Death at Hungerford Stairs

by J C Briggs

  They collected their travelling bags from the room and paid the bill. They did not want to return to the hotel. If they could not find Victorine or her brother then they must return to London on the earliest possible train.

  They went out to where the Sergeant de Ville waited. The snow had stopped falling but the streets were still white. There was a sense of unreality about the glittering scene; a hush everywhere as if the city were in a trance. A few passers-by walked carefully in the snow. Dickens noticed a beautiful woman with fur framing her face. She had a little dog on a lead; it was wearing a pretty little coat and looked at him as if to say, ‘I know I’m a victim of fashion.’ He grinned at it. Sheepish, he thought recalling a snippet from Punch lampooning canine fashions from Paris, especially the sight of dogs with sleeves en gigot – he always enjoyed puns however lame.

  In a narrow, elegant street they found the tiny shop, very smart, the window bearing the legend in italic golden letters: Les Plumes de Ma Tante. In the window was one well-cut black and white striped dress and on a stand a neat black velvet hat bearing one emerald green feather. But what drew their attention was the black and green embroidered shawl draped over the shoulders of the papier-maché mannequin. Victorine’s work? On the snowy step outside sat a thin black cat waiting to go in. It was early but the sign on the door said ‘Ouverte’. A tinny little bell rang as they entered preceded by the cat.

  A young woman turned at their entrance, though for a moment she focused her attention on the cat.

  ‘Frou,’ she said. ‘Tu viens – tu es restée hors toute la nuite – la creature sotte.’ The cat shook itself. She opened a little door in the counter through which Frou passed, just glancing back at them disdainfully. Not French. The young woman looked at them.

  The sergeant explained that the gentlemen were from London – Monsieur, he indicated Sam, was a policeman in search of Mademoiselle Victorine Jolicoeur who was missing from her home. Could Madame tell them anything about her or Madame Jolicoeur who had once owned the shop?

  Madame Manette looked troubled. She told them that Madame Jolicoeur was dead and her mother, Madame Rigaud, Madame Jolicoeur’s sister, had taken over the shop. The name of the shop was a memory of Aunt Cecile.

  Dickens asked in French if she could tell them anything about Mademoiselle Victorine. Madame Manette frowned. She looked troubled again, saying that she thought they should speak to her mother who was here – she would tell them about Victorine. The sergeant stayed behind as they went through the little door and into the workroom at the back where there were hats in various stages of composition and some finished on their stands. They were reminded of Victorine’s room. There was a similar deal table with scissors, tailor’s chalk, cloth, feathers, lace and felt – as well as hatpins. The atmosphere was very different – it was alive – the cat on a wicker chair by the fire and a canary singing in its cage. A girl was seated at the table, needle and thread in hand. Madame Rigaud was exactly as Dickens had described, stout in her black bombazine and her lace.

  Madame Manette explained to her mother about the gentlemen from London and their enquiries concerning Victorine. Dickens could not quite tell what she said – she spoke low and quickly, but he saw Madame Rigaud’s frown at the mention of Victorine and her swift look at them. She was irritated, Dickens thought, rather than concerned. The young girl was sent to mind the shop.

  Madame Rigaud spoke English sufficiently well for the conversation to be carried on in English. She told them that Victorine was her niece whose mother had died over five years ago.They learned that as far as she knew Victorine had gone to America. They had not heard from her for two years or more. They thought that she might get in touch when she was settled in America. Madame Rigaud’s tone was brisk as if she wanted to tell the story and be done with it. No love lost there, thought Dickens.

  ‘But she is missing from London,’ Sam interrupted. Surely they had not found another Victorine Jolicoeur?

  ‘She went to England at first – years ago.’

  ‘And her brother?’ asked Dickens.

  Madame Rigaud looked baffled. ‘You mean son frère?’

  ‘Oui, Madame – her brother.’

  ‘There was no brother. Victorine was an only child like Lucie here, my daughter.’

  ‘Oh, we must have misunderstood. I am sorry, Madame, perhaps you could tell us why she went to England.’

  Madame looked as if she did not wish to revisit the past. She looked at Dickens and Sam, and saw that the policeman from London would not be satisfied until she had told what she knew.

  ‘Victorine had a child – a boy. This was more than ten years ago. November, the snow, it was thick as now – a difficult birth.’ She stopped, frowning, her lips pursed as if the memory were an unpleasant taste in her mouth. They waited. ‘The father – Michel – was already married. He went to England to escape his wife and we thought he would not come back. But when the boy was two he sent for them. He was in Brighton.They opened a shop – a hat shop. My sister gave them money – it was only right since Lucie was to have the Paris shop. But then her boy died when he was nine. She wrote to us –’ she paused, searching for the words – ‘that he – il s’etait noyé – you understand?’

  Dickens nodded, ‘He drowned.’ He thought about the seashells they had seen and he pitied her. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps she could not stop Michel, perhaps she was not his willing accomplice, but Michel was all she had left.

  ‘Yes, but she did not say what had happened, only that she and Michel were going to America. C’est tout – we know nothing more.’ Her tone was final and there was the unexpressed thought that Victorine’s whereabouts were not her concern.

  ‘What is the last name of the child’s father?’

  ‘Blandois.’

  ‘Did she take his name? Were they married?’

  ‘I do not know, monsieur. We did not ask.’

  The atmosphere stiffened somehow. Madame wanted them to go and in truth there was nothing else to say. They could only apologise for disturbing them and assure them that perhaps a mistake had been made. Madame Rigaud did not look convinced, but Dickens had the impression that Victorine had passed out of their lives, and that she did not wish to know any more about her. That phrase ‘C’est tout’ had meant more than just that it was all for now – it meant that was all she had to say. He had a feeling that when they heard about Victorine – he was sure they would – Madame would not want to be involved. They had not seen her for ten years or more. They did not want her back.

  Dickens had a thought. ‘The shawl in the window, Madame, who made it?’

  ‘My daughter. Lucie is very skilled, the best embroiderer I have known.’ She smiled and there was a little look of triumph in her shrewd eyes. Victorine was not as skilled as her daughter. No, Victorine was to be forgotten. Again, Dickens felt that twinge of pity.

  The Sergeant de Ville understood that they wished to return to London as soon as possible. The superintendent presented his compliments to Monsieur Dupin for his assistance and they were left in the snowy street.

  ‘Brighton?’ asked Dickens.

  ‘I imagine so – tomorrow first thing. For now, a cab to the station. Oh, that we had wings.’

  ‘It is only ten o’clock now – we ought to catch the eleven o’clock train. We shall be in London tonight.’

  ‘The Brighton express first thing tomorrow morning.’

  22

  A FACE IN A CROWD

  They were in London by ten o’clock. Rogers had sent Feak to meet them, surmising that they could at best be on the eleven o’clock train from Paris – Feak’s instructions were to wait until the last train came. And when he saw the superintendent he was to tell him straight off that there had been no developments. Rogers had seen quite clearly that the idea of another murder haunted his boss. He needed to know as soon as possible.

  They saw Feak, whose words tumbled out before they had a chance to say anything.

  ‘Mr Rogers, sir, says to t
ell you that nothin’s ’appened – about the case, I mean. ’E said you’d wanter know immediately, sir.’

  ‘Thank you Feak, I am obliged to you both.’

  ‘Shall I get a cab, sir?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. We will come with you.’

  ‘Are you going to Bow Street?’ asked Dickens as the cab drew up.

  ‘Yes, I need to see Rogers about tomorrow. He will want to know what we have discovered and what we think about it. Will you go home?’

  ‘Yes, I ought to. You can drop me at Broad Street. I’ll get another cab from there.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Same scene, several hours later! I will meet you at half past seven at London Bridge Station once more – the Brighton Line.’

  Dickens got out at Broad Street. As was his way, he decided to walk to Oxford Street at least – to stretch his legs and to think about what Sam would be telling Rogers. On the boat, they had sat in the most sheltered spot they could find on the deck where they could speak in private about what they had heard. It was clear that Victorine and Michel had not gone to America. And the reason that Victorine had not communicated with her aunt was obvious, too. However impossible it seemed, Victorine had a lover. They thought about Dickens’s idea that she had only Michel left – though why no trace of him had been found at the house was difficult to fathom. Dickens wondered if they had parted at the death of the child and that he had, for some reason, contacted her. Perhaps she had rejected him, and that had pushed him to murder – revenge for the death of his own boy. But she must have known because she had gone. Had she gone with Michel or had she fled from him?

  ‘The shawl?’ Sam had asked.

  ‘He could easily have had it.’

  ‘But, surely, his appearance at the Du Canes suggests that they are in it together.’

  ‘True,’ Dickens had been forced to agree. ‘You are right – but it seems incredible that she who had lost her own child should countenance the murder of children.’

  ‘You said yourself that you saw her as capable of obsession – that she might do anything for her lover.’

  ‘So I did.’

  Dickens began again. ‘Why did Michel say he was her brother when he went to the Du Canes – it seems an unnecessary lie, and why did she tell us about a brother?’

  ‘She did not want us to know about Michel – remember we think he had killed already by then. And she may have thought that we knew something about a man seen at her house – covering her tracks.’

  ‘True – but it troubles me and I do not know why.’

  They had left it there to sit watching the cold rolling sea under a cloudy sky, wondering whether it was true that these two had worked together to murder children. They had been glad to see the pinpoints of light which told them that the coast of England was near. Paris in the glimmering snow seemed like a dream.

  It still did, thought Dickens. London seemed grimy and too noisy after that hushed whiteness. He walked up the High Street passing the dark bulk of St Giles’s on his left. Poor Robin and Mrs Hart, too. He thought of how her grief was slowly killing her. He had understood that – so had Georgiana Morson. But Victorine? Could she really be accomplice? Could their grief have so warped them?

  In Oxford Street he saw the cheerful sight of a coffee stall, a large, brightly painted wheeled truck with polished tin cans for hot milk, coffee and tea. He thought about stopping for a coffee and a twopenny ham sandwich, but there was a crowd of flash men with their girls, loud as fishwives, though rather more colourful in their gaudy satins. One looked at him provocatively, winking her eye. He smiled at her but walked on. As he passed another crowd shoving towards the stall, he had a fleeting impression of a familiar face – Sesina on the arm of a young man dressed as a toff with a top hat and silk scarf. The crowd closed in and she was gone. Well, well, he thought, Miss Sesina with a gentleman. He had a very good idea of how she was earning her living now. And Isabella Gordon, he wondered where she was.

  23

  THE MISSING

  Brighton. They stared at the grey sea, cold as slate under a heavy sky, and at the long distance where sea and sky met, where the world curved. There was no wind, just a leadenness in the air. Over there beyond that far line was Paris. They could see the faint smudge that was the steamer on its way to France. They were not there, Victorine and the mysterious Michel. Nor were they here in Brighton or, at least Dickens and Jones had not found them. And even further across the wide, wide sea lay America to where the SS Mediator would sail from London to New York in two days’ time on November 28th. Rogers was down at the Pool of London investigating the passenger list in case the two had decided to sail for America. They had done all they could.

  They had checked every milliner’s and dressmaker’s establishment in the hope that one might be the former business of a Frenchwoman and her husband. The name was Jolicoeur or Blandois. No one had heard of them. The next step was to get the Brighton police to check the addresses of any French nationals living in Brighton. But they could not wait in Brighton. They would have to hope that the police would find something.

  ‘They could have gone to Liverpool,’ observed Dickens, contemplating the sea. ‘To America from there.’

  ‘They could. I looked at the sailings – the America sails on November 30th for New York and the Cambria to Boston on November 29th, in three days. So, it might be the train for Liverpool. However, they could have gone to Ireland. They could be anywhere.’

  A breeze sprang up, whisking the sea into little waves. The sky seemed darker and suddenly they were cold. The sea was empty, iron grey now but steelier in the distance – no trace of the steamer. They could hear the husky rasp of the waves on the gravelly shore and then the hiss and suck as they receded. Shivering, they turned away.

  Sam’s face was suddenly bleak. ‘I think we may have to accept that we will not find them.’

  They walked away from the sea front up the Old Steine and past the Pavilion which on this grey, dying day seemed as improbable as some Eastern legend with its minarets and domes as if it had flown there on some magic carpet.

  They waited on the platform for the train to take them back to London Bridge from where Sam went back to Bow Street and Dickens made his way home. He thought about Sam’s despondent face. He had to agree. At the beginning they had been forced to be patient in their search for Scrap and Poll. They would have to be patient now. His cab took him along High Holborn and into High Street. He thought of Mrs Hart. He had time. It was just about five o’clock. He got out at St Giles’s Church and made his way to Monmouth Street where he saw Zeb and Effie at the door of the shop. They were looking anxiously up and down the street.

  They looked astonished to see him. Effie’s face crumpled with distress and he could see the tears.

  ‘She’s gone, Mr Dickens.’

  Effie did not have to say who.

  ‘When?’

  ‘I don’t know – this afternoon sometime. I went shopping. Zeb was here in the shop. It was busy. I went to see Occy’s wife for a cup of tea. I got back about half an hour ago. When I’d talked to Zeb I went upstairs and her door was open. It never was, never. She’s gone. I thought she was gettin’ better. That’s why I went to Occy’s. I thought she’d be all right. She had some soup about twelve o’clock – and she took something yesterday. She seemed a bit stronger – now I think –’

  ‘She wanted to be a bit stronger so that she could go,’ Dickens finished for her.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Zeb.

  ‘I feel it’s my fault, Mr Dickens – I should have come back sooner.’

  ‘I should’ve checked on her – I could’ve just popped upstairs. And the back door was open.’ Zeb was as distressed as his wife.

  ‘I do not think you could have prevented it – you would have to leave her sometime. She would have continued to take some food and when you went out or were busy she would have gone. Could she have gone home?’

  ‘We thought of that. I just said t
o Zeb that we should try.’

  ‘I will come with you.’ They would have to see. Perhaps she would go home to where her boy’s things were. Perhaps she thought that she would die there. The alternatives were too dreadful. To think of her wandering alone through these streets, he could hardly bear it. He saw from their faces that Zeb and Effie thought the same. And they did not know how long she had been gone.

  They hurried to the mean tenement where she and Robin had lived in their one room. The landlady, Mrs Bookless – and she was, apart from her rent books – a blowsy, grimy visaged creature who smelt of gin, and worse, couldn’t recall when she’d last seen ’er but they could look if they wanted. She’d better go with them. With some reluctance she gave them a key. Dickens insisted even though she protested that it want right. ’Oo were they, anyway? ’Ow did she know wot they were after? As if, thought Dickens, Mrs Hart had anything to steal. If she had, the landlady would have had it already. She just wanted to be in on it. Ghoul, he thought. Mrs Bookless had to give way. The gent was a bit frightening, she thought. Lawyer, pr’aps. Cheeky beggar. ’Er own ’ouse, too. ’Oo did he think ’e was? Eyes like steel, she thought, quailing a little before his fierce stare. She looked after them greedily. Best go in – she dint want no trouble.

  They climbed the rickety stairs to the top of the house. Effie looked at Dickens. She was afraid of what they might find. So was he. They waited, listening. There was no sound but their own breathing. He heard Zeb just behind him on the top step draw in his breath as if in preparation for something terrible, then he heard the breath let out again raggedly. Effie seemed to breathe in short, anxious gasps. Dickens did not know if he were breathing at all.

  ‘Shall we try the door, Mr Dickens?’ Effie whispered. Her face seemed too white in the dark corridor.

  Dickens reached out and turned the handle. The door was not locked. He and Effie stepped into the tiny room. The moon shone through a skylight in the roof, and they could make out a table, a couple of chairs and in the corner just the one bed. They hardly dared approach. Zeb, behind them, struck a match and lighted the candle in a saucer on the table. He held it up so that Effie and Dickens could see. The bed was empty.