by John Paulits
After a day unmitigated by any slackening of his tense anticipation, de la Rue left his hotel room and walked the few blocks to the Queen's Tavern. It was just past six o'clock and the sun shone brightly. He settled himself at the bar and waited, glancing frequently through the front window of the tavern at the doctor's office. Half an hour later a woman with a little boy in tow came down the doctor’s stairs. De la Rue watched them go up the street. Ten minutes later Doctor Steele fumbled about on his landing, locking his office door. De la Rue gripped the edge of the bar as he followed the doctor's halting progress down the stairs and across the street toward him. When the doctor entered the tavern, de la Rue beckoned the man.
"Doctor Steele, I noticed you through the window crossing the street."
"Ah, Mr. Visconti. How are you? How are you?" The doctor glanced toward his usual table. "Have you dined?"
De la Rue shook his head. "To tell you the truth, I hoped you might show up here. I haven't had a decent conversation with a living soul since we two dined together."
"Join me then, please. Today was a good day. Lots of sickness." He laughed softly. "Lots of fees. Dinner shall be my treat tonight."
De la Rue politely protested, but the doctor insisted. "I am in your debt for Saturday night. Come.” The doctor led him toward his table. “Of course, we will each pay as we go if we continue to have these pleasant dinners, but tonight, I insist you be my guest."
They sat and ordered.
Finally, de la Rue asked, “So were you called away today? Emergencies rife throughout the metropolis?"
"No, a quiet day as far as that goes, but sixteen patients today, sixteen - all in the office. Seems to be some kind of fever going about among our young. Bless their little hearts." The doctor bubbled with happiness over his good fortune.
De la Rue's enthusiasm for the doctor's company dissipated rapidly with this report, but he had no choice but to sit through the dinner and listen to the doctor talk about his day's work. The doctor did ask whether de la Rue had written to his sick sister in Switzerland. De la Rue said he had, but that was the closest the conversation came to heart degeneration, digitalis, and Dickens. Just after nine o'clock the two men separated.
Wednesday, June 8. Back in hiding de la Rue watched the servant girl carry her jug of water into the chalet but noticed something he had not seen before. The girl emerged onto the balcony and emptied the glass carafe over the railing. She went back inside and a moment later went down the stairs, the empty jug dangling from her hand.
Dickens had not drunk the water. De la Rue's stomach clenched into a mass of fear. He did not drink the water. How could his plan work? Would he ultimately be forced to meet Dickens head on? De la Rue hurried to the stairs and again emptied a vile of digitalis into the newly filled water carafe. He returned immediately to Rochester, but could not stand the waiting, the uncertainty. By noon he had returned to his lair near Gad's Hill. At one, Dickens emerged from the chalet and walked back to the main house. De la Rue’s heart began to pound. He had to go and see immediately whether Dickens had drunk the dosed water. He speedily made his way to the chalet steps and glanced toward the house, but all de la Rue could see from the bottom of the stairs were the green and brown of the trees and bushes and the blue of the sky. He raced up the steps and entered the second floor. The carafe remained full, the glasses still turned upside down.
De la Rue clenched his fists in frustration and hurried back down the stairs. He found his way to the high road and began walking. Two days. Two failures. At least he had no need to dine with that miserable doctor tonight. Two vials left. One of them must do its work. One must! Otherwise, there would need to be a face-to-face confrontation with Dickens. Come what may, though, he told himself, the end of this week would bring with it an end to his untenable situation.
All through the long day his ardent desire to spend the night in opium dreams devoured Emile de la Rue. He knew, though, if he surrendered to his urge he would have no chance to be abroad before dawn, hiding in the bushes near Gad’s Hill and trying once again to poison Dickens. He settled instead for purchasing a small bottle of brandy and consumed it in his hotel room. When he drained the bottle dry, de la Rue went to sleep.
As we know, Charles Dickens altered his writing schedule this next to last day of his life. He lunched and smoked a cigar afterwards. Then he returned to the chalet to write some more, and sometime during the afternoon, he needed to quench his thirst. At approximately five o'clock, after he returned to the main house, he felt ill. At six o'clock he collapsed.
Thursday, June 9. Morning found Emile de la Rue in his accustomed hiding place somewhat the worse for wear. The previous night's brandy along with his early rising made him groggy. As the new day brightened, de la Rue was surprised to see a number of gigs in front of Dickens' house. He could hear the horses' whinnies every once in a while. Seven o'clock and then seven-thirty came and went but no servant girl took a jug of water to the chalet. Eight o'clock passed. A woman emerged from the house and stepped onto the broad lawn between the house and the road. De la Rue put his binoculars to his eyes. The woman was crying. Crying! She paced the lawn for a few moments and then, wiping her eyes with the loose cloth of her long skirt, she went back inside.
De la Rue felt hope. From the pounding of his heart to the vivid visions of his imagination he felt hope! Could Dickens have succumbed to his ailments on his own? He turned first toward the chalet and then back toward the house. Both structures sat silent and full of secrets in the morning sun. As de la Rue weighed his next step, another gig entered the grounds of Gad's Hill. He put his binoculars to his eyes again. A man in a dark suit stepped out of it. The man carried a small bag in his right hand, a bag too small to contain clothing. A doctor! The man could only be a doctor! Steele? No, a stranger. De la Rue watched the front door open, and the man hurried inside.
De la Rue thought of the dosed carafe of water. Dickens had not drunk any yesterday morning. Had heaven granted him a stroke of impossible good luck? Was the carafe still full? Would it be better to dispose of the poisoned water? He moved toward the chalet. He hurried up the stairs and ducked inside. Only an inch of water remained in the carafe, and one of the drinking glasses stood right side up! He looked over Dickens' desk. A pen had lain in the center of the desk yesterday next to the neat pile of fresh blue paper, but the pen was missing and the stack of blue paper disarranged! And there remained only an inch of water in the carafe! No servant had come to empty the carafe. De la Rue knew that for a certainty. Dickens must have returned to the chalet after lunch the day before! He had drunk the water! There could be no other explanation. But de la Rue needed to know more; he needed to be sure. Doctor Steele. He would go back Rochester and find Dr. Steele.
De la Rue stood on the landing and pounded on Dr. Steele's locked door. He got no answer. He looked to the Queen's Tavern and hurried down the stairs and crossed the street. The tavern did not open until noon. De la Rue calmed himself and began to walk. No reason to hurry, he told himself. The doctor might be at Gad's Hill. Or he might be at his home - de la Rue cursed himself for not having the foresight to inquire where the doctor lived - after being out all night. Who knew what time Dickens had been stricken?
At noon de la Rue returned to the Queen's Tavern and ordered lunch. The gossip had already reached the city. Have you heard, the waiter asked him? Heard what? Mr. Dickens has had an attack. There is little hope of recovery. When was the attack? The previous night the answer came back.
De la Rue watched as people came into the tavern and spoke together. He moved to the bar to eavesdrop. The talk was all Dickens. No hope of recovery. Doctors arrived from London. Very serious. Both daughters and mistress in attendance. No hope of recovery. No hope of recovery.
De la Rue left the tavern and returned to his room. He threw himself on his bed and replayed the conversations he had overheard. He was so close to safety. Someti
me soon he would hear the words he needed to hear. Dickens was dead. Dead. Dead.
Just after six o'clock de la Rue returned to the Queen's Tavern. He learned that Doctor Steele had not put in an appearance all day. De la Rue sat at the bar and nursed a beer. The bar patrons had heard no news about Dickens' condition other than "no hope of recovery." How lovely the phrase sounded in de la Rue’s ears, but where the devil was the doctor? Seven o'clock passed. Then eight.
Finally, at ten minutes past eight, Doctor Steele walked into the tavern. He looked very weary and more disheveled than ever. He carried his hat in his hand. The patrons, nearly as one, turned his way. He saw their stares and shook his head. In a soft voice audible to everyone in the hushed room he said, "Mr. Dickens has died. Two hours since. Our great man is gone."
After a moment of stunned quiet, people began to discuss the news. Steele noticed de la Rue, walked over, and took a seat next to him.
"It is true?" asked de la Rue, trying his best to portray a moroseness he did not feel.
Steele nodded. He had been called just after six the day before and had stayed for hours by Dickens' side. The cause? A rupture of a vessel in the brain. Not unexpected, the doctor muttered sagely. When the first of the two expected London doctors arrived late at night, he had gone home. At five o'clock he had returned to see whether he could be helpful. Dickens died at just past six. He had stayed a brief while out of respect and then left. The London doctors would handle the details.
Doctor Steele concluded, "I won't be dining tonight. Just not up to it. I'll have something in my rooms. Perhaps tomorrow night I'll see you here, Mr. Visconti?"
De la Rue said he would look forward to it.
The next morning, however, Emile de la Rue caught an early train up to London.
Chapter Eighteen
Emile de la Rue quietly reinserted himself into the club life of London. Dickens' death was on everyone's lips, and de la Rue never tired of hearing the details. On the Wednesday following, June 15, he along with Lord Allsgood and a number of others went to Westminster Abbey and joined the line of mourners who slowly walked past Dickens' open grave. Bouquets had been tossed everywhere, filling the grave opening and pouring out onto the floor. Through Thursday dusk the grave remained open for public visitation. When the visitations ceased, it was all over.
Friday, June 17. Emile de la Rue paid a visit to the offices of Chapman and Hall. There, in response to his question, a clerk, eager to display an inside knowledge of the great man's legacy, told de la Rue that Chapman and Hall had two more episodes of The Mystery of Edwin Drood in hand and Dickens was working on a third when he died, and there would certainly be two more monthly numbers, possibly three.
This caused de la Rue concern. What would these numbers say about him? Did he dare stay around London to find out?
He had been considering a return to Italy for a brief spell, and now seemed the wisest time to make the trip. Therefore, he put it about that he planned a two or three month sojourn abroad, and on the final day of June, he bought the fourth number of Dickens' novel and read it on the boat-train to Southhampton. When he finished reading, he knew his decision to leave England for a while was sound. In number four the murder took place. The three men were brought together. The murderer, the victim and a brother, someone the murderer could shift the blame to. De la Rue felt the familiar flood of fear sweep over him. Dickens is dead now, he told himself. The story will not go on much longer.
De la Rue closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the train seat. He had not realized how much this battle with Dickens had affected him. He had not felt well since his return from Rochester, and he did not feel well now. He’d opted to sail back to Italy rather than take trains in hope the sea air would restore him.
He had arranged for the final two numbers of Drood to be sent to him in Genoa, where he would be staying. After he read and digested the final number he would decide whether he could safely return to London. He knew Dickens had planned twelve numbers for the book, and so had scarcely finished half of it. There should be nothing, he told himself, to keep him away from England when the final words of the book should reach the public eye. He alone understood what Dickens planned to disclose with his damnable story. He alone and no one else.
De la Rue boarded his ship, which set sail with the tide. In his diary he recorded fits of nausea and a general lassitude. Early in the morning in his bed on the second day out, Emile de la Rue died of a heart attack. His body continued on to Genoa for burial, where an older brother dealt with his possessions. Some possessions were put to use; some discarded; some put into storage. Among the things stored away was a diary, relegated to the bottom of a box full of papers that might or might not be needed at some future time. They never were needed and lay in a dusty attic for over a century.
And so it was that Emile de la Rue took from Charles Dickens whatever time he had left on earth. How much time? There is no guessing, but I do know thousands of Dickens' readers would gladly take a minute off their own lives - and I more than that - and give all those minutes retroactively to Dickens; others to allow him to complete the great mystery story he left behind; I so Dickens could have exposed Emile de la Rue for a cowardly murderer.
This is but fancy, though. What is not fancy, however, is that Emile de la Rue cut short Charles Dickens’ life by untold days, weeks, months, perhaps even years, and while the mystery of Edwin Drood will forever remain unsolved, the mystery of Charles Dickens' death has been answered.
Appendix
Mesmerism
Mesmerism can be defined as the ability to so affect a person's consciousness as to put that person into a trance-like state. The word derives from a German physician by the name of Franz Anton Mesmer (1734-1815). Mesmer theorized that people’s health and well-being were influenced by the effect of the gravitational pull of the planets on an unidentifiable fluid inside the human body. He believed a magnetic force could affect this mysterious bodily fluid and for a time affected his cures using large metal magnets. The medical profession thought this a bit gimmicky, and so Mesmer decided that simply staring into the person’s eyes would do the trick. He developed techniques which put people into a trance-like state during which the bodily fluids could be forced back into their proper equilibrium thereby bringing about a cure.
Many patients applauded Mesmer’s treatments, professing to be cured of their symptoms. The medical profession proved not as laudatory. Forced to leave Vienna, Mesmer settled in Paris in 1778 and found numerous patients wishing to be “mesmerised.” Both Mozart and Marie Antoinette were patients of Mesmer, and for a time Mesmer - and mesmerism - was a sensation.
But history repeated itself and the medical profession in France did not take kindly to replacing bleeding with the application of mesmeric touches and stares. King Louis XVI appointed a commission to take a scientific look into Mesmer’s claims. The commission, which included Benjamin Franklin and Dr. Joseph Guillotine, found no scientific basis for Mesmer’s claims. Thoroughly discredited he went quietly back to Switzerland to spend the rest of his life and died there in 1815. The mesmerism movement he had begun, however, went on without him. Which leads us to England’s Dr. John Elliotson (1791-1868).
Dr. Elliotson became acquainted with the principles of mesmerism in the 1830's when Baron du Potet, a French mesmerist, visited London. Elliotson, already a leading proponent of one Victorian pseudo-science, phrenology - the belief that facial features are a clue to character and the shape of the head an indication of intelligence - was open to the claims of mesmerism.
Elliotson was a serious physician of note, “one of the most brilliant men in the history of English medicine” according to one medical historian.
On the pseudo-scientific side, however, Elliotson reported that using mesmerism, he himself had achieved many successes involving the cure of facial tics - the exact ailment which Dickens would unde
rtake to cure with Madame de la Rue - and subsequently founded the Mesmeric Hospital in London in 1846.
Dr. Elliotson gave public demonstrations of mesmerism at London University, four of which Dickens is known to have attended, and it is doubtless at one of these lectures that Dickens met Dr. Elliotson. Dickens soon made him his trusted family doctor and steady dinner companion. It is from Dr. Elliotson Dickens learned the principals of mesmerism and the ability to mesmerize.
There are numerous records of Dickens mesmerizing both friends and family. To cite one instance, it is documented that in 1849 John Leech, an illustrator Dickens used, was knocked over by a wave while sporting in the surf and received a concussion. When leeches applied to his temples did not result in any improvement, Dickens offered to mesmerize him. Leech accepted his offer and recovered.
Suffice it to say that mesmerism was ingrained in the popular culture of Dickens’ day and heartily embraced by Dickens himself. In Genoa in 1844, Dickens would call upon the powers of mesmerism to cure a facial tic that tormented Augusta de la Rue, and the chain of events leading to the murder of Charles Dickens would be set in motion.
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