When he opened his eyes again, Fred was two feet away from him, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Clean up first. You smell like the bowels of St. Giles.”
“Hardly,” Charles scoffed. His brother had no idea how bad that could get.
Twenty minutes later, he stepped out of the building. It was the first of July, and he didn’t relish leaving the clean air for stinking summer London and work. By midafternoon, he’d kept down a glass of ale and a bun that an office boy had brought him.
William had not appeared. Charles thought, vaguely, that he’d had to attend a meeting out of town.
“Here’s that address you asked for, Mr. Dickens,” said the boy, having reappeared again. He thrust a note into Charles’s hand.
Charles stared at Miss Jaggers’s address. Should he send an advance note or just arrive there? He checked his pocket watch. If he left now, he’d be just within polite hours for calling.
He thanked the boy and reached for his hat and cane, then attempted and failed at a jaunty whistle as he went back into the street. The light, noise, and smell of the Strand assailed all his senses. Fruit sellers walked down the street, hoping to catch men on their way home or people intent on the theaters. Carriage horses stank worse than usual, depositing the remains of their meals onto the road. Sunlight beat down on everything.
Charles pulled the brim of his top hat low over his eyes. He couldn’t stand the thought of being enclosed in a hackney, even though it would be dim inside, so he pushed through the crowd, intent on Belgravia.
The sunspots vanished from his eyes as he saw the first trees of St. James’s Park, a welcome oasis on his two-mile walk. Thankfully, Miss Jaggers lived in a genteel setting in a quite new brick mews house tucked behind Eaton Square.
A flushed maid opened the door after he knocked. “Yes, sir?”
He produced his card and handed it to her. “I am calling on Miss Jaggers. A matter of business.”
“A reporter?” she asked, proving her literacy as she slowly read the card.
“We have met, or rather, she has seen me,” Charles explained. “This is regarding her late foster mother.”
“Very sad business,” the maid said, shaking her head. “Come in, sir, and go into the parlor. I’ll see if she is at home.” She pronounced the words in a low, gruff voice.
Charles went to the left, as directed, and found a small room, as suited the house. The walls were covered with framed sketches of infants and young children. Sparse furnishings were inclined to comfort. Two rocking chairs were pointed away from the fireplace, and a basket of knitting showed the room was regularly used, rather than saved for callers.
Only a couple of minutes later, Miss Jaggers appeared. She paused, framed in the doorway. Tall and shining, as Reggie Nickerson had described her, and once again, Charles was struck by the youthful loveliness of the girl. He’d been told she was seventeen, though she looked a bit older. Perhaps the calculating eyes aged her face.
“Mr. Dickens,” Miss Jaggers said calmly. “I remember you from the inquest. I did not remember you were a reporter.”
“I am, but I am not here in that capacity, but as a friend of your late foster mother, and one who would be your friend, as well.”
Perfect golden ringlets fluttered as she inclined her head. “You lived in her building, is that right?”
“I did. We have, or had, quite a nice society there, between Miss Haverstock and me, the Agas and Mr. Gadfly, and the Jones family down the lane.”
“I remember seeing Mr. Gadfly,” she said. “I do not like that sort of person.”
Charles frowned. “What is not to like about such a congenial soul?”
“He is unnatural.” Miss Jaggers moved ethereally, as if her feet didn’t touch the floor, an effect managed by a slightly too long skirt that covered her slippers. When she sat in the rocking chair without a work basket, Charles knew that was her habitual seat. He took a place on the plain blue settee that faced the fireplace.
“What do you mean? That he is of the Hebrew race?”
Her eyes caught the light in such a manner that the bright blue seemed to flash. Those perfectly molded lips curled. “I meant, sir, that he does not like the fairer sex.”
“I disagree,” Charles argued. “He writes songs of courtship as a profession.”
Her long lashes closed gently over her eyes for a moment. “As you say.”
Confused, Charles went into a direct questioning more suited to his profession than a genteel call on a lady. “Tell me, why didn’t you live with Miss Haverstock?”
“This house was gifted to the nanny of a nobleman for her lifetime,” she explained. “Shortly after it was built in the last decade.”
That was no answer. “Is she a connection of yours?”
“No, but she has taken in the right sort of young person over the years,” Miss Jaggers said. “My parents died in India two years ago, no, three, now. Miss Haverstock arranged for me to live in this house after I left school.”
“Were you in India?”
“Early in my childhood,” she said. “I came here for school when I was eight, attended by an ayah who worked for the nobleman. It all makes sense somehow.” She smiled, exposing a fetching pair of dimples.
“I must admit I find Miss Haverstock to have a confusing personal history.” Charles produced the dreidel charm and held it out in his palm. “I realize that Miss Haverstock did not raise you.”
“No, but I have known her for nearly a decade. I have known few people more intimately.”
Charles nodded. “I purchased the rest of your foster mother’s possessions, because I could not bear to see how the landlord’s men were treating them. This fell out of a cloak.” He showed her the wedding band.
Miss Jaggers squinted and moved nearer to the ring, then pulled back again. Charles suspected she was farsighted and had trouble focusing on his hand. She straightened. “A wedding band?”
“Yes. Was she not a miss, after all?”
Miss Jaggers looked down her perfect pert nose at him. “I have the family Bible. I know her history. But what business is it of yours?”
“A man is in Newgate because of her death,” Charles explained. “I believe he is a good man, not a murderer. His aunt worked for Miss Haverstock. There are two convicts on the loose, and surely one or both of them are the murderer.”
Her posture remained ramrod straight. “You are hoping to find some evidence to exonerate this man?”
“Yes. I am hoping to find evidence that one of the escaped convicts knew Miss Haverstock and is therefore the killer. My fiancée is sure that the fact that she was found in an old wedding dress is somehow the key to your foster mother’s death.”
Miss Jaggers pulled a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes delicately, though there were no tears. “She became strange as she aged. I don’t know why she hid her marriage, but I will retrieve the Bible for you. Maybe the names there will aid you.”
Charles let out a sigh of relief. “You will help me?”
“I fear she will not rest until her murderer is hanged for his crimes.” Miss Jaggers tucked her handkerchief away.
Charles watched her straight, slim back as she left the room, grateful that she wanted to assist him. He still had a headache and did not feel his usual persuasive self.
He had his head against the back of the settee when he heard the rustling of skirts again. After opening his eyes, he saw Miss Jaggers carried a large but not particularly old-looking tome, the family Bible.
She handed it to him, and he set it in his lap. The cover was embellished with the name Haverstock in gold leaf.
“So the name was real, at least,” he murmured.
“Oh yes, but she was Mrs. Haverstock,” Miss Jaggers told him, sitting again. “I don’t know why she didn’t claim her proper title.”
“Are you connected to the Haverstocks?”
“Yes. My mother’s mother was a Haverstock. I was entrusted to my foster mother�
��s care when I came to England, though, of course, she wasn’t expected to house me.”
Charles opened the book and found the family register, which listed births and marriages. “Do you know what year she married?”
“Seventeen ninety-six, I believe.”
That matched the dress. Charles ran his perpetually ink-stained index finger down the list of names until he found the year 1796 and the name Elijah Haverstock, who was born in 1772. His wife’s name was Backy Adams. “Backy Adams,” he said aloud.
“I expect it was a misprint. I can’t imagine anyone really being named that,” Miss Jaggers said. “I never looked at the Bible until she died. She was always Mrs. Haverstock to me.” Miss Jaggers was not a curious creature.
“Was the marriage contested or annulled?”
Miss Jaggers worried at her lip. “I don’t think so.”
“What parish did they attend? Do you know?”
“St. Anne’s Limehouse.”
“Limehouse,” he muttered. There they were again, in Limehouse, where the Jewish girl Goldy had died. Somehow that old story in Migrator Magazine must connect to Miss Haverstock’s death. “I see. She was married to this man long before you were born, and he was your relative, not her.”
“Exactly, Mr. Dickens. Will this information help you in your quest to free your friend?”
“Perhaps. I sense the story goes back to Limehouse somehow. Did she ever mention Osvald Larsen to you?”
The beautiful girl tilted her head. “No. Who is that?”
“The other escaped convict. There were two, you see. And the name Osvald was in the magazine story. I think the police are searching for Ned Blood in error.”
Her slanted eyes widened. “But he’s an escaped criminal!”
“Of course they should catch him, but I doubt he has anything to do with your foster mother’s death. It’s a theory, of course.” He closed the Bible.
She rose. “I look forward to hearing that the proper villain has paid for his crime.”
He rose, as well, knowing the interview was over. “One last question. Who was that young man who accompanied you to the inquest? I’m trying to understand everyone who might be involved.”
Her beautiful face scarcely moved when she said, “Prince Moss is my friend. Miss Haverstock introduced us.”
“Are you engaged?”
She was too self-possessed for blushes. “Maybe someday.”
He nodded. “Thank you for seeing me.”
He left and headed for the river. Limehouse was some six or seven miles east, and it would be easiest to reach the church on the water.
By the time he saw the golden ball on top of the enormous church tower of St. Anne’s Limehouse, the dinner hour had long since ended. He decided to proceed, though, and walked through the narrow passage between Limehouse government buildings to the imposing church facade, hoping someone would be about. As he moved up the shallow steps to the front door of the stone church, he heard the melodious voices of a choir. They must be performing Evensong, the Church of England’s prayer ritual.
He let himself into the foyer of the church and then walked through the nave. The pews weren’t full, but he stood in the back. The music of the organ washed over him. He had no idea what part of the service he’d arrived during, but the music was beautiful. It would suffice for his dinner. A half hour or so passed before the final long note of the organ washed over him. He woke, as if from a dream. Though it might have been hunger that had him feeling so faded.
He watched as everyone filed into the foyer, and listened as parishioners greeted church officials. While considering the elderly priest, he saw an enormous woman attract the attention of a well-fed gentleman. She launched into a jolly tale of her last meal. Somewhere between describing the cream and the pastry, she said something about the man’s duties as verger.
When they were finished with their conversation and the woman was departing, he went up to the verger and showed his newspaper identification.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Dickens?” the verger asked, his gaze following the woman, no doubt wishing he could follow her to her next gustatory delight.
Charles cleared his throat. “I want to examine the church books for seventeen ninety-six and verify a wedding.”
The man patted his stomach sadly but spoke politely enough. “What is this regarding? Some relative of yours?”
“No, a murder victim.” Charles waited a moment for that to enter the man’s cogitations. “Do the names Backy Adams, Elijah Haverstock, or Osvald Larsen mean anything to you?”
The man frowned and took a quick look at his pocket watch. “No. Are they parishioners?”
“Larsen is the only one still living, but the other two must have been parishioners in the previous century.”
The man chuckled. “I see. Normally, I would put you off, but it just so happens that the records for seventeen eighty to eighteen hundred are in the sacristy. Our rector likes to repair old books.”
Charles smiled. “Then it won’t be any trouble for me to take a quick look?”
“I suppose not.” With another dissatisfied glance at his watch, he led Charles back through the inner doors, then past the altar and into the small room where the rector prepared for services.
It smelled like a holy place. Vestments hung, neatly pressed, on a rack, and Charles saw religious vessels on top of a case. A row of old books leaned on a shelf, held up by a reproduction marble head of one of the Roman Caesars. The bust’s sightless eyes watched over one side of the room, while a cross with a very realistic depiction of Christ’s suffering held pride of place on the opposite wall.
The verger ran his beefy finger along the shelf, selected one of the trio of oversize volumes, then set it carefully on a prayer-book stand and opened it. “Here you go, Mr. Dickens. What are you hoping to discover?”
“A connection,” he explained. “This is a woman I knew who was murdered in her home in Chelsea, supposedly by an escaped convict.”
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. I hope to prove that this Larsen fellow knew Mrs. Haverstock or her husband.”
The verger patted his stomach again. “Then you want baptisms, Mr. Dickens. You want to see that Mr. Larsen and the Haverstocks are from this parish.”
“I know Mr. Larsen is not. He is an immigrant.” Charles stood in front of the book and allowed the verger to turn the pages. “There,” he said when he spotted the name Haverstock.
“Elijah Haverstock to Backy Adams.”
“It matches the Haverstock family Bible,” Charles said. “I thought the woman’s first name might be wrong.”
The verger licked his lips. “Not much information to go on. Just a date. Seventeen ninety-six. The actual wedding date was May sixth.”
Charles stared at the crabbed handwriting until it swam into focus. “The groom’s parents were John and Mary. Well, I don’t think it matters. The young woman currently in possession of the Bible is a connection to Elijah, I believe.”
“No listing for the parents of the bride.”
“Frustrating. I need . . .” Charles did math in his head. “The seventeen seventies to see birth records.”
“Let me take a look.” The verger took a ring of keys from his belt and unlocked a narrow door next to the vestment rack, then picked up a lit candle and angled his way through the door.
Charles heard sneezing. Then a couple of minutes later, the man reappeared with a book that appeared to be freshly bound.
“Adams and Haverstock,” the man said, leaning the book against another prayer-book stand.
As the verger pored over the pages, Charles flipped back a page in the book that held the wedding information, looking for other Haverstocks and also for Jaggers. He’d never heard the latter name before, though Haverstock was familiar enough, as a hill at least, possibly in St. Pancras. “That’s unexpected,” he muttered, finding a name two pages back.
“What is it?” the verger asked, his stomach growling agai
n.
“I found a baptism for Backy Adams. Easter Sunday, that same year.”
The verger looked up. “Then we won’t be finding a record for her in this book. I found Elijah Haverstock, though.”
“I wonder where she came from.”
“Roman Catholic? Methodist?” the verger suggested.
“I rather think she was a Hebrew,” Charles said. “I found a Jewish artifact in her possessions, along with a wedding ring.”
“Not impossible, or even implausible,” the verger said. “Perhaps Mr. Haverstock brought her to the faith.”
Charles nodded. “A Jewish girl. I wonder if she knew Goldy, whom Osvald Larsen likely helped to kill some fifty years ago.”
Chapter 13
The next morning Charles had just finished tying his neckerchief when he heard a knock on his door. “Fred, can you get that?” he called from the bedroom.
He heard the door open, then voices greeting his brother. Mary and Kate had come. He hoped Kate had reflected upon their financial conversation and remembered that she could trust him.
In the parlor, his gaze took in his fiancée, in white, with pink ribbons, and Mary, also in white, but with no adornments.
“We brought you fresh bannocks, Charles,” Kate said briskly. She carried a small basket, but Mary had a larger one.
“What is that?” he asked, pointing to Mary. He couldn’t bear to discover what was underlying Kate’s briskness. “Hiding a litter of kittens?”
“No, it’s clothing,” Mary said. “We went through Miss Haverstock’s things with Mother last night and thought you could sell what we could not make into anything better.”
Charles narrowed his eyes. A thrifty woman could make use out of any scrap of cloth. He suspected Kate was trying to help him save face with his financial situation. As if to point out his penniless state, his stomach rumbled.
“Sit and eat,” Kate invited. “We can go to Middlesex Street before you go to your office. Mary and I can visit Father.”
“Someone like you shouldn’t even know the Petticoat Lane area,” Charles said. “I don’t want you in that place.”
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