The Murder of Patience Brooke (8 page)

‘Lizzie, if you know anything, you must tell us. Patience might be in danger. All we want is to help her, if we can. Do you know anything about Mr Fidge, for example?'

The girl burst into tears. ‘I didn't do anything. It wasn't my fault.'

‘Just tell us, Lizzie. You will not be in trouble, I assure you.'

The girl's sobs became more of a hiccupping; she blew her nose with the handkerchief offered by Mrs Morson.

‘Mr Fidge liked 'er. I know he did – Isabella and Sesina laughed about it, but 'e's a good man. 'E was kind to me – sometimes spoke to me after church. 'E said he was sure I was a good girl – 'e don't know, though, do 'e? Don't know nothin' about girls like me. 'E don't know wot's wrong with me – if 'e did, 'e'd 'ate me.'

She cried again for the girl she could never be. There was something so hopeless in her sorrow that Dickens was stirred to pity. She was not one of his favourites; she was often sullen and listless, and the lessons bored her, but he could see that she had no faith in herself.

‘You must be hopeful, Lizzie. That is why you are here. The Home is here to help you start again, a new life, in a new land. Think about Julia Mosley, Martha Goldsmith and Jane Westaway on board
The Calcutta
now, sailing for Australia and a new life – you can do that too, Lizzie.'

‘I ain't never seen the sea,' she sniffed, ‘and I 'ates that river.'

Dickens could have laughed. She was a child, really for all her rotten experience. He thought of Eleanor Brim, half her age and twice as sensible.

‘We believe in you, Lizzie, and we know that you have not done wrong on purpose.'

‘But I 'ave!' she cried. ‘You don't know wot I done.'

‘Not unless you tell us,' said Mrs Morson, patiently.

Dickens was alarmed. What had she done? What did she know? Did she know that Patience was dead? He made himself be calm. ‘Tell us, Lizzie, and you will feel better.'

‘'E gave me a note – Mr Fidge – for Patience – we met 'im – Mary-Ann and me when we woz at the shops with Mrs Morson last Thursday. 'E said to give it 'er.'

‘Did you?' Dickens sensed Mrs Morson holding her breath as he was doing. The answer was crucial.

‘No.' Dickens heard Mrs Morson breathe out as he did.

Gently, he asked, ‘What did you do with it?'

‘I tore it up, an' I let it float away.'

‘Why?'

‘Why should 'e write to 'er?' Lizzie was passionate now in her anger against Patience Brooke. ‘She was stuck-up. She didn't like 'im; she thought she was too good for 'im. I like 'im – 'e ain't much to look at but I like 'im but he don't see me.' The words tumbled out of her. ‘I didn't like 'er – it was like she was pretendin' to like us when she didn't, really. She thought she was better than us. Well she's gone now an' I bet she don't come back.' Now she was sobbing again.

‘Did you read it?' Dickens had to be sure. Had Francis Fidge wanted a meeting?

‘No, I just tore it up and threw it away – in the gutter –in the water.'

Dickens looked at Mrs Morson. She would know what to say.

‘Well, Lizzie, it doesn't seem so bad to me. If Miss Brooke did not like him, then perhaps you did her a good turn. You must not think of it again. See, Mr Dickens is not angry.'

Lizzie gave Dickens a weak smile. ‘I'm sorry, sir. It was temper, I know.'

‘Good. Now, cheer up Lizzie and think on the better things to come.'

‘I'll try, sir.'

‘Go upstairs, Lizzie and wash your face. Then go in to your lunch.' Mrs Morson stood up to open the door.

Lizzie went out, turning as she went to say, ‘Thank you, sir.'

‘Phew!' Dickens said. ‘I was terrified for a moment. I really thought she had done something terrible. Just jealousy and frustration. She is usually so dull and quiet, but underneath that there is the same anger and restlessness that they all have.'

‘Yes, I do feel sorry for her – it is hard for her to believe that there will be a future. It is as if most of the time she is too depressed to care and then something triggers a break out of emotion, as it were.'

‘It is interesting what she said about Patience. She was jealous, I think, that Patience was a lady, that she seemed self-assured, even contented. And the business with Fidge was the trigger which provoked such anger against Patience. We need to find out what was in that note.'

‘You don't think she read it?'

‘No, I don't. I can see her tearing it up in temper. It did not matter to her what it said. What is interesting is that Lizzie said that Patience was pretending. That annoyed her. What we do not know is what or who Patience really was. We thought we knew her, but now I wonder who was hiding under that demure exterior.'

There was a knock at the door and Davey was there, looking considerably more cheerful than he had on Friday. He had enjoyed the company of the jovial Constable Rogers whom the superintendent had enjoined to make friends with the boy, and he had welcomed Punch back to his stable, and Mr Bagster. Davey gave Dickens a note. It was from the superintendent who was presently in the stable, ready to listen to what Mr Bagster had to say about Patience Brooke. Dickens was asked to join them while Davey had his lunch in the kitchen. He told Mrs Morson that he and the superintendent would go to St Mark's, and then to Godsmark's chapel, and that he would probably return to the Home on the following day.

‘You will manage?' he asked.

‘I will do my best to keep them occupied. The making of bread and soup for the poor will keep them busy.'

‘I see how tired you are. I will try to find someone to assist you. I will ask Miss Coutts – which reminds me, I shall have to tell her about Patience. Fortunately, the superintendent has done his work well in keeping the matter quiet. That will please her, and she will be sorry about Patience, even if she disapproved of our manner of employing her.' He sighed. ‘I hope that this does not put her off our work. We cannot do without her money.'

‘I hope so, too. I hope it is not my employing Patience that brings ruin here.'

‘We both did it, and we both had faith in Patience, but I cannot help wishing that we had known more about her. Still, what's done is done. I must go now.' He hesitated, unsure how to leave her. He took her hand. ‘Georgiana – take care. Lock the doors carefully at night.'

‘I will.' She smiled at him. ‘Until tomorrow then. Goodbye, and you must take care, too. Do not forget that you are in pursuit of a murderer.'

‘I have the redoubtable Sam to protect me. He will make sure that Constable Jenkins keeps an eye on the house, and you have James Bagster.' I hope, he thought.

Dickens went out through the kitchen door and up the steps past the railings where Patience had hung. He quickened his pace, the memory urging him on to see whether it was possible that Mr Bagster had anything to tell them. Entering the stable, he saw the superintendent seated comfortably on a bale of hay with Bagster opposite. He saw a strong-looking, thickset man about the same age as the superintendent. He had large, capable hands, and large feet in workman's boots and wore a canvas waistcoat and faded corduroy trousers. His eyes were bright blue in a weathered brick-red face and his hair was a faded straw colour. He looked what Mrs Morson said he was – a solid, good-natured, dependable man. He did not look like a murderer.

Bagster greeted Dickens as an old friend, turning his frank but troubled gaze on him. ‘I can't hardly believe what the superintendent has told me.' He shook his head. Dickens gave a surprised glance at the superintendent.

‘I have told Mr Bagster of Patience's death,' said the superintendent calmly. ‘And I have explained why it must be kept secret. He understands and has given me his word.' James Bagster nodded in affirmation. ‘He understands, too, why I must send Constable Rogers to Kensal Green to ask James's daughter to confirm his arrival at her cottage on Friday and that he stayed until this morning. He knows that I must have evidence about anyone who had contact with Patience in case we are able to bring a suspect to trial. We need now to know if James, here, can shed any light on the matter. We will begin with the pedlar.'

Dickens was glad that Sam Jones had decided to trust James Bagster whom he knew to be a good, honest man. Dickens, who knew himself to be a shrewd reader of character, admired the same quality in his friend.

Bagster thought awhile, and then in his slow, deliberate way, began, ‘I remember him coming. I saw him at the garden gate. He was a strange-looking man, with a crooked face –'

There he was again – the man with the crooked face who had disturbed Davey, and who had played a curious role in Mrs Morson's dream. Haunting the story, the twisted face of the man appeared, vanished, and reappeared like some spectral presence.

‘Had you seen him before, perhaps calling at other houses, in the village, perhaps?' The superintendent wanted facts, not a ghost.

‘Never. He just appeared. There are some regular streetmen and women. I know them – we don't have too many hereabouts – there's the cat's meat man. He passes by sometimes, but there's not much call for it here – mostly farm cats, and our Peg.' The superintendent raised his eyebrows as much as to say ‘I haven't heard of her before.'

‘The stable cat,' grinned Bagster, ‘not my wife, nor fancy woman. Peg has to do with scraps and what she gets herself – a mighty hunter, she is. There she is –' Peg, no doubt having heard her name, came to investigate the superintendent, and finding him wanting, strolled out of the stable, her tortoiseshell coat shining momentarily in the sun. Dickens, she ignored. He preferred Poll who had won his heart.

James Bagster went on to give an account of some of the regulars. There was, occasionally, a muffin man though it was a bit far out; the florist's cart came in all weathers and Jopp, the clothes-pole man with his fresh-cut poles, new ropes for drying and his wife with her basket of clothes pins, all items manufactured by themselves. James knew these as an honest couple, and repeated his statement that the pedlar was new, and had never been seen again.

The superintendent considered this. ‘That's interesting. You might think that having found some customers, he might have come back to try his luck again. Constable Jenkins is making enquiries – we might have him in our sights yet.' He glanced at Dickens, indicating that he should ask his questions.

‘James, what about Patience? What did you think of her?'

‘I liked her though she was mortal quiet – she came in the garden often. She liked the peacefulness when the girls were not in here. They are a cackling lot sometimes. She was good to Davey, teaching him and that, patient – like her name – cos he can't speak, of course, but he's a quick learner.'

‘Did she tell you anything about her past – before she came here?' Dickens asked.

‘No, and I didn't ask. No more than I did the other girls. But there is one thing I thought about her.'

Dickens looked at Sam – this might be something.

‘Last year, in September, when she'd not long been here, my Annie's husband brought their little girl to spend a day and night here while she was confined for her coming child. It was warm and she played in the garden. Patience came in and it was pleasant to see her teaching the child the names of the flowers and feeding her a plum from the tree, and when the little maid fell and grazed her knees, Patience took her on her lap and dried her tears. She sang a little song, too, a nursery song. Anyways, I thought –'

‘That she'd be a good mother,' interrupted Dickens.

‘No, sir,' looking straight at him, ‘that she
was
a mother.'

The superintendent asked, ‘You thought she'd had a child?'

‘That's just it. Course, I've no proof, but I've watched my Annie with that little maid, and Patience was exactly like her, exactly, sir. I can't describe how. It just was – you'd have to see it. And I saw something in her face when Barnaby came to fetch her and said the new child was well, and it was a girl. Something longing, sir, something lost. You may think it's my fancy, sir, but –'

‘Not I,' said Jones. ‘We know nothing about her, and I believe you saw what you saw – and it makes her more mysterious than ever.'

Dickens and Jones got up to go. They shook hands with James Bagster and thanked him. As they walked away, the superintendent observed, ‘Much to think about, Charles. But not now. Time for church.'

They walked the half-mile or so to the church. On the way, Dickens apprised the superintendent of his interviews with Isabella Gordon and Lizzie Dagg, making plain their conviction that Francis Fidge had been in love with Patience Brooke.

The old church of St Mark to the south of Lime Grove dated from
1631
when it had been established as a chapel of ease. It was built of brick, now attractively mellowed to a faded terracotta. It had a bell tower and was surrounded by a quiet burial ground shaded by elm trees, now bare black lines against the winter sky. Snowdrops, like crystallised snow, white with delicate green veins, and a few tiny yellow suns of crocuses pushed up through the dark soil, a promise of spring though the bright sun of earlier had faded to a hazy whiteness. The chill air was very still and no birds sang, but it was peaceful.

‘
And all the air a solemn stillness holds
,’ Dickens murmured the lines from Gray’s ‘Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard’ as they looked down at the heaps of turf and tombstones, some upright and other, more ancient ones, leaning towards each other as if in solemn conversation. The Reverend Octavius Goodchild was the incumbent and Francis Fidge, his curate.

‘I want you to observe him, Charles. If they are both there, I will ask some nondescript questions, nothing more than a polite inquiry as to their knowledge of Patience. You know Goodchild and you consider him a worthy man?’