“I have tried, Mr Dickens. They would not listen. They call it wild speculation, a woman’s hysteria. But a man in your position, with such a reputation, influence . . .”
The events she described only served to confirm my own fears. I promised to do what I could to spur the authorities to act but, for much of that day, was absorbed in more pressing matters of business and could not make good my words. By evening, I was too tired to return to Gad’s and determined, instead, to remain once again in town. I passed a fitful night and, on the morrow, set out to find my old friend Inspector Field before whom I laid all the facts, as I knew them. Though retired, he remained active in the role of Consultant Detective to the Metropolitan Police. He was as bluff as ever and, in his customary bustling manner, said, at last, “As neat a tangle as any yet, Mr Dickens. A poser an’ no mistake! A wealthy lady rushes orf to Italy in search of ‘er love-struck niece. A few days later, same lady travils from Folkestone on the Tidal an’ ends up done to death, or so it seems, by person or persons as yet unknown. And you think this George has had a hand in it?”
“I am inclined to Miss Mullender’s opinion, I confess. And you, Inspector?”
“Could be,” he said, his eye roving about the room, searching every corner in the constant expectation that the villain might be lurking even there. “He sounds a cunning cove, I will say that. Floating academy, eh? Man o’ bisness, you say? Not the type to bandy words like that in polite society. And what, I asks myself, does he want to go a-talking about prison hulks for in the first place. Served a stretch himself, p’raps?”
“If he’s as cunning as he seems,” I retorted, “he’d be too wily to get caught.”
“Maybe. Me and the lads’ll do a bit of snoopin’ around. See if we can’t get a bit o’ nose, beggin’ yer pardon information, on ‘im! Don’t worry, sir, we’ll have ‘im yet!”
With the Inspector’s confidence ringing in my ears, I took a leisurely stroll back to my offices, purchasing a copy of The London News on the way. Wills was still at luncheon and, feeling lethargic, I idled my way through its pages until I came to the account of the Staplehurst disaster and subsequent inquest. Charley’s description of proceedings had been sufficient for me to skip much of the detail on the events leading up to the crash. It was only when the unfortunate victims were enumerated that I paid particular close attention. There was poor Miss White, described starkly as “Female, 53, Spinster”, and alongside the names of her nine companions in death. I scanned the list: Hippoilite Mercier, Cook; Hannah Condliff, wife of Martin, Hotel Keeper; Adam Hampson, Surgeon. Then, one entry made my blood run cold. I read it over and over again, images of the dead suddenly before me. Then, in an instant I saw the whole fiendish device. There had been not one, but two murders at the least. And I had, unwittingly, aided the felon in concealing the crime.
I then debated whether to take up the newspaper, hail a cab – with all its attendant terrors – and relate what I now knew to the sagacious Inspector Field. To delay might allow the murderer even more time to elude justice. Set against that was the strong probability that he would not flee. If, indeed, he was hoping to gain control of Miss White’s fortune, he must needs await the interminably slow processes that followed the death of such a wealthy individual. There would be a funeral, a decent period of mourning, the reading of the Will, and endless other formalities. And if he was as cunning and cool as he appeared, he would be content, nay eager, to say and do nothing until that wealth was firmly in his grasp. That gave those pursuing him time, also. “No,” I concluded, there was no urgency. “Better,” I mused, “to let him believe himself safe.” So, instead, I busied myself for an hour or more with the pleasures of a mutton chop and a glass or two of Porter, drawing up the while what I hoped would be the instrument of his undoing. By the time Wills returned at two of the clock, I was ready to present my compliments, once again, to my fortunate friend, Mr Dickenson.
I found a remarkable transformation in his condition. He was out of bed and, indeed, about to take a short stroll when I encountered him in the lobby of the Hotel.
“I would be honoured, sir, if you would accompany me,” he said, when we had exchanged greetings.
“By all means,” I replied, readily slowing my normal gait to his more halting steps.
By no conscious decision, our slow progress led us towards the River. The heat was less oppressive than the previous day, though there were ominous signs of a storm to come in the louring clouds. A stiff breeze off the water sent shivers through my young companion.
“I fear I need to rest a while, Mr Dickens,” he sighed. “I am still too much the invalid, alas, and you who are so vigorous must find my pace wearisome.”
“By no means,” I replied, helping him to a nearby seat. “I should be glad of the opportunity to pause, also. The days since the dreadful accident have been very trying on my constitution and I confess to pains in my left foot. I have not fully recovered from an attack of frostbite earlier in the year. Too much walking in the snow after Christmas, I dare say. Now, tell me, dear sir,” I continued as we both took our ease, “a little about yourself. There is a young lady, perhaps, upon whom you have set your heart . . .”
“By Jove, Mr Dickens, how did you know?”
“A chance speculation, nothing more, my young friend. But, pray, enlighten me. Your affections, are they reciprocated?”
The gaze he fixed upon me was more eloquent than any words he could have uttered. There was joy in those eyes, a deep contentment, a certainty and yet, for a moment, a cloud passed across his vision, some hidden fear, perhaps. Then, sighing, he said: “Indeed, I am the most fortunate and happy man in the whole of this great Metropolis, nay in the entire British Empire. Becca, Miss Nash, has honoured me with her heart and I have obtained her father’s consent but . . .”
“Yes,” I asked, gently, after a brief pause.
“Ours will be a long engagement, I think,” he said, wrily. “Though we are of one mind about the future. God willing, we intend to emigrate. To the New World. We would like to have our own business, in a modest way, a shop perhaps. But that is some years in the future. For the present, we are content to save a little money towards the happy day.” There was a yearning in his voice, one that echoed my own feelings as a young man. For a long painful time I was visited by a Spirit. It wore blue drapery and I thought (but was not sure) that I recognized the voice of the most perfect creature that ever breathed. My emotions were so intense at that moment that they threatened to overwhelm me. I was strangely glad when I heard Mr Dickenson say, “But I trust in Him who ordains all things. He will speed our union, sir, I know it!”
He spoke shyly, but with quiet determination. I glanced sidelong at him: jet-black hair above a narrow visage, tanned from exposure to the summer sun, a plain but honest face, slightly Continental in appearance but no less pleasant for that. “Yet,” I reflected, “what lies behind his or any other such face? Kindness, truth, all manner of virtues? Or hidden malice, coldness, cruelty even? How to judge! Ay, there’s the rub!” Suddenly aware I had been neglectful, I turned to him again. He was shivering so, fearful for his health, I suggested we retrace our steps. “I confess, he said, “that would be most agreeable.”
We said little as we strolled until a remarkable occurrence as we were approaching the Hotel. A hansom, one among many, clattered alongside us. I chanced to look up, straight into the eyes of the passenger who, in an instant, drew back and called out: “Drive, man, as if your life depended upon it!” At once the vehicle picked up pace and was soon disappearing into the distance. I turned to Mr Dickenson, to comment upon the strangeness of the man’s behaviour but the sight of his face, ashen and drawn, stopped my mouth. He staggered, suddenly, and almost collapsed into my arms. “My dear, sir, I said when I had restored him to the perpendicular, “what ails you?”
“Oh, Mr Dickens, it is he, the very Devil incarnate!”
“Who? The fellow in the cab? There was something familiar . . . His name?”
“He has many, none true, I dare say. Some call him Thomas Gospel, others Jonathan Ferry, Stephen Bardock, Robin Why. All I know is he is the coldest most black-hearted villain . . .”
“What? Bardock, you say? Of Clapham?”
“You know him? But how?”
“No matter. For the moment. Pray, relate to me the circumstances of your acquaintance. And omit no detail, however trivial,” I said, sensing that, at last, I might have started in earnest upon the trail I had neglected thus far. The tale he told matched in so many tiny details the one Miss Mullender had related that I had not a scintilla of doubt but that the George she described was one and the same man with the heartless fiend who had done so much to blight the lives of young Mr Dickenson and his intended bride. When he had concluded his narrative, I rapidly sketched for him my surmises concerning the Staplehurst disaster and then asked: “Do you feel strong enough to hazard an adventure that will rid the world of this villain?”
“Indeed, Mr Dickens, I am. Though I fear I may be of poor use in a tight corner, should matters come to that.”
Our compact made, I bade him farewell, then hastened to my office to find Wills pacing the floor in a most agitated manner. “Ah, there you are!” he cried as I entered. “I have had a visit from a Police Constable not ten minutes since.”
“Oh?” I replied. “And?”
“Inspector Field sends his compliments and asks if you will be kind enough to meet him at St Giles’s Station House at nine tonight. The Constable will return within the hour for your response.”
“Splendid!” I cried. “I will compose it this very instant!”
I scribbled a brief note of gratitude and then turned my attention to other matters. The afternoon and early evening were slow, dull affairs, leaving me ill at ease and dissatisfied with my own attempts at writing. After a mediocre supper, I made my way eagerly to St Giles Church where the clock was just striking the three-quarter hour. Mr Dickenson arrived shortly thereafter and we were soon attended by a Detective Sergeant and a Constable, both of whom greeted us most cordially on the Inspector’s behalf.
Presently, Mr Field himself joined us. I introduced Mr Dickenson and, as we walked, the young man regaled our escorts with what he knew of our villain. In turn, we were given to understand that a fellow answering to the description provided by Miss Mullender had been spied that very afternoon leaving a low lodging house in a street known as Rats’ Castle. Not fifty paces from the Station House, and within call of Saint Giles’s Church, we found our senses assailed by a compound of sickening smells as we picked our way among heaps of filth, all around us tumbling houses and in the light from the Constable’s lantern, a host of lowering foreheads, sallow cheeks, brutal eyes, matted hair, and ragged figures who scuttled into the gloom at the sight of us. Some, however, the more brazen perhaps, closed in round us forming a silent, sullen cordon which threatened to impede our progress. At the sight of two other Constables on duty who had followed us, however, they did as instructed and “hooked it”, sneaked away, as Inspector Field shouted, “Close up there, my men! Keep together, gentlemen; we are going down here. Heads!”
At the end of a lane of light, made by the lantern, was a dilapidated door. The Sergeant barged it wide; we stooped low and crept down a precipitous flight of steps into a dark close cellar. There was a fire, a long deal table and several benches. The room was full of company, chiefly young men in various conditions of dirt and raggedness. Some were sleeping, each on his foul truckle-bed coiled up beneath a rug. Others were eating supper and looked up, alarmed, at the sight of the Inspector. Clearly, he was a well-known figure. Every thief cowered before him. A tall grey, soldierly-looking elderly man whom we understood, later, was the Deputy who ran the lodging-house, suddenly called out in a loud, strident voice: “Why, Mr Field, I hope I see you well, Mr Field?” At the sound of the name, a heap of rags in the corner at once started up and, scuttling past us, bolted up the steps to the street above.
“It’s him,” yelled Mr Dickenson at my side.
“After him!” the Inspector barked, but the Deputy, surprisingly agile for his age, barred the entrance, holding up a flaring candle in a blacking-bottle and asking: “Do you want to see upstairs? I’ll be pleased to show the rooms!”
“So, you would play the confederate, would you, Grout?” the Sergeant said, thrusting him away. “I shall be a-visiting you again!”
The threat had the desired effect. He moved aside and we left him to the ministrations of the denizens of his cellar and set off in hot pursuit of the pile of rags. “This Bardock is a nimble cove,” Mr Field said, as we emerged into the street. “But I have the hand that naps his. Quick, my lads, this way! A rat needs flushing out. And no use a-waitin’ till he’s safe in his drain, eh, Mr Dickens?”
We were about to set off when my young companion seized me by the arm. “I cannot keep pace, sir,” he said, ruefully, “My legs remain weak . . .”
“Hah!” the Inspector said, “Green, a hansom for the gentleman!”
“And the address, sir?” the young Constable asked. A hurried whispering, the nodding of heads, a shrill whistle, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and Mr Dickenson was safely stowed and on his way.
“Now,” Mr Field said, “for our quarry!” He led us down a maze of streets and courts, lit only by the lanterns the Constables carried. Here and there, a chink of illumination would be furnished by the curious opening of a shutter or the passing of a candle behind a grimy window pane but, for the most part we stumbled and dodged as best we could in the gathering darkness. At last, we turned a corner and beheld Mr Dickenson, standing nervously outside a sequestered tavern. In the bar, among ancient bottles and glasses, men in sailors’ garb sat, smoking pipes and listening to a sentimental sea song. The landlord, a tall rotund man, sauntered over to us and greeted the Inspector freely and good-humouredly.
“Bardock?” you say, he asked when informed of our purpose. “Thin dark cove about so high?” He extended an arm just below Mr Field’s shoulder.
“The very same! His room. Smartly now. He can’t be long on our heels. Green, Rogers, set a watch!”
The landlord whipped away the Constables’ uniform jackets and supplied them with aprons. They soon melted into quiet corners, no doubt with a good view of all the ways in and out of the crowded room. Then, he showed us up a flight of rickety stairs under the watchful gaze of many in the company. “Don’t you worry, Mr Dickens,” the Sergeant said. “They’ll not meddle. The Inspector’s done more than one a good turn and sailors has long memories!”
We had barely settled ourselves in the narrow dingy cell than there was the rapid pitter-patter of light feet on boards outside. The Sergeant motioned my young friend and I to flatten ourselves against the chamber wall either side of the entrance while he and the Inspector took up their stations to forestall any attempt at escape through the casement. My heart beating fast, I watched as a thin figure hurried in from the corridor. He had barely crossed the threshold when I slammed the flimsy door shut and pressed my back against it. Rapidly scanning the room, and realizing he was trapped, he drew a knife from somewhere in his clothing and brandished it. “The first one as tries to take me I’ll drop where he stands, so help me!” he cried.
For a moment, no one moved and I was able to observe him more closely. He had discarded the bundle of rags he was wearing in Rats’ Castle and was clad in much more respectable garb. Gone was the pale, thin, grieving bridegroom whose plight I had felt so much for at the Staplehurst disaster. In his place a swarthy, grim-faced fellow stared balefully round, calculating, no doubt, the forces ranged against him. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw young Mr Dickenson step cautiously forward. Fearful that the villain might observe his motion and lash out with the knife, I said: “Mr Bardock, we meet again. Or perhaps you would prefer Mr George Whitby since it is in his guise, I believe, that you stand before us?”
“Ah, the great novelist, Charles Dickens, eh?” he sneered. “To set my eyes on such an august fi
gure once in my life was a singular honour. Twice, sadly, is not!” With that, he lunged at me. As he did so, there was the whish of a cane and he lay sprawled upon the boards.
“Oh, well done, Mr Dickenson, sir!” the Inspector cried as he and the Sergeant pinioned the seething murderer and wrestled the knife from his bony fingers. Then, thrusting him hard upon the bed and fastening his wrists with bracelets, they turned him to face me.
“And what great fiction have you concocted to ensnare me?” he hissed.
“Oh, this is no invention of mine,” I replied. “The web in which you are now caught is of your own weaving. In brief, you wooed the naïve and impressionable Miss Lydia Kimber, won her heart with your smooth lies, in order to obtain the fortune to which she was heir. In the face of resolute opposition from her aunt, you convinced the poor creature to escape with you to France where you promptly married her. By the time her relative arrived to forestall you, your new bride had already glimpsed something of your true character and regretted the match. Secure in the knowledge that Miss White would go to any length to resuce her niece from your clutches, you readily agreed to a handsome settlement to have the union set aside. Am I correct, thus far?”
“An interesting fairy story,” he retorted coldly.
“Then,” I continued, “a little over twenty minutes from Folkestone, there occurred the Staplehurst disaster. As the train derailed, you grasped the chance for more than the part-share in Miss White’s fortune to which you had agreed. Attacking the poor woman as she fell, you thought to give her a mortal wound. But, and here I confess I am speculating, your blow was deflected . . . by the doctor accompanying her, Mr Hampson. In your fury, you struck him so forcibly that, when I came upon him a few moments later, he promptly expired where he lay. Then, the carriage plunged into the stream below and you set out to ensure that Miss White was indeed dead. But she was very much alive and I tending her. Watching from some hidden vantage point among the wreckage, you waited until I had moved away then, cool as ice, strangled her where she lay. In the struggle, you sustained the scratches I see remain upon the backs of your hands.”
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits Page 50