The Murder of Patience Brooke (26 page)

‘Yes, Mr Dickens and I had reason to find information about Mr Crewe.’ He dared not say more though it was clear that she was curious about his role.

‘I was going to say that perhaps you do not fully know how difficult it is to be a woman in society as it is. We are expected to receive passively the attentions of any man who chooses to pay them. I suppose it is thought that we should be grateful. We are certainly not expected to make a scene. If I had shown dislike of Mr Crewe in public, then society would have assumed that I was acting a part to encourage him. I was caught in a trap created by the mores of our society – if I seemed to like him, I was a silly flirt, if I seemed to dislike him, I was the same. Papa, you have educated me to read, to think for myself, and yet you could believe that my head was turned by the first young man who came my way, a young man who was obviously a man who liked pleasure and parties and cards, and not much else.’

My foot, my tutor
, thought Dickens, casting Mr Topham as Prospero. She was an astonishing young woman, and like Patience, for all her quietness, there was strength there. He thought about what she had said about society’s attitude to women, and he thought with horror about what her life would have been had she married Crewe. But she would not have gone with him willingly.

‘I am sorry, my dear,’ said Topham. ‘I said nothing for I thought I might hurt you by questioning your judgement about Crewe, and now I find I have hurt you by underestimating your intelligence.’

‘You meant all for the best, but be assured, when I choose, if I choose, it will be a man you respect. How could it be otherwise when I have had you for my example?’

There was the glint of tears in Mr Topham’s eyes and Dickens felt their pricking in his. She was a remarkable young woman. What man, he thought, would be her match? He wondered about the amiable Mr Wilde.

‘You are to attend a ball tonight?’ asked Sam who had thought all that Dickens had thought, but who was still concerned that Crewe might be reckless enough to take her by force. ‘Do you expect Mr Crewe to be there?’

‘I do not know. Do you wish me to avoid him? That might be difficult for the reasons I have outlined before.’

It would be better, thought Sam, if she did not go at all, but how to suggest this without alarming her?

Mr Topham intervened. Knowing the truth, he was prepared to make the decision. She needed to be protected and to know more and he knew now that she would understand.

‘Mr Jones is a policeman. He is investigating a crime about which he believes Mr Crewe to know something, and he believes that it would be better if you did not meet Mr Crewe. I think it would be wise for us to send our apologies then you cannot be placed in an embarrassing situation.’

‘I understand. Thank you for telling me, Mr Dickens. It was kind of you both to come. I hope we may meet again.’

‘I hope so, too,’ said Dickens.

Mr Topham came to the door with them, much to the surprise of the lordly footman.

‘Keep her safe, Mr Topham,’ said Sam.

‘I will. And she will keep me safe, too, until she chooses the remarkable man who will be her husband – but not yet, I hope.’ He smiled as he showed them out. ‘Thank you for coming to me.’

They stood in the raw air, feeling the cold after the warmth of the comfortable library. The night was uncannily still, but they could hear the traffic in Oxford Street and Regent Street. The city was waiting for them.

‘Back to the Albany, then. And one of my constables shall go to the ball – I will put a watch at Cavendish Square. We may not find him tonight in this fog. Where has he gone to ground in this teeming place?’

There was no news at the Albany. The risk was the same – if he were not there, then his manservant would surely tell him that the police had been there twice. The story of a robbery was thin – it would not serve again. When Crewe knew that they had been, he would vanish, surely, or would he brazen it out? It was impossible to tell. Dickens and Jones stood uncertainly. Sam decided. He would go, he would simply ask for Crewe not saying who he was. Dickens would wait out of sight. If Crewe were there they would go in and challenge him about Patience.

He was there. The manservant, a young man in a dark green livery, was reluctant to admit the superintendent. Sam had said that he wanted to see Mr Crewe on a matter of some delicacy; the servant hesitated, looking over his shoulder anxiously. In the pause, Sam stepped into the little hall. Seeing him do so, Dickens hurried along the corridor and followed him in. The servant was surprised to find that he had two uninvited guests. ‘I will ask Mr Crewe if he will see you but I do not think –’ He broke off, his anxious, young face creased with worry.

Dickens felt sympathy. He imagined that Edmund Crewe would not be an easy master; the young man had obviously been instructed not to let in anyone whom he did not know. The vestibule was too small for the three of them. It was a small panelled space with a console table against the wall above which was an ornate gilt mirror. Dickens had a glimpse of his own face, as anxious as the servant’s. He was surprised to see how dishevelled he looked, his hair swept across his brow in untidy strands, his tie floppier than usual, and his eyes too wide in his pale face. Good Lord, he thought, I look like the murderer! The manservant regarded Sam’s implacable face and, looking even more nervous, said he would enquire and went through the dark, heavy mahogany door into the room beyond.

Sam looked in the mirror and they stared at their own strained faces. The servant returned. Dickens and Jones went in to a small drawing room, furnished with a sofa in rich cranberry-coloured velvet and two leather armchairs facing the burning fire. There was a larger console table in shining mahogany against one wall; upon it there was a tantalus and some crystal glasses on a silver tray. On the floor was a richly patterned Turkey carpet and there was a small round table with two balloon-backed chairs. It was all very tasteful, exactly what a young man about town needed to be comfortable enough. There was a door at the far side of the fireplace leading presumably to the bedrooms. The servant disappeared through it, and as if by some mysterious act of prestidigitation, Crewe appeared in his place.

Crewe must have been in the act of dressing for he was coatless, though he was wearing an evening waistcoat, black trousers, and a white shirt with expensive gold studs and cuff links. One hand was at his neck and a ruby ring shone in the candlelight. He simply looked at them and said, ‘Well?’ Dickens heard the sneer in his voice.

Sam spoke, ‘I am Superintendent Jones of Bow Street and this is Mr Charles Dickens.’

‘Dickens?’ said Crewe. ‘There were servants of that name at Crewe Hall, our family seat,’ he added. It was a deliberate insult, calculated to wrong-foot them. Dickens did not respond though he felt a tightening in his chest and his grip tightened on his stick – he would have liked to strike that insolent face with it, but he simply stood still.

The words hung in the air. Sam ignored the comment. For all his lazy insolence, Crewe’s eyes betrayed his wariness, but only wariness – not fear. However, Sam’s silence forced Crewe to speak again. ‘My servant said you were here on a matter of delicacy. What is it? I have not much time – I should be at supper very shortly and then to a ball at Cavendish Square.’

‘We are here to discover information about the death of a young woman, Patience Brooke, who was employed at a home for young women established by Mr Dickens and Miss Burdett-Coutts.’

‘And what has her death to do with me, Superintendent? – I do not know the name, Mr Dickens; I am at a loss to understand how you think I could help you.’

Dickens answered, ‘Miss Brooke’s real name was Patience Rivers, and we were led to believe that she was your wife, and that you had a child together.’

The name Rivers had produced a tiny flicker in Crewe’s eyes, perceptible to Sam who was watching him as a cat watches a bird. Sam saw how that flicker betrayed the swift working out of what to admit, what to deny. Crewe passed a hand over his high, white forehead, concealing his eyes. When he removed it, the eyes were now clouded. He sat down on one of the chairs by the fireplace. They waited. Dickens was intrigued – the man was an actor. What part would he play now?

‘Please, sit down, and I will tell you what I can. You say Patience Rivers is dead?’

‘She is.’ It was interesting that he did not ask when or how, and interesting that he called her Patience Rivers not my wife.

‘I am afraid,’ Crewe began, ‘that what I am to tell you does not reflect credit on me.’ He looked up at them, his expression rueful, that of a man who regretted some youthful indiscretion, but who was prepared to admit it. ‘Patience and I had a child together – she was my mistress for two years. I confess I did not love her as she loved me – there was never any question of marriage – my guardian, Sir Hungerford Crewe, would never have countenanced it. Patience was only the daughter of a music teacher. However, Patience wanted more of me than I could give. We quarrelled bitterly and she left. I have not heard of her since. Fortunately, she left the child with me. She is being looked after at Crewe Hall in Cheshire. I did care for Patience; I am very sorry to hear that she is dead.’ He bowed his head, looking the very picture of remorse.

Sam was blunt. ‘She was murdered last Friday – her throat was cut.’

‘Good God – how terrible.’ He paused. Then looked up. Arranging his face, thought Dickens. ‘Do you know who did it?’

‘We have our suspicions, but, of course, Mr Crewe, I cannot discuss these with you.’

‘I suppose she might have found another lover – who knows?’ Again the tone was regretful, and at the same time the meaning was that these things happen, that it was a pity, but it was nothing to do with him.

‘Oddly, another girl is missing from the Home – a young girl of about thirteen years. Fortunately, we may have a witness whom we are going to question tomorrow. We think the young girl may have gone away with a man who may have been seen,’ Dickens said, hoping perhaps to startle him into what? He did not know. Sam watched Crewe’s eyes. They opened wide now, their look was puzzled, curious, always regretful.

‘It is strange, is it not, but I am afraid I cannot help you there. I know nothing of your Home, as you call it. Why should I? Now, if you will forgive me, I should like to be left alone – you have given me grave news here. I may not have loved her as she loved me, but her death is a terrible thing.’ He bowed his head but Sam saw the faint gleam of something in his eyes. What? Satisfaction? Something mocking? It was gone in a second.

‘What will happen about the murder? Will there be an inquest? Shall I have to appear?’

‘All in good time, Mr Crewe, we shall certainly keep in contact with you.’ Was there a threat in Sam’s tone? If so, Crewe chose to ignore it.

‘Good night, then. Thank you for telling me. I am sorry I could not help you more.’

They had no choice but to go. He would give nothing away. The longer they stayed, the more assured he would become. They went downstairs and out into Piccadilly where the late-night traffic made its slow way through the viscid murk.

‘Damn him, damn him,’ muttered Sam. ‘We are no better off. If he is not Patience’s husband then bang goes his motive. It’s all so vague. Oh, for a good, honest witness or a good honest piece of evidence. Why didn’t he drop that damned ruby ring at the crime scene?’

‘A damned liar, that’s what he is. I know it,’ said Dickens.

‘Yes, I saw that gleam of satisfaction in his eye when he had finished his recital of his and Patience’s relationship. He thought he had fooled us with his performance. But what if they were not married?’

‘I think they were – why else would he kill her?’

‘Unless he thought she might come back for the child just as he was about to marry Laetitia Topham. It would still be awkward for him.’

‘Awkward but not ruinous – he would be married to a rich man’s daughter. He could explain the child away – an indiscretion, a youthful error, and he might appear to be someone who was prepared to face his responsibility by looking after the child. Whereas if he were found out to be a bigamist, that would be disastrous. In any case, I think it is all more complicated. I am not convinced about the marriage to Laetitia Topham – he must have known she would not accept him. He’s cleverer than that and he must have known Mr Topham would be an obstacle. If he had taken her, he would have ruined her for the sake of it; he killed Patience because she escaped him, because he wanted to punish her by showing the world that she was a whore; he killed that little girl because that’s what he does – he is depraved, he enjoys his killing. He enjoys, above all, his double life, outwitting us all. I do not think it matters whether he married Patience or not.’

Sam listened. ‘You are right – it does not matter just now, at any rate, for if your analysis is correct, then we have still to worry about Jenny Ding and Louisa Mapp, and we have no idea where they are. The sighting of them by Scrap’s informants might not be right at all, and we have no idea where else to look. I suppose we could go back and see Mary Lyons, see if she remembers anything else. I tell you what, we’ll get a cab to Bow Street and I’ll send a man to relieve Feak and tell him to come back to Bow Street then he can go to see Mary Lyons. Feak knows how urgent it all is. He’s a good lad and will know what to ask. Save us the trouble.’

‘Mrs Cutler will not be pleased to have another policeman at her door,’ observed Dickens.

‘Well, she can damn well lump it. If she keeps a bawdy house, however discreet, she’ll have to put up with the risks.’

‘What about Crewe?’

‘God knows. We need a break. We need him to make a mistake. He might, you know. He thinks he has shaken us off. I said I would put a man at Cavendish Square – I’ll make it two – in plain clothes. We need to have him followed if they can see their way in this damned fog. One can report in if he comes back to the Albany. Our constable here can keep his eye on the place. Crewe might stay at home tonight, after the ball.’