“It’s Barnet!” I cut Dodgson off in mid-sentence and brought Dickens to his feet with a bound. “He’s going in.”
“By himself, is he?” Dickens stood at my side staring down at the dimly lit street. Dodgson too joined us at the window.
“Yes. Alone. He just went in.”
“He has come to get her when the pub closes.” Dickens sounded convinced in the way a man who knows he is going to be hanged in the morning sounds. “Else why would he be arriving so late?”
“Should we notify Field and Rogers?” I suggested.
“Field probably knows he is in there already.” Dickens laughed. “Field is always on the watch. Never fear. Field will come to us with this news as soon as Tally Ho confirms it.”
Dickens was most assuredly right in that regard. A half hour passed. We took turns at the telescope. At half ten, Tally Ho Thompson, smoking a cigar, made his way out of the pub and disappeared into the darkness. What seemed like only moments later, Field and Rogers were knocking on Dodgson’s door.
Field did not step in.
“Come now. We are off,” he ordered us.
We scrambled for our greatcoats and hats.
As we were wrestling ourselves into our coats, Dodgson was distributing two bundles wrapped in canvas, one long and thin to Serjeant Rogers, one square and as big as a man’s head to Field. As for himself, he carried two objects, a small canister and a square flat package that looked like a wrapped-up picture frame. These transactions completed, Field turned and plunged down the stone steps of the tower. He barely gave us time to button our coats or wrap our scarves around our necks, but we hurried after him.
We stopped just inside the shadows of the Tom Tower gateway. It was a strange mob: five gentlemen in greatcoats lurking in the darkness. Young Constable Morse was nowhere in evidence.
“It is ten minutes yet until closing,” Field consulted his repeater. “Rogers, you stay ’ere. As soon as you see them come out of the pub, you run through the meadow to the boat’ouse to warn us. Thompson will stay back and follow them just to make sure that nothing is amiss, that ’ee does not get too amorous on the way,” and Field cast a quick sidelong glance at Dickens. “She will not be able to leave until at least a ’alf ’our after closing. That gives us an abundance of time. Come to us when you see them, Rogers; we will be ready.”
With that, he marched us off down St. Aldate’s to the boathouses.
Led by Field, who seemed to know his way rather well, we passed through that small dark wood at the bottom of the hill and came out upon the river and the boathouses. The moon was shrouded by clouds and brooded down upon us like a ghost hiding in a hedge. Smoke was rising off the river in a thin mist that only added to the eerie gloom of the night.
Beware the boathouses indeed! Emerging from the wood into that ghostly scene made me want to flee this ill-fated adventure before it even began. Really! Hiding out in some damp boathouse to spy on two illicit lovers, one of whom is attempting to entice the other into revealing murderous secrets, suddenly seemed just a bit too Gothic for my blood.
“Is this really a good idea?” I stopped Dickens and Field who were unconcernedly strolling towards the dark boathouses. “Do you really think that he will bring her to this godforsaken place in the middle of the night?”
“No fear,” Inspector Field turned to me with an amused chuckle, “’ee’ll bring ’er. Ellen will make sure of that.”
There were four boathouses ranged in a row along the docks. The docks were but a thick wooden slab extending right out over the river precisely at water level, and painted white, which added even more to the ghostly aura of the place.
Young Morse was waiting by the door of the first boathouse. He had already picked the lock for us. He greeted us, smiling. He did not seem the least bit concerned that what we might be doing could possibly be dangerous. Thoughts such as “what if friend Barnet carries a revolver?” or “what if he brings harm to Miss Ternan?” never seemed to have entered these gentlemen’s minds.
“Once we’re inside,” Field directed young Morse, “lock us in. Make everything look undisturbed. Retire to the side of the boat’ouse there, out of sight, and wait for Serjeant Rogers to appear. When ’ee comes, knock ’ard on the boat’ouse wall where I showed you. That will alert us. Then you and Rogers stand guard out ’ere, close and out of sight. If anybody ’appens along, escort them out of our way. Only rush in if we shout for your assistance or witness.”
“Yes, sir. Right, sir.”
It was black as pitch inside that boathouse. When the door closed behind us and the dark enveloped us, I once again felt the unmistakable urge to flee. But Inspector Field was prepared for every eventuality. In the flutter of an eye, he had got his bull’s-eye lit and its piercing light sent the shadows scurrying up and over the walls. His light played over Barnet the Don’s secret little pied-à-terre: the couch upon which he would surely attempt his seduction of Miss Ternan, the table which held the candle that would shed fluttering deceitful light upon their romantic encounter, the tattered Persian rug upon which he might well consummate his perverse designs on Dickens’s love.
“Over ’ere is where we will ’ide.” Field led us behind a rack of rowing shells stacked to the ceiling. We could stand behind these long thin boats, and looking through the narrow apertures between them, see everything that transpired.
“And ’ere is where your contraption will be set up.” Field stood at the very end of the rack of rowing boats. “You can operate it from be’ind the boats. In the darkness of the place, ’ee should not notice that anything is amiss.”
With that, Dodgson set to work. Dickens and I had ended up carrying his two mysterious packages, what with Rogers being dismissed to watch for the lovers, and then Field needing both hands to light his bull’s-eye. Out of the long, thin package Dodgson unwrapped a wooden tripod of about four and a half feet in height. Out of the small square package he produced a black box with what in the dim light looked like holes in its front and back, which he mounted atop the tripod.
We recognized Dodgson’s camera, the same with which he took the charming portraits of the little girls and their dog that decorated the mantelpiece of his Christ Church sitting room. He poured flash powder from the canister he had brought along into a shallow tray along the top rear edge of the black body of the machine, and then inserted the flat photographic plate into a slot in the centre of the top of the black box. We realized that Dodgson and Field were going to take a picture of the whole proceedings: catch our amorous Don in the act. Blackmail was their game, and this new toy of Dodgson’s was their witness.
Of course. If they could get a picture of the Don cavorting licentiously on sanctified college ground, they could ruin him, or they could ensure that he would bear witness against his fellow Dons in a court of law if it ever came to that. It was really quite brilliant, and Dodgson had given Field the opportunity to experiment with a valuable new weapon to add to his already formidable detectiving arsenal.
“There. It is ready,” Dodgson announced.
“Good. Let’s ’ope it works,” Field skeptically replied, consulting his repeater under the light of the bull’s-eye. “Fifteen after the ’our,” he pronounced. “Now all we ’ave to do is wait.”
The stage was set. The audience was in place. All that was lacking was the actors.
We did not have to wait long.
Knock. Knock. Knock—the signal, hard against the wall right next to our hiding place. Field’s bull’s-eye was doused immediately. The darkness encompassed us.
“They are on their way,” Field whispered. “Ellen must ’ave gotten away early. All’s mum now. Not another sound. Stay still. No rustling of clothing or bumping into anything. We must give Miss Ternan a chance to pry the man’s secrets loose, then we shall ’ave some fun with ’im.”
We waited in the dark.
The rasp of the key being inserted in the lock seemed so loud that it startled all of us. The sound of the door opening
, and the dingy light of the cloud-tossed moon seeping in through the open door, served as an overture for the human intrusion upon our settled silent dark.
“It is so-o-o dark in here,” Ellen Ternan cooed as she came through the open door. I remember thinking how in character she sounded, like a half-literate minx of a barmaid, not the rather sophisticated actress and mistress to one of the most famous men in England that she was. “You’ll surely have to light a lamp or a candle or something—if we are going to talk, that is.” She said it coyly, as if she and Barnet were in on some secret joke.
“Of course, come through here.” Barnet the boathouse Don led her by the hand through the hanging sculls and the stacked shells. “This is a little secret place of mine where I come to be alone, to read and think, that sort of thing.” Barnet began to construct his tapestry of seductive lies as he lit the candle on the small table in front of the couch.
“And to bring girls who catch your fancy, eh?” Ellen said it with a light playfulness which rang with invitation.
Who is seducing whom here? I thought.
“To bring girls whom I am drawn to because they are beautiful and intelligent and they want to learn from me,” Barnet picked up, immediately, the tenor of Ellen’s playful tone, “and I from them,” and his arms were snaking around her waist, “the joys and pleasures of love.” And as soon as that word “love” reared its ugly head, Barnet kissed Dickens’s Ellen hard on the mouth.
In the fluttering candlelight, we could all see that Ellen Ternan was passionately kissing him back, her mouth osculating intensely against his, her hands rising up around his neck as she clung to his kiss.
I glanced quickly at Dickens. He stood staring straight ahead at the scene, a look of horrified resignation upon his face. And yet, he could not avert his eyes from this horror of his beloved being molested by another man.
She held Barnet’s mouth for a long moment as his arms about her waist pressed her body hard against his own. But then, she broke away from his embrace as if frightened by her own passion. It was all quite convincing.
“Oh my God, what am I doing?” Ellen murmured breathlessly as if thrown from her horse by the intensity of her own passion.
“You liked it, did you not?” Barnet moved in close to her again. She had turned away from him and his hands went to her shoulder blades just at the side of her long, thin neck and pulled her to him. “You liked kissing me. You liked my body against yours.” He was kissing her neck, his tongue licking like a serpent at the tiny wisps of golden brown hair that hung to her naked shoulders.
“Oh God yes.” she seemed to slowly slide backwards into his arms, which enveloped her from behind and pulled her close to the treacherous arguments of his lips, pressing their advantage in slow kiss after slow kiss all over the back of her neck and shoulders. “Oh God yes,” and this time it was she who spun in his arms and possessed his mouth like a hungry animal, her tongue darting hard between his startled lips, her hands to the back of his head pressing his mouth to hers in brutal urgency, her body pressing against him as if she wanted to climb inside the warmth of his waistcoat.
She kissed him long and passionately, and he kissed her back, pressing her to him, pressing what he perceived as his clear advantage.
But once again she broke out of his grasp, fled from his intentions.
“It is too fast. What are we doing? You press me too hard.” In anguish at her own indecision, she backed away from him, staring into his face wide-eyed in confusion. “I can’t do this. I cannot.” But in complete contradiction to her own words, she rushed back into his arms and took his mouth once again in another long and passionate kiss, her arms flung around his neck.
This time, he pressed his advantage more forcibly. He locked his arms around her so that she could not escape his kiss, then moving his randy hands down over her hips to possess her derrière, he caressed her buttocks and pressed them hard into confluence with his own aroused sexual quarter.
Dickens must have been going mad as the four of us crouched in our place of concealment behind the stacked rowing shells and voyeuristically spied upon the lubricious antics of the two alleged lovers.
Barnet moved relentlessly forward with his molestation of his conquest. His hands wandered lasciviously over Ellen Ternan’s body, drew her long peasant’s shirt up by handfuls and tried to get beneath it to the skin. And all the while they were kissing passionately, breathlessly, to the point that it had to end or both lovers would suffocate.
Wresting herself from his perverted grasp, Ellen suddenly whirled away, overcome, gasping for air, her hands pressed to the sides of her feverish face.
Oh, it was all extremely convincing. So much so that I think Dickens was about to burst out of his skin at the torment of it.
“Oh, my, my, you have gotten me in such a heat! Please leave me be, leave me be for a moment,” she begged. But he was loath to leave her alone.
He advanced, reaching for her.
She retreated, attempting to cool his ardour.
It was like a dance.
“You ’ave brought other girls ’ere, ’aven’t you?” Ellen teased him, in an exaggerated Cockney accent.
He did not answer, but moved closer, reaching out to touch her, to once again take possession of her hips with his hands, to pull her to him.
She pirouetted away from him: “Do you just use this one boathouse with its couch and candle? Or do you use the others as well? Are they all provisioned like this, as places for you to bring your girls?”
“No, they are not,” his voice was irritated. “These are not my places. This is but a waiting place, for the rowing crews to rest and wait out the rain, storms, that sort of thing, interruptions to their rowing exercises.”
“Then I am the first that you have brought here for…for…” she coyly hesitated, then decided not to finish, changed the subject. “Are all the boathouses like this, with their little parlour?”
“No, they are filled with shells and oars, quite boring really; the one on the other end is abandoned, actually.” He was growing impatient, his voice stretched taut by the confluence of his own arousal and her delaying tactics. “Its bloody roof leaks,” and he lunged at her, attempting to reassert his mastery over her body and lips.
But she backed away, leading him.
He was not to be denied, however. He stopped and stared at her, for he was done talking about boathouses and rowing crews.
“I must have you, and I will.” He spoke in a low, menacing voice, like a wolf growling as he advanced.
His words stopped Ellen Ternan in her tracks. The dance of flirtation and seduction was over. The sexual match was mounted.
“Have me? What do you mean?” Ellen feigned innocence, but it was not convincing, as her earlier flirting had been.
“Do not play innocent,” his voice was frightening. “You are here with me. We have kissed. You are a public house serving girl. I am an Oxford Don. I must have you.”
This time, she was not able to escape his lunge. He caught her in his arms about the waist and held her clasped against his body, his mouth tight against her ear: “I want you to take off your clothes. I want to see you completely naked. If you do not, I will tear them off you, and when we are done, I will leave you here naked to make your way home.”
“Good God, man, stop this,” Dickens pulled at Inspector Field’s sleeve and whispered desperately, almost audibly, in his ear.
Field’s forefinger leapt instantly to his pursed lips in commanding gesture of silence even as his eyes were shifting from the contrived scene that we were viewing through the cracks in the stacked boats to Dodgson, who stood poised next to his ungainly tripod.
Dodgson shook his head in the negative and raised his open hand, palm outward, in a gesture that we must wait. Field snapped his withering gaze back to Dickens and once again, even more sharply, thumped his forefinger against his tight lips, ordering Dickens to be silent.
Sensing by her silence that he now was in complete
control, Barnet stepped back from her and changed his tone from menace to the most transparent flattery of seduction: “You are so beautiful. Your kisses have inflamed my desire for you. I must have you. Will you do what I ask? Let us be like Adam and Eve, naked before each other.”
Ellen regained control of her emotions. I think that she was genuinely frightened of him for a moment when he was threatening her. “If I am to take off all of my things,” she teased him, no longer moving away from him but standing and facing him, realizing that any further flight from his rapacious attentions might only inflame him to violence once again, “then you must take off yours as well. Fair is fair.”
“I knew you were a gay and jolly slut,” he laughed hungrily. “Fair is fair, indeed,” and he eagerly began to unbutton his breeches.
Field pointed his commanding forefinger at Dodgson and held it rigidly in the air like the blade of the guillotine waiting to drop.
Ellen watched Barnet, unmoving, mesmerized, as if by a snake.
He dropped his trousers to the floor, exposing his aroused red member.
Field’s forefinger dropped decisively.
A bright white light suddenly exploded upon the whole scene.
The New Gunpowder Plot
December 11, 1853—After Midnight
The flash powder from Dodgson’s camera burned brightly for a brief moment and then hissed out.
The photograph was taken.
The Oxford Don was caught with his trousers down and his rather small member standing at shocked attention.
Ellen’s virtue, such as it was, was saved.
“What the devil!” Barnet cursed.
“Inspector Field of the London Protectives ’ere,” that worthy answered. “We ’ave just taken your likeness in a photograph. You remember me, do you not?”
Ellen Ternan had both hands over her mouth, trying to suppress the laughter that was rolling out of her as the naked Don first attempted to cover himself, then attempted to pull up his trousers, then tripped over his desperate efforts and sprawled across the ratty couch while all the while his previously arrogant member proceeded to shrink up to the size of a modest mushroom.
The Dons and Mr. Dickens Page 17