‘And the response?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
O’Casey’s wrath began to build. ‘Not a word did he say to me! Just stood there and would not answer, as if I was shoutin’ to the wind. Too proud to answer, I thought, and I raised me fist to him, to get his attention, you might say.’
‘And then he tried to mount his omnibus,’ Dr Doyle prompted the printer.
‘He held on to the rail,’ O’Casey recalled. ‘But now that you mention it, it is in me mind that he staggered like a man in drink. But it was coming on to snow, and I was not meself, so to speak. I tell you, sir, it was a black rage come over me.’
‘I see.’ Mr Dodgson nodded. ‘You would not have noticed, for instance, if Mr Basset were pale or appeared to be suffering from some pain…’
O’Casey shook his head. ‘All I could think of was me wife and children back in Whitechapel, and me with no work, and that … that …’ Words failed him. He choked on his indignation. Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he looked at the two men. ‘What’s all this pother really about, then?’
Dr Doyle said, ‘After you had your altercation …’
‘Me what?’
‘Your, er, row with Mr Basset, what did you do then?’ Dr Doyle continued the questioning, while Mr Dodgson fingered the knitted scarf.
‘I went back to the pub and had another drink,’ O’Casey confessed. ‘ ’Twas then I heard yon fellow in the black coat and hat tellin’ the bosses off, him what had never worked a day in his life!’
‘And that is when you joined Mr Hyndman on his podium,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Did you not notice the police ambulance in the street?’
‘In that snow I couldn’t tell an omnibus from the Lord Mayor’s coach,’ O’Casey said with a laugh.
‘Then you were not aware that Mr Samuel Basset is dead,’ Mr Dodgson stated, watching the printer closely for his reaction.
‘Dead?’ O’Casey’s bravado leaked out of him. ‘I barely tapped him!’
‘You did strike him though?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘He was provoking, as you said. What right had he, a bachelor, to question me and refuse me a living wage? Me, what has a wife and three children depending on me to put the bread on the table?’ O’Casey’s voice rose to orator’s pitch. The prisoners, less riotous than before, grumbled an agreement with the sentiments, if not the details.
‘But you claim he was alive when you struck him and alive when you left him,’ Mr Dodgson mused. ‘This is most puzzling. Dr Doyle, are you aware of any means by which someone could be stabbed in the back and yet continue to remain alive for some time after being injured?’
‘Stabbed?’ O’Casey looked from the older man in black to the younger one in the tartan coat. ‘As God is me witness, all I did was hit the man with me fist! I had no knife on me, nor would I do such a thing as to stab a man in the back.’
‘I believe you,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘Besides, if you had just stabbed a man, you would hardly have stood up in the middle of the road, inciting your fellow workers to riot and rebellion.’
‘Riot and rebellion indeed!’ Mr Dodgson echoed. His hands twisted the knitted scarf.
O’Casey stared at the long knitted object. ‘Where did you get that?’ he demanded.
‘Is it yours?’ Dr Doyle asked, with a speaking look at Mr Dodgson.
‘Aye, that it is. Made by me very own Molly herself as a token afore we was wed. Where did you find it? It would have been the last straw to have come home with the ill news of me bein’ discharged and then to have lost the one thing she made for me into the bargain.’
Mr Dodgson took a deep breath. ‘It was put into my hands by Mr Basset,’ he told the printer. ‘I should have taken it to the policeman in charge of the case, but he would not have listened to me.’ He thought for a minute, then handed the scarf back to its owner. ‘Here, O’Casey, take your scarf, and let this be a lesson to you. Do not presume to take by force what will come to you in due time through diligence.’ Mr Dodgson straightened his coat and adjusted his hat. O’Casey accepted the scarf and touched his forehead in the manner deemed appropriate for a member of the working classes when addressed by a superior.
Dr Doyle allowed himself a small smile at the miniature sermon. Then he turned back to O’Casey with the air of one who is willing to step down a rung on the ladder of society in the name of universal manhood. ‘Tell me,’ he said in a confidential tone, ‘what did you think of Basset and his staff?’
‘Basset was a skinflint, no doubt about it,’ O’Casey stated. ‘Ye see, him and Mr Portman started the magazine back when I was just a printer’s devil at the Penny Press. Mr Portman put up the money, but he and Mr Basset shared in the takings. The more profit shows on the books, the more Basset gets to take home; but where he puts it, I cannot say. No wife has he, nor like to have, from what I’ve heard of him.’
‘Really?’ Mr Dodgson was drawn into the discussion. ‘How long have you worked for Youth’s Companion, my man?’
‘I’ve been head printer and compositor there these six years. Come over from His Lordship’s Penny Press, as did most of me men, savin’ young Wiggins, who’s the apprentice.’
‘Of course, being in the printing plant, you wouldn’t have anything to do with the writers or editors,’ Mr Dodgson mused.
‘Now there you’re wrong,’ O’Casey stated. ‘They come down now and again, especially Mr Roberts, the artist fellow. Mr Roberts is fussy about the illustrations, but he’s an artist. Let one line be amiss, and he’ll be down in a flash. He even comes in of a Sunday to work up in his garret, making sure all’s well with his pictures. Mr Peterson, now, he’s a cheery sort, always a jolly word and a shilling or two at Christmas. The other two are well enough. They don’t bother me, and I don’t mind them.’
‘And Mr Levin?’ Mr Dodgson hinted.
O’Casey snorted in disgust. ‘Dresses fine and talks fair, but he’s no gentleman, no matter how many fine waistcoats he sports, and that’s the truth.’
‘I noticed that waistcoat,’ Dr Doyle said with a knowing grin. ‘Not cheap, is it?’
O’Casey winked. ‘O’course, for them as has friends in Petticoat Lane, waistcoats like that is easy to come by.’
Mr Dodgson frowned. ‘Petticoat Lane? Isn’t that where the ragpickers have their stands?’ He turned to Dr Doyle. ‘There has been a great deal of discussion in charitable circles about the sad state of poverty in such places. How odd that Mr Levin, who seems to be a respectable young man, should be known in Petticoat Lane.’
O’Casey winked again. ‘Fine feathers don’t make fine birds,’ he stated. ‘Levin’s always up and down, in and out, with the galleys and the page proofs, and the messages from Mr Basset. He’s the one hands out our pay packets each week.’
‘And he keeps the books,’ Dr Doyle commented. ‘That would indicate that Levin was something of a dogsbody, not an editor at all.’
‘But he took it on himself to communicate with contributors,’ Mr Dodgson reminded Dr Doyle. ‘And he arranged for Miss Harvey to typewrite the manuscripts. He seems to have assumed a great deal of authority, with or without the knowledge of Mr Basset.’
Before they could continue the conversation, Sergeant Morris appeared with three well-dressed gentlemen in tow. One of them was Oscar Wilde, instantly recognizable by his long fur coat and slouch hat. The other two were in evening clothes, both tall, but one was more of a weedy build and the other appeared to be more robust. Oscar Wilde had obviously found rescuers for the gentleman from Oxford and his Scottish friend.
‘In ’ere, gentlemen,’ Sergeant Morris announced, displaying his catch. Mr Dodgson looked through the bars and cried out in mixed alarm and exasperation.
‘Mr Wilde!’ Mr Dodgson exclaimed. ‘What are you doing here? I sincerely trust you were not caught up in the riot as Dr Doyle and I were. Particularly since we went to a good deal of trouble to tell you to stay away.’
‘In point of fact, I have come to get you out,’ Wilde said. He looked about the squalid quar
ters and shuddered.
‘Good heavens!’ The tall and weedy man peered at the crowd in the basement. ‘Sergeant! What is that gentleman doing here?’ He pointed a trembling finger at Mr Dodgson.
Sergeant Morris consulted a handwritten list. ‘According to this, ’e’s been brought in on charges of Inciting to Riot.’
‘Mr Dodgson?’ the weedy one gasped out. ‘You must release him at once! This is Mr Dodgson, a noted scholar, Fellow of Christ Church, and all that. I don’t think he’s ever incited anyone to anything in his life!’
‘Do you know the gentleman?’ Sergeant Morris asked with a frown.
‘I should say I do! He was my brother’s tutor at the House … that is, Christ Church. I say, Mr Dodgson!’
Mr Dodgson looked up. ‘Do I know you, sir?’
‘Chatsworth,’ the weedy one introduced himself.
‘Chatsworth.’ Mr Dodgson regarded the earnest young man on the other side of the bars. ‘I know the name, but not the face. You were not one of my students.’
‘That was my brother, Michael,’ Chatsworth reminded him. ‘I was up in ‘Eighty. You’d just stopped teaching.’
‘Then you can vouch for this gentleman’s good behaviour on release?’ Sergeant Morris sounded hopeful. Perhaps he could get rid of some more of these unwanted guests.
‘I certainly can,’ Chatsworth said fervently. ‘Release Mr Dodgson at once, Sergeant.’
‘And my friend, Dr Doyle,’ Mr Dodgson insisted, beckoning his companion to join him.
‘What’s he down for?’ Wilde wanted to know.
Sergeant Morris consulted the list again. ‘Assaulting an officer and resisting arrest.’
Wilde looked at Chatsworth, who looked at the third member of the rescue squad.
‘By the look of that eye, Dr Doyle had good reason to assault the officer,’ the taller man said. ‘If he promises never to do it again, we will guarantee that he keeps his word. Will that suit you, Sergeant?’
Sergeant Morris considered the situation. He already had more prisoners than he knew what to do with. He would have to account for all of them to the magistrate, but this Chatsworth claimed to have come from the Home Office. If he took responsibility for them, Sergeant Morris was ready to sign them off into his custody.
While Sergeant Morris was negotiating with Chatsworth for the release of the two prisoners, Oscar Wilde performed the necessary introductions.
‘Nicky, you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Mr Dodgson, the noted author and mathematician, and his, um, companion.…’
‘Doyle. Arthur Conan Doyle.’ Dr Doyle extended a hand.
‘Gentlemen, this is Mr Nicholas Portman, the proprietor of Youth’s Companion and Samuel Basset’s oldest and dearest friend,’ Wilde continued with a flourish.
‘I must thank you, sir, for obtaining my release,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘And, of course, for releasing Dr Doyle. It is quite important that he get to Victoria Station. He must go home to his wife in Portsmouth.’
‘That he will not,’ Mr Portman stated. ‘All trains out of London have been stopped until the tracks can be cleared.’
Dr Doyle shook his head. ‘Touie will be worried,’ he said. ‘I think we will go on the telephone as soon as it is laid into Southsea. Perhaps I should remain here, Mr Dodgson, until the magistrate comes in the morning.’ He turned to the printer, who was standing next to him, staring hopefully at his employer. ‘And what about O’Casey here? His wife must be worried about him, just as Touie would worry about me.’
‘Eh?’ Portman raised his eyebrows in inquiry, as Dr Doyle indicated the hulking printer next to him.
‘He’s the chief printer at Youth’s Companion,’ Dr Doyle reminded Portman. ‘You can’t get your magazine out without him.’
‘Of course, of course,’ the publisher muttered. ‘I heard you were a troublemaker, always arguing with poor Sammy.’
‘We had words,’ O’Casey admitted.
Once again they were interrupted by the police. Inspector MacRae and Sergeant Hoskins had descended the stairs and were now at the cellar door.
‘There ’e is, sir,’ Hoskins said, pointing to O’Casey. ‘That’s the man. ’E were in Fleet Street, and again in Trafalgar Square, and ’e were at the ’ead of the mob in St James’s.’
MacRae’s eyes glittered behind his spectacles as he approached O’Casey, who glared back at him in fury.
‘This man is not to be released on any account,’ MacRae ordered. ‘He’s been identified as one of the ringleaders of this riot, and he shall pay for it! There’s a dead man to your credit, and you’ll swing for murder, me lad!’
O’Casey’s fury turned to horror. ‘I never did more than tap ’im!’ he protested.
‘It was a tap that laid him out on the street,’ MacRae said grimly. ‘What’s your name, man?’
‘Seamus O’Casey, but…’
‘Then Seamus O’Casey, I arrest you on a charge of murder, in the name of the Queen. It is my duty to inform you that you are not obliged to say anything, but anything you do say will be taken down and may be given in evidence in a court of law. Warder, get this man a cell of his own. He’s got a lot to answer for.’
O’Casey looked despairingly at Mr Portman.
‘Surely, sir, you must help him,’ Dr Doyle protested. ‘He is one of your employees, and he is being accused of a crime he did not commit.’
Mr Portman interrupted him, ending all argument. ‘O’Casey, I shall send my solicitor to see you tomorrow morning. If you are innocent, as you say, then you shall be set free. As for you, Mr Dodgson, I insist that you stay at the Press Club for the night. We have some rooms that are set aside for distinguished visitors, and I can imagine no one more distinguished than the author of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland.’
Mr Dodgson was rendered speechless. Dr Doyle was not. ‘We thank you, sir, for your kindness,’ he said, as Sergeant Morris opened the barred door to allow them to leave the cellar. ‘We have had a very active evening, and a hot bath and a meal would be most welcome.’
Oscar Wilde sauntered past Inspector MacRae, who was consulting with Sergeants Hoskins and Morris. ‘Are you the policeman who thinks I committed murder?’ he asked disdainfully.
MacRae glanced up at the dandified figure before him. ‘And who might you be?’
‘I might be almost anyone, but I am, in fact, Oscar Wilde. And I am here, in person, to inform you that I have a cast-iron alibi for the time at which, according to Dr Doyle here, the murder of Samuel Basset was committed. Therefore, I strongly suggest that you go find out who actually did it and leave me and my family alone.’ Wilde adjusted his hat smugly and sauntered back towards the stairs.
Mr Dodgson spluttered. ‘After all we went through to find him! That man is quite impossible!’
‘But he is amusing,’ Mr Portman said, leading the other two back up the stairs, past the crowded anteroom, and back into the street, where his carriage was waiting. ‘And now that I have you to myself, Mr Dodgson, there is a favour I wish to ask of you.’
‘Anything that I can do, I certainly shall,’ Mr Dodgson said.
‘It is really quite simple. I want you to find out who killed Samuel Basset.’
CHAPTER 11
The snow was still whirling about as the group left the Bow Street Police Station. Mr Dodgson settled his high hat more firmly on his head, while Dr Doyle finally gave in and tied the strings of his deerstalker cap under his chin. Mr Portman beckoned towards the carriage that had been waiting for him amongst the police wagons.
‘Take us to the Press Club, Thomas,’ he ordered the coachman. ‘And then you may take Mr Wilde to his house in Chelsea.’
The coachman waited while Dr Doyle assisted Mr Dodgson into the carriage, then inserted himself into the seat beside him. Mr Portman and Mr Wilde followed, and the carriage moved off, slowly and carefully, as the horses picked their way along the slippery, slushy, icy streets.
Inside the carriage, Mr Dodgson spluttered to Mr Portman, �
�I thank you for your d-deliverance, b-but I really do not understand why you think I can discover who k-killed Mr B-Basset. Surely, it is a matter for the p-police.’
Mr Portman snorted his opinion of the police. ‘You saw that man, MacRae. First he goes after Oscar here, and now he’s hit on my printer.’
‘Neither of whom could possibly have done the deed,’ Dr Doyle stated. ‘As will be demonstrated as soon as the body is examined. If they had asked me—’
‘But they didn’t,’ Wilde interrupted him. ‘Policemen have very limited minds. It comes of associating with the most obvious of criminals. Now a really ingenious criminal could probably develop a whole network of activities under the noses of Scotland Yard simply because no one would believe in such a thing.’
Mr Dodgson frowned. ‘Do you really think that O’Casey is in danger of being hanged for this crime, which he assuredly did not commit?’
‘A case could be built up, circumstantially, of course,’ Wilde said with a shrug. ‘And if the jury are stupid enough, they will convict him on the strength of his being Irish and impassioned, a state that is far too common these days.’
Mr Portman shook his head at his young friend. ‘I could say the same of you, Oscar.’
‘What were you thinking, sir, to come into the police station yourself?’ Dr Doyle admonished his more successful colleague. ‘Mr Dodgson and I have been exerting ourselves on your behalf, trying to warn you about MacRae, and what must you do but flaunt yourself in front of him!’
Wilde laughed gleefully. ‘Oh, it was worth it just to see the man’s face! There is nothing like being able to prove oneself in the right when someone else wishes to prove you wrong.’
‘Nevertheless, it was dangerous,’ Mr Portman agreed with Dr Doyle. ‘It might have been you in those cells instead of poor O’Casey, and then where would you be?’
‘In the cells,’ Wilde said airily. ‘But you would have come along to get me out. Someone always does get me out of trouble.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 11