Dread Murder

by Gwendoline Butler

  Charlie pulled his lips down in disapproval.

  ‘No, you can’t blame him; it’s not his fault. It’s either money or the King.’

  ‘The King wouldn’t want a performance after what happened.’ Charlie was even more shocked.

  ‘Kings can do what they like. Or this one can,’ she commented.

  A voice called out, ‘Miss Fairface, Miss Fairface!’

  It was Mindy. She was wearing a trim, high-waisted blue dress with a light blue shawl across her shoulders.

  They had known each other for some years, and were friends.

  ‘I’ve come to see how you are.’ She looked at Miss Fairface’s downcast face. ‘I need hardly ask.’

  ‘I can’t help crying. There’s been so much death! Am I very red and swollen?’

  ‘Not at all, my dear.’

  Actresses knew how to cry without showing the traces.

  ‘Charlie,’ she said, ‘go along to Ralli’s and bring back some coffee for us all. If you don’t want coffee, choose something else. He knows I will pay later.’

  ‘I’ll learn to like coffee,’ he said to himself as he scurried off. Clearly it was the sort of drink that people like Miss Fairface drank, and he intended to be one such person himself.

  ‘Perhaps I am ready,’ the thought came unheralded, but welcomed. He could feel something growing inside him, something to do with Spike and the dog. The dog was important.

  He sped off to Ralli’s to get the coffee where the sight of Felix Ferguson supping coffee on his own reminded Charlie who was the rat in the woodpile.

  Ferguson’s gaze flicked over Charlie with cold indifference.

  ‘He saw me though. He knows I’m here,’ thought Charlie with triumph, as he waited to be served.

  Ralli knew what he wanted. ‘Three?’ he questioned. ‘For you too?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Charlie proudly. ‘For me too.’

  He was carrying the three cups carefully on a small wooden tray when Mr Pickettwick came up beside him and took the tray. ‘Let me carry it, my dear.’

  He carried it to the Theatre, saying nothing more, until he got there. ‘In Miss Fairface’s dressing room?’

  Mindy and Miss Fairface, who had been talking quietly, looked at him with surprise.

  He began handing the coffee round. ‘Here you are, ladies. And one for the lad. No, don’t say “none for me” as I have had about three cups already. It ought to be champagne.’

  ‘I couldn’t drink before a performance,’ Miss Fairface declared.

  ‘You ought not to be here tonight, not after hearing the rumours that are going round. Just think, that poor man murdered and cut up just outside,’ he said.

  Miss Fairface blanched a little. ‘Mr Thornton wants a performance here tonight,’ she said quietly.

  Mr Pickettwick clicked his tongue in disapproval.

  ‘Oh, it’s the King really, he wants to see.’

  Mr Pickettwick clicked his tongue again and shook his head.

  Charlie said: ‘Have my coffee, Sir. I have to go on an errand.’ He had taken a small sip and decided that, although coffee was certainly a drink to grow into, he wasn’t ready to grow yet.

  He made his way to where Spike and his dog lived.

  It was a small house, one of a row, with two windows on the ground floor, and two upstairs. He went round the back and looked in the first window. The cupboard was open; a woman’s dress and shawl were hanging there.

  He could see Spike looking at him and the dog beside him. Charlie waved at Spike, and climbed up. ‘I’ll have to give you a proper name, Dog.’

  Dog gave a short sharp bark as if he agreed – even as if he had a name and he knew it; but who else did?

  Charlie looked through the window to speak to Spike. ‘We’ll have to make up a name for your dog. And not just “Dog” either. Give him a bit more, he deserves it!’

  The dog wagged his tail. ‘Yes, good boy!’

  ‘Good boy,’ said Spike. ‘Good boy, good boy!’

  Charlie studied his face. ‘You could talk better than that, Spike, if someone spoke to you. Perhaps you aren’t even allowed to talk.’

  Suddenly, he found himself asking: ‘Is that man Ferguson your father?’

  Spike shook his head firmly: ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you got that out all right, loud and clear,’ Charlie thought. ‘He is not your father. Although, goodness knows how you can be so sure.’

  He said to the boy: ‘I will talk to you, Spike, and to the dog, and you must speak back.’

  He looked at the dog. ‘Perhaps not you, Dog!’

  The dog wagged his tail.

  ‘Now you, Spike. I am Charlie,’ and he pointed to himself. ‘You’re Spike. Say “I am Spike”.’

  Spike looked thoughtful, then said slowly, pointing at his chest: ‘I am Spike.’

  ‘Spike. Spike.’

  ‘Spike,’ said the boy slowly and solemnly.

  They continued with their conversation through the window – Spike was doing well.

  ‘I wonder if it’s that he can’t hear properly, as well as no one speaking to him,’ Charlie thought.

  ‘Come out,’ he called. ‘We can’t talk properly through the window.’

  Spike shook his head. ‘Spike can’t.’

  ‘He’s Ferguson’s prisoner,’ thought Charlie – he who had always been free.

  ‘Are you hungry, Spike?’

  The boy nodded slowly.

  ‘Stay where you are. I will be back. I won’t be long.’

  As he hurried to the cooked meat and pie shop that he knew, he wondered if Spike would be there when he got back. If Ferguson arrived back, he might send Spike out on an errand.

  He ran back with the cold sausage and slices of meat that the shop man had sold him. He was always generous to Charlie, which the boy appreciated while sometimes reflecting that it was not the sort of thing he could have sold at a high price.

  ‘Hungry, are you then?’ the man had asked this time.

  ‘No, but it’s for someone who doesn’t get much. And a dog, too,’ he added.

  It was then that the bread was put round the meat and another sausage thrown in. ‘Thank you, Sir!’ said Charlie, looking at the name written above the open-windowed shop. ‘Mr Copperfield, Sir.’

  ‘Not my name … I just bought it with the shop.’

  Charlie handed the bread and beef to Spike, who began to eat, and he threw a sausage to the dog.

  ‘You don’t look so thin, Dog,’ appraised Charlie. ‘I expect you go hunting. A deal of ratties round here.’

  He knew he ought to get away, and something of this must have got through to Spike (although not to Dog who was busy eating) because Spike’s eyes seemed to say, ‘Don’t ever leave me.’

  ‘I’ll have to,’ thought Charlie silently in reply, ‘but I’ll fix you up with someone before I go.’ He climbed down.

  ‘Now finish eating and we will do some more talking … I can see you want to and, once you’ve got the hang of it, then it’ll come easy. Talking is natural, you’ll see. One day you’ll say to yourself: “So that’s how it works,” and you’ll be away.’

  Spike opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, then he shut it quickly. His eyes looked frightened and he looked away. The dog moved away.

  Charlie turned round to look. There was Felix Ferguson, the Crowner, marching towards him down the alley. Although Ferguson was moving smoothly and quietly, it was a march all the same. He remembered the Major saying that the Crowner had been a soldier. Not a soldier he would care to serve with, was the impression Charlie got.

  ‘I came to have a talk with the boy,’ Charlie explained.

  ‘You’d get more talk out of the dog.’

  ‘Spike’s got more to say than you know,’ Charlie said to himself.

  On his way up the hill where the Castle and the Theatre faced each other, Charlie met Major Mearns.

  ‘Hello, boy. Coming to call on me and Denny?’

  He was a nice
man, which showed in the smile he gave the boy. The truth was that Charlie interested him. He wasn’t the usual street boy; he spoke in sentences for one thing, and used words as if he liked them. As a soldier, Mearns was used to observing and assessing, and he found Charlie to be clever. Not sharp clever, nor vicious clever. He’d met plenty of those through the years. But Charlie was a maker – someone who would produce something.

  That’s if he lived long enough to do it. Living on the street was no recipe for long life. Nor was the army, he reminded himself, so, don’t push the boy that way. He ought to go back to his home which, from the look of him, had not been too bad a place.

  ‘Where have you been, Charlie?’ Mearns was interested.

  Slowly, Charlie said: ‘I went to see Spike. You know who Spike is?’

  ‘Yes, I know Spike. And the dog.’

  They smiled at each other.

  ‘I like Spike. There’s a lot in him,’ said Charlie. ‘He needs a proper home. I might take him with me when I go.’

  ‘Are you going then?’ He wasn’t surprised. Who would be? Charlie wouldn’t be a boy to stay in a place like this. ‘But do you suppose he could cope with your life?’

  ‘But I am easy.’

  ‘But you might create a dangerous world for you both,’ thought Mearns, but did not say it aloud.

  ‘I have been thinking I ought to go back to London. I never meant to stay so long in Windsor. But it’s full of interesting people like Mr Pickettwick and Denny, and Miss Fairface and the Theatre, and you of course. I suppose I’d be one too, if I stayed around.’

  ‘But not so interesting if you go away to London and make your life there.’

  There was a decision in Major Mearns’ voice; he had seen a lot of young men grow up (and die), and thought he knew what was best for them.

  After leaving Charlie, Mearns went back to his rooms where he found Denny having a drink.

  He sat down beside Denny and took a drink himself.

  ‘I like that boy Charlie.’

  ‘So do I. Shall I ask him in for a drink?’ said Denny sleepily. This was his usual method of making friends.

  ‘He’s only a lad.’

  ‘Lads like a drink, and he’s had one already, I’d say.’

  The Major did not argue with his judgement. He had known too many soldiers to find it hard to believe. He might even have been a tipsy one himself long decades ago.

  ‘I won’t be the one to encourage him; nor will you, Denny.’ He held out his own glass, though. ‘Fill up, please, Denny. The red wine.’

  ‘The white is better,’ said Denny.

  Mearns leaned back against the cushions on his chair. ‘Do you remember when we had Miss Fanny Burney here as Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen, and we had that trouble?’

  ‘The murder?’

  ‘She dealt with it. I reckon she was cleverer than our Crowner.’

  ‘I always used to bolt my food,’ said Denny, ‘so I was in time to see her on the afternoon walk with the Queen and the Princesses.’

  ‘I did too,’ admitted the Major. ‘Only, as I don’t eat so much as you it wasn’t such a struggle.’

  Wistfully Denny said: ‘She’s a married lady now and lives across on the Continent.’

  ‘She was very clever about the murders we had then. We could do with her now. Our Crowner accepts the bodies, but doesn’t do much about finding who put them there.’ The Major poured himself more wine. ‘I mean to find out.’

  ‘We could start guessing,’ said Denny.

  ‘I’ve been doing that and not getting anywhere.’ The Major spoke over his wine, but Denny could tell he was enjoying himself. Also, he thought the Major could probably make a pretty good guess at who was sending the body parts.

  ‘People don’t realise what a dangerous place a castle can be,’ said Denny. ‘Think of the history it’s got. It’s bound to tell. In the stones.’ Denny was a great believer in the past influencing the present.

  ‘Well, don’t go and retire on me,’ said Mearns with good humour. ‘I need you, Denny.’

  ‘I’ll stay,’ said Denny. ‘Couldn’t afford to go.’

  From the corridor outside they could hear loud voices.

  Denny looked alarmed. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That’s not a quarrel. Don’t you recognise His Majesty’s voice? All that family talk loudly when they are excited.’ The Major added thoughtfully: ‘And he sounds more excited than usual. Wonder why?’ The Major was pensive. He knew one of the voices: it belonged to Maken, one of the Gentlemen-in-Waiting.

  Denny took a furtive glance around the door. He sometimes got the gentlemen-in-waiting confused, but this one was Lord Maken of Muirhead. No one could forget a name like that, especially when allied to rich red hair. And he always had lovely clothes. Rumour had it that he was a ‘friend’ to Mrs Fitzherbert, and there were some red-haired children in the town.

  Behind Maken stood the King. He was wearing one of the beautifully tailored dark cloth suits that Brummell had converted him to. Even Denny admired its stylish, unostentatious elegance. He knew, of course, that it came from the tailor at the end of Bond Street and that, plain as it was, it cost as much as one of the silk jackets that His Majesty had previously admired.

  Lord Maken seemed to have visited the same tailor and probably got his silk cravat there too.

  Lord Maken said, ‘His Majesty would like to speak to Major Mearns, please.’

  ‘Shout at him, you mean. Bellow like a cross lion!’ thought Denny. But he knew better than to say anything, because there was His Majesty a little way down the corridor and the Major was in the room behind, acting as if he had heard nothing.

  ‘This was how you behaved at Court,’ Denny thought. ‘Natural, you were not!’

  The Major stood up and bowed. ‘Sir.’

  His Majesty smiled. ‘I want you to kill someone for me.’ Mearns allowed himself to look surprised. He had killed enough men in the professional way as a soldier, but once he had retired, he had not killed.

  ‘Is it anyone I know, Sir?’

  ‘My wife.’

  Lord Maken made a soft noise like a moan. ‘His Majesty is joking.’

  Mearns was silent; he did not know what to say. Perhaps if he laughed it would prove it was a joke.

  ‘Yes, poor joke,’ said the King, sadly.

  ‘Come back to your rooms, Sir. Let me take you,’ said Lord Maken. He mouthed silently to Mearns, ‘Drunk, too much wine. You know how it takes the King sometimes.’

  Mearns nodded. Scenes like this were not uncommon. He was not always involved. It was part of Castle life that was not often talked about.

  ‘I haven’t finished with Major Mearns,’ was the answer. ‘But I’m not quite sure what I want.’

  ‘You will remember, Your Majesty,’ said Lord Maken.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you, Your Majesty?’ said Mearns politely, hoping the offer would not be accepted.

  The King went quiet for a moment.

  ‘Later,’ he said finally. ‘I will see you get a message.’

  Two days passed.

  ‘He may have forgotten all about it,’ said Denny. ‘He’s a funny fellow.’

  ‘He usually remembers what he wants and, being who he is, usually gets it.’

  The King was dressed in one of his sombre dark suits. In a low voice he said a name. ‘Mrs Fitzherbert. I want you to kill my wife.’

  Major Mearns sat quietly, then he said, ‘Yes, Mrs Fitzherbert is your wife.’

  Chapter Ten

  Charlie had heard what the Major said but he did not know what it meant. Who was Mrs Fitzherbert? And how could she be the King’s wife? He already had a wife and a daughter, married and about to give birth.

  He took himself off for a cup of coffee, which he was training himself to like.

  He would not go to Ralli’s, which even to his simple palate served the best coffee, because it was too expensive. Moreover, he might meet there the people he did not wish to meet while pic
king up information about the King and Mrs Fitzherbert.

  So he went to a quiet little place, a mere hole in the wall, which he knew.

  He slid into a seat at the back, close to where old Mrs Cheasle usually sat when she wanted a drink – which was often but, as she owned the place, no one stopped her.

  He fumbled in his pocket, just enough for a cup of her weak coffee. Sometimes if she was in a good mood and felt generous she cut the price a fraction. On this day, however, she gave him a not unfriendly look before going back to drink her own tea.

  Finally, he decided to ask her outright.

  ‘Do you know Mrs Fitzherbert?’

  Mrs Cheasle looked surprised. ‘Not to say “know”.’ She took a quick swig of her tea. Mrs Cheasle was an eccentric figure even in this Windsor hole. Charlie thought of it as a hole because it was down a flight of steps and underground. It had a kind of cosiness though, and it was cheap.

  ‘Does she live in Windsor?’

  There was a pause. ‘I might have seen her here once. I think it was her – we all thought it was her … Why?’

  ‘I wondered if she lived in the Castle.’

  Mrs Cheasle said thoughtfully: ‘If she did live in Windsor it would be in the Castle, I suppose, although she was seen in a house by the Theatre. I heard she was long gone, though.’

  ‘Not dead?’

  ‘Oh no, not dead; we’d have heard about her dying.’ She sounded almost regretful.

  ‘Oh, would you,’ thought Charlie.

  ‘Why?’ he asked hopefully. There was something here he wanted to know. From what he had observed of Mrs Cheasle, he guessed she had plenty to tell him.

  She gave him a hint now. ‘We used to say – how was it? – her husband fell off his horse when he was riding home and killed himself.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘So we heard.’

  ‘Wonder how much she makes up?’ he thought, ‘or embroiders?’

  Mrs Cheasle gave him a long, thoughtful, but not ill-humoured look.

  ‘She’s enjoying this,’ he thought. ‘Well, if she can, then I can too. I must remember when I start writing.’