Read The Detective and Mr. Dickens Online
Authors: William J Palmer
Dickens and I watched the arrivals from a mezzanine window on the second storey of the Duke’s palace. There was the expected and the unexpected. Two days before the performance, Bulwar Lytton’s estranged wife, Rosina, had sent a quite mad letter to the Duke of Devonshire, denouncing her estranged husband, as well as Dickens, the actors, and even the Queen. In the letter, she threatened to steal into the performance, and thoroughly disrupt the proceedings. Precautions had been taken to intercept her, but she, evidently, chose to desist, and did not appear that night. However, to my great surprise, another did appear, whom I did not expect.
Dickens, in conspiracy with Mister Tally Ho Thompson, arranged it. As we looked down upon the lords and ladies entering, a hansom cab trotted up. A tall, remarkably handsome gentleman, hatless, in a black evening suit, with a rakish white silk scarf twirled around his neck, stepped down. One at a time, he handed down two of the most dazzlingly beautiful creatures to grace the proceedings of the evening. Dickens howled with laughter when he observed the consternation on my face.
It was, of course, Tally Ho Thompson escorting Scarlet Bess and my Meggy. All were dressed impeccably, both women in elegant dresses, their hair coiffed in the latest London style. The crowd stirred and stretched their necks to view their entrance into the mansion. What speculations must have murmured through the crowd?
“Ladies-in-waiting to the Queen, surely!”
“The son and daughters of the Duke of Devonshire?”
“Irish nobility!”
“I planned it all,” Dickens confessed, through his bursts of laughter. “They deserved some reward for all they did. Despite their past lives, they are potentially good people. Thompson is intent upon becoming an actor. Bess loves the rogue blindly. And Meggy…well.” He raised a comical eyebrow in my direction. “I thought you might enjoy seeing her again.”
I could not help but laugh along with him.
“Do you know what Meggy said when I suggested this little frolic?” Dickens asked, awash with mirth. “’Ah, a night among the swells, is it? I ’ope not too many of ’em recognizes me.’”
From the very moment that Meggy had stepped down from that coach, beautiful in her elegant silk dress, her hair a cascade of Irish curls upon her white shoulders, my pulse had quickened, my heart tightened in anticipation. I knew that I would see her after the performance. I knew that I should become her escort for the remainder of this evening, perhaps for many to come.
After Thompson, with his two stunning bookends, passed into the house, my eyes continued to scan the crowd. There was no need to hurry. The actors’ first call had not yet sounded. Dickens was summoned away to settle some last-minute production matter. I was left standing in that upper window, watching all the superficial magnificence of London society parade before me. My eyes moved back and forth from the lords and ladies stepping down, to the pointing, jostling, gossiping crowd, and came to rest on a most familiar figure. Inspector Field stood planted in the street, between the fragile barriers and the arriving coaches, like some guardian of the moat between the aristocracy and the lower classes.
One last ugly scene remained to be enacted before the play could begin. A familiar black coach pulled up, driven by a too-familiar hulking giant of a coachman. The door opened, and Lord Ashbee struggled out. He was supporting himself on crutches. He handed down a young girl, who could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen years of age, yet who was dressed and rouged like the most experienced harridan. He was openly flaunting his perverse gentleman’s tastes, and not a soul seemed to mind. The Grub Street rumours, concerning the nature and origin of Lord Ashbee’s injuries, had been sweeping London for the previous four days. The gossips speculated that his injuries had been sustained in a duel, which had been discovered and aborted by the Protectives, under the command of an Inspector Field of Bow Street. Ashbee’s antagonist in the duel was rumoured to be a wealthy and decadent lord, who had recently been in trouble with the police, who were observing his movements when they interrupted this affair, and who was also sporting visible injuries.
Afterwards, I learned from second-hand reports, that when Lord Ashbee entered the Duke’s music room with his child companion on his arm, he actually had the effrontery to bow to the Queen, before taking his seat. The Queen, I was told, acknowledged his bow with an icy stare, looking right through him as if he did not exist. It does not seem at all right or proper that he should even be admitted into such company, does it? He is the evil nobleman incarnate, unequaled by Dickens’s Sir Mulberry Hawk, by Thackeray’s Lord Steyne, or by any creation of any of our modern writers, yet he enters perfectly undaunted. Thank heaven that the Queen saw fit to cut him.
Backstage, Dickens called us all to our marks more than ten minutes before the curtain was scheduled to rise. We could hear the audience being seated in the music room. Dickens, the ultimate stage manager, moved from one of his actors to the next, offering each a final word of advice, or encouragement, or a final stage direction. “Wouldn’t it be nice,” he once, years later, mused aloud on the occasion of another such amateur performance, “if the lives of real people could be blocked and directed in the way that actors can.” He stopped a moment to think. “But actors never cooperate when you try to direct them,” he laughed, “no more than real people do.”
That night, backstage, waiting for the curtain to go up on
Not So Bad As We Seem
, I, for one, was not inclined to cooperate as directed. As soon as Dickens left us onstage to finish his own last preparations, I stole to one of the peepholes in the curtain, in hopes of catching a glimpse of Meggy in the audience. I could not, immediately, find Meggy’s glowing face, but, just to the left of stage center, my eyes made what seemed direct contact with those of Lord Henry Ashbee. I knew that I was secreted behind the curtain, yet I felt his demonic eyes boring into my soul, taunting me with the charge, that in my attraction to Irish Meg I was no less a whoremonger than he.
I found Meggy. She and Thompson and Scarlet Bess were enjoying themselves immensely. Sitting in the midst of lords and ladies of the Court, and noble patrons of the arts, they were smiling and pointing and winking knowingly, as was everyone else in the audience. I noticed that Meg and Bess were drawing more than their portion of admiring stares and gallant glances from the gentlemen perusing their section of the audience. More than one elegant nobleman turned to his seat companion to remark enviously upon the extraordinary luck of the young gentleman, just there, who was accompanied by two such striking ladies. More than one time afterward, sitting in a public house with Thompson and Bess, Meg and I would laugh at the utter incongruity of that scene. “If they’d only known we was ’ores,” Meg once said, “they’d o’ stopped winkin’, an’ started turnin’ up their noses.” But that evening, Meg and Bess were two of the most exciting women in London society. Everyone was speculating on who they were, and how big their fortunes might be. In a sense, Meg and Bess were Dickens’s private joke on his whole audience.
The Duke of Devonshire’s private orchestra struck up the overture, the gaslamps were lowered, the scented oil footlights suddenly blazed up, and the curtain rose. Dickens, playing Sir Henry Wilmot, stood at center stage. I, playing Sir Henry’s valet, bustled around administering to him for the whole first act. Bulwar’s play went splendidly. The night was, indeed, a triumph for Dickens. He was witty and lively onstage, something he had not been in any of our rehearsals. The Queen enthusiastically led the audience in a standing ovation for, in this order of command appearance, the playwright, the actors, the stage manager, and the host, the beaming Duke himself, who was lured upon stage to take his bow hand in hand with the actors.
Inspector Field came backstage after the performance. Dickens rushed to him with hand outstretched. I joined them, away from the others, who were opening bottles of champagne sent back by the Queen.
“Did you see him out there?” Dickens was asking Field as I came up.
“Aye, I did.” Field’s smile of congratulation turned instantly to a dour admission of undeserved defeat.
“His evil goes unnoticed,” Dickens said, his passion ringing clear, even though his voice was low and controlled, “while the poor and the lost are hounded and hung, for trying to keep themselves alive.”
“We shall not get ’im at the Assizes. ’Ee ’as ’ired a quite powerful Solicitor, Jaggers of the Old Temple. We shall ’ave no chance without the Ternan girl’s evidence.” Field shrugged. “So it goes.”
“Ah, but we have gotten him, nonetheless.” Dickens leaned in to whisper to Inspector Field. “He is the scandal of both Fleet and Grub streets. The scribblers cannot get enough of our randy Lord Ashbee. His servants are being bribed for morsels of gossip. Information is leaking to the press in the most mysterious ways.” At that Dickens nudged Field in an attempt to cheer him up.
“They write about a mysterious dark lady, who holds the key to the Ashbee affair,” I said, adding my tuppence to the conversation.
Field grinned at Dickens, as if enjoying some private joke. “For some strange reason, ’er name ’as never come out,” he said, as he tipped me a sly wink. “She must ’ave very powerful friends.”
Inspector Field had lost his man, but, in Dickens and myself, he had gained two constant friends, two lieutenants in his detectiving, for life.
“I must get back to supervise my constables. We must not let the crowd get too close to the Queen,” Field made an abortive move toward the library door, which opened out upon the Duke’s formal gardens.
“The Queen is expected back here. It shall be the better part of an hour before she will depart,” Dickens assured him.
“Ah, but I must go nonetheless,” Field replied, his forefinger wandering up to scratch at the side of his eye. “I’ve got me eyes on two swell mobsmen spotted in the crowd tonight. They are a catch I cannot pass up.”
Dickens and Inspector Field shook hands. They held their grip for a long moment, their eyes meeting in a declaration of loyalty and friendship.
“That does it then,” Field broke their unspoken bond. “The case is closed.”
“We have an agreement,” Dickens said, speaking directly and sincerely. “The time shall come when we shall work together again.”
“Perhaps sooner than you think,” Field said, tapping Dickens playfully on the shoulder with his audacious forefinger.
“I shall see you soon,” Dickens continued, as if not wishing the conversation to end, not wanting to let this particular adventure go. “It shall not be many nights ’ere I shall need a walk in the neighbourhood of Bow Street.”
“Good. I shall expect you.” With that, they shook hands again.
Even as the man was moving out of the door, Dickens, almost nervously, continued to babble on: “As they say in America, I shall see you if I don’t kick the bucket.”
Inspector Field stopped in mid-exit, flashed his sharp ironic grin from beneath his sharp square hat as his sharp forefinger scratched the side of his exceedingly sharp eye, and laughed, “Bucket indeed! ’Tis the bucket that kicks us, my good friend, not us the bucket.” With that, he was gone.
*
*
Wilkie Collins’s journal comes to an abrupt end at this point at the bottom of the final page of the leather-bound commonplace book in which he was writing. Collins makes no indication that the narrative is complete; nor is there any indication that it isn’t. Perhaps other commonplace books existed which carried further the story of the collaboration between Charles Dickens and Inspector William Field of the Metropolitan Protectives. This particular journal, needless to say, exhausted itself at a rather felicitous point. It does, however, leave the fates of Irish Meg Sheehey, Tally Ho Thompson, Scarlet Bess, and Collins himself, not to mention poor Ellen Ternan, somewhat unresolved.
More from William J. Palmer
The Highwayman and Mr. Dickens
An eerie Dickensian romp with the canonical author investigating a crime that will take him into the cells of Newgate Prison and places even darker and more terrifying.
The ghastly double murder of a society doctor's beautiful wife and her maid reunites celebrated novelist Charles Dickens, his protege Wilkie Collins, and formidable Inspector Field of the Metropolitan Protectives in another brilliant quest for justice. They manage to defend old friend and ex-burglar Tally Ho Thompson, who's arrested at the scene, but then the case takes the men from the pestilential cells of Newgate to the city's steamiest dives. Gamblers, thieves, swells, whores, and Collins's fiery lover, Irish Meg, all join the chase of a killer who is the stuff of nightmares.
A dizzying Dickensian romp with the canonical author risks ruining his reputation—and losing his life—all for love and justice.
Someone is threatening Angela Burdett-Coutts, the banker, feminist, and philanthropist, one of the richest, most powerful women in England. Soon after she alerts her friend Charles Dickens to the threats, the Coutts Bank is robbed, and a member of the Women's Emancipation Society is found strangled inside. The murder brings the burgeoning feminist movement under scrutiny. Inspector William Field of the Metropolitan Protectives begins his investigation, aided by the eager amateur detective Dickens and his apprentice Wilkie Collins. Yet Dickens's own reputation and career are threatened by his love for the striking young actress Ellen Ternan. Ellen is a liberated "hoyden" herself, and a prime suspect in the murder. In order to prove Ellen’s innocence, the two novelists may have to expose their own secrets.