” He added a faint touch of sarcasm. “Didn’t have to start in the kitchen? They must really have needed help.”
“I’m about ready to say good-bye to those bloody Carleys,” she growled. “I’ve hitched a ride as far as the Strand on the back of the wagon and walked the rest of the way.”
She wouldn’t have already given notice, he hoped. Not with the Hogarths coming to his party. He couldn’t take her back in. “It can’t be worse than Angela Acton.”
“Can’t it? The servants only get meat on Sundays. We aren’t allowed to leave the house except on our half days.” She kicked out of her shoes and dumped them in front of the fireplace, as if she lived here. “I’m like you. I have to take walks.”
“Watch it, the floors are clean. Aren’t you being a bit familiar with my parlor?” Charles asked.
“You found me the work in order to get rid of me,” she said. “I figure if I leave I’m your servant again.”
“Hello, Julie,” Fred said cheerily, hoisting the jug. “I’m off to fetch some ale.”
“Thank you,” Charles said as his brother reached for his coat. He waited until Fred left before starting with Julie again. “Now, look here. This was only an emergency measure until we could find you a new spot in a theatrical troupe. As far as I’m concerned, I’d like you off playing the provinces.”
“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you,” she snarled. “But I’m not bad, Mr. Dickens. I could have stolen that gold coin off you and sold it too. I know people. But I didn’t do it. I didn’t take anything.”
“That’s the very least you should do in someone’s home. Besides, I was trying to be your friend, not your employer. Like I said, this was because it was an emergency, that was all. You need to go back to the Carleys until I can find you something else . . .”
She dropped onto the sofa. “Actresses are paid much better than parlormaids, that’s for certain.”
He winced at the tortured squeak of the springs. “It’s a proper trade. But if you work your way up to housekeeper, that’s a fine career as well. Good money. My grandmother was a housekeeper for an important family.”
“And look at you now,” she mocked. “Charles Dickens, gentleman journalist, who wishes he was an actor.”
He felt wounded. What did she know? “I don’t now, not really. I’d rather be a playwright.”
“I don’t believe you. Everyone wants to be an actor.” She put her hands on her hips. “Isn’t anyone going to offer me a cup of tea?”
“You’d better go back to Carley House before you are discovered,” Charles insisted. “There’s no use being dramatic when you’re a servant. Have a rest and be ready to go when I get you an audition. What is your half day?”
“Monday,” she said glumly. “But not next week of course, since I didn’t work a full week.”
He hid his irritation with enthusiasm. “That gives us time to set up auditions. Monday week, that’s the thing. I’m sure we’ll have something for you by then. William Aga and I both wrote letters.”
“He’s a nice man,” Julie said. “Let me sleep in front of his fire, and not an inappropriate word. Not that I’d have minded a bit of courting. He’s a handsome devil.”
“Is he?” Charles yawned. “I hadn’t noticed. Look, you had better go. It’s a long walk, as I well know, having done it a number of times.”
“Can’t I hire a hackney?” she begged. “Spare me a few coins?”
“No, I need everything I have to fund my party tomorrow. It’s my birthday. Did you really come all the way here to whine for a few minutes?”
“No.” She frowned. “At least give me a cup of tea first.” She pulled off her gloves. Her fingers looked red, and there was a streak down her palm that looked unhealthy.
Charles frowned. Was there something wrong with her hands?
“There was something I meant to tell you.” Julie poked at the tight bun at the back of her head. “Goodness but my head hurts. The way I’ve had to pin my hair to meet requirements. That Mrs. Carley.”
Despite his better judgment, he lit a candle and held it over her hands so he could see them clearly. “What happened?”
“They’re burned,” she said sourly.
“How?” He set the candle aside before hot wax dripped on her sore fingers.
“That’s what I meant to tell you. It’s about Mrs. Carley and her bloody tea service.”
“What about it?” Charles asked. “Did you pour hot tea on yourself?”
“Of course not,” Julie huffed, sitting on his sofa and rearranging her skirts as if she meant to stay for a while. “I burned them with a cleaning solution. Who uses chloride of lime to clean fine teacups?”
Who indeed? Charles filled the kettle from his water can, and moved the kettle over the fire to heat for tea. “That seems extreme. Were they stained?”
Julie nodded. “Mrs. Carley personally gave me the instructions. She wants them bleached clean after every use. What if I make a mistake? I’m afraid I will poison someone. She’s an MP’s wife. What if some important lady takes sick, and I’m to blame?”
“Poison someone?” Charles repeated, sitting down next to her, feeling quite limp. The wheels turned in his head. “With her bleaching solution?” Could that be it? The solution?
“Yes.” Julie pulled her hands away from her skirts and put them to her temples. “Look at my hands. It burns my skin and she uses that tea service every day. I won’t be pretty enough to be a parlormaid for long with that as my duty.”
“It’s a dangerous thing to do.” Charles didn’t want to look at her reddened hands again. It felt too intimate.
Julie wiggled her fingers, forcing him to see how red they were.
He glanced away. “Yes, housemaids don’t have nice hands, Julie, but think about what you are saying. Think about Miss Lugoson.”
Julie stared at him, then thrust her fingers into her hair, dislodging pins and a hank of red that fell down her cheek. She blinked, twirled her hair, then her mouth dropped open. “You don’t think Christiana died from chloride of lime, do you?”
Chapter 26
“I have to wonder. I must speak to a doctor.” Had he finally figured it out? Had chloride of lime killed Christiana?
“Christiana’s doctor?”
“Yes. I’ll go to see Dr. Keville tomorrow.”
She stared at him. Charles arched back, afraid she would try to kiss him again, but she didn’t move. Instead, she seemed lost in reflection.
“Just be patient for a little longer,” Charles told her.
“Certainly, until the chloride of lime kills me.” She stared down at her hands, her hair hiding her face. “What if you cannot find me work? What if I only had my position in the troupe because of my special relationship to Angela?”
“What is that special relationship?” He wondered what she knew, or suspected.
“Her parents had some connection to my family. I’m not entirely certain what. When Miss Acton saw me, she was enchanted, so the story went, and said I must be onstage. So I was brought on as a child actress.”
“I saw you in Richard III and other parts last month. I know how the lads i
n the pit cheered for you. I can assure you that such charisma that you possess is sufficient for your chosen career.”
“You don’t like me,” she accused.
“I don’t trust you, but I think you will go far.”
“Because of the coin, I suppose.”
“That and the fact that you did no cleaning when you were supposedly my maid,” he retorted.
She pushed her hair back and grinned impishly at him. “You have so many books. I was distracted when I started to dust them.”
“Don’t get distracted at Carley House, or you’ll be out on your ear before we can find you better work,” Charles advised. “And don’t drink out of any teacups.”
“Do you think you’ll ever uncover who killed Christiana?”
He chewed the inside of his cheek. “Everyone who has died is connected to the Carleys or Miss Acton.”
“How?”
Charles ticked them off on his fingers. “Miss Lugoson was friends with Miss Carley. Miss Rueff attempted to run away with Bertram Carley. Miss Carley was in love with Horatio Durant.”
“And Angela?”
Fred came back in. He hoisted the can in triumph. “Ran into William Aga. He gave me some of his fresh supply of ale, because it’s simply bucketing rain out.” He poured steaming water from the kettle into their teapot.
“He’s a nice man,” Julie said dreamily.
“Miss Lugoson was Miss Acton’s daughter. Monsieur Rueff had a tryst with Miss Acton,” Charles said, in an attempt to regain her attention.
“He did?” Julie interrupted.
Charles winced. He’d said too much, but at least she was paying attention. “So I’ve been told.”
“Goodness. I hadn’t heard about that, but then I never knew the Rueff family. I heard the name, of course, but they were wealthy. I had a neighbor whose daughter worked in their kitchen. What about Mr. Durant?”
He watched Fred set cups on the table. “He connects back through the Lugosons to Miss Acton.”
“But what about Lady Lugoson?”
“Her adopted daughter dies, Miss Rueff is the daughter of her friend, Mr. Durant contacted her last before he died. She can’t have killed Miss Rueff herself. Do you know anything about their life in France, any connection there?” Other than the girl herself, sitting next to him.
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