When he went into the parlor, he found the unholy trio of Kate, Mary, and Julie. Even Fred looked nervous, his gaze darting between them.
“Good morning, my dears,” Charles said, heartiness projecting over his nerves. He kissed Kate on the cheek. “Very busy day ahead of me. If there is food to be had, I’ll have a quick bite, but otherwise I am on my way into London.”
“We arrived to make you breakfast,” Kate said with an air of frost in her voice, “and found Julie already here. Doesn’t she have a husband to cook for?”
Julie turned away, her mouth set. Fred drew her to Miss Haverstock’s trunk, still against the wall, and she knelt with him and began to rummage through it.
“Don’t trouble yourself,” Charles said, a warning in his voice. He’d had about enough, between the money and the clothes and now Julie. Couldn’t he do anything right? He needed to get back to work, where he was competent and well respected.
He caught motion out of the corner of his eye and managed to rescue his papers just before Mary slapped her basket down on the table. The look of alarm on her sweet face kept him from expressing his irritation.
“We brought bannocks and boiled eggs and things to make jam,” she told him. “I know you were about out.”
He smiled at her. How thoughtful. “I can eat quickly. And don’t let Fred escape doing his sums again.”
“Look,” Julie said, holding up the silver dreidel. “I know how to play this game.” She popped up, looking happier than she had since she arrived last night, and set the dreidel on the table. “Let’s see. We need gelt.”
She stuck her hand into Mary’s basket and came up with a little stone container of currants. “Sit down,” she told Mary and Fred, then poured out currants, counting out the tiny ruby globes for each of them.
Charles chuckled and reached into the basket for a bannock and an egg. He would eat while he walked and would find a cup of coffee at a stall somewhere along his way.
He tried to sidle out of his home, but Kate kept pace with him. “I was going to make fresh jam with those currants,” she complained, standing by the door.
“Go easy on her. She’s having some problems.”
“Those should be managed behind her own doors, not yours, Charles. What if she asks you for money?”
Charles was uneasily reminded of his loan from William, quite the opposite situation. “She’s the last person who would ever need to ask me.” He walked into the hall outside his front door.
Kate followed him through the door. “What is she doing here? She’s William’s wife, not yours.”
“Maybe he had to go out of town to a political meeting,” Charles suggested. “Besides, we’ve hardly seen Julie in months. This tragedy with Little Ollie has her flustered.”
Kate made a sour noise in the back of her throat. Charles was reminded that her father had once demanded he avoid Julie if he wanted Kate. But that was months ago, before Julie wed and he and Kate became engaged. “I don’t like her being here. It’s compromising,” she said.
“Have you no charity in your heart, Kate?” he asked. “She’s wayward—I’m the first to admit it—but Fred loves her, and she has a good heart under that lack of polish.”
Kate’s mouth screwed into a tight pink bud. “You won’t have any fresh jam today, with the currants eaten.”
“I understand,” he said. “Tomorrow will do.”
Chapter 14
Charles feigned shock when he saw William at his desk at the Chronicle’s offices. No scent of hair of the dog, no damp towel over his face.
“I thought you were still abed,” he told William.
William set down his quill. “No. I was out all night.”
“Drinking?”
William frowned at him. “No. I was out all night because Ned Blood has been captured.”
“How wonderful,” Charles exclaimed. “Any sign of Larsen?”
“Sadly, no. I understand you think he’s the culprit, but hopefully, Ned Blood’s story will lead the police to the other man.”
“I hope we have news soon.” Charles sat at his desk, then, turmoil clogging his thoughts, turned his chair around, ignoring the short stack of notes indicating his newest assignments. “Meanwhile, your wife spent the night on my sofa.”
William picked up his teacup. “Was she frightened that I wasn’t there? I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s not the first time I’ve had to be out working.”
Where was William’s guilt at his misbehavior? “She said you were drunk and indicated that she was frightened.”
William shook his head, looking confused. “Julie lied about my drinking. I wasn’t even home.”
Charles stared hard at his friend. He had to admit no sign of Julie’s claims was evident on William’s face. “She must have decided in the moment that it was the quickest way to persuade me to have her stay.”
“She does tend to find the easiest ways,” William agreed. “Julie has too much imagination.”
“And not enough outlet for it, now that she’s no longer an actress.” Really, she manipulated more than anything, but he didn’t want to disparage his friend’s wife.
“I’m sorry you had to be involved in her little drama.” William took a look at his own slips of paper. He pocketed a couple of them and handed a third to Charles. “Could you attend the Court of Common Council this afternoon for me if I’m not back in time?”
“Where are you going?”
William’s usually charming expression set into a thin line. “Chelsea, to have a chat with my wife.”
“I’m sorry I was the bearer of bad news,” Charles said with sincerity. “I don’t wish to cause problems.”
William’s face didn’t change. “My wife cannot tell my friends lies about me. It could affect my friendships, my employment, my prospects.”
Charles nodded. “You are correct, of course. Kate and I have misunderstandings at times.”
“They are quite a bit younger than we are,” William said.
“I know.” Charles sighed. “We can rise out of chaos, and must, so that we can provide for our families.”
* * *
Charles worked excessively late in order to do both his work and part of William’s. He read through all the notes that came for William, but nothing about Ned Blood appeared. He stayed in Holborn to maximize his sleep hours and was back at the Chronicle’s offices shortly after dawn to continue. By the time his pay envelope was delivered in midafternoon, he’d put in a full day’s work and then some.
“I’m going to go over to the prison and see if I can learn anything about Ned Blood, then head to Chelsea,” he told William, who had come in at the usual hour. “And deal with Reggie Nickerson.”
“Are you going to pay the new, inflated rent?”
“I don’t have any choice, despite my bravado. I searched but found no sign of the rental agreement.”
“You don’t lose paperwork,” William said stoutly. “Nickerson must have stolen and altered it. I am sorry, Charles. Do you have enough money?”
Charles nodded and reached into his pocket. “I forgot to give you this back.” He placed the money he had borrowed next to William’s hand. “I hate thieves.”
William pocketed the coins. “Me too. But the murder is more important than Nickerson’s petty thievery.”
Charles sighed. “It could be connected.”
* * *
He walked over to Coldbath Fields and tried to see the governor but could get only as close as the drunken servant.
“Is Ned Blood in your custody?” he asked after the servant said the governor couldn’t see him. He wasn’t even allowed into the office.
“Yes, but he has to go in front of the magistrate,” the man said, breathing heavy gin fumes at Charles. His coat caught on a ragged brick in the wall.
“What will happen?”
He tugged at his sleeve, loosening a few strands of thread. “I don’t know the law.”
“What about the murder?” C
harles demanded. “Did he admit to it? Did he claim Mr. Jones helped him?”
“’Ow would I know?” the servant groused. “Write a letter to the governor.”
“I want to see him,” Charles demanded. “I know you can get me in.”
The man bared a mouthful of jagged yellow teeth and held out his hand. Charles gave him what spare coins he felt he could afford from his pay. They were very few, but it seemed sufficient. The man walked him to a turnkey, who took him to a block of cells that seemed to be used for more temporary prisoners. Though dank, they did not have the lived-in scent of human despair.
“You’ave five minutes,” the turnkey said. “What good it will do you, I cannot say. Second from the end.”
Charles walked down to the cell and stared through the bars at the feral creature inside. Did he lay his gaze upon a killer or a common villain? Blood had lost the facial hair, as Kate had feared, though the fleshy lips remained. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Blood,” Charles said, as if he were trying to catch the attention of a reluctant Member of Parliament.
The man glanced up. Charles recoiled. One side of Blood’s forehead was a deep, oozing wound.
“God’s teeth, man, what did it take to capture you?” Charles went to a water barrel and dipped his handkerchief in, then pushed it through the bars. “Clean off the blood, at least.”
The man, dull eyed, did as he asked. Had he suffered a brain injury?
“I don’t have much time,” Charles said. “Did you kill a woman at Selwood Terrace?”
Blood spat into the dirt. Charles saw the reddish color and went back to the water barrel. Cursing the necessity of it, he dipped in his hat and managed to fill it with water. He carried the hat back, then lifted it above his head. The prisoner came up to the bars, and Charles tilted his hat so water flowed down Blood’s face. He drank and coughed while crusted dirt and other things ran down his face.
“They offer no kindness here,” Charles observed.
“We’re animals to ’em,” Blood rasped. “And I got no answers fer you.”
“They’ll hang you for a murderer,” Charles warned. “I just want the truth. You were seen.”
“My aunt lives o’er there. She took me in. I went to her’ouse to ’ide and never left it until they found me.”
“Not at Selwood Terrace?”
His voice stayed low and guttural, the intonation of a man who functioned in back alleys. “No. Near Arthur Street.”
“Did you know Miss Haverstock?”
“Never ‘eard of ‘er.” He shook his head. “More water?”
Charles went to dip his hat in the barrel again, then poured more water over the man’s head. “Tell me about Osvald Larsen,” he said when the hat was empty.
“Met ’im ’ere. ’E ’ad friends, money. It were ’is escape. Just needed me for certain, well . . .”
“You were part of the plan, but not the originator?”
Blood nodded, then winced and put his hand to his head.
“How did you get your manacles off?”
“Used a rock.”
“In a smithy?”
Blood’s left eye moved in its socket, while the right eye remained fixed on Charles. “Under a bridge.”
The turnkey reappeared before Charles could truly process this bit of intelligence. Larsen had been the man at the Jones Smithy.
Charles looked at his soaked hat, sighed, and filled it again. Trying not to spill it, he pushed the sodden mess through the bars. “Maybe it has some value for you.”
Charles followed the turnkey out, disgusted by the state of the prisoner but not surprised by his answers. He had to find Osvald Larsen, but for now, he needed to deal with his rent.
* * *
An hour later, he walked into Mr. Ferazzi’s office in a crumbling building on Paradise Walk that had once been a brewery. He could smell the stench coming off the Thames from here, just a couple of blocks south of the office.
“If it isn’t Mr. Dickens!” exclaimed Reggie Nickerson, rising from his stool. He’d been scratching away at a ledger placed on his slanted desk. Another man faced away from them. Charles assumed the closed door in the far wall led to Mr. Ferazzi’s personal chambers. “Aren’t you in a sorry state of affairs.”
“It’s rent day,” Charles said, ignoring the gibe about the state of his wardrobe.
“It is, it is,” Mr. Nickerson said, rubbing his ink-stained fingers together. “But I do my rounds, sir, first in the morning, and then in the evening, as you know. I’d have reached your door eventually.”
Charles grunted. “You and I both know that my rental agreement has been stolen.”
“I don’t know as how I can agree to that,” the rent collector said, losing his smile.
“You know what my rent was, sir. I know what my neighbors pay, and it is impossible that my rent is higher than Mr. Gadfly’s, whose rooms are much nicer than my own.”
“What are you proposing?”
“I’ll pay back rent to match his, and pay the same going forward, and that’s an end to the extortion.” Charles could afford that and still leave enough money for food for the week.
“That’s not what you have due.” Mr. Nickerson flipped through his book. He shook his head sorrowfully and turned back, his hand over the page.
Charles’s natural grace aided him as he snatched the heavy book from under the rent collector’s arm and looked at the page himself. “And here is the proof,” he chortled. “My page, all crossed out and repenciled. Aha, sir, why does Mr. Ferazzi choose to torment me? Or is this your doing?”
Mr. Nickerson grabbed for the book, but Charles held it away. “I have no patience, sir. I will take this to the police.”
“I can’t change your rent without Mr. Ferazzi’s approval.” Mr. Nickerson reached for the book again.
“Who is pocketing the extra money? You or him?” Charles demanded.
The man’s eyes narrowed. “It’s not extra money.”
Charles shook his head. “I have other rooms, ones that Mr. Ferazzi does not control. I can surrender Selwood Terrace in an hour’s time.”
“But what about your parents? Your siblings? Can they do the same?” Mr. Nickerson asked. “Do you know your father is behind in his rent again?”
“He is ill, and foolish with his funds,” Charles cried. “Repair my agreement, and I will do my best to pay you what is due on his rent.”
Mr. Nickerson’s mouth twisted. “I will take your deal and rewrite the page.”
Charles knew Mr. Nickerson understood exactly how far he could be pushed. He was, after all, a man of business.
Charles returned the ledger to Mr. Nickerson.
Mr. Nickerson scratched away furiously for a moment, then took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote a new rental agreement and handed it to Charles.
Charles pulled out his money, one coin at a time, and slowly built a pile of currency. “A receipt, please, for all of it, with a notation that says, ‘Paid in full through the eleventh of July.’”
Mr. Nickerson shook his head, then wrote out a new sheet, and Charles took it from him. Then the man wrote out yet another sheet and handed it to Charles with a nasty smirk.
What fresh hell was this? Charles read the paper and grimaced. “An eviction notice for my father?” Charles wanted to spit in the man’s eye.
“What are you going to do about it?”
The other man turned from his desk. Charles recognized him as one of the thugs from Bloomsbury. He must box in his free time, for his neck was thick with muscle.
Charles stared at the amount that Mr. Nickerson had listed as still being owed. If his father was evicted, what would it do to his sisters’ courtships? The families of their suitors might talk them out of wedding the daughters of such a man.
Throat so constricted with rage that he couldn’t speak, he pulled the rest of his pay envelope from his pocket and handed it over.
“This isn’t everything,” Mr. Nickerson said calmly.
&n
bsp; “But it helps,” Charles said. “I want a receipt, and I want you to tear up this eviction notice.”
“We will revisit this next week,” the rent collector warned.
“I’m sure we will,” Charles said wearily. “But I had better never hear about thefts in my neighborhood again. This is a far better racket for you than stealing.”
Reggie Nickerson merely sneered and went back to his book.
When all the paperwork was transacted, Charles walked out of the building in a daze. How could all his money be gone again? When he found himself in front of his building, he went to Breese Gadfly’s door instead of his own.
Breese opened it and exclaimed, “What’s this? Are you ill?”
“An ache in my head,” Charles said. “What do we have to do to finish that song? I could use the money you thought we could earn.”
“Let’s take a look,” Breese said with a look of sympathy. “Come in. That was a fun evening, until the disaster with your young friend.”
“Yes,” Charles agreed as he went in. “At least Little Ollie’s stump is healing well, but he lost his hand.”
“Poor mite. Will he starve?”
“We will do what we can, but leaving the river is beyond these children’s imagination.”
Breese rustled through the music at his piano. “Pour yourself a drink and we’ll get to work. Ah, here it is.”
Charles sat next to him and recreated that night they had worked together on the song. When Breese found the paper with their melody, Charles sang the verse they had so far from memory. “In the sunlight, oh, my sweetheart, when your glove lays soft on my arm. I can think of your kisses when we know it’s strawberry time.”
“That’s it,” Breese agreed.
“It needed to be funny, if we can make it so,” Charles said. “So next verse. It’s a duet, right?”
“Sure,” Breese agreed, pouring himself a tot of gin.
“In the moonlight, oh, my darling, I feel your hair brush my cheek. It reminds me of my puppy when he curls against me to sleep.”
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