by J C Briggs
Dickens and Jones wondered about the ‘an’ that’, but Feak’s embarrassment was so palpable that they forbore to comment. In any case, Mrs Feak was a legend in Bow Street – for Feak, she was an oracle. The superintendent called her the Sybil of Star Lane. And she told fortunes when she was not out nursing. I should have consulted her cards, thought the superintendent, but he merely nodded at Feak to continue.
‘Well, ’er bein’ a woman made me think that she’d know where the ’at makers are an’ she said there was one off Earl Street, an’ I knew I’d struck gold when she said she thought there was a French lady in Rose Street. I went straight there.’
‘Very sensible, Feak – to ask your mother, I mean. Give her my compliments when you see her.’
Feak’s raw, red boy’s face lit up. ‘Thank you, sir. She will be pleased. She always asks after you.’
‘Well, you and Stemp can get out there and ask about Robin Hart. See if you can find out who he took messages for. Try some of the shops, the more prosperous-looking ones, and later, ask some of the street vendors if they saw him about – he might have had a penny for a pie or a potato sometimes.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Feak went out very pleased with himself. ’E’d felt a fool when ’e blurted out that ’e’d asked his mam, but, well, the superintendent’d thought it a good idea, an’ it was – wait till ’e got ’ome – she would be pleased.
‘I thought about asking Scrap if he knew Robin Hart, or, if he did not, then he could ask about for us. What do you think, Charles?’
‘A good notion. Shall I offer him the usual rates?’ Dickens and Jones had made use of Scrap before, and had insisted that he take his wages – sixpence a day.
‘Yes, but we should go to Rose Street first and ask Mademoiselle Victorine about the shawl. It is here, ready to take. Rogers, would you go back to Zeb Scruggs’s and see how Mrs Hart is? I doubt that she will be fit to answer questions, but you should ask Zeb and Effie if they know who Robin ran his errands for.’
The three of them went out, Rogers for Monmouth Street and Dickens and Jones to walk up Crown Street of which Rose Street was an offshoot. The house was neat and respectable; there was a sign in the window bearing the legend: Mademoiselle Victorine, Milliner and Sempstress.
The superintendent knocked. After a few moments, the door was opened by a tall, thin woman in a grey dress with neat white cuffs and lace collar. Dickens observed her as Sam explained that they were trying to find the owner of a shawl which they thought might be evidence in a criminal case. She wore very thick spectacles behind which her rather glassy eyes seemed to be just pinpoints – myopic, he thought. She was plain; her face was unremarkable, pale, almost grey and her hair, of no particular colour, was scraped back in a neat bun. Her lips were pale, too, and there were faint lines from her nose to her mouth and frown lines. Dickens thought how anonymous she was. You would not notice her in the street. In the crepuscular shadow of the doorway she was as faint as a pencil sketch, easily erased. But she seemed entirely unmoved by the superintendent’s announcement that they had come from Bow Street, merely murmuring to them to enter.
They went into a front room which was obviously her workshop. There were a few hats perched on stands like exotic birds, their bright plumage rustling faintly from the draught as she opened the door. There was a deal work table with tapes and scissors and a garment that she had been cutting out when they knocked, and there was a shawl, very like the one the superintendent took from his pocket.
‘Is this your work?’
She looked at it, and said, ‘Yes, monsieur, I made it.’
‘Did you sell it to someone? Can you remember to whom?’
‘Yes, monsieur, I remember the shawls I have made. They take a lot of work. I do not make them now – my eyes. The work is very fine – the birds and flowers – you see.’
‘It is very beautiful,’ said Dickens, hoping for a reaction, but she merely looked at him and nodded.
‘This is quite an old one. See, some of the fringe is missing and there is a little wear here where the stitching is loose. A pity. Perhaps she did not look after it.’
‘Who?’ asked Sam, ‘who bought it?’
‘An old lady – she lives in George Street at number twenty-seven. She was my client when I lived in Hanover Street. I used to make hats for her, but I do not see her now. You see, I had to move here. It is cheaper. I do not know how it is, but sometimes people stop coming. They find, perhaps, someone they like better. Rich ladies like change. They follow their friends, perhaps. Now I do not make shawls. I must make these gaudy hats for the gay young ladies.’
‘What was the name of your rich lady?’
‘Madame Outfin – curious is it not – the English have strange names, do they not?’
‘I suppose French names sound odd to us – I have a friend, Monsieur Le Beau – I find his name amusing.’ Dickens tried to draw her out, borrowing Le Beau from Shakespeare. Perhaps she might answer the questions he knew that Sam wished to ask this odd, self-contained creature. She is like a snail, he thought. She draws in her horns.
She looked at him, her little eyes indifferent behind the thick lenses. She did not answer, and the silence was thick suddenly. She had nothing further to say. Sam, however, was not to be put off. He thought about the young man, leaving by the back entrance.
‘You live alone here?’
Her eyes flickered slightly behind the spectacles, just a movement – alarm, perhaps? But the impression was so fleeting that Dickens wondered if it were just a trick of the light on the lenses rather than the eyes.
‘Yes, I live alone, monsieur. I prefer it. I am a foreigner here. It is not easy. The English do not like foreigners.’ She shrugged. Such a French gesture, Dickens thought. He felt he ought to pity her, but there was a coldness in her which repelled him. He could not imagine her with a lover, but then, who knew? Though she was sexless, he thought, neutral. What would move her?
Sam asked, ‘Have you no family here in England?’
‘No, monsieur, I had a brother, but he must go back to France. My mother wished him to take over the shop. Now, they are dead, and there is nothing there for me to go back to. So, here must I stay to earn my living.’ There was finality in her tone. Not sadness, not regret, just a cold acceptance of facts that could not be changed.
There was nothing else to say. Sam thought he could hardly ask her who the young man was who had been seen at the back of the house. It might have been her brother. It might have been no one at all; someone the neighbour had seen, and had assumed was coming from Mademoiselle Victorine’s house. It might have been an idle piece of gossip. Victorine waited in the silence. It was clear that she wanted them to go. She glanced at her work table.
‘If there is nothing more, monsieur …’
‘No, thank you. We will see if we can trace the shawl to Mrs Outfin.’
She went with them to the front door which she locked as they went out.
‘An odd young woman,’ said Dickens. ‘A sad story, but why did it fail to move me?’
‘Something cold about her. I could hardly believe the story about the lover. I wonder if it was just gossip.’
‘I had the same thought about the lover. There was so little to her, not physically though she was thin enough, more that she had so little personality. But there was a sense of secrecy about her.’
‘At least we have the name of the shawl’s owner. We’ll go to George Street to see if Mrs Outfin is in – or out. A fishy sort of name – though I doubt that she is our murderer.’
‘Perhaps she has a son, or grandson who might turn out to be an actor who wears a beautifully embroidered shawl as a disguise, or, even better, a son who is really a lunatic, kept locked in the cellar, but who has escaped on nights when the moon is full, and wearing his mother’s shawl, stalks the streets intent on murder …’
‘It was raining two nights ago – no moon.’ Sam grinned. ‘Sorry.’
‘Ah, my theory dashed to pieces.’
‘Well, it is as good as any other at the moment. Shall we take lunch first? Frustration is making me hungry. A chop and a glass of ale might well restore my good humour.’
They walked to the George to order their chops, potatoes and ale and sat by the fire. They ate first so that the superintendent’s usual equanimity might be restored. When he had finished, he looked at Dickens.
‘Motive. That’s what I want to know. I want to know what the relationship was between the boys and their killer. Rogers, bless his open mind, thinks crime – that the murderer was using them to thieve for him, but I’m not sure how Robin Hart fits in to that theory. Could be, I suppose, but –’
‘You think that it is an unnatural desire that is his motive? That when he has finished with them he kills them.’
‘It happens – we find boys abused, dead, as well as girls. That poor girl we found in that wretched garden when we were looking for our murderer back in February – no one claimed her. Boys and girls so young that they should still be playing with their toys. It’s sickening, and what is worse, there are men, wealthy men who will pay for this – that’s why it is so hard to uncover – there are closed ranks, Charles, which I can never part.’ Sam sounded angry.
He and Dickens knew well that children could be bought and sold, and often there was nothing to be done. Money changed hands. Silence was bought. Victims vanished into the cellars and holes of the alleys where they might die of neglect, starvation or of the disease with which perverted sex infected them. Some were murdered to stop their mouths. Sam was right. It was vile.
Sam continued, ‘You have shown the suffering of neglected and abused children, but you can’t write about that – you would be accused of every kind of perversion.’
‘I know. There were comments on the lowness of my subject when I wrote Oliver Twist. Some did not want to read about thieves’ kitchens and boys trained into criminality, but I could not write about such abuse anyway. It is too horrible. How could one describe what is done, what the effects are? Surely the post-mortem will tell us if they have been abused.’
‘It might – it depends on how long the abuse went on.’
‘Then I think Rogers is right. We should also consider other possibilities.’
‘Such as?’
Dickens grinned. ‘I have no idea at the moment, but I’ll think of something, I daresay. Shall we go on to Mrs Outfin and hope to find a gibbering maniac in the cellar?’
‘Now, that would be something.’
Number twenty-seven was a handsome house with white pillars, smart black railings and a shiny black door. It spoke of wealth and privilege. No wonder Mademoiselle Victorine had resented Mrs Outfin. Dickens imagined the contrast between that ghost of a woman and perhaps a well-fed, stout, ungracious client who dropped her milliner when her fashionable friends recommended another. For a moment, he felt something like pity. The shawl showed that Victorine was an artist, in her way, but her poor eyesight had robbed her of her skill in creating those beautiful things. He forgot her coldness then, and thought he had been too hasty in his judgement. Perhaps all the blows she had suffered had simply left her numb, not indifferent.
A solid, box-like woman, probably the housekeeper, answered the bell. The superintendent asked if they might see Mrs Outfin on a confidential matter. He introduced himself as Superintendent Jones from Bow Street.
‘I am sorry,’ said the woman, looking puzzled. ‘The Outfins do not live here now. Mrs Outfin is dead. She died about a year ago.’
‘I see. The family – where are they now?’
‘Mrs Outfin had a son. He is married with two children. They live in Montague Place, just behind the museum, number forty.’ She closed the door.
‘A son – I said she had a son, and children. I wonder how old she was. Victorine said that she was old, but we do not know what she meant. He might be in his forties. Perhaps he has a son,’ Dickens said eagerly.
‘It is possible, but we might be on a wild goose chase. Still, they ought to recognise the shawl. It is distinctive.’
Montague Place was lined with the same white Regency houses as George Street, though in this case the houses were embellished by an elegant wrought-iron frieze running along under the windows of the first floor. The door was opened by a flustered maid. Dickens handed in his card and asked if he might speak with Mr Outfin. They were admitted into a cool hall with a black and white tiled floor. Other smartly clad maids and a uniformed footman were carrying hatboxes and other parcels up the stairs. The maid vanished with the card. When she returned, she led them to a library where Mr Outfin waited. He was about fifty years old, stocky with the same box-like build of the housekeeper at George Street. Dickens’s imagination conjured him briefly as a love child. He reproved himself silently as Mr Outfin came forward to meet them. He was evidently not the slight man.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Dickens. I am very glad to meet you. I know of you of course – your books.’ He gestured to his shelves. ‘How may I help you?’ He was courteous, and smiling, but his eyes were wary. What had brought the famous novelist to his house with this commanding stranger? He looked uneasily at the superintendent.
Dickens introduced Sam who explained that they wished to find the owner of the shawl as they had been told it belonged to Mr Outfin’s mother. It might be a significant clue in relation to a crime. Mr Outfin could hardly understand. He looked puzzled, but Dickens observed an uneasiness about him as he acknowledged the superintendent. Perhaps it was natural – a policeman coming to the house. Mr Outfin explained that his mother was dead. He did not know if the shawl had been hers. He looked at it but it meant nothing to him. His wife had dealt with his mother’s clothes. Perhaps they would like to see her – he would fetch her. She was upstairs – busy – their daughter was to be married – everything was topsy-turvy – but he would see. He went out.
Dickens could not resist going over to the bookshelves. Yes, they were there – attractive editions of Pickwick, Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, The Old Curiosity Shop. He touched them for luck. Sam watched him, amused.
Mrs Outfin came in, a slender, pretty woman who smiled agreeably, though her thick fair hair was escaping from its bun and tendrils were loosened attractively round her face. She looked good-humoured and sensible, but there was anxiety in her eyes.
‘Mr Dickens, how very nice it is to meet you. We have all read your books. My favourite is Dombey and Son – how I cried at the death of little Paul, and of Little Nell, too. But, I beg your pardon, my husband says you are here about a shawl. May I see it?’
She examined the shawl. ‘I think it might have belonged to my mother-in-law, but I cannot be sure. She had so many, shawls, gloves, bonnets – she was like a magpie, always collecting – and then discarding. A difficult woman – not that I should say so.’ She paused as if conscious that she had betrayed something. She went on quickly. ‘But she was very fond of my daughter, Sophia. Sophia might remember. She went often to see her. Shall I ask her to come? She is here. We are preparing for her wedding – to Mr Wilde, Oliver.’
‘But I know him,’ said Dickens. Oliver Wilde had helped them in their pursuit of the murderer of Patience Brooke.
‘A nice young man. I am very fond of him,’ said Mrs Outfin.
‘He is, indeed.’ Dickens was curious. When last they had met, Oliver Wilde was in love with someone else though Dickens had thought she would not return his love. So, sensible lad, he had found someone else.
Mrs Outfin went out, leaving them to ponder on the coincidence of their knowing Oliver Wilde, and to hope that Sophia Outfin might remember the shawl, and to think about the faint but discernible tension in both Mr and Mrs Outfin. It might be the bustle of the wedding, but Dickens could not help wondering. Families had secrets.
Sophia came in with her mother. They were alike: slender, fair and good-humoured. There was an innocence about the girl, however. Whatever might be wrong here, Sophia was not party to it. She looked at the shawl.
&nbs
p; ‘Yes, it was grandmother’s. I remember it. It was made by Mademoiselle Victorine who had her workshop in Hanover Street. She made some hats for grandmother, but then grandmother took a dislike to her and found another milliner.’
‘Do you know why your grandmother disliked her?’ This was interesting. Mademoiselle Victorine had not told them this.
‘She said she was surly, cold, and that she never smiled. Grandmama thought she was ungrateful. She always expected people to be grateful for her custom. I suppose she was difficult in that way. Poor Mademoiselle Victorine – she was rather odd, though.’
‘You met her?’ asked Sam.
‘Yes, only once. She was hard to like, I think, but I felt sorry for her. A lonely woman, I thought. You could not get behind those thick lenses.’
‘Do you remember what happened to the shawl?’
‘No, I am sorry. It is a little worn in places. Grandmother would not have worn it like that.’
Sam asked, ‘Mrs Outfin, what happened to your mother-in-law’s clothes after she died?’
‘Some of the newer dresses were remodelled for Sophy and me. My mother-in-law had good taste and an expensive one. Most of the things were given to the housekeeper, Mrs Mapes, to dispose of as she pleased. She would have sold most of them, I expect. Some she would have kept for herself. Perhaps she sold the shawl?’
Dead end. If the housekeeper had kept it, how had it come to be in the graveyard? If she had sold the shawl, it would probably be impossible to trace, though she might remember to whom she had sold the clothes. Even so, over a year ago, it might have been sold, stolen, lost, found, lost again. The shawl was rapidly becoming a useless piece of evidence. But they ought to know where the housekeeper was so Sam asked.
‘She went to live with her daughter, out at Cricklewood. Mary Mapes married a blacksmith there.’
Dickens and Jones thanked Mrs Outfin and Sophia who came into the hall with them. Sophia made her way up the stairs. The door opened to admit a young man, slender and fair. The son, they presumed. Not gibbering but certainly tense. Dickens observed his thin face, almost girlish. He might have been the twin of his sister were it not for a slight beard at his chin. Mrs Outfin could not avoid introducing Dickens and Jones.