The Angel

by M. J. Trow

  ‘A nob, Mrs Rackstraw?’ James Batchelor couldn’t believe his ears. ‘I really must ask you to … oh, my God.’ He was on his feet. ‘This is Lord Arthur Clinton, son of the Duke of Newcastle. Oh, my God. Show him up. Show him … no, on second thoughts, you go back to your washing. I’ll see to His Lordship.’

  This was a moment of realization for James Batchelor. Yes, Mr Disraeli had extended the electorate – doubled it, in fact – but that leap in the dark had not included an impecunious enquiry agent whose income was, to say the least, hit and miss. Even if Mr Disraeli had been allowed his Fancy Franchises, giving the vote to graduates. James Batchelor still didn’t qualify. So, here he was, that Monday morning, flying down the stairs through Mrs Rackstraw’s washing-day steam, a voteless man facing the son of a peer of the realm. Some, he kept thinking to himself on every stair, have greatness thrust upon them.

  ‘My lord,’ he bowed as he caught sight of the man.

  ‘Are you Grand or Batchelor?’ the man asked.

  ‘Batchelor, sir,’ Batchelor gushed. ‘May I say, what an honour …’

  ‘Yes, yes. I’m here at George Sala’s suggestion. He didn’t tell me you were a crawling toady.’

  ‘Toady?’ James Batchelor had read The Communist Manifesto – well, the bits he could understand with the aid of a dictionary – and he suddenly found himself in the camp of George Butler. Jack was indeed as good as his master; Karl Marx and Dickens’s groom were right – brothers under the skin.

  The man looked him up and down. ‘A little harsh, perhaps,’ he said. ‘I apologize. Life is a little trying at present. Do you have somewhere private? You will have gathered from my card that I am Arthur Clinton. I have come on a delicate matter.’

  Arthur Clinton was Grand’s age; shorter, slimmer, with a small waxed moustache and languid, heavy-lidded eyes. His frock coat was immaculate and the gold Albert in his waistcoat pocket could have bought number 41 The Strand, Batchelor guessed, several times over.

  ‘Up here, Lord Arthur,’ he said. ‘We can talk in the drawing room; unless you would like to accompany me to our offices; they’re just a few doors down?’

  Clinton had that unfortunate appearance of having a permanent smell under his nose. He had taken the trouble to seek Batchelor and Grand out here, rather than at their offices, he seemed to imply without speaking a word, and now he was being asked to go elsewhere. It was, really, all too much. ‘The drawing room will be adequate,’ he said, ‘as long as we will not be overheard. Staff, you know. One can’t be too careful.’

  ‘We just have Mrs Rackstraw,’ Batchelor explained, and didn’t notice the Honourable Arthur flinch. He led the way up the stairs and opened the door into the drawing room, work room, consulting room – it fulfilled every purpose that was asked of it.

  Clinton walked in and took in all that he saw. The cluttered desks, two of them; books along two walls. There were pieces of paper at odd angles on the third wall: names, jottings. He missed nothing. ‘Where is Grand?’ he asked.

  ‘Visiting a client, sir,’ Batchelor said, gesturing to the most comfortable chair they had.

  ‘You will have to relay to him what I am about to impart yourself,’ Clinton said, flicking the furniture with his coat-tail. ‘I have no intention of saying any of this more than once.’

  ‘Very well,’ Batchelor said. He sat and waited.

  ‘The window, if you please.’ Clinton pointed to it.

  Batchelor shrugged. It was hot as Hell as June flamed outside, but he slid the sash down and felt the sweat crawling down his back. ‘Er … could I offer you some refreshment, Lord Arthur?’

  ‘Thank you, no. I shall be lunching at my club later and breakfast was rather gargantuan this morning. I’ll come to the point. What can you tell me about “Dolly” Williamson?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Williamson, Scotland Yard?’

  ‘That’s the chappie. Why’s he called Dolly?’

  ‘I believe his name is Adolphus, sir,’ Batchelor said.

  ‘Oh.’ Clinton looked a little crestfallen. ‘Oh, I see. You’ve worked with him, professionally, I mean?’

  Batchelor chuckled. ‘I wouldn’t say with exactly,’ he said. ‘Mr Williamson has, shall we say, certain views about enquiry agents.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he has. Is he bent? By which I mean, can he be bribed?’

  Batchelor looked horrified. ‘I really don’t know, Lord Arthur. I’ve never needed to raise the issue. Not that I could afford him, of course.’

  ‘Hm,’ Clinton snorted. ‘Well, every man has his price, Batchelor. What’s yours?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘How much do you charge?’

  ‘That depends on the service,’ Batchelor said.

  The flicker of a smile flitted across Clinton’s face. ‘You naughty boy,’ he said. ‘I want something hushed up.’

  ‘Oh.’ Alarm bells were ringing in Batchelor’s head. ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t need to tell you, Batchelor, that if all goes according to plan, I shall, one day, be a peer of the realm.’

  ‘Congratulations, my lord,’ Batchelor beamed.

  Arthur Clinton wasn’t good at sarcasm, at least other people’s, and he let it go. ‘And I won’t pretend that my family is lily white, either. My brother, Albert, was cashiered from the Navy: he had his hand in the till, so to speak. My sister Susan was, until his tastes wandered, a close friend – I find the term “mistress” so coarse, don’t you? – of the Prince of Wales. And don’t get me started on my father.’

  ‘Do I take it you’re the white sheep, my lord?’ Batchelor asked.

  Clinton’s scowl changed slowly to a smirk and he wagged a finger at the man. ‘You’re very droll, Batchelor,’ he said. ‘Droll and perceptive. I like that in a man. I can see why George Sala recommended you.’

  ‘I’m very flattered, sir, of course,’ Batchelor said, ‘but I don’t see—’

  ‘Picture the scene,’ Clinton interrupted, waving his hand as if to create a pose plastique in Batchelor’s consulting room. ‘I went to the theatre the other night, not far from here, in fact, at the Strand.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I went with two friends, dear boys called Ernest and Frederick.’

  ‘When was this, exactly?’ Batchelor was reaching for his pen.

  ‘No,’ Clinton said sharply. ‘Nothing written down, if you please, Batchelor. Least written, soonest glossed over, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘So be it.’ Batchelor put the pen down.

  ‘It was the twenty-eighth of April, a Thursday.’

  ‘And what was the show?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The play at the Strand, what was it?’

  ‘My dear fellow, I have absolutely no idea. Seen one piece of music-hall drivel, seen them all. We went, naturally, into my private box.’

  ‘You and Ernest and Frederick?’

  ‘And Hugh and John.’

  ‘That must have been rather a squeeze,’ Batchelor commented. ‘Five of you in a private box.’

  Clinton bridled. ‘My father is the Duke of Newcastle,’ he said. ‘I have a very large box.’

  Batchelor committed that to memory. ‘Was there an incident?’ he asked.

  ‘There certainly was,’ Clinton recounted, ‘on the part of the police. Unbeknownst to us, we were followed all the way from Wakefield Street.’

  ‘Wakefield Street?’

  ‘Number Thirteen, to be precise. Ernest and Frederick have their lodgings there. Perfect bitch of a landlady.’

  ‘You were followed by the police?’ Batchelor wanted to be sure. ‘Why?’

  ‘Why is grass green, Batchelor?’ Clinton countered. ‘I have noticed in my thirty years on this earth that there is a certain kind of lout who has it in for men of my class. Trust me, when that traitor to the Conservative Party, Robert Peel, set up the Metropolitan Police, he did more harm than he knew. Not a gentleman among them.’

  ‘What happened at the theatre?’

  ‘Not
hing,’ Clinton insisted, ‘until we left. The national anthem had just finished – they play it before and after the turns at the Strand, for some reason – and we all, to use the revolting vernacular of the street, had our collars felt.’

  ‘By the copper who’d been following you?’

  ‘Oh, dear me, no. By two sergeants and a chief inspector, no less – Williamson.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The blighters had been hiding in the theatre, dressed in mufti, as though they were human beings.’

  ‘Disgraceful.’ Batchelor shook his head and tutted. As usual, it all sailed over Arthur Clinton’s head. ‘What was the charge, exactly?’

  ‘Yes,’ Clinton growled. ‘I thought you’d ask that. And here we come to the crux of the matter. I was, as were the others, accused of – and I quote – “conspiring and inciting persons to commit an unnatural offence”.’

  ‘In the large private box?’

  ‘Probably,’ Clinton shrugged, ‘although I assure you no such event took place.’

  ‘Not in the theatre.’

  ‘Not anywhere!’ Clinton exploded. ‘I am William Gladstone’s godson.’

  ‘Of course you are.’

  ‘That very night,’ Clinton could barely speak for fury, ‘that very night, I suffered such an indignity to my person … so did poor Ernest and Frederick.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘The police surgeon, at Williamson’s insistence, carried out an intimate examination, in order to determine whether any of us had … and I won’t beat about the bush … had anal connection.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘The beak at Bow Street was less than sympathetic.’

  ‘Who was that, sir?’

  ‘Er … Frederick Flowers, I believe. Reptile of a man. We didn’t hit it off.’

  ‘And you all appeared?’

  ‘No, no. Hugh got the Hell out, as John said he would.’

  ‘The Hell out?’ Batchelor had only heard that phrase on the other side of the Atlantic.

  ‘Abroad,’ Clinton said. ‘France or somewhere. Oh, I see, you mean the phrase? Picturesque, isn’t it? John is colonial, you see. From America.’

  ‘John … er …?’

  ‘Fiske. He’s the American consul in Edinburgh. That, of course, gives him diplomatic immunity. Which rather left Ernest, Frederick and me holding the baby.’

  ‘Forgive me, Lord Arthur, but I don’t see how my colleague and I can help.’

  ‘I got this yesterday.’ Clinton whipped an envelope from inside his coat. ‘A subpoena. I presume Ernest and Frederick have theirs.’

  Batchelor checked it. All legal and above board, signed and sealed with the full majesty of the law.

  ‘I still don’t—’ he began.

  ‘I want this to go away, Batchelor,’ Clinton said, ‘which is why I asked you about Williamson. I don’t know what, if anything, that nasty little doctor chappie with his grubby fingers can prove. But I know how courts of law work. I wasn’t Liberal MP for Newark for nothing. If we can’t bribe these people, we can, I believe, smear them. I want you and your confederate to dig up all the dirt you can – on Williamson, the doctor; anybody else who’ll be a witness for the prosecution. I will not have the name of Pelham-Clinton dragged through the mud any more than it has been already.’

  ‘Lord Arthur,’ Batchelor said, ‘I think Mr Sala may have been a little optimistic in recommending us. This subpoena is in order. The crime of which you stand accused is indeed an offence – its unnaturalness will depend on the eye of the beholders in the jury, I suppose – but what you are suggesting is, at the very least, underhand.’

  ‘Underhand, sir?’ Clinton snapped. ‘Underhand? The conspiracy against me, against me and my family and my social class, that’s what’s underhand.’ He paused, calming himself until his face had stopped flushing purple. ‘If it’s a matter of money …’ he began.

  ‘No, I …’ but Batchelor hadn’t finished when Clinton whipped out his gold hunter and threw it and the Albert on to the desk. The metal flashed in the sunlight; more gold than James Batchelor had ever seen in one place in his life.

  ‘Talk it over with your friend Grand,’ Clinton said. ‘And call on me at my club tomorrow. Ten sharp. Dinner will be over by then and we can talk in private.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Ten sharp, Batchelor.’ Clinton was on his feet. ‘The Rag, Pall Mall.’

  SEVEN

  ‘The Rag?’ Grand repeated. It still didn’t sound right.

  ‘Army and Navy Club to you and me, Matthew. I’ve never been across its portals. I nearly did, when I was with the Telegraph, but the members don’t cotton to the Press much. That’s why I think your other card would look better tonight.’

  The cab lurched to a halt at the corner of the Mall and St James’s Square. The place was buzzing, people everywhere, laughing and joking away the warm, glowing night. The lights burned late at the Horse Guards and, far away through the trees, Buckingham Palace had never looked so radiant. All London knew the Queen was not there. The widow was skulking at Windsor, the gossip ran, her heart forever broken over her beloved Albert. At the palace, it must have been the Prince of Wales holding a soirée.

  Grand was impressed with the opulence of the Rag, its brass gleaming in the firelight, its windows with a promise of good food, good wine and good company. The flunkey on the door tipped his hat to them, although he was a little surprised that they were not in evening dress. Gentlemen in infantry scarlet and cavalry blue sauntered in the foyer, interspersed with white cravats and black tails and the obligatory full sets of the Navy.

  The visitors’ dress might not have been right but the card did the trick. ‘Captain Grand,’ the man on the desk beamed. ‘Third Cavalry of the Potomac. Welcome, sir. It’s not often we have an officer from the colonies. Er … former colonies. May I enquire who you wish to see?’

  ‘We have an appointment,’ Grand said, ‘with Lord Arthur Clinton.’

  The man’s face darkened. ‘Ah, could you bear with me for a moment, sir?’ and he slipped into an anteroom.

  ‘This could go one of two ways,’ Batchelor murmured out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Since His Lordship called yesterday, I did some digging. Not only is he not an MP any more, he’s not in the Navy, either. Resigned in April, apparently. Oh – and the bad news? He’s seriously in hock. He was declared bankrupt two years ago.’

  ‘Well,’ Grand said, retaining the smile for the benefit of passing members, ‘you have been a busy little enquiry agent, haven’t you? And when were you planning to fill me in on these little details?’

  ‘About now,’ Batchelor winked at him. ‘Look, Matthew, I know we don’t have time for this, what with the Dickens case. And I don’t know that there’s much we can do. But at least I’ve got across this threshold – one of my little ambitions: humour me.’

  ‘Gentlemen,’ the desk man was back, looking grim. ‘Could you follow me, please?’

  They did, into the bowels of the building, through twisting passageways without number, until they came to a dark door. The flunkey knocked.

  ‘Enter,’ they all heard and the flunkey opened it.

  A large man sat behind a leather-topped desk. He wore naval mess dress and had a large glass of rum on the table beside him. ‘Thank you, Thompson,’ he said, and the flunkey left.

  ‘I’d get up, gentlemen,’ the naval gent said, ‘but I’m afraid my gout has the better of me tonight. That’s why,’ he waggled the glass at them, ‘I’m dining down here, alone.’

  ‘We have an appointment,’ Batchelor said. ‘With Lord Arthur Clinton.’

  ‘One he won’t be keeping, I fear.’

  Grand and Batchelor looked at each other.

  ‘Brace yourselves, gentlemen,’ the man said. ‘Lord Arthur is dead.’

  They looked at each other again.

  ‘Suicide?’ Batchelor asked.

  ‘Scarlet fever,’ the man said. ‘Oh, forgive me. This has all come as something of a shoc
k. I am Anthony Rivers, Commodore. I served with Arthur when he was a midshipman in the Crimea. Dear boy, dear boy. You are …?’

  ‘Grand and Batchelor,’ Grand said. ‘Enquiry agents.’

  ‘Really?’ Rivers raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Lord Arthur consulted us,’ Batchelor said, ‘on a matter of some delicacy. Yesterday.’

  ‘Yes, well, there it is,’ Rivers sighed. ‘That’s the very devil about scarlet fever, isn’t it? Right as rain one day, in God’s jollyboat the next. Tell me, this “matter of some delicacy” – may I enquire as to its nature?’

  ‘No, sir,’ Grand said. ‘I am afraid you may not. It is, as we have all agreed, a matter of some delicacy and you are not, I believe, a blood relative of the deceased.’

  ‘Oh, no, dear me, no.’ Rivers sipped at his grog. ‘Merely a ship that passed him in the night.’

  They made their excuses and left and it was not until they were in a cab again, jingling back to the Strand, that Batchelor said, ‘I didn’t know that about scarlet fever, Matthew, that it kills so quickly.’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Grand said. ‘Leastways, not in the States. Maybe you’ve got a different brand over here.’

  The offices of Chapman and Hall were still in sombre mood that Friday morning when Frederic Chapman arrived. The black bow still graced the front door. Miss Emmeline Jones was at her desk, ledger open in front of her, checking the stamp petty cash against letters sent. Sometimes, she could curse – in only the most ladylike way, of course – Anthony Trollope and all his works up in a heap; and that didn’t even include his dratted son, the young idiot, who drove her beloved Frederic to such apoplexy. This morning, she cast all Trollopes from her thoughts and smiled up at Chapman as he entered in a waft of Thames miasma, a sight to chill the blood of the strongest man.

  Frederic Chapman was in no mood for niceties. He swept through the outer office and disappeared into his own inner sanctum; he needed to have a serious think. Edwin Drood was preying on his mind. It was sad, of course, very sad, that Dickens had dropped off his very lucrative twig at all, but to do it at a pivotal point of one of the few books he had ever written that could be said to be brimful of suspense – that was just downright perverse. He was already muttering to himself as he divested himself of his coat and pushed back his shirtsleeves, ready to make what notes he could, to try and bring this wretched business to a conclusion. As far as he could see, it had to be Uncle Jasper – but surely a writer of Dickens’s calibre couldn’t be that obvious. He shrugged to himself; all things being equal, Dickens had never been what you could call subtle.