‘Whether he did it or not, his career will be ruined,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘I am not personally acquainted with Mr Wilde. He was at Magdalen not Christ Church. However, he is an Oxford man, and as such, he deserves my support. I have also read some of his remarks on art. He has much to say that is to the point. It would be a great pity if a promising young writer should be stifled at the very outset of his career by a false accusation such as this. It can blight all hopes of advancement. No, Dr Doyle, we must take matters into our own hands. The problem is, how to find Mr Wilde before Inspector MacRae obtains his warrant.’
Mr Dodgson thought a moment, while the snow piled up on top of his high silk hat. Then he set out along Fleet Street, dragging Dr Doyle with him.
‘Where are we going?’ Dr Doyle asked, struggling through the crowd that was pushing in the opposite direction, towards the Strand.
‘Today is Wednesday, is it not?’
‘I believe so.’
‘Good. Tenniel will be at the Punch dinner. He always attends on Wednesdays. Tenniel knows everybody, and if he doesn’t, du Maurier does. I will call on Tenniel at Punch and find Mr Wilde’s direction from him. Come along, Dr Doyle, there is not a moment to lose. We must find Mr Wilde and warn him to keep out of MacRae’s way until this matter is settled and the true murderer is brought to justice.’
Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle disappeared into the snow. Behind them, the rotund figure of Mr David Peterson stepped out of the doorway of the bookshop, where he had taken the opportunity to light a cigar before heading back to the domestic bliss waiting for him in his small attached house in Sloane Square.
So, Peterson thought to himself, Basset was dead, and not from a blow to the head, as had been assumed, but from a knife wound to the back. How appropriate! The old bugger had stabbed enough of his writers and artists in the back himself, stealing their work and peddling it as his own, paying coolie wages, and blaming the declining circulation of Youth’s Companion on everything but his own lack of talent and refusal to hire better.
Well, thought Peterson, that would change. Nicky Portman would have to find himself another editor in chief, and the most likely person for the job was one David Peterson. Hadn’t he provided most of the content of the magazine for the last five years? He would never have thrown a sweet little thing like Miss Potter out, whether her fuzzy rabbits were worthy of publication or not. He certainly wouldn’t have insulted a master of fantasy like Mr Lewis Carroll!
Peterson puffed on his cigar as he slowly walked towards the Strand, considering what he had overheard. Basset had been stabbed, but by whom? When? And where? Basset had been alive when he left the office. They had all heard his heavy tread on the stairs. He hadn’t been in the street for all that long, and who, in all that crowd, would have taken the time to shove a knife into a complete stranger?
Peterson stopped in front of a small tavern and sniffed the air, redolent of beer and onions. He looked up and down the street. He could, of course, take the Underground, but before he did, he wanted more fortification. He ducked into the tavern and ordered a hot rum toddy. He wasn’t sure, but there was something nagging at the back of his mind and he would not be satisfied until he had worked it out.
CHAPTER 5
The dramatic collapse and violent death of one of its own members could not go unnoticed by the Fourth Estate. Samuel Basset had conveniently perished on Fleet Street itself, the very hub of the British Press. He had perished surrounded by reporters, all eager to record his passing in the most sensational terms permissible by their individual editors. On the other hand, he had timed his death imperfectly. The afternoon and evening editions had already been made up; the death of a mere editor in chief of a periodical devoted to children did not warrant the expense of making up an extra edition. Samuel Basset’s obituary, like his autopsy, would have to wait until morning.
Meanwhile, reporters interviewed everyone on the street at the time of Mr Basset’s dramatic death: apple sellers, newsboys, hot pie men, and even each other. Only the orator on the soapbox went unnoted and unnoticed as he continued to exhort the printers and compositors on their way home from their labours.
‘I tell you, my brothers, that the time has come to let those fine gentlemen know that the franchise is not enough. We want more than the chance to vote for whoever is assigned to us. We want bread for our children, we want coals for our fires, we want the right to earn our bread with honest labour!’
A knot of men stopped in front of the speaker. Towering over them was O’Casey, the chief printer of Youth’s Companion, who had pushed his way to the front of the crowd and now stood belligerently in front of Hyndman.
‘And how are we supposed to do that, my fine fellow? You with your top hat and fine coat, you’ve never worked a day in your life, have you?’ O’Casey shouted truculently.
‘I’ve spent my life fighting for the rights of fellows like you to provide me with these fine clothes,’ the speaker retorted. ‘You are in the forefront of history, my good man. The Social Democratic Federation will fight the good fight, but first you must get the ear of those gentlemen in their warm clubs, the well-fed ones who begrudge a penny to warm an honest workingman’s home….’
‘He has the right of it there!’ O’Casey shouted. ‘Just this very day, me and me men were denied the use of a fire in the printing plant, while the master sat warm in his office!’
The mutter of conversation grew into a growl of anger as the speaker took up the chorus. ‘And what do our elected representatives, the Council and the Lord Mayor, have to say? They tell us that there is no money in the Lord Mayor’s Fund! The members of Parliament will not come to our aid. They say we must ask our own town council, the City of London. But the Mayor and Council will not help us because, they say, there is no money in the fund set aside for poor relief. I say, my brothers, that the time has come to take what is rightfully ours! We must show those well-fed gentlemen in St James’s that we will not stand for this neglect!’
The mutter grew to a roar. O’Casey leaped on to the box, shoving the speaker into the snow-filled street.
‘I’m a peaceable man, but this fellow is right. No fine gentleman can tell me that me children should starve because it is the will of God that they should go hungry. They did it to us in forty-eight and forty-nine, and they’ll not do it again!’ O’Casey’s arms were raised in outrage or prayer.
There was another roar of approval. The high-hatted speaker fought for the place of authority atop the soapbox, pushing O’Casey off and regaining the initiative and his place as Leader of the Pack.
‘Call your friends, call your enemies! Tonight we will make our will known!’
‘You tell ’em, ’Enry!’ one of the reporters called out.
‘ ’Enry ’yndman, the Workers’ Friend!’ someone else jeered.
Hyndman ignored the sarcasm. ‘Yes, I am the workers’ friend,’ he retorted. ‘I fight for justice! I fight for those who have no one else to fight for them!’
O’Casey glared at the speaker. ‘Who says we don’t fight for our own?’ he demanded.
‘You’re standing there like cattle!’ Hyndman called back.
‘I say we can fight for ourselves,’ O’Casey shot back at him. ‘We don’t need some jumped-up toff in a high hat to tell us how to get our own back.’
‘Then why don’t you do it?’ Hyndman yelled at the crowd. ‘Because you’re afraid, that’s why! You’ll take whatever the high-and-mighty will deign to give you, but you won’t lift a finger to save yourselves!’
The muttering in the group grew louder, as Hyndman’s words were repeated. The men of Fleet Street began to spread on to other streets. The word was out in the Temple, where scriveners and clerks, porters and cleaners joined the crowd. Costers with their barrows were attracted by the mass of people. As soon as they realized what was afoot, they, too, were added to the crush of humanity slowly moving towards the Strand.
The reporters in the crowd recognized a news event when they saw one. Already they w
ere mentally forming their stories: Mass Demonstrations in the Strand! Mob Riots! Next to this, the death of an editor, particularly the editor of a mere children’s periodical, was nothing. This was history in the making, and no reporter worthy of the name would want to be left out of it. The Press was added to the press of people, edging their way towards the monument that marked the dividing point between the City of London and the rest of the metropolis.
Mr Edgar Roberts was tall enough to stand out even in that mob. He set his broad-brimmed hat solidly on his head and pulled his long knitted scarf around his neck. He scanned the crowd for a red hat and grey cloak. Two or three long strides were enough for him to catch up to his quarry. ‘Miss Harvey? I thought you had left Fleet Street.’
‘Mr Roberts?’ Miss Harvey peered through the snow at the tall figure in front of her. ‘What happened to Mr Basset? I saw him fall, and I thought you beckoned to me, so I tried to come over to the door, but there were so many people out on the streets …’
‘Miss Harvey, would you let me buy you some tea?’ Roberts interrupted the flow of words.
‘Now?’ She looked around at the crowded street.
‘Twining’s is still open. I believe they have a small eating place in the back of the shop, where one can get a cup of hot tea and a scone.’ The artist fixed her with a gaze of burning intensity. ‘I have a … proposition I would like to put to you.’
Miss Harvey looked about her again. The crowd was becoming threatening. Mr Roberts was very tall and the thought of hot tea was suddenly very appealing. ‘I don’t suppose anyone could object,’ she said.
Mr Roberts took Miss Harvey’s arm and led her to Twining’s. He would have his Queen Mab or know the reason why!
Mr Levin paid no attention to the crowd or the speakers. He made his way through the snow down the Strand, which by now was so choked with people, horses, and carriages that walking was the fastest means of transportation. The snow had begun to pile up against the corners of the buildings, while the crossing sweepers had their hands full keeping the intersections free for pedestrians. Mr Levin marched on, head down against the wind, past the shops, hotels, and fine restaurants that marked the Strand as one of London’s most fashionable thoroughfares.
His destination was Trafalgar Square and St James’s Place beyond it, where the most exclusive men’s clubs lurked behind discreet oak doors. Here were the sanctuaries where gentlemen could read newspapers, play cards, argue politics, or just sleep the day away. No visitors were allowed in the best of these clubs; even the worst of them had a cachet that was maintained by the strict use of blackball rules.
The Press Club was the newest of these institutions, the brain child of Mr Nicholas Portman, the son of the founder of Portman Penny Press. Nicky Portman had the reputation of being a man who got things done. When the more venerable clubs refused him admittance because of his ancestry, he stated boldly that a man’s grandfather had nothing to do with said man’s accomplishments and had proceeded to use an unexpected legacy from a wealthy relative to take over the moribund Players’ Club and turn it into a haven for literary figures of all types, particularly journalists. Not content with that, he had instituted such radical reforms as to make the Press Club unique.
It was the Press Club that had instituted a ladies’ entrance, for use by female members of the Fourth Estate, who were actually allowed to eat in the dining-room on alternate Saturday afternoons. It was the Press Club that entertained visiting Americans, such as the vociferous Mr Clemens and the less vociferous Mr Harte, when they came to London for lecture tours. Under the leadership of Mr Portman, the Press Club was willing to extend hospitality to anyone who could prove that they were a published author and could behave like a gentleman.
As befitted the founder and chief benefactor of the Press Club, Mr Portman had filled the place with his own souvenirs. His African ventures were recalled by an assortment of wooden idols and fetishes, lined up on the shelves of the library. A trip to the Caribbean had yielded a conservatory full of exotic plants. India was represented by the brass trays and vases in the lounge, while Chinese porcelain and Japanese prints adorned the members’ dining-room.
Mr Nicholas Portman himself still retained the boyish good looks of his early photographs. His round face bore a habitual expression of surprise that hid a determination to outdo his father and grandfather in the world of publishing. His blue eyes looked out on the world as if seeking ever wider horizons. If his blond curls were slightly less exuberantly curly than in former years, if his slender waist tended to burst out of his tailored waistcoat, well, this was only to be expected of a man entering his fourth decade.
Nicky Portman was anxiously waiting when the Press Club’s majestic butler showed Levin into the club library, a book-lined corner room permeated by the smell of old leather and musty pages. Here one could find a copy of every book ever printed by the Portman Penny Press, the source of the fortune laid down by the first Nicholas Portman, who had begun life as a bookbinder’s assistant and had ended it as a millionaire, thanks to the newly literate working classes and their demand for cheap, readable books. Mr Portman’s father, Sir William Portman, had managed to gain a knighthood largely by giving books to schools and charitable institutions. Nicky, as he was known to London society, had followed the family trade, expanding the Portman Penny Press into the area of children’s publications.
Mr Portman had apparently delayed his tea; a tray with a teapot and a covered dish that might contain muffins was on the table in the middle of the room. He eyed Mr Levin as the taller man dripped melting snow on the figured carpet. ‘Where is Sammy?’
‘Mr Basset is not coming,’ Mr Levin said miserably. ‘Mr Basset has … He has met with an accident.’
‘What sort of an accident?’ Mr Portman asked sharply. ‘Spit it out, man!’
‘Sir, he’s dead!’ Levin blurted out.
‘What! How …? When …?’ Portman spluttered.
‘It happened about an hour ago,’ Levin said. ‘In the street, in front of the office. The police … the police think someone might have knocked him on the head. There are a number of ruffians about tonight,’ Levin added. ‘I thought I saw Mr Hyndman making one of his usual ranting speeches, urging them to take matters into their own hands, after the rejection of the Poor Aid Bill.’
‘And you think one of these workingmen decided to hit my dear Sammy on the head? I never heard such nonsense,’ Mr Portman snapped out. ‘What else can you tell me?’
‘Not much, sir. Mr Basset had already left for the day, and I was in the process of locking up before leaving the building. The rest of the staff writers were on their way down when I heard the police arrive.’
‘Police? Already?’
‘I believe there was already an inspector from the Special Irish Branch on the scene,’ Levin explained. ‘Because of Mr Hyndman, I expect, and the unpleasantness over the vote. Then someone from the City of London Police showed up, too.’
Mr Portman thought this over. ‘It’s all very strange,’ he said at last. ‘Who would want to hurt poor old Sammy?’
‘As to that, I could not say,’ Levin said, his voice trembling. ‘He was not in a good temper, sir. There had been a few … altercations earlier today, but I do not believe that either Mr Wilde or O’Casey meant what they said in the heat of anger.’ Levin shook his head sadly.
‘Wilde? You don’t mean Oscar was there?’ Mr Portman looked up at Levin. ‘I sent him over, you know. I thought Sammy could find a place for him on the staff.’
‘You should have said something to Mr Basset about Mr Wilde being your particular friend,’ Mr Levin said. ‘As it was, Mr Wilde did not mention any connection, and Mr Basset was not pleased with his, um, writing style. To be blunt, sir, Mr Basset would not hire Mr Wilde, and Mr Wilde left the office in what can only be described as high dudgeon.’
‘Hmph!’ Mr Portman made a noise between a snort and a laugh. ‘I can just see Oscar doing it, too. And what did O’Casey want?�
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‘Mr Basset would not permit any more expenditure on coals, and there was no fire in the printing plant. O’Casey was upset.’
Mr Portman sighed. ‘That was Sammy all over. Penny wise, pound foolish. He’d been so poor as a lad, you know, he watched over every penny, even when I told him I’d stand the gaff. He was my oldest friend, Levin. We were at school together.’
‘So he told me, sir. Several times.’ Levin eased his coat open. ‘Er … What shall I do, sir?’
‘Do? What do you mean, do? Do about what?’ Mr Portman asked irritably.
‘Mr Basset’s … um, remains … have been taken up by the police,’ Mr Levin reminded him. ‘According to the inspector in charge, Inspector Calloway of the City of London Police, the … Mr Basset has been taken to Bart’s for examination by the police surgeon. There will be an inquiry and an inquest. Then there is the procedure at the office. The staff know about Mr Basset’s death. That is, they were on the street in the crowd when the police were summoned. Shall I call them in tomorrow? Will they be expected to attend the funeral? Who will take care of the, um, arrangements?’ Mr Levin stopped in confusion.
Mr Portman answered the last question first. ‘Sammy’s people are all gone now. His mother died some years ago, and his father … he never really knew his father. There were no other children, no brothers or sisters. I suppose I was all the family Sammy ever had.’ He sighed deeply. ‘The office will open tomorrow, and you may put a black wreath on the door of the office and of the shop downstairs. Black armbands, of course, but nothing more for the staff. I shall take care of the funeral arrangements. The staff will have the day to attend. I only hope that poor Sammy will not be totally anatomized.’
‘Anatomized?’ Levin squeaked out.
‘Standard procedure, unfortunately. There will, of course, be an autopsy.…’
‘Autopsy,’ Levin whispered, going white.
‘But if, as you say, the cause of death is so obvious, that should be a mere formality. I will inform the staff of the date of the funeral.’ Mr Portman shook his head sadly. ‘Poor dear Sammy. To end like this!’ He looked up at Levin. ‘What are you standing about for, man?’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 5