Charles nodded. “Before I go, is there any insight you might offer on Mr. Harley?”
“Not a godly man, Mr. Harley.” He pulled the pan from the hob and set it on a trivet.
“His body is missing.”
Mr. Pettingill poured the chestnuts into a cloth and covered them. “No shroud for the wicked?” he asked softly.
“Did you have any intelligence on Johnny Dorset before I go?” Charles asked.
“A lost lamb. He is attached to no soul but his mother. I understand a local baker was interested in courting Mrs. Dorset, but the son ran him off. Blackened his eye and scattered buns across the road. He’s a peaceful, simple soul otherwise, works hard where he’s directed.”
“He’d attack someone he perceived as a threat to his mother, then.”
“Yes, but old Harley was no threat. He was dying. I cannot imagine that old sinner having the strength to offer more wickedness than an unkind word or wheezed demand.” Mr. Pettingill straightened his nightcap.
Charles smiled uneasily and said his good-byes, thinking it a very good thing that the Pettingills had their legacy. Though he could not cross them off his list. They seemed a bit mad.
* * *
The Hogarths provided him with a much better dinner than mere chestnuts. George, William, and James, the middle Hogarth boys, pelted Charles with questions about bird watching on Hampstead Heath after he explained about meeting Mr. Pettingill, but Charles had little to offer. George, though, had one of Mr. Pettingill’s tracts and brought it to the table after dinner. The boys discussed buzzards and ospreys with alacrity, giving Charles rather more respect than usual because of his recent contact with their hero.
Kate pulled Charles into her father’s study.
“Your mother,” Charles warned.
Kate shut the door and, remaining mute, lifted her face to his.
“Darling,” he murmured, and kissed her lips, still flavored with wine.
“My dear Mr. Dickens,” she whispered, kissing him back. “I have missed you. How much longer?”
He cradled her cheek. “Spring, my sweet. The earliest spring day we can manage.”
She rubbed against his palm like a cat. “I cannot wait until I am making you your own dinners, to your exact specifications. I know Mother put in way too much pepper for your liking.”
“I am the smallest bit dyspeptic,” he admitted. “But it is no matter.” He bent to her and kissed her again, then startled away when the door behind him shook with bangs.
“Kate,” called Georgina in a nasal whine.
Kate sighed loudly. “A moment, please.”
“Mother needs you,” she said loud enough for people to hear on the street.
Reverberating stomps told them she was walking away. Charles reached for Kate again but she pulled back.
“Duty must.” She went to the door and put her hand on the handle. “Oh, I meant to ask you about Julie. I haven’t seen her since her swoon at the caroling party. Do you think I should pay her a call? I have some time tomorrow.”
Charles winced. “I’m to keep a secret.”
Kate went still. “But I’m to be your wife.”
Charles relented. “I never told you this.”
“Very well.”
Charles leaned into her ear. He could feel Kate shudder as his breath tickled her soft skin. “William told me she was in an interesting condition.”
“How wonderful,” Kate exclaimed, pulling back. “I must call on her.”
“No!” His heart pounded in his chest for fear that she’d learn too much about Timothy. Julie did not tend to keep secrets, and the baby would likely be in her rooms when Kate called. Until he could prove the child was not his, he couldn’t risk Kate finding out. The consequences would be dire. “She’s fragile. She had that disappointment last year. We should let her rest. William’s orders.”
“It isn’t good for a woman to be isolated,” Kate said. “She’s very young, you know.”
“We’ll let her husband make the decisions,” Charles said. “Don’t bother her, darling, not right now.”
Kate drew herself up. “As if I’d be a bother. I simply thought I’d fix her a basket. Very well, Charles. I must go to my mother now.”
* * *
Charles soon departed but was too restless to go straight home. Instead, he headed to the river and picked his way along the foreshore, stopping at a riverside tavern along the way for a hot rum and water.
He drank it quickly and walked out, as he was not dressed to blend into the rough crowd and no one knew him around the Regent Bridge area. Instead, he returned to his ramble, heading toward Blackfriars Bridge, where he could make the turn into the city and his chambers.
It was slow going among the rocks and debris. Clouds drifted across the waning gibbous moon, lighting his way in broad strokes. He enjoyed the rock of his feet against the surface, remembering the holes in his shoes just a year ago. He’d come a long way financially and his sturdy shoes were a visible reminder. His feet weren’t even that chilled.
Shadowy people moved along the foreshore, but he didn’t bother anyone and they didn’t come near him. It took a sort of perfection of movement, a straight, sober back, head thrown at an arrogant angle, arms in such a position as to look ready to defend. A man might have anything in his pockets. A knife, a truncheon. No one ever bothered him because he didn’t walk like a victim.
Without thinking, he headed into the shadows around the bridge, meaning to check on Lucy Fair’s former gang, what little was left of it. He recognized the stocky forms of Brother Second and Cousin Arthur, seated against a support beam. Smoke wafted from a pipe clenched between the teeth of one of the older boys.
He whistled out a greeting. Then, without warning, his knees gave out as something hit him from behind. He went down on the rocks, catching himself painfully on his hands. Old shells cracked against his palms, biting into his flesh despite his gloves.
“ ’ey!” went up a cry from a familiar child’s voice. “Wot you do that fer?”
Chapter 10
Charles felt rough hands reaching into his overcoat pockets. He flipped onto his back and kicked out with his legs, shoes scrabbling on the pebbled ground, then sprang to his feet, fists ready. But he was facing the wrong direction.
Lack, his attacker, gave a nasty laugh as he walked around Charles and pulled a pipe from his pocket. “Oi, it’s you, is it?”
Charles dropped his fists as the youth tossed the pipe casually from hand to hand. Bloody fool. Breathing hard, he straightened his coat with aching, scraped hands, and walked toward the seated trio of boys with his attacker, never gladder that he and the Agas had rescued Lucy Fair from this mob. “I give what I collect for you freely but I won’t be stolen from.”
Lack snorted and reached into the ragged coat of the toothless boy, one of the boys hunched around a fire on flat bits of driftwood. Lack pulled out a pouch.
Charles looked over the younger boys. Brother Second was taking the punches now. He sported wounds similar to Poor John’s wounds the night he’d given up mudlarking. But unlike John, Second had a hard, unfriendly expression on his face. He was already changing to suit the leader he’d chosen.
“How’s doings, gentlemen?” Charles asked, forcing gaiety into his voice.
“We don’t want yer blankets,” said Lack, his bad eye rolling in its socket. “But you can hand over yer brass.”
“That’s not the kind of charity I offer,” Charles said. “Buckets, blankets, clothing, boots. You can count on me for those if you behave yourselves. Food sometimes.”
Lack swore like a sailor and spit in the fire.
“Oi!” Brother Second said, jumping to his feet with murder in his eye. Charles had no idea why. The toothless boy leapt up as well, and the two went at each other.
The melee distracted Charles, and it wasn’t until he felt the hand at his elbow that he realized Cousin Arthur had come around the fire.
“I want to go to school,�
�� the boy whispered. “Am I too little?”
Charles took the measure of the boy, who was six. He’d joined the gang after his mother died last summer. Young, too young, but he couldn’t be left here. “We’ll find a place for you.”
Cousin Arthur shuddered. “Can we leave now?”
“Do you have any belongings?”
“Not ’ere.” He pulled Charles away from the fight.
Ignoring the others, they went up the ladder to the street. They weren’t stopped.
“What about your little brother and sister? Does your grandmother still have them?” Charles asked.
Cousin Arthur nodded sadly. “I need a job. I can’t go to school.”
“We’ll sort it out. For now, I’ll take you to Lucy Fair.” The boy hopped and tugged at Charles’s hand. How quickly he reverted to childhood when given a chance. Though Charles felt thoroughly dampened after his fall, he resolutely turned toward Cheapside and the Agas. He walked through the dark streets with the urchin at his side, feeling pleased with himself for taking another child from the rough gang.
Despite the hour, William opened his chamber door, holding a candle aloft.
“We’re damp and dirty,” Charles said cheerfully. “Let us in, will you?”
“What happened to your hands?”
Charles held them to the candle, then saw the rents in his gloves. “Must have cut them when Lack attacked me.”
William sighed and stepped aside, then did a double take. “That’s never Cousin Arthur?”
Lucy Fair stumbled into the main room, her hair in a braid over her shawl-covered shoulder. She rubbed her eyes, then spotted the little boy.
His expression went rapturous as he ran to her. She wrapped her arms, and the ends of her shawl, around him.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered. “It’s only been four days, but how I’ve missed you.”
“It’s terrible now,” the boy sobbed. “But I ’afta get brass!”
Lucy Fair looked up at William. “Could you change your charity?”
Charles and William shared glances. “The Charity for Boarding School Children with Siblings?” Charles suggested.
William shrugged. “Very well. Children should be in school.”
Julie came out of the bedroom, still dressed but looking sleepy. She went to William. “Visitors?”
“I’ve brought you another responsibility,” Charles said.
Her gaze shifted to Lucy Fair. “Is that Cousin Arthur?”
He turned in his friend’s arms and waved shyly at Julie.
Julie went to him immediately and ruffled his hair. “Put the kettle on, Lucy. This boy needs a bath if he’s to sleep here tonight.”
“Will your father take him?” Charles asked William as the others went into the next room.
William put his hands on his hips. “We’ll have to pay fees. My father can’t run a charity school without a charity.”
Charles pressed his fingertips to his eyes. So much pressure. “We need to keep funds coming for Cousin Arthur’s siblings and the school?”
William nodded. “We can’t let them down now. I’ll speak to Lady Lugoson about an endowment for the school. That would take care of my father.”
“I’ll apply to Lady Holland,” Charles added. “I’m meeting so many people, but they are mostly writers. And writers don’t have money.”
“They might spare a few shillings here and there,” William said. “What about your friend Mr. Screws? With everything you are doing for him, he ought to be an easy touch.”
Charles snorted. “He’s no friend of mine. He is not the charitable sort, but I’ll make sure to inquire before I pass out of his sphere.”
“Might as well try to squeeze a few pence out of his fist. If you solve the murder he might pay you for your efforts,” William suggested.
“I just wanted to make him pay,” Charles said. “For turning my father down for a loan. I wanted him to be guilty and for a Dickens to send him to Newgate. It’s all twisted now. I have to wish him innocent to try to get him to pay for some school fees?”
“Better than revenge,” William pointed out. “Revenge isn’t good for the soul.”
“I wonder who wanted revenge on Jacob Harley,” Charles muttered. “On Mr. Screws, too, for he is sadly diminished in his sorrow.”
Julie bustled back into the room. “William, do you have anything we could dress Cousin Arthur in?”
“You know my wardrobe better than I do,” William responded.
“There’s that musty old trunk you keep hidden from me,” she suggested.
William laughed. “It’s full of love notes from my disappointed admirers.”
“Julie?” Charles said as she shook her fist at her husband.
“What?” she asked, distracted.
He had remembered he must keep secrets. “I know you are much too busy to pay calls right now, but I wanted to ask you especially not to call on the Hogarths.”
“Why not?”
He adopted his most serious expression. “They have strong opinions about illegitimate children, and any doubt as to my relationship with Timothy could cause serious problems for me.”
“Very well.” Julie patted his arm and pointed William toward his trunk.
“Couldn’t you borrow something from your brothers?” William hesitated, gripping the key in his hand.
“You want me to go into Bloomsbury at this time of night and wake my mother?” Charles asked.
“No, I suppose not.” William sighed. “I’ll have to sacrifice the cloth I was giving to Julie for Christmas.”
Julie squealed. “You keep presents in that trunk?”
William unlocked the trunk, which had been placed in a corner so unobtrusively that Charles had never really noticed it. “See?” He lifted out a thick bundle of soft dress fabric.
“It’s perfect for an infant,” Charles said, fingering the silky cloth as Julie hugged her husband. “But for Arthur?”
William winced. “For a shirt, at least.”
“It’s so soft,” Julie said. “What was it for?”
“For the baby.” William’s ears went red.
Julie lifted the fabric and rubbed it against her cheek. After a moment, she sighed. “We’ll sacrifice some of it for a shirt. I’ll cut it out right now.”
“I’ll get Arthur’s shirt from the kitchen.” William went to fetch the small, ragged belongings as Julie spread the new fabric out on the table.
“What have you been up to, Charles?” she asked. “I thought you’d stay away from the mudlarks now.”
“I will have to,” Charles said. “Lack attacked me. Brother Second is turning very hard, and he’s the only one left of our gang.”
“Not everyone turns out right,” Julie said, going for her sewing box. “Some boys are right little criminals.”
“Let’s hope neither of us have one of them.”
“How is your Kate? Wedding plans coming along?”
“We’ve been too busy to talk about it. We went to the opera last night and tonight I dined with her family.”
“The opera? That must have been nice.”
“Yes. We went with Mr. Screws’s apprentice and his fiancée. They are Mr. Powhatan Fletcher and Miss Amelia Osborne.”
“What a name. He must be American. Or a savage?”
“No, a Virginian who claims to be descended from a native king.”
Julie looked thoughtful as she pinned the edges of the fabric together. “Powhatan is a new sort of name to me, but I’ve heard the name Osborne before. I knew an actress by that name, but she must be American, too?”
“No, this lady is British. Apparently, she was visiting in America when she met Mr. Fletcher. Quite a bit younger than him, I’d say. Not much older than me.”
William brought the dirty shirt. Julie clucked. “We can’t put it over this lovely fabric. Can you gentlemen sort of hold it over the new cloth so I can cut a basic shape?”
Charles and William stretch
ed the shirt over the table. Julie lopped off a piece of cloth that was roughly the right size and folded up the rest of it. After that, she eyed the shirt and cut into the fabric until she had four pieces. “I think that will do. Keep me company while I sew, will you, Charles?”
“We’ll help,” William said. “I don’t want you up half the night.”
“Very well. Pin up the sleeves, will you?”
William handed Charles pins and they both took a sleeve.
“Tell me more about this actress,” Julie said. “Maybe she is the one I knew after all.”
“She’s very fashionable,” Charles said, and described the dress she’d been wearing, thankful that his powers of deduction were up to Julie’s very specific questions.
“I went to a party at my Miss Osborne’s house, once,” Julie said. “In Maiden Lane, above a dressmaker’s shop. I thought her clothing rather flashy.”
“I don’t think flashy was the right word for my Miss Osborne,” Charles reflected. “But fashionable.”
“What else?” Julie demanded, threading a needle.
“I don’t know. She has a round face, pointed chin, small mouth. Very pretty.”
“My Miss Osborne had a thin face. She painted her mouth. I remember it as more of a slash.” She stuck her needle into the cloth. “My, but this fabric is lovely to work with.”
“Perfect for a baby,” William said dreamily.
William had caught baby fever as intensely as any woman. Charles yawned. “Thread another needle so I can work on the seam, Julie.”
“You can sew?”
“Some weeks ago, I had so much trouble with laundresses that Fred and I were forced to ask Mother for plain sewing lessons. Now I have an opportunity to put my new skills to use.”
Julie chuckled and threaded him a needle. While they constructed the shirt, they listed every wealthy person they knew and debated how much money they might be able to gather for Cousin Arthur’s school fees.
“We’ll make it work,” William said. “They are resourceful children.”
“I agree.” Charles lifted his gaze from his seam. “We’ll help them with a better start in life. If we can give them expectations, no matter how grave their circumstances now, who knows what they can contribute to society in the future?”
A Christmas Carol Murder Page 13