Breese laughed. “Oh, no. Here it comes.”
Charles grinned at him, feeling better, and they developed the song from there over the next couple of hours, with the female singing about lovemaking and the man singing of things much more prosaic.
“We’ll have the audience in hysterics,” Breese pronounced. He rolled up the sheets. “I’ll make a copy in the morning, when the light is good, and take this to my friend. I’m sure to receive payment right away.”
“That would be good, or we won’t eat this week,” Charles said.
“The rent extortion stands?”
“More or less,” Charles said, not wanting to explain about his father.
“I’ll get you the money tomorrow,” Breese promised. “I don’t think it will be a problem.”
Charles stood and stretched. “Thank you. I had better check on my brother, and I need to write a note to my parents.”
“Will you be around tomorrow evening?”
“I can’t afford to be anywhere else,” Charles said frankly.
“Very well.” They shook hands. “Until tomorrow.”
Charles went across the hall and entered his rooms. Fred wasn’t there. Maybe he’d gone to see their parents for dinner, since the larder was bare here.
All of a sudden, he remembered something important about Fred. Botheration!
How had he forgotten his brother’s birthday? Of course Fred had gone to Bloomsbury. He hadn’t wanted to be alone on his natal day.
Charles dashed for the door, wrenched it open and, despite his sore feet, went down to the street, hoping to hitch a ride with someone to Bloomsbury. He cursed himself all the way to the main street, then calmed himself enough to beg his way onto the back of a wagon heading to a dairy part of the way back into town.
* * *
The sun had almost vanished by the time the brothers returned to their rooms, the remaining light casting a pink glow across the horizon. Thankfully, his sisters had both made presents for Fred. They’d made a pet of him, with a fine new waistcoat from Fanny and a shirt from Letitia. His younger brothers had contributed a pint of early cherries, which Fred had exclaimed over, declaring they were his favorite. Charles had had only promises to offer, but at least his father had ordered a hackney for them, being concerned about having Fred on the streets after dark, as there were rumors of an extra-vicious cutpurse on the streets of Bloomsbury that week. He hadn’t had the heart to admonish his father for the expense none of them could manage. At this rate he’d be borrowing from William again.
A knock came on his door shortly after he’d set himself down to do some writing. Fred had just gone to bed, sweaty and flushed with the heat and excitement of his birthday. With a sigh, Charles went to answer the door, frustrated that he hadn’t even written a page yet or taken off his shoes.
Julie stood in the darkened passage, holding up a bowl. “A peace offering.”
Charles’s stomach growled, preventing him from shutting the door in his friend’s wife’s face. He turned away, thinking he would light a fire, but then decided against it. The illumination would be nice, but not the heat, and besides, coal cost money.
She followed him in, then set the bowl on the deal table in front of the fireplace. “I’m still not a very good cook, but I can make stew.”
Charles sat down in front of it. He couldn’t really identify any specific components of the dish, but it smelled fine, so he picked up the spoon she’d stuck in the middle of the steaming glop and took a bite.
She sat down at Fred’s usual spot at the head of the table. “Do you want a glass of wine?”
“Don’t have any.”
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“Don’t want the fire lit.”
She poured what was left in the water jug into a tin cup and set it at Charles’s elbow. “I’ll just go fill this for you.”
“I’ll get it, Julie. Where are you claiming William to be now?”
She licked her lips. “He’s with the police. They are combing through the room where Ned Blood was staying. I had a letter from him.”
He laughed. “So you’ve decided to tell the truth?”
“I didn’t think you’d let me stay last night just because William was working,” she said.
“So you lied to me about my friend?” Charles snatched up the cup and drank the scant inch of tepid liquid that had been left in the water jug. “You led me to believe he would scare you? Hurt you?”
“I’m sorry. I’m honestly surprised you ever believe anything I say.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t make that mistake again.” He finished the stew, which had been, after all, a rather small portion, and pushed away the bowl.
“Kate was very upset with me for using her currants for the dreidel,” Julie ventured. “I’m no threat to her. You like a girl with a bit of polish,” she said, some bitterness in her voice.
“You’re my friend’s wife.”
“Yes, I am, and you must know that I’ll never be a threat. Kate ought to know that, too, after all these months.”
“Think before you act, before you tell lies.” Charles stood up. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a very trying day, and I need to spend a couple of hours on my work before I can sleep.”
“You ate all the stew.” She stood and picked up the bowl, looking at it with stupefied pleasure.
“William will let you know tomorrow evening if I survived eating it,” Charles snapped.
Julie kept staring at the bowl.
Charles felt ashamed of himself. “Thank you, Julie. It was kind to bring me dinner. I’m sorry William is gone from home so frequently.”
“It was a mistake to come to Chelsea for the summer,” she said. “It’s nice to be near my family, but I feel like I’ve lost my William. He has such a long walk to work.”
“It hasn’t been a great few weeks for me, either,” Charles admitted. “Maybe we are Londoners at heart.”
She nodded. “I think you are right. On a day like today, summer seems endless, but autumn will arrive soon enough, and we’ll go back to our regular lives.”
He forced a smile. “Good night, Julie.”
“Happy writing.” She reached for the empty jug and grinned slyly at him. “I will fill this for you. You’ll need it to wash out your mouth if you become ill from my stew.”
Chapter 15
The next morning he and Fred walked over to see Addie Jones and find out how she was getting on. It had been three days since old Edmund Jones had been found over his anvil.
When they knocked at the door, it took a couple of minutes for Mrs. Jones to answer.
“Mr. Dickens,” she exclaimed, quickly wiping her water-beaded hands on her apron. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and Beddie clung to her skirt.
Fred showed the child a wooden ball he had carved. “Come and play with me,” he invited.
Mrs. Jones stroked the top of the girl’s head with work-roughened fingers. “Go along and play with young Fred in the yard.”
The girl followed Fred past Charles, wide eyed. With a nervous glance inside, Mrs. Jones shut the door of her house and stepped into the yard, too.
Charles frowned. This wasn’t like the usually hospitable Mrs. Jones. He and Kate had stopped in for tea more than once on their neighborhood walks. “I hope I don’t make you nervous.”
“No, no.” She clutched his sleeve. “It’s that terrible man, Mr. Bung.”
“Mr. Bung?” Charles asked. He’d never heard the name before.
Dust flurried around Mrs. Jones’s shoes as she swayed. “The broker’s man. I could manage to stay calm when the coroner came to view Mr. Jones’s body to make sure he died by natural means. I cried only a few tears when my husband was taken. I didn’t want to make things worse for him. But this.” She choked on her words. “Oh, Mr. Dickens.”
He patted her arm. “Why is a broker’s man here?”
“A distress has been levied. It must have been set in motion as soon as m
y husband was arrested.”
“You have debts,” Charles said, familiar with the process. The broker would value and take everything if the family couldn’t pay what they owed.
“Yes, Mr. Dickens. Just the usual sort of things. But we’ve had my husband gone from the forge for two weeks. We’ve lost all that business, and then men won’t pay their debt to us, since there’s no one to intimidate them. You understand.”
“I do,” Charles said. “I take it you don’t own this property?”
“No.”
“Does Mr. Ferazzi own it?” Charles asked, thinking of his own misery.
“I don’t know, but this isn’t about the property. They are here to take everything. My pots, our clothes, our furniture. Hannah and me, we can’t raise the money.”
“I wish I could help, but I’ve run afoul of my evil landlord and don’t even have money for food today,” Charles admitted.
She, in turn, patted his hand. “I at least have that. Come in for some bread and cheese.”
He shook his head. “Thank you, but I believe I will get a bit from cowriting a song later today. I am glad I spoke to you. This gives me an idea for one of my sketches.”
“We always have loved reading them,” Mrs. Jones confessed. “On Sundays my Daniel would read them out loud while I sewed and Beddie played with her dolly. Will I ever have him home again?”
He was pleased to have some news. “One of the escaped convicts, Ned Blood, has been captured.”
She smiled tentatively. “If his confession doesn’t save my Daniel, maybe it will at least lead to the other criminal being recaptured.”
“I spoke to him. It must have been Larsen who came here, not Blood.”
She sighed. “I keep praying. Why don’t you leave Fred here? I’ll feed him a meal, and he can play with Beddie while I keep an eye on that broker’s man. I can’t trust him to value our goods properly. Maybe I can save something.”
Charles agreed. “I’ll keep an ear out. Surely, when Osvald Larsen is caught, your husband will be released.”
She pulled out a handkerchief and dotted streaming eyes. “Thank you, Mr. Dickens.”
He turned away after she went back into her little house, and took Fred aside to explain the plan. Fred didn’t argue, happy to hear he had a meal coming, so Charles went back to their rooms and picked up his pen.
He wrote across the top of the page, “The Broker’s Man,” then refilled his quill and bent to work, pouring out his sorrow but neatly switching the tale to be from Mr. Bung’s point of view, instead of his victim’s.
He didn’t stop writing until someone knocked at his door. Breese looked at him strangely when he opened it.
“What?” Charles asked, stretching.
“You have ink all down your cheek,” Breese said.
“I’ve been working hard,” Charles explained. “Thanks for telling me. I’ll clean it off.”
Breese’s lips curved. “Are you well?”
“I feel like I’ve let the Jones family down, but I’m not a Bow Street Runner.”
“You work hard, Charles,” Breese said. “But you’re a slinger of words, not a coroner.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out coins, and handed them to Charles.
“What’s this?”
“Your half of the money. I told you I’d sell the song.”
Charles counted out the coins, delighted by the sum. “Anytime you want a rhyming companion, please let me know. Thanks to this, we can eat well until next payday.”
“Very good,” Breese said. “I’m off for a long inspirational walk. Then I have an actor to visit.” He winked lewdly.
“Have fun. You’ve earned it,” Charles said. He closed the door after Breese and leaned against it, remembering uneasily Miss Jaggers’s words about the songwriter. Surely Breese meant to say he was going to visit an actress?
All day long, he’d waited to hear if William returned home, but he’d never heard footsteps on the stairs.
Charles walked to the police station in hopes of speaking with Constable Blight. The sergeant sitting behind the front desk told him that Constable Blight wasn’t there. The sergeant gave him a blank stare when he tried to ask questions.
“Will you tell me where to find the coroner Sir Silas Laurie?” he asked.
The sergeant directed him to Sloane Square, where Sir Silas had his London residence. He owned an imposing redbrick terrace house on the less fashionable end of the eighteenth-century square.
A footman opened the door when Charles arrived at Sir Silas’s residence. Charles gave him his card, and the man directed him into a long, narrow sitting room with a loudly patterned carpet, ornate wallpapered walls, and a painted ceiling. The effect dizzied Charles, who clutched at the fireplace mantel for support after nearly stumbling over the painted stone legs of the fireplace. A mirror over the fireplace warred with the mirror across the room, sending images back and forth. Charles gave up on the fireplace and went to sit on a spindly settee in the corner.
A few minutes later a maid came in and lit lamps; then Sir Silas arrived, dressed for an evening society affair in a black tailcoat over fawn trousers. His man stood behind him, a cape over his arm.
“Mr. Dickens,” Sir Silas said, brushing black hair off his brow. He’d started a narrow beard along his jawline since Charles had seen him last, but Charles’s keen eyes saw an angry red scratch along his cheek, and he thought it too tender to shave. “I remember you from the Haverstock inquest. Is that what this is about?”
“Ned Blood has been arrested, and I saw him, but he does not seem to have been near the Joneses’ smithy. I have a theory—”
“I’m aware that you are a newspaperman, Mr. Dickens, but kindly save your theories.” The creases around Sir Silas’s mouth deepened. “I deal in facts.”
“Very well,” Charles said, keeping his temper contained. “Has Osvald Larsen been captured, as well?”
“No, but that is a high priority. I’m about ready to pay a Bow Street Runner myself to add to the men looking for Larsen.”
Charles crossed his arms as if that could contain the words that wanted to flow from his lips. This must mean that Sir Silas had the same theory that he did. “Can you tell me what has been determined about Ned Blood?”
Sir Silas chuckled grimly as he went to his fireplace and leaned against the cold stone. His man sighed and walked out of sight, back into the passage. “The police now admit that Blood isn’t Miss Haverstock’s killer, after all.”
A muscle jumped in Charles’s thigh. “What did they learn during questioning?”
“He’d spent the night in a ‘cigar shop,’ and a dozen people are willing to testify, even some who are known to be honest.”
Charles pressed the spasming muscle. “‘Cigar shop’ being a euphemism, I take it. He told me he was hiding at his aunt’s house near Arthur Street.”
“She owns the building,” Sir Silas said. “Apparently, he’d celebrated his escape with a cousin of his. They shared a quartet of ladies for the evening, but of course, there were other men about, too.”
“I see.” Charles, elated, forgot about his aching muscle. He’d been right. Larsen had been Miss Haverstock’s killer.
“It’s a neighborhood brothel, so easy enough for even the Chelsea police to discern who was there that night.”
“Given that Daniel Jones is a devoted family man, and you must now realize that Larsen was the murderer, could you not release Mr. Jones? His father just died, and a broker’s man has moved in with Daniel Jones’s wife. They are in a sad way.”
Sir Silas snorted. “Do you know that Osvald Larsen was a blacksmith? I suspect Mr. Jones was his friend.”
“On what evidence?” Charles demanded.
“We know that one of the men’s manacles was removed at the Joneses’ smithy. I understand you found another set, which is all well and good, but it doesn’t absolve Mr. Jones in any way.”
“Why not pin the crime on Edmund Jones, then, Mr. Daniel Jones’s fathe
r? He is closer in age to Larsen.”
“I saw the man at the inquest. A cripple.”
“He still had power. He did work at the forge sometimes. Please let Daniel Jones go free before his family is utterly ruined.”
Sir Silas stroked his beard. “I am not the police, and they have him.”
Charles had left his hat on Sir Silas’s settee. His hands went into his unruly hair, even thicker and wavier than Sir Silas’s mop. “I am quite desperate to help the Jones family before it is too late.”
“A fine charitable impulse,” Sir Silas exclaimed. “So help them, but not by trying to free Mr. Jones. It is quite out of the question. What will you do next?”
“What do you care?”
“Maybe you will save me the price of a Runner.” Sir Silas picked up a miniature portrait from his mantelpiece and ran his finger over the tiny child’s face. “Since you are doing the investigative work.”
“I’ve spoken to Miss Evelina Jaggers,” Charles said. “I have not yet spoken to the lad who accompanied her, Prince Moss. He’s another one who knew Miss Haverstock. She seems to have been from the Limehouse area, and I can also place Osvald Larsen there as a child, but what can I accomplish? I’m certain now he killed her. Does it matter why?”
Sir Silas snorted. “Of course it matters. Assuming he’s still alive at the end of this manhunt, he’ll need to go to trial. There will be a case, and it’s not just a matter of putting him at the scene of the murder. We want a reason for it, too.”
“It’s something to do with a wedding,” Charles said. “She was murdered in an old wedding dress. But Larsen is documented well enough. He’s not the Haverstock that the former Backy Adams married.”
Sir Silas frowned. “So Miss Haverstock was really a married woman?”
“A widow,” Charles said. “She was a converted Hebrew. Miss Jaggers had a family Bible, and I’ve been to the church where Miss Haverstock was baptized and married.”
Sir Silas gave him an amused smile. “A childhood friendship gone wrong?”
“Very possibly.”
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