Maxim Jakubowski - The Best British Mysteries III

‘Tell me one thing, my dear fellow. Why here?’

Charles Dickens swung to face his friend, yet when he spoke, he sounded as cautious as a poker player with a troublesome hand of cards. ‘Is the Rope and Anchor not to your taste, then, Wilkie?’

‘Well, it’s hardly as comfortable as the Cock Tavern. Besides, it’s uncommon enough for our nightly roamings to take us south of the river, and you gave the impression of coming here with a purpose.’ He winced as a couple of drunken slatterns shrieked with mocking laughter. The object of their scorn was a woman with a scarred cheek who crouched anxiously by the door, as if yearning for the arrival of a friendly face. ‘And the company is hardly select! All this way on an evening thick with fog! Frankly, I expected you to have rather more pleasurable company in mind.’

‘My dear Wilkie,’ Dickens said, baring his teeth in a wicked smile. ‘Who is to say that I have not?’

‘Then why be such an oyster? I cannot fathom what has got into you tonight You have been behaving very oddly, you know. When I talked about Boulogne, you didn’t seem to be paying the slightest attention.’

‘Then I apologize,’ Dickens said swiftly. ‘May I thank you for your patience.’

Collins was not easily mollified. ‘Even when you mentioned your jaunt with Inspector Field the other night,’ he complained, ‘it was as if your mind was elsewhere. May I finally be allowed to know what lies in store for us during the remainder of the evening?’

Dickens pushed his glass to one side with a sweep of the hand as though, after wrestling with an intractable dilemma, he had at last made up his mind. ‘Very well. I shall enlighten you. Our destination lies at the end of this very street.’

Collins frowned. ‘By the river?’

‘Yes.’ Dickens took a deep breath. ‘You cannot miss it. There is a fiery glow in the window of the last house in the row. In these parts, people call it the House of the Red Candle?’

‘Ah!’ Collins’s eyes widened in understanding. ‘I take it that the name speaks for itself?’

‘Indeed. Unsubtle, but you and I have agreed in the past that even the most refined taste can have too much of subtlety.’

‘Quite.’ Collins chuckled. ‘So you favored a change from the houses of Haymarket and Regent Street?’

‘Even from those of Soho and the East End,’ Dickens said quietly.

‘A writer must indulge in a little necessary research!’ Collins laughed, his cheeks reddening with excitement. ‘Whatever strange resorts it takes him to. Do you recall telling me about your experiences at Margate, years ago? Margate, of all places!’

Dickens shrugged. ‘At the seaside there are conveniences of all kinds.’

‘And you knew where they lived! Very well, tell me about this House of the Red Candle. Come on, spare me no shocking detail!’

‘Later,’ Dickens said. ‘I have no wish to spoil your anticipation.’

Collins belched. ‘Really, I must complain. You should have mentioned this an hour ago. I would have been more abstemious if only I had realised the nature of the entertainment you had up your sleeve. You old rascal! I wondered why you were wearing such a mysterious expression and only taking ladylike sips from your glass!’

Suddenly Dickens leaned across the table and stabbed a forefinger toward his companion’s heart. ‘Tonight, Wilkie, tonight of all nights, whatever happens, I beg you to repose your trust completely in me. Do you understand?’

His massive forehead wrinkling in bewilderment, Collins exclaimed, ‘Why, my dear fellow!’

‘I must have your word on this, Wilkie. Can I rely upon you?’

A light dawned in the younger man’s eyes. ‘Oh, I think I understand! Go on, then, you rascal! What is her name?’

Contriving a sly grin, Dickens said, ‘Ah, Wilkie, you are always too sharp for me.’

‘Go on, then! Her name?’

‘Very well. Her name is Bella.’

‘Splendid! And is she as pretty as her name?’

‘She is beautiful,’ Dickens said softly.

‘Ah! I do believe you are smitten. Now, don’t forget you are a married man, Charles, old fellow. How long have you known this – Bella?’

‘I have answered quite enough questions for the moment,’ Dickens retorted, springing to his feet. ‘Come, it is time for us to be away.’

Outside it was bitterly cold and fog was rolling in from the Thames, smothering the dim light from the sparse lamps. As Dickens led the way down the cobbled street at his customary brisk trot, Collins heard the restless scurrying of unseen rats. He knew this to be a part of the city where life was as cheap as the women, but he found the temptation of the unknown irresistible. Like Dickens, he always felt intensely alive during their late-night wanderings in dark and disreputable streets and alleyways. One never knew what might happen. For a writer – for any man with red blood in his veins – that shiver of uncertainty was delicious.

Just before they reached the river, they paused in front of the last house. A red candle burned in the ground-floor window, its flickering light the only colour in a world of grey. The curtains at all the other windows were drawn.

Dickens tugged at the bellpull beside the front door, but at first there was no response. Collins shivered and rubbed his hands together.

‘I shall be glad when I am warmed up!’

‘Patience, Wilkie, patience. I promise you one thing. You will not readily forget tonight.’

Collins was still chuckling when the door creaked open. A small and very fat woman peered out at them. Her hair was a deep and unnatural shade of red – Collins surmised that she wore a wig – and perched on her nose were spectacles with lenses so thick that they distorted the shape of her porcine eyes.

‘What d’ you want?’ Her voice was as sharp as a hatchet.

‘Mrs Jugg? Splendid!’ Dickens greeted her with gusto. ‘My friend and I have been given to understand that you have a young lady lodging with you by the name of Bella?’

‘What if I do?’ The woman had several chins, and each of them wobbled truculently as she spoke.

‘Well, the two of us are eager to make her acquaintance.’

‘Bella’s a lady,’ the harridan hissed. ‘A proper lady. She has very expensive tastes.’

‘Expensive and exotic, I understand,’ Dickens murmured.

‘There’s no one like her. If you’ve been recommended…’

‘We have.’

‘Then you’ll know what I mean.’

Dickens glanced over his shoulder, making sure that he was not observed by prying eyes. They could hear the rowdy harpies, presumably tired of baiting the sad woman with the scar, spilling out of the tavern in search of better entertainment. In the distance hooves clattered, but the fog was a shroud, and anything farther than five yards away was invisible. Satisfied, he put his hand inside his coat and extracted a wallet, from which he made a fan of banknotes.

‘My friend and I are not without means.’

The woman took a step toward them, as though keen to check that the money was not counterfeit. Collins caught the whiff of gin on her breath as she grinned, showing damaged and discoloured teeth.

‘Well, you look like respectable sorts. Proper gentlemen. I have to be careful, y’know. Come with me.’

She shuffled back inside, the two men following over the threshold and into a long and narrow passageway. The air reeked of damp and rotting timber. She led them into a cramped front room where a slim scarlet candle in a dish burned on the window-sill.

‘So you both want to visit Bella at the same time?’ she asked with a leer.

‘You read our minds, Mrs Jugg.’ Dickens contrived to step backward onto Collins’s toes, stifling his companion’s gasp of surprise as he passed a handful of banknotes to the brothel keeper.