by J C Briggs
‘Mad? How?’
Fikey was relaxed now. None of this was to do with him. He wiped his sweating brow with a grimy rag. ‘Dunno. Jest said ’e woz rambling, talks to ’imself, that kind o’ thing. There’s talk, yer know, ’ow ’e’s a monster, some kind o’ beast. Stranger, though. No one seems to know ’oo ’e is. Sorry I can’t ’elp yer, Mr Jones, but I’m a busy man. Can’t stay ’ere all day chattin’. Yer’ve wasted enough of me time, as it is. Been ’ere long enough, ta very much.’ He smiled condescendingly. ’E’d bin right. Jest fishin’. He rose to go.
‘One more thing, Mr Chubb. Two dead boys. Murdered.’
Fikey sat down. He was sweating again. The stink of fear suddenly sharp in the room where the stench of sweat had faded. This was closer to home, Sam thought. Fikey might know something.
‘Wot boys? Don’t know nothin’ abaht ’em.’
‘You must have heard about the boy found stabbed in St Giles’s churchyard. Seen with a toff, apparently. I wonder if you know about men who might be interested in young boys.’
Fikey looked worried, as well he might since his business involved young girls and the kind of toffs who might be looking for a girl. Boys might not be his business, but he would know whose business they were. And he would not want to tell.
‘I don’t know nothin’, I’m tellin’ yer, Mr Jones. Yes, I ’eard about the poor little sod, but boys ain’t my line o’ business.’ He corrected himself, aware of the implication that perhaps girls were his business. ‘I deal in fings, Mr Jones, not people, not kids, niver.’
‘No one told you who might be involved.’ Sam pressed him. ‘A name?’
‘Nah, I swear ter yer. I ’eard the lad ’ad bin seen wiv a toff, but no one knows ’oo – independent, ’e must be, actin’ on ’is own – not through the usual channels – yer get me?’
Sam got it, indeed. Fikey would know the identities of the ‘usual channels’, but they had no evidence on which to press him, and they had no evidence to connect Fikey with the dead boys. It was interesting that there was speculation about the toff whom no one knew.
‘Most helpful, Mr Chubb. Of course, I may wish to speak to you again – you might remember something about those boys or you might hear something.You know where to come. My constable here will keep in touch, of course. We know where your shop is.’
It wasn’t much of a threat, Sam knew, but it might make Fikey keep his head down for a bit if he thought the police were keeping an eye on him, and he might hear something which he would be willing to offer if he thought it would get the police off his back.
Fikey went and Sam opened a window, out of which he and Rogers leant, breathing in the cold air. They pulled in their heads, but stood there till until the reek of Fikey’s presence had evaporated.
‘I’ll throw a bucket of water over him next time – cold,’ Rogers said.
‘He’ll complain to his lawyer.’
Rogers laughed. ‘’E’ll be a crook like Fikey. But it was interestin’, sir, what ’e said about the toff – no one knows ’im.’
‘Yes, I thought that, too. Still we cannot discount the idea that the killer is known to someone who deals in boys procured for sexual purposes until we get the results from the post-mortem. We need it – go down to the mortuary, will you, and hurry them up.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Rogers went out.
Sam looked down at the busy street below. He was out there somewhere, perhaps wearing his mask of respectability. That young man there, he thought, the one in the black suit and top hat – it could be him. Or that slender young man in blue with gilt buttons or that one with the extravagant bow and the silver-topped cane. He looked like an artist – perhaps he had drawn the mask? Or Theo Outfin. Or Mademoiselle Victorine’s mysterious visitor – they ought to follow that up. True, he might not exist at all.
But he would put a watch at the house – just in case. And where was Feak? He had sent him to the Du Cane house. He ought to be back. Perhaps Mattie Webb could tell them something about the shawl.
Sam went to his desk. The mask troubled him because he did not know its meaning. He drew it on the paper before him. He looked into its sightless eyes, but they told him nothing. He thought of Theo Outfin’s averted eyes and of Mademoiselle Victorine’s colourless eyes behind the thick spectacles – they had told him nothing.
And what about the giant? Stemp was investigating him. A madman – that was interesting, too. Where had he come from, and more importantly, where was he?
In a cellar underneath the abandoned house next to the one where the Moon family lived, a heap of stinking rags whimpered and moaned. It dipped its poor burnt hands into a tank of dirty, cold water that had dripped in through a rusted grating. It muttered to itself. It did not understand this world of shadows and spectres – it wondered if it were dead. It did not know what it had done, only that things followed it, and that it was terrified and crazed with pain. Perhaps, here, in the quiet and dark it might be safe.
Of course, he wasn’t a beast or monster, but he was huge with the great, protruding frontal boss and preternaturally large, jutting jaw that signifies gigantism. This hideous cliff-face of a forehead hung over his black eyes where the bristling hairs grew shaggy and straggling. The matted mane of black hair hung on his great misshapen shoulders. The gnarled nose was too big and his skin was thick and coarse in texture, and so begrimed with dirt that his face appeared black, especially in the darkness of the alleys in which he had wandered, pursued as he thought by phantoms. He could not see clearly, plagued as he was by double vision, so he struck out blindly, baffled in rage by the followers. When he spoke his voice was deep and hoarse and his words scarcely intelligible such was the thickness of his over-large tongue.
And he was mad. Mad with fear. Mad with loneliness. He had always been an outcast, though at first he had travelled with his mother who had trudged the roads, dragging with her this deformed thing which she had borne and could never be rid of, and which had grown and grown like some malignant tumour. They were hounded and stoned from village to village; they passed on year by year, more ragged and desperate, begging and stealing what they could to keep alive, sleeping under hayricks, in ditches and graveyards where death touched them with his icy fingers, always following them until, at last, death found them sleeping in the dark shadow of tombs and took the woman where she lay. The giant could not wake her, and so he shambled on until he came to the city. But the crowds terrified him. This was hell, perhaps, and the phantoms pursued him, taunted him, jeered at him, stoned him so that he could only strike back, not knowing his own strength, desiring only that they leave him alone. And then there was fire. He beat at it and the agony was searing. At last he slept and in his sleep the flames roared and licked at him, and he saw through the wavering blaze of yellow and red, the shining spectre from the lanes, the ghost with the silver hair which had run when he had reached out for it. And with it was a face with moons for eyes – another ghost come to torment him.
15
FIRE
Dickens had left Sam at the junction of Edgeware Road and Winchester Road. From there he walked along the New Road to Devonshire Terrace. He thought about the giant and the danger which had brushed at Scrap, Kip and Tilly. He wondered if Tilly Moon were safe. And he thought of Robin Hart – he must enquire after Mrs Hart and wondered if it would be possible to question her yet, and to find out for whom her son had run errands. Somehow, he doubted it. And what about Jemmy – who was he? And had Theo Outfin known him? Was the connection with the Du Canes the link between Jemmy and Theo Outfin? Well, at least dinner with Oliver Wilde at Dickens’s club the Parthenon might produce some useful information about Theo.
Dickens had met Oliver Wilde during the investigation into the death of Patience Brooke; Oliver had been in love with Laetitia Topham whom the suspect had pursued in the hope of enriching himself. However, since he was now to marry Sophia Outfin, his suit of Miss Topham could not have been successful. Dickens was not surprised. Miss To
pham, he thought, was not the girl for Oliver. She was too serious, too intelligent, too scholarly and Dickens had wondered at the time if she would marry at all. His brief meeting with Sophia Outfin suggested that her good nature and what Mrs Mapes had called her softness would fit Oliver’s amiable, open temperament. Dickens had liked the young man, had thought him uncomplicated and honest which was why he felt a little uncomfortable about quizzing him on the subject of Theo Outfin. He certainly did not want to alarm Oliver with talk of murder. He would have to be cautious and hope that the information would come out naturally.
Oliver Wilde greeted Dickens with his natural friendliness, complimenting him on what he had read of David Copperfield so far.
‘I love your new book,’ he said. ‘Oh, the pathos of young David’s early life! Miss Murdstone is a veritable dragon. Reminded me of a housekeeper we had when I was young – all steel, hard as nails she was. My mother was frightened to death of her. Then, we found out that she drank, and off she went, thank goodness.’
They went into the dining room, Oliver still enthusing about what he had read, commenting on David’s schooldays – made him shudder, he said, arriving at Steerforth, guessing that he would be fatal to Little Em’ly, pausing only to order their dinner of baked oyster, cream soup and loin of mutton with roast potatoes.
In the pause after the baked oysters and the soup when they enjoyed a glass of chilled hock, Oliver thanked Dickens for his invitation and his congratulations on the forthcoming marriage which Dickens had written in his letter.
‘And, you met her, my Sophy. Lovely, is she not?’
‘She is, indeed. You are most fortunate – and Mrs Outfin – you shall have a charming mother-in-law. She obviously approves of you.’
‘Yes, it is marvellous – I am a fortunate man to have found Sophy – she is just the girl for me, so happy, so gentle yet so lively. We talk on everything – we have read the instalments of David Copperfield together – and are so much in agreement. Sophy said that you must have meant us to take particular note of “the black shadow” following Little Em’ly – symbolic, she said. Is she not a perceptive reader, Mr Dickens? She is so clever as well as beautiful.’
‘I think she must be. Naturally, I hoped that the best readers would take note of the shadow – my compliments to Miss Sophy.’
‘I have such hopes, Mr Dickens, such hopes of our perfect felicity.’
Dickens lifted his glass in which the cool wine gleamed. ‘I believe you will be happy – you are made for each other.’ They addressed themselves to the loin of mutton. Oliver Wilde had the hearty appetite of a healthy young man who loved life.
Dickens could not help but be charmed by Oliver’s infectious enthusiasm and his love for clever, lively Sophy – love that was returned, he was sure. He envied the boy’s innocence, his trust in the future that was unfolding in his imagination. He remembered his intense and painful love for Maria Beadnall when he was but eighteen. Love is a boy’s fancy, his friend, Bulwer-Lytton had written. But when he remembered how Maria had toyed with him for three years, and how he had felt the pain of rejection so deeply, he could not call it fancy. Even now he believed that her failure to return his passionate feelings had created a caution in him so that he was wary of expressing his deepest feelings. And in his marriage, he thought, there was something wanting. Even with eight children! The Responsibilities, he called them, joking, of course, but sometimes all his responsibilities overwhelmed him, and he knew he could be a blight on the household. Oliver would do better, he knew it. Oliver did not have secrets to hide so deep that they were like a wound over which the scar had never quite healed.
They ate their mutton and an apple pudding, all the while discussing Dickens’s books, Sophy’s virtues, their hopes for the future and Oliver’s career prospects until he returned, as Dickens hoped he would, to the marvellous coincidence of Dickens’s visit to the Outfin home.
‘Sophy said that you were with Superintendent Jones and were asking about a shawl belonging to Sophy’s grandmother. Are you investigating another crime?’
‘The shawl was found near where a boy was murdered. Of course,’ he added quickly, ‘it may have nothing to do with the murder. We spoke to the housekeeper who worked for Sophy’s grandmother. She told us that it was given to a maid, Mattie Webb. I suspect she lost it, but the superintendent simply wishes to clear up a loose thread, you might say. Your Sophy recognised it,’ Dickens took a chance, ‘though her brother did not.’
‘You met Theo, too?’
‘Yes, he came in just as we were leaving so it was an opportunity – just to check, but it did not matter. Sophy was quite clear about the shawl. I was much struck by the resemblance between sister and brother – they might be twins.’
‘Yes, though they are not. Theo is a year older than Sophy. He is twenty. But they are not alike in character. Theo is …’ Oliver’s open face clouded momentarily, ‘more reserved. Difficult to know, I suppose – I wonder sometimes –’
Dickens trod carefully. This was an opening, but he must not be clumsy nor, he felt, must he take advantage of Oliver’s openness. Yet, if there were something, then better for it to be discovered before – before what? The damage, the ruin might already be in motion.
‘You are not sure about him?’
‘That is just it, Mr Dickens. He is so shut off from them all – Sophy is hurt by his distance. They were so close once. She worries, too, and so does Mrs Outfin. You are very perceptive, sir – if I tell you about him, perhaps you can give me advice – I would do anything to protect Sophy. I cannot bear her to be hurt.’
‘What is it that you fear, Oliver?’ Dickens was gentle.
The young man hesitated. Dickens understood. His loyalty was to his new family. He saw the conflict shadow the clean-cut face as Oliver tried to put his fears into words. Oliver looked at Dickens, whose eyes seemed so bright – mesmerising even – telling him that he could confide his anxieties.
‘I fear that he is in debt. I fear that he gambles. He is to inherit money at twenty-one, but his father will still have power over it. Still, I think that Theo has gambled on the strength of his inheritance. I fancy his creditors do not know about his father’s hold on the money, that Theo has given the impression that he will have money to pay his debts and more. There are hangers-on – you know that, Mr Dickens. Theo is young, and – I do not like to say so – but I think he is weak. He is girlish, in some ways. His father has not been easy with him, and I think Theo may have tried to impress his so-called friends with his generosity –’
‘What is the basis of your fears?’
‘Gossip at the clubs – Boodles and worse, the Polyanthus – you remember we went there when you were looking for Edmund Crewe. Theo is a member and the chief recreation is gambling.’
Dickens remembered going to the club to find the man who was a suspect in the earlier murder case he had investigated with Sam. ‘Has he borrowed money elsewhere?’
‘You mean moneylenders?’
‘Yes.’
‘I do not know. His father would be horrified.’
‘Gambling, borrowing, moneylenders – they all lead men into strange byways. Do these fellows visit more insalubrious places, about Seven Dials, St Giles’s – you know of the places I mean?’
‘Illegal gambling dens?’
‘Yes.’
‘I know they do but whether Theo has – I do not know – but he is very secretive, and he looks – ill, sometimes, as if there were something weighing on him. What can I do, Mr Dickens?’ If there were a scandal, it would –’
Oliver looked increasingly worried. It was obvious to Dickens that he knew more than he said he thought or feared. The word ‘scandal’ showed that. But was it only gambling debts that weighed on Theo Outfin’s conscience? Dickens needed to know more.
‘You do not think he is involved with a woman? Perhaps his peregrinations into the underworld have led him into low company. That might make him terribly afraid.’
&nb
sp; Oliver looked more troubled than ever. The conflict was there again in his darkened brow.
‘I do not know. He is girlish, sensitive – perhaps he might be led by some designing woman. I did not think – I mean I thought him too young – not in years, obviously – but there is something feminine about him as yet. He has not shown interest in the young women who are Sophy’s friends. This is dreadful. I must do something – but what? I cannot bring suspicions or gossip to his father and what would Sophy think if I were to accuse her brother of dreadful things? What do you advise, Mr Dickens? Perhaps, if you met him –’
‘It is very awkward. I understand your difficulty. You need to know for sure before it goes too far and threatens the family’s reputation – and happiness. Theo Outfin needs to be got away from his hangers-on. Perhaps, you could introduce me. I could judge how deeply he is in trouble. It would be done casually, of course – a chance encounter, you with your friend, Mr Dickens.’
Oliver took the bait. ‘We might go to the Polyanthus this evening – it is only nine o’clock. Theo might be there. I could introduce you – he would be delighted to meet you – like Sophy, he is a great reader, and then you might find out – you are so good at drawing people out, Mr Dickens.’
Dickens felt a momentary twinge of guilt – yes, he had drawn out the information about Theo Outfin from Oliver Wilde and the boy was unaware of the meaning of the information to Dickens, and, of course, to the superintendent. Still, even if Theo Outfin were only a foolish young man too deeply in the wrong company, it would be good for Oliver and Sophy if Dickens could help to free him. And if Theo Outfin were something worse then he had to be caught. But Theo had seen him with the superintendent – that might make him wary. He would hardly trust the man he had seen in the company of a policeman. To see him now might warn him off, but Theo could not just disappear. Damn, it was too late now. He could hardly tell Oliver that he had changed his mind.
The Polyanthus club was in a little lane off Dover Street, and it was at the corner of Dover Street and Jermyn Street that they saw Theo Outfin, a solitary figure coming towards them. Oliver looked uncertain. Were they to speak to him? The matter was resolved as they saw the slight young man get into a cab. As it passed, Dickens caught a glimpse of the face as it looked briefly at him. The face of a murderer? Of course, it was impossible to tell, but Dickens had an impression of inexpressible weariness and misery. What did it mean? And what were they to do? He looked at Oliver. If Oliver suggested they follow, Dickens would concur, but he was not going to suggest it. Oliver looked anxious and unsure.