“Okay, so she’s rather a mystery. But we knew her, Kate.”
“Not really. What about the wedding dress?” Kate asked breathlessly.
“The wedding dress?” Mary asked.
“Yes, she was wearing an old-fashioned wedding dress when she met her death. People usually just wear their best dress to wed. In this case, it would have long since worn out after, what, fifty years or so. A proper wedding dress assumes wealth.”
“And a wedding dress presupposes a wedding,” Mr. Hogarth said. “But the victim called herself Miss Haverstock.”
“It is odd,” Charles agreed. “Women aim for the title of Mrs., never Miss.”
“A wedding dress presupposes a wedding was planned,” Mary said, her pert nose uplifted. “Not that it took place. Maybe she wore it to confront a spurned lover.”
“No,” Charles said. “Ned Blood is supposed to be the one who killed her, and he can’t have been Miss Haverstock’s spurned lover. The governor said he was in his early forties.”
“How old was Miss Haverstock?” Mary asked.
“They said fifty-six at the inquest,” Kate said.
Charles snapped his fingers. “The other escapee, Larsen, was fifty-eight.”
Kate’s eyes widened. “Could they have the men confused?”
Charles stared at the images in his hands. “How? Blood was seen in the neighborhood. One set of manacles was found at the Joneses’ forge. The other washed up by Blackfriars Bridge. And Larsen hasn’t been seen around here.”
Kate took the sketches from Charles and put her finger on Larsen’s image. “All he’d have to do is shave off that beard to radically change his appearance.”
Charles put his hands in his hair in frustration and knocked off his hat in the process. Mary crouched down to pick it up for him. “Ned Blood is known in the neighborhood. He lived around here. Larsen, if not known around here, would never have been recognized, anyway. There’s no reason to believe he wasn’t ever in Chelsea.”
“The men might even still be together,” Kate suggested, flourishing the sketches
“What about the manacles?” Mr. Hogarth asked, pulling out his tobacco pouch.
“I don’t know,” Charles said, dropping his hat back over his curls. “Except it means that both men are freely walking the streets.”
“What a tangle,” Kate moaned. “At least we have only one victim this time, unlike last winter.”
“With two convicts on the loose, that might not be true for long. Now that at least one of them has become a killer.” The twilight sky seemed to have just gone a dark blue. Charles stared up at the starry skyscape, wishing the heavens had some wisdom to offer him.
* * *
Charles woke the next morning, hot and sticky, feeling as though his brain had kept churning all night long instead of letting him rest. Kate had kept saying they needed to know who Miss Haverstock was, but what had kept going through his brain during the night was the question of who Larsen and Blood were. He needed to learn the convicts’ histories, not Miss Haverstock’s. Did Larsen know Chelsea? Had he lived in these parts?
He used up the rest of the water in the basin, since Fred had risen early, saying something about taking a walk, and put on fresh clothes before stumbling into the parlor.
Kate had given him a slice of pound cake before he’d left. He found a fork and took a bite of the buttery confection as he sat in front of his writing desk. When he opened it to pull out paper, he saw the old magazine that had been slipped under his door the week before.
Suddenly, the name Osvald Larsen clicked back into his brain. He paged through the magazine. Yes. His pulse quickened as he ran his fork down the fifty-year-old article. Osvald was the boy with the drunken father who’d killed his mother. Eddie made fun of him with a broken doll. Certainly a boy with that history would turn to a life of crime.
But if Osvald Larsen was the boy in the story, who was Miss Haverstock? And why would someone have put the magazine under his door? Had his neighbor done it before she died? No, that couldn’t be right. She’d been dead long before the magazine appeared. Blood? Larsen himself? Someone else?
He heard the St. Luke’s bells ringing and realized he had to get to the Chronicle for a staff meeting. After swallowing the last bit of cake, he ran for the door, the magazine under his arm and his satchel containing the convict sketches in his other hand.
A few hours later, he had a new roster of assignments relating to parliamentary matters and another sketch idea approved. As the reporters dispersed, he stood to one side, ready to catch Mr. Black, the other editor, and ask about the old magazine. Mr. Black’s habitual and wildly expensive collecting habit might mean he would know something about Migrator Magazine.
“Sir,” Charles said when the rest of the men had departed. He lifted the old magazine up to eye level. “Might I ask you a question about this?”
Mr. Black took the magazine in his ink-stained fingers and flipped through it. “Before your time.” He handed it back.
“Yes, but I think it’s a clue in the murder of my neighbor last week. Someone put it under my door on Saturday morning, and I’ve realized that one of the children mentioned in one of the articles, Osvald, might be the missing companion of escaped convict Ned Blood, who is assumed to be the murderer. His companion is named Osvald Larsen, and that can’t be a common name in London. He’s the right age, too.”
“Hell and damnation,” the editor exclaimed. He took up Migrator Magazine again and paged through it. “Here is a thought. I suggest speaking to Lord Holland, who backed the magazine and is a longtime supporter of Jewish emancipation.”
“He paid for this magazine?”
“It put a positive light on the Jewish people,” Mr. Black explained. “Lord Holland was just one investor, but I believe you are acquainted with the man, and it’s likely the other investors would be dead now. I don’t recognize any of the names on the masthead as being active in publishing any longer.”
“Thank you, sir,” Charles said. “I shall do as you say.”
“Might want to hand that to William,” Mr. Black suggested. “As he is the one reporting on the case.”
“I will when I know something,” Charles said. After all, the clue had come to him.
He returned to his desk and wrote a note to Kate, asking that she make herself available to pay a call on Lord Holland, then wrote a note to Lady Holland in order to make the call possible, as she managed her husband’s life. Although the lady was older than her husband, she was presently in better health. The couple had been friendly with William Aga for years and had opened their salons to Charles over the previous winter as his reputation grew.
* * *
The next morning, at the appropriate hour, he collected Kate in the entryway of the Hogarth house. For their walk, she wore a straw bonnet and a lacy shawl.
“You look a picture,” Charles said approvingly. Kate loved her ribbons, and the straw bonnet had been trimmed with a bright blue, which made his fiancée’s eyes light up brilliantly. Her cheeks were pink with health. “I don’t recognize that dress.”
In fact, the light blue fabric she wore almost matched his summer trousers. They looked as though they had dressed to match. Mary peeked into the hall and waved before disappearing again.
“Lady Lugoson brought us bolts of French fabric when she returned from the Continent,” Kate explained. “I think she likes buying things for Mary and me since she doesn’t have a daughter living.”
“What about Julie Aga?” Charles asked. “She has a niece.”
“Julie has an exceptional wardrobe now,” Kate said. “I suppose you don’t see her very often.”
“No, which is surprising, since we officially live in the same building,” Charles said. “But it is all for the best.”
“It is,” Kate said. “My father still dislikes her. But I know her dresses are much flashier than mine.”
Charles regarded the bodice of Kate’s new dress. It exposed much mor
e of her shoulders than he was used to seeing. If Julie’s dresses were cut much lower, they’d be positively indecent. He coughed and turned away, embarrassed.
“Shall I take your arm, Mr. Dickens?” Kate asked, picking up a summer parasol to keep out the sun.
He held his arm out to her and they left the house and went up the street, seeking the crossroad that would take them to Holland House. Usually, when he was invited there, he would spend time memorizing the architecture or admiring the famous interiors. Today his thoughts couldn’t focus on any of that. They kept flashing to Miss Haverstock’s humble rooms above his. Lady Holland’s many jewels and current fashion turned into that yellowed wedding dress, those crone-like, ringless hands.
He felt positively ill by the time a footman opened the door to them at Holland House. His card case nearly dropped when he took it out of his pocket.
“My apologies,” he murmured, taking out a card. “I wrote to Lady Holland, but she did not have time to offer a reply.”
“I will see if she is available, Mr. Dickens,” the footman said and scurried away.
Kate glanced around curiously. The scale of opulence was enough to make anyone feel small. “I thought Lady Lugoson lived well. I suppose all barons are not created equally.”
“Especially when one baron is a fifteen-year-old boy,” Charles said. “Who knows what toll Lady Lugoson’s husband’s death had on the family fortunes? The present Lord Lugoson was only thirteen when he took the title.”
“Come this way, if you please,” said a pretty housemaid who had appeared from a passage off the main hall.
They followed her through a couple of the grand drawing rooms that Charles had been in before. He hoped to allow Kate a peek at the famed Gilt Room, but, alas, the maid took them in the opposite direction and seated them in a cozy room with ancient wood-paneled walls and a thick brick-red carpet on the floor. The fire had been lit, and they sat in upholstered chairs next to an inlaid tea table.
“Lady Holland will be in shortly,” the maid said, then left them alone.
“This is the perfect nook for wealthy old people,” Kate observed. “Easy to keep warm, well lit. I hope we have such a sweet sitting room someday.”
Charles glanced around, noting the many colored-pencil drawings of birds set in frames on the tables and the mantelpieces. “It does have charm, but I’m not convinced the paneling has any real appeal in the modern age.”
“Wallpaper would be nice,” Kate agreed. “Oh, I do so look forward to having our first real home.”
“I do, as well.” He smiled.
The door opened, and another maid came in with tea and seedcake. Not a minute later, Lady Holland herself entered. She had an oval face, topped by steel-gray hair, and it was easy to ignore her double chin in favor of the abundance of exotic pearls around her neck. The fabric of her dress bore testament to her reputation for having introduced dahlias to England, as the dark fabric had the lavender blooms painted all over it.
Charles and Kate stood quickly just before she put her first slipper on the carpet, and made their bow and curtsy to the baroness.
“How delightful to see you again, Mr. Dickens,” she said.
“And even more delightful to see you, my lady,” he responded.
“Is this your future bride? It must be.” She smiled at Kate.
“May I present Miss Catherine Hogarth, my intended?” Charles asked.
Kate curtsied again.
“Such a pleasure, Miss Hogarth. You must have a mind as lively as your face is lovely to win such a catch as Mr. Dickens.”
Kate’s face colored with a pretty blush. “Thank you, my lady.”
Lady Holland seated herself with some creaking of stays. The maid, who had remained, poured tea for the trio. When she had left the room, the lady set her saucer in her lap. “I’m afraid my husband is indisposed today, Mr. Dickens, but your letter seemed urgent.”
“I’m sorry, my lady. I merely wanted to confer with your husband over this magazine.” He pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Lady Holland.
She glanced at the decaying document. “My husband was little more than a child in seventeen eighty-five. What specifically did you want to know?”
“Mr. Black at the Chronicle thought your husband may have backed this periodical, since he has supported Jewish causes since his youth. If I may?”
She nodded, and he opened the magazine to the article in question. “This is my particular interest. Someone put it under my door last week, with a ribbon marking this article.”
Lady Holland read the first page, her lips moving. “I do recognize the name of the author, but Mr. Smith is long dead, I’m afraid. Given the age of this periodical, all the children involved would likely be dead, as well.”
“I believe Osvald is still alive, my lady. The child in this article is of the right age to be fifty-eight now. He is likely to be one of the criminals who escaped Coldbath Fields recently, and could even be the murderer of my neighbor Miss Haverstock. I’m hoping to learn more about him, and what might have led him or his companion in the escape, Ned Blood, to kill her. Someone knew enough to place this magazine under my door. I am trying to learn why.”
She worried her lower lip. “I wonder, Mr. Dickens, how your neighbor came to die. I have followed the papers. Miss Haverstock lived above you. Why did she die and not you or, indeed, your downstairs neighbor?”
“That is a most terrifying question,” Charles agreed.
“Why was an escaped criminal in the neighborhood?” Lady Holland mused. “Miss Haverstock’s death cannot have been random.”
“Blood lived nearby at one time,” Charles said. “That’s the other escapee. He must have known about the smithy, since a pair of manacles were found there.”
“Smithy?” Lady Holland said. “Are you certain that this Blood or Larsen had no connection to it?”
“No one there recognized the sketches I have of the felons,” Charles said. “But Larsen was a blacksmith.”
“They aren’t very useful sketches,” Kate added gently.
Lady Holland nodded. “I don’t think it’s of much use to trace the backgrounds of disrespectable people. If I were you, I’d look into Miss Haverstock herself and the smithy people. They are the people whose movements will be traceable, and not those of the criminal class.”
“So my fiancée said,” Charles offered, with a smile at Kate. “Perhaps this crime really does need the female touch to solve it. I should acquire a sketch of Miss Haverstock and show that around.”
“Just so,” Lady Holland said. She set her saucer back on the tea tray and rose.
Kate and Charles rose, too.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” the baroness said. “I had only a few minutes for you today. We have a meeting of the Napoleonic Society this morning.”
“Thank you for seeing us,” Charles said. He knew the Hollands adored everything Napoleon. “I did have one other request. I’ve never troubled you with my charity before, but I represent the Charity for Dressing the Mudlark Children of Blackfriars Bridge, and we are presently low on funds.”
“Very well, Mr. Dickens. I shall subscribe to your charity.”
“How kind you are,” he murmured.
The maid came back in the room.
“Annie,” Lady Holland instructed, “have the butler give Mr. Dickens forty shillings for his charity.”
“Thank you, my lady,” Charles said, bowing. He and Kate followed the maid out, then waited in the hall until the butler fetched the shillings, which were tied in a screw of paper. He then opened the door for them and ushered them out.
“I owe you an apology, Kate,” Charles said when they reached the road. “You were right that we need to understand Miss Haverstock better.”
“She is at the heart of the matter,” Kate said gently. “Perhaps we know quite a lot about her already. What do you remember her telling you?”
“You were there for most of our visits,” Charles said. “London
born, near the river somewhere. She met the regent once. I remember her talking with disfavor about his great size. She seemed to remember the past much more than the present.”
“True,” Kate agreed, taking his arm as they crossed the street after a carriage went by. “What else?”
“Nothing much.” Charles frowned. He tried to disassociate himself from the feeling of Kate’s glove on his arm and to remember time spent with the old lady. “At some point over the years, she chose to care for Evelina Jaggers.”
“Yes,” Kate exclaimed. “She’s seventeen. How did this old woman in Chelsea rented rooms end up caring for that gorgeous creature? Why didn’t they live together?”
“Yes,” Charles agreed. “I need to interview her. No one but us has any interest in saving Daniel Jones, and nothing we’ve managed to learn so far has helped him.”
“I do think everyone but us is on the wrong trail with Ned Blood,” Kate mused. “We know Miss Haverstock and Osvald Larsen were about the same age. Don’t you think they had some kind of relationship? That would explain the dress.”
“It was a lot harder to break an engagement in those days,” Charles said. “Given what the prison governor said, we don’t even know when Larsen came to Great Britain.”
“Maybe Miss Jaggers will know something. There was that young man with her at the inquest. Who was he?”
“Her beau, I expect.” Charles pulled Kate away from a man who had approached her. The man had a board advertising a bakery strapped over his torso. “I’ve had the misfortune of a couple of meetings with Mr. Ferazzi and his representative, Mr. Nickerson. I’ll try to learn from them where Miss Haverstock lived before.”
“That’s a good idea,” Kate agreed, squeezing his arm. “Oh, Charles, I know it’s all a muddle right now, but you’ll sort it out. I don’t trust that Mr. Nickerson. Do you think someone in that organization is behind the robberies in the neighborhood?”
Chapter 11
His neighbor Breese Gadfly must have seen Charles come in with dinner, for no sooner had Charles spread out his feast for Fred’s exaltation that evening than a knock came at the door.
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