“Sally's is better than Yahee's brand-you'll pay accordingly, won't ye, dearie?” the manager of the establishment repeated. “Have a whiff. After payment, of course.”
As she recited her slogans, a petite young woman on the other side of Sally's grisly bed slid to the floor with a moan.
“Is she unwell?” asked Osgood. Sally explained that the young woman was in a peaceful dream state and would be better than if she were in the terrible, unclean grog-house where the girl's mother used to take her.
Then Osgood realized. He could suddenly name the feeling he had experienced upon entering the building. It was a word he would have never guessed. Familiarity.
Witnessing this squalor was like seeing photographs of scenes from The Mystery of Edwin Drood! It recalled the very first scene of the book, where the devious John Jasper takes refuge in his opium dreams as he prepares to begin his villainous plans against his nephew Drood; and Princess Puffer, the old woman stirring the opium, questions her visitor. It was just as they performed the novel's scenes at the Surrey, too, but here given the actual stench of the drug and its hopelessness.
Here's another ready for ye, deary. Ye'll remember like a good soul, won't ye, that the market price is dreffle high just now?
Osgood's hope had been proven right! Datchery, consciously or not, must have absorbed something about the writing of the novel if he knew of this place. Then, a less settling feeling touched his nerves as he looked back at Datchery, standing behind him. Datchery and Sally were eyeing each other with the familiarity of a suitor and his former love.
A sudden and unexpected movement pulled away Osgood's attention: four white mice had scurried across a dirty shelf and over the occupants of the bed. Sally assured them they were very tame pets and, after a few clumsy attempts, managed to light another candle as if to demonstrate the highly civilized nature of a two-candle colony. The light revealed a ladder running up into a hole in the ceiling. In the time they had been standing there, a Malaysian sailor had left the room and a Chinese beggar had entered, left, and entered again. Sally spoke to the beggar-apparently her usual plea for advance purchase of her opium but now in Chinese. She also berated a ship's cook from
Bengal, whom she called Booboo, who was apparently not only a drug purchaser, but her lodger and servant.
THERE WAS REPETITION in the operation. After being given a shilling from a customer, the dealer would toast a thick black lump, which she had been mixing slowly with a pin, over the flame of a bro-ken lamp. When it was hot enough, the black mixture was inserted into the cup of the bamboo pipe, which was just an old glass ink bottle with a hole pierced in its side. The customer would then suck the end of the whistling pipe until the opium had been used up-usually after only a minute at the longest.
As Sally prepared the concoction, she gave a hard stare at Os-good-impatient with the lack of payment. Even one of the half-sleeping opium eaters now seemed to take a curious interest in the well-dressed publisher. Osgood, meanwhile, under the wet rags at his feet, noticed a small booklet or pamphlet among other soiled papers. Though the lighting was too dark to make out the details, the booklet's battered cover looked like he had seen it before.
“Well, dearies,” Sally the opium manager said, scowling a little, “is there something more ye want here, if it isn't any whiffs?” The Lascar meanwhile had now managed to stand and was also gazing at them.
Osgood felt a second wave of nausea from the newly thickened fumes. As he kneeled down to take a breath in the clearer air near the floor, he also slipped the booklet into his pocket. Datchery asked if he was all right.
“Some air,” Osgood responded, woozy from bending over. He found the door and climbed down one flight of stairs to an open window at the landing. Leaning his head out, he closed his eyes, still burning from the smoke. He realized when he opened them again that his vision was blurry from painful tears, and he tried to dry his eyes with a handkerchief. The air felt soothing on his face-though it was hot, it seemed like an ocean breeze compared with that cauldron upstairs.
He now removed the booklet from his pocket, and his suspicion was confirmed. He was holding the latest installment of The Mystery of Edwin Drood, the same installment he had seen shipped out of Chapman & Hall on Magazine Day.
“Drood!” he said to himself. How in the land had it come to be here, too? Charles Dickens truly was read in every corner of the earth.
Returning up the stairs, gripping the handrail very firmly, Osgood felt his vision blur again as he neared the dark opium room. The entrance now seemed to be one solid block of smoke. He felt blind as he took two steps inside and then stumbled over something. Looking down as he plunged forward, he realized he had just tripped over Datchery, sprawled out on the floor. Osgood was caught and pushed against the wall, where he was held erect by the Lascar sailor, who threw a fist into Osgood's stomach.
“Stop! Ripley!” This cry came from Datchery, who pulled himself up from the floor and stumbled toward Osgood's attacker. Datchery wrestled with the Lascar, but Booboo, the Bengalee, shook him away and threw him back to the floor, where Datchery landed on his head and was knocked out cold.
Osgood, blinded by tears and blood, tried to feel his way out of the room, but the Lascar grabbed him and pitched into him with his fists, again and again, left then right, crushing him against the wall. Then the Lascar ripped open Osgood's waistcoat and frisked his pockets. Osgood could hear Booboo squatting on the floor similarly ransacking the unconscious Datchery.
As his body slumped down, Osgood felt himself slam against the wall and his head hitting it hard. Then, suddenly, it all came to a halt. Screams. The Lascar collapsed, his head rolling limply on the side of his neck. Booboo seemed to fly across the room splattering blood as he did. Sally had scrambled to the ladder and scurried like one of her mice up its rungs out of sight. Then Osgood was grabbed by both of his arms by someone new.
Through the blur, Osgood thought he could see the figure who'd seized him.
“Impossible!”
He knew this assailant. How could he be here! The giant figure loomed over him, grasped the top of his arm roughly. Seconds later, Osgood hit the floor and everything around him went black.
The next thing Osgood could remember, he awoke covered by darkness. His clothes were dripping wet and tattered. Strangely, he felt a state of dreamy peacefulness, the call of sleep, the crash of oceans, still starry skies-these pulled at him. The air had turned thickly blue, and he reached out to touch it.
Then a vague thought pierced the peace. Danger: he had to reach for the word-although it should have been self-evident. He was in danger. A snake, black and yellow and then all yellow, slithered by, nearly touching him; it spoke, or someone else spoke, now ten, fifteen, fifty voices could be heard at once trying to drown him in an incoherent chorus.
He thought about Rebecca, who had warned him… Rebecca who had been loyal and believed he could succeed in their mission… Rebecca whom he knew now that he had loved from the first time he saw her. He felt like crying-he felt as though this would relieve some of his bleak frustration-to produce tears but he could not manage. Without rising-for that seemed beyond his means-he looked for any sign of Datchery.
His eyes wanted to close but he felt if he allowed them, he would not be able to open them again. Struggling, his eyes won and Osgood tumbled backward into the dark.
THE SEWER HUNTER STEPPED carefully into the lowest section of the tunnel. Unlike most sewer hunters, Steve Williams had been able to secure the expensive leather boots that went up to the knee. This gave him a giant help as he waded through the bubbling offal and mud that filled the two thousand miles of brick sewers under London.
Armed with a long iron pole, with a flat hoe at the end, Steve dug through a crevice where something was lodged. He opened the slide on his lantern, which hung from his belt, so he could see more clearly through the dim, noxious air.
“God bless!” he said to himself, reaching out his arm and pulling up two silv
er table knives. “God bless, silver!” he exclaimed, stuffing them in his pocket. This, along with the gold milk jug found a day be-fore, gave Steve an ancient air of heroic triumph. He noticed a bulge in the muddy floor near the drain out to the east end. Poking the lumpy mud with his pole, a flurry of rats the size of small cats rushed past him. Steve stepped forward two boots’ lengths and coughed. He did not cough at the awful air, punctuated by the waste of the butchers thrown into the drains, which he was used to after three years hunting in sewers, but at the sight of another dead body washed up in the tunnels. Though their treasure seeking was illegal, the police were permissive of the sewer hunters as long as they reported dead bodies and human remains. This one wore a nice suit.
But on closer inspection, he found that the prostrate man was not dead. He was even breathing.
“Now come along, fellow, how'd you get in this place?” Steve called out, pulling up the man's arm. “Get along, you beasts!” he said. There were massive rats clinging to the man's arms, legs, head, and body and chirping at a deafening volume. “Get along!” Steve used his pole to knock off the rats and fight off others trying to climb on his discovery. He removed a pouch and forced a powdery substance into the man's mouth.
“Take these Epsom salts-take some of this. It will draw the blood from your head.”
Rising to his feet, finally, hugging his sides in pain, the man stumbled forward and found himself falling down again into the filth.
“Rebecca! Tell her!” he cried out.
“What do you mean? What is all this choke-pear?” answered Steve.
“Stop him! I saw him! You must…!”
“Who? Who ever did you see, gov'n'r?”
“Herman,” Osgood groaned. “It was always Herman!”
Fourth Installment
***
Chapter 23
Boston, December 24, 1867
BACK AT THE PARKER HOUSE, IN THE PARLOR OF GEORGE DOLBY'S hotel room, Tom Branagan sat in a state of dejection. Dolby had put him in a worn oak chair that faced the fireplace, which was overrun with Christmas stockings and mistletoe; it was a hard punishment to be forced to watch the ashes fall one by one into the grate when there was too much to do. Tom's mind was on the woman who had caused all this. His insides burned hot, not with anger so much as with desire for the truth. Suddenly every detail he could remember about her took on significance. Suddenly the coming new year became portentous.
Dolby was walking up and down the room, and James Osgood, there to dutifully represent the outrage of the Boston publishing firm sponsoring the tour, was sitting diagonally across from Tom. Christmas gifts left at the hotel for Dickens-which could not all fit in the novelist's own rooms-were in careless piles under the furniture.
Tom's attention snapped back to the present. Dolby was shouting, “I know not what to say. Did I not-remind me now, perhaps my own memory fails me-did I not instruct you specifically to forget about playing hide-and-seek with that hotel intruder after it happened? I cannot but conclude I erred in trusting you, boy, was swayed by my duty to your father. Is this your Celtic excitability displaying itself?”
“Mr. Dolby, please understand…” Tom tried to interrupt.
“You are fortunate Mr. Fields has as much political influence as he does, and that he chose to use it in your favor, Mr. Branagan,” Osgood chimed in.
Dolby went on listing his grievances. “You accost a lady-a blue-blood lady of society-at the theater, cause a commotion, and draw attention away from the grand success of Mr. Dickens. And, if it were not bad enough, all on Christmas Eve! The Chief has enough of a burden right now with his influenza and being away from his family during the holiday season. And what will the press make of it if they get ahold of it!”
“Your thoughtless actions have risked tainting the entire reading tour to the public eye, Mr. Branagan,” Osgood said. “The future reputation of our publishing house is at stake.”
Tom shook his head. “That woman is a danger. I know it in my heart and my bones. She should not have been released, and we must urge the police to locate her!”
“A woman,” Dolby cried. “You want Charles Dickens to look like he is afraid of a woman! That woman, by the by, is named Louisa Parr Barton-her husband is a renowned diplomat and great scholar of European history. She comes from an American branch of the Lock-ley family of Bath.”
“Does that prove she is sane or well-meaning?” Tom asked.
“You're right,” Osgood replied. “Understand, Mr. Branagan-Mrs. Barton is known for her eccentricities and is unwelcome in many homes of society in Boston and New York owing to her strange behavior. Mr. Barton, it is said by some, married her chiefly for the connection to her family name, and she never could master housekeeping or be a proper mistress to her servants. Others say Barton was passionately in love with her. Whatever the truth, he spends most of the time traveling. It is rumored he would have received the appointment as our ambassador in London if not for her behavior. Ever since she slapped the Prince of Wales in the face upon being introduced to him, she is forbidden from joining Mr. Barton's trips.”
“That is why she is able to do as she pleases here,” Tom said.
Osgood nodded. “With her husband away, she is alone and free with her strange habits and money. She is harmless.”
“She struck an old woman at the Westminster Hotel!” Tom said.
“We cannot prove that. Don't you see what thin ground you stand on, Branagan?” Dolby replied. “What compelled you?”
“Perhaps I speak above my position, but I've acted on my instinct,” Tom replied.
Dolby shook his head again. “You speak and you acted above your position, Branagan. The Boston police hadn't any choice but to let her go.”
“What about the fact that she broke into Mr. Dickens's room, Mr. Dolby?”
“Well, what if it was her, Branagan? We may box her ears, have the police court fine her but not jail her, as she never threatened the Chief nor took any of his belongings. Save a hotel pillow, for which the most severe magistrate would order this Boston Brahmin to pay a dollar!”
“I think she might have been the one to take the Chief's pocket diary,” Tom said.
“And your evidence?” Dolby asked, pausing for an answer that didn't come. “Thought not. What would she want with an old diary, anyway?”
“To learn private details,” Tom persisted. “Mr. Dolby, I am only trying to see to the protection of the Chief.”
“Who asked you to do so?” Dolby asked.
“You instructed me to serve him,” Tom answered.
“Well, you've taken it too far,” Dolby said. “And you won't do it any longer.”
Osgood, taking a long drink of punch, shook his head sadly and added a comment with a thoughtful air. “You say you act upon instinct. Men like Mr. Dolby and myself act upon what is right and proper, what is within the rules. What is safe for people who put their trust in us. If we could, Mr. Branagan, we would be tempted to send you back to England. But that would bring attention in the newspapers.”
“Instead,” Dolby broke in with the voice of a disciplining father, “you are from this point on to act strictly a porter, as you were hired. You are to stay in the hotel, unless instructed otherwise, and carry out chores when asked. When we've returned to Ross, I shall decide on your future-if I hadn't paid three guineas for your livery, I'd give you walking papers now.”
Tom, deflating, gazed at the marble fireplace. “And the Chief? Does he agree with this?”
“Pray worry about your own condition! The Chief will be just fine under our care, thank you, Mr. Branagan,” Dolby said haughtily.
“Indeed,” Osgood added. “We'll make sure Mr. Dickens is busy enough while we finish dealing with the authorities, so there is no more attention paid to your fears. In fact, I have already recruited Oliver Wendell Holmes to show him the sights of Boston. If anyone can numb a man into distraction, it is Dr. Holmes.”
AFTER DOLBY WALKED Osgood out, he was stopped
back in front of his door by a waiter.
“Mr. Dolby? There is a gentleman downstairs to see you-urgent business.”
“It's ten o'clock at night on Christmas Eve,” Dolby remarked, taking his watch from his coat. “Ten and a half, actually, and I have been running about the city tending to business since six this morning. Did the caller send up a card?”
“No, sir. He said the words very urgent, though. I should say from the way he looked that he was indeed urgent.”
Urgency indeed. It was probably another stranger who needed tickets to sold out readings for his blind, deaf, and mute sisters and aunts and wives. “Very important American writers,” whose names Dolby and Osgood had never heard before, wrote pleading for a single free pass, front row, to properly honor Dickens's visit to their city, plus five more for their friends, if you please.
Downstairs at the bar, Dolby searched the faces for his mystery caller. One man stood out. His arms stiffly folded across his chest. A fat, boyish face, but grizzled with scars and gray columns in his beard. He was short but had a robust, qualifying as stocky, build with an imposing presence. The man waved to Dolby.
“I'm afraid, my friend,” Dolby began an amiable but aloof speech, “our tickets for the next readings have been sold already. You may try again for the next series which we have added to accommodate more hearers.”
The man passed him a pile of documents and a badge.
“I'm not looking for tickets, Mr. Dolby. Or… not unless I must confiscate them along with every piece of property in your possession.” He smiled humorlessly.
Dolby examined the documents. Income-tax papers. The badge gave the name of Simon Pennock, tax collector.
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