‘Of course, sir,’ says Charley. ‘Of course. Just as soon as you open up that coat of yours.’
‘My – my coat?’
‘Well, we have to make certain you’re not bleeding, don’t we? You might need to be taken to hospital.’ Charley guides the little man, not very gently, toward the nearest street lamp. The fellow has clearly been in this sort of situation before, and knows it’s no use resisting. With a sigh, he unbuttons his coat, revealing an ornate, gilded mantel clock. ‘Don’t tell me,’ says Charley. ‘Your wife said to be back by midnight, so you took the clock along, just make sure. And you were running because you’ve outstayed your curfew.’
The man can’t help chuckling. ‘You got it right in one guess, guv’nor.’
‘Well, I’m afraid the little lady is going to be sorely disappointed. You’re not likely to be going home for a while.’ From the inside pocket of his greatcoat, Charley retrieves a set of cast-iron ‘D’ handcuffs, one of the few mementos – aside from all the scars – of his policing career, and shackles the thief to the lamppost. ‘You just wait there, while I fetch a real officer.’
‘A real officer? You said you were a detective!’
‘Did I? Sorry. Old habits are difficult to break.’
As Charley walks off, carrying the mantel clock, the man calls after him, ‘Listen, if you let me go, I’ll split the take from that timepiece; it’ll bring at least two guineas!’ His pleas are swallowed by the fog.
Within a block, Charley comes upon the young constable from the tavern; he’s sitting on the steps of a small and slightly run-down town house, his head in his hands. ‘Lost your man?’ says Charley.
The copper glances up, then buries his face in his hands again. ‘My first chance to catch an actual criminal, and I make a hash of it.’
‘Not entirely.’ Charley hands him the clock, which, aside from a cracked crystal, seems to be no worse for the ordeal.
‘Where did you— How did you—’
‘I just ran into the cove who took it – literally. If you want to take him in, he’s cuffed to a lamppost up the street, the one advertising M. Claudet’s Photographic Portraits.’
The boy springs to his feet, all wide-eyed and eager again. ‘All right! Why don’t I do that, then? Thank ’ee. Eh, I hate to ask, but would you – would you mind watching yon residence until I come back? The door isn’t secure. I tried to summon another constable, but I dunnot think this whistle carries well in the fog.’
‘No, I don’t mind. Always happy to help a fellow—’ Charley lets the sentence drop. He still hasn’t quite got used to being a plain citizen. He takes the constable’s spot on the steps and sits there humming ‘Hark, the Bonny Christ Church Bells’ under his breath. He gets through three full choruses before the young copper returns – alone, and looking even more dejected than he did earlier.
‘Didn’t you find him?’ asks Charley.
‘I found the lamppost, sir, but not the thief. Nobbut these.’ The boy holds up Charley’s handcuffs, their toothed jaws dangling open like those of a rabid dog someone has shot.
THREE
‘Well,’ says Charley, with an ironic grin, ‘the little man has made fools of us both, hasn’t he?’ Ruefully, he regards the open cuffs. ‘He’s very adept at picking locks.’
The constable regards the open town house even more ruefully. ‘Eh, ’tis how he got inside, as well, I suppose. The family’s gone for the holidays and asked that we keep an eye on the place. I was about to try the door when a young lady come hurrying up to me, sobbing, saying she’d been manhandled by some stranger and wanted him arrested and that. I’d have gone with her, only just then I heard a noise from inside the house. Before I could investigate, the door flew open and the thief flew out. I started after him, but the young lady mun have tripped me up, for I went sprawling.’ He rubs his bruised knees. ‘By the time I got to my feet, the man had vanished in the fog and the lady nearly so; I could’ve caught up with her, only I didn’t like to leave the house hanging open. She mun have been in league with the thief.’ The boy shakes his head sadly. ‘’Tis a sad shame; such an attractive young lady.’
‘Yes,’ says Charley, ‘it’s a pity Mr Lavater’s theory of physiognomy isn’t more reliable. We could just lock up all the ugly folk, and be done with it.’ He gives the constable a sympathetic pat on the back. ‘You’re not the first copper to be gulled by a canary, son, nor likely to be the last.’
‘A canary?’
‘That’s what we call the maiden in distress who draws your attention away from the real crime.’
‘Oh.’ The boy lets out a discouraged sigh. ‘Eh, I can see I’ve a lot to learn about policing.’
‘No doubt. But you want to learn, so that’s half the battle.’
The young constable gives him a puzzled look. ‘You sound as if you know me.’
Charley shrugs. ‘I know a few things about you. Though physiognomy may not be reliable, you can still tell a good deal about a person just by observing. For example, I’d bet you’re from Derbyshire.’
‘Then you’d win.’ The boy considers this a moment. ‘No doubt my speech gives me away.’
‘And you’re a clergyman’s son, I believe?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘Lucky guess. And you’ve been on the force for … I’d say … three weeks.’
‘Right again. ’Tis obvious that I’m new, given the way I handled myself. But why three weeks?’
‘Well, it’s clearly been more than a week, or you’d have a partner walking the beat with you. And yet—’ Charley points his crooked finger at the boy’s feet. ‘You’re still wearing your own boots. Most recruits wash out in the first fortnight, so the force don’t bother ordering boots for you until they’re fairly certain you’re going to stay around, and it takes another week to get them made.’ He examines the boy’s baby face. ‘There is one thing, though, that I’ve not been able to deduce about you.’
The copper shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. ‘Whatever is that, sir?’
‘Your name.’
‘Eh, I’m sorry, I should’ve said. Constable Mull, sir.’ He salutes, then hesitantly holds out a hand, as if unsure which greeting is proper under the circumstances.
Charley grips the hand so firmly that boy winces. ‘Do you have a first name?’
‘Of course, only I thought—’
‘No need to stand on ceremony; I’m not your superior any more.’
‘’Tis Lochinvar, sir.’
‘Lochinvar?’ Charley stifles a laugh. ‘Sorry. It’s an unusual name. Your mother must be a great admirer of Sir Walter Scott.’
‘That she is.’
‘I may be good at deducing things, but I’d never have hit on Lochinvar. I had you down for a Matthew or a John, something biblical.’ He claps Constable Mull on the back again, and the boy nearly stumbles. ‘Well. I’m playing the canary now, distracting you from your duties. You’d best resume your beat, and I’d best get to bed. You never know; tomorrow may be the day a wealthy client turns up.’
‘Yes, sir. But – eh – what do I do about the house? ’Tis still not secure.’
‘You leave that to me.’
‘I’ve no key. How will you—’ He breaks off as Inspector Field pulls, from yet another pocket of his greatcoat, a ring of twirls, screws, picks, and rakes of various shapes and sizes.
‘If a lock may be picked,’ says Charley, ‘it may also be unpicked.’
The vicinity of Ebury Square, where Charley’s office may be found, is an even more respectable neighborhood than Mrs Bramble’s. In fact, according to one of his more reliable sources, until recently Mr Tennyson, the celebrated poet, lived nearby. Though the rent is really more than Charley can afford on his pension, he’s taken to heart the advice of Mrs Bramble, who maintains that, if you set up shop in a poor area of town, the only clients you’ll get are poor ones. She’s fond of quoting the old Scots maxim, ‘Doan’t thou marry for munny, but goa wheer munny is.’
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So far, he’s attracted scarcely any clients – rich, poor, or middling. It almost makes him long to change places with Constable Lochinvar Mull, to be out on the street where the real policing happens, not cooped up in an office, waiting impatiently for some case that needs solving. He wouldn’t really care to be a young copper on the beat again, of course – not unless he could somehow take with him all the things he’s learned since then.
Thinking of the earnest Constable Mull makes him smile. The boy reminds him a little of himself at that age. Not in his background – Charley grew up in the rowdy atmosphere of a Chelsea public house, not some quiet parish in the Midlands – but in the way the young copper thinks he can make a real difference in the world by bringing wrongdoers to justice. Charley still believes that same thing. In fact, he knows it; he’s seen at first hand how the streets have become a bit safer every year since the New Police appeared on them. But he’s no longer making much of a difference; he’s just marking time.
He’s had bills posted; he’s advertised his agency in the papers; he’s told everyone he knows – and he knows a lot of people. But it seems that those who need his services can’t afford them, and those who can afford him don’t need him. Still, Charley is by nature an optimist, so this morning and every other morning he shines his shoes and brushes his frock coat, builds up a nice fire, puts a kettle of water on the hob so he can offer tea to whoever might walk through the door. Then he tidies up his little office, which occupies the garret of a narrow brick building in Flask Road. On the ground floor is a cigar shop; the second floor is let to a musician – a violinist who, judging from the quality of his playing, must have some trouble paying his rent as well.
The only part he doesn’t tidy up is his desk, an imposing pile of oak that belonged to his wife’s first husband, who owned a distillery and could afford such things. It takes up a good tenth of his floor space; in order to hoist it into the garret, it was necessary to remove a window. But Charley learned long ago how important appearances are; a client – supposing one ever appears – can’t help feeling that a man with so solid and dependable a desk must be solid and dependable himself.
It’s just as important to appear busy and in demand, so the desktop is as snowed under with documents and correspondence and memoranda as that of a Doctor’s Commons lawyer. If you look closely, however, you’ll find that, like his handcuffs, they mostly date from his days as Detective Inspector.
So does his habit of getting up early. Like his pipe-smoking and his fondness for singing and whistling music-hall tunes, it’s a constant source of irritation to his wife and her mother, both of whom consider it uncivilized to arise before ten. By the time he puts the finishing touches on his stage set – The curtain rises on the small but well-furnished office of a successful and distinguished private enquiry agent – it’s barely gone eight o’clock. There’s plenty of time to nip down to the coffeehouse next door for toast and bacon and a lovely cup of Mocha; at his wife’s house it’s always tea, tea, and more tea.
To his astonishment, no sooner has he returned to his desk and cleared a space for his little repast than he hears a rapping on his office door – the head of a walking stick, would be his guess. A good sign; it shows that the visitor is a man of means … Unless, of course, he’s wrong and the sound is made by a cosh or a set of knuckledusters, which would indicate that one of his old nemeses has sought him out. But in his experience, that sort don’t bother to knock. Charley scoops the toast and bacon in their greasy wrapper into a drawer, snatches up pen and paper, and calls out in a genial yet businesslike voice, ‘Please come in!’
The man who enters is clearly one of means – in fact, quite a dandy, from his brass-headed ebony walking stick to his voluminous white greatcoat to his flowing silk cravat, which matches the blue of his large, striking eyes. ‘I am told,’ says the visitor, in a voice too loud for the size of the room, ‘that you can read a man like a book, just from his appearance.’ His large mouth is set in a disarming but rather supercilious smile.
‘Well, sir,’ says Charley, ‘I’d say that depends upon the book. I believe I can offer more insight into a man’s character than, say, Spring-Heeled Jack, but perhaps not so much as you’d find in, say, Nicholas Nickleby.’
‘Indeed. I assumed it would depend more upon the man.’
Charley shrugs. ‘I’ve found that the majority of men make for pretty easy reading.’
The visitor raises his eyebrows. ‘A brave boast, sir.’ He spreads his arms and his lapels wide, revealing a flamboyant striped waistcoat. ‘So, then, let us see. What can you deduce about yours truly?’
Charley looks him carefully up and down. ‘You were raised in Mongolia by a troupe of high-wire artists – which accounts for your taste in fashion. You are four feet five and a quarter inches in height and weigh fifteen stone – though your girdle keeps the weight well hidden. You work days as a trotter scraper and nights as a pure finder. You have one wife in Bow and another in Barstow, and eight children by each. It is your lifelong ambition to play the part of Hamlet upon the stage or, failing that, Varney the Vampire—’ He can go no further with his portrait, for the visitor dissolves in a fit of mirth. Charley sits there, grinning modestly, until the man finds his voice again.
‘Oh, Charley!’ the fellow gasps. ‘That’s the best description of me I’ve ever heard! Particularly the part about wanting to play Hamlet! So true! So true!’ Still chuckling, he pulls a silk handkerchief from his sleeve and wipes at his eyes. ‘Oh, dear; I should write all that down. It will afford me with a standout character for my next novel. Why bother creating one from whole cloth, when you may get such an excellent one ready-made?’
‘I believe I’ve missed my calling,’ says Charley, rather glumly. ‘Perhaps I should open an author’s advice agency. I couldn’t possibly do any worse.’
Mr Dickens sobers. ‘Business is that bad, is it?’ He removes his overcoat and hangs it carefully on the coat rack; then, tugging fastidiously at the knees of his trousers, he seats himself on the special client’s chair, which is more comfortable than Charley’s own.
‘Can I get you some tea?’ asks Charley.
‘No, no, I can’t stay long. But do go ahead and drink yours – which I deduce from the aroma is, in fact, coffee.’
‘You’d make a fine detective.’ Charley takes a gulp of the Mocha and makes a face. ‘Good lord. This is at least one-fourth chicory.’ He sighs and sets the cup down. ‘It’s getting harder and harder to find bona fide coffee that isn’t bulked up with burnt acorns and horse peas and sawdust and the devil knows what else.’
‘Well, you see; there’s a case for you to solve, my friend. Find out who’s adulterating the stuff, and expose them. I’ll even print an account of your investigations and pay you a few shillings for the privilege.’
‘Not a bad idea. But I’ll need more than a few shillings to pay the rent on this place.’
‘Then why don’t you place an advertisement in my magazine? What are you calling yourself?’
‘Mr Field’s Private Enquiry Agency.’
The great author throws up his hands dramatically; Mr Dickens is nothing if not dramatic. ‘Well, there, you see, that’s your problem! You need a name that will intrigue and excite people, make them say to themselves, “Why, that’s precisely what I need! A private enquiry agent! Why didn’t I think of it sooner?”’
‘But that’s my name; I can scarcely call myself something else.’
‘Why not? The name Field means nothing to most people – unless they happen to be coiners or cracksmen. Even if they’ve read my piece about you in Household Words, that was two years ago, and people have very short memories, believe me.’
‘All right, what do you suggest?’
‘Well, Inspector Field would be some improvement …’
‘But I’m not an—’
‘Wait!’ Mr Dickens’ wide eyes grow even wider; he leans forward in his chair and says, in a hushed, dramatic voice, ‘I have it! Ins
pector Bucket’s Private Enquiry Agency!’ He sits back in the chair with a triumphant grin, arms smugly crossed. ‘Bucket is – and I say this in all modesty – a household name in at least half the households of London.’
‘Well, yes, but he’s not an actual person—’
Mr Dickens lets out a laugh. ‘Try telling that to the reading public. Commissioner Mayne tells me that, at least once a week, some distraught man or woman comes into one of the station houses demanding to speak with Inspector Bucket, convinced that he’s the only man who can help them. In any case, I modeled Bucket after you, so you’re certainly entitled to use the name.’
‘And you wouldn’t mind?’
‘Mind? I’d be delighted! Life imitating art imitating life. It’s perfect!’
‘Well, I suppose it’s worth a try. I’ve got nothing to lose. Except my real identity, of course. But I know my wife won’t mind if I turn into someone else altogether. She’s reading your novel now, and is quite taken with Inspector Bucket. Ironic, isn’t it?’
Mr Dickens’ face turns suddenly somber. ‘Yes. Men in books are far easier to get along with than the real thing. Just as books themselves are so much more pleasant than their authors. And if they do become tiresome, you can always put them aside.’
Charley wouldn’t have to be much of a detective to deduce that Mr Dickens and his wife, whom he invariably refers to as ‘poor Kate,’ are unhappy together; he’s been seeing evidence of it for as long as he’s known the man. And though it’s his business to ask questions, Charley senses that this is one of those cases in which it’s best not to press the victim too hard. Or is Mr Dickens the victimizer? It’s hard to say which; both, most likely, as is usually the case.
His visitor shakes himself out of his gloom and, like the sometime actor he is, puts on a practiced smile. ‘You know, with all this commiserating about the vagaries of business and marriage, I nearly forgot what brought me here to begin with. This is not a purely social visit – though it has been a while since we raised a glass together. As it happens, I have a job for you.’
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