Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  No doubt she’ll expect him this evening, as well, to help her usher in 1854 – not that it needs any ushering; the years keep on coming, whether you welcome them or not. Truth be told, Charley enjoyed New Year’s Eve a lot more when he was a green constable, patrolling the streets, making the rounds of the public houses, accepting a small glass of cheer at each, helping the harmless drunks find their way home, locking up the unruly ones.

  He does his best to relive those days, dropping in at every taproom and tavern between Ebury Square and Millbank. He doesn’t lock up any of his fellow carousers, of course, but he does escort an old trouper to his lodgings, both of them warbling the whole way, ‘Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam/Be it ever so humble, there’s no-oh place like home!’ He also breaks up a brawl by the simple expedient of flattening both the participants. Though neither is exactly a Stunning Smithers, it’s gratifying to know that he still packs a pretty decent punch. For once, he allows the publican to stand him a glass of grog; he’s earned it, after all.

  By the time he reaches Regent Street, he could use a bit of escorting himself, but he’s walked this route so often, his feet find their own way with no help from his muddled head. He’d been rather hoping that Jane and the mother would tire of waiting for him and for the New Year, and just go to bed at their usual early hour, but no. They’ve obviously prepared for the ordeal by taking a nap, for they look preternaturally alert – rather the way a copper looks when he’s about to collar some dangerous fugitive.

  ‘There you are,’ says Jane, collaring him. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d turn up.’

  ‘Have I ever failed to?’ says Charley.

  ‘Yes,’ says the mother. ‘Twice, in fact.’ Leave it to her to keep score. No doubt the transgressions are recorded in her little book of Charley’s crimes.

  ‘Well, I’m here now.’ He glances at the mantel clock. ‘And with fifteen minutes to spare.’ He winks at Hanora, who is setting the table with champagne and glasses, and she hides a smile. Before meeting Jane, Charley had never tasted champagne, and he could easily have gone on living without it, but his wife considers the sparkly stuff a symbol of good breeding and worldliness, like carrying a fringed parasol, or referring to their neighborhood as the West End when it’s really just Millbank. Well, he had his share of brandy and spiced ale on the way here; it won’t hurt him to humor her.

  When, like Falstaff, they have heard the chimes at midnight, they clink their glasses. Charley clinks the way he shakes hands – a bit too forcefully – and draws a reproving look from his wife, followed by an expectant one. Charley knows well enough that he’s supposed to say a word or two to solemnize the occasion, but he’s neglected to prepare, and his brain seems to have deserted him.

  Hanora, who is refilling his glass, murmurs, ‘May the saints protect ye;’ he seizes the cue like a drowning man grasping at a life preserver. ‘May the saints protect ye!’ he booms. ‘And sorrow neglect ye, and bad luck to the one who doesn’t respect ye!’ As this doesn’t seem to be going down very well, he dredges up another of the innumerable Irish blessings he’s learned in public houses: ‘May you always have a clean shirt, a clean conscience, and a guinea in your pocket!’

  The mother stares at him incredulously for a moment, then puts down her glass and shuffles off to her chambers without so much as a goodnight.

  ‘That was very … colorful, Charley,’ says Jane. Well, that’s better than vulgar, which he sometimes thinks is her favorite word. ‘I trust you’ll be a little less colorful tomorrow, when we have company?’

  ‘Not to worry, my dear. I shall be as drab as a sparrow.’

  His choice of metaphor is an apt one, for the next day the house resembles nothing so much as an oversized bird-feeding table. To keep himself amused – god knows there’s little else – Charley makes a game of identifying the various species as they come and go.

  Reverend Grimstone is, of course, a crow – all clad in black, cawing with laughter at his own feeble jokes, his beady eyes scanning the delicacies spread upon the table, searching for the most desirable titbits. Mrs Snooks is a dead ringer for a partridge – the sort so often and so fancifully pictured in a pear tree – down to her russet bodice and the plumes projecting from her head. Judge Jellineck with his bristling side-whiskers bears an uncanny resemblance to a glum old owl. The buxom Miss Buffle can be nothing but a Pouter pigeon, and the gangly Mr Langley is so stork-like that Charley almost expects him to dip his long beak into his wine, instead of lifting the glass to his lips.

  Of course the conceit can only divert him for so long; just as he’s about to sneak out for a smoke, Hanora waylays him. ‘Mr Field, there’s a good-looking young fella at the door. Says you invited him to stop by.’

  ‘Good lord, it’s Lochinvar. I forgot about him.’

  Hanora giggles. ‘Lochinvar?’

  ‘Mr Mull to you. Show him in, will you? And no flirting, please; he’s a mere babe.’

  He had meant to let Jane know about Constable Mull in advance, but maybe it’s better this way. If he’d broken the news last night or this morning, they would have had words, no doubt about it. She’s always felt about Charley’s friends the same way she does about tobacco and muddy boots: She can’t stop him from having them, but she doesn’t want him dragging them into the house. If Constable Mull is already here, however, she can hardly throw him out, nor is she likely to make a stink about it in front her own friends. Charley will catch it later, of course, but that’s nothing new.

  Constable Mull looks quite presentable in Neck’s abandoned finery, though he’s had to roll up the sleeves of the frock coat a bit. He peers anxiously at the flock of visitors flitting about the dining room. ‘I didn’t know there’d be so many people, sir. I’m not much of a mingler.’

  He’s also, as Charley recalls, not much of a drinker. But Hanora, overhearing the lad’s comment, presents him with some wine and a fetching smile. ‘They’re easier to bear,’ she whispers, ‘once you’ve had a glass or two.’

  Though the constable eyes the wine a bit dubiously, Charley is betting he’ll have a few sips at least, not wanting to seem a mollycoddle or a poor sport, particularly in front of an attractive young woman. Sure enough, he gives it a try. ‘’Tis good,’ he says, licking his lips.

  ‘For what my wife spent on it,’ says Charley, ‘it had better be.’ Though Young Lochinvar would no doubt be happier in the company of Hanora, Charley is obliged to pry the two apart; if Jane sees them together, the girl will be in for a royal dressing-down. Quelling his craving for a pipe of tobacco, Charley plays the role of host and introduces his protégé around the room.

  Jane manages to be reasonably gracious. The other ladies chirp and twitter over Mr Mull as if he’s eight years old, not eighteen. The Reverend Crow goes on at astonishing length about the week he once spent in Derbyshire and everything he saw and did there, as if trying to convince Mull that the place is well worth a visit, when the boy has lived there all his life until now.

  Unable to get in a complete sentence of his own, Mr Mull sips persistently at his wine and doesn’t object when Hanora gives him a refill – and another conspiratory smile. When Judge Owl learns that the lad is a constable, he launches into a lecture about the need to administer justice with a heavy hand, in order to discourage crime; Charley suspects it’s aimed more at him than at educating the young constable. Mr Stork, who is in politics, recounts in painful detail the gripping events surrounding Lord Palmerston’s resignation and subsequent reinstatement.

  When Charley sees Lochinvar’s eyes getting a glazed look, he steers him toward the buffet table. The lad’s legs seem a bit wobbly; in fact, he collides with one corner of the table, rattling the glassware and sloshing the punch. Charley beckons to Hanora. ‘You’d better take him into the kitchen,’ he murmurs. ‘Give him a cup of tea or something. I shouldn’t have let him drink so much on an empty stomach.’

  But Mr Mull seems transfixed, staring at the center of the table, which is occupied b
y an enormous joint of cold roast beef. Charley can guess, from the distressed look in the boy’s eyes, what’s going through his head. He’s not seeing a roast at all; he’s seeing the charred remains of Dr Smoot. Charley puts an arm around the constable’s shoulders and hustles him toward the kitchen doorway, but it’s too late. Mr Mull noisily deposits his share of the excellent wine on the edge of Jane’s treasured oriental carpet.

  Luckily, most of the others are too busy stuffing themselves and chattering to notice – except for Jane, of course, who has been keeping an eagle eye on the interloper ever since he arrived. Charley and Hanora exchange guilty grimaces. ‘Why don’t you be after making the tea, sir,’ whispers the house girl, ‘and I’ll clean this up?’

  Once they’ve gained the kitchen, Charley is tempted to just keep going, but he can’t abandon Hanora to bear the brunt of Jane’s wrath. In between groans, Mull stammers out an abject apology, while Charley swears that it’s nothing at all and that in any case he himself is the one at fault. Then, leaving the boy in Hanora’s capable hands, he returns to face the music.

  You would think that, in a room full of guests, Jane could only do just so much chastising, but she somehow manages to accuse him of having lost his mind and of trying to utterly destroy her social life while simultaneously smiling and glancing about brightly, nodding at each of the guests in turn, assuring them that, no, she hasn’t forgot them.

  At least she’s got it out of her system. Once the birds have flown off to other feeding grounds and Constable Mull has recovered enough to slip away, she is content to punish Charley with silence for the rest of the evening, and to pointedly ignore him – which is somehow different from the manner in which she normally ignores him. She does deign to interact with him briefly when she retrieves a small envelope from her pocket and hands it to him. ‘This arrived yesterday, by messenger. I’d have given it to you sooner, but I didn’t want you using it as an excuse to rush off somewhere.’

  Charley sighs. The fact that it required a messenger suggests that it might be urgent, but there’s little point in saying so. Even before he reads the note, he knows who it’s from; he recognizes the careful, stiff lettering and the tasteful, cream-colored stationery. It’s from the same gent who begged Inspector Bucket to solve the mysterious case of the misplaced wallet and the wayward watch. Only this time, it’s not mere money that’s missing, or some personal possession. It’s his son.

  FIFTEEN

  If he had suspected that Eustace Pillbeam, the author of the note, was such a wealthy man, Charley would have answered the very first summons. Pillbeam’s residence in St James’s is the grandest in a row of grand houses that, if they had noses, would look down them and sniff disdainfully at the little people scurrying about in the street below – most of whom are fulfilling the practical needs of the very houses that lord it over them so.

  Charley assumes that, with all Pillbeam’s money and pretensions, he’ll have a full complement of servants, from scullery maids to a valet. To his surprise, the door is answered not by a butler or a footman but by a frazzled-looking housekeeper. ‘Inspector Bucket,’ says Charley, ‘to see Mr Pillbeam.’

  The woman’s mouth falls open. Clearly she’s a devoted Dickens reader. ‘Inspector Bucket! Such a pleasure to meet you!’

  ‘Well, technically it’s Detective Field, but your master will likely know me by my professional name.’

  ‘Oh. I see. And is he … will he be expecting you, sir?’

  ‘Well, I don’t have an appointment as such, but I did receive this.’ Charley holds up the envelope.

  She takes it gingerly, reads the addressee’s name, and gives him another awestruck look. ‘Inspector Bucket. My goodness. Will you please wait here, sir? I’ll see if he’s available.’

  Charley barely has time to take in the lavishly decorated and furnished entrance hall before the woman is back. ‘I’m so sorry, Inspector. Mr Pillbeam says … he says that he never contacted you, and that he knows nothing about it.’

  He senses something suspicious in the woman’s apologetic manner. ‘Nothing about what?’

  ‘Well, about … about whatever it might be that you’re investigating.’

  Baffled, Charley backs out the door and slowly descends the steps. He’s almost to the street when the woman comes after him, calling, ‘Oh, Inspector. Don’t forget your note!’ As she hands it to him, she gives him a look that is clearly meant to be meaningful, but precisely what the meaning is, he can’t quite determine. ‘Perhaps you should read it again,’ she says softly, then scurries back into the house.

  When Charley is well out of sight, he takes the note from the envelope. The original message is just as he remembered it: Sir: Please see me at your earliest convenience regarding the disappearance of my son. A sentence has been added, however – hastily, from the looks of it, but in the same hand: Meet me in the Square in a hour.

  What better way to occupy an hour than to purchase a couple of buttered muffins from a vendor – no coffee, thank you, not now that he knows what’s likely to be in it – and share them with the pigeons in St James’s Square? He keeps an eye out in the direction of Pillbeam’s place. Though he still hasn’t met the man, Charley expects to pick him out easily enough. These tycoons, as the Yankees call them, are all cut from the same cloth; the only thing that varies is the size.

  But it’s not Pillbeam who shows up; it’s the Dickens-fancying housekeeper. She glances about furtively before approaching him. ‘I can’t stay long, sir. I’ll be missed.’

  ‘We will make it quick, then. I presume it was you who wrote the note, Miss—?’

  ‘Mrs Worthing. Yes, sir. All three notes, in fact. I didn’t think you weren’t likely to come if summoned by a housekeeper, and Mr Pillbeam would never hire you himself.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s hard to explain.’ It’s clear from the way she wrings her hands that she’s not one of those servants who relish sharing their employers’ secrets. ‘You see … well, in his eyes, Master Davy – that’s his son – can do no wrong. David, he insists on being called now. He says he’s not a child any longer. But he still behaves like one much of the time.’

  ‘You think Davy stole the wallet and the watch, then.’

  ‘I don’t like to say so, sir. Mr Pillbeam would never consider that possibility, of course; he was sure one of us was to blame, and he starting letting us go, one by one – first the butler, then the valet, then the maid of all work. I thought maybe if you investigated—’

  ‘I’d prove that Davy was the culprit?’

  Mrs Worthing lowers her eyes and nods faintly. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And now the boy himself is missing?’ Charley pulls out his notebook. ‘When was the last time you saw Master Davy?’

  ‘Three days ago, sir. He was acting a bit odd, but I didn’t think much of it. He’s been like that a lot lately.’

  ‘Odd? In what way?’

  ‘Sort of … twitchy, you might say.’

  ‘Twitchy.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Are you a coffee drinker?’

  ‘I am, in fact, but—’

  ‘You know how you get when you’ve had one cup too many?’

  Oh, yes, Charley knows very well how he gets: Edgy. Irritable. Twitchy. ‘Did he seem worried, or fearful at all?’

  ‘Maybe a little.’ She glances about again, then lays a hand gingerly on his arm. ‘You won’t let on that I’ve told you any of this, will you, sir?’

  ‘I promise. Just a few more questions. Are you in charge of the post?’

  ‘Yes, sir; I see all the letters that come and go.’

  ‘Has he received anything lately from an unknown source?’

  ‘You mean … you mean a ransom note, don’t you? That’s what Mr Pillbeam thinks, too – that Davy’s been abducted. He’s talked to the police; they say there’s nothing they can do until the kidnappers contact him.’

  ‘And no one has.’

  ‘No, sir.’

&nb
sp; ‘Well, people are abducted for reasons other than ransom. Down at the docks, able-bodied men are shanghaied every day.’

  Mrs Worthing gives a thin smile. ‘With all respect sir, I doubt anyone would want Master Davy on their crew. He’s not much of a one for work.’

  ‘Hmm. Perhaps he’s fallen in with bad company, then. Have you seen him with anyone unfamiliar or disreputable-looking?’

  ‘Well, his friends are a lot of roisterers and layabouts, but I don’t know that you’d call them disreputable; they are from good families.’

  ‘Can you give me names?’

  ‘You’re not going to interrogate them, are you, sir? If you do, word will get back to Mr Pillbeam, and I’ll be out of a job.’

  ‘I’m afraid I may need to, Mrs Worthing. You haven’t given me much to go on.’

  ‘Maybe this will help.’ She pulls from her apron pocket a small photographic portrait of the boy, in an oval metal frame. ‘I borrowed it from Mrs Pillbeam’s room; please be sure to return it.’

  Mrs Worthing is right; a press gang would have to be pretty desperate to want Master Davy. The lad is scrawny as an alley cat and his face is so pitted as to resemble the surface of the moon – from smallpox, no doubt. Though vaccination is commonplace now – compulsory, in fact – a decade ago it was regarded with suspicion. Well, at least he’ll be easy to recognize. ‘Thank you. But I still need some indication of where to start looking.’

  ‘I don’t know whether this will tell you anything.’ She dips into the pocket again and comes up with something wrapped in a handkerchief. ‘When I was cleaning one of Master Davy’s frock coats, I found it in the pocket.’ She unfolds the cloth to reveal a handful of what look like tea leaves.

  ‘Hmmm.’ Charley examines the leaves, feels them, smells them, even tastes them, then gives a satisfied nod. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  Now, if what Mrs Worthing discovered actually were tea leaves, that would tell Charley very little. But if his nose and tongue can be trusted, and they usually can, the substance in the handkerchief is in fact shredded opium – or what remains of it after the good stuff is cooked out.