The Murder of Patience Brooke (6 page)

‘I’ll come soon. Now go to Mama, and we will have more poems afterwards.’ They skipped away.

‘Georgina, I must change my clothes and bathe before I come down. How is Catherine this morning?’

‘She is well enough, Charles – a bit tearful over the baby, but she will cheer up if you spend a little time with her after breakfast.’

‘I will.’ He would spend time with Catherine, but he would not tell her of Patience Brooke. He had not told her much about the Home, assuming, as he always did, that she would not be interested, and, after all, Catherine had lived a protected life. What could she know of the lives of these fallen girls? He was not aware of the contradiction in his own nature. It was all right for the spinster Miss Coutts to know, for the well-born Mrs Morson to know, but not his wife. The truth was that he had begun to believe that they were not made for each other. He recognised her good nature; she deferred to him and was always agreeable, but often tearful and unwell, especially after each pregnancy. And, he felt, as many husbands do, that she did not understand him, forgetting, of course, that often he did not understand himself.

After a little time with Catherine and the older children whom Dickens entertained with more poems and some magic tricks, he returned to his desk where everything was precisely ordered, including a vase of fresh flowers. There were goose-quill pens, blue ink and the blue-grey slips of paper on which he wrote. Today on the desk lay the beginnings of
David Copperfield
. He forgot Patience Brooke and Sam Jones as he re-entered the house at Blunderstone with its latticed bedroom windows and sweet-smelling air, to which David returns to find Mr Murdstone of the ill-omened black eyes as his new father.

Not many streets away, at number
20
, Norfolk Street, Superintendent Jones was home at last, having completed his arrangements with the Commissioner. It had not been difficult, especially when the superintendent had the sudden stroke of brilliance to mention Miss Coutts’s friendship with the Princess Adelaide – the reference to a member of the Royal Family concentrated the Commissioner’s mind wonderfully and Superintendent Jones was given rein to investigate the case as he thought best – with the ‘utmost discretion’, of course.

He entered his own home at last and the young girl, Posy, who served as parlourmaid, kitchen maid and all-round help, took his coat. An absurdly small girl, even at fourteen, she had come via Charles Dickens, another orphan from the street for whom a home had to be found, and here she was, looking like a sprite, yet welcoming him to his own home as if it were one of the great houses in nearby Fitzroy Square. She opened the parlour door to announce him – to the only other occupant of the house, his own wife, Elizabeth. He managed to repress a smile and to take seriously her pronouncement, ‘Superintendent Jones, ma’am.’ She got her ideas, no doubt, from reading the newspaper reports of the doings of society. In the two years she had lived with them, Elizabeth had taught her to read and write – attention to this child filling the aching space where their own dead daughter should have been. Posy, the name given to her by Elizabeth who had said that a pretty name might make up for the plain face, scuttled back to the kitchen to make the tea.

‘All night, Sam? A serious case?’

Elizabeth had expected him sooner, but experience told her that when he had not come in the morning, it must be something important. He often told her of the cases he investigated, trusting her shrewdness and kindness to judge fairly, and often trusting her intelligence to unravel knotty pieces of evidence. Now, he told of the terrible murder of Patience Brooke, his journey through the night with Charles Dickens, Mrs Morson, Davey and the man with the crooked face, the disposal of the body to be packed in ice, his meeting with the Commissioner, his inspiration regarding Princess Adelaide and finally, his and Charles’s determination to find the murderer.

‘And this murderer who is to be brought to justice, who are the suspects?’ asked Elizabeth.

The door opened and Posy came in balancing the tray with the brown pot of tea, the cups and saucers with their pattern of roses, and the plate of neatly made sandwiches without their crusts – another invention from the society pages. Posy’s progress was somewhat irregular, but she made it safely to the table where she placed the tray, beaming at her success.

‘Shall I pour, ma’am?’

‘No, thank you, Posy. The superintendent and I have matters to discuss. Go back to the kitchen for a while and play with the kitten.’ The former instruction was received with grave recognition of the superintendent’s importance, the latter with a grimace which indicated that a person of such importance in the house had better things to do than play with a kitten. Posy departed with dignity.

‘Why have I taken to referring to my husband as “The superintendent” ?’ asked Elizabeth, laughing. ‘If that child reads any more society papers, I will have to refer to you as the master. “La, sir, will you take a dish of tea?” She seems determined to improve us whether we will or no. We’ll be having evening parties next.’

‘She is a delight,’ said Sam. ‘Consider the scrap of rags she was when she came. You have done wonders.’

‘I am fond of her, and she is good company.’

Yes, thought Sam, looking at his wife with love, Posy fills the vacancy in those lonely hours when they remembered Edith, their daughter.

‘Suspects,’ he said, resuming their earlier discussion to banish the dark thoughts which crept into their minds when they remembered Edith. ‘Well, there is the man with the crooked face who appeals to Dickens’s imagination, and who is certainly worth following up, if he has not vanished without trace, which is more than likely. There is the gardener, Bagster, who left Urania Cottage on Friday to visit his daughter in Kensal Green – we’ll need to question him – at least he might have seen something or someone. And there is the Reverend Godsmark who fulminated against the girls, condemning them as sinners who cannot be saved, and the Vicar of St Mark’s and his curate – not suspects, as such, but men who had contact with Patience Brooke.’

‘It is important that they are men? You do not think that the girls at the Home might be involved?’

‘Yes, to the first – you can tell me why in a moment, and unlikely to the second, at least according to Charles – yes, we are on first name terms now – I see your eyes raised at my familiarity. I’m inclined to agree with his analysis of them – often restless, sometimes quarrelsome, sometimes maudlin, but not, he thinks, murderous.’

‘You think it is a man because …’ She hesitated.

‘Go on.’

‘Well, apart from the obvious physical strength needed to tie her to the railings – though two girls could have done it –’

‘And they might have given some story which would have tempted Patience to meet them outside,’ interposed Sam.

‘True, but what would their motive be unless they knew something about Patience – she was a mystery woman, as you said, or,’ she was warming to the theme now, ‘she knew something about them.’

‘But their histories are known to Charles, and, to some extent, to Mrs Morson. However, we will bear them in mind. We are going back to Urania Cottage tomorrow to interview them. Go back to the masculine theme.’

‘I think that there is something deeply personal about the way in which Patience was treated – her dress was torn to expose her, her hair was taken down, and then there is the rouge daubed on her face. It is as if the murderer wanted to tell something about her – that she was not what she seemed, that there was a different Patience under the demure grey governess dress.’

‘That’s the puzzle. Charles said that Mrs Morson had given Patience herself back after she had tidied her up, but we do not know who the real Patience was. Was she really the quiet, modest assistant to Mrs Morson or was she really a woman with a past? We need to investigate Patience.’

‘She came from nowhere, you said, but how or why did she come to the Home? Who told her about it?’

‘The answer may lie in the Home. One of the girls may know something, a stray remark from Patience, a tiny clue that was not important at the time. Tomorrow may give us an answer. My dear, as always, our discussions bring clarity to my thoughts and point me in new directions.’

They talked on about other things as the evening drew on. Then it was time for the lighting of the lamps and the drawing of the curtains against the bitter night, and for a comfortable supper for two in front of the fire – though Posy might have preferred an elegant dinner in the dining room – if they had possessed one.

Night fell and the silent stars looked down on Devonshire Terrace where Dickens slept, dreaming of Patience Brooke and Little Emily who became one in his dream, and on Norfolk Street where Sam Jones dreamt of his lost girl, Edith.

If the dark had a lowering effect on his spirits, Dickens always felt energetic and hopeful in the mornings. He rose at eight, took a cup of coffee, worked on his manuscript for an hour, writing about Miss Murdstone, that metallic lady whose heavy-browed countenance he sketched on a scrap of paper, giving her a beard to match. Then, taking his thick coat to guard against the cold, he walked with his characteristic briskness to meet the superintendent for breakfast at a favourite haunt, the Piazza Coffee House in Covent Garden.

Making his way down Crown Street, he had a sudden fancy to check on his canine friend from the night before. He found the stationer's shop – no dog in the doorway. In he went – to buy a pen would be a sufficient pretext. Behind the counter were the head and shoulders of a girl who gazed at him as if he were descended from some lofty planet.

The head spoke, ‘You're Charles Dickens.'

‘Am I?' The head looked at him pityingly. ‘I mean I am.'

‘I am Eleanor Brim, and this,' another head appeared without shoulders this time, ‘is my brother, Tom.' Tom stared, too, but said nothing, his mouth being full of something round and large. ‘And this,' a pair of white and brown ears popped up, ‘is Polly. And we are all looking after the shop, and we all know about Oliver Twist, and we did not like that dog, Poll especially.'

‘I am very sorry, but was he not what Bill Sikes had made him? He was loyal in his way, and he knew no tenderness – unlike Poll here who knows what it is to be loved.'

The three pairs of eyes looked consideringly, and the three heads nodded. ‘Poor dog,' said Tom, and Poll gave a small yap in agreement.

In any case, there is to be a nice dog in my next story – Jip, he will be.' Where did that come from? he thought. ‘Look out for him.'

‘We will. Is there anything we can get for you? You might need paper, or a pen, or ink, black or blue, or we can recommend a pen-wiper – you ought to have one if you use ink. It can be messy.'

In the face of such choice, Dickens was unable to decide. The three pairs of eyes gazed at him, two blue and one black.

‘A pen, and yes, of course, you are right – a pen-wiper, please.'

‘Poll, a pen-wiper, if you please, and Tom, a pen.'

Poll jumped on to the counter. Rooting about in a box, she came out with a pen-wiper in her mouth and offered it to Dickens.

‘Thank you, kindly, Miss Poll,' he said.

Tom handed him the pen. The purchase complete, Dickens bade them farewell.

‘If you should need anything again, Mr Dickens, we would be happy to supply you,' said the little entrepreneur.

‘I shall certainly call again.' Dickens resolved to change his stationer immediately, and he went out with a lighter step to make his way to the coffee house.

Substantial quantities of toast, two eggs apiece and a dish of kidneys for the superintendent filled them enough for the journey. They took a fly to the Home, Constable Rogers having set off earlier with the wagonette and Punch, the horse.

‘I have thought,' said Sam.

‘I have not,' said Dickens. ‘I have been away in Suffolk with my Davey Copperfield. My new book,' he added in explanation to the superintendent's puzzled look. ‘But I am here now to listen to your thoughts, so –'

‘I have thought,' repeated Sam, ‘about how Patience Brooke came to Urania Cottage, who told her about it. That is something you must try to discover when you talk to the girls. Someone may know something. You never discovered it? Nor Mrs Morson?'

‘No, indeed, Patience was, in that matter, most unforthcoming. But, I see your point. If we can find out about that then this might lead us to some information about Patience.'

‘I have thought, too, or rather my wife –'

‘Ah, the perceptive Elizabeth – what she has thought must be worth hearing. Tell me.'

‘I told her the details of the murder. The point which I think was perceptive was that Elizabeth thought that the murderer might have been sending a message, as it were, about his victim – was he trying to tell us that Patience was not what she seemed on the surface? To me that is an important consideration: in short, who was Patience Brooke?'

‘I see it exactly – you, and Elizabeth, are saying that she wanted us to see her as a particular kind of woman, the kind of woman whom Mrs Morson and I would believe a fitting addition to Urania Cottage, but that it is possible that she was very different, and that the murderer, for whatever reason, wanted to expose her … You think that we may have been deceived.' Dickens said the last words with some reluctance – he thought of himself as having a particular gift for reading character, and to have been deceived was something of a blow to his pride.

‘It is something that we must consider,' said the superintendent.

Dickens thought for a few moments, turning over the idea of Patience as a fraud, then he said eagerly, ‘Wait – if we believe the murderer to be a man, let us imagine a man whom she rejected, and who then took his revenge in the basest way. She was virtuous and this is what he hated.'

‘So, we need to find out if any of the men she had any contact with harboured sexual feelings for her.'