‘What is he saying?’ Mr Dodgson asked anxiously.
‘Wi—’ Basset breathed, his eyes focusing on something just beyond Dr Doyle’s shoulder. Then he gave a spasmodic gasp and his body went limp.
A large constable shoved his way through the crowd. ‘Wot’s all this, then?’
‘This,’ Mr Dodgson said, ‘is – or rather, I fear, was – Mr Samuel Basset, a publisher of children’s books and magazines.’
‘He’s dead,’ Dr Doyle pronounced, as he checked the man’s neck pulse and tried to hear his breathing.
‘How?’ The bobby peered at the fallen man, who was already being covered by a thin down of snowflakes. ‘Who done it then?’ He glared suspiciously at Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle.
‘I saw some bloke run off down the Strand,’ one of the apple vendors offered.
‘Big feller, too,’ added the nearest newsvendor.
‘Anyone see ‘is face?’ The bobby looked around the crowd. The reporters already were scribbling in their notebooks. Here was a juicy story, a vicious attack on one of their own, and on his front doorstep, as it were!
‘Can’t see yer own feet in this muck, let alone the face of summun runnin’ away,’ observed the apple woman.
‘May I suggest that you exp-pedite matters by summoning your sup-periors as quickly as p-possible?’ Mr Dodgson said testily, his stammer threatening to overcome him in his agitation. ‘It is quite cold, and if you do not hurry, any indications of who the assailant might be will be covered by this snow.’
‘Aye, that’s so,’ the bobby agreed. He tweeted his whistle to alert his comrades in Ludgate Circus to send reinforcements.
By this time, the members of the Fourth Estate were busily interviewing as many people as they could find who would admit to knowing the deceased. One approached Dr Doyle.
‘A doctor, you said?’
‘Dr Arthur Conan Doyle,’ was the reply, and the spelling of the name was carefully checked.
‘Did you know the man well?’
‘I only met him this afternoon,’ Dr Doyle stated.
‘And you, sir?’ The young reporter turned to Mr Dodgson, who had risen to speak to the policeman and was now edging away from the stiffening form on the pavement.
‘I do not wish to be interviewed,’ Mr Dodgson told him. ‘My association with Mr Basset was brief and was about to be broken off. I was sadly misled.’
The reporter was about to follow this promising lead when the loud clanging of a bell announced the arrival of the police ambulance and a squad in the blue jackets and helmets with the badge of the City of London, led by a tall and burly individual in a bowler hat and caped greatcoat. At the same time, a short, spare man draped in a long overcoat, also wearing a bowler hat, made his way through the crowd, followed by a second squad with the badge of the Metropolitan Police on their helmets.
‘MacRae, Metropolitan Police,’ the shorter of the two announced curtly. ‘Constable, what’s all this about?’ At the same time, the taller, burlier officer declared, ‘Calloway, City of London Police. What’s going on here?’
The bobby saluted, including both inspectors in his greeting. ‘Gentleman assaulted, sir. According to this gentleman, he’s a Mr Samuel Basset.’
Mr Dodgson peered through the snow at the new arrival. ‘Good heavens,’ he exclaimed, ‘Inspector MacRae!’
‘Aye, that’s me.’ Inspector MacRae glared at Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘We met in Brighton last summer,’ Mr Dodgson reminded him. ‘The matter of Miss Alicia Marbury’s abduction.’
Comprehension dawned, and MacRae’s scowl deepened. ‘I recall now,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Oxford? And you,’ he turned to Dr Doyle, who had relinquished the body of the late Mr Basset to the uniformed authorities. ‘Brighton, wasn’t it?’
‘Portsmouth. Southsea, actually,’ Dr Doyle corrected him.
Inspector MacRae seemed to take Mr Dodgson’s defection from the realm of academe as a personal insult. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘What are you doing here, Inspector?’ Mr Dodgson asked. ‘As I recall, you are in the Special Irish Branch, not the Criminal Investigation Department. And I believe this is the City of London, which means …’
‘Hit means ’e don’t ’ave no right to be ’ere,’ Calloway stated. ‘So wot’s the Met doin’? This ’ere’s my patch, MacRae. ‘Ands off.’
Inspector MacRae glanced down at the body of the late Samuel Basset. ‘If this is the work of Fenians, Calloway, then it’s my body, not yours. I’ve had word that there’s a meeting called for tonight in Trafalgar Square, and some of the lads gave me the wink that there’s to be more than words flying in the Strand. The Fenians may try to take advantage to do mischief, and when they do, we’ll be waiting for ’em!’ MacRae rubbed his hands, partly to combat the cold, partly in anticipation. ‘We’ll teach ’em to run riot in the streets!’
‘Haw!’ Calloway expressed his opinion of the Special Irish Branch and their relentless search for Irish terrorists. ‘This ’ere’s no Fenian bomb, MacRae. This gent’s been struck by some bloke out fer ’is pocket watch and purse. None of your affair, so go off and chase Fenians and let the rest of us get on with it.’
‘Mr Basset said something before he died,’ Dr Doyle said, conscious of his duty. It sounded like the letter “y” as in, “Wi …” or “why”…’
‘Could he have been naming his killer?’ MacRae asked.
‘I have no idea what he meant,’ Dr Doyle replied. ‘In fact, it may only have been his expiring breath. Take no notice of it.’
‘I take notice of everything, sir.’ MacRae took out his notebook and glanced at his rival, who glared back and produced a notebook of his own. ‘Now, sir, for the record, what were your relations with the deceased?’
‘Is there no more sheltered place where we can pursue these inquiries?’ Dr Doyle asked, looking about him. Most of the stalls had closed. The taverns were nearby, but crowded.
A familiar voice broke into the hubbub. ‘What’s going on here?’ Mr Levin shoved through the crowd, to see why the police ambulance was blocking the street. ‘Oh my!’ Levin’s too refined tones broke into purest Whitechapel. ‘Ow, it’s Mr Basset! Is ’e …?’
‘Who’re you?’ Calloway asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
‘I am Andrew Levin, and … is that Mr Basset? Is he unwell?’ Levin’s voice trembled.
‘He is dead,’ Inspector MacRae said bluntly. Mr Levin closed his eyes and murmured something under his breath. Behind him, the rest of the staff had edged into the crowd, joining their fellow journalists on Fleet Street. Howarth and Monteverde bowed their heads in respect as the police lifted the body of the late Samuel Basset up into the waiting ambulance, while Peterson and Roberts touched their hats. Calloway and MacRae eyed each other, neither one willing to give way to the other, while the ambulance driver awaited further orders. All traffic on Fleet Street had ground to a halt while the driver of the police ambulance, the driver of the next omnibus, and the driver of a huge dray cursed and edged their horses back and forth.
‘Where are you taking him?’ Levin asked Inspector Calloway, who looked, in turn, at the ambulance driver.
‘Bart’s is the nearest,’ the police ambulance driver said, looking to Calloway for approval. MacRae nodded.
‘Get the poor soul under cover,’ he agreed. ‘We can sort this out later.’ Calloway gave the signal, and the ambulance driver edged the horse up to the Strand, the better to turn around and head back into the City, to the venerable hospital of St Bartholomew. The flow of traffic resumed, and the attention of the police was turned to the staff of Youth’s Companion.
CHAPTER 4
The staff stood on Fleet Street huddled together, still shaken by the event. Monteverde and Howarth seemed to look to Peterson for guidance, while Roberts scanned the crowd to see if Miss Harvey had made her escape. He caught her eye and beckoned to her to come closer. Calloway and MacRae glared a
t the assembled staff, who looked blankly at each other, while Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle lurked at the edges of the group.
Finally, the senior member of the group managed to find his voice. ‘Poor old Basset Hound,’ Peterson said. ‘Did he have a stroke? Apoplexy?’
‘It seemed to me that he just fainted away,’ Dr Doyle stated. ‘Although I thought there was someone with him just before he collapsed. They might have been having some sort of argument.’
‘Didn’t see any sign of an attack, did you?’ Calloway asked.
‘I couldn’t be certain, what with the snow and the crowd on the pavement,’ Dr Doyle confessed. ‘I thought I saw a large man, in some sort of cloak or cape, standing near him, but I could not swear to it in a court of law. Inspectors, is this going to take very long? I am supposed to be on the late train to Portsmouth.’
‘Is there no place where we can get out of this weather?’ Mr Dodgson complained.
Mr Levin spoke up. ‘Excuse me, Inspector, but I hold the keys, and the offices of Youth’s Companion are right behind us. If you like, I can open the door, and we may step into the vestibule. As soon as you have finished with our statements, these people can be on their way.’ He indicated the staff, who were fascinated by the interplay between the City of London and the Metropolitan Police.
Calloway hunched his shoulders against the wind while Levin fumbled with the keys. Once the door was open, MacRae and Calloway plunged in out of the weather, leaving Mr Dodgson, Dr Doyle, and the rest of the staff to crowd in behind them. Two constables of each persuasion held back the curious onlookers. Only Mr Roberts noticed that Miss Harvey had turned back to hover near the door and hear what was being said, and he kept his own counsel.
‘Now then,’ Calloway began, with notebook at the ready. ‘Wot’ave you got to say for yourselves?’ He glared at Levin, then at Monteverde and Howarth, and finally at Peterson, who decided to take up the position of spokesman for the staff.
‘I’m David Peterson, chief writer and senior staff member,’ Peterson stated, with a glance at the others, who seemed content to allow him to take the lead.
‘Were you out on the street when Mr Basset was attacked?’ MacRae asked.
‘Just got out of the office,’ Peterson said cheerfully.
‘Did you see anyone with Mr Basset?’ Calloway took over the questioning.
‘Couldn’t see your hand in front of your face in this snow,’ Monteverde commented unoriginally.
‘I saw even less,’ Howarth put in. I was right behind Monte on the stairs when he told me that Basset was down.’
‘Then you’re no ’elp to us,’ Calloway said in disgusted tones. ‘Give yer directions to the constable, get on ’ome, and we’ll be around to take your statements in the morning.’
‘Certain it’s a simple robbery, are ye?’ MacRae said.
‘Hit’s clear to me wot ’appened,’ Calloway retorted. ‘One of the usual bunch, out to nab a quid or two in the snow. There’s a scuffle, Basset gets ’it, and chummy takes off before we can clap eyes on ’im.’
‘I think there is more to it than that,’ Dr Doyle spoke up.
Inspector Calloway did not want to listen to him. ‘No Fenians in this business,’ he told MacRae. ‘I’ll ’ave me men keep their eyes on the lookout, but this is one we’ll never solve.’
‘If you will let me speak …’ Dr Doyle began again.
Mr Peterson interrupted him. ‘Levin, you’ll let us know the drill? Black bands on arms, black gloves?’
‘I shall speak with Mr Portman as soon as I finish with these, um, gentlemen,’ Levin said.
‘They’re not gentlemen; they’re coppers!’ Peterson snickered.
‘Were you acquainted with this Mr Samuel Basset?’ MacRae turned to Levin.
‘I am … was … his assistant.’ Levin swallowed several times. ‘This is quite, quite shocking. What happened? You said he was … dead? How? Why?’
‘That’s an interesting question, sir, to which at present we have no answers,’ MacRae told him, with a speaking look at Calloway, who ignored him. ‘He appears to have been attacked by some kind of ruffian. A tall man, seemingly, with a name that starts with ‘Wi—’
‘Surely not Mr Wilde!’ Levin exclaimed. ‘He would not have done such a thing!’
‘Wilde? Not that fellow who parades about in velvet knee breeches, mocking his betters?’ MacRae bristled at the thought.
‘He’s not as effete as he looks,’ Dr Doyle spoke out. ‘In fact, he’s quite tall, and according to reports, he gave as good as he got when he toured America. I’ve attended some of his lectures. He’s a very good speaker,’ he added to Mr Dodgson.
Inspector Calloway turned to Levin. ‘Had Mr Basset any family?’
Levin thought a moment. ‘I never heard of any. He had a flat on Baker Street.’ Levin swallowed hard. ‘I … I suppose I shall have to go to the Press Club and tell Mr Portman of Mr Basset’s … accident.’
‘Accident, my eye!’ MacRae snorted. ‘What did this Wilde have to do with Basset?’
‘Mr Basset declined to employ him as staff writer,’ Mr Levin said carefully. ‘In fact, he threw him out of the office.’
‘And the fellow took his revenge by knocking the blighter on the head,’ Calloway said gleefully. ‘Well, that’s assault and battery, and, perhaps, murder.’
‘Just because he was refused a position?’ Peterson scoffed.
‘There are a few chaps out in the street who would kill for a good job,’ Howarth said sombrely. ‘Mr Basset was right about that.’
‘And this ’un gave ’im a dick on the nob,’ Calloway pronounced.
‘I thought you’d decided that this was a simple robbery,’ MacRae snapped at Calloway.
‘Could be that I was mistook and too ’asty,’ Calloway conceded. ‘There might be more to this than meets the eye.’
‘I suggest you wait until after the autopsy …’ Dr Doyle began. The wind blew the door open and the sound of the orator was heard once more.
MacRae’s attention was distracted from the business at hand. ‘There goes Hyndman again. He’s Inciting to Riot! Well, this is one time I’ve got him dead to rights! He’ll not spout that Socialist nonsense very much longer!’
‘I do not believe that Mr Wilde …’ Dr Doyle began.
MacRae settled his bowler more firmly on his head, and prepared to face the elements. ‘As soon as I’ve taken care of Mr Hyndman and his friend John Burns, I can get a warrant for Mr Oscar Wilde. A man like that shouldn’t be too hard to find.’
‘But …’ Dr Doyle tried once again to get MacRae’s attention.
‘Not now, young man. You’ll stop by the Yard and give your statement in the morning,’ MacRae said. ‘And stay indoors tonight. This is no place for youngsters, or old codgers.’ He gathered himself together, settled his spectacles firmly on his nose, and dove out into the street once more.
‘Now,’ Calloway took out his notebook, ‘I’ll just take your names and directions, and let you gentlemen be on your way. MacRae’s got a bee in ’is bonnet about the Irish.’
‘Then you don’t think Wilde is in any danger?’ Peterson asked.
‘As to that I cannot say,’ Calloway declared. ‘I’ll expect statements from all of you in the morning.’ He carefully took Mr Dodgson’s and Dr Doyle’s cards, winked, and stalked off after bigger game than aesthetic poets.
Mr Levin looked shaken to the core. ‘I must inform Mr Portman,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Dodgson, Dr Doyle, but I must close the door now. Mr Monteverde, Mr Howarth … If you don’t mind, Mr Roberts …’ He edged everyone outside into the snow.
Roberts scowled at Levin and strode after Miss Harvey. Peterson looked at his fellow sufferers. ‘Anyone for a quick one before we have to face the weather?’
Howarth looked at Monteverde and the two adjusted their hats (a neat bowler for Howarth, a dramatic velveteen trilby for Monteverde).
‘Mama’s waiting dinner for me,’ Monteverde said.
‘And I’ve got to get home to Post-Office Polly,’ Howarth explained.
‘You spoil that hound!’ The two men set off in opposite directions, one towards Saffron Hill, the other to Pimlico. Levin touched his bowler hat and disappeared into the snow, leaving Mr Roberts speaking earnestly to Miss Harvey.
Once again Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle found themselves in the crowded street.
‘Dear me,’ Mr Dodgson said. It seemed inadequate to the occasion.
Dr Doyle was more forceful. ‘That idiot MacRae is off on a wild-goose chase, and Calloway’s not much better. Wilde had nothing to do with Basset’s death.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Of course not. I was trying to tell them that the cause of death wasn’t a blow to the head. The man had been stabbed in the back, as they’ll find out soon enough when they do the autopsy.’
‘Really? But why did Mr Basset say, “Wi—”?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘If he said a name at all,’ Dr Doyle objected. ‘And what is that object you’ve been clutching all this while?’
Mr Dodgson looked down at his hands. Sure enough, he was holding a long scarf, made of undyed wool, knitted in a curious twisted pattern. ‘Mr Basset was holding this as he fell,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘I suppose I must have taken it when you laid him on the ground.’
‘Shouldn’t we give it to the police?’ Dr Doyle asked.
Mr Dodgson considered, then said, ‘If Inspector MacRae is determined to follow his own course, there is little we can do to stop him. He would probably ignore this very important clue. He has already decided that Mr Oscar Wilde is the culprit and will think of nothing else. As for Inspector Calloway, he would probably use it to fix the blame on some miscreant who had nothing to do with Basset’s death, If only to clear the case from his records.’ Mr Dodgson considered his course, then declared, ‘We must find Mr Wilde before Inspector MacRae does and warn him.’
‘But … if Wilde had nothing to do with the assault …’ Dr Doyle objected.
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 4