Footsteps clattered along the wooden floor. Charles saw Addie Jones and her father-in-law, Edmund Jones, who had been lurking in the corner, almost invisible. Mrs. Jones, dressed in black, rushed toward him, her hands outstretched; then she all but fell into Kate’s arms, crying. Mr. Jones remained passively in the shadows. Kate was overbalanced and had to lean on the whitewashed wall behind her. Daniel Jones must be the arrested person that the coroner had groused about.
Charles glanced at Edmund Jones. Gray haired and half bent over from a lifetime of work, he had tucked his gnarled hands, with their huge knuckles, against his lapels. Though shrunken, he still gave the appearance of strength.
“That’s the last,” the assistant said, smacking his lips.
The coroner gestured for the twelve men, all voters on the parliamentary rolls, to sit on the stools provided for them along the wall. “Constable,” he ordered, his large frame looming over the seated men.
The taller constable cleared his throat and said loudly, but in a mechanical way, “Oyez! Oyez! Oyez! You good men of this county, summoned to appear here on this day, to inquire of our sovereign lord the king, when, how, and by what means Miss Haverstock came to her death, answer to your names as you shall be called, every man at the first call, upon the pain and peril that shall fall thereon.”
Sir Silas tucked his thick, flat fingers under the collar of his freshly pressed waistcoat, displaying a gold watch chain and seals. “I am Sir Silas Laurie, the coroner. Here is what we are going to do today, gentlemen. First, you need to choose your foreman. He will be sworn in first, and then the rest of you will be in turn. After that, we will continue.” He made a circle with his index finger, and the twelve men came off their stools and made a loose circle, to discuss who among them was the most distinguished.
Charles’s gaze circled the men, cataloging each one. He hadn’t been in the parish long enough to recognize them, but he attempted to put them into their rightful place by details of their clothing. He suspected the tallest of them would be chosen. A man of forty or so years, he looked the most prosperous, with a tailcoat of fine black summer-weight wool, and had the bushiest side-whiskers. Twenty minutes passed while the jurors decided and were each sworn in, the foreman with a lengthier oath to recite than the others. Charles was gratified that his candidate for foreman was indeed the man chosen.
After that, Sir Silas drew himself up again and spoke his charge. “Gentlemen, you are sworn to inquire, on behalf of the king, how and by what means Miss Haverstock came to her death. Your first duty is to take a view of the body of the deceased, wherein you will be careful to observe if there be any marks of violence thereon, from which, and on the examination of the witnesses intended to be produced before you, you will endeavor to discover the cause of her death, so as to be able to return to me a true verdict upon this occasion.”
He cleared his throat and spoke in less formal terms. “We are going down to the street, and we shall have a fine walk to the late Miss Haverstock’s home so that you can view the body. It’s not how it was found, unfortunately, but you need to see what was done to this poor woman. It won’t be pleasant. She’s probably been dead for five days.”
The coroner glared as one of the jurors moaned. “After that we’ll come back here, and you can quench your thirst before we question the deceased’s family and the witnesses. You are lucky. This is the only inquest today, so we won’t have to keep you all day long.”
One of the constables walked the foreman out. The juror who had protested earlier hung his head as he walked out the door. The others followed, and the second constable brought up the rear, followed by the coroner and his assistant.
Charles, along with the other witnesses, stayed behind, while William followed the group to record the proceedings. The newspapers mostly reported on the juicy parts of witness testimony, quoting them verbatim. William’s shorthand skills would be sorely tested once everyone returned to the pub.
Once the jurors were gone, Charles could focus on the others who were present.
Mr. Hogarth opened his tobacco pouch. “They should have chosen a closer pub, but I suppose the coroner has used this one before.”
“It will be quite a while before they return,” Charles agreed. “Enough time to get good and sozzled, if we were so inclined.”
“Can we sit?” Kate asked.
“I should think so.” Charles went and collected a trio of stools for them. As they sat, he looked at the others in the room.
The sole woman present, other than Kate and Addie Jones, was quite young, perhaps seventeen or eighteen, and very beautiful. Her golden hair and high color were embellished by the peach silk skirt overlay on her short-sleeved summer dress. She looked expensive in every respect, and her expression was disinterested and serene, even haughty. Kate’s gaze had gone directly to the girl, too, and her hands plucked at her serviceable gray summer-weight dress skirt as if it irritated her.
Mr. Hogarth, on the other hand, viewed the girl’s companion. The youth next to her looked even younger, but it might simply be a matter of sophistication, for he did not wear the attire of a wealthy person. His coat and trousers were brown wool; his waistcoat was black. His shoes had graying discoloration on the toes and heels, as if the leather was too worn to take polish any longer.
Besides them, the room contained two men, a cadaverous man of some sixty years and a younger assistant, very slim and tired looking, with the kind of frame that never held any fat but only stringy muscle. Charles attempted to define the foreignness of the first man. His clothes seemed cut a bit too tight, perhaps, and the long mustache was not typical for London.
The foreign-looking man approached Charles. He was too elderly for his shoe polish–black hair and trailing black mustache. “You are Dickens?” he demanded, his voice slightly accented, with a glance at his assistant rather than at Charles.
“I am, sir,” Charles said after the assistant nodded. “And you are?”
“Ferazzi,” the man barked. “I own the Selwood Terrace property.”
“Ah,” said Charles, offering his hand. “A pleasure to meet you. I had enjoyed my rooms until the late death.”
Ferazzi rubbed his nose. “They’ll remove the body today. Believe the cart was going to be sent for directly after the jury visited.”
“I am glad to hear it. We’ve had a spot of warm weather,” Charles said.
Ferazzi’s upper lip curled. “Indeed.”
“Who are the young people?” Charles asked, nodding his chin toward the appealing pair as Mrs. Jones cried on Kate’s bosom.
“Don’t know ’em.” Mr. Ferazzi’s expression remained harsh.
“I’ve seen the girl,” the helpful assistant said. “When rent collecting.”
“A former resident?” Charles asked.
“Miss Haverstock’s foster daughter. Name of Jaggers, I believe.”
“Ah, I had heard of such a person,” Charles exclaimed. “Well, they could not have been of any relationship by blood. Miss Haverstock was so small and dark.”
“And Miss Jaggers is a tall, shining creature. Rather like one of them Greek goddesses,” the assistant said with a leering grin.
Mr. Ferazzi sneered and stalked off.
“Needs to eat more,” his assistant opined as Mr. Ferazzi went down the steps. “If your belly ain’t ever full, you ain’t going to have a proper decency about you.”
“He is not a large man,” Charles agreed.
“Sunken cheeks,” the assistant said. “That’s ’ow you tells it, the signs of want.”
“Surely that is also a sign of age in a person,” Charles suggested.
“’E’s old enough, to be sure,” the assistant agreed. “But I’ve never seen ’im eat anythink, not even a round of toast.”
“Who are you?” Charles said. “I don’t remember seeing you.”
“That’s because I ’aven’t collected rent from you yet.” The man grinned, exposing three holes where teeth ought to have been. “
Nickerson’s me name. Reggie Nickerson.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nickerson.”
“You’ll feel that way until my ’and’s out and your purse’s empty,” Mr. Nickerson said agreeably. “Then you’ll ’ate the sight of me. But I mean to do a proper job of it and collect my wage and take it ’ome to the missus so we can keep a roof over our own ’eads, you see.”
“Very well put,” Charles said. “You’ll have no trouble from me.”
“I ’ope not, Mr. Dickens, as my employer keeps me ever so busy. Sunup to sundown these past few weeks, cleaning out the rooms on a boarding’ouse’e’s just purchased.”
“No trouble,” Charles repeated. “I’m a respectable man.” He edged away, moving to Miss Jaggers’s side.
The beautiful girl glanced at him as he approached. Taller than average, she met his eyes. “Yes?”
“I wanted to express my condolences to you and your companion. I knew your foster mother for a few weeks and enjoyed her company.” Charles smiled politely.
“Thank you.” Her lashes fluttered. “This is Prince Moss.”
Charles inclined his head to the young man. “I did try to find your address so I could tell you the tragic news, but I’m afraid I failed. I hope the police have treated you with sensitivity.”
One side of her mouth curled up as Kate rushed to Charles’s side. Charles introduced Kate to the bereaved girl.
Kate frowned. “I am so sorry for your loss, Miss Jaggers, and that we never met under happier circumstances.”
Miss Jaggers’s lips twitched, but she didn’t respond, merely glanced at her companion.
Put off by her rudeness to Kate, Charles inclined his head and returned his fiancée to her father.
After ninety minutes, the jurors returned. Their number had been added to by a couple of new men, one of whom was a doctor that Charles recognized. More people who needed to testify.
Charles and Kate had passed the time in between by discussing what furnishings they needed to buy for their marital home, giggling and blushing over what they needed, while Mr. Hogarth pretended to ignore them and read the newspaper. Miss Jaggers had spoken only to her companion after her brief conversation with them. Charles had thought it best to leave her alone, given that she’d just lost her foster mother.
Charles and Kate gave up their stools to the jurors and watched Sir Silas go to the deal table he was using as a desk. He stood over it as his factotum sat down and picked up his quill. Sir Silas dictated to him for a few minutes, and the man scratched away. Then the coroner poked his fingers under his lapels again and stalked toward the jury.
“I shall proceed to hear and take down the evidence respecting the fact, to which I must crave your particular attention. We wish to understand what caused the death, and who. If anyone can give evidence, on behalf of our sovereign lord the king, when, how, and by what means Miss Haverstock came to her death, then let them come forth and they shall be heard.” Sir Silas turned and gestured grandly to his assistant.
The man set down his quill. “I call Mr. Charles Dickens. Please state your name, place of abode, and occupation for the records.”
After Charles gave the information, the man said, “Please rise and repeat the oath after me.”
Charles went forward to face Sir Silas. He nodded, heart thumping, and repeated the oath after the man said it. “The evidence I shall give to this inquest, on behalf of our sovereign lord the king, touching the death of Miss Haverstock, shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. So help me God.”
Chapter 6
Sir Silas spoke rapidly. “Mr. Dickens, can you please take us through the course of events that led you to discover Miss Haverstock’s body on Saturday, June twentieth, at Selwood Terrace?”
“Yes, sir,” Charles said, feeling his palms sweat as he pressed them against his trousers. He told his story in bare-bones fashion, answering the questions the coroner asked about the position of Miss Haverstock’s body before he had touched her.
At the end of the recitation, Sir Silas said, “Before the witness signs his examination, let it be read over to him.”
His assistant read back Charles’s testimony while he stood there, feeling like a naughty child in front of a schoolmaster.
The coroner nodded to him. “Is this the whole of the evidence you can give?”
Charles thought back. He’d talked about the footsteps on the stairs on Wednesday night, and he’d described what he and Kate had seen in detail. “Yes.”
“You the jury, do you have any questions before this witness signs?” Sir Silas asked.
Heads bent as the jurors muttered among themselves. Eventually, the foreman lifted a finger.
“Mr. Dickens, it troubles me that we do not know anything about this lady’s circumstances. Do you, for instance, know her first name?”
“I never heard it, sir.” Charles laced his fingers together behind his back. “She only ever referred to herself as Miss Haverstock. I believe there are others in the room who might have more information. I knew her for less than a month.”
The foreman nodded. “That is all.”
Sir Silas sent Charles to the table to sign his examination, then wrote some notes upon it himself before handing it back to his assistant.
Charles felt very sorry to leave Kate, but at least her father was there to support her. He walked past William, who winked at him, and then he went down to the main room of the pub to have a glass of ale and a plate of bread, cheese, and pickle while he waited for Kate to be done.
About twenty minutes later she came downstairs, followed by her father.
“How was it?” Charles asked, rising.
“I could add nothing to your examination,” she said. “The foreman asked me if you’d lied about anything. Of course, I said no.”
“I’m going to take my daughter home,” Mr. Hogarth said. “I have some editing to do.”
“I need to pack,” Kate said. “Remember, my mother and I are going to spend the night in Bloomsbury with your family.”
Mr. Hogarth frowned. “Why don’t you cancel your plans? You’ve had a bad shock today.”
Kate set her chin. “No, I’m fine, and Mother hired Hannah Jones to come in for two days and help with the household while we are gone.”
“But her nephew is in jail for the murder,” Mr. Hogarth protested. “Surely she will need to stay at home.”
“No. Mother sent for word before we left for the inquest. She’s not canceling. I’m sure they need the money we’re paying, with only her brother, old Mr. Jones, to run the forge. Poor Addie Jones is childless, you know. She takes care of a female orphan who is kin to her.”
Mr. Hogarth stuck his pipe between his teeth, muttering.
Charles glanced between them both. “I’ll escort you home and recover my bag from your house. Hopefully, the body has been cleared and the smell is gone at Selwood Terrace.”
“The body may not be gone quite yet. The coroner has to sign the burial order after the witness examinations are completed,” Mr. Hogarth said.
“Fred and I can always stay at Furnival’s Inn for a night or two, until the air clears.”
He followed the Hogarths into their house and took his bag from the dining room. Mrs. Hogarth was all aflutter, giving instructions to her maid. Eventually, Charles escaped the loud, frantic household, carrying his carpetbag. The sun shone down merrily, the weather belying that a woman had been killed and an inquest into the injustice was presently taking place nearby. When he walked past the Jewish burying ground next door to the Hogarths, he found the gate open. He’d never seen it unlocked before.
He poked his head in and saw his neighbor Breese Gadfly sitting in between two new graves. He stepped in softly.
Once he was beyond the gate, he felt the peace of the place. Twenty-year-old leafy trees and a variety of green bushes had been planted next to the walls, creating a hushed atmosphere. On the other side of the walls, through the trees, he could see th
e St. Luke’s bell tower and some of the row houses in the neighborhood.
He walked up to his neighbor, feeling like he should stay on his toes to be as quiet as possible. Breese sat on a patch of moss next to a stone that read “Moses Davis” under a few lines of Hebrew writing.
“Friend of yours?” he asked, noting that the grave dated back only to January. The white stone marker had a complex shape at the top, with wavelike edges and an oval apex.
“No. I just enjoy the peace here. Despite the bodies six feet below, it doesn’t smell nearly as bad as our building.”
Charles nodded ruefully. “They should have done the inquest on Saturday, but maybe they couldn’t round up enough men with such incredibly short notice.”
“Neither of us is meant to be an undertaker, that is for sure. I’ve scarcely taken a bite of food in days.”
Charles noticed the songwriter did look pale from the conversation alone. He made sympathetic noises as Breese frowned down at his sheet of paper. “I need a rhyme for tear. And not dear. It’s much too obvious.”
“Near?” Charles suggested. “Leer? Seer? Rear?”
“Seer,” Breese said, his fingers tapping on his quill. “I like that.”
“What have you got?” Charles lifted his coat and sat on the bit of grass around the edges of the grave.
Breese scratched away for a moment; then he sang four lines. “Your beauty and youth are precious to me. I would never see you shed a tear. But sometimes when I glance back at you, I see with the eyes of an ancient seer.”
“Interesting,” Charles remarked. “Something bad is going to happen to the poor dear.”
Breese rubbed his eyebrow with the tip of his quill. “It’s meant to be a comic song.”
“Ah,” said Charles. “For something specific?”
“For a play. The lovesick swain is singing.”
“He could predict her early death if she doesn’t fall in love with him.”
“I suppose as long as the play is comic, then the song doesn’t precisely need to be.”
Grave Expectations Page 5