There was no safety for Lady Wenhill and the lad now, nor would there be, as long as Dancy walked the streets. There would be other Ned Palings to do his dirty work.
Scrooge’s conscience reminded him that the courts should settle the matter. But a trial was uncertain at best. Would a jury believe Lady Wenhill’s story – or Dancy’s? A good barrister could make twelve men think she was greedy for all the money herself. That it was she who wished to be rid of Dancy because he knew that she had borne a daughter, not a son. And there was no way under the sun to test or prove whether the boy with that stain on his shoulder or the nameless little girl was truly the late Lord Wenhill’s heir.
Dancy’s word against Lady Wenhill’s . . . And he would lose more than a fortune if the truth came out. He would stop at nothing to prevent that. Not one to cross, Mrs Brown had said. Ruthless and vindictive.
As he climbed into the cab for the last time and turned toward his house, Scrooge found himself thinking about that little girl asleep in a crib not her own. Cared for, but not loved. Lady Wenhill would do right by her. But it would be a cold love, not a warm one. And Betsy still grieved for her own boy. How could a foundling, and a girl at that, assuage her loss? Besides, she would have other children in God’s good time, and perhaps come to see this adopted daughter as a constant reminder of the dead, not the living.
Martha Cratchit could be persuaded to take the lass, to grow up with young Sally. It would be a kindness – and she was kind. He knew how much she loved children, and once she heard this one’s story, her heart would overflow.
Scrooge was tired. And still worried. There were new and trusted servants to be found for the Wenhill houses, the boy’s birth to be registered, and guards set to forestall further mischief. Dancy was a formidable opponent, and Ned Paling might be persuaded to set upon Scrooge some evening as he walked home from his ‘counting house or from a good dinner with his nephew.
It was not finished yet. But the question was, how would it be finished?
He thought again about going to a magistrate, and again dismissed it as chancy at best. There was no proof.
Tired as he was, Scrooge slept poorly, dreaming of Mar-ley’s face on the door knocker, expecting to see the bed curtains thrust aside in the dark of the night and Ned standing there, the knife in his hand raised high, ready to strike. If Dancy was as clever as everyone felt he was, he’d send Ned on one last errand before murdering him. Scrooge knew too much, had too much of a reputation for honesty and fair worth. Two birds with one stone, as it were.
The next morning a tearful Jenny was at his door, searching for Ned.
“For he’s nowhere to be found, and I’m afraid!”
Scrooge thought, “My foreboding wasn’t wrong. Dancy has seen to Ned.” But aloud he said to Jenny, “You are well out of this business. Take the fifty pounds I’ve paid you for the child and go away. As far as you can.”
“I can’t. Ned’s looked after me, you see. And he’d find me if I left him. I must wait.”
“What do you know of this business with the child?”
“Nothing, I swear to you. Only that Ned came home a fortnight ago with a baby, and said he was to wait until the river was running high. I told him he couldn’t do that with a child – that we’d be better off finding a way to make money from him. And so we did.”
Her voice was triumphant, as if Ned had proved her right. She added, “He never said where the child had come from. But he has his ear to the ground. He’d read about Betsy Tallman in the newspapers. A few questions here and there, and he found you. He’d heard about the accident the day Polly Toodle was discharged, but we were afraid to try Dombey. He’s a cold man. Ned’s clever, he takes the gossip and turns it into money every time. He reads and listens in pubs and pays attention. Only, there’s a bad streak in him sometimes, and then I’m afraid of what he’ll do. He wouldn’t have thought twice about the river. I knew that to be true.”
Jenny left soon after, forlorn and afraid.
Fearful of being followed, Scrooge waited another day before returning for Lady Wenhill and her baby. He was preparing now to take her to the police, having convinced himself, if only barely, that a trial might succeed after all. There was no other choice, really. He had been foolish to think there was. Honest men seldom prospered in the world of Samuel Dancy. But when he arrived at Nicolas Henley’s house in late afternoon, his host came to him in something of a dither.
“This poor woman! I’ve been afraid to tell her—”
“The child—”
“No, no, not the child! Haven’t you heard? Her brother-in-law was found in the river only this morning. Someone had tried to rob him, they fought, and both drowned. They were locked in a terrible embrace, the two of them. The police think they must have gone into the Thames near the Red Slipper, but there’s no way to be sure.” He tut-tutted with concern. “First her husband, now her brother-in-law. Two funerals in a matter of months. It will be more than a lady of her sensibilities can endure. I’ve not dared to break the news – you must find a way!”
“Do they know who it was who tried to rob Dancy?”
“The story I heard claimed it was Ned Paling. But I find that hard to believe. A nasty piece of work, Ned was, you’ll hear everyone saying it. But murdering Dancy? No, there must be a mistake. The two were said to be as thick as thieves.”
Scrooge, digesting the news, said, “We are all capable of more than we know. There are dark places in every soul.” His own included. He had paid his own heavy price for this venture, and it had nothing to do with shillings and pounds paid out.
“No, no, I refuse to believe that. You and I would never knife a man for the sake of his purse.”
Scrooge answered him. “I doubt we’ll ever know what transpired. A pity, surely? And now I must see to an entirely new staff for Lady Wenhill. Any recommendations, old friend?”
“You never told me why you brought her here.”
“Did I not?” Scrooge said. “There were rumours of a kidnapping. As it turned out, they were false. But better safe than sorry, I always say.”
“I see the need for new servants, then. As you say, better safe than sorry. And that’s a lively boy she has. It would be a shame if anything happened to him. She dotes on him.”
Scrooge could see Lady Wenhill, her face glowing with joy, coming down the stairs. “Leave us while I break the news.”
Henley discreetly withdrew.
Scrooge drew Lady Wenhill into the parlour and told her what had happened. He expected her to be appalled, but she said, “That man would have murdered my son. I feel no sympathy. I’ll put on a public face of mourning, but it goes no deeper.” She looked away and then said, “What will become of the little girl in my house?”
“I have considered a likely home for her. She’ll be well taken care of.”
“Is it possible, do you think, to find her mother?”
“I doubt it. I can try; but if you want the truth, I expect both the midwife and this child’s mother are dead. The mother, because she might some day ask what had become of her daughter, and the midwife because she couldn’t be trusted with such dangerous information as switching newborns. Dancy would have been foolish to leave them alive for you to discover and persuade to give evidence against him.”
“I’ll settle a dowry on her, when she marries. I can do no less.”
“It would be kind.”
Lady Wenhill nodded. Then she asked, “Why did Ned Paling kill Samuel Dancy? I thought they were in this business together.”
Scrooge said only, “Thieves sometimes fall out.”
The Little Christian
Rebecca Tope
Although it would be over two years before Dickens commenced another full-length novel, the period 1844 to 1846 was amongst the busiest of his life. He travelled through Italy which led to the volume Pictures from Italy (1846). He continued with his annual Christmas books, following the success of A Christmas Carol with The Chimes (1844) and The Crick
et on the Hearth (1845). He established his own amateur theatrical company and, most time consuming of all, in January 1846 he became the editor of a daily newspaper, The Daily News. It is during this chaotic period that the following story is set.
There is no record that Dickens met the young Sabine Baring-Gould, who would be only eleven at the time of this story but, Rebecca Tope told me, “It is possible that an encounter such as this did take place. Sabine Baring-Gould and Charles Dickens were both in London during the autumn of 1845, as described.” If his name is not familiar, his most famous work, the hymn “Onward Christian Soldiers” (1864), will be instantly recognizable. Baring-Gould came from a rich Devonshire family. For much of his life he served as a clergyman and, after his father’s death in 1872, became the local squire. He was a dedicated antiquarian with a fascination for all things and wrote prodigiously, having a remarkably long writing career from 1865 until his death in 1924.
Rebecca Tope, who is researching Baring-Gould’s biography, is the author of three separate mystery series as well as producing the spin-off books from the Rosemary & Thyme TV series.
Autumn 1845
It was the shiver that first drew him to my attention. On a fine morning in early October, he had no business being cold. No – this was the shivering of misery and loneliness; a boy too young to be away from his mother, not much older than my own Charley. But it was not Charley that this child called to mind as he stood gazing down on the malodorous Thames from the western side of Waterloo Bridge, looking as he had been there for quite a while. There, like a wrinkle in time, stood my own sorry young self.
I approached him delicately, positioning myself at his side, following his line of gaze. He showed no signs of apprehension, but turned a glance of sweet amiability towards me, before giving vent to a sigh.
“Have you ever been to the Italian Alps, sir? Or perhaps to Austria?” came his astonishing words.
I laughed, not quite comfortably, suspecting this lad somehow knew who I was. “I have indeed,” I confessed. “In fact, I am only returned from Italy these few months. Pray, what might there be in this vista to recall the mountains to your mind?”
“Not one thing, sir,” came the sorrowful reply. “Nothing clean or fresh. The very air is sickening here.”
“You are pining for crystal streams and carpets of flowers and smiling singing people,” I offered.
“Perhaps so, sir. And . . . the food,” he burst out. “Good milk and fruit and cheese.” His earnest eyes met mine. “Why is the food so dreadful in London?”
I did not attempt an explication of the mechanisms for supplying thousands of city dwellers with wholesome food. Indeed, I barely understood it myself. The child’s evident hunger, spiritual as much as bodily, plucked painfully at my heartstrings, not least because I too had gone in want of food in my boyhood. And yet this was no pauper child. His clothes were of good quality, his shoes new and polished. His cap suggested attendance at an educational establishment of some pretension.
“I know a pie shop on the Strand,” I said, “where a fellow can find a decent meal. Would you have an hour or so spare to accompany me there and give me the pleasure of your conversation?”
His frown conveyed anxiety on an epic scale. “No, sir, thank you. I ought not to be outside at all.” He cast a glance across the bridge to the monstrous building that was Somerset House. “I am meant to be in school. Classes will have begun without me.”
A chill hand fingered my insides. “You attend school in Somerset House?”
He nodded. “Kings College, sir. In the basement. I am not permitted to be out into the street alone. It was just—” He sighed again. “The new term began not long ago, you see, sir. I am not yet accustomed to the different masters, and the changes in our work. And the games,” he added with a shudder. “I cannot reconcile myself to the games.”
“So you made a bid for freedom,” I smiled. “Brave man! Would you be interested to know that my poor father worked in that same edifice when I was just a little younger than you are now? A very grim time he had of it, too, or so I believe.”
His interest in my words was polite but forced. “Is that so?” he murmured. The sigh that followed was accompanied by another shiver and I was minded to put a comforting arm across his narrow shoulders. But I restrained myself, limiting my solicitude to the taking of both his hands in mine and giving them a warm shake.
“Come,” I urged. “If it will help, I could pen a short note to your masters, explaining away your absence without their leave. We need not be long, and I feel sure you have a story you could tell me.”
He stiffened beneath my touch, pulling back. “Story, sir?” With a worried frown he glanced again at the river. “You accuse me of telling stories?”
I released my gentle grip, opening my arms as if to let a bird fly free. “I make no accusations, my friend,” I assured him. “You may do and go as you wish. But in my very humble opinion, I believe I can offer you some entertainment as well as a good meat pie. Perhaps, too, solace in your exile from home.” I cocked my head and waggled my eyebrows, making a face I well knew was irresistible to any child, no matter how solemn.
It worked, and the chuckle thereby elicited brought a thawing of the frost encasing him. “Thank you, sir,” he said. “May I introduce myself? I am Sabine Baring-Gould, son of Edward Baring-Gould Esquire of Devonshire.”
“I am honoured to make your acquaintance,” I bowed. “You might call me Boz.” This last I added on a whim, harking back to my young days, once more. The response was dramatic.
“Boz! The same as Mr Charles Dickens?” His eyes sparkled. “My father is a very great admirer of Mr Dickens’s books.” He hurriedly recounted a description of a journey to the Continent at the time when Nicholas Nickleby was being produced and episodes difficult to obtain during their travels. The childish chatter reassured me that he was recovering from his fit of despair – an improvement I awarded myself some credit for.
I smiled and said nothing in response to his unwitting mention of my name, tempted though I may have been to reveal myself. The pleasure at finding my name, as well as my early pseudonym, common currency even with children, was hard to suppress despite having by then enjoyed some years of celebrity.
Then the boy’s face fell again and the shiver recurred. “But, sir, I must tell you what I have seen, this hour or so past.” The words came with whispered urgency and a glance around at the streets behind us. I raised my brows encouragingly. “A lady, sir, down by the water—” he tipped his chin at the murk beneath us. “She came from a house along there, dragging another lady – who appeared to be insensible. She was heavy, sir, and awkward to move. And she threw her into the river, sir. She did indeed!”
I gave him the same penetrating gaze I used on my Charley when his word was in doubt. “Indeed?” I pronounced sonorously. “And what transpired next?”
“Nothing, sir,” came the worried whisper.
“Nothing!”
“The first lady went back the same way and the other one – the one in the water, sank from sight. It must have been murder, sir! One lady murdering another.” His tone was more of wonderment than horror – but I did not forget his strange shivering that now seemed to be explained.
There was no denying the Thames received its share of corpses, human and animal, though never had I heard an eye witness report of one being cast in by a respectable female person.
“All the more need for a pie,” I pronounced heartily. “We should proceed apace, young sir, and feed ourselves while we consider your experience from every side.”
“Am I to be chastized, sir, would you expect? I should not be here. But the door at Mr Hayes’s house was unlocked and the sky was so blue and clear – I could not help myself. And the lady, sir – what is to be done about the lady?”
“Think no more of her,” I counselled him. “There is naught to be done for the moment. If we raise a hue and cry about it, you will be required to stand witness, with your
name in the court annals, and all manner of complications. Your father would not like that, I’ll be bound.”
He managed a thin smile. “My father would wish me to do my duty,” he said stiffly. “And my mother, too.”
I respected his loyalty, while quite certain that he could not sustain a formal enquiry into what he thought he had seen. I stayed with the subject of his parents. “You say they are in Devonshire? How came they to send you to school in this noisome spot? Did they not think what they were doing, making you attend classes in a miasmic London basement?”
He shook his head, half reproachful, half amused. “They are in Warwick at present. I am boarding with Mr Hayes. He is one of the masters, and he resides in Queens Square.” The look of lost abandonment in his eyes plucked again at my sensitivities, and I threw an arm around his shoulders, in spite of myself. His resistance was fleeting and I sensed the needful child within the layers of clothing.
“Well, we must move along now. For an hour we can forget our troubles together, over a hot pie.” The pie had, I confess, begun to lose its appeal for me, the more I mentioned it. Despite young Sabine’s evident hunger, and my own powerful views on the treatment of children throughout the land, I did have larger things on my mind. The play I had produced with several friends in Dean Street was over, just a few days since, and my next venture was tugging at me for attention. My wife was demanding my presence, too, for some trifling appointment with some female friends of hers, for which I was already inevitably late. She was awaiting the imminent arrival of our sixth child, her temper uncertain as a result.
The tale of the lady pitching somebody into the Thames acquired larger significance as the boy and I strolled along the Strand in a westerly direction. There were other respectable strollers on the sidewalk, and plenty of traffic passing along, with the general noise and bustle of an ordinary day. The idea of a barefaced murder taking place in the full light of a Thursday morning was sticking firmly in my craw. And yet the boy was no liar, I could see that from his open face. Unless he was deranged – and that struck me as highly improbable – he believed his own story implicitly.
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits Page 20