Death at Hungerford Stairs (3 page)

Time to find Occy Grave. He was up to date with his monthly instalment of
David Copperfield
; he thought it a smashing number, describing young David's first dissipation in which he gazed at himself in the looking-glass with vacant eyes and wondered how only his hair looked drunk, and in which he was indignant that someone had accused Copperfield of falling downstairs, realising that it might be true when he found himself on his back in the hall – Dickens had laughed when writing it, remembering his own youthful folly. The novel was, in effect, his autobiography – he had not needed to go back to the blacking factory to remember it – the memory was written on his heart.

He had not time to look at the other letters – he expected a sea of correspondence in response to the two letters he had written to
The Times
protesting against public hangings after he had seen the Mannings hanged for the murder of Mrs Mannings's lover. Dickens was so horrified by the brutal mirth and callousness of the watching crowd that he had thought it was like living in a city of devils; he argued that such sights must surely coarsen and harden the spectators and he did not believe in the idea of hanging as a deterrent. And he was haunted, too, by the dead shapes swinging from side to side on the gallows, the woman's skirts ballooning out so that she seemed not dead but doomed to swing there forever, enduring the yelling and whistling of the crowd. Murderess as she was, it had been better that she hang in private, he believed. He had been relieved when the murderer whom he and Jones had pursued in an earlier case had escaped the hangman.The man had been callous, selfish and depraved, but Dickens had not wanted to hunt him to the gallows to be baited with the rabble's curse. And that, he thought, was the moot point – it was all very well to bay for the murderer's death when another man put the noose round his neck. Well, he thought wryly, some of these letters would no doubt be protesting against his views but he could deal with them later. Out, out, he told himself – let us find Occy.

Dickens enjoyed walking – seventeen miles was nothing to him – so a ten-minute walk to Drury Lane was a mere step. Occy was there in his long coat and leather cap, sweeping a path for his customers with his habitual good cheer. For Dickens, Occy was a source of fascination. His past was quite remarkable – Dickens thought it as extraordinary as anything he might have written. Once, on a cold winter's day with a particularly insolent and insinuating wind, Dickens had taken the frozen man to a nearby chop house with a warm fire and even warmer rum punch, and Occy had told his tale.

His father had been a scholar, a man so immersed in books that in a fit of abstraction, he had married his kitchen maid, and, according to Occy, he could not have found a better Mrs Grave, though she was destined for an early one. It was by her economies that the family survived at all, their income being rather smaller than the outcome of their union which was nine children.

Septimus Grave was a student of the arcane; he had formed a lunatic scheme for the improvement of the family fortunes. Himself a seventh son, he determined that he should produce a seventh son, which prodigy would save them from ruin – if they could wait long enough for him to grow to man's estate. Before this madness set in, Septimus named his first two sons plainly: William and John, but the madness gained hold step by step through each succeeding child. Thus they were christened, in turn, Tertius, Quartus, Quintus, Sextus (who was followed, with a gnashing of teeth, the mother's in labour, the father's in baffled rage) by two daughters and then, at last, the longed-for Septimus – seventh son of a seventh son. But alas, Tertius, sickly from birth, died of a fever. The lunatic's confusion was alarming. In his derangement, he believed that now Septimus was only the sixth. Another child came – the exhausted mother assumed that he must be Octavius. Not so, he must be Septimus, and the others, by the ingenious calculation of the madman, should be renamed; Septimus should become Sextus and so step by step backwards to Quartus who filled the empty space left by Tertius. But before the accomplishment of this confusion, the madman died. There was just time to christen Occy as Octavius. The fever raged through the house again, taking off Mrs Grave, all her offspring bar Occy himself and one sister; they were taken in by Mrs Graves's sister, a cook, with no children of her own. Her husband was a crossing sweeper, and in time, Occy came into his inheritance – the broom.

Occy had told his story with remarkable cheerfulness. ‘What,' he had asked, ‘would have become of them all at the mercy of Septimus Grave?' They would have starved to death, that's what, he had argued. For himself, he had been happy in the care of Emmy Theed, the cook, and was grateful for his inheritance. What more should a man want than a regular job, a comfortable wife? Here he toasted Mrs Sally Grave, his own, and two good sons. They would not take the broom. ‘Why, bless you, Mr Dickens,' Occy had said, ‘with all this new traffic, omnibuses, cabs and the like, the days of the crossing sweeper are numbered.'

Dickens waited for Occy to come back to his side of the road. ‘The George at twelve? I need some information.'

Occy signalled his assent with a wave of his broom before clearing the way for two pedestrians. Dickens had an hour to kill. He could not go to Bow Street without telling the superintendent what he was planning. He ought to go to the stationer's shop, but could not bear the thought of turning up empty-handed, nor could he bear the flare of optimism which would light up the children's eyes if he appeared at the door. They would think he had news. Dickens stood uncertainly on the pavement. What a curious thing – he was at a loss, somehow lonely, not knowing where to look for Scrap and Poll who might, for all they knew, be dead.

The traffic whirled past him, cabs and omnibuses wheeling by, the dust swirling in clouds; pedestrians buffeted him as they went by; a man with a basket balanced on his head jostled him and a woman poked at him with her umbrella as if he were a suspicious piece of meat – the stream of life that will not stop, pouring on, on, on, he thought. A blind violinist took up his place at the corner of Queen Street, his white eyes turned up to the troubled sky. He was dressed as if for some long-ago concert in a worn black tailcoat, once-white shirt, ragged tie and cracked patent shoes. As Dickens drew nearer, he could hear the strains of music which for a moment seemed to drown out the roaring world. Most blind musicians were not musicians at all – they got their money for pity, but this one seemed, with his uplifted eyes, not of this world, as if he played for some invisible audience seen only in his mind's eye. The sound was piercing in its sweetness, plaintive and infinitely sad. It spoke of loss and yearning, and no one listened but Dickens as if he and the ragged blind man were alone in the teeming city.

The spell broke when a crowd of sharp-faced, hard-eyed urchins jostled the player and yelled abuse. Dickens threw some coins away down the street and they scattered, shoving and pushing each other to claim their prize. The violinist bowed to Dickens. Perhaps he had sensed the unseen listener. Dickens placed some money in the battered top hat, and saw, for the first time, the little dog crouched at the man's feet. Not Poll. He walked away.

Time to take refuge in the warmth of the George, an ancient black and white inn just along Great Queen Street. Inside, the landlord greeted Dickens as an old friend, and Dickens was cheered by the sight of the fire and a hot rum punch.

‘Wot's 'e up to, that Steerforth, Mr Dickens? No good, I 'spect. Is Little Em'ly in danger? – I thought it very queer, sir, when 'e spoke of the black shadow following 'er. 'E kep' lookin' after 'er, too. It's all very mysterious, that it is.'

Dickens said he must wait for the next instalment; he was pleased that Bill Sprigge, the landlord, had read so attentively. In truth
David Copperfield
had not sold as well as
Dombey and Son
, and he was disappointed because he had put so much of himself into it; the writing of it made him restless, in want of something never to be realised, though he did not know what, and the visit to Hungerford Stairs had brought his childhood misery back as vividly as when he had depicted David Copperfield in the bottle factory. He was haunted, he thought, by the phantoms of those days that seemed to follow him. He could never shake them off. The past seemed so often to be snatching at his coat tails, sometimes shoving him on, impelled to achieve greater and greater things, and sometimes dragging him back as yesterday to that dreadful wreck of a place where as a boy he had felt so hopeless and forlorn.

Occy Grave arrived punctually at twelve, having left his broom at the post where he swept – it would be safe, he said, as everyone knew whose it was. They settled themselves in the box by the first fireplace where, Occy had sagaciously pointed out last time, there wasn't a leg in the middle of the table which all the other tables had – very inconvenient, he had observed. He chose a pint of ale, a mutton pie and mash, in which Dickens joined him. They ate first and when the last morsel of meat and pastry was gone, and when Occy had downed a draught of his ale, he looked at Dickens.

‘Very good pie, that. Thank you kindly. Information, sir?'

‘I am looking for a boy – and a dog. The boy is called Scrap – black hair, about four foot eight – he does deliveries for the stationer's in Crown Street. You might have seen him going to Lincoln's Inn with his parcels. If you see him, you'll let me know?'

‘I will, Mr Dickens. Can't say as I've noticed but there are a lot o' boys about.'

‘Dog thieves – seen any?'

‘Professionals or amateurs?'

‘Amateurs, I should think – the dog in question is neither very big nor very valuable. A little terrier which belongs to some children I know. Missing for a few days. I want to get it back for them, if I can.'

‘Boys take 'em sometimes – 'oping to get a bob or two from the professionals. Sometimes sell 'em for fightin'. There's meetins' at the
King's Head in Compton Street. Yer know – settin' 'em on rats. Big money in that.'

Rats took Dickens back to Hungerford Stairs and the dead boy. He felt sick. Not Poll, he thought, oh no, not little Poll put to fight rats. A horrible business that was – fifty rats flung in a pit and the dog sent to kill as many as he could.

‘Oh, Lord, I hadn't thought of that, Occy –'

Occy saw his face turn white. ‘Not likely, Mr Dickens – don't yer fret none. A fancier'd only buy ones ter train up – your dog won't be ready for that yet. Now, I ain't seen any dog fanciers my way, but I know someone who might 'elp – sister's 'usband – second-hand clothes in Monmouth Street – Zeb Scruggs.'

‘Zeb? With a Z?'

‘Story there, Mr Dickens – if you wants to 'ear it.'

Dickens was delighted. What could equal the story of Septimus Grave?

‘I do, and for the telling you ought to have another glass.'

‘I'll not say no. Dusty work this morning.'

A grey-faced waiter in a greasy apron splashed with mutton gravy brought the ale. Occy drank deeply.

‘Zeb,' he began.

‘Let me guess – Zebedee – it has to be.'

Occy grinned. ‘Worse than that.'

Dickens gave thought to his, admittedly, limited repertoire of names beginning with ‘Z'. And there would have to be a ‘B' to make sense of Zeb. Something from the Old Testament – wasn't there someone called Zobah or was that a place? Zeeb? No, he'd made that up, surely. He looked at Occy who was still grinning.

‘No, I give up. Put me out of my misery.'

Occy took another swig of his ale. ‘Zerubbabel.'

Dickens laughed out loud. ‘No, no, I'll not believe it. No mother could …'

‘She did! Mrs Scruggs was a mortal religious woman. Took to it like a man takes to drink. Which was the trouble – Mr Scruggs drank and Mrs took to the good book. Read 'an read for 'er child was coming an' she thought to save 'im from the wickedness of the world. An' a passage took 'er fancy from a prophet or some such body – Haggai – wot told this prince Zerubbabel that 'e 'ad to obey the Lord an' be strong. It seems 'e did an' was chosen by the Lord for something. I don't recall wot, but Mrs Scruggs wanted 'er lad to be obedient and strong so that must be 'is name. Mr Scruggs tried to stop 'er but chapel preacher was all for it. Zerubbabel it must be.'

Dickens tried, and failed, to imagine a babe in arms saddled with such a name. He shook his head.

‘Tis true, Mr Dickens, though, o' course, no one could be bothered with all that babbling, not even Mrs Scruggs, so Zeb 'e became and Zeb 'e stays an' a good strong man 'e is an' a good 'usband to my sister.'

‘And dare I ask if Septimus Grave bestowed a name on your sister?' Dickens remembered that Occy had not named either of the two girls born to his lunatic father.

‘'E did – as I told you, 'e was powerful disappointed when the girls came – paid no attention at all so my mother made the choice. First, there was Mary – she died with the rest, of the fever, as I told you, an' my sister –' Occy drank again. He was a born storyteller, knowing exactly when to heighten the suspense.

‘Occy, the suspense is killing me. What is your sister's name?'

‘Well,' Occy grinned, ‘that's a story, too – you'd 'ardly credit it.'

‘I think I might – after all you've told me.'

‘As I said, old Septimus didn't pay attention when the girls was born an' 'e didn't seem to notice Mary at all, but 'e did, it seems, come to, as it were, when my sister was to be christened. My mother, a sensible body, had chosen Meg, but 'e, the lunatic, cries out that it was a servant's name not the name of a gentleman's daughter – not the name for a scholar's daughter – and so, at the church, when the reverend asks what the child's to be called, 'e cries out “Euphemia” – Greek apparently. Not that 'e ever spoke to the child after so 'e 'ad no occasion to use the name. Meg woulder done just as well. Anyways, she's Effie now, an' it suits 'er fine.'