Grave Expectations

by Heather Redmond

  Kate tossed her head. “I know how expensive clothing is, and I know how many people have to resort to secondhand clothing, Charles. Perfectly respectable people frequent the stalls.”

  He sighed. Point noted.

  “Hooray!” Fred cheered. “Breakfast? Anything is better than porridge.”

  Charles ignored Kate’s glance of concern and dug into what the girls had brought. He didn’t even taste the food as he considered how he would find coins for a hackney to take the girls into London.

  While Fred reached for another bannock, Charles excused himself and ran upstairs. William answered the door.

  “Can I borrow a few shillings until Friday?” he asked. “I have to take the Hogarths into London with me, and I didn’t budget for a hackney.”

  “Make them walk,” William suggested. “You’re supposed to be saving for your marriage, not spending for their amusement.”

  “It’s complicated,” Charles explained, resentful. William didn’t have to scrimp and save for Julie, not even during their engagement, because Julie had come with a dowry and a rich aunt.

  William shook his head and reached into the vase just inside the front door, where he kept extra household funds. He pulled out a couple of half crowns and passed them over.

  “Sorry,” Charles said. “I’ll pay you back on Friday. It’s been an unusual week.”

  “Are you leaving now? I’ll ride with you and pay the bill. Then you can save that money for the next emergency.”

  Charles nodded. “I’d be very grateful.”

  William leaned back in, yelled something to Julie, then came to the doorway with his satchel slung over his shoulder before following Charles down the stairs and into his rooms.

  “My dear ladies,” William said jovially. “I promised Charles I’d go into town with him today. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll go on ahead,” Charles said as the Hogarths smiled at handsome William. “Find us that hackney.” Irritated, he went outside and kicked at rocks while he walked toward the nearest hackney stand.

  When they reached London, they headed for the Strand first, to drop William off, then went into East London, where the secondhand clothing stalls clustered. They’d get their best prices in the center of the trade.

  Everyone in the area was in motion, carrying rough woven bags of clothing, poking at the finer garments strung up over the stalls, sitting at low benches and bickering over payments, their arms waving in the air. A fruit seller walked by, screeching her wares and prices, and a cart with milk and coffee moved slowly down the center of the street, narrowly missing a barefooted boy who ran across.

  Charles helped the girls out of the hackney and assisted with the basket of clothing. Acutely uncomfortable, he suggested they check out the wares of the fruit seller first.

  “Let’s have this done with,” Kate urged, taking his arm.

  He realized her face had paled. His Kate was nervous. He reached for Mary, who held the basket, and pulled her under the canopy of old shirts and into the comparatively less dusty, less noisy, less filled underworld of the first clothing stall.

  As Charles’s eyes adjusted to the light, he saw a curious old man seated on a bench, sewing repairs to a frock coat. The tailor had a long, full beard, with white mixed in over red. He wore a tall top hat and had a long black coat buttoned over his clothing, despite the July warmth.

  Against the wall of the residential building that served as one side of the stall, two women, one old and one young, worked on a fancy gown. Charles fancied that it had been reconstructed from two older gowns, as the bodice was a different colored fabric from the skirt.

  Charles went up to the tailor. “Are you buying today? We have some fine dresses of an old style to sell.”

  “What is your name?” the man asked, setting down his needle.

  “Charles Dickens. I purchased the clothing when a friend died.” He winced, suddenly realizing for the first time that the money for Miss Haverstock’s things had gone to the odious Mr. Ferazzi, who had no right to it. That money surely belonged to Miss Jaggers.

  The man sighed heavily and rose. “Reuben Solomon’s shop is an honest one. I will look at what you have to sell and will offer a good price if there is any value in your dresses.” He gestured Mary forward.

  She stumbled on a bolt of cheap black cloth as she approached him. Kate steadied her, and they clung to each other as the old-clothes man took the basket.

  “No cause for worry, little ones. We Jews do not eat little girls, no matter what the stories say.” He grinned suddenly, exposing yellowing teeth.

  “Why don’t you move into the fresh air?” Charles said to Kate. “Maybe you’ll find some new ribbons in the stall.”

  She blinked at him, but Mary pulled her away.

  Mr. Solomon nodded. “The bargaining, it isn’t for the ladies.”

  Charles closed his eyes. “Just offer me a fair price, sir. I need to get to work.”

  “You resent selling these clothes?”

  “I meant them to be a gift.”

  The old man chuckled. “A strange sort of gift. You dress like a young dandy, but you expect your women to wear the castoffs of a dead friend?”

  Charles stiffened. “No. I thought they could use the fabric.”

  The old-clothes man pulled everything out of the basket and set it on an empty deal table. His long fingers twitched through the fabric, separating gowns. “Two twenty-year-old gowns of muslin, with an old-fashioned print,” he muttered. “But for a larger woman. Suitable to be cut down. Plenty of fabric in good repair. Two sets of very old-fashioned stays. Not much value there. A short cloak, very much stained.”

  Charles glanced over his shoulder as the man considered the last dress.

  “It’s been dyed over as a mourning dress. I can always sell a black dress, I’m afraid,” Mr. Solomon said. He lifted the dress to the light. “Not a bad dye job, and it’s only about five years old. This is the most valuable piece.”

  Charles nodded. “What will you give me for them?”

  The man named a price that seemed reasonable. Charles raised the bid by half a crown, just to see what would happen, but the man laughed.

  “I won’t take the stays off your hands if you bargain with me, Mr. Dickens. But you may have any ribbons your young lady chooses as a parting gift.”

  Charles stuck out his hand, and the man shook it. The man said something in a foreign tongue to the older of the two women. The woman set down the hem of the gown and unlocked the door to the building, then disappeared inside.

  “She’ll get the money,” Mr. Solomon said.

  “You are Hebrew?” Charles said.

  The man nodded.

  “I wonder if you are familiar with the first name Backy? A woman’s name?”

  “A diminutive of Rebecca, it would be,” Mr. Solomon pronounced.

  “Could the name Rebecca Adams be a Hebrew name?”

  “Certainly. Adam is a Biblical name.”

  Charles nodded. After the evidence found in her clothing and the church registry, he could well believe that Miss Haverstock had started life as a Hebrew. “I see.”

  “Where did you see this name?”

  “It was the original name of the woman who owned these clothes,” Charles explained. “She called herself Miss Haverstock when I knew her, but it turns out she was married to a Mr. Haverstock and was a converted Anglican.”

  “A rather unusual lady, I expect,” Mr. Solomon said.

  “Perhaps. She was murdered,” Charles confided. “I can’t help but feel the reason is buried somewhere in her past.”

  “I never like to hear one of my people met a bad end,” Mr. Solomon said. “I did not know this woman, but I will say a prayer for her.”

  Charles hesitated, but the old man didn’t know Miss Haverstock. “Have you ever heard an old story about Goldy, a Jewish girl who drowned in the Thames after being pushed into the river in a barrel by some Christian children?”

  T
he old clothes man stroked his beard for a moment. “No.”

  “I read it in a magazine, and then some mudlarks I know were familiar with the story, as well.”

  “I expect it is a real tale, then, rather than something from the parables of my own people.”

  Charles nodded. The woman reappeared from the building and handed Mr. Solomon the money. He set it, coin by coin, into Charles’s hand, then handed him his basket.

  After thanking the man, Charles pushed his way back through the hanging clothes. Mr. Solomon watched as he counted the four ribbons in Kate’s hand, and then he nodded his approval. Charles took the ribbons from Kate and tucked them into the now empty basket.

  “Let’s take you both to your father,” Charles said. “It is past time I arrive at my desk.”

  “Did you get a fair price, Charles?” Mary asked as they started down the street.

  “I really wouldn’t know,” Charles said. “I’m not in the business of selling possessions.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Dickens did very well, Mary,” Kate said in a reproving matter. “And how kind of him to purchase the ribbons.”

  Kate’s approval of his financial dealings set his mind at rest. She had forgiven him for the drama with Mr. Nickerson.

  * * *

  That evening, he turned onto Selwood Terrace with a bottle of good wine and a wrapped meat pie, ready to make a feast of it and forget all his troubles. His tenuous peace, damaged first by his outing to Petticoat Lane and then by a hysterical office visit from a political candidate who felt like he’d been insulted in the Chronicle, was injured still further by the sounds of shrieking farther up the lane.

  Unfortunately, he recognized that voice. As he reached the front door of his building, he saw Breese coming out.

  “What is going on?” Breese asked. “Sounds like someone else is being murdered.”

  “I’m afraid something has happened at the smithy,” Charles said. He handed Breese his food and wine. “Take this in, will you? I’d better check on Mrs. Jones.”

  Charles ventured down the dusty lane. He saw the astonishing sight of Addie Jones on her knees in the smithy yard, tearing at her bodice. Beddie darted around her in circles, too distressed to be still.

  “Whatever has happened?” Charles called, moving into a loping run. He snatched up Beddie. The girl buried her head in his collar and went still.

  “Mr. Jones is dead,” Addie Jones cried, her face contorted with sorrow.

  The child sniffled against Charles’s neck.

  “Your husband? Daniel? Something happened at Newgate?”

  “No, Mr. Dickens. It’s Mr. Edmund Jones, Daniel’s father, who is dead.”

  Charles breathed in the sweet, dusty smell of the little girl. Her hair brushed against his cheek. “How? Where?” Had he been murdered, too?

  “I found him bent over the anvil,” Mrs. Jones cried. She took several deep breaths and spoke more calmly. “The heavy work was too much for him. His heart gave out, I think. Not a mark on him, poor man.”

  The hired boy appeared around the smithy. He must have washed his hands and face, since he looked cleaner than usual. “I’ll get my mam,” he said, coming toward them. “She’ll help.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Charles said, grateful someone had a clear head.

  “The body’s still in the smithy. And it’s very warm in there,” the boy said.

  Mrs. Jones moaned, her face going red.

  Charles knew what he was trying to say, that the body would spoil quickly in the heat. “Where is the apprentice?”

  “In there. He’ll help you,” the boy said, and then he trotted through the yard, toward the lane.

  “Who will care for us now?” Mrs. Jones shrieked. “No men to protect us?”

  Charles heard footsteps, then saw Hannah Jones, who was probably coming from her house. When she saw Mrs. Jones kneeling in the dust, she rushed toward them as fast as her bulky middle-aged body could handle.

  “I’m so sorry,” Charles said.

  She shook her head repeatedly. “What has happened? What is wrong?”

  Mrs. Jones lifted her hands to her aunt-in-law, as if offering herself for sacrifice. “It’s Mr. Edmund, Hannah. He’s gone to our good Lord.” She broke into deep racking sobs as Hannah’s lined face contorted.

  “Where is he?” Hannah gasped.

  “He’s lying over the anvil.” Mrs. Jones grabbed Hannah’s arms. “Oh, don’t go in there. It’s awful.”

  “Please take Beddie inside,” Charles said to Addie Jones.

  The woman stared at him, wide eyed, then stood up, took Beddie from him, turned, and obediently trotted back into her house.

  “Oh, Mr. Dickens,” Hannah Jones whispered. “What will become of us now?”

  “I don’t know,” Charles said honestly. “But first we need to see to your brother. Your hired boy has gone for his mother, and the apprentice can help us take the body into your house. Is your kitchen table cleared?”

  “I was making a pie,” she said hoarsely.

  “Run back to your kitchen and clear it off,” he said. “Scrub it clean, so the body can be laid out.” He glanced around, knowing there must be a wheelbarrow somewhere. Edmund Jones was a big man, and he and the apprentice might not be able to manage him without the wheelbarrow.

  Charles had no choice but to help in this situation. At least he could console himself with a glance at the body, to determine for himself if he thought the police should be called.

  * * *

  Charles entered his rooms wearily as the moon rose. He debated walking to the Hogarths to tell Kate about Edmund Jones’s death, but he had to finish an article. He’d lost too many hours that day between Petticoat Lane and the latest death.

  But he’d done what he had to do. He had helped lift Mr. Jones onto the kitchen table in his sister’s house and had waited while he was partially undressed by his sister and the hired boy’s mother. After that, he couldn’t disagree with Addie Jones’s conclusion. Indeed, there was no mark on the flesh or scent of poison or vomit. Just a heavy older man, worn out with work.

  In his parlor, Charles lit the fire and put on the kettle. Fred came in from the bedroom. “I saved you half the pie. Well, at least I tried to. But Breese ate it and drank your half of the wine.”

  Charles shook his head. “Do we have anything to eat?”

  “Just the bread we were going to toast for breakfast.”

  “I’ll eat it now,” Charles said. “And jam, if we have any.”

  Fred brought the bread and the jam jar, which had just a small smear left of strawberry at the bottom.

  “This is poverty.” Charles sighed, looking at the pitiful meal.

  “Don’t we have any money?”

  “Of course we do. I just meant this is how we would eat if we really had nothing. Anyway, I need to work. You can do sums at the other end of the table.”

  “I’ll make tea first,” Fred said, always eager to escape his mental labors.

  A half hour went by. Charles lit a candle, devoured the bread, finished the jam, and drank two cups of scalding tea. Sweating, he opened the window and took off his coat, then finished writing a review and began to translate his shorthand notes about impropriety in a recent county election.

  Nose deep in his notes, trying to discern what the vowel sounds might be in a confusing word, he didn’t hear the knock. Fred rose, happily discarding his sums, and went to the door.

  “Julie!” he cried happily after he flung open the door. “What brings you out so late?”

  “I’d like to see your brother.”

  Charles set down his notes, almost glad to see her for once.

  Julie didn’t walk toward him with her usual bouncy step, though. She wore an apron over her striped silk dress from last winter, and her red hair had frizzed in a nimbus around her face. He hoped she didn’t need to ask him to repay William’s loan, but at least he had the clothing money now.

  “Can I have a private word?” she as
ked uncertainly.

  “Of course.” Giving in to the rumbling in his belly, he turned to Fred. “Go over to the Royal Arms, would you? See if they have meat pies left, or anything really.”

  “Jellied eels? Pickled whelks?”

  “Anything that hasn’t gone off. Smell it first.”

  Fred saluted him, took the money Charles had pulled out of his pocket, and dashed out the door.

  “Breese Gadfly ate my dinner,” Charles explained. “And breakfast for dinner was not satisfactory.”

  “At least it’s easy to get more,” Julie said. “I’ll cook you breakfast in the morning, if you like.”

  “William won’t mind if you share his breakfast?”

  “I’ll cook your breakfast,” she repeated. “Do you mind if I sleep on the sofa tonight?”

  “Why? Do we have a ghost upstairs now?” he tried to joke, but his smile faded when she did nothing but shake her head violently. “What’s wrong?”

  “William is drunk.”

  “It happens. Is he sick?”

  She shook her head again, her shoulders twitching.

  “He hasn’t a mean bone in his body,” Charles said. “Surely he isn’t . . .” He trailed off. He knew Julie had been hurt many times before, beaten by her mother as if she were a servant and not a daughter.

  He didn’t claim to understand, but after six months’ knowledge of her, he could tell something was truly wrong, and better to keep her under this roof than send her to Lugoson House. “Very well. Fred would never forgive me if I turned you away.”

  Her gaze stayed down. “Thank you, Charles. I’m sorry to put you in this position, yet again.”

  “At least I know you aren’t looking for work,” he joked.

  “Why do you look so tired?” she asked, looking up finally. “Haggard, almost.”

  He told her about the hard physical labor of moving Mr. Jones’s body. “I need to return to my work, but I’ll keep the lamp close. Take a blanket from the bed and use the sofa as you will.”

  * * *

  Charles woke the next morning to loud knocking on the door. Bleary eyed, he splashed water on his face and dressed quickly. The night before came back to him, the late dinner and drinking the ale Fred had brought. At least he’d finished his work. He merely needed to take it to Thomas Pillar at the Chronicle and move on to the next assignment. Resolutely, he pushed away all thoughts of Edmund Jones’s staring eyes and the difficulty of moving the body. He ignored the pain in his biceps and back because of what remembrance they illuminated.