“She is safe for the moment,” Field whispered.
“We must do something!” Dickens begged.
Field raised his forefinger in a silent gesture of patience.
Dickens visibly sank backwards, defeated.
Lord Ashbee was up, moving around the table, clearing off the plate to a sideboard. He lifted away the carcass of a large bird picked clean. He circled the table, proffering cigars from a wooden box, then uncorking and pouring from a flagon of Madeira. The sumptuous dinner party had clearly reached its conclusion, and the rakes seemed merrily arming themselves for the dessert. They pushed back from the table, lit their cigars, rose from their chairs, carrying their crystal goblets filled with dark, blood-red wine.
I watched Dickens’s face. His eyes never left the girl. She was all he cared about in that room. He crouched, tense, like some predator waiting to spring. The others—Field, Thompson-watched the movements of the men in the room below, with the intensity and anticipation of men who knew that they were about to act. For the first time that evening, Thompson was not grinning. His mouth was drawn tight in a look of readiness as if he were waiting to do what he had known all along he was going to do. Dickens’s eyes remained locked on the girl chained to the wall. Everyone seemed ready except me. Everyone seemed eager save for me. Only I had not yet formulated our obvious plan of action.
Miss Ternan was dressed in what looked to be nothing less than randomly torn scraps of a red silken fabric. She was barely less than half-naked. The strips of cloth were wrapped around the upper portions of her body and gathered about her waist and hips, giving the effect of a scanty harem outfit, a slave girl’s tunic. Her well-formed legs were fully exposed from the tops of her thighs to her manacled ankles. She wore nothing on her feet. Saint George shall have to carry his maiden to safety, I, always the practical one, speculated.
Lord Ashbee ushered his guests to their seats in his theatre. The gentlemen, smoke rising from their cigars, moved beneath the skylight like fish swimming elegantly behind glass. Ashbee seated them in a semi-circle. He left the rakes admiring their captive, and moved to a side table to deposit his wine glass, and dress himself for his role in the performance.
He returned to center stage wearing a soft Australian or American hat with a wide ungovernable brim, and carrying a short riding whip.
Dickens started forward.
Field restrained him with a hand outstretched across Charles’s chest.
“He is going to whip her!” Dickens hissed between clenched teeth.
“Wait, she is unharmed as yet. They must commit some crime for which they can be brought before the court.” Field was calm, cold actually.
Ashbee turned to his audience seated about his impromptu stage. But it was no longer a stage; it was the auction block, the slave market in New Orleans. Ashbee extended his whip toward the cringing girl chained to the wall, moved it like a pedant’s pointer from her head down along the contours of her body to just below her waist.
“What am I bid for this ripe slave girl, gentlemen?” his lips moved but we imagined the words. We constructed the play’s dialogue in our minds.
The riding crop, like a serpent, slithered underneath her chin, raised her downcast eyes, her vacant face, up to confront the bidders.
The whip moved along her chin, along the white line of her cheek to the gentle incline of her neck, then down to the white slope of her shoulders. Ashbee handled this whip too lovingly for it to be simply a prop. It was an extension of himself which he had used frequently and well.
“What am I bid for this virgin slave?” Thus, we imagined his exhortation to the rich plantation owners. “Who will bid to take her first?” he cajoled, in our imaginations.
With a quick flick of his whip, Ashbee stripped the cloth from her breasts.
Dickens leapt to his feet. He could stand this exercise in humiliation—hers, his—no longer. “We must stop this now!” He clasped Inspector Field by the lapels of his greatcoat, and drew him to his feet over the skylight.
“Control yourself man!” Field barked in a whisper. “She is chained. We must wait until Ashbee unchains ’er. Can’t you see? Chained like that, if there is violence, she could be killed. Can’t you see what we are goin’ to ’ave to do, ’ow this scene is goin’ to play? Control yourself. We must wait until she is freed. No ’arm will come to ’er. I promise.”
Once again, Dickens had been subdued.
Lovingly, Ashbee ran the tip of his riding whip over and around Miss Ternan’s exposed breasts. He stimulated her brown aureola with the whip, while he cajoled the other rakes to bid upon the slave.
We watched as the rakes bid heatedly against one another for the opportunity to be the first to possess the chained girl.
The victim surely had been drugged. She reacted not at all. She hung silently from her bonds, unaware of the liberties being taken with her person, and the six sets of eyes feeding upon her naked breasts.
First one rake, Lord Bowes, raised his hand toward the stage, then another waved his cigar. Ashbee pointed at each in turn with his whip. Then another waved a hand, and shouted. Bowes sipped at his dark red wine, and pointed malevolently at the girl with the forefinger of the hand in which he cradled his glass. Another cast forth a bid. The cigar waved again. Bowes pointed once more. All the rakes, gathered in their circle, laughed at some comment upon the proceedings. We realized that they were bidding for the privilege of having her first, that they all expected a chance with her before the evening was out.
Only two bidders remained, the arrogant Lord Bowes, and the large, mustachioed gentleman who made bids with his cigar. We learned later that he was Denys Walder, the African explorer, and first cousin to Lord Buckingham of the Queen’s Privy Chamber. Milord Ashbee called these two surviving bidders to the stage. They approached the chained girl. He stopped them with the whip.
Milord Ashbee’s lascivious whip returned to her body. It moved slowly across her white flesh, to the remaining folds of red fabric hanging from her waist. The whip moved beneath that fabric, slowly descending beneath the gathered rag of cloth down between the captive’s legs.
I looked at Dickens. He still stood alone, above and behind us. He stared down over our shoulders at the scene, his face twisted violently with hatred, anger, pain and desire. My eyes jolted back to the captive girl. As the whip explored her body, as the rakes stood as if ready to pounce, life seemed to be returning to her drugged countenance. A start, a widening of her eyes, a stricter control of her head, asserted itself, as she looked desperately from side to side for some path of escape.
Ashbee’s whip, suddenly, pulled all of the remaining fabric from Miss Ternan’s body. She could not cover herself. She stood naked before the two rakes, who had come forward to claim their prize. Had they purchased her together? Would the two of them possess her at the same time? These perverse thoughts coursed through my mind as the two rakes approached the slave.
Lord Ashbee stepped between his two triumphant bidders and their chained property. “Allow me, gentlemen,” he must have been saying, though we could not hear. He drew a key from his jacket. He unlocked first her arms, then her ankles. By one wrist, he led her to the eager buyers.
“Thompson, go!” Inspector Field startled all of us. The only one not startled was Tally Ho Thompson, who was moving upon his pre-determined course before the sound of Field’s order had died.
I watched in awe, as Field and Thompson moved in what appeared to be perfect synchronization. Inspector Field swung his truncheon, and, in one sharp downward blow, shattered the glass of the near half of the skylight.
Tally Ho Thompson, without the slightest hesitation, swung into action. Placing both hands on the side of the skylight, he launched himself over its edge, hung for a short moment in midair, then dropped straight down onto the large dining table. He landed with a crash, amongst the odds and ends of soiled plate and forgotten cutlery, but the table held, and he quickly regained his feet.
To my gre
at surprise, without the slightest hesitation, and before Field could put up his truncheon and follow his man, Dickens launched himself down through the broken portal, in precisely the acrobatic manner by which Thompson had descended. Dickens landed upon the dining table as well, but without displaying the agility and balance of Thompson. Indeed, the alert Thompson clasped Dickens as he landed, steadying him.
Inspector Field, always in control, descended more carefully. Taking two firm handholds on the edge of the skylight, he eased himself into a hanging position in the aperture, waited a long moment until his balance was certain, then dropped, almost softly, to the table.
The members of the Dionysian Circle, in their plush chairs, holding their cigars and crystal goblets of wine, were visibly startled. They turned sharply to the sound with mouths agape, but they did not immediately react, other than to stare in disbelief, as these intruders dropped through the roof, and into their midst. Perhaps they thought it was all part of Ashbee’s show.
And there stood I, alone on the rooftop, gaping down at those three madmen who in turn raised their eyes expectantly to me. I confess that I froze. I looked down upon them, and it all seemed too absurd. There they stood, looking up, in the middle of a Lord of the Realm’s dining table, about to do battle with a company of rakes, who outnumbered them seven to three. My head was frantically sending all the right messages, but my body seemed incapable of obeying. It was as if I was nailed to that spot, forced forever to be but a spectator at life. It was that last horrible thought which restored my powers of motion.
Even as I slowly began to move, I could see Thompson, Field and Dickens also beginning to move. As if in synchronization, they jumped down off the table, and flung themselves toward the phalanx of noble rakes, who had formed themselves around the naked girl. The Ternan woman had sunk to the floor, as if in a faint, and the last thing I glimpsed, as I hung in the air before closing my eyes for the drop, was Milord Ashbee stooping to that nude figure, pulling at her wrist.
I landed on the stout oak table with a resounding thud, which buckled my knees, and flung my face forward with my arms outstretched, clawing to break the momentum of the fall. In half a moment, I ascertained that no bones nor vital organs had been broken or ruptured in the drop. When I lifted my head, my three comrades were already engaged with the enemy.
The gentlemen rakes had, whether by design or chance, formed a ragged line. Somewhere between the table and the floor, Tally Ho Thompson had acquired a gentleman’s walking stick, swinging which, he charged. Field and Dickens, unarmed as far as I could tell, followed directly upon Thompson’s lead.
Scrambling down off the table top, a small silver candelabra somehow came to my hand. Swinging it like that fabled biblical jawbone of the ass, I moved in the wake of my detective comrades. In truth, this was not much of an engagement. Only two of the rakes showed any stomach for the fight. The others fled, yet their stumbling around proved an obstacle, preventing access to the girl, whom Ashbee was dragging toward the doors to the main house.
Thompson was engaged with Lord Bowes. The nobleman and the highwayman were duelling with wooden walking sticks, making passes at one another across the floor of Ashbee’s temporary stage.
“’Alt!” Field shouted as an order to Ashbee. The temporary distraction of shouting at the fleeing villain allowed Field’s closest antagonist, the bulky mustachioed man, to land a blow with his fist to the side of Field’s face, which knocked that worthy sideways across the stage.
“’Alt!” Field shouted once more.
Dickens fought his way through the confusion of startled rakes with only one object, that of liberating Ellen Ternan from Ashbee.
“’Alt!” came Field’s third command.
“Ashbee, stop!” Dickens shouted.
At that moment, the air was rent by an ear-shattering report. It was a pistol shot. Its source smoked in Milord Ashbee’s hand, as he stood on the threshold of the double doors to the main house. The girl was standing, dazed, at Ashbee’s side.
To my horror, Dickens lay prone upon the floor.
Down into the Maze
May 11, 1851—Night
All was utter confusion. Tally Ho Thompson and Lord Bowes were whacking and flailing their walking sticks, with the abandon of children at Sherwood Forest make-believe. With a sudden move, Thompson sank to his knees. Lord Bowes relaxed for the briefest of moments, gathering strength, perhaps, to move in for the kill. At that very instant, the wily Thompson lunged back into action, cutting the legs out from under Lord Bowes, with a savage swipe to the backs of his adversary’s knees. Bowes went unceremoniously sprawling. With that quicksilver agility, which in the years since has never ceased to amaze me, Thompson, in an instant, was on his feet, and standing over the toppled Lord Bowes. Snapping his wrist wickedly, Thompson cut sharply downward with his walking stick, landing a stinging blow to an exceedingly delicate and vulnerable area, just below Lord Bowes’s waist. That gentleman, with a cry of extreme anguish, gathered himself into a protective coil, drawing up his knees, and burying his head between them.
To my left, Inspector Field was similarly engaged. He had managed to wrestle the bulky mustachioed man to the floor, and was sitting atop that walrus, pursuant to beating a swift tattoo about the man’s head and shoulders. It looked as if, within short moments, that worthy would be as thoroughly subdued as was the downed Lord Bowes.
From all indications, the other four members of the Dionysian Circle had either fled, or were frantically in the process of doing so, as I made my way swinging my field-commissioned candelabra.
All of these skirmishes were sparking around me, yet (though I must have been aware of them, for, after all, I am describing them in some detail now) all I could focus upon was the body of Charles lying still upon the floor, and, in the background, the figure of Ashbee, the pistol smoking in his hand, dragging Miss Ternan by the wrist through the double doors into the house.
The large mustachioed man had somehow disengaged from Inspector Field. Without hesitation, I hit him on the head with my silver candelabra. He crumpled at Field’s feet, and I felt as if I had smitten a Philistine.
When I reached Dickens’s side, I sank to one knee, and, to my great relief, saw that he was stirring. His breath came in quick little gasps. I searched frantically for a bullet wound, for blood. I found nothing. I ran my hands over his face and forehead, searching for a bruise—nothing. Later, all that Inspector Field could speculate was that the bullet in Ashbee’s gun had somehow misfired, or come apart upon firing. He conjectured that the lead ball in the tip of the projectile had either disintegrated on firing, or had separated immediately upon exiting the barrel, thus deflecting downward from its intended course. Dickens, however, was felled by something—if not the bullet, then what? Field further conjectured that Dickens was struck in the neck (a small bruise was later found there) by the wadding of the defective shell, which upon impact expelled the air from his throat and lungs, and temporarily incapacitated him.
I knelt to revive him, but his eyes were already alert and frantic. His mind, I could see in his eyes, was racing, but his body was, quite simply, temporarily unable to obey its commands.
“After them, Wilkie.” His lips scraped out the words. “You must not let him take her. I shall follow, as soon as I can right myself.”
In the confusion, Ashbee and the naked girl were gone. I left Dickens lying on the floor, jettisoned my candelabra, and ran in pursuit of that villain. I reached the doors, through which they had disappeared, in time to hear scuttling noises at the far end of a dim corridor. I dashed down that passage. One door stood open at the end. I rushed to it, entered a room as dark as pitch. I stood perfectly still, just inside the threshold, listening. All was still as death.
I groped along the walls searching for I know not what, a gas jet, perhaps. As I blundered around in the dark, suddenly the room was flooded with light. It was Serjeant Rogers and his ever-ready bull’s-eye. He, upon hearing the gunshot, had abandoned his p
ost outside the house, and rushed into the fray, entering through the front door. (There was no way the idiot could have known, but his precipitate action would prove the key to Ashbee’s escape; however, one must be fair, police surveillance was quite a new concept in eighteen fifty-one.)
“It’s you!” Rogers confronted me with acute disappointment.
“Yes,” I answered, as if we were two long lost brothers meeting by remarkable chance in some far outpost of the Empire.
In a moment, Inspector Field and an unsteady Dickens joined Rogers and myself. Looking round, I immediately realized why the room had been so preternaturally dark. The trail had ended in the library, where the walls, lined with books, digested all natural light. I looked at Dickens, he at me. It was uncanny how our minds seemed to be taking the same deductive steps. I remembered the secret library in Ashbee’s Notting Hill house. A secret passage, I thought, that is how they have escaped.
“There is a secret passageway here somewhere,” Dickens was trying to shout, but what came out was merely a cracking whisper.
Field scanned the room. “We ’aven’t time to search it out,” he barked, turning to Rogers. “We must seal off this neighbourhood.”
Rogers set off at a dead run for the front door.
“We must overtake them in the streets.” Dickens, still somewhat dazed, picked up the cue from Inspector Field. “I know these streets.”
We emerged onto the front porch of the house, to find the night enveloped in a thick fog. It had also begun to rain, in a cold and steady drizzle. We stood on that cramped porch, staring out at the empty street, seeing little but the shine of the rain on the cobblestones, and the thick encroaching mist.
Suddenly, at the end of the garden well down to our left, a bright white light, a powerful lantern of some sort, blazed up and swung sharply back and forth, once, twice.
The Detective and Mr. Dickens Page 27
