The two of them stood under the nearest gas lamp, while the constable scanned the paper. ‘Is this correct?’ he asked his superior.
‘It is,’ MacRae said grimly. ‘And we cannot make an arrest until it is read; so, Constable, read them the Riot Act!’
‘Aye, sir!’ The constable took a deep breath. ‘In the name of the Queen! By the Act of Parliament of 1715, this gathering is declared an unlawful assembly; all herein assembled are ordered to disperse at once!’
There was no reaction to this announcement. The looting continued unabated.
MacRae smiled grimly. His steel-rimmed spectacles fairly glittered in the lamplight.
‘The Riot Act having been duly read, this gathering is now declared an illegal assembly. All persons on the streets are now declared subject to arrest and imprisonment! Constables … do your duty! And you, boy,’ he added, scribbling a note on his ever-present notebook and tearing it out. ‘You get to Scotland Yard and have a police ambulance sent round. Here’s a shilling for you, and the thanks of the Metropolitan Police,’
‘Aye, sir!’ The ragamuffin saluted and trotted off on his errand.
MacRae pulled his coat collar closer to his neck. It was a pity about this unknown man, but he had obviously been in the wrong place at the wrong time. The man’s pockets had been turned out, and his few belongings had been removed … watch and chain, wallet, coins. The body was covered with a thin layer of snow; he would have been killed at least two hours ago. That was before the Riot Act had been read and the order had been given, but it made no difference. Whoever the unfortunate man was, his death would be put down to the disorder and that was that.
MacRae nodded to the large constable, who raised his brass whistle and blew, signalling his forces to counterattack. It was the order the blue-coated officers of the law had been waiting for. They waded into the crowd, batons at the ready, flailing at anyone who might be holding anything of value.
The cries of the wounded were added to the deep shouts at the front of the procession. Police wagons were drawn up along the Strand, further blocking the traffic of carriages, horse cars, and cabs. Cabbies and coachmen vented their vocabularies on the rioters on foot, slashing at them with their whips and urging the horses forward. The horses, on the other hand, decided that they would express their discontent in the most visible way they could. The odour of steaming manure was added to that of unwashed bodies in the street.
The bricks were now directed at the policemen, who reacted with vigour, thrusting anyone within arm’s reach into the nearest Black Maria to be hauled off to the Bow Street Police Station.
The sounds of battle were faint on Regent Street, where the revelry of London society proceeded unabated. Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle walked from the Café Royal towards Piccadilly, unaware that the disturbance had turned into a major riot. There was a distinct coolness between the two that was not necessarily the fault of the weather.
Dr Doyle muttered angrily, ‘We might have learned something if we had joined Mr Wilde and his friends for dinner. It is getting late, sir, and I have missed both a proper luncheon and my tea. Could we not stop and have something to eat?’
‘I did not quite like the look of the place,’ Mr Dodgson said testily, as he adjusted his hat. ‘There were far too many boys. It seemed somewhat peculiar.’
‘Well, sir, what shall we do now that we have warned Mr Wilde?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘We must find the printer, O’Casey, and ask him about this scarf,’ Mr Dodgson decided. ‘And then, Dr Doyle, you must find a telegraph office, if one is open, and send a wire to your wife informing her that you will be detained for at least a day. The policeman from the City of London, what was his name”
‘Calloway?’
‘Yes, he said he would take our statements tomorrow.’
‘The police may have more to deal with at the moment than the death of a mere editor,’ Dr Doyle said, as the true magnitude of the scene before him sank into his consciousness. They had, by now, reached Piccadilly Circus, the confluence of Piccadilly with Shaftesbury Avenue.
The street was full of shouting, gesticulating, running, people: men in workmen’s corduroys and leather aprons, rough woollen jackets, and battered felt hats; and women in the full skirts and patched jackets of the market stalls who added their voices and arms to the din. Ladies and gentlemen leaned out of their carriages, demanding that the crowd make way so that they could get to their assigned boxes at Covent Garden and the Savoy Theatre. Blue-clad constables tried to clear the streets of both high and low society, while overhead the skies opened up once more, sending the snow down indiscriminately on rich and poor alike.
Hyndman waved at Burns, while O’Casey continued his harangue. ‘We must plead our cause before the high and mighty ones, who take their ease in their gilded palaces!’ O’Casey roared out.
‘The clubs!’ A shout came up out of the crowd. O’Casey jumped off his soapbox. Hyndman and Burns, loath to relinquish leadership to this Irish upstart, flanked him as they led the crowd out of Trafalgar Square and towards the bastions of privilege, the exclusive clubs that lined Pall Mall and St James’s Square.
The uniformed porters and doorkeepers of the clubs were not about to allow their sacred precincts to be overrun by such rabble. They might have been deemed too old for active service in Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, but they could still raise their fists (not to mention clubs, cudgels, and horsewhips) in defence of Queen, Country, and the right of a gentleman to take his ease without being disturbed by the great unwashed.
St James’s took on the aspect of a battlefield. Bricks, stones, and wooden blocks were the chosen missiles of the crowd outside, while the defenders plied whatever they could lay their hands on to keep the enemy at bay.
Inside the Press Club, Nicky Portman availed himself of the latest in technology. He used the telephone to inform his dear friend Chatsworth, the Undersecretary to the Home Secretary, that the Press Club was under attack and could he send some policemen to put down the rioters?
‘Rioters? What rioters?’ Chatsworth, safe at home in Grosvenor Place, had not heard of any rioters.
‘The ones outside in St James’s,’ Portman told him.
‘Good Lord! Buckingham Palace must be protected!’ Before Portman could say another word, the connection was broken. Chatsworth had done the unthinkable: he had taken independent action and decided to notify Scotland Yard himself, without the knowledge of the Home Secretary, who was, in any case, not available at the moment and would undoubtedly agree that whatever happened to the tradesmen on Piccadilly and the Strand was unimportant compared with the protection of Buckingham Palace!
The message arrived at Scotland Yard and was duly logged in by the sergeant at the main desk. He passed it on to the inspector on night duty, who wrote out another order and handed it to the breathless constable who had just arrived from Inspector MacRae.
‘New orders,’ the inspector told him. ‘Get over to Buckingham Palace and make sure all’s safe there.’
‘But what about the shops in Piccadilly?’ The constable looked affronted. Leaving shops unprotected seemed to be giving in to the mob.
‘Orders from the Home Secretary,’ the inspector said with a grimace.
The constable saluted and prepared to face the storm once more. He would prefer the worst of the weather to MacRace’s temper when he received this order to break off his defence of Piccadilly to guard the empty palace.
By now, MacRae was furiously trying to organize a plan of attack. A squad had arrived from Bow Street, and MacRae ordered everyone on foot in Piccadilly, the Strand, or Oxford Street to be pulled in, on the assumption that anyone in a carriage or cab was, ipso facto, not a rioter, and anyone on foot was.
It was at this point that Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle joined the crowd. Dr Doyle tried to pull his older companion out of the way of the rioters and the police.
‘Mr Dodgson …’ Dr Doyle began.
Mr Dodgson looked up at the crowd and as
ked, ‘Where did all these people come from?’
A large constable accosted the two men. ‘What’re you doin’ ’ere?’ he demanded.
Mr Dodgson began to splutter, ‘W-we are w-walking to our hotel.’
‘A likely story!’ The constable grabbed at Mr Dodgson’s arm.
‘This is Mr Dodgson, a learned gentleman from Oxford,’ Dr Doyle protested. ‘We have every right to walk the streets of London, on this night as any other. Let us pass!’ He tried to pass the constable, who was at least six feet tall and several stones larger than Dr Doyle.
The constable decided that these must be the ringleaders of the crowd. Hyndman, he had been told, dressed in black with a top hat. John Burns was large and Scottish. Here were two men, one in black with a top hat, the other large, with a Scottish accent. The constable glowed at the thought of having brought in the leaders of the rebellion.
‘Stop, in the name of the Queen!’ He grabbed Dr Doyle’s arm to turn him around.
Dr Doyle responded automatically with a boxer’s instinct. The blow was blocked, and the blue-clad figure proceeded to land a ‘facer’ on Dr Doyle’s cheek.
Dr Doyle countered with another jab towards the other man’s midsection. His assailant folded, while a third man arrived to separate the combatants.
‘You’re under arrest for breaking the Queen’s Peace in accordance with the Riot Act!’ the second constable announced, while the first man gasped in agony.
‘What?’ Dr Doyle realized with a sinking heart that he had just assaulted an officer of the law. Before he could explain anything, he and Mr Dodgson were thrust with the rest of the rioters into the nearest police wagon.
‘But we just wanted to … What are you doing? Where are we going?’ Mr Dodgson stared wildly about him, as he was shoved into the back of the vehicle.
‘I believe we are being arrested,’ Dr Doyle told him.
‘Arrested?’ Mr Dodgson’s voice sank to a whisper. ‘Oh, no! Whatever will Dean Liddell say?’
‘We seem to be one of a multitude,’ Dr Doyle consoled him. ‘I expect we will be sorted out tomorrow morning, and nothing more will be said.’
‘I sincerely hope so,’ Mr Dodgson said, as a constable closed the doors and the wagon began its jolting trip over the cobblestones to Bow Street.
From the safety of his cab, Oscar Wilde watched the scene with detached amusement. The words of the Oxford don had stung him, and he had decided to return to the family fireside after all. He had found a cab on Regent Street, but all traffic was tied up on Piccadilly, thanks to the riot. To his amazement, he saw dear old Dodgson being carried off in the paddy wagon with a selection of rough-clad rioters.
‘This will never do,’ Wilde said to himself. ‘The old gentleman took the trouble to warn me of impending disaster. The least I can do is rescue him from the arms of the law.’
But how? Wilde mentally ran through the list of his friends and acquaintances. Whistler? The old charlatan had been more waspish than usual these days, with Oscar taking the limelight away from him. None of his other acquaintances could muster the kind of support that Whistler could, except for Nicky Portman. Between his father’s good works and his own cheerful curiosity, Nicky Portman had acquired an astonishing collection of friends and acquaintances in almost every sphere of public life. Somewhere in that group should be someone who could get old Dodgson out of jail.
‘Forget what I said about Tite Street,’ Wilde called up to the cabby. ‘Take me to the Press Club on St James’s.’
‘There’s a mort o’ folk out tonight,’ the cabbie objected.
‘In that case, I shall walk,’ Wilde decided. He left the safety of the cab and strode confidently through the crowd towards St James’s and the Press Club. Perhaps he could find a drink there and a few choice companions. He forgot about going home to Constance. She was used to his vagaries by now, and poor old Dodgson needed rescuing.
CHAPTER 10
Bow Street had once been the very heart of law enforcement in London. When Sir Henry Fielding had established his famous Bow Street Runners in the previous century, the basis of the Metropolitan Police had been laid. An elaborate building had been erected to house this elite force, and Sir Robert Peel had seen fit to take it over for his Metropolitan Police without making any changes in the exterior. A grand marble facade graced the street, opposite the back entrance to the Royal Opera House, while alleys on either side of the building allowed police vehicles to pull up and discharge their passengers. The effect was one of both grace and power.
Once inside the building, matters were quite different. The wooden floors were black with the mud of a century of use. The walls were grimy with soot. The bare walls of the individual cells in the basement were scarred with graffiti left by hundreds of nameless felons, prostitutes, and assorted riffraff, who insisted on making their marks before being led to the Bow Street courts.
On this particular night, Sergeant Morris, the night warder, had thought to have a quiet evening. Midweek was not particularly busy; except for the usual petty thieves and prostitutes, crime seemed to wait for the weekends. Sergeant Morris was ready to settle down with a cup of tea and his favourite newspaper to wait out the evening.
Then came the deluge! He greeted the first group of labourers with bored disdain, taking their names and assigning them to a cell apiece. Then came another shipment, and a third. With only a limited number of cells, two or more prisoners had to be assigned to each cell in violation of the ruling that each prisoner must be isolated. By the time the fourth wagonload had been discharged, Morris had had to call in a pair of constables to help him sort them out.
By ten o’clock, the rotund Sergeant Morris was thoroughly put out. The cellar seemed to be packed with men, women, and children, all shouting, cursing, screaming at the tops of their lungs. The cells were filled, the cellar was filled, and yet another wagonload was discharged into Sergeant Morris’s custody.
‘Wot d’ye expect me to do with this lot?’ the warder exclaimed, as Mr Dodgson, Dr Doyle, and the rest of their wagonload of strollers on Piccadilly were handed over to be incarcerated.
‘Hold ’em till the magistrate gets around to ’em,’ Sergeant Hoskins told him. ‘In case you ’aven’t ’eard, there’s merry ’ell breakin’ loose out there.’
‘ ’Ow am I supposed to look after ’em?’ the warder protested.
‘Jest ’old ’em,’ Hoskins told him, leaving the beleaguered warder to find places for this last shipment of malefactors.
Sergeant Morris looked them over. None of them looked particularly dangerous. Apart from several men in heavy woollen jackets and a young woman in a gown much too thin for such a cold evening, there were a young man in a natty new suit that had been spoiled completely with muck, an elderly gentleman in a top hat, his companion in a plaid balbriggan overcoat and deerstalker hat, two exquisitely dressed young men in evening clothes, and a newsboy. As far as Sergeant Morris could tell, none of these were about to run amok or flourish weapons.
‘You be quiet,’ he ordered, herding them into the open aisle between the rows of cells, which was already filled with people who had been swept up by the minions of Inspector MaeRae.
‘Whatever are we doing here?’ one of the young exquisites complained.
‘Inspector MacRae’ll be along to sort you out,’ Sergeant Morris promised, slamming the door to the cellar shut and leaving his prisoners to mill about unhappily with the rest of the crowd who had not been locked away behind the solid doors of the individual cells.
Mr Dodgson edged away from the press of humanity into the corner between the wall and the barred door, too terrified to look about him. He did not like being this close to so many people all at once, especially those who might have been characterized as ‘the great unwashed’. To be thrust into a basement room with so many rough people was not what Mr Dodgson liked or expected of life. He closed his eyes and tried to pray for rescue. Divine Providence was being sent an urgent summons.
Dr D
oyle, on the other hand, was drinking in the thrill of having been arrested, sure in the knowledge that he would soon be exonerated of all wrongdoing. He touched his eye and winced. He would have a spectacular souvenir of the night’s adventures to show Touie when he got home … if he got home! He sincerely hoped he would not have to spend any more time at the Bow Street Police Station than it took to see the magistrate, pay a fine, and take his leave. This was an exhilarating experience, but not one that he would like to extend indefinitely.
Another load of prisoners was thrust into the cellar. The ringleaders of the demonstration had been arrested. Hyndman and Burns swaggered into the cellar, to be greeted with cheers and catcalls.
Mr Dodgson opened his eyes and recognized the third man in the group. ‘You are O’Casey.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘Aye, that I am.’ O’Casey looked at Mr Dodgson suspiciously. ‘And what is that to you?’
‘We were in the office when you had words with Mr Levin. We saw and heard everything,’ Dr Doyle put in. ‘I’m Irish myself, by way of Scotland. I know what temper is, and Mr Basset’s actions would have provoked Saint Patrick himself to anger. If you did accost him, it is entirely understandable.’
‘Accost him, you say?’ O’Casey echoed. ‘That I did! I do not deny it. I wanted a word before I called me men off on strike. ’Tis no light thing to give up a good position, and Youth’s Companion is steady work.’
‘And so you went and had a dram …’ Doyle went on, with a sniff.
‘A wee whisky,’ O’Casey confessed. ‘To chase the cold out.’
‘And when you saw Mr Basset come out of the office door …?’
‘It fair made me blood boil!’ O’Casey said fiercely. ‘There he was, in his fine fur collar and his warm hat, and me Molly shivering in her shawl at home.’ He choked with indignation at the unfairness of a universe that gave warm clothes to some and denied them to others.
‘And you accosted him,’ Doyle finished.
‘If by that you mean did I ask to have a word with him, that I did. And I put our terms to him, fair and square. A ten-hour shift, a small fire in the composing room, and a rise of a shillin’ a week.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 10