The Mystery of Charles Dickens

by John Paulits

  Albion Street was lined with two-story buildings, shops mostly with rooms to let on the second floor. De la Rue sauntered along the sidewalk until he saw the sign he wanted. Doctor Steele. The sign indicated a second floor office on a corner building. De la Rue went up the outside stairs and put his ear to the door. He heard voices. The good doctor was at work on this Saturday. De la Rue retraced his steps and stood for a moment in front of Dr. Steele's building. Across the street stood the Queen's Tavern, a two-story building of dark brick, the first floor given over to a long, gleaming wooden bar and an assortment of round tables and wooden chairs. De la Rue crossed the street to the tavern and took a seat near a window from which he could watch the doctor's building. He ordered a beer and sipped it, plotting a way to meet this Dr. Steele.

  Just past five o'clock the doctor's door at the top of the stairs opened. An older, white-haired man dressed in a dull black suit emerged. The man inserted a key into the lock and fussed with it a moment. He took the key out and held it up to the light. He put the key back into his pocket and reached into his small black bag for another key. He inserted this second key in the door. He removed it, tested the knob, and seemed satisfied with his work. The key, though, slipped out of his hand and dropped onto the landing. Making a stuttery circle with his feet, he looked for the key. He took off his derby hat and scratched his head.

  De la Rue bustled out the door of the tavern and crossed the street. He stopped near the bottom of the Doctor's stairs. Up on the landing the Doctor made clumsy circles, shuffling every which way looking for the key. De la Rue looked behind the stairs and saw a key lying on the ground under the landing. He went and picked it up, looking up when he rose, key in hand. The key had fallen through one of the spaces between the planks of the landing.

  De la Rue stepped out where the Doctor could see him,

  "Excuse me. Doctor Steele?"

  Doctor Steele looked toward the sky.

  "No, down here, sir."

  The Doctor spun around again and leaned his head over the rail of the landing, his hat nearly coming off in the process.

  "Are you looking for a key, Doctor?" De la Rue held the key above his head.

  "A key? Is that my key? How..." The Doctor inspected the floor of the landing. He gave a short laugh. "Sometimes I think if my head wasn't attached to my neck, I'd misplace it. Fell through, did it?"

  "I couldn't help but notice your dilemma," de la Rue explained.

  Doctor Steele made his way down the stairs, holding tightly to the rail. When he reached the ground, he took the key and put it into his black bag. The doctor was a short, stooped man who looked to be somewhat past de la Rue's age. He wore thick glasses and had a bushy white mustache. He had somehow scuffed the coloring from the toe of his right shoe.

  "Thank you, sir," said the Doctor. "Saturdays are always long days. Start early and usually have to skip lunch. Mrs. Casey," he nodded, tipping his hat to a matronly woman passing by.

  "Your wife will no doubt have a wonderful dinner awaiting you?"

  "Wife! No, sir. No wife. Never had, never will." He pointed across the street. "The Queen's Tavern is good enough for me."

  "Ah, just where I was heading. I'm new here in the city and also without a wife." De la Rue smiled agreeably. "Would you be opposed to my buying you a drink?"

  "Opposed? Certainly not, sir, but you have the advantage of me. You are...?"

  "Phillipe Visconti. From Switzerland, retired. Sold all my properties and have come to England. I'm staying at the Imperial at the moment."

  "Come to England, have you. Excellent choice. Excellent. Finest country on Earth. Come, let's go and have that drink."

  The two men walked to the curbside and waited as a string of carriages passed by. They gingerly made their way through the debris of the street and crossed over to the Queen's Tavern. De la Rue followed the doctor toward a small table in the back of the room.

  "My usual place in the scheme of things," the doctor explained. "I dine here most evenings."

  When they sat, the doctor patted his pockets.

  "Have you lost something else?" de la Rue asked, planting a smile on his face.

  "My glasses. Did I leave them in the office?"

  De la Rue quietly sighed and touched himself on the forehead. “Up here.”

  The doctor’s hand sprang to his brow where his glasses perched. He laughed. “If my head wasn't attached..." The doctor’s chuckling drowned out the rest of the sentence.

  De la Rue engaged the doctor in idle chatter while the waiter drew their beers and delivered them to the table. When the doctor had drained two-thirds of his glass, de la Rue indicated to the waiter they needed refills. He addressed the doctor. “I hear your famous novelist has returned to his home. Mr. Dickens."

  Doctor Steele nodded, running his tongue over his mustache looking for beer foam. "Yes. Been here since Friday when I sent down his laudanum."

  "Laudanum?" Perhaps those opium scenes in Dickens' novel came from personal experience, thought de la Rue.

  Steele drew himself up and assumed a gravitas which gave de la Rue hope the good doctor would be willing to display his importance - his self-importance - in town.

  "Yes. The poor man hasn't been well. His London doctors have written..." He cleared his throat. "...and requested I keep a close eye on him. Let them know if they're needed."

  "Why does he need laudanum?"

  "Foot. Terrible pain. Sleeping is difficult."

  The waiter placed two more pints of beer on the table. Seeing this, the doctor raised his first glass to his lips and emptied it. He searched his mustache again before smiling his gratitude at de la Rue.

  De la Rue gestured his thanks were unnecessary.

  "But I doubt you've come to Rochester to hear about Mr. Dickens' foot," the doctor chuckled.

  “No, of course not, but oddly, I have a sister - she’s back in Switzerland - who suffers from complaints similar to Mr. Dickens. The doctors there..." He shrugged to indicate their hopelessness.

  "What ails your sister?" The doctor took a long pull from his new beer.

  De la Rue searched his memory for the club talk he had heard regarding Dickens.

  "One side of her body seems weaker than the other. Her right hand and right foot sometimes refuse to obey her commands."

  The doctor nodded knowingly.

  "The doctors say her heart is the cause of the weakness. They give her medicines, but..." De la Rue shrugged.

  "Digitalis, no doubt."

  "Digitalis?"

  "Standard for a weak heart."

  "Well, they must not give her enough. Her complaints persist."

  The doctor chuckled. "No, don't want to give too much. Digitalis is like...” He paused to chuckle again. “...female companionship. A little goes a long way, and too much can kill you." The doctor laughed aloud, quite pleased with his jest.

  De la Rue showed appreciation for the doctor's wit and said, "I will write her to see if this...what did you call it?"

  "Digitalis. Odd story of its discovery." The doctor paused to see whether de la Rue would allow him to tell it.

  De la Rue, intent on staying in the doctor's good graces, invited the digression.

  "How so?"

  “Why in, I think 1775 or so, a Scottish doctor name of Withering, William Withering, lived in Staffordshire. Couldn't cure one of his patients from the effects of a weak heart. Patient came back cured. Doctor wanted to know how. From a potion given him by a gypsy said the patient. Withering tracked down the gypsy and learned the formula. The ingredient in the potion that affected the cure was digitalis extract from the leaves of the purple foxglove. Doctors have been using it ever since."

  "That's amazing," said de la Rue. "How does it work?"

  "I know its effects. Just how the effe
cts come about..." The doctor shrugged.

  "Go on."

  "Strengthens the heart. Steadies the heart. Makes the weak heart more powerful."

  "Why would too much be a danger, then? Seems to me the stronger the heart the better."

  The doctor emptied his mug and shook his head. "The heart could be overpowered, being weak to begin with. Or a weakness in the system elsewhere could be exacerbated and cause apoplexy."

  "Strange how something that saves can also destroy."

  "Not unlike good beer," the doctor chuckled.

  De la Rue echoed the doctor’s laughter again and called for two more mugs while he thought over what the doctor had told him. Ending his brief reverie, he said, "Dinner, doctor. You must allow me to buy dinner."

  The doctor sputtered a demurral claiming over-generosity on the part of his new friend, but de la Rue insisted and the men dined. For the remainder of their evening together, de la Rue let the doctor ramble on at his whim. He tried again later to engage the doctor in conversation regarding Dickens’ condition and his own fictional Swiss sister, but apparently the doctor had said all he cared to say on the topic. Just after eight o'clock, the men separated, the doctor declaring de la Rue one of the finest men he had ever met and leaving him with the benediction that he make Rochester his permanent home.

  Sunday, June 5. De la Rue walked the streets of Rochester trying to invent other ways of learning the habits of Dickens' Gad's Hill life but found scant opportunity. In mid-afternoon he dressed himself as a tramp again and sauntered along the high road past Gad's Hill. There were people scattered on the lawn in front of Dickens' home, so de la Rue pulled his hat down over his brow and did not stop. Again he walked a half-mile or so past the house and turned around. On his return trip de la Rue caught a glimpse of Dickens himself sitting on a chair, his guests milling about him. He returned to his hotel to consider.

  Over a lonely dinner and a bottle of wine he decided to rise early the next day and position himself near enough Gad's Hill to learn what went on in the morning. It would be easy enough. If Dickens rarely left Gad's Hill, which seemed to be the case, then de la Rue would have to find a way to go to him. Preventing the completion of the Drood novel was paramount, but how in heaven’s name could he accomplish it? It would not be easy to dispose of Mr. Charles Dickens before he did irreparable harm. Not easy; but yet, de la Rue trusted, not impossible.

  Chapter Seventeen

  If only Dickens' heart would experience its inevitable failure and take this burden from him. If only he had gone somewhere other than England to settle. If only Dickens had never visited Genoa. Emile de la Rue nursed these thoughts as he crouched in a field off the Rochester High Road near Gad's Hill as a new day dawned. Before him across the road lay Dickens' house and garden. To his left, through the trees stood the chalet. It was very early Monday morning and de la Rue wanted this onerous, murderous chore completed by week's end - completed, of course, in a manner that cast no suspicion his way. Completed even in a manner that cast no suspicion at all. An accident. Anything without intentionality emblazoned on it: a fall down the stairs of the chalet; a tumble over the second floor balcony railing; a fall in the garden, head fatally striking rock. If Dickens did smoke opium and did frequent a Rochester smoking den, his death could easily be disguised as a crime occasioned by place. As de la Rue considered, he toyed with a small pair of binoculars around his neck. He knew, though, that Dickens' use of laudanum did not necessarily mean he included opium in his habits. Plus, how would a man of his renown make his way unknown into such a den? De la Rue cast the crime in an opium den possibility aside.

  He glanced at his watch. Just past 7 o'clock and still no activity on Dickens' property. De la Rue's mind found Augusta. The genuine hope he had originally felt when Dickens tamed her wildest attacks now angered him. The possibility he himself had caused Augusta's attacks angered him. The audacity of Dickens treating him in this disrespectful, belligerent, month-by-month taunting fashion angered him. The possibility of his having to leave England detested by everyone who mattered to him angered him. This had to be the week he removed the threat of Dickens from his life.

  One servant girl, then two, appeared on the lawn, coming from the back of the grand house. De la Rue put his binoculars to use. The servants talked. One laughed. The one who laughed held a large jug with both hands in a way that indicated its fullness, probably of water, de la Rue thought. The other girl carried a stack of blue papers and what looked like pen and ink. De la Rue followed their advance across the garden. When they approached the tunnel, he lost sight of them. De la Rue shifted his position and waited for them to reemerge. From where he hid, he could see one side of the chalet through the trees, the side with the stairs to the second floor. The two servant girls reappeared, climbed the stairs, and entered the chalet. Try as he might, the spread of green leaves prevented his seeing inside the room. He waited.

  Two minutes later the girls exited. The girl now held the jug by its neck and casually with one hand. The other girl’s hands were empty. They retraced their path to the back of the house.

  On the spur of the moment de la Rue rushed in a crouch toward the chalet. Knowing the tunnel, the road, and the riot of greenery hid a view of the chalet from the main house, he climbed the stairs quickly and ducked into the second floor room. He saw the blue papers on a desk against the far window. The pens and ink lay next to the papers. An ornately etched carafe filled with water stood on the corner of the desk along with two overturned glasses. He quickly left the room and looked over the stairs and the balcony. He descended and rapidly returned to his hiding place.

  Fifteen minutes later Dickens appeared at his front door. He emerged onto the lawn and looked around. He walked through the garden and toward the rear of the house. He reappeared, having circled the house, and went back inside.

  De la Rue waited.

  Dickens came back out of the house just before nine and headed through the garden toward the chalet. De la Rue watched him climb the stairs, noticing with a small degree of satisfaction how Dickens clasped the handrail and his brief pause midway up the stairs. He went inside and de la Rue knew more of the accursed novel would be produced that morning.

  De la Rue found his way back onto the road and returned to Rochester. He breakfasted and walked the city until noon. He decided to return Gad's Hill.

  De la Rue waited for a lull in the traffic along the road and when one occurred, he went back into hiding. He could not tell whether Dickens was still in the chalet or not. A gardener puttered among the geraniums near the main house. Birdsong punctuated the quiet. Carriages and foot traffic moved steadily but sporadically along the high road.

  At one-thirty Dickens came carefully down the stairs of the chalet. De la Rue watched him closely. Though he had no need to pause on the downward trip, the faltering man held tightly to the banister. When Dickens reached the ground, he smoothed his hair with both hands and seemed to gather himself for the trip back through the tunnel and across the garden. Moments later Dickens disappeared inside his home.

  De la Rue knew that would end Dickens' writing for the day. He might later be able to catch Dickens going for a walk, but from the way Dickens had climbed the stairs, it seemed very unlikely he would walk far or even walk alone if he walked at all. De la Rue gave up his post and returned to Rochester. He went to the Goose Quill, a tavern down the street from the Imperial Hotel, and ordered lunch and a beer. He had to make up his mind immediately how to deal with Dickens.

  Back in his hotel room three hours later, de la Rue had narrowed his possibilities to two; either an accident or somehow giving Dickens an overdose of laudanum or digitalis, the heart medicine Dr. Steele mentioned. Neither option was the obvious one. For an accident to occur, he would have to face Dickens, perhaps even grapple with him, push him down the chalet stairs or over the balcony; crash his head in with a rock - a daunting proposition
to say the least. To administer medicine he would have to get into Dickens' home and dose him - even more daunting. Unless...

  If he presumed Dickens followed the same regimen daily, the carafe of water sat unattended on his desk for an hour or more in the morning before he arrived at the chalet. If only he could dose the water and be nowhere near when Dickens fell ill from its effects...but he knew nothing about this digitalis. He thought of Upper Swandom Lane.

  He would have no problem getting whatever kind of drug he needed and instructions on how to use it in the hovels and byways of Upper Swandom Lane, and he could be up to London and back before midnight. If the trip gave him the information and the medicine he needed, he could dose Dickens’ water tomorrow morning. If he failed in that he would have no alternative but to arrange for Dickens to fall prey to an accident.

  De la Rue dressed right away and headed for the train station.

  Early next morning, dressed again as a tramp, de la Rue crouched in the bushes near Gad's Hill. Only one servant girl holding a jug made the morning trip to the chalet. De la Rue navigated the stairs of the chalet the moment the servant girl disappeared inside the big house. He had learned what he needed to know in London and after handing over a considerable amount of money had procured four vials of the heart drug, each vial sufficient, he was told, to induce paroxysm in a man with a weak heart - if a sufficient dose of the vial - at least half - were ingested.

  He took the first vial from his pocket, uncapped it, and after pouring the contents into the carafe of water, he hurried down the stairs and back into hiding. He did not intend to wait around and watch the slow progress of his scheme unfold. There would be no point. If Dickens fell ill, it would doubtless be Dr. Steele who would be the first one summoned. It would be much easier and far less dangerous to keep a watch on the doctor. Giving himself adequate time to calm down - for his own heart had been racing - he sat on the ground, hidden, imagining the outcome: Dickens' collapse; the concern, even panic of his housemates; the call for the doctor, and the tragic result. Feeling more hopeful than he had felt since he started on his deadly excursion, de la Rue made his way back to Rochester.