Death at Hungerford Stairs (15 page)

The pale child stared at Dickens. She saw a pair of luminous eyes looking at her as if he understood something about her. She wanted to tell him. Perhaps, he would know, he looked wise. She forgot the others.

‘Pa says it's my fault 'e's sick. 'E says I'm wicked cos I'm a freak. I sees a ghost when I looks in the mirror. Is it true?'

Dickens glanced at Mrs Moon's despairing eyes, and then back at the child's eyes which gazed at him with such yearning in them. Strange, almost purple eyes which knew too much of cruelty. What to say?

He squatted down to meet those eyes. He looked silently at first, willing her to believe him. The others looked on, still as death. The very air was still. Magic in it.

‘No, Tilly. It is not true. You are as real as I am, as Kip is, as your mother is. Your pa is sick – you know that. One day, he will see you as I do, but for now, remember that your mother loves you, and Kip, and I will always think of you so that you will be protected. Scrap here will tell me about you, and you will know that I remember you.'

Tilly nodded. It was enough. The gentleman knew. He had told the truth, she was sure.

Dickens stood up to meet Mrs Moon's eyes. Her face seemed to collapse, almost to dissolve before his eyes as the tears spilled out. He thought that here was a woman who was on the point of being overwhelmed by hopelessness. Kip watched her and Dickens saw the terror in his eyes. What if she were to give up?

‘Ma, don't forget the sovereign – it's gold, real gold.'

Mrs Moon looked at the money in her hand then at her son's strained face. ‘Thank you, sir,' she said to Dickens.

‘Keep her safe,' he said.

‘I will try,' she said. ‘I will keep her from him when I can.'

She went in followed by Kip. When Dickens looked back as he and Scrap made their way out of the alley, he saw Tilly watching him, the silver hair suddenly alight in the gloom. Not for this world, he thought.

Dickens and Scrap walked away. ‘Will yer come again, Mr Dickens? Mebbe, it'll help – somethin' wrong there, I knows it. Tilly, she wants lookin' after. 'Er pa, 'e may be sick but that don't mean 'e should –'

‘No, you are right, it does not excuse him, but we must hope that the money helps, and that Mrs Moon can keep Tilly away from him.'

That was all he could say. He knew there was little to be done, and he wondered if it would do any good to go back. Perhaps that moment in the alley was all that he could do. To go again might displace the magic of it. Daylight, he thought metaphorically, might simply reduce him to ordinariness. It was better for the child to remember just his words, to hold on to them as a talisman, words she could repeat to ward off the devil.

Scrap went back to Mr Brim's stationery shop and Dickens made his way to Bow Street where Rogers was explaining that people had seen the enormous man running away from the body, but no one had actually seen the murder. No one knew where he was or who he was. He had simply vanished down some alleyway. No one had dared follow. They said he was mad – he had been seen before. It was assumed that he lived rough somewhere in a cellar or a broken-down house, or in a yard somewhere.

‘I wonder if your man Weazen saw him – if he was following you that night, then your man might have seen him around Rats' Castle. Rogers, did you get a glimpse of Weazen, as we must call him?'

‘Not really, sir. Saw 'im scuttle away – very small, 'e was. P'raps Mr Dickens could describe him.'

‘I promise you, Rogers, you will know him. He looks like some ancient gnome, stinks to high heaven, yellow face like a shrivelled walnut, looks sick, and you will observe the pus in his eyes.'

‘Should be enough to go on.' Rogers grinned at the description. ‘Stemp and me can go and have a look.'

‘And, I want you to find Fikey Chubb and bring him here. Keep him in a cell until I come back.'

‘What shall I charge him with?'

‘Just tell him we are making enquiries about the murder of two children, a man, a missing person – anything at all. Tell him his name has been mentioned. Mr Dickens's Weazen mentioned him in connection with Tommy Titfer – I wonder where he is. If you find him, bring him in, too.'

‘I'll take Stemp and Semple – might need three of us for Fikey Chubb – you know what 'e's like.'

‘Good. Make sure all the beat constables know who we are looking for. He has to be somewhere. Now, Mr Dickens and I are going to Cricklewood. I'll speak to Inspector Grove, let him know where I am, and you can report anything to him, if you will.'

The superintendent and Rogers went out. Dickens went to the desk to pick up the shawl. He unfolded it and thought again about the woman who had made it, and the contrast between her plainness and the beauty of the shawl. He looked at the flowers and birds and more closely at the stitching which formed little paths between the images. It was like a maze, he thought. You tried to follow the paths to the centre, but your eyes would not stay focused so you found yourself straying from the path, bumping into roses or exotic birds, but you could never get to the centre where Mademoiselle Victorine had embroidered a bigger flower. Dickens stared at it until his eyes were blurred and he could see only red like a huge blot of blood. He folded up the shawl. Murder, he thought, was like a maze. You followed one path and found yourself on another which wound its way back to a dead end so that you had to turn back to where you started. And, in the centre of the labyrinth, there was blood, the stain left by the murderer.

Cricklewood was a small village, a mile or so in length, situated in a valley between five hills. The road there was often deep in mud, and highway robberies used to be frequent, but in the afternoon when Dickens and Jones arrived, it was quiet: a few cottages, a windmill, a village green where the Crown
inn stood, and a blacksmith's. The sun had come out and, although it was still cold, the village lay peaceful in the pale sunlight. It could have been fifty miles from London not five. They had come by hired fly and had asked the driver to wait for them at the Crown.

The forge was not hard to find; they could hear the beating of the hammer on metal. In the yard, a large, shaggy horse stood patiently, waiting for his new shoes. He looked peaceable enough, though Dickens gave him a fairly wide berth – he had been bitten once by a deceptively tranquil beast which had attacked him for no good reason. It had torn off his sleeve and he had felt the terror of the moment for days afterwards – in fact, he had not been able to write.

They looked in through the door to see the smith working on a horseshoe at the anvil. There was a stone chimney with its raised hearth on which coke gleamed deep red. A boy stood by with his bellows which wheezed and clanked as he worked them and the fire gave out a glittering shower of sparks. The smith, in his leather apron, was a young, well-built man whose face shone in the firelight. He frowned in concentration, not looking up. They watched and waited for him to finish the shoe.

They watched him beating the shoe which burnt white as the iron shot out another fountain of sparks under the blows. The smith hammered it on the anvil and turned it on the beak so that they could see it taking shape. When the white turned to a yellow glow, he put the shoe back in the fire with the tongs. They heard the angry hiss of the metal. He hammered again, the gold changing to a dull red. They watched him hammer in the holes where the nails would go and saw how the red changed to blue grey, and then it was finished. The smith looked up.

‘We are looking for Mrs Mapes. I wish to ask her about her former employer, Mrs Outfin.'

The smith came forward, the hot shoe steaming on the tongs. They stood back as he passed them; the boy followed and held the horse by its bridle as it moved restively, hearing the smith come out.

‘And you are?' the smith asked as he lifted the great feathered hoof and stood astride the horse's leg, ready to assess if the shoe was a fit.

‘I am Superintendent Jones from Bow Street. I wish to know if Mrs Mapes can identify a shawl which we have in connection with a crime. This is my colleague, Mr Dickens.'

The shoe fitted and the smith picked up his hammer and nails. They waited. The boy murmured reassuring words to the horse. Dickens noted that its eye rolled, and then it stood still.

‘You'll find her in the house. Just by the barn over there.'

They left him and walked to the neat cottage with its white door, the upper half of which was open. A young woman came at their knock, the smith's wife, they thought. She carried a rosy-faced child on her hip who looked at them with saucer eyes. So did the young woman. She looked puzzled, and slightly anxious.

‘We are looking for Mrs Mapes. I am Superintendent Jones from Bow Street. I wish to ask her about her former employer, Mrs Outfin.'

The young woman's expression changed; she was curious now. ‘Ma's inside – come in.'

They stepped into a neat room, warm from the cooking range on which a pot of something which smelt delicious bubbled. The room was clean and there was the scent of freshly washed laundry in the air. Mrs Mapes, a strong, cheerful-looking woman with bright blue eyes like her daughter's, was folding linen at a well-scrubbed pine table. Near the range, there was a cradle in which a baby lay asleep.

‘I heard what you said. You want to know something about Mrs Outfin – I take it you know that she is dead?'

‘We went to her son's to ask about this shawl. Do you recognise it? Can you tell us what happened to it after Mrs Outfin's death?' Sam produced the shawl, loosening the silken folds so that she could see it clearly.

Mrs Mapes came forward. She took a pair of spectacles from her apron pocket to look at it closely and she fingered the worn places.

‘Yes, I recognise it. It belonged to Mrs Outfin – the pattern is very distinctive. After her death, I gave some things to the maids – the younger Mrs Outfin gave me permission to dispose of the clothes and other things which were not wanted. It was generous of her – she knew we would all lose our places – and she promised characters to the servants who needed them. Well, there were hats and gloves, and dresses, shoes, too, and I made sure all the maids got something. The rest I sold.'

‘Do you remember to whom you gave this shawl?'

‘I do. Mattie Webb – she had admired it, and she was thrilled with it. Loved the birds and flowers, she said. Never had anything like it. How did you get it, Superintendent? Has something happened to Mattie? She wouldn't have sold it, I'm sure.' She sounded concerned suddenly. It was clear that Mattie Webb had treasured her gift.

‘It was found – it may be a clue in a crime we are investigating. Where is Mattie Webb now?'

‘She found a new position – at a house in Charles Street, off St James's Square. Family named Du Cane. Mrs Outfin – the younger, that is – got her the position. The Du Canes are friends of Mr and Mrs Outfin. Mattie is a very capable girl, and a very good maid. I thought she would do well there. She would have no need to sell the shawl. Unless she lost it – found, you say?'

‘Yes – she may have lost it, as you say. We shall have to ask her.'

‘Oh, I hope it won't bring her any trouble – employers don't like the police calling. Oh, dear, she's such a good girl. She wouldn't have anything to do with anything wrong, I'm sure.' Mrs Mapes's pleasant, open face was crumpled now in her anxiety.

‘Don't worry, Mrs Mapes. I'm sure that you're right. We will be very discreet, but I do need to know how the shawl came to be where it was found.' Sam tried to be reassuring. He did not want to say that the shawl had been found at the scene of a murder.

‘Do you remember anything about the woman who made the shawl?' Dickens asked by way of diversion.

Mrs Outfin looked at him curiously – this younger man who had not spoken before did seem familiar. She wondered who he was.

‘Mamselle Victorine?'

‘Yes,' said Sam. ‘Can you tell us about her?'

Mrs Outfin looked at her daughter. ‘We knew her only because she came to the house. Mary, my daughter, worked as a maid sometimes at Mrs Outfin's – when we needed an extra hand. The milliner – she was a strange young woman. Very quiet, reserved, I suppose.'

‘Yes,' said Mary. ‘She was odd. Once I was in the drawing room when she was waiting for Mrs Outfin. I tried to talk to her, but she wasn't having it. Probably thought she was too good to speak to a servant. Cold, I thought, you know, never smiled.' She thought a moment. ‘Lonely, though, now I think of it. Perhaps she didn't know how to talk to people.'

Mrs Mapes went on, ‘Mrs Outfin didn't care for her much. She changed to another milliner, said Mamselle Victorine was too sullen. Mrs Outfin liked her servants good-humoured, and so we were, whether we felt like it or not, but Mamselle didn't see any need to be friendly – suppose she thought her work was enough and she wasn't a servant, after all. I felt a bit sorry for her when I had to tell her that she was no longer required. It had to be me, of course. Mrs Outfin would not condescend to dismiss her.'

Sam thought. Could they risk a few questions about the rest of the family? He had noted the address of the Du Canes and that they were friends of the Outfins. Not that far from Hungerford Stairs. He thought of Theo Outfin.

Dickens had the same idea. He smiled at Mrs Mapes and Mary – the smile that would persuade them to answer, that would prevent them from wondering at the questions.

‘A difficult woman, Mrs Outfin?' His tone was light, inviting her confidence.

‘Sometimes.' She smiled back at Dickens.

‘A regular tartar.' Mary was charmed into the truth. ‘Bad tempered old cat. Wanted gratitude all the time. She wanted slaves not servants.' Her blue eyes were indignant.

‘Mary, don't exaggerate. Yes, she was a bit cantankerous, but she could be generous, especially to her grandchildren.'