“The coroner thought differently,” Mr. Screws said.
“Sir Silas is an intelligent man,” Charles told him. “The fact that the corpse is now missing may change things.”
After a long wait, the plain black carriage arrived in front of the Chronicle and Mr. Screws tottered off into his coachman’s care. After he had left, Charles and Kate stared at each other.
“I know it makes no sense,” Kate said to him, “but I like Mr. Screws, even though he is obviously a hardened businessman.”
“I cannot deny that he is unwell, or that he is obviously distraught over what happened to the corpse,” Charles admitted. “I wonder if he and Mr. Harley were generally ill due to old age, or if something more insidious is going on? That housekeeper and her son concern me. He has an air of oversized danger about him.”
Mr. Hogarth walked into the front room, thrusting his hands into his unwieldy greatcoat. Little Georgina had knitted him a new comforter with tight, uneven purls that looked like they’d scratch the skin. But her father had gamely tucked it under his collar, where it rubbed only against his chin.
The office boy dashed around him and ran out the door. “He’ll call a hackney,” Mr. Hogarth told them. “Charles, do ye want to come to dinner tonight?”
“Thank you, sir. I want to track down William. I know he had to go out of town for a speech, but he should be back by now.”
“Charles has to find Mr. Harley’s body. It’s missing,” Kate told her father. “He promised Mr. Screws.”
“I think you did that.” Charles winked at Mr. Hogarth. He didn’t want the Hogarths asking questions about why he’d want to see William, though he was all agitation, wondering if he had learned anything about Timothy’s father. “Yes, I need to find that undertaker. I thought William could help.”
“Ye’ve lost a body?”
“Disappeared on the way to Kensal Green. I saw the coffin on the undertaker’s cart,” Charles verified.
“Why don’t ye ask Thomas Pillar for advice?” Mr. Hogarth suggested. “He has a bonny mind for details about tradesmen.”
“Thank you,” Charles said. “I will run along and do just that.” He squeezed Kate’s little hand in his and went back into the offices.
“Good luck,” she called after him. “Write me with an update.”
Thomas, the Chronicle’s under-editor, told Charles that Mr. Dawes, cabinetmaker and undertaker, had his enterprise in Spitalfields on Commercial Street. Charles bundled up and walked through the busy end-of-day, darkened streets to that destination, but found the three-story house entirely shut up, not even a wife and children at home. Any corpses moldering inside would not be able to speak to him.
Chilled by his windy walk, he trod quickly past a cluster of street hawkers around Old Castle Street. He regretted it when he considered his empty stomach and turned back to buy two pounds of oysters from one of them. After that, he followed behind a hulking laborer who left a trail of plaster bits in his wake, but kept the wind out of Charles’s face. When he turned off onto a rancid court, Charles stopped to buy a cup of pea soup from a dark-skinned, ragged girl with a tureen over a fire. That kept him warm enough to continue without his wind block.
Never had he been so happy to hear the Bow bells when he had Cheapside in sight. He hadn’t been walking long, just fifteen or twenty minutes, but his fingers felt like thin blocks of ice despite his pockets and gloves.
Julie let him into her rooms without a word, then closed the door behind him and spoke in a low voice. “Warm yourself in front of the fire, Charles. Your lips are blue.”
“I’m sure they are not,” he rejoined. “Or I would have lost the ability to speak.” Even so, he stripped off his damp comforter with alacrity and leaned his head over the hob, since nothing was on it to pop grease into his face. “How is Lucy Fair settling in?”
“We spent a lot of time hauling cans and heating water to give her a proper bath,” Julie said, tugging at his arm to pull him closer to the fireplace. “I had to take her to Petticoat Lane to see your friend Mr. Solomon. He found her some clothes for a reasonable price.”
“Where is she now?” Charles took off his hat and set it on the table. Even his hair felt heavy with moisture, falling into his eyes.
She put her finger to her lips. “Keep your voice down, please. Across the way with Mrs. Herring. Did you know Lucy has blond hair? That’s why she’s called Fair. I had no idea.”
He tucked strands of his black hair behind his ears with leaden fingers. “It’s nearly always been dark when I’ve seen her. I wouldn’t recognize her on the street.”
“You’ll be shocked,” Julie promised. “I pinned up the hem on her new dress since it needed to be shortened and she’s sewing it while she learns how to take care of an infant. We know she is good with quite small children but infants are another matter.”
“How is Timothy?” Charles asked.
“Very well.” She winced. “Too well. Mrs. Herring wants more money. She says she needs beer allowance to rebuild her milk.”
“He must be hungry.” He mentally calculated his expenditures. He could pay more, though it would cut into his furniture budget soon. William needed to bring him good news from Hatfield. With any luck he’d have word of Timothy’s family.
“Babies are always growing,” Julie agreed. “But his face is already fuller, don’t you think?” She pointed Charles away from the fire to a basket she’d acquired somewhere.
Baby Timothy dreamed, his eyes moving under his paper-thin eyelids. Julie had padded the basket with toweling and tucked a shawl he recognized snugly around him.
“I thought he was across the hall. I agree, his cheeks are fuller,” Charles whispered.
“Look how he sucks with those little lips, even in his sleep,” Julie said. “He’ll wake soon and want more. I’ll take him back over later on tonight.”
Charles’s fingers had thawed enough for him to remove his gloves. He set them by his hat. “Will Mrs. Herring be willing to take Timothy for another feeding now?”
“Not until she’s done feeding her family,” Julie whispered.
“I’ll have to make him more gruel. I’ll make some for you, too, Charles.”
“Don’t you have anything else?”
“Not really. I’m hoping William will be home soon. I didn’t want to take Timothy out in this cold.”
Charles, feeling heroic, pulled his oysters from his pocket with a flourish.
Julie squealed when she saw them. “That will do very nicely. I do have some carrots and one potato put by. I’ll make a quick stew. Can you put both of my pans on the hob?”
Charles set her soup pot and saucepan over the fire to heat, then poured some water from her can into the pot, figuring she’d need it for the stew.
Before Julie had returned with her shucked oysters, vegetables, and ground oatmeal, William came in. Charles shook his hand in the tiny hall and began firing questions about Hatfield.
William laughed and held up his hand in front of his merry face. “How many cups of tea did you drink today? Visiting our old ladies?”
Charles put a finger to his mouth. “Timothy’s sleeping and Julie is working on our meal.”
“Very good,” William said in a lower voice. “I was hoping I didn’t need to go outside again.” He pulled a squashed packet from his pocket. “It’s a ham sandwich, but the seller only had one left.”
“We can cut it up and serve it with the oyster stew she’s going to make. But you must remember you have Lucy to feed, too, now.”
William rubbed his chin. “Mrs. Herring must have taken Timothy for long enough for Julie to go out for oysters?”
“No, I brought them. Mrs. Herring is being very demanding. In fact, I’d better go across the passage and give her a few more shillings to keep her happy.” Charles clapped his friend on the shoulder and went out the door, leaving it ajar.
Across the way, a man who must be Mr. Herring was opening that door.
“I
’m Mr. Dickens,” Charles explained. He fished in his pocket and pulled out two half crowns. “For Mrs. Herring on account for Timothy?”
“Ah, yer tha father?” Mr. Herring said. A beefy man, he had an exceptionally well-victualed appearance. “I’m werry sorry to tell you, but ve can’t keep that bastard child of yers.”
“He’s not mine,” Charles said sharply. “I’m paying his way because his mother just perished in a terrible fire. We’re looking for his father.” He pushed back into his pocket and found another three shillings.
Mr. Herring took them with a grunt, then shut the door in Charles’s face without another word.
“Extortionist,” Charles muttered as he returned to the Agas’ rooms. London was ever full of people trying to make a quick shilling.
Julie bustled back and forth, making the stew. William sat on the sofa, a silly grin on his face as he watched her. To be helpful, Charles took the water can to the roof cistern for a refill, regretting it as soon as the wind hit him. By the time he returned, William had Timothy cradled in his arms and their newest household member had returned.
“Why, look at you,” Charles exclaimed. He wouldn’t have known the mudlark without Julie’s identification.
Lucy’s white blond hair had been pinned back from a young, pale, saintly face. Her nose had a slight hook at the tip, pointing down to cherubic lips. She had a round jaw with a stubborn chin. Her eyes were dark and tumultuous under brows considerably darker than her hair.
She wore a simple black dress with a white shawl collar and a bodice with buttons up the front, none of which completely matched. Her fingers picked at the edges of her apron, and Charles realized he’d been staring.
“You must be older than I thought,” he told her. “I’m Dickens. We’ve never met in daylight.”
Her lips quirked. “I was born the year George the Fourth was crowned, I’m told, Mr. Dickens.”
“That was eighteen-twenty-one,” William called from his seat. “July, I believe. You are probably fourteen.”
Charles nodded. “I believe it. It’s past time for you to learn more skills than mudlarking.”
“We did well enough,” Lucy Fair said. She sat in an armchair pulled away from the fire, probably unused to this much warmth. “It was great fun until Lack and his gang came.”
“I’ll keep an eye on what’s left of your little family,” Charles promised.
“The stew is ready,” Julie said as Lucy gave him a nod. “Lucy, can you pull chairs to the table?”
Lucy dutifully rearranged the room until four chairs were lined up around the deal table, then found bowls and spoons. They sat down with the pot of stew on a trivet and the ham sandwich cut into squares on a plate.
Julie ladled out her creation, muttering to herself about her need to visit the shops.
“Can’t you just stand in the doorway downstairs? Plenty of street sellers pass by here,” Charles said.
“Better prices down the road aways,” Julie told him. “I like to go where I’m known.”
“I can mind the baby tomorrow so you can go,” Lucy said.
“Do you know what to do now?” William asked.
Lucy ticked off items on her fingers. “I just have to keep him warm, clean, and fed. It isn’t so hard.”
“It is when you’re exhausted from the crying.” Julie yawned. She did look tired, Charles thought, but William clinked his wineglass against Charles’s and began to talk about his political meeting. After that, Charles caught them up on the events in Mr. Screws’s life.
Later on, the women left with the baby and went into another room to give him a bath. William poured the last of the bottle between their two glasses.
“Bad news, my friend,” he said.
Charles’s stomach lurched despite the excellent victuals. William had delayed relaying his Hatfield update. “No sign of a different Mr. Dickens?”
“No, you were publicly called Timothy’s father at the Eight Bells Pub. That little maid is holding to her story.”
“Did she claim to know me?”
“Not exactly. She said she saw you with her sister once, and the name was right.”
“There are many variations of my name, some exceedingly common.” Charles drained his glass as if it could bury his fears with the stew. “I appreciate you traveling for me. I am very concerned about the consequences of this folly. What if Kate finds out about Timothy before I have cleared up this matter?”
William drained his glass. “You might not.”
Charles gritted his teeth. “I have something to show you. I picked it up from my desk earlier.” He went to his coat and pulled out a notebook, then brought it back to the table.
“Let me do something about the fire.” William rose and went to the coal hod. “It’s cooling down in here.”
Charles flipped through his notebook, looking for October 1834. When William came back, still holding his poker, Charles showed him the notations. “The Chronicle hired me in August, so I can’t deny I was traveling. But in November, my father was arrested again for debt and I spent a great deal of time here in town raising money amongst our relatives and friends attempting to prevent disaster. See? I never went near Hatfield.”
William sat down again, laid the poker against his knee, and flipped through the pages. “That’s all very well, Charles, but do you have a twin?”
Charles laughed. “I don’t look that unusual.”
“I remember you complaining about this,” William said, poking his finger at a page. He pulled a cigar from his pocket as he spoke. “You were sent to review a farce and discovered it was plagiarized from your own story.”
“ ‘The Bloomsbury Christening,’ ” Charles agreed. “How irritating that anyone who cares to can make use of our creative work and we are not paid.”
“At least you aren’t the most miserable man in the world,” William joked.
“I will be if my fiancée discovers people believe I fathered a child.”
“It would have been before you met her,” William said.
“I am not sure that would matter very much, given my financial obligation to set up a household suitable for her. No, I need to find Timothy’s father and get out from under the burden of his upkeep. The Herrings are going to bleed me dry.”
“He won’t need a wet nurse forever,” William said.
“Can you afford to keep Lucy?”
“I can’t afford not to have Lucy working for us.” William stuck the cigar in his mouth and rose. “She’s too beautiful to allow out and about. I’m worried about her future.”
Charles chuckled. “Who’d have thought mudlarking a safe profession?”
“She’s much too young to marry. We’ll just have to do the best we can to train her as a maid of all work.” He bent over the fire and lit his cigar.
“Maybe she can be a parlor maid after Julie trains her.” Charles couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up.
“You eat Julie’s dinners often enough,” William groused. “No need to complain about her housekeeping skills now.”
“That is true. She’s become a good plain cook. Never burns anything these days. But the only reason your chambers are neat is because you move so often.”
“Must you continue to hold a grudge, Charles?” William asked through a round puff of smoke. “My wife was your maid for only a few days almost a year ago.”
Charles offered his friend a theatrical bow. “I am sorry, my good man, that the truth hurts. I am off to my own untidy chambers in a few moments to see if the laundress did her duties today. A dry shirt would be a luxury. But first, I should tell you about the Harley inquest, and share the tale of a missing corpse.”
* * *
Back at Furnival’s Inn, Charles found his brother drinking ale next to the dying fire. He had a copy of The Pilgrim’s Progress open across his thighs. Charles glanced over Fred’s shoulder and read aloud. “ ‘Here is a poor burdened sinner. I come from the City of Destruction, but am going to Mou
nt Zion, that I may be delivered from the Wrath to come; I would therefore, Sir, since I am informed that by this Gate is the Way thither, know if you are willing to let me in?’ ”
“Stirring stuff,” Fred said drowsily.
“You sound more unstirred by your ale, young sir, than stirred by this literary classic.” Charles yawned and went to pull the curtains as Fred set the book on the sofa arm.
Outside the fog had thickened until Charles could not even see the street lamps in front of the building. He heard the sounds of a carriage moving through the street, hooves muted by the fog. “I wonder if Bethlehem suffered from such darkness,” he muttered.
Fred’s only answer was a burp.
After he shooed Fred toward the bedroom, Charles went to the fire and added coal, then took his writing box and set it on the sofa. He cast himself down in the warm spot Fred had vacated and picked up his ale tankard, finding one mouthful left.
Thus minimally refreshed, he pulled the papers for his cornerstone sketch for his book, which was called “A Visit to Newgate” and was based on his research trip there a few weeks ago. The adventure had been everything he expected, and he didn’t think his draft would need to be reconstructed too much to reach its final form. As difficult as visiting Coldbath Fields over the summer had been, Newgate was much worse.
He glanced over the first few paragraphs, troubled at the sight of his oblique reference to James Pratt and John Smith, who’d been executed for sodomy about ten days ago, weeks after he’d seen them at the prison. Seventeen men had been sentenced to die that fall, yet these two were the only men to actually be executed. In fact, they were the first public hangings at the prison for almost two years.
“Barbaric,” Charles muttered, thinking uneasily of his friend Breese Gadfly. The songwriter did not always hide his romantic interest in other men well. These men had died because of the testimony of one sanctimonious landlord and his wife. How dangerous his friend Breese’s life was. Mr. Screws, fragile as he was, would not last long in Newgate either, even though he would probably not hang at his age.
He stared at the pages for a few more minutes, then fetched himself a rum and water and went back to work. He finished revisions on that story, then moved on to the next, one of the sketches that had first run in the Evening Chronicle. The hour grew late, his candle burning down. His quill slipped from his fingers and his head settled back on the sofa.
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 8