The Murder of Patience Brooke (16 page)

‘Not really – the scarf, you know.’

‘Thank you, anyway.’

They shook hands and the man disappeared into the crowd. Dickens and Scrap turned to go into the shop.

‘It woz ’im, Mr Dickens, I know it.’

‘How?’

‘I could smell ’im – knew ’is eyes. ’E was after me – I know it.’ Scrap was determined.

‘I think I know it, too.’ He might have donned yet another disguise, but Dickens did know. It had to be. That flash of recognition at Gray’s Inn, that sense he had of being followed. How the devil had he disguised himself? He was like a conjuror – now you see him, now you don’t.

Inside, Dickens saw Eleanor and Tom standing with the tall, thin man. His hollow cheeks and dark eyes told that he was ill, but the red in his face showed that he was angry and afraid.

‘Mr Dickens, my daughter has told me of your visits, but I do not understand what has passed here today – are they in danger?’

‘My fault,’ said Scrap, miserably, ‘’e musta seen me. I musta bin careless – sed ’e ’adn’t seen me but ’e ’ad – sorry, Mr Dickens.’ He looked as if he might cry, so distressed was he at his failure.

‘No, Scrap, it was not your fault but mine. He saw me at Gray’s Inn. I was the careless one.’

Eleanor said, ‘Poll saved him – she barked so we knew –’

Poll – where was she? Dickens and Scrap dashed from the shop. They did not care if ten or twenty twisted men should be after them. Poll must be got back. They turned into the dim, greasy alley where Scrap had been dragged. It was narrow and filthy, lined with tumbledown houses and shops. Children played in the gutter, bedraggled women sat on front steps and men lounged in doorways. Dickens slid in the mud as they ran to the end where the alley twisted away into an even narrower passage. Scrap grabbed his hand, and with the other Dickens regained his balance by touching the dirty wall. They ran into the passage, Dickens gasping for breath. The passage curled into a little courtyard where they saw Poll barking furiously at a blank wall.

‘Poll, Poll!’ cried Scrap. ‘Poll!’ Poll turned and trotted to them. Scrap scooped her up. ‘Let’s gerrout of ’ere. This way.’

Dickens had not seen the opening out of the court into what seemed like nothing but a tunnel, but Scrap knew his way. They could not run here – the ground was slimy and the walls oozed damp. The dark enclosed them suddenly. Dickens felt suffocated. He hoped they were not trapped in this filthy dungeon. He glanced fearfully behind, but there was no following step, only the sounds of shouts and voices raised, coming up from subterranean rooms where, no doubt, families crouched in misery, eking out their terrible days. Scrap was moving faster now as the tunnel widened out, and then there was light, another alleyway and the blessed release into Crown Street.

‘’E musta gorn over the wall – tha’s why Poll woz barkin.’ Scrap stopped as Dickens caught up with him. Spring-heeled Jack, he thought.

They went back to the shop where Poll was greeted as a heroine, and Dickens was greeted by an angry thin man.

‘Thank you both for bringing her back, but, Mr Dickens, please, tell me what this is all about!’

Dickens was saved from the necessity of answering – he hardly had the breath – by the jangling of the bell and the entrance of Superintendent Jones, Elizabeth and Constable Rogers.

‘Rozzers,’ Scrap said. ‘Wot they want?’ He was suspicious.

‘Police,’ said the thin man. ‘What on earth –’

‘You are Mr Brim,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I was here before, talking with your children.’

‘Our friend,’ said Tom.

‘Yes,’ said Elizabeth, ‘and we are to help.’

‘I think we need to explain,’ said Sam. ‘Is there somewhere?’

Mr Brim indicated that they should go into the parlour at the back of the shop. Rogers was to stay in the shop with the children and Poll. Scrap, who was apparently glued to Dickens, went in with them, determined to hear what ‘the rozzers’ wanted and to have his say.

‘Now, I have been patient enough. Into what danger has Mr Dickens put my children?’ Brim’s voice was sharp with fear.

The story was told by Superintendent Jones, whose calm authority kept Scrap quiet: the murder of Patience Brooke, the suspected role of the pedlar who was also a lawyer’s clerk and a wretched-looking street man, Scrap’s role as a spy, Dickens’s accidental meeting with the man with the crooked face, their suspicions that he had tried to kidnap Scrap – perhaps for information, and the possibility that he might return.

‘You mean that he could come back here – he could harm one of the children?’ asked Mr Brim.

‘I don’t know,’ said the superintendent frankly. ‘It is possible.’

‘What then do you intend to do? I will tell you my situation honestly. My wife is dead. I have been ill – poor Eleanor has looked after me and the shop – and Scrap here has been our guardian. I do not like to leave the children alone, but I have to keep the shop open. I am recovering now, but I cannot deal with such a danger.’

Elizabeth stepped in. ‘May I make a suggestion? Mr Brim, you have been ill – you need more care than Eleanor can provide. Your family may be in danger. I should like to offer –’ she looked at Sam who nodded – ‘room at our house for you and the children until my husband believes that the danger is passed. I could look after you – I have nursing skill. You could rest and the children would be safe.’

Mr Brim looked astonished. ‘I could not. It would not be right. In any case, the shop … ’ he faltered.

‘I think you should close the shop – at least for a few days,’ said Sam. ‘If he comes back and finds you all gone then he will not come again, I think. In the meantime, I and my men will be looking for him. When he knows, and he will know, that he is a wanted man, he will stay away from here. Mr Brim, you must let us keep your children safe.’

‘You must,’ interrupted Dickens. ‘I feel this is my fault and –’

‘No, Mr Dickens, from what you have all told me, it was accidental. You have been kind to my children – and a good customer – from what I hear,’ Brim said wryly, ‘and you, Mrs Jones – such a quantity of ink!’

Elizabeth smiled, ‘You will come then?’

‘I will – and I thank you.’

It was settled. Clothes and other necessities were packed into bags. Eleanor and Tom were excited to be going on holiday, Poll, too. Rogers was despatched for a cab, and they were all installed under his protection. Only Scrap stood back, a little forlorn. What was he to do?

Elizabeth saw. ‘Scrap, can you come? I will need you – for protection.’

Scrap darted forward. If he was needed, well. He jumped in, all smiles. The cab drove away leaving Dickens and Jones on the street.

‘That lad – has he no home?’ asked Sam.

‘He mentioned a father, but I wonder –’

‘Let us hope that no irate parent comes looking.’

‘Somehow, I doubt it.’

They walked away back to Bow Street. Scrap and the children were safe, and Mr Brim would improve under Elizabeth’s care. Dickens saw the set of Sam’s jaw. ‘We need to find him, Charles, whether he is the murderer or not.’

The evening was closing in, casting its shadows over the little courts, alleys and passageways, darkening them even more. Dickens thought of the tunnel and his momentary suffocating panic. He was glad of the superintendent’s solid figure next to him. He thought of Crookface, now in his lair, cheated of his prey. They would hunt him down as he had hunted them, and he would tell them what he knew about the terrible murder of Patience Brooke.

‘Scrap knew him,’ said Dickens, ‘despite the scarf that covered his lower face. I’m inclined to believe him. I knew him at Gray’s Inn. It was just for a moment, I know, but it was the face of the man in the crowd – and I think he knew me – you know that start of recognition, too quick to be controlled. It was my mistake to have gone there.’

‘But it was his, too, if you think about it – he took a risk and he failed. All your impressions may have been fleeting – even the touch of his breath on your neck – but he was at the shop, I don’t doubt. No, that momentary flash in his eye tells us for sure. I think he knew you from the Home, and he made the connection with Patience Brooke. He followed you, and he tried for Scrap to see if he knew anything about you.’

‘Could he be the murderer? His trying to take Scrap suggests that he may be desperate.’

‘He could be, and when we find him, we’ll ask him, shall we?’ Sam’s smile was ironic. ‘It’s time I put some men on this – at night at any rate. We’ll go to Gray’s Inn and make some enquiries – I don’t care if he sees us. All right, he might run and we might not find him, but we need information about him – we could do with knowing who he works for – he must work there or have business there, and we might find an address – someone might know something. And, I have something else to tell you – about Rogers’s visit to the Polygon.’

‘I had forgotten about that with all the excitement. What did he find out?’

‘Two things: first, the residents of the houses he visited, telling his story that he was from a lawyer’s office enquiring about a family and a legacy, were a bit suspicious – apparently someone had already been asking – last summer, they thought –’

‘Someone looking for Patience? Was it?’

‘Could have been, the descriptions were vague. Someone said “queer-lookin’ cove”, that sort of thing. It probably was him. But there is more – Rogers was asking about a family by the name of Brooke, and no one remembered the name. He asked about a family with a daughter. No Brooke.’

Dickens was disappointed. But the superintendent had more. ‘Rogers started to make his way back, disappointed, as I see you are, but he is an intelligent man, and he thought about the names he had been given of families that had lived there: the Woods, the Grimstones, the Halliwells,’ he paused, enjoying Dickens’s impatience, ‘and the Rivers.’

‘Rivers?’ Light dawned. ‘He thought –’

‘He did – shrewd fellow – Patience Rivers perhaps became Patience Brooke. So he went back to ask about the Rivers family and he found out. The family did live at the Polygon, they did have a daughter called Patience. The parents died – this was about three years ago – Patience would have been about eighteen – and she left. No one knew where she had gone – into service, they thought, but, and this is the best bit, they remembered a servant, Annie Saywell, who now lives with her daughter in Snide Alley off Purchese Street, just by the Cock Tavern. And there we must go, too, but daytime would be best – we do not want to frighten the woman by banging on the door at night. In any case, I want to see what we can find at Gray’s Inn.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, if you can.’

They walked from Bow Street, cutting through a narrow lane to Drury Lane through Kemble Street up Gate Street and along Whetstone Place.

Dickens wondered if the crooked-face man were here somewhere. It was dark now, the gas lamps were lit and people were going home, clerks from Lincoln’s Inn with parchment faces hurried on, a thin, pinched-face girl, shaking with cold, offered matches for sale, a stout woman puffed as she passed them carrying bundles of washing, cabs rolled down the street, their lamps winking as they went by at the slab-faced girl in draggled red skirts standing on the corner outside the public house. Inside, Dickens could see the bar with its bottles and decanters of brightly coloured cordials, and the moon-faced barmaid serving brandy and water to a man in a white waistcoat – Eleanor Brim’s irascible customer, perhaps. They passed a chop house with its sanded floor and straight-backed wooden seats where two of the clerks were taking their supper.

They came to Gray’s Inn and walked to the offices where Dickens had waited in the cloakroom. Upstairs they went to the first door which opened into a small panelled room where a young man was writing. He looked up, his bright face helpful in the gaslight.

‘Ambrose Tiplady, Ambrose Tiplady at your service, service.’ He was about sixteen, about the same age as Dickens was when he copied for his living here. Mr Tiplady had fair curly hair, a smooth unshaven face and shining eyes which looked at them hopefully.

‘I am Superintendent Jones of Bow Street and this is my friend, Mr Charles Dickens. We are looking for someone.’

Ambrose Tiplady’s eyes shone even more brightly, pink flushed his cheeks, and his mouth opened wide at the mention of Charles Dickens. He simply gazed. The open mouth emitted a squeak first, then he managed the words, ‘Charles Dickens, Charles Dickens.’ He scrabbled at the desk and offered a book. ‘Charles Dickens,’ he repeated. ‘I have – been – er – have been – reading – reading – Charles Dickens – you are he?’ He indicated the book, a copy of
Dombey and Son
. ‘
Dombey and Son
– fine – death of Paul – dreadfully sad – oh! – Charles Dickens!’

Mr Tiplady could say no more. Overcome by confusion, he continued to stare. Dickens offered his hand to the boy. ‘How do you do, Mr Tiplady, I am very glad that you are enjoying the book.’

Putting down the book, Tiplady managed himself well enough to take the proffered hand. The superintendent, who had been much amused by all this, cleared his throat. Tiplady, still holding on to Dickens’s hand, looked at the superintendent as he might have looked at an elephant in the room standing with an archangel. Dickens extricated his hand.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ said Tiplady, ‘I am so –’

‘Superintendent Jones and I are enquiring after a man who might be a clerk in any of these offices. You might be able to help us.’

‘Certainly, by all means, certainly, decidedly, certainly.’

Dickens wondered if his propensity for repeating himself was the effect of a career in the law – ten words where one might have done. ‘He is a man with a distinctively crooked face.’

‘Crooked face, crooked face, distinctively,’ said Tiplady, giving in to his habit.

‘Yes,’ said the superintendent forbearing to repeat the words, hoping his brevity might rub off.

‘Blackledge, Blackledge, that is his name, his name.’

Dickens exchanged a look with Sam; at last a name, an identity.

‘Can you tell us any more about him?’ asked the superintendent, ‘As briefly as you can. We have not much time.’