Mr Pickettwick often said he did not like dogs. Or was it that they did not like him? No, this could not be; dogs liked him because they always sniffed round the edge of his trousers while making little growling sounds.
If anyone didn't like him, it was that tyke Charlie.
Mr Pickettwick found his throat and mouth exceedingly dry; he was thirsty. It did not take long for him to decide to turn into Ralli's, the drinking and eating place â new to Windsor, but very popular because you could buy coffee and a simple meal at any time of the day or night.
Ralli â he liked to be called Mr Ralli as part of becoming English â had been swept up in the train of Napoleon's armies and deposited near Windsor, where he saw the possibilities at once. There was no quarrel between him and Bert Frost who ran the pub a few yards away because both knew that the pub customers would never use Ralli's, and the other way round. It was people from the Castle and rich visitors like Mr Pickettwick who would come to eat and drink at Ralli's.
He bowed when he saw Mr Pickettwick come in. He foresaw profit from Mr Pickettwick.
Or trouble.
One must always be prepared for everything.
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Two women and two men all dead. Traddles beheaded, Dol Worboys strangled, Henrietta burnt and Tosser with his throat cut. And then there was the dead baby, too, that the Major had found with the dog's body.
Charlie made the list out in his mind; they were linked, he was sure. For the moment his interest wasn't in who had killed them but in the dead themselves â they should be written about. No need to be too gloomy about it either â not even with the legs.
He had to admit that he could think of one or two good jokes about what those legs could do on their own. Or had already done.
He had lived in the rough part of London, dumped in it by his parents. His mother had been especially keen: âIt's a good thing for you, Charlie; you can earn â¦' With those words she had put a wall between them which he would never knock down.
Yet despite this memory, Charlie had to go back to London; he knew that. It was his place, but he would always be glad he had come to Windsor.
He would be in trouble when he got back to his family; he knew that too. But he would insist on what was right. His rights.
He knew that inside him there was a life bubbling up. He wanted to learn how to develop that energy. It
would mean the use of words, because he already enjoyed using them. But he must learn to use them in an educated way.
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âThe King is mighty fond of women!' Charlie's thoughts were digressing to some words used by Major Mearns. And the monarch was fond of clothes too. Half asleep as he had been that morning, His Majesty had been dressed in blue, red and gold. A kind of gaudy uniform.
Charlie liked clothes, too, but he felt his tastes would run in a quieter way.
In spite of his diversion to matters Royal and what the King liked, Charlie could not stop thinking about the dead souls.
âCheer up, Charlie,' said Miss Fairface.
âI'm thinking about the dead man.'
âI know.' He might be sad for Traddles, she thought, but he is also very curious. âAnd not just a man, Charlie. Two women have died as well, and one was Henrietta.'
âYes, I hadn't forgotten Henrietta,' Charlie said soberly.
âI'm thirsty. I could do with a drink.'
âMr Thornton always has something in his room. He'd let you have a drink. I could go and get it.'
âNo, Charlie, although it's kind of you. I couldn't drink strong stuff like that â not when I'm working. Mr Thornton wants to put on some sort of performance.'
Charlie pulled his lips down in disapproval.
âNo, you can't blame him; it's not his fault. It's either money or the King.'
âThe King wouldn't want a performance after what happened.' Charlie was even more shocked.
âKings can do what they like. Or this one can,' she commented.
A voice called out, âMiss Fairface, Miss Fairface!'
It was Mindy. She was wearing a trim, high-waisted blue dress with a light blue shawl across her shoulders.
They had known each other for some years, and were friends.
âI've come to see how you are.' She looked at Miss Fairface's downcast face. âI need hardly ask.'
âI can't help crying. There's been so much death! Am I very red and swollen?'
âNot at all, my dear.'
Actresses knew how to cry without showing the traces.
âCharlie,' she said, âgo along to Ralli's and bring back some coffee for us all. If you don't want coffee, choose something else. He knows I will pay later.'
âI'll learn to like coffee,' he said to himself as he scurried off. Clearly it was the sort of drink that people like Miss Fairface drank, and he intended to be one such person himself.
âPerhaps I am ready,' the thought came unheralded, but welcomed. He could feel something growing inside him, something to do with Spike and the dog. The dog was important.
He sped off to Ralli's to get the coffee where the sight of Felix Ferguson supping coffee on his own reminded Charlie who was the rat in the woodpile.
Ferguson's gaze flicked over Charlie with cold indifference.
âHe saw me though. He knows I'm here,' thought Charlie with triumph, as he waited to be served.
Ralli knew what he wanted. âThree?' he questioned. âFor you too?'
âYes,' said Charlie proudly. âFor me too.'
He was carrying the three cups carefully on a small wooden tray when Mr Pickettwick came up beside him and took the tray. âLet me carry it, my dear.'
He carried it to the Theatre, saying nothing more, until he got there. âIn Miss Fairface's dressing room?'
Mindy and Miss Fairface, who had been talking quietly, looked at him with surprise.
He began handing the coffee round. âHere you are, ladies. And one for the lad. No, don't say “none for me” as I have had about three cups already. It ought to be champagne.'
âI couldn't drink before a performance,' Miss Fairface declared.
âYou ought not to be here tonight, not after hearing the rumours that are going round. Just think, that poor man murdered and cut up just outside,' he said.
Miss Fairface blanched a little. âMr Thornton wants a performance here tonight,' she said quietly.
Mr Pickettwick clicked his tongue in disapproval.
âOh, it's the King really, he wants to see.'
Mr Pickettwick clicked his tongue again and shook his head.
Charlie said: âHave my coffee, Sir. I have to go on an
errand.' He had taken a small sip and decided that, although coffee was certainly a drink to grow into, he wasn't ready to grow yet.
He made his way to where Spike and his dog lived.
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It was a small house, one of a row, with two windows on the ground floor, and two upstairs. He went round the back and looked in the first window. The cupboard was open; a woman's dress and shawl were hanging there.
He could see Spike looking at him and the dog beside him. Charlie waved at Spike, and climbed up. âI'll have to give you a proper name, Dog.'
Dog gave a short sharp bark as if he agreed â even as if he had a name and he knew it; but who else did?
Charlie looked through the window to speak to Spike. âWe'll have to make up a name for your dog. And not just “Dog” either. Give him a bit more, he deserves it!'
The dog wagged his tail. âYes, good boy!'
âGood boy,' said Spike. âGood boy, good boy!'
Charlie studied his face. âYou could talk better than that, Spike, if someone spoke to you. Perhaps you aren't even allowed to talk.'
Suddenly, he found himself asking: âIs that man Ferguson your father?'
Spike shook his head firmly: âNo.'
âWell, you got that out all right, loud and clear,' Charlie thought. âHe is not your father. Although, goodness knows how you can be so sure.'
He said to the boy: âI will talk to you, Spike, and to the dog, and you must speak back.'
He looked at the dog. âPerhaps not you, Dog!'
The dog wagged his tail.
âNow you, Spike. I am Charlie,' and he pointed to himself. âYou're Spike. Say “I am Spike”.'
Spike looked thoughtful, then said slowly, pointing at his chest: âI am Spike.'
âSpike. Spike.'
âSpike,' said the boy slowly and solemnly.
They continued with their conversation through the window â Spike was doing well.
âI wonder if it's that he can't hear properly, as well as no one speaking to him,' Charlie thought.
âCome out,' he called. âWe can't talk properly through the window.'
Spike shook his head. âSpike can't.'
âHe's Ferguson's prisoner,' thought Charlie â he who had always been free.
âAre you hungry, Spike?'
The boy nodded slowly.
âStay where you are. I will be back. I won't be long.'
As he hurried to the cooked meat and pie shop that he knew, he wondered if Spike would be there when he got back. If Ferguson arrived back, he might send Spike out on an errand.
He ran back with the cold sausage and slices of meat that the shop man had sold him. He was always generous to Charlie, which the boy appreciated while sometimes reflecting that it was not the sort of thing he could have sold at a high price.
âHungry, are you then?' the man had asked this time.
âNo, but it's for someone who doesn't get much. And a dog, too,' he added.
It was then that the bread was put round the meat and another sausage thrown in. âThank you, Sir!' said Charlie, looking at the name written above the open-windowed shop. âMr Copperfield, Sir.'
âNot my name ⦠I just bought it with the shop.'
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Charlie handed the bread and beef to Spike, who began to eat, and he threw a sausage to the dog.
âYou don't look so thin, Dog,' appraised Charlie. âI expect you go hunting. A deal of ratties round here.'
He knew he ought to get away, and something of this must have got through to Spike (although not to Dog who was busy eating) because Spike's eyes seemed to say, âDon't ever leave me.'
âI'll have to,' thought Charlie silently in reply, âbut I'll fix you up with someone before I go.' He climbed down.
âNow finish eating and we will do some more talking ⦠I can see you want to and, once you've got the hang of it, then it'll come easy. Talking is natural, you'll see. One day you'll say to yourself: “So that's how it works,” and you'll be away.'
Spike opened his mouth as if he was about to speak, then he shut it quickly. His eyes looked frightened and he looked away. The dog moved away.
Charlie turned round to look. There was Felix Ferguson, the Crowner, marching towards him down the alley. Although Ferguson was moving smoothly and quietly, it was a march all the same. He remembered the
Major saying that the Crowner had been a soldier. Not a soldier he would care to serve with, was the impression Charlie got.
âI came to have a talk with the boy,' Charlie explained.
âYou'd get more talk out of the dog.'
âSpike's got more to say than you know,' Charlie said to himself.
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On his way up the hill where the Castle and the Theatre faced each other, Charlie met Major Mearns.
âHello, boy. Coming to call on me and Denny?'
He was a nice man, which showed in the smile he gave the boy. The truth was that Charlie interested him. He wasn't the usual street boy; he spoke in sentences for one thing, and used words as if he liked them. As a soldier, Mearns was used to observing and assessing, and he found Charlie to be clever. Not sharp clever, nor vicious clever. He'd met plenty of those through the years. But Charlie was a maker â someone who would produce something.
That's if he lived long enough to do it. Living on the street was no recipe for long life. Nor was the army, he reminded himself, so, don't push the boy that way. He ought to go back to his home which, from the look of him, had not been too bad a place.
âWhere have you been, Charlie?' Mearns was interested.