A Twist of Murder
A Dickens of a Crime Mystery Series
By Heather Redmond
A Tale of Two Murders
Grave Expectations
A Christmas Carol Murder
The Pickwick Murders
A Twist of Murder
A TWIST of MURDER
A Dickens of a Crime
HEATHER REDMOND
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Also by
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Cast of Characters
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgments
BOOK CLUB READING GUIDE for
Teaser chapter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.
KENSINGTON BOOKS are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
119 West 40th Street
New York, NY 10018
Copyright © 2022 by Heather Redmond
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Library of Congress Card Catalogue Number: 2022939753
The K with book logo Reg. US Pat & TM Off.
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3797-7
First Kensington Hardcover Edition: November 2022
ISBN: 978-1-4967-3798-4 (ebook)
For Leander and Andy, who had to survive pandemic virtual
schooling with me during the writing of this novel
Cast of Characters
Charles Dickens* 24 Our sleuth
Kate Hogarth* 20 His fiancée
George Hogarth* 53 Kate’s father, a music critic, a newspaper editor
Frederick Dickens* 15 Charles’s brother and boarder
William Aga 29 Charles’s fellow journalist
Mrs. Julie Aga 18 An underemployed actress
Lucy Fair 14 The Agas’ maid
Eustace Aga 52 William’s father, a headmaster
George Aga 50 William’s uncle, a dairy farmer
Monks Aga 15 William’s cousin, a student
Agnes Aga 12 William’s cousin, a servant
Fagin Sikes 40 An educator and member of the workhouse board
Nancy Price 14 A servant
Noah Claypole 13 A student
Littlejack Dawkins 36 A gardener
Barney Wynd 28 A curate
Mrs. Bedwin 35 A housekeeper
Mr. Bumbleton 42 A coroner
Emmanuel Screws 67 Charles’s former employer, a countinghouse owner
Toby Grimwig 14 A student
John Smith 12 A student
Arthur Fair 7 A student
Ollie Twist 8 A student
*Real historical figures
“Although Oliver had been brought up by philosophers, he
was not theoretically acquainted with the beautiful axiom
that self-preservation is the first law of nature.”
—Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist
“Now, Hawkins, you do me justice with the cap’n. You’re
a lad, you are, but you’re as smart as paint. I see that
when you first come in.”
—Robert Louis Stevenson, Treasure Island
“She was unlike most other girls of her age, in this—
that she had ideas of her own.”
—Wilkie Collins, The Moonstone
Chapter 1
Harrow on the Hill, England, Tuesday, March 1, 1836
“Drat.” Charles Dickens bent to retrieve a letter, fallen from his greatcoat pocket, as he dismounted the stagecoach in front of the Crown and Anchor Inn.
A russet-haired youth in a new suit of clothes jumped down from the stair and swiped up the missive. He had been inside the coach along with Charles, a Unitarian minister, and his wife. “Here you go.”
“Thank you.” Charles considered the lad. “Do you attend Aga Academy?”
Wind caught at his curls, making the lad look like an Irish setter. When he shook his head, the resemblance grew even more pronounced. “I’m at Harrow. Aga is much smaller.”
The coach shifted as a hostler disconnected the horses that had hauled them the thirteen miles from London. A yardman climbed to the top of the coach and untied ropes securing bundles and baggage on the roof. Charles tugged the shivering Harrow lad out of the way just before a large bundle of cloth dropped on him.
“Watch yer ’ead,” the yardman shouted a few seconds too late.
Charles shot a disgruntled look at the man, then spoke to his youthful companion. “I’m going into the public house. Would you like a hot drink, too?”
“Yes, but I have to fag for Stafford this afternoon. At least I can black his boots in front of the fire.” He gave Charles a mock salute and trotted out of the yard, shoulders hunched against the wind.
The letter held in Charles’s glove caught his attention again, so he headed through the yard, dodging puddles.
Low voices made a pleasant hum in the coffee room when he entered. A few men from the top of the coach had already taken the better benches, eager to make up for the midday meal they had missed on the road. Charles called for a hot rum and water, then took a stool at the bar, all that was available. After dropping his bag next to the stool, he glanced at the grimy directive again.
He’d taken the first stage available out of the city, per his friend and fellow Morning Chronicle reporter William Aga’s letter. William had begged him to come to the school quickly, so Charles had made his apologies to his editor, George Hogarth, and left the office late that morning.
Charles had been here briefly a few times, accompanying charity cases to the school, which was owned and run by William’s father, Eustace Aga. Charles and William’s scholarship fund supported three of the students, known to them from their former career as mudlarks, scouring the banks of the Thames for coal and any pieces of portable property the ever-shifting river cast up.
The most senior Aga, William’s grandfather, had died a few weeks before, and William had made the journey here then for the funeral, but Charles had no idea why William found trouble here now. His fellow reporter had traveled out of London the day before to report on a local disaster and must have stopped in at the school for a quick visit.
A barman appeared at Charles’s elbow, holding the steaming drink with calloused fingers. “Wot are you ’ere sellin’?” the man asked in a friendly fashion.
“I’m a reporter from London,” Charles explained.
The man shrugged. “What is newsworthy ’ere?”
“I understand a collapse occurred in a local gravel pit,” Charles suggested. “A man died?”
“Oh, ’im.” The barman lifted the hem of his apron to his nose and rubbed. “Likely ’e caused it ’imself with shoddy work. Drunk all the bloody time.”
Charles took the vessel. The hot metal instantly warmed his fingers, which began to tingle, not unpleasantly. “In truth, I’ve been summoned to Aga Academy. Any news of it?”
The barman’s lip curled under his whiskers. They covered his face in a luxurious black fur, while what hair was left on the top of his head stuck out in sparse quills. “’E’s an ‘’Ard Fact’ man, that schoolmaster. You never see a boy from there larking about in a ’appy manner. Not like the ’arrow lads.”
Charles attempted to translate what the man was saying. “A ‘Hard Fact’ man? You mean Mr. Aga has become a disciple of utilitarianism?”
The barman sniffed. Two travelers close to the fire called for bowls of stew. “I mean Fagin Sikes, ’is partner. Whatever ’e is, the boys don’t like it.”
“Mr. Aga has brought in a new partner?” Charles frowned and downed his cooling glass of restorative as the man moved down the bar to his other customers. An application of hard facts might be what was needed for education, but it left little room for whimsy, and what was a boy but a whimsical creature? What would his own, often pain-filled childhood have been without his father’s books and his sister Fanny’s songs?
Charles had never had a reason to dislike Mr. Aga. He’d seemed pleasant and reasonable, like his son. Why had he chosen such a different sort of partner? Why take on a partner at all?
Charles ought to have made more of an effort to keep in contact with the boys they sponsored. Little Ollie, though maimed by a terrible accident, probably had learned to write by now. Cousin Arthur could still be too young,
but Poor John, they had decided, likely had obtained twelve years and might have learned quickly, given the benefits of a regular diet and a bed that didn’t consist of a ragged blanket under Blackfriars Bridge. However, as a result of Charles’s work for the newspapers, his first book, and his upcoming marriage to Mr. Hogarth’s daughter Kate, he hadn’t visited the school since the start of the year.
One thing he suspected, though: his young ex-mudlark friends who were at the school on charity wouldn’t handle an authoritarian regime well. They were used to following only the tides and the dictates of the mudlark gang’s leader.
“Oh, aye,” the barman said, returning. “Mr. Sikes ’as ’is finger in a few pies hereabouts. ’E’s on the board of the workhouse, for one thing.”
“A local man?” Charles sniffed as two bowls of stew passed by his nose, but it didn’t smell fresh. Rather, the scent of burnt potato wafted into the air, a top note that did not entice. He’d likely much prefer the contents of the men’s Toby jugs, for the rum had been more than passable.
Tea at a school might not be any nicer, but he suspected the masters would eat better than the students. Even bread and butter might be better than the stew. Harrow on the Hill was a rather small enclave, and he didn’t know what he might find to eat on the street, but that was another possibility.
He rose from the stool, the muscles of his legs complaining of their hours of crablike bending in the coach, and picked up his bag.
“Yes, grandson of the local squire, a local fixture,” the barman said.
“No stew?” asked a friendly maidservant as Charles handed his coins to the barman.
“I’m more in the mood for a pie,” Charles explained.
The gap-toothed girl worried at her lip. “Stephen had to close his bakeshop for a couple of weeks to tend his parents at their farm. His father broke his leg.”
Charles sighed. No wonder he preferred London. One person would be too insignificant in a large city to damage the workings of everyone’s stomachs. “Very well. Off to Aga Academy, then. I shouldn’t wait for my friend any longer, if something is wrong. Heard anything about the state of their kitchen?”
The maid shook her head. “You never see their boys here. They are too busy having facts forced into their heads.”
* * *
Charles walked south past an assortment of businesses on the rather horizontally challenging High Street. For once, he didn’t have a young charity student to shepherd along and reassure, so he could assess the town for himself. It had a prosperous air. Two more inns appeared; the area had a great deal of traffic for such a small place, perhaps due to the schools. He admired the yellow-brick front of a chandler shop with living space above. Sweet beeswax wafted from an open window. Many buildings were constructed from red brick in a familiar Tudor style. He passed a chapel, a library, and various houses. Few students were evident at this time of day.
Sadly, he did not pass any pie sellers. He expected the street merchants knew to come out when the students were free to buy their wares. His stomach gurgled, not being on the Harrow schedule.
His mind intent on his stomach, he did not see the branch until he tripped on it. Catching himself on a stone urn that marked the start of the Aga schoolyard, he discovered someone had chosen today to trim the box hedge surrounding the yard behind the low fence. Though the school had fewer buildings and a more commonplace appearance than Harrow, someone took pride in the entrance. Hopefully that meant the school didn’t need funds, as he had no money free for raised fees, what with his marital home to furnish.
The front door of the aged timber-framed main school building opened. Charles spotted William in the doorway, his neckerchief askew. He clapped his top hat over his thick tawny locks as he pulled the door shut behind him. His mouth, which usually looked ready to smile, was rounded with frantic energy. Faint lines etched the skin around his eyes, proving that he was closer to thirty than twenty. And horrors, was the seam attaching the right sleeve to his coat ripped?
“Have you been attacked?” Charles called, speeding up.
William’s gaze focused into the yard. “Charles! You’re here!”
“I came on the next coach after your letter arrived. I didn’t even return to Furnival’s Inn. Just grabbed my extra shirt from my desk at the Chronicle.” Charles stopped at the base of the stairs. Yes, he did see a thread dangling from his friend’s shoulder. “You need your wife’s services.”
“What? Why?”
Charles and William met on the last step. Charles reached for the loose thread on the other man’s jacket.
“What?” William asked, swatting Charles’s hand away.
“You don’t look as well turned out as usual,” Charles observed. “What is going on? Are the mudlarks in trouble?”
William’s breath left his chest in a mighty blast. He might have been a wind god himself, the way his frustration-soaked breath blew Charles’s hair. “It has been a matter of multiple calamities.”
“Nothing that can’t be solved over tea and buns?” Charles asked hopefully.
“Would I have called you here, a month before your wedding and risking Hogarth’s ire, if that were the case?” William asked.
“Any minute now you’ll be pulling at your hair like a state mourner,” Charles observed. “Can we enter at least?”
His friend visibly gritted his teeth and opened the front door. Charles stepped inside, then dropped the valise containing his writing desk and spare shirt under the table with the guest book.
The environs looked much as he remembered them. The main building held the classrooms and dining room. On either side were two smaller houses, which acted as boardinghouses. Mr. Aga’s house was directly across the street, the most distinguished of the structures, with ivy winding around trellises along the walls. Two other boardinghouses abutted the master’s house. The operation was smaller than Harrow but still managed to employ seven lower masters and a couple of assistant masters as teachers and student managers.
Charles paced forward and looked to one end of the front hall, then the other. A sheen of dust adorned one corner, and a spider had spun a delicate line across the left window. “Someone has missed the morning tidy,” he observed.
“And no surprise,” William snapped. “Can you cease your perambulations and direct those penetrating eyes to me, please?”
Charles turned, shocked at the outburst. Straightening, he clasped his hands behind his back. “What has happened? Your father?”
“Ollie, John, and Arthur have run off. That was the first difficulty,” William reported.
“Together?” Charles remembered what the barman had said and knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The ex-mudlarks had scarpered.
“Yes, or at least we assume. It’s imagined they ran off with a traveling circus a couple of days before. I stopped here yesterday on my way back to London and learned they had already been gone a day.”
“Blazes.” Charles exhaled. “If your father had sent a note to three-thirty-two Strand or your home, you wouldn’t have been there to receive it.”
“He had not, at the time,” William said, “being far more used to the management of unruly lads than I am. But as their benefactor, eventually he would have notified us.”
“Hmmm,” Charles muttered. Perhaps they might have been notified after quarterly fees were paid, but that was a couple of weeks from now. “You might have sent for me for the sheer adventure of chasing a traveling circus. It does sound like a good caper for the mudlarks and myself, but Kate will not be pleased if she does not have a bed to sleep in when we return from our wedding trip.”
“I thought the adventure would be brief,” William explained. “And both of us chiding the boys would have more effect. You are, after all, the one with many younger brothers.”