Death at Hungerford Stairs

by J C Briggs

  ‘Shall I force the door?’ asked Rogers. The superintendent nodded. He did not expect to find her, but they had to be sure.

  It was easy to wrench the door handle. They went in to a poky scullery where the only sound was a tap dripping into the white sink. It smelt of damp, a graveyard smell. A door led them into the room where they had first seen Mademoiselle Victorine. The hats were silent shapes in the darkness, but when Rogers turned on his lamp the feathers were stirring slightly, and Dickens was reminded again of birds perched, ready for flight. The table was neatly stacked with cloth, tailor’s chalk and pins, and the scissors lay closed. There was an unfinished hat and a few artificial flowers which had been taken off it as though she was refashioning it. It was as if she had finished her work for the day. Dickens went over to look – had she left anything? There was a wooden box, its lid closed, a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it. What was inside? Papers? A letter? No, she would not leave anything like that. He opened it and saw something that made him take a quick breath.

  ‘What is it?’ Sam whispered, hearing that sudden sound of surprise.

  Dickens held up something which caught the light. A hatpin, about four and a half inches long, glinting wickedly – a sharp point easy to slide into the vulnerable heart of a boy who had no idea that it would bring his death.

  ‘Could this be what he used? It looks lethal enough.’ He kept his voice low.

  ‘It could – I don’t know. We will have to ask the pathologist. We’ll take it with us. Now, upstairs. Rogers, wait down here – just in case. She might come back, though I doubt it.’

  They went into the hall and up the uncarpeted stairs, creeping as quietly as they could. There were two rooms, one with the door open. They went in to see a neatly made bed, a chair by it and a wash stand. No sign at all that anyone had used the room. Its emptiness was absolute.The door to the other room was closed. They listened. But there was no sound. The silence seemed to swell, filling the tiny landing. Dickens thought he could feel it wrapping round him like a shroud.

  Sam stepped forward and grasped the door handle, turning it, suddenly impatient. She was not there. She was not, as Dickens had for a moment imagined, lying dead in her bed. The bed was identical to the other – a bed for one occupant, narrow, covered in a white counterpane with a single pillow at the head. Above the brass bedhead was a simple wooden crucifix. Had she prayed here? To whom? Not to God, surely – if she were what they thought, accomplice to a murderer.

  They looked at the small chest of drawers with its small looking-glass on a stand. There was a hairbrush and a set of rosary beads hanging from the stand. And a few seashells collected in a little dish – odd, thought Dickens. Some kind of memento? The drawers revealed neatly folded underwear, stockings, a white blouse and handkerchiefs. There was a long cupboard. A grey dress hung there, moving slightly in the draught made when Sam opened the door. It was as if she were hanging there. Well, she might if they found her. That was the point. Where was she? Had she fled with her brother, her lover?

  Sam looked under the bed. There was an empty travelling bag. Did that mean that she was coming back? Had she just gone out to buy her supper? Sam did not think so and Dickens agreed. The emptiness of the house had a finality about it. The silence inhabited it now; it had settled there, companion to the graveyard smell.

  She had gone, they were sure, despite the clothes and the travelling bag. Where was she? And, in this teeming city, could they ever find her?

  They went downstairs to the room where the hats were motionless now. They looked at the box and in the drawers of a press where she kept her materials for making the hats, flowers and ribbons, her thread and needles and her embroidery silks. The shawl? The one they had seen when they had first visited Mademoiselle Victorine. It was gone. Time to go. There was nothing here. One could imagine that she was dead, so still and empty the house was and so lacking in any personal effects – no pictures, no ornaments – nothing to say that a woman had made her home here. That was it, thought Dickens; she had existed here but not lived. Surely, there could be no lover. And the two single beds? Had the one in the first room been her brother’s? But, again, he had had the impression that the room was unused – no trace of whoever had slept there – just that faint smell of damp.

  They went out of the back door. Rogers was to stay and wait. Sam would send a man to repair the door so that no one could get in. They went round the front again and knocked at the neighbour’s door to ask if she knew anything about Mademoiselle Victorine, where she might be. She did not, though her little knowing eyes were avid for information about her reclusive neighbour. They were about to walk away when Sam turned back to the woman standing on the doorstep.

  ‘Mrs?’

  ‘Twiss. Ada Twiss.’

  ’Do you know Mademoiselle’s last name – her surname?’

  ‘She did say when she first come – tryin’ ter be pleasant, I suppose – dint take much notice so I don’t know if I ’ave it right – it sounded strange ter me. Sholicker – some such – foreign, o’ course,’ she said, as though her neighbour had no right to such an unpronounceable name.

  Well, she was French, thought Dickens, amused at her disapproval of all things foreign.

  Sam asked, ‘Did you ever see the young man again? The one you told the constable you’d seen coming from her yard?’

  ‘No – pr’aps it was a customer though she didn’t ’ave many o’ those. Dunno ’oo ’e was. Yer lookin’ fer ’im?’

  ‘Not really - we were just interested to know if he had been seen again. But, as he has not, we will leave it. Thank you, Mrs Twiss. Good night.’

  The two men walked away. She looked after them, puzzled – she wondered what they wanted with the French lady. But the tall man looked as if ’e wouldn’t say any more and she wondered what the policeman was doin’ in the alley. Tom ’ad seen him as he came ’ome. Still, foreigners – what could yer expect? Funny woman that Victorine whatshername – standoffish. But she ’ad seen that gent. She remembered now – Tom ’ad seen ’im again – night o’ the fire down St Giles’s – oh, well, too late now. Any’ow, they sed they wasn’t interested. She went in to enjoy the fried fish and potatoes waiting on the hob. She want goin’ to let ’er supper get cold – an’ it would if she went chasin’ arter ’em. Too bad. She closed the door.

  Dickens and Jones walked down Crown Street. What now?

  ‘The name?’ asked Sam. ‘Could you make anything of it? You speak French.’

  ‘The “sh” sound ought to be a “J”, the “ker” sound might be “Coeur” so I will hazard a guess at “Jolicoeur”.’

  Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘Pretty heart? Never!’

  ‘It is a French surname – I have heard it before – not very apt is it?’

  ‘No, but it will have to do – why couldn’t Mrs Twiss speak French? What’s the matter with these people – if you have a French neighbour, you might at least pronounce her name correctly!’ Sam laughed at himself and thought of sober-looking Mrs Twiss waltzing in Paris. ‘She was more interested in her fried fish – smelt good, I thought. So, where is Mademoiselle Jolicoeur?’

  They gazed around the crowded street. Where to look? She could be anywhere and there was no one to ask. That was the damnable thing, thought Sam. Suspects usually had convenient family, friends, work colleagues, acquaintances – someone who could lead them to him or her. There was a trail, most often. The murderer took shelter somewhere. Someone knew, had seen, could point the way.They would have found the giant eventually. But there was no one in this bustling place who could tell them where she was or where her brother was. Yes, a young man had been seen three times – four if you counted Mrs Twiss’s sighting in the alley – once with Jemmy at Hungerford Market, once with Robin Hart in the graveyard and once at the Du Cane house but there was no trail. They had both vanished as if they had never been. Ghosts.

  ‘Hidden from all human knowledge,’ observed Dickens as though he had read Sam’s thoughts.
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  ‘Yes, I was thinking how suspects usually have someone who knows them – someone who can point us to them but, in this case, nobody seems to know them – true, she had customers, true, the young man was seen but that is all. They had no friends, no family.’

  ‘Did you notice the crucifix and the rosary?’

  ‘I did – I thought what hypocrisy – if she is his accomplice, how can she be praying and telling her beads?’

  ‘I wonder did she go to church – a Catholic church?’

  ‘You mean someone might know her from there – know if there is a brother?’

  ‘Yes – a priest, perhaps. I wonder if she has confessed – not that he would tell us, of course. It would, perhaps, be a Catholic church nearby – there is the Sardinia Chapel at Lincoln’s Inn – we could try there.’

  ‘Yes, she could walk there. Anywhere else?’

  ‘There is a chapel in Warwick Street, Golden Square. I read about it when I was researching for Barnaby Rudge – it was attacked in the Gordon riots as was the Sardinia Chapel. I described how the vast mob poured into Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It must have been a terrible sight – the crowd was making for Newgate. Fire everywhere. Yes, we could try there, too.’

  They chose Lincoln’s Inn and walked there from Crown Street to Castle Street, into Drury Lane and across to Parker Street where on the corner the crowds were pouring into the Mogul Saloon, a music hall. They pushed their way through the good-humoured throng, the flower sellers, the match girl, the man with his tray of jellied eels, and they caught the spicy smell of hot elder wine and the rich scent of gravy from the pieman who cried out, ‘Pies, all ’ot, eel, beef, mutton – penny each, all ’ot.’ They passed Whetstone Place where in the grimy alleys they had once found the body of a murdered man. It was quiet now in the precincts of Lincoln’s Inn. The chapel was at the rear of number fifty-four, not far from Dickens’s friend John Forster’s home. But Dickens had never been into the church.

  It was open though empty. Candlelight shivered in the dusk, showing them the marble dome from which a great silver lantern descended. By day, light would flood in to illuminate the marble columns and the great painting of the descent from the cross, but now there were shadows as moonlight like liquid mercury slipped in through the plain glass windows. It was a place redolent of ghosts and there was the faint, sweetish smell of incense that took him back to the churches of Italy, dream places, unreal, fantastic, solemn. Galleries rose up on either side, and underneath in deepest shadow were the confessional boxes. Had she come here? Had she whispered to a priest with a purple stole, the purple of repentance and healing? When Dickens thought about Jemmy and Robin and Mrs Hart and that poor disfigured boy, he could not imagine forgiveness for her or for her brother or whoever he was.

  They stood silent, undecided, caught in the shadows, gazing up at the dark dome which seemed to be merged with the black sky outside. Footsteps. A priest came out of the shadows and looked at them enquiringly. Sam stepped forward.

  ‘I am Superintendent Jones of Bow Street. I am looking for a woman named Mademoiselle Victorine Jolicoeur. She is missing from her home.’ No need to mention murder, yet. ‘I wondered, perhaps, if she is one of your congregation.’

  ‘I do not know the name. It is unusual, I think. I know most of the people who worship here – I think I would know her.’

  ‘She is thin, a very pale face – and she wears spectacles with thick lenses. I think you would remember her.’

  ‘No, I do not know her. She may worship elsewhere – there is Our Lady of the Assumption in Golden Square. I am sorry I cannot help you. She is in some distress, you think?’ His eyes were kind and concerned. Dickens thought it a pity she had not worshipped there.

  ‘Possibly – we do not know. Thank you, anyway.’

  The priest glided away on soundless feet, vanishing into the darkness near the altar. They turned away. They stood in the quiet shadow of the church; they could hear the city as if it were far away, not just round the corner waiting for them to enter its throbbing life and renew their search.

  ‘So, we still don’t know whether there is a brother.’

  ‘Paris,’ said Dickens. ‘She said she came from Paris. I was thinking earlier about Mrs Manning and the search for her –’

  ‘The police went to Paris, I remember – an inspector and a sergeant, but –’

  ‘Jolicoeur – it is an unusual name – she said they had a shop.’ Dickens was eager now. Sam saw his eyes light up. ‘Let us suppose it was a milliner’s shop – it must have been – or a dressmaker’s – so we might find something about her and the brother, whether he is dead. She might have gone there – they might have fled – she knew we had the shawl. Perhaps she thought it was time to get out after the third murder. She thought we might come again; she told us about Mrs Outfin –’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. Perhaps she thought that we would give up when we found out about Mrs Outfin’s death, but she must have known that with the third murder we might come back. It does not matter what she thought, Charles. I agree that we might try to find out more about her – but Paris – I don’t know –’

  ‘I could go.’

  Sam grinned. ‘I expect you could – put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes.’

  ‘Not quite, but it is possible – the night packet from Dover –’

  ‘Tonight!’

  ‘Well, tomorrow then – the eight o’clock express from London Bridge – eleven hours to Paris – a visit to the Police Prefecture with an introductory letter from Superintendent Jones of Bow Street which sets in motion the search for a milliner’s shop called Jolicoeur – slap-up dinner at the Hotel Bristol – a steak, perhaps, a bottle of claret – or would you prefer roast fowl?’ Sam opened his mouth to speak but Dickens rattled on. ‘A splendid night’s sleep on a feather mattress – with pillows – up with the lark – or the sparrow, the moineau, if you prefer – breakfast – hot rolls and coffee – collect the address from monsieur le gendarme – find the shop – hear the tale from some stout, lace-capped madame in black bombazine – eh bien – voilà – nous revenons!’

  ‘If I am to come on this madcap voyage, why do you need a letter of introduction?’ Sam’s eyes twinkled.

  ‘Poetic licence! Just keeping the story afloat.’

  ‘I could write to the commissioner, you know, and ask the French police to find out about the family – we don’t actually have to go.’ Somehow Sam felt that this would not serve. Dickens was already there in his fancy, coaxing his imaginary madame to reveal all, in his fluent French.

  ‘But, how long will it take? And, if the brother is there, will they take him into custody? Would it not be more – immediate – if we were there to explain all the details of the investigation, the grounds for suspicion? In short, Sam, let us stiffen our sinews, summon up the blood, the game’s afoot – to Paris let us go!’

  ‘It’s a gamble – suppose –’

  ‘Them as don’t play can’t win, Sam.’

  The light in his eyes told Dickens that Sam was tempted. He would do it.

  ‘I am persuaded – as much by your eloquence as by the grain of common sense in your argument – and, not least by that steak and claret you promise me. Tomorrow at half past seven, then, at London Bridge for the eight o’clock express. Now, I must return to Bow Street and give my instructions to Rogers who must remain on watch. He can send someone to enquire at the church in Warwick Street and he can make sure a watch is kept at Rose Street. I am not sure why, but I don’t think she’ll go back there.’

  ‘Nor do I – something of the grave about the place. She has gone – to Paris, I bet.’ He grinned again, sure that they would find the answer in Paris.

  They parted at Drury Lane. Dickens felt buoyed up – it would be an adventure. He knew Paris, Citoyen de Paris, he had styled himself. Mind, he thought, perhaps the Hotel Bristol was a little too public. He and Sam should stay somewhere quieter; they needed to be secret, not to have Charles Dickens’s reade
rs swarming over them. They should be secret agents, sneaking in to the Prefecture, watching the milliner’s shop like his detective Nadgett watching Jonas Chuzzlewit, the murderer. He thought about Sam. Though Sam had laughed about the madcap journey Dickens had seen the lines deepened on his forehead, expressive of the anxiety he felt that they might be wrong, that while they were absent, the murderer might strike again. He thought about the hatpin – was it really the murder weapon? If so, then it had been left behind. Surely that would mean that the killer had gone. For Sam’s sake he hoped so.

  He was right. Sam walked back to Bow Street. He had been carried away by Charles’s enthusiasm, swept along by the vividness of the tale of the woman in black bombazine and lace. Now he wondered. Was it folly? Yet what else could they do? They had to know about the brother, if he were dead or not, and when he had died if it were so. And, perhaps they would find out more about the mysterious Mademoiselle Victorine. Rogers could be trusted to hold the fort. If, God forbid, there were another murder, he would know what to do – and they would be back as soon as possible. Well, Paris it would be.

  21

  MADAME RIGAUD

  Dickens, always impatient to get on, always arriving early for coach or train, saw that Sam was before him on the platform at London Bridge Terminus. He was examining the carriages and passengers boarding – no doubt wondering if their quarry were bent on flight. Dickens watched him and wondered whether he had changed his mind, but he saw that Sam was carrying a travelling bag – he was coming, then. His heart lifted. Of course, he would have gone alone. Having conceived the idea that Paris would provide some answers, he could not bear to relinquish the idea. Delay to him was worse than drawn daggers, but to go without Sam would have lessened the thrill – the excitement of the chase. The case had been so slow, so uncertain that he needed to be in motion, to be doing. He had his own travelling bag wherein were packed two thick blankets and brandy – Dickens, the seasoned traveller, knew how cold it could be.