Death at Hungerford Stairs (25 page)

It was open though empty. Candlelight shivered in the dusk, showing them the marble dome from which a great silver lantern descended. By day, light would flood in to illuminate the marble columns and the great painting of the descent from the cross, but now there were shadows as moonlight like liquid mercury slipped in through the plain glass windows. It was a place redolent of ghosts and there was the faint, sweetish smell of incense that took him back to the churches of Italy, dream places, unreal, fantastic, solemn. Galleries rose up on either side, and underneath in deepest shadow were the confessional boxes. Had she come here? Had she whispered to a priest with a purple stole, the purple of repentance and healing? When Dickens thought about Jemmy and Robin and Mrs Hart and that poor disfigured boy, he could not imagine forgiveness for her or for her brother or whoever he was.

They stood silent, undecided, caught in the shadows, gazing up at the dark dome which seemed to be merged with the black sky outside. Footsteps. A priest came out of the shadows and looked at them enquiringly. Sam stepped forward.

‘I am Superintendent Jones of Bow Street. I am looking for a woman named Mademoiselle Victorine Jolicoeur. She is missing from her home.' No need to mention murder, yet. ‘I wondered, perhaps, if she is one of your congregation.'

‘I do not know the name. It is unusual, I think. I know most of the people who worship here – I think I would know her.'

‘She is thin, a very pale face – and she wears spectacles with thick lenses. I think you would remember her.'

‘No, I do not know her. She may worship elsewhere – there is Our Lady of the Assumption in Golden Square. I am sorry I cannot help you. She is in some distress, you think?' His eyes were kind and concerned. Dickens thought it a pity she had not worshipped there.

‘Possibly – we do not know. Thank you, anyway.'

The priest glided away on soundless feet, vanishing into the darkness near the altar. They turned away. They stood in the quiet shadow of the church; they could hear the city as if it were far away, not just round the corner waiting for them to enter its throbbing life and renew their search.

‘So, we still don't know whether there is a brother.'

‘Paris,' said Dickens. ‘She said she came from Paris. I was thinking earlier about Mrs Manning and the search for her –'

‘The police went to Paris, I remember – an inspector and a sergeant, but –'

‘Jolicoeur – it is an unusual name – she said they had a shop.' Dickens was eager now. Sam saw his eyes light up. ‘Let us suppose it was a milliner's shop – it must have been – or a dressmaker's – so we might find something about her and the brother, whether he is dead. She might have gone there – they might have fled – she knew we had the shawl. Perhaps she thought it was time to get out after the third murder. She thought we might come again; she told us about Mrs Outfin –'

‘Yes, I can see that. Perhaps she thought that we would give up when we found out about Mrs Outfin's death, but she must have known that with the third murder we might come back. It does not matter what she thought, Charles. I agree that we might try to find out more about her – but Paris – I don't know –'

‘I could go.'

Sam grinned. ‘I expect you could – put a girdle round the earth in forty minutes.'

‘Not quite, but it is possible – the night packet from Dover –'

‘Tonight!'

‘Well, tomorrow then – the eight o'clock express from London Bridge – eleven hours to Paris – a visit to the Police Prefecture with an introductory letter from Superintendent Jones of Bow Street which sets in motion the search for a milliner's shop called Jolicoeur – slap-up dinner at the Hotel Bristol – a steak, perhaps, a bottle of claret – or would you prefer roast fowl?' Sam opened his mouth to speak but Dickens rattled on. ‘A splendid night's sleep on a feather mattress – with pillows – up with the lark – or the sparrow, the moineau, if you prefer – breakfast – hot rolls and coffee – collect the address from monsieur le gendarme – find the shop – hear the tale from some stout, lace-capped
madame
in black bombazine –
eh bien
–
voilà
–
nous revenons
!'

‘If I am to come on this madcap voyage, why do you need a letter of introduction?' Sam's eyes twinkled.

‘Poetic licence! Just keeping the story afloat.'

‘I could write to the commissioner, you know, and ask the French police to find out about the family – we don't actually have to go.' Somehow Sam felt that this would not serve. Dickens was already there in his fancy, coaxing his imaginary madame to reveal all, in his fluent French.

‘But, how long will it take? And, if the brother is there, will they take him into custody? Would it not be more – immediate – if we were there to explain all the details of the investigation, the grounds for suspicion? In short, Sam, let us stiffen our sinews, summon up the blood, the game's afoot – to Paris let us go!'

‘It's a gamble – suppose –'

‘Them as don't play can't win, Sam.'

The light in his eyes told Dickens that Sam was tempted. He would do it.

‘I am persuaded – as much by your eloquence as by the grain of common sense in your argument – and, not least by that steak and claret you promise me. Tomorrow at half past seven, then, at London Bridge for the eight o'clock express. Now, I must return to Bow Street and give my instructions to Rogers who must remain on watch. He can send someone to enquire at the church in Warwick Street and he can make sure a watch is kept at Rose Street. I am not sure why, but I don't think she'll go back there.'

‘Nor do I – something of the grave about the place. She has gone – to Paris, I bet.' He grinned again, sure that they would find the answer in Paris.

They parted at Drury Lane. Dickens felt buoyed up – it would be an adventure. He knew Paris, Citoyen de Paris, he had styled himself. Mind, he thought, perhaps the Hotel Bristol was a little too public. He and Sam should stay somewhere quieter; they needed to be secret, not to have Charles Dickens's readers swarming over them. They should be secret agents, sneaking in to the Prefecture, watching the milliner's shop like his detective Nadgett watching Jonas Chuzzlewit, the murderer. He thought about Sam. Though Sam had laughed about the madcap journey Dickens had seen the lines deepened on his forehead, expressive of the anxiety he felt that they might be wrong, that while they were absent, the murderer might strike again. He thought about the hatpin – was it really the murder weapon? If so, then it had been left behind. Surely that would mean that the killer had gone. For Sam's sake he hoped so.

He was right. Sam walked back to Bow Street. He had been carried away by Charles's enthusiasm, swept along by the vividness of the tale of the woman in black bombazine and lace. Now he wondered. Was it folly? Yet what else could they do? They had to know about the brother, if he were dead or not, and when he had died if it were so. And, perhaps they would find out more about the mysterious Mademoiselle Victorine. Rogers could be trusted to hold the fort. If, God forbid, there were another murder, he would know what to do – and they would be back as soon as possible. Well, Paris it would be.

Dickens, always impatient to get on, always arriving early for coach or train, saw that Sam was before him on the platform at London Bridge Terminus. He was examining the carriages and passengers boarding – no doubt wondering if their quarry were bent on flight. Dickens watched him and wondered whether he had changed his mind, but he saw that Sam was carrying a travelling bag – he was coming, then. His heart lifted. Of course, he would have gone alone. Having conceived the idea that Paris would provide some answers, he could not bear to relinquish the idea. Delay to him was worse than drawn daggers, but to go without Sam would have lessened the thrill – the excitement of the chase. The case had been so slow, so uncertain that he needed to be in motion, to be doing. He had his own travelling bag wherein were packed two thick blankets and brandy – Dickens, the seasoned traveller, knew how cold it could be.

Sam's bag had been packed by Elizabeth who had reassured him that the madcap journey he had described to her was not folly. She had listened to his fears and had reached the conclusion that Dickens had, though not in the same wild flight of words. He felt better – and Rogers, solid and dependable, had promised to keep a twenty-four-hour watch on the house in Rose Street and to send Feak to the church in Golden Square. If they found any information then Rogers was to pursue it. Sam had also apprised Inspector Grove of his intentions and that equally dependable officer had assured him of his vigilance. The fears of the night before had receded, though he would not be wholly happy until he was back – perhaps with the murderer in handcuffs.

He saw Dickens approaching, looking at him anxiously. ‘I was worried that you might change your mind. I saw how concerned you were last night. I wondered if you might think it too reckless a scheme.'

‘You were right. I did have doubts but Rogers – and Elizabeth, of course – assured me that I should follow your lead. Rogers said, “You can trust, Mr Dickens, sir, 'e's got a nose for these things – could 'ave bin a detective.” Praise, indeed. And here I am.'

‘I am obliged to Mr Rogers, indeed I am.'

‘I have told him that we intend to return tomorrow night.'

‘You are sure?' asked Dickens, still anxious.

‘I am – well, as sure as we can be in this case full of uncertainties.'

‘No sign of them, I suppose.'

‘I have watched as many as I could – I don't think Mademoiselle Victorine is here though I can't swear that our young man is not – short of apprehending every slim young man, I do not think I could do more than simply observe.'

They waited for as long as they could, scrutinising the passengers. They were as certain as they could be that Mademoiselle Victorine was not there. There were plenty of young men – it was impossible to say whether any one of them was the man they wanted. The descriptions were so vague.

The guard blew his whistle. Clouds of steam came from the gasping engine; there was a heaving, grinding and snorting as of a dragon stirring. A young man dashed to a carriage further down the train. They should be boarding but they watched. The young man's hat blew off and, as he bent down to pick it up, they saw his laughing face. He flourished the hat at someone waiting by the carriage door and leapt on. Not him. Not the face of a murderer. The whistle shrieked again. The dragon emitted another burst of steam. It was ready to move.

‘First-cladge tickets,' said Dickens in the manner of Mrs Gamp. ‘Sammy, why not go to Paris for a day, bring your constitootion up. Your mind is too strong for you and 'ere you are drove about like a brute animal – let us aboard this ingein.'

Sam laughed and allowed himself to be bustled aboard into a carriage occupied already by two other passengers, a man and a woman. The first-class carriage was comfortably furnished with cushioned seats and tables between. They had hardly sat down when the door was flung open and in came another passenger, a stout red-faced man with an infinity of luggage, no end of cloaks, plaids and pilot coats, and a brass-bound dressing case – enough for a trip to the North Pole. Dickens wondered if he had come aboard the wrong train. Perhaps an explorer who had lost his way. The man sank into the seat opposite and wiped his perspiring brow. He eyed them suspiciously, daring them to laugh at the pile of coats which had slipped to the floor. Dickens leant down to assist in the gathering up of the coats. The portly man nodded his thanks and took refuge in the furthest corner of the carriage where he wrapped himself up so tightly that he resembled nothing more than a very large baby in woollen swaddling clothes.

The two other passengers were now concealed behind their newspapers. Dickens settled
back into his seat. ‘Let's talk of graves, of worms, of epitaphs …' he murmured.

‘Let us not for goodness' sake. I have Sam Weller in my pocket – I need cheering up.'

‘It is worritted you are, Samivel, don't denige it – thank Evans I 'ave a nice bottle of stout in that there bag.'

Sam chuckled. Dickens's mouth had suddenly collapsed, and there was Mrs Gamp again, almost in the flesh, but he kept a straight face, ‘Mrs Gamp is in the second-class carriage, I believe.'

‘So she is.
Punch
for me, then.'

Behind the protective cover of his magazine, Dickens was able surreptitiously to observe their fellow travellers. Sam, looking up from
Pickwick Papers
, knew exactly what he was doing. The red-faced man wore an expression of comical irritation. He had not quite heard what they had said but he was sure it was not polite – who the devil was that man whose face seemed to be contorted into the most grotesque expressions? Vulgar brute. Thank goodness he was now reading his magazine.
Punch
, forsooth, full of silly jokes and impertinent sallies against respectable people.

The two other passengers at the far end of the carriage on the opposite side were as still as waxwork figures; the man held a newspaper in front of his face. What was he hiding? The woman had a large dark purple hat with a veil in front. Dickens looked. Yes, she was breathing. He could see the way the veil was sucked in slightly and swelled out again as she exhaled. Not a corpse then. He could not make out the features behind the grey veil, but he could tell she was too large to be Mademoiselle Victorine. Not that he had expected her to be found in a first-class compartment, but you never knew.

By a quarter after ten o'clock they were at Folkestone where they had twenty minutes' wait. The man with the red face, now more puce, unwrapped himself, suddenly alarmed that he might be left behind. He made what haste he could, encumbered as he was with his coats and his case. Dickens and Jones sat still, Sam imperturbably reading about Mr Pickwick's meeting with Sam Weller's father and his tribulations with the uncommon pleasant ‘wider' whose change to a wife brought about a decidedly unpleasant transformation of her character. Dickens was reading his copy of
Punch
magazine, grinning to see a reference to Mr Dickens's friend Micawber in a satirical piece about debt. Puce glared at them. Idle rogues. Always laughing – no work to do, he supposed. What business had they to get in his way? Did they not know that the steamer was about to depart for Paris?