by M. J. Trow
Grand looked at them from every angle and finally popped one gingerly into his mouth. He chewed with his eyes closed and then opened them, smiled and mumbled through the mouthful, ‘They’re good.’
‘Of course they are,’ Batchelor snapped. ‘I had dripping toast practically every afternoon of my life until I left home. Now, do you mind if we get on?’
‘Not at all.’ Grand slid the plate nearer to him. ‘Do you want any of these?’
‘No. As I was saying, Georgy went to the chalet and found Dickens there, dead in his chair.’
‘What time was this?’ Grand interrupted through his next mouthful.
‘Er … mid-afternoon … ish. She screamed the place down and several of the staff from the house and grounds came running. It strikes me as odd.’
‘Why? Most women scream when they find someone dead. It’s kind of in their bones; dead body means scream. Spider, scream. Mouse, scream.’ Grand was unashamedly polishing off his dripping; most English food left him cold, but this he liked. His remarks were short and pithy so as not to interfere with eating.
‘I agree. But it appears that George Sala – this could get confusing, this George, Georgy confluence. I’ll call George just Sala, shall I?’
Grand nodded.
‘So, Sala said he got the impression that she wasn’t just screaming that a dead body was in there, but that anyone at all was in there. Her reaction, according to the gardener who saw her open the door, was just too immediate. Dickens’s body didn’t look unpleasant or even very dead. He was just sitting in his chair. For all she knew, he was just asleep.’
‘So, is that why Sala came to us?’
‘Partly. But wait. If you remember, Sala said that Dickens had complained of exhaustion and of being unable to sleep for several weeks. But when he tried to find someone to whom Dickens had spoken on this subject, he could find no one. It was all just supposition and gossip after the event. The doctor gave the cause of death as a severe stroke. But you could say that about many deaths which have other very well-attested causes. You may as well say he died because he stopped breathing, or because his heart stopped.’
‘Did Sala find out why she went there?’
‘Pardon?’ Batchelor thumbed through his notes.
‘If she was surprised to see him there, why did she go to the chalet?’
‘I expect she was just going to tidy up or something. She was his housekeeper, after all.’
Grand looked thoughtful. ‘Have I imagined it, or is there a rumour going around about Dickens and his housekeeper?’
Batchelor was shocked. ‘I think you must be thinking of Wilkie Collins,’ he said, on his dignity. ‘That’s well known.’
Grand set his lips and shook his head. ‘Nope. I definitely remember hearing it about Charles Dickens.’
‘Thackeray. Apparently—’
‘James.’ Grand had had enough. ‘If Thackeray once lived with his housekeeper as man and wife he certainly isn’t doing it any more. Even I, unlettered colonial though you think me, know that he’s as dead as a nit. But if it upsets you we will agree that yes, Georgina … what did you say her name was?’
‘Hogarth.’
‘Any relation?’
‘Yes, she’s his sister-in-law.’
Grand’s mouth moved as he tried to work it out. ‘Whose sister-in-law?’ he had to ask in the end.
‘Dickens’s of course. Who else are we talking about?’
‘For a moment there, the artist. But that doesn’t matter – I didn’t know she was his sister-in-law.’
‘Yes. His wife lives apart from him these days,’ Batchelor grudgingly admitted, ‘and her sister runs the house.’
Grand said nothing and his expression was so bland that Batchelor could have struck him.
‘I will admit that there are rumours about Dickens and the odd actress, but I am sure they are just ill-natured gossip. He loved a pretty face, apparently.’
‘There were no actresses there, I’m assuming. In the chalet, with the dead body.’
‘No. He was by himself. Sala apparently was there within the hour – they sent a post boy, Isaac somebody, on a fast horse to various key people, and of course he was a great comfort to Georgina on her loss. Some of the children were there of course, Trollope …’
‘That is a bit uncalled for. Some people don’t have much respect for actresses, but they deserve a bit of respect, nonetheless.’
‘What?’ Batchelor was puzzled for a moment. ‘Oh. I see. No, Trollope. Trollope the author.’
Grand shook his head.
‘The Barsetshire novels?’ He looked at his friend, who was still in the dark, and wondered whether to tell him about the dripping on his lapel. ‘No. You’ll just have to take it from me that Anthony Trollope is a leading author. Not as great as Dickens, of course …’
‘Of course.’
Batchelor continued, ‘But a great friend of the family, according to Sala. Dickens’s doctor, Dr Beard, stayed to speak to the family, and Sala managed to take him aside and ask him a few pertinent questions.’
‘Which were …?’ Grand was getting a little tired of George Sala already, retainer or no retainer.
‘He didn’t say. But he did say that Dr Beard was extremely circumspect in his replies.’
‘Doctors are,’ Grand observed. ‘Especially when one of their patients has been found unexpectedly dead.’
‘Yes. I agree with that at least. But Sala …’
Grand had finished all the dripping and was bored. The discussion was going nowhere, George Sala, in his humble opinion, was just building up his part, hoping to be able to write himself into the last chapters of his biography of the great, dead, Dickens. It was time to wrap this up. ‘So, James, if I may. Dickens is found dead in a place in which he spent a lot of time. He wasn’t stabbed, shot, throttled or otherwise done away with.’
‘As far as we know.’ Batchelor couldn’t help the addition.
‘As far as we know. He had been working like a demon, had complained of exhaustion, and lived what we must agree to call an unusual private life. How old was he?’
‘Fifty-eight.’
‘Not a bad innings, as you English chaps say. A bit too young to just drop dead, I suppose, but I really can’t for the very life of me work out why Sala thinks he was murdered.’
Batchelor tidied his papers once more and marshalled his thoughts. ‘It isn’t very obvious, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But … but he was willing to part with money and that isn’t like him. And he came to us because Dickens had our card on his desk. Why would he have that unless he was thinking of engaging us? And why would he want to engage us unless he was in fear of his life?’
Grand walked over to Batchelor and took the notes from him, sliding them into a drawer. Batchelor took the opportunity to flick the globule of dripping off his friend’s lapel and into a dried-flower arrangement gathering dust on the table. ‘Come on, James,’ Grand said kindly. ‘Time for a walk to clear our heads. Because you know why Dickens had looked out our card, don’t you? Hmm. Now, don’t you?’
Batchelor smiled and buttoned up his coat. ‘Because he’d lost his cat?’
‘You know it!’
THREE
Piccadilly was murder that day. The world and his wife had come up to Town for the Season and demure young ladies were being chaperoned along the pavements, past window shoppers and flower sellers. Dray horses steamed and sweated, clattering over the cobbles and dipping their velvet noses into the green-scummed troughs.
James Batchelor had found number 48, a large town house tucked a little further back than the rest, and he was grateful that it stood on the shady side. The heat rose from the stones and leather-clad tradesmen puffed out their cheeks and tried not to swear for fear of offending the gentility that swarmed around them in frothy gowns and under fussy parasols. City gentlemen, up West for any number of reasons, regretted their top hats and starched collars, looking with envy at the cravats and boaters of visitors fr
om the country.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
Batchelor swept off his low-crowned derby and said, ‘No.’
‘Then I can’t see you.’
‘I am not a patient, doctor,’ he explained, sliding out his card. ‘I am an enquiry agent. You are Dr Beard?’
‘I’m Frank Beard, yes,’ the doctor nodded, plopping his pen into an inkwell on his desk. ‘And what exactly is an enquiry agent?’
‘A private detective,’ Batchelor told him. He hadn’t taken to Dr Beard and he sensed that the feeling was mutual. The man had clearly been blond once and was now pepper and salt. His eyes were a clear blue, hawk-like astride his beak of a nose.
‘I see.’ Beard pursed his lips and pressed his fingers together on them, looking his visitor up and down. ‘I thought such people were creations of fiction,’ he said. ‘Something from the pen of Mr Collins, perhaps.’
‘No, sir,’ Batchelor stood his ground. ‘I can assure you I am a creation of fact.’
‘Clearly,’ Beard sneered. ‘Well, what do you want? I have a very busy schedule.’
‘The late Charles Dickens,’ Batchelor said. He was still standing in the man’s opulent study because he had not been invited to sit.
‘What of him?’ Beard’s eyes narrowed above the pince-nez.
‘Can you tell me the cause of death?’
Beard sat upright. For a moment he toyed with ringing his bell and summoning help, but the only help to reach him quickly was Mrs Le Tissier, his secretary, and Beard knew that, formidable though the woman was in the ordinary scheme of things, she’d be no match for Batchelor if things got ugly.
‘Yes and no,’ he answered.
‘Er … I’m sorry.’ Batchelor was a little thrown. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Because I am a doctor, yes, I can tell you the cause of Mr Dickens’s death. But precisely because I am a doctor and dear Charles was my patient, no, I cannot. Surely, Mr … er … Batchelor … in your line of work you must have come across the phrase “doctor–patient confidentiality”?’
‘I have,’ Batchelor nodded, ‘but it doesn’t help.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ Beard was on his dignity, ‘I was not aware that it was my lot in life to help you. If you are ill, consult your own physician. Otherwise …’ and he reached for his pen again, ‘I wish you good day.’
‘Is it possible,’ Batchelor decided to take the bull by the horns, ‘that Mr Dickens was murdered?’
Beard sat up again so slowly that he dropped the pen, ink spattering over his pages. ‘Murdered, sir?’ he repeated. ‘Murdered? What the devil do you mean?’
‘Surely, doctor,’ Batchelor said, ‘in your line of work you must have come across the phrase?’
‘Get out!’ Beard was on his feet. ‘Leave this instant or I shall call the police.’
Batchelor ignored the threat. ‘The obituaries said a stroke,’ he said.
‘Well, there you are, then.’ Beard was still on his feet, white with fury. ‘Your question is answered.’
‘No, it’s not,’ Batchelor persisted. ‘You see, I used to be a journalist, Dr Beard. I know the hacks who write this stuff. They can be, shall we say, ill-informed?’
‘Ill-informed by whom?’ Beard demanded to know.
‘Oh, that’s the question, isn’t it? Have you spoken to the Press, doctor?’
Beard rang his bell furiously and a bombazined Gorgon appeared at Batchelor’s elbow. ‘Mrs Le Tissier, this … gentleman … was just leaving. Could you show him out?’
Batchelor raised his hands. ‘I can find my own way.’ He smiled at her, while being careful to avoid her basilisk stare. He had no time to be turned to stone today, not with a murder to solve. ‘You’ve been help itself, doctor.’ And he was gone.
‘Mrs Le Tissier.’ Beard sat down, crumpled up the stained page and started a new one. ‘Have that dim-witted lad from the back stairs take the letter I am about to write round to Scotland Yard. He is to give it to Adolphus Williamson in person. And I shall expect a reply.’
When he and Batchelor had tossed the coin that morning to see who went to see the doctor and who went to see the housekeeper at Gads Hill, Grand was pretty sure he had been the winner. After all, the doctor was bound to be a much harder nut to crack than a grief-stricken young woman; Grand had quite the track record when it came to grief-stricken young women, even if it was only a lost cat they were mourning. He had asked Batchelor, the Londoner born and bred, how he would set about getting to Gads Hill, and his reply had not really been very heartening.
‘If I were you,’ Batchelor had said, ‘I wouldn’t start from here.’
Grand had been in no mood for levity, so he had simply jammed on his hat and left the house in something of a snit. The cabbie had been more helpful and had deposited him in quick time at Charing Cross Station, from where, he was reliably informed, he could get a train to Higham. He was no stranger to railroads, of course, but he still enjoyed the English trains and their stations. The lines were not wide and windswept and straight as a die for hundreds of miles like they were back home. They were narrow, winding and parochial; in a nutshell, just like the English roads, but steel-shod. The stations in London, on the other hand, were built like palaces. He stood back against the cross and held on his hat as he tipped his head back to take in the front of the station – who but the British would hide a train station in a building that looked so very like a hotel? He realized, and not for the first time, that he loved this country.
That mood passed as soon as he got inside. The queues seemed to snake around and disappear into some hellish tangle in the middle. Children screamed, hawkers cried their wares, and at one point Grand was almost trampled to death by the unwavering crocodile of a Thomas Cook Temperance Tour, led by a determined-looking bald gent whose expression suggested that he was very much in need – perish the thought – of a stiff brandy and a good long lie-down.
But eventually Grand had his ticket and had found his platform and had even found a seat on the train. He unfurled his Telegraph and prepared himself to read Sala’s eulogy, without coming over bilious. The train puffed and heaved and there were various incoherent cries from the platform and then a series of crashes getting louder and louder until suddenly a porter materialized at Grand’s elbow, wrenched open the door and then slammed it again with an almost manic vigour. Grand’s ears were still ringing when, with an extra-large lurch, the train was on its way.
The journey was slow to the point of tedium, and Grand gradually came to understand just how much stopping a stopping train actually did, even in a journey as relatively short as his. He watched the station names trundle past and felt a little homesick. Where he came from – and you could take the boy out of Boston but you could never take the Boston out of the boy – stations were generally named after an event, usually a massacre of some kind, or some very minor local personality, usually run out of town on a rail the day after the tape was cut. Somehow Erith and Belvedere just didn’t get his imagination racing. Somewhere south of the former, he felt himself drifting off to sleep and did nothing to prevent it.
He was woken by a gentle poke in the ribs and struggled upright in his seat. He had slid sideways at some point in the journey and was leaning on the shoulder of an elderly gent who very politely helped him up.
‘I do apologize,’ Grand muttered. ‘Dropped off for a moment, then.’
‘Please,’ the elderly gent said, ‘it’s no trouble. But I noticed you had a ticket for Higham in your hatband and that is where we come into next. About five minutes, as long as there is nothing on the line to prevent us.’
Grand did his best to look wise. He knew all about that kind of thing. Buffalo. Arapaho. The things that prevented travel in the West. He shook his head. No, perhaps neither of those; not in Kent. He held out his hand, which was sweaty from being trapped under him for so long, but too late now. ‘I’m Matthew Grand,’ he said.
‘Are you from America?’ the elderly gent said. ‘How
terribly exciting. My daughters would just love to meet you. Would you like to join us for lunch? I’m sure Cook could stretch to one more.’
‘Thank you,’ Grand said. ‘That’s very kind.’ He had had meals stretched by cooks before and they had little to recommend them. ‘I need to get to Gads Hill and I’m not sure how long—’
‘But my dear fellow! How very serendipitous! I am the rector of St John’s and Gads Hill is on my way. Let me at least offer you a ride in my brougham. If things have gone to plan, it should be waiting for me outside the station.’
It was at this point that Grand noticed the dog collar and rather clerical garb. He wasn’t in the habit of taking rides from strange old men, but surely this was kosher, if he could mix his religions for a moment. He smiled and nodded and the elderly gent was ecstatic. ‘And lunch?’ he asked again. Then, his brow darkened. ‘You are not from the … Press?’ He said the final word as though it were the deepest obscenity.
‘No, no, goodness me. Not at all.’ Grand hoped he had not protested too much.
‘That’s wonderful. Poor Georgina and the family have been positively bombarded by the Press, in the grounds, night and day. One even got in – a ghastly sort, who claimed to be a friend of the family.’
‘George Sala?’ Grand, though loyal to his clients as a rule, did so hope it was.
‘Eh?’ The rector was startled. ‘Oh, no. No, Mr Sala is a delightful person, we’ve met on numerous … but wait? Not a pressman, surely!’
Grand pointed to his newspaper, by now rather battered. Even so, Sala’s by-line was clearly visible.
‘I’m shocked. He never said.’ The rector was still shaking his head when they reached the station, just a single platform, Grand was pleased to note, without a queue in sight. A pile of hampers was leaning precariously on a boy pushing a hand trolley, and an almost comatose guard held out a lacklustre hand to take their tickets.
‘I’m the Reverend Moptrucket,’ the vicar suddenly said, turning with his hand outstretched again. He smiled and nodded. ‘A ludicrous name, I am the first to admit. My poor daughters struggle beneath it but, as I always say to them, with luck they will soon be able to change it.’ He laughed. ‘My poor wife, God rest her soul, suffered for twenty years as Mrs Ernestine Moptrucket, but she was pleased to know she brought hours of innocent amusement to our neighbour, Mr Dickens. I believe at one time he asked if he might use the name in one of his tales, but my lovely wife was too unassuming to accept such a plaudit.’
