by J C Briggs
‘He might have wanted to,’ said Sam sombrely, ‘and if they were not willing then he might have killed them – we cannot dismiss him altogether, but I trust your instinct – you saw his face and you felt pity for his young hopelessness. Now I want you to come with me to the morgue to see the third boy, if you will. I want you to tell me what you see.’
They descended the stairs into an air which was suddenly colder as they approached the morgue where they had watched as Mrs Hart held her dead boy. I must go and find out about her, thought Dickens. I cannot just leave her to Zeb and Effie, though I do not know what can be done about her or for her. He felt again that she would never recover, that she would simply waste away, willing her own death just as Mrs Moon had chosen her death when she had seen Kip and Tilly fall into the flames. Oh, would that she had waited to know that Kip was alive.
Dickens paused in astonishment when they went into the white-tiled room where the water dripped still. It smelt of carbolic – razor sharp in the throat but not wholly erasing the sweet, sickly smell of death. On the marble slab, he could see two fair heads, the bodies being covered in sheets. The boys were laid out on their fronts so that he had the impression that twin brothers were sleeping there. The hair was the same colour and there was uncanny similarity in the shape of the heads and the delicate, vulnerable necks and sharply protruding shoulder blades. He thought of his own boys whom he had so often seen sleeping thus – Charley at twelve was much the same age as these two, bright, sensitive Charley, his first son who would go to Eton next year, perhaps. What a difference, he thought. What might these two have become? These ragged boys who were his other self, the boy who had laboured in the blacking factory, but whose own son had all the world before him, and who would not be a victim of ignorance and want.
‘An apple cleft in twain is not more like,’ he quoted, ‘but they cannot be brothers. Robin Hart was her only child.’
‘They are not brothers, but I wanted you to see. This one was killed in the same way – a small puncture wound. And now, I must show you something else.’ Sam went over to the marble slab and gently turned over the boy on the left who was not Robin Hart. He could not have been for Dickens saw something that made his heart contract with pity and horror.
Instead of Robin Hart’s sensitive, delicate face, Dickens saw that this boy was terribly disfigured. His mouth was deformed by a hair lip and his nose was partly eaten away, a black, hideous hole where the nostrils should have been.
‘What does it mean?’
‘I do not know – they are alike and not alike. If the murderer is a man who uses boys then I can see that Robin Hart would be attractive, but this other?’
‘I know. It is hard to believe that he would be desired – Robin killed for his beauty; this one killed for his ugliness? But what ties them together? What about Jemmy? We did not see him very clearly. We were only concerned that he was not Scrap.’
‘I know and I think we must go to see him. We have seen these two and it is our impression of Jemmy that will count. It is no use my sending someone else. Are you able to come with me now?’
‘Yes, but I would like to go to Mr Brim’s to see how Scrap is. Is Elizabeth there?’
‘Yes. We will call at the shop before we go to the morgue at Scotland Yard. I will send a note to Inspector Harker telling him that we want to see Jemmy.’
The note written and despatched to Scotland Yard by a constable, Dickens and Jones made their way to the stationery shop. Scrap was out on a delivery, but Mr Brim would tell him the news about Kip. Elizabeth was in the back parlour giving Eleanor and Tom their lessons. Mr Brim’s face bore the mark of strain which Dickens had noted before. What troubled him?
‘I am grateful to your wife,’ said Mr Brim, abruptly, ‘but I think it is time for Eleanor to go to school. I cannot impose upon your wife any longer, Superintendent. She has done enough. I shall engage someone to look after Tom while I am in the shop.’ Mr Brim looked embarrassed at his own brusqueness. There was an awkward silence.
Sam thought what it would mean to Elizabeth to be deprived of the children’s company. Dickens saw how Mr Brim was uncomfortable about the charity he felt he was receiving and that he could not pay back. ‘I am sorry,’ Mr Brim continued, ‘if I seem ungrateful, but I feel that your wife, Elizabeth, is giving up all her time and I cannot –’ He began to cough, unable to continue and they saw how the hectic in his cheeks burnt more deeply. He looked wretched, angry that his illness betrayed him, that they would know he could not take care of his own children.
When the coughing subsided, Sam spoke. ‘You think it is all on one side, Mr Brim, that you are receiving all the benefits, but I beg you to see it from my Elizabeth’s side, too. We had but one child, a daughter. She is dead and your Eleanor is filling that terrible blank in Elizabeth’s heart where my Edith should be. If you have any compassion, Mr Brim, let her continue.’ Sam was silent and Dickens saw how he looked at the sick man, begging him to reconsider.
‘I beg your pardon, Superintendent. I thought only of myself and I curse my wretched pride which I will not excuse. My children love your Elizabeth. I do not know how I could, in truth, deprive them of her company. Forgive me.’
‘No need,’ said Sam. ‘I understand your feelings and am glad that you spoke for it is good that we know that we can help each other, and I thank you for allowing Elizabeth the company of your two children, and to help you when you need it. Come, we are friends, are we not?’ Sam held out his hand for the other man to take. ‘I hope I can be Sam henceforth and not Superintendent.’
‘Indeed and I shall be Robert to you both.’
They left him then and went on quietly to Scotland Yard where they saw that Jemmy, lying on the cold marble, was exactly the same sort of boy as Robin. He had been washed and his bright head shone. Dickens remembered what he had thought that day when they had found him encased in mud – that he had been alive, had wondered at the great river and its ships, and had played, perhaps with that unknown dog. But no one had been to enquire for him, no one had missed him, no one had mourned him. They might never know for his quiet face, so like Robin’s, and his closed eyes could tell them nothing now.
On their way back to Bow Street, they stopped for lunch at the Lamb and Flag, a favourite of Dickens who enjoyed its poky rooms with their bare pine floors, low beams and wooden panelling. He liked its history, its associations with the poet Dryden, and there was a story of a murder, a young man killed after winning at cards. Naturally, he was said to haunt the building. A thick, steaming wedge of steak and kidney pie having restored them, they lingered over a glass of brandy and water in front of the fire. Time to discuss what they had seen.
‘Three boys not unalike if you saw them all from behind. No evidence of sexual abuse. So what is the reason, Charles? Why is it done?’
‘As you suggested before, it might be that he did make advances to them, at least to Robin and Jemmy – they reject him, are horrified by what he proposes, and he, in his rage, kills them.’
‘And our third boy?’
‘The murderer follows him, thinking that he is like the other two. When he accosts the boy, he sees the disfigured face and kills him for not being what he wanted. He sweeps out of the way a detested object. I think he hates them, Sam – perhaps for what they make him feel – perhaps he hates himself, too. And this corroding, growing hate gives birth to monstrous and mis-shapen murder.’
‘It makes sense. And what frightens me is that he could do it again if, as you say, he is filled with such hatred. He does not care about the consequences – he does not think he might hang.’
‘No, his is a terrible isolation, he is shut off from all consideration of others, estranged from his life, his family – like –’
‘Theo Outfin?’
‘I do not want to think so. I do not know, but I cannot believe it of him. I remember his face – so young, so despairing. And, the mask – it seems so calculated, mocking us, if you like. I do not read Theo Outf
in as the author of that drawing. Oliver Wilde says he is sensitive as Mrs Mapes did – not a hater, surely. Not the man you describe as having the arrogance to believe we cannot catch him.’
‘I take your point about Theo and the mask, but we still have to consider him. He is hiding something, and we can connect him with at least two places where murder has been done. And, he could have been in possession of the shawl – he knew Mattie Webb.’
‘I know, I know. The unimaginable secrets of the human heart.’
They fell silent then, Dickens pondering the idea that in Theo Outfin there was some darkness that he had read wrongly as a secret sorrow.Perhaps it was fear and guilt. It was true, he had often thought, that every human creature is a profound mystery to every other. But Sam was a policeman. He had to regard Theo as still a suspect. He had to be practical, do his duty and find Theo Outfin, and if he were the murderer, and there was not the shadow of a shade of doubt, then he must hang and Mrs Outfin and Sophie and Oliver Wilde would have to bear it though their lives would be blighted.
Sam watched him. He did not want it to be Theo Outfin either. That was the trouble with murder. You didn’t want it to be a man you knew or knew about. Years ago, he had been present when his old chief, Inspector Stone – hard as – had arrested a man with whom Sam had been to school. He had strangled his wife. Sam had not been able to believe it: the boy at school so tender with his pet white mice. Dickens was right about the human heart – it was unfathomable at times.
‘Did you find a mask anywhere in that yard?’ Dickens asked, breaking the silence. That mask, it haunted him.
‘No, we didn’t, but then everything was burnt – the fire might have destroyed it.’
‘So it might. What next then?’
‘Back to Bow Street. I need to see Mattie Webb as soon as she returns from Paris – we need to know how the shawl came to be in St Giles’s churchyard – did she lose it? Or sell it? Or was it stolen? Or, and here’s a thought, has she some relationship with Theo Outfin?’
Dickens looked at him. ‘I hadn’t thought of that, but it is possible, I suppose. An affair with a servant girl – that would be a reason for estrangement from his family – but, then he wouldn’t be murdering boys, and from the way Mrs Mapes spoke of her, I can’t see her as an accomplice.’ He sighed, ‘Wot a mystery it all is.’
‘Shakespeare?’ asked Sam, grinning at Dickens’s change of voice.
‘Topping.’ Topping, the coachman, was given, at rare times, to philosophical musings of a peculiarly gnomic kind, much to Dickens’s delight.
‘Oh, let’s get back. All this mystery and speculation simply makes me want to do something.’
‘Speculation is the thief of time as much as procrastination so let’s collar them both.’
Sam grinned again. ‘Good. Drink up and let’s be away.’
From Garrick Street they walked back to Bow Street where Constable Rogers was waiting with news. The constable watching the milliner’s house had seen no one enter or leave, but Oliver Wilde was waiting for them in the superintendent’s office.
‘He came about half and hour or so, sir. Mr Theo Outfin is missing.’
They went into the office where they saw Oliver Wilde whose usually amiable face was lined with anxiety.
‘Theo did not go home last night. I went to call on Sophy this morning – by midday, there was no sign of him so I came here, Mr Dickens. I thought you should know – after what we discussed last night. He may be in danger – where we last saw him, it’s not a particularly salubrious area and I am afraid – he might have been attacked. Can you help, Superintendent?’
Dickens exchanged a glance with Sam. How much to tell Oliver? Sam shook his head slightly. Nothing, yet.
‘I will instigate a search, Mr Wilde. Do you know of any places he might have visited regularly?’ Sam made no sign that Dickens had told him anything about Theo’s difficulties.
Oliver looked embarrassed. Was it his place to tell the policeman what he feared about Theo Outfin? Yet, if they were to find him, he needed help – he could hardly go searching on his own. Sam understood as he watched the fleeting shadows of doubt flicker on Oliver’s face.
‘You are afraid that he might be a frequenter of some dubious places? Many young men are. Not many come to harm. Still, if you are worried, perhaps you ought to tell me about him. It will go no further.’
‘I told Mr Dickens last night. Theo has been deeply troubled, almost estranged from his family – yet he and Sophy were once so close – they are very alike to look at. If Sophy were a boy, she would be practically his double, and he, well, he is girlish in a way – sensitive, you know, and he has found friends in a disreputable group of young bloods – I do not know how, but I think he gambles. Mr Dickens asked me about illegal gambling dens – I think it must be so. Why else would he be in St Giles’s?’
‘Then we will know where to look. What I suggest, Mr Wilde, is that you go back to reassure Mr and Mrs Outfin and Miss Sophy that the matter is in my hands, and that we will do everything we can to find him. Of course, he may come home and then you must let me know. I will send to you as soon as we have news. You will stay at the Outfin house?’
‘Yes, I will. Are you sure I cannot help in the search?’
‘No, Mr Wilde. We know where to look.’
Oliver Wilde departed somewhat reluctantly. Sam was glad. He did not want the complication of Oliver’s presence. He did not know if he were looking for a murderer or for a victim.
‘Well,’ said Dickens, ‘what are we to make of this?’
‘It is quite possible that Theo Outfin is sleeping off a long night of illegal gaming. On the other hand, he might be in danger, and of course, we must consider the idea that he is in hiding. Whichever, he must be found. And, we need to do the finding discreetly. If he is not our murderer then we will be glad to have been discreet.’
‘Rogers?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Zeb – and Occy? Scrap, too, would be useful. I need to see him anyway.’
‘I agree, and I will recruit Feak – he is not a blabberer, young as he is.’
Rogers and Feak were detailed to meet Dickens and Jones near the burnt-out house of the Moons where Dickens had seen Theo last. They would go first to the stationery shop to collect Scrap and then to Zeb Scruggs’s shop where Dickens thought he would check on Mrs Hart, too.
The dreary November afternoon light was fading as they came out of the police station. The sky was darkening; dense tiers of clouds, edged with a feverish yellow, suggested rain and, thought Dickens, feeling a thickness about his brow, thunder – a storm brewing?
17
DENS OF VICE
Dickens and Jones hurried to Crown Street under that ominous sky where the clouds boiled. Fat drops of rain fell; there was a splitting crack of thunder followed by the sudden, sharp flash of lightning. Passers-by unfurled their umbrellas and scurried homeward, their faces white in the lurid light. Dickens turned up his coat collar and jammed his hat tightly on his head. It was a dark and stormy night, he thought ruefully, remembering the opening line of Paul Clifford, his friend Bulwer-Lytton’s novel of 1830. It was indeed, and truly, the rain was falling now in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which seemed to bustle them along the crowded streets, snatching at their coats with a malicious impudence. By the time they entered the door of Mr Brim’s shop they were drenched.
Scrap was there. He looked downcast – poor lad, thought Dickens. No doubt he was thinking of Tilly and Kip. His eyes brightened when he saw Dickens and the superintendent.
‘Kip’s alive, Mr Dickens – that’s good, ain’t it. But poor Tilly and Mrs Moon. ’Ow could it ’appen? T’ain’t fair, Mr Dickens, Tilly dint do no ’arm an’ Mrs Moon, she woz allus worried. I went ter see Kip. ’E don’t know wot ter do.’
‘I have a plan for Kip,’ said Dickens. ‘I shall find him a job with my friend Mrs Morson at Shepherd’s Bush. He shall
be a gardener’s boy, and there will be a horse and a stable for him to look after. He will be safe there, Scrap, and one day you will be able to go to see him. I will take you. What do you think? A good plan?’
Scrap beamed. ‘A good plan, Mr Dickens. Kip’ll like that – ’e sed ’e ’ad a donkey wonce – does Mrs Morson ’ave a donkey?’
‘I do not think so – but, if Kip wanted one, I daresay it could be arranged. Company for the horse, I suppose.’ I shall have to buy a donkey, then, thought Dickens, grinning as he caught sight of Sam’s face. Sam had the same thought and grinned back at him.
‘We need you tonight,’ said Sam. Scrap smiled. This was better. To be needed by Mr Dickens and Mr Jones – well, yer couldn’t say nah, could yer?
‘Wot’s up? Yer want me ter find someone?’
‘Yes, we want you with us, keeping your eyes and ears open – a young gentleman’s gone missing from near where the fire was. Not been home all night. You might hear something in the alleys. Mr Dickens and I will be looking, and constables Rogers and Feak, but you know how it is, Scrap, the kids might have heard something. Listen in, will you?’
‘Do you have a coat, Scrap? Is there an oilskin in the back somewhere?’
Scrap vanished into the back of the shop as Elizabeth came out to see her husband.
‘We are borrowing Scrap,’ said Sam.
‘Out in this rain?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘I am afraid so – though we cannot get much wetter.’
‘Take care of him – and yourselves. I will see you at home later, I hope.’
‘You will. Take a cab home.’
Elizabeth smiled at her husband as Scrap came back.
When they went out, the rain had died down to a lighter drizzle though there was still a rumble of thunder in the distance as though some giant hand were rolling a cannonball to demolish a set of giant skittles. They walked to Zeb Scruggs’s shop to ask if he would help with the search, and to find out if he knew anything about the errands Robin Hart had carried out. While the superintendent talked to Zeb, Dickens went in the back to ask about Mrs Hart.