Death at Hungerford Stairs

by J C Briggs

  The giant saw the ghost. He had seen it before. It had come round the corner. He had seen its white halo of a head, and then it had vanished, this thing which haunted him now. It had come again. The giant roared its terror and reached out to crush the life out of it. It had not seen that there were other figures.

  Tilly screamed. Kip stepped back, slipping in the slime, the torch falling from his hand. Scrap heard the hiss of the flame as it touched the wet ground. He saw the shapeless thing reach out for Tilly. He seized the torch and flung it at the terrible figure, simultaneously grabbing Tilly. The thing was on fire. Flames suddenly licked at the rags it wore. They saw its great hands beating at the fire, heard its bellowing fury. Then they ran, Scrap dragging Tilly, Kip behind, all three stumbling and gasping in the thick darkness. Kip fell once but was up and away after them, not caring that his hands were bleeding, scraped by the rough stones. They did not look back.

  They were out. But they did not stop. They ran on through the crowded street until they were in the alley behind the Moons’ house. Only then did they stop running. Kip opened the back door which led into the yard where Mrs Moon stood clenching and unclenching her hands.

  12

  TILLY MOON

  Dickens was in his library in the morning looking out at the winter garden; everything was still. The scene before him looked like a grey and white picture on which black lines had been etched. The blue slips were on his desk, ready for the scratch of the goose quill. David Copperfield, Chapter twenty-two, Some Old Scenes and Some New People. Steerforth and David were in Suffolk. Dickens was contemplating the ruin of Little Em’ly by Steerforth, Little Em’ly who must fall, he thought, there was no hope for her. He was preparing for it with the introduction of Martha Endell, the fallen girl. He was thinking, too, about Isabella Gordon, and that last sight of her going slowly and miserably away, wiping her face with her shawl.

  He looked down at the blue slip on the desk and began to write:

  Then Martha arose, and gathering her shawl, covering her face with it, and weeping aloud, went slowly to the door. She stopped a moment before going out, as if she would have uttered something or turned back; but no word passed her lips. Making the same low, dreary, wretched moaning in her shawl, she went away.

  Dickens knew what Martha’s fate would be in London; he did not know what would be the fate of Isabella nor of Sesina, but he feared for them, and felt again the sadness of Isabella’s departure; it was a failure, he thought, not necessarily his, but of society in general which offered nothing to girls as lively and intelligent as Isabella, and which corrupted them so deeply that some could not be saved.

  He took up his pen again and wrote about Little Em’ly’s distress and fear which would be explained later when her elopement with Steerforth was to be discovered. He heard a knock at the door. It was John with a note from Superintendent Jones, asking him if he would come down to Bow Street earlier than they had arranged for they were to go to Cricklewood in the afternoon.

  Scrap was there. Dickens thought, perhaps, that he had news of Robin Hart. Both he and the superintendent looked grave.

  ‘Robin Hart?’ asked Dickens. Scrap looked very miserable. ‘You have found out something?’

  ‘Scrap has been tilting at a giant,’ said Sam. ‘Last night, a man was found murdered – strangled – in a lane near St Giles’s. Scrap’s friend, Tilly, said she had seen a giant, and off they went to find him – what did I say, Scrap, about being careful?’

  ‘I knows, sir, an’ I’m sorry – I knows it woz stupid, but I woz thinkin’ that we could find ’im and then tell yer, an’ yer would catch ’im – an’ there might be a reward fer Tilly an’ Kip. Tilly thought they could get medicine fer their pa – ’e bein’ sick. She thought ’e wouldn’t be cruel to ’er no more if ’e could get better – leastways that woz what I thought she meant. Their pa ’as no legs.’ Scrap’s eyes were wet.

  He is just a child, thought Dickens. We forget. He is so smart and streetwise. He has a child’s imagination, believing in the giant, wanting Tilly, whoever she was, to get her reward, wanting to cure a man with no legs, setting off, in the dark to slay an ogre. He had rescued Poll. He must have thought a giant could be defeated.

  The story was told of the dark, frightening walk down Cat’s Hole, the giant suddenly materialising out of the shadows, the danger to Tilly who had run from the giant before, Scrap’s hurling the torch at the beast, the flames, the howls and the terrified dash to safety.

  ‘I have sent Rogers, Feak and Stemp to search. The dead man is in the mortuary – it is clear he was strangled. He was just an ordinary labouring man – no money to steal. A fight got out of hand, perhaps. We don’t know. But now we have two murderers to catch.’

  ‘I thought ’e might ’ave murdered Robin,’ said Scrap.

  ‘No, that was different – Robin Hart was seen with a gentleman in the churchyard. In any case, he was stabbed as was the other boy, Jemmy, I mentioned to you.’

  ‘I seen ’im, yer see – that’s why I thought – I seen ’im near Nat Boney’s when I woz waitin’ ter get Poll, an’ ’e was draggin’ somethink be’ind ’im – I think it could ’ave bin a body.’

  ‘When?’ Sam’s question was sharp.

  ‘I dunno – two, mebbe three nights ago. ’E woz ’uge, sir, ’e woz, honest ter gawd. ’E stank, too – smelt it last night.’

  ‘So, he could have killed twice. What did he do with the first body, I wonder?’

  Dickens was remembering the night the weazened man had taken them to Georgie Taylor’s, and the sense he had that they were being followed. He saw again the monstrous shadow on the wall. And he remembered how the shadow had vanished. Rogers had followed them. Perhaps he had seen.

  ‘What is it, Charles?’ Sam had seen the expression on his face – his shudder.

  ‘When Zeb and I were taken to Georgie Taylor’s, I felt something behind us – heard a shuffling, you know, and I saw a great shadow on the wall – it made me nervous, I can tell you. Frankenstein’s monster, I thought. Madness, Scrap, to go after him.’

  ‘I knows, Mr Dickens.’

  ‘And, Sam, Rogers might have seen him – Rogers was following us in the alleys.’

  ‘Then, he is real enough – and dangerous. Scrap, you have to tell your friends to keep away.’

  ‘They will, sir, we woz all terrified. Will they get a reward, though – wot am I ter tell ’em?’

  ‘You didn’t mention a sum?’

  ‘Nah – dint know wot yer give fer information.’

  ‘Well, the rate is usually ten shillings. Would that be acceptable?’

  ‘Oh, I reckon – could they git medicine with it?’

  ‘I think so,’ said Dickens. ‘I could make it up to a pound.’

  ‘Cor, they’ll be thrilled. Can I take it now?’

  ‘You can.’ The superintendent went over to his cash box for the money which he gave to Dickens who fished a sovereign from his pocket.

  ‘It will have to be a sovereign, then. All right?’

  Scrap beamed. He thought of Tilly’s violet eyes.

  ‘Perhaps, Charles, you would go with Scrap. You could speak to the mother.’

  ‘Don’t tell ’er wot we done, will yer? Saw ’er last night – got a lot on ’er plate, she ’as. We jest said we’d seen the body. Kip, ’e dint want ’er scared. Worries about Tilly, she does.’

  ‘Very well, Scrap. We will say the sovereign is a reward for the information you have given about the body – that they saw a man running away and described him to you.’

  ‘I am waiting for Rogers to come back. Will you return here, Charles, for our journey to Cricklewood?’

  ‘Yes, I will go back to the shop with Scrap and come here afterwards. Oh, there’s something else I’ve remembered. When we met the man who took us to Georgie Taylor’s, we had been waiting for Tommy Titfer whom we met the night of the fight. The old man mentioned a Fikey Chubb – dangerous man, he said. Tommy Titfer owed him money. I do no
t know the old man’s name. Weazen, I called him, because he was.’

  Sam smiled. ‘Oh, we know Fikey – a scoundrel. Has a shop in Dudley Street – a collector, he calls himself. It’s a pawn shop, too – not official. He has many interests, you might say: money-lending, theft, drugs, prostitution, though I have not heard that he is interested in children. However, some of the prostitutes are what we would call children. Still, if he and Tommy Titfer were seen together at Rats’ Castle, he may know something about our gigantic man. Rogers can bring him in.’

  ‘Someone must know him – a man of that size could hardly be missed.’

  ‘Mr Jones, I remember – Tilly said people woz talkin’ abou’ ’im – the giant. She said lots of people seen ’im.’

  ‘Then Rogers may find out where he has been seen. We need to get him off the streets before he kills again. Scrap, I still need you to ask about Robin Hart and the boy, Jemmy. I should have told you that they had been seen with a gentleman. But, please, don’t go chasing after anyone. Just report back.’

  ‘I will, sir. I won’t do nothink stupid.’

  ‘By the way, Sam, I dine with Oliver Wilde tonight – I may find out more about Theo Outfin.’

  ‘Good.’

  Scrap took Dickens to the lane off Dulcimer Street where the Moons lived. On the way, Dickens asked about Tilly and Kip and the sick man.

  ‘I’ll ’ave ter find Kip first,’ said Scrap. ‘We can’t go in – Mr Moon, ’e’s queer. Allus shoutin’ or cryin’ an’ Mrs Moon, she don’t want nobody ter see – that’s wot Kip says.’

  ‘What about Tilly? Why does Mrs Moon worry about her?’

  ‘Yer’ll see.’ Dickens had to be content with that gnomic response.

  In the alley, they saw Kip coming towards them. He looked at the stranger curiously.

  ‘Brought yer reward,’ said Scrap.

  ‘Nah, yer kiddin’ me.’

  ‘Sed yer’d get one. Mr Dickens ’ere ’as come from the perlice. This is Kip, sir, wot woz with me last night.’

  ‘Scrap tells me that you do not wish your mother to know about the giant.’

  Kip blushed. ‘Don’t like lyin’, sir, but Ma, she’s got enough ter worry about – an’, sir, we won’t do it again. Scrap an’ me, we woz daft goin’ after ’im – dint think o’ the danger. Tilly could ’ave bin killed – ’

  Kip looked horrified at the thought. Dickens felt sorry for him. He did not want to lie to the mother either, but he could see how frightened they had all been, and he felt he could trust Kip – and Scrap – not to go anywhere near the man again.

  ‘No, Kip, you must not think of doing anything so foolish again. I thought I saw him the other night and he terrified me. This is a matter for the police now.’

  Dickens held out the sovereign which gleamed golden in the dingy passage. Kip looked at it. He had never seen one before.

  ‘Is it real, sir?’

  ‘It is – but before I give it to you, I must have your solemn promise not to go giant hunting again.’

  ‘Cross me ’eart, sir. We won’t, honest, sir. But, I’ll ’ave ter tell me ma about the reward.’

  ‘If you fetch her I will tell her that you gave a description of the wanted man which Scrap passed on to us.’

  Kip went into the yard. A few moments later, he came back with Mrs Moon, her harassed face all angles where poverty and worry had worn away the flesh. As the yard door opened, Dickens heard a man shouting incoherently and the sound of banging as if someone were hitting something hard with a pan or something. It was a demented, nerve-jangling sound. The metallic noise seemed to reach a crescendo then there was the sound of something hurled at a door. Then he heard weeping, a horrible wrenching sound as if the sobs were being torn from the throat. Mrs Moon looked back. She looked at Dickens; her eyes were large with fear. She could hardly understand what a well-dressed man was doing in the alley. She closed the yard door and from behind her came Tilly, and Dickens saw what Scrap had meant.

  She was the strangest child he had ever seen with her silver hair, white skin and large, myopic violet eyes. It was like seeing a sprite which had wandered from some enchanted wood. Dickens smiled at Mrs Moon.

  ‘Your boy gave a description of a man we want to question in relation to a murder which took place last night.’ He let her assume that the ‘we’ meant the police. ‘Superintendent Jones of Bow Street has sent a reward for the information.’

  As he said the words, he felt that they sounded unconvincing, but Mrs Moon simply gazed at the sovereign in his hand.

  ‘I have told Kip that he must not do anything else – he must not try to find the man. It is a matter for the police.’ He offered her the coin.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I thought somethin’ ’ad ’appened. They looked frightened when they came back, said they’d seen a murderer. They shouldn’t be out, but Kip earns a bit of money, and it’s better sometimes for Tilly to – my ’usband’s not always …’ She looked back at the closed door. ‘I ought to go in. ’E’s bad today – it’s the pain. He imagines … Kip, Tilly, you’ll stay in the yard until I tell you to come in.’

  The pale child stared at Dickens. She saw a pair of luminous eyes looking at her as if he understood something about her. She wanted to tell him. Perhaps, he would know, he looked wise. She forgot the others.

  ‘Pa says it’s my fault ’e’s sick. ’E says I’m wicked cos I’m a freak. I sees a ghost when I looks in the mirror. Is it true?’

  Dickens glanced at Mrs Moon’s despairing eyes, and then back at the child’s eyes which gazed at him with such yearning in them. Strange, almost purple eyes which knew too much of cruelty. What to say?

  He squatted down to meet those eyes. He looked silently at first, willing her to believe him. The others looked on, still as death. The very air was still. Magic in it.

  ‘No, Tilly. It is not true. You are as real as I am, as Kip is, as your mother is. Your pa is sick – you know that. One day, he will see you as I do, but for now, remember that your mother loves you, and Kip, and I will always think of you so that you will be protected. Scrap here will tell me about you, and you will know that I remember you.’

  Tilly nodded. It was enough. The gentleman knew. He had told the truth, she was sure.

  Dickens stood up to meet Mrs Moon’s eyes. Her face seemed to collapse, almost to dissolve before his eyes as the tears spilled out. He thought that here was a woman who was on the point of being overwhelmed by hopelessness. Kip watched her and Dickens saw the terror in his eyes. What if she were to give up?

  ‘Ma, don’t forget the sovereign – it’s gold, real gold.’

  Mrs Moon looked at the money in her hand then at her son’s strained face. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said to Dickens.

  ‘Keep her safe,’ he said.

  ‘I will try,’ she said. ‘I will keep her from him when I can.’

  She went in followed by Kip. When Dickens looked back as he and Scrap made their way out of the alley, he saw Tilly watching him, the silver hair suddenly alight in the gloom. Not for this world, he thought.

  Dickens and Scrap walked away. ‘Will yer come again, Mr Dickens? Mebbe, it’ll help – somethin’ wrong there, I knows it. Tilly, she wants lookin’ after. ’Er pa, ’e may be sick but that don’t mean ’e should –’

  ‘No, you are right, it does not excuse him, but we must hope that the money helps, and that Mrs Moon can keep Tilly away from him.’

  That was all he could say. He knew there was little to be done, and he wondered if it would do any good to go back. Perhaps that moment in the alley was all that he could do. To go again might displace the magic of it. Daylight, he thought metaphorically, might simply reduce him to ordinariness. It was better for the child to remember just his words, to hold on to them as a talisman, words she could repeat to ward off the devil.

  Scrap went back to Mr Brim’s stationery shop and Dickens made his way to Bow Street where Rogers was explaining that people had seen the enormous man running away from the bo
dy, but no one had actually seen the murder. No one knew where he was or who he was. He had simply vanished down some alleyway. No one had dared follow. They said he was mad – he had been seen before. It was assumed that he lived rough somewhere in a cellar or a broken-down house, or in a yard somewhere.

  ‘I wonder if your man Weazen saw him – if he was following you that night, then your man might have seen him around Rats’ Castle. Rogers, did you get a glimpse of Weazen, as we must call him?’

  ‘Not really, sir. Saw ’im scuttle away – very small, ’e was. P’raps Mr Dickens could describe him.’

  ‘I promise you, Rogers, you will know him. He looks like some ancient gnome, stinks to high heaven, yellow face like a shrivelled walnut, looks sick, and you will observe the pus in his eyes.’

  ‘Should be enough to go on.’ Rogers grinned at the description. ‘Stemp and me can go and have a look.’

  ‘And, I want you to find Fikey Chubb and bring him here. Keep him in a cell until I come back.’

  ‘What shall I charge him with?’

  ‘Just tell him we are making enquiries about the murder of two children, a man, a missing person – anything at all. Tell him his name has been mentioned. Mr Dickens’s Weazen mentioned him in connection with Tommy Titfer – I wonder where he is. If you find him, bring him in, too.’

  ‘I’ll take Stemp and Semple – might need three of us for Fikey Chubb – you know what ’e’s like.’

  ‘Good. Make sure all the beat constables know who we are looking for. He has to be somewhere. Now, Mr Dickens and I are going to Cricklewood. I’ll speak to Inspector Grove, let him know where I am, and you can report anything to him, if you will.’

  The superintendent and Rogers went out. Dickens went to the desk to pick up the shawl. He unfolded it and thought again about the woman who had made it, and the contrast between her plainness and the beauty of the shawl. He looked at the flowers and birds and more closely at the stitching which formed little paths between the images. It was like a maze, he thought. You tried to follow the paths to the centre, but your eyes would not stay focused so you found yourself straying from the path, bumping into roses or exotic birds, but you could never get to the centre where Mademoiselle Victorine had embroidered a bigger flower. Dickens stared at it until his eyes were blurred and he could see only red like a huge blot of blood. He folded up the shawl. Murder, he thought, was like a maze. You followed one path and found yourself on another which wound its way back to a dead end so that you had to turn back to where you started. And, in the centre of the labyrinth, there was blood, the stain left by the murderer.