The Murder of Patience Brooke (25 page)

It was not Jenny Ding. The body was of a younger girl, just a child about ten years old. She was wearing a pitiful shred of a shift and nothing more, but the blood which had poured from the slashed throat was dried out, congealed in dreadful lumps. She had been dead for some time. In the yellow rays of the lamp they could see the bruised young-old face which bore upon it traces of rouge crudely rubbed into the thin cheeks. The shift was rucked up to her hips, and, sickened, they saw the bruising on her inner thighs. The constable pulled down the shift, and looked up at the superintendent, his eyes reflecting the pity and revulsion they all felt. No one had missed her, no one had reported her, no one had come to find her. She had been left in this grave-like place, forgotten.

The superintendent told the grey-faced Stemp to get back to Bow Street and make arrangements for the removal of the body to the morgue. The second constable, Dacres, was to stay with the body. The police rattle summoned another set of constables from their beat on Fetter Lane. They were to search the area and ask if anyone knew of her. They might find the boy, they might not. Stemp’s description gave one useful detail. In the light of his lamp, he had a fleeting impression that the boy’s face was pockmarked.

Dickens and Jones went into the rank, unweeded garden of the tumbledown house where no one lived. They poked about in the grass, turning over rusted iron pans, a few spoons twisted out of shape, shards of pottery, a bent candlestick, a few ancient boots, and most poignant of all, a little pot, broken at the rim, bearing the legend:
a present for a good girl
. Dickens could have wept.

Clouds of mephitic vapour rose from the swampy ground as they disturbed the rancid grass and soil. There was a stench of excrement, and a rat scuttled over their feet, its red eyes winking suddenly, maliciously in the lamplight. There might have been something tossed away by the murderer, but it was too dark and misty and they had not time. Sam could send officers to search in daylight. They went through the ramshackle house with its empty rooms and rotten staircase leading into the fog-bound sky. A rickety table and a few chairs were all that was left, and a blackened kettle on the broken-down range. Their feet crunched on glass and pottery, and then they were out through the drunken door hanging off its hinges.

‘Curse this fog,’ muttered Sam.

‘Was it he, do you think?’ asked Dickens.

‘I do. When you think of what Louisa told us, and she did not tell us all, it’s more than likely – the rouge tells us what kind of life that child probably led. The bruises tell us how someone had used her, and the slashed throat is his trademark, so to speak.’

‘I wonder when – probably before Blackledge died, even before Patience.’

‘Yes, could be – gave him a taste for it. We’ll go to the Albany, see if he’s there.’

‘And we should go to Topham’s. What if he has tried to get Laetitia Topham away? If he has, she is in danger. I do not think he would kill her but he would ruin her. If she went away with him, her father would have to consent to the marriage.’

‘You’re right, Charles. The Albany first, though.’

They were in Fetter Lane and found a cab to take them to Piccadilly and the Albany. The journey was painfully slow in the deepening fog. The constable on duty told them that he had not seen anyone answering to Crewe’s description go in or come out. But he might have missed him, Sam thought. They would try. Sam sent the constable to ask, giving the usual story that he was pursuing enquiries about a robbery nearby. ‘Best not to unsettle him. If he is there we can go up ourselves,’ Sam decided.

They waited. The constable came back to report that he had been directed to Crewe’s apartment where the manservant had told him that his master was out – he did not know when he would be back nor where he had gone. The master did not usually tell him where he went.

‘Topham’s,’ Sam said. ‘Hanover Square, your friend Wilde said.’

They walked, peering into the fog, keeping on the pavement and following the lines of gas lamps, the lights a greenish haze scarcely penetrating the gloom. It was not far, just up Bond Street, and then St George’s Street would lead them into the south side of the square. It was dead quiet here, the central garden enclosed by its neat iron railings, dark and silent under the thick curtain of fog. Somewhere in there was a huge bronze statue of William Pitt, upright in the act of speaking. Would that he could tell them whether Edmund Crewe had passed through the noble portico of one of the fine white houses that lined the square. Prince Talleyrand had lived here, and Sir James Clark, physician to the Queen, was a resident. The Zoological Society had established its offices here in
1846
. It was a world away from the verminous nests of Seven Dials, yet if one stepped from the silent square a few yards beyond, there would be found the same mean lanes and ruined tenements – plenty of specimens for the learned zoologists to debate on if they could bear the filth and degradation that swamped these human lives.

They approached the north-west side of the square out of which Tenterden Street ran where the Royal College of Music was. Dickens remembered walking through the square to the college every Sunday morning to collect his sister, Fanny. Then they walked to the Marshalsea Prison to visit their parents – he was twelve, and Fanny, thirteen. Now Fanny was dead, and he went to receptions in the grand houses now where the gracious hosts and diamonded hostesses knew nothing of the boy who had sold his father’s books to pay the rent.

They stood outside the brightly lit house. ‘Charles, you must ask to see Mr Topham. No need to mention the police – yet. I am sure Mr Topham will be delighted to receive Mr Dickens, even without an appointment. I am sure his library is crammed with your books.’

A liveried, powdered footman answered the door. Dickens was quick to inform him that Mr Charles Dickens would like to see Mr Topham on a confidential matter. Even the footman, who looked like an eighteenth-century aristocrat finding himself unaccountably in the position of door-opener, was sufficiently impressed to let them in, though he could not resist a disapproving look at the superintendent whose name had not been mentioned. Still, he resisted the temptation to ask, showed them into the library, assured them he would fetch his master whilst with an anxious frown explaining that it was near dinner time.

The library was exactly what a gentleman’s library ought to be, thought Dickens, approving the sight of his own books on the table and the shelves as the superintendent had foretold. He could not resist looking at those on the table. There was a copy of
Dombey and Son
with a bookmark in it. ‘Someone’s actually reading it,’ he whispered.

Mr Topham came in. He was tall and spare with a scholarly air about him. He looked distinguished with his grey hair and ascetic face and sober black suit. His eyes were grey, too, watchful and intelligent. No wonder they had seen through Edmund Crewe. Dickens had expected a man exuding prosperity, fat with riches and good eating, the kind of banker he would put in a novel, stale rather than fresh, corpulent rather than lean. Topham was the kind of man he would put in an historical novel, were he to write one. He had something of the Elizabethan about him, he thought, remembering a portrait he had seen of Sir Francis Walsingham.

Mr Topham was courteous though the watchful eyes expressed curiosity. ‘I am glad to meet you, Mr Dickens. As you see, I have been reading your
Dombey and Son
– an interesting portrait of Mr Dombey, the businessman. One feels a certain sympathy for his – er – misguidedness, a disappointed man whose bitterness is, perhaps, understandable if not at all condoned.’ He smiled. ‘Forgive me, I do not suppose you came here for a critique of your novel.’

Dickens was astonished at his perspicacity. Critics had objected to what they called the violent change in Mr Dombey from harshness to penitence, and here was Mr Topham offering the very analysis which Dickens himself would have given. He remembered why they were there.

‘Thank you for your kindness, Mr Topham. May I present Superintendent Jones of Bow Street? We would like to ask some questions about a confidential matter.’

‘Then, please, sit down.’ They sat on the comfortable leather chesterfield and Mr Topham took a matching chair. ‘Now, how may I help you?’

‘First, Mr Topham, may I ask, is your daughter here?’ asked Sam.

‘She is. At present, she is upstairs. Later, we are to go to a ball in Cavendish Square. Why do you wish to know?’

‘Our investigation concerns Edmund Crewe.’

Topham’s eyes revealed his feelings about Crewe, and there was an unmistakeable curl of disdain at his lips.

‘Tell me.’ He was brief, a man who would not waste words.

‘Miss Coutts.’ Mr Topham acknowledged the name with the faintest nod. ‘Miss Coutts and I have established a home for fallen girls. A young woman called Patience Brooke was employed there as a kind of assistant matron. Last Friday, she was found dead at the Home. Her throat had been cut. The superintendent and I have good reason to believe that Patience Brooke was Patience Crewe, that she was Edmund Crewe’s wife.’

Mr Topham nodded again but he did not speak; he merely waited for Dickens to continue, but he understood the import of the words, especially for his daughter. Sam continued the story.

‘I have reason to suspect Mr Crewe of that murder and, possibly, others but I cannot give you detail now. I believe he is a dangerous man.’

‘Ah,’ said Topham. ‘I see.’ His tone was calm but they could see the anger flare in his eyes, and then the fear and horror.

Dickens explained what Oliver Wilde had told him about Crewe and the rumours about his intentions towards Laetitia Topham. Superintendent Jones told him what Rogers had discovered at the Crewe town house, especially the gossip that Edmund Crewe might attempt an elopement with Miss Topham.

‘You think my daughter may be in danger?’ He knew the answer, of course, but he wanted the superintendent to spell it out.

‘I do,’ said Sam firmly, ‘which is why we are here – to warn you.’

‘You have my profound gratitude, Mr Dickens and Superintendent. I will tell you something of my daughter. You shall tell her something of what you know, but only that Crewe had a wife when he began paying attentions to her. She is young and intelligent – I have seen to her education – but she is also very sympathetic. A man like Crewe would know how to engage her interest and sympathy. In society, he is charming, he appears sensitive and well read. He will have read your books, no doubt, Mr Dickens, if only to impress my daughter. I am sorry, I did not mean that your books are not worth reading. I mean that he would have taken no lesson from them. The plight of Nancy or Oliver Twist or Little Nell would hold no interest for a man like him. Have you seen him?’

‘Yes,’ said Dickens.

‘Then you will know what a handsome young man he is, and how easy it might be for him to masquerade as an innocent. Of course, I heard rumours, of course, I saw his eyes, and the way his temper flashed sometimes when he thought himself unobserved and, of course, I wanted to keep my daughter from him without wounding her feelings. It is the burden of every father to negotiate between his daughter and the man she loves, especially if he knows that man to be unworthy. But now, I think she must know that he had a wife, and you must tell her, Mr Dickens. She will know that you are without prejudice. I will bring her to you.’ He went out to fetch his daughter.

Dickens said to Sam, ‘I’ll tell her about the wife, not about the murders, that is what he wants.’

‘Yes, we do not have proof, yet, and when it all comes out she will know then, poor girl.’

Mr Topham came back with his daughter. Dickens exchanged a swift glance with Sam. Miss Laetitia Topham was very like Patience. There was a graveness about her, a quiet, and intelligence in her clear grey eyes. Her hair was brown and shining, looped into ringlets about her temples. She was not the fashionable young lady they had expected. She had not yet dressed for her ball and was wearing a plain grey velvet dress with a white lace collar.

‘Mr Dickens I am so glad to meet you. I have read your books. I cannot tell you which is my favourite though the story of Little Nell went straight to my heart. As you see, my father is reading
Dombey and Son
– I am waiting for him to hurry up.’ She smiled as she looked at her father and Dickens saw the love that passed between them. How difficult it must have been for him to watch as his daughter fell in love with Crewe. She continued, ‘My father says you have something to tell me.’

She sat down, looking at Dickens with her candid eyes. He could hardly bear to tell her. Mr Topham sat, too, and motioned to Dickens and the superintendent to resume their seats.

‘Miss Topham, we came here because we have found out something about Mr Crewe.’ She was like her father, still and controlled. ‘I met a young acquaintance of yours, Mr Oliver Wilde, who told me that Mr Crewe seemed to have become fond of you, and that there might be a question of marriage.’ She made no sign at all but continued to look at him steadfastly. ‘I had found out that Mr Crewe was married. His wife died last Friday.’

She understood that Crewe had pursued her before the death of his wife and all that it implied. To their surprise, she turned to her father. ‘Papa, I would not have married him. I knew he did not love me. I could tell that it was pretence – he tried to disguise it, but I saw how, sometimes, he was impatient as if the talk between us was something he felt he had to do. He tried to disguise the fact that he was in a hurry. People talked, I know. They thought I was a silly young girl who was flattered by a handsome man, and they thought that he would do well to marry me.’ She paused.

Mr Topham asked, ‘Why did you not discourage him? Why let me think?’

‘Papa, I did not know what you thought. You did not tell me. As to discouraging him, I thought I had by my being only pleasant. Mr Dickens, Mr –’ She stopped, searching for Sam’s name.

‘Mr Jones,’ he said.

‘You are involved in this?’