by M. J. Trow
‘Dearie me,’ Collins said, with a smile. ‘For an enquiry agent, you are a very prim little miss, aren’t you? Are you sure you don’t … but, never mind that. Charles’s private life, eh? I suppose you want to ask me if he had taken that absolute cracker Georgy as his mistress, hmm? Or whether he hunted further afield?’
Batchelor was pleased this was finally proving to be so easy and nodded.
‘I suppose you thought you could ask me because I am well known for my rather unconventional views on women and marriage.’ The writer looked at Batchelor with a wry smile. ‘It was the talk of the town when Caroline left me for the plumber, but she’ll be back, she’ll be back …’ A distant look came into the writer’s eye then he shook himself. ‘Where was I?’
‘Marriage. Caroline. Plumber.’
‘Thank you. Very succinct. Well, you chose well, my boy. You’ll get no mealy-mouthing from me, I can assure you. No, it’s all healthy and natural as air. But I’m surprised you had to seek me out. I thought everyone knew about him and Nell Ternan. Been going on a good while, that has. She gave up the stage for him; not that she was much of an actress, I didn’t think. But what do I know? I’m just a humble hack writer.’ He bowed his head modestly and Batchelor came in on cue.
‘Mr Collins,’ he gushed, ‘who can forget The Frozen Deep?’
‘Almost everyone, as a matter of fact. Except John Forster, of course – he claws in the royalties for Charles and me wherever it is put on by some poor travelling repertory company. But that was kind, my dear boy. Kind.’
‘So …’ Batchelor felt he was on the cusp of something. ‘Miss Ternan?’
‘You hadn’t heard her name? Come now, I feel very disloyal now. All of Charles’s friends had kept his secret? How … charming of them. No, Nell is common knowledge if you know where to ask.’
Batchelor remembered the groom, Butler. He was clearly speaking of her when he called her no better than she should be. ‘Does she live in Nunhead, by any chance?’
‘There you are, you see! You did know all along. You were trying to make a fool out of a poor old writer!’
‘No, no, not at all.’ The short story burning a hole in Batchelor’s inside pocket had to be considered. How could he give it to the writer for his consideration if they parted brass rags? ‘I had heard a rumour from a servant at Gads Hill, that’s all. We didn’t have a name.’
‘It’s not likely to be the only one, I fear. Poor Charles was a little susceptible when it came to the ladies.’
‘Does the name Stella mean anything to you?’ Batchelor just needed to tidy up that final point.
Collins roared with laughter, taking off his glasses and wiping his eyes. ‘Oh, Mr Batchelor,’ he said. ‘You have cheered a poor old writer up today and no mistake. Yes, I know Stella. The latest woman in Charles’s life. But, as you are an enquiry agent, I must leave you something to enquire about. And good luck – I think you will find the end of the road rather …’ and he spluttered with more laughter, ‘shall we say, unexpected.’
There were clearly no more revelations to come, so Batchelor got up from his seat. ‘Thank you so much, Mr Collins,’ he said.
‘The pleasure has been all mine, dear boy, I can assure you. Please, take this,’ and Collins picked up a book from a side table and wrote in it with a flourish. ‘My latest. Man and Wife, by an amusing serendipity.’
Batchelor was overwhelmed. ‘Mr Collins, I am overwhelmed,’ he said.
‘Of course you are,’ Collins replied, already pulling a clean sheet of paper towards him. A writer’s work is never done. ‘Can you see yourself out? Martha needs her rest.’
‘Of course,’ Batchelor said, almost bowing himself out of the room. With Dickens dead, it could be said that Collins now wore the crown.
‘Oh, by the way.’ The author’s voice echoed after Batchelor as he crossed the hall. ‘Don’t forget to leave the short story on the pile near the door. I’ll get round to it sooner or later, you may be sure. Goodbye.’
NINE
There was no doubt about it; Dolly Williamson was becoming something of a nuisance. Not that the great detective pounded the pavements himself – he had people for that, dodgy-looking men in plain clothes who trailed Grand and Batchelor or both in whatever combination they left the Strand. True, the enquiry agents were able to lose them sooner or later, but that took time and ingenuity that could better be spent in tracking down Charles Dickens’s killer.
The really annoying thing was that Williamson had told them that he too was looking into Dickens’s death. How far had he got, they wondered. What were his lines of enquiry? Or was Williamson’s only plan to send his flatfeet after them in the hope that they would solve the case and the Yard could take the credit?
No, they had to shake off Williamson’s shadows. And how do you rid yourself of a nasty policeman? You go and see a nice one.
Matthew Grand had still not really worked out how London was joined together. He knew lots of bits of it, but not necessarily how it all dovetailed together; it was walking around in London when he most felt that he was a stranger in a strange land; this was a foreign country where they happened to speak English. For this reason, he was often the half of the partnership who dove off the levy that was London into the deep water that was what he always called ‘The Rest’; the other towns and cities that filled Batchelor’s home country. Even Batchelor had had to get the atlas out to find Alresford, where ex-Inspector Dick Tanner was keeping his hostelry. Tanner’s rheumatism had beaten him in the end, and he had taken the route of so many policemen: retirement to run a pub; although his sounded rather a cut above, being the Swan Hotel. It turned out that Alresford was just outside Winchester, connected to it by rail. Batchelor had informed Grand that Winchester was in that direction – a wave of the arm implied that it might easily be to the west; so, accordingly, Grand had made his way to Waterloo. For once, he could do it on foot – even Grand could manage getting around London when all he had to do was walk in a straight line. He went east first, losing his copper shadow before doubling back.
Grand kept a wary eye out for vicars as he took his seat on the train. He had no idea what to expect when he reached his destination, reputedly one of the most beautiful parts of England; though, unlike its American namesake, they made no guns there. Grand had a picture in his head of soaring countryside, the dappling water of the river and a cathedral not far away. He had packed a small valise, in case he should be pressed to stay the night. London was like no other city he had ever known, and he loved it almost like a native, but sometimes he just needed to breathe air that hadn’t gone through three million other pairs of lungs before his own.
As he headed further west, he began to sit up and take notice. There were some towns, certainly, bustling stations with market produce piled in teetering ziggurats of lettuce; hens; new potatoes spilling from their burlap sacks. The smell of the countryside came in through the open window and soon, across to his left, he saw the soaring tower of Winchester cathedral, growing as something alive out of the watercress beds of the river. He gathered his belongings around him and sat, excited, on the edge of his seat. He realized all at once how much he needed a holiday; how much he missed his home.
The train to Alresford was steaming quietly to itself in the station when the London train pulled in. A guard screamed in Grand’s ear that the train now standing on Platform Two was the … something or other to somewhere. It seemed to the American that there was yet another language in this country, along with the ones used by newspaper vendors and chestnut sellers, and it was the most impenetrable of them all – and yet, surely, the most important to be clear and comprehensible to all. He turned to a woman, laden with baskets.
‘Ma’am, could you tell me if this train goes to Alresford?’
‘Where, my lovely?’
Grand made his voice louder by a notch. ‘All-Res-Ford,’ he enunciated clearly.
‘Oh,’ she said, with one foot on the step, ‘Orlsfud, you must mea
n. Yes, my lovely, it’s going there. I’m going there! I’ve been marketing, as you can see.’ She handed Grand some baskets absentmindedly and used her free hand to haul herself aboard. ‘Come on, my lovely. Upsidaisy or you’ll miss the train.’
Grand handed her her baskets and followed her into the carriage. It seemed full of women and baskets and screams of delight. ‘Ladies.’ He tipped his hat.
‘Oh, Betty Smithers, you’m a dark horse,’ one of them said, poking the woman in the ribs, or where her ribs may once have been, covered as they now were by a comfortable cushion.
‘Oh, you leave me be,’ she replied, smugly. ‘This young gentleman just axed me about the train. He’m going to Orlsfud.’
More shrieks greeted this information. One of the other women leaned forward. ‘Who you visiting, my lovely?’
‘Richard Tanner,’ Grand said. There was clearly no point in trying subterfuge in this carriage.
‘The new landlord at the Swan?’
‘You be staying?’ One of the women had noticed his grip.
‘Well,’ Grand said, squashing down into a seat between two ample shoppers, ‘I may stay overnight, if he’ll have me. He’s an old friend, from London.’
‘Oh, my lovely,’ the woman on his left said, chucking him under the chin. ‘You’m not old enough to have old friends!’ The other women shrieked with laughter again and Grand smiled a desperate smile.
‘I’ve known him since I came to England, more or less,’ he explained. Then, before the questions could begin, he gave them a quick potted history of his life thus far, which the women punctuated with clucks and tuts as appropriate. West Point was easy enough and he would gloss over the battlefield casualties as too grim a subject for ladies.
Before he had reached much further than Bull Run, the train began to slow in a series of jerks and the women began to gather their parcels. Grand’s first acquaintance passed him half her baskets as though to the manner born, and got down on to the platform with the help of the guard. She looked back at Grand, who was struggling down by himself. ‘Are you all right there, my lovely? No, don’t bother to put those down, I’m on the way to the Swan, I can show you.’ And she swept out of the station, with Grand staggering under his load, as though she owned the town.
The others watched her go, envy in their eyes. ‘That Betty Smithers,’ one of them muttered, ‘she’s never been no better nor she should be.’ And with nods of agreement, the shoppers separated to their homes, looking back at Grand, the best-looking man Alresford had seen for many a long year.
‘There you are, my lovely,’ the woman said, stopping outside a pretty little cottage set back from the road in a rose-filled garden. ‘There’s the Swan, just down the road, there. Thank you for carrying my bags. It’s getting a bit much for me, these days, but needs must. I hope you find Mr Tanner well.’
‘Why don’t you come and take a drink with us, later?’ Grand asked, flexing his fingers to get some life back into them.
‘Oh, you and your London ways!’ she shrieked, but was smiling nevertheless. ‘Me, a respectable widow, drinking with two men. I would never live it down. No, you go and have a nice stop with your friend, my dear. And thank you for your help.’
Grand was smiling as he walked down the dusty lane to the Swan Hotel. He felt as though he had travelled to another country, not just seventy miles from Waterloo. Even if Tanner couldn’t help them, it would still have been a worthwhile journey, just to get the stink of the Thames out of his nostrils.
The Commissioner of Lunacy was hard at work when the maid showed James Batchelor into his study. The sun streamed in through the open casement and the noises of Kensington wafted with it. John Forster was in his late fifties, judging by his appearance, thick set and with piercing dark eyes. His dundrearies were magnificent, resting on his lapels, and the quiff of hair at the front disguised to all intents and purposes his incipient middle-aged baldness.
‘An enquiry agent?’ Forster read the card lying on his desk. ‘Well, I suppose you could call me a sort of literary agent. What can I do for you, Mr …?’
‘Batchelor,’ Batchelor said and took the proffered chair. ‘My colleague Grand and I have been commissioned to look into the death of the late Charles Dickens, Mr Forster. I understand that you knew him better than anyone.’
‘Indeed I did.’ Forster put his pen down. ‘I am committing it all to paper as we speak.’ He waved his hand over the sheaves of manuscript on his desk. ‘The Biography.’
Batchelor smiled, wondering how far George Sala had got with his.
‘I loved that man, Mr Batchelor.’ Forster trumpeted into a handkerchief. ‘I’m not embarrassed to admit it. A literary agent is only an agent, but a friend is a friend for life.’ He rather liked the sound of that, snatched up his pen again and wrote it down. ‘But,’ he frowned, ‘I’m confused. Charles died of a stroke, surely.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Batchelor said, having lost count of the times he had heard that. ‘We have reason to believe that poison may have been involved.’
Forster sat back in his chair, his eyes wide. ‘Dear God!’ he muttered.
‘You were called,’ Batchelor said, ‘on the day he died?’
‘To Gads Hill, yes. I got there too late, I fear. He was lying on the sofa, looking at peace with himself and the world. I kissed his forehead, the only farewell I could think of.’
‘And you went to the funeral?’
‘Of course,’ Forster sniffed. ‘A small circle of family and friends.’
‘And no Mrs Dickens?’
‘Catherine? Lord, no. That would have been difficult. One of the most awkward chapters I shall have to write, I expect. I next saw Charles, before the funeral, I mean, in his coffin. The undertakers had put this ridiculous ribbon, scarf thing under his chin. Looked just like Marley’s ghost, I thought. Perhaps it was some sort of backhanded compliment, but I didn’t approve.’
‘Since you knew him so well, Mr Forster,’ Batchelor went for the jugular, ‘can you think of anyone who would want to see him dead?’
Forster exploded with laughter. ‘Trollope,’ he said. ‘Wilkie Collins. Elizabeth Gaskell. That dreadful Ouida woman. If he weren’t dead himself, I’d have to add Thackeray to the list.’
‘But, surely, they are – or were – his friends?’
Forster looked at the detective’s face from under his beetling brows. ‘Do writers have friends, Mr Batchelor? Charles and myself apart, I can’t think of any. The man was seriously wealthy, Mr Batchelor, partly through his own brilliance, partly through my, I won’t deny it, bullying of publishers. Well, they are tradesmen, after all. But, surely, if Charles were poisoned, wouldn’t it have to be someone in the household? Someone with access to Charles and his comestibles?’
‘In theory, yes,’ Batchelor said, ‘but I understand that Gads Hill was a mecca for anybody who had ever read any Dickens. The world and his wife often turned up.’
‘That’s true, they did. And of course, he had other premises. Broadstairs. His offices in Wellington Street; the place he rented near Marble Arch; Win …’ and his voice tailed away.
‘Win?’ Batchelor took it up.
‘Win or lose, Mr Batchelor, I’m intrigued to know for whom you are working.’
‘Sorry, Mr Forster,’ Batchelor said. ‘Client confidentiality.’
‘Of course, of course. I’m just trying to think. Charles was a bit of an imbiber, to tell you the truth. Brandy, sherry. Then again, he did love his egg and anchovy rolls. You know, I suppose, about the laudanum? That’s another chapter I’ll have to be careful about. It was his lameness, you see. In his heyday, Charles thought nothing of twelve-mile hikes, at a steady four miles an hour – I’m amazed he had time for that, bearing in mind his astonishing output. Said it was while walking he got his best ideas. Drood was getting him down, though. He told me it wasn’t going well. I don’t suppose the opium helped.’
‘The laudanum?’ Batchelor checked.
‘No, no, that was
just for daily fitness. No, Charles would sneak off to Bluegate Fields now and then to smoke the stuff. Said it did him the world of good, but I’m not sure. You don’t suppose poor Charles could have poisoned himself, do you? By accident, I mean?’
But James Batchelor didn’t answer. Because James Batchelor had gone.
The Swan Hotel seemed to sleep in the dusty sun, standing wrapped in its midday silence at the edge of the road. The walls were whitewashed and cast back the glare so that Grand had to shield his eyes to look at the name above the door. ‘Richard Tanner, prop.,’ it said, ‘licensed to sell intoxicating liquor.’ Grand smiled; this was all rather a long way from feeling villains’ collars in Shadwell. He pushed the door and went in and was immediately struck blind, or as near as made no difference. After the glare outside, the inside was like being down a mine. Grand could see a chink of light in the distance, which seemed to sparkle and quiver. But everything between him and it – and it was even difficult to judge how far that might be – was a mystery.
He took a tentative step forward and felt uneven slabs under his feet.
‘Oh!’ A voice came from within the quivering light. ‘Be careful, young sir. The floor’s uneven and we don’t want you going a purler.’
Grand stopped in his tracks. He had no idea what a purler might or might not be, but it was clearly something to avoid if possible.
A girl came out of the light and crossed the gloom towards Grand. ‘I keep telling Mr Tanner we must put the lights up on days like this. That white wall outside, it makes folks as blind as bats in here. Wait there a minute, sir, and your eyes will accustom.’
Grand raised his hat. ‘Thank you for the warning, ma’am,’ he said, laying the accent on a bit thick. It worked with women of all ages, but most of all on those under twenty, which this one clearly was, though only by a little. She was pretty and buxom and spilling out over her bodice, in best barmaidly tradition.
‘You’re not from round here,’ she told him. ‘I expect you’re here for Mr Tanner.’
