Book Read Free

The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits

Page 51

by Mike Ashley (ed)


  “Yet more creations from your fantastical brain, Mr Dickens. Ingenious, I grant you, but were I to have indeed committed the crimes you lay to my charge where is the evidence that would convince a court? And what of dear Lydia? Is it your contention that she also died at my hands?” he asked, fixing me with a baleful stare.

  “Ah, no,” I said. “There, I fear, nature is the villain. Should her body be examined I have no doubt but that the coroner would conclude that she died of a diseased heart. Yet it was the shock of seeing your murderous attack upon her aunt that, I believe, brought on the seizure that so tragically ended her young life. So, morally at least, you have three deaths to account for.”

  “And account you will, while there is breath in my body,” the Inspector declared as he hauled the villain from the bed and thrust him out the door.

  True to his word, Mr Field delved until, at last, he was able to draw all the strands of the case together and provide enough evidence to convince a jury. The man known as George Whitby was convicted, sentenced to death, and hung at Tyburn. When I read the reports of his death, I confess to a smile of grim satisfaction. As for Mr Dickenson, in due time – being some twelvemonth after the events described here, he was married and, on this eighth day of August, 1869, has embarked with his young bride for New York. For myself, I am glad to have had some small part in aiding his progress and to have returned to writing once more, brimming with ideas for a new novel. It will be a mystery, with a murder at its heart.

  Author’s Note: The story is based on the rail accident at Staplehurst on 9 June 1865 in which Dickens played the part, largely as described. The names of the dead quoted are from the official record of the inquest, though I have created the links between Miss White, Dr Hampson and Mrs Whitby and, of course, the crime itself.

  The character of Mr Dickenson is entirely mine, though a young man of that name was rescued by Dickens from the wreckage. That Dickenson was, in fact, later Major S. Newton Dickenson of the 19th Regiment. At the time of the crash he was 18 years old (not in his mid-twenties as I’ve described him). Charles Dickens treated him, in many respects, like his own son and did take an active interest in his career until their last meeting some time in late 1867.

  By a strange coincidence, a John T. Dickenson did emigrate with his wife to New York but probably not until around 1882 when they asssembled with others from England to organize a migration of their families westward. Four families out of the twelve eventually made their way to Missouri where they founded a colony. In 1888, John T. Dickenson built a huge new store building in Eglinton, Missouri, and later established a new post office, named after the English writer of whom he was very fond – Charles Dickens. That office was discontinued in 1952 but still goes by the name of Dickens. It is that foundation that led me to create the possible future for the Dickenson character I built in the story.

  The Thorn of Anxiety

  Edward Marston

  After completing Our Mutual Friend, Dickens threw himself into his round of public readings, both in Britain and in America. They were financially very rewarding, as they were to his ego, as he always delighted in public adulation, but they took a severe toll on his health. It was a man in great pain who picked up his pen to start what would be his final novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood.

  It is set in Cloisterham, the name Dickens gave to Rochester in Kent, near his home at Gad’s Hill. Edwin Drood and Rosa Bud are an endearing young couple promised to each other in marriage by the terms of their respective parents’ wills. Unknown to Edwin, he has a rival for Rosa’s affection, his uncle and guardian, John Jasper, her music teacher. Jasper is the Cathedral’s choirmaster but is also an opium addict, acquiring the drug from an old woman called Princess Puffer. Helena and Neville Landless, dark-skinned orphans from Ceylon, are sent to Cloisterham by their guardian. Neville is to be tutored by the Dean of the Cathedral, Septimus Crisparkle, while Helena joins Rosa and the other pupils at Miss Twinkle-ton’s Seminary for Young Ladies. As soon as he meets her, Neville falls in love with Rosa. He therefore takes offence when Edwin appears to be indifferent to his betrothed. A fierce row develops between the two men. John Jasper arrives to calm them down yet he later provokes a quarrel between them. On Christmas Eve, Edwin and Neville go down to the river to watch a storm raging. And that is the last anyone sees of Edwin Drood.

  Dickens died on 9 June 1870 when he had only completed about half of the planned novel, so we never discover what happened to Drood or, if he was murdered, who the culprit was. It has remained an enduring literary mystery and many have attempted their solution to the crime.

  Edward Marston is just one alias of the prolific author and playwright Keith Miles. He is perhaps best known for his Domesday series, set in the years after the Norman conquest, which started with The Wolves of Savernake (1993), but has also written the Nicholas Bracewell series of Elizabethan players that began with The Queen’s Head (1988), plus a series of maritime mysteries written under the alias Conrad Allen that began with Murder on the Lusitania (2000).

  Cloisterham was never particularly well lighted. When the strong wind blew out some of the lamps and, in some cases, shattered the glass, it was gloomier than ever in the cathedral city. The darkness was augmented and confused by flying dust from the earth, dry twigs from the trees, and great ragged fragments from the rooks’ nests up on the tower. When they got to the river, Edwin Drood and Neville Landless could feel the storm far more clearly than they could actually see it. An occasional flash of lightning in the distance illumined the scene for a brief moment and allowed them a glimpse of trees being bent to and fro, of bushes threshing wildly and of water being churned up into angry waves by the blast. From behind them came the sound of chimney pots being toppled into the streets and of slates smashing on the cobbles. A stray dog barked in fear.

  Cowed into silence by Nature’s deafening symphony, they stood side by side. They had come to establish some sort of reconciliation but neither of them felt able to make the first move. Another storm was raging inside Neville’s head and Edwin was also deeply troubled. Each of them was so locked up in his own private thoughts that he seemed unaware of the presence of a companion. As the tempest roared on, and as Christmas Day inched nearer, there was no festive spirit to cheer them. They were as unsettled as the weather.

  At length, Edwin made a supreme effort to speak, turning to Neville to offer him the hand of friendship. But the other man was no longer there. He had vanished into the darkness.

  “Neville!” he called. “Where are you, Neville?”

  There was no reply and, though Edwin explored the river bank in both directions, he could find no trace of Neville Landless. Giving up his search, he began to walk back towards the city, unaware that he was being stalked. When Edwin least expected it, someone came out of the gloom behind him and struck him hard across the back of the head with something cold, solid and unforgiving, sending his hat cartwheeling across the grass. As the victim fell to the ground, other blows rained down on him with relentless power until Edwin Drood plunged irretrievably into oblivion.

  Hiram Grewgious, that lawyer of incorruptible integrity, had his chambers in one of the two irregular quadrangles that formed Staple Inn. There was no irregularity in his office, however. It was a model of sublime order. Every account book, document, strong box, legal tome and item of correspondence was in its appointed place so that the lawyer could put his hand on it at a moment’s notice. When he was shown in, the visitor marvelled at the sense of overwhelming neatness and regulation.

  “Sit down, sit down, my dear sir,” said Grewgious, shaking his hand. “Thank you for coming so promptly.” His visitor lowered himself into a chair. “You received my letter, then?”

  “Yes, Mr Grewgious,” said the other, “and the case intrigued me. A man cannot disappear off the face of the earth without assistance. That assistance, of course,” he added, “could conceivably have come from the elements, though I think it highly unlikely that Mr Drood was blown into
the river by a blast of wind then carried helplessly away. Some trace of him would surely have been found.”

  “Search parties were sent out on the following morning. They scoured the river for miles.” He heaved a sigh. “What a way to spend Christmas Day – looking for a dead body!”

  “If, indeed, he is dead.”

  “What do you think?” asked Grewgious. “You are the detective.”

  “The balance of probability is that the young man is no longer alive. What must be discovered is whether he died by his own hand or by that of a person or persons unknown.”

  “Do you believe you can discover it?”

  “I’m certain of it.”

  “Six whole months have elapsed,” warned the lawyer.

  “Such an event will stay fresh in the memory for far longer than that. From what you tell me, Cloisterham is a sleepy place where very little happens.”

  “That is why Edwin’s disappearance caused such a stir.”

  “Exactly!” said the detective. “Besides, the passage of time will work to our advantage. People will be able to view the event with less passion and more objectivity than they did at the time. More to the point, Mr Grewgious, the killer – if such a person exists – will be so confident that he got away with it that he will be off guard.”

  “Neville Landless remains the chief suspect,” noted Grewgious, “even though there is insufficient evidence for an arrest. John Jasper, uncle to Edwin Drood, still believes that Neville was involved.”

  “I will go to Cloisterham with an open mind. Since no progress has been made in the investigation in six months, the killer has either fled from the city or is adept at hiding behind a disguise. I will meet him on his own terms and go there in a disguise of my own.”

  “A capital idea!”

  “When I have taken lodgings,” promised the detective, “I will inform you at once. Should you need to contact me by letter, refer to me by my assumed name.”

  “And what that might be, dear sir?” asked Grewgious.

  “Datchery – henceforth I am Dick Datchery, a single buffer, of even temper, living idly on his means.”

  “How soon do you expect to have gathered evidence?”

  “Very soon,” said the detective airily. “You have given me the necessary facts. You have described all the personalities involved. In other words, I have a flying start.” He got swiftly to his feet. “The case will be solved within a month. I have no doubt whatsoever about that.”

  Dick Datchery was as good as his word. Barely three weeks after being commissioned by Hiram Grewgious to look into the baffling mystery of Edwin Drood, he returned to the office in Staple Inn with a confident swagger. The lawyer was overjoyed to see him.

  “You’ve come back already!” he said, beaming. “I trust that you bring a full report.”

  “I do, indeed, sir,” replied Datchery, pulling a sheaf of papers from his pocket like a conjurer producing a rabbit from a hat. “I think you will find it admirably comprehensive.”

  “Then let’s hear it straight away.” He waved his visitor to a chair then resumed his own seat behind the desk. He became aware that his clerk was hovering at the door. “You’d better stay, Bazzard,” he went on, indicating that the clerk should close the door. “My clerk is cognisant of everything that’s passed between us regarding this case, Mr Datchery. You’ve no objection to his presence?”

  “None at all,” said the visitor, concealing the fact that he found Bazzard a particularly objectionable character and wondering why Grewgious employed someone so dull and melancholy. “I am your humble servant, sir. If you wish to summon a large audience for me, I’ll be happy to divulge my findings in front of them.”

  “Privacy is essential here. Bazzard and I will therefore be your only listeners. Are you agreed, Bazzard?”

  “If I’m ordered to stay,” said Bazzard gloomily, “then I will.”

  “Bless me!” cried Grewgious. “It’s not an order that I’m issuing. It’s an invitation.”

  “In that case, I don’t care if I do.”

  “Then it’s all arranged.”

  They were a strange pair. Hiram Grewgious was a dry, sandy-haired individual with a face so ashen and expressionless that it looked as if it had been carved out of balsa wood in a drunken stupor by a blind man with a blunt knife. Bazzard also lacked animation. His dark hair and dark eyes were thrown into sharp relief by the deathly pallor of his cheeks. Though he was much younger than Grewgious, the clerk seemed to have an inexplicable power over him, as evidenced by a deference shown to him by his superior.

  “We are ready, Mr Datchery,” announced Grewgious after first checking that Bazzard was comfortably ensconced. “Pray, proceed.”

  “Yes,” said Bazzard in a monotone. “Proceed, Mr Datchery.”

  “Then I will do so under my rightful name,” said the visitor, “and that, as you well know, is Richard Cherry, born and brought up in Datchet. For the purposes of disguise, I shortened Richard to Dick and lengthened my surname as compensation by using my birthplace as a suffix. Datchet and Cherry thus became Datchery. Having shed my false name,” he continued, reaching for his white mane, “I do the same with my false hair.”

  So saying, he pulled off his wig with a theatrical flourish and put it beside his feet where it lay like a contented albino spaniel. The transformation was extraordinary. He lost fifteen years in an instant, his eye took on more lustre and his face more definition. Dick Datchery, living idly on his means, became Mr Richard Cherry, private detective, alert, eager and wholly impressive. Grewgious let out a gasp of approval.

  “The secret,” Cherry resumed as he tapped his sheaf of papers, “was to infiltrate Cloisterham and win the confidence of its citizens. I befriended the excellent Canon Crisparkle, I lodged with the estimable Mr and Mrs Tope, I broke bread with Durdles, the stonemason, I dined with Thomas Sapsea, the Mayor, I ingratiated myself with Miss Twinkleton and I achieved as much familiarity with Deputy as it is possible to do with a wild boy compelled to throw stones at all and sundry. In short, sirs, I became one of them.”

  “One name remains unmentioned,” observed Grewgious.

  “I’ll come to him in a moment,” said the detective with a confiding smile. “First, let me deal with the young man supposed by some to have murdered Edwin Drood.”

  “Neville Landless?”

  “The very same, Mr Grewgious.”

  “You have proved his innocence?”

  “Without a shadow of doubt,” affirmed Cherry.

  “But he was the last person to see Edwin alive.”

  “That gruesome privilege was reserved for his killer, a fiend who did not – I repeat, did not – answer to the name of Neville Landless. Yes,” he hurried on as the lawyer raised a hand in protest, “I know that a certain amount of evidence points to the boy. He was impulsive, hot-blooded and had even confessed to harbouring thoughts of murdering his cruel stepfather. Neville and Edwin had quarrelled violently. On the night that they went down to the river together, Neville was carrying a walking stick, stout enough to knock out a man’s brains. All this is true, I’ll not deny it. What is equally true, however, is that Neville Landless was given to spontaneous action and I discern guile and calculation in this crime. That absolves the boy at once.”

  “Yet a certain person is absolutely convinced of his guilt,” the lawyer reminded him. “John Jasper has dedicated himself to the task of seeing Neville Landless convicted of murder.”

  “A clever ruse, sir,” said the detective.

  “A ruse?” repeated Bazzard.

  “Of the most devious kind.”

  “Pray, Mr Cherry,” said Grewgious. “Do please explain.”

  “What better way to deflect attention from oneself than by leading the hue and cry after someone else? John Jasper knows that Neville Landless is completely innocent because it was that same respected choirmaster who actually committed the crime.”

  Hiram Grewgious was shocked and he turned to his clerk to gau
ge his reaction. Bazzard gave nothing away, hiding whatever thoughts he might be having and whatever emotions he might be experiencing behind his usual bovine stare. Referring to the first page of his report, the erstwhile Dick Datchery surged on.

  “I ask you to consider these points, gentlemen,” he said. “First, that John Jasper was an opium addict. He patronised a London opium den run by Princess Puffer, an old woman I chanced to meet in Cloisterham. I need hardly tell you what effect that drug may have on a man’s brain. Septimus Crisparkle recalls a time when, recovering from the effects of opium, Mr Jasper leapt up from his couch in a state of delirium, neither awake nor asleep but occupying some region between the two where self-control does not exist and where a type of madness has free rein.”

  “You had this from the Dean?” asked Grewgious.

  “From his very lips, sir,” said the detective. “Much of what I am about to divulge came to me from Mr Crisparkle, though he was unwilling to draw the conclusion that John Jasper could be a killer.”

  “Mr Jasper loved Edwin Drood and did so excessively, by all accounts. What possible reason would he have to kill a nephew on whom he doted?”

  “Jealousy.”

  “Jealousy,” echoed Bazzard.

  “He loved Edwin but he loved Rosa Bud even more and he could never possess her while his nephew was still alive. The obstacle between him and his intemperate desire had to be removed.”

  “Rosa Bud would never marry Mr Jasper,” said the lawyer. “She told me so in this very room. He frightens her. When he declared his passion for her, it sounded more like a threat than a proposal. That’s why she fled to London.”

  “He will stalk her wherever she is,” said Cherry, “but I digress. Let me give you more evidence. Two, Mr Jasper provoked a quarrel between Edwin and Neville Landless. When the two young men were at such odds with each other, the sensible thing was to keep them apart. Instead, John Jasper invited them to dine with him and mixed a mulled wine of such strength that it was bound to inflame them and stir up their differences. Three,” he added turning over a page, “our cunning choirmaster told everyone about the animosity between the two fellows and he even showed Mr Crisparkle an entry in his diary, indicating his fear that Neville Landless’s resentment against Edwin would explode sooner or later.”

 

‹ Prev