Death at Hungerford Stairs (24 page)

‘Did you speak to the footman?'

‘I did and I asked him if he could describe the young man. He was vague, as you can imagine. The encounter lasted no more than a minute or two – his impression was just of a youngish, slight man, rather nervous, he thought, anxious to be away. Could have been her brother.'

‘If the brother were not dead,' observed Dickens gloomily.

‘But, say he is not – say she lied because she knew – or suspected what he had done. She said he had died in Paris – perhaps that is where he is now.'

‘Or, the lover – we need to know if the brother is dead – or even if she had a brother. She might be lying about that.'

‘Then we must ask her – she must be made to tell us whom she sent to deliver that hat – we have to suppose that whoever he was, he took the shawl though what for I cannot imagine.'

‘Perhaps he knew it was Victorine's work and wanted to return it to her.'

‘Then, why was it in the churchyard?'

‘Because she is his accomplice. It must be, Sam. Think about it – she befriends the children and he kills them. She lures them to him by some pretence – perhaps she sent Robin on an errand to give a message to someone at the churchyard or she took him there, promising some payment – I don't know, but she left Robin with him – the girls in the churchyard did not see anyone else with Robin.She left because she had done her part.'

‘Motive?'

‘Hers? She loved him – brother or lover – would do anything for him. And, remember what we thought about her – cold, indifferent, so closed up – but she has one loyalty, one obsession – him.'

‘It doesn't matter for now – we can theorise all we like. It is more important that we question her. Now! I'll get Rogers. We will send him round the back of the house – the beat constables have been keeping an eye on the place but have not reported any man coming out. I didn't really believe in the young man – I was more concerned with Theo Outfin. Let us hope we are not too late.'

They hurried from Bow Street up to Short's Gardens then through Seven Dials to Crown Street where Dickens had followed Theo Outfin into the lanes where the Moons lived, and where they had lost him in the sudden surge of the crowds at the cry of ‘fire'. He was glad that Theo was not now a serious suspect. Would he live? he wondered.

It was dark now and the streets were full, but he could not help scanning the faces, looking for that pinched countenance with the thick spectacles which had concealed, perhaps, the face of a woman who had been prepared to help a killer. He remembered what Rogers had said when they had first discussed the shawl – it could be a woman. He had reminded them of Mrs Manning – ‘'Ard as nails', Rogers had said.

And she was. Dickens had read all about the case of cold-blooded Maria Manning who had shot her lover, Patrick O'Connor, through the back of the head, having invited him to a meal. She had directed him to wash at the sink where a hole had been dug and quick lime bought in readiness to dispose of the body. When the shot did not kill Patrick O'Connor, Maria looked on while her husband Frederick had finished him off by battering his head with a crowbar – Maria had watched impassively. Then, according to some newspaper reports, she had sat down to dine on the goose which she had cooked for three. The body was in the hole by the sink. Greed and envy had been her motives – envy of O'Connor's money – and she was caught trying to sell off some share certificates. The search for her and her husband had been relentless – an inspector and a sergeant had been sent to Paris, but in the end she was found in Edinburgh. Oh, indeed, a woman could be as ruthless as a man – more so in Maria Manning's case, perhaps.

They were at Rose Street, outside the house where no lamp burnt. They knew at once that she was not there. Rogers went round the back into the little alley to find the back door from which the neighbour had declared that she had seen a young man emerge. Perhaps she had, but he was not there now. A labouring man came by, his boots striking on the cobbles. He looked at the policeman curiously, but passed on without comment. Dickens and Jones came round from the front. They would go in. The yard door opened easily, but the back of the house was dark.

‘Shall I force the door?' asked Rogers. The superintendent nodded. He did not expect to find her, but they had to be sure.

It was easy to wrench the door handle. They went in to a poky scullery where the only sound was a tap dripping into the white sink. It smelt of damp, a graveyard smell. A door led them into the room where they had first seen Mademoiselle Victorine. The hats were silent shapes in the darkness, but when Rogers turned on his lamp the feathers were stirring slightly, and Dickens was reminded again of birds perched, ready for flight. The table was neatly stacked with cloth, tailor's chalk and pins, and the scissors lay closed. There was an unfinished hat and a few artificial flowers which had been taken off it as though she was refashioning it. It was as if she had finished her work for the day. Dickens went over to look – had she left anything? There was a wooden box, its lid closed, a picture of the Eiffel Tower on it. What was inside? Papers? A letter? No, she would not leave anything like that. He opened it and saw something that made him take a quick breath.

‘What is it?' Sam whispered, hearing that sudden sound of surprise.

Dickens held up something which caught the light. A hatpin, about four and a half inches long, glinting wickedly – a sharp point easy to slide into the vulnerable heart of a boy who had no idea that it would bring his death.

‘Could this be what he used? It looks lethal enough.' He kept his voice low.

‘It could – I don't know. We will have to ask the pathologist. We'll take it with us. Now, upstairs. Rogers, wait down here – just in case. She might come back, though I doubt it.'

They went into the hall and up the uncarpeted stairs, creeping as quietly as they could. There were two rooms, one with the door open. They went in to see a neatly made bed, a chair by it and a wash stand. No sign at all that anyone had used the room. Its emptiness was absolute.The door to the other room was closed. They listened. But there was no sound. The silence seemed to swell, filling the tiny landing. Dickens thought he could feel it wrapping round him like a shroud.

Sam stepped forward and grasped the door handle, turning it, suddenly impatient. She was not there. She was not, as Dickens had for a moment imagined, lying dead in her bed. The bed was identical to the other – a bed for one occupant, narrow, covered in a white counterpane with a single pillow at the head. Above the brass bedhead was a simple wooden crucifix. Had she prayed here? To whom? Not to God, surely – if she were what they thought, accomplice to a murderer.

They looked at the small chest of drawers with its small looking-glass on a stand. There was a hairbrush and a set of rosary beads hanging from the stand. And a few seashells collected in a little dish – odd, thought Dickens. Some kind of memento? The drawers revealed neatly folded underwear, stockings, a white blouse and handkerchiefs. There was a long cupboard. A grey dress hung there, moving slightly in the draught made when Sam opened the door. It was as if she were hanging there. Well, she might if they found her. That was the point. Where was she? Had she fled with her brother, her lover?

Sam looked under the bed. There was an empty travelling bag. Did that mean that she was coming back? Had she just gone out to buy her supper? Sam did not think so and Dickens agreed. The emptiness of the house had a finality about it. The silence inhabited it now; it had settled there, companion to the graveyard smell.

She had gone, they were sure, despite the clothes and the travelling bag. Where was she? And, in this teeming city, could they ever find her?

They went downstairs to the room where the hats were motionless now. They looked at the box and in the drawers of a press where she kept her materials for making the hats, flowers and ribbons, her thread and needles and her embroidery silks. The shawl? The one they had seen when they had first visited Mademoiselle Victorine. It was gone. Time to go. There was nothing here. One could imagine that she was dead, so still and empty the house was and so lacking in any personal effects – no pictures, no ornaments – nothing to say that a woman had made her home here. That was it, thought Dickens; she had existed here but not lived. Surely, there could be no lover. And the two single beds? Had the one in the first room been her brother's? But, again, he had had the impression that the room was unused – no trace of whoever had slept there – just that faint smell of damp.

They went out of the back door. Rogers was to stay and wait. Sam would send a man to repair the door so that no one could get in. They went round the front again and knocked at the neighbour's door to ask if she knew anything about Mademoiselle Victorine, where she might be. She did not, though her little knowing eyes were avid for information about her reclusive neighbour. They were about to walk away when Sam turned back to the woman standing on the doorstep.

‘Mrs?'

‘Twiss. Ada Twiss.'

'Do you know Mademoiselle's last name – her surname?'

‘She did say when she first come – tryin' ter be pleasant, I suppose – dint take much notice so I don't know if I 'ave it right – it sounded strange ter me. Sholicker – some such – foreign, o' course,' she said, as though her neighbour had no right to such an unpronounceable name.

Well, she was French, thought Dickens, amused at her disapproval of all things foreign.

Sam asked, ‘Did you ever see the young man again? The one you told the constable you'd seen coming from her yard?'

‘No – pr'aps it was a customer though she didn't 'ave many o' those. Dunno 'oo 'e was. Yer lookin' fer 'im?'

‘Not really - we were just interested to know if he had been seen again. But, as he has not, we will leave it. Thank you, Mrs Twiss. Good night.'

The two men walked away. She looked after them, puzzled – she wondered what they wanted with the French lady. But the tall man looked as if 'e wouldn't say any more and she wondered what the policeman was doin' in the alley. Tom 'ad seen him as he came 'ome. Still, foreigners – what could yer expect? Funny woman that Victorine whatshername – standoffish. But she 'ad seen that gent. She remembered now – Tom 'ad seen 'im again – night o' the fire down St Giles's – oh, well, too late now. Any'ow, they sed they wasn't interested. She went in to enjoy the fried fish and potatoes waiting on the hob. She want goin' to let 'er supper get cold – an' it would if she went chasin' arter 'em. Too bad. She closed the door.

Dickens and Jones walked down Crown Street. What now?

‘The name?' asked Sam. ‘Could you make anything of it? You speak French.'

‘The “sh” sound ought to be a “J”, the “ker” sound might be “Coeur” so I will hazard a guess at “Jolicoeur”.'

Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘Pretty heart? Never!'

‘It is a French surname – I have heard it before – not very apt is it?'

‘No, but it will have to do – why couldn't Mrs Twiss speak French? What's the matter with these people – if you have a French neighbour, you might at least pronounce her name correctly!' Sam laughed at himself and thought of sober-looking Mrs Twiss waltzing in Paris. ‘She was more interested in her fried fish – smelt good, I thought. So, where is Mademoiselle Jolicoeur?'

They gazed around the crowded street. Where to look? She could be anywhere and there was no one to ask. That was the damnable thing, thought Sam. Suspects usually had convenient family, friends, work colleagues, acquaintances – someone who could lead them to him or her. There was a trail, most often. The murderer took shelter somewhere. Someone knew, had seen, could point the way.They would have found the giant eventually. But there was no one in this bustling place who could tell them where she was or where her brother was. Yes, a young man had been seen three times – four if you counted Mrs Twiss's sighting in the alley – once with Jemmy at Hungerford Market, once with Robin Hart in the graveyard and once at the Du Cane house but there was no trail. They had both vanished as if they had never been. Ghosts.

‘Hidden from all human knowledge,' observed Dickens as though he had read Sam's thoughts.

‘Yes, I was thinking how suspects usually have someone who knows them – someone who can point us to them but, in this case, nobody seems to know them – true, she had customers, true, the young man was seen but that is all. They had no friends, no family.'

‘Did you notice the crucifix and the rosary?'

‘I did – I thought what hypocrisy – if she is his accomplice, how can she be praying and telling her beads?'

‘I wonder did she go to church – a Catholic church?'

‘You mean someone might know her from there – know if there is a brother?'

‘Yes – a priest, perhaps. I wonder if she has confessed – not that he would tell us, of course. It would, perhaps, be a Catholic church nearby – there is the Sardinia Chapel at Lincoln's Inn – we could try there.'

‘Yes, she could walk there. Anywhere else?'

‘There is a chapel in Warwick Street, Golden Square. I read about it when I was researching for
Barnaby Rudge
– it was attacked in the Gordon riots as was the Sardinia Chapel. I described how the vast mob poured into Lincoln's Inn Fields. It must have been a terrible sight – the crowd was making for Newgate. Fire everywhere. Yes, we could try there, too.'

They chose Lincoln's Inn and walked there from Crown Street to Castle Street, into Drury Lane and across to Parker Street where on the corner the crowds were pouring into the Mogul Saloon, a music hall. They pushed their way through the good-humoured throng, the flower sellers, the match girl, the man with his tray of jellied eels, and they caught the spicy smell of hot elder wine and the rich scent of gravy from the pieman who cried out, ‘Pies, all 'ot, eel, beef, mutton – penny each, all 'ot.' They passed Whetstone Place where in the grimy alleys they had once found the body of a murdered man. It was quiet now in the precincts of Lincoln's Inn. The chapel was at the rear of number fifty-four, not far from Dickens's friend John Forster's home. But Dickens had never been into the church.