Bucket's List

by Gary Blackwood

  The following day, he has the house to himself while the wife and the mother attend Sunday services; it’s continued to snow on and off, so he makes himself useful by shoveling the walk. By Monday morning, he’s had all the domesticity he can stand. Luckily, like Neck, he has an escape plan. This is the day Mr Dickens is scheduled to present his reading of A Christmas Carol in Birmingham, and it’s Charley’s duty to see that there are no disruptions.

  Preventing disruptions is a lot easier when you’re wearing a copper’s uniform, or when the locals recognize you as a figure of authority, even if you’re in plain clothing. That is, in fact, the whole idea behind the New Police – not to capture wrongdoers so much as to deter them. Charley’s been to Birmingham a few times, first as a boxer, then on police business, but he’s not widely known there, so his presence won’t be much of a deterrent. He’s going to have to use his well-trained eye to spot trouble before it starts. If the enchanting Miss Fairweather herself shows up, he’s sure to notice her, but she may well send in someone with a bit more muscle to do the job for her.

  It’s an hour’s walk to Euston Station and, as sloppy as the streets are with melting snow, he probably should take a cab. But he needs the open air, especially with a long train ride ahead of him, and who knows how long he’ll be cooped up in the Town Hall with the other theatregoers, or how tightly packed they’ll be. Mr Dickens never fails to draw a crowd, and he’s not known for being short-winded; he likes the sound of his own voice. Luckily for him, so does his audience.

  By the time Charley reaches the station, he’s been splattered three times by the wheels of passing hackneys; his trouser legs cling clammily to him, and his greatcoat has doubled in weight from all the water. He’ll need the five hours on the train just to dry out.

  If people are flocking to Mr Dickens’ reading, they’re not coming from London. The second-class cars on the London and North Western are half empty. Charley settles into an unoccupied compartment, but just as the train begins to move, the door to the compartment flies open; a latecomer springs aboard and collapses breathlessly on the seat opposite him. ‘Whew!’ exclaims the man. ‘I was verra nearly left behind!’ Once he’s regained his composure, he seems a well-mannered sort, very distinguished-looking, with a Van Dyck beard and pomaded hair going gray at the temples. Out of old habit, Charley peruses the man’s face. Though the eyes are heavy-lidded, as if he’s about to doze off, there’s something unsettling about them. Whereas most folk won’t engage a stranger’s gaze for more than a moment, when the man feels Charley’s eyes on him, he readily meets and holds them. Here’s a man who’s used to being scrutinized – a politician, perhaps? An entertainer?

  They nod amiably to each other. ‘I apologize for the smell of wet wool,’ says Charley. ‘I should have taken a cab here.’

  The fellow waves a hand dismissively. ‘’Tis easily overcome by the smell of a good cheroot.’ Charley notes the slight Scots burr. ‘If you dinna mind, of course.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t mind. I was considering lighting up my pipe, in fact.’

  The bearded man produces a cigar case decorated with, of all things, an illustration showing Mr Scrooge being confronted by Marley’s ghost. Frowning, he shakes it. ‘Blast! I meant to stock up at Euston Station.’

  ‘I spotted a basket girl boarding the train,’ says Charley. ‘They often have cigars.’

  ‘Trichonopolies, no doubt. But beggars canna be choosers. I’ll see if canna catch her at the next station.’ Sure enough, when they stop at Watford Junction, the basket lady comes down the platform, calling in tones only a little less piercing than those of the steam whistle, ‘Apples! Orrrranges! Cigarrrs! Cigarettes!’ Just as the bearded fellow is rising from his seat, the basket girl’s face appears at the window – though the term girl is ill-advised. She is, in fact, a singularly unattractive woman with tangled gray hair, a single unbroken eyebrow, erratic teeth, and a wen on her cheek the size and texture of a walnut. To her credit, she’s done her best to hide her features with a headscarf, but it’s no use.

  Homeliness that profound leaves you with only two options: either you stare in stupefaction, or you avoid looking at her altogether. Charley chooses the latter, busying himself with his pipe. Only when the woman is gone does Charley realize that he should have asked whether she carried matches. But his companion is well equipped with them, and comes to his aid. The fellow was right about the quality of the cigars; the cheroot fills the car with an odor like that of singed hair. Fortunately, Charley’s pipeful of Rainbow tobacco – which advertises itself as being ‘sweet-scented’ – creates a pleasant aura all its own. ‘You’re on your way to Mr Dickens’ reading?’

  ‘I am. How did you – Oh, aye. The cigar case.’ The man leans forward and says confidentially, ‘Do you know, ’twas actually given me by the Great Man himself?’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  The stranger shrugs modestly. ‘I provided him with some small assistance regarding apparitions.’

  ‘Ghosts, you mean?’

  ‘I prefer the term spirits.’

  ‘I’m quite fond of spirits, myself,’ says Charley, drawing an appreciative laugh from the man.

  ‘I suppose we should be civilized and introduce ourselves, eh?’ The Scotsman extends a graceful, well-manicured hand. ‘Malcolm Sledge, sir.’

  Charley, whose grasp often errs on the side of firmness, gives the hand a careful shake. ‘Charles Field.’

  ‘Not the Charles Field, surely? The inspiration for Inspector Bucket?’

  ‘I can’t deny it.’

  ‘Well, sir, what a privilege this is! And how odd, that two of Mr Dickens’ resources should come face to face this way. ’Tis a coincidence worthy of a Dickens novel.’

  ‘Hardly surprising, though, considering we’re both bound for the same place.’

  ‘If I may ask, are you going in some official capacity?’

  ‘No, no. I’m no longer on the force. It’s just for my own amusement.’ No point in showing his hand; for all he knows, this fellow may be an agent of Miss Fairweather, charged with wreaking her vengeance. ‘And if I may ask, how is it that Mr Dickens would consult you about ghosts–sorry, spirits? No, wait; I have it. You’re a medium.’

  Sledge gives an appreciative smile. ‘Verra perceptive, Inspector. People seldom guess my occupation, since so many of those who pursue it are women.’

  Charley notes that he calls it an occupation, not a skill or gift. That would seem to indicate that he makes an income from it – which in turn suggests that, like Charley’s mother, he’s more in touch with the living than with the dead. Over the years, Charley has investigated half a dozen people – all women – who claimed to commune with the spirit world; the few who actually showed some evidence of psychic ability refused to accept money for their efforts.

  ‘I know that look, Inspector. ’Tis the look of a skeptic.’

  Charley holds up his hands defensively. ‘I’m neither a believer nor a skeptic. A good copper learns not to judge anyone or anything until he’s examined the evidence.’

  ‘And Mr Dickens clearly considers you a good copper.’

  ‘I like to think so.’

  ‘Well, sir, as it happens, I have need of someone like you, who trusts only the evidence of his own senses. As you may know, there are far too many mediums out there who resort to trickery and trumpery – most notably the Fox sisters, of course – and they’ve given us all a bad name. The public has grown quite suspicious of the whole concept of spiritualism. If you were to sit at one of my séances, you would see for yourself that there’s no deception involved; I’m simply a conduit, conveying messages from the other side.’ Sledge takes a card from his wallet and hands it to Charley. It reads:

  PROF. MALCOLM SLEDGE

  Spiritual Consultant

  Séances each Tues. 6 p.m.

  or by special arrangement

  18 Oat Lane, Aldersgate

  ‘I’d be happy to pay your usual fee; ’twould be worth it, to h
ave my legitimacy established by an objective observer.’

  ‘And what if I establish that you’re not legitimate?’

  Sledge smiles tolerantly. ‘I’m confident that willna happen. But in any case, you’ll receive your fee.’

  ‘Well, then, I can hardly refuse, can I?’

  ‘Excellent. Shall we say a week from Tuesday, then? You’d be welcome to drop in any time, of course, but I’d like to make sure we save a place for you; otherwise, it may be a bit crowded. In all modesty, I have quite a following.’

  ‘Hmm.’ In Charley’s experience, the popularity of mediums has little to do with how genuine their séances seem and much to do with how theatrical they are. People want to be astounded by tipping tables, disembodied voices, incorporeal forms, floating violins played by invisible hands.

  The walk from the Birmingham railway station to the Town Hall is more in the nature of an Arctic expedition. The sleet stings their faces like a swarm of bees driven mad by the wind, which is itself insane; even indoors Charley can hear it moaning and crying like a chorus of damned souls. But despite the awful weather, the hall promises to be filled to capacity – and by Charley’s estimate it must seat about two thousand. Too many for him to keep proper track of, that’s for certain.

  Before the performance begins, he takes up a post by the entrance door, so he can scan the audience members as they file in; he’s looking for familiar faces, particularly the lovely countenance of Julia Fairweather, which he can picture perfectly, even though it’s been over a year since he saw her on stage. He has a knack for remembering faces in general, of course, but he recalls hers better than most. In fact, it’s appeared to him more than once in his dreams, attached to a body that he’s forced to imagine, never having seen it in its natural state.

  When the audience is seated, Charley takes up a station at the top of the stairs leading to the balcony. From here, he has a view of both the main floor and the upper level. He sees no sign of Miss Fairweather, nor anyone else he recognizes, except for Mr Sledge and the enterprising basket woman from the train, who is doing a brisk business in spite of her grotesque appearance – or perhaps because of it; some are likely buying her fruit and cigars more out of pity than need.

  The ushers turn down the lamps that line the walls and turn up the ones that light the dais at one end of the hall. After a halting introduction delivered by a nervous young woman, Mr Dickens strides onstage to a generous round of applause, which he acknowledges with a smile and a little bow. He waits for the audience to settle itself, then steps to the lectern, opens a beautifully bound book, and begins to read – or rather recite, since he’s clearly committed most of the story to memory:

  Marley’s Ghost. Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

  The man would have made an excellent medium, and an even better mesmerist. In fact, you could say that he is a bit of both, hypnotizing his audience with words, conjuring up the ghostly images and disembodied voices of a dozen different men and women – not dead ones, but ones who never existed at all. He has no need of tricks or illusions; he holds his audience spellbound solely by the magic of his voice and the expressiveness of his face, augmented by a few telling gestures.

  Even Charley finds himself being drawn into Mr Dickens’ world, and he shakes his head like a punch-addled fighter. He needs to stay alert and aware so that, if trouble is afoot, he can trip it up. He spots a big, beefy cove leaning over the railing of the balcony; it could be that he’s only trying to hear better, but he could just as easily be getting himself in position to throw something at the stage.

  As Charley is edging in that direction, keeping to the shadows at the rear of balcony, the room below erupts with sound – a rapid series of pops and bangs, almost like gunfire, accompanied by startled cries and shrieks from the audience. Charley rushes back to the head of the stairs. The men and women who were seated on the aisle are now trampling their neighbors’ feet and stumbling into their laps in an effort to escape the barrage of flashes and explosions happening in the center of the hall.

  ‘Firecrackers!’ mutters Charley under his breath. They weren’t thrown by the beefy fellow in the balcony, though; no, Charley has spotted the culprit, who is in the process of lighting up another string of jacky-jumpers. He scrambles down the stairs, tackles the basket woman from the train, and half drags, half carries her into the foyer and out through the front door. En route, the fireworks fall from the woman’s grasp and crackle around their feet; Charley kicks them out into the wet snow, where they fizzle and smoke helplessly.

  ‘Let me go!’ cries the woman, and swings her basket at his head. Charley blocks the blow, which is surprisingly fierce, wrenches the basket from her hands, and flings it, too, into the snow. He’s tempted to send the woman tumbling after it, but restrains himself; he attempts to restrain her as well, but he can’t seem to locate his cuffs. And then he remembers: When that infernal miscreant Neck made his escape, he took Charley’s bracelets with him.

  The woman kicks him in the shins, now; out of patience, Charley seizes both her wrists, yanks them behind her back, and secures them with a grip as steely as that of the missing cuffs. In the process, he can’t help noticing that her hands are not the worn, chapped hands of a basket woman, but those of a pampered lady.

  Charley shakes his head in wonder. ‘Well, Miss Fairweather,’ he says, ‘that was quite a performance.’

  ELEVEN

  Just as Charley seldom forgets a face, he has an astounding ability to remember every coffeehouse he’s ever been to, and whether or not it’s worth revisiting. On his way here from the station, even half blinded by sleet, he spotted the cozy establishment called Crumpet’s, which he’d discovered on a previous trip to Birmingham. He steers Miss Fairweather in that direction now. It wouldn’t do, after all, for them to be outside the Town Hall when the audience emerges; there would be far too much explaining required.

  He keeps a firm hold on one of Miss Fairweather’s slender arms, which is trembling a little – perhaps because she’s angry at being foiled, but just as likely because she’s freezing. Her attire is well suited to her name; it’s unfit for such foul weather. She has no gloves, and no coat or cloak, only a dingy woolen shawl draped over her shoulders. Charley sheds his greatcoat and wraps it around her. He doesn’t expect her to react with gratitude, but neither does he expect the look of contempt it earns him, which is made even more unpleasant by the crooked dentures she’s wearing as part of her disguise.

  By the time they reach Crumpet’s Coffee-house, he’s freezing, too. Luckily, both the establishment and its owner are still as warm and welcoming as he remembers them. Mrs Crumpet is also very perceptive and tactful; she shows them to a secluded box in a back corner of the room, away from the prying eyes of the other customers.

  Miss Fairweather has remained sulkily silent all this time; no one – except Charley, of course – would guess she’s the same woman who regularly delights audiences with her élan and allure. Charley sees no point in badgering her; that’ll only make her more resentful. Better to give her some time to pull herself together. He orders two coffees, glancing at Miss Fairweather to see whether she’ll object; she doesn’t.

  Once they’re alone, she rummages through her shabby reticule and comes up with a compact mirror, a jar of Crème Céleste, and a couple of soft cotton cloths. She pulls the gray wig from her head and unpins her real hair – a curly mass of lustrous black locks that tumble about her shoulders like ebony shavings from a carpenter’s plane. She removes the crooked prosthetic teeth, the eyebrow addition, and the nutlike wen and wraps them in one of the cloths, then proceeds to clean off the pearl powder that gave her such an unhealthy pallor. Charley is a bit taken aback to see that, without stage cosmetics,
her skin bears little resemblance to alabaster, as is the fashion; instead, it’s an appetizing golden brown, like a toasted muffin or a good ale.

  It shouldn’t come as a surprise, really. He’s well aware, thanks to his theatre acquaintances, of the rumors about Miss Fairweather’s origins. They say she’s the illegitimate daughter of Ira Aldridge, the American actor of African descent who toured the provinces two decades ago before performing Othello at Covent Garden, to great acclaim. As far as Charley knows, she’s never denied these rumors. Why would she, when they’ve brought her such notoriety? Notoriety is an even greater asset than beauty or talent.

  What really fascinates him is how, as she divests herself of her disguise bit by bit, her character undergoes a subtle change as well, from sullen to civil to, ultimately, charming. The charm takes a while to surface; first she has to express her exasperation. ‘There was no need to wrestle me into submission, you know. I had no intention of hurting anyone.’

  ‘I didn’t suppose you had,’ says Charley. ‘But after all the theatre fires these past few years, it doesn’t take much to send a crowd into a panic.’

  ‘Well, then they’re foolish,’ she grumbles.

  ‘Oh, I grant you that. If they weren’t, would they brave this weather just to hear Mr Dickens recite a story they’ve read a dozen times already?’

  He draws a reluctant smile from her. ‘Or seen acted upon the stage.’

  Mrs Crumpet sets their coffees before them and retreats without showing the least surprise at Miss Fairweather’s startling transformation. Charley blows and sips and licks his lips. ‘How on earth does she do it, I wonder?’

  ‘How does who do what?’

  ‘How does Mrs Crumpet manage to serve real coffee? In London, it’s all been adulterated with every conceivable sort of stuff.’