Grave Expectations Page 3

  When he took her hand, he couldn’t bend her fingers or wrists. She was solid, unmovable. Only the insects roamed.

  He debated taking a blanket from her bed and covering her decently, if only to attempt to protect her from the spiders, but then he heard a police rattle in the street.

  William and Kate had found a constable, and he was sending his signal to any others who might be in the area of Chelsea Division. A couple of minutes later, Charles heard footsteps squeaking on the stairs, and William reappeared, followed by the lone constable.

  “Miss Hogarth stayed outside in order to direct the bobbies,” William said, panting a little.

  The constable, about Charles’s age, with teeth stained by tobacco, whipped a dirty handkerchief from between buttons down the front of his tunic and held the cloth to his nose. “Blind me, that’s dreadful,” he exclaimed. “She’s been dead for days.”

  William went to the body, expression fixed, and knelt down. He removed his hat as he stared at the body. “What do you think, Charles?”

  “Maggots, rigor mortis,” Charles said. “I know that means it didn’t just happen.”

  “A couple of days have passed,” William agreed. “Poor dear. I’ve been out of town these past four days. When did you last see her?”

  “I think I heard her more recently than that,” Charles said. “On Wednesday or Thursday? Going up the stairs. But where is Mrs. Aga?”

  “Lord and Lady Lugoson returned from France on Wednesday. She went to Lugoson House to help her aunt and cousin settle back in.”

  “She left when you did?”

  “That afternoon,” William agreed, coming to his feet as the constable slowly approached him. “I left that morning.”

  “I saw Miss Haverstock at St. Luke’s on Sunday.” Charles frowned. “But that’s nearly a week ago now.”

  He heard a liquid cough. The constable spun around and ran out of the room. William sighed as they both heard the sounds of vomiting in the passage.

  “Who’s going to clean that up?” William groused.

  “I guess we are tougher than a constable,” Charles said.

  “They have a hard time keeping recruits.” William put his hat back on. “What a moment for me to return home. You say you heard her on the steps the night after we left?”

  “I heard a lot of movement overhead on Wednesday night. Fred complained about it. He couldn’t fall asleep.” He heard another gag, then spitting. The constable reappeared in the doorway, wiping his mouth. His skin had gone pale, and his eyes were underlined with purple half-moons.

  “She probably died about then,” William said.

  The constable swallowed hard. “You think you heard a fight on Wednesday night?”

  “Yes,” Charles concurred. “What is your name?”

  “Constable Nathaniel Blight,” he said. “Can I have your name, please?”

  Charles gave the constable his information, then put the heels of his palms against his eyes and pressed hard. “Why didn’t I go up to check on her?”

  “Why indeed?” William asked.

  “I stayed late at the office, deciphering my shorthand about the Irish Church debates in Parliament,” Charles recalled. “By the time Fred was complaining, I was half asleep myself. Then, on Thursday, I was busy with a comic bit about the beer bill. Really, I worked the same kind of hours. I suppose I had forgotten all about the noise.”

  “Of course, it didn’t reoccur,” Constable Blight suggested. He sniffed, then gagged again, putting his handkerchief to his mouth.

  “No,” Charles said bleakly. “She must have been dead by then.”

  * * *

  Charles spent the afternoon with Kate at her family’s home in York Place, reluctant to return home.

  Eventually, Charles went home to Selwood Terrace, despite knowing what was on the floor above him. The body wouldn’t be moved until the coroner’s inquest, when the jurors would see the murder site and the corpse and would determine the cause of death.

  He hovered outside, reluctant to go in. He had seen that the curtains were open in the rooms across the hall from him on the first floor as he came up to the front of the building. Breese Gadfly, a songwriter, was home.

  Breese, like the constable Charles had met earlier in the day, was just about his age, but an entirely different sort of man. Breese’s parents had had a thousand pounds a year, from a legacy. They’d both died in the past couple of years, and he claimed the legacy had moved to another branch of the family, but Breese had been well educated, remained well dressed, and must have some substantial means of taking care of himself.

  Their rooms were nothing special, not even quite as nice as what Charles had at Furnival’s Inn, but Breese dressed like the gentleman Charles wanted to be. He wore a new Wellington-style beaver hat, carried a brass-handled cane, and often sported a natty tartan waistcoat under a burgundy velvet frock coat. His facial hair was styled in the manner of King Leopold of Belgium, who had once been married to the heir to the British throne, and Breese had the same kind of leonine quality to his face as that royal personage.

  Charles longed to try Breese’s tailor, knowing he couldn’t afford it just yet. But that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy spending time with Breese, attempting to soak up his gentlemanly ways.

  He went into the building and knocked on the songwriter’s door. Breese opened it in less than a minute, still shrugging on his coat.

  “Ah, it’s Dickens,” he cried, stepping back. “Do you know what that smell is?”

  “The mortal remains of Miss Haverstock,” Charles said solemnly.

  Breese’s eyes, already dark, went hard. “What?”

  “She was murdered, probably Wednesday night. I discovered the body late this morning. If you think it is bad down here, you don’t want to go anywhere near the second floor.”

  “You cannot be serious!” Breese exclaimed.

  Charles held up his hands. “It’s a dreadful business.”

  “When will the inquest be?”

  “Monday, I hope. The police have the case.”

  Breese shook his head. His dark locks fluffed up from his temples, then settled again. “Poor creature. Nothing to do but endure, then. Hot rum and water? I was just heating the kettle.”

  “Excellent,” Charles said, rubbing his hands together. “I will need something to help me sleep.”

  “What about Fred?”

  “I sent my brother to my parents until the upstairs can be cleaned.”

  “And the Agas?”

  “Mrs. Aga was with her aunt and cousin these past few days. William came home today, but I believe he will also stay with the family until the inquest.”

  Breese nodded. “And you? Am I to be all alone in this house of death?”

  “No, I’m going to stay, if I can stand it,” Charles said.

  “I wonder if we’ll have a ghost now. Miss Haverstock strikes me as good ghost material. She was vague enough to be a specter.”

  “You could say she was dressed as a ghost already,” Charles revealed.

  Breese poured rum into glass cups, then drizzled hot water from his steaming teakettle over them, before returning his kettle to the hob. He gestured Charles into a comfortable green upholstered armchair in front of the fire, then took the opposite chair. A nice desk rested in front of the window to the left of the chairs. Breese had said he preferred light to heat. Charles had noticed that he burned only the best wax candles, and his air was often sweetly scented as a result. In fact, Charles could not yet detect the smells of death in the air here. Perhaps Breese’s nose was keener.

  “What was she wearing?” Breese asked, setting his glass to his lips.

  “An ancient once-white silk dress and a lacy cap,” Charles explained, swirling his glass.

  “I only ever saw her in tans or browns,” Breese said. “Even when that lovely foster daughter of hers appeared.”

  “How long have you lived here? I never met the foster daughter.”

  “T
hree months longer than you. I moved in on the first of March. I saw Miss Jaggers about once a month, and Miss Haverstock would come down to the front door in tawny silk, maybe secondhand. Not new, certainly, but in a style of the past ten years at least.” He chuckled.

  “This dress had not been in style for many years.” Charles swallowed half his drink, enjoying the near burn to the back of his throat. “But then, she had been staged to some degree. Who knows if her murderer put her in that dress?”

  “What?” Breese exclaimed. “Oy vey, what a tummel.”

  “She was attached to the wall by the neck. With a corkscrew. There must be some significance in that.”

  Breese’s hand stilled where it had been brushing his velvet lapel. “I am a fanciful character, I admit it, but do you not think she must have been involved in some criminal gang? A band of highwaymen perhaps. She was young in the late century.”

  Charles laughed. “Where do you get that idea?”

  “Just before you moved in—late May, it was—we had a string of thefts in the area. I suppose the landlord’s agent didn’t tell you.”

  “The Hogarths didn’t tell me,” Charles said with a frown. “The Lugosons next door were out of town, so I suppose they missed the drama.”

  “It was confined to this side of the street, I believe,” Breese said. “I heard of five or six house break-ins. The blacksmith’s shop down the street was robbed, as well. And then there’s this business of a convict breaking out of Coldbath Fields.”

  “When was this?” Charles demanded.

  “That’s the thing. It was Tuesday night, or so I heard. And the next thing you know, a woman is dead.”

  “How do thefts of a month ago, an escaped convict who’d obviously committed only a minor crime, or he’d have been in a different prison, and a murdered old lady tie together?” Charles asked.

  Breese polished off the contents of his glass. “I don’t know. I could write quite a ballad about this collection of schmucks, I tell you.”

  “I could write a sketch,” Charles said, taking his own last sip. “There has been no crime since I moved in? Could the previous resident of my rooms have been the thief?”

  Breese poured another tot of rum into his glass and topped it off with hot water, then refilled Charles’s glass. “I hadn’t thought of that. That’s a reporter for you, always considering the angles.”

  “True, but songwriting seems to pay better.” Charles stared at the fine cobalt Wedgwood jasperware candlesticks on the mantel and the professional-quality oil portrait of Breese’s parents that hung above the fireplace. Those were probably inherited, but the full, delicately painted iron coal hod in the corner was a display of present wealth as much as the candles.

  “Well, as to the previous inhabitant of your rooms, it was a young couple. Irish. They left for Boston about two weeks before you moved in, so not them.”

  “Any suspicious characters around?”

  “I was never robbed, but the people who lived in the Agas’ rooms were. That’s why they moved.”

  The Agas had moved in the same day as Charles, all of them seeking a more country atmosphere for the summer, and with ties to friends nearby. Charles had thought they might stay on here, but he would give up his rooms in September and put Fred back in school.

  “What was stolen?”

  “They had some nice candlesticks.”

  “As nice as yours?”

  “No, I don’t think so. They took the blankets, and some of their clothing, a pot.”

  “Anything portable,” Charles suggested.

  “Yes. There wasn’t any jewelry. But Miss Haverstock lost a pearl ring and her Sunday dress.”

  “She was robbed, but not you?”

  “Odd, I agree,” Breese said. “Maybe I was home when they came to our building.”

  “Miss Haverstock rarely left, except on Sundays,” Charles said.

  “She did her own marketing,” Breese countered. “I’m sure that’s when it happened, whereas I stay home all day, banging away on my piano.”

  “I’m curious to know more about this escaped convict,” Charles said, dismissing the thefts. “The hardened types don’t go to Coldbath Fields. The maximum sentence there is just two years.”

  “So why not just wait out their time?” Breese asked. “Silly to escape from there.”

  “Must have been very desperate.” Charles pushed his hair off of his forehead.

  “Desperate souls can murder. It would take only a couple of hours, perhaps less, to walk from the prison to here.”

  “Whatever caused her death, it must have been some ancient pain. I can’t forget that old dress.”

  “Oy vey,” Breese said. “Nothing normal about this. Yes, I think the convict must have done it. Broken out to kill the old dear. Do you have a mind to solve the mystery, using your journalist instincts?”

  “I solved two murders last winter, but Miss Haverstock’s death was nothing like those,” Charles said modestly. “It’s obviously murder this time, and the police can solve the case. I’m busy courting my future bride, in addition to my work. I’ve no time to sort out something that will most certainly have an obvious explanation, with the proper amount of investigation.”

  “Don’t protest too much,” Breese said with a smirk. “I know how little you bother to sleep.”

  “Do you know how to find the foster daughter? Someone should tell her that Miss Haverstock died.”

  Breese shook his head. “No idea.”

  * * *

  The next day, Charles stepped out of St. Luke’s Church with Kate at his side, enjoying the sight of the blue sky, marred in no way by fluffy clouds that looked like unspun wool.

  “We should take a walk,” Kate suggested. “It’s too nice of a day to stay indoors.”

  “I thought of checking on Fred.” Charles had no intention of spending time in his rooms, not with Miss Haverstock’s decaying corpse overhead. It was like living in a slaughterhouse. If he had to spend any time there, he’d have to burn expensive candles like Breese did, to mask the odor.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing your entire family. It’s been months since I met your mother.”

  “Yes. You should have a lovely time with them,” Charles said vaguely. “I can’t believe your visit is tomorrow.” He knew Kate had to spend time with the Dickens clan, if for no other reason than she had to understand why some of his money would always go to the care of his mother and siblings, even with his father still living.

  Behind them, a heavy door banged against the Bath-stone exterior, and someone came quickly through the porch and down the stone steps.

  “Mr. Dickens,” cried a strangled East London–accented voice. “Could I trouble you?”

  Charles turned around, then smiled when he saw who had greeted him. Addie Jones, the blacksmith’s wife from down the lane, wore a black dress as if she were in mourning. A kind woman, she had seen him carrying a broken lantern the week before and had taken it to her family’s forge to have it fixed, then had refused to take payment for the repair.

  “Were you related to Miss Haverstock?” he asked, gesturing toward her dress.

  Mrs. Jones put her handkerchief to her eyes. “No, but, oh, Mr. Dickens! My husband has been arrested in connection with the murder.”

  Chapter 4

  “What?” gasped Kate, staring openmouthed at the blacksmith’s wife. “Kind Mr. Jones, arrested?”

  Charles, shocked, stood still. He stepped aside when a large parishioner barreled down the church steps and knocked into his shoulder. “Never,” he insisted. “Why, your Daniel is a good man.”

  “He saved Mary from falling,” Kate said.

  “He didn’t charge me at all for mending my lantern,” Charles added, “and all the boys in the neighborhood adore him.”

  “He is an angel,” Mrs. Jones sniffed. “Can you help? You’re the smartest man I know, Mr. Dickens, with the most learning.”

  Kate put her hand on his sleeve before he co
uld reply. “Why was he arrested?” she asked.

  “Because my husband found cut manacles in the smithy this morning, sir. The police say he conspired to kill Miss Haverstock with the convict, but I can’t believe as he’d have any part in helping such a man escape, even if it were his own father.”

  Edmund Jones, Daniel’s widowed father, also a blacksmith, worked at the forge, too, though his joint inflammations kept him from a full day of work. His spinster sister, Hannah, helped Addie with the households.

  “Is his father a convict?” Charles asked.

  “No, sir, no.” Mrs. Jones shook her head vigorously, a little spittle flying from the corner of her mouth. She wiped the moisture away, shamefaced. “Oh, I’m just that upset, I tell you. They are good men, both of them, never caused any trouble.”

  “I heard a rumor about someone escaping from Coldbath Fields,” Charles said.

  She nodded again. “That’s wot the constable said who arrested him, Mr. Dickens. They traced the escaped man to this neighborhood.”

  Charles put a hand to his neckerchief. The summer sun made it stick to his skin. “How did they find the manacles?”

  “An informant, some secret schemer.”

  “Maybe the same person who cut off the manacles then put them in the shop and sent word to the police,” Kate suggested.

  Mrs. Jones put her handkerchief to her eyes. “It was locked up, just that tight. Only one key. That was Mr. Jones’s mistake, saying no one but him or his father could enter his smithy after working hours. It’s where he keeps all his tools.”

  “Were you robbed in May? I understand plenty of places were around here,” Charles asked, recalling what Breese had told him.

  “Not the workshop, but the house,” Mrs. Jones said. “They took our Hannah’s good bead necklace and my teakettle, a quilt my mother made.”

  “A strange selection?” Charles asked.

  “Nice things,” Mrs. Jones explained. “I don’t have any jewelry myself, except my wedding ring, and it was washing day, so there weren’t clean clothes up on the hooks. I know plenty who lost clothes.”

  “They can be sold,” Charles suggested.