“Oh, Charles, if they did kill Miss Haverstock, you’ve ruined their goal, showing the police the goods like you did. They can’t run off with them now.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps they even hired Larsen and Blood.”
“How would they have met two convicts?” Kate demanded.
“I have no idea.” Charles frowned. “I’ve lost my sense of fun. Let’s take a look around and then get back, so I can write my article.”
Kate took his offered arm.
“Look up,” Charles said as they entered the exhibition. “That, my dear, is the largest painting ever created. Forty thousand square feet, worked in oil.”
Kate stared up at the dome, her lips rounding into an expression of delight. “If only so many men weren’t smoking. The smoke quite obscures things, but it is amazing, nonetheless.”
“This is what we can achieve when we dream,” Charles said, staring not at the painting itself but at their fellow art viewers, from the elderly lady complaining that she couldn’t see anything to the rapturous young artist exclaiming about the vision above him. “But I think my article will be more about the people here than the art. That is what fascinates me. Londoners. I am sure you can’t find such a vast array of personalities anywhere else.”
* * *
When Charles looked out his window toward the lane the next morning, he saw two wagons trundling by from the direction of the smithy. Their heads down, the horses seemed exhausted from working too hard. Perhaps they were too old for such heavy burdens.
Fred came into the bedroom with a fresh jug of water. He poured some into the bowl, then rubbed at his cheek. “I feel roughness on my upper lip, Charles. Do you think it is time for me to start shaving?”
Charles turned away from the window and wrapped his fingers around his brother’s jaw, then pulled him gently toward the sunlight streaming in the window. Tilting his brother’s face this way and that, he said, “A bit of fuzz, but I don’t think it’s noticeable yet.”
“So a girl wouldn’t notice it?”
“A mother might, but not a girl,” Charles said. “Sorry, Fred. Maybe by autumn.”
Fred grinned. “That isn’t so very far away.”
“No. Speaking of dates that aren’t so very far away, I’ve felt bad for missing your birthday.”
“It’s fine. I know you’ve had a lot of expenses.”
Charles smiled at his brother’s downcast expression. “I managed to put a bit aside, and I did get you something.”
Fred’s dark brows lifted. “Oh?” He danced a little jig, his shoes making shuffling noises on the floor.
Charles opened the trunk they had brought there when they first moved in, and pulled out a new piece of sheet music. “Here you go. Something new for your fiddle.”
Fred reached for it and took it to the window. “Thank you,” he exclaimed. He opened the sheet. “It looks like a fun piece.”
“I’m glad you like it. It’s Italian.” Charles stared out the window as another wagon went by.
“What’s going on?” Fred asked.
“I have a bad feeling about it,” Charles said. “That’s the third wagon.” He turned away and quickly finished dressing, then washed his face.
“It has to be the Joneses, doesn’t it?” Fred said when Charles was ready.
Charles nodded. “Let’s see if they are still there. Maybe they are dismantling the smithy.” He reached for the pages for Breese that he’d finished writing late the night before. They’d picked up the habit of sending lines back and forth, since they both kept unusual hours. Charles thought his latest phrases ought to complete another set of lyrics, and he knew Breese had a jaunty tune for the chorus.
In the hall, Charles slid the pages under Breese’s door; then he and Fred left the building and walked down the lane. He saw Hannah and Addie Jones in the yard, their mourning dresses making them look like oversize crows, and poor little Beddie, an even thinner, droopier creature.
Charles raised his hand and headed toward them as two men came out of the smithy, hauling a heavy crate filled with tools between them. For a moment, he could believe that was the only part of the property being dismantled, but then he saw two more men walking out of Edmund and Hannah’s small house, carrying a large mattress between them.
“Not your household goods,” he gasped as he reached Mrs. Jones.
She nodded somberly. “With both men gone, we can’t run the forge, much less pay the bills.”
“But you had the apprentice and the hired boy,” Charles protested. “Couldn’t you manage them?”
“No. Both are too young,” Hannah Jones said, dabbing at her red-rimmed eyes. “When my Daniel was arrested, two-thirds of our customers immediately switched to the Pirie Smithy down by the river, and the rest vanished when my brother passed. We didn’t have the time to rent out the smithy to anyone else. The collectors came.”
Charles shook his head. “I know. I saw the broker’s man. What are you going to do?”
“At least the rent isn’t in arrears,” Mrs. Jones said, trying to smile. “The tools all have to go. They were on a payment plan, and, well, we’ve lost just about everything, but we still have family, and they have agreed to take us in.”
“Where?” Fred asked, patting Beddie’s shoulder.
“Limehouse,” Hannah Jones said. “I had an aunt, and her children are a decade younger than me. One of my cousins has room in her house, since her children are grown now. She’s an invalid, and we’ll run the house for her.”
“I’m glad you have both a place and a purpose,” Charles said. Might their Limehouse relations have known Miss Haverstock? He couldn’t trouble the Joneses with the question now, though.
“It’s not far from St. Anne’s,” Mrs. Jones said, then suddenly, her face crumpled and tears ran down her cheeks. “Oh, Mr. Dickens.”
“I’m sorry,” Charles said. “I tried again. I found a suspect for the murder, a good one, but it still wasn’t enough to free your husband. Those blasted manacles ruin all my attempts to out-reason the police.”
Mrs. Jones’s shoulders shook. “We’ve been told that my Daniel will be transported for ‘being in the company of felons.’”
Charles put his hands to his temples. “I am so sorry. Can’t it be blamed on Mr. Edmund Jones? I’m sorry to blacken his memory, but—”
“No, you are right,” Hannah Jones said gently. “He’d have taken the blame, for Daniel’s sake, but he’s dead now, and a dead man can’t speak. If only we’d thought of it before it was too late. They won’t listen to us women.”
“What happens now?”
“We wait for the next court session, and then he’ll go to Australia,” Mrs. Jones said glumly.
“Maybe we’ll follow him,” Hannah Jones said. “After my cousin is dead. If we inherit a bit, we will be able to go to Australia ourselves. Start over.”
Charles was touched by the bravery of the women. “I’ll keep fighting for you.”
“It’s no use.” Mrs. Jones sniffed. “You’ve done everything you could.”
“No,” Charles insisted. “I’ll find Osvald Larsen and make him testify that your husband had nothing to do with the manacles. Just you wait.”
Mrs. Jones smiled, but in doing so, her lower lip cracked. A line of blood appeared on her pale skin. Fred turned away, sadness in his young eyes.
“How much longer will you be?” Charles asked.
“An hour or two.”
“Can we take Beddie?” Fred asked. “You can collect her when you leave.”
“That would be nice,” Mrs. Jones said. She turned to the little girl and released her hand. “Go with nice Mr. Dickens, Beddie.”
“I’ll play you my new music,” Fred said. “And give you some bread and butter.”
The little girl’s eyes widened, and she put her tiny hand in Fred’s larger one. After a glance back at the Jones women, Charles took Beddie’s other hand. How was he going to fulfill his promise?
They walked do
wn the lane together. When they reached the front door of Selwood Terrace, Charles saw Mr. Ferazzi and Mr. Nickerson coming their way.
“Those are bad men,” Fred told Beddie. “Stay away from them.”
Beddie wrinkled her nose. “Uncle Edmund talked to the old man.”
“What?” Charles said.
She shrugged. “They was friends.”
Charles frowned at the little girl. “Are you certain?”
She nodded.
“It doesn’t matter, Charles,” Fred said. “Two old men who live in the same neighborhood.”
“’E didn’t have a wife,” Beddie added. “Aunt Hannah cooked him dinner when ’e came.”
Charles shrugged. “It’s hard to imagine anyone wanting to spend time with Mr. Ferazzi who wasn’t being paid for it.”
Chapter 19
Despite the midmorning hour, Charles heard clattering on the steps as he exited his rooms after settling in Fred and Beddie. First, he saw William’s legs appear, then the rest of him.
“You are leaving as late as I am?” Charles exclaimed.
“I’m afraid so.” William made a face. “One of those days. I was up half the night writing a piece and then overslept. Julie hates to wake me after nights like this, but she needs to be cruel and simply pour water on my head.”
Charles chuckled. “Fred loves to do that to me.”
William opened the door to the front walk. “At least we can reacquaint ourselves while we walk. I feel like I haven’t seen much of you lately.”
“A new wife has that consequence,” Charles said, tilting his hat to keep the sun’s rays from his eyes. Of course, he’d bought food for his brother and not himself, and his stomach decided this was the time to remind him.
“And new relatives,” William agreed. “Did I tell you my father came into London earlier this week?”
“Did he like Julie?” Charles waved at a dusty girl with a tray of rolls. She walked to the side of the road to meet him. He bought a couple and paid her, then bit into one before he’d even stepped away.
“Julie warmed up some ham for me before I left,” William said. “Funny how a hot meal tastes good even on a summer morning.”
“Yes, yes,” groused Charles around his dry bite of roll. “But back to your father.”
William’s father was a widowed schoolmaster who lived in Harrow. He visited William only a couple days a year. “He met Julie at the wedding, but, of course, that day was overwhelming, to say the least. I have no recollection of him speaking to her.”
“I suppose. I think we drank decidedly too much. That might have affected your memory.”
“No doubt,” William said. “Julie was on her best behavior for his recent visit. She brought in food from Lugoson House, so the eating was excellent, and she waited on my father like he was an earl.”
“He’s very quiet.”
“Yes. I’m the loud one in the family.” William grinned. “Anyway, he’s gone now. What’s been going on?”
Charles edged along a narrow strip between a dead horse and a building. Someone had pushed the horse to the side of the road, but no one had removed it yet. He averted his eyes, trying not to remember Miss Haverstock as he batted away flies. “I tried to talk the police into arresting Miss Jaggers on Tuesday night, but then Kate and I saw her on Wednesday night in Regent’s Park, so I don’t think my mission was successful.”
William glanced away, too, his face shading toward green. “You think she killed Miss Haverstock?”
Charles’s memory unhelpfully flashed to the scene as he’d first come upon it with Kate three weeks ago. “I did at first. Still, I think she was involved. Follow the money, right? It turns out that she has quite an inheritance.”
They reached a crossroad, and both dashed across, satchels swinging, happy to get away from the horse carcass.
“Do you think Miss Jaggers hired the escaped convicts to kill Miss Haverstock?”
“I’d like to leave the convicts out of the equation entirely.” Charles’s throat had seized up between the dust and the smell and the flies. He pulled William into a coffeehouse and went to the bar.
“I don’t think you can. I think they are in the picture somehow.”
After Charles had ordered coffee for both of them, he said, “She should have been questioned as soon as we found the warehouse full of expensive goods. Who is protecting Miss Jaggers?”
William spotted an empty table and pulled Charles through the crowd of men to reach it. “Anyone who feels pity for the young and beautiful.”
Charles pulled out a chair. “She’s a cold fish. Young and beautiful doesn’t mean honest or good.”
“Is there a connection between Blood, Larsen, and Miss Jaggers?” William asked as they sat.
“She was in India for her earliest childhood, then went to boarding school.” Charles rubbed road dust from his face as a waiter set down their pints of coffee. “Her family was from Limehouse originally, and Larsen lived there.”
“Bread and butter, too,” William said to the waiter. “This coffee is more than my stomach can take alone.”
Charles stared at the oily brew. He didn’t think he’d been in this coffeehouse before. Glancing around, he saw only the lowest kind of day laborers at the tables. Now he knew why. He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced before saying, “Tastes better than flies. At least a little.”
“So, the convict has no connection to Miss Jaggers, in truth.”
Charles set down his cup. “But perhaps to Miss Haverstock. Backy Adams is from Limehouse. I do not know the years of Osvald Larsen’s residence there.”
“Anyone else?”
“The Jones women have relatives in Limehouse. I don’t know if Daniel was raised there.”
William snapped his fingers. “Mr. Pietro Ferazzi was raised there, as well.”
“Pietro?” Charles said, almost knocking the bread and butter plate onto the floor. He hadn’t noticed it being set down.
“Yes. I got to talking to that Reggie Nickerson one day, when he was collecting the rent.”
Charles jumped to his feet. “Pietro and Osvald. That’s it!”
“What’s it?”
“What is the connection between the Jones siblings, Larsen, and Ferazzi?” Elated, Charles poked his index finger at the table. “I’ll tell you. They were all the children who killed Goldy in that magazine article. I remember the names. Eddie, Han, Osvald, Pete.”
“What about Miss Haverstock?”
Charles had been about to launch into a little jig, but William’s words stopped him cold. “None of the children were named Backy.”
“Goldy died,” William said. “It was probably her sister.”
Charles nodded thoughtfully as he sat back down. “This means that Osvald Larsen didn’t know just Edmund and Hannah Jones. He knew Mr. Ferazzi, as well.”
“Did he know Daniel Jones?”
“It was probably Edmund who helped Larsen or Blood with the manacles,” Charles said. “But the police don’t care. They’ve already scheduled poor Daniel for trial and have settled his charges. The Joneses who are left have lost their home. They are leaving today. I suppose my sympathy for Hannah is diminished, given that she must be the girl who was involved in Goldy’s death.”
“Since Edmund Jones is dead, do you think Mr. Ferazzi is hiding Osvald Larsen?” William asked. “And they’ve turned Daniel Jones into a scapegoat?”
Charles folded his hands in front of his chin. Now there was a notion. “Perhaps.”
“Why did they want Miss Haverstock killed?”
“To get at the warehouse?” Charles asked, shrugging. “But it was weeks after she died, and the goods were still there.”
“Maybe Miss Haverstock threatened to expose them as Goldy’s killers?”
“I doubt it would matter.” Charles swallowed more coffee. “It was fifty years ago.”
William poked a piece of bread into the butter. “Are you certain you can’t free Daniel Jones, given
the evidence of a connection between his father and Larsen?”
The rolls sat uneasily in Charles’s stomach, so he shook his head when William offered him the bread and butter plate. “They’d just say Daniel had probably met him, too. After all, Larsen had been at Coldbath Fields for only eleven months. And he is a blacksmith.”
“I think we should find him,” William said around a mouthful. “I think we can find him. I’ll bet Mr. Ferazzi has him. It’s too much of a coincidence to find this group of men with a fifty-year-old connection.”
William’s enthusiasm infected Charles. “You’re right. I have to attend some meetings this afternoon, but tonight let’s go on the hunt.”
“I agree. I’ll find out where Mr. Ferazzi lives. I suppose he owns enough buildings that Larsen could be camped out anywhere, but we have to start somewhere.”
Charles tapped his fingers on the table impatiently as William handed the waiter the coins for their food. Then they left.
* * *
William and Charles returned to Selwood Terrace together from London that evening. When Charles went into his rooms, he found Fred alone.
“No Beddie?”
“They came for her a couple of hours after you left,” his brother reported. “Off to Limehouse they went. I used a bit of my pocket money to take her to a shop and buy her some boiled sweets. They kept her happy until Mrs. Jones arrived.”
“That was sweet of you, Fred. She’s had a rough time, that poor little girl.”
Fred screwed up his lips into a tight pout for a moment. “I suppose we are lucky, really, to have our parents. They aren’t perfect, but they are still alive, ready to pet and praise us at birthdays and at Christmas and such.”
“Yes, parents are much better than the alternative,” Charles agreed. Parents were all very well and good, but he’d prefer they cared for themselves. Fred was too young to have any real idea of what transpired when their father put himself and the rest of the family into difficulties.
“Did you bring any dinner?” Fred asked.
“Julie is going to cook for us.William and I bought sausages and summer greens on the walk home,” Charles said.
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