Grave Expectations Page 4

  “Yes, you’re right,” Mrs. Jones agreed. “All that was a good month ago, long before the manacles were found.”

  “Any sign of a break-in?” Kate asked. “Like a broken window?”

  “Nothing,” Mrs. Jones insisted. “Nothing of the sort. It’s that strange, but I know Mr. Jones didn’t have anything to do with them manacles. He’d have told me. No secrets in our house.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Charles told her. “I have to attend the inquest tomorrow since I found Miss Haverstock. I’m not sure what else I can do.”

  “You’ll think of something,” Mrs. Jones said. She smiled for the first time, exposing the hole where her eyetooth once had been. “I have faith in you, like I do in our sweet Lord Jesus.”

  “I’ll find out what I can.” He nodded at her, then strolled away, Kate on his arm.

  “Goodness,” Kate said. “That’s a lot of faith. But I have faith in you, too, after you figured out how Christiana Lugoson and Marie Rueff died a few months ago.”

  “When am I to find the time?” Charles groaned. “But I like Mr. Jones. I must help the man.” Even if the matter of the manacles made it seem that he wasn’t entirely innocent. There must be an explanation.

  “I’ll help you.” Kate chewed her lip as they walked toward a stand of trees on the side of the church. “Do you think my parents would let me attend the inquest?”

  “Certainly not. I would not allow it,” Charles said. “You weren’t called, and I don’t think inquests require an audience.”

  She pouted. “But you’ll tell me everything.”

  His fiancée loved a mystery, so he acquiesced. “Certainly, except for the gruesome bits.”

  She shivered. “I already saw the body. That was quite enough. What should we do now?”

  He leaned toward her ear. “I know you have to help with Sunday dinner. I’ll see what I can learn at the police station.”

  “Very well, Mr. Dickens. I’m sorry I cannot join you.”

  He smiled at her. “Every moment away from you is painful, darling. Every moment.”

  He squeezed her hand as Mary joined them under the canopy of leafy trees, then waited for them to leave.

  When they were out of sight, he went back to the church steps, where Mrs. Jones stood with her husband’s aunt, Miss Hannah Jones; the little girl who lived with them; and a curate.

  The frightened wife saw him and trotted up to him. “Did you have an idea, Mr. Dickens?”

  “Have you tried to see your husband?” Charles asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Let’s go to the Chelsea station and see what we can learn.”

  She lifted her skirts and ran back to Miss Jones, all propriety forgotten, then met Charles on the pavement. They walked rapidly toward the police station.

  “I thought that given it is Sunday, he might not have been taken to prison yet,” Charles told her. “I’d like to know what your husband has to say.”

  She nodded, her face intent. “I am grateful, Mr. Dickens. I really am.”

  They reached the police station, only to find a commotion outside. A line of uniformed officers had formed between a cart on the street and the front door of the stone building, and the officers were watching a small group of manacled prisoners make their way to the cart.

  “Mr. Jones!” Mrs. Jones cried, running forward again. She tripped on her skirts.

  Charles caught her arm. Her outcry caught the attention not just of the officers but also of the manacled prisoners. The three of them, two badly dressed villains and Mr. Jones, who looked out of place with a white shirt and a clean face, stared at her.

  Charles pushed his way in between two of the constables and found himself within speaking distance of the blacksmith. Mr. Jones’s eyes were red, and his face had contorted with grief and fear. But Charles drew from his reporter’s experience and, instead of offering sympathy, went straight to the heart of the matter. There was no time for more. “Tell me about the manacles, Mr. Jones. Did you saw them off an escaped convict?”

  Mr. Jones shook his head. “I’d never seen them before, Mr. Dickens. It was a shock to me. I slept beside my wife all night.”

  “I know you weren’t aware that Miss Haverstock was dead,” Charles called. “You asked me about her yourself.”

  Mr. Jones nodded as a constable pushed him. Stumbling forward, he bounced into another of the prisoners. “I didn’t kill anyone,” he cried as the constable pushed him again. “I didn’t help anyone break out of chains.”

  Mrs. Jones fell to her knees on the dusty pavement as constables helped her husband into the cart. “Where are you taking my good husband?” she screeched.

  The constables ignored her.

  “Are either of the other men the prison escapee?” Charles asked a constable, his hand on Mrs. Jones’s shoulder.

  The man spat dark phlegm into the road. “Body snatchers. Caught digging up a grave in an old churchyard.”

  Charles shuddered. “Thank you.” He helped the crying woman to her feet. They watched as the cart rattled away. No one answered when he asked where Mr. Jones was being taken.

  Charles looked hard at Mrs. Jones. “Did he sleep next to you all night?”

  “As much as I can say,” she told him. “I was up myself for a while with little Beddie. But he was there when I left and there when I returned.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Charles left the Jones property and went down the lane to Selwood Terrace. Miss Jones had put Mrs. Jones to bed. He had walked across their yard, satisfying himself that the forge was far enough away from the cottage that someone could have sawn off manacles without disturbing sleepers in the other building. The police had simply arrested the first convenient person, without having any good reason to do so.

  The weather contrasted with his mood. Late June felt positively joyful, with wildflowers growing on every little bit of soil. Little remained of the gloomy experience of walking these streets last winter.

  It seemed like the wrong season to have another murder. Didn’t murder belong to cold, wet, dark streets? Yet Miss Haverstock was nonetheless very dead indeed.

  The thought was inescapable as he entered his building. The scent of death hit him like a wall of bricks against his nose. His eyes watered, and his stomach lurched. Putting his hand over his mouth, he quickly opened his door and ducked in, then shut it behind him. He took a breath through his nose and rejected the foul air instantly. It was coming through the ceiling.

  He took off his hat and clutched at his hair. Should he return to Furnival’s Inn? He’d pack his carpetbag with a few things for tomorrow and head to the Hogarths, as planned. They had let him sleep on the dining-room floor, in front of the fire, once before.

  After collecting his post, he was back outside, feeling bad for Breese, if he had stayed in his rooms. He argued with himself for a moment, then dropped his bag by the brick wall and went back in to bang on his neighbor’s door. Breathing shallowly, he waited for a minute, but no one came to the door, and when he put his ear to it, he heard no motions inside. Breese had probably stayed away, as well.

  Charles went back outside and breathed deeply. At least the smell wasn’t following him outdoors. Whistling to distract himself, he hoisted his carpetbag and walked over to the Hogarths.

  Their house stood alone between their vegetable garden and fruit trees on one side and a walled Jewish cemetery on the other. The gate was usually locked, so he’d never been inside the burial ground, but he and Kate had often walked through the orchard. Across Fulham Road were the market gardens. The area had excellent growing conditions for fruit trees, and Charles was sorry to see the new buildings constantly going up in the area. Soon this would no longer be the countryside.

  He remembered promising Kate a picnic when strawberry season came along. After leaving his carpetbag behind the gate barring the Hogarths’ front walk from the street, he walked past and checked their garden. The strawberries were ripe. He could smell the sweetne
ss of the fruit. He chose the two best berries, then tucked them into his handkerchief and returned to the gate.

  When he knocked at the front door, it was opened almost instantly by Mary. The fifteen-year-old put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “Where have you been? We’ve been waiting!”

  He opened his handkerchief and displayed the berries.

  “Ooh.” Her fingers hovered over them; then she chose the slightly smaller one and took a bite. “June is the best month of the year, isn’t it?”

  He grinned at her. “Most months feel like my favorite. Each has its allure.”

  “Not April,” Mary said. “Too much rain.” She stepped back so he could enter.

  “But the flowers return in April,” he protested.

  “I suppose April isn’t entirely terrible. Are you leaving for a debate tonight?” she asked, spotting his bag.

  Charles often traveled to political meetings. “No. I can’t stay in my rooms tonight. If your mother won’t take me in, I’ll head into London.”

  “Why not?”

  He put his fingers to his nose and made a face.

  “Kate told me about finding that poor old woman. I can’t believe I was merrily cleaning your windows while she was upstairs.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered theatrically.

  “And falling. Did you hear that your rescuer was arrested? Dreadful mess.” He dropped his bag inside the door and set his hat on top of it.

  “I’d never believe Mr. Jones could do anything sinful. He’s such a lovely man. We see him at church at least once a week,” Mary told him.

  The next youngest sister, Georgina, flounced into the passage. “We have potato soup, asparagus, and a rhubarb sauce for the joint,” she announced. “A lovely spread.”

  “Sounds delicious,” Charles agreed. A door opened. He could hear the sound of a violoncello in the dining room.

  “There ye are,” Mrs. Hogarth said, appearing in the passage. She still wore an apron over her tartan dress, and her dark hair was fluffed up on one side, as if a child’s hands had been at it. “Mr. Hogarth was just wondering what had happened to ye. Come, before the soup gets cold.”

  He followed the girls past the doors to the front parlor, which was rarely used, and Mr. Hogarth’s small study, into the dining room. The most used room of the house, it boasted a long dining table with many armchairs surrounding it; a piano; various other instruments, in and out of cases; and an old stuffed chair in one corner. A green baize door led to the kitchen on the orchard side, as well as to the steps to the first floor, where all the family bedrooms were.

  The Hogarths had nine living children, all of them at home to fill the bedrooms, from Kate, now twenty, since her birthday the month before, down to twins Helen and Edward, just starting to walk with competence. They were the only two young ones, as Georgina, the next oldest, was already eight.

  Charles saw George, James, and William wrestling on the floor next to the piano, while the eldest brother, Robert, attempted to follow along with his father on the keyboard, making a companionable noise.

  Mrs. Hogarth scolded everyone in her broad Scottish accent, and the wrestlers stood sheepishly, brushing dirt off their trousers. Much moving about of chairs ensued, as seven older children, their parents, and Charles seated themselves. Soup bowls had already been placed on the table, and after a short prayer from Mr. Hogarth, everyone picked up their spoons.

  “Are ye off to a meeting?” Mrs. Hogarth inquired just as Charles lifted his spoon to his lips.

  “I cannot stay in my rooms tonight,” he explained. “Pray do not ask me the details.”

  Kate gave a little shudder at his side. He knew she could imagine the state of things. “Can he sleep here tonight, Father? He really can’t remain in his rooms.”

  Mr. Hogarth set down his spoon and scratched his gray side-whiskers. “Verra well. As long as he remains downstairs.”

  “Of course,” Charles said respectfully. “I’ve never even been upstairs.”

  Mr. Hogarth nodded and picked up his spoon again. “Have the police made any progress?”

  “Not that I’m aware of. It is Sunday.”

  Mrs. Hogarth shook her head. “Appalling. Kate told me about the dreadful situation with Mr. Jones, Charles. Ye will make it clear to the police that he is a good Christian, won’t ye, Mr. Hogarth?”

  “I’ll send a letter,” her husband agreed.

  The subject, which none of them wanted to refer to except in the most oblique manner, was dropped. After they finished eating, Charles excused himself to go to Mr. Hogarth’s study, hoping Kate would join him for a moment of privacy.

  Pulling out a small battered volume of verse, he quoted aloud, “‘Laid in my quiet bed, in study as I were, I saw within my troubled head a heap of thoughts appear.’”

  “Did you just make that up?” Kate asked, standing in the doorway behind him.

  “No.” He gestured her in, then, quick as a wink, shut the door behind her. “One of the Tudors. Beheaded, I think.”

  “A very troubled head, then,” Kate said with a giggle.

  “Yes. We had better not be in here very long, or your parents will boot me from the house, and I will have to walk into London.”

  “Or maybe they will demand you marry me that much sooner,” she said, clasping his free hand between both of hers.

  Her heavy-lidded eyes looked so sleepy, sending his thoughts toward bed and warmth and tumbling bodies. Without thinking, he lowered his mouth to hers.

  Chapter 5

  No sooner had Charles’s lips connected to Kate’s soft mouth than she jumped back, releasing him, her fingers going to her throat. Both breathing hard, they stared at each other.

  “You make me burn, dear Kate,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed softly. “We can’t wait too much longer.”

  A sharp rap came on the door, and Mr. Hogarth spoke. “Kate? Are ye in there? Yer mother wants ye.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Charles crossed the Hogarths’ orchard into the formal garden that filled one side of the Lugoson property. He collected William Aga, who was about to go out the mansion’s door himself. Charles had had a note from his fellow reporter the night before, explaining where he’d be sleeping. Charles caught sight of Panch, the Lugosons’ skinny elderly butler, in the hall, a clothing brush in hand.

  “He couldn’t make you look respectable if he tried,” Charles joked as William joined him.

  The truth was that William had been welcomed in high circles. Charles envied him his easy way among the upper classes. Some days he didn’t even feel equal to the Hogarths.

  “Lord Lugoson has a new bull terrier puppy, who shed all over me this morning,” William said, shaking out the skirt of his frock coat. “Unfortunately, he’s taken mightily to Julie and is crawling into our bed at night.”

  Charles blushed at William’s frank admittance that he and his wife shared a bed. He knew Julie Aga too well, as there had been a time a few months ago when she had created problems for him with his courtship. Thankfully, his gaze had been solely on Kate all along, and Julie had developed feelings for William.

  “Did you receive the assignment to cover the inquest?” Charles asked.

  “Yes. Thank you for reminding me to ask.” William nodded as they crossed busy Fulham Road. The inquest into Miss Haverstock’s death was being held at an old-style pub that still had seats and a public meeting place upstairs, unlike the new gin palaces that had been springing up everywhere, all doors and counters and barrels leaning up against the walls, with the goal being a person in and out in a minute, full of gin and without a respite from the cares of a working life.

  “I have to testify,” Charles said. “I found her, after all. This is my first inquest. I still think we should have been called to the inquest for Horatio Durant’s suicide, but Matthew Post, his solicitor, kept us out of it.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m sure it was because young Lord Lugoson was with
us and he didn’t want that to come out.”

  “Good point,” William said agreeably.

  The scents of sawdust and spilled beer drifted, not unpleasantly, past Charles’s nose as they entered the pub. Ancient stools, worn into a dip in the middle by decades of workmen, were clustered around rough board tables. A rickety set of steps along the right wall led up to the first floor. With no gas lighting here, a fire in the enormous fireplace along the left wall gave a murky sort of light to the space.

  William pointed up. Charles followed him to the steps and held the bannister as he climbed, not convinced his foot wouldn’t break through one of the sagging treads.

  They survived the climb. A dozen men pulled from the streets surrounding Selwood Terrace were in the room, taking the oaths that would make them jurors. The aged boards under their feet squeaked as they shuffled from side to side. A couple of uniformed constables stood with the men.

  William nudged Charles. “That’s the coroner over there. Listen.”

  “Once again, the police are interfering,” muttered the coroner, a man in his late thirties. The lines of his forehead had been carved by intelligent thought, but the creases around his downturned mouth indicated a perpetual horrified wonder. “They’ve arrested a suspect before I can interview him in the inquest.”

  “Have you appealed to the Home Office, Sir Silas?” his factotum, a younger man, asked. A man who was constantly searching for approval, he had wide-open eyes, and his clothes were baggy on his tall frame, except for the too-tight buttoned-up waistcoat, which still had toast crumbs attached to the nubby fabric.

  “It’s too late now.” The coroner’s irritated gaze moved past Charles to the jurors. He picked up his top hat and pulled it over his neatly waved coal-black hair. “I think we’re ready.”

  “No, sir, we’re still waiting for a witness,” the assistant said nervously. “At least enough jurors arrived.”

  Just then, Kate appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by her father. Charles’s hands instinctively clenched when he saw her, dressed in her most sober gray dress, looking like a governess rather than her usual ebullient self. They must have called for her this morning, since she’d said nothing before. She was too nervous to smile when she saw him, but her lips twitched as she walked in his direction.