“Some sort of hip-bath?” queried Tom.
“Nothing near so simple,” laughed the delighted Martin. “Just come and see.”
Martin shot away at great speed through the myriad complexities of the exhibition, and had it not been for the basic simplicity of the palace’s design and the possibility of looking up through the foliage for glimpses of the roof, poor Tom would have felt himself in danger of getting hopelessly lost in a jungle, never to see his hearth and home again. But he and John just managed to keep in Martin’s general direction by dint of listening to his continual stream of repartee on the wonders and drawbacks of the patented marvel that he was about to introduce them to, and his doubts that anyone in their right mind would contemplate having such a thing in their bedchamber.
“That is a most peculiar odour wafting this way,” observed Tom breathlessly. “It makes it a little difficult to keep one’s breath, quite sickly in fact, like burning bacon.”
“Or maybe Monday’s wash,” added John. “I don’t relish this at all – I fear that something must be very wrong.”
The two of them finally broke out of a patch of dark shrubbery and into an exhibition area that seemed to display a great many large objects of highly polished brass, only to find their way barred by a determined row of top-hatted, brass-buttoned, police officers. What alarming incident had they stumbled into?
“It’s all right Chevy, they are here with me,” said a white-faced Martin, standing in the clearing with his constabulary cousin, Chevy Slyme. In the background, beside some substantial and partially overset brass device, stood Mr Bailey of “Sweedlepipe and Bailey’s Bird Emporium”, the chalkiness of his complexion only made more apparent by the bright orange of his hair and moustache. “Dear God, this is a terrible thing, can’t we at least turn those burners off?”
There seemed to be a great deal of sudsy water, with little islands of grease washing around the floor; a powerful group of gas burners, welded onto a ring, was playing onto the dented underside of a large brass hip bath; various crumpled bits of brazen superstructure that might recently have been a showering device, and various taps and handles that could have constituted a hand-pumping system, were all that seemed to be left of the wonderful “Gentleperson’s Patented Portable Ablutionary Device”.
The horror, however remained – sticking out of the bathtub, in various uncoordinated and unsuitable directions, were the remains of someone who appeared to have been its occupant at the time of the accident: someone likely fully clothed, for his left foot, complete with elastic-sided boot still occupying the strap of his tastefully checked trousers, was the first thing that one saw. The second thing that one saw was one of the Duke of Wellington’s sparrow-hawks perching thoughtfully on the steaming knee. After that it was better to look away rather than take in the unfortunate contents of its beak.
“And, Bailey, for heaven’s sake can’t you remove that appalling bird?”
“No, Mr Chuzzlewit, I can’t, sir,” said Bailey firmly. “Falconry is a specialist subject. Song-birds is my chosen field. We have already sent for the Duke’s man. He will be along directly – he is always around.”
“But supposing Her Majesty . . .”
Too late! Sixth-sensing some contretemps in what was their favourite gallery, the Royal couple had hastened to the scene.
“Gott in Himmel!” exclaimed Prince Albert. “Whatever has happened here?”
“Someone seems to have been taking an impromptu morning dip, Your Royal Highness, which has misfired,” said Chevy Slyme as levelly as he could.
“An accident, you think?” said Queen Victoria, her voice implying that she was fairly determined that this is what it should be. “But who is it and how can they have got in? Surely they must have been authorized? Albert my dear, I do hope that what I seem to see in that bird’s beak is not what one might imagine.”
“No, no, my love,” said Albert. “Best to look away, I think. Well, Officer, who do you think this unfortunate person might be?”
“We are, naturally, engaged conducting urgent enquiries on that matter, Your Royal Highness and will report back to you as soon as is humanly possible,” averred Officer Slyme, with an uncharacteristic hint of desperation in his voice. “As her Majesty has observed, there must have been some authorization.”
Mr Bailey, who had at least succeeded in switching off the gas-jets during this confrontation, cleared his throat nervously. “I fear I may know his identity, poor fellow (Your Majesty, Royal Sir). I would know those braces anywhere.”
“Well?”
“It’s Augustus Moddle – that’s newly Sixteenth Duke of Frame.”
Martin, John and Tom took a squeamish look over the side of the bath and nodded in horrified, incredulous agreement.
“I fear that would seem to be the case, Your Majesty,” Martin stammered, white-lipped.
“You know him sufficiently well?”
“Regrettably, that is the case, Ma’am. He is – was – married to my cousin, Mercy Chuzzlewit.”
Prince Albert seemed close to losing his fabled sang-froid. “Not Frame, surely not Frame all over again! Like father, like son, a second time?”
Queen Victoria took on a look of steel. “This will not do,” she said. “This simply will not do! Poor dear Dowager Lady Frame, she has endured enough! Now listen to me! This will be tidied up at once, as though it had never happened. I expect a thorough investigation into this unfortunate accident delivered personally to me, and I know, Gentlemen, that I can rely on your loyalty in this matter.” With that the Royal pair swept off to happier climes within their cherished crystal wonderland. “Thank heavens none of the children were with us this morning, Albert,” were her final words on the subject.
Mr Mould, the undertaker from Cheapside, was not what might be called in his first flush of youth, nor could he be considered, these days, to be in the pink of health, but he still conducted his business to the very highest standards.
For this reason, surrounded by the bosom of his family, his buxom wife, his angelic daughters and their respective loving spouses (now two of his doughtiest assistants) what more could he do than express on behalf of all of them his shock, his shame and total bewilderment at the professional calamity that had just befallen their family undertaking?
“What more could we have done, what better could we have given them – four horses, the best quality ostrich plumes, velvet trimmings and the smartest of walking attendants (young Tacker looked superb), not to mention the expense of your two good spouses, our drivers here, decked out in new cloth cloaks and smart top boots? And Highgate Cemetery too, such a perfect setting, decidedly London’s most fashionable necropolis.”
“Indeed, indeed, Papa,” chimed his seraphic daughters. “That massive Egyptian Avenue, that vast Pharaonic arch! But what went wrong?”
The sons-in-law groaned. “Poor Lady Frame, such a sweet young thing,” said one.
“Poor Mercy Pecksniff that she once was, always such a perfect client, how much more should she have to bear?” added the other, contemplating his shining new boots – which pinched.
“But what happened?” cried their exasperated wives in unison.
“There were two widows.”
“Impossible!”
“I’m afraid it’s true. There was dear young Lady Frame, or the poor widow Chuzzlewit, as it seems she now may be all over again . . .”
“She was so sensitive to have things done as they should be. Nothing but the best, in tribute to a love so newly sanctified. She vowed to be dressed in the profoundest of mourning. We offered her ‘Very Poignant’, you know,” said his elder daughter – the pair of them had extended the family business to include “Mould’s Discreet Mourning Warehouse” which they ran between them with distinct success.
“Yes,” said the younger, “but she settled for ‘Inconsolable’ watered silk to match the sentiment you see, newly imported from the Continent.”
“And her sister Charity, she chose ‘Dee
ply Afflicted’, a black crepe – made up very sombre and interesting.”
“All of the highest quality, too,” observed the younger daughter worriedly, doing a sharp addition of their possible company losses.
“So who is this supposed ‘other’ Lady Frame?” snapped their incredulous mother.
“Rich, I’d say,” said the elder son-in-law.
“Marmalade heiress from Aberdeen,” said the younger.
“No, Dundee, I thought,” said their father-in-law morosely.
“She had sailed all the way down to London with half her staff, to congratulate the new Lord Frame, all of them in a steamer and intending to see him at the Crystal Palace – and instead she finds that she is a widow and he was a bigamist.”
“Poor soul,” said Mrs Mould.
“Like I said, she’s not poor – all of them in deepest mourning – and her all tricked out in black velvet – real Genoa. It would take a deal of money to organize that so fast,” observed son-in-law senior.
“Surely it’s not proper to mourn in velvet, and never in summer,” said Mrs Mould, now really shocked
“Oh, no, on the contrary, Mama, it’s quite the thing, just coming in.”
“Oh, yes, a splendid black,” added her younger daughter. “We call it ‘Luxury of Woe’ . . . it sells at eighteen shillings a yard, superb quality, fit for the handsomest style of domestic calamity. But it’s a very proper point – how could she have got all of that set up so swift? – I wonder who she went to?”
“I think you will need to tread with caution, ladies,” warned Tom Pinch diffidently. “I am afraid the late Mr Chuzzlewit Senior chose a family solicitor whose office is rather difficult of access.” Tom was, indeed quite concerned that three ladies in the current fashions might not be able to squeeze in at all. Tom’s work as librarian for The Chuzzlewit Foundation was very flexible, and so he had been able to take the time to escort the sisters Charity and Mercy, nee Pecksniff, and the Dowager Lady Frame, for this urgent legal consultation. Gingerly, he conducted them up a flight of steps well hidden at the back of a house in Austin Friars, across some leads, and through a little blear-eyed glass door up in a corner, inscribed with “Mr Fips & Great Nephew” (the “& Great Nephew” letters being much more newly painted, and smaller than the rest). “Take care,” said Tom, opening the door for them. “It can be very dark in this passage.”
“Well, nowhere near as dark as it used to be!” observed the widowed Mercy, whose delicate situation was now of such particular concern to them all, but who had come there on several occasions in the past, when she was acting as companion to the elderly Mr Martin Chuzzlewit. “No ancient mat to trip over and no wicked old sideboard waiting in the gloom. He is making changes already – maybe there will even be enough chairs for us to sit on!”
The very junior Mr Fips was a slight young man with hazel eyes and the sleek appearance of a dormouse. Not only had he provided enough chairs for even Tom, but also, it seemed, he had instigated a repainting of the walls and new varnishing of the floor, thereby totally obliterating Tom’s favourite stain in the far corner. Here was a new broom that clearly swept clean and as the interview progressed Tom concluded that under that dreamy exterior there lurked someone with all the pouncing power of a cat.
“Now, Your Ladyships, Mrs Gander, Mr Pinch,” began young Mr Fips politely, nodding to each member of the group in turn, “Might we first set out all the facts of this matter as you see them, so I can ensure that I have taken in everything that my good great-uncle has already attempted to verify. Then maybe we can begin to shed a little light on the curious circumstances of your recent tragic family bereavement and also try see how this lady from Dundee can possibly suggest that she and the late Augustus Moddle, Sixteenth Duke of Frame, were somehow legally married.”
“Or if the couple had even actually met,” pronounced the elegant Dowager Lady Frame – with great firmness of purpose. “This whole thing seems completely preposterous to me. Proving the authenticity of Augustus’s claim to the dukedom turned out to be a simple matter, in the end, and my legal staff checked every detail with extreme care.
“If you wish me to sum the matter up, my late husband, Edward, the Fourteenth Duke of Frame, was a man much given to his own indulgencies. The family of Frame has always had a venal streak. That there have been little FitzFrames scattered all around the British Isles for generations, not to mention the South Seas, was the least of their shortcomings.
“My husband was perhaps the very worst of all his noble line, if you do not count the person whom he insisted was our son Clarence, who became the Fifteenth Duke. The level of anxiety that this cuckoo in the nest managed to give, even to the Royal Family, was beyond belief. To clarify what I am saying – I only ever bore the duke one child and I was always sure that my baby was a girl (I distinctly heard the midwife say as much) but when the baby was finally placed in my arms, after it had been taken out to show my husband, lo and behold, it had become a boy!
“I tried, discreetly, for years to uncover what they might have done with my little girl, but with scant success. However the situation became really urgent when Clarence, my putative male offspring, was verified to be in the final throes of his entirely self-induced illness and there was no indication that he had left any issue, male or otherwise, his predilections having been of an unusual nature. Then I felt it was my beholden duty to set about a search for my daughter in real earnest, as there is absolutely no legal bar to female inheritance to the Frame title or estates.
“My suspicions had long rested with a scion of FitzFrame who was one of my husband’s half-brothers and a popular member of his entourage. His unlikely marriage to a female entertainer from Astley’s Circus took place at just the time when I first learned that I was pregnant, and they moved away from the area of Frame just after the birth of the baby heir. My agents finally tracked this FitzFrame down to the Salisbury area, where he, now a widower, had become a very highly thought of man of business, and where his daughter (whom I believe to have been my own), Elfrida, had been sent to the most expensive ladies’ boarding-seminary in the area – my hopes were raised.
“All too soon, however, they were completely dashed again when we learned that the young lady was but recently dead. I was bereft. I knew that I had lost my own child for good. But the local people round Salisbury informed my men that though Elfrida had always remained living with her father, she had a son, Augustus. It was generally considered that she, too, must have been widowed, since the family was so eminently respectable in every way. But my half-brother-in-law FitzFrame would have nothing to do with any of my enquiries. It was not until the funeral morning of my disgusting changeling son, that I was informed that the wretched man had also died, but had left a deathbed confession (and also one from the midwife) which revealed that everything that I had suspected was correct. All that needed to be done was do discover the whereabouts of my grandson Augustus – but he had completely disappeared.”
At this point Mercy, offering the elderly duchess a comforting hand, took up the story. “Poor, dear Augustus. When he came to manhood and was ready to earn his living, he was found a suitable post in the city and his Mama, always, like him, a sensitive soul, consigned him to the care of her dearest school friend Mrs Todgers. But alas, at that haven that is her residence, he not only met me, but due entirely to my wicked folly, lost me to another. In spite of all the care and concern of Mrs Todgers, and my sweetest sister here (who was charity itself to him), poor Augustus found himself quite overthrown when this blow was doubled by the death of his beloved mother. It was then even worse compounded by his brute of a grandfather, who took that moment to tell him that, far from having been a widow, she had in fact been abandoned by her young husband, known as ‘Gus’, who had reputedly run off to Van Dieman’s Land rather than live up to the duties of matrimony and parenthood. Augustus, in despair, decided to leave England and go off in search of him.”
“And this appears to be the point where
the stories would seem to diverge,” nodded Mr Fips sagely. “The solicitors of the other Lady Frame, Miss McMielleur of Dundee, assert that Augustus, having roamed the world in desolation for quite some time, met her in Seville, where she was on a short visit to relatives in connection with the orange harvest. On hearing him mention his identity, she amazed him with the news of the search for him, which had been all the rage when she had but recently left these shores. She persuaded him to come back to Britain with her and, romantically, they were married by the ship’s captain, on the voyage home. They have all the dates and the testimony of the ship’s captain, which, if correct, would fix the marriage to a good six months before Mr Moddle married Mrs Chuzzlewit. Strangely, since then, she avers that Mr Moddle has stayed with her at her parents’ house in Dundee, putting together the papers to prove his claims to the Lordship of Frame, and in perfecting the invention of and implementing the patents to his ‘Gentleperson’s Ablutionary Device’ – the expenses of which were covered by her parents. He left her side only very recently to come to London to pick up his completed device from the manufacturers (Josiah Brodworth and Son) and install it at the Great Exhibition. It was at this time that he wrote to tell her that he had succeeded in his claim to the title of Frame and she set off to meet him in London.”
“Josiah Brodworth!” exclaimed Tom. “Why, his was the family that employed my sister Ruth to teach their daughter. She will be most gratified to hear that they now have a son!”
“Terrible people, we met them,” remarked Mrs Charity Gander with fervour. “So unkind to dear Ruth; we were both appalled, were we not, sister? I could only think the worst of anyone who was professionally connected to them in some way.”
“Why, yes, indeed,” agreed her sister Mercy, breaking into tears. “This must all be a pack of lies – is that not so, Lady Frame?”
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits Page 16