The Murder of Patience Brooke (27 page)

‘Or, he might go looking for Louisa Mapp. You do not think he will go back to the Home – should I have said that we had a witness? I just wanted him to know. What if I made a terrible mistake?’

‘It would be too hazardous a journey in this. Anyway, he will not get in tonight – Bagster will see to that, and Mrs Morson. Rogers will come back to Bow Street, but I can send him again to the Home. He could stay there tonight. What about you, Charles – ought you to go home?’

‘I’ll come back with you to Bow Street and wait for Rogers, and for Feak’s news from Mary Lyons then I will go home.’

Sam went to speak to his constable then wearily they walked to Piccadilly to find a cab. At Bow Street, Sam went to give his orders to the men who were to keep watch at Cavendish Square and to the constable who was to relieve Feak. They sat by the dwindling fire in Sam’s office waiting for Feak to return. But when the door opened it was the rubicund face of Rogers that peered round it. He had come back from the Home.

‘Found ’em?’ he asked. ‘Mrs Morson’s right upset and James Bagster.’

‘No, Rogers, we have not. Anything to tell us?’

‘Yes, I questioned the girls, one by one, and you was right, sir,’ he said to Dickens. ‘One of ’em, Lizzie Dagg, said a man spoke to her in the village – said ’e asked directions – nothing else, but ’e give ’er the eye, she said, an’ told ’er ’e’d see ’er again. Jenny Ding was with ’er. ’E said she was a pretty girl an ’e’d buy ’er a present some day. They was thrilled, of course, but didn’t tell anyone. It was a secret between them, Lizzie said. She thought ’e might come, so did Jenny.’

‘Did she describe him?’ Sam asked. Could this be the break, the witness?

‘Said ’e was a toff, tall, blonde ’air, ’andsome, charming.’

It wasn’t much, but they could bring Lizzie in tomorrow and question her more closely. It was a start. Feak came back to report that nothing had happened at Lantern Yard. He went off to Bell Lane to see what he could glean from Mary Lyons. The constables came back from their searches near the Foundling Hospital. They’d seen plenty of ragged girls, but none, as far as they could tell, matched the description of Louisa and Jenny. It was a waste of time, Sam thought. The constables could have passed them in the fog. And they might never have been north of Holborn. And if they were dead, they could be anywhere. The constables could resume their search in daylight. In the meantime they would wait for Feak.

‘Did you tell them to take care at the Home?’ Dickens was still worried that he had made a mistake in telling Crewe they might have a witness. He could not shake off the dread that Crewe might go to Urania Cottage.

‘Don’t worry, Mr Dickens, the place is locked up, tight as a drum. Mr Bagster’ll stay up all night in the kitchen, and I told Jenkins to stay in the hall by the front door. Crewe won’t get in. Want me to go back, sir? I will if you want or I can stay ’ere all night – wait for news of Louisa Mapp and the little girl. You could go ’ome for a bit, sir.’

‘Yes, stay here, Rogers. I am sure the Home will be safe tonight. I’ll go home after we have heard from Feak. He should be back any minute.’

‘Daft Lizzie Dagg,’ said Dickens. ‘I’m not surprised she was taken in. She’s a lone lorn creature, desperate for love, poor thing. Plain as suet pudding, and simple. She wouldn’t think of consequences. The secret weighed on Jenny, though. She was probably dreading his arrival – they’d believe it, they’d think he’d come for them, and Jenny would know they’d be in trouble. And when he did come, she just went out for her present! It was probably that easy. Oh God, why didn’t she tell someone?’

‘Torn between guilt and a desire to get that present, I suppose. He’s a cunning bastard, knows exactly what would tempt a little girl. Oh, hell, where are they?’

Feak came back from Mrs Cutler’s. Mary Lyons could tell him nothing more – she knew only where Louisa’s mother lived, but nothing of any other places Louisa might have gone.

‘I do not think we can do anything more now. It is too dark and murky to see anything. Rogers, if you will wait tonight and you hear anything from the men I have posted to Cavendish Square you can send a message to me at Norfolk Street. I can come back quickly or if you hear anything about Louisa Mapp or Jenny. The normal police patrols will be out. They will report in if they find anything.’

‘Don’t worry, sir, I’ll send for you if there’s anything.’ Rogers looked at his chief, his dependable face resolute, revealing his determination to help. A good man, thought Dickens.

‘If there’s nothing, I will be in as soon as it’s light tomorrow. You can try to get some sleep, Rogers. Build up the fire. The night inspector will tell you if there’s anything from the constables. I will tell him to fetch you.’

Dickens and Jones went out into the night. Despite the fog, the pavement and carriageway of Bow Street Station were crowded now with the ragged assembly of those being brought in: yelling drunkards, belligerent ruffians protesting their innocence to the world; tawdry women in their shabby finery screaming at the constables trying to restrain them; children whose faces were already hardened by vice; pickpockets in shiny hats, whistling as they went in for the fiftieth time, not caring at all, some even glad that they would have a bed to lie on tonight; and a crowd of shirtless vagabonds enjoying the show, cheering as they saw a constable lose his pot hat which rolled to Jones’s feet. He picked it up and handed it back to the man whose face was red with annoyance. A large woman in a garish yellow satin dress hanging off her great white shoulders called out, ‘Wotcher, Sam, fancy a night in wiv me?’ The crowd roared its approval as the woman sashayed towards Sam, her huge hips swaying.

Sam laughed. ‘No thanks, Bridie, I’m engaged tonight.’ He gave her a sweeping bow. ‘Another time – you’ll be back tomorrow, I’ll bet.’

The vagabonds yelled insults at Bridie. ‘Bridie O’Malley, queen of the alley.’ She didn’t care and made her magnificent way into the station with two constables as her liveried courtiers.

Dickens and Jones pushed their way through the hordes. The catcalls and yells faded into the fog as they crossed Long Acre and made their way up to Crown Street where the stationery shop was in darkness.

There was no point in taking a cab – it was quicker to walk than ride. Even so they made slow progress along Oxford Street, passers-by materialising suddenly in front of them, their faces greenish-yellow in the lamplight, then vanishing as if they had never been. They turned into Princess Street, again into Hanover Square, its garden still mysterious in the dark. They were in Cavendish Square now where lights burned through the fog from the ballroom in one of the great white porticoed houses. Carriages were still arriving, others were stationary along the sides of the square, moored like ships in the waves of fog. There was a small crowd outside the house where the ball was being held, and people were still going in, women wearing diamonds and tiaras, carrying great fans of ostrich feathers, their great hooped skirts swaying as they glided in. Some of the men were in scarlet uniforms, gold glittering suddenly as it caught the light.

Dickens and Jones walked on, wondering if Crewe were there smiling his lazy smile over the white shoulders of some fashionable beauty, his eyes searching the crowded room for Laetitia Topham. They were glad she was safe at home with her father. Sam walked with Dickens to the junction of Devonshire Street and Portland Street from where he could cut through Carburton Street back to Norfolk Street. They stopped at a lamp post.

‘Go home, Sam, you look –’

‘A hundred,’ said Sam, grinning. His face was drawn in the greenish light.

‘Not so much – ninety-five, perhaps. When we looked in that mirror at Crewe’s I did not know who we were. Dear God, we looked like two fugitives.’

‘Tomorrow, then. We will try again to find Louisa and Jenny. Will you go to the Home to fetch Lizzie Dagg, try to talk to her?’

‘I will come to Bow Street first to hear if there is any news then I will go – she will be frightened, but by the time I bring her, I may be able to reassure her that we just want information. I hope the fog has cleared by then.’

‘I hope so, too. Don’t linger now – get ye home, Charles.’

They parted. Sam was dissolved into the dense mist, vanished as though Dickens had dreamed him. He only heard Sam’s tread echoing back through the foggy curtain that surrounded him. He felt inexpressibly weary as he made his way down a silent Devonshire Road, all its familiar solid shapes disguised in the fog which seemed, if possible, denser now, hemming him in, brushing his face with its damp cobweb touch. He crossed the road near a solitary carriage parked at the pavement as if it had been abandoned. The horse stood patiently in its traces, waiting, its breath wreathing into the fog. As he passed it, Dickens glanced in. It was empty. When he looked back it was gone into the nebulous murk as if it had never existed – a ghost horse and carriage. He looked up, half expecting to see it floating silently in the air, taking away its invisible passenger. The air seemed filled with phantoms. He went by a little passageway between two houses.

And then he seemed to hear steps other than his own, a soft creeping footfall following him. He whirled round, the bull’s-eye lantern held high. Nothing to be seen, but the wall of fog, so thick it seemed to press on his very eyelids, winding itself round his mouth like a filthy gag. Was that his breath or the other’s coming raggedly, hoarsely? He went on. Impossible to hurry in the fog.

Where was the turning into Devonshire Place? He did not know. Had he passed it? He stopped again, holding his breath this time, daring the other to breathe. He caught the faintest sound as if his pursuer had halted on tiptoe. He imagined him in the dark, poised to attack. The gas lamp on the corner showed him Devonshire Place. He turned in there, reaching out for railings and walls, desperate to touch something real, something solid. He felt as if he might drown in this green sea of fog. He stopped again, holding on to the cold iron of a railing, straining to listen. The footfalls had ceased. He blundered on blindly towards the terrace, sometimes looking back, expecting the spectre to leap upon him with the knife in his hand. And then, horribly, he heard it as if from a distance. A voice singing a snatch of a song. The words
bereft of my parents, bereft of my home
drifted back to him as if borne on the swirling fog, the word
home
drawn out horribly, the sound mocking and caressing at the same time.

Home. Dickens was there. Home. Had Crewe been there? Mamie, Katey? Were they safe? He crossed into the terrace and pushed open the iron gate in the high wall. The garden was dark, the trees seemed to rustle, shadows moved. Who was there? Lights in the hall and in a window on the ground floor. He fumbled for his key, dropped it, hardly dared bend down to find it, listened, found the key by the boot scraper, and struggled with the lock. He was inside.

He hurried upstairs; there was a strip of light showing at the bottom of the drawing room door. He went up another flight to the girls’ room. He stopped himself from flinging open the door, but turned the handle carefully, not breathing at all. He still had his lantern and in the dim light he could see the two figures in the two beds. He almost laughed with relief. Katey, Lucifer Box, had her fists clenched in sleep. What dream had fired her temper? Mamie’s hair was dark against the white pillow, her face tranquil and innocent. He closed the door softly. Leaning against it, he felt as if his body might collapse, his limbs fold up like a puppet’s.

The door, the walls were real. The ticking of the clock in the hall was real. What was out there was the memory of a nightmare. Had he heard the song or just imagined it? Was it the fog and that terrible sense of entrapment that had produced the footfalls and the voice? He did not know, but it had seemed real enough. He breathed properly at last and went down to the drawing room where there was a fire, and Georgy sitting quietly at her sewing.

She saw his white face. ‘Charles, what is it? What has happened?’

He told her how he had thought he had been followed in the thick fog, how he had imagined being attacked by a thief or pickpocket, perhaps, and how the fog had changed everything so that he could hardly find his way home. He dared not tell her about Crewe and what he had feared for his own daughters, but he did say that he would tell John, the manservant, to be extra vigilant in case there were thieves about. He might not have imagined it, he said. One never knew. Georgina, sensible woman, said that Catherine need not be worried, and that she would tell the other servants to be careful, too. Georgina was Catherine’s youngest sister who had lived with them since
1842
, and had become, for Dickens, the mainstay of his household. He relied on her intelligence and common sense, and, in return, she adored him.

When Georgina had gone, Dickens stood looking out at the fog. Telling her of his fear when he had been out there had almost convinced him that the footsteps had been of a thief but, still, there was the voice. Had he really heard it? He could not be sure now, yet he could hear it now in his head, menacing and somehow mocking as they had heard it in the alley before they had found Blackledge. He could not be sure. The fog had transformed everything, the familiar streets seemed to have vanished when he was out there. He thought about the empty cab, the horse standing ghostlike in the street. Had Crewe left it there so that he could get away with Mamie or Katey? It was too horrible to contemplate. Should he have gone for Sam? He did not think he would have found his way to Norfolk Street. He dared not go out there again.

He stood staring out into the night wondering if Crewe were still out there somewhere in the dark, his ruined face desperate and reckless. What was Sam thinking now? Was he lying wakeful, looking into the dark, thinking about tomorrow and whether they would find Louisa Mapp and poor little Jenny Ding? He closed the curtain and shut out the dreadful night.

Sam Jones had found his way home. He let himself in quietly. In the kitchen he saw Scrap huddled by the door, watching and waiting. The dog was with him, listening, too, its ears cocked.