An Act of Mercy: A gripping historical mystery set in Victorian London. J. Durham J.
had many ideas bursting in his head, but none was compelling enough to put onto paper. So he had kept himself busy with his new journal, Household Words.
It had long been his ambition to create a regular journal, one that entertained and informed its readers, and included contributions of other writers he admired. It had taken hard work and determination to launch it, but now it was underway it seemed to have acquired its own momentum. It would not take up so much of his time. He was proud of what he had achieved so far, and particularly proud of his articles on the new Detective Police. He liked to think that his goodwill had helped the new division overcome some of the initial prejudices of the middle and upper classes.
He lay for another few minutes thinking of nothing in particular, sighed and swung his legs out of bed. There was no point fighting it when the restlessness was upon him, it only left him irritable and enervated in the morning. What he needed was a walk!
He dressed himself by the light coming in through the window, and then made his way downstairs. He tiptoed along the Turkish runner in the hall, pausing only to unhook his overcoat from the peg by the door.
He closed the front door behind him, and stood on the step to take a deep breath of London air. Coal smoke, sewage, and the tang of salt from the docks. There was no finer smell on earth!
The night was moonlit and sharp, and stars sprinkled the sky like sugar frosting. He gazed up at them and his chest swelled with happiness: he felt as if anything was possible! He set off at a brisk pace, in no particular direction, and let his mind wander with his feet. Somewhat to his surprise, the first thing that popped into his head was Johannes Appler. He had played a key part in Appler’s capture, having passed on the note that revealed Appler would be using the sewer at Cockspur Court to dispose of his victim’s body. It was with a certain amount of surprise that he had learned about Appler’s arrest from Inspector Field, although, naturally, he had been delighted to write about it at the request of the Editor of the Chronicle.
But …
But … there was something about the business that remained highly unsatisfactory. According to Field, Appler was denying any knowledge of the crime, in the face of evidence that would make any man crumble. Any guilty man. And there was something about the note itself – the use of red ink, perhaps – that seemed unnecessarily dramatic. Who had written it, and what were his motives for betraying the young Dutchman?
He stopped, so abruptly that the couple walking behind cannoned into him.
‘Watch out, guv’nor!’ snapped the man. The woman giggled. They both turned as they stepped around him, assessing his clothes.
Dickens realized he had strayed, unthinking, into the edge of St Giles, a part of the city he was usually careful to avoid at night. He turned in the other direction, back towards Marylebone, and set off again at a brisk pace. As he did, he became aware of a sound behind him, an echo of his own footsteps, but slightly faster and less substantial. Was there someone behind him? It sounded as if someone had stopped at the same time as he had, and started again in tandem. To test the hypothesis he stopped abruptly. The echo also stopped, but not immediately. For a few paces he heard the footsteps sound clearly on their own. He turned around.
At first he could see no one on the street behind him, but then he discerned a dark shape in the shadows by the railings. Tall, but decidedly feminine.
‘Can I help you, my dear?’
She stepped into the light. The face beneath the straw bonnet was pale, apart from two rouged spots, and the eyes were large and expressive. She clutched at her shawl with mittened fingers.
‘Are you Mr Dickens?’
He nodded. She seemed at a loss how to proceed.
‘May I be of assistance?’ he prompted. Now he had the chance to look at her more closely, he could see her dress was of decent quality, but was thick with mud around the hem. The shawl was the kind that could be bought on a market stall for a few coppers, and was often worn by a certain type of female. She saw his scrutiny, and lifted her chin.
His interest stirred.
Two men stepped around them on the pavement, glancing first at Dickens and then at the girl, and coming to their own conclusion. One grinned at Dickens as he passed.
‘What is it?’ demanded Dickens, more briskly than he had intended.
‘I heard you have a place, a refuge, for … homeless women.’ She licked chapped lips. ‘I wondered … that is, I wanted to ask you …’
‘I’m sorry, but we take girls on referral only, from a magistrate, or a doctor. The Magdalen Hospital is on St George’s Fields; why not ask there?’
Her eyes flashed contempt. She didn’t stir.
He frowned. He had no wish to be discourteous, but he couldn’t stand about in the street all night. He was about to say so, when the matter was taken out of his hands: the girl’s eyes rolled up in her head, and she dropped like a stone onto the pavement.
He looked at the fallen figure in astonishment, and not a little dismay.
‘What’s happened here, then?’ A burly youth dressed in a dirty overcoat and apron – a labourer on his way home from his shift – stopped beside Dickens and bent to inspect the fallen girl.
‘She’s fainted,’ said Dickens. ‘From hunger, I imagine. How would you like to earn a shilling by helping me put her in a cab?’
The youth scowled at him. ‘You ain’t abductin’ her?’
‘Of course not!’ When the youth continued simply to stare at him, Dickens felt his temper rise. ‘If you’re not prepared to take my word for it, I’ll have no choice but to leave her where she is. Do you want that on your conscience?’
The youth weighed his words, saw the practicality of them, and nodded. ‘I saw a growler back on Baker Street. Wait here while I fetch it.’ He took off at a jog, hobnails sparking on the pavement.
Less than five minutes later Dickens had bundled the still senseless girl into a Hackney cab, and the young workman was able to continue on his way, jingling his pocket happily.
‘Where to, guv’nor?’ called the cabbie from his box.
‘Shepherd’s Bush.’
‘Well, Mrs Wallace, what do you think of my latest find?’
Dickens sat back in the parlour of Urania Cottage, and resisted the urge to pat his stomach. He had slept soundly in the bedroom kept for his particular use, and had enjoyed a hearty breakfast of eggs and muffins. If the shirt beneath his colourful waistcoat was a little crumpled, and smelled a little sour, he was content to put up with it until his return to Devonshire Terrace.
Mrs Wallace, a handsome woman of indeterminate age, gave him a reproving look. At first Dickens had been indifferent to her appointment as Head Matron of Urania Cottage, but now he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he wouldn’t want to be without her steady, unspectacular influence.
‘I’m not sure I approve of plucking girls off the street, Mr Dickens.’
‘I could hardly have left her there.’
The door burst open.
‘Missus! Isabella has my comb and she won’t give it back! I can’t pack it unless she gives it back!’ The intruder was a fresh-faced girl of seventeen, her wrap agape, and her hair in curl papers.
‘Can’t you see we’re busy, Annie?’ said Mrs Wallace.
‘I beg pardon Missus, Mr Dickens, sir.’ She bobbed him a breathless curtsey, unembarrassed by her déshabillé. ‘I didn’t mean to cut in, like.’ She turned back to the Matron. ‘But it’s the only bloody comb I have!’
‘Don’t curse, girl.’ Mrs Wallace shooed her out. ‘How will you ever find a husband in the colonies, using words like that? Go on with you, I’ll be up in a moment.’
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