The Last Dickens
Page 27
Nathan, increasingly sickly, soon after died in debt and in misery. William was sent for as the nearest relation and was charged with disposing of the small house in a dingy quarter of London. The house was the picture of disorder-to William's surprise, Nathan, who had thrown away his whole family so long ago, had apparently never thrown away anything else. Rats and other vermin overran the place. In the hopes of selling the old house to liberate himself of the burden, William and a hired workman made some small structural renovations and repairs.
They were removing the rotting foundation of a wall when it happened. A sheet of canvas unraveled from above and a full skeleton of human bones fell on top of them. The skeleton, William knew instantly, was that of his son Edward Trood. The rumors were true.
“IMAGINE, IF YOU CAN, Mr. Osgood and Miss Sand, your child's bones raining down upon your head! There is no horror that could compare to that, my last embrace with my boy. Even though we had parted ways in red anger, I confess that as the years had passed, more and more I had imagined seeing my dear son, Eddie, at my fireside again. I had merely fancied him in my imagination away at sea- sometimes I do still, and surrender to my tears when nobody is watching.”
He tried to catch his breath again in spurts.
“Oh, Mr. Trood,” Rebecca said with sympathy, “it is your right to grieve. I lost my brother without saying good-bye, and now I must say good-bye to him every day.”
Giving up hope of a strong demeanor before his tenants, the grateful landlord began to weep on Rebecca's shoulder. When he had recovered himself, he led his guests outside behind the cathedral.
“What did the police say when you found his bones?” Osgood inquired.
Trood stopped in the burial yard, at his family plot. “Mr. Osgood, I never sent for them. Nor do I regret that decision.”
“But why?”
The landlord sat on the ground like a child, placing one trembling hand on the humble tablet for his wife and the other on his son's.
“I had lost my boy. Now was I to have my dead brother-however much I despised him-tossed around the columns of the newspapers as his murderer? I would not have been able to bear all of it. I would not have been able to live any longer with the Trood name. Perhaps that is why I have preferred to become of one form with my inn and the picture of the luckless Sir Falstaff. There are reasons murder is not always found out, and they are not always for cunning. The reason might be the fatigue among those who have been deadened on the inside. I buried Eddie quietly right here and told people he had suffered an accident at sea. The workman who had been with me in the excavation vowed to keep the circumstances of the discovery in his confidence, though I knew that would only go so far. Legends and fables sprouted-some told with more truth in them than others. I did not want to hear the stories, but I needed to. There was the story, as I say, that Eddie had stumbled on some kind of opium smuggling operation and was killed because of it. Eddie's terrible end at the hands of Nathan or other fiends became a topic for the Rochester busybodies to stir up.”
“And Mr. Dickens?” asked Osgood eagerly.
“What do you mean?” the landlord asked back blankly
“Why, his final, uncompleted book-surely you realized when you saw the story, even incomplete in serial form…” Osgood did not know how to finish his sentence.
“The name, you mean,” the landlord of the Falstaff interrupted.
“The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Yes, the name, the plot of the story-did it not strike you as remarkable?”
“Mr. Dickens was a man of genius. In his novels, he'd often employ names and stories he heard for his purposes. Why, just down the road is the old redbrick mansion where ‘Miss Havisham’ lived in her solitary gown as imagined inside his pages, and elsewhere you can ingest beef and beer where Richard Watts did the same courtesy of Mr. Dickens's imagination. I myself had been far too occupied with trying to save the inn to read more than a few installments published of his last work. I had thought to read it all when it was published in its entirety as a book, that is, before the great Mr. Dickens died last month. And when he died, and the state of our inn was put in jeopardy because of it, I could not spare the time. In truth, I have little desire for sensational stories about the tragedy of my son other than the one I own inside. I held his skull in my hands, Mr. Osgood. It was cracked on top. I need to read no more of his death than that story written into my boy's bones!”
AFTER RETURNING to the Falstaff, Osgood immediately arranged to depart for London with Rebecca in order to make further inquiries into the remarkable tale of Edward Trood. This was against the strident orders of Dr. Steele, who Osgood thought might try to place him in a straitjacket to prevent his leaving. Steele warned the publisher that the rheumatic bouts that had plagued him through his youth could return if he did not wait for a full recovery, but Osgood would not change his mind. Osgood also left word with the Falstaff to direct any letters to their new address at the St. James Hotel, Piccadilly, and to send Datchery there at once if he came to call on him.
Osgood, gathering some of his belongings into the hall of the inn, also found himself facing a looking glass for the first time he could remember since his assault. Seeing his reflection, both of his hands involuntarily moved to his face and then slid down his cheeks to his neck as though to hold his head in place. He blinked. Where had the boyish appearance gone, the innocent visage he had always cursed and cherished? In its place was a ghost-pale, almost gaunt countenance, with a complex web of tired lines, crevices, and dark shadows around his eyes. His hair was brittle and flat. He had either crossed toward a premature death mask or from a soft boyhood to a hardened manhood; he could not say which. There was an inspiriting element of his appearance, though. He no longer was inconspicuous or exchangeable with other young Boston Brahmin businessmen. This was James R. Osgood, however battered, there was no mistake about it.
Only then did he realize, confirming a suspicion by walking back into his room, that the looking glass previously there had been removed. He considered whether it could have been the dictatorial Dr. Steele or Rebecca-motivated by control if the former or affection if the latter. He reflected for a moment while standing at the threshold of his room and decided not to ask her about it.
“What about your gift, Mr. Osgood?” It was Rebecca, holding the pink glass tazza from the auction.
“Perhaps we ought to leave it with Mr. Trood to bring to Miss Dickens,” Osgood answered.
“It may be better presented in person. We have an hour before the next train leaves for London.”
“You would not…” Osgood said. “That is to say, you would have no objections to calling on Miss Dickens?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I'd think it a fine idea, Mr. Osgood.”
They went across the road to Gadshill but found it even more desolate than it had been. The front door was open and nobody was there to bring in visitors. Nearly every object was gone now since the Christie's auction. Piles of luggage filled the front corridor and the library. At first, Osgood and Rebecca did not even see Henry Scott, who was curled up in the corner of the library sandwiched between two trunks of clothing weeping. His fine white livery was streaked with tear stains.
“Oh, Mr. Scott, are you all right?” Rebecca asked, kneeling beside him and placing a hand on his shoulder.
Henry tried but failed to speak through his sobbing, communicating in broken syllables like an island savage that they were to leave Gadshill by the morning. Soon, a woman covered in a long black veil, and a flowing black dress with a short jacket with ruffled hem and a grand bustle in the back-mourning in the style of Queen Victoria for her Albert-descended the stairs.
“Other events have delayed my presentation of this, Miss Dickens,” Osgood said to her, holding out the tazza.
“We read in the Telegraph that this sold for seven pounds odd, but it did not say to whom!” Mamie Dickens answered, amazed.
“It did not seem fitting that anyone but you should have it.”
“I hold my father,” she said softly, “in my heart of hearts as a man apart from all other men, as one apart from all other human beings. I wish never to marry and have to change my name. So I can always be a Dickens. Do you think that so strange, Miss Sand?”
“How lucky you are to have been cherished by a man loved by all the world.”
“Good-bye and God bless you both,” Mamie said, squeezing her visitors’ hands once more.
Aunt Georgy walked in alongside an unexpected man, who bowed coldly at the visitors.
“Dr. Steele!” Osgood said. “I am afraid you shall not persuade me to remain in Rochester.”
“That is not why I am here,” said the doctor coldly.
“Nobody is sick, I hope, Aunt Georgy?” Osgood asked.
“I should have thought you would have been on your way to London already, Mr. Osgood,” Dr. Steele said disapprovingly.
“Dr. Steele has come to settle our bills before we leave,” Georgy said. “I am afraid we haven't had time since… since the good doctor tried everything to revive poor Charles.” With these words, the matron of the house glanced toward the dining room. “Unfortunately, we have not yet received the funds from the auction. I do appreciate Dr. Steele's patience.”
“Your servant,” the doctor said, bowing, though not exactly promising patience.
“You treated Mr. Dickens after he collapsed?”
“I can assure you I did, Mr. Osgood,” the doctor said. “I see that in addition to disobeying my directions for your own health, you have added to Miss Dickens's grief. Perhaps it is best for both of you to leave Gadshill.”
Mamie had gone to sit in a quiet corner with the tazza to hide the fact that she was crying.
“Dr. Steele, perhaps-” Georgy started to object to his command.
But the imperious medical man gave her a steely-eyed look that combined a doctor's strict prescription and a collector's reminder of an overdue bill. Even the strong-willed voice of Georgina Hogarth was silenced.
“Good-bye, then, Mr. Osgood,” Steele said, vengeful over his disobedience.
“Good-bye,” Osgood replied.
“Wait.” Here was Henry, upright and with dried eyes. “I have not seen Miss Dickens smile like that in some time. If she weeps, it is in the joy of the small swatch of memories you and Miss Sand returned to her. Come, Mr. Osgood, let me show you two something before you go, if you have a few moments.” These words of the servant's were meant squarely for Dr. Steele, but were spoken to Osgood.
As Dr. Steele glared at them, Osgood and Rebecca followed Henry out of the room. “There have been very few people allowed in here since June the ninth,” said Henry, stepping across the threshold of the dining room with his eyes closed. “That is the place where he died.” It was a green velvet sofa with a stylish curving back.
“Were you in the room, Mr. Scott?” asked Osgood.
Henry nodded. “Yes, and I shall not fear to speak of it. Grief pent up will burst the heart, as the saying is.” His eyes became wide as he described the scene of Dickens's death. “The Chief collapsed on the floor of the room when sitting down to eat after working all day on The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Messengers rushed to town to retrieve Dr. Steele, while I helped carry a sofa from upstairs into the dining room, and then assisted Aunt Georgy in lifting him. He was mumbling.”
“Mr. Scott,” Osgood interrupted. “Did you hear anything that Mr. Dickens said when he did speak?”
“No. It could not be made out at all. Well, except one word I could hear.”
“What was that?” Osgood asked.
“A name. Forster. The poor Chief was calling for John Forster to be by his side. I daresay that shall be Mr. Forster's proudest moment. I know it would be mine had it been my name on his lips.”
As Dickens had continued to worsen, Henry was asked by Georgy to begin heating bricks at the furnace. “When I returned to this room, the somber doctors had cut away the Chief's coat and shirt. To see it! The room was crowded now-Miss Dickens and Mrs. Collins had hurried here from a dinner in London. Hours passed, and still he remained in an unconscious sleep. How I wished for another instruction to heat bricks or any such errand! I looked in on the scarlet geraniums in the conservatory and swept the tiles around them. Those were Dickens's favorites and I wanted the area clear for when the Chief woke up. He could look out and smell the conservatory's sweet fragrance through the open window.”
Amidst it all, there arrived a fair-haired, pretty, and tightly cloaked young woman, a woman whom everyone knew about even if they were not meant to. But the master of the house did not stir under the frightened gaze of her bright blue eyes, either. Deep into the night, the same stillness persisted. An even more somber doctor from London joined the others in the dining room. Pale and rattled, the London doctor pronounced brain hemorrhage.
“The poor Chief, he would never be moved from this sofa again.”
Henry bowed with a regretful frown that he could say no more.
“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” said Osgood. “I know it must be a painful thing to recount.”
“On the contrary. It is my finest honor to have been here.”
THE TRAIN INTO London could not move fast enough for the two travelers. A few hours after their arrival in London, Datchery had received the message from the landlord of the Falstaff and met them at their Piccadilly hotel. Osgood could not go to Scotland Yard without betraying William Trood's trust, but the eccentric Datchery, mesmerized or not, could investigate unfettered. Osgood poured out all the information about Edward Trood and his connections to his uncle's opium merchant friends.
“Remarkable!” Datchery said, his long slender frame pacing the floor up and down. He looked as though he might break into a laugh. “Why, Ripley, I believe you have turned a corner in the investigation!”
Osgood snapped his fingers. “If it's true, it all fits together now, my dear Datchery, doesn't it? When Dickens said there was something ‘curious and new,’ this is what he meant-he was opening the case of a real murder mystery. It was different from anything he had done before, different from anything Wilkie Collins or other novelists had written. Think of how one of the first chapters of Drood begins.”
Osgood had read the installments so many times, he could recite it from memory, but he removed the first installment from his trunk to point it out to Datchery. “For sufficient reasons which this narrative will itself unfold,” he read from the first sentence of chapter 3, “as it advances, a fictitious name must be bestowed upon the old Cathedral town. Let it stand in these pages as Cloisterham.”
“Indeed!” Datchery called out.
“The reason for the alias Cloisterham to stand in for Rochester,” Osgood said, “is that a real crime was about to be revealed, and a real criminal unveiled.”
Datchery nodded vigorously. “And when The Mystery of Edwin Drood began to be published in serial, every eye was on it, and every eye in the world of these opium pushers and smugglers could see in it the story of poor Edward Trood. Think of it: Nathan Trood is dead, but if he had help in the murder of his nephew, someone would fear exposure.”
“Except that William never involved the police. Edward's murderer may have felt comfortable for these long years,” Osgood said.
“Indeed. But if Dickens's novel revealed new clues, it could lead the police to the discovery of the facts of the actual case and to the other killers of Edward Trood!” Datchery interrupted himself by putting up a hand for silence. He pointed toward the door, where there was a slight shuffling noise.
“Miss Rebecca?” Datchery whispered.
“No, I do not think it can be her… Miss Sand is out making arrangements fo
r credit at the bank in London for our stay,” Osgood said in a quiet voice. “The money we brought with us has melted away. She will be out another hour at least.”
Datchery motioned for Osgood to move aside and indicated that someone was eavesdropping on them. Then he grabbed the iron poker from the hearth. He stealthily made his way across the length of the well-furnished room and opened the door slowly. A strong hand shot out and grabbed Datchery's wrist, twisting it until the poker fell to the floor.
“Good God!” Datchery cried out, tumbling backward. Struck with a quick fist in the jaw, he staggered and fell.
“Help! Call for help!” Datchery moaned while attempting to drag himself away.
“No need for that, Mr. Osgood,” said the attacker.
Osgood had reached for the bellpull but, being addressed by name, stopped and stared at the newcomer with amazement.
The young man stepping toward him removed his cape and cap to reveal the figure of Tom Branagan. Tom Branagan! A man whom Osgood had not seen in more than two years-since the end of Dickens's American tour-now plunging through Osgood's hotel door in a brazen assault!
Branagan, who no longer looked to be the lad he was in America, but a powerfully built man, retrieved some rope from the curtains and began tying Datchery's hands together
“Mr. Branagan!” Osgood exclaimed. “What is this about?”
“What do you want from me?” Datchery moaned pitiably.
Branagan, eyes dark with anger, stood over Datchery and held him down with the heel of his boot on the soft middle of his neck. “In the name of Charles Dickens, the time has come for answers.”
Chapter 29
OSGOOD LOWERED HIMSELF ONTO THE RUG NEXT TO DATCHERY. The publisher could not fathom the sudden upheaval. He turned over in his thoughts what had occurred to try to make sense of it: the near fatal visit to the opium rooms, the revelations of William Trood about his son, Tom Branagan's sudden appearance out of nowhere at the London hotel and senseless attack on his companion.