by John Paulits
He pulled out the cheap pocket watch he had bought to replace the one stolen during a visit to the opium den. The missing watch had been a very expensive one. Now he knew better. Apparently, so did the thieves lurking in the den. The booksellers would open in an hour at nine.
De la Rue made his way back to The Kensington and entered through a side passage. He cleaned himself up, dressed, and breakfasted. In a swirl of dread, he set off for Blandings, the nearest bookseller. Today, the first number of Dickens' new novel went on sale.
Blandings' window displayed the slim, green-covered magazines along with a large photo of Charles Dickens. De la Rue entered, paid his shilling for a copy of The Mystery of Edwin Drood, Part One. He rolled it up and put it into his pocket. He could not bring himself to look.
He had seen Dickens four times since his final reading. He knew Dickens would be in town until the end of May when his lease on 5 Hyde Park Place expired. Dickens visited his Wellington Street offices every Thursday and sometimes oftener. He frequently disappeared for days at a time when de la Rue imagined him to be with his actress mistress. De la Rue caught glimpses of Dickens on his trips back and forth between Hyde Park Place and Wellington Street. He knew it was folly to lurk about hoping to get a quick look at Dickens, but he could not help himself. Dickens and Forster had been together at the Athenaeum on Wednesday of last week, and both men had studiously avoided both him and Lord Allsgood. Again he had been conscious of Forster's cold stare, but he had not caught Dickens looking his way even once. Neither Dickens nor Forster made the slightest attempt at cordiality. He would have much preferred a direct challenge from Dickens to this sly, subtle, subterranean, psychological method of attack, if only so he could know for certain he was under attack.
De la Rue turned back toward The Kensington and his sitting room. Seated next to a window, he opened The Mystery of Edwin Drood. He ignored the advertisements for self-raising flour and miracle medicines and began to read.
"An ancient English Cathedral Tower?" it began, as John Jasper awoke from his opium dreams. An hour later de la Rue tossed the magazine to the floor and clutched at his stomach where an ache of tension had formed at the very first page of his reading. Opium smoking. An accusation from Dickens? He knew he had never mentioned his habit to Dickens. Had Augusta? Did Dickens know where he spent so many of his nights? No, he could not. Jasper's opium habit could only be a coincidence.
In his story Dickens obviously used details of his time with him and Augusta in Genoa. The portrait of Augusta the Dowd boy commissioned; the gloves he’d showered Augusta with. Those incidents were in the book. Had he mentioned them to Dickens? Maybe he did. He certainly could not remember everything he had told Dickens over the course of their relationship. His Egypt trip was common knowledge, and in the story Dickens has the girl, Rosa Bud, mention Drood’s plans to start his career in Egypt. Both the Dowd boy and Drood engineers? More coincidence? And what should he make of the festering love triangle of Jasper secretly infatuated with Rosa Bud, already engaged to Jasper’s nephew, Edwin Drood. Why did Rosa Bud specifically use the word phantoms when another word would have done just as well?
De la Rue scoured his memory, trying to recall what he had told Dickens about himself and Augusta those long years ago, but the memories were faded and cloudy. No matter where Dickens had gotten his information, he seemed to have no problem remembering it all, and now he was using it. But to what purpose? Simply to fuel his new story? Certainly for no other reason. Dickens could use as many details as he liked. What would it matter? No one would know where those details came from. De la Rue thought of Forster. How much had Dickens told his friend about Genoa? And why had Dickens stared so pointedly at him when announcing his new story as he closed his final reading? How far would Dickens go to fulfill his threat of twenty-five years ago to reveal him to the world as a murderer?
De la Rue balled his hands into fists of frustration. What the devil was Dickens up to? Where would it end? He looked at the magazine now resting upside down on the floor. Dickens had used a few details from their encounter of twenty-five years ago. So what? Nothing in the story so far would bring Emile de la Rue to anyone's mind. Nothing at all.
De la Rue moved to his bedroom, leaving the slim, green volume where it lay. He planned to meet Lord Allsgood at six for a visit to the theatre, and he needed to rest. Let Dickens tell his new story. The way Dickens had looked on stage, he would have a difficult time telling a story that would go on for very long anyway.
De la Rue kept a close eye on Dickens. He read in the newspaper about the speech Dickens gave to newsvendors on Tuesday, April 5. Lord Allsgood asked whether he wanted to accompany him to a party Dickens planned to host at Hyde Park Place on Thursday, two days later. De la Rue made his excuses. Better to let sleeping dogs lie, he thought. The following day at the Athenaeum Lord Allsgood reported to him about the party, but imparted only idle and vapid details of the gathering.
De la Rue's heart grew light, and his guilty imaginings melting into memories. When he returned home that evening, though, a plainly wrapped parcel awaited him. He opened it and inside found a copy of the first number of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. De la Rue's stomach plummeted, and his heart began to pound. He rummaged over the wrapper and flipped through the pages of the magazine, but he could find no indication of who had sent it. Dickens?
Again he felt the eerie sense of the world backing away from him as dread gushed over and around him. Who else could possibly have sent the magazine? Dickens. Only Dickens. De la Rue knew others in his circle had read the story. Their brief comments acknowledged Dickens to be at the height of his power. Had they bought their copies? Did Dickens have a list - a courtesy list - of people who received copies at their home? De la Rue shook his head. If Dickens had such a list, he would certainly not be on it. Was it Dickens' way of warning him he had better keep an eye on the story? Now he would have to suffer through until the final day of April when the second number would be issued. What would it contain?
De la Rue poured himself a brandy and then another, and spent an hour lost in thought. At last, tossing his clothes onto a chair, he went to bed.
Saturday, April 30. Emile de la Rue paced the street in the early morning as he waited for Blandings to open. When it did, de la Rue went inside, browsed a few moments, and then purchased the second number of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. He hurried back to The Kensington.
As he read he recognized obvious echoes of Genoa coming down to him through the years. Dickens has Rosa say of Jasper, "He terrifies me. He haunts my thoughts, like a dreadful ghost. I am never safe from him." De la Rue paused and reread the passage. Moments later Rosa says, "He has forced me to understand him, without his saying a word; and he has forced me to keep silence, without his uttering a threat." An argument erupts between Drood and Neville Landless, a third admirer of Rosa, and Dickens has Landless berate Drood by saying, "Your vanity is intolerable, your conceit is beyond endurance; you talk as if you were some rare and precious prize." Dickens' very words to him! Claws of fear racked de la Rue's stomach.
And Rosa - betrothed to one man and being slyly, underhandedly courted by another, wondering whether to marry at all. Dickens recorded it all, but to what purpose? The question pounded within de la Rue's brain. To what purpose? Dickens would never fulfill his threat by merely coming out and naming him in his story, but if Dickens' intended simply to harass and torment him, he was succeeding. De la Rue knew he could endure and survive Dickens’ persecution, though, and that was all he wanted to do. Endure and survive. It would have to see him through.
A week later, the story's second installment arrived anonymously at The Kensington. De la Rue tossed it unopened into the trash and girded himself to await the appearance of the third number of the novel.
Dickens made no public appearances in May. The gossip at the clubs indicated that Dickens health was an issue. He had canceled his attendance a
t the Queen's ball due to a swollen and painful foot, forcing his daughter to go alone. Dickens still disappeared occasionally to be with his mistress, yet de la Rue knew the writing of his novel went on.
De la Rue was away at Lord Allsgood's country estate at the end of the month, and so could not pick up the June number of Drood until late Friday, June 3, when he returned to London. After dinner alone and with a brandy at his elbow, he read it in his sitting room at The Kensington.
Two o'clock in the morning found Emile de la Rue still slumped in his chair, the third number of The Mystery of Edwin Drood on the floor next to him. He had not moved since he finished reading. Hours of asking himself the same question - what did Dickens mean by his story - a story of misplaced love, both Neville's and Jasper's for Rosa, causing hatred now and soon, doubtless, a murder. And why this story just after he and Dickens had met again? This episode so teemed with references to Genoa, de la Rue knew coincidence was impossible. De la Rue had read the chapters twice through to be certain he hadn’t missed a reference. A caution by Grewgious against an insincere lover, just as Augusta's brother had cautioned her against him. Jasper, planning murder, taking a tour of the cathedral crypts just as he, himself, had taken a tour of the landscape where he knew Charles and Rodney Dowd would hike. But no one knew he had done that, so how could Dickens? A guess? A lucky hit of his imagination? Neville Landless, a brother and convenient suspect and scapegoat when Jasper murders Drood, as seemed surely to be the direction of the story. And the ring, described perfectly, and obviously the important clue that would come back to haunt the murderer. Or so it seemed to de la Rue.
Over and over de la Rue, fruitlessly and against reason, tried to fit Dickens' hints into a pattern of mere coincidence, but it was like trying to cram a right foot into a left boot. It could be done, but not for long and not without ignoring considerable discomfort. From the first scene of the story in the opium den to the underlining of the ruby and diamond ring, there came the steady fall of hints of Genoa like the incessant dripping of rainwater from leaves after the storm has passed. Slow...continuous... maddening.
What would be the outcome? De la Rue roused himself and stood. He refused to believe Dickens would follow through, literally, on his threat to proclaim him a murderer. No, Dickens simply enjoyed tormenting him, and this torment would ultimately prove harmless and of no consequence. De la Rue knew he could endure and survive Dickens' story. If he should encounter Dickens, he would never let on he had even read any of the story. He would rob Dickens of that satisfaction at least.
Anyway, how did Dickens even know he’d read any of the story? De la Rue thought of the mysteriously delivered copies of the first two numbers. If they were from Dickens, did Dickens think their delivery enough to ensure he would read them? Perhaps. Since he was reading them.
But still, Dickens' threat would not be driven from de la Rue's mind. If only he could be certain, but his only certainty involved another slow, tantalizing wait for the next month's number to come out. De la Rue drank and thought deep into the night. Finally, he threw himself into bed hoping he would see things more clearly after a night's sleep, but images of Genoa and Dickens floated through de la Rue's brandy-driven dreams. Augusta. Charles. Rodney. Rodney Dowd. Fitfully, de la Rue tossed and turned. Rodney Dowd. Edwin Drood. Rodney Dowd. Edwin Drood. De la Rue's eyes sprang open. His breath gushed as if he had rushed up a flight of stairs. My God! Was it possible?
He tossed the covers away and groped for a candle. He lit the candle and staggered to his desk. He put the candle down and grabbed for pen and paper. Rodney Dowd. No, no. There was no "i" so it couldn’t be. It couldn't be but it was.
De la Rue stared, unwilling to acknowledge the truth. He now knew for certain what Dickens planned.
Slowly, de la Rue rearranged the letters of Rodney Dowd's name.
e d w y n d r o o d
Edwin Drood!
De la Rue let his pen tumble to the floor. This was more than building a story on memories of Genoa. This was more than a simple reminder from Dickens that he knew what occurred in Genoa. This was more than an attempt to torment him. Somehow Dickens was writing his story as an act of vengeance on him. For stealing Augusta. For, to Dickens' mind, harming Augusta. For killing the boy. For subduing Dickens in their battle of wills. For sending Dickens home helpless and defeated.
De la Rue crumpled the paper on which he had deciphered Dickens' threat, and a chill thought struck him. How much of the story had Dickens written? How much was left to write? What would he reveal? When would he reveal it? What would happen if Dickens proclaimed him a murderer? Dickens could not possibly make a serious case against him to the police, but to his new circle of acquaintances - the people Lord Allsgood had introduced him to - Dickens voice carried great weight. He would be known as a murderer. He would be detested, exiled. Protest as he might, what would his word be against the word of the most famous Englishman in the land? Then what? Skulk back to Italy in disgrace; back to Genoa, his story known all over Europe? Who would welcome him? How would he live? Where would he find the slightest glimmer of enjoyment or satisfaction? De la Rue cringed at the possibilities. No, he had come to England for a purpose, and he’d achieved his purpose. His life was proceeding exactly as he had planned. He lived in the highest levels of society, and he would not allow Dickens to triumph and strip that away from him.
Dickens’ story must end. No more could be written.
De la Rue made up his mind. No more would be written.
Chapter Sixteen
Saturday, June 4. Late in the afternoon Emile de la Rue checked into the Imperial Hotel in Rochester. He signed his name Phillipe Visconti. From club talk in London and from common knowledge, he knew certain things already. Dickens' home, Gad's Hill, lay a short distance away along the Rochester High Road, the main route from London to Dover, a road frequented by numerous tramps traveling between cities looking for handouts or even brief employment. He knew Dickens had some short of chalet - a gift from an actor he once assisted and who had become a friend - on his grounds where he wrote during pleasant weather. He knew Dickens lived with his sister-in-law and his one unmarried daughter. He knew Dickens was ill and had returned home. At the moment it was all he knew.
Unfortunately, he could hardly count on Dickens' ill health carrying him off before he completed his accursed Drood book. There had to be something in what he already knew or in what he intended to find out which would enable him to make certain The Mystery of Edwin Drood never reached completion and quickly.
De la Rue lunched at the hotel and mulled over his possibilities. A look at Dickens’ home quickly rose to the top of his list. He returned to his hotel room and changed into clothing he hoped would make him indistinguishable from the tramps commonly seen along the road. He set out.
A brief walk brought him near the house. He loitered outside the property, eyeing the grand three-story home, complete with rooftop cupola. Bushes ringed the house and a red profusion of geraniums in the garden added brilliant color. De la Rue scanned the garden and saw how Dickens' property continued onto the other side of the road. Through trees and bushes he caught glimpses of the chalet. Ultimately, he noticed the tunnel he had unknowingly walked over and grasped how the tunnel led from Dickens' garden, under the road and onto the property where the chalet stood.
The chalet had two stories, the second story accessible from an outside stairway. A balcony ringed the second floor. From a distance de la Rue inspected the chalet from different angles. The leaf-covered trees, though, prevented a clear view from any angle.
De la Rue continued down the road, taking a long slow look at all of Dickens' property. He walked a half-mile past the house before turning back to take a second close look at the house, grounds, and chalet.
Back in his Rochester hotel room, De la Rue put on more respectable clothing, determined to make the best of the rest of the day by finding out a
ll he could about Dickens' habits at Gad's Hill. He left his room and when he reached the hotel lobby he saw the desk clerk unengaged and approached him.
"Afternoon, sir. Help you?" offered the clerk, a beardless young man with sparse hair on his head and an overly ingratiating way about him.
"Well, yes. I understand Mr. Dickens, the great novelist, lives in the area."
"Oh, yes he does, sir," said the clerk, a bolt of excitement lighting up his face. "Most everyone who stays here asks after him. We get to see him on occasion. Comes into town to shop with his daughter sometimes, he does."
"I understand he hasn't been well."
With appropriate decorum the clerk let his excitement seep away. "Quite sick at times," and he tapped knowingly on the left side of his chest. "Dr. Steele's been to see him plenty."
"Dr. Steele?"
"Our local doctor. Mr. Dickens has his own doctors in London, of course, but Dr. Steele is always ready to lend a hand."
"Has Mr. Dickens been in town lately? It would be a thrill to have a glimpse of him."
The clerk shook his head. "Been up in London these five months past reading out of his books, though I hear he's returned to Gad's Hill only a few days ago." The clerk pointed in the general direction of Dickens’ house. "Lovely house he has. How long will you be here, sir? Like as not you'll get a glimpse of him."
De la Rue smiled and gave a shrug. "A while. Not too long. I've not decided."
The clerk nodded understandingly.
"Well, if you need anything just ask for me, sir. Jemmy Blaine at your service."
"Thank you. Thank you." De la Rue stepped away but stopped and turned back. "Where did you say Dr. Steele had his office?"
"Three blocks over. Albion Street."
De la Rue thanked the clerk and left the hotel.