Grave Expectations

by Heather Redmond

  He reached beneath his desk. “Found them.” After pulling the shoes up by the laces, he turned his chair so he could see.

  Kate returned to him. Above her head, something thumped softly, a meaningless sound unless one knew the chambers above were unoccupied.

  Charles stood, only one foot in an unlaced shoe. “What was that?”

  Chapter 22

  Something slid across the floor above. This was no time of night for people to be moving about in their parlor. Charles bent and laced his shoe. “I know that new tenants have been chosen, but there’s been no sign of them yet.”

  “Might they have moved in?” Kate whispered.

  Charles reached for his other shoe. “In the middle of the night? No, this is a time for thieves, not newlyweds.”

  “We didn’t hear anyone on the stairs, and you were gone earlier,” Kate said.

  Footsteps walked over their heads, a heavy, slow tread.

  “Moving toward the fireplace,” Charles mused as he shoved his foot into his other shoe. “Doesn’t sound like the walk of a young man or woman.”

  “There’s a drag to it, like one leg is wounded,” Kate agreed.

  “I’d better investigate.” Charles finished with his laces. “If it is only the newlyweds, then I can apologize and be bashful.”

  “I don’t want you to risk injury,” she protested.

  “I’ll take my stick and bang on the Agas’ door first,” Charles said. “I owe Julie an uneasy moment.”

  “Be kind, Charles. She lost a baby.”

  He chuckled. “How the tables have turned.” He kissed her cheek. “Stay down here and don’t unlock the door until you know it’s me.”

  “I’m going up those stairs behind you,” she insisted, handing him his stick. “I’ll stay out of the way, but I can’t let you go alone.”

  “Fred’s here.”

  “Lock the door. If he can sleep through all that noise upstairs, he’ll sleep through everything else.”

  “Fair enough, but keep your hood over your head, so you aren’t seen. If it is the villain and he somehow escapes, I don’t want him to see you.”

  She touched his cheek. “Thank you. I appreciate your concern.”

  He stared at her. “Are you always going to be this brave?”

  She lifted her chin. “I hope so.”

  He couldn’t help tucking two fingers under that stubborn chin and tilting her toward him. When he had her mouth positioned under his, he pressed a soft kiss to her lips. “You are a darling.”

  “Yes, I am.” She grinned at him, then winced as another thump resounded. “What is he doing?”

  “I have to wonder. I thought nothing remained up there.” He took her hand and pulled her to the door. When they were in the hall, he locked the door and handed her the key. “Put it in your pocket.”

  She complied as he lifted his stout stick and put his foot on the first step of the staircase. He went up slowly, trying to remember where the squeaky treads were.

  When he reached the top, he whispered, “I’m going to try to open that door. As soon as I do, start banging on the Agas’ door.”

  “Create confusion,” she whispered back.

  “And gain backup. On the count of three.” He counted slowly, raising his arm. Behind him, he heard the whisper of cloth as she moved toward the other door; then he slapped the pinkie side of his fist against the door.

  Bang! Bang! Bang!

  Charles reached for the doorknob. It turned, unlocked. He pushed the door in, hoping his banging had startled whoever was inside. Across the hall, Kate had done the same with her smaller hand but was still making a good amount of noise as she attempted to rouse the Agas from their bed.

  Creeping into the dark room, Charles kept his stick in front of his face, his other arm crossed over his chest for protection. He blinked, realizing light glowed in the fireplace. Had they lit a fire on this hot July night?

  Then he realized it wasn’t a fire, but a lantern on the grate. Bricks were scattered across the floor. A man turned to him. He must have been dismantling the fireplace. Charles saw a gaunt, late middle-aged face, the lower half covered with whitish whiskers.

  The old man threw a brick at him.

  Charles leapt out of the way. “Osvald Larsen?”

  The man grunted and pulled another brick from the fireplace, then threw it. Charles rushed forward. He swung his stick and caught the man on the shoulder.

  The man grunted again and went down, then came up with the lantern. When he threw that at Charles, aiming for the center of his body, Charles jumped to the side. He dropped his stick and stumbled as he reached for it.

  Glass tinkled when the lantern broke. Charles sniffed instinctively, afraid of gas, but the light had gone out. A candle, probably. Now the room was pitch black. Glass on the floor. Had the man left the apartment?

  “Dear God,” he said aloud. Kate was in the hall. He straightened and ran for the door.

  A heavy mass blocked his path. The man. Charles grabbed him around the waist. The man turned, fighting back. Charles attempted to land a punch and had his ear pulled. He heard shouting in the hallway; then a light flared outside the door.

  “Give over,” Charles puffed. “We’ve got you, Larsen.”

  The next thing Charles knew, he’d been slammed against a wall. His head went back, and he struck the plaster hard with the back of his skull. He saw stars and began to slump down but then recovered himself. Kicking out, he caught the man’s shin.

  The man grunted, the only sound he seemed to make. Charles pushed off the wall and head-butted him. The man stumbled back and fell over, Charles on top of him. Charles’s head swam as he struggled into a sitting position on the man’s chest.

  A light appeared in the doorway. “Take this,” William said to somebody; then he came into the room.

  “I think I’m sitting on Osvald Larsen,” Charles said through his haze.

  “Go for a constable,” William called. The light went away as footsteps made their way down the stairs.

  Charles heard hands moving against fabric; then William knelt down next to him on the wood floor.

  “Get up,” he instructed. “Turn over slowly, Larsen.”

  Charles came up on his knees, then went into a crouch, as the man turned over, groaning. In the dark, Charles felt rather than saw William confining the man’s hands with a neckerchief.

  “Do you have any weapons?” William demanded.

  The man didn’t answer.

  “I’ll search him,” Charles said, poking around the man’s torso, trying to feel for hard objects.

  “What was he doing here?”

  Charles gingerly patted the man’s trousers. “He was pulling bricks out of the fireplace.”

  William rose.

  “Watch out. There’s glass,” Charles said.

  “Can I leave you while I get my shoes?”

  “No,” Charles said. “My ears are still ringing. From my head being slammed against the wall.”

  “Right,” William said. “At least I was still dressed. Why are you up?”

  “I was writing lyrics, then . . .” Charles trailed off. While his friend knew Kate had been with him, he didn’t want Larsen to hear about it.

  Long moments passed. The man on the floor breathed hard but said nothing. Charles’s ears started to lose the annoying noise. He blinked hard, trying to quell the dizziness.

  “What were you looking for in the fireplace?” he asked. “Is there a secret hiding spot?”

  Larsen didn’t answer.

  “We’d better turn him over so he can breathe,” Charles suggested.

  William swore under his breath. “You didn’t kill him, did you?”

  Together, they forced the man over.

  “No, he’s breathing,” Charles reported. “Just not talking.”

  The man sniffed. The sound was so liquid that Charles guessed he’d possibly damaged the man’s nose. He didn’t feel the least bit sorry.

  �
��What do you think is in the fireplace?” William asked.

  “We know Miss Haverstock was wealthy,” Charles said. “They must have been looking for something valuable. Maybe she had jewelry to go with her goods.”

  “Makes sense.” William chuckled. “I’m sorry we didn’t look.”

  “It would belong to Miss Jaggers, anyway, and I’m not particularly fond of her,” Charles groused. He heard a rattle in the street. “That will be a constable.”

  The darkness in the hallway diminished as a small group came up the stairs. First, a constable appeared, holding a lantern high; then the two young women came in behind him.

  “Watch for glass on the floor,” Charles called, not sure if Julie was wearing shoes or not.

  “Wot’s all this?” demanded the constable.

  “The new tenants haven’t moved in yet, so we knew what we heard overhead had to be a thief,” Charles explained. “I believe you’ll find that this is one Osvald Larsen, escaped from Coldbath Fields Prison and the murderer of Miss Haverstock, formerly of these premises.”

  The young constable lifted his lantern high over the prisoner’s head. “Oh? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Charles could see blood had spilled from the man’s nose and had clotted around the whiskers on his upper lip. The prisoner spat and turned his head away from the light.

  “Not a good sign if he won’t talk,” the constable said.

  Charles stared at the man on the floor, trying to picture him versus the sketch he’d seen at the prison. “I do think we’re right. I’ve seen a sketch, and this man is the right age and has the same square face. Besides, anyone who lives nearby would know these apartments are empty and wouldn’t bother trying to rob them.”

  “Could be a vagrant simply looking for a warm place to sleep.”

  “Not needed in July,” William said. “Look, we’re reporters. Professional observers.”

  More footsteps sounded on the steps. Two more uniformed men came into the room. Charles stood, happy to recognize Constable Blight.

  “I believe we’ve found your escapee,” Charles told him.

  Blight stepped forward and glanced down at the man. “Very good. What’s he doing here?”

  “He was ripping apart the fireplace,” Charles reported.

  Blight turned to look at it. Bricks littered the floor. “You don’t say. I look forward to sorting all this out. Haul him to his feet, men, and let’s get him back to the station.”

  Charles watched impassively as the two other constables lifted Larsen. He kicked out with his feet, a last act of defiance that earned him a thump on the head.

  “Watch it, you, or we’ll throw you down the steps,” the first constable said in a menacing voice.

  Larsen stopped fighting. His dark gaze met Charles’s, and Charles felt sure he’d just locked eyes with a killer. As much as he wanted to understand, he needed to free Daniel Jones even more.

  “How did you remove the manacles?” he asked. “If you have any love left for the Jones family, please tell me.”

  Larsen stamped his foot.

  “They’ve lost everything, Mr. Larsen,” Charles pleaded. “Your old friend Hannah has no home. Edmund died. Daniel is rotting away in jail.”

  A bead of sweat trickled down the old criminal’s temple.

  “You know what it’s like in jail. But he’s in Newgate. Sweet, kindly Daniel Jones will never see his family again if you don’t tell the police the truth.”

  “It were Edmund,” Larsen admitted. “Edmund, me old cove. Never even met his lad.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said. “Thank you. You heard that, didn’t you, constables?”

  Soon the remaining inhabitants of the room listened as three pairs of feet sounded on the steps.

  “Shall we have a look?” Constable Blight said, gesturing at the fireplace.

  “Isn’t it more important to send to Newgate and have Daniel Jones released?” Charles asked.

  “It’s not that simple. But we all heard the confession. It will have to be sorted out with the magistrates. I think he will go free now.”

  “Thank God,” Charles breathed.

  “What do you think that man was looking for?” Constable Blight said.

  “Impossible to know,” Charles said, coming to stand next to him by the fireplace.

  The constable grunted. “I need to get back to the station if you want Daniel Jones added to the docket. If you find anything here, make sure the heir’s lawyers are notified.”

  “Aren’t you going to help us?” William asked.

  Constable Blight gestured at the mess. “It’s too dark to search, and I’m not about to be further involved in the demolition of property.”

  “Fair enough,” Charles said. “But I’m afraid Mr. Ferazzi will have whatever ought to be Miss Jaggers’s property stolen if his men find something here.”

  “Demolition of property, eh wot?” came a voice from behind them.

  Charles turned to see Mr. Nickerson in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was walking by, and I saw lights and police,” the rent-taker said. “Why are you destroying Mr. Ferazzi’s property? I ’ope you’re arresting this man, Constable.”

  “’E didn’t do it,” Constable Blight said. “Osvald Larsen did.”

  “Did Mr. Ferazzi tell him to do it?” Charles demanded. “I know they were old friends.”

  Mr. Nickerson screwed up his lips into a tight O. “I don’t ’ave any idea wot yer talking about.”

  “Maybe you came here to help Mr. Larsen,” Charles said. “I wonder what you are hunting for in these empty rooms. I’d understood new tenants were moving in any day now.”

  Constable Blight sighed. “I need to return to the station. Mr. Nickerson, I know you work for the owner. What do you want to do here?”

  “Board up the door,” Mr. Nickerson said with a narrow-eyed glance at Charles. “I’ll have a bricklayer in to repair the damage.”

  “Do you have the wood?” the constable said. “I don’t.”

  “I’ll take care of it.” Mr. Nickerson stared at Charles, then pointed at the door. “You need to leave, Mr. Dickens. I remember ’ow we were once friendly-like, and I won’t put in a complaint against you. I want to get ’ome to the missus.”

  “He’s a thief,” Charles told the constable. “They are looking for something that must belong to Miss Jaggers.”

  “Who you thought was a killer,” the constable pointed out. “So why do you care?”

  Charles went across the hall to his friends. Kate clung to his arm when he walked in.

  “We heard everything,” she said softly as footsteps went down the stairs.

  “Why don’t Julie and I walk Kate home?” William suggested. “Leave you out of it?”

  “Are you certain?” Charles said.

  “A walk will do Julie good.”

  “Very well. Thank you. But then what?” Charles asked.

  “We can unboard a door, as long as no one is around to hear us.”

  Charles gritted his teeth. “That Nickerson character tends to appear out of nowhere. We’d better not try it tonight. Tomorrow?”

  “We can have someone stand guard,” William said. “Fred, maybe.”

  “We can’t,” Julie said. “Remember? Lord Lugoson is taking us to Tatersalls with him to look at a horse tomorrow.”

  “As if either of us would have any advice for him. Can’t we put him off?”

  “It is his birthday,” Julie explained. “I promised.”

  William worked his jaw. “I really wanted to be on hand for the discovery of buried treasure. What do you think is hidden in the fireplace?”

  “Jewelry,” Charles said.

  “Proof of Miss Haverstock’s original identity,” Kate suggested. “Something that ties her to Osvald Larsen, that would give him a reason to kill her.”

  Charles leaned over Kate and stole a sip of tea from her cup. “I’ll have to find some proper tools. I’
m not about to tear apart a fireplace with my bare hands.”

  “There will be a hidden compartment.” Kate leaned forward. “It’s not as if Miss Haverstock built that fireplace herself.”

  “Just needs a clever eye,” Julie said. “We’ll be home by dark tomorrow. No one will be in the street, and we can have a very quiet little treasure hunt.”

  “Come along, Kate Hogarth. We need to take you home. Let’s leave Charles out of it this time,” William said.

  “Yes. I’ll see Charles at St. Luke’s in a few hours.” She glanced shyly at Julie. “My parents are having a garden party on Monday evening. I hope you and your husband will come.”

  Julie smiled and chose her words with care. “What a kind offer. We would be delighted to join you.”

  Charles watched the trio leave before going back down the steps to unlock his own door. Inside, Fred still snored away. Charles stretched out on his sofa and closed his eyes and tried not to worry that Mr. Ferazzi would demand another search of the fireplace before he and his friends could sneak in.

  * * *

  Twilight came the next night, and Charles was alone. Fred was in Bloomsbury, and the Agas had not yet come home. Charles grew impatient as the light diminished. He crept upstairs with his coin-digging trowel and pried the nails holding one board over the door. With minimal noise, he made it inside and figured he was safe enough until the Agas returned. He had a view of the lane from the window.

  The air still reeked of Osvald Larsen’s musky sweat. Charles opened the parlor window, hoping for a breeze, and removed his frock coat. He set it on the floor by the door, trying not to remember the final sight of Miss Haverstock’s body screwed into the far wall.

  In his shirtsleeves, he shifted the five bricks the blacksmith had pried out of the mortar, and stacked them against the wall, under the window. Larsen had attacked only one part of the fireplace, but Charles didn’t know if he’d had any intelligence about an actual secret compartment. Still, he must have been tearing it apart for some reason.

  Why hadn’t Larsen conducted his search the night he’d killed Miss Haverstock? Had something startled him, or had he learned something later? If Mr. Ferazzi had known the fireplace’s secret, he’d have investigated the day they tossed the possessions out of the rooms.