The Murder of Patience Brooke (11 page)

Going into Crown Street, he passed the stationer’s shop. He couldn’t resist the temptation and went in to find the three shop assistants waiting for custom. He could not help wondering if anyone had been in since Sunday, and, he thought, surely there must be some adult in charge sometimes. But the shopkeepers looked cheerful enough, and Miss Eleanor Brim greeted him with the words, ‘May we help you, Mr Dickens? You know our stock.’

Indeed he did, and found himself asking for a quire of paper which he did not need. Having paid for it, he enquired whether he could leave it for collection. Miss Brim was gracious and lamented that they did not have a delivery service as Tom was far too young to have such a responsibility. The door opened, and in shot a piece of boyhood, or girlhood – it was difficult to tell since there were only a long, thatch of straggling black hair and a pair of ragged boots to be seen as the person slid along the wooden floor to land in a heap by the counter.

‘Our friend, Scrap,’ offered Eleanor. Poll barked a greeting, and Tom nodded.

‘Obliged to meet you,’ said Dickens.

‘Same ’ere.’ Scrap was a boy, a thing of shreds and patches with an engaging grin.

‘Why were you rushing, Scrap?’ asked Eleanor.

‘Chased,’ replied the laconic Scrap. ‘Lost ’em down the gate.’

‘Who?’ enquired Dickens.

‘Pa – wants me ’ome, ’e sez, but I ain’t goin’ – not yet anyways. I’m visitin’ today.’

‘Where do you live?’

‘Dials. Stay ’ere sometimes – on guard like.’

‘On guard?’

‘Scrap protects us when our father isn’t here, when he goes on business – or something. We met him when he saved Poll’s life. Poll was nearly taken by a man, but Scrap grabbed her. Brave boy.’

‘Nasty prig, he woz, wiv his light ’ooks. Thort they woz mugs and he’d play a quiff on ’em but Scrap knew ’is chivvy. We does a scoot an’ leaves ’im way behind.’

‘Didn’t go for the slop then?’ enquired Dickens who enjoyed street language, and had got the gist of Scrap’s speech.

Scrap looked at this newcomer with respect. ‘Nah. Niver seen ’im agin. Lagged most like.’

‘Do you know your way about the streets here?’

‘Course. I knows all the alleys, the topers, the back streets.’

‘Might I offer you sixpence for some watching? Do you know Whetstone Place and Lincoln’s Inn Fields?’

‘Course I does. Who’m I lookin’ fer?’

‘A man with a crooked face, dressed in black, or he might be dressed as a pedlar. Pale face and black hair brushed back. Something not right about him.’

‘Blimey. Wot’s he done?’

‘I don’t know yet but he might be dangerous. Don’t let him see you if you find him. Just leave a message here, if that is all right, Miss Brim.’

‘Certainly, as long as Scrap is not in any danger.’

‘’E won’t catch me, Miss Nell, I got me lamps everywhere. I ain’t no mug.’

‘Be careful, Scrap. Here’s the sixpence, and another if you find him. I’ll come back here tomorrow, or the next day. Goodbye to you all.’

Dickens made his way to catch the fly, hoping that he would not be putting Scrap in danger. He was obviously a smart lad and knew his way about, preferring to run rather than turn and face danger – he would be all right. And what about the other three? Who was looking after them apart from Scrap? Observant, Dickens had noted Eleanor Brim’s hesitation over the words ‘or something’. And why should they need protecting?

Dickens took the fast carriage to St Mark’s where he found the Reverend Octavious Goodchild in the church. There was no sign of Francis Fidge.

‘Mr Dickens, I am glad to see you as always. I am sorry I missed you the other day.’ The old man’s shrewd eyes twinkled. He knew they had been there and, perhaps, what had passed between the superintendent, Dickens and Francis Fidge.

‘I am sorry that I did not pay you the courtesy of a visit but –’

‘You and the superintendent had questions to ask.’

‘About Patience Brooke – she is missing.’

‘He has confessed all.’

Dickens’s heart jumped. He had been convinced that Francis Fidge was guilty of nothing – only a hopeless love for a woman who had rejected him.

‘All?’ he asked, dreading the answer.

‘His love for a girl who could not return his feelings, his loss of faith, his loathing of his work, and his desire to go from here.’

‘Patience Brooke is dead – murdered.’

‘That is terrible news, dreadful. That poor girl. I shall pray for her – a sad young woman, I thought. But, Mr Dickens, I assure you, Francis Fidge is not a murderer. He would have confessed it. You know that he is dying.’

‘I do. I saw his face and the red that burns in it.’ Dickens felt that the old man was right, but he needed proof for Sam. That was why he had come.

‘You need proof.’ Goodchild was a mindreader. ‘When did she die?’

‘On Friday night at about ten o’clock.’

‘Then you need not fear. I was with him. He was very ill that night with a fever. I did not leave him.’

‘I am glad, so glad. He has suffered so. I did not want him to be a murderer – nor did Superintendent Jones, but we had to know for the sake of Patience. We can look elsewhere now. What will he do?’

‘He will stay here. He is too sick to go anywhere. My housekeeper, Mrs Wilkes, will nurse him, and I will try to bring him back to the love of God who loves him, and he will die in peace.’

‘Thank you for your kindness, Mr Goodchild. I know that you will keep him safe. I must go now to the Home to see Mrs Morson.’

‘Farewell then. I hope you will find whoever did this and bring him to justice.’

That reminded Dickens. ‘I need to ask one more thing if I may.’ Goodchild nodded. ‘Have you seen any strangers in the last week or so – a pedlar, perhaps?’

‘Yes. I noticed a man with his pedlar’s tray, sitting here in the churchyard – a couple of weeks ago – let me think. It was a Friday, yes, about two weeks ago.’

‘You’re sure?’ asked Dickens, remembering that the pedlar had sold his ribbons and pins at the Home a week before Patience had been killed.

‘Yes, I remember because there was snow on the ground, though it’s supposed to be spring. But it was a bright day. He looked a poor wretch. I felt for him travelling about in the bitter cold. He was sitting on that tombstone just looking about him. I would have offered him something, but I was going out to visit a sick parishioner.’

‘Was anyone else about?’

‘Francis Fidge and Patience had walked through the churchyard into the lane beyond.’

‘Did he see them?’

‘I do not know. Would that be important?’

‘It might be – I don’t know – I’m just trying to put things together.’

‘There was one thing – that is if you are trying to find him.’ Dickens knew what he was going to say. ‘He had a crooked face.’

Bidding farewell to Reverend Goodchild, Dickens turned and went through the churchyard to go to the Home. He walked slowly, thinking about the significance of what he had heard. The crooked-faced pedlar or clerk in Whetstone Place, Patience Brooke and Francis Fidge were linked, but how? Francis Fidge was not the murderer – that was not in doubt now – but if the pedlar had seen Patience and Francis and thought they were lovers then that suggested some motive. Was the man with the twisted face the lover of Patience Brooke, the one because of whom she would never love again? Or was he, as Dickens had thought before, just the agent? Whichever, he must be found. Dickens hoped that Scrap might discover him. He would go to Crown Street tomorrow. In the meantime, he should see Mrs Morson.

Little Jenny Ding, once of Clerkenwell Workhouse, let him in. She would be a success, he thought. She was pretty and enjoyed her responsibility as chief doorkeeper, taking his hat and coat and placing it carefully on the hall table. She was quick at her lessons too, according to Mrs Morson.

The house was quiet. Mrs Morson was in her little sitting room poring over her account books. Some of the girls were in the garden tending to their plots under the supervision of James Bagster; some were sewing or reading according to their preference.

‘All quiet?’ he asked as he came into the room.

‘Yes, thank heaven. Though these accounts are disturbing my peace. I have added up the bills for January and the total is,’ she looked at her paper and bills, ‘forty-three pounds and sixteen shillings. That seems right, does it not?’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘That includes James’s salary and the fire insurance.’

‘It is in line with other months. If you give me the bills, I will enter them in my book and pay them. Have you enough petty cash? Would another five pounds be useful?’

‘It would, thank you.’ She took the proffered note and put it in her desk.

‘How is Lizzie Dagg now?’

‘She is quiet and getting on with her work, but she is often tearful still. I wonder –’

‘What? There is something else?’

Mrs Morson looked at him with her frank, grey eyes. ‘I was a doctor’s wife,’ she began, ‘I have learned things that you may think a lady ought not to know, but our circumstances were unusual. Out in Cuyaba, out there in the wilderness, it was not possible to – be – too fastidious. Birth and death and disease were our daily companions. What I am saying is that my husband told me many things. I think that what is troubling Lizzie is physical. You heard her say that something was wrong with her, and that Francis Fidge would hate her if he knew. I suspect that she is suffering from a disease contracted in her past life. She needs to be frank with Doctor Brown so that he can treat her.’

Dickens understood. ‘I will write to him and explain what you think, and ask him for a private appointment.’

‘Thank you. She may improve in spirits if her health improves.’

‘And Isabella, and Sesina, they have quietened down?’

Mrs Morson looked troubled. She did not like to burden him with more difficulties, but she was wary of secrets now and what they might lead to. She would tell him her thoughts, however disturbed he might be. What she had to tell him was something she had only ever discussed with her husband, and that because she had wondered about two of the European wives whose husbands were employed at the Cuyaba Silver Mine.

‘I have said that my husband was a doctor and that abroad our lives were unusual. We came into contact with strange people, people who were lonely, exiled from their families, women especially – those whose husbands ill-treated them, who formed close relationships with other women …’ She paused to organise her thoughts. This was difficult. What would Dickens think of her?

‘You are telling me that you think there may be an unhealthy relationship between Isabella and Sesina?’ he said, his tone perfectly calm.

‘I do not know. I even think that they may be pretending, trying to shock me into saying something so that they, in turn, can be shocked and offended, and have cause for complaint to you – about me. They are flirtatious with each other; Isabella behaves like a lover to Sesina, and she responds. It is hard to describe – you have to see them, and they will not do it in front of you. Isabella is too clever for that. And, at the moment, they have a room to themselves. I wonder. It is not so uncommon, and they are both of high animal spirits, Isabella especially. Sesina enjoys the petting, being the favourite, receiving the kisses – which might seem innocent, but –’

Dickens sensed her discomfort, her fear of his reaction. Of course, he knew of these things, but he had never spoken to a woman of them. He did not doubt that Isabella would love to shock, and he was angry that she might pretend such a thing to upset Mrs Morson and disturb the house. As for its being real, that was also a problem he had not foreseen. He determined to be practical.

‘It is clear that you cannot say anything, that you cannot challenge them for the eminently sensible reasons you have given. At the same time, this is a serious disturbance for the Home. It is far more problematic than Jemima Hiscock’s drunkenness and we had to expel her. Isabella Gordon will have to go.’

‘Upon what grounds?’

‘We will have to wait. But, from what you say, Isabella is becoming more daring, and she will, I think, cause more trouble yet and give us the grounds we need. In the meantime, I counsel you to ignore the flirting, and she will find something else to challenge you with. I am glad you have told me – I know it was difficult,’ he said, smiling at her with sympathy.

‘Thank you. I knew I must speak for we know now the danger of secrets.’

‘We do. I have been to see the Reverend Goodchild who has given me proof that Francis Fidge is not our murderer. The reverend was with him all Friday night. Fidge is a sick man. He is dying of consumption. I knew it when the superintendent and I spoke with him.’

‘Poor man. I guessed it, too. I knew from the hollow cough and the fever in his eyes and cheeks, and from how thin he was. I am glad that he is not guilty of killing her. What are you to do next?’

‘We have discounted Obadiah Godsmark – we have proof that he was at home that Friday. We have wondered how Patience Brooke came here, and I thought she might have heard of us from a girl who had left us. I know it is a remote possibility. I thought of Alice Drown. The superintendent and I are going to try to find her brother who worked as a longshoreman at Jacob’s Island. He might know where she is.’

‘And the pedlar?’

‘I think I saw him – in London. At least I saw a man with a crooked face in a crowd. However, he was not dressed as a pedlar. He was wearing a black suit. I am not sure whether it is the same man – I might have imagined him, but I have someone looking out for him – a smart lad. I find out tomorrow if he has had any success.’

‘When will you come back?’

‘I do not know but I will write to you telling of our progress, and you will write to me if you have any more trouble with Miss Gordon. If you do, I will come at once. I have written to Miss Coutts and I will have to see her and try to get some help.’

‘I was going to ask about that. James has a sister, Ellen, who would come to help with the girls. I need someone to take charge when I am absent, and I must take some of the girls out – being cooped up here will only increase their fractiousness. I am afraid they will quarrel if they do not have some freedom.’