The Highwayman and Mr. Dickens

by William J Palmer

  “By George, Wilkie”—Dickens slapped me on the knee in his exuberance—“I think we have found at least one of Field’s answers.” I think it gave Dickens great pleasure to demonstrate that the amateur detective could out-detect the professional. He and Inspector Field were great friends, but, for Dickens, Field was also a fancied rival. All of life was a game for Dickens. For Field, life was a job, and Dickens was not a rival at all, but rather an extremely valuable tool to be used in the performance of his tasks. In detectiving, that was, without question, the difference between the professional and the amateur.

  “We cannot thank you enough.” Dickens rose and extended his hand to Burton. Our sitting idol leapt to his feet and warmly shook Dickens’s hand. It was a signal that our conversation had come to an end. Burton seemed genuinely chagrined. I too rose, but my curiosity salted my parting handshake.

  “Might I inquire,” I asked, “what sort of an animal skin that is which so magnificently adorns your bed?”

  “It is a white tiger.” Burton beamed at my interest. “Shot him in India in ’forty-six. Damn few of them to be had.”

  “What are your prospects now?” Dickens asked as we folded ourselves into our coats and wrapped ourselves in our scarves. “If there is anything that I can do to help, please do not hesitate to call upon me.”

  Burton smiled again, his fierce mustache making it look like a scowl. “Whitehall wants me to spy for them in foreign lands, go on the tick of Empire,” he said, and made a comic shrugging face. “Travel the world as a traitor to everyone I meet. Can you imagine?”

  Dickens laughed awkwardly with him for a moment, but then Burton took his hand in one final shake of farewell and, with those irresistible eyes of his burning into both of us, almost pleaded: “They think it is all so simple, that human beings can just give themselves up that way. I could no more betray some poor trusting pygmy of the African mountains than I could betray my own mum. Whitehall, my God, they tried to tell me that theirs was an honourable profession,” and he laughed a hollow laugh.

  “If I can be of service,” Dickens reiterated as we took our leave. Burton nodded, somewhat embarrassed, I think. I do know for a fact, however, that only six months later Dickens did, indeed, answer a private subscription to the tune of fifty pounds to help finance a very secretive expedition that Burton wished to undertake. Three years later the world would read of that expedition, of the daring adventure of the first Westerner ever to enter the ancient forbidden city of Mecca. Dickens always knew, somehow, what horses to back. Burton was, indeed, one of the singular young men of our age. Though I only met him in person that once while on duty for Inspector Field, I followed his amazing exploits for more than thirty years thereafter.

  Dickens and I had a scene at the kerb in front of the Africa Hotel. He wished to race straight off to Bow Street to present our little trophy of information to Inspector Field, but I insisted that it must wait until morning. It was already half after one on my new repeater, and the night was as cold and unforgiving as a Christian wife. I, of course, still had faint hopes of securing Irish Meg’s understanding and good offices. Thus I demanded that Dickens transport me directly to my lodgings in Soho. He reluctantly agreed, but in turn extorted my promise to be at the Household Words offices no later than ten the following morning, so that we could share our triumph with Inspector Field. Needless to say, Irish Meg was not waiting up for me when I arrived at our flat.

  * * *

  *Charles Dickens’s evaluation of the potential of Richard Francis Burton was destined to come true. At the time when Dickens first met him in the summer of 1851, Burton was but twenty-nine years old and had already served six years with the East India Company in Bengal. His greatest talent was as a linguist. He was reputed able to learn any language in the shortest space of time. Upon quitting the East India Company in 1848, he returned to England by way of a two and one-half year, around-the-world journey that included stops in Borneo, Australia, the South Pacific islands, Brazil, and the islands of the West Indies. At the time of the events of this memoir, Burton was attempting to convince the World Geographical Society of his potential as an explorer, and was attempting to raise the necessary funds for an expedition to Central Africa to search for the fabled source of the Nile. At the time of this conversation with Dickens and Collins, Burton was, perhaps, somewhat frustrated at the World Geographical Society’s refusal to fund him due to their commitment to the Stanley expeditions. Burton ultimately proved his mettle as an explorer in 1853 when, in disguise, he made a forbidden journey to Mecca and Medina. In 1858, finally gaining the support of the World Geographical Society, and in the company of John Canning Speke, he mounted his African expedition in search of the source of the Nile. True to Dickens’s prediction, Burton—linguist, scientist, geographer, adventurer, writer—became one of the Renaissance men of the Victorian age. He was knighted by Queen Victoria in 1876. His books, recounting his journeys to Mecca, to Africa, to Utah in America, and to Brazil, were classics of the literature of his time. His translation of The Book of The Thousand Nights and a Night (The Arabian Nights Entertainment) was perhaps his most elegant contribution to Western literature. As in Collins’s case, Dickens had this knack for recognising fine writers before they ever wrote their masterworks.

  The Duel, or, Inspector Field, Playwright

  January 18, 1852—midday

  “We got ta ketch ’im unawares,” Inspector Field declared with conviction and a sharp tap with his demonstrative forefinger to the top of Captain Hawkins’s gun table.

  We were once again assembled—Dickens, myself, Field, Rogers, Hawkins, and Moody—at Tally Ho Thompson’s hiding place, the Shooting Gallery in Leicester Square. That morning, immediately upon Field’s arrival at the Household Words offices to collect us, Dickens had apprised him of the poisonous intelligence we had ourselves collected from Burton the night before. Field was stunned; who knows, perhaps even a bit jealous of Dickens’s initiative and easy success in the detectiving line.

  “Curare, extraordinary! Never ’eard o’ it,” Field pronounced. “Dickens, yew are a reg’lar barnacle, yew are. Once yew take ’old, ’tis ’ard to pry yew loose.” His enthusiasm for Dickens’s discovery was building slowly, but then with a quick lunge of his crook’d forefinger to the side of his eye, he gave in to it and, clapping Dickens heartily upon the shoulder, said: “Well done, I say! We might never ’ave found that partickler poison. Knowin’ t’will come in ’andy on this case, I’ll wager.”

  Now, at the Shooting Gallery, Thompson, our footpad friend, became the centre of Field’s attentions while the rest of us and our fugitive’s hosts, Captain Hawkins and his one-armed, one-eyed, humpbacked, parrot-plagued lieutenant, Serjeant Moody, looked on. As for me, I was curious as to what Field’s next move would be and to what use he planned to put his pawn Thompson. Certainly, no one was more eager for this intelligence than Tally Ho Thompson himself. His restless pacing of the room clearly showed him to be champing for action and the opportunity to clear up the dark cloud hanging over his name. For a man whose life included stints as a highwayman, housebreaker, pickpocket, sneak thief, and actor, Thompson had this peculiar sense of honour that disregarded the incriminating evidence of his belonging to such a litany of unsavoury and dishonourable professions. Somewhere, in the sheltered cave of his own mind, Thompson actually believed that he was an honest man.

  “’Ow do yew propose ketchin’ ’im unawares?” Thompson questioned Field’s opening foray. “’Ee knows I’m on the weasel from Newgate. ’Ee knows I’ll come after ’im.”

  “Ah, but ’ee ’as no place ta go ta git away.” Field indulged in a tiny grin at the prospect of having his prey right where he wanted him. “’Ee ’asn’t the money ta flee ta the Continent. ’Ee can’t afford ta pack in ’is job an’ ’ide out ’til all blows over. ’Ee is too well known ta ’ide ’is identity. No, our Mister Dick Dunn ’as been under our surveillance since the day after the murders, an’ ’ee ’asn’t so much as twitched
in the followin’ o’ ’is reg’lar routine.”

  “T’will be the dark alleys ’ee fears.” Thompson got into the spirit of Field’s working out this scenario for confrontation. “’Ee’ll look for me ta surprise ’im in the dark, when ’ee’s alone, comin’ ’ome after the play or the public ’ouse.”

  “’At’s why we must take ’im unawares, in the bright daylight.” Field slammed his forefinger down upon the unsuspecting gun table once again. “When ’ee thinks ’ee’s safe. Where do yew think ’ee is right now, Thompson?”

  “Should be at the theatre by now. Fight rehearsal is each performance day at noon.”

  “Precisely! Macready’s fight master rehearses his actors every day at this time. Except today. Today, ’ee ’as contrived, at my biddin’, ta release all the cast ’ceptin’ our friend Dick Dunn. Yew know, don’t yew, that since yew ’ave been out o’ the play Dunn ’as moved up from fifth business* into yer part? ’Ee makes a sullen, slinking Poins. ’Ee ’as been told that ’ee must polish ’is swordplay. An’ that, my boy, is ’ow yew are goin’ ta take ’im unawares.”

  With that, we bid farewell to Captain Hawkins and Serjeant Moody. Field packed us all into his black post chaise for the short dart to Macready’s Covent Garden Theatre. As we rode through the narrow twisted streets muffled against the raw January wind, Field rehearsed Thompson in the subtleties of the scene that had been scripted. In the course of that short trip crosstown, however, Field did say one thing that, to me, certainly seemed worth noting and remembering, whether one is in the detectiving or the novel-writing line. “Detection is one-’alf dramatisation,” he said, more to Dickens and me than to Thompson and Rogers. “Yew must create a scenario in which yer murderer or thief or scoundrel of whatever sort will betray himself. It is like puttin’ on a play. Yew put yer characters in place an see ’ow they act ta each other.” Later, Dickens and I decided that Field’s “detection is dramatisation” speech belonged right up there with his “simply observe” speech of the Ashbee affair.*

  Covent Garden Theatre, like any other theatre at midday, evidenced no signs of life as we reined in at the stage door. This was the carriage yard where, on performance nights, the coachmen waited, tending to their horses, for the rich gentlemen and their ladies to emerge from the play. On the other side of the theatre, in a wide alley lit by gaslamps, there would be hansom cabs queued for hire, waiting on the whims of those theatre patrons who did not indulge themselves in the extravagance of their own private coach.

  Upon Field’s order, we disembarked and approached the stage door. At a single knock from Field’s murderous stick, old Spilka opened that wooden door, and, at an age-old signal from Field, straightened forefinger to the lips, ushered us silently in. Old Spilka evidently had been schooled by Field because he scrupulously observed that signalled silence as he led us through the darkened backstage area. There was light and some indeterminate sound onstage that was audible as we groped our way through the darkness.

  With the touch of his hand, Field stopped us, bid us wait, and led Tally Ho Thompson away into the shadows. When Field returned, he was alone. Old Spilka, at Field’s bidding, next led us off in yet another direction and ushered us through a backstage door, which opened into the far side aisle of the darkened theatre. This aisle was beneath the overhang of the balcony. Thus, we were drowned in the deepest shadows of any section of the stalls. We took seats in this black pool of shadow and waited for the curtain to go up. We did not have to wait long.

  On the lighted stage, Macready’s fencing master was giving instructions to a tall but rather slight of stature, swarthy, black-haired Irishman who was halfheartedly attempting to ape the fencing master’s feints and parries. Both men were wielding tipped foils for the obvious purpose of safety. Thompson, in that maddening way of his for appearing and disappearing out of and into thin air, materialised out of a cleft in the curtain at centre stage, and stepped forth in his shirt sleeves with a fencing foil in hand. Upon Thompson’s sudden entrance, the fencing master, clearly by prearrangement, faded off into the wings. Dunn did not perceive Thompson’s entrance at first, but as he watched the fencing master withdraw without explanation, he quickly realised that all was not right. Then, turning his head, he found Thompson facing him, rapier in hand, at centre stage. Inspector Field’s little drama had begun.

  Thompson’s first hostile act, even as he stood there with that maddening, utterly confident, totally heedless grin on his face, was to slowly reach out with his free hand and forcefully push the protective wooden button off of the tip of his sword. That tiny button landed on the floor and comically rolled right up against Dick Dunn’s foot.

  “Jaysus, Meery, un Joseph,” Dunn gasped with an intake of breath that stood him up on his toes.

  “Yer goin’ ta git a fencin’ re’earsal the likes o’ wot yee’ve never ’ad before,” Thompson spat at him. With a quick thrust, he pointed his rapier directly at Dunn’s face and began to rotate it in a slow, hypnotic circle. Simultaneously, Thompson, with smooth, sliding, sideways steps, began to slowly circle Dunn, cutting off any of his adversary’s avenues of escape.

  “I’m goin’ ta carve yew like a Christmas bird,” Thompson volunteered for Dunn’s amusement and great chagrin, “if yew don’t heave to an’ fight.”

  Dunn seemed mesmerized, like a man caught in the gaze of a swaying cobra, by the naked point of Thompson’s sword rotating before his face. With a quick flick of his wrist, Thompson brought Dunn out of his reverie and drew blood from just beneath the frightened actor’s left eye. “I could ’ave taken yer ’ole eye, mate.” Thompson continued to grin evilly. “Yew needs ta react more quickly.”

  With that, Thompson stepped back a step and made a fencing-room salute—sword drawn up to his face pointing skyward. This anticipatory pause allowed his shaken adversary to collect himself. “We are done with this playactin’ as o’ right now,” Thompson announced with murderous intent, causing a truly frightened Dick Dunn to jump backward and assume the familiar posture of defence. Thompson stepped forth, his rapier once again extended toward Dunn’s eyes, and moved in with those tiny tapping steps observed only in the fencing room or on the ballet stage. Their blades flashed in the stage light. Thompson thrust. Dunn sucessfully, if clumsily, parried. Thompson crowded in upon his foe, then gracefully retreated. The foils twirled at one another and the blades clashed.

  Thrust and parry, thrust and parry, across the stage and back, circling each other at cautious speed as if dancing some sort of deadly ballet. Amazing how convincing actors can be when they are not acting, or at least do not think they are acting. As I watched this set-to, I was impressed by the threatening grace of it, the swordsmen’s moves as they stalked each other. Is it not a pity that the ancient tradition of the duel has gone the way of the Industrial Revolution, flashing swords replaced by pistol and ball, ten boring paces, and a puff of smoke?

  Thompson was much the better swordsman and quite the quicker upon his feet, but Dick Dunn managed to put up a dogged defence. With a feint and a sidewise move of lightning delivery, Thompson slashed his adversary’s shirt right across the chest without drawing so much as a dash of blood from the skin beneath.

  “He is playing with him,” Dickens whispered, touching my shoulder in the dark. “Thompson is a remarkable specimen, is he not, Wilkie?”

  Dickens said it lightly, but the admiration rang clear in his voice. That admiration on Dickens’s part, I am convinced even today almost twenty years later, was one of the reasons we had so precipitously catapulted ourselves into the centre of this adventure. Dickens had led me here out of his novelist’s ravenousness for adventuresome experience certainly, out of his gratitude for Thompson’s aid in rescuing his beloved Ellen from the perils of the Ashbee affair definitely, but also, quite obviously, out of his admiration of and friendship for Tally Ho Thompson, whom, I am convinced, he looked upon as a true gentleman without portfolio.

  On the stage, Tally Ho Thompson warmed to his task. He was now h
ard on the offensive. Moving in fast and engaging Dunn’s blade, he executed a classic fencing move. With a cobra-quick double twirl of his wrist he spun the sword from Dunn’s grasp and sent it clattering across the stage. He held his adversary at bay, disarmed, once again slowly rotating the naked point of his sword within inches of Dunn’s terrified eyes.

  “He is a marvel!” Dickens exclaimed in the dark, giving me an enthusiastic clap on the shoulder.

  “Only if ’ee plays out the script,” Field tempered Dickens’s premature celebration.

  Thompson backed his helpless victim up against the stage curtain and laid his blade tenderly to the man’s chest just over the heart. Dick Dunn’s eyes went wild with fear. No playacting there!

  “’Oo put yew up ta it, Dickie?” Thompson demanded in a voice somehow both cajoling and murderous. “’Oo paid yew ta lure me in an’ peach me?”

  “I don’ know, Gawd’s truth, I don’ know,” Dunn begged for his life. “’Ee paid me forty pound. But I never saw ’is face.”

  “Not good enough, not good enough, Dickie bird”—and with another series of deft flicks, Thompson slashed Dunn’s shirt to tatters.

  “Oh Gawd no, don’ cut me.” Dunn fell to his knees pleading. “Hit’s the truth. I never saw ’im.”

  “That’s it, yew lying little weasel.” Frustration and anger quavered murderously in Thompson’s voice. The blade pressed against Dunn’s chest.

  “’Ee met me in the streets, at night, in the dark, in fog,” the kneeling man’s voice raced desperately. “’Ee always wore a dark ’ood, like some monk’s dress. I never saw ’is face, but I ’eard ’is voice. ’Ee’s a foreigner, ’ee wos. Wos no Englishman’s nor Irishman’s voice. A Spainiard mayhaps, but not a Spainiard neither. ’Ee met me in the dark in ’at ’ood an’ paid me forty pounds, an’ told me wot ta do. ’Ee said ’ee’d ’ave me fired, turned out in the streets if I didn’t. Don’ cut me! I never saw ’is face, I swear it.”