The Problem of the Surly Servant

by Roberta Rogow

  Levin’s voice shook with emotion. ‘He is talking about prosecution on criminal charges!’ he announced dramatically.

  ‘What? That’s absurd!’ Miss Harvey exclaimed.

  ‘According to Mr Basset, there is a certain sum in the ledgers that is not accounted for, and if I do not come up with the money, I will be prosecuted!’

  ‘That old …’ Peterson bit back the words. His normally jovial expression darkened. ‘He’s gone too far this time. I’d better have a word with him and remind him of old times, toiling in the staff room at Portman Penny Press.’

  ‘Please, do not put yourself out on my account,’ Levin said curtly. ‘I will not remain where I am not wanted.’

  Peterson tried to soothe the agitated young man. ‘Look here, Levin, you know how we all depend on you to keep the old Hound sweet. Let me have a go at him, make him see reason …’

  ‘No!’ he shouted out. Then his voice lowered. ‘Mr Peterson, you have had enough of Mr Basset’s ill will this afternoon. I will, no doubt, find some other position.’

  ‘Not if he makes you face criminal prosecution,’ Peterson stated. He knocked resolutely on Mr Basset’s door.

  Mr Dodgson would have stayed, but Dr Doyle had heard more than enough of domestic squabbles. ‘There must be a pub where we can get some hot buttered rum,’ Dr Doyle said, dragging his older friend down the stairs to the street. ‘And then I’m off home. It’s not your fault, sir, that Samuel Basset is such a crosspatch, and cannot recognize a good story when he sees it, but that is that. There are other editors who will take my stories if he won’t, I’m sure of it.’

  Mr Dodgson looked up at the sky. ‘It is snowing,’ he observed. ‘I sincerely hope you will be able to reach Portsmouth before midnight.’

  In that, as in so many other things during that evening, he was to be disappointed.

  CHAPTER 3

  The snow that had started as a few stray flakes when Miss Harvey had mounted the stairs to the offices of Youth’s Companion had increased in intensity, so that by the time Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle emerged from the offices of Youth’s Companion, Fleet Street was veiled in a sheet of white that whirled and eddied in the wind. Much to Dr Doyle’s dismay, Mr Dodgson would not take his prescription of hot toddies.

  ‘I cannot be seen in a common tavern,’ Mr Dodgson said, as he dragged his companion up and down Fleet Street in search of a respectable establishment where the two of them could drink tea, and only tea. Alas for Dr Doyle, Fleet Street catered to the hard-drinking Fourth Estate, and no suitable tea shop could be found. They struggled against the wind, up and down the street, and Mr Dodgson was still unsatisfied, while Dr Doyle wished heartily that he had found a less pernickety companion.

  They were back at the Strand end of Fleet Street, in front of Youth’s Companion, still without tea, when Mr Dodgson called a halt. The two men stopped in the nearest doorway. Mr Dodgson gripped his hat with grey-gloved hands, while Dr Doyle seriously considered tying the flaps of his deerstalker cap under his chin to protect his ears from the cold. Around them surged men in caped greatcoats, long ulsters buttoned to the chin, or dramatic cloaks. Necks were swathed in everything from fine cashmere scarfs to hand-knitted mufflers wound around freezing faces. All up and down Fleet Street the umbrella vendors did a thriving business, as the passersby tried to protect their expensive headgear from the weather. Hardier souls in cloth caps or woollen hats and women in voluminous skirts and shawls hawked hot pies or steamed shellfish from barrows and carts. Mingling with the crowd were the men from the Fair Trade League, passing out handbills announcing the Grand March and Meeting in Trafalgar Square, in protest of the bill just defeated, at seven o’clock that evening.

  The sight of the Fair Trade League drove Mr Hyndman to new heights of rhetoric from his position of authority on the soapbox. ‘My brothers in labour, you have heard, as I have, that the members of Parliament have decided to deny you the pittance you request for common aid. Shall you stand by and wait for them to dole out the few pennies you need to buy coals for your fires and bread for your wives and children?’

  The assorted reporters, street vendors, businessmen, and loungers muttered their agreement.

  ‘He has a point,’ Dr Doyle observed. ‘It has been a wretched winter. Even the dry docks at Portsmouth have had to lay off day labourers, and the fishing fleet’s been iced in for a month.’

  ‘The weather has been frightful,’ Mr Dodgson agreed. He fussed about, looking first in one pocket and then in another for the small sums he had put aside for cab fares. He edged closer into the doorway of the shop and noticed for the first time the wares exhibited in the window.

  ‘A bookshop!’ he exclaimed in delight.

  ‘So I see, sir.’ Dr Doyle looked up and down Fleet Street for transportation, while Mr Dodgson was drawn like a magnet towards the shop.

  The front window held an enticing variety of printed matter, displayed to entice the passersby to stop and examine and, eventually, to buy. The right-hand shelf contained the collected works of the Portman Penny Press: small paper-backed volumes, each an eye-catching yellow, with a woodblock illustration on the cover to entice the passerby to sample the adventures of Dangerous Dan the Highwayman or share the sorrows of The Virtuous Chambermaid. On a more serious note were the series of books that would instruct the reader in The Mysteries of the East or explain The Monuments of Ancient Egypt. The Portman Penny Press was ready to provide reading matter for every taste at the cheapest possible price.

  The other side of the shop clearly catered to a different audience, as evinced by the quality of merchandise in the left-hand window. Here were books with embossed or painted covers, opened to reveal illustrations of fairy palaces and exotic creatures, Arabian Nights’ genies, or elfin dancers of English folklore. More prosaic volumes showed maps of the world, unusual animals, or diagrams of mechanical marvels. Here, too, were educational toys: telescopes for budding astronomers, butterfly nets for young naturalists, globes for future explorers.

  Mr Dodgson smiled happily as he regarded the shop window. He beckoned to Dr Doyle. ‘I see they have copies of Alice. I shall go inside. Perhaps they will permit me to sign a copy. It sometimes helps sales,’ he added, to justify his sense of pride.

  Dr Doyle had more or less given up hope of finding a cab in the snowy street. As soon as a hansom or a hack was empty, it was immediately commandeered by one of the reporters or editors emerging from the many newspaper offices that made Fleet Street synonymous with the British Press. Dr Doyle decided that the shop provided some protection from the weather and followed Mr Dodgson inside, brushing the snow off his shoulders as he did so.

  Mr Dodgson had picked up a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and was frowning at it. ‘This book should not be here,’ he declared.

  ‘This is a shop that specializes in books for children,’ Dr Doyle pointed out.

  ‘Of course it is,’ Mr Dodgson said querulously. ‘But this particular printing was not to be sold. I shall speak to the proprietor.’ He called out imperiously, ‘Is someone there?’

  A fine-boned balding man in a cutaway coat and striped trousers approached, eager to make one last sale before closing time.

  ‘May I be of assistance, gentlemen?’ he asked, assessing the sales potential of his two customers.

  ‘What do you know of this book?’ Mr Dodgson shook the offending volume under the shopkeeper’s nose.

  ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. A charming fairy tale, written, I believe, by an Oxford don, especially for a young lady of his acquaintance. It has been in print for many years and is considered acceptable for all children. Have you a complaint to make of it?’ The shopkeeper looked anxiously from one man to the other.

  ‘I have indeed,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Where did you get this copy?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ The shopkeeper stared at Mr Dodgson as if he had just sprouted horns and a tail.

  ‘This is the first p-printing!’ Mr Dodgson shook the book fi
ercely in the shopkeeper’s face. ‘This p-printing was d-defective and was n-not to b-be sold.’ He turned to Dr Doyle and took a deep breath, to keep his stammer under control. ‘Tenniel felt the illustrations were not properly engraved and insisted on doing them again,’ he explained. ‘On reflection I agreed, but decided that rather than destroy the books, which I had, after all, paid for, this printing was to be recalled and the copies distributed among village libraries and institutions for poor children who could not afford the price of a good copy. I know these illustrations perfectly, and this is the first printing, not the one to be sold. Therefore, I ask you, sir, where did you get it? And why is it being sold for full price? And why,’ he continued, advancing on the hapless shopkeeper, ‘if it is being sold at full price, am I not receiving full royalties on it?’

  ‘Are you Mr Lewis Carroll?’ the shopkeeper asked, taking refuge behind his counter.

  ‘In this case, I am!’

  ‘Then I must inform you, sir, that I am not the proprietor of this shop. It is Mr Basset who controls the stock, not I. In fact,’ he added, seeing Mr Dodgson’s grim expression, ‘these copies turned up when we cleared out the stockroom. Mr Portman seemed to think that they had been given to his father when Sir William Portman used the building and ran the shop himself. It is possible that, having given some of the copies to worthy institutions, Mr Nicholas and Mr Basset decided to appropriate them and sell them, thinking, no doubt, that the minor imperfections in the printing of the illustrations would go unnoticed by the general public. And, to be quite truthful, Mr Carroll, no one has noticed. The book sells quite well, and those imperfections in the illustrations that seem so dreadful to you are overlooked in the excellence of the writing. I am very sorry that you are not pleased, sir, but do not take offence with me. You must speak with Mr Basset. I had nothing to do with it.’

  Dr Doyle had been peering out of the window at the snow while the battle raged. Now he called out, ‘Here’s your chance, Mr Dodgson. It looks as if Mr Basset is leaving the office. He just came out the door.’

  Mr Dodgson retained his hold on the book. ‘I shall not pay for this copy,’ he fumed. ‘Remove the rest of them from your stock. If you like, you may send the bill to me at my Oxford direction. I shall instruct Macmillan to send replacement copies, of a better printing than this, suitable for sale. As for Mr Basset, I shall confront him myself.’

  ‘If you want to speak to Mr Basset, you had better be quick,’ Dr Doyle called to his mentor from his position at the door. ‘I think he’s just flagged down an omnibus.’

  ‘We must catch him before he mounts it,’ Mr Dodgson declared, bustling out the door. Dr Doyle cast a look of apology over his shoulder at the clerk and followed Mr Dodgson into the snowy street, where Mr Basset stood on the pavement, hanging on to the handles of the doorway, apparently arguing with someone while the omnibus waited, trapped between a cab and a dray.

  ‘Mr Basset!’ Mr Dodgson called out. ‘May I have a word …’

  Mr Basset was already having words with the large person in front of him, who had pulled him away from the omnibus and was now confronting him with upraised fist.

  ‘Mr Basset, I must speak with you!’ Mr Dodgson shouted, as the omnibus lurched away. Basset turned slowly, as if to see who had addressed him. He put out a hand, reaching blindly for support. Mr Dodgson automatically steadied the man with one arm, while he tried to control his stammer long enough to make his wishes known.

  Before he could speak, Mr Basset sagged downward, his knees buckling under his weight. Dr Doyle leaped forward to ease the stricken man to the snowy pavement.

  For a moment the incident was not noticed. Then someone realized that a man had fallen. Reporters in battered hats and patched greatcoats, vendors of apples and hot pies, newsboys in tattered castoffs waiting for their evening wares, all stopped to see what was going on. Even the street-corner orator stopped haranguing the crowd long enough to come down from his soapbox and have a look.

  ‘I am a doctor!’ Dr Doyle announced. ‘Stand back and give this man air. And someone fetch the police! This man has been injured.’

  One of the reporters waved and shouted at someone on the Strand. Another ran toward Ludgate Circus. Dr Doyle looked wildly about to find some place out of the wind and snow where Basset could find shelter.

  Basset seemed to recover consciousness for a minute. He clutched at Dr Doyle’s coat, his mouth working, spittle dribbling from one corner of his mouth. Mr Dodgson leaned over him as the man tried to speak.

  ‘What is he saying?’ Mr Dodgson asked anxiously.

  ‘Wi—’ Basset breathed, his eyes focusing on something just beyond Dr Doyle’s shoulder. Then he gave a spasmodic gasp and his body went limp.

  A large constable shoved his way through the crowd. ‘Wot’s all this, then?’

  ‘This,’ Mr Dodgson said, ‘is – or rather, I fear, was – Mr Samuel Basset, a publisher of children’s books and magazines.’

  ‘He’s dead,’ Dr Doyle pronounced, as he checked the man’s neck pulse and tried to hear his breathing.

  ‘How?’ The bobby peered at the fallen man, who was already being covered by a thin down of snowflakes. ‘Who done it then?’ He glared suspiciously at Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle.

  ‘I saw some bloke run off down the Strand,’ one of the apple vendors offered.

  ‘Big feller, too,’ added the nearest newsvendor.

  ‘Anyone see ‘is face?’ The bobby looked around the crowd. The reporters already were scribbling in their notebooks. Here was a juicy story, a vicious attack on one of their own, and on his front doorstep, as it were!

  ‘Can’t see yer own feet in this muck, let alone the face of summun runnin’ away,’ observed the apple woman.

  ‘May I suggest that you exp-pedite matters by summoning your sup-periors as quickly as p-possible?’ Mr Dodgson said testily, his stammer threatening to overcome him in his agitation. ‘It is quite cold, and if you do not hurry, any indications of who the assailant might be will be covered by this snow.’

  ‘Aye, that’s so,’ the bobby agreed. He tweeted his whistle to alert his comrades in Ludgate Circus to send reinforcements.

  By this time, the members of the Fourth Estate were busily interviewing as many people as they could find who would admit to knowing the deceased. One approached Dr Doyle.

  ‘A doctor, you said?’

  ‘Dr Arthur Conan Doyle,’ was the reply, and the spelling of the name was carefully checked.

  ‘Did you know the man well?’

  ‘I only met him this afternoon,’ Dr Doyle stated.

  ‘And you, sir?’ The young reporter turned to Mr Dodgson, who had risen to speak to the policeman and was now edging away from the stiffening form on the pavement.

  ‘I do not wish to be interviewed,’ Mr Dodgson told him. ‘My association with Mr Basset was brief and was about to be broken off. I was sadly misled.’

  The reporter was about to follow this promising lead when the loud clanging of a bell announced the arrival of the police ambulance and a squad in the blue jackets and helmets with the badge of the City of London, led by a tall and burly individual in a bowler hat and caped greatcoat. At the same time, a short, spare man draped in a long overcoat, also wearing a bowler hat, made his way through the crowd, followed by a second squad with the badge of the Metropolitan Police on their helmets.

  ‘MacRae, Metropolitan Police,’ the shorter of the two announced curtly. ‘Constable, what’s all this about?’ At the same time, the taller, burlier officer declared, ‘Calloway, City of London Police. What’s going on here?’

  The bobby saluted, including both inspectors in his greeting. ‘Gentleman assaulted, sir. According to this gentleman, he’s a Mr Samuel Basset.’

  Mr Dodgson peered through the snow at the new arrival. ‘Good heavens,’ he exclaimed, ‘Inspector MacRae!’

  ‘Aye, that’s me.’ Inspector MacRae glared at Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle. ‘Don’t I know you?’

  ‘We met in B
righton last summer,’ Mr Dodgson reminded him. ‘The matter of Miss Alicia Marbury’s abduction.’

  Comprehension dawned, and MacRae’s scowl deepened. ‘I recall now,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Oxford? And you,’ he turned to Dr Doyle, who had relinquished the body of the late Mr Basset to the uniformed authorities. ‘Brighton, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Portsmouth. Southsea, actually,’ Dr Doyle corrected him.

  Inspector MacRae seemed to take Mr Dodgson’s defection from the realm of academe as a personal insult. ‘What’re you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here, Inspector?’ Mr Dodgson asked. ‘As I recall, you are in the Special Irish Branch, not the Criminal Investigation Department. And I believe this is the City of London, which means …’

  ‘Hit means ’e don’t ’ave no right to be ’ere,’ Calloway stated. ‘So wot’s the Met doin’? This ’ere’s my patch, MacRae. ‘Ands off.’

  Inspector MacRae glanced down at the body of the late Samuel Basset. ‘If this is the work of Fenians, Calloway, then it’s my body, not yours. I’ve had word that there’s a meeting called for tonight in Trafalgar Square, and some of the lads gave me the wink that there’s to be more than words flying in the Strand. The Fenians may try to take advantage to do mischief, and when they do, we’ll be waiting for ’em!’ MacRae rubbed his hands, partly to combat the cold, partly in anticipation. ‘We’ll teach ’em to run riot in the streets!’

  ‘Haw!’ Calloway expressed his opinion of the Special Irish Branch and their relentless search for Irish terrorists. ‘This ’ere’s no Fenian bomb, MacRae. This gent’s been struck by some bloke out fer ’is pocket watch and purse. None of your affair, so go off and chase Fenians and let the rest of us get on with it.’

  ‘Mr Basset said something before he died,’ Dr Doyle said, conscious of his duty. It sounded like the letter “y” as in, “Wi …” or “why”…’

  ‘Could he have been naming his killer?’ MacRae asked.

  ‘I have no idea what he meant,’ Dr Doyle replied. ‘In fact, it may only have been his expiring breath. Take no notice of it.’