‘In which endeavour I believe I have succeeded. You are right, Wilkie. I do owe you an explanation. But first – let us have another drink.’
‘You almost sound as if you are celebrating a glorious triumph,’ Collins grumbled as a waiter replenished their glasses.
‘In a sense,’ Dickens said calmly, ‘I am. Your health, dear Wilkie!’
‘But we have been present at the scene of a brutal slaying!’ Collins protested. ‘What is worse, the circumstances are such that we cannot inform the police. I might be a young nobody, but you are Dickens the Inimitable, the most famous writer in England. Not even your friendship with Inspector Field could save you from disgrace if the truth came out. He could not hush up your presence at the scene of the crime, even if he wished to do so. The author who patronised a house of ill repute on the night of a murder – how the scandal sheets would love that story!’
‘True, true.’
‘You have not yet told me how you became acquainted with Bella,’ Collins grumbled.
‘Forgive me, Wilkie,’ Dickens said. ‘Undoubtedly you deserve an explanation for the night’s events.’
‘In so far as you can explain the inexplicable.’
‘Oh, I shall do my best,’ Dickens said, with an impish smile. ‘I met Bella one night when my nocturnal ramblings took me to that God-forsaken tavern the Rope and Anchor. I was sitting just where you and I sat this evening. Looking round, I noticed a young woman in the company of Jack Wells, whom you met this evening. Her profession was apparent from her dress, if not from her demeanour, yet I was struck by her quite astonishing beauty. She is no more than seventeen, Wilkie, but her face and figure were as fine as any I have seen in a long time. More than that, there was an innocence and purity about her that I found mesmerising. It was as if, by some miracle, she had yet to be tainted by her profession. But it was plain that she was in the depths of misery, above all that she was in mortal fear of her brutish companion. I surmised that she was a dress lodger and that the madam of the house where she plied her trade had instructed Wells to keep an eye on her.’
‘That is the way these people run their business, is it not? A watcher dogs the dress lodger’s footsteps to make sure that she does not run away from the brothel.’
‘Exactly. As I studied the girl, I found myself speculating about her history, imagining the sequence of events that had reduced her to such dire straits. It can happen easily enough, you know.’ A dreamy look came into Dickens’s eyes. Collins had seen the same expression when he acted before the Queen at Devonshire House, throwing himself body and soul into his part, so that any deficiencies in thespian talent were amply compensated by the intensity of his imaginative investment in his performance. ‘A young woman, perhaps an orphan, becomes destitute and is “rescued” by an apparently kind-hearted older lady. She is offered salvation in the form of board and lodging, only to learn – too late! – that the price is higher than she can afford. Possibly she is accused of a petty theft – a put-up job, with the threat of criminal prosecution supposedly bought off by the bribing of a bogus police officer. By whatever means, the madam ensures that the victim stays deeply in her debt. The poor wretch must repay by selling the only wares that she possesses. Oh, yes, Wilkie, there are female slaves in plantations across the ocean that enjoy liberty for which a dress lodger in a mean London brothel can only offer up hopeless prayers!’
Collins swallowed a mouthful of beer. ‘It is pure wickedness.’
‘Indeed. I hold that a woman is free to sell herself, just as a man is free to buy. That is the way of the world, and has been throughout history. But when all that the woman earns goes to the harridan who keeps her in thrall… Well, emboldened by drink, I decided that I must do something. This young woman might only be one of a thousand dress lodgers in this city, but I vowed to myself that I would set her free.’
‘But you knew nothing of her.’
‘Only what I had seen in her lovely, wistful face. Yet it was enough, Wilkie. I decided to bide my time and when the watcher succumbed to a call of nature, I approached the girl. I urged her to come with me and escape from her guard while she had the chance. But she was terrified and suspected a trap. I could see in her eyes that she yearned to believe that I was offering her a chance to start a new life, but her fear of Jack Wells and his mistress was stronger than the faith she could muster in the words of a complete stranger. Within a minute I realised it was no good. I had time merely to ask her name and where she lived.’
‘Bella, from Mrs Jugg’s lodging, the House of the Red Candle in Greenwich,’ Collins murmured.
‘Precisely. Even as she gave me those few details, a look of panic crossed her face, and I realised that Jack Wells was returning to take charge of her. I made myself scarce – but not without whispering a promise that I would see her again and set her free.’
‘Hence tonight?’
‘Hence tonight.’ Dickens sighed. ‘I had not reckoned that Fate would intervene in the sordid shape of her regular client, the Honourable Thaddeus Whiteacre.’
‘I suppose he abused her terribly.’
‘No doubt,’ Dickens said softly. ‘Yet Bella does not lack spirit. She did not trust a stranger in a tavern to rescue her, but she was prepared to save herself. So she conceived an audacious scheme of her own, to kill Whiteacre and escape with all the funds he kept in his wallet.’
‘You are sure that she did murder him?’
Dickens gave him a pitying look. ‘Who else?’
‘Indeed. But how?’
‘There, my dear Wilkie, I can only speculate.’
‘For the Lord’s sake, Dickens, you can’t leave it at that!’
For a moment Dickens eyed his friend, scarcely able to contain his amusement. ‘Very well. If you wish to hear my theory, then I shall be glad to share it with you. I make just one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘That, after tonight, we never speak of this matter again. No matter what the circumstances. Can I trust your discretion?’
‘Naturally,’ Collins said in a stiff voice.
‘I mean it, Wilkie. We must hold our tongues forever. Two lives depend upon it.’
‘Two?’
‘Those of Bella and the maidservant Nellie Brown.’
Collins frowned. ‘It was hardly the maid’s fault that she led Whiteacre to his death and that Bella contrived to flee from the House of the Red Candle. If indeed she did escape.’
‘Oh, I think she did.’
‘But how?’
Dickens finished his ale and put the tankard down on the table. ‘I helped her to escape.’
‘We have been together all evening,’ Collins said. ‘How could you have done so?’
Dickens grinned. ‘When I saw the chance for her to get away, I whispered that she should seize it. My fear was that she might be overcome by remorse at the enormity of her crime and confess her guilt to the madam. I do not condone the taking of life, but tonight I am tempted to make an exception.’
‘But I don’t -’
‘She masqueraded as Nellie Brown,’ Dickens interrupted. ‘You saw the real maidservant yourself. She was waiting at the Rope and Anchor for her friend. Remember how the drunken women mocked her, and all because of the scar on her cheek?’
‘That was Nellie?’
‘I am sure of it. Bella had borrowed her clothes, so as to fool Mrs Jugg. I suppose they slipped out of the house while Mrs Jugg was dozing and under cover of the fog sliding in from the Thames, Bella put Nellie’s garments on under her own dress. Once she was back in the upstairs room, she reversed the outfits. She must have strapped her bosom down – I recall that she was quite formidably endowed, Wilkie! – and used cosmetic preparations to mimic the scar on her friend’s cheek. She is a couple of inches taller than Nellie, and she needed to stoop and kept her head bent so as to avoid close scrutiny. She was relying on Mrs Jugg’s poor eyesight and Jack Wells’s lack of imaginative intelligence. When, in Nellie’s character, she showed Whiteacre into the room and then revealed herself as Bella, no doubt he was amused by the impersonation, perhaps even excited by it. We can speculate as to the inducement she offered to persuade him not only to strip for her but to allow her to tie him up. When he was at her mercy, she stabbed him, but with insufficient force to kill him straight away. Then she stole his money. Knowing Whiteacre’s penchant for heavy spending, I suspect she found enough to keep her and Nellie out of the brothels forever and a day. She committed a wicked crime, but I cannot find it in my heart to condemn her for it.’