He paused and a long sigh emanated from deep within him. “Alas for ‘domestic happiness, thou only bliss of Paradise that has survived the Fall’. The cup was destined to be dashed from their lips. Wormwood and gall became their appointed portion.”
At this point I interrupted my old friend’s narrative. Some faint memory stirred in my brain. “This firm of chandlers,” I enquired, “was it, by any chance, Avebury and Sons?”
“The very same,” Micawber rejoined. “You are acquainted with the lamentable tale?”
“I recall reading something of it. The newspapers at the time made much of the gruesome details. Old Mr Avebury was done to death in his quayside office, was he not?”
Micawber nodded mournfully.
“And suspicion fell upon his junior partner. Would that have been Gringlade?”
“It was, indeed, that unfortunate gentleman.”
“But how did you come by the story and the photograph, Mr Micawber? Such a tale is surely of no interest in the distant colonies.”
“The full details of that tragedy – at least insofar as he had been unable to unravel them were vouchsafed to me by Jed Gringlade, himself.”
My eyes opened wide at that news. “But surely,” I expostulated, “that is impossible. The City reporter of The Times indicated that Gringlade, full of remorse, had put an end to his life – drowned within yards of where his father-in-law had been struck down.”
Micawber nodded sagely. “So Gringlade intended the world to believe, and whether it was tenderness or folly or mere self-preservation that drove him to so desperate a deception Wilkins Micawber will not be the judge of.” He paused. “It all fell out upon this wise. Gringlade was beset by the police with question upon question. At a time when all his energies should have been devoted to comforting his distraught wife he was shocked to discover that he was under the necessity of having to defend himself from the guardians of the law who became fixed in their minds that he was their man. Rather than add to the distress of his family by subjecting them to the humiliation a public trial would have occasioned he contrived to disappear. His professional calling brought Gringlade into contact with numerous men who ply their business in great waters and, being of a sociable disposition, he counted not a few of them as friends. He assured me that captains who knew him well were convinced of his innocence. One such readily offered him a berth aboard his clipper and permitted him to work his passage.”
“And Mrs Gringlade knew nothing of this?” I enquired. “The double loss must have been unbearable.”
“Poor Gringlade acted in haste and desperation. On the long journey he had time in plenty for reflection. He asked one more kindness of the captain who conveyed him to colonial safety. It was he who brought Mrs Gringlade a message informing her of his safety and his determination to send for the family as soon as he had established himself in a strange land.”
“And I suppose,” said I, “that that is the commission you have now undertaken.”
Micawber’s glass being now empty, he applied a red-hot poker to the jug and poured himself a fresh draught. This proceeding occupied a full minute during which he offered no response to my observation. At length he said, “There’s a deal of injustice in this world, Copperfield, a deal of injustice, as you and I have good cause to know. Gringlade settled in our little community as an industrious man in a modest way of life. He was of a solitary disposition and seldom could he be prevailed upon to join in our communal revels. I was gratified, then, when he singled me out as one worthy of his confidence. Having learned of my intended visit here he confessed all, calculating that I who had the authority to order his arrest and repatriation, was a man of sensibility and independent mind.”
“He made an excellent choice,” I rejoined.
“Having satisfied myself of Gringlade’s veracity,” continued Micawber, “I could not but be incensed at the vile injustice of his situation – a family divided and condemned to years of misery by the actions of some blackguard, doubtless still at liberty. ‘Wilkins Micawber,’ says I to myself, ‘these things may not be.’ I induced Gringlade to convey to me every known detail of the crime that had led to his ruin.”
“To what end?” I asked, for I was truly mystified as to my old friend’s intentions.
“You will readily imagine that no day has elapsed these two years past on which poor Gringlade has not brooded on the circumstance surrounding his father-in-law’s death. Some of those circumstances were so singular as to persuade him that the villain was someone well known to old Mr Avebury and his family. Gringlade was, of course, in no position to convey his suspicions to the authorities. And there’s the injustice of it, Copperfield. There’s the injustice that must be addressed. I gave my assurance to Jed Gringlade that I would not only convey his message to Mrs Gringlade but employ my best endeavours in the attempt to clear his name.”
“But, surely,” I protested, “after all this time it will be difficult to ascertain the truth.”
“Perhaps not as difficult as you might imagine, Copperfield.” Micawber paused to take a long draught of his beverage. “With every passing month since the perpetration of the vile deed the perpetrator’s assurance will have grown. By now, he will believe himself perfectly secure and that very conviction may lead him into betraying himself.”
My face must have given ample evidence of my reservation, for Micawber hastened to justify his belief in the success of his mission.
“Gringlade has reached the conclusion,” he said, “that there are only three people likely to have had any reason to attack Mr Avebury and the opportunity to do so at the time and place of the crime.”
What Micawber described as the “evidential details” were briefly as follows:
On an evening in February Jed Gringlade had received at his home a message from Mr Avebury to go immediately to his father-in-law’s office. He had not hesitated but had taken a lantern and ventured forth alone into the wet and wintry darkness. Arrived at the warehouse he let himself in with his key. A lamp was burning in the office situated on the first floor. As he ascended the staircase he noticed wet footprints which indicated that someone else had recently come the same way. On entering the office he beheld the appalling spectacle of his benefactor, his employer and the father of his beloved wife sprawled on his back with blood glistening around a wound in his chest which cannot but have proved instantly fatal. Despite his shock, he had carried out an immediate search of the premises and satisfied himself that the assassin was not lurking there. He first assumed that Avebury must have interrupted a burglar but nothing in the office had been disturbed and a sum of money in Avebury’s desk drawer was intact. At this point there came a loud knocking at the outer door. On opening it Gringlade had discovered a constable come to investigate the anonymous report of a disturbance in the warehouse. He led the guardian of the law to the office and revealed his awful discovery. His mind was in such a whirl that he was unable to see the significance of the sequence of events – Avebury’s note, the mysterious nocturnal visitor, the equally mysterious summoning of the police. It was only days later that he examined his father-in-law’s missive, thrust hurriedly into a pocket, and discovered it to be a forgery. By that time he had already embarked on his course of deception. Though he was not immediately detained by the police, it was obvious that they suspected him of the murder and that his arrest was imminent. In his panic he could discern no means of establishing his innocence and had, therefore, organized his apparent suicide. Telling Emily, that he was going for a walk, he had hidden himself until nightfall, then, leaving some of his clothes at the water’s edge, secretly gone on shipboard. The vessel sailed on the morning tide.
At this point in his narrative Micawber produced the closely written sheet of paper. “I prevailed upon Gringlade to set down in detail his own reflections on the crime and his suspicions as to its possible agent,” he explained.
At that moment Agnes re-entered the drawing room. We talked for a further hour and were ver
y far from exhausting our store of shared reminiscences when our guest’s head began to nod. It was time to retire to our chambers. Lamps were fetched and goodnights said.
Of recent years I had fallen into the habit of personally checking all our ground floor doors and windows before settling for the night. It was when, observing this ritual, that I returned to the drawing room that I noticed that Micawber had left Gringlade’s report upon the mantelpiece. I realized that he must have placed it there when rising on my wife’s entrance. Since it was obviously a document of great importance to our friend, I picked it up for safe keeping. I had advanced as far as the library, my last port of call, when curiosity got the better of me. Sitting at the table, I laid Gringlade’s document on the table and smoothed it out.
The hand was clear, the letters well formed. Obviously they had been inscribed by someone accustomed to writing accurate records or accounts. The text was a model of conciseness and matched the penmanship. It read:
“For more than two years I have pondered the appalling crime inflicted upon my family and considered who might be responsible. At the behest of Mr Wilkins Micawber, Magistrate, I here set down every detail I can recall which might be of help in discovering the truth.
Item:
Since robbery was not the motive, I deduce that the murderer may have been someone with a grudge against the late Mr Avebury.
Item:
Since it was intended that I should be discovered in close proximity to the deceased I deduce that the murderer was someone with cause to wish me harm.
Item:
I further deduce that the murderer was someone who might have thought to gain some advantage from the liquidation of Avebury and Son.
Item:
Our business had only one serious rival, an enterprise under the proprietorship of Joseph Stickle, as unscrupulous a man as it would be possible to meet. He would gladly have seen Avebury and Son close their doors and resorted to several underhand tactics to bring that about. It was only days before my employer’s melancholy demise that I discovered one of Stickle’s men loosening a wheel on one of our wagons. Yet I find it hard to believe that even Stickle would resort to deliberate murder in cold blood.
Item:
A more likely . . .
I was able to read no further, for, at that instant, our hall clock chimed midnight and I knew that Agnes must be growing anxious and wondering why I had not come to bed. Sleep did not readily visit me that night, for I was much affected by the tragedy Micawber had related and considerably exercised as to whether his optimism regarding his ability to right an old wrong might not be misplaced. As we sat at breakfast the following morning I ventured to ask whether he might value some assistance on his quest. His response was unhesitating.
“My dear Copperfield. My dear, dear Copperfield,” he enthused. “What a capital idea and what a good-hearted gentleman you are, to be sure.”
Our simple arrangements were soon made, the carriage was ordered and at ten o’clock we set off for the docks. As we travelled I invited Micawber to explain the tactics he proposed to employ in pursuing his enquiry.
He sat back against the padded leather and expatiated. “We of the magistracy,” he said, “distinguish between the criminal mind and the non-criminal mind. The former, I regret to say, are hardened by the cruelties of their chosen profession. The shafts of human feeling or remorse seldom penetrate their iron-like carapace. Fortunately, the offender we seek is a man with a non-criminal mind. He has become possessed of a demon. It may be greed or rage or jealousy but, whatever the name of his particular diabolus, it will continue to torment him. It will give him no rest. It will whisper in his nocturnal ear that his sin is discovered and fear will be the companion of his waking hours.”
“Well,” said I, “that may be so but how will it help us to unmask the villain?”
“We have but to suggest,” Micawber replied “that we know all and observe his reaction. Watch the eyes, Copperfield. Watch the eyes. However loud and fervent may be his protestations of innocence, his eyes will betray his alarm and his guilt.”
“Gringlade ruminated three suspects,” I observed. “One was a business rival, by name Joseph Stickle. Who were the others?”
Micawber needed no recourse to his notes in proffering his reply. “Shortly before the doleful event leading to Gringlade’s precipitate flight he had dismissed a certain George Narbig for pilfering. The rogue loudly asserted his innocence and swore he would be revenged on the man he called his ‘persecutor’. The only other person who bore him ill will was a young fellow employee by the name of Jethro Mallerby.”
“What was the cause of his disaffection?” I enquired.
“The pangs of disprized love. He competed for the hand of Emily Avebury but was bested by Gringlade.”
“And since Emily was Avebury’s only child, whoever won her would also inherit the business,” I observed. “That would be motive enough to remove Avebury and his anointed successor.”
Our conveyance described a sinuous path through the narrow, congested streets of London’s dockland with its babel sounds and competing, pungent odours and emerged, none too soon, on the broad quay front of West India Dock. We enquired our way to the premises of Messrs Avebury and Son. We had abandoned the carriage and were concluding our journey on foot between the piled rows of crates, bales and barrels waiting to be loaded on the ships whose masts and spare reared upwards to our right when my companion drew my attention to a building we were passing. Blackened timbers and the sky visible through its glassless casements eloquently told the tale of recent disaster, but what was of especial interest to Micawber and me was the name board still legible above the boarded entrance: ‘Stickles Ships: Chandler’.
“Alas for Joseph Stickle,” I said. “It appears that fate has taken a hand in the rivalry between him and Aveburys.”
Arrived at our journey’s end, we enquired after the proprietor. It had been agreed that we should pose as gentlemen fitting out a schooner for a pleasure cruise to the coasts and islands and the Caribbean. This imposing subterfuge would, we hoped, gain us an introduction to whoever had stepped into Avebury’s shoes as the master of this emporium and provide us with a starting point for our enquiries. We were, accordingly, led through the warehouse to a flight of stairs at the top of which was a door bearing the legend “Office”. We entered a large room in which it seemed that every horizontal surface – shelf, table, cabinet and even chair carried its own burden of ledgers, files and loose papers. Three desks were arranged in a row facing the door. Two were occupied by clerks but behind the centre desk, frowningly immersed in checking entries in a large, leather-bound volume, sat a lady dressed in black. We had scarcely recovered our surprise, when the lady in question looked up momentarily from her labour to offer us a cursory greeting. “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said, “if it’s victualling you require, I’m afraid we are not currently taking on new business.”
Recognition was immediate. Micawber was unable to contain his astonishment. “Why, bless my soul, it is Mrs Gringlade, is it not?” At that, she looked up sharply and I noticed that the clerks also stared at us in sudden interest. After a long pause the lady replied, “You are mistaken Sir. My name is Mallerby.”
It was some moments before I could think of a suitable response. Then, “You must forgive, my friend, Madam,” I said. “You bear a striking resemblance to someone with whom we are slightly acquainted.”
The lady could not conceal her alarm. She instantly clapped her hands. It was a signal her clerks obviously understood, for they rose on the instant and hurried from the room. When the door had closed behind them their mistress invited us to be seated and, taking the only two chairs unencumbered by business documents, we complied. “It is I who must crave forgiveness, Sir,” she said. “The name of Gringlade brings back painful memories. Jedediah Gringlade was the name of my first husband. Our marriage was of short duration and, regrettably, not happy. It was a business arrangement, entered into at my
father’s behest. You will understand, therefore, if I try to close my mind to painful memories.” She scrutinized us with eyes that were dark and searching. “May I enquire how you recognized me? I think I have never had the pleasure of acquaintance with you. Who are you? Whence came you?”
We introduced ourselves in brief terms, then Micawber said, “Madam, I come as an emissary from your husband, Mr Gringlade, as fine and upstanding a gentleman as it has ever been my pleasure to encounter, and one, dare I say it, who would be mortified to hear himself described in the terms you have employed to us.”
Mrs Mallerby uttered a light laugh but I fancied that there was about it a suggestion of hysteria. “You are very much mistaken, Mr Micawber. I fear you have been the victim of some strange masquerade. Mr Gringlade has been dead these two years past – drowned in the very river that flows past these premises.”
“Did you see his body?” I enquired.
Abruptly the lady stood up, her body a-tremble. “This is monstrous behaviour, gentlemen!” she expostulated. “I know not why you should want to distress a poor widow so. It is cruel. Cruel! Please leave.” She took up a little bell from the desk and rang it vigorously. Her two acolytes re-entered. “Mr Walsh, show these gentlemen out,” she ordered.
The clerk led our way down the staircase. At its foot we passed a man talking agitatedly with a companion and waiting to ascend. There was something about him that compelled attention. I can only describe him as a ruffian dressed as a gentleman. His face was thin, verging on gaunt and disfigured by a scar across one cheek. His coat was of an expert cut with velvet collar and gilt buttons. It covered a frame that was slightly bent forward, as though he were perpetually endeavouring with difficulty to hear what others said to him. He looked equally hard at us, then climbed swiftly to the office we had just left.
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits Page 28