Death at Hungerford Stairs (16 page)

Gold. Here it was. Thank you, Charles, Sam said to himself.

‘Yes, we met them. Sophia Outfin is to be married – a lovely girl. I know her fiancé, Mr Wilde.'

‘Yes, we heard. Miss Sophy could always put Mrs Outfin into a good mood – she had that way with her, you know, soft and patient. Now, Mr Theo, he could be moody – didn't get on with his father – mind, he was only a boy then. Probably grown up a bit since. But his grandmother spoilt him a bit. Left him a lot of money in her will. Gets it when he's twenty-one. He'll be rich then, I daresay.'

Dickens took another risk in that confiding gossipy atmosphere. ‘We met him. We thought he might not get on with his father. I wonder why.'

‘A bit girlish, I think. They look so alike – Sophy and Theo – when they were young, Miss Sophy used to play at being a boy, and, you know, she looked exactly like him. She was a bit of a tomboy, but Mr Theo, he was quiet, didn't like boyish things. Always reading. His father used to get impatient with him then sent him to school, Eton it was. Thought it would make a man of him, I suppose.'

‘Perhaps it did. Families are not always easy,' said Dickens. He could not help feeling sympathy for Theo Outfin. Dickens had been a solitary boy. A terrible boy to read, his nurse, Mary Weller had said, and he remembered being too sickly to play cricket with the other boys, the spasms in his side so painful that he could only watch the others running about. Perhaps Theo Outfin had been sickly. But what was he now? And was there a connection to the dead boys? Charles Street where the Du Canes lived was not far from Hungerford Stairs.

Sam thought it was time to go. ‘We must be on our way, Mrs Mapes. Thank you for giving us Mattie's address – I assure you we shall be discreet.'

They left the warm cottage. They could hear the hammer on the anvil. The smith was still at work though the large horse had gone. They walked across to the Crown where their driver waited, passing a cottage gate where a flock of white geese hissed at them. There was a bench outside the inn and they sat where there was a patch of sunshine which gave a little warmth. Sam looked across at the smithy where a farmer was bringing a horse to be shod.

‘My father was a blacksmith,' he said, musingly. ‘I might have been one myself – a good life, it was – regular. My father was a contemplative sort of man – not given to many words – like our smith over there.'

‘Could you shoe a horse? Among your many other gifts?' asked Dickens. He had not known of this before. He was intrigued by this new dimension to his friend. ‘I thought you came from policing stock.'

‘I could once – not very well, but I was learning the trade. My father died when I was ten and his brother took over the forge. He had a son so there was no room for me. In any case, my mother wanted to go back to London – couldn't stick the country without my father. She took her share of the business and we went to live with her sister whose husband was a policeman. However, my mother did not want that for me – at fifteen, I was sent to be a clerk in a lawyer's office at Lincoln's Inn.'

‘Just as I was myself – though at Gray's Inn.'

‘Dull, wasn't it?' Sam laughed. ‘When I thought of the future, I felt I was looking down a tunnel to the cramped years ahead, the drudgery, the pointlessness of it all – my large self chafed at it and when my mother died, I was free to go for a policeman – river police at Wapping, then in 1829 I joined the Peelers, proud in my blue coat and top hat – and here I am.'

‘Regret it?'

‘No, though sometimes the flood of human misery we encounter depresses me – still, we sometimes do some good – as you do yourself.'

They sat quiet for a while listening to the strike of the hammer on the anvil; it was soothing somehow, timeless, and Sam thought of those long-ago days at the forge. Life had been simple then, but if he had stayed there would have been no Elizabeth, and, he thought, he would not have met Charles Dickens, and they would not be sitting here in peaceful companionship.

‘Well,' he said, at last, grinning at Dickens, ‘we certainly got more than we bargained for – thanks to your charm with the ladies. I was thinking that I hardly dared ask about Mrs Outfin's family when you came to the rescue. What are your fees for inveigling innocent witnesses to talk?'

‘Modest, Sam, very modest – a brandy would be welcome. This sun is a deceiver – my feet are freezing.'

They went inside the old inn with its low beams and oak settles, and seated themselves by a blazing fire waiting for the landlord to bring them their brandy. The driver sat at the bar and was glad to be treated to another drink.

‘I will send Feak to discover Mattie Webb – he can do a bit of detecting – or, perhaps I should send the Sybil of Star Street. I will tell him to be discreet – go round to the servants' entrance. He can use the usual tale – thieves about, that sort of thing. I want to know what happened to that shawl. Of course, she may have lost it but –'

‘It is all very suggestive – the shawl at the Du Canes, the Du Canes are friends of the Outfins, Charles Street is not far from Hungerford Stairs – Theo Outfin could have visited the Du Canes. Jemmy and Robin were found in two different places. Theo Outfin might now be connected to Hungerford Stairs and St Giles's is not too far from Montague Place.'

‘And, we know a bit more about Theo – solitary, girlish, a disappointment to his father. Was he interested in small boys? That is the question. I need the results of the post-mortem – if Robin and Jemmy were sexually abused then we must consider that Theo might be our man.'

‘And, if not, where does that leave us? What is the motive for the killings, then?'

‘Well, Rogers thought crime might be a factor – the man using the boys, and killing them to stop them talking.'

‘But the mask? That does not fit at all to the idea of a thief turned murderer. It means something, I am sure. The murderer has something to say to us.'

‘Such as?' asked Sam.

‘“You cannot know me.” Is he telling us that he is too clever for us? That we cannot catch him?'

‘But, we must, and we will know him. We will peel off that mask, and we will see his face stripped of its cleverness, and he will see us and know that he is caught.'

They went out of the inn with the driver and made their way back to the roaring, clamorous city. Dickens would go home, and afterwards dine with Oliver Wilde. The superintendent could not help looking forward to rattling the bones of Fikey Chubb. It would relieve his feelings, he thought, to see Fikey Chubb sweating.

Fikey Chubb did sweat – far more than the superintendent remembered. His office was filled with the man's rancid stench. Not fear, yet. Fikey blustered: 'e was a respectable shopkeeper and business man; 'e knew nothin' about no friggin' Tommy Titfer. Wot did they mean about 'im bein' dangerous? 'Oo, said it, 'e'd like ter know? Known for 'is generosity was Fikey. Blimey, the things people said. It made yer lose yer faith, it did.

Sam was patient, listening to the indignant recital of Fikey's virtues. ‘Tommy Titfer has not been seen. We just wanted to ask if you had seen him. It was said he owed you money. A man doesn't generally lend money to a man he doesn't know.'

‘Dint say I dint know the bleeder – thort you woz askin' if I knows where 'e is. Entrapment, that's wot it is – I'll be makin' a complaint. Gotta lawyer, I 'ave. Respectable citizen I am – yer –'

‘I'll make a note of your concerns, Mr Chubb – the money, if you'll oblige me.'

‘Well, if yer puts it like that, I don't mind tellin' yer.' Fikey was gracious. Give the rozzer somethin' an' they'd git off 'is back. ‘Titfer owed me money. Bit of a sly one is Tommy, bleedin' all over the carpet abaht 'is ma an' 'is brother – dire straits, 'e said. Well, wot woz I ter do? I lent 'im a few quid – an' I ain't seen 'im since. Bleedin' disgrace, it is – a man acts in good faith an' then wot? Let down, that's wot.'

‘But you are a frequenter of the Rats' Castle?'

‘Fre – wot? Wot d'yer mean?' Fikey was suspicious. Wot woz bein' pinned on 'im?

‘You drink at Rats' Castle – often.'

‘So what? Niver 'eard it woz a crime ter take a glass now an' then.' Fikey grinned at his own wit. They 'ad nothin' on 'im, he thought. Jest fishin'.

‘No, indeed. Though I am surprised that a respectable businessman such as yourself should find it congenial.' A draw, so far, thought Sam. Time to press him a bit. ‘Know anything about the dead man in the alley off the High Street?'

‘'Eard abaht it. Nothin' ter do wiv me.'

‘Story is there's a giant on the loose. Seen him? About Rats' Castle?'

‘Nah. Madman, I 'eard.'

‘Mad? How?'

Fikey was relaxed now. None of this was to do with him. He wiped his sweating brow with a grimy rag. ‘Dunno. Jest said 'e woz rambling, talks to 'imself, that kind o' thing. There's talk, yer know, 'ow 'e's a monster, some kind o' beast. Stranger, though. No one seems to know 'oo 'e is. Sorry I can't 'elp yer, Mr Jones, but I'm a busy man. Can't stay 'ere all day chattin'. Yer've wasted enough of me time, as it is. Been 'ere long enough, ta very much.' He smiled condescendingly. 'E'd bin right. Jest fishin'. He rose to go.

‘One more thing, Mr Chubb. Two dead boys. Murdered.'

Fikey sat down. He was sweating again. The stink of fear suddenly sharp in the room where the stench of sweat had faded. This was closer to home, Sam thought. Fikey might know something.

‘Wot boys? Don't know nothin' abaht 'em.'

‘You must have heard about the boy found stabbed in St Giles's churchyard. Seen with a toff, apparently. I wonder if you know about men who might be interested in young boys.'

Fikey looked worried, as well he might since his business involved young girls and the kind of toffs who might be looking for a girl. Boys might not be his business, but he would know whose business they were. And he would not want to tell.

‘I don't know nothin', I'm tellin' yer, Mr Jones. Yes, I 'eard about the poor little sod, but boys ain't my line o' business.' He corrected himself, aware of the implication that perhaps girls were his business. ‘I deal in fings, Mr Jones, not people, not kids, niver.'

‘No one told you who might be involved.' Sam pressed him. ‘A name?'

‘Nah, I swear ter yer. I 'eard the lad 'ad bin seen wiv a toff, but no one knows 'oo – independent, 'e must be, actin' on 'is own – not through the usual channels – yer get me?'

Sam got it, indeed. Fikey would know the identities of the ‘usual channels', but they had no evidence on which to press him, and they had no evidence to connect Fikey with the dead boys. It was interesting that there was speculation about the toff whom no one knew.

‘Most helpful, Mr Chubb. Of course, I may wish to speak to you again – you might remember something about those boys or you might hear something.You know where to come. My constable here will keep in touch, of course. We know where your shop is.'

It wasn't much of a threat, Sam knew, but it might make Fikey keep his head down for a bit if he thought the police were keeping an eye on him, and he might hear something which he would be willing to offer if he thought it would get the police off his back.

Fikey went and Sam opened a window, out of which he and Rogers leant, breathing in the cold air. They pulled in their heads, but stood there till until the reek of Fikey's presence had evaporated.

‘I'll throw a bucket of water over him next time – cold,' Rogers said.

‘He'll complain to his lawyer.'

Rogers laughed. ‘'E'll be a crook like Fikey. But it was interestin', sir, what 'e said about the toff – no one knows 'im.'

‘Yes, I thought that, too. Still we cannot discount the idea that the killer is known to someone who deals in boys procured for sexual purposes until we get the results from the post-mortem. We need it – go down to the mortuary, will you, and hurry them up.'

‘Yes, sir.' Rogers went out.

Sam looked down at the busy street below. He was out there somewhere, perhaps wearing his mask of respectability. That young man there, he thought, the one in the black suit and top hat – it could be him. Or that slender young man in blue with gilt buttons or that one with the extravagant bow and the silver-topped cane. He looked like an artist – perhaps he had drawn the mask? Or Theo Outfin. Or Mademoiselle Victorine's mysterious visitor – they ought to follow that up. True, he might not exist at all.

But he would put a watch at the house – just in case. And where was Feak? He had sent him to the Du Cane house. He ought to be back. Perhaps Mattie Webb could tell them something about the shawl.

Sam went to his desk. The mask troubled him because he did not know its meaning. He drew it on the paper before him. He looked into its sightless eyes, but they told him nothing. He thought of Theo Outfin's averted eyes and of Mademoiselle Victorine's colourless eyes behind the thick spectacles – they had told him nothing.

And what about the giant? Stemp was investigating him. A madman – that was interesting, too. Where had he come from, and more importantly, where was he?

In a cellar underneath the abandoned house next to the one where the Moon family lived, a heap of stinking rags whimpered and moaned. It dipped its poor burnt hands into a tank of dirty, cold water that had dripped in through a rusted grating. It muttered to itself. It did not understand this world of shadows and spectres – it wondered if it were dead. It did not know what it had done, only that things followed it, and that it was terrified and crazed with pain. Perhaps, here, in the quiet and dark it might be safe.

Of course, he wasn't a beast or monster, but he was huge with the great, protruding frontal boss and preternaturally large, jutting jaw that signifies gigantism. This hideous cliff-face of a forehead hung over his black eyes where the bristling hairs grew shaggy and straggling. The matted mane of black hair hung on his great misshapen shoulders. The gnarled nose was too big and his skin was thick and coarse in texture, and so begrimed with dirt that his face appeared black, especially in the darkness of the alleys in which he had wandered, pursued as he thought by phantoms. He could not see clearly, plagued as he was by double vision, so he struck out blindly, baffled in rage by the followers. When he spoke his voice was deep and hoarse and his words scarcely intelligible such was the thickness of his over-large tongue.