by J. J. Durham
He blinked. She stared back, defiant.
‘She told you,’ he said.
‘She told Ma, just before she took off.’ She pushed herself off the bed and pulled her shawl around her shoulders. ‘Don’t worry, I’m the last one to judge anyone else’s domestic affairs.’ She stooped to pick up the bottles.
He hesitated, then took out his pocketbook and opened it. As he pulled out a banknote he saw the photograph of Stella Drake tucked behind it. He hesitated, and then took it out. What was there to lose?
‘Have you ever seen this girl?’ He showed the photograph to Frances.
She barely glanced at it. ‘Why bother looking?’ She wiped her face and took the money from him. ‘She’s just another whore, like me.’
‘You know her?’
‘She’s a greengown. Used to work out of the Bluebird Tavern at Charing Cross, but I haven’t seen her in a while.’ She turned away to put the bottles into a basket.
‘Greengown?’
‘New to the game. Some of the other girls were giving her a rough time for stealing their regulars. Saw her off, I reckon.’
‘Frannie,’ he began. But he didn’t know what to say.
‘Just go.’ She refused to look at him. ‘And don’t call me Frannie. Little Frannie’s long gone.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
‘You say you lost these gloves?’
‘Indeed I did, sir. Just last week.’ Angus Trinkle, the upholsterer, grinned up at Sergeant Tanner. He was a redhead, with a peppering of freckles over skin so pale it was almost bloodless. ‘I daresay I left ’em somewhere. Always doing that. Spend a fortune at the haberdashers on account of my carelessness. However did you come by them?’
‘Have you ever heard of a woman by the name of Grimwood?’
‘Grimwood? No.’
‘You know the Waterloo Road?’
‘Of course.’
‘Do you happen to have heard of a young woman who was murdered there?’ Sergeant Tanner stepped closer to the tradesman, his eyes glittering.
‘Indeed I have. I read it in the papers. Dreadful business.’
‘The fact is, Mr Trinkle, that I found these very gloves, your gloves, under her pillow the morning after she was murdered.’
The young man dropped the gloves back onto the table. ‘That … that ain’t possible.’
Tanner glared at him.
‘Upon my oath I was never there, sir. I never so much as saw any woman called Grimwood, to my knowledge, in all my life.’ Trinkle, already pale, went whiter still, until Dickens thought he was going to expire on the spot. Dickens decided to intervene. He sat down beside Trinkle, disregarding all Inspector Field’s earlier exhortations not to involve himself in the investigation.
‘My colleague is anxious to apprehend the murderer, as I’m sure you will appreciate.’
‘You must believe me … ’
‘I do.’ He interrupted smoothly. ‘It’s clear to me that you are innocent of the matter.’ That earned him a glare from Tanner. ‘But we need to discover how your gloves came to be in the murdered woman’s bedroom. You say you lost them? Can you think where?’
Trinkle’s forehead furrowed in frantic thought, and then his brow cleared. ‘Anna Summerson!’ he shouted, then dropped his voice. ‘The lady is, um, an … acquaintance of mine. I was at her house the morning I discovered my gloves missing. I woke up there, if you understand my meaning.’
Dickens passed him a notebook and pencil. ‘Would you be so kind as to make a note of the lady’s name and address?’
‘Of course … of course.’ As Trinkle wrote with a shaking hand, Dickens risked a glance at Sergeant Tanner. It was what he feared; the detective was beet-faced and fuming.
‘Here you go, sir.’ Trinkle passed it back.
‘Covent Garden: we should be able to make it there and back in time for the Gala, don’t you think Sergeant Tanner?’
Tanner turned on his heel and marched from the cell. He spoke not a word to Dickens all the way in the carriage to Covent Garden, not even when the driver stopped to ask directions to Maiden Lane. He said nothing to anyone, in fact, until both men were standing in Anna Summerson’s sitting room, before the lady herself.
‘Do you know Eliza Grimwood?’ he snapped.
‘I’m her cousin, sir, but it’s not something I would readily own to, what with her being no better than she ought to be.’
‘Dead, you mean?’ said Tanner. The detective ran a sceptical eye around the room, and over Anna Summerson herself. She was a fey looking creature, bedecked with yellowing lace and feathers.
‘No,’ the girl flushed, ‘that wasn’t precisely …’
‘We understand your meaning, my dear,’ soothed Dickens.
‘Do you recognize these?’ demanded Tanner, slapping the gloves onto the table. Miss Summerson raised plucked eyebrows.
‘Why yes, they belong to Mr Trinkle, a great friend of mine. He left them there, upon that very table, when he came to call on me.’
‘So how come you don’t still have them?’ asked Tanner.
‘There’s no mystery to it.’ Miss Summerson gave a flirtatious laugh. ‘Who should come in here, shortly after Mr Trinkle left, but my cousin Eliza? “Whose gloves are these?” she says, taking ’em up. “Those are Mr Trinkle’s gloves”, says I. “Oh”, says she, “they are of no use to him I’m sure. I shall take ’em away for my girl to clean the stoves with.” And she put ’em in her pocket. I did think it very presumptuous, but she always was a pert piece.’ She gasped. ‘Oh my Lord! Trinkle don’t think I stole ’em, do he?’
Dickens opened his mouth to speak, but Tanner forestalled him.
‘You’re missing the point,’ he snapped. ‘I found the gloves under your cousin’s pillow.’
‘Her girl must have used ’em to clean the stoves with, and I have no doubt she left ’em lying on the bedroom mantelpiece, or on the drawers, or somewhere, and our Eliza, looking around to see that her room was tidy for her gentleman caller, must have caught ’em up and put ’em under the pillow.’
Dickens gave her an encouraging smile. ‘When did Eliza take the gloves, Miss Summerson?’
‘The very same day she was killed. If I’d known she was going to meet her maker that day, I’d never have let her leave this house. “Eliza” I’d have said to her, “You mustn’t go, not for any amount of …”’
‘You mentioned a gentleman caller,’ Dickens interrupted gently. ‘Did she tell you she was expecting someone that evening?’
The girl nodded and wiped her nose with a questionable-looking handkerchief. ‘That’s why she paid me a visit. It wasn’t in our Eliza’s nature to pay a social call for no reason. I knew she wanted something the very moment I clapped eyes on her, and I was right. “Anna” says she, “you have to lend me that jet parure Gran’ma left you. I want to look my very best tonight”. She always was vain, our Eliza, and never happy that Gran’ma had left me the choker and earbobs in her will. She’d always coveted them. Even contested the will, she did. Got herself a lawyer … a nasty, shifty sort. Not that it got her anywhere, ’cept lighter in the pocket. But I’m not one to hold a grudge, so I lent them to her. I suppose I may have the parure back now she’s dead, but it’s a dreadful way to get it back, sir, a dreadful way.’
‘Did she tell you who the man was?’ A vein pulsed visibly in Tanner’s forehead.
‘All she said was that he was a gentleman and that she’d met him at the theatre in Covent Garden.’ The girl frowned. ‘I will get the choker back, sir, won’t I? Only it was my Gran’ma’s, and I wouldn’t want Eliza to be buried in it.’
Tanner smiled horribly. ‘The victim wasn’t wearing any necklace when she had her throat slashed, as far as I could see for all the blood. And I didn’t find one in her room. I dare say the murderer will have given it to his own girl by now.’
‘I’m not sure that was the most tactful thing to say.’ Dickens looked sideways at Tanner as they rode back to the barracks. ‘I thought the poo
r child was going to faint.’
Tanner ignored him.
‘I suppose you will release Mr Trinkle now?’
Tanner continued to ignore him.
‘Sergeant?’
‘I’ll let him go when I see fit.’
Dickens dropped Tanner at the barracks, and headed home to Devonshire Terrace to change for the Gala. But he hadn’t even had the chance to take his overcoat off, when his housekeeper handed him a note.
Please come to the Cottage as soon as you may. Something dreadful has happened.
Elizabeth Wallace
‘When did this arrive, Mrs Herring?’
The housekeeper gave him an anxious look. ‘About an hour since. I had no idea where you were, sir, or I would have fetched you.’
‘That’s quite all right. Kindly pack a bag with my evening clothes, and tell Mrs Dickens I have had to go out again.’
Dickens was worried. It wasn’t like Mrs Wallace to make a mountain out of a molehill, and it was a symptom of her agitation that she had signed the note using her Christian name. What might the ‘dreadful’ occurrence be? Trouble with one of the girls, most likely, but which? In a flash of premonition he saw Rebecca Wood’s face, smooth and sullen, in his mind’s eye. Was she the culprit? He would have to wait until he got to the Cottage to find out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Kathleen Chalk answered the door, her mouth drooping open as usual, and one of her apron straps hanging loose on her bosom. The Cottage was quiet. Unnaturally so. Dickens swallowed his irritation. He knew there was no point asking Kathleen what was happening. He gave her his bag, his overcoat, and his scarf.
‘Missus is in parlour,’ she muttered.
He headed for the parlour, but before he could reach the door, it was opened by Mrs Wallace herself. When she saw him, her handsome features flooded with relief.
‘Mr Dickens, sir! Thank the Lord.’ She stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.
‘Whatever has happened, my dear?’
‘Prepare yourself for a shock.’ She glanced up the stairs to make sure they weren’t being overheard, and lowered her voice. ‘Rebecca Wood has stabbed the parson.’
Dickens gaped.
‘Fortunately, it’s only a flesh wound,’ continued the Matron, ‘but you can imagine … ’
‘Which parson?’ he demanded.
‘The new one recommended by Miss Coutts.’
He frowned: in all the excitement of the Gala and tracking down murderers he had quite forgotten to ask the Baroness to cancel her tub-thumper. ‘When you say “flesh wound”, how bad is it, precisely?’
‘You’d better come in and see for yourself.’
He followed Mrs Wallace into the parlour.
A man sat in one of the armchairs by the fire. He rose to greet Dickens, and as he did so, Dickens saw he had a towel pressed against his cheek. There was a fair amount of blood on the towel, as well as spattered on the front of his stock.
‘My dear sir,’ said Dickens. ‘Whatever has happened?’
‘The devil, sir! These women have the very devil in them!’ The parson had prominent eyes, and lips like molluscs prised from their shell.
‘Sit down, sit down, sir, and tell me all.’
The clergyman took his seat again, with a martyred air. ‘I was explaining to some of your girls the workings of the Lord, when, completely unprovoked, one struck me on the cheek with a pair of sewing scissors!’
Dickens glanced at Mrs Wallace, who nodded faintly.
‘You doubt my word, sir?’ The parson glared at Dickens.
‘Not at all, not at all.’
‘I should fetch a magistrate.’ He jumped up. ‘I would have done so already if your,’ he flapped a hand at Mrs Wallace, ‘brothel-madam here … hadn’t prevented me from leaving.’
Dickens glanced at the Matron, but she didn’t appear to have taken offence. ‘I beg you, sir, not to be precipitous.’ He hurried to press the man back into his chair. The involvement of the law was to be avoided at all costs. Angela Burdett-Coutts had an abhorrence of adverse publicity, and it might very well make her withdraw her patronage from the Cottage.
‘Give me one good reason why I should not fetch a magistrate, or even the police, this very minute?’
‘Does not the Lord himself say: “do not resist an evil person. If anyone slaps you on the right cheek, turn to them the other cheek also” ?’ The words were out of his mouth before he had time to think. He was dazzled by his own effrontery.
The parson purpled. ‘I hardly think a slap can equate to what has happened here. I was slashed, sir, assaulted, and slashed!’ He took the towel from his face and pointed to his wound. It was about two inches in length and appeared to be quite deep, but the flow of blood had slowed to a sullen ooze.
‘Pour a glass of brandy, Mrs Wallace,’ said Dickens.
‘I don’t take liquor, sir!’
‘For medicinal purposes. Even the most rigorous of abstainers could hardly object. Why, my own physician prescribes it regularly, as a remedy for the shock, and you couldn’t wish to meet a more sober or pious gentleman.’
Dickens silently urged Mrs Wallace to hurry as she fumbled with the lock on the tantalus and poured a generous measure of brandy from one of the decanters. She put the glass into the parson’s hands. He took a cautious sip.
‘There, sir, is that not better?’ soothed Dickens.
The parson sipped again, less half-heartedly. Some of the high colour ebbed from his cheeks. A trickle of blood ran onto his chin.
Dickens took the seat opposite. ‘You can’t begin to imagine the trials I face with these girls on a daily basis but I shall persevere, sir, I shall persevere. For I am a good Christian, and I believe the Lord would have it so. Did not our Saviour himself allow his feet to be washed by the penitent Mary Magdalene?’
The parson grunted, unimpressed by his knowledge of the scriptures. But, for the time being at least, he seemed to have abandoned thoughts of escape.
Dickens continued. ‘I persevere, my good sir, as I am sure you yourself would. For did our Lord himself not say: “He which converteth the sinner from the error of his way shall save a soul from death”?’ He paused to see whether his words were having any effect, but the parson’s face was hidden in his glass. He plunged on. ‘I am always on the lookout for a lost soul to save … or a good cause to support. Haven’t I heard that your own church is in need of funds?’ He had heard nothing of the sort, of course, but was prepared to gamble that he wouldn’t be contradicted.
The parson nodded. ‘Yes, indeed. Those old buildings, you know … riddled with vermin and foul humours … they are in constant need of repair.’
‘Perhaps you would accept a small donation?’
‘A … that would be most generous.’ The parson blinked into his empty glass.
Dickens helped him to his feet, and took the glass. ‘Do you have a card?’ he asked. ‘I shall send you a banker’s draft first thing in the morning. Shall we say, for a hundred pounds? Mrs Wallace will see you out.’
The parson stopped half way across the room. ‘I’m prepared to forget this outrage, in the light of your generosity, on condition that the girl is dismissed.’ His eyes were bright with brandy and malice. ‘Immediately.’
Dickens nodded.
Mrs Wallace steered the parson outside, and Dickens went to the decanter to pour another two glasses of brandy. He was careful to lock the tantalus again afterwards, knowing it would be empty by morning otherwise. When Mrs Wallace returned she sank into one of the armchairs. He offered her a glass, but she shook her head.
‘What happened?’ he asked.
She sighed and shrugged. ‘The wretched man arrived unannounced, and I had no choice but to invite him in. Rebecca and Julia were already in here, darning stockings, as peaceful as you like. He sat down beside them and started to go on in the usual way, talking about repentance and suchlike. Kathleen came in with the tea tray, I turned to take it from her, and the nex
t thing I knew there was an almighty shout, and there was blood pouring down the Reverend’s face. Rebecca dropped her scissors and ran from the room. There was quite a lot of blood, as you can see, and Kathleen and Julia were screaming fit to bring the house down. It took me a while to get them upstairs and to clean him up. He was all for going to the magistrate there and then, but I persuaded him to wait for you.’
‘You did well.’ He patted her hand. ‘Very well. Did Julia see what happened?’
‘I haven’t had the chance to ask her.’ She bit her lip. ‘I suppose we will have to dismiss Rebecca?’
He sighed. ‘I fear we have no choice.’
Julia Albright was one of their older charges, as thin as a spear, with a sharp tongue to match. She stood in front of Dickens and Mrs Wallace, bubbling over with self-importance and malicious joy.
‘Did you see what happened, between Rebecca and the Reverend?’ asked Dickens.
‘Nothing, sir, as far as I could see. She just leapt on ’im. Like a tigress, she was.’
‘Did he do anything? Say anything to her?’
‘Not that I know of, unless ’e was playin’ pat-a-cake with ’er under the table.’
‘I think we may rule that out,’ said Dickens. ‘Where is she now? Has she said anything to anyone?’
‘She’s locked ’erself in the bedroom. I could have told you she was a bad un, sir, from the minute she got here.’
‘I’m sure you could. Would you please ask her to join us?’
Julia hadn’t reached the door when it opened and Rebecca entered. He was surprised to see she was dressed in the clothes she had arrived in: the grey gown cleaned of mud, but the shawl as gaudy as ever.
‘You’re for it now,’ hissed the skinny girl.
‘Thank you, Julia,’ said Mrs Wallace. ‘You may go.’
She slammed out of the room.
Rebecca Wood looked at them, her chin held high.
‘Well,’ said Dickens. ‘Have you anything to say to us?’