The Murder of Patience Brooke (21 page)

‘Goodbye, Mrs Blackledge. We are very sorry to have brought such news.’

‘Goodbye.’ She turned to Dickens. ‘Thank you for the pink ribbon. It was a kind thought.’ She looked at him. ‘Have I seen you before? Your face is familiar.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Dickens who had seen the books on the table.
Oliver Twist
and
Nicholas Nickleby
, the edition in which there was an engraving from his portrait by Daniel Maclise, painted in
1840
.

They went out of Brick Holes watched by the inquisitive Mary, turned out of Angel Lane and made their way to Lime Grove and Urania Cottage.

‘Well, we can be sure Blackledge did not kill Patience. At least that poor woman will not have to learn that her husband was a murderer,’ Dickens said, thinking about the revelation that Blackledge had been left-handed.

‘And Crewe can’t pin the murder of Patience on to Blackledge – that’s something he might have tried.’

As they walked to the Home, Superintendent Jones said he would go to see James Bagster in the garden. He wanted a word about security, and he would seek out Constable Jenkins to make sure he was keeping his eye on the house.

Dickens said, ‘You think he might come here?’

‘He might – he has been here before, he thinks he has got away with murder, more than once. He knows what kind of house this is. What a temptation for him, all these girls whom you are trying to reclaim and he could ruin.’

‘I have thought about him, too; I think he is arrogant, I think he believes his position in society will protect him from suspicion. I think he could be reckless, too.’

‘Let us hope that recklessness might be his undoing – you must tell Mrs Morson to be vigilant, too. The girls are always accompanied are they not?’

‘Yes. She can tell James Bagster’s sister to be watchful, to take note of any strangers on the grounds, that since Patience disappeared more care must be taken. I don’t want the girls to be unduly alarmed nor reckless themselves. I worry that the excitement of knowing that there is danger might have the opposite effect from that which we want – there are those that might put themselves in danger by looking out for him, if they know that someone dangerous might come.’

‘You mean someone like Isabella Gordon?’

‘Precisely. She is bored here and inclined to make trouble, perhaps by simply frightening the more timid girls, pretending to have seen him.’ Dickens thought of what Mrs Morson had told him about her behaviour with Sesina which might have been just troublemaking. ‘She is just the sort to go looking for excitement.’

‘Pray then that he confines his depravity to London, and that he realises that coming here would be too risky.’

‘I hope the very risk is not the temptation,’ said Dickens. ‘We have tried to protect the Home and its reputation and work. It would be dreadful if he were to do such damage that it would be impossible to go on.’

Dickens was afraid. He felt that the spectre of the crooked man who had haunted him had been replaced by something even more terrifying because he was, as yet, faceless.

Jenny Ding was there to let him in. Dickens, always perceptive, noticed that she was less lively than usual, rather pale; she looked as though she might have been weeping. He hoped it was something temporary, perhaps illness, perhaps her monthly trouble. He had hopes for her progress and success. She took his coat and hat as usual, and he tried to cheer her by commenting on her dress.

‘Blue suits you, Jenny. It matches your eyes. Mrs Morson gives me excellent reports of you in your lessons.’

‘Thank you, Mr Dickens. I’m tryin’ ’ard.’ She smiled at him and looked better for it. She was young, he thought, and easily upset and, probably, just as easily cheered up.

Mrs Morson was in the kitchen. There was the making of soup for the poor and the baking of bread and cakes for the house. The cheerful domesticity reassured him. Even Isabella was busy. He smiled to see her concentrating on taking a batch of scones from the oven. Davey was sitting at the kitchen table. Isabella took one of the scones to him.

‘Try one o’ mine, Davey boy. I’m the best cook, ain’t I? Careful, though, it’ll be ’ot.’ She put the hot scone on his plate and ruffled his hair. She wasn’t all bad, Dickens thought, there was a rough affection for the boy, a kindness which endeared her to him. She went back to the wire tray and took a piece of another which she gave to Sesina, putting it on the girl’s full red lips, making the sound of a kiss as she did so. It was flirtatious but, then again, it might just be the same sort of affection she had just showed to Davey. She was hard to read, so mercurial was she.

She saw him and came over with a piece of the scone. ‘Want a bit, Mr D?’ she asked. ‘Piece of me scone?’ she added cheekily, about to put it in his mouth. He took it in his fingers, but he was well aware of her teasing eyes. How easily she could put herself in danger.

‘It’s very good,’ he told her.

‘Best cook me. I like a man with a good appetite.’

By the cooking range Sesina laughed, and some of the others did. Isabella was popular with some – she was full of vitality and wit. Dickens couldn’t help liking her but there was always a question mark over her.

Isabella went back to the range where she and Sesina giggled together. What secrets did they have, and what was the real nature of their intimacy? It was a concern, and he could see the reflection of his own thoughts in Mrs Morson’s troubled eyes as she came to stand by him. They went into Mrs Morson’s sitting room.

‘What news?’ she asked.

‘I wrote to you that we had found the pedlar and discovered his name was Blackledge. The superintendent had him watched and we found out where he lived, and followed him there, but we were too late – he was murdered. His throat was cut just like Patience.’

She looked horrified. ‘What does it all mean?’

‘We believe he was working for someone he had met through the law firm. He had a wife who lived here at Shepherd’s Bush, and she confirmed that he had been looking for someone on behalf of one of the company’s clients.’

‘Looking for Patience? Who?’

‘We discovered that Patience was married – we think to someone wealthy and connected to the Crewe family – there is a Sir Hungerford Crewe, third baronet. We have not proved it all yet but we think we will.’

‘This is very difficult to take in – you are telling me that she ran away from this husband who tried to find her, using the pedlar – this Blackledge.’ She was silent, working out the implications. He waited.

‘Blackledge has been murdered so it follows then that Patience’s husband must have killed her and he is still free. Do you think –?’

He knew what she was thinking. ‘We do not know. The superintendent is with James Bagster now asking him to be vigilant, and he is going to see Constable Jenkins on the same errand. I just want you to be extra careful – tell James’s sister to watch them well when they go out. You can just tell her that you do not want anyone else to go missing, tempted by Patience’s running away. That’s the best I can do – we do not want the girls made restless and frightened by knowing a murderer is on the loose, especially when what we believe is based on conjecture not hard fact. We do not want one of them running away because she is frightened nor do we want someone like Isabella to be telling lurid stories or even taking it upon herself to go looking for trouble.’

‘James could sleep in the house, and Davey. He has been staying with James in his rooms over the stable since Patience was killed. I could move them both back here. The girls need not know – he could come in after they have gone to bed and leave before they rise.’

‘A good idea. Do it – make sure he is armed with a stout stick.’

‘I cannot keep them in – I wish I could but there is no reason to do so. They only go out in fours so it should not be too difficult for me or Ellen Bagster to keep a close eye on them when we do go out. Oh, Charles, how I wish this was over – poor Patience, what trouble she brought with her.’

‘I know, but we can only be careful. Write immediately or send Davey if there is anything.’

‘I will.’

They stood and she came to the front door with him. He mentioned Jenny Ding. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I have been a bit concerned about her. She is usually so cheerful but she is growing up and it is not easy for any of them – we think that we can offer them a glowing future, but they are uncertain of what they want, afraid of leaving here, and marked by their pasts.’

‘I know,’ he said. She understood them, probably more than he. She lived with them and observed them every day, and she was a woman. She had had to grow up, too. She smiled at him. ‘I will try to keep them safe.’

He could depend on her, he felt that he could lean on her rather than she on him, and he thought how he might have loved her – in another life.

‘So will I, and the superintendent. We will catch him.’ He clasped her hand before he went round the side of the house to meet the superintendent.

They were back at Bow Street by five o’clock. Constable Rogers was ready to report what he had found out about the Crewe family. His story about the burglaries had got him into the kitchens where he was able, over a cup of tea, to find out who lived at the house and who were the regular visitors. Sir Hungerford Crewe lived sometimes in London, but he spent a good deal of time at his northern estates in Cheshire and Staffordshire. His sister lived with him and they had plenty of guests, distinguished members of the upper classes, bankers and politicians. He was a member of the Royal Society and the Society of Antiquarians so a good many learned men came to dinner, according to the housekeeper.

‘Any other relatives?’ asked Dickens eagerly.

Rogers grinned. ‘I didn’t ask too much – didn’t want to seem too nosy, but I kept me eye on the ’ouse and when one of the maids came out, I spoke to ’er, pretendin’ I was on duty an’ I asked ’er if she was all right and ’oped she wasn’t frightened by wot I’d told ’em. I walked with ’er a bit an’ asked some more about the family.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘I asked ’er were there any black sheep – we was getting quite friendly by then, me and Mollie Spoon.’ He grinned again at their waiting faces.

‘And there is a black sheep – and his name is?’ asked Sam

‘Edmund Crewe.’

‘Known as Teddy.’ Dickens felt triumphant.

‘’Xactly!’

‘Had she met him?’ asked Sam.

‘She saw ’im. ’Andsome, she said, tall with yeller ’air – looked a nice gent, she thought though the ’ousekeeper, a stern sort o’ body, told ’er ’andsome is as ’andsome does. I changed the subject then, askin’ ’er ’ow she liked ’er place and that so she wasn’t suspicious. She liked it fine, she said. Sir ’Ungerford was a good master and they was all pretty comfortable there. And on that ’appy note, I left ’er.’

‘You did not find out where he lived, by any chance?’

‘Sorry, sir, should ’ave said. She said ’e lived in some smart apartments somewhere. Didn’t know where ’xactly, but shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’

‘Well done, Rogers, once again. Your cunning does you credit,’ Sam said laughing. ‘You’ll be a detective yet.’

‘Thank you, sir. Do you want me to find ’im?’

‘That’s the question. Timing is all. At some point we want to break the news of his wife’s death, see how he reacts, but I would like to know more about him. Mr Dickens here will be our spy. Charles, it is time for you to go into society but where to start?’

‘He’ll belong to a club – sure to, and I must get myself into it. I know which ones it won’t be – I belong to the Garrick and the Athenaeum. It will not be a political club – he is more the gambling and drinking sort, and there is Boodles which has been labelled a den of vice. And there are others which might suit the reckless type. I shall find out. And so doing, I should be able to find out where he goes, who he sees, what is his reputation. Trust me for that. I shall make enquiries this very evening.’

‘The electoral register should give us Crewe’s address. Rogers, you can research that tomorrow. Have you heard anything from Feak regarding Lantern Yard?’

‘Nothing, sir. No one’s been there. He spoke to the neighbours, the family upstairs. They knew about Blackledge being murdered. ’E told ’em the police were watching the place, and that it was likely ’e was murdered by someone ’e knew, and the police was investigatin’, but they were to tell ’im if they saw anyone. They told ’im who the landlord was an ’e went there and told ’im ’e couldn’t let it until we’d finished with the place. He wasn’t pleased, but Feak insisted. Told ’im to keep away until enquiries were finished.’

‘Good. Now I am going home to see my wife and my house guests. We should be able to let them go home soon. I can reassure Scrap and Mr Brim that Blackledge will trouble them no more, and when my Elizabeth thinks Mr Brim is well enough he can open his shop again. Charles, you will no doubt have some more stationery to buy, and perhaps you can persuade some of your writer friends to do business there – it will make up for his days of lost trade.’

‘I will indeed. I shall go home, too, see my wife and children. On the way, I shall call upon my friend Mr Lemon, editor of
Punch
, who will be able to tell me something about the kind of club which will attract a man like Edmund Crewe.’

Dickens walked to the office of Bradbury and Evans in Lombard Street, his own publishers and those of
Punch
, a magazine in which he took enormous delight, especially when it advertised his works. Two recent cartoons satirising the government had included references to the Artful Dodger and
The Haunted Man
, his last Christmas story; both had given him great satisfaction. He was not himself a frequenter of gaming clubs. He preferred the company of his friends, men like Forster with whom he established the Trio Club with only themselves and Thomas Beard. He meditated on the idea of the gentleman's club, thinking wryly to himself that gentlemen were precisely very often what the members were not, especially young men like Edmund Crewe. However, he enjoyed the dining club, The Parthenon where Mark Lemon offered to dine with him, after which they would visit Boodles in search of Crewe.