‘My brother … but … I thought that he was … in the hands of his doctor.’ The words came out in a series of disjointed gasps.
Inspector Field smiled with a false sympathy that made me feel slightly ill. This time, I openly mopped my brow and looked across at him.
‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘And a little trip on a boat. My men saw him disembark at the Temple Stairs. No doubt,’ Inspector Field cleared his throat noisily, ‘no doubt his doctor thought a little air would do him good. Should have let us know, of course. We thought that he was at death’s door.’ The inspector looked at me reproachfully and I looked angrily back.
‘Where is my brother now?’ I asked.
Inspector Field cleared his throat. A false sound if ever I had heard one. The man was enjoying this. And when the words came, I was not surprised.
‘I’m afraid that we have him in custody, Mr Collins,’ he said. ‘He confessed, you see. Confessed to murdering Mr Milton-Hayes. Said that the man was a scoundrel and the earth a better place without him.’
‘But he didn’t; he couldn’t have. We know who did murder Milton-Hayes, don’t we, Dickens? And we know why he did it. You must listen to us, inspector.’ I cast a look of appeal towards Dickens.
He roused himself, but when he spoke his words were about Charley.
‘Did you believe him, inspector?’ And then when the inspector did not reply, he elaborated. ‘Did you believe Mr Charles Collins when he confessed to the murder, the savage murder of a friend and fellow artist? Did you really think that he was the sort of person who would take up a knife and slit a man’s throat?’ He sounded interested. Just as though he were working out a plot for a novel.
The inspector smiled weakly and looked embarrassed. ‘Well, you know, Mr Dickens, we don’t go in for that sort of thing here in Scotland Yard. Hard evidence is what we go for. And there is a lot of hard evidence that points to Mr Charles Collins.’ He cleared his throat and avoided my eye. ‘You see, Mr Dickens,’ he said confidentially, ‘the young man was having an affair with a married lady, a lady with a rich husband and this artist fellow, this Mr Milton-Hayes, had painted a picture of it, Taken in Adultery. One of the other artists, a man called Ruskin, explained it all to us.’
‘And you thought that Mr Charles Collins was the sort of man to commit murder, did you?’
I sat back. I felt sick and bewildered and hoped that Dickens would handle the matter. I looked hopefully at the inspector. Was he beginning to look a little uncertain? I couldn’t be sure. There was a mask of professionalism on his face that seemed to show the official point of view and exclude all indecision.
‘Well, you see, Mr Dickens,’ he said, ‘that’s not really a matter for us. Remember the young man has confessed to the murder. His guilt or his innocence is now a matter for the judge and the jury. And, of course, the judge and jury can be persuaded by a good lawyer.’ He looked then across at me.
‘If I were you, Mr Collins, I would engage a good lawyer. Don’t spare money on him. Would you like to see your brother now?’ He half rose, but I did not move and I shook my head. My mother, I knew, would spend her last penny on a lawyer for her youngest son, but that might be too late.
‘We, myself and Mr Dickens, know who did do the murder and also why he did it.’ I said the words as firmly as I could and he sank back into his chair again. There was a look of resignation on his face that spoke more highly of scepticism than any argument could have done. I looked despairingly across at Dickens and this time he did not fail me.
‘Collins and I were studying the pictures, inspector, and he has been very knowledgeable about the figures,’ he said. ‘We agree, I think, that they were painted in order to blackmail the subjects; that Milton-Hayes used his knowledge of the follies of some young men and young women. Mr Collins, of course, knows this world of those so-called Pre-Raphaelite artists and was able to identify most of the subjects. But –’ Dickens held up an admonitory finger as the inspector was about to speak – ‘but,’ he continued, ‘one man, one painted figure, did not appear to belong in that world of young people. And that was the grey-haired main figure in the picture entitled Den of Iniquity. I’m sure that you remember that particular picture, inspector, do you not? The grey-haired man, dressed in old clothes, right in the centre of that scene of iniquity, that opium den, surrounded by other unfortunate addicts.’ Dickens paused, eyed the inspector closely and then continued, giving every word an impressive weight.
‘We have identified that man, inspector. It is Canon Rutter, the would-be purchaser of those five pictures. No, let me finish. I know what you are about to say. The resemblance is slight, the clothes all wrong, the suggestion quite far-fetched. Why should a man murder another on such scanty evidence which could be laughed away? Well, I’ll tell you something interesting. We believe, my friend and I believe, that Milton-Hayes was an assumed name and that the artist’s real name was Rutter. If you were to delve into the matter, you would find that Canon Rutter was closely related, even perhaps as nearly related as a brother, to Milton-Hayes. And, you know yourself, inspector, you remarked upon it, I remember. Milton-Hayes, through nefarious practices like this latest attempt at blackmail, had become a very rich man. A man,’ finished Dickens, one finger raised and his voice solemn, ‘a man,’ he repeated, ‘that would have been worth murdering if one was sure of inheriting his fortune. It makes, and I’m sure that you’ll agree, inspector, it makes for a far more powerful motive for murder than a mere boyish indiscretion such as my friend’s young brother might have committed.’
And Dickens, as always convinced by the sound of his own voice and the logic of his reasoning, sat back looking satisfied.
Inspector Field, however, showed no signs of surprise. ‘You’re quite right, Mr Dickens,’ he said. His voice held a note of admiration. ‘Don’t know how you worked it out, to be sure, but you are quite right. Mr Edwin Milton-Hayes’ real name was Jem Rutter and yes, his brother was Canon Rutter.’
‘You worked it out.’ I was conscious of a feeling of disappointment. I had been proud of how I had worked out that relationship and was disappointed that the inspector, a man of small brain, as I had always thought, had also done so.
‘No, no, we don’t have too much time for that sort of thing, Mr Collins. No, I heard it from the man himself. Came to see me.’
‘What, the canon!’ And then I remembered. Yes, we had seen him outside. I remembered the well-dressed clerical figure. He had stolen our thunder. I sat back in despair. The man had forestalled us.
‘I had another look at the pictures after he went,’ said the inspector.
Not stupid then, I told myself, with hope slightly rising, but then that hope subsided when he added, ‘But, confidentially, Mr Dickens, I don’t think we’d get anywhere, to be very honest with you both. A judge wouldn’t like a clergyman in court, the jury wouldn’t like it, my superiors in Scotland Yard, well, they wouldn’t like it at all. The man has been open and honest, explained that it was his younger brother who didn’t want the relationship to be known, thought the name would be bad for business, make people laugh at him. That’s what this Mr Edwin Milton-Hayes thought, apparently, and it all makes sense.’ The inspector stopped and looked at both of us with his eyebrows raised.
‘On the other hand,’ said Dickens. ‘If my friend’s younger brother is accused of this murder which he did not commit, then his mother, a very well-off lady, will secure the services of the top lawyer in London, even perhaps Sir Cresswell Cresswell himself.’ Dickens rolled the name on his tongue and eyed the inspector. ‘And, of course, the young man’s family and friends would take care to brief Sir Cresswell Cresswell on all the factors that make it most unlikely that Mr Charles Collins was the person who killed Mr Milton-Hayes. Witnesses would be called; private affairs would be revealed; questions in the House of Commons; newspapers making insinuations, very distressing for a hard-working, ambitious man like yourself.’ Dickens looked sympathetically at the man behind the desk and then wai
ted.
The inspector was a man of decision.
‘As you say, Mr Dickens, the affair is shrouded in mystery. The problem is,’ and now he spoke with an apologetic note in his voice, ‘the problem is that Mr Charles Collins has at least twice confessed to the murder of Mr Milton-Hayes.’
Dickens did not hesitate. He waved his hand. ‘Temporary derangement of the mind, inspector. Dr Beard is highly respected among the professional men of the city. His evidence will more than reassure.’ He stopped there and did not add anything to the end of his sentence. He, like me, knew that if poor Charley was taken to court, the result might be catastrophic. I could see him wagering all on this last throw and it worked.
Inspector Field nodded. ‘I think you are right, Mr Dickens. No point in putting the unfortunate young man through a nerve-wracking experience. I think, gentlemen, if you will secure a cab then I will bring Mr Charles Collins out to you. No point in too much fuss or formalities.
Dickens had a satisfied look as we drove away. I kept an arm around Charley’s shoulders. We would drive him straight to Frank Beard’s place. No yachts this time. Piggott was not up to detaining Charley against his will, but Frank Beard would look after him until his nerves had improved. My mother could visit him there and try to coax him from the depression and delusions that now held sway over him. There was only one thing wrong and, as I felt Charley’s head drop on my shoulder and heard his breathing lengthen into the long, slow breaths of slumber, I spoke my thought aloud.
‘Does this mean that no one is to be accused of the murder?’ I heard a very bitter note in my voice and was surprised at myself. After all, I hadn’t even liked the dead man, and I certainly did not relish the thought of anyone being hanged for his murder.
I was, however, rather taken aback when Dickens said in a low, firm voice, ‘Believe me, my dear Wilkie, that it would be much the best thing if the subject was now dropped and was never to be mentioned again between us.’
TWENTY
Sesina chose her time carefully. Mr Wilkie was having a small party that evening for some friends. Mr Dickens, of course, had been invited, and had arrived an hour earlier than the other guests and both were having a low-voiced conversation in the downstairs parlour. Mrs Collins had finished getting ready for the party, had sent Dolly back to the kitchen and now was alone in her sitting room.
Sesina had written the letter in Mr Wilkie’s study on the evening before when he was out. Though it was very short, she had taken care with it, placing the lines at an exact distance from each other, just in the way that Mrs Morson had taught them when she and her friend Isabella were living in Urania Cottage. She speculated on taking one of these new-fangled envelopes to enclose it, but decided that the use of candle and sealing wax added another complication.
And so it was a single folded sheet of paper that she handed to Mrs Collins.
The woman was taken aback, but unsuspecting. She read the letter through, took slightly longer over it than she need have done; it was, after all, a very short letter. And then she read it aloud.
‘I’m sorry to have to hand in my notice, ma’am.’ Sesina felt that there was a nice note of sincerity in her voice. Might as well keep the old lady happy for the moment. See how things went.
‘And we’re very sorry to lose you, Sesina.’ Mrs Collins eyed her with a certain degree of puzzlement. ‘I can’t persuade you to change your mind, can I? You haven’t found the work here to be too difficult, I’m sure, have you?’
Very cautious. Not sure. Eyeing Sesina, sensing the excitement, perhaps. A bit stiff, ready for anything. Still, you had to admire her. That woman would do anything for that son of hers, anything to look after him, to keep him safe.
Not worth it, thought Sesina dispassionately. Going to have trouble with him all of her days. She and Mr Wilkie were going to have to look after him for his entire life. Never did grow up, that fellow, she thought and was surprised to find how she could feel so detached-like about Charley Collins. One blow and it had knocked all of the nonsense out of her head. Surreptitiously she touched the bruise beneath her eye. She had tried rubbing a bit of cornflour over it to hide the blackness, but it had not been a success and so she had washed it off.
‘You see, ma’am,’ she said and heard a note of sincerity in her voice, ‘this is a job in a playhouse. I’ve always wanted to be on the stage and this might give me my opportunity.’
Now the woman relaxed. A slightly contemptuous look came over her face which Sesina resented.
‘You’d want to put that nonsense out of your head, Sesina,’ she said patronisingly. ‘Goodness knows how you’d end up if you work in a playhouse. You’d be on the streets in a couple of years. I really don’t feel that I can give you a good reference if that’s what you have in mind.’
Sesina smiled sweetly. ‘Oh, but I think that you will, ma’am, and a nice little present, too. Just to show your appreciation. And, of course, to ensure that I keep my mouth shut.’
‘Don’t be impertinent.’ Once again the woman eyed the bruise, but Sesina observed a slight shrug of the shoulders. She could read the woman’s thoughts. What was a blow? A blow from a young gentleman. Happened in lots of households. Maidservants were two a penny. Lots of them were knocked about on a regular basis. No, Mrs Collins, thought Sesina, I have a better trick up my sleeve than that. It was time to come out with her prize card.
‘I recognized you that morning, you see, ma’am,’ she said with a slight smile. ‘And, of course, that was Mr Charley’s cricket cap that you was wearing. I recognized that, too. I’ve seen it in his wardrobe when I’ve been dusting. Keeps all his old school stuff, does Mr Charley.’ She gave the woman a moment to swallow this and then went on. ‘I was following Mr Charley, you see, ma’am. Trying to make sure that he came to no harm. There he was, running like a lunatic away from Mr Milton-Hayes’ house, down Park Road and you dodged into a back alley. Not that he would have noticed you. Too much on his mind that morning. Always does just think of himself, doesn’t he?’
Mrs Collins’ eyes had widened and she had drawn in a deep breath. But then, courageous as ever, she pulled herself together.
‘I really don’t know what you are talking about, Sesina,’ she said sharply.
‘Oh, but I think you do, ma’am. You see I’m not stupid. I’ve put it all together. I remember what you were like that morning of the murder. Dolly said that you were in a state. Have to hand it to you. You was wearing lots of stuff on your face, of course. Rouge and all. Of course, you’d have been a bit pale – Dolly said that you were ever so pale, that morning. Was worried about you. Hard to blame you. Must be a bit of a shock to a lady like yourself to cut a man’s throat. Don’t suppose that you hesitated much, though, did you? Not when it came to Mr Charley. Would do anything for him, wouldn’t you? Be afraid that he might commit suicide if he was disgraced. Just the type, isn’t he?’
Mrs Collins drew in a long breath and Sesina eyed her with amusement. Quite the actress, wasn’t she? That’s how she managed to pull it off. Pretending to be surprised that the man hadn’t turned up for dinner and knowing all of the time that she had slit his throat that morning. You’d have to admire her, thought Sesina. But then she hardened her heart as she thought of how she had been sacrificed.
‘And, of course, you thought that you’d turn the police away from Mr Charley and on to me. Had that constable following me everywhere, didn’t you? Asking me questions. Suggesting all sorts of things. That’s right, isn’t it, ma’am? You tried to drop me into it. It would have suited you, wouldn’t it, if the police had taken me in for questioning, had accused me? Anything, just so long as your darling little boy was safe.’
‘No, no. You’re wrong, Sesina. Mr Dickens and Mr Wilkie were coming up with other names …’ Her voice tailed out and Sesina smiled contemptuously at the thought of that pair beating their brains. Got nowhere. Barking up the wrong tree, they were.
‘I’ll have twenty pounds and the best reference that you can t
hink of,’ she said. She had thought about asking for more, but best to take what she could easily and get out quickly. ‘And no going behind my back and saying something different if anyone comes to call on you about the reference. I know all of those tricks and I won’t hesitate to go to Inspector Field with the whole story.’ Sesina sat back and studied the face opposite to her.
You had to admire her, sometimes. A woman who made up her mind quickly. Got up. Went to her writing desk, wrote out the reference, took up the pounce sprinkler and scattered the cuttlefish powder onto the wet ink, shook the paper, handed it over to Sesina and then waited while she read it through.
‘And the money,’ said Sesina. The reference had been very good but she wasn’t going to praise it. It was the least that woman could do. Getting away with murder; that she was. She hardened her heart when she remembered how Mrs Collins had gone to such trouble to make the inspector think that Sesina was guilty. All that talk about getting a letter from someone. All made up. ‘Twenty pounds in small notes,’ she added.
Mrs Collins unlocked another drawer and took out four brand-new, crisp, five-pound notes and handed them over. Bigger than she would have liked, but it would have to do. Sesina took it from her without a word of thanks. She thought of giving the woman some advice about her son, Charley, ship him off to Australia or something, but then she shrugged her shoulders. None of her business.
‘I’ll take my uniform and my Sunday clothes,’ she stated. And then she left the room rapidly, shutting the door quietly behind her. A quick visit to her room. Everything that might be useful packed into two bags. Moving quietly. Checked the stairs before she went and then out through the area door.
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