The Last Dickens

by Matthew Pearl

  “If that wretched-looking creature is coming all the way from London to New York from that cesspool to this,” Rogers said to himself, “it's likely that he's not ponying up money for the trip himself. And it's too much to just call coincidence. He's someone's messenger, someone who doesn't want to communicate by wire that could be stolen or read by an operator.”

  Rogers followed him to a fish shed, which the sailor entered. Rogers stopped at the window and pretended to adjust the plaster over his eye. The Turk passed an envelope into the hands of a slender man with heavy eyelids and a businesslike presence. The exchange was quick and silent and before long the two men had split up.

  Rogers, waiting anxiously for a few seconds to pass, tucked his bamboo stick under his arm and followed the second man a few paces behind, even as he marked the direction of the Turk.

  Chapter 31

  Lower Provinces, India, the next day, 1870

  THE RAINY SEASON HAD MADE ITSELF KNOWN. SUPERINTENDENT Frank Dickens decided to make a stop at an outpost with the small group he had personally selected from the Opium Detective Police. The English military officers welcomed them, and ordered their khansáman to arrange a light supper while they waited for the rain to quiet down.

  “What brings you to these provinces, Superintendent?” asked their host, a young Englishman of strong build and amiable personality.

  “An opium dacoity, to begin with,” said Frank. “Worth many thousand rupees.”

  The host shook his head. “The blessings of civilization do not come easily for our dark-skinned friends, I should say. Their rude morals allow their own people to steal the source of their future wealth. Ah, here we have a pleasant change of subject. Let us eat to your health!”

  The Bengal policemen stared at the bowls of lumpy orange-red liquid that were placed in front of them.

  “What is it?” asked one of them.

  The host laughed. “It is a type of liquid salad, my friend, a Spanish invention called guspácheo. Among the Spaniards, it is employed as a way of reducing thirst and preparing for a hearty meal in the warm climate. It will keep away fever in the hot, rainy weather.”

  After indulging in the strange lunch, Frank and his band continued by horseback until reaching a dry riverbank by a jungle. Consulting his hand-drawn map given to him by the inspector who had interrogated the captured dacoit, Frank stopped and dismounted.

  “Remove the shovels.”

  Procuring an elephant from a nearby police outpost, Frank inspected the area as his men dug at several different spots, while the rain would come down hard and then at regular intervals give way to the blazing sun. Though the activity was wearying, Frank could not help admiring the image of himself as the conquering European atop the awesome beast. He thought dismissively about his time being trained to work at All the Year Round and the disappointment of his father later. It was not that Frank could not manage the writing, he simply could not manage the boredom of it the way his older brother Charley could.

  When he had been a schoolboy, his father had announced to Frank one day that he would teach him shorthand because it was a salable skill, and that the great Boz himself had hung a shingle to do freelance shorthand as a reporter in his younger days. The system, called Gurney's after its inventor, was difficult enough to train in, but Dickens had even “improved” it with his own “arbitrary characters” (various marks, dots, circles, spirals, and lines) to represent words, making it more mysterious still. Frank would study carefully, certain he had made excellent progress, and then his father would test him by giving him dictation.

  Charles Dickens would scream out a bombastic, ridiculous speech like he were sitting in the House of Commons, then interrupt himself in an entirely different voice arguing the opposite point of a more absurd and bombastic character. Frank would swear his father somehow talked over himself during these tests. Frank, trying his hardest to concentrate, would fall over laughing, and by the end of the parliamentary debate, both father and pupil were rolling on the rug in side-shaking hysteria. He resembled his father physically, more so than any of the other boys; but at those times he felt as though they were actual twins. Frank's page of shorthand, meanwhile, would end up like absurd, meaningless hieroglyphics.

  Frank had heard that his diminutive younger brother, Sydney, who was in the Royal Navy, had been nicknamed by his mess mates “Little Expectations” after Great Expectations was published. Frank had never been meant to follow in his father's foot tracks, but he would not be seen to the world as a failure.

  The first spot Frank had chosen in the sun-scorched ground yielded nothing, but after consulting the map again the squadron unearthed a mango wood chest sealed in pitch. After another two hours had passed, five more chests, the total promised by the thief, were discovered.

  Frank climbed down from the elephant. The heavy chests were soon lined up in a row. Meanwhile, a small crowd had gathered from the nearby village to watch.

  “Get the natives away from here. They have seen that the thieves will not beat us, that is enough.”

  But Frank's order was not heeded fast enough. Several of the native women had begun to dance and this was sufficient to distract the opium policemen. In the meantime, more natives were slowly emerging from the edge of the jungle.

  “Rifles,” Frank said, then louder: “Rifles up!”

  At that moment, the band of natives charged with flaming torches and spears. Frank ordered his men to fire and, several volleys later, the raiders had fled back into the dense woods.

  “They do not like white police in these districts,” offered a local policeman bemusedly.

  Frank turned to his men, who were shamefaced at having been duped. “Open the chests. I want each one examined thoroughly.”

  “Rocks!” one of the policemen cried. He had discovered that about one third of the lumps of opium in the chest had been replaced with stones of about equal weight. In the other chests it was the same.

  Frank did not evince any surprise; he simply took one of the rocks and put it in his satchel.

  Chapter 32

  Liverpool, the docks the next morning

  THE TRAVELERS, NOW RESIGNED TO GOING HOME, FELT FORTUNATE to push off aboard the Samaria once again. Booking passage at such short notice would have been nearly impossible, as Osgood's passport had been held since the suspicious situation in which he'd been found after the incident at the opium rooms. Marcus Wakefield was himself embarking on one of his frequent business trips between England and America. In a matter of hours, and with great expense billed to the publishing firm, he had passage arranged for Osgood and Rebecca on the same ship. In conjunction with Tom Branagan's urgings through the police department, Wakefield employed his influence to release Osgood's passport for travel.

  On the way to the harbor, Osgood and Rebecca sat with Wakefield in the merchant's coach. Tom and another police constable walked on opposite sides of the street so they could watch for Herman. Each of the two pedestrians held up an umbrella and kept his hat pulled down low on his face. There was no sign of Herman and the two Americans boarded with the tea merchant quickly and quietly.

  Aboard the steamship, Wakefield was as solicitous a friend as ever, though both Osgood and Rebecca noticed a certain petulant charge to his demeanor.

  “I am afraid since we last traveled my business has entered a period of great dullness,” Wakefield explained with a touch of embarrassment in the saloon to Osgood over tea. “My partners are quite circumspect about general prospects. Enough of my gloominess, though. What about you, my friend? It seems you were rather burning the candle at both ends in England.”

  “Indeed, I suppose I was,” said Osgood. “What did you say this was, Mr. Wakefield?”

  “Ah, it's called oswego. It's believed to have curative properties-good for the stomach and to prevent nausea. Do you like it?”

  “It makes me feel plucked up already, thank you.”

  “Well, I should say you are in quite better form than when I saw yo
u in the company of the police in London, covered in rat bites!” Wakefield said, laughing. “I pray this is at least a respite for dear Miss Sand. All she endured with her brother, Daniel. Awful, senseless tragedy, by the sound of it.”

  “We shall always be grateful for your assistance, Mr. Wakefield. Even though it is now over.”

  “Yes, yes, absolutely.” He raised his wineglass. “To the health of us all now that this is over!” After taking a drink, he added, “Now that what is over, Mr. Osgood?”

  “A great disappointment,” Osgood answered.

  Wakefield nodded regretfully, as if their business disappointments were the same.

  Osgood smiled, appreciating the sympathy. “Sit with me at supper, Mr. Wakefield, and I shall unburden it all to you then, if you shall hear it. I owe you that. One day I hope to be able to do you as decent a service as you have done for us,” said Osgood.

  “Your trust is quite enough reward for me, dear Mr. Osgood. Quite enough!” Then Wakefield paused and seemed to have a tickle in his throat as he spoke again. “Perhaps there is one thing you could do, if you're willing. But I hesitate to ask.” Wakefield fell silent, engaging in his habitual knee-tapping.

  “I insist on it.”

  “Pray, Mr. Osgood, a good word from you to Miss Sand about my character… Well, she respects you very much.”

  “Why, Mr. Wakefield…” Osgood seemed lost deep in a troubled thought.

  “I have grown to admire her a great deal, as I think you know. Will you do me this one favor?”

  “I would not deny you any favor, my friend.” Osgood was about to say more when the bell rang from the dining saloon.

  “Shall we continue this over our meal?” Wakefield suggested with a hearty smile.

  INSTEAD OF GOING in to dinner with the others, Osgood stood on deck at the railing, looking out at the brilliant gleam of the sea. He closed his eyes as the mist sprayed his unshaven face.

  “Mr. Osgood? Are you feeling unwell?”

  Osgood turned to look over his shoulder, but quickly turned back. It was Rebecca. He had not prepared what he would say to her.

  “No, no,” Osgood said. “I believe I am almost fully healed with London behind us, as a matter of fact.”

  “Well, I suppose we should get to our tables for dinner.”

  “Mr. Wakefield is a fine man. He has been a true friend to us, as you know.”

  “What?”

  Osgood said, “I just wished to say that.”

  “Very well,” Rebecca said, a little confused.

  He wished he could explain to Rebecca. He wished he could find a way to express the feelings that had been so clear to him the night of his opium stupor when everything else had been a blur. Now, there were the rules again-his, as her employer, hers, given by the courts. Wakefield, for his part, had practically asked Osgood's permission when they had first met on this same ship. Miss Sand is an excellent bookkeeper was all Osgood had managed to say. An excellent bookkeeper! Osgood sighed. “I suppose, because he is English, the courtship of such a man as Mr. Wakefield would hold great appeal.”

  “To have a decent man express his dedication to me flatters any woman. But I hope you would not believe of me that I would ever pre-tend to be in love with an English citizen in order to free myself from a decree, and trade one prison for another. Do you think if I loved a man, I would allow paper constraints, words in some law book, to stop me, no matter the consequences?” In the passion of her speech, a curl of her raven hair had fallen from her bonnet and clung to her lip.

  “Perhaps I,” Osgood said, then paused as though he had lost track of his tongue. “I know after you lost Daniel I thought too much of shielding you.”

  Rebecca nodded her thanks for his honesty and held out her arm. “I'm famished, Mr. Osgood. Will you walk me inside?”

  She had not told him what their failure meant for her, that her life in Boston, and her time at the firm, would have to come to an end. Osgood, grateful for her reply, took her arm under his, and could feel his heart beating against the soft leather of her gloved hand, believing they had all the time in the world.

  Chapter 33

  INSURANCE INSPECTORS AND WORKMEN WERE MOVING IN AND out of what still remained of the main auditorium of the Surrey Theatre on Blackfriar's Road. What had been London's grandest theater had been reduced to a gloomy shadow of itself in a few short hours. The floor and walls were still smoldering. Tom Branagan entered and crossed through a labyrinthine series of charred and dirt-begrimed halls until he reached the carpenter's room.

  “This is where it started?” Tom asked.

  “Who's there?” answered a workman, before he saw Tom's blue coat and bright buttons of the police uniform. “Oh, another bobbie? That's how it seems, yes, gov'n'r. We've already had the inspectors around investigating whether it's the work of an incendiary.”

  “Did they tell you what they concluded?” Tom asked.

  “There's always hazards around the theater-sparks everywhere, fabrics that could ignite with a fiery look at them. The police didn't tell me nothing. Shouldn't you already know, gov'n'r?”

  “They don't tell me,” admitted Tom. “It's the constable's duty only to take out exposed property after a fire. To prevent robbery while the debris is cleared away.”

  The workman, realizing Tom's lack of authority, turned his back on him.

  Digging through the black piles of rubble and old props, Tom found a placard. On it, there was listed the upcoming season of plays.

  “The Mystery of Edwin Drood,” Tom said. “That is being done at this theater?”

  “Aye, was about to open. Not anymore, 'course. Not with the theater burned and Grunwald dead.”

  Tom shivered, remembering the name from Forster's complaints. “Grunwald?”

  “The actor. They found him trapped in the green room with his young assistant. The manager said he was practicing the new lines in front of the mirror every night this week. Well, good thing the fire was in the middle of the night instead of the middle of a performance, gov'n'r, or we'd all have been roasted alive like them.”

  “New lines? Right before it was to open?” Tom asked.

  “They had just changed the ending to suit Grunwald. Now who knows when anyone will get to see it! Grunwald-he threatened to quit if they didn't allow him, I mean Edwin Drood, to survive in the end. Finally, the manager agreed, and forced Mr. Stephens, the writer, to give them a new conclusion over the grousing of Mr. Forster. Oh, that Grunwald had been going about telling everyone he knew. Why, that was just a few days ago, though now it seems another life altogether.”

  Tom stared at the poster, then at the mass of ruins all around him.

  The workman, now that he had become more talkative, seemed reluctant to stop. “That Grunwald, he used to say nobody could understand his position who hasn't walked in the shoes of Edwin Drood, a man who only wanted to belong to a family. He said he was born for the role and would not permit Drood to die. He was a man obsessed, but then he was an actor. Rest his soul.”

  “Good God,” Tom said to himself.

  “What's that, gov'n'r?” the workman asked, cupping his ear.

  Tom dashed out of the carpenter's room past a row of tired firemen.

  Chapter 34

  AT QUEENSTOWN, IN IRELAND, WHERE THE LIVERPOOL-TO-BOSTON-line made port, Osgood was surprised to be brought a lengthy cable by one of the Samaria's stewards. It was addressed from a police station house in London.

  “It is from Tom Branagan,” Osgood said, showing it to Rebecca in the ship's library. “Arthur Grunwald was up to his neck in schemes. Look!”

  Rebecca read the cable. Tom explained what the theater workman had revealed about Grunwald changing the ending of the play. Moreover, after his visit to the scene of the fire, Tom proceeded to search Grunwald's lodgings, where he found a pile of drafts and revisions of the very letter to “my dearest friend” in Forster's possession about not finishing Drood.

  “You had said the day you went
to the Dickens auction that Mr. Grunwald was there,” Rebecca said.

  Osgood nodded. “It must have been Grunwald who left the letter in one of the boxes at the auction, so when it was found it would seem to have been overlooked in the crates and boxes of Dickens's belongings. He did not want any other ‘discoveries’ to distract from his own ending of Drood.”

  “If that letter you saw was forged… then what we believed before we left London could have been right,” Rebecca exclaimed. “Dickens still may have written the second half first, after all!”

  “Yes,” Osgood said excitedly.

  “Then Mr. Branagan was right, too. We should have stayed in London to continue our hunt!” Rebecca exclaimed. “We must wait here in Queenstown for the next ship passing through to Liverpool and return at once.”

  “Hold, Miss Sand. There may be something else.”

  Osgood put aside the cable and picked up the quill pen given to him by Forster. He turned it over in his hand, studying the soft feather and the sharp blue-stained nib. He poked his own fingertip with the sharp point.

  “Have you ever been to the Parker House, Miss Sand?”

  “I had delivered some papers to Mr. Dickens and Mr. Dolby during their stay,” Rebecca said.

  “Do you remember what ink was provided on the writing desks there?” Osgood asked.

  Rebecca thought about it. “I took some notes written by Mr. Dickens back to the firm. They were written in iron gall ink, if I recall it.”

  “Yes, iron gall, a black purple color,” Osgood said, nodding. “That is what they keep in all the Parker rooms for the guests. Dickens wrote his manuscripts in blue, as we saw of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. And the nib of this pen that he used for the book shows us, it is dried blue accordingly. Miss Hogarth told us that the Chief liked to use the same pen the entire way through the process of writing a novel.”