Death at Hungerford Stairs (12 page)

‘If there is nothing more, monsieur …'

‘No, thank you. We will see if we can trace the shawl to Mrs Outfin.'

She went with them to the front door which she locked as they went out.

‘An odd young woman,' said Dickens. ‘A sad story, but why did it fail to move me?'

‘Something cold about her. I could hardly believe the story about the lover. I wonder if it was just gossip.'

‘I had the same thought about the lover. There was so little to her, not physically though she was thin enough, more that she had so little personality. But there was a sense of secrecy about her.'

‘At least we have the name of the shawl's owner. We'll go to George Street to see if Mrs Outfin is in – or out. A fishy sort of name – though I doubt that she is our murderer.'

‘Perhaps she has a son, or grandson who might turn out to be an actor who wears a beautifully embroidered shawl as a disguise, or, even better, a son who is really a lunatic, kept locked in the cellar, but who has escaped on nights when the moon is full, and wearing his mother's shawl, stalks the streets intent on murder …'

‘It was raining two nights ago – no moon.' Sam grinned. ‘Sorry.'

‘Ah, my theory dashed to pieces.'

‘Well, it is as good as any other at the moment. Shall we take lunch first? Frustration is making me hungry. A chop and a glass of ale might well restore my good humour.'

They walked to the
George to order their chops, potatoes and ale and sat by the fire. They ate first so that the superintendent's usual equanimity might be restored. When he had finished, he looked at Dickens.

‘Motive. That's what I want to know. I want to know what the relationship was between the boys and their killer. Rogers, bless his open mind, thinks crime – that the murderer was using them to thieve for him, but I'm not sure how Robin Hart fits in to that theory. Could be, I suppose, but –'

‘You think that it is an unnatural desire that is his motive? That when he has finished with them he kills them.'

‘It happens – we find boys abused, dead, as well as girls. That poor girl we found in that wretched garden when we were looking for our murderer back in February – no one claimed her. Boys and girls so young that they should still be playing with their toys. It's sickening, and what is worse, there are men, wealthy men who will pay for this – that's why it is so hard to uncover – there are closed ranks, Charles, which I can never part.' Sam sounded angry.

He and Dickens knew well that children could be bought and sold, and often there was nothing to be done. Money changed hands. Silence was bought. Victims vanished into the cellars and holes of the alleys where they might die of neglect, starvation or of the disease with which perverted sex infected them. Some were murdered to stop their mouths. Sam was right. It was vile.

Sam continued, ‘You have shown the suffering of neglected and abused children, but you can't write about that – you would be accused of every kind of perversion.'

‘I know. There were comments on the lowness of my subject when I wrote
Oliver Twist
. Some did not want to read about thieves' kitchens and boys trained into criminality, but I could not write about such abuse anyway. It is too horrible. How could one describe what is done, what the effects are? Surely the post-mortem will tell us if they have been abused.'

‘It might – it depends on how long the abuse went on.'

‘Then I think Rogers is right. We should also consider other possibilities.'

‘Such as?'

Dickens grinned. ‘I have no idea at the moment, but I'll think of something, I daresay. Shall we go on to Mrs Outfin and hope to find a gibbering maniac in the cellar?'

‘Now, that would be something.'

Number twenty-seven was a handsome house with white pillars, smart black railings and a shiny black door. It spoke of wealth and privilege. No wonder Mademoiselle Victorine had resented Mrs Outfin. Dickens imagined the contrast between that ghost of a woman and perhaps a well-fed, stout, ungracious client who dropped her milliner when her fashionable friends recommended another. For a moment, he felt something like pity. The shawl showed that Victorine was an artist, in her way, but her poor eyesight had robbed her of her skill in creating those beautiful things. He forgot her coldness then, and thought he had been too hasty in his judgement. Perhaps all the blows she had suffered had simply left her numb, not indifferent.

A solid, box-like woman, probably the housekeeper, answered the bell. The superintendent asked if they might see Mrs Outfin on a confidential matter. He introduced himself as Superintendent Jones from Bow Street.

‘I am sorry,' said the woman, looking puzzled. ‘The Outfins do not live here now. Mrs Outfin is dead. She died about a year ago.'

‘I see. The family – where are they now?'

‘Mrs Outfin had a son. He is married with two children. They live in Montague Place, just behind the museum, number forty.' She closed the door.

‘A son – I said she had a son, and children. I wonder how old she was. Victorine said that she was old, but we do not know what she meant. He might be in his forties. Perhaps he has a son,' Dickens said eagerly.

‘It is possible, but we might be on a wild goose chase. Still, they ought to recognise the shawl. It is distinctive.'

Montague Place was lined with the same white Regency houses as George Street, though in this case the houses were embellished by an elegant wrought-iron frieze running along under the windows of the first floor. The door was opened by a flustered maid. Dickens handed in his card and asked if he might speak with Mr Outfin. They were admitted into a cool hall with a black and white tiled floor. Other smartly clad maids and a uniformed footman were carrying hatboxes and other parcels up the stairs. The maid vanished with the card. When she returned, she led them to a library where Mr Outfin waited. He was about fifty years old, stocky with the same box-like build of the housekeeper at George Street. Dickens's imagination conjured him briefly as a love child. He reproved himself silently as Mr Outfin came forward to meet them. He was evidently not the slight man.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Dickens. I am very glad to meet you. I know of you of course – your books.' He gestured to his shelves. ‘How may I help you?' He was courteous, and smiling, but his eyes were wary. What had brought the famous novelist to his house with this commanding stranger? He looked uneasily at the superintendent.

Dickens introduced Sam who explained that they wished to find the owner of the shawl as they had been told it belonged to Mr Outfin's mother. It might be a significant clue in relation to a crime. Mr Outfin could hardly understand. He looked puzzled, but Dickens observed an uneasiness about him as he acknowledged the superintendent. Perhaps it was natural – a policeman coming to the house. Mr Outfin explained that his mother was dead. He did not know if the shawl had been hers. He looked at it but it meant nothing to him. His wife had dealt with his mother's clothes. Perhaps they would like to see her – he would fetch her. She was upstairs – busy – their daughter was to be married – everything was topsy-turvy – but he would see. He went out.

Dickens could not resist going over to the bookshelves. Yes, they were there – attractive editions of
Pickwick
,
Oliver Twist
,
Nicholas Nickleby
,
The Old Curiosity Shop
. He touched them for luck. Sam watched him, amused.

Mrs Outfin came in, a slender, pretty woman who smiled agreeably, though her thick fair hair was escaping from its bun and tendrils were loosened attractively round her face. She looked good-humoured and sensible, but there was anxiety in her eyes.

‘Mr Dickens, how very nice it is to meet you. We have all read your books. My favourite is
Dombey
and Son
– how I cried at the death of little Paul, and of Little Nell, too. But, I beg your pardon, my husband says you are here about a shawl. May I see it?'

She examined the shawl. ‘I think it might have belonged to my mother-in-law, but I cannot be sure. She had so many, shawls, gloves, bonnets – she was like a magpie, always collecting – and then discarding. A difficult woman – not that I should say so.' She paused as if conscious that she had betrayed something. She went on quickly. ‘But she was very fond of my daughter, Sophia. Sophia might remember. She went often to see her. Shall I ask her to come? She is here. We are preparing for her wedding – to Mr Wilde, Oliver.'

‘But I know him,' said Dickens. Oliver Wilde had helped them in their pursuit of the murderer of Patience Brooke.

‘A nice young man. I am very fond of him,' said Mrs Outfin.

‘He is, indeed.' Dickens was curious. When last they had met, Oliver Wilde was in love with someone else though Dickens had thought she would not return his love. So, sensible lad, he had found someone else.

Mrs Outfin went out, leaving them to ponder on the coincidence of their knowing Oliver Wilde, and to hope that Sophia Outfin might remember the shawl, and to think about the faint but discernible tension in both Mr and Mrs Outfin. It might be the bustle of the wedding, but Dickens could not help wondering. Families had secrets.

Sophia came in with her mother. They were alike: slender, fair and good-humoured. There was an innocence about the girl, however. Whatever might be wrong here, Sophia was not party to it. She looked at the shawl.

‘Yes, it was grandmother's. I remember it. It was made by Mademoiselle Victorine who had her workshop in Hanover Street. She made some hats for grandmother, but then grandmother took a dislike to her and found another milliner.'

‘Do you know why your grandmother disliked her?' This was interesting. Mademoiselle Victorine had not told them this.

‘She said she was surly, cold, and that she never smiled. Grandmama thought she was ungrateful. She always expected people to be grateful for her custom. I suppose she was difficult in that way. Poor Mademoiselle Victorine – she was rather odd, though.'

‘You met her?' asked Sam.

‘Yes, only once. She was hard to like, I think, but I felt sorry for her. A lonely woman, I thought. You could not get behind those thick lenses.'

‘Do you remember what happened to the shawl?'

‘No, I am sorry. It is a little worn in places. Grandmother would not have worn it like that.'

Sam asked, ‘Mrs Outfin, what happened to your mother-in-law's clothes after she died?'

‘Some of the newer dresses were remodelled for Sophy and me. My mother-in-law had good taste and an expensive one. Most of the things were given to the housekeeper, Mrs Mapes, to dispose of as she pleased. She would have sold most of them, I expect. Some she would have kept for herself. Perhaps she sold the shawl?'

Dead end. If the housekeeper had kept it, how had it come to be in the graveyard? If she had sold the shawl, it would probably be impossible to trace, though she might remember to whom she had sold the clothes. Even so, over a year ago, it might have been sold, stolen, lost, found, lost again. The shawl was rapidly becoming a useless piece of evidence. But they ought to know where the housekeeper was so Sam asked.

‘She went to live with her daughter, out at Cricklewood. Mary Mapes married a blacksmith there.'

Dickens and Jones thanked Mrs Outfin and Sophia who came into the hall with them. Sophia made her way up the stairs. The door opened to admit a young man, slender and fair. The son, they presumed. Not gibbering but certainly tense. Dickens observed his thin face, almost girlish. He might have been the twin of his sister were it not for a slight beard at his chin. Mrs Outfin could not avoid introducing Dickens and Jones.

‘My son, Theo. This is Mr Dickens, and Superintendent Jones from Bow Street. They are making enquiries about a shawl which belonged to grandmother.'

Sam spoke quickly. He wanted to gauge the young man's reaction, and Dickens knew that it was his role to observe.

‘The shawl may be an important clue in a crime I am investigating.'

Dickens watched as Theo's eyes flickered towards him. Green eyes like his mother's and sister's, but veiled, not innocent. Theo did not look at Sam. He seemed to force himself to address Dickens.

‘I am glad to meet you, sir. Of course, I know your books.' He glanced up the stairs. They knew he wanted to go.

‘Do you remember the shawl, Mr Outfin?' Sam insisted.

Theo glanced at it. ‘No, it means nothing to me.' He did not look at them.

‘Your father wishes to see you, Theo. He will be in the library now.' Mrs Outfin spoke gently, filling in the awkward pause. But Dickens noticed the faint red that flushed at her neck and jaw.

‘Not now, Mother. I must go upstairs to change. I have an appointment to keep.' He went, taking the stairs swiftly, passing a maid as he ascended. But he did not look at her. Mrs Outfin watched him, and Dickens saw how anxious she was, and how, when she turned back to them, she switched on her smile.

‘I am sorry we could not have been more helpful.'

‘Thank you, Mrs Outfin. You have given us valuable information. We may be able to trace the shawl, now.' Sam was polite. Neither Dickens nor he betrayed any trace of the curiosity they felt about her son.

They went out into the quiet street, walking in silence until they were well away from the house. They stood looking through the iron railings into the private garden which was empty of nursemaids and their charges on this gloomy November day. A solitary man stood coatless with his top hat pushed back on his head, staring at the darkening sky. What was he reading in the louring heavens? For what sign was he looking? Dickens and Jones gazed up, too. But there was nothing – only a faint pinprick that might have been a star, but no answer to their fears.

‘I hope not,' said Dickens, still looking at the motionless figure.

‘You hope Theo Outfin is not our man?'