by J C Briggs
‘But she’s been here,’ said Effie. ‘Look.’
Dickens saw that the blanket had been turned back as though someone had just risen. He noted the two pillows. They had shared this bed, he thought. And, he saw, too, the shabby brown bonnet simply left there on one pillow. Her face had rested on the pillow nearest the wall – that is where Robin had slept, he had no doubt. She had lain here. For how long? He did not know, but she had come because Robin had been here. She had wanted to be with him, and then she had gone, not knowing that she had left the hat there – or not caring.
He was angry suddenly. He turned and clattered down the stairs. Effie heard him hammering on the landlady’s door. That fat-faced woman with her greedy, calculating eyes must have seen Mrs Hart – and she had let her go. The woman came to her door, angry at the noise. He saw the mouth open in the face which looked as if it were composed of dirty yeast, and he was seized with a desire to take her by the throat and shake her. Mrs Bookless stepped back, cowed, and closed her mouth.
‘You saw her. When?’ He shouted at her. Effie was astonished. Mr Dickens, so polite and quietly spoken usually. But, she could see why he was angry. This woman had not cared a farthing for poor Mrs Hart and Mr Dickens knew that. Well, you only had to read the books – you knew that he cared.
Mrs Bookless opened and closed her mouth. She tried to deny it by shaking her head.
‘When?’ He took a step towards her. She backed off and he felt his power over her, this fat, blowsy creature who had no doubt terrorised Mrs Hart for the rent. Mrs Bookless looked round, eyes darting. But there was nowhere to go.
‘About two hours ago. ’Ow do I know?’ She was sullen. ‘I arsked ’er –’
‘For her rent?’ His voice was contemptuous. ‘And you knew her son was dead, and you knew she had nothing. You must have seen the state she was in.’
‘Gotter make me livin’ – thought ’er friends mighter give ’er sumthink.’ She looked at Effie who had appeared in the doorway by now.
‘Yes, they did, far more than you could ever imagine. Well, I doubt she’ll be back and you can examine your conscience on that matter – if you have one.’ He turned and left her. Zeb was waiting in the hall and the three of them went out into the air. At least they could breathe.
Mrs Bookless’s flesh ceased quivering. She was that put out. Nosy git. Lotter fuss about nothin’ – none of ’is business wot she sed ter Mrs ’Art. Bleedin’ cheek. She closed her front door and went back in to see what was left in the bottle. She’d ’ave a good look round termorrer - Mrs ’Art mighter left sumthink. She was entitled, want she?
In the street, they considered where to look. Effie said she would go to Mrs Feak’s to ask if she knew anything. Zeb would fetch Occy – he could help search and he knew a lot of people. Someone might have seen her. Dickens would go to Crown Street and fetch Scrap. Then he had a thought.
‘We should go to St Giles’s where Robin was found.’ He thought of Mrs Hart lying in the bed and he imagined her dragging her way to the churchyard to lie down on that cold tombstone where they had found him. He did not know if she knew which one it was but it did not matter – she might go there.
From Moor Street they turned up Crown Street, making their way to Denamrk Street and then to the church. They went through the resurrection gate into the silent graveyard where he and Sam had seen that poor boy. He remembered how he had imagined the gentleman who had drawn the innocent boy to his side only to stab him in the heart. He felt the anger flare up again. He had to be found – the man who had taken Jemmy’s and Robin’s lives and, he believed, Mrs Hart’s. They spread out to search. But she was not here. The tombs were still under the impassive moon. The dead were quiet. No messages from the grave. Dickens went to look at the chalk mark on that old door. The blind eyes of that crude masked face could tell him nothing. Was it at all important? He did not know.
They were ready to go their separate ways. Messages would be left at the shop if there were news of her. Dickens said he would ask Scrap to search and then he would go to Bow Street to tell the superintendent – they could leave a message there. When they looked at each other’s faces they knew what the message would be. Two, three hours had gone. They would not find her alive.
At Bow Street, Rogers had reported that there were no names on the passenger list which indicated that Victorine and Michel would be sailing on the SS Mediator. Another blank.
‘Will we be going to Liverpool then?’ asked Rogers.
‘I suppose so,’ said Sam. Rogers noted the weariness in his tone. Brighton had been no good.
‘Bit o’ better news, sir. Mr Wilde left a message sayin’ that Mr Outfin ’ad come round. Very weak but ’e’ll live, doctor said.’
Sam’s face brightened a little. ‘That is good news.’
‘Yer don’t think now that ’e’s our man?’
‘No, I don’t. I am glad about that anyway. Anything else happen?’
‘I went to that church in Golden Square but no one knew anythin’ about Mamselle Victorine. She muster gone somewhere else – if she did go to church. An’ I asked Stemp to keep lookin’ for Tommy Titfer – ’e’s bin missin’ since that night Mr Dickens and Zeb went to Rats’ Castle. No one’s seen ’im for days. Stemp should be back soon.’
‘We meant to ask Scrap to take you to that alley where he saw the giant. Perhaps he killed Titfer. We’ll do that when Stemp gets back.’
Rogers went out, leaving the superintendent pondering. Stemp would do his best. Sam remembered his outrage when they had arrested Jonas Finger over the murder of a little girl. Stemp had found the child and Sam had seen the pity and revulsion in his eyes when they had noticed the bruises. Stemp had children of his own; he had hung on to the cursing, brawling brute of a man until Finger gave in. He wondered about Titfer, a low weasly sort with a mother and a brother. If he were dead then they would suffer. He would wait for Stemp then go home to Elizabeth, and try to forget for a while the hopelessness of the search for Victorine, and, if he could, the suffering – sometimes it could be overwhelming. You felt impotent against the black tide of misery.
He bent his head to his paperwork. Reports on the three dead boys. Inspector Harker had sent him word about the inquest on Jemmy. It had been short. Harker had passed on the newspaper article which reported that Inspector Harker and Constable Parker had presented themselves, and said they had the case in hand, and were sure if they had time they could procure important evidence, and that they had a clue already. The investigation was proceeding in association with Superintendent Jones of Bow Street who was also investigating two murders which had similarities to the murder of Jemmy. The man who had found the body gave his evidence, which was not much. After a brief consultation between the coroner and jury, it was decided that the inquiry should be adjourned. It would be the same for the other two. He had managed to put off the inquest on Robin, but time was running out – a verdict of wilful murder by person or persons unknown was what he dreaded. Not unknown, he thought – just unfound. He did not want to go chasing to Liverpool, but he would have to unless they materialised at Bow Street to confess to their hideous crimes – and that, he thought gloomily, was very unlikely.
He looked at the Standard to see if there were any more reports about the dead boys. There had been a couple of short paragraphs on the deaths of Robin and the disfigured boy – the latter report assumed that the boy had died in the fire. Today’s front page was full of news from Europe and France, giving most space to the row between the Assembly and the President, Louis Napoleon.There was a long section on the commission to be established to improve the metropolitan water supply – about time, thought Sam. The newspapers had been full of the cholera epidemic which had raged all summer. Page two was interesting. They had reproduced a letter from Charles Dickens which had been first published in The Times in which he argued against executions in public. Sam had to agree. He had seen the Mannings hanged and felt the horror of the baying crowd. And he wondered wheth
er it was right to take a human life. But then he had been in court to hear Mrs Manning’s screaming denunciations of British justice. She was a liar and a callous, greedy murderess. He had not pitied her when he heard what she had done to Patrick O’Connor yet when he saw her hanging form, he had turned away, and now he had to catch the murderer of children – it was impossible to forgive that, he thought.
There was a knock at the door; Rogers came in with Stemp who looked as though he had something to tell.
‘Sir, well, I don’t know if it’s any use – I ’aven’t found Tommy Titfer – but I ’eard something by the way. Titfer was runnin’ errands for a toff and some folk are sayin’ that ’e, Titfer, was takin’ boys to ’im. I thought we should see Fikey again – ’e might know more than ’e told you.’
‘Well done, Stemp – good work.’
‘Want us to bring him in?’ Rogers was eager.
‘I think we might pay him a visit.’ This might be something – at least it was action. ‘And I think we should go and see the boy, Scrap – he saw the giant dragging a body on the night Tommy Titfer disappeared. We need to find out if Titfer is alive or dead.’
Another knock on the door. Dickens and Scrap appeared. Something had happened.
‘Mrs Hart has vanished. I just came to tell you. Occy and Zeb are searching. We went to her lodgings. She had been there but was gone. I fear the worst. Scrap says he will help me.’
‘Stemp has just brought information about Tommy Titfer. We are just off to Fikey Chubb’s shop. I need to borrow Scrap for a little while to show us where he saw the giant with the body. In the meantime, I’ll let you have Feak to help. I’ll need Rogers and Stemp at Chubb’s but we will come back to you as soon as we can. Where do you want to meet Scrap?’
‘At Zeb’s. I’ll go back there now. We have looked at St Giles’s but she wasn’t there – we will probably have another look. Scrap, we will see you at Zeb’s in –’
‘Half an hour. It won’t take long will it, Scrap?’
‘Nah, I remember where I seen ’im.’
They went out together through the usual crowd. Sam looked at Dickens. They remembered the night they had taken Mrs Hart to Zeb’s and how the crowd had parted at their coming. Sam shook his head. He held Dickens back for a moment.
‘Have you thought of the river?’
Dickens looked sombrely back at him. ‘I have. I thought we might find her before –’
‘And where, that’s the question.’
‘I know. Too many places to search. I will get back to Zeb’s. Come, if you can.’
‘I will.’
Scrap took the three policemen through the winding alleys to the ruined house where he had hidden in wait for Poll. They went through to the alley where Nat Boney’s house was in darkness. No dogs barked. Business was bad, then, thought Scrap. Good. I wonder where all them dogs went. He pointed the way that the giant had gone and went on his way to meet Dickens at Zeb’s shop.
The superintendent, Rogers and Stemp separated and began their search, looking in the yards and abandoned gardens. The giant would have left the body in an unused place, Sam thought. No use looking where there were lights and voices. It did not take long. In an overgrown garden where rats scuttled in the dark, and the air was filled with the stench of decay and death, Sam saw a shape lying in a heap of stinking refuse. He went nearer with his bull’s-eye lantern held it up. The yellow light showed him the body, the terrible face where the rats had feasted, and he saw the red plume of hair. The stink of corruption rose at him so that he had to turn away, though everywhere the air was bitter. Death was in his nostrils, in his mouth, the taste of putrefaction thickening on his tongue like fur to choke him. He forced himself to look again. It was Tommy, no doubt. Poor devil – it was a terrible place to lie, forgotten, left like a piece of rubbish in a midden. Sam sent up a hasty prayer. Whatever he had done, he could not be left thus with no word said for him. Even the murderer on the gallows heard a prayer before the noose tightened.
He called out for Rogers and Stemp and heard their boots on the cobbles of the alley.
‘Poor devil,’ said Rogers when he saw the horror that was Tommy Titfer now. Stemp said nothing. He had heard what had been said about Titfer and the boys. He was implacable – the little rat deserved what he got. But he said nothing.
‘Your rattle, Stemp. We need a couple of beat constables to deal with the body. They’ll be able to get the mortuary van down here and take him away. We’ll deal with it all tomorrow. We need to see Chubb, now.’ Stemps’s rattle summoned two constables to the alley and Sam gave his instructions. Stemp would wait with one of them while the other returned to the police station. Stemp would come to Fikey Chubb’s as soon as he could.
Sam and Rogers picked their way through the weeds and rank grasses and made their way out through the abandoned house to which the garden had once belonged. The roof had fallen in as had the stairs and they could see the moon like a spectral face looking down at them. In the lantern light they could see shadows dancing on the crumbling walls, ghosts of those who had once lived, laughed, taken supper, and played the ruined piano that sat drunkenly in the corner. Guests might have come in through this space where the door had been. But they were all gone now, to their graves, perhaps. Well, at least they would not know of the terrible thing that had lain in the garden where lilac had bloomed and roses had come in the summer.
Fikey Chubb’s shop was open. They went in; Sam closed the door with as loud a crash as he could make. The shop smelt of Fikey and something like rotten meat. Fikey popped up from behind his counter like a malignant gnome – not that he was particularly small – just ugly, thought Sam maliciously. Fikey had that effect on him.
‘Wot the ’ell? Oh, it’s you, Superintendent, no need to bring the bleedin’ ’ouse down. It’s a friggin’ disgrace – persecution, I calls it. I’m a –’
‘Spare me the catalogue of your virtues, Mr Chubb. I have heard it all before.’
Hearing the iron in the superintendent’s voice, Fikey subsided, though the scowl on his face did not improve his looks.
‘Tommy Titfer?’
‘Not that agin – I told yer last time. Don’t know where ’e is an’ I don’t bleedin’ care.’
‘Oh, we’ve just found him. Dead. Strangled by the looks of it.’
‘Poor bleeder – that’s wot comes o’ keepin bad company.’ Fikey’s sudden access of piety almost made Sam laugh. He was incorrigible.
‘I take it you do not refer to yourself. I thought he was a friend of yours.’
‘Tommy – ’e ’ad no friends – acquaintances, mebbe –’ Fikey was becoming loquacious. Sam only had to wait. ‘An’ a lot o’ rogues, ’e mixed wiv – I’m tellin’ yer, Mr Jones, a man’s gotter watch ’oo ’e keeps company wiv these days.’
‘Exactly what I was thinking myself. And as you know so much about him, perhaps you would care to tell me with whom Tommy consorted. I’ve got plenty of time.’ Sam’s voice was cool. Rogers wanted to laugh. Consorted, he thought, that’d fox Fikey. Sam moved to the counter.
Fikey looked uneasily at Rogers who stood at the door, idly fingering his truncheon. He looked backwards at the open door behind the counter. Bloody ’ell, there woz another of the bleeders there. Stemp had suddenly appeared.
‘Wot yer talkin’ abaht – consorted – don’t know wot yer mean.’
‘I mean who were these rogues? I am interested in a particular rogue – a toff, apparently, for whom Tommy Titfer ran errands.’
‘Dunno nothin’ abaht that.’ Fikey did not sound at all convincing.
‘You do, and as I say, we have all night.’
Fikey gave in. ‘Oh, I ’eard a rumour – somethin’ abaht boys – dint take much notice – not my line. Told yer last time.’
Sam smashed his truncheon on the counter so hard that Fikey fell backwards, his face suddenly sick in the greenish gaslight.
‘And you did not think to tell me. About Tommy Titfer.’ Sam’s
voice was menacing. ‘You knew about those dead boys – I told you I wanted information. Another boy has been murdered. Your information might have prevented that. Accessory, we call it. You are implicated, Chubb. So, you had better tell me now.’
‘I dunno ’oo it woz. Tommy sed ’e woz ’opin’ to earn a bit – I wanted me money back wiv interest.’
‘You would. Did Tommy tell you anything about the man – was he a foreigner?’
Fikey looked baffled. ‘’Oo sed ’e was foreign?’
‘I am asking if Tommy said anything about the man being a foreigner – French, perhaps?’
‘Nah, jest sed ’e woz a toff – Tommy thort ’e might make a bit – yer know. Then ’e disappeared, Tommy that is, so I dint think no more abaht it. ’Ow woz I ter know it woz important?’
Fikey was beginning to recover. Mr friggin’ Superintendent couldn’t pin anythin’ on ’im. But then he looked at the superintendent’s face as hard as an axe gleaming dangerously in the green light. Bloody ’ell. ’E’d ave to give ’im somethink – Fikey Chubb, informer. Folk weren’t goin’ ter like it. But a man ’ad ter look arter number one.
‘One thing. Tommy sed the toff asked if ’e could get drugs. Well, Tommy, ’e knew. There’s a place round ’ere wot is a drugs den – opium. Little Chinaman. Yer might find yer toff there.’
We already have, thought Sam, remembering the young man sprawled on that disgusting cot, shouting his fears into the filthy room, and the Chinaman indifferent to it all, except the possibility of a new customer. But the toff had not been Michel Blandois. Damn. Fikey Chubb knew it – he saw the beginnings of a sly smile on Fikey’s face. Time to wipe it off.
‘We will certainly go there. I know the place you mean. I’ll be certain to tell Mr Chinaman that you sent us – Mr Chubb, most obliging to the police – and does it for nothing, too.’