The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits

by Mike Ashley (ed)

  “Jealousy,” noted Bazzard.

  “Jealousy, perhaps,” conceded the other, “but it was tempered by strong protective feelings towards Rosa Bud. Her betrothed, as he then was, spoke of her unkindly and her new admirer could not bear that. He felt that Rosa deserved better from her future husband.”

  “So she did,” said Grewgious sorrowfully. “You have done well, Mr Cherry, and I congratulate you, but I have to admit that I’ve yet to hear any conclusive proof of Mr Jasper’s involvement in the crime.”

  “Bear with me,” Cherry assured him, “and you will. Four, there is the night that Mr Jasper visited the stonemason among the tombs. I had to chisel this information out of Durdles and Deputy and, though neither of them is wholly reliable on his own, their testimony, when put together, leads to a startling revelation.”

  “Why, dear sir – what happened?”

  “In brief, the facts are these. Mr Jasper expressed much interest in the tomb of Ethelinda Sapsea, late wife of the Mayor of Cloisterham, and not only because he advised Mr Sapsea on the wording of the inscription to be put on the tomb. He had brought drink with him and offered it to Durdles. No sooner had the stonemason poured it down his throat than he lapsed into a sleep, long enough for his companion to deprive him of the key to Mrs Sapsea’s tomb.”

  “Why ever should he do that?” said Grewgious.

  “In order to formulate his plan.”

  “Jealousy,” intoned Bazzard.

  “I fancy that it was lust that impelled him,” said Cherry, turning over another page. “Lust for Rosa Bud, lust for power, lust for the world of sensation he had glimpsed in his opium-induced trances. He entered the tomb and when he came out – Deputy swears that he saw this occur – he took something from his pocket and pressed the key into it. I believe that Mr Jasper was making a wax impression so that the key could be later copied by a locksmith. There was something else that the boy witnessed. Durdles had already shown his visitor where the quicklime was kept and told him of its properties. Deputy, albeit coaxed with a little money, remembered watching Mr Jasper return to look at the quick lime and stand in a meditative attitude for some time. He only moved from the spot when the boy knocked off his top hat with a well-aimed stone.”

  “This is all very intriguing,” said Grewgious, sucking his teeth, “but I wish that you could call upon more convincing witnesses than a drunken stonemason and an untamed street urchin.”

  “Don’t you realise what Mr Jasper was doing?” said Cherry.

  “Paying his respects to the dead, that was all.”

  “Then why do it so late at night, Mr Grewgious? Why not visit the place in daylight where he could read the inscriptions and find his way around without the aid of Durdles? What he was doing,” said the detective, finding a new page, “was searching for a means of disposing of the body.”

  “But we know how it was disposed of,” argued the lawyer. “It was flung into the river. Mr Crisparkle found Edwin’s watch and shirt-pin at the Weir. They must have become detached during the struggle and were carried downstream. To rescue them, Mr Crisparkle had to risk life and limb by plunging into the icy, turbulent water. As for the body, it must have been washed out to sea.”

  “That is precisely what John Jasper wanted us to believe.”

  “Are you saying that he put those items at the Weir?”

  “Dick Datchery is certain of it and so am I. In a sentence,” said Cherry, inflating his chest as he reached the climax of his report, “the truth is this. Knowing that his nephew was out in the storm that night and aware that Neville Landless had been his companion and could therefore be made to look like the villain, John Jasper murdered Edwin Drood, carried his body to Mrs Sapsea’s tomb, opened it with the substitute key then destroyed the corpse with quicklime.”

  “Ingenious!” exclaimed Grewgious.

  “What about the ring?” asked the lugubrious Bazzard.

  “A perceptive question, sir,” said Cherry, genuinely surprised at this flash of intelligence from the clerk. “Mr Grewgious told me about the ring of rubies and diamonds, delicately set in gold. It had belonged to Rosa Bud’s mother and he instructed Edwin to place it on the girl’s finger as a token of his determination to marry her. In fact, Rosa wanted to call off the engagement and have Edwin as no more than a good friend, a situation to which, I suspect, he readily complied. Now, sir,” he went on, turning to the lawyer, “was the ring returned to you?”

  “No,” replied Grewgious. “Edwin must have kept it.”

  “Unbeknown to John Jasper,” the detective pointed out. “His uncle knew about all the other jewellery upon Edwin’s person. He chose to detach the watch and the shirt-pin. Of the existence of the ring, he was totally unaware.”

  Grewgious jumped to his feet in excitement. “I think I see where all this is heading,” he said. “Edwin’s body may have been dissolved by the quicklime but it could not consume rubies and diamonds. If your supposition is right, they should still be there in the tomb.”

  “They will be,” said the detective with confidence. “That is why you and I will return to Cloisterham at once and, witnessed by policemen, have that tomb opened for inspection.”

  “Splendid work, sir! What do you say, Bazzard?”

  The clerk rolled his eyes. “Jealousy.”

  They caught the next stagecoach to the cathedral city and spent most of the journey wishing that a railway station would soon be built in Cloisterham, making any visits to and from the capital speedier and more comfortable. Bazzard accompanied the two men and Richard Cherry, now disguised once more as Dick Datchery, was in such high humour that he did not resent the presence of the mournful clerk. The detective’s patient work was at last on the point of fruition and nothing could rob him of his exhilaration.

  Arriving at their destination, they summoned two policemen then conducted them to the tomb of Ethelinda Sapsea, into which the lengthy and sanctimonious inscription devised by her husband had now been carved with reverential finality. Stony Durdles was hauled out of the vault and, without any explanation, ordered to open the tomb. He showed great reluctance, warning them that the Mayor would hear of this outrage and might well take legal action against those who disturbed the peace of his dear wife.

  “That peace has already been disturbed,” said Dick Datchery, tiring of the man’s resistance and snatching the key from him. “When we enter this tomb, you will find proof positive of a heinous crime and you, Mr Durdles, will realize that you were an unwitting accomplice of the devil who committed it.” He turned the key then flung open the door. “Behold, gentlemen, evidence of a foul murder.”

  And that is exactly what they did behold. But it was not the tell-tale ruby and diamond ring that met their gaze nor was it anything else that might have been connected with Edwin Drood. What lay on the cold stone floor in front of them was the corpse of an old woman with a necklace of dried blood to show them exactly where her throat had been cut from ear to ear. It was left to Deputy, the ragged boy with his pockets full of stones, to identify the murder victim. Pushing between the two policemen, he needed only a glance at the haggard face and the lifeless body.

  “Princess Puffer,” he said. “She runs a Hopium den in London.”

  John Jasper was coming around Minor Canon Corner when he saw the posse approaching. His nerve failed. The sight of two policemen, a lawyer and his clerk, a stonemason and a boy, all of them led by a dark-haired man waving a luxuriant white wig in his hand, was too much for the choirmaster. Abandoning all decorum, he turned on his heel and ran for all he was worth. To the following pack, it was a clear confession of guilt. The chase was on. Grewgious waddled, Bazzard loped, Durdles lumbered, the quondam Dick Datchery managed a respectable sprint and the two policeman blew their whistles as they bounded along.

  Once again, it was Deputy who came to the fore. Outstripping all the others, he hit their quarry with such a merciless volley of stones that Jasper sank to his knees and covered his head with his arms. He was soon s
urrounded. Because he was panting less than anyone else, Richard Cherry became the official spokesman, using the stern voice he had cultivated when working as an Inspector in the Metropolitan Police Force.

  “Seize him!” he ordered and the policeman obeyed, taking an arm apiece and hauling the prisoner to his feet. “John Jasper,” said the detective, pointing an accusing finger at him, “you are under arrest for the murder of Princess Puffer, whose body you concealed in the tomb of Ethelinda Sapsea until you could dispose of it with quicklime. You killed a poor, weak, defenceless woman of advanced years.”

  “She was a manipulative old hag,” snarled the unrepentant Jasper. “She only came here to blackmail me.”

  “That does not excuse your crime,” said Cherry, replacing his wig so that he became Dick Datchery once more. He smiled at Jasper’s obvious consternation. “Yes, my friend, you recognize me now. You remember all those confidences we traded. I met Princess Puffer and I know you were a client of hers in London, a dope fiend who made some incautious remarks while in the grip of opium. My guess is that those remarks concerned your nephew, Edwin Drood.”

  “Ned!” cried Jasper. “I miss my dear, sweet, lovable Ned!”

  “He was not dear, sweet and lovable when you took his life on Christmas Eve and tried to pin the crime on someone else.”

  “I never touched Ned – I swear it!”

  “The evidence is irrefutable,” said Grewgious. “I employed a detective to find out who the real murderer was and he has done so.”

  “No!” protested Jasper in desperation. “I admit that I cut the throat of that vicious harpy, Princess Puffer, and I’ll go to the gallows for it. There are other crimes on my conscience that will be removed by the hangman’s noose. But,” he pleaded, “I swear by all that’s holy that I did not harm Ned in any way.”

  Datchery was not persuaded. “Where have you hidden the ring?” he demanded. “That will attest the truth.”

  “What ring?”

  “The ruby and diamond ring that was in Edwin Drood’s pocket. When you destroyed all trace of him with quicklime, the ring would have survived. You were bound to see it when you made a second visit to the Sapsea tomb with the corpse of Princess Puffer.”

  “I saw no ring,” said Jasper. “I have no ring. This is the first that I ever heard of such a ring as you describe. Search me, if you wish. Search my lodgings from top to bottom. Until this moment, I had no idea that Ned had ever possessed a ring.”

  He spoke with such patent honesty that everyone accepted his word. With tears running down his cheeks, he went on to insist that he had not murdered his beloved nephew but had devoted his life to the pursuit of the real killer.

  “And who is that?” asked Grewgious.

  “Neville Landless, of course,” retorted Jasper.

  “I am satisfied that Mr Landless is innocent.”

  “But he killed Ned on Christmas Eve.”

  “That is a figment of your imagination, Mr Jasper.”

  “Is it?” asked the choirmaster, shaken by the notion that he might, after all, have been mistaken. “Well, someone killed poor Ned. If it was not Neville Landless – then who was it?”

  There was a protracted silence. Hiram Grewgious did not know the answer and neither did the two policemen. Durdles was baffled, Deputy was confused and even Dick Datchery, who removed his wig absent-mindedly to revert to Richard Cherry, could not muster any suggestion. The silence was eventually broken by Bazzard.

  “The Reverend Septimus Crisparkle,” he grunted.

  “Never!” said Grewgious in utter disbelief. “You dare to name Mr Crisparkle, Minor Canon, early riser, musical, classical, cheerful, kind, good-natured, social, contented and boy-like Mr Crisparkle?”

  “Yes,” said Bazzard, smiling for the first time in a decade. “Find the gentleman and I guarantee you will find the missing ring.”

  Septimus Crisparkle held out the ring so it could catch the light from the window. The rubies shone brightly, the diamonds glistened and the gold glinted. Rosa Bud, young, lovely and impressionable, was overcome with the beauty and significance of the object.

  “I can see that it is my beloved mother’s ring, Mr Crisparkle,” she said as she tried to stem her tears. “How ever did you come by it?”

  “It was given to me for safe-keeping by Edwin, my dear,” he told her, twisting the ring between his fingers so that it dazzled her eyes. “He was given it by Mr Grewgious with the instruction that Edwin should pass it on to you to seal your engagement. In the event, you had already decided to break off that engagement so the ring did not even leave Edwin’s pocket.”

  “Why did he not return it to Mr Grewgious?”

  “Because he hoped that you might one day change your mind,” said Crisparkle. “It is a curiosity of human nature that we cannot appreciate the full value of something until we no longer have it. So it was with Edwin. While you were promised to each other, Rosa, he took you for granted. The moment that you ceased to be his, however, he came to see what a loss he had sustained.”

  “But he seemed so happy for us to continue as friends.”

  “He was putting on a brave face.”

  “What will happen to the ring now?”

  “The only thing that should happen, my dear,” said Crisparkle with a benign smile. “It should be worn by the person for whom it is destined. I know that I am a little older than you but age brings maturity. My judgement is that you are the most adorable young woman in the world and in doing this,” he added, easing the ring on to the third finger of her left hand, “I give you a pledge of my love and a solemn promise that I will do everything in my power to ensure your continued happiness.” He kissed her hand softly. “Well, my dear?”

  Rosa Bud was utterly bewildered. It was disconcerting enough to receive an unexpected proposal from any man. When it came from the Dean of Cloisterham Cathedral, a Minor Canon of unimpeachable probity and in full possession of his virginity, it was all the more devastating. Wanting an affirmative response so that he could draw back the curtain of his desire and show her how much he had coveted her, he took a step closer and broadened his smile into a hopeful grin. To her eternal gratitude, Rosa was spared the ordeal of giving a reply. As she bit her lip in dismay, the door suddenly burst open and five men rushed into her room.

  Two were policemen and they immediately seized the lovelorn clergyman. Another was Hiram Grewgious with his clerk, Bazzard, at his elbow. The fifth newcomer was a total stranger to her.

  “Allow me to introduce Richard Cherry,” said Grewgious, “whom I engaged as a detective to solve the mystery of Edwin Drood.”

  “There is no mystery,” insisted Crisparkle. “He was killed by his uncle, John Jasper, and I have been gathering evidence to prove it. Instead of manhandling me, these gentlemen should arrest Jasper.”

  “They have already done so,” explained Cherry, “and he has been charged with the murder of Princess Puffer, the owner of an opium den. He has given a full confession and is now under lock and key. Mr Jasper was not involved in the death of Edwin Drood even though he sought to profit by it. You were the killer, sir.”

  Crisparkle laughed. “What a monstrous suggestion!”

  “It was Bazzard who unmasked you,” said Grewgious, giving his clerk a pat on the back. “Tell him how you did it, Bazzard.”

  “I had this thorn of anxiety in my head,” said Bazzard. “Whenever I thought about this case, I felt a sharp prick at the back of my mind. The cause of my anxiety, Mr Crisparkle, was you.”

  “Tell him why,” urged Grewgious.

  “It was because he found the watch and the shirt-pin,” said the clerk. “They were seen as evidence of foul play. But where did he find them, I ask. It was at the Weir, two miles away from the spot where Edwin Drood and Neville Landless had been standing – two whole miles. Are we to believe that Mr Drood was killed, thrown into the river and that his body, as it was swept downstream, obligingly divested itself of the two items at the Weir? Strong swimmer as
Mr Crisparkle is known to be, is it credible that he would plunge into fast-flowing waters to retrieve two small items whose weight would surely have taken them to the river bed? Is it not more likely that the victim was first lured to the Weir by a trusted friend, murdered then stripped of his valuables?” He turned his saturnine countenance upon Crisparkle. “We know you took the watch and shirt-pin from him, sir, so you must also have relieved him of the ring.”

  “The ring!” shrieked Rosa Bud, pulling it from her finger.

  “The ring!” shouted Grewgious, taking it from her to examine it. “It’s the very same one that I gave to Edwin Drood.”

  “With this ring,” said Bazzard sonorously, “I thee accuse.”

  Septimus Crisparkle gave up all pretence of innocence. His head fell to his chest, his shoulders sagged and his knees bent. As he was hustled to the door by the policemen, he threw a last despairing glance at Rosa Bud.

  “I only did it for your sake, my dear,” he said. “Edwin Drood was unworthy of you and I was called to take his place.”

  “Your place is on the scaffold beside John Jasper,” said Cherry with grim humour. “Dean and choirmaster will hang there like a pair of discordant bells ejected from the Cathedral in sheer disgust. Take the wretch away!”

  The policeman pulled Crisparkle out and Rosa began to tremble with fear. She had received two proposals of marriage in her short life and both had come from murderous would-be husbands. Was there something about her that inspired men to extreme violence? It was a thought that made her shudder.

  “Congratulations, Mr Bazzard,” said Cherry, warmly shaking the clerk’s hand. “You are as good a detective as me. I found one killer and you led us to another – and all because you had this thorn of anxiety.”