The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  “How shall I ever write again?” Mr Dickens asked mournfully.

  “By remembering her, sir,” I said firmly. “Just as I shall.”

  “There are terrible deeds done in the dark alleyways of London. Still, after all I have tried to do.”

  “They are the chimneys of life, sir,” I said helpfully. “They need to be swept.”

  He rose magnificently both to the occasion and his feet: “Sweep them now, Tom. Find out who killed my Little Dorrit.”

  I would do so, not only for his sake but for mine. I’d a great liking for Alice Dear – not for the angel Mr Dickens believed her to be, but for Alice herself, who had laid aside her wings more often than our Lord might tolerate and certainly far in excess of what Her Majesty’s pigmen would. Alice was no flower seller. Since the age of seven when her dad went into the Marshalsea, our young angel had been a member of the Swell Mob, as it’s known now: high class dippers into ladies’ purses and gentlemen’s pockets.

  The Swell Mob don’t bother with the markets or everyday streets like Mr Dickens’ Oliver Twist under Fagin’s cruel rule, but are highly trained to act as a gang in the better-class areas round the theatres and banks. Young Alice with her innocent child’s eyes would steal at the lady’s side, her little hands delving into the pockets of the full skirts, so far away from the lady’s person that she never felt a thing. With the crinolines of today her task is even easier. A member of the gang is in front as protection, one to each side, and one behind as well in case of trouble. But there never was trouble when Alice was working, so she told me with pride.

  She was lying, though, as so often. As a youngster of eight or so she was all but caught, but Kidsman Joe, the gang leader positioned in front of her, nipped back to take the blame; he went to gaol and she escaped. I saw it all. I was sixteen then, and already well established in my trade. She saw me watching and gave me a wink. I’ll know you again, young lady, I thought, and I did. Four years ago, I was seeing my wife Mary to her rest in St George the Martyr’s churchyard in the Borough, when she – meaning Alice – won my heart by coming up to me.

  “Cheer up, Mr Sweep,” she said. “Your baby, was it?”

  “My wife,” I answered.

  “Then,” she said sweetly, “she’s in heaven, Mister Sweep, at the top of her chimney at last.”

  That was Alice. She had a heart, but usually you’d never know it. After that, I saw her from time to time and we became quite friendly. I knew all about the Mob, and about Kidsman Joe with whom she lived in Lant Street, not far away from St George’s or from the old Marshalsea, whose wall still borders the churchyard.

  It was another churchyard, St Paul’s, where in late January of this year I met Alice by chance. Kidsman Joe’s mob likes dipping there. Mothers and children, smart gentlemen, lords and ladies, everyday workers, all flock to it, mostly shopping or on their way to Doctors’ Commons, that rotten apple of a law court that has ruined so many people’s lives. Here scavengers hunt for wills in dusty registers, in the hope of tracking down some prey, here bitter divorce cases break people’s hearts, and yet here marriage licences are granted for those who would wed in haste. Everyone in St Paul’s Churchyard, whether they are in search of a wife or a pie from the pastry-cook’s, has his mind on other things than purses, and so waiting in the confectioner’s or coffee house are the Swell Mob, spying out new victims and lusting after new swag.

  On that raw January day, however, even the Mob, let alone the shoppers, had something else to chat about. Mr Thomas Toodle, the well known radical member of parliament, lawyer, associate of Mr Dickens and wealthy philanthropist, had been found murdered here the previous morning. The patterer’s chat was that he’d been knifed by a drunkard who had staggered out of a doorway and struck him down, although some said it was a dark deed by Her Majesty’s unpopular Tory government, currently in such disarray. I was there to clean the chimneys of Doctors’ Commons, where Mr Toodle used to hear law cases – an odd place to work for one so keen on reform. I had turned from the churchyard carriageway into the narrow street of Paul’s-Chain, and saw Alice arguing with a gentleman ahead of me on the right, down by the arched entrance to Doctors’ Commons.

  I recognised her immediately in her poke bonnet and heavy shawl, looking so demure. She wasn’t her usual self, though. As I came closer, I saw she was looking anxious, and was arguing with Mr Bob Cheery. He was the senior clerk working in the Prerogative Office at the Doctors’ Commons, and I had always found him a pleasant gentleman and highly religious. He must be about forty years of age, and had done well to reach such high office – but then everyone at Doctors’ Commons does well, except for the poor souls they serve.

  “Good morning to you, Tom. The Lord be with you,” he greeted me. He would need the Lord to be with him too, if he had dealings with the Swell Mob, I thought. If Alice was here, the Mob couldn’t be far away.

  “Trouble?” I asked Alice, seeing her look appealingly at me.

  “With the Mob,” Bob answered for her.

  “I’ve left Joe,” Alice said defiantly. “Bob’s been looking after me, but I’m afraid. I want to live somewhere else.”

  I could see she meant it – or thought she did. “What does Joe think about this?”

  I was troubled, for Joe has a nasty temper on him. He must be about thirty by now, which is getting old to run a gang, and there were dogs snapping at his heels for taking over the mob. Buzzer Bill for one, who is a nasty sort of villain, determined with his sturdy brutish strength to run the gang himself and have Alice along with it. He didn’t stand a chance against Joe, who is a crafty cove and has had some sort of education. He came to the Mob after his father dropped down in the world in two short months from businessman to docker to a magsman swindling people in the streets. Buzzer Bill on the other hand was born in the Nichol like me, the rookery not too far away from Her Majesty’s Tower, but I doubt if she ever looks out of her back windows with a telescope. Then there’s Edie, who has no plans for leadership. As a former judy, she’s only too pleased to have a job – that is how the Mob sees their work. Next in line for running the gang is Charlie, who adored Alice from afar, but had never dared to cross Joe. Like Alice he behaves like an angel but can be a devil. His name is really Daniel, and he gets his nickname from the old watchmen, that being his role in the Mob. He guards from behind – a good place for him.

  “Joe doesn’t know where she is,” said Bob grimly. “But he soon will if she leaves me.”

  “You know that Mr Dickens, don’t you, Tom?” Alice said eagerly. “He helps fallen women.”

  “I told you, Alice,” Bob said firmly, “you are no longer fallen. God has forgiven you.”

  “He’ll find me, Bob.” She wasn’t thinking of God, but of Joe, of course, and avoiding Bob’s eye. He was looking most put out. I assured him I would take care of her, and, after extracting a promise from her that she would return that evening to tell him what had happened, he reluctantly returned to work.

  “Well, Alice,” said I, “here’s a nice chimney you’re asking me to sweep. Are you a fallen woman?”

  She was most indignant. “I ain’t never been on the streets yet, but I can lie about it, can’t I?” Then she tried to laugh, looking so angelic my heart was melted. If I hadn’t seen her once kick an old woman lying in the gutter out of her way, I’d almost have believed her. But I knew she was only a part-time angel, as most of us are, working the hours she chooses.

  “Help me, Tom,” she went on to plead. “Take me to Mr Dickens. I want to get away from the Mob and from Bob. He wants me as much as Joe. One wants my body, the other my soul. I can’t breathe.”

  These words sat strangely on Alice’s lips, and she was fidgeting with her bonnet strings, so I could see something was wrong.

  “But what if Joe finds you?” I asked. “Or Buzzer Bill or young Charlie?”

  It was then she turned her face towards me as we walked, and I saw it was full of fear. “I’m afraid, Tom. Afraid for me life.”r />
  I had in mind she might become a scullerymaid or perhaps even a shop girl, although I would tell Mr Dickens the full truth about her. No sooner did we walk through the study door later that day, however, than Mr Dickens was spellbound.

  “Mary Ann!” he cried to my surprise.

  “Well, sir . . .” I was ignored.

  “If you please, sir,” said Alice, looking her trembling sweetest. “I’m Alice.”

  “No,” he said gazing at her transfixed. “Little Mary Ann. I had a playmate once, Mary Ann Mitton – I called her Little Dorrit. Tell me about yourself, Little Mary Ann. . . .”

  And so she did. It was a self I’d never heard of but every time I opened my mouth to correct her, Mr Dickens gave me a reproachful look. Then he recalled they needed their kitchen chimney swept and I was promptly despatched. Not that he touched her, so she told me later, and I believe her. He was too busy recreating Little Mary Ann out of Little Alice and turning her into Little Amy for a character in a new novel. As I left the room, I heard the word Marshalsea and I knew I was needed no longer. Dolly Dunks had told me that Mr Dickens’ own father had been in the Marshalsea for a short time, and he himself, a child at the time, had lodged in Lant Street to be nearby.

  Mr Dickens found Alice a job at a flower shop, a good distance from St Paul’s, and set about freeing her father of debt so that she could live with him, and the Swell Mob wouldn’t find her.

  But somehow they had, and one of them had murdered her: was it Kidsman Joe, full of jealous rage that she’d left him for Bob Cheery, or Buzzer Bill or Charlie? Or was love nothing to do with it? Was it that she had betrayed the Mob by leaving it?

  The Borough isn’t London and it isn’t the country, wherever that might be. But it leads to the country, which lies along the Dover Road, and so once across London Bridge it seems a distant land. Where I live in East London, the river is our escape. I can leave the nightmares of the Ratcliffe Highway and Rag Fair, hurry through the horrors of Nightingale Lane, where every entry holds an unknown threat, down to the docks. Beyond them the river Thames is flowing; having deposited upon our mud-banks the muck she has picked up, she disdainfully passes on to the sea. This city is my home, but I like knowing the river’s there.

  Wagons are coming and going all day along the Dover Road, pulling up in the yards of the many inns and pubs lining the High Street down to St George’s church: the old George with its galleries and handy time clock, the White Hart, the Catherine Wheel, the Tabard and many more. The Marshalsea prison closed thirteen years ago, when Alice was nine, and is now an ironmonger’s; although it hides its face, the prison’s grim buildings still linger on. Opposite it, huge warehouses tower over little shops struggling for a living, like the pie shop where Alice told me she used to buy pies for her father in the Marshalsea.

  There is a hum in the Borough air. Always something doing. Some wagons are glad to leave the fog and smoke of London while others are fighting their way into it. I’d choose to be one of those coming in, with the thrill of London town lying ahead. The hustle and bustle of the city sweeps you up in the chimney of its arms, although it would squeeze you to death if the Good Lord did not protect those whom He chooses. As He did Alice, until she went her own way.

  I walked through the gateway into the Tabard yard the next evening to begin my journey to the truth over Alice’s death. One of their cheap entertainments was on, as its great days are long over and the tavern needs all the custom it can get. The Bearded Lady of London and the Giantess of Japan were to be followed by a twenty-minute play, Murder at the Tabard. This is an old favourite, but trust Dolly to show it tonight. This murder was about a girl called Mary White, not my Alice, but Dolly wasn’t telling folks that. I knew I’d find Kidsman Joe’s mob there. It was their usual meeting and gambling place in the evenings before the night’s work.

  As I walked into the yard, I could hear the hurdy gurdy playing and the roar of voices that a lions’ den of drinkers and gamblers can produce. It was only a day and a half since I had seen Alice’s dead body lying a stone’s throw from here, but I knew there’d be no trace left. It was yesterday’s news, today’s story, and tomorrow would be forgotten. Life moves fast in the Borough. I wished Alice might be buried in St George’s, but the churchyard is closed now. Besides, Mr Dickens said he would take responsibility for the funeral, which is a difficult task. The churchyards of London are overflowing because of the cholera which swept so many away through the sewers of life last year.

  I had to do what I could for Alice, so I made my way through the smoke and dirt and, sure enough, spotted the Mob tucked away at a table groaning with tankards. Joe had a natty waistcoat on, with a kingsman spilling out of his pocket, and was ruling the roost. Buzzer looked his usual unmerry self, Edie seemed troubled, and Charlie – well, he was just watching the proceedings. He must be about the same age as Alice was, but he didn’t have her courage to use the wits he was born with – not openly, that is.

  “Evening, Joe,” I said, having bought myself a pint of porter.

  They hadn’t seen me for some time, but my black face usually announces who I am. For all I wash every few weeks, the soot gets engrained.

  They stopped talking immediately, and all four of them fixed their eyes on me, dangerous-like. Edie and Charlie were obviously leaving it to Joe to decide what angle he would take, although Buzzer’s expression left little doubt as to what his would be.

  “Well,” Joe chortled (so that was the line), “what can we smell here?” He delicately held his nose and the other three obediently roared their heads off.

  “The smell that stays,” I replied carefully, “till we get to the bottom of this.”

  “Yer booze?” Joe sneered, cuffing my beer-mug with his outstretched arm and laughing as its contents spilled over my working jacket and trousers.

  “That’s better,” growled Buzzer brightly. “At least the porter smells good.”

  More laughter. Until I said, “Alice,” very quietly. “Have the pigmen talked to you?”

  “We don’t talk to pigs round here,” said Edie anxiously. “You know that, Tom.” She kept stealing glances at Joe to see if she was doing right.

  “Then you can talk to me,” I said cheerily. “Who did this to Alice?”

  Seeing it was one of them, I didn’t expect an answer, and I didn’t get one. Not a straight one, anyway.

  “What’s it to you, sweep?” Buzzer Bill growled.

  “Mr Dickens wants to know, and so do I.”

  That silenced them, not because they were great readers – probably only Joe could read at all – but because they’d heard of Mr Dickens in the way one does, and realized that Alice’s death wasn’t going to pass unnoticed.

  “Who killed her?” I asked again, watching their angry faces.

  No one spoke, until Charlie was suddenly inspired. “It could have been Micah Muggs.”

  All four nodded vigorously, but I didn’t believe a word of it. “Why would Micah Muggs want to kill her?”

  “He reckons she swindled him. Good at that, were Alice,” Joe said approvingly.

  I could believe it. She would fix you with that innocent eye and you’d trust her with anything. Trouble was that sometimes she actually meant it, so you couldn’t always disbelieve her. Micah Muggs was the biggest fence in London and an unsavoury piece of work, but I realized I’d have to talk to him. Usually the Swell Mob avoided him, getting rid of its own ill-gotten gains, but sometimes it was forced to use his services for the long-tails, the high-value banknotes.

  “Anyone else?” I enquired. “What about Mr Cheery?”

  Another silence, then Joe said viciously, “He got his roger into her all right.”

  “I’ll do for him, if he knocked her,” Buzzer growled, while Charlie burst into tears. A useful trick I’ve seen him pull when the Mob does a job.

  “When did you last see Alice?” I asked patiently.

  Another look was exchanged between them. “Pigman said she was killed about
ten on Tuesday night. We was up west, working,” Joe explained virtuously, by which he meant dipping the theatre crowds at the Haymarket and then moving on to the night life of Piccadilly. If so, it wasn’t likely any of them would have been back here in time to murder Alice, but I knew none of them would split on another.

  “When did you last see her?” I repeated even more patiently.

  “We ain’t seen her at all,” Joe growled. “She had her own lay.”

  This wasn’t right, and I spoke out. “Alice worked in a flower shop up west.”

  “Did,” he sniggered. “Sacked her.”

  “How did you know that, Joe?” I asked. So he had seen her. My heart sank. I should have realized Alice was in touch with the Mob again. “Was she living again with you, Joe?”

  “Nah. With her dad,” he said. “Dunno where, though. Might have seen her once or twice, I suppose. She said she couldn’t take that Bible stuff of Cheery’s,” he sneered. “She wasn’t with the Mob no more, was she?” He looked at his fellow villains for support.

  “No,” they all chimed in together, to my mind a little too quickly.

  At that moment Dolly Dunks loomed up before us. “Oh, it’s you, Wasp. Buzzing around again.” Roar of laughter at this witticism, in which I joined as though this joke over my name was the first time I’d heard it. I left buzzing – pickpocketing, that is – to Buzzer Bill. I had important business with Dolly however.

  “Did you see Alice in here Tuesday night?” I asked.

  “Nah,” she said promptly. “But then,” she added, looking at the Mob and winking, “my eyesight’s not that good.”

  “Back entrance to White Street open, was it?” I asked. There was a path leading from White Street into the Tabard’s rear yard at the side of the row of dwelling houses.

  Dolly caught on immediately. “Always is. Think I want them dirty hop wagons coming through my nice clean yard?”

  Clean? All I’d ever seen was the filthy muck left until the next rainstorm came to make it less smelly.