The Mystery of Charles Dickens

by John Paulits

  "John," said Mark Lemon, "you know Lord Allsgood, of course. Have you met Emile de la Rue? He's taken one of Lord Allsgood's properties, The Kensington."

  Forster moved toward the empty chair opposite de la Rue. He would not shake the man's hand if he could avoid it.

  "Yes, we've met." De la Rue smiled and offered his hand. "We have a friend in common. Mr. Dickens."

  "Of course," said Lemon.

  Forster stiffly grasped de la Rue's hand, pumped it once, and let it go. De la Rue's eyes wandered as Forster's bore into him.

  Lemon spoke. "I was just telling them of the party Charles is giving tonight. Charles, I know, would be pleased if Lord Allsgood would stop by at least for a drink. With Mr. de la Rue, of course."

  Forster steeled himself, wondering whether Lemon could have possibly have suggested anything Dickens would have wanted less.

  "To be sure," Forster responded gruffly. "I think though, Mark, it's best to keep this dinner a private affair. The circumstances and all."

  "Ah." De la Rue tilted his head back momentarily. "The young actress, yes. I understand."

  The "young actress" was Ellen Ternan, whom Dickens had met nearly thirteen years earlier in August of 1857 when he needed three professional actresses to replace family members and friends when one of his theatrical endeavors, The Frozen Deep, moved on to play a large theatre in Manchester. Ellen, her sister Maria, and her mother Frances were the chosen actresses. Ellen was 18 at the time, Dickens 45. This meeting with Ellen brought about a crisis in his increasingly tense marriage. Shortly after meeting Ellen, Dickens had workmen build a wall across his bedroom, adding a physical separation to the psychological and emotional barrier between him and his wife. Nine months later Dickens separated from Catherine and in an acrimonious proceeding fueled by rumors of philandering with Ellen and incest with his sister-in-law, who stayed behind to tend his house and care for the children, Dickens gave Catherine a 600-pound yearly income and never set eyes on her again. Ten months after this permanent separation he bought a home for the Ternan family at 2 Houghton Place, Ampthill Square in London. When Ellen reached twenty-one, Dickens signed the house over to her as agreed, and Ellen lived there for much the rest of her life. By the 1860's Dickens and she were an open secret.

  Forster glared at de la Rue. "She was an actress at one time," he said stiffly.

  De la Rue smirked and made a small nod of the head.

  An uneasy quiet settled on the table until Lord Allsgood cleared his throat and said, "Well, Emile, I believe we should let our friends enjoy their lunch."

  Everyone rose.

  "You will give Mr. Dickens my best," said de la Rue.

  De la Rue’s tone - mocking or simply his perpetual arrogance Forster could not determine - brought Forster's eyes to bear again. He responded with only a curt nod, and de la Rue and Lord Allsgood left the table.

  Though he did not show it, this chance meeting with Forster unsettled Emile de la Rue. He had detected an unfounded belligerence in Forster's manner. As de la Rue dined and chatted with Lord Allsgood, the table where Forster and Lemon sat repeatedly drew his eye. Three of those times he noticed Forster staring his way, his bulldog face intent and, to de la Rue's mind, hostile. Why?

  De la Rue finished his lunch and left the club. As he paced along Pall Mall, the image of Forster's glaring eyes stayed with him. What reason could Forster have for treating him so? Had he taken his remark about "the young actress” as an affront to Dickens? But, no, Forster had been cool to him from the moment their eyes met. He knew how close Forster and Dickens were. It was common knowledge.

  Had Dickens revealed to Forster what occurred in Genoa? If so, had he told all of his acquaintances or only Forster? De la Rue had noticed no alteration in how he had been treated by anyone other than Forster, though.

  De la Rue tightened his scarf about his neck and went home, unable to shake the feeling that Dickens might possibly bring him great trouble.

  Shortly after midnight, a ragged figure skulked along Upper Swandam Lane, north of the Thames on the east side of London Bridge. The figure, a man, passed close to the buildings, trying to blend into the darkest part of the vile and filthy neighborhood. The man heard a scream and paused to watch a man with a grizzled beard in a dark cap pull roughly at a woman he had sent sprawling to the ground. The skulking figure turned into a quiet alley and walked to its end. He came to a solid wooden door, lifted a knocker shaped like a maniacal looking imp, and banged it twice, hard.

  The door opened slightly and an old woman peered out.

  "I want pipes," came the voice of Emile de la Rue.

  The old woman opened the door wider and de la Rue smelled the aroma of opium. He inhaled and moved forward.

  From behind the woman a tall, well-muscled Lascar wearing a patch over his left eye appeared. He put his hand against de la Rue's chest.

  The old woman creaked, "Got money, luv? Ya needs money, shillin's and pounds, to come in here, dearie."

  "Yes, yes." De la Rue drew a pound note from his pocket.

  The Lascar lowered his hand and the old woman opened the door wider.

  De la Rue entered and saw four or five rooms through the smoke. In each room opium smokers reclined in all manner of positions on filthy cots.

  The old woman pointed to an empty cot in one of the rooms.

  "Ya gets more 'n one pipe for a pound, dearie. More 'n two even. Lie down'n I'll get chur first."

  De la Rue threw his coat toward the head of the cot and lay down. The old woman returned quickly with a pipe. De la Rue took it, savored its appearance for a moment, and began to smoke.

  He closed his eyes and before long he had left London behind in a cloud of opium smoke. He was back in Genoa with Augusta. They were young and so deeply in love he knew for a certainty their love would stretch into eternity. He and Augusta together forever. A strange face floated before him. The face of a young man. He concentrated until the face disappeared. Accompanied by a fearful scream, the face had disappeared once before. When it did, Augusta was his.

  His second pipe took him deeper and deeper into the past. Augusta had seen the ring. He had not known that fact for all the years of their marriage until Dickens had told him so. Augusta had never mentioned it. Ever. Not at the moment or any time afterward. Had she really seen it? How could she have? But he had dropped the ring and exactly where Dickens reported it. Yet, Augusta never gave the slightest indication she had seen the ring - unless, as Dickens claimed, her illness...damn the ring. Damn that man.

  Like a resplendent flower bursting open in glorious sunshine, Augusta's face appeared before him as elegant as when they had met. So beautiful. The face of a woman he had to possess. He would have done anything. Anything. The face of a young man floated before his eyes again. He concentrated on Augusta.

  His third pipe took him to a place of swirling images. The narrative of his dreams faded into chaos. Rome. Genoa. Augusta. His and Dickens’ last meeting in Genoa, an image he pushed aside. Rome. Genoa. Augusta. In love. In love. Augusta. In love.

  The pipe dropped from De la Rue’s hand as he fell unconscious.

  Chapter Fourteen

  When Emile de la Rue first saw Augusta, it seemed as if the rest of life stepped aside to make room for the great love he felt for her. She became his first thought upon awakening and a constant dreamy presence throughout the day. His last thoughts before sleep were of her and in sleep she filled his dreams. He had to have her. A necessary trip to Egypt - a tortured month away from her - merely honed his desire and determination to possess her. He vowed to go to any length to accomplish his goal. And he had.

  Fear of Charles Dickens began to spread through de la Rue's conscious hours seeming, ironically, to force the rest of his life to step aside as his fear needed room to expand. He could think of little else. The brief but foreboding conf
rontation with John Forster daunted him. He relived it repeatedly. Forster's eyes; his reluctant handshake; his sharp defense of Dickens' mistress; his belligerent glares while dining. What could it mean? Possibly nothing if Dickens had kept his secret, but possibly everything if Forster knew the secret. And if Forster knew, others might know. Soon, perhaps, everyone would know.

  His wife gone, his wealth assured, de la Rue wanted nothing more than to settle in England and live in society. Genoa had been so long ago that he gave no thought to Dickens when he accepted Lord Allsgood's invitation to lease The Kensington. He knew Allsgood needed the income and charged him an excessive rent, but he could depend on the Lord to be his entrée into the clubs and gatherings of the finest people. This had been his only consideration. The money was irrelevant.

  Now, everywhere he went he saw Dickens' face staring out at him from bookstore windows on placards announcing his readings. Daily, de la Rue made the journey back and forth between the offices of All The Year Round and 5 Hyde Park Place, trying to get a glimpse of the man. He had half a mind to confront Dickens. Dickens, though, did not seem the type to take kindly to a threat. De la Rue did not want to force Dickens into committing the very act he hoped to prevent.

  Dickens, however, could not be found. Unknown to de la Rue, Dickens had gone with Ellen Ternan to Peckham, a town not far from London, where he had rented her a house the day after her birthday dinner. He would not return until Monday, March 7, to prepare for the next night's reading.

  Finally, de la Rue decided to purchase one of the few tickets available for Dickens' penultimate reading. He had to get a look at the man. He had to decide whether Dickens loomed as a threat or not.

  Tuesday, March 8. Emile de la Rue settled into the next to last row in St. James Hall. He did not dress in the fine clothes of a gentleman for he knew he would be going to Upper Swandam Lane following the reading.

  A hush fell as Charles Dickens walked on stage into the gaslight. Suddenly, a spontaneous crack of applause filled the house. Dickens moved to his personally designed, three-tiered reading desk. Dickens nodded to the audience and after laying his gloves and formal hat on the desk, he picked up a book. Resting his elbow on the highest of the desk's three tiers, he opened the book and began to read selections from Oliver Twist.

  Dickens’ command over his audience amazed de la Rue. The room no longer seemed a collection of individuals but had become one attentive thing, pushed, pulled, driven, frightened, amused, and entertained by the man in the small circle of light.

  An hour into the reading Dickens took a ten-minute intermission. De la Rue watched as he closed his book, and moved off-stage. A man emerged from the wings, took Dickens' arm, and led him out of sight. Ten minutes later Dickens returned. This reading would be the murder of Nancy by Bill Sikes. Dickens seemed now to control the very respiration of his audience. There were passages where taking a breath, making a disturbance, however slight, would have been a sacrilegious impossibility. Nancy pleaded for her life. Sikes roared his vengeance and slashed and struck at the helpless woman. The murder, the woman's very blood, seemed visible on stage.

  When the passage ended, Dickens held onto his desk with both hands to steady himself. He nodded once in the direction of his audience and stepped away. Again a cannon shot of applause thundered in the hall; and again Dickens needed help. Two men, one quite young, appeared quickly from the wings and took Dickens by the elbows. The way Dickens staggered from the stage shocked de la Rue.

  The audience rose and shouted out Dickens' name, but he did not return. De la Rue rose to get a better look at the empty stage. He hoped Dickens would reappear because he could hardly believe his eyes. As those two men escorted Dickens away, he seemed to be an aged, decrepit shadow of the man de la Rue remembered from Genoa. There had been no hint of this when he had seen Dickens for those few minutes at the Athenaeum. He had aged, of course. The long, wavy brown hair had gone gray and thin. The smooth-skinned active face had been battered and creased by those twenty-five years. The eyes, though, had remained sharp and powerful. The man before him tonight, however, ended his performance wasted, weakened, and looked near death.

  De la Rue joined the throng heading for the street. He need have no fear of this man, he told himself. The man he saw needed to put every ounce of his strength into the battle to stay alive. But de la Rue wanted to be certain. He knew Dickens would read one last time the following week. Lord Allsgood had already mentioned that many of Dickens' friends in London would attend this final reading, Lord Allsgood among them. He would impose on the good Lord to include him in his party. He wanted another satisfying look at a weakened and failing Dickens.

  Content he had spent a profitable evening, Emile de la Rue turned his steps toward Upper Swandam Lane.

  Emile de la Rue, less concerned with Dickens after having seen him, continued on with his nightly rounds of dinners, clubs and theatres. On Tuesday, the fifteenth, after an early meal at Simpson's, he, Lord Allsgood, and many other of Dickens’ friends made their way to St. James Hall to see Dickens read in public for the final time.

  De la Rue was in high spirits. He had not needed to visit Upper Swandam Lane since giving in to the relief he had felt the previous Tuesday night. Hale and well rested, he followed Lord Allsgood to seats only a half-dozen rows from the stage, prepared to enjoy a closer look at an infirm Dickens.

  The theatre darkened and Dickens, resplendent as always, geranium in his buttonhole, appeared. The audience cried his name and rose as if hot coals had been slipped onto their chairs. Dickens nodded and looked over the audience. He lifted his hand to quiet them and began. "Marley was dead, to begin with."

  Laughter and tears accompanied the reading, and Dickens left the stage for his accustomed ten-minute interval amid a cascade of cheering. When he returned, he began to read the trial from Pickwick. De la Rue, as well as everyone else, was astonished at Dickens inability to pronounce the word "Pickwick." De la Rue swore it came out "Pickswick," "Picnic," and even "Peckswicks."

  Dickens either ignored or failed to notice his inability to handle those two syllables and reached the end of the selection. He closed his book and walked off into the waiting arms of his doctor, Frank Beard. The applause commenced and a moment later Dickens reappeared. He quieted the audience and spoke. "I close this episode of my life with feelings of considerable pain. For some fifteen years, in this hall and in many kindred places, I have had the honour of presenting my own cherished ideas before you for your recognition; and, in closely observing your reception of them, have enjoyed an amount of artistic delight and instruction which, perhaps, is given to few men to know." Dickens paused and cast his glance over the now gas-lit auditorium. Abruptly, De la Rue felt Dickens' cold stare on him. Their eyes locked, and Dickens head moved slightly upright. De la Rue stubbornly refused to look away. Of necessity, Dickens lifted his eyes and continued. "In but two short weeks from this time I hope that you may enter, in your own homes, on a new series of readings, at which my assistance will be indispensable..." Dickens reached out and grasped his reading desk with both hands. "...but from these garish lights I vanish now forevermore, with a heartfelt, grateful, respectful, and affectionate farewell."

  Dickens kissed his hand to the audience, bowed, and slowly walked off stage into the waiting arms of Frank Beard.

  As the theatre exploded with shouts and cheering around him, de la Rue felt a cold chill creeping over him. What had Dickens meant, he would be coming into people's homes? Then de la Rue remembered the placards he had seen lining bookstore windows. A new novel by Mr. Dickens loomed. Why had Dickens chosen the moment after their eyes linked to mention his book? What was in the book? Was Dickens telling him something?

  The security de la Rue wrapped himself in when he had seen Dickens’ condition now seemed tattered and threadbare. The eerie feeling of the world stepping back from him and dread and anxiety pouring in to fill the empty spac
e swept over him. Only with the greatest of discipline did he keep himself a member of Lord Allsgood's party and not skulk off to the opium dens of Upper Swandam Lane for relief.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thursday, March 31. For the fourth time in the past two weeks, Emile de la Rue awoke in the squalid atmosphere of languid debauchery. The moans of the reawakening roused him and for a moment he moaned himself. He knew where he was; he need not open his eyes. Joined to the grim chorus of moans came the sound of shuffling feet as some of the opium smokers decided they had had enough, the allure of a new day sufficient cause for them to reenter the world they had gone there to shun. The ingratiating voice of the Lascar crept into his ear.

  "Another pipe, mate?"

  De la Rue opened his eyes. The Lascar's face hovered no more than three inches from his own. He closed his eyes and moved his head left and right.

  "Time to go then."

  De la Rue drew a deep breath and struggled into a sitting position. Half of the cots were still occupied by men nursing their long opium pipes. The old woman who had let him into the den lay on a cot smoking. She noticed his glance and motioned to him to join her. She held her pipe up and smiled a near toothless smile.

  De la Rue rose and staggered to the door. The Lascar opened the door, put his hand on de la Rue's shoulder, and firmly guided him into the harsh morning light.

  A cold and misty day. De la Rue leaned against the wall near the alley's entrance, opening and closing his eyes to accustom them to the light. His empty stomach growled. He thought back to his mornings with Augusta and the way they would greet each other warmly, lovingly when her health permitted. When her illness left her weak and bedridden, he would take care of her. Now...