The Murder of Patience Brooke (15 page)

They ate slowly, savouring the sweetness, apart from Poll who swallowed hers in one gulp.

‘Poll,’ said Eleanor reprovingly. Poll hung her head.

The bell jangled as the door opened to admit Elizabeth Jones.

‘Why, Mr Dickens,’ she said. ‘I took your advice and came to buy some supplies.’

‘May I introduce a friend of mine,’ said Dickens. ‘Mrs Elizabeth Jones and these are my friends, Miss Eleanor Brim, Tom, Scrap and Poll. I recommended her to your excellent shop.’

Four pairs of eyes looked at Elizabeth.

‘Pity you dint come sooner. You could ’ave ’ad some cake. Real cake, not broken bits,’ said Scrap proudly.

‘What do you need, Mrs Jones? We have an extensive stock – all colours of ink for a lady, and some very good pen-wipers, paper, of course, good pens,’ said Eleanor, the businesswoman.

‘I should like to see some inks, and some pen-wipers, please.’

Whilst Elizabeth approached the counter, Eleanor busied herself with various boxes, Poll waited for her instructions and Tom finished the crumbs of cake, Dickens motioned to Scrap to come nearer the door.

‘Any news?’

‘Seen ’im – at Gray’s Inn like you sed. Picked ’im up end of Whetstone Place and dogged ’im up Brown Street.’

‘He did not see you?’

‘Old Crookface?’ Dickens couldn’t help smiling at Scrap’s apt choice of name. He had thought of it, too, when they’d been to Jacob’s Island. Scrap continued, ‘Nah, course not – ’e niver looked be’ind ’im anyways. Ugly cove, int ’e? Face all twisted. Bin bashed abaht a bit, shouldn’t wonder.’

‘You didn’t see where he came from in Whetstone Place?’

‘Nah – lots of alleys off there – could a come from any of ’em – but I saw where ’e went, dint I?’

‘Where?’ This could be the breakthrough.

‘In ter some offices. Lots o’ signs on ’em – names and that. Could show yer if yer wants.’

Dickens hesitated. He did not want to meet the man, yet he wanted to know which offices he had gone into.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘You go on ahead. I’ll meet you at the entrance to Gray’s Inn. You approach me as if you are asking for something then point out the building. We must be careful, Scrap, we do not want him to see us together.’ Dickens was improvising. He did not want to be seen walking with the boy – it would look odd, even suspicious, and he did not want Crookface – Scrap’s name was useful as well as apt – to see them, either. He did not want to put the boy in any danger.

Scrap was looking at him with wide, excited eyes. This was something.

‘I’ll meet yer back ere arter you done yer investigatin’.’

Dickens turned back to the counter where Elizabeth was examining the inks and pen-wipers. He had an idea. ‘Mrs Jones, I have an errand to do with Scrap. I wonder if you would wait for me here then I can escort you home. Would that be all right, Miss Eleanor?’

Elizabeth understood his stratagem for her to get to know the children better. Eleanor seemed pleased to have such an elegant customer.

At a nod from Dickens, Scrap went out. Dickens followed and saw him running along Crown Street from where he would, no doubt, criss-cross the maze of alleys which would lead him to Whetstone Place and across High Holborn to Gray’s Inn. Dickens went at a more sedate pace through to Endell Street and Drury Lane down Parker Street then through Whetstone Place where he kept his eyes open. Whetstone Place – he could not help wondering whether somewhere in a court or passage, the murderer was sharpening his knife.

He saw Scrap lounging unconcernedly at Gray’s Inn gate. As he approached, the boy held out his hand. Dickens felt in his pocket for a coin to give to the beggar boy who winked at him. Dickens dropped several coins which rolled conveniently into the gateway. The boy was on his hands and knees scrabbling after the scattered money. Dickens followed and at the inner entrance of the gate which opened into the courtyard of the inns, they stood together apparently fumbling with the money. Scrap who was enjoying the pantomime – as was Dickens – pointed to a doorway of one of the gloomy eighteenth-century buildings, and whispered, ‘That one – ’e went in there, I’m sure.’ Then he was gone.

Dickens walked quickly as if he were bent on business at the offices. He knew Gray’s Inn well; when he was fifteen, his mother had taken him to see Mr Blackmore, a partner in the law firm of Ellis and Blackmore, and he had been engaged as a clerk at ten shillings and sixpence a week. Oddly enough, it was at the time he and his family had lived at number
17
, the Polygon, and he remembered that it had taken him half an hour to walk to Gray’s Inn on six days a week. And, the building which Scrap had pointed out was the building where he had dwelt among the red seals and dusty parchment. Not that it was the labour of the blacking factory, but it was dull work, carrying papers to and from other dusty offices, copying documents with ill-tempered quills, registering wills and keeping account books. He laughed as he remembered that on the very first day he had arrived with a black eye – a big rough fellow had knocked his hat off and he had retaliated with a blow only to receive a punch in the eye.

He would look at the names of the companies on the brass plates and report back to Sam. He walked briskly and came to the steps leading up to the offices just as a man came hurrying out. The man came down the steps, brushing past Dickens, knocking into him briefly. Their eyes met for a few fleeting seconds then the man rushed on. It was only a second or two, but Dickens had held the eyes, and had seen the grey crooked face before it turned away. His quick eye had caught the impression of a black coat buttoned up to the chin, and a hand raised as if to cover the face. Dickens dared not stay to see where he went. He hurried up the steps, through the door and into the familiar hallway. He must wait. He must seem as if he had business there. His heart pounded as he stood looking through the hallway. He was not sure – but in those moments of brief contact, he thought that there had been recognition in those black, impatient eyes, eyes with no depth in them to be looked into – just as he had imagined Mr Murdstone’s eyes, and he had been aware of that sense of something unwholesome he had felt when he had seen the face in the crowd in Whetstone Place. He stood, thinking. It could be imagination, but it was possible that the man recognised him. The Reverend Goodchild had seen him at the end of January, as a pedlar then, in his churchyard. He must have watched the Home – perhaps he had seen Dickens there.

Dickens waited – he could not go out. Crookface might be waiting, watching. The hall was empty so he sat down, trying to look as though he were waiting for an appointment. He looked at his watch – if anyone asked, he could say he was early for an appointment at Ellis and Blackmore. No one came. He would give it fifteen or twenty minutes. Suppose Crookface came back? Dickens stood up, uncertainly. If Crookface worked here then he might come back. He looked out through the door then darted back, afraid he might be seen. He could not stay here, exposed. He remembered that there was an unused cloakroom down the hallway – perhaps it would be open.

He tiptoed down the hall where the cloakroom was situated under the stairs. He slipped into the darkness; the mouldy air had the same damp smell he recalled from years ago – the room, a tomb-like apartment, had been the repository of soda, soap, sand, firewood and other such articles supervised by Mrs Sweeney, the red-faced laundress, a woman whom he had thought, in figure, colour, texture and smell, bore a striking resemblance to an old family umbrella – she was probably folded up somewhere even now. Sometimes the clerks were sent to store boxes there. They were still here. He could see their square, sharp outlines in the gloom. He thought of all those lives imprisoned in those black boxes, people dead before their cases were ever resolved, wills never proved, properties unclaimed, bank notes mouldering in vaults, ragged deeds and parchments, sealing wax dried to the colour of crusted blood, tattered red ribbon, food only for the mice, all caught up in the strangling ropes of the law.

He had a desire to laugh, realising the ridiculousness of his situation – Charles Dickens confined in a dusty cupboard, hiding from a man with a crooked face, but, still, if the man recognised him and made the connection with Patience Brooke then he might, in the superintendent’s words, be spooked. Dickens hoped that in his rashness he had not damaged their investigation. He tried to see the time, holding his pocket watch close to his eyes. He did not know how long he had waited or how long he ought to wait. He could not stay here all night, he thought ruefully. He would have to risk it. He could go out a different way, not through the main gate but one of the side alleys which led into Portpool Lane. He opened the door, listened, scuttled out to the rear entrance of the building and squeezed out into a little court out of which a passage led to Portpool Lane. He hoped to God he would not meet Crookface.

He knew his way: from Portpool Lane into Leather Lane then High Holborn to the back of Lincoln’s Inn, avoiding Whetstone Place, hurrying into Portugal Street, through the alleys into Wild Street and then back to Crown Street. He walked fast as if pursued. He stopped to cross Wild Street, the crowd swirling round him and the traffic rushing by. He imagined that twisted face peering out from some corner watching him. The idea was so strong that he could almost sense him, could almost feel his breath at his back. The traffic parted; he crossed and was away into Crown Street, entering the shop to the sound of the jangling bell.

Elizabeth was sitting on a chair with Tom on her knee, Poll at her feet; Scrap was at his ease on the floor tickling the dog’s ears and, sight of sights, Eleanor Brim was sitting on the counter, her legs dangling. Elizabeth Jones had done her work well – she was at her ease, too. He thought of Patience Brooke with James Bagster’s little maid on her knee, Patience who was dead and whose child, if there were one, might still be waiting for her. He very much wanted to know what Elizabeth had found out about these seemingly parentless children. Scrap looked at him enquiringly; Dickens gave him a nod as if to say that all was well. Elizabeth stood and sat Tom on the counter. She picked up her parcels.

‘Mr Dickens and I must go now, but I should very much like to come to see you again,’ she said. ‘My husband writes much – I shall be in need of paper and pens for him soon enough.’

‘You will be welcome,’ said Eleanor. ‘Thank you for bringing your friend, Mr Dickens.’

Dickens and Elizabeth went out. They walked a little along Crown Street in silence until Dickens asked, ‘Did you find out anything?’

She smiled, ‘I did. It all came quite naturally – the mother is dead. Eleanor remembers her but Tom does not. He is only five, and she died when he was about two. Eleanor Brim is ten and between her and Tom there was another child, a sister who died, and the mother died soon after the birth of a baby brother who died, too.’

‘No wonder she is so grave and sensible. The father is living?’

‘Yes, but he is ill. Somewhere at the back of that shop lies a sick man. What I think is that he has periods of sickness during which time Eleanor Brim takes charge. She pretends that he is out on business and that she is serving for an hour or two. There are suppliers to whom he owes money –’

‘Ah, the man in the white waistcoat – someone was in the other day when I got there – an angry man – I wondered about that.’

‘I think that is where Scrap comes in – he sees himself as their protector. I thought I would return tomorrow with something for the sick man – some fruit, perhaps. I’ll buy some paper for Sam, too. I hope to find out more, perhaps to help in some way. Eleanor Brim is a brave little girl but she has too much responsibility. If I take over the watching of this little family, you can concentrate on the case of Patience Brooke. I take it that was your business with Scrap.’

‘It was, and I am going to see your husband now to –’ He broke off. What if the crooked man was really there? What if that breath on his neck was the breath of the real man? He had to go back.

Elizabeth gazed at him in wonder, seeing the panic in his face. ‘What is it, what have you thought?’

‘I must go back to the shop – I’m afraid – go to Bow Street, bring Sam – tell him Crooked Face saw me. He’ll understand. Quick as you can, please.’

Elizabeth hurried off – she did not need to ask more. His face had told her. Dickens felt foolish for a moment – the man had become his bugbear – he was seeing him at every turn. Never mind, it might be foolish but it might not. He hastened on. Near the corner of Crown Street, he heard the dog barking. It was Poll – the sound was high, angry, unceasing. Rounding the corner, he saw that someone, a man dressed in shabby corduroy trousers, a battered waistcoat and rough shirt, had hold of Scrap, dragging him into an alley a few yards along from the shop. Scrap was shrieking, cursing and struggling. Eleanor was trying to follow and a tall, thin man was holding her back. People in the street had stopped, wondering what was happening, but not doing anything.

Dickens ran, shouting, ‘Stop him!’ But the crowd did not know if he meant the man or the boy. He shouted again. ‘The boy!’

A man in a top hat detached himself from the crowd. He dashed into the alley. As Dickens approached the man emerged with Scrap shaking himself as if he were just rescued from a pond.

‘Could a saved meself. Taken by surprise, that’s all. Kicked him where it ’urt, though.’ He grinned at Dickens.

The man in the top hat looked at Dickens. ‘I know you, sir. I am glad to meet you. Your books give me great pleasure. The Artful Dodger, perhaps.’ He glanced at Scrap.

Dickens smiled, ‘Not quite. You have given
me
great pleasure in saving my young friend here.’

‘The other got away, I’m sorry.’

‘Could you describe him?’

‘Tall, thin, black eyes, dressed like a labourer, ragged corduroy trousers, greasy waistcoat, dirty shirt and jacket with holes, wretched boots, scarf over his face.’

‘You did not see his face clearly?’ Dickens asked. Was it really him? Could it just have been a man who wanted a boy, or just a thief, thinking Scrap might have a bit of money?