The Murder of Patience Brooke (30 page)

‘You believed all this?’ said Dickens. ‘You believed his version of Patience Rivers?’

‘What reason had he to lie to us? I accepted what he told me – they were young. I thought a mistake had been made.’

‘And when he wanted to marry another, what then?’ Sam was sharp.

‘I heard that he was pursuing Laetitia Topham, and I told him he could not put in hazard the girl’s reputation. He was married, and until he could divorce Patience his name could not, must not, be linked with another woman’s. I was firm and I told him, too, that his way of life was not fitting, and then he told me that he and Patience had never been married, that she had been his mistress and when she tired of him, she had left him for another man. I thought –’

‘That since she had consented to be his mistress, she was not the woman you thought she was, and that what she was explained why she would leave him. That is what he wanted you to think. I knew Patience and she was not the girl to become a man’s mistress. I think he married her, and that he tired of her. She was too good for him.’ Dickens was angry at the lies and deceit, the tarnishing of Patience’s reputation. ‘He killed her because she left him, she would not be what he wanted her to be – he could not drag her down to his level.’

The angry words hovered in the silence that followed. Sir Hungerford looked appalled at what the words implied.

Sam had a thought. ‘Who is he, Sir Hungerford, this young man whose viciousness you had not known?’

‘He is the illegitimate son of my father’s cousin. He is not a Crewe at all. He was left orphaned at his mother’s death. The father died earlier before there could be any marriage. His father was a man called Frederick Lee. That is the name on his birth certificate.’

‘
Bereft of my parents, bereft of my home
,’ murmured Dickens.

‘What?’ asked Sir Hungerford, his tone sharp.

‘It was the song he sang – a boy heard him when we think he killed his wife.’ Dickens was determined. Patience was his wife.

‘I know it. His nurse sang it – insensitive, really. Servants can be – we had a housekeeper once who –’

Dickens froze. Here it was. The boy from the blacking factory, the little ghost stood with him.

Sam interrupted, ‘You were telling us about Edmund Crewe.’

‘I am sorry. Yes. My father took him in, gave him our name, educated him, and he paid us back with resentment. He hated his subordinate position – he could not bear that he was not a Crewe, that he could not be the heir. He did not want to be an obscure gentleman farmer with a good wife and children. It was not enough. I knew that but I thought, in time, that Patience might – and then came the story of her leaving. He is always very persuasive, charming, remorseful. I believed him.’

Yes, thought Dickens, we have seen him play that part. ‘Where will he have gone? Could he have gone north?’

‘He might. He might want to see his child. I do not know now after what you have told me.’

The footman came in. He looked flustered. ‘I beg your pardon, Sir Hungerford. There is a young man who insists that he must see Mr Dickens.’

To their astonishment, a dishevelled Oliver Wilde came in.

‘Forgive my rudeness, Sir Hungerford, but this is most urgent. Mr Dickens, I know where he is.’

‘Edmund Crewe? This is Superintendent Jones, by the way. He will want to know all.’

‘Yes, Crewe. After you had been to see me, Mr Dickens, I thought about what you had said, and how I had told you that I would be an armed guard if necessary. I was worried about Miss Topham. I was invited to the ball at Cavendish Square. I wondered if he might do something – I don’t know what really. But she was not there. I saw him, but he did not stay long. I wanted to know if he was going to try to see Miss Topham so I thought I would follow. However, he got into a carriage. It was impossible in the fog so I went to the Albany – I asked for him but the servant said he was not there. I did not know whether to believe him – just a young man – he would have said anything Crewe wanted. I waited in a doorway opposite – in the fog. It was freezing, but I did not care. I saw him come back about eight o’clock. I was going to go home, but I thought I would wait – I could not get any colder or more uncomfortable, and he did come out – after about half an hour – I followed his cab in another to Euston Station. I went after him – he was waiting for the nine o’clock express – then, I thought about your advice – you told me to be careful so I went to your house – to see what you thought, and they said you were at the police station. It made me think something was wrong. I went there, said it was urgent that I should see you and Constable Rogers sent me here. He seemed to think it very important – he told me to hurry so I did.’

‘You did well,’ said Dickens. ‘It
is
important that we find him. We cannot tell you why just now.’

‘We are grateful, Mr Wilde, but you must leave it with us now. We need to question Mr Crewe on some matters which are of concern to Sir Hungerford here.’

‘You must find him, Superintendent, and you must do whatever is right. I shall not protect him for the sake of our name.’

Sir Hungerford was pale, but composed. It was clear to Dickens that he was deeply shocked by all that he had heard. Dickens felt sorry for him – he could not quite forgive him for his easy belief that Patience had been promiscuous, but he was not responsible for Edmund Crewe’s actions, and he was not prepared to cover up what had been done to prevent disgrace.

‘The nine o’clock express from Euston goes north – he must be going to Crewe Hall,’ said Sam.

‘Liverpool,’ said Dickens. ‘We took a ship from there to America. Perhaps he intends to leave the country.’

‘Would he take the child?’ asked Sam.

‘I do not know,’ replied Sir Hungerford. ‘He might. He might go to Crewe Hall for money – there are many valuable objects, jewels which he could sell. He has little ready money, I know – to my cost. You must go to Crewe. I will write a note to my aunt, Lady Amelia. If you present it to my steward, he will let you in.’

Oliver Wilde stood silent and amazed by what he was hearing. It was not clear to him why Edmund Crewe should flee, except, perhaps, to escape his creditors. That was all he could think of.

Dickens saw his discomfort. It was time to release him from this awkward situation. ‘Mr Wilde, I think you might leave us now. Miss Topham is safe, and you have done your part for her. Her father knows all so you need say nothing to her or him. We can, I know, rely on your discretion about this matter. I will come out with you while Sir Hungerford writes his letter.’ It was a gentle dismissal.

‘I am glad to have been of service. Sir Hungerford, I am sorry for intruding here, and you may, of course, rely on my discretion. Good morning to you all.’

Sir Hungerford bowed but said nothing.

Dickens turned to Sir Hungerford. ‘Sir, I am sorry to have brought such bad news to you.’ Then he walked out with Oliver Wilde, leaving Sam to wait for the letter.

In the hall, Oliver Wilde looked at Dickens, a worried frown creasing his amiable, open face. ‘Something dreadful has happened. Sir Hungerford looked so weary and crushed.’

‘It has but I cannot tell you any more, only that the superintendent and I must find him – and soon. Goodbye, Mr Wilde. I am sure we will meet again’

‘I hope so. Goodbye, Mr Dickens.’ Oliver Wilde went out, his face still puzzled and anxious. Sam came out, tucking the letter into his pocket.

‘We must go back to Bow Street immediately,’ he said, ‘and then we must go to Euston and follow him north. Let us assume that he will go to Crewe Hall for money and valuable objects. He will leave the train at Crewe and go to the Hall where we may apprehend him. We need to discover when the next ship sails from Liverpool so that we may know how much time we have.’

‘If we cannot find him at Crewe then we go to Liverpool?’

‘We must and we must board whichever ship he is on.’

‘I hope we shall not have to go asailing, Sam. One day I will tell you of our voyage to America aboard the
Britannia
steam ship – suffice to tell now, apart from the seasickness, there was a raging storm, so ferocious that I never expected to see the day again. Truly, Sam, I gave it up as a lost thing. So, let us hope that we do not have to sail to find him. I wish to catch him as you do, but I am fain to lose our lives in the chase.’

‘Then, let us be away to Bow Street and then the train, and pray we find him at Crewe.’

At Bow Street they consulted the shipping announcements which told that the SS
Europa
of the Cunard Line would sail for New York on Tuesday, giving them time to find Edmund Crewe, assuming that he was on his way to Crewe Hall.

According to Oliver Wilde, Crewe had taken the nine o’clock express which would arrive in Crewe at about two o’clock in the afternoon. There was an express at noon which, if they were quick, Dickens and Jones could catch – it would get them to Crewe at about five o’clock if there were no delays. There was not time to lose if they wanted to catch him at Crewe Hall.

Euston Square terminus: porters, clad in green with white letters on their collars, manoeuvred their luggage trucks between the crowds of passengers. Top-hatted businessmen made for the first-class carriages, as did the well-dressed matrons in their wide, flounced skirts.

Men in patched, worn-out suits and shawled women laden with baskets and oddly shaped bundles hurried to find a place in third class, some still crowded at the ticket booth, and there were children swarming about. Who they belonged to it was difficult to tell – most seemed to attach themselves to any available adult. No doubt the mothers knew their own despite the similarity of these wrapped-up heaps of rags and shawls with their misshapen caps and bonnets and identical screams and shrieks, almost loud enough to rival the bells and whistles and great snortings of the steam engine which waited, clouds of vapour billowing from the brass chimney. It was impatient to go, and so were Dickens and Jones who had got their tickets for a first-class carriage. They pushed through the groups of labourers, soldiers, sailors, navvies, servants, milling guards and porters to settle themselves at last in their comfortable carriage with its upholstered seats, with a pie each in their pockets and Seltzer water, refreshment for the five hours or so of the journey.

There were two other passengers, one rather bad-tempered mottle-faced businessman whose skin was stretched over his face like that of a sausage. He hid behind his newspaper. There was a pious-looking lady in black who hid behind a thick veil, so thick it was that Dickens wondered whether she might be Crewe in disguise. Unlikely, he concluded, glancing at the neat little feet encased in little black boots which peeped briefly from under the black skirts. One black-gloved hand held tightly on to her hamper and in the other she grasped a wicked-looking hatpin – to ward off a potential attacker, perhaps, who might launch himself upon her in a conveniently dark tunnel.

A monstrous heave and a piercing whistle signalled their departure. An anguished face appeared briefly at the window and was left behind, the door being locked. Whoever it was had missed the train. But for them the chase was on. Dickens saw that Sam’s face was alight. In five hours or a little more, they would be on their way to Crewe Hall, and this time he would not escape them, even if they had to pursue him to the sea itself. The train gathered speed, the rich and varied landscape began to rush by, flashing unrolling pictures of heath and orchard, graveyard and factory, rivers and green hills, spires and towers, cottages and castles, through stations, stopping but for a moment then dashing on, roaring and rattling through vistas of red brick houses, railway arches and black chimneys crowding the skyline.

It was impossible to talk while they had neighbours to listen in, though judging by the explosive snores coming from mottle-face, it was unlikely that he would hear what they might say. As for the woman in black, she might have been some spectre, so motionless was she, still clutching her hatpin. Dickens felt that she might stab him with it. Every time they entered a tunnel, he thought he heard the faintest rustle of her skirts. Was she moving nearer with her weapon poised to strike? They hardly liked to whisper, either. They might give the impression that their business was nefarious, and then, indeed, she might strike.

After an hour, they ate their pies for want of anything better to do. The pies seemed composed of unknown animals within, the meat, glutinous and gristly – perhaps it was bear? Dickens felt the crust settle in him like cardboard. He drank some Seltzer water; it was unpleasantly gaseous and the cardboard seemed to swell inside him. Sam read the book he had scooped from his desk as they left Bow Street. It was
Dombey and Son
– Sam’s second reading.

‘Any good?’ Dickens asked in his cockney voice. Sam Weller come to life. ‘Yer book, I mean.’

He detected a faint rustle. He did not dare look, but imagined the bony hand gripping the pin even more tightly.

‘Very good,’ said Sam, his lips twitching.

‘’Oo wrote it?’

‘Charles Dickens.’

‘Oh, ’im.’

‘Do you know him?’ asked Sam.

‘Met ’m wonce – a rum’n to look at, all eyes and nose. Flash sort o’ cove, though. Don’t go in much for readin’ meself. Prefer cards. Got a pack ’ere – fancy a game of whist – low stakes o’ course.’

The rustling was louder now, though, fortunately, the snoring went on.

‘No thank you – I do not approve of card playing of any kind – especially on trains.’ Sam’s voice shook slightly but the rustling ceased. ‘Have you read this book?’

‘Nah, but I tell yer wot I do know – if yer ain’t got to the end – there’s a man killed on the railway – mortal lot o’ blood.’

There was another rustling. Sam hid behind his handkerchief, being taken by a sudden attack of coughing.

‘It woz them pies we ’ad – like eatin’ cardboard. Lodged with a pieman once – a werry nice man – make pies out o’ anythin’, ’e could. Werry fond o’ cats ’e woz.’

The coughing seemed more acute now so Dickens kindly supplied the remains of his bottle of Seltzer, saying as he did so in the manner of Mr Weller, ‘Out wiv it, as the father said to the child, wen ’e swallowed a farden.’