Death at Hungerford Stairs (29 page)

The superintendent, Rogers and Stemp separated and began their search, looking in the yards and abandoned gardens. The giant would have left the body in an unused place, Sam thought. No use looking where there were lights and voices. It did not take long. In an overgrown garden where rats scuttled in the dark, and the air was filled with the stench of decay and death, Sam saw a shape lying in a heap of stinking refuse. He went nearer with his bull's-eye lantern held it up. The yellow light showed him the body, the terrible face where the rats had feasted, and he saw the red plume of hair. The stink of corruption rose at him so that he had to turn away, though everywhere the air was bitter. Death was in his nostrils, in his mouth, the taste of putrefaction thickening on his tongue like fur to choke him. He forced himself to look again. It was Tommy, no doubt. Poor devil – it was a terrible place to lie, forgotten, left like a piece of rubbish in a midden. Sam sent up a hasty prayer. Whatever he had done, he could not be left thus with no word said for him. Even the murderer on the gallows heard a prayer before the noose tightened.

He called out for Rogers and Stemp and heard their boots on the cobbles of the alley.

‘Poor devil,' said Rogers when he saw the horror that was Tommy Titfer now. Stemp said nothing. He had heard what had been said about Titfer and the boys. He was implacable – the little rat deserved what he got. But he said nothing.

‘Your rattle, Stemp. We need a couple of beat constables to deal with the body. They'll be able to get the mortuary van down here and take him away. We'll deal with it all tomorrow. We need to see Chubb, now.' Stemps's rattle summoned two constables to the alley and Sam gave his instructions. Stemp would wait with one of them while the other returned to the police station. Stemp would come to Fikey Chubb's as soon as he could.

Sam and Rogers picked their way through the weeds and rank grasses and made their way out through the abandoned house to which the garden had once belonged. The roof had fallen in as had the stairs and they could see the moon like a spectral face looking down at them. In the lantern light they could see shadows dancing on the crumbling walls, ghosts of those who had once lived, laughed, taken supper, and played the ruined piano that sat drunkenly in the corner. Guests might have come in through this space where the door had been. But they were all gone now, to their graves, perhaps. Well, at least they would not know of the terrible thing that had lain in the garden where lilac had bloomed and roses had come in the summer.

Fikey Chubb's shop was open. They went in; Sam closed the door with as loud a crash as he could make. The shop smelt of Fikey and something like rotten meat. Fikey popped up from behind his counter like a malignant gnome – not that he was particularly small – just ugly, thought Sam maliciously. Fikey had that effect on him.

‘Wot the 'ell? Oh, it's you, Superintendent, no need to bring the bleedin' 'ouse down. It's a friggin' disgrace – persecution, I calls it. I'm a –'

‘Spare me the catalogue of your virtues, Mr Chubb. I have heard it all before.'

Hearing the iron in the superintendent's voice, Fikey subsided, though the scowl on his face did not improve his looks.

‘Tommy Titfer?'

‘Not that agin – I told yer last time. Don't know where 'e is an' I don't bleedin' care.'

‘Oh, we've just found him. Dead. Strangled by the looks of it.'

‘Poor bleeder – that's wot comes o' keepin bad company.' Fikey's sudden access of piety almost made Sam laugh. He was incorrigible.

‘I take it you do not refer to yourself. I thought he was a friend of yours.'

‘Tommy – 'e 'ad no friends – acquaintances, mebbe –' Fikey was becoming loquacious. Sam only had to wait. ‘An' a lot o' rogues, 'e mixed wiv – I'm tellin' yer, Mr Jones, a man's gotter watch 'oo 'e keeps company wiv these days.'

‘Exactly what I was thinking myself. And as you know so much about him, perhaps you would care to tell me with whom Tommy consorted. I've got plenty of time.' Sam's voice was cool. Rogers wanted to laugh. Consorted, he thought, that'd fox Fikey. Sam moved to the counter.

Fikey looked uneasily at Rogers who stood at the door, idly fingering his truncheon. He looked backwards at the open door behind the counter. Bloody 'ell, there woz another of the bleeders there. Stemp had suddenly appeared.

‘Wot yer talkin' abaht – consorted – don't know wot yer mean.'

‘I mean who were these rogues? I am interested in a particular rogue – a toff, apparently, for whom Tommy Titfer ran errands.'

‘Dunno nothin' abaht that.' Fikey did not sound at all convincing.

‘You do, and as I say, we have all night.'

Fikey gave in. ‘Oh, I 'eard a rumour – somethin' abaht boys – dint take much notice – not my line. Told yer last time.'

Sam smashed his truncheon on the counter so hard that Fikey fell backwards, his face suddenly sick in the greenish gaslight.

‘And you did not think to tell me. About Tommy Titfer.' Sam's voice was menacing. ‘You knew about those dead boys – I told you I wanted information. Another boy has been murdered. Your information might have prevented that. Accessory, we call it. You are implicated, Chubb. So, you had better tell me now.'

‘I dunno 'oo it woz. Tommy sed 'e woz 'opin' to earn a bit – I wanted me money back wiv interest.'

‘You would. Did Tommy tell you anything about the man – was he a foreigner?'

Fikey looked baffled. ‘'Oo sed 'e was foreign?'

‘I am asking if Tommy said anything about the man being a foreigner – French, perhaps?'

‘Nah, jest sed 'e woz a toff – Tommy thort 'e might make a bit – yer know. Then 'e disappeared, Tommy that is, so I dint think no more abaht it. 'Ow woz I ter know it woz important?'

Fikey was beginning to recover. Mr friggin' Superintendent couldn't pin anythin' on 'im. But then he looked at the superintendent's face as hard as an axe gleaming dangerously in the green light. Bloody 'ell. 'E'd ave to give 'im somethink – Fikey Chubb, informer. Folk weren't goin' ter like it. But a man 'ad ter look arter number one.

‘One thing. Tommy sed the toff asked if 'e could get drugs. Well, Tommy, 'e knew. There's a place round 'ere wot is a drugs den – opium. Little Chinaman. Yer might find yer toff there.'

We already have, thought Sam, remembering the young man sprawled on that disgusting cot, shouting his fears into the filthy room, and the Chinaman indifferent to it all, except the possibility of a new customer. But the toff had not been Michel Blandois. Damn. Fikey Chubb knew it – he saw the beginnings of a sly smile on Fikey's face. Time to wipe it off.

‘We will certainly go there. I know the place you mean. I'll be certain to tell Mr Chinaman that you sent us – Mr Chubb, most obliging to the police – and does it for nothing, too.'

The beginnings of Fikey's smile vanished and reappeared momentarily on Sam's lips. Bastard. Sod 'im, bleedin' mind reader. 'Ow did 'e know Fikey was goin' ter ask for a fee? That was the trouble with Fikey – no self-knowledge. Out o' pocket and worse, known as a friggin' blower. Oh, shit. He thought of the Chinaman coming for him with a great curved what d'ya call it – scimitar – like self-knowledge, geography was not Fikey's strong point. He looked at Sam. Seeing the ghost of a smile, he realised something.They wouldn't arrest 'im – no, they'd bleedin' leave 'im to be cut in pieces by some yeller-faced snake 'oo'd laugh as 'e did it. Could 'e ask ter be arrested? What a friggin' joke.

Sam knew all that was in the grimy alleys of Fikey's mind. Let him sweat or rather not. He could smell the man again. He'd get Inspector Grove and a few constables to clear out that verminous opium den. He wouldn't mention Fikey – he could not have the man's murder on his conscience. Stemp wouldn't mind, he thought as he looked at his stony face behind the counter. Stemp had not moved during the colloquy with Fikey, but Sam had felt Rogers's desire to laugh. Stemp saw things in black and white. Fikey was a rat. If he were put down then so be it. My trouble is, he thought, I read too much.
Every man's death diminishes me, for I am involved in mankind.

Fikey was looking at him, wondering what this hatchet-faced man was thinking. 'Ard as nails, he thought, the bleeder. Soddin' crushers – hang yer soon as look at yer.

‘Well, Chubb – you have been most helpful, most public spirited. We must leave you in peace. I should put up your shutters if I were you. Dangerous times we live in.'

Fikey did not answer. Sarky git, he thought. They went out, leaving Fikey to worry about hordes of yellow-faced Chinamen brandishing their great curved knives. Sam thought with satisfaction that Fikey would not sleep that night. And, although he had not found Michel, Titfer had been found – the giant had more than likely killed him. He had seen the crushed throat – same as the labouring man. And he had been reminded to shut down the opium den. It was time to go to Zeb's to see if there were any news of Mrs Hart.

Dickens and Scrap were at Zeb's shop with Effie. Zeb and Occy were still searching, as was Feak who had had the bright idea of going for his mother. Mrs Feak was there too. She had not seen Mrs Hart, but they had looked in the yards and courts near Mrs Feak's house, and she had come to Zeb's in case they found her, in case she was needed. Good people, thought Sam, as the smell of Fikey Chubb dissolved.

‘Mrs Feak, good evening,' he said. ‘You have not seen her?'

‘No, Mr Jones. I wonder how far she can 'ave gone. She ain't strong. She won't last out there in this cold night.'

They all thought of her waxen face and starved frame. If they did not find her tonight, she would die.

‘Rogers and Stemp will help. Will you stay here with Effie?'

‘I will.'

‘Mr Dickens and I will go out again now. Scrap, perhaps you ought to go home. Mr Brim will be wondering where you are.'

‘'S'all right, Mr Jones,'e knows I'm wiv you. Shall I come with yer?'

‘I'd like you to help Mr Rogers, if you will. They'll need you to do your usual listening and you can get into places they can't.'

Scrap looked puzzled and a little disappointed, but he accepted Sam's request and went off with Rogers and Stemp. Sam took Dickens by the arm and led him in the opposite direction.

‘Where are we going?' asked Dickens.

‘Waterloo Bridge – she might have jumped. We can ask the tollkeeper – he might have seen her or she might be hanging about there, waiting.'

‘That is why you did not want Scrap with us.'

‘Yes, I don't want him to see her if she has drowned. If he finds her with Rogers and Stemp, Rogers will keep him from the worst.'

They walked back to Bow Street and down into Wellington Street which led directly on to the bridge.
The Bridge of Sighs
, Thomas Hood called it in his poem, the bridge notorious for suicides, especially young women who had nothing left but the prospect of an unwanted child and the workhouse. All night the turnstile clicked, and the halfpennies were given over to the tollman who knew if one would not stop for the change what she might do.

Dickens and Jones looked about them but there was no sign of Mrs Hart. They paid their halfpence each to the tollman. Dickens thought of him as Charon ferrying the damned across the Styx, though he was cheerful enough despite the cold, bundled up in his shawl. They went to stand and look down at the river. If she came this way, they could stop her.

Dickens looked down at the water boiling below, swirling under the arch, and he thought of Mrs Hart's unresisting body sucked down into the blackness – that portal of Eternity. But, as someone had once told him, you had to mind how you jumped – from the side of the bay was best and then, his informant said, you would tumble true into the stream under the arch. The same man had told him of the young woman who sprang out of a cab going at speed then ran along the pavement and jumped, of the young man who cried out cheerfully ‘Here goes, Jack!' and was over in a minute. He looked down to the water stairs and saw there a figure simply standing. He nudged Sam whose eyes followed his pointing finger. But then the gleam of a lamp showed the outline of a man – not her.

They could wait all night, they could scour the stairs, the wharves, the piers, and they could never stop. Yet they might never find her. She might already be gone, thought Dickens, into that dark water, drifting with the tide. What dreadful silence down there under the swell, fathoms deep where bleached bones were gathered. This river, so broad and vast, so murky and silent seemed to him such an image of death in the midst of the great city's life. They stood silently, wondering and the words of Hood's poem with its insistent rhythm and rhymes sounded eerily in his head:

Mad from life's history,

Glad to death's mystery,

Swift to be hurl'd –

Anywhere, anywhere

Out of the world!

‘Where is she? Living or dead, where is she?' he burst out. Sam shook his head.

‘Time to go,' said Sam. ‘You go home, Charles. I will collect Scrap and take him to Crown Street then I will go home. We can do no more for her.'

‘You are right. We'll take a cab and I'll drop you off at St Giles's. Let me know tomorrow if there is news – about anything.'

‘I will.'

They walked away to the nearest cab stand. Beneath the arch the black water rolled on, rushing and swishing as it hastened towards Blackfriars Bridge, thence to Southwark, under London Bridge, past the Tower and Traitor's Gate, through the Pool where the great ships waited, tethered like huge dragons, straining to be free, to spread their vast wings on the sea, past Cuckold's Point where the pirates hung, washed by the hurrying tide, down through Limehouse Reach, whirling into the West India Dock Basin, out again into Greenwich Reach and away, away to the wide, empty ocean.