by J C Briggs
‘Ta very much, Mrs Scruggs — save me comin’ back.’
Scrap went out. He sniffed the air like a dog on the hunt. He liked his new life, but sometimes it was good to be out and about, looking and listening. You could take the boy from the streets, it might be said, but you couldn’t take the streets out of the boy. He was like Dickens in that. Dickens who had wandered like a vagabond when he was the same age as Scrap; Dickens who had looked and listened, too; Dickens who walked and walked, and couldn’t stop. The streets were in his very blood, the walking ground of his heart.
Scrap was off. Weymouth Street was not his territory, but, so what? ’E could look after ’imself. That’s what he’d told Mr Jones, but Mr Jones had said that Constable Stemp would be in plain clothes, too, and he, Scrap must leave a message for his “uncle” at The Neptune pub on East Street if he found anything. Stemp would be about the streets, too. Scrap had wanted to protest further that ’e dint need lookin’ after, but Mr Jones ’ad given ’im a look — an’ ’is eyes ’ad slid ter Mrs Jones. Then Scrap ’ad understood. He saw her face, all creased.
So that woz it. ’E’d wondered when ’e went in the kitchen. Tension. A row? But Mr and Mrs Jones niver rowed — niver. Not like ’is own pa and stepma — always at it — ’ammer and tongs. That’s why ’e niver went there now. Not that they cared a farthin’. But, and his mind filled with wonder at the thought, Mrs Jones woz worried about ’im — she cared wot ’appened to ’im, she really did.
Another lesson learnt — yer couldn’t always ’ave wot yer wanted. There woz others ter think about. Yer weren’t on yer own.
Chapter 15: The Haunted Man
Mrs Philomena Flutter sat by the fire in the house of her nephew, Edward Lawson. She was thinking about Margaret, his wife, who was in the asylum, and about Edward, and how he was lost in his grief for the woman he had loved so. She thought about the child that had been born dead — Edward would never get over it.
She thought about love. She thought about the Archdeacon whose relict she was, and who had made his flight heavenward a decade before. Once, when they were engaged, he had named her Philly, and in a moment of nervous ardour, he had kissed her. And she had felt — what was it she had felt? She couldn’t remember now.
She had not known him — she had wondered sometimes about the stranger in his black suit who had stood by her hearth. He had been mostly silent, though he addressed her as “my dear”. At the beginning she had thought, perhaps, that there might be children, a child, but, no — something, it seemed, had not happened. Something that had happened to Flora, her sister, who had three children. There had been a pretty little boy who had died, then Edward, and after, a little girl who was married herself now with two children of her own. But no one had ever told Philly what it was that had happened. And the Archdeacon had not kissed her again.
She had seen Edward kiss Margaret. She had seen Margaret smile then, a lovely, loving smile which had a secret in it. But that was before. When the trouble came, Philly had put her hands over her ears to shut out those terrible cries. The doctor had come down, and Edward had wept then.
Doctor Plume — he had been murdered. Edward had said nothing about it, but Mrs Flutter had heard the maids gossiping. Edward’s face had been closed. He had seen the headline in the paper, but he had said nothing. She dared not mention it. And Edward became more silent than ever, retreating to his study where he sat for hours, locked in his grief. When he came out, his face looked like that of a man haunted by some memory, his face so white and set that Mrs Flutter was frightened of him. Edward, who had been once so kind to her. She knew she was silly at times. She knew she chattered too much, but Edward had always been patient — and Margaret, too. But, now — and there was no one to turn to.
The entrance of the maid interrupted her thoughts. Amy brought in a visiting card. Her face was shining with excitement.
‘There’s a gentleman to see Mr Lawson — it’s Mr Dickens, ma’am — Mr Charles Dickens — the author, ma’am —’
‘Mr Dickens!’ Philly was astounded. ‘Good gracious. Where is he?’
‘In the hall, ma’am. Oh, ma’am, shall I bring him in?’
Mrs Flutter, as became her name, fluttered uncertainly, patting her lace cap, standing up then sitting down again. Edward had said he was not at home — no visitors except by appointment. He did not want to see anyone, but you couldn’t turn away Charles Dickens. And Philly very much wanted to see him — the author of Pickwick — and dear Little Nell and, oh, poor little Paul Dombey, over whose death she had wept. How much she preferred Mr Dickens to Edward’s friend, Mr Thackeray. Vanity Fair — so cynical, and Becky Sharp, that dreadful adventuress. Not that she didn’t like Mr Thackeray — but he was so very large. Oh, and his wife so ill like Margaret. Such a pity. But, she would receive Mr Dickens. She would be brave — but she hoped Edward would not be angry.
She stood up. ‘Yes, Amy, show him in here, and then go and knock on Mr Lawson’s door — tell him, ask him if he wishes to see Mr Dickens.’
Amy went out. Mrs Flutter composed herself and, remembering the dignity of the Archdeacon, commanded her scattered thoughts.
Dickens came in to see Mrs Flutter, a papery sort of woman whose black skirts rustled like dried leaves as she stood to greet him. She offered a little hand like a collection of thin twigs encased in lace gloves, which felt like paper to the touch. She looked anxious, he thought, smiling at her kindly.
‘Mrs Flutter, I must beg your pardon for coming so unexpectedly. Mr Lawson has written for my magazine and I have come to ask if he can contribute something more.’
Before Mrs Flutter could make her reply, Edward Lawson came in. Someone said that every man’s face contains his past and future. And his miserable present, thought Dickens when he saw the worn, white face of Edward Lawson. Richard Farleigh’s face had been stricken when Dickens had seen him by the fire at his father’s house, but he was young and the sorrow would pass. His face still had the roundness of youth. He would live and laugh again. The marks of his experience would fade. Not like this man whose face was so lined with grief — lines that could never be erased. The eyes were dark, dulled with despair. He looked older than his years. Dickens knew him to be about thirty, but his future had rushed to claim him. Was there something more, Dickens wondered then, than the grief for his mad wife? He ought not to have come. Suppose the man had killed Plume. What then?
Lawson spoke. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Dickens?’
‘I wondered if you might have anything to contribute to Household Words — I so liked the poem we published.’
Lawson’s eyes brightened. ‘Thank you. I’m afraid I have not been writing much of late — my wife is…’ He faltered and his eyes clouded once more. He looked away into some unfathomable distance. Dickens felt pity for him. How could he help the man? Not by asking questions about Plume; that was certain. He ought to go, to give it up. Jones would have to —
The dark eyes were looking at him again, burning now with some question. ‘I saw that piece in Household Words about prisoners, about Manning — should a man hang for murder? You don’t think so?’
Dickens’s heart turned over at the sudden unexpectedness of the question. He looked back at the man. ‘I don’t know now, but I do know that such a thing should not be a public spectacle, even for Manning — and his wife.’
‘What if the victim were a villain as bad as the murderer? What then, Mr Dickens, what then?’
His voice was so harsh and loud that Mrs Flutter uttered something like a cry — a little sound of fear — or distress. Dickens looked at her. Her pale blue eyes were alarmed.
Dickens took charge. ‘Mrs Flutter, I do need to speak to Mr Lawson privately. I wonder if you might leave us alone.’
Mrs Flutter looked relieved. ‘Oh certainly, Mr Dickens, certainly. I beg your pardon. So pleased to have met you.’
Lawson did not seem to hear. He paid no attention as his aunt fluttered away to the door and vanished
with a whisper of leaves and paper. Poor bird, thought Dickens. I hope to God Lawson isn’t the killer. He turned back to the man with the burning eyes and led him to a chair. Lawson looked at Dickens now, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘I beg your pardon. I am not myself. My wife … that villain Plume —’ He put his head in his hands. Dickens could hear the terrible, dry sobbing that seemed to wrack his thin frame. It was dreadful. I shouldn’t have come, thought Dickens again, but he waited until the sobbing ceased and the gaunt face looked up at him.
Dickens sat down opposite Lawson. ‘Can I do anything for you? Do you wish to tell me something of your trouble? It might help you if you were to speak.’
Lawson looked into the wide, luminous eyes that gazed back at him, so full of pity and understanding. Thackeray said he was a good man. The eyes seemed to say so and the sensitive mouth, well-shaped and expressive. Mesmeric eyes that compelled him to speak.
‘Guilt, Mr Dickens — do you know how it grinds one down? How it eats away at a man’s very soul?’
Dickens sat still. He felt his own heart quiver — was this to be a confession of murder? He continued to look at Lawson. He must not show any foreknowledge.
‘You know it, of course you do. How well you know the haunted man, and how his mind fixes upon that one thought. Jonas Chuzzlewit has that body in the wood forever on his mind; Sikes is pursued by the eyes of poor dead Nancy —’
Dickens felt a sense of horror. Did this man feel the eyes of the dead doctor upon him? Was it the body of Plume that he saw? He had written of how his murderers were pursued by the phantoms of their victims — he knew it, of course he did. But to see it in the agonised eyes of the real man before him. It was very nearly unbearable — but he had started this, and he must see it out.
‘Margaret’s eyes. What terror was there. She knew. She knew what was to happen, Mr Dickens, she knew. When Plume and his associate came and took her to that place, she looked at me in such terror, and at the last, with such pleading — and I let them take her. For her own good, Plume said. Her own good! And now, she does not know who I am, and it is doubtful that she ever will.’
Lawson was silent then. What am I to say? thought Dickens. ‘There is no hope for her?’ he ventured.
‘I think not — do not mistake me. She is not cruelly treated. She is quiet and calm — not raving as she was, happy in her own way, but she is absent. Margaret no more, but I cannot help wishing that I had not agreed. Perhaps if I had kept her here — but Plume…’
‘You know he is dead?’ Dickens had to ask.
‘Yes.’
‘And that an innocent girl is accused of his murder?’ There it was. The word was out of his mouth, written on the air, reverberating, it seemed to Dickens, sounding in the glasses on the table, whispering in the leaves of the tree outside the window. Murder echoing from stone to stone, until the word rolled away with carriage wheels that passed by in the street.
Something cleared in Lawson’s eyes. There was light now, as if the man had woken from some terrible dream. He hasn’t done it. He could not look like that. His guilt is for his wife only, not for Plume.
‘Innocent, you say?’
Dickens watched him keenly. A man like this would not let an innocent woman hang for his crime.
‘Yes, I have seen her, and I tell you, Mr Lawson, it will be a monstrous injustice if she is hanged for it.’ He allowed his voice to sound the anger he really felt about Miranda Deverall. Draw him out. Let’s be certain.
‘I had no love for the man — when I read of his death, I could feel no pity for him.’ Dickens saw how his eyes took on the haunted look again. ‘When our child was to be born, poor Margaret was so ill. Plume told me that to save her, I must lose the child. It was my decision, he said — and there would be no more children… I begged him to send for another surgeon, another opinion, but it was too late, he told me. I must decide immediately. And I could not think of the child, only of her, and now, I think, it would have been better to let her go. If I had known what was to happen to her. I lost both.’
‘You think Plume was —’
‘Incompetent — yes, I think he was. He should have brought in a colleague sooner. He must have known there was danger, but he said nothing — and then it was too late. And then I had to see him take her away. Oh, he had his colleague with him then.’ His voice was bitter now. ‘And I was glad, God forgive me, when I read that he was dead. What have I become, Mr Dickens, that I should be glad to hear that a man has been murdered?’
Dickens was sure now. The man was eaten up with guilt for his wife and dead child, and he loathed himself for his hatred of Plume and his satisfaction at Plume’s death. Would it help him to know what kind of man Plume was, or would it make it worse for him to know that the doctor to whom he had entrusted his wife was a vile man? And, what if Lawson thought that Plume had seduced his wife? No, on balance, better to say nothing about it.
His voice was gentle now. ‘I cannot blame you, Mr Lawson. You were faced with a decision no man should have to face. I do not doubt that Plume was at fault, but his murder is nothing to do with you. Think of him no more — of course, he did not deserve his death, but any man who has suffered as you, must feel as you do. It is only human. And, as for your guilt about your wife, I am not going to tell you that you should not feel it, but there is balm in the wound, perhaps. She is peaceful, you say, and the worst may be over for her to whom you were so devoted. You loved her. And that is what you must recall when you can. Not every man may say that, Mr Lawson.’
He could say no more. It was not much — not enough, no doubt, but Lawson looked calm and his eyes were more those of a man who was alive rather than those of a dead man. It was as if the light had come back, a candle flaring up again.
‘When did he die?’
‘Plume? On Sunday last — a week ago.’
‘I went there — I did not realise. I saw the headline and thought only — you know what I thought. I did not think about who had done it. And you said earlier that a young woman is accused and that she is innocent.’
‘She is. At what time did you go?’
‘In the evening. I went round the back — I hoped to find him in his office. I knew that if I went to the front, he wouldn’t see me. I’d been before. I wanted to — I don’t know why I went — to force him to admit that he was responsible, I suppose. But, I could not do it. I hung about the entrance to the lane. I walked down and back again.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘A man passed me as I was coming back up the lane. I saw him seem to linger by Plume’s garden door.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘It was dark, but there was a gas lamp above the door.’ Lawson closed his eyes, trying to remember what he had seen. ‘Tall — taller than I am. He was wearing a hat — not a top hat — a low-crowned hat with a wide brim, and a heavy coat, black, I think, with wide sleeves. That’s all I remember. There was nothing exceptional about him. Oh, I saw his spectacles glint for a moment in the light.’
That tall figure with the long dark coat and the hat — Dickens had seen a figure very like that description bending over the Italian boy before they were swallowed up by the fog — could it be? Coincidence? If so, a dark one.
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘No.’
‘What time was it? Can you remember? It is important — the accused girl was there at six o’clock and the body was found at about half past seven o’clock.’
‘It was after six — a quarter past, perhaps, when I left here.’ Lawson lived in a terrace of houses just off Wigmore Street. ‘It takes about ten minutes. It was before half past when I stood in the lane. I suppose I was there about ten minutes before I saw the man go through the garden door.’
‘You went away then? You saw no one else?’ Dickens thought about the Italian boy.
‘Yes, I came home. I didn’t notice anyone else, I’m afraid. Is all this useful? I should like to think
that I could be of help — I have been too much concerned with myself — I own it — if I had thought more about the murder, I should have given my evidence to the police, and the poor girl —’
‘It is not too late, and yes, it will be useful. Now, I must go — I shall take your evidence to the police. Superintendent Jones may wish to see you, or send his sergeant. Can you deal with that?’
Lawson nodded. ‘I must — and I must be kinder to poor Aunt Philly, and I must go out and begin life again — I ought to do my duty.’
‘It is so often the case with all of us that, in our several spheres, we have to do violence to our feelings, and to hide our hearts in carrying on this fight of life, if we would bravely discharge our duties and responsibilities — that is what I believe, Mr Lawson.’
‘You are right, Mr Dickens — and you have done me good. I thank you.’
‘And you will have done some good for the poor girl in Newgate — I am much obliged to you. I hope we may meet again — and,’ Dickens smiled at him, ‘you might consider my request for something for Household Words.’
‘I will — I will get back to my work.’
Dickens saw how Lawson’s eyes filled. It was not over — yet. ‘Courage. Persevere.’
With that, they parted. Lawson watched him step briskly, lightly, away down the street. He thought of the last two words Dickens had spoken. From another man, they might have sounded trite, but he had seen something in Dickens’s face when he spoke them. He had to have courage and persevere. No doubt about that. Well, they were as good words as any — and true.
Lawson went back into his house — not to his study, but to take tea with Aunt Philly, who must not be so frightened again.
Chapter 16: Something Remembered
It always seemed to Jones that Biddy Feak had come straight from an apple orchard rather than the smutty London Streets. There was something appley about those round red cheeks. If she were a character from a Dickens novel she would be Peggotty, certainly not Mrs Gamp whose calling she followed. Biddy Feak was a nurse, yes, but not one who would take a shillingsworth of gin. And there was no imaginary Mrs Harris. Biddy Feak’s sturdy legs and feet were planted firmly on the ground — like ready money, as his grandmother used to say. And she was looking at him with keen, blue eyes. She had news. He hoped so.