Death at Hungerford Stairs (7 page)

‘Is there anyone else?' asked the superintendent. He could not bear the thought of showing her the thin boy, and her finding it was Robin. He glanced at Dickens and saw the same thoughts in his mobile face, and how, in the luminous eyes, there was trepidation for this poor woman.

‘No, no – only me and Robin. Please, let me see him.'

They had to take her down the ill-lit corridor, down the stone stairs to the mortuary below. Their feet echoed in the cold silence as they descended, going down into what would be a circle of hell for Mrs Hart. Dickens's intuition was correct. It was Robin Hart who lay on the icy marble slab in the white-tiled room where the attendant drew back a sheet to reveal the thin boy with his closed eyes, looking for all the world as if he were sleeping.

‘Who has done this?' she asked. ‘Who has killed him?' Her voice was strangely calm. Dickens and Jones had dreaded that she might fall, might faint, might cry out with horror. She did none of those things, but Dickens saw as she gazed at the boy how she was diminished, as if she withered away like a dried leaf before his eyes, and he saw how her heart died within her so that there could be no tears, only the arid grief that sounded in the one hacking cough that was like a bark. Then there was silence and stillness. They heard only the drip of water somewhere, and felt a shiver of a draught which seemed to make the blue gas flame flare a moment, illuminating the scene like a painting – the figures frozen in anguish, their faces in shadow except for the white face of the dead child.

Mrs Hart stepped forward before they had chance to stop her. She pulled at the sheet to see her son, and held the naked child to her. Dickens and Jones could not do anything but wait until she was ready to leave him. What then they would do with her they had no idea. She had no one. They turned away, as did the attendant.

It seemed a long time. Not a word was spoken except for the low murmuring of the woman to her dead child. Then she stopped. Dickens half-turned to see her lay the boy down, cover him again with the sheet as if she were putting him to bed, place her hand on his hair and caress the thin face.

‘I am ready,' she said. ‘I know I must leave him, but it will not be long.'

They took her back upstairs, the superintendent holding her listless arm, and they sat her by the fire in his office, hoping it might bring her to life again. She paid them no attention at all as she stared into the flames.

‘I have seen her before. I saw her at Zeb Scruggs's shop,' said Dickens, remembering. ‘She was selling an old cloak. Zeb was kind and gave her two shillings – they obviously know her and her circumstances, and she said she sold him the shawl. I wonder if Effie Scruggs would look after her – she cannot be left alone.'

‘Yes, a good idea. We can find out if Zeb had sold the shawl and to whom – if he didn't sell it, perhaps it was stolen, and he might recall something about that.'

Between them they helped the woman out of the building and into the clamour of Bow Street; it was always crowded with prison vans bringing in customers or taking them away. A waiting chorus of beggars, brawlers and bagmen cheered or jeered at what they called ‘Long Tom's Coffin' which took those who had been sentenced at the police court to the gaols around the city. The prisoners were brought out from the cells in the courtyard behind the station, a procession of starving wretches, sullen or enraged, a band of impudent pickpockets going to prison for the umpteenth time and not a wit cast down, a haggard woman who looked like a governess with her hands over her eyes, and a ragged little dandy who attempted a swagger, but whose eyes were burning, a man whose hooded eyes hid his knowledge that this was his penultimate journey. They were bundled into the van, into the little cells which lined the corridor of this wheeled black prison. A policeman climbed into his watch box on the outside and another took up his position in the inside corridor. Then they were off, the black horses drawing away the great funeral car, for one of them was going to his death. Somewhere a gallows stood waiting.

Scuffles broke out as drunken wretches were manhandled into the station: ragged ruffians abusing their captors in the vilest terms, bedraggled women with children swarming at their skirts, a prostitute in her gaudy red satin, and a scruffy pickpocket who managed to twist out of the constable's grip and was away through the crowd which cheered him on. The constable shrugged – the lad would be back.

Mrs Hart paid no attention; she seemed neither to see nor hear as they walked her away through the crowd. Something in her stopped the noise; curious eyes watched her and the crowd stood back to let them through. Most knew the superintendent and some of the regulars knew the man with him, but no one shouted or jeered. They just watched the woman with the tragic eyes like dark water, and they knew that something dreadful had happened, and what little humanity was left in them was stirred to pity for a few moments.

Dickens and Jones walked with her between them up to Monmouth Street and Zeb's shop where Effie took one look at Mrs Hart's face and took her into the parlour at the back. Dickens followed while Sam stayed to ask Zeb about the shawl. Effie sat Mrs Hart by the fire. She found brandy and a glass, but Mrs Hart waved it away, her eyes fixed on the fire. Effie withdrew with Dickens who explained what had happened.

‘Then it's all over with her, Mr Dickens. That boy was everything to her. Her husband died two or so years ago. He had been a clerk, respectable, you know, at Lincoln's Inn and she was educated, and the boy. The husband was ill. They moved to cheaper rooms on Parker Street, but they couldn't pay the rent – you know how it is – people move to a cheaper place, two or three rooms, then one, then a cellar, and then for some, nothing.'

Dickens did know how it was. He remembered only too well his own family's descent from a respectable life in Chatham to dingy Bayham Street in Camden Town. Number sixteen he recalled as a mean, small tenement with a wretched back garden next to a squalid court. It was not long before the creditors pressed in: the butcher and baker were not paid, the books had to be sold, Dickens scurrying to the drunken bookseller; the household shrank as furniture and goods were pawned; then when insolvency proceedings were instituted against his father, Dickens went to the appraiser so that even his own clothes could be valued since a debtor and his dependants must have effects of no more than twenty pounds; finally the Marshalsea where John Dickens was imprisoned for debt, and where Mrs Dickens and the younger children joined him, leaving Dickens an exile in the blacking factory. Oh, it was so easy to fall.

Effie continued, ‘Then her husband died and left nothing. Mrs Hart took a room off Moor Street, her and the boy and a dozen other families crowded into the house. Terrible for her.' Effie's eyes filled as she looked at the woman who might have been carved of stone, who gave no sign, nor ever would again.

‘How did she live?'

‘She sold nearly everything – you saw her sell the cloak yesterday; she had the one dress left, and the boy a few things. She sold things, one by one, a green glass paperweight, a set of spoons, a brooch – her treasures. It was pitiful. Zeb stopped her going to the pawnbroker's – gave her more than she would have got there. We haven't sold any of it. Then she did sewing, and he ran errands – earned a penny or two. Nice boy – honest, you know. People liked him. Who would have killed a boy like that, Mr Dickens? Who would be wicked enough?' Effie's kindly face was troubled. ‘Well, I'll look after her, but, I don't know what will become of her.'

Neither did Dickens. She was lost to this world. She would die, he thought. Effie would do her best, but Mrs Hart would not eat or drink; she would simply waste away of longing for her sweet Robin.

Dickens went into the shop to tell Zeb that he would come back later so that they could go to find Tommy Titfer, and maybe Poll and Scrap. He saw on a shelf the green glass paperweight gleaming with the sea inside it. She would never buy it back now.

‘Don't forget to bring the coat and hat, and your specs,' said Zeb, smiling at the thought of the old gentleman. Then his face changed. ‘And we'll do what we can for that poor woman in there.'

‘Thank you,Zeb. Would it be possible for me to contribute?' asked Dickens.

‘No need, sir, we have enough. I'll see you later.'

Dickens and Jones went out into the street to make their way back to Bow Street, and the superintendent told him what he had learned about the shawl. Mrs Hart's shawl was still in the shop. Zeb had not sold it; he had thought he would keep it if ever she wanted it back. He knew that she had been given it by her husband. He hoped that she might be able to raise the money though it was unlikely, but, somehow he did not like to sell it and nor did Effie – it did not seem right.

‘So, whose shawl is the one we found?'

‘Effie said that when Mrs Hart wanted to sell the shawl she told Effie that it had been made by a Frenchwoman, a milliner and dressmaker, and that her husband bought it before he became ill. Effie knew of a Frenchwoman who made clothes and lived in Hanover Street, but she didn't know if the woman was still there. However, we can look for her and see if she made more than one shawl, and to whom she sold it. In the meantime, I suggest we find some supper before you don your motley and go a-playacting. Remember, Rogers will not be far away – and try to avoid getting into a fight.'

By eight o'clock Zeb and his old gentleman were entering Rats' Castle in search of Tommy Titfer. Zeb bought two glasses of brandy and water and they sat at one of the rickety, scuffed tables to wait, but he did not come. Dickens felt a profound disappointment. After all that had happened today, in the back of his mind there had been a pinprick of hope that at least he would find Scrap. Zeb was disappointed, too, and angry. Well, he thought, Tommy Titfer would pay for this when he found him.

St Giles's clock struck nine; it was time to go. Tommy Titfer was not coming. At that moment a weazened little man slipped on to a stool at their table. His face was like a shrivelled walnut, all creases, and jaundiced, too. His nose dripped, and his squint eyes were inflamed with pus in the corners – and he stank. He must have worn those grime-encrusted clothes all his adult life.

‘Yer waitin' fer Tommy? 'E ain't comin'. Nobody seen 'im. Vanished 'e 'as. Owed money ter Fikey Chubb – dangerous 'e 'is. Not seen 'im neither. Could 'elp yer. Wanter find a dog, doncher? 'Eard yer talkin' last night.'

They had not seen him. For all they knew he might have been crouching under the table like a dog. Unsavoury as he was, Dickens felt that there was a chance.

Zeb asked, ‘Know any fanciers?'

‘Could take yer ter Georgie Taylor – 'e's the big man round 'ere. Brother o' Sam Taylor – up at Shoreditch. They 'ates each other, now. Georgie knows all the dog takers round 'ere. They all goes ter 'im – don't matter wot sort o' dog. 'E'll make money – yer'll 'ave ter pay 'im – an' me o' course.'

‘We'll pay when we get there. Five bob.'

The weazened man thought. ‘Two bob, now. I might lose yer – an' a man's gotter live.'

‘All right,' said Zeb, handing him the two shillings.

‘Yer bringin' the old 'un? T'ain't really fittin' for 'im – 'oo knows wot might 'appen?'

The weazened man was twice Dickens's age and he almost laughed. However, he nodded his head to Zeb who told Weazen that the old gentleman was stronger than he looked, and that he wanted his grandchild's dog back.

They went out into the narrow passage by Rats' Castle where Tommy Titfer had gone last night with his purse of gold and silver, and where a gigantic hand had squeezed the life out of him. Weazen led them through a maze of alleys which twisted and turned, went off at right angles, seemed to take them backwards, and in circles, so that they were lost in the labyrinth with no skein of thread to lead them out. Sometimes the lanes were so suffocatingly narrow that it was hard to breathe; sometimes Dickens thought he heard steps behind him, shuffling steps as though the feet were shod in rags; sometimes, looking back, he thought he saw a monstrous apelike shadow on a wall, and he hurried, his breath clotted in his throat, to catch up with Zeb who looked back as though he, too, had sensed something.

City of dreadful night. Always, in the solid darkness, pierced by no star, there were sounds: a scream, running footsteps, a child sobbing, a shrill, mocking voice singing a ghastly song, outcries of sorrow, voices high and hoarse quarrelling in a cellar, curses loud and deep, accents of anger, terrible oaths and terrible laughter, a boy shouting, and somewhere, far away, a dog howling. And there were faces, faces marked with weakness, marked with woe; faces that twisted down at them from windows above, like the gargoyles at St Giles's Church, and faces appearing at subterranean gratings, looking up at them as if from hell. And shadowy forms passing and repassing as if condemned to some perpetual traversing of a terrible limbo, forever seeking light and never finding a way out of this blind world, and all the time Dickens and Zeb pressed on, following their ragged and wretched Virgil deeper into the maze.

The creature shuffled behind them, stopping when they stopped, folding into the shadows when Dickens held up his lamp. The creature saw a dead man walking with eyes like small moons. It muttered to itself. It was afraid now.

‘No eyes, no eyes. Wot is it? Ghosts all round – hell this is. Dark, always dark. Gotter get away.'

Still muttering its fearful words, the creature took another byway and vanished into the murk. When Dickens looked behind him again, his spectacles shining suddenly in the lamplight, the shadow was gone. He heard a kind of scuttling as though something had darted away in fear then he went on. He did not see the other shadow creeping after them, looking curiously down the alley where a huge man had suddenly turned. He did not see Rogers, but he was there as the superintendent had instructed, and he was armed, his flintlock pistol in his pocket.