‘The magazine,’ Levin said, through dry lips. ‘Our new issue is not yet printed. We will miss our mailing deadline. And how shall we break the news to the children? Should I write the editorial?’
Mr Portman shook his head. ‘No, Levin,’ he decided, ‘I shall do it. Sammy was the children’s dear, dear friend, their Uncle Basset, who always had their best interests at heart. Death is no stranger to our readers, unfortunately, but we need not dwell on the manner of it. As for Youth’s Companion, I shall come down to the office and take charge myself. I often thought that Sammy had become somewhat hardheaded in his selection of material, and now that I hear he rejected Oscar’s lovely stories, I am sure of it. Perhaps a fresh approach is needed. We shall see.’
‘Of course,’ Levin said faintly.
‘Well, Levin,’ Mr Portman said, rising and patting the taller man on the shoulder, ‘you must be quite distressed. Have a drink at the bar downstairs before you go home. You must have had a dreadful day.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Levin said. ‘In fact, the snow is quite thick, and I should be getting on home. And the people on the street are becoming very unruly.’
‘In that case, you’d best be on your way. Thank you for coming to me directly. I would not have liked to learn of Sammy’s death by reading it in the morning papers.’
‘No,’ Levin said. He picked up his bowler hat and sketched a bow. ‘I thought you should know, sir. Things being what they are, I felt it important to see you in person.’
Mr Portman had sunk into thought. He waved absently at the other man, who had no choice but to bow and leave.
Levin paused outside the study. Should he have mentioned the argument with Mr Basset about the discrepancies in the accounts, and the threat of prosecution? No. Now that Basset was gone, why upset Mr Portman with such minor difficulties?
Levin pulled his overcoat about him and headed out into the snow again. There were rough men all around, shaking their fists and shouting. It could not be a cab, then; it would have to be the Underground. Levin turned his steps eastward. He might be able to convince his landlady to let him have some hot soup tonight.
Edgar Roberts left Miss Harvey near the Temple. They had not quite reached an agreement, but he was certain he could get around her ridiculous scruples about posing for Queen Mab. The noises of the riot drew his attention. Everyone in London seemed to be heading towards Trafalgar Square. Why not go there himself and see what was happening? Queen Mab could wait another night! Mr Roberts joined the crowd, his eyes bright with mischief, his pencil at the ready.
David Peterson had emerged from his tavern spot with several hot rum toddies under his belt. His head felt pleasantly fuzzy, but he grinned to himself as he looked about for a cab and found none. The snow was swirling about, eddying about the venerable buildings of the Temple, covering the tops of high hats with a fine film that had to be knocked off before it soaked into the silk.
The snow had not deterred the crowd. All around him, angry men were gathered, shaking their fists at imaginary employers. A few women had joined the mob, carrying baskets of shrivelled flowers or battered fruit, and they added shrill soprano and alto cries to the basso rumble of the workingmen. Some of the navvies had shovels and picks with them, carried in the vain hope that someone would offer employment.
‘Let’s ‘ave up the stones!’ someone bawled over the muttering. Picks and shovels were used to pry up cobblestones, to the delight of the crowd.
Peterson sighed inwardly. He would have to walk home. There was not a cab to be had and the thought of the Underground was too daunting in his present state of inebriation.
Peterson plodded along the Strand, going over his options. He had formulated a theory, one which would explain what he had seen. Now what should he do about it? He could say nothing and wait for the police to get around to him, or he could come forward and present what he had thought out to Inspector Calloway or Inspector MacRae. Of course, the two policemen could then discard what they had been told. MacRae seemed to be a hasty type, rushing here and there without first considering what was logical and what was not. Calloway, on the other hand, was unimaginative and would take the most comfortable explanation. He’d already decided that Samuel Basset had been the victim of a random attack and would let it go at that.
‘Watch where you are going!’ A familiar voice broke into his internal reverie.
Peterson stopped short, nearly running into another person just ahead of him. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ he said. Then he recognized who it was. ‘What on earth are you doing out this late?’
‘Everyone else is out tonight. Why not me?’
‘Never mind that. Look, I wanted a word with you.’
‘Oh?’ The other man ducked into a narrow alley, a narrow street left over from the days when the Strand had been a little stream and the streets were lined with brick houses.
Peterson followed, eager to put his theory to the test and happy to be out of the wind.
‘I’ve been thinking about what happened this afternoon on the stairs.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about!’ The other man tried to step around Peterson, but there was a lot of Peterson to step around, and the alley was very narrow.
Peterson grabbed the other man by the arm. ‘I think you do. I don’t have to say anything to anyone, but you’ll have to give me a good reason not to go to the police.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Did you really think you’d get off that easily?’ Peterson chortled happily. ‘Oh, we’re going to have some fun, you and I. Portman’s bound to put me in Basset’s place, and when he does, we can discuss where we go from here.’
‘You’re mad!’
‘Do you think so? I can always come forward and say that I hadn’t quite realized what happened. We can talk about it in the morning. I have to get home to Myrna. Ta-ta …’ He turned to go.
Behind him, the other man touched the wall, as Peterson burbled on. One of the bricks in the ancient wall had been loosened by the cold. He wriggled it out of the mortar, hefted it, and slashed down with all his might. Twice more and then he merged into the mob, just another figure in the Strand.
The crowd surged around him, yelling obscenities up at the lighted windows of the hotels. One of the cobblestones was heaved in the direction of the lighted window, and a bloodthirsty howl went up from the crowd, as the glass broke with a satisfying tinkle.
It was all that was needed to turn the crowd into a mob. Eager hands grabbed at small and large stones, while others pushed and pulled at the wooden shutters on the shops. Pieces of wood were used as crowbars, as the men and women who had been denied such luxuries descended on the wares offered for sale to the wealthy.
None of this mattered to David Peterson. His body lay bleeding in the alley, as the crowd passed by, down the Strand towards Trafalgar Square.
CHAPTER 6
While Mr Levin was informing Mr Portman of the death of his old friend, Mr Dodgson was leading Dr Doyle through the crowd in quite the opposite direction, eastward on Fleet Street, past the muttering crowds of poorly dressed people who had joined the growing mob. His destination was Bouverie Street, one of the twisting alleys that led out of Fleet Street towards the river. A hall porter in a vast ex-military greatcoat stopped them as they tried to enter the stairwell that led upwards to the offices of Punch and looked them over with suspicion in his eyes while Mr Dodgson fumbled for his card.
‘Business hours is over,’ the porter said loftily.
‘I am quite aware of that,’ Mr Dodgson told him. ‘I wish to speak with Mr Tenniel. Has he come in?’
‘I shall take your card up and find out.’ The porter disappeared up the stairs, leaving Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle to gaze at the reproductions of famous illustrations that had been hung on the walls. Here were the well-known works of George du Maurier and Dr Doyle’s own relation, the incomparable Dicky Doyle. Here, too, were caricatures of statesmen, beginning with Palmerston and Russell, the
Iron Duke and Sailor Billy, through ‘Dizzy’ Disraeli and “The People’s” William Gladstone, to Lord Salisbury, the current prime minister. Britannia, in all her glory, ruled over Marianne of France, Brother Jonathan of the United States, and the caricatures of Russia, Germany, and the newly united Italy. This was the vestibule of Punch, and Dr Doyle drank in the atmosphere like fine wine.
The porter returned and announced with a sniff of disdain, ‘Mr Tenniel will see you, gentlemen.’
Dr Doyle followed his mentor eagerly up the stairs anxious to view the hallowed scene of his uncle’s glory. He remembered the one time he had been allowed to come to London, when Uncle Dicky had taken him to see the Punch offices. Had they been larger then, or did he simply recall the rooms from a child’s point of view?
The porter led them up a second flight of stairs to a small ante-room that led, in turn, to the celebrated dining-room. Dr Doyle could just see the famous mahogany table through the partly open door to the dining-room. He had heard that those lucky few who had been accepted as permanent staff writers and artists for Punch were allowed to carve their names into the woodwork. It was here, in this dining-room, that the Wednesday night dinners were held, during which the content of the magazine would be laid out for the coming week. It was rumoured that the conversation at these dinners was filled with wit and salacious gossip in equal part and that the food was only of the best. The delectable aromas coming from the dining-room gave at least the second part of the rumour the benefit of truth.
Dr Doyle suddenly remembered that he had not eaten since his quick lunch on the train from Portsmouth. It would be too much to ask that he be allowed to remain for dinner … wouldn’t it?
A tall white-haired gentleman with a sweeping walrus moustache greeted them with a raised eyebrow and an outstretched hand. ‘Dodgson? What are you doing here? If you’ve come to ask me to illustrate for you again, I won’t do it. I thought I made myself quite clear about that…
‘My dear Tenniel, that is not at all why I came,’ Mr Dodgson said, fussing with his gloves. ‘The fact is, I have had a shock.’
‘Could we have a chair for Mr Dodgson?’ Dr Doyle stepped forward to take charge of his older companion.
‘Oh yes. May I introduce Dr Arthur Conan Doyle. He’s Dicky Doyle’s nephew, you know.’ For once Dr Doyle did not writhe in embarrassment when Mr Dodgson insisted on including his uncle’s name in the introduction.
Tenniel turned his penetrating gaze on to the younger man and extended a hand ceremoniously. ‘How do you do, sir. I knew your uncle well. In fact,’ he frowned, searching his memory, ‘I believe we have met. Of course, you were much younger then.’
‘My uncle took me up to see the dining-room table once when I was a boy,’ Dr Doyle said shyly. ‘He was very kind to me. Unfortunately, my father’s brothers did not approve of his marriage to my mother, a feeling that led to a difference between the two sides of the family. Since they lived in London, and we remained in Edinburgh, we did not see much of them.’
Mr Dodgson had been given a chair, from which he looked up at Tenniel with an apologetic air. ‘I realize that you are about to sit down to dinner, but it was quite necessary that I see you. I must have the direction of Mr Oscar Wilde.’
‘Eh?’ Tenniel’s moustache quivered. ‘What on earth makes you think I know the fellow?’
‘He is constantly being talked about,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Certainly, if you do not know him, one of the others does.’
‘He’s du Maurier’s target, not mine. Du Maurier!’
A dapper-bearded gentleman poked his head out of the dining-room. Tenniel beckoned him over. ‘Here’s Dodgson come to ask us where Wilde is.’
George du Maurier looked puzzled. ‘What do you want with him?’ he asked.
‘He is in danger of being taken up by the police on a charge of murder,’ Mr Dodgson explained. ‘Not an hour ago, Mr Samuel Basset was attacked in Fleet Street. He died there, on the street, in front of his own offices …’ Mr Dodgson could not continue, overcome with emotion.
‘Could you provide Mr Dodgson with a glass of water?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘A stiff brandy would do more good,’ du Maurier observed.
‘Sherry will do nicely,’ Mr Dodgson whispered.
‘But this is nonsense,’ Tenniel said, as du Maurier provided the necessary stimulant. ‘Wilde is notorious, but hardly homicidal.’
‘Nevertheless, there is a policeman who has some animus against him, and since Mr Basset’s dying utterance seemed to be the name “Wilde,” this policeman has gone to Scotland Yard to obtain a warrant for his arrest.’
‘And you think that if Wilde makes himself scarce …’ Tenniel mused.
‘We can find evidence that will certainly clear him,’ Dr Doyle said proudly. ‘For instance, this scarf.’ He produced their trophy. ‘Does that look like something Mr Wilde would wear?’
Du Maurier chuckled. ‘It’s not “Aesthetic”,’ he said. ‘But it might be one of those “handicrafts” he’s always going on about. As it happens, I do have Wilde’s direction.’
Tenniel’s eyebrow raised higher. Du Maurier reddened. ‘He’s moved into a house in Tite Street, in Chelsea, down the street from where old Whistler used to live before he had to take smaller quarters.’
‘I thought you and Jimmy weren’t on terms,’ Tenniel murmured.
‘That’s not my fault,’ du Maurier said. ‘If the old … painter’ – he glanced at Mr Dodgson and reworded his pejorative phrasing -‘wants to pretend he’s still a Bohemian in Paris, that’s his lookout. Some of us have moved on.’ He straightened his natty waistcoat and smoothed his beard, conscious that he, at least, looked like someone who would be received in all the best salons.
Du Maurier scrabbled in his pockets, then realized his drawing materials must be in the offices downstairs. ‘I shall write the direction for you. You may get there by cab.’ He bustled out of the anteroom in search of writing materials.
‘It’s snowing hard,’ Dr Doyle informed them. The news was reinforced by the entrance of a rotund balding man, whose normally cheerful face had taken on a peevish expression.
‘Furniss!’ Tenniel reproved the latecomer. ‘We were holding dinner for you.’
‘What a night!’ Harry Furniss brushed snow off his bald head. ‘Not a cab to be had, and there’s a mob outside in the street. Hyndman’s been working them up, and it looks like a riot is in the making.’
‘Well, you can’t blame them,’ Doyle said defensively. ‘The word on Fleet Street was that the vote went against poor relief, and the Lord Mayor has announced that the funds for distribution to the unemployed are dangerously low.’
The distinguished gentlemen of Punch regarded the young man as if he were about to heave a brick into their midst.
‘And then, if you can believe it, there was a police ambulance in the middle of Fleet Street as well,’ Furniss complained. ‘It blocked all traffic between here and the Strand, until they moved it on and got things going again. Between that and the mob, I could barely get through.’
‘That would be for poor Mr Basset,’ Mr Dodgson explained.
‘Not Sammy Basset?’ Furniss turned to Mr Dodgson. ‘Dodgson? I thought you were safely in Oxford!’
‘I have not come up to ask you for the illustrations,’ Mr Dodgson said with a guilty smile. ‘In fact, I have not even begun on the next chapter of our book. I thought I could introduce my young friend, Doyle …’
‘Dicky Doyle’s nephew, you know,’ Tenniel added, by way of elucidation.
‘… who has written several excellent tales,’ Mr Dodgson went on, ignoring the interruption, ‘to Mr Basset. I did not realize that Mr Basset was not the sort of man to be dropped in on.’
Tenniel gave a snort of laughter. ‘I should think not! The only person who could deal with Basset was Nicky Portman. I believe they were at school together.’
‘What is worse,’ Mr Dodgson fumed, ‘he was selling this in his … his confounded bookshop!�
� He produced the offensive volume of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and shook it at the illustrator.
Tenniel grabbed the book and scanned it with a frown. ‘This is the first printing,’ he said severely. ‘I thought we were agreed that this printing was not acceptable for sale and should be distributed to charitable institutions.’
‘Apparently, Mr Basset discovered a box of them in a storeroom and was offering the books for sale in his shop. At full price!’ Mr Dodgson fairly spluttered in his indignation.
‘The cheek of it!’ Tenniel gasped.
‘What is worse,’ Mr Dodgson went on, ‘Mr Basset was a thief. He stole an idea for a story from one of his staff writers and published it under his own name.’
‘Reprehensible, but typical,’ Tenniel commented. ‘Still, hardly a reason to strike a man down in the street. Everyone on Fleet Street knew about Samuel Basset and his economies. He couldn’t get anyone to work for him but those hacks from the Portman Penny Press.’
‘I did some illustrations for Youth’s Companion,’ Furniss said. ‘What a mistake!’
‘I thought Basset never used outside contributions,’ Tenniel said. ‘How did you come to work for him? You’re not that hard up, are you?’
Furness shrugged. ‘Oh, I had a nice letter, I think it was last summer, requesting a few small things, as fillers, you know. Well, as it happened, I had a couple of small items that had been rejected by you lot so I sent them along. I had to wait for months for payment, and there were endless letters back and forth arguing every line of every drawing. In the end I wrote it off as a bad job and let it go at that. But you won’t catch me doing any more work for Basset.’
‘He sounds very much like someone else of my acquaintance,’ Tenniel murmured, with a glance at Mr Dodgson, who was gradually recovering from his exertions. ‘I can understand why someone should wish to strike the man down. He could be thoroughly provocative. But why should the police hit upon Wilde?’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 6