The Highwayman and Mr. Dickens

by William J Palmer

  The corridors were narrow, mouldy, and dark. They were also old and draughty, windy as the halls of Parliament. Prison sounds—doors clashing, locks turning, moans of despair—seemed to blow through those corridors like an ill wind. We descended yet another mildewed staircase into the bowels of this wretched lock. At intervals, along the narrow corridors, the closed doors of the inmate chambers emitted muffled sounds that could have been talking, snoring, coughing, moaning, howling, cursing, choking, or any combination of disgusting possibilities. At eye-level on each door gaped a grated hole through which a gaoler could observe or shine a bull’s-eye upon the inhabitants of the cell. “These har the private rooms,” our doglike guide informed us. “Your man haint bought one of hem yet.” The more private prison accommodations went to those able to pay just as did digs in London’s posher neighbourhoods. That being the case, I prepared to greet Thompson in the Newgate equivalent of Dickens’s Tom-All-Alone’s, the pestilent neighbourhood soon to be introduced in the first number of Bleak House.

  “The public dens har hon the bottom,” our guide growled as we started down yet one more greasy pile of stone steps.

  That last stairwell opened into a long, dirt-floored, low-ceilinged, column-supported cellar that stretched dimly out of our sight. This low expanse of pillared catacombs was peopled with muttering piles of clothing stretched out in all manner of heedless repose, some sleeping, some smoking, some motionless as if long dead. The sounds were not loud nor threatening but were incessant and troubling like the sounds of wards in Bedlam.

  “One Thompson, key number one-nine-three-four,” the gaoler who had led us down into this hellhole barked, causing that sea of ragged mounds to shift and curse and sink back into their twisted repose.

  “Over ’ere, mates!” came an immediate and surprisingly cheerful shout. It was Tally Ho Thompson’s voice no doubt, but we could not divine its source in the dimness of that rambling catacomb.

  “Ho’ver cheer.” Our dogged guide went on point like a Hertfordshire hunter.

  “Over ’ere!” Thompson called out once again. The sound of his mocking voice hung in the dull air directly before us. We moved past the filthy columns which held up the grimy ceiling, all written upon with past inmates’ indecipherable messages, both desperate and obscene, and we climbed over muffled mounds of snoring prisoners until we came upon Thompson sitting with his back to one of the pillars blithely smoking at the butt of a cigar. He looked like a raconteur preparing to hold forth in a public house.

  Taller and longer in the leg than ninety-five percent of his countrymen—the English being renowned as a short and wiry race—Thompson’s over-six-foot frame stretched out across the dirt floor defining an area which none of the other inmates of that gloomy corner of that gloomy chamber seemed inclined to violate. In his height and long-leggedness, in his barefaced, clear-eyed openness, he looked remarkably like a younger version of Charles Dickens. Were it not for Dickens’s much more formal carriage and quietly elegant dress, one would be hard-pressed to tell them apart.

  Hung precariously upon the stone column, which Tally Ho Thompson had claimed as his domicile, was a dirty oil lamp. We learned later that it burned all day and all night (if those distinctions actually held meaning in Newgate) except when the often forgetful gaolers failed to replenish its slow fuel. It cast a dim light on the proceedings for a radius of one column in each direction.

  “Welcome ta Newgate, mates.” That maddening grin, which seemed to mock the seriousness of any situation to which Thompson was attached, danced across his face. “We’re a bit short on chairs ’ere, but the dirt is clean, as dirt goes, an’ I’m certainly ’appy ta see yew.”

  At that, poor Scarlet Bess fell sobbing upon his chest. Thompson was truly a wonder. It was as if he were addicted to seizing the attention and moving to the centre of any situation, no matter how serious or threatening.

  “Aw, Bessy, I sure ’opes yew ’aven’t been doin’ this ever since yew ’eard they’d cast me in ’ere, because if yew keeps it up yew’re goin’ ta dry up like a Portland prune.” We all laughed nervously at that, except for Irish Meg, who glared angrily at Thompson as if to say: If yew’d stayed out of trouble we wouldn’t ’ave to be in this pestilent ’ole. Bess even seemed to calm a bit. She looked into his face before she started snuffling into his collar once again.

  The rest of us ranged ourselves cross-legged on the floor around Thompson’s column. The light from the dingy lamp flickered over his bailiwick. Meg gently pulled Bess away from her man, whispering “They’ve got to talk this out, Bess,” and “Yew’re doin’ ’im no good carryin’ on like this.” Scarlet Bess looked as if she were in a daze, her wet eyes wide and blank, her face stretched tight with worry.

  “Yes, we must talk this out,” Dickens began.

  “Mister Dickens, Mister Collins, I am sincerely beholdin’ ta yew for comin’. When I asked Fieldsy ta tell Bess wot ’ad ’appened, I thought she might come ta yew.”

  “She did and we are here,” Charles went on, “but she doesn’t seem to know a thing, nor do we. What has happened, and why are you here?”

  Thompson grinned his maddening grin: “Ta tell the God’s truth, sirs, I’m embarrassed ta be ’ere. I can’t remember the last time I did anythin’ so stoopid. When I wos just a youngster learnin’ the ins an’ outs o’ Shooter’s ’ill, I once looked back ta see if the sheriffs wos gainin’ an’ my ’orse ran me right into an over’angin’ limb. Knocked me flat on my back in the ’eyeroad while friend ’orse gallops merrily off. I was sharp enough ta roll off inta the ditch ’fore the sheriffs saw wot ’ad ’appened an’ they rode right by, but I’ve niver looked back since, an’ I ain’t about ta start now. In other words, gennulmen, I been smiled at, mounted up, run right inta a tree pretty as yew pleese, an’ it’s all me own bloody fault. In other words, gennulmen, I’ve been done, tied up with a bow an’ prettily done, delivered to Fieldsy an’ ’is bulls like a bloody birthday favour.” Thompson ended this expansive gallop with a shrug and another mocking grin.

  Dickens wanted more, however, than Tally Ho Thompson’s rhetorical flights: “Thompson, you must tell us exactly what happened so that we can consult with Inspector Field. It is the only way we can get you out of this dreadful place.”

  “Wot ’appened?” Thompson grinned wryly. “Mister Dickens, I’m not sure I exactly know wot ’appened.”

  “Just tell us what you think happened, step by step,” I prompted, feeling that I ought to enter this colloquy at some point to let the others know that I was still on the premises.

  “I’ve got me suspicions that it all began last October when Mister Macready ’ired me ta act Poins an’ look after the ’orses for the new Shakespeare show, Prince Hal yew know. To open o’er the Christmas ’olidays. It wos soon after that Mister Macready interduces me ta Doctor Palmer’s wife. This doctor is one o’ the new members o’ the Covent Garden Theatre board o’ patrons. ’Ee ’as come up ta London ta take over a built-up practise; old doctor ups an’ dies o’ sudden ’eart conditions an’ young doctor comes up ta take o’er ’is practise, that sort o’ turnabout. Because the doctor rides ’orses, wife wants ta take riding lessons on the Outer Circle an’ Rotten Row.* The doctor ’ad bought the lady a ’orse which they boarded at the ’Eyde Park stables an’ I got ’er up on it a few times, me ridin’ a nag she rented so as ta accompany ’er. But after the Shakespeare gets underway in December I didna ’ear from ’er again. Then, right after New Year, one o’ the actors, named of Dunn, Dick Dunn, corners me about a recovery problem…”

  “Recovery problem?” I was glad that Dickens asked because I had no idea to what Thompson was referring.

  “Yes,” Thompson went on without so much as a reining in, “’ee wonted me ta recover some brilliants, a necklace an’ earrings o’ silver ’ee’d given a married ’ooman. ’Ee said ’ee even ’ad the keys ta ’er ’ouse, but ’ee couldn’t get near it or she’d call the constables an’ ’ee wos afraid ta tell ’er ’usband who was
a powerful man for fear for ’is life or ’is liveli’ood or both.”

  “A ’orsy tart, I might ’ave predicted that,” Irish Meg could not hold her sharp tongue. Luckily, Bess did not hear her.

  Thompson ignored her and galloped on: “So ’ee comes ta me to git the trinkets back an ’ee offers twelve pounds for the job which is more than I make on the stage in two months,” that last directed at Irish Meg. “I takes ’alf in good faith an’ ’ee gives me the key ta the back door an’ the number, Thirty-five Cadogan Place, an’ tells me ta wait for a night when ’ee knows they’ll be out o’ the ’ouse. Meanwhile, I go by the sight o’ the crack for a look-see. ’Eye ’ouse with back garden, fronts on the Sloane Street greensward. Looks simple enough, an’ las’ night, when ’ee gives me the go, I’m over there watchin’ the ’ouse by nine o’ the clock after Poins ’as left the stage in Act Two with three full acts ta go. Yew see, if blame looked my way, I could always say I was still at the theatre since I planned ta return with the sparklers before the play wos ended an’ I planned to go drinkin’ with a crowd after the theatre wos empty. Anyway, all looks well, so I go through the garden an’, smooth as a racehorse’s rump, the door opens ta the key an’ I’m in. I go ta the ladies’ bedroom up the main staircase ta the right an’ strike a glim. That’s when the crack goes dicey. Little did I know I wos alreddy a gleem in the eyes o’ the bailiffs.”

  “What do you mean?” Dickens asked.

  “I knew I wos done as soon as I struck the light. The room wos alreddy picked over an’ a dead ’ooman wos right in the middle o’ the floor. I knew from one look I’d been conied. I niver even looked at the ’ooman’s face. I turned tail out o’ there as fast as I might, but I wosn’t fast enough. I swear, I niver touched a thing in that room. I niver laid a ’and on ’er. But Fieldsy’s constables caught me comin’ out the garden door. Poins never took ’is curtain call last night.”

  “You were only in the house a matter of minutes, yet the Protectives were waiting when you came out. Extraordinary timing!” Dickens was talking more to himself than to Thompson or the rest of us.

  At that moment, merely adding to the grotesquerie of the whole situation, a whiskery tramp, decidedly drunk, wearing what looked like a composite of three different but equally ragged coats, with a hat stove in on one side so that its top jutted precariously at a right angle from its brim, stumbled into our charmed little circle. Staggering, the man made an extremely rude noise, causing all of us to gasp. Thompson, without a moment’s hesitation, catapulted to his feet and, clasping the ragged inmate by the scruff of his neck and the tail of one of his coats, flung him off into the darkness amidst the grinding and gnashing of teeth where the rude emission of his drunken body would no longer offend.

  “Ah, but it gits diceyer,” Thompson continued on, almost laughing at the absurdity of the whole proposition. “When Fieldsy gits there, ’ee goes inta the ’ouse, then comes back out, then goes off a pacin’ back an’ forth an’ scratchin’ ’is eye with ’is finger like ’ee duz. ’Ee can’t seem ta figure wot ’as ’appened so ’ee comes up ta me all tossed up an’ wants ta know, ‘wot the devil are yew doin’ ’ere?’ I tells ’im the truth. I’m there ta steal some sparklers for a client. Now, ’ee stomps off an’ scratches ’is eye some more, then ’ee comes back an’ asks me right out, ‘did I know ’er?’ ‘No, I didna even git a look at ’er. She wos dead when I walked in an’ lit the lucifer,’ says I. That’s when Fieldsy ’it me with the worst news o’ all. That’s when ’ee dropped the noose right down around me neck.”

  “How is that?” Dickens prompted.

  “’Ee asked me if I knew a Missus Annie Palmer, the doctor’s wife that I’d gone ridin’ with for ’ire. I’d always met ’er at the stables in ’Eyde Park. I’d niver been ta the doctor’s ’ouse. ’Ee told me she wos the dead ’ooman!”

  As he finished, Thompson’s voice rose ever so slightly as if, more than twenty-four hours later, he was still stunned by the situation he found himself in. He had told the whole story as if it were a dream, as if he had been some detached observer floating above the reality of the rifled room, the dead woman, and the constables.

  “I couldn’t believe it wos she, so young an’ pretty,” Thompson went on. At that, Scarlet Bess let out a howl of pain. Meg folded her in her arms and glared over her shoulder at Thompson.

  “But all the while Fieldsy wos lookin’ at me,” Thompson continued over Bess’s protest, “an’ I knew ’ee knew that I knew ’er. I knew ’ee’d caught me off guard when ’ee said ’er name. So now ’ee sends ’is constables away, all exceptin’ Rogers, an’ I’m chained to the iron fence around the garden, an’ ’ee comes in close an’, real quietlike, ’ee says ‘you know ’er, don’t ye, Thompson?’ an’ I nods, an’ ’ee turns ta Rogers shakin’ ’is ’ead an’ says, ‘I don’t like this. It smells worse than week-old finnan-haddie.’ With that, ’ee yells for ’em ta push me off ta Newgate without so much as a fare-thee-well. I ’ad ta yell at the top o’ me lungs out o’ the conveyance wagon for someone ta tell Bess.”

  Irish Meg succinctly put a complexion on the situation: “It stinks as bad as Smithfield Market if yew ask me.”

  I, of course, was more suspicious than she, yet I felt I knew Thompson somewhat and, I must admit, I could not envision him a murderer. His story seemed plausible; the absolutely propitious arrival of the Protectives seemed suspicious. The whole affair did, indeed, give off the smell of an elaborate hoax.

  “What can we do to help put this right?” Dickens asked.

  “Wot I needs is someone ta talk ta Fieldsy for me. ’Ee’s the one can put it right. ’Ee’s the one can find ’oo killed that poor girl. Since I’m presently indisposed, could yew, Mister Dickens? I needs a go-between. Could yew intercede an’ git Fieldsy ta ’elp me? ’Ee’s the only one can find the real murderer.” Thompson was actually fighting to mask his desperation.

  Dickens looked at me and I at him. I felt I knew what he was thinking. After our adventure with Ashbee and Field’s preferential treatment of Charles’s Miss Ternan, we had anticipated Inspector Field coming to us for help on one of his cases. We did not expect to go to him, hat in hand, to intercede for our highwayman-turned-actor friend. No doubt Dickens was suspicious, as he rightly should be, of our highwayman friend. It was something of a sticky wicket.

  “Oh pleese, Mister Dickens, ’elp my Aloysius.” Scarlet Bess had thrown herself at Dickens’s feet and was pawing at his ankles in supplication.

  “Aloysius?” Dickens looked at me.

  “Aloysius?” I looked at Dickens.

  Near bursting with laughter—neither of us had ever heard Tally Ho Thompson addressed by his Christian name before—we turned together and gaped at him.

  “’Oooman’s distraught!” Tally Ho Thompson was visibly disconcerted. “’Ooman doesn’t know wot she’s sayin’,” he blustered. “’Ooman’s hysterickal, mad, not makin’ sense, can’t be trusted ’ere. Gents, gents”—placating now—“let’s just forget wot she’s blurted ’ere an’ git back to Fieldsy. I needs ’is ’elp.”

  Dickens and I could not suppress our amusement at Tally Ho Thompson’s obvious embarrassment. God, the man stood accused of murder and what shook his composure was the inadvertent revelation of his Christian name.

  “Aloysius, is it?” Irish Meg could not resist. “Now ’at’s a bit o’ information Fieldsy would really like to get aholt of.”

  Thompson glared at her.

  Bess, utterly unaware of what she had done, subsided in a pile of petticoats at Dickens’s feet. Irish Meg bent to calm her.

  “We can certainly go to Inspector Field on your behalf,” Dickens promised, “but what shall we tell him?”

  “Tell ’im ta find Dickie Dunn. ’Ee’s the one ’oo put me up ta it. I’ll wager ’ee knows somethin’. ’Ee’s got ta be the one ’oo set the sheriffs on me. ’Ee gave me the keys ta the ouse.

  “I’ll do it.” Dickens shook Thompson’s hand to calm him. It was really quite
unusual to see our highwayman friend so agitated.

  “Can I offer you a loan of some money, Thompson?” I had contributed almost nothing in the course of this intimate colloquy, so I felt such an offer to be the least I could do. Before Thompson could even answer, I looked to Irish Meg who winked her approval.

  “A few quid would git me a room ’n per’aps some cigars.” Thompson leapt at my offer.

  “Yes, by all means, here.” Dickens placed a half crown in his hand, utterly ignoring the fact that I had made the offer and should have been the one to disburse the loan. “We have to get you out of this dungeon and into a private room above-ground.” I added another half crown to Thompson’s war chest.

  At that, Thompson shook our hands heartily all around and Dickens, Meg, and I withdrew to the foot of the stairwell to allow Bess and her Aloysius (I honestly must grin every time I write that comical name) some moments to themselves. When Thompson delivered Bess to us some minutes later, she was visibly calmed, her fortitude strengthened. She was apologetic for the spectacle she had been making of herself to such good friends.

  In a gruff gesture of thanks, Tally Ho Thompson clapped Dickens and myself on the back. Meg could not resist hooting, “Good night, Aloysius,” down the stairwell as we retreated. Her jibe echoed hollowly in the thick prison air.

  We climbed the stone steps up out of that pestilent catacomb and felt the air freshen and the weight of guilt lessen with every ascending step. When we reached the courtyard, the dark gallows seemed almost beckoning as we hurried across its grim shadow in the faint moonlight. Much to our amazement, when we reached the turnkey’s booth, Inspector Field and his faithful bloodhound Rogers were waiting to take us into custody.