The Angel Page 4

  Grand was speechless. He had heard some jim-dandies back at home but this one had to take the biscuit.

  ‘My name is Reginald,’ the rector added. ‘I wouldn’t usually be so informal with someone I had just met, but I do try and avoid Moptrucket as much as possible.’

  ‘I do understand,’ Grand said. An idea was forming in his head. ‘Were you very great friends? You and Charles Dickens, I mean.’

  ‘Not very great, perhaps. No, no, I wouldn’t say that. But we were neighbourly, you know. Yes, very neighbourly. Oh, look,’ he suddenly said. ‘There’s young Isaac, the lad who does up at Gads Hill. I think we can squeeze him into the brougham; save his legs.’

  Grand’s eyes began to take on a cunning gleam. ‘Really?’ He looked at the rather unprepossessing child who was coming now out of the station, no longer encumbered with the baskets. The boy was not much more than thirteen or so and was walking with a jaunty air, as well he might, having divested himself of the hampers. He had spots, carroty hair and freckles to match across his nose, and an open expression which made Grand, used to the Alsatia urchins, smile to see. He turned to the vicar. ‘May I take you up after all on your kind invitation?’

  ‘My dear fellow,’ the man said, bouncing on his toes with joy. ‘It would be our absolute pleasure. And look – there’s the brougham. Isaac!’

  The lad looked round and slouched over, his previous jaunty air rather dampened by the proximity of the clergy. ‘Yus, vicar,’ he mumbled, flattening down a recalcitrant lock of hair with his hand.

  ‘Can we take you in the brougham up to the house? You must have had so much work to do since your master died.’

  ‘It’s been a fair bugger, vicar,’ the lad said, clambering happily up alongside the driver.

  Grand waited for the typical clerical response to the boy’s gaffe, but the vicar simply laughed. ‘A simple soul, Isaac,’ he said. ‘But no malice in him. None at all.’ He gestured to the vehicle. ‘After you, my dear chap. After you.’

  Grand got in, but not without a calculating glance at young Isaac, sitting happily up on the seat. He was prattling away to the driver and Grand’s day began to take on a very different shape. Very different indeed.

  Grand was optimistic by nature, but even he was not ready for the Misses Moptrucket. There were four of them altogether, ranging in age from a dimpled little creature of about sixteen who giggled and blushed a lot when faced with a big, handsome American, up to the eldest, a rather languid girl of twenty. But the Reverend Moptrucket was not being overly hopeful when he said that they would all marry and slough off the handle nature had dealt them – he could see in his mind’s eye that the youth of the parish were probably already forming an orderly queue.

  The food was also excellent, and if the cook had stretched anything, it didn’t show. Grand found himself looking around the table and smiling fondly; if this family was also made up of inveterate gossips, his day would be complete. He chuckled to himself, thinking of Batchelor having to lock horns with a recalcitrant doctor, the journey forgotten.

  As the last mouthful of featherlight sabayon disappeared, Grand sat back with a sigh. Dripping on toast was all very well, but that meal had been just perfect – he pushed thoughts of press-ganging the cook back to Alsatia with him and addressed the vicar. ‘That was a wonderful meal, Reverend Mo … sorry, Reginald. Your cook is a marvel.’

  ‘Indeed she is,’ the vicar beamed. ‘Actually, she is an example of another thing we have in common with Gads Hill; she is my sister-in-law, as dear Georgy is sister to Catherine Dickens.’

  The youngest daughter giggled and blushed and was hushed by the sister sitting nearest.

  ‘Excuse Madeleine, Mr Grand,’ the eldest, Caroline, said, nudging the girl with her elbow. ‘She is at the age when everything seems funny. I think perhaps we will leave you and father to your coffee, and then you may smoke if you wish.’

  ‘I don’t wish to smoke, Miss Moptrucket,’ Grand said, feeling sorry for the girl who, as the eldest, had to bear the brunt of the name for polite address. ‘And as for depriving us of your company, please reconsider. I don’t often get to enjoy family meals – I would be so glad if you would stay.’ He didn’t expect to get much in the way of direct comments from these girls but, if he were careful, he could gain a lot from just watching their reactions. If he had gotten it right, young Madeleine was giggling because there was local rumour about Georgy Hogarth and Dickens, and like all children found it hilarious to consider a parent of hers in the same boat.

  Caroline smiled and gave Madeleine a final nudge. ‘Then we would be delighted, Mr Grand.’

  Gwendoline, the plainest sister, although only plain by comparison with the others, leaned forward. ‘I’m afraid you will find our company dull, Mr Grand. We see so few people here in the vicarage.’

  ‘Come, dear,’ her father gently admonished. ‘I don’t think that’s quite right, is it? We’re not exactly the Brontës, here. I don’t think a day goes by without at least one guest.’ He extended a hand to Grand. ‘For example, look at this wonderful amusement I have brought you today!’ All the girls laughed and, for a moment, Grand’s hairs stood up on the back of his neck. There was just a hint of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales, of the handsome woodcutter taken in by the family and never seen again. He shook it off; this was Kent, for heaven’s sake, not Bavaria.

  ‘Papa is joking,’ Gwendoline said, having noticed the look that flew across Grand’s face. ‘We haven’t eaten a guest for …’ she looked around at her sisters. ‘How long has it been?’

  Caroline twinkled at Grand. ‘Not since lunch,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, Papa, I didn’t mean to make it sound as if we were recluses. It’s just that we all miss our visits to Gads Hill. We can’t really call while they are still in mourning.’

  Grand’s ears pricked up. This was more promising.

  ‘Indeed you can’t,’ the vicar said firmly. ‘I have made my official visit, but I think that we must wait at least until after the funeral until we resume calls.’

  ‘I miss Georgy,’ Caroline said to Grand. ‘She and I are firm friends, although she is a little older than I am, of course.’

  Madeleine could be contained no longer. ‘And of course,’ she said, ‘when Mr Dickens was in residence, she had no time for anyone else. People say—’

  The Reverend Moptrucket raised his voice for the first time since Grand had met him. ‘Madeleine!’ he roared. ‘Go to your room!’ Then, turning to Grand, ‘I apologize for my daughter, Mr Grand. She listens too much to servants’ gossip. Caroline, could you go with her, please, and make sure she understands the error of her ways.’

  The other two girls, left without the guiding light of Caroline, sat silently from then on, except when Grand was telling them of the pleasures of the London theatre season, of the bustle and hustle he saw every day.

  ‘Papa,’ Evangeline, the third of the vicar’s daughters complained, ‘one would think that London was on the moon for all we see of it. You go all the time, but I can’t remember the last time I was there!’

  ‘It’s not all it’s cracked up to be,’ Grand assured her. ‘For instance, although I live in London and have offices just along from Chapman and Hall, the publishers, I have never met Charles Dickens there, though I did once cross the Atlantic on the same ship. Whereas you, living here in the beautiful countryside of Kent county, have met him many times.’

  ‘It wasn’t as exciting as you might imagine,’ Gwendoline said sulkily. ‘He was useless at telling stories, for instance.’

  ‘Gwendoline,’ her father grumbled ominously.

  ‘Well, he was,’ she said. ‘Don’t you remember when we were there for the Sunday School treat that time? He sat us all down and just recited poems. Not even his poems, either. Some stuff by … who was it, Evie?’

  ‘Arnold somebody, wasn’t it? It was very peculiar, anyway, and I don’t think he got the words right. Not in the right order, anyway.’

  The vicar sighed. ‘Yes, not a
good choice. And I think you mean Matthew Arnold, my dear, not Arnold somebody.’ He turned to Grand. ‘It was, at least, “The Forsaken Merman”, and not one of Professor Arnold’s more … contentious works. Do you know it?’

  Grand shook his head. He was beginning to realize how much he didn’t know of the literary world of his adopted homeland, and thought perhaps he should bone up as soon as possible.

  ‘Yes, dear Charles. Not the best memory in the world, dear man.’

  ‘But …’ Grand was confused. ‘I thought he recited long passages of his own works to audiences. Surely, that takes a prodigious memory—’

  ‘Oh, I know all about that,’ Emmeline broke in. ‘He didn’t learn it at all. He just told the stories from his books in any words that came into his head.’

  The vicar lowered his chin and looked doubtfully at his daughter.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, Papa,’ she said. ‘Isaac told me. He got it from Bob …’

  ‘Bob?’ Grand didn’t want to seem too nosy, but it paid to know who was who.

  ‘Bob Cratchit, the gardener,’ Emmeline told him.

  ‘Who?’ Grand had heard that name before. But where?

  ‘Mr Dickens was not above using a real name if it took his fancy,’ the vicar chuckled. ‘Many folk around here have names that are quite famous now. Or he would change them slightly, but, yes, old Bob … I’m not sure how pleased he was when he found out. He had not done it so much of late – I wonder perhaps if one of our more illustrious neighbours took exception.’

  Grand couldn’t show his ignorance now, so smiled politely.

  ‘Bob said,’ Gwendoline went on, not anxious to lose the attention of this handsome stranger, ‘that Mr Dickens would just go out on stage and tell the story. He was very good, I expect, but I know he didn’t learn it.’

  The vicar had just realized what his daughter had said. ‘I don’t think you should be talking with Isaac, my dear,’ he said, mildly.

  Gwendoline leapt up from her seat. ‘You!’ she shouted. ‘You! You’re always criticizing what I do and who I do it with! I hate you!’ And she ran out in a flurry of petticoats, with Evangeline in hot pursuit.

  The vicar sighed and turned his kind, tired eyes on Grand. ‘Daughters, eh?’

  Having nothing to add on the subject, Grand spent a little longer with him and then made his excuses. Next stop, Gads Hill.

  In the drowsy afternoon, the bees loud in the meadows and the sun burning down on his wideawake, Matthew Grand reached Gads Hill Place. The house was Georgian, red brick and huge, and there was a man in a smock hacking at the foliage with a sickle. Bob Cratchit, if Grand had remembered the Moptruckets’ conversation right. He saw the lad Isaac too, carrying boxes again to the back of the house. It seemed to be his lot in life.

  Grand rang the bell and listened for the faint, answering ring. There was a black bow on the door and he suddenly felt rather inappropriate in his light grey suit. A crepe armband would have made the point, but he hadn’t even got that. The bow fluttered and bounced as the door swung back and an attractive woman stood there. She was perhaps Grand’s age, with a pale face, auburn hair tied in a bun, and she was wearing funereal black.

  ‘Miss Hogarth?’ Grand tipped his hat and then took it off. He showed her his card. ‘Matthew Grand, enquiry agent.’

  ‘Not today,’ she said and began to close the door.

  Grand was faster and stopped it with his foot. ‘I realize this is a bad time, ma’am,’ he said, ‘but my enquiries very much concern you.’

  Georgy Hogarth paused. There was a large American standing in front of her, looking very purposeful. For a moment, she checked on the men in the vicinity. Old Bob was just there and he was armed. She could hear Isaac clattering about back in the kitchen, with access to knives without number. Not that anything like that would be necessary, she was sure, but you read such things in the newspapers these days. And there was an asylum in Rochester.

  ‘In what way?’ she asked.

  ‘Perhaps if I could come in?’

  She hesitated again. She had barely had time to sit down since Charles had died. People had been kind. They meant well. Apart from the newspaper people; they didn’t mean well at all. But all she really wanted now was a little peace and quiet. And something told her she was not going to get that from this unquiet American.

  She showed him into the drawing room where the mantel clock ticked loudly and no breeze wafted in through the net curtains of the open French windows. The front of the house was in deepest mourning, with curtains drawn and sorrow etched. Grand had half expected to see a pair of undertakers’ mutes guarding the entranceway, their faces a ghostly white under their weepers and glycerine tears on their cheeks.

  ‘Won’t you sit down, Mr Grand?’ She offered him the nearest piece of chintz. ‘Now,’ she sat opposite him, knees together, back ramrod straight, hands in lap. ‘What is it you wish to know?’

  ‘Your brother-in-law,’ Grand said. ‘How did he die?’

  ‘Nobly,’ she said, sniffing away a tear. ‘Quietly. As you would expect.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Grand smiled, laying his hat down alongside him on the sofa. ‘But what was the cause of his passing?’

  ‘It was a stroke,’ Georgy said. ‘I have it on the best medical authority.’

  ‘Dr Beard,’ Grand said.

  ‘Yes. You should talk to him.’

  ‘I have people for that, Miss Hogarth. I was hoping that you could tell me what happened.’

  ‘What is your interest, Mr Grand? I note the address of your offices is near to dear Charles’s publishers, but can it be that simple?’

  ‘We have been engaged by a friend of your late brother-in-law,’ Grand told her. ‘I cannot say more.’

  ‘Trollope?’ she asked. ‘Wilkie Collins. It’ll be one of them. They were always envious of Charles. What writer would not be? They were all blinded by the light of his genius and were positively green with envy.’

  ‘I am not at liberty to say,’ Grand said, ‘but I assure you, my client has Mr Dickens’s best interests at heart.’

  Georgy Hogarth chewed her lip. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If I must relive the terrible moment again, I will.’

  ‘Could you show me the chalet?’ Grand asked.

  For a moment, the housekeeping sister-in-law was taken aback. Then she recovered herself and stood up. ‘This way,’ she said.

  The chalet was a summer house, its curtains drawn like those at the front of the house itself. Grand noted that it could be reached from the east and the south. It was visible from only one window of the house itself and its back lay to the dark foliage, rhododendron bushes banked high at the edge of the grounds. Georgy Hogarth hauled up her chatelaine and unlocked the door.

  ‘I’ve taken to locking it,’ she said. ‘There are ghouls abroad in Kent, Mr Grand. They are not creatures of the night, as dear Charles believed, but day-crawling monsters. I am sorry if I was a little frosty with you when you arrived, but I was pestered by a fellow countryman of yours only the day before yesterday.’

  ‘You were?’

  ‘Told me his name was Morford.’ Georgy swung the door wide. ‘Said he was from New York. I, of course, didn’t believe a word of it. He wanted to stand, he told me, on the very spot where … well, where you are standing now.’

  Grand looked down. If this was the scene of a crime, it had been meticulously covered up. The furniture was in place. There was no ruck in the carpet, no stains. Everything was in order; perhaps too in order. ‘Did you let him in?’

  ‘I did not,’ Georgy said. ‘I have read of such people in your country, Mr Grand. Snake-oil salesmen, I believe they are called.’

  Grand smiled. Had he been anywhere else other than the spot where Charles Dickens died, he would have laughed. ‘Indeed they are,’ he said. ‘So, on the day in question?’

  Georgy closed her eyes, willing herself to recount it all again, as she had already, far, far too often. ‘It was nearly half past two
,’ she said. ‘Charles had taken an early luncheon and had come in here to work.’

  ‘On Edwin Drood?’

  ‘I believe so. Chapter Twenty-One was giving him a little difficulty and he was out of sorts.’

  ‘Unwell?’

  ‘Yes. He barely touched his lunch.’

  ‘Why did you come here?’ Grand asked. ‘At half past two there was no real reason for you to bother him, was there, especially if – as you say – he was having difficulty with his plot?’

  ‘I was concerned for him. I thought perhaps a little beef tea? A little brandy?’

  ‘Mr Dickens partook?’

  ‘Beef tea, occasionally; brandy, rather too regularly, I’m afraid.’

  Grand looked around him. There was a brass-bound tantalus in the corner, with a trio of cut-glass decanters. Alongside it, a box of very expensive Havana cigars. ‘You brought the tea from the house?’ he asked.

  ‘No. I merely came to ask if he would like some. He was … sitting over there, at his desk.’

  Grand wandered across the room. The desk was empty. No papers, no scribblings; not even a pen and ink. Georgy read his mind. ‘I told you, Mr Grand,’ she said. ‘Ghouls. Did you know that when hangings were public in this country, people used to pay a small fortune for a portion of the rope used?’ She shuddered. ‘I couldn’t bear the thought of some horror fondling Charles’s things, selling his manuscripts, his pens, his inks. That revolting American offered to buy the last collar he wore. Can you imagine?’

  Grand could. He had always moved in different circles from a housekeeper in Kent. He was a man of the world.

  ‘Charles looked frightful. I told him to come into the house and lie down.’