The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  Suddenly Mr Pickwick let out a cry of triumph. “Mr Tupman! I have found it!”

  “What’s that?” exclaimed Mr Tupman, who had fallen into a dreary reverie. “You’ve found her? Found Alice?”

  “Not Alice. The cat’s missing leg. Do you note this patch of nettles? I believe the leg must have descended from the body at this exact point but it was allowed to become overgrown. Perhaps someone refused to grasp the nettles last year. Why, this shall only serve to spread the fame of our august society. When I write my paper I shall name it ‘The Pickwickian Leg’. What a splendid discovery!”

  “Ah, yes,” sighed Mr Tupman. “A splendid discovery, but how does it help us find Alice?”

  Mr Pickwick was doubtless about to answer when there came from the woods above them a terrible cry of pain, as if the cat had caught a rodent in its merciless jaws.

  Before our adventurers could react, the boy Herbie burst from the woods, howling and holding his ear. He raced past the pair and vanished downhill as the stick-thin figure of the tutor with whom Mr Pickwick had spoken the previous evening strolled out of the thicket whence the boy had come.

  “Caught the little beggar collecting good luck coins tossed to the cat,” he explained. “Tried to get away, but I caught him and gave him a good boxing around the ears. First principle of education. Box around the ears helps open the mind. And what are you doing up here, Pickwick? Come up to see the humbug for yourself, have you? If it’s a cat, I’m a goose!”

  “Care to elucidate, sir?” Mr Pickwick queried.

  “Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed a certain similarity between this . . . whatever it is . . . and all those paintings of . . . whatever they are . . . adorning the walls of the inn?”

  Having made this mysterious observation, the tutor sauntered off towards the village.

  “What a puzzling remark,” Mr Tupman observed. “What could he mean?”

  “Perhaps that the former owner of the inn was inspired by this ancient work to create his own artistic if primitive interpretations? What interests me more is what he was doing up here, or in fact, what he is doing in Great Clatterden at all. Perhaps it is time for us to seek out the boy Herbie.”

  An account of the doughty Pickwickians’ journey back down the rugged hill and their stoicism in the face of gorse, brambles and rocks would make an adventure in itself. Suffice it to say, when they had regained the level ground, at great cost to Mr Pickwick’s tights, they went immediately to the inn’s stables. Entering them as stealthily as possible, despite Mr Tupman’s laboured breathing and Mr Pickwick’s decided limp they surprised the aforementioned Herbie poking at a pile of straw in a shadowy corner of an empty stall. Startled, he whirled around and attempted to bolt past them but Mr Pickwick grabbed him by the arm. Although, dear readers, truth to tell, the two gentlemen standing side by side left very little room for passage between or around them.

  “Young man, we wish to have a word with you,” said Mr Pickwick sternly. “You told Mr Tupman you saw Miss Alice going up the hill alone. Are you certain she was alone?”

  Herbie glared his captor and tried, unsuccessfully, to free his arm.

  “Is it possible you did not also see, let us say, a thin man dressed in black?” persisted Mr Pickwick.

  “No, sir. Just Alice, all by herself,” came the reply.

  “And did you see her come down again?”

  “No, I didn’t,” the lad admitted.

  Mr Tupman gasped. “She never came down! Mr Pickwick, this means she cannot have got on the coach and in turn explains why her brother has been acting in such a strange manner.”

  “Please don’t leap to conclusions, my friend,” said Mr Pickwick calmly. “Now, Herbie, what were you doing up there today?”

  The boy narrowed his eyes. “I were checking to see whether anyone’d left any coins for the cat. Just checking, see? Wanted to get there before anyone else went to do the same, like.”

  Mr Pickwick looked thoughtful. Few men would have noticed the way Herbie’s gaze slid to the pile of straw in the corner, but Mr Pickwick, that great man, that close observer of humanity, made note of the fact. “What were you hiding in the straw?” he asked. “Mr Tupman, if you would be so good . . .?”

  His friend bent with difficulty and when he straightened up, with still more difficulty, he held a large carving knife in his trembling hand.

  Now some may suppose a rustic boy can find any number of innocent uses for such an implement, but Mr Pickwick could see the truth of the matter and perhaps Herbie saw Mr Pickwick saw the truth of the matter, which would explain why he blurted out his explanation. “I was just sharpening it, sir, ready like. I’m hoping to find a chicken for the festivities tonight.”

  Mr Pickwick nodded, gave him a penny, and dismissed him to his duties.

  “How terrible to see such an intent in one so young,” cried Mr Tupman when they were alone again. “He was going to kill a chicken to roast over that bonfire the serving girl mentioned. But surely he would have to steal the bird?”

  “I fear it is far worse than that, Mr Tupman, but his admission is the last piece of the puzzle. I am happy to announce I have constructed a theory to account for the disappearance of Alice.”

  “Does it have anything to do with the tutor? His continued presence here seems highly suspicious. Why isn’t he at home teaching his charge instead of lurking about in woods?” said Mr Tupman. “On the other hand, that obnoxious boy is always underfoot. With a knife, we now learn. It would not surprise me to learn he might well be up to no good. And the serving girl . . . she didn’t seem to like Alice, did she? Not to mention Mr Rooksbee has been acting in a most peculiar manner, although I suppose that is understandable in the circumstances. Or do you suppose the vicar is hiding some pertinent fact?”

  Mr Pickwick could not but help suppress a smile as he listened to his friend’s innocent musings, but then his expression turned dark, or as dark as was possible for that good-natured gentleman.

  “I regret to tell you my theory is nothing to do with any of that,” he replied. “It is to do with human nature, but I fear nature of an inhuman nature.”

  Ticking off points on his plump fingers as he explained, Mr Pickwick continued. “First item of particulars: the cat is undoubtedly a figure of heathen origin and of great age. Second item of particulars: if I may presume to mention a delicate matter, it is widely believed to be connected with matters of heart and hearth, vital to all communities. Third item of particulars: Midsummer Day is tomorrow, the time of the annual scouring. Fourth item of particulars: you’ve just recalled the serving girl who mentioned those celebrations include a bonfire, not to mention a meal and dancing. Fifth item of particulars: Mr Clopton indicated pagan customs have not completely died out hereabouts.”

  Mr Tupman observed he was certain the vicar would not be in evidence at such festivities, and doubtless viewed them with horror.

  “Undoubtedly, Mr Tupman. But consider all these items taken together. What do they suggest?”

  Mr Tupman had to admit they suggested nothing to him. But then he was a creature of the heart, and there were very few who could have put the facts together in the manner Mr Pickwick did, and fewer still of such an intellect as to make the breathtaking leap from these seemingly unconnected matters to his conclusion.

  Mr Pickwick paused and gathered himself up, as if he were addressing the entire Pickwick Club rather than a single member. “Mr Tupman, think of what the boy just said. He planned to kill a chicken for these unholy festivities. Do you think he meant to eat it? Do you think that such a large cat could be placated by a small chicken? Be brave, my friend, for I must tell you that it is obvious Alice has been abducted in order to serve as a human sacrifice to the cat.”

  By the time the moon had escaped the grasping limbs of trees atop the hill and floated free, shedding its spectral glow on the enormous – if poorly rendered – cat and the crowd gathered around the bonfire near it, our intrepid Pickwickians had already spent
several hours ensconced in a thick patch of shrubbery at the edge of the woods, watching as villagers scoured the feline and threw weeds and brush on the blaze illuminating the proceedings.

  Now the terrible scraping of a fiddle accompanied by an infernal banging on pie tins rose into the night sky and the villagers danced. There was the serving girl stepping out in a sprightly fashion with a man in a cobbler’s apron, her red kerchief catching the firelight, while the odious Herbie threw sticks into the flames and cackled with glee at the explosions of sparks thus engendered.

  The crowd far exceeded the population of Great Clatterden. There were a great many spectators, and not all were guests at the Trout and Basket Inn. Stationed behind a wooden table, Mr Rooksbee was doing a brisk trade in cider and pork pies.

  “Monstrous, monstrous,” groaned Mr Tupman.

  Mr Pickwick made no reply, entranced as he was by the scene before him. Who would have guessed such savagery still existed in the wilds of Kent? Yet firelight reflecting off his spectacles gave even that amiable gentleman something of the appearance of a red-eyed demon.

  “Look there, Mr Pickwick! Isn’t that the vicar?” whispered Mr Tupman.

  Horribly enough, dear readers, it was true. Mr Clopton was clearly visible against the leaping flames, which glinted off the keen edge of the carving knife he carried. It was the ever-observant Mr Pickwick, however, who first noticed two other figures moving toward the bonfire.

  One was an older woman, not uncomely, dressed in her Sunday best, accompanied by . . . nay, led by . . . nay, pulled by the elbow toward the roaring flames . . . by a strange man in solemn garb.

  “Alice!” cried Mr Rooksbee.

  “Philpot!” cried the vicar.

  “Mr Tupman!” cried Mr Pickwick.

  But in vain.

  Whatever subtle plan Mr Pickwick had devised to save the innkeeper’s sister from a pagan death was superseded by the tender-hearted and impetuous Mr Tupman, who upon spying his love burst from the bushes in an explosion of leaves and twigs.

  There issued from Mr Tupman’s lips a bone-chilling roar of rage, or as near to one as he could manage. Before anyone knew what was happening, he had thrown himself bodily on the man who grasped Alice’s arm, knocking him to the ground by his sheer weight rather than any athletic prowess.

  By the time Mr Pickwick reached the fray, his friend was rolling about in the grass with Mr Philpot, while Alice inexplicably beat on Mr Tupman’s head with her dainty fists.

  A considerable number of loud remonstrations and throat clearings restored order. The curate, released from Mr Tupman’s grasp, got to his feet, brushing chalk and grass off his coat.

  “What are you doing here, Philpot?” demanded Mr Clopton. “This is no place for a curate!”

  “Nor a vicar, I should think,” retorted the younger, though hardly young, man to the vicar’s consternation.

  “Sir! You will attend a meeting with me tomorrow at nine sharp!” the cleric replied. “I do not propose to discuss—”

  “Unhand my sister, you swine!” exclaimed Mr Rooksbee somewhat belatedly, although it must be admitted that to Mr Tupman it appeared the innkeeper had just thought to protest, particularly since he had taken no part in assisting Mr Tupman in the unhanding of Alice.

  “You may call me Mrs Philpot, if you please,” Alice simpered.

  “We were married by special licence a few hours ago and have returned to celebrate,” explained her curate husband. “When you insisted Alice go off to her aunt, I saw our chance to wed. I thought I had better take it while I could, after observing this gentleman here pouring sugary words into Alice’s ears.” He nodded toward Mr Tupman.

  “So that’s the stranger you told me you saw talking to Alice?” put in Mr Clopton.

  “Yes, it is. Alice and I met up here to make our arrangements the night. We often met up here,” he concluded, with a fond look at his blushing spouse.

  Mr Rooksbee gaped in horror. A small sound of anguish escaped from Mr Tupman as he clapped a hand to his chest.

  “Oh, poor, dear Mr Tupman,” said Alice. “I am so sorry, but what you so ardently desired could never be, for my affections already belonged to another.”

  “Come now, Mr Tupman,” put in Mr Pickwick. “A glass of cider and a nice pork pie will lessen your anguish. Despair always seems worse on an empty stomach. If it lifts your spirits, consider you’ve played the part of Cupid in all this, because if I’m not mistaken Mr Rooksbee sent his sister away solely to save her from your attentions. However, he didn’t realize that she was really missing until he received the aunt’s note after dinner yesterday.”

  “I suspect it’s more likely he sent Miss Alice away to dissuade your friend from returning and bringing his scientific colleague to Great Clatterden.”

  The speaker was Mr Clarke, the thin tutor, who had been hanging back among the spectators. With the toe of his boot he scraped at the chalk furrow at his feet. “You see, if the three-legged cat were to be revealed as nothing but a humbug, drawn – if you can call it that – by the former landlord of the Trout and Basket Inn in order to improve business . . . well . . .”

  Mr Pickwick’s eyes gleamed with sudden understanding. “Yes, I see what you mean, sir! The cat helps everyone in the village earn a few extra pennies. If one of those scientific impostors who have so vexed the Pickwick Society in the past were to pronounce this remarkable figure to be a fraud, it would do inestimable damage. Luckily, I am not one of those small-minded men lacking in the capacity to appreciate the world’s wonders. As soon as I return to London I shall begin work on my next paper, to be entitled ‘An Account of the Three-Legged Cat of Great Clatterden, An Investigation Into Its Antiquity and the Discovery of Its Missing Leg’. Indeed, I believe your cat will become so famous there will be an even larger stream of visitors to your fair village.”

  Mr Tupman, bereft as he felt, nevertheless gazed at his friend with deep admiration. “Again I am amazed by your brilliance, Mr Pickwick. You led us straight to Alice, even if you could not lead her to me. And all that nonsense about sacrifices was nothing more than a ruse, wasn’t it?”

  Mr Pickwick merely beamed.

  Dear readers, thus was the mystery solved, and let no one repeat the calumny that the immense cheer from the assembly greeting Mr Pickwick’s announcement drowned out the Trout and Basket serving girl, whose muttered, “But none of that there rubbish about walking round the cat meaning marriage is true! No wonder she was so agreeable about going to Dover! And how did she get her claws into the curate to begin with? Not but what an old bone like her is fit for a scraggy dog like him!” reached only the unwashed ears of the grubby boy Herbie as he stood by, gnawing on a leg carved from the plump corpse of a fowl by the vicar. For as we all know, while we render all honour to the blushing legions of the fairer sex, it’s not only cats who go hunting for prey.

  Murder in Murray’s Court

  David Stuart Davies

  1836 and 1837 were significant years for Dickens – indeed, for English literature. Not only did they see the book publication of Sketches by Boz, the start of The Pickwick Papers and Dickens take on the role as editor of Bentley’s Miscellany, they also saw his marriage to Catherine Hogarth on 2 April 1836. Dickens was besotted with Catherine’s younger sister, Mary, who died suddenly in May 1837, apparently of heart failure, at the age of only seventeen. Dickens would later enshrine her memory in fiction as the angelic Little Nell. The death of Mary affected Dickens’s ability to write far more so than the birth of his first son, Charles Jr, had done in January. By now Dickens was writing two monthly serials – The Pickwick Papers and Oliver Twist. But in May, the Dickens production-line ceased for Mary’s funeral and there were no instalments of either book the following month.

  Oliver Twist had started as a serial in Bentley’s Miscellany in February 1837 and would run until April 1839. It was a complete change from his earlier work and his first piece of social commentary. The story of Oliver Twist is well known – that of an orp
haned baby left in a workhouse and who falls in with the Artful Dodger, one of a gang of street criminals run by Fagin. At the end of the novel we learn the true nature of Twist’s parentage and how his wicked half-brother, Monks, had conspired with Fagin to turn Oliver into a criminal so that he would be disinherited. The novel ends with Oliver adopted by Mr Brownlow and able to live a comfortable life. But what happened to him and the Artful Dodger afterwards? That’s what this story explores.

  David Stuart Davies is the author of a number of Sherlock Holmes novels, including Sherlock Holmes and the Hentzau Affair (1991) and The Veiled Detective (2004), as well as a series featuring his wartime detective Johnny One-Eye, which includes Comes the Dark (2006).

  It is one of the great failings of human nature that we cannot escape from our Unpleasant Past. It lies festering like some graveyard ghoul in those dark regions of the brain where our cheerful thoughts never care to wander for they have brisk, cheerful and uplifting business to be about elsewhere. But our Unpleasant Past waits in the gloomy, craggy corners, in the slimy recesses, patiently humming some little discordant, self satisfied tune while it bides its time until it is the moment to strike; the moment to remind us of how it was, how unpleasant, painful and demoralizing it was. It only needs an image, a place, a word, a taste, a smell, a touch, a smile, a laugh, a blow or any of a thousand other trifles to prompt it into action. It only needs a very little thing.

  Or, indeed, a dream.

  For it is in dreams that the dark unconscious has full reign. In that sleeping time of night, our moral protectors are dormant, wrapped in their own comforting nightgowns and are at rest. At this time, past midnight, when the stars are at their fiercest in the heavens, our Unpleasant Past leaves its secret place and rides forth, unhindered by any restraint, to feed our minds with those bad memories.

  Thus it was with Mr Oliver Twist whose brain, during the daylight hours, is so full of business and love, optimism and anticipation, care and consideration, jollity and extravagance, enthusiasm and patience that the past, unpleasant though it was, and it was very unpleasant indeed, does not come to bother him. The shield of goodness which surrounds him is too strong for the darts of his Unpleasant Past. In the daytime, that is.