The Detective and Mr. Dickens

by William J Palmer

  All my senses pricked at the mention of her name.

  Her prey did not keep her waiting. A large bewhiskered man in greatcoat and rakish rounded hat soon strode out of the stage door and offered her his arm. As they moved off, Field nodded sharply to Rogers, and that worthy followed them. Vile images tortured my imagination, and I realized how absurd these impulsive feelings for this common harlot were, and how impossible it was getting for me to drive them away.

  “There they are!” Field’s sharp whisper broke my unwholesome reverie.

  Two men had emerged from the stage door, and paused in the street under a gaslamp to light their cigars.

  “Thompson’s the one on the left,” Field directed us. “Looks like a real actor, don’t ’ee? Other one’s Fielding.”

  The man whom Field pointed out seemed a bit taller than medium English height, but looked a rather remarkable physical specimen possessed of wide shoulders and longish wiry-looking legs. He wore a short cape, which came to just below his hips, a long wool scarf looped around his neck, and a double-billed deerstalker upon his head. In the flash of his lucifer, I could see that he was clean-shaven. The other man, Fielding, was large, swollen of girth, heavy of jowl, with a full beard topped by a beret.

  “Let us follow these two,” Field whispered, “and see where they choose to imbibe tonight. Then, I’ll stand a warm gin at the Lord Gordon while we wait for the curtain to go up on Act Two of tonight’s performance.”

  To my surprise, Dickens checked us. “I will join you in The Lord Gordon Arms,” he whispered hurriedly, for Thompson and Fielding were already beginning to amble off into the darkness. “There is some business I need to discuss with Macready. It will not take long. I will join you.” With that he hurried off toward the theatre.

  There was no time to argue with him. Field simply nodded and set off (with me, puzzled, following) after our two cigar-puffing actors. I was slow to comprehend. A rather strange time to discuss business, I thought. I was not even sure that Macready would welcome such a discussion after a strenuous performance of Macbeth. But then the light filtered through. Dickens wasn’t entering the stage door to see Macready.

  We followed the two smoking men at a healthy distance, since it was a fairly clear night, for London. They strolled at a leisurely pace up Gower Street until they reached a cellar club frequented by the acting fraternity called The Green Room. They went down, and, within minutes, Field had posted one of his underlings on watch. With that, we escaped the damp chill into the snug comfort of The Lord Gordon Arms.

  “We will give our principals some time to work on their projects, before we tighten the noose,” Field chuckled.

  Once seated, I asked him directly: “Just how do you plan to tighten your noose around these men?”

  “Blackmail, of course.” Field smiled without the least compunction. “Tonight, at exactly twelve-thirty in the mornin’ for Meg and one-thirty for Thompson, our actors are goin’ to mention to their respective charges that the murder of Solicitor Partlow ’as been witnessed, and, unless prevented, could become a well-known fact.”

  “Thus, all we have to do is wait to see what they do?”

  “That’s it,” Field grinned. “We’re on a fishin’ expedition.”

  Our tankards of burnt gin arrived.

  “I take it that you expect them to confess to their own presence at the murder, and to give the evidence which will seal your case against Paroissien,” said I.

  “Very good,” Inspector Field replied. “That’s it exactly. Our only fear is that they might not feel so inclined to go along; that they might feel inclined to vent their anger on the bearer of the blackmail threat.”

  “In other words, you’re afraid they might kill the messengers?”

  “Possibly,” Field certainly didn’t show much concern, “but Tally Ho and Meggy can certainly take care of themselves. Nothin’ to fear.”

  But fear for Meggy’s safety I did nevertheless.

  A brief period of contemplative silence had settled between Field and myself, when Dickens suddenly appeared. He was all flushed animation and enthusiasm. “Hope I haven’t missed anything,” he began, as he took his seat and waved for a gin.

  “Not a thing,” Field assured him with a dramatic yawn. “Essence of detective work. Five percent triumph, ninety-five percent waitin’.”

  As we partook of a rather lengthy dose of that ninety-five percent essence, Field enumerated the physical evidence of the case. “The other evenin’, while Meggy was makin’ ’er identifications backstage, I was on the lookout for our murder weapon. There are some twenty long swords among the props of the play. All are made of wood but for those of Macbeth and Macduff, which must ring of steel when they clash. There are, ’owever, four ’andswords of a ’eavy antique type which would do quite nicely for our Mister Paroissien’s murder weapon. I interviewed the people who clean up after the actors. Interestin’ enough, one of the daggers was missin’ the mornin’ after Solicitor Partlow was killed,” Dickens leaned intently over the table, hanging on Field’s every word, “but that missin’ dagger mysteriously reappeared by the time the curtain went up that evenin’.”

  “So it was the murder weapon?” Dickens stated the obvious.

  “It appears so,” Field displayed great patience. “At The Player’s Club, Paroissien and Lawyer Partlow ’ave a violent argument. Later, when the subject is raised again at the brothel, Paroissien disappears for a time then rejoins the group, and later that evenin’ Partlow is murdered.”

  “He returned to the theatre to get the dagger.” Dickens was quite proud of himself.

  “Precisely,” Field said, punctuating his agreement with a sip from his gin glass. “The next day, after cleanin’ all traces of the murder from the ’andsword, ’ee returns it to the theatre in time for that evenin’s performance. Unfortunately, for Paroissien, one of the cleanin’ people noticed that the ‘andsword was missin’ before ’ee ’ad a chance to replace it. Backstage man searches for missin’ ’andsword, can’t find it, waits for the stage manager to come in, reports ‘andsword missin’, is told to search for it once again, and lo, finds missin’ ’andsword in place which ’ee is sure ’ee ’ad already searched that mornin’. Needless to say, prop man goes off shakin’ ’is ’ead. Promptly forgets the whole affair until I start askin’ ’andsword questions. That story will bear some weight in court, I would say.”

  “What is our next step?” Dickens asked. I could not help but notice his automatic inclusion of himself as equal partner with Field in the case.

  Inspector Field consulted his watch and drained his gin. “Twelve of the clock, time to check in on Meggy and Mister Martin Price,” he said.

  In a blur of settling up, hailing a cab, and clattering through the streets, we soon found ourselves in the shadows of yet another damp, narrow mews. With his usual dispatch, Rogers gave his report. “Back room, second floor, ’aven’t stirred,” he said, pointing to a rusty-looking building of four sparsely windowed storeys dimly lit and poorly painted. The faded sign over the door read “THE HADDON INN, LODGINGS BY THE DAY OR WEEK.”

  Inspector Field once again consulted his gold pocket-watch. “In about one more minute, Meggy will be breakin’ the bad news to our friend Price. We’ll give it a few minutes to sink in, and then we’ll observe its effect.”

  “What are we going to do?” It was my voice, somewhat faltering.

  “Apply the screw, what else?” Field replied.

  Two, three minutes passed. I felt panic rising within me. Meg was closed in that room with a man twice her size, who had already participated in one murder, and whom she had just threatened to blackmail. I envisaged him beating her to death, slashing her with a razor, strangling her. Sikes and Nancy all over again, only this time for real.

  “Why are we waiting?” I blurted out. “Good God, he could have killed her by now!”

  Dickens, Field, Rogers, all stared at me in surprise.

  “Yes, it is time to go,” Field gave
his order soberly, and moved quickly across the street to the door of the rusty hotel.

  We did not pause in the foyer. A man behind a high counter used for the signing in of guests stood up when we entered.

  “Stay!” Field pointed his forefinger at the man. The man sat back down on his stool without so much as a word.

  We climbed one short flight of steps at a run, and, slowing at a hard-sign from Rogers, traversed a narrow hallway to the back of the building. The door had a wooden numeral 14 on its top panel.

  Rogers tried the door knob and found it locked.

  Without the slightest hesitation, Inspector Field stepped forward and kicked the door in.

  What we encountered, when we flooded through that splintered door, was more the material of comedy than of the bloody tragedy I had been envisaging. Meg stood wearing only her skirt and boots. Kneeling at her feet, stark naked except for his black stockings and garters, his face streaming with tears, was Mister Price. When we entered, he screamed and comically attempted to cover himself—first his nakedness, then his tear-stained face, then, indecisive, the former with one hand, while he tried to erase the evidence of his tears with his other guilty paw. All that I could think of was that comical scene in Mister Fielding’s novel in which young Tom surprises his first love Molly in flagrante with Parson Square.

  Field charitably allowed Price to dress before the interrogation.

  “’Ee hadmits ’ee was there,” Meggy reported to Field. “I told ’im I saw it all, right to ’is ’elpin’ throw the body in the river. All ’ee’s done is blubber ever since.”

  “Mister Price,” Field began, “we know you were an accessory to the murder of Solicitor Partlow. You can swing for what you did just as Paroissien is goin’ to swing for the actual killin’. But you can save yourself. You can be my witness in court. What’ll it be?”

  “I have no choice. I’ll d-do anything you want. Anything.” The man broke down, covering his face with his hands and quaking with sobs.

  “Tell me exactly what ’appened,” Field’s voice showed no pity.

  “Par-r-r-roissien and Partlow,” his speech was a weak and nervous stammer, “had b-b-been arguing all evening about the girl. He killed him over the girl.”

  “What girl? ’Er name,” Field cut him off.

  “Young actress, Ellen Ternan. Old Peggy Ternan’s youngest.”

  Dickens’s countenance went completely white, as if some embalmer had drained off all his blood. He reached out and gripped the mantlepiece over the hearth to steady himself. He didn’t, however, say a word.

  “What about the girl? Why were they so angry?” Field continued.

  “The lawyer was b-b-boasting that the girl was a virgin and that he’d bought her maidenhead from the mother. That’s when our pinch-faced stage manager lost his head. At The Player’s Club. He started screamin’ at Partlow. We were all drunk. We laughed at him. Only made him wilder. Then later, at the river, Paroissien taunts him about the girl, like he was baitin’ him, and Partlow says again that he’s bought her virginity and he means to ’ave ’er. That’s when the stage manager pulls out the knife and sticks it right in Partlow’s belly. It happened so fast, so unexpected.”

  “None of you knew of the sword until you saw ’im use it to take the lawyer’s life?”

  “No. He took it from under his coat. None of us knew that he had it.” Fear now dominated the actor’s face.

  “Meg says that you ’elped Paroissien dispose of the body. Is that true? Be careful ’ere. Watch what you say.” Stab of sharp forefinger.

  “It’s true. We had no choice. He threatened us,” the man’s voice was racing. “He’s standing there with blood dripping off that sword in his hand and he tells us to help him put the body in the river and we do it. I d-d-did it without even thinking. Everything was happening so fast. I was drunk. I wanted it to end.”

  Field abruptly turned away from him to Dickens and myself. “You ’ave ’eard all, gentlemen. Bear witness.”

  He turned sharply back to Price: “You will be summoned to tell this story in court.” Firm tap of the forefinger to the cowed actor’s chest. “Do not change it at all or these gentlemen will bear witness to your perjury.” Another decisive tap. “Mention this conversation tonight to no one if you wish to save yourself.” Tap number three, intimidating forefinger withdrawn. With finality, Field turned on his heel. “Meggy. Gentlemen.” He motioned with a slight bob of his head that it was time to follow him out. We left the man Price alone and cowering in the room.

  Outside of that disreputable hotel, Field took Irish Meg aside. He stood with his hand on Meg’s shoulder in an almost fatherly tableau. I assumed that he was complimenting her on a job well done. Money clearly was exchanged. Then Meggy was gone—gone out of my life once again, without even a word exchanged. I was sorely tempted to break off as Dickens had done earlier in the evening, to go after her, but I hadn’t the courage.

  “Now, gentlemen,” Field said, “let us see ’ow our other little character group is farin’.”

  It was almost one o’clock. Field’s play was unfolding precisely on schedule. Field’s man intercepted us outside of The Green Room. “’Aven’t budged,” he reported. “Been drinkin’ steadily these two ’ours past.”

  “Let’s ’ope Fielding can still comprehend what our fellow is about to tell ’im,” Field grinned.

  “Will he tell him in there, or bring him outside to break the bad news that he is caught?” Dickens asked.

  “Inside. I directed ’im to do it in the public room, to forestall any inclinations to drunken violence which Fielding might consider.”

  “Tally Ho can certainly handle ’im, I would think,” Rogers added.

  “To be sure,” Field agreed. “But there is no tellin’ what a man will do, when backed into a corner.”

  “I would like to see the look on the man’s face when Thompson accuses him,” Dickens said equivocally, half wishing, half requesting permission.

  “Go inside, and observe if you wish,” Field said, giving that permission. “Rogers and I will wait out ’ere, in case there is an attempt to flee.”

  I followed Dickens into the cellar club. It was a capacious room, with perhaps a dozen tables down its length to where a large hearth blazed. The majority of the tables were occupied. Groups of four or five gathered around single tables, drinking. One group of ten, including three women, had pulled two tables together near the fire. A couple of tables were occupied by solitary drinkers, reading newspapers or studying scripts.

  Fielding and Thompson sat by themselves in the rear corner near the large group, which had consolidated its tables in front of the hearth. We took an empty table near a door to what, I presumed, was the establishment’s kitchen. Our drinks were ordered, and promptly arrived. I consulted my timepiece, and nodded to Dickens. “It is almost time,” I said. We were too far away to overhear, but we followed the scene as it played out in dumb show before us. When Thompson began to speak, Fielding had been bent over, staring morosely into his gin glass. As Thompson spoke, Fielding’s head rose slowly, and his mouth dropped open in amazement. He stared into Thompson’s face, then questioned him sharply. “What are you saying? What is this?” These, perhaps, were the questions his lips formed. Thompson glared across the table at him.

  Suddenly, Fielding leapt to his feet, and screamed out, “Who are you?” Every eye turned on the two men arguing in the corner. They stood facing each other, anger flashing between them.

  Fielding made the first move. He lunged for Thompson’s throat with both hands, but Thompson was much too quick. With a sharp bob of his head and a ducking of his shoulder, Thompson easily evaded his antagonist’s grasp, and side-stepped the big man’s lunge. With his weight committed almost completely forward, Fielding tottered on the edge of losing his balance. With some effort, he righted himself, and turned on Thompson once again. Fielding was quite drunk, as well as enraged. Thompson’s hands, palms out in a placating gesture, attempted to calm Fi
elding. Fielding picked up a gin tankard from the table, and threw it at Thompson, who ducked. The tankard shattered against the stone face of the hearth.

  Everyone in the room was now on their feet. The large group near the hearth had already abandoned their tables, and were fleeing down the room. Others were edging away from the two antagonists, moving toward the door.

  Once again, the hulking Fielding lunged at Thompson. Once again, the quicksilver Thompson evaded that charge, and, as Fielding toppled past him, struck him with a sharp upward-angled punch to the kidneys. Fielding howled in pain, and turned on his tormentor. This time, however, Thompson didn’t wait. With a quick motion, he dipped his shoulder, and ran at full speed into Fielding’s belly, bowling the big man over backwards into the two tables run together, which the large group had abandoned. Glassware and crockery shattered, as the flimsy tables splintered beneath the weight of the two catapulting men. Thompson landed on top of Fielding, and, with a quick backward leap of wondrous agility, bounced up onto his feet. Fielding groped forward on his hands and knees. Thompson took one step backwards, and then, with all his strength, stepped forward and kicked Fielding square in the face. So much for the Marquess of Queensberry Rules.

  That ended it. The actor crumbled in a drunken heap as Field and Rogers burst through the door with their cudgels at the ready. Peace was quickly restored, as Rogers and Thompson led the semi-conscious Fielding out to the street. Inspector Field identified himself to, and tried to mollify, the landlord, whose tables and crockery had taken such a thrashing. Dickens wore the most angelic of smiles, as if he had just witnessed the championship match between the Tewksbury Duck and Chelsea Smalls.*