The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  Conflicting emotions registered on Croker’s face. There was surprise which was quickly elevated to shock, but there was also bewilderment and a tinge of regret playing about the eyes. All these were wiped away after a brief interval to be replaced by a glare of indignation. “I don’t know what you be talking about,” said Croker, mouthing the words carefully as the alcohol was now starting to take its effect on his brain and more particularly his tongue.

  Oliver smiled gently. “Oh, yes you do. I am referring to the contents of Mr Buggs’s safe.”

  For a fleeting moment Croker harboured the thought that he had been wrong about this fine gentleman and he was indeed a policeman of sorts. But no, his cuffs were clean, his manner was too relaxed and he exuded a refinement not found with the officers of the law.

  “I know nothing about that. The safe was empty when I got there. The murderer must have it.”

  “But you apprehended the murderer. He only had one bag of money about his person.”

  “I know nothing about the safe.”

  He was lying. Oliver could at least tell that. Fagin had taught him about the wicked ways of men. He may be a novice at solving crime but not at associating with thieves, scoundrels and career liars. Certainly Croker was of the latter breed, if not of the others. It was time for a leap in the dark. Oliver had an imagination and he had been using it as he’d made his way to this gloomy hostelry. He had been inspired by the discovery of the piece of material at the scene of the crime and the fact that he had seen the same material several times as he had passed through the narrow streets as part of a commonly worn cheap dress. This had prompted him to construct several possible scenarios in which such a dress featured.

  “And so you have lost your lady friend also, eh?” said Oliver casually, changing the subject, as though he were not making a great point.

  Croker nodded absentmindedly, staring deeply into his ale as though the answer to all life’s problems lay just beneath the surface froth.

  “She has deserted you. Your flaxen-haired sweetheart. You have my sympathies. I know the pain of losing a loved one.”

  Oliver now was in danger of over-dramatizing the moment, but the words and the theatrical sentiment rang true for Croker and his eyes brimmed with tears.

  “I thought she loved me. I trusted her but all she cared about . . . all she cared about . . .”

  “Was the money.”

  Croker nodded vigorously, words failing him in his misery.

  “She wooed you and learned all about Mr Buggs’s wealth. Is that true?”

  Another vigorous nod.

  “You were going to rob the old fellow, take his money and run away together.”

  Croker drained his tankard before replying. He knew this sweet-smelling fellow was just too clever for him. “I loved her. It was her idea so I went along with it. But she did it all without me. I never knew there would be . . . there would be murder involved.”

  Oliver believed him. Poor old Croker had been a pawn, a dim, sentimental, easily fooled pawn in the game of a very clever woman.

  “Where did she live?”

  Croker shook his head, his features virtually melting with despair: the eyes sagged, brimming with tears and the thick lips flopped low in a miserable grimace. “That’s the worst of it,” he moaned. “I do not know. We always met in here or went back to my place. I now realize that I knew very little about her.”

  How clever, thought Oliver.

  “Now I have lost my sweetheart and my position.”

  “Never mind,” said Oliver rising. “Count your blessings. At least you’ll not be hanged for murder.” He placed a small coin on the rough table. “Have another mug of ale and think sweet thoughts.”

  Anderson Buildings in Stepney is one of those over-populated pustules of the face of London: a tenement held together by dirt, penury and squalor. One can smell it before one sees it and when one sees it, one wished one hadn’t. The vision stays with you, like some indelible stain, for days. Oliver was sympathetic to the notion that one might do anything – including committing murder – to escape the degrading clutch of Anderson Buildings. The acrid smell of poverty assailed his nostrils, as he stood at the entrance of this grim edifice. In the shadows some way behind him stood two tallish figures watching him carefully. Just at that moment a tiny rat-like creature emerged from the dank interior. He was furry of whisker and furtive of eye, and yet Oliver suspected that he was a member of the human race.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said Oliver.

  The creature looked astounded to be addressed in such a polite manner. However, the expression of surprise soon turned to one of suspicion.

  “What d’yer wants?” came the less than civilized reply, escaping over a row of rotten teeth.

  “Could you tell me in which of these apartments Mr Dawkins and his lady friend live? I am a friend of theirs.”

  “A friend, eh? Not a debtor then?” The creature uttered a throaty chuckle, exposing more decrepit teeth.

  Oliver shook his head vigorously.

  “You’ll find them on the second landing. Number 32.” With these words, he scurried off, his coat tails brushing the pavement behind him. Oliver half-expected to see a fine furry tail peeking out from beneath.

  Reaching number 32 Anderson Buildings was an unpleasant experience for Oliver, passing as he did foul-smelling debris of an uncertain nature on the stairs, shambling figures that edged by him reeking of drink or despair and hearing the muffled cries and sobs of several children mingled with a chorus of whelps from imprisoned dogs, all housed in the various cells within the building. Standing before the shabby door of number 32, he did not knock, but instead entered without soliciting an invitation.

  It was a small, windowless, dimly lighted room – a guttering candle the only source of illumination. There was a rough table, an old chaise lounge which seemed insistent on losing its stuffing and a bed. Standing by the bed, leaning over a small trunk arranging the contents was Annie Pullbright.

  “Making good your escape, Annie,” said Oliver quietly.

  Annie was so occupied in her task that she did not hear Oliver enter. When he spoke and she noticed her visitor for the first time, she screamed and fell back on the bed in surprise.

  Oliver took a step forward but she was on her feet instantly. “What d’you want?” she snarled, her eyes flashing in anger.

  “I’ve come for you, Annie. And the money. I know you murdered Mr Buggs and tried to put the blame on your man, poor Dawkins.”

  Annie’s face paled and she emitted an unconvincing laugh. “What nonsense you speak.”

  Oliver shook his head. “It was a cunning plan and very nearly worked. You sought the attention of Croker, pretending to care for him, persuading the poor infatuated fellow to confide in you the secrets of Mr Buggs’s business. Together you planned to rob him and then disappear. But you wanted the money all for yourself, didn’t you? And that meant that you needed to get rid of John Dawkins too, so that you would be free of all shackles. You persuaded John to take out a loan from Buggs and when he went to collect it, you made sure Croker was elsewhere, probably in the ale house, dreaming of a life of connubial bliss with you. Then you went to Buggs’s office in advance of John and stabbed him to death and emptied the safe – you knew the combination, thanks to Croker’s idle tongue. Of course you made sure that the money John had arranged to borrow was left so that he would be implicated in murder – which he was. Then when John told you that he was going to engage my help, you informed the police so that he could be arrested in my offices. How else would they have known where he was?”

  Annie sneered. “You must be one of those writer fellows ’cos that’s a very fancy story.”

  “It’s the truth and you know it. I’m sure if I pulled back that layer of clothes in the trunk there, I’d find Mr Buggs’s fortune.”

  “You don’t touch my trunk,” she snapped, taking a step forward and clenching her fists.

  Oliver ignored her. “You mus
t have been dreaming of buying yourself all sorts of pretty dresses with the money. Something better than that cheap dress you’re wearing now.”

  Annie looked down at her dress in puzzlement.

  “Especially,” continued Oliver, “as you’ve torn that one. Down the side there. See, there’s a piece of material missing.”

  Annie gazed at the tear. “So what? It’s nothing.”

  “It is everything.” Oliver held up a fragment of matching sprigged cotton. “You left this behind in Mr Buggs’s office. It’s from your dress and it is spotted with Buggs’s blood.”

  “You devil,” she screamed and rushed at Oliver with her arms outstretched, her long grubby fingernails reaching for his face. He stepped back and pulled a whistle from his pocket.

  When the two Bow Street Runners entered the dingy room, they found the young smart gentleman struggling manfully with a fiery hellcat, her talons only inches away from his eyes. “This is the lady, gentlemen,” he cried as the policemen pulled Annie off him. “I think you’ll find the stolen cash in that trunk there.”

  Annie Pulbright leaned forward and spat in Oliver’s face.

  The door of Newgate Prison slammed shut behind John Dawkins. He was on the outside and a free man again. As he stepped forward, exercising his newly found liberty, he found someone by his side, falling in step with him.

  “Oliver, my dear,” he cried and threw his arms around his old friend. “How can I thank you?”

  Oliver laughed. “It is I who should thank you. I’ve had the most exciting time. It was great fun solving the crime. I’m just sorry that in doing so you have lost someone you cared for.”

  Dodger shrugged. “She wasn’t worth it, was she? I think I knew in my heart she would leave me sooner or later. That’s what life is all about, ain’t it? Sometimes it’s good and sometimes it’s rotten.”

  “Well,” said Oliver, with a smile, “I do believe it is time for you to have some of the good. Now the plan is for us to partake of a splendid lunch to celebrate your freedom and then for me to see if I can secure you some kind of position with my firm.”

  The Dodger beamed. “Why that’s wonderful, Oliver. Who could ask for more?”

  The Leaping Lover

  Kage Baker

  Even while Oliver Twist was still running in Bentley’s Miscellany, Dickens began Nicholas Nickleby, issued in monthly parts from April 1838. When Nicholas’s father dies the family is left destitute and Nicholas ends up taking a teaching job at a remote school in Yorkshire run by the vicious Wackford Squeers. Squeers’s daughter, Fanny, believes Nicholas may love her, an infatuation she has for any young man she encounters. Nickleby loathes the entire family and eventually attacks Squeers and escapes, taking with him the young boy Smike who has been left physically and mentally damaged by Squeers’s brutality. The paths of Squeers and Nickleby cross again in London where Squeers has come to join forces with Nickleby’s evil uncle Ralph to thwart Nicholas’s plans. Fanny Squeers’s only real friend is Matilda – or Tilda – Price to whom she writes long, vainglorious letters full of her imaginings and idiosyncratic spelling.

  It is one of those wonderful coincidences that at the same time that Nicholas Nickleby first appeared, London was a-tremble with news of a bizarre criminal whom the press had dubbed Spring-Heel’d Jack. Jack would pounce on his victims from seemingly out of nowhere and escape by leaping high walls, often with the sound of a demonic laugh. The attacks ran between November 1837 and March 1838, and a man, Thomas Milbank, was eventually arrested and claimed he was Jack. But sightings continued and the episode soon passed into folklore. The true nature of Spring-Heel’d Jack was never solved – though if Fanny Squeers had her way . . .

  Kage Baker is best known for her series of time-travel novels known collectively as The Company, which began with In the Garden of Iden (1997). Her interests go beyond science fiction, though, as she has worked as a graphic artist, mural painter and, for many years, as a stage manager and theatre director of Elizabethan and other productions.

  12 January 1838, Friday Morning

  My Dear Matilda,

  My fond regards to all those at Greta Bridge which seems very quaint to me now, as London is so far removed it is as great a diffrence as Heaven above Earth I suppose. You would scarcely believe what a time I am having at Aunt Pyelott’s. The glittring Society! The refined Gentlemen, so very solicitors for ones comfort! Such attentions I have received! But you will have to imagine it all as I could not begin to describe it.

  I am gazing out as I write at a district known as Lime House, very genteel and of great antikwity. The Pyelotts reside in a gracious mansion in Salmon Lane, kinveniently located above Uncle Pyelott’s premises. The Garden is pleasantly rustick and Aunt Pyelott has a hen shed to make it more like the Country as that is the current fashion here, only of course she has a Boy to see to the eggs.

  We often promernod through London, perhaps down to the Comercial Road or even as far as the Basin to see the Barges, and I wore my yellow morning gown the other day, the one that John said sets off my eyes so nice, but I was obliged to wear my black boots because of the kindition of the lane rather than the Maroko slippers which I would have much prefered. However I have a new Gown being prepared of exquisitt green stuff for the Ball which is being held Friday next and the sempstress is French of course and she informs me black slippers are all the Thing now so I shall be fashionably shod.

  I almost neglected to mention, Aunt Pyelott’s cousin resides here as well, a Poor Relation, Miss Maud Bellman. She is a plain little thing with specktacles but quite agreeable and anxious to make herself useful as indeed she should be. I shall perhaps endevour to make something of her as the Poor if left to themselves often descend to degerdation. Aunt Pyelott has graciously gotten her a ticket to the Ball as well, though I cannot imagine the poor thing will show to her advantage.

  I must away – Madame Hector is here for my fitting. Pray write and tell me how you are getting on and my kind regards to all the Prices.

  I remain

  Yours and cetrer

  Fanny Squeers

  20 January 1838, Saturday Noon

  Dear Tilda,

  Perhaps you were expecting some fond account of the Ball which I was at only last night but oh, what a far more terrible tale I have to tell!

  Though I will say the Ball was a Triumph. As I suspected I far outshone Miss Bellman, who wore only a sort of puce dress more fitting to Tea but then she hadn’t any better, and I pity the creature. I condesinded to encourage her a little, and offered her the use of my old violet shawl with the jet beads, but she declined, at which I was secretly a little releeved because really it was too fine considering the other stuff she had on and not her colour at all.

  The evening was fine for the season and so we walked there, the Ball being held at the Caledonian Arms up the lane. We had some exitement at the door for I nearly thought I had left my Invitation but at the last moment Miss Bellman found it in the bottom of my reticule for me. She really may make someone a 1st rate ladys maid with a little training and I must speak to Aunt Pyelott about it.

  As for the Society at the Ball, well that was a little dissapointing because most of the men present were in the trade (clerks and such) and I could see they were somewhat overwelmed by my carriage. I graciously declined to dance with most of them although there was one Gentleman who is in Ship Chandlering or something, quite well to do, Mr Clement I recall is his name, and he was there with his Partners Mr Tacker and Mr Johnson. I made sure to dance with all three.

  I pitied one tall fellow with black whiskers who gazed at me with such elockwent longing! Had he mustard enough courage to speak to me, I declare I might have danced with him; little did I suspect his Wild Nature! But I am getting ahead of myself. Miss Bellman, poor creature, danced with one or two fellows of the lower sort and her face got quite red, which may have been the affect of the gin punch.

  Uncle Pyelott was to have called for us in a Handsom but we left rather early
as I was a little fateeged. Oh, Tilda, what small twists of Chance decide our Fate! For if I had waited – but you shall hear what befell next.

  I was rather apprinsieve I confess coming away from Bow Common, on account of there was no more than a gibrous moon by which to see, and no light except the watchmans all the way across the field at the Cable Manefactry. What ironey! For we were quite unmolested all that open way, and the attack did not come until we had once reached the Shelter of houses. What, I hear you exclaim, attack! Yes, Tilda, attack! For as we were nearly to the bridge over the canal, on a sudden a Frightful Aparishen sprung out of an alley! He was quite tall, cloaked in Inky Black, which he flung back to Reveal a Horrific Counternance. There was a spark of fire at his Bosom and then he breathed out flames. I naturally screamed in terror and so I need hardly add did Miss Bellman, the more so when the Monster then seezed me in his Powerful Arms and tore at my rayment with Fearful Claws!!!!

  What his intentions were you can scarcely imagine, as you have led a sheltered life, but I was fainting and almost unable to struggle against the Force of his Passion, and what might have happened if Miss Bellman had not found a half brick in the lane and struck my Asailant, I dare not imagine. His head rang like a dinner bell as he was wearing some sort of helment. He used dreadful langwedge then and released me, and then – to my astonishment – sprang away over a wall and we heard him running into the infathemable shadows of night!

  I screamed all the way home though more from Fear and Shock than Injury, as his claws left only a scratch or two and some brooses this morning. I begged Miss Bellman not to tell Uncle Pyelott for reasons which will become plain, which were: that I suspect it was the handsome clerk with black whiskers who so admired me at the Ball.

  How I am certain it was no Unearthly Feind? You may wonder, but his face was at a distance of but inches and I saw plain he wore a mask. Also when he vommited fire there was a strong smell of gin afterward and I have seen gypsys at the Fair do as much, taking a mouthful of spirits and then blowing it across a brand. Miss Bellman found a burnt match in the lane as she was endevring to revive me and I do not doubt that was where the fire come from.