Death at Hungerford Stairs (20 page)

Dickens exchanged a glance with Sam. How much to tell Oliver? Sam shook his head slightly. Nothing, yet.

‘I will instigate a search, Mr Wilde. Do you know of any places he might have visited regularly?' Sam made no sign that Dickens had told him anything about Theo's difficulties.

Oliver looked embarrassed. Was it his place to tell the policeman what he feared about Theo Outfin? Yet, if they were to find him, he needed help – he could hardly go searching on his own. Sam understood as he watched the fleeting shadows of doubt flicker on Oliver's face.

‘You are afraid that he might be a frequenter of some dubious places? Many young men are. Not many come to harm. Still, if you are worried, perhaps you ought to tell me about him. It will go no further.'

‘I told Mr Dickens last night. Theo has been deeply troubled, almost estranged from his family – yet he and Sophy were once so close – they are very alike to look at. If Sophy were a boy, she would be practically his double, and he, well, he is girlish in a way – sensitive, you know, and he has found friends in a disreputable group of young bloods – I do not know how, but I think he gambles. Mr Dickens asked me about illegal gambling dens – I think it must be so. Why else would he be in St Giles's?'

‘Then we will know where to look. What I suggest, Mr Wilde, is that you go back to reassure Mr and Mrs Outfin and Miss Sophy that the matter is in my hands, and that we will do everything we can to find him. Of course, he may come home and then you must let me know. I will send to you as soon as we have news. You will stay at the Outfin house?'

‘Yes, I will. Are you sure I cannot help in the search?'

‘No, Mr Wilde. We know where to look.'

Oliver Wilde departed somewhat reluctantly. Sam was glad. He did not want the complication of Oliver's presence. He did not know if he were looking for a murderer or for a victim.

‘Well,' said Dickens, ‘what are we to make of this?'

‘It is quite possible that Theo Outfin is sleeping off a long night of illegal gaming. On the other hand, he might be in danger, and of course, we must consider the idea that he is in hiding. Whichever, he must be found. And, we need to do the finding discreetly. If he is not our murderer then we will be glad to have been discreet.'

‘Rogers?'

‘Yes.'

‘What about Zeb – and Occy? Scrap, too, would be useful. I need to see him anyway.'

‘I agree, and I will recruit Feak – he is not a blabberer, young as he is.'

Rogers and Feak were detailed to meet Dickens and Jones near the burnt-out house of the Moons where Dickens had seen Theo last. They would go first to the stationery shop to collect Scrap and then to Zeb Scruggs's shop where Dickens thought he would check on Mrs Hart, too.

The dreary November afternoon light was fading as they came out of the police station. The sky was darkening; dense tiers of clouds, edged with a feverish yellow, suggested rain and, thought Dickens, feeling a thickness about his brow, thunder – a storm brewing?

Dickens and Jones hurried to Crown Street under that ominous sky where the clouds boiled. Fat drops of rain fell; there was a splitting crack of thunder followed by the sudden, sharp flash of lightning. Passers-by unfurled their umbrellas and scurried homeward, their faces white in the lurid light. Dickens turned up his coat collar and jammed his hat tightly on his head.
It was a dark and stormy
night
, he thought ruefully, remembering the opening line of
Paul Clifford
, his friend Bulwer-Lytton's novel of 1830. It was indeed, and truly, the rain was falling now in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which seemed to bustle them along the crowded streets, snatching at their coats with a malicious impudence. By the time they entered the door of Mr Brim's shop they were drenched.

Scrap was there. He looked downcast – poor lad, thought Dickens. No doubt he was thinking of Tilly and Kip. His eyes brightened when he saw Dickens and the superintendent.

‘Kip's alive, Mr Dickens – that's good, ain't it. But poor Tilly and Mrs Moon. 'Ow could it 'appen? T'ain't fair, Mr Dickens, Tilly dint do no 'arm an' Mrs Moon, she woz allus worried. I went ter see Kip. 'E don't know wot ter do.'

‘I have a plan for Kip,' said Dickens. ‘I shall find him a job with my friend Mrs Morson at Shepherd's Bush. He shall be a gardener's boy, and there will be a horse and a stable for him to look after. He will be safe there, Scrap, and one day you will be able to go to see him. I will take you. What do you think? A good plan?'

Scrap beamed. ‘A good plan, Mr Dickens. Kip'll like that – 'e sed 'e 'ad a donkey wonce – does Mrs Morson 'ave a donkey?'

‘I do not think so – but, if Kip wanted one, I daresay it could be arranged. Company for the horse, I suppose.' I shall have to buy a donkey, then, thought Dickens, grinning as he caught sight of Sam's face. Sam had the same thought and grinned back at him.

‘We need you tonight,' said Sam. Scrap smiled. This was better. To be needed by Mr Dickens and Mr Jones – well, yer couldn't say nah, could yer?

‘Wot's up? Yer want me ter find someone?'

‘Yes, we want you with us, keeping your eyes and ears open – a young gentleman's gone missing from near where the fire was. Not been home all night. You might hear something in the alleys. Mr Dickens and I will be looking, and constables Rogers and Feak, but you know how it is, Scrap, the kids might have heard something. Listen in, will you?'

‘Do you have a coat, Scrap? Is there an oilskin in the back somewhere?'

Scrap vanished into the back of the shop as Elizabeth came out to see her husband.

‘We are borrowing Scrap,' said Sam.

‘Out in this rain?' asked Elizabeth.

‘I am afraid so – though we cannot get much wetter.'

‘Take care of him – and yourselves. I will see you at home later, I hope.'

‘You will. Take a cab home.'

Elizabeth smiled at her husband as Scrap came back.

When they went out, the rain had died down to a lighter drizzle though there was still a rumble of thunder in the distance as though some giant hand were rolling a cannonball to demolish a set of giant skittles. They walked to Zeb Scruggs's shop to ask if he would help with the search, and to find out if he knew anything about the errands Robin Hart had carried out. While the superintendent talked to Zeb, Dickens went in the back to ask about Mrs Hart.

‘She's in bed, Mr Dickens,' Effie told him. ‘Though, she doesn't sleep – just lies there with her eyes closed or sometimes just staring into the dark. Won't eat, neither. Mrs Feak's been to see her – the nurse.'

Sam's Sybil of Star Street, Dickens thought, Feak's redoubtable mother. ‘What did she say?'

‘She's dying, Mr Dickens. That's what she said. Nothing to be done. Mrs Feak said she'd seen it before – when a body wants to die, then they does – dying of heartbreak, she says, and it's true. We'll just keep her here until …' Effie's eyes filled. ‘She'll not wake up one o' these days – that's what'll happen.'

She took Dickens upstairs to the small room where a dim oil lamp burnt. Shadow time, thought Dickens, seeing the dark coming in from the corners of the room to gather round the little bed with its white counterpane. The feeble light showed Mrs Hart with her eyes closed, the pale face unmoving and her thin, almost transparent hands, still on the whiteness – like a marble effigy of herself. They went out of the quiet room, leaving her to Time. Time would take her when he was ready. It would be too late for Mrs Hart when, and if, they found the murderer, but there would be justice of a kind for Robin and for Jemmy, and for the as yet unknown boy whose poor, disfigured face had, perhaps, brought about his death just as the beauty of the other two had brought about theirs.

Murder, thought Dickens, how the single act, the knife gleaming in the dark, the poison drop in the glass, the thick hand at the slender throat, created ripples which rolled outwards to touch so many others. Did the murderer consider the harm to all those connected with his victim? No, because murder was a supremely selfish act. The murderer thought only of himself, of his own desires, his own anger, his own loss, his own hurt or rejection – never of his victims' hurts, never of those who might also die for loss of what they had so loved. Every death, he had once written, carries to some small circle of survivors thoughts of so much omitted and so little done. What did Mrs Hart regret now? Did she think that she could have saved him, that she had not paid enough attention when he was away, out in the streets? Well, they would never know from her whom Robin had seen, who had taken him to that shaded graveyard. He followed Effie down the stairs. They trod as quietly as they could but she would not hear them even if they were to clatter their way down.

In the shop, Sam exchanged a brief glance with Dickens who shook his head slightly. They walked to the door while Zeb put on an oilskin which made him look as if he ought to be standing on the deck of a fishing boat. He looked not unlike Mr Peggotty of Yarmouth.

‘She is dying,' said Dickens sombrely. ‘Mrs Feak, your Sybil of Star Street, has been to see her and says so. It is only a matter of time.'

‘Then, it must be true,' said Sam. ‘A wise woman, Mrs Feak.' His face darkened as he thought of Mrs Hart and her poor Robin. ‘We need to find Theo and we need to know about that shawl, but if it is not Theo then I do not know – unless Mademoiselle Victorine's so-called visitor is the answer. Zeb tells me that Robin did errands for a stationer up the street. A respectable man, he says, not likely to be our murderer. Still, I will send a man to question him. He might know something about Robin's other acquaintances. Let's get going.' He looked out at the street, slushy with mud where the rain, heavier again, added to the misery of the scene.

Zeb offered Dickens an oilskin cape. ‘Keep the worst off, Mr Dickens.'

Dickens tied it round his shoulders, conscious suddenly of the smell of fish, and a faint whiff of the sea which reminded him of Captain Pierce and Davey – and Kip. He must get on to that tomorrow. Tomorrow – what would it bring for Theo Outfin, Oliver Wilde and Sophy?

They went to meet Rogers and Feak who were waiting wrapped in oilskin cloaks and with a collection of bull's-eye lanterns. Rogers, that considerate fellow, had brought one for his superintendent. Scrap was to follow them, to keep open his eyes and ears round and about the places where the policemen and Dickens would make their enquiries.

First, a notorious gambling den down a set of precipitous stairs. It was a dank, close cellar with a deal table where cards were laid out and benches where were sitting the company of men with sallow cheeks and matted hair – men who did not seem ever to have seen the clear light of day. There were no girls or women present. There was immediate tension in the room. They knew Superintendent Jones and they recognised Rogers. Someone sniggered, a coarse, ugly sound, as Feak slipped clumsily down the last two steps. Dickens remained above, but he could see into the room; he could see Sam's profile and he knew that his face would be set like stone and that his eyes would be flashing steel in the grimy darkness.

‘Playing cards, eh? Who wins? Got lucky, have you, Mr Click?'

Eyes were lowered but Click, a thin, greasy-looking, snuffling, yellow-faced individual, essayed politeness.

‘Can we 'elp yer, Mr Jones, sir? No 'arm doin' 'ere, sir, jest a light supper an' a game o' cards for the boys.' The voice wheedled. ‘No 'arm, sir, to be sure.'

‘A light supper.' Dickens wanted to laugh at the incongruity of such a genteel phrase. Perhaps the speaker was once a superior sort of servant who had lost his place. His sycophantic air suggested that.

‘I daresay not, Josiah Click. I am looking for a young man, a toff, as you might say – any toffs been here at all?'

‘No, sir, Mr Jones – we don't get no toffs 'ere 'part from the Earl of Warwick, an' yer know 'im, sir. An' Mr Rogers – allus nice to see yer, sir.'

The so-called Earl of Warwick stepped forward nervously, a little foolish, a little sickly, now he was the centre of attention. How he came by his appellation is uncertain, but it was what he was called – an impersonator, perhaps. He had the air of a down-and-out actor with his soiled velvet jacket and dirty shirt.

Rogers, who knew him from old, teased the unfortunate man. ‘Take your hat off, my lord. Why, I should be ashamed if I was you – and an earl, too – to show myself to a gentleman with my hat on!' The company roared with laughter, at ease now. What a jolly game it is, when Superintendent Jones comes down – and don't want nobody!

Of course, there was method in his madness. Rogers knew that while he was joking with the company, Feak was in the room beyond, searching, and the superintendent had moved, stealthy as a cat, into all the corners where his lamp would show if there were someone who did not want to be found. Feak came back – nothing, he signalled to his chief. The superintendent had seen only shadows. Rogers was still entertaining the company with his chaffing of the poor earl whose sense of humour appeared to have been filched from him or his discomfort may have arisen from the knowledge of the stolen watch in his pocket. Rogers knew, of course he did. The hand that stole in and out of the pocket gave the earl away as did the sickly grimace that he hoped would serve for a smile. But that was not what they were here for. The earl would keep. They bade goodnight and mounted the stairs, leaving the roars of laughter behind – relief?

St Giles's clock struck six. Scrap was outside. ‘Nuffink,' he said, and on they went, deeper into the alleys, now mud-filled trenches where beetle-browed tenements skulked in the dark; where houses like so many rough-hewn packing cases huddled together as if shrinking from the rain. A jaundiced light showed down a foetid alley. There they went. The door was fast against them but Rogers hammered loudly until it was opened by a poor wretch of a girl. They pushed their way in to find a party on the go. Plenty of gin and ale, judging by the reeling of the singers and dancers. The music, from a wheezy piano accordion stopped as if the instrument had died suddenly of old age.