Death at Hungerford Stairs (11 page)

Motive. What's his motive? Dickens would say and the superintendent agreed. In crime as in literature, there had to be motive. Greed, jealousy, revenge, power, the need to protect the self from danger. And, of course, there was sometimes no understandable motive – the murderer did it because he could. But then that was power, of course it was. It was the delight in having the power over the victim, and the triumph of getting away with it. Greed? He thought about the novels of Dickens he had read. What was Dombey's motive? Greed. What was the motive of Jonas Chuzzlewit's intention to murder his father? Greed. And Jonas had murdered Montague Tigg because he feared him.

Well, he thought, Dickens was an expert on greed – the ruthless desire to have at all costs, and greed could be avarice, but jealousy was a kind of greed. Carker in
Dombey and Son
– sexual greed, the desire for Edith Dombey was not out of love, and his motive was power, too, power over Dombey. Revenge. A powerful motive – witness Bill Sikes who had believed that Nancy had betrayed him and had clubbed her to death with his pistol.

So, he thought, where does our murderer fit into all this? Avarice was out – these boys were too poor. Why should the murderer fear two boys? Perhaps they knew something that might discredit the murderer. It was possible. And power? Yes, he had power over them. The little vignette of Robin Hart with the murderer's arm round him – that suggested that the young man those girls had seen had power over the boy. A young man and a young boy. Dark-haired Katey in the churchyard had thought of that – her knowing eyes had told him. He, too, had thought of what that might mean, but why kill them? They knew nothing about the first boy. Mrs Hart could tell them nothing about her son, but someone might have known Robin Hart and whether he had a new friend. He wondered if Scrap knew him. Well, it was time to ask.

Rogers came back from Hungerford Stairs. He couldn't really tell if the mask had a smile. ‘I dunno, sir, it might 'ave bin a smile, or it might just 'ave bin a scrawl.'

Comedy and tragedy, perhaps, perhaps not. And, if that's what the masks meant, then what? Sam preferred something more concrete. And Rogers was able to supply it. He had met Constable Green who had been at the blacking factory with Inspector Harker. The boy had been seen – with a slight young man.

‘Where?'

‘Hungerford Market. Jack Green had been making his enquiries in the market 'cos anyone going down the stairs would 'ave to go through the market, and Jim, knowing that our boy had been seen with a young man, asked about a ragged lad, possibly a mudlark, in the company of a young man, a man who was probably a gent.

‘There was a lad who knew the dead boy – Jemmy, 'e called 'im. Knew 'im as Jemmy Kidd but 'oo knows, sir? The lad could 'ave 'eard the word kid and thought it was 'is name. The lad said 'e didn't know where Jemmy lived. 'E was a mudlark, as we thought, scraped a livin', as they all do, so the witness was surprised to see 'im with a toff, as 'e put it.'

‘Could he describe the young man?'

‘Not really – he noticed 'is top hat, 'is dark suit, and that 'e seemed young – probably because 'e was slight – the boy said 'e was thinnish.'

‘Where did they go?'

‘The boy didn't see. You know 'ow crowded the market is. Anyway, Green is looking for anyone else who might have known Jemmy, whether he belonged anywhere, 'ad a family or what.'

‘So, we have a young man. Let us presume it is the same young man in both cases – the descriptions, though vague, fit. We have a possible, faintly possible, link to the theatre, and we have the shawl. And we have our experience which tells us to be suspicious of a young man who makes the acquaintance of young boys and kills them.'

‘You think it's sex, sir?'

‘I do. What else would he want them for?'

‘Crime? Did 'e use them? Was 'e a kidsman – not a real toff, but a flash cove – usin' 'em for stealin'? An' when they wanted to get away, did 'e kill them, or did 'e just replace them when 'e'd finished with 'em?'

‘But, remember, Robin Hart belonged to someone. His mother would have known if he had been involved in something criminal.'

‘But, 'e might 'ave been new to it. The mother 'ad nothing. 'E might 'ave thought 'e was 'elpin', not realising what it all meant. I dunno, sir, I think it's just that we should – keep an open mind – that's what you always say, sir.'

‘How right you are, Rogers. Thank you for reminding me.'

Rogers glowed. He admired his superintendent more than anyone, and he was determined to learn from him, to follow his methods and to get on. That's what his ma said. ‘You look an' learn, my lad, an' you'll be an inspector before you know it.' An' 'e would, he said to himself, yes, 'e would.

‘Mr Dickens comin', sir?'

‘Yes, he's coming from Shepherd's Bush. He sent a message to say he'd come after dealing with Miss Sesina. You remember her?'

‘Not 'alf – frightened me to death, she did. Sparks flyin' everywhere. A real temper, she 'as.'

Dickens came in. Rogers was right. Sesina's temper had got the better of her, and as he arrived, summoned by Mrs Morson, Sesina was on her way. Sam Jones and Rogers could not help laughing as Dickens described what Mrs Morson had told him of how she had flounced and stamped her way to her bedroom, how she had flung her nightcap across the room, dressed herself in her own good time, and then declared that the rain was too bad for her to go out. Threatened with Mr Dickens, she had made her exit, threatening to air her many and varied grievances against the Home in a letter to Miss Coutts. Dickens had seen her when he was coming back; she was tripping jauntily up Notting Hill, looking in the shop windows with the air of one who might saunter in and buy something. ‘It was quite a performance,' said Dickens.

‘She oughter be on the stage,' said Rogers.

‘Indeed she should – perhaps she'll find a role as a tragedy queen. I cannot help thinking that she will find her way to Isabella Gordon. What a pair they will make. Still, nothing to be done. We tried to help, but it was not to be. Any news, Sam?'

Sam told him Rogers's information about the boy, Jemmy, seen with a ‘gent' at Hungerford Stairs, and the conclusions he and Rogers had come to, explaining that Rogers had suggested they keep an open mind about the relations of the young man with the two boys.

Constable Feak returned with news that he had found the French milliner who had moved her premises to Rose Street, not far from St Giles's. He had spoken to a neighbour who had told him that Mamselle Victorine had lived there for about eighteen months. She was very quiet and reserved and no one knew her very well. She had few visitors, except customers, the woman supposed, and once or twice, she had seen a young man leaving out the back. The woman wondered if Mamselle had a lover, though she was so thin and plain, the neighbour doubted it.

‘How did you find her?' asked Dickens, curious.

Feak, who looked about fifteen, and only just tall enough for regulation height at five foot nine, reddened. ‘Asked me mam.'

‘What?'

‘I know it sounds daft, sir, but I thought it'd be quicker. She knows a lot, me mam, an' I thought, 'er bein' a woman an' that …'

Dickens and Jones wondered about the ‘an' that', but Feak's embarrassment was so palpable that they forbore to comment. In any case, Mrs Feak was a legend in Bow Street – for Feak, she was an oracle. The superintendent called her the Sybil of Star Lane. And she told fortunes when she was not out nursing. I should have consulted her cards, thought the superintendent, but he merely nodded at Feak to continue.

‘Well, 'er bein' a woman made me think that she'd know where the 'at makers are an' she said there was one off Earl Street, an' I knew I'd struck gold when she said she thought there was a French lady in Rose Street. I went straight there.'

‘Very sensible, Feak – to ask your mother, I mean. Give her my compliments when you see her.'

Feak's raw, red boy's face lit up. ‘Thank you, sir. She will be pleased. She always asks after you.'

‘Well, you and Stemp can get out there and ask about Robin Hart. See if you can find out who he took messages for. Try some of the shops, the more prosperous-looking ones, and later, ask some of the street vendors if they saw him about – he might have had a penny for a pie or a potato sometimes.'

‘Yes, sir.' Feak went out very pleased with himself. 'E'd felt a fool when 'e blurted out that 'e'd asked his mam, but, well, the superintendent'd thought it a good idea, an' it was – wait till 'e got 'ome – she would be pleased.

‘I thought about asking Scrap if he knew Robin Hart, or, if he did not, then he could ask about for us. What do you think, Charles?'

‘A good notion. Shall I offer him the usual rates?' Dickens and Jones had made use of Scrap before, and had insisted that he take his wages – sixpence a day.

‘Yes, but we should go to Rose Street first and ask Mademoiselle Victorine about the shawl. It is here, ready to take. Rogers, would you go back to Zeb Scruggs's and see how Mrs Hart is? I doubt that she will be fit to answer questions, but you should ask Zeb and Effie if they know who Robin ran his errands for.'

The three of them went out, Rogers for Monmouth Street and Dickens and Jones to walk up Crown Street of which Rose Street was an offshoot. The house was neat and respectable; there was a sign in the window bearing the legend:
Mademoiselle Victorine, Milliner and Sempstress.

The superintendent knocked. After a few moments, the door was opened by a tall, thin woman in a grey dress with neat white cuffs and lace collar. Dickens observed her as Sam explained that they were trying to find the owner of a shawl which they thought might be evidence in a criminal case. She wore very thick spectacles behind which her rather glassy eyes seemed to be just pinpoints – myopic, he thought. She was plain; her face was unremarkable, pale, almost grey and her hair, of no particular colour, was scraped back in a neat bun. Her lips were pale, too, and there were faint lines from her nose to her mouth and frown lines. Dickens thought how anonymous she was. You would not notice her in the street. In the crepuscular shadow of the doorway she was as faint as a pencil sketch, easily erased. But she seemed entirely unmoved by the superintendent's announcement that they had come from Bow Street, merely murmuring to them to enter.

They went into a front room which was obviously her workshop. There were a few hats perched on stands like exotic birds, their bright plumage rustling faintly from the draught as she opened the door. There was a deal work table with tapes and scissors and a garment that she had been cutting out when they knocked, and there was a shawl, very like the one the superintendent took from his pocket.

‘Is this your work?'

She looked at it, and said, ‘Yes, monsieur, I made it.'

‘Did you sell it to someone? Can you remember to whom?'

‘Yes, monsieur, I remember the shawls I have made. They take a lot of work. I do not make them now – my eyes. The work is very fine – the birds and flowers – you see.'

‘It is very beautiful,' said Dickens, hoping for a reaction, but she merely looked at him and nodded.

‘This is quite an old one. See, some of the fringe is missing and there is a little wear here where the stitching is loose. A pity. Perhaps she did not look after it.'

‘Who?' asked Sam, ‘who bought it?'

‘An old lady – she lives in George Street at number twenty-seven. She was my client when I lived in Hanover Street. I used to make hats for her, but I do not see her now. You see, I had to move here. It is cheaper. I do not know how it is, but sometimes people stop coming. They find, perhaps, someone they like better. Rich ladies like change. They follow their friends, perhaps. Now I do not make shawls. I must make these gaudy hats for the gay young ladies.'

‘What was the name of your rich lady?'

‘Madame Outfin – curious is it not – the English have strange names, do they not?'

‘I suppose French names sound odd to us – I have a friend, Monsieur Le Beau – I find his name amusing.' Dickens tried to draw her out, borrowing Le Beau from Shakespeare. Perhaps she might answer the questions he knew that Sam wished to ask this odd, self-contained creature. She is like a snail, he thought. She draws in her horns.

She looked at him, her little eyes indifferent behind the thick lenses. She did not answer, and the silence was thick suddenly. She had nothing further to say. Sam, however, was not to be put off. He thought about the young man, leaving by the back entrance.

‘You live alone here?'

Her eyes flickered slightly behind the spectacles, just a movement – alarm, perhaps? But the impression was so fleeting that Dickens wondered if it were just a trick of the light on the lenses rather than the eyes.

‘Yes, I live alone, monsieur. I prefer it. I am a foreigner here. It is not easy. The English do not like foreigners.' She shrugged. Such a French gesture, Dickens thought. He felt he ought to pity her, but there was a coldness in her which repelled him. He could not imagine her with a lover, but then, who knew? Though she was sexless, he thought, neutral. What would move her?

Sam asked, ‘Have you no family here in England?'

‘No, monsieur, I had a brother, but he must go back to France. My mother wished him to take over the shop. Now, they are dead, and there is nothing there for me to go back to. So, here must I stay to earn my living.' There was finality in her tone. Not sadness, not regret, just a cold acceptance of facts that could not be changed.

There was nothing else to say. Sam thought he could hardly ask her who the young man was who had been seen at the back of the house. It might have been her brother. It might have been no one at all; someone the neighbour had seen, and had assumed was coming from Mademoiselle Victorine's house. It might have been an idle piece of gossip. Victorine waited in the silence. It was clear that she wanted them to go. She glanced at her work table.