“Well, Micawber,” said I, as we walked back along the quay, “here’s a strange turn of events. Mrs Gringlade, it seems, believes in her husband’s guilt and also his suicide. Who’s to be believed?”
My friend turned upon me a face lined with such indignation as I did not recall ever having observed even in the days of his own severe trials. “Wilkins Micawber has ever held the gentle sex in high esteem,” he said, “but may I observe – yes, I believe in this instance I may truthfully observe – that that person it has just been our ill-fortune to encounter is a disgrace to womankind.”
“You do not suppose that it might be Gringlade who is the villain? May he not have taken advantage of your good nature to discover whether the coast was now clear for him to return to England?”
“I will stake my life on his honesty, Copperfield,” Micawber averred. “My confidence is buttressed by the untruths that lady who calls herself by the name of Mallerby has just uttered.”
“But we are in no position to judge the accuracy of her testimony,” I protested.
Micawber’s agitated stride came to a full halt. Turning to face me, he said. “The lady claimed to believe her husband dead. Wilkins Micawber knows to the contrary. Gringlade sent a message back to his wife informing her of his safe arrival in the colonies. It was entrusted to a certain Mr Llewelyn, master of Elizabeth Shaw, a fine clipper ship. The chosen courier is a man of excellent character whom I am privileged to count among my acquaintances. Llewelyn vouched for the safe delivery of the missive. If George Llewelyn asserts that something is so, it is so.”
We resumed our walk but had not advanced more than a dozen paces before three men emerged from a side alley and placed themselves squarely in our path. The leader of this little gang was instantly recognizable as the scar-faced man whom we had briefly encountered not five minutes since. It was he who spoke. “Not so fast, you two,” he shouted. “We don’t like strangers who come here asking questions.” He spoke with a heavy continental accent. “Come and discuss your business with us.”
“I think not,” I replied, with as much calm as I could muster.
At that the trio took a pace forward and Scarface’s companions brandished truncheons. I looked around for possible assistance, but the only nearby occupants of the dockside were studiously attending to their own affairs. I reflected that gangs of armed thugs were not uncommon along the waterfront and that prudent bystanders were unlikely to interfere with them. Our carriage was some fifty yards beyond the human barrier. There was no possibility of our regaining it in safety.
Scarface addressed us again with a smile. “I said, ‘Come with us’,” he repeated. “This way.” He gestured towards the alley from which he and his friends had just emerged. It took little imagination to envisage what our fate would be if we accompanied our assailants into that dark, overhung passageway.
“And I replied, ‘I think not”,’ I said. From the pocket of my topcoat I withdrew the small pistol I am accustomed to carrying on those occasions when my affairs take me to the less salubrious areas of the city. I pointed it at the chest of the scar-faced man. “We do, indeed, have business to discuss,” I said. “You will accompany us.”
For several seconds the rogue glared at us. Then he muttered something to his companions. One of them took a step towards us but when I pointed my weapon at him he stopped. “Our business is with Mr Narbig,” I said. “If either of you other gentlemen is here by the time I count to five I will shoot him. One!”
I had only reached three when Scarface’s companions concluded that discretion was the better part of valour. They slunk away towards the murky hinterland of the docks.
“Now, Mr Narbig, be so good as to precede us and remember that my pistol is pointed at the small of your back.”
Moments later we were seated in the carriage, Micawber and I on either side of our unwilling guest and my gun prodded into his ribs. I was gratified to see that the ruffian was now perspiring. I gave instructions to the coachman to take us out of this overcrowded region and into the more secluded suburbs.
“Who are you? What you want? Why you come here? How you know my name?” he demanded.
“My friend here will ask the questions,” I said. “You will answer them and you would be well advised to answer them truthfully, for be sure that we shall know if you are lying.”
Micawber cleared his throat and addressed our prisoner in what I assumed to be his well-practised, stern magisterial manner. “We are here to investigate the murder of Mr Solomon Avebury. I adjure you most solemnly to tell us all you know on that mournful subject.”
He shrugged. “I know nothing,” he averred.
I thrust the pistol’s barrel more firmly into his side. “It is the truth. I was not here when it happened,” he insisted.
“You had a grudge against your ex-employer and his assistant, Mr Gringlade,” Micawber persisted.
“I was angry. Yes,” he admitted. “They dismissed me without cause. It was unjust.”
“Where do you claim that you were?” Micawber demanded.
“I was in Liverpool, looking for work,” Narbig explained. “Avebury and Gringlade, they had blackened my name here. No one would employ me.”
“And yet I see that you have prospered,” said I, feeling the cloth of his coat. “Dock workers cannot afford such apparel.”
“A rich aunt died and left me some money,” replied he truculently.
“So, we are to infer from your silence that you have nothing to tell us,” Micawber suggested. “Well, we have testimony to the contrary.”
“Pooh,” Narbig scoffed. “Testimony from who?”
“Mr Jedediah Gringlade,” Micawber replied.
“Nonsense! Gringlade is dead,” our prisoner expostulated.
“On the contrary,” Micawber rejoined. “He is very much alive and has gathered the evidence that will clear his name.”
Narbig shook his head. “No, it’s not possible! She told me . . .” He stopped abruptly.
“She? I take it you refer to Mrs Mallerby. And what was it that that good lady told you?” I asked.
Narbig pursed his lips.
“Well, Micawber,” I said. “It seems this fellow is determined to carry his silence to the grave. I suggest we waste no more time with him. Another twenty minutes and we shall be in a quiet stretch of woodland. That will suit our purpose very well. Let us enjoy the ride in peace.”
“What you mean? Who are you people? Who set you onto me?” Narbig demanded, now very agitated.
By way of reply I put my finger to my lips and sat back against the cushions.
“I tell you I was not there!” the wretched man persisted. “I do not know what happened.”
“Of course you were not there. How could you have been? But you most certainly do know what happened and I think you have done very well for yourself by that knowledge,” I said. “But no matter. Since you choose not to cooperate, you are of no further use to us.”
We had entered a belt of open country near Hackney and I signalled the coachman to stop. “Mr Micawber,” I said, “would you be good enough to step down and scout out the land. A quiet lane, perhaps, through those woods up yonder should suit our purposes. I’ll keep an eye on this fellow.”
Micawber stepped into the roadway, leaving the carriage door open. With a sudden movement Narbig lurched for the opening, stumbled onto the highway, picked himself up, scrambled over a five-barred gate and set off across the fields as fast as his legs would carry him. Micawber’s alarmed visage appeared in the doorway. “Copperfield, quick, man,” he shouted, “after him. The blackguard is getting away!”
I laughed aloud. “My dear Micawber, you didn’t suppose I was going to shoot the fellow, did you? I believe we would have discovered little more by further questioning and we must return to town quickly.”
Micawber clambered back into the carriage and flopped onto the seat opposite. I gave instructions to the coachman who whipped up his horses and turned once more toward
s London. As we jolted along at a lively trot Micawber gazed at me in bewilderment. “My dear Copperfield,” he uttered, “much disturbed as I have been by the alarming events of this morning, I experience a greater turbulence of spirit as a result of your actions. We had apprehended the murderer and were in train, as I supposed, to deliver him up to justice. Yet you have allowed him to escape and I dare opine that I am not sanguine of the likelihood of his recapture by the authorities.”
“Oh, Narbig is not our man,” I said. “I am sure of it. He has an intelligence somewhat above that of the usual international flotsam which drifts into every port in the world, but he lacks the wit to plan an elaborate crime. You have more acquaintance than I with men who live beyond the law. Would you not concur with me that our friend Narbig is a mere opportunist felon, a ruffian good for nothing but waylaying honest citizens or breaking into their houses? He will end up in a prison cell or on the gallows without any assistance from us.”
Micawber nodded gravely. Then, laying his top hat beside him on the seat, he passed a hand over his bald dome and asked, “However did you know that Narbig was the miscreant referred to by Gringlade in his letter? Surely you cannot have decided that from the briefest of observations you were able to make on first encountering him.”
“I own, dear friend, that that was fortuitous. It had always seemed to me that ‘Narbig’ was an unusual name, probably foreign. When we saw at Avebury’s an uncouth fellow speaking with a heavy accent and facially disfigured – well the pieces of the puzzle came together.”
Micawber frowned. “Your reasoning still eludes me,” he protested.
“It is simple if one has a slight acquaintance with foreign languages. I have gained a smattering of German on my travels and in the Germanic tongue the word ‘narbig’ means ‘scarred’. I imagine our friend had come to regard his facial wound – doubtless acquired in some tavern brawl or gang fracas – as a badge of honour and so elected to be known as ‘Georg’ or ‘George, the Scarred’.”
“And, yet, you still acquit this villain of the murder of the venerable Solomon Avebury?” he demanded.
“I do,” said I, “though with the greatest reluctance, for it forces upon me a conclusion so horrible that I shrink from embracing it.” As we travelled back to the scene of our earlier adventure I explained to Micawber the line of logic which offered a solution to the mysterious death of Solomon Avebury. His mournful visage was expressive of his unwillingness to concur with my conclusions and he raised several objections, most of which I was able to discount.
“Mallerby, then, must be our man,” Micawber suggested, “for he seems to have won Mrs Gringlade and the business. Doubtless he prevailed upon the hapless and defenceless lady to accede to his importunities, even though she knew her husband still lived. What a double-dyed villain! Where do you suppose that we shall locate him?”
“That is a question we must put to his wife,” I replied grimly.
When we reached Avebury’s warehouse once more and enquired for Mrs Mallerby we were advised that, soon after our earlier visit, she had departed hurriedly for her own home. We obtained directions and hastened in pursuit. Our brief journey took us to a square of elegant houses arranged around an area of greensward and trees. A large carriage and four was drawn up outside the Mallerby residence, into which servants were loading boxes and valises. I jumped down to the cobbles and assisted my friend’s descent. “Come, Micawber,” said I. “I had feared we might be too late but it seems that we are arrived in the very nick of time.”
We hurried into the house, making short work of a burly footman who sought to bar our entry. A quick investigation of the ground floor rooms yielded nothing and we hurried up a grand staircase. There, in a wide chamber containing an imposing, curtained bed and other rich furnishings, we discovered Mrs Mallerby. She stood by an elaborate coiffeuse in the midst of a sea of strewn garments which her maid was trying to pack into a large trunk. Mrs Mallerby was in the highest degree distracted. At the sight of us she uttered a little cry and sank upon the bed.
Micawber advanced into the room. “Madam,” said he, in a tone at once grave and diffident, “we regret the necessity of imposing on you in this brusque and unannounced manner, but it is of the highest imperativeness that we speak with your husband. Please be so good as to inform us where he may be found.”
“My dear friend,” I interposed, “we shall not, I fear, locate Jethro Mallerby in this world. This lady, I feel sure, does not wear widow’s weeds for her first husband. I am correct, am I not, madam?”
Mrs Mallerby nodded her drooped head and pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.
“What was the manner of his departure?” I demanded sternly.
“A sudden fever,” she muttered. “Typhus, our physician diagnosed.”
“Brought on, perhaps, by some noxious substance in his food,” I suggested.
At that Micawber protested loudly. “My dear Copperfield,” said he, “whatever can be your meaning. Surely, you do not suggest . . .”
I motioned him to silence and, at the same time indicated that Mrs Mallerby’s maid should leave us. When we were alone and the lady had somewhat composed herself I admonished that flight was useless. “If you will unburden yourself to my friend and me we will undertake whatever lies in our power to help you,” I promised.
When she looked up at us it was with a visage remarkably transformed. All feminine softness was departed from her features. Her voice when she replied was sharp.
“What help have I ever had from men?” she demanded scornfully. “Weak, ineffective creatures! My father was an incompetent businessman. Under his control the family concern was sliding steadily towards insolvency. Our rivals, especially Joseph Stickle, were taking trade away from us. I had no desire to end my days in the workhouse, yet that appeared to be the destination to which my father was steering us.”
“Surely matters improved when you married Jedediah Gringlade,” Micawber suggested. “I can vouch for the fact that he has a good business head on his shoulders.”
“Oh, he was clever enough,” Mrs Mallerby said, “but weak, weak! He would not stand up to my father. Our affairs progressed from bad to worse.”
“I imagine,” said I, “that Jethro Mallerby was a horse of a different colour.”
“Jethro knew what he wanted and knew how to attain it,” she agreed.
“So you selected him as your Macbeth to dispose of Duncan.”
She glared at us. “I suppose Mr Gringlade has worked out some version of what happened on the night of my father’s death. It was entirely Mallerby’s plan.”
“It was a diabolical plan and one with which you obviously concurred,” I rejoined. “No one could have gained access to your father’s office on that fateful night without a key and you can have been the only person, apart from your father and your husband, who had access to one. Doubtless you promised yourself to the murderer once your husband should have been hanged for a crime of which he was innocent.”
“You must believe me when I say that I rejoice that he avoided that fate,” the lady responded. “By his apparent death, Jedediah inadvertently completed the plan for the recovery of Avebury and Son. Under Mallerby’s direction business boomed once more.”
“I suppose,” said Micawber, “that he brought to commercial affairs the same ruthlessness that fired his personal ambition. The combustion that engulfed the premises of your closest rival was, I dare suggest, no accident.”
She shrugged. “Commerce is a battlefield, Mr Micawber,” she said. “Jethro was an effective general and he soon acquired a lieutenant who was even more devoid of principle than himself.”
“I take it you refer to George Narbig,” Micawber suggested.
“Detestable, twisted, vile, little German!’ Mrs Mallerby cried. “I curse the day he reappeared in our offices and pressed his services upon my husband. It was obvious to me that the man was trouble but I could not persuade Jethro. He believed Narbig and his thugs were worth employing
on those nefarious enterprises which were necessary for our business success.”
“But the servant rapidly became the master,” I suggested.
She nodded miserably. “The wretch possessed himself of our business and family secrets and demanded ever larger sums for his silence. Now that I am obliged to take the helm and manage unaided, that scar-faced monster battens upon the business and takes whatever he wills for himself and his cronies.”
The lady’s demeanour had changed once again. Gone was the truculently out-thrust jaw and the eyes that glowed with defiance. Now the kerchief was frequently applied to her tear-stained cheeks. “You see, gentlemen, how a poor woman can be ill-used and preyed upon by wicked men,” she sobbed.
“I see clearly how greed and ambition can corrupt people of either sex,” I responded, “though it grieves us severely that you should have become a party to patricide and mariticide in order to maintain an appearance of gentility.”
At that the creature threw herself at our feet. “No, no, gentlemen,” she pleaded. “You must not believe me capable of such wickedness.”
“What we believe is immaterial, Madam,” I replied. “You may save your histrionics for a jury. And now we bid you good day.”
From the Mallerby house we drove directly to the nearest police station and made our report. Darkness was spreading across the land before we were at liberty to set out for the familiar comforts of home. For much of our journey Micawber remained silent. I imagined that he was contemplating how he would report to Gringlade on the outcome of his mission. “Well, Copperfield,” he remarked at last, “what a day of melancholy revelations we have had and whether or not one should welcome them I confess I am at a loss to comprehend. When truth comes calling one must open the door but he is sometimes an unwelcome guest. I am most grateful for your deliberations; I will not say your assistance for I am cognizant of the fact that I have contributed nothing to the events of this extraordinary day. Left to myself I should have reached entirely erroneous conclusions.”
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits Page 29