by J C Briggs
Jones looked at the portrait. ‘Hm, plausible.’ He looked back at Dickens. ‘All right — very plausible.’
Dickens grinned at him.
‘I need to ask the servants if he took off his coat before he went in to his office, and if not, what happened to the coat. We might as well question them now.’
They went to find the servants, the maid who had seen Miranda Deverall and had identified Kitty Quillian, the cook and the knife boy who had found the body of the doctor. None of them had anything new to add. No one else had come to the door that evening after Miranda Deverall.
Jones asked, ‘Did Doctor Plume take off his coat when he came in with Miranda Deverall?’
The maid thought about it. ‘No, sir, ’e just went in with the girl.’
‘And when you found him, was he wearing his coat?’
‘No, sir.’
‘What happened to it?’
‘After the — er — doctor was took away and perlice went, Mrs Plume come next day — I went in with her an’ she told me to put the coat away.’
‘Would you bring it to me, please?’
The maid looked puzzled, but she went upstairs and came down with a heavy greatcoat.
‘This is the one he wore on that night?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Jones carried the coat back into Plume’s office, away from the maid’s curious eyes. He examined it. There was no blood or any tear where a knife might have gone in.
‘Circumstantial evidence. Miranda Deverall must say whether he kept his coat on while she was there. It’s only her word, but a jury might believe her if she comes to trial.’
Dickens regarded the coat. A thought struck him. ‘He was a big man — I honestly doubt that Miranda Deverall would have had the strength. Where was the wound on his back?’
‘I see what you’re getting at — was she tall enough to stab him? Billie Watts told Rogers that the knife had pierced the heart. That would have required strength and height on the part of the murderer — unless Plume was bending over to get his cigar.’
‘Which is highly unlikely — he kept his coat on because he wanted her out of his way. Why would he light a cigar? A man who does that is at ease with his visitor.’
‘And, I doubt if she would have taken the knife with her. No, you’re right, Charles. She didn’t do it. The evidence is against it, but I would like to produce the real murderer — then she won’t have to come to trial at all.’
‘Much better for her, so…’
‘Let’s see what we can find.’
In the second room, there was a couch covered in a white sheet, a sink where the doctor might wash his hands and an apothecary’s chest with many drawers with brass plates containing cards. They looked at that, opening the various drawers in which were glass bottles of different coloured liquids and powders. Laudanum, opium pills, tincture of morphine, some with patent labels: Dover’s Powder, Sydenham’s Laudanum, but others with handwritten labels: tincture of opium, paregoric, savin and chloroform.
‘Savin powder,’ said Jones, ‘used to bring on a miscarriage — it can kill.’
‘Dear Heaven — it ties in with what we know of Miranda. He was taking tremendous risks. He could have killed her.’
‘And got away with it — with Mrs Hodson’s help. He’d have signed the death certificate.’ Jones looked at some of the other bottles. ‘Know anything about homeopathy?’
‘Many say it’s quackery. I have faith in hydropathy myself — drink cold water morning and night and pour it down my back besides — and look at me, Sam, a picture of wholesomeness.’
Jones laughed. ‘I look and I marvel, but you’ve not tried homeopathy?’
‘I’m not against it. I know Doctor Frederick Quin very well — he’s the leading practitioner of homeopathy and I’d trust him, but Plume — the trouble is that he could take it up without any real skill just because it’s fashionable, and it would attract the ladies of fashion.’
‘And the chloroform is telling when you think of what Elizabeth told us. Just enough to render his victims sufficiently drowsy.’
‘It is. Sickening to think how he might have used it. There’s a paradox for you — it should be a benefit. Last year, when Henry was born, I insisted on chloroform for Catherine. The doctors were dead against it, of course, but I had my way and it worked. Catherine was up and eating mutton chops within hours. Yet, Plume, a doctor, uses it for his own sordid ends. Foul.’
On top of the chest were a mortar and pestle and the stethoscope from the picture, a device with an ebony cup, a flexible tube bound in silk attached to an ebony ball on top of which was an ivory plate.
‘Very professional,’ said Jones, ‘and modern.’
‘This is where the fashionable patients were treated — he must have been making some money. This is all very impressive, especially if you were a patient.’
They went back into the first room. Jones looked round and said, ‘If he was up to no good here, what the hell was he doing in David Street, seducing servant girls? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘Power? Think of it Sam — all doctors have it. The patient is in their hands, and they have to submit. We all have to submit. He is our greatest master on earth. Why, even the tyrant crouches before him like a hound. And when a man with that power has no real benevolence, and is motivated always by self, then those who are helpless — and alone for some reason — become easy victims. Women, and girls, in his case. A double life, I’d say. Outwardly, the prosperous, fashionable doctor, but there was another, darker side.’
‘Then we need to know more about him — there must be fashionable people who knew him. That chest of drawers will give us some names. Someone you might know.’ He went over to the chest. It was locked. ‘The keys. Let’s have a look in the desk.’
The keys were there, and Jones found the right one which opened the drawers where the patient files lay. They looked through. And when Dickens breathed sharply, Jones knew they had found a name.
‘Margaret Lawson.’
‘What do you know of her?’
‘I know that she is in an asylum.’
‘So, it says here. Treatment for hysteria and depression — ah, stillbirth.’
‘Yes, it was known that the child had been born dead, and that Mrs Lawson had not recovered. I know of her husband, Edward Lawson — he is a writer and journalist, a friend of Thackeray’s —’ Dickens paused. Jones wondered what he was thinking as his face looked downcast suddenly. ‘They have that in common — Thackeray’s wife is mad, too. It’s a terrible thing — madness. No hope of a cure, in either case, and for the husband, well…’
There was nothing to be done. Two widowers with living wives. Thackeray’s wife lived in seclusion at Epsom. It was said that Thackeray did not visit — Isabella Thackeray was entirely indifferent to her husband, but Thackeray at least had his two girls, Annie and Minnie, but Edward Lawson had no child.
‘I wonder…’ Dickens began.
‘What was the nature of Plume’s treatment?’
‘Yes, though I can’t think that he would risk treating a married patient in the way he treated Lavinia Gray. Lavinia Gray was friendless — she could not have told her mother, and there was no one else, it seems. In any case, a single young woman — how could she tell? In what words? But a married woman — she had a husband.’
‘True — but Lawson might have blamed Plume — might have a grudge against him. Is there any way you could find out more?’
‘You mean go to see him? I suppose I could ask him for another contribution to Household Words. We published a poem of his — a rather melancholy thing, I recall. An Old Haunting, it was called.’
‘Suggestive title.’
‘Yes, I’ll have to look at it again. But, if I see him, I can only introduce the subject of Plume very carefully, and only, if the opportunity arises. In any case, it’s all very slender, Sam.’
‘I know, I know — I may be clutching at a straw. Let’s have a look for other possibilities
.’
‘Such as?’ Dickens sounded despondent.
‘Any other female patients who have been treated for hysteria, depression, headaches —’
‘That’ll be a long list — I’ll bet that’s how he made his name.’
‘I was thinking about narrowing the names down to those that have died, say in the last year — though, there may be others like Lavinia Gray, but we will never know.’
‘Plume was a menace — I cannot feel sorry he’s dead, and that a man like Lawson, say, might go to the gallows for doing a public service.’ Dickens was angry when he thought of the women who might be dead or, like Margaret Lawson, in an asylum. ‘If it were someone like Edward Lawson, I’d leave well alone.’ Dickens walked to the French window and looked out at the place where Plume had died. No, he couldn’t feel sorry, and he felt reluctant to go to Edward Lawson — a betrayal of trust.
‘That’s our dilemma — we bring a man to probable death, and we feel for him, and, as in all murders, we lay bare the details of innocent lives to a salacious public in the papers, yet —’
Dickens turned round. ‘Miranda Deverall is in Newgate.’
‘Exactly — and, in any case, I could not turn a blind eye, I’ve taken the case. But, I don’t want you to do anything against your conscience — leave Edward Lawson to me.’
Dickens was silent for a moment. What — pick and choose the cases he wanted to investigate, then when his own delicate conscience was involved, abandon Jones because Jones couldn’t afford a delicate conscience? Get involved in murder, he told himself, and take the consequences, or leave it alone.
‘No, Sam — I shouldn’t pick and choose. I should know as well as you that murder’s a nasty, unclean business. And those who meddle in it cannot avoid some of the contamination. Why should I think that my hands ought to be cleaner than yours? As for Edward Lawson, I might be able to eliminate him. I might find out that he was out of town on the night of the murder. I might simply tell you that he could not have done it.’
‘If you’re sure?’
Dickens grinned. ‘No, I’m not, but neither of us ever is — I saw your troubled face when we stood in that graveyard looking at the murderer of those boys last year. I tell you what, I’m at the Punch dinner tonight — there might be gossip. That lot always know what’s going on. Thackeray might be there — not that I could speak to him about Lawson — or his wife. Too close to home, but I might hear something about Plume. I could ask Mark Lemon — he knows about thee and me. He’ll understand what I’m getting at.’
‘Good. Let’s see what other names we can find.’
They worked in silence on the doctor’s files, and found that two of Plume’s female patients had died in the last year: Miss Emily Dixon and Mrs Sarah Wilkinson. Jones made a note of the addresses. The electoral register would tell them if a father or brother still lived there. Jones felt as Dickens did — horrible to have to pry and peer into their lives for the sake of a man who might have caused the deaths of those they loved. He would send Inspector Grove to ask some questions — Grove could be trusted to be careful and discreet.
They went outside and made their way to the garden door, which opened just as they reached it. A man came in, a man whom no one had mentioned before.
A man in the garb of a labourer, a gardener, perhaps, or general handyman, which he proved to be. One John Bark — apt, thought Dickens, noting his sinewy, brown face which had the appearance of some gnarled root, and the strong, thin brown hands with black nails. He lived, he told them, in rooms above the stables situated across the alley. He had not been there on the night of the murder, having left about five thirty to see his sister. His wife had gone with him. Superintendent Goss had not questioned him at all, but Jones asked if he had seen anyone at all in the alley during that day.
‘All sorts o’ people comes and goes, sir, but I knows most o’ them. People wot works in the ’ouses and stables. No one comes down ’ere unless they ’as business with servants or cooks or the like. I didn’t see anyone different.’
‘Was there anyone in the alley when you left to go to your sister’s?’
‘There was the boy.’
‘What boy?’
‘Italian lad — ’e was often about — ’e ’as one o’ them barrel-organ things.’
‘What was he doing down here?’
‘Well, ’e played fer us sumtimes — I don’t know ’ow ’e come to be ’ere first, but the wife give ’im somethin’ to eat once an ’e played fer them as wos about — servants an’ that — takin’ little lad — face like an angel, the wife sed.’
Jones glanced at Dickens, whose sudden intake of breath suggested some idea. It would keep for the moment. He made a slight motion with his hand.
Bark continued, ‘’E came back o’ course ’cos o’ the food an’ the pennies — we all give ’im somethin’. Come ter think o’ it —’ Bark scratched his head — ‘I ain’t seen ’im since — never thought of it before.’
‘Did you know his name?’
‘Joe — Joe Seppy, ’e sed — foreign o’ course. We called ’im Joe.’
‘Do you know where he lived?’
‘No, sir — the wife asked ’im, but I don’t think ’e understood — ’e dint speak much English — jest smiled an’ played his little barrel-organ.’
Dickens, who had waited patiently, asked the question that had sprung to his lips earlier. ‘Has he a birthmark shaped like a tear under the left eye?’
‘Yes, he has. My wife said it made him look sad at times — made her feel sorry for him.’
Jones thanked John Bark, and he and Dickens went out into the alley.
‘Well?’
‘I saw the boy in Weymouth Street. He was standing opposite Plume’s house — just looking. I gave him sixpence. He had, as Bark said, the face of an angel. I noticed the birthmark under his eye. I remember thinking that it was odd that the boy wasn’t playing his instrument. And —’ he broke off, his face suddenly anxious.
‘What?’
‘I saw someone else stop by him — a man, I think. I supposed just a passer-by like me. Then they vanished — into the fog, I thought. I hope.’
‘Another possible witness — you’re the conjuror, Charles. Get them back, will you.’
‘I wish it were as easy as conjuring a guinea pig from a box of bran — I did that once. Alas, the guinea pig is dead. He left in his will that he believed the conjuring had done it.’
Jones grinned, ‘You had my watch, too, out of my pocket.’
‘Deformation o’ character, sir. I give it back, yer honour. Temptation, it was to an ’umble man. The ’umblest person going, I am, Mister Jones.’ He rubbed his hands together so much in the manner of the writhing Uriah Heep, that Jones had to laugh.
‘Get away with you, Heep — and writhe somewhere else.’
Heep vanished and Dickens and Jones walked from the alley into Weymouth Street, making their way towards Wimpole Street from where Dickens could walk up Devonshire place to his home.
‘Another needle in a haystack,’ said Jones.
‘The Italian boy?’
‘Yes. I think I’ll ask Scrap to have a nose round Bones Alley — he might find out something. Sharp ears, he has, and better than sending a constable. He might hear of John Bark’s “Joe Seppy”, as he calls him.’
‘Oh, those children, Sam — little May, the lad on crutches … sometimes…’
‘I know.’
They looked up. It was a clear, cold night with a little half-hoop of a moon and points of icy stars. And infinite, silent, scentless blackness beyond, mysterious and unknown — and somehow impassive. The stars look down. And if they do, thought Dickens, it is coldly. ‘The universe makes rather an indifferent parent, I think,’ he observed.
‘That is why our children need us. I need an hour with little Tom Brim and a spinning top, or a toy train.’
‘I, too, after such a blue-devilous day — a bit of toy-soldiering with a regiment of boys.
Home, then?’
‘Yes, I’ll go back to Bow Street later and talk to Rogers about Jem Pike, and I need to ask Elizabeth to find out more about the blood on Miranda Deverall’s hands.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember. Elizabeth thought it might be a miscarriage.’
‘I think she was right, but Billie Watts told Rogers that the blood was part of Goss’s evidence against Miranda, so we need to be sure that there is something she is still not telling about the night of the murder.’
‘But what? She can’t have been there when Plume was murdered, surely?’
‘We don’t know. The door to the hall was locked, but the glass door to the garden was open. Did she see something, go back and touch the dead man? Does she know who the murderer is? Is she protecting someone?’
‘I can’t see that — it doesn’t fit what we know of her — her loneliness seemed so absolute.’
‘But, there was Kitty Quillian, a friend, it seems.’
‘Who is missing — that’s a thought. Kitty Quillian was there. She worked at Mrs Hodson’s then left. I wonder why.’
‘We’ll have to find her — Dab Lane, Elizabeth said.’
‘Listen, tomorrow I’ll go to see Jenny Ince, then I’ll go to see Edward Lawson and ask him for something for Household Words — see what happens.’
‘And I shall have to come back to talk to Mrs Plume — I wonder what she knows about his work with the poor.’
Jones went on towards Portland Street and then to his house in Norfolk Street. Dickens went up to Devonshire Terrace. He let himself in. There was a very little boy on the stairs, seated in such an attitude of dejection that he wondered what calamity might have befallen. The Ocean Spectre, it was, who turned those unusually far-seeing, wondering eyes.
‘Pa!’ Sydney Dickens, aged three and a half, exclaimed. Then the eyes filled with tears.
Dickens went over and sat on the stairs. ‘Sydney, my boy — what on earth is it?’
‘Alley said I couldn’t play — said I’m too little. He only wants Frank. Not me — no one to play with.’
Alley, five, and Frank, aged six, thought themselves too grand to bother with poor Sydney.
‘Then you shall play with Pa — that you shall.’ Dickens held the little boy to him — he thought of that poor boy with the useless legs, and held his own more tightly.