The Quickening and the Dead

by J C Briggs

  They stood in the street looking at the opposite pavement where Dickens had seen the Italian boy and the man in the dark coat bending over him, and where the maid had seen Kitty Quillian.

  ‘There’s a gleam in your eye, Charles. What have you thought?’

  ‘About someone I know in Rochester — who might know something about Sefton. It would be somewhere to start — discreet, too. I mean, that’s if Sefton is in Chatham —’

  ‘Which seems unlikely to me. It seems odd that Sefton should come up to London after so long just to murder his former partner. He had to be here — perhaps he found out something about Plume’s activities and went to see him. A quarrel that ended in murder.’

  ‘True, but I think it’s worth a visit to find out about their partnership — it’s only half an hour by train. We could be there and back in no time. At least we’d know something about this Frederick Sefton — he might be dead for all we know. Then we could cross him off the list.’

  ‘And what list would that be?’ Jones grinned at him.

  ‘Metaphorically speaking, Sam, of course, but you know what I mean. You said when we were on our way here that you thought that Michael O’Malley’s “Will” might be a doctor — so here’s a doctor with a grudge against Plume.’

  ‘But not called Will — though, I admit, Michael could have been wrong.’

  ‘To be sure, he could, Sammy, and he with the drink taken — Rochester, then?’

  ‘Somewhere, at any rate. Standing here’s not doing a lot of good. Let’s find a bite to eat, then you can tell me about your man in Rochester. I told Cuff I wanted to see Mrs Brady about Kitty Quillian — we could go there after we’ve eaten.’

  The Angel on Carburton Street was snug after the cold standing in Weymouth Street. They found an empty booth and ordered chops and mashed potato from a waiter whose face contorted itself into a variety of expressions, but from whose mouth no sound came. They assumed that the waiter had understood their request for, with a violent nodding of the head which seemed in danger of parting from the shoulders, he went off at a run.

  ‘The Face-Maker, himself — I swear I saw him at Astley’s Circus the other night, exhibiting all the contortions, energetic and expressive, of which the human face is capable, and all the passions of the human heart — love, jealousy, revenge, hatred, avarice, despair — the last words in capitals on the poster: A Thousand Characters in One Face. Perhaps this is his day job.’

  ‘Disguised as a waiter. Talking of which — disguise not waiters — you might abandon your role as undertaker now, Mr Vholes. Where did you get that from? Smith would have done.’

  ‘Lawyer, Mr Jones, if you please. Saw it on a passing cart — Vholes with an H — odd, ain’t it. Good name for a lawyer — sounds a bit rodentish, I thought. Vholes creeping about his dusty office, nibbling at his deeds and parchments. Well, if you think I don’t need it, I shall take off my moustache and put it in my pocket.’ He took out his comb and rearranged his hair. ‘There — I am myself again. The Inimitable, at your service. I never shall desert Mr Micawber.’

  ‘Revenge as motive?’

  ‘Very likely. It strikes me as not entirely unnatural that someone should murder Plume. When I think of what he has done to those girls — and to Mrs Lawson — it makes my blood boil.’

  ‘Mine, too, but we have to find Sefton. We want Miranda Deverall released before she comes to trial and I want to know why he did it — if he’s our man.’

  ‘You’re thinking whether Sefton wanted revenge because Plume did him down over the money. But, it’s a long time to wait — unless Sefton had fallen on hard times and went to Plume for money, was refused, and stabbed him in a fit of rage.’

  ‘I can certainly see Plume refusing. But I was thinking that if our murderer is Sefton, is a doctor, then perhaps the motive lies in Plume’s life. And I thought about something Michael O’Malley said. His visitor gave him the money to get a good meal and he told Michael to give up the drink.’

  ‘You mean that doesn’t square with our idea of him as the murderer of Brimstone and possibly Kitty Quillian.’

  ‘I suppose I do. I wondered about Plume’s past — we know what he got up to in London. What did he get up to in —’

  ‘Suppose,’ Dickens interrupted, ‘Plume was up to his tricks in Chatham and Sefton knew something, somehow found out about Plume’s doings in London and went to confront him.’

  ‘But, it would be more likely that Plume would kill him to stop his mouth. There were no signs of a struggle — had there been, Goss couldn’t have believed Miranda Deverall had done it. Plume refused him something — the money perhaps.’

  ‘Or, Plume refused to cease his activities. There was something between them — something old that had been eating away at Sefton for years.’

  Jones considered Dickens’s words. ‘You could be right. You said that the past doesn’t go away. And it’s true — murder happens so often because the past catches up with the present, somehow.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘You’ve got it. Something in Plume’s past that is linked with the present. Something that Sefton knew — something tipped the balance, something he found out.’

  ‘And that ties in with Brimstone — we said he was deep in it, supplying the drugs to Plume. Suppose Sefton found out about the Brimstones and went to threaten Brimstone —’

  ‘But, why after the murder of Plume? He’s surely not intending to bump off the whole lot of them.’

  ‘I suppose not, but I’d like to know why he went to the Brimstones.’

  ‘I shall be asking Mrs Brimstone if they knew of any Doctor Sefton — unlikely, I know, but there must be a connection. I don’t think she did it — not that I’ll tell her that.’ Jones frowned. ‘Of course, there may be no connection at all — it’s possible that Brimstone’s murderer is someone else entirely.’

  ‘Then Sefton is not Will, and to eliminate Sefton we need go to Rochester.’

  ‘You’re right — we’ll go after we’ve seen Mrs Brady. Now tell me about your friend in Rochester.’

  ‘The Reverend William Drage — I knew him years ago. He was a curate in Chatham, lived at Ordnance Terrace next door to us when my father was a Navy Pay Clerk. I was in Rochester in October 1848, and called on him about the daughter of one of his parishioners. He wanted a place for her at the Home — we got her in, and she’s done well. Anyway, he lives now at Minor Canon Row by the Cathedral. He’d know the doctors and lawyers, the professional men. I thought he might know of Sefton.’

  ‘And, if he doesn’t, we can go and find Clover Lane.’

  ‘Oh, I know where that is — I was at school there. The school of William Giles — he’s not there now. He gave me a copy of Goldsmith’s Bee when I left — I still have it.’

  The waiter brought their chops and beer — the mouth worked hideously and a mysterious voice from the interior announced sepulchrally, ‘Two chops and mash, two beers, number four.’

  ‘Throws his voice as well,’ said Jones as the waiter ran off.

  Dickens laughed. ‘Run off to now to catch it, perhaps, or skimmed. Have you noticed that peculiar and mysterious power that waiters have of skimming out of rooms which other mortals possess not?’

  ‘Born to waitering — bred to it. Runs in families, I daresay.’

  ‘Or skims.’

  ‘Very droll. Never mind waitering — it’s doctoring, we’re concerned with. Do you know any doctors in Rochester or Chatham?’

  ‘I knew Doctor Matthew Lamert — he married my aunt Mary, my mother’s sister. They went to Ireland where she died in 1822. He died two years ago in Cork. His son, James, used to take me to the theatre. I remember the smell even now — orange peel and lamp oil. I remember being terrified at Richard III — and Macbeth — thrilled, too, at the wonder of it all. Ah, memory, memory, Sam.’

  Dickens was silent then. It was James Lamert who had employed him at the blacking factory. His own mother had been eager to send him back there when his father had quarrelled with Lamert
— he could never forget that.

  Jones watched a shadow like a flitting cloud darken the bright eyes. What was he thinking about? Something from the past, something upon which he brooded sometimes, something untold?

  ‘Well, let’s hope that someone remembers Plume and his partner,’ Jones said.

  Dickens looked at him. ‘Yes, indeed. Doctors, you said. There’s a Doctor Steele who lives in Strood — Chairman of the Liberal Association. We might see him, if we’ve time.’

  ‘Time we went. Let’s pay up and go to see what Mrs Brady can tell us about Kitty.’

  Chapter 31: Mother and Son

  Mary Brady was shoving a few things in a bag. Time to go before Jimmy came back. And he would come, and he’d be in one of his furies. She knew that. Crippled Bobby had seen him and told him about Paul. Jimmy would blame May. She couldn’t protect May now. Jimmy was too strong. You couldn’t reason with him. You couldn’t fight him off — not now. When he was smaller, Paul had been able to subdue him. Sometimes, even Mary had soothed him, but that was a long time ago when he was small enough — not much more than a baby and she’d given him a cordial, rocked him and said his name, over and over: Jimmy, Jimmy, hush now, hush. Not that the peace lasted. He’d cry, a terrible sound like howling. His arms and legs would thrash, he would beat at her with his little fists and those black eyes would stare at her, wild, angry eyes. God forgive her, she’d not been able to love him.

  Get out, she told herself. She had some money in the tin. Where to go? She could have wept. In all this city of millions of souls, she had no one to turn to. No use going to Annie — too near. Jimmy would find them. There was only the church — but she hadn’t been in a long time. Hadn’t dared. Confess — all her sins. She couldn’t. She didn’t love her son. She didn’t love her husband. She didn’t care that he had another woman. She’d brought a fiend into the world. But May was innocent. Surely, they’d look after her. The priest at Our Lady in Lisson Grove might find somewhere for May. The Sisters of Mercy might give them both sanctuary. She’d have to try.

  No use thinking about Paul. They wouldn’t be seeing him again. He’d told her about Kitty Quillian. Kitty Quillian — his lover. And there was a child. His child — dear God, the fool. He didn’t know where Kitty had gone. The child was at Mrs Brimstone’s — looked after, Paul said. Well, Mary had thought, I hope Kitty’s somewhere safe. She hadn’t answered him. Only May mattered.

  The pain came suddenly. She felt as if an axe had cleaved her in two. Her breath stopped and she sat suddenly. May stared at her with uncomprehending eyes.

  Mary waited until the agony subsided and she was able to breathe. ‘May — there’s drink in the cupboard. Get the bottle.’

  Paul had had some brandy from somewhere. He’d drunk most of it before the police came, but there was some left. It’d bring her round — enough to finish the bag and get going.

  May brought the bottle and Mary took a few sips. ‘Just a minute, May, till I get me breath back.’

  She felt her eyes closing. Just to sleep, she thought — and not to wake up. She opened her eyes and there was poor May. She looked frightened. Mary saw the tears well up.

  ‘Just sit with me a minute, there’s my good girl. Ma’ll be right as rain.’

  They sat on the bed, half asleep, their eyes closed.

  Then in the silence, Mary heard the scraping of boots on stones. The sound came from the little room beyond where she and May slept. There was a coal chute leading from the alley behind and whoever was sliding down could get in if the little door was open. She’d put the bolt on, hadn’t she? She felt terror then. Jimmy.

  The door which separated the main room from the little room burst open. He was there, black as the devil, those terrible eyes burning and half a brick in his hand. She pushed May behind her.

  ‘Goin’ somewhere, ma? Leavin’ me, woz yer?’

  From somewhere she found the strength to get up to face him.

  ‘Yes, Jimmy. And you’ll have to kill me to stop me. I’m dyin’ anyway so I don’t care. And while you’re killin’ me, May can get out.’

  Jimmy stepped back. She wasn’t his ma anymore. He didn’t know this woman whose eyes blazed back at him. She seemed bigger, somehow.

  Mary saw his hesitation. He was frightened of her. She saw his hand drop, the one holding the brick.

  ‘Well?’ she said.

  He didn’t answer and the silence seemed to swell in the room.

  ‘Jimmy, Jimmy, oh, Jimmy, hush, hush.’

  He seemed to shrink, to dwindle to the child she’d lost somewhere along the way. She took a step towards him. Then came the sound of knocking at the door.

  ‘Police, Mrs Brady, open up.’

  Jimmy dropped his half-brick. He gave her a look. There was something — a half-longing, perhaps. Then he was gone. She heard him scrabbling up the chute. She never saw him again.

  Mary sank onto the bed. The knocking continued. ‘Open the door, May. Let them in.’

  Dickens stood at the open door. Sam was on the ladder behind him. Dickens saw the frightened face of the girl at the door and, stepping in saw the woman on the bed. This is a sick woman, he thought, looking at the grey face with its sheen of sweat and pinched nostrils.

  ‘Don’t be frightened, May,’ he said gently to the child. ‘She’ll be all right in a minute.’

  He saw that there was some brandy left in a bottle. He took his handkerchief and moistened it then dabbed at the colourless lips. Mary’s eyes opened and he saw how they were black with pain in the deep, dark sockets.

  ‘Can you get some water, May — for her to drink?’

  Jones eased himself quietly into the room and waited for Dickens to feed Mrs Brady with the water.

  Mary Brady looked at the face bending over her and the kindness in the large eyes. Not police, surely. And how gentle was his touch. Then she saw the other man standing at the door — he looked more like a policeman. She drank some of the water and eased herself into a sitting position.

  ‘Are you able to speak?’ Dickens asked her.

  The pain had eased a bit — but she could feel it. It was her constant companion, sometimes like a dull burning as if a knife were lodged in her breast, at others like the cleaver splitting her in two, but never absent. An always sullen, sometimes violent lover who would kill her in the end.

  ‘Yes. What do you want?’

  The taller man spoke. ‘I wanted to ask you about Kitty Quillian.’

  ‘Why?’ She couldn’t understand. What had Kitty to do with it all? She’d gone off somewhere — she couldn’t have been with Paul last night.

  ‘Do you know about the doctor who was murdered? Doctor Plume.’

  ‘I heard somethin’ — Mrs Hodson — who May worked for — was friendly with him. Kitty worked there.’

  ‘We think Kitty had met the murderer — someone saw her with him and she was outside the doctor’s house in Weymouth Street on the night of the murder. I think she may be in danger. Do you know where she might have gone? She left her baby at a Mrs Brimstone’s.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You don’t know who the baby’s father is? Might she have gone to him?’

  Mary Brady made a sound that might have been a laugh, but she might have been just getting her breath. Jones waited for her to speak again.

  ‘May, lovey, will you take the bag into the other room. Take the things out and put them on the bed — laundry, sir,’ she said to Jones. May took the bag away. They were leaving, Jones thought. He wondered about Jimmy Brady. He’d ask about that later.

  ‘I didn’t want May to hear. Kitty hasn’t gone to the baby’s father. He’s in prison. You might as well know it — the father is my husband, Paul. Not that I cared. I don’t care about anythin’ — only little May and what’s to happen to her when I’m gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ Dickens asked.

  ‘I’m dyin’, sir — cancer, here.’ She pointed to her breast. ‘I thought Kitty would look after May, but th
en she disappeared. I didn’t know then that she and Paul… She’s a good girl, an’ Paul, he could be charmin’ when he wanted to be. He told me before the police took him. But, now — I was goin’ away — the bag — but —’

  ‘What about your son, Jimmy — you know the police are looking for him. Has he been here?’

  She closed her eyes. ‘I haven’t seen him.’

  Jones knew he could ask May. She would tell him, he had no doubt. She would not lie, she was too simple, too innocent and he would not take advantage of that. And he had seen the half brick on the floor. He remembered that Stemp had told him that Jimmy had been going to finish him off with a brick or stone. Hm. It didn’t matter. Cuff would find him. The important thing was what to do for Mrs Brady and May. He looked at Dickens.

  ‘Mrs Brady, you need to see a doctor — I know Doctor Fuller at the Infirmary. He can give you something for the pain. I can ask him to come.’

  ‘I can’t go to hospital, sir. I can’t leave May, but she can look after me — and my neighbour, Annie will come.’

  Dickens understood that. What would May do if her mother was in hospital? They couldn’t abandon her. He thought about the boy, Jimmy. May couldn’t be left here, alone. Suppose the boy did come back.

  ‘I’ll see Doctor Fuller for you.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. It’s good of you.’

  They left her then and climbed the ladder up into Bones Alley.

  ‘Too late for Rochester, Charles. I’ll have to see Paul Brady at Newgate. See if he knows where Kitty is. And I have to meet Rogers from the train with Hodson and Brimstone. I’ll see what they can tell me about Kitty — and her baby.’

  ‘I’ll go to the Infirmary to see Doctor Fuller, and then I’ll go home. Tomorrow, then?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll have to get Mrs Hodson and Mrs Brimstone before the magistrate in the morning.’

  ‘We could get the train from London Bridge at one o’clock. I’ll come to Bow Street at noon — from Wellington Street, where I shall be doing some work for Household Words.’