In a meagre flat in Chelsea, Miss Harvey tried not to listen to her mother’s whining voice as she doggedly typed the manuscripts handed back to her by the late Samuel Basset and wondered if she dared to go against her mother’s whims and pose for Mr Roberts (although not, he assured her, in the altogether).
In a second-floor bedroom near Baker Street, Andrew Levin carefully brushed the mud off the legs of his trousers and hoped that the police investigation would be over quickly and Mr Samuel Basset could be laid to the rest he had denied others.
And in the neat little row house in Holbein Place, Myrna Peterson sat and waited anxiously for the step that never came, rehearsing a speech of recrimination that she would never have the opportunity to deliver.
CHAPTER 12
The snow stopped in the early hours of Thursday morning, leaving London blanketed in white. Broad expanses of lawns in Hyde Park glistened in the dawn. Noble oaks that stood where the second Charles had entertained his boisterous friends now had branches that bowed down to the ground. Each railing bore its own little white cap, like frosting on a cake. Unfortunately, none of this glory could be seen through the dense fog that covered London like a blanket, sealing in the soot of thousands of coal and wood fires, and making traffic worse than ever. Cart horses, cab horses, omnibus horses, all had to pick their way carefully along the main highways, which were covered with frozen slush. A few desultory efforts had been made to clear the roads, but the snow remained on the pavements.
Neither fog nor snow, however, halted the spread of news. The mob had left Fleet Street to its own devices, and the presses had been running all night long. Now the morning Times gave a full and fulsome account of the previous night’s doings. According to the reporters on the scene, the West End was at the complete mercy of the mob, while the police had been called off to guard the homes of the rich and famous. The names of Hyndman and Burns appeared at the head of the columns, together with their vehement words. Shopkeepers were warned to stay home so that the police could arrest whichever rioters dared to show their faces in the daylight.
The gentlemen of the Press Club read their newspapers eagerly at breakfast, commenting sarcastically or pompously, depending on whose newspaper they were reading.
Mr Dodgson was pleased to note that his black coat and trousers had been brushed and pressed by the club’s ever-efficient staff. Hot shaving water and a newly honed razor had been provided for his morning ablutions. Enticing odours lured Mr Dodgson downstairs, where the breakfast table had been set in the Members’ Dining-room. A groaning sideboard was covered with chafing dishes containing eggs, bacon, porridge, and assorted muffins, toast, and breads overseen by Norwich, the butler, and his staff of footmen.
Dr Doyle was already there, his plate full of scrambled eggs and bacon. Mr Dodgson contented himself with a bowl of porridge and a cup of tea and joined his young friend in scanning the morning newspapers.
‘I have been considering our course of action,’ Dr Doyle said, as his mentor took the place next to him. ‘Even though Mr Portman has vouched for us, we must appear at the early session at the Magistrate’s Court at Bow Street, if only to get O’Casey out of the cells.’
‘I do hope there will not be too many reporters present,’ Mr Dodgson fussed. ‘It would be dreadful if our last night’s adventure got into the Press and from there to the Senior Common Room at the House.’
‘I’ve already seen the papers.’ Dr Doyle patted the stack next to him. ‘Depending on whose account you read, there were a thousand bloodthirsty savages abroad in the streets of London murdering people in their beds last night, or there were five hundred honest Englishmen exercising their God-given right of petition.’
‘Any mention of the unfortunate Mr Basset?’ Mr Dodgson scanned the columns of print.
‘He seems to have been overlooked in the press of events. I spoke to some reporters in the crowd last night, and they would have made sure to get the story into the morning editions. Try the obituary columns.’ Dr Doyle nodded to two gentlemen of dignified demeanour, who gravely nodded back and continued to eat their kippers. ‘This is the most marvellous place, Mr Dodgson. Do you know, Mr Portman actually has a copy of Mr Poe’s Tales of Terror? I have been longing to read it …’
‘Perhaps at another time,’ Mr Dodgson said kindly. ‘Ah, here we are.’ He quoted The Times: ‘“Suddenly, at his offices, Mr Samuel Basset, distinguished editor-in-chief of Youth’s Companion”.’
Dr Doyle snatched the newspaper away and frowned at the brief announcement. ‘Nothing about the manner of his death? That’s odd.’
‘Quite odd, considering the number of reporters on the scene,’ Mr Dodgson agreed. ‘I suspect the hands of Inspectors Calloway and MacRae have fallen upon the Press. It is fortunate that the events of last night seem to have overshadowed Mr Basset’s death.’
‘What are you going to do about Mr Portman’s request?’ Dr Doyle asked. ‘I, for one, am quite sure that someone in that office killed Mr Basset, but who it was and how it was done I cannot tell. Whoever did it must be quite dangerous and should be stopped. When I think of Mr Basset, gasping away on the street…’
Mr Dodgson shuddered and closed his eyes. ‘I prefer not to think about it,’ he said. ‘However, I agree with you that something should be done, and neither of the policemen involved in the case seems to wish to pursue the matter further.’
Nicholas Portman had taken his role of chief mourner very seriously. He now joined his overnight guests decked out in a black tailcoat, black cravat, and black waistcoat, with a black band around his arm and another around the hat, which he held in one hand.
‘We must be at Bow Street early,’ he reminded them. ‘I’ve already sent for my solicitor to take on O’Casey’s case. I’ll pay his bail, of course, and see to it that his family does not suffer. And then, I suppose, I must tell the staff at Youth’s Companion what I have decided to do about Sammy’s position.’
‘As editor-in-chief?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘I have given it a good deal of thought,’ Portman said, ‘and I have decided …’
What he had decided would have to wait. The butler announced, ‘Mr Levin has come, sir.’
Andrew Levin looked haggard and worn. His clean-shaven cheeks showed several tiny cuts where his hand had shaken. Like Mr Portman, he had found time to have a black band sewn on to his jacket and had put a black ribbon on his hat. He frowned slightly when he recognized Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, for disturbing you at your breakfast, but I thought you might want to give me some orders as to what to do at the office. Mr Dodgson, I had no idea you were still in town.’
‘I had little choice in the matter,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘What with the snow stopping all the trains, and the rioters in the streets, I was most grateful for Mr Portman’s offer of house room for the night. I do hope the trains will run soon. I really ought to be back in Oxford.’
‘Let’s hope the magistrate will be in a generous mood,’ Portman said. ‘Levin, I want you to get back to the office. I want to speak to the entire staff.’
‘Including the printers?’ Levin asked.
Portman thought a minute, then nodded. ‘If you can find them. O’Casey was taken up last night, and will be at the Bow Street Police Station until I can bail him out, but the rest of them should come in this morning. If not, round up some of the unemployed printers on the street and have them there by eleven o’clock.’
‘I sincerely hope you have not decided to give up Youth’s Companion,’ Levin said, as he followed Mr Portman and the other two into the hall, where Norwich oversaw the retrieval of their outer wraps.
‘Not at all,’ Portman told him. ‘Quite the contrary. Youth’s Companion was Sammy’s life. I wouldn’t want to destroy it. However, Sammy had become somewhat, um, stiff-necked in his attitudes. A fresh approach may be needed.’
Levin nodded. ‘I see, sir. May I point out that there are still a number of rough-looking men about, an
d the police have been warning persons not connected with government businesses to remain in their homes until the disorder is resolved.’
‘We have a magazine to get out,’ Portman said loftily. ‘If the staff does not choose to come in to work, they must be brought in or replaced.’
Levin bowed and bustled out. Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle exchanged glances.
Mr Dodgson drew Dr Doyle aside while Mr Portman was helped into his fur-trimmed greatcoat. ‘Should we inform Mr Portman of Mr Levin’s disagreement with Mr Basset?’
Dr Doyle glanced at their host. ‘Levin doesn’t seem to regard himself as discharged,’ he pointed out. ‘With Basset dead, I don’t see how it could make much difference.’
Mr Dodgson donned his long black ulster, and Dr Doyle shrugged himself into the garish plaid balbriggan overcoat. The Portman carriage was waiting to transport the trio back to the Bow Street Police Station.
It was slow going. Neither snow nor fog would deter the ever-present omnibuses from their rounds, and the owners of the ransacked shops had come to find out what was left of their merchandise. Rough-looking men lurked on street corners, while constables marched up and down the Strand and Piccadilly. Glum looks on all faces showed discontent on all sides. The news vendors up and down the streets shouted the headlines: ‘“Rioting in the West End! New attacks expected!” ’
The Bow Street Police Court was packed with humanity, most of it in full cry. Inspector MacRae’s Special Division had done its work well. Most of the rioters of the night before were jammed into the area set apart for the accused, while the public consisted largely of reporters, all jotting down their impressions of the dangerous radicals who had dared to destroy the West End.
The magistrate, one Mr Gosport, was a wizened gentleman with a pronounced wheeze, who clearly felt himself ill-used, being called upon to render justice upon such a multitude so early in the morning on such a miserable day. He sat in his seat of justice and regarded the mass of humanity in front of him through eyes bleary with age, fog, and a vicious head cold.
One by one the men filed by him and told their stories, most of which went like this: ‘I was standing in the Strand, minding me own business, guv’nor, when this copper comes up and bangs me on the ’ead and locks me up!’
‘And what were you doing in the Strand at that hour?’ the magistrate asked, pointing at the nearest prisoner.
‘Goin’ ’ome, to me kiddies,’ the man responded, to the applause of the crowd behind him.
The magistrate eyed the crowd. ‘Ten shillings fine each, and go home to your families,’ he declared.
There was a muttered protest from the crowd. The magistrate glared at them. ‘Be grateful that it is only a ten-shilling fine and not prison for breaking the Queen’s Peace,’ he told them severely.
‘Ten shillin’s a week’s pay!’ yelled one of the rioters.
‘Ten shillings or ten days,’ the magistrate snapped out. ‘Constables, get this lot out of here. Who’s this?’ He stared at Hyndman, who managed to look elegant in spite of a day’s growth of beard.
‘The ringleader,’ Inspector MacRae spoke up. ’Mr J. Henry Hyndman. And this,’ he hauled out the brawny engineer next to the dapper Socialist, ‘is Mr John Burns. The pair of them started the riot, with their speechmaking.’
‘I shall not pay a penny of this unlawful tribute,’ Hyndman announced grandly.
‘Nor shall I!’ Burns glared at his rival for the position of arch-agitator.
‘Then you’ll go back to your cell until you do,’ the magistrate decided. ‘And who’s this one?’ He eyed O’Casey, who stood defiantly beside Burns.
‘Seamus O’Casey, printer and agitator. He’s wanted for murder,’ MacRae said.
‘Really? He looks murderous enough for two,’ the magistrate observed. ‘Who is he supposed to have murdered?’
‘An unknown person in the Strand.’ MacRae consulted his notebook.
‘If the person’s unknown, why charge this fellow with his murder?’ the magistrate interrupted MacRae.
‘And Mr Samuel Basset,’ MacRae finished, with a scowl at the magistrate for interrupting him.
‘Eh? Who’s this Basset person?’
‘Editor of a magazine for children,’ MacRae explained.
‘And how was he killed?’ Mr Gosport asked, with ghoulish relish.
‘The deceased appeared to be suffering from the results of a blow to the head,’ MacRae stated.
‘And what evidence do you have against this prisoner?’
‘He was seen at the scene of the crime, and he admitted to having struck the deceased.’ MacRae had recourse to his notebook again.
‘When did he admit to the crime?’ Mr Gosport asked.
‘He was heard by the persons incarcerated with him to state that he had struck Mr Basset,’ MacRae told him.
‘Was that before he had been warned?’ Mr Gosport peered over his spectacles at MacRae. ‘If so, that evidence is inadmissible.’ Mr Gosport looked over the crowd. ‘Who heard the man O’Casey confess to the crime?’
No one wanted to admit to overhearing O’Casey’s confession. Finally Mr Dodgson struggled to the front of the mob. ‘I was present when O’Casey spoke of accosting Mr Basset,’ he said diffidently. ‘And I was present when Mr Basset died.’
‘And who are you?’ Mr Gosport asked.
‘I am the Reverend Mr Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, of Christ Church, Oxford.’ Mr Dodgson offered his card as proof of his identity.
‘I see.’ Mr Gosport peered at the visiting card, then at the black-clad scholar before him. ‘And did you see the man O’Casey strike down this Basset?’
Dr Doyle could stand it no longer. ‘He was not killed by the blow to the head!’ he exclaimed.
‘Who’s this?’ the magistrate wanted to know, while the bailiff shoved Dr Doyle aside.
Dr Doyle would not be shoved. ‘I am Dr Arthur Conan Doyle, of Portsmouth. I, too, was present when Mr Basset breathed his last, and I can assure you that he was not killed by the blow to his head but rather by a stab wound in the back, as the autopsy report will prove.’
‘What autopsy report?’ The magistrate blew his nose loudly into a large red-and-white handkerchief.
‘Ah … there has been no autopsy yet,’ MacRae admitted. ‘However, the police surgeon at Bart’s will have one on my desk, and as soon as he does, this matter will be resolved one way or another!’ He glared at Dr Doyle, who glared back, moustache bristling with indignation.
‘You!’ The magistrate beckoned O’Casey forward. ‘Is what this officer says true? Did you strike this Basset person?’
O’Casey looked wildly around the court. There was no assistance in sight. ‘I hit him Your Honour, but he was alive when we parted, on me mother’s life!’
‘Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with your mother,’ the magistrate said drily. ‘I must remand you into custody until this matter is settled. Bailiff, take him back to the cells and let him sit and repent.’
‘One moment!’ Mr Portman called out.
‘And who are you?’ Mr Gosport regarded this interruption with the same jaundiced glare as he had bestowed upon Mr Dodgson.
‘I am Nicholas Portman, and I am this man’s employer. I have my solicitor here, and I am willing to offer bail, if the court will permit.’
‘No bail in murder cases,’ Mr Gosport ruled.
‘But he did not commit this murder!’ Dr Doyle exclaimed.
‘What about the other fellow, the one in the Strand?’ MacRae demanded.
‘If this man, O’Casey, was seen by hundreds of people in Trafalgar Square, he could not have been knocking someone on the head in the Strand,’ Mr Dodgson said.
Mr Gosport considered this, while Mr Portman consulted with the solicitor, a tubby young man in a soft hat and long overcoat, who had been hauled out of bed at the behest of his superiors to handle this distasteful situation.
‘The man, O’Casey, led the mob,’ MacRae reminded the magistrate. ‘He was seen a
nd heard inciting the crowd to riot and rebellion.’
‘In that case, he cannot be guilty of murder,’ Mr Gosport decided. ‘He remains in custody until such time as he, Mr Hyndman, and Mr Burns can be properly tried on the charges of Inciting to Riot and Breaking the Peace.’
O’Casey looked at his employer, who looked at the solicitor, who shrugged.
‘I’ll get a good barrister for him,’ young Mr Redburn told Mr Portman. ‘Until he’s stood his trial, I think you’d better find another man to run your printing press.’
Portman watched helplessly as his chief printer was led back to the cells by a uniformed warder. Then he turned to Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle. ‘You see how it is? They will have that man in prison whether he is guilty or not. It is infamous!’
‘He is guilty of Inciting to Riot,’ Mr Dodgson pointed out.
‘But he is not a murderer,’ Dr Doyle countered. ‘And whoever this unknown man is, O’Casey most certainly did not kill him, nor did he incite anyone else to do so. All I heard were the usual whirling words, accusing the rich of neglecting the needs of the poor. Nothing about murder, one way or the other.’
The three men walked out into the fog and peered about for the Portman carriage, while the young solicitor hovered in the background, waiting for further orders.
‘Redburn, you get back to your office and find a barrister to take on O’Casey’s defence,’ Portman told him. ‘Dr Doyle, do you think you can get into the autopsy at Bart’s?’
Dr Doyle nodded. ‘I think there’s an Edinburgh man on the staff,’ he said cheerfully. ‘As for the other fellow, he may well be there as well as poor Basset. It was a dreadful night last night, and there’re few places they could have taken him.’
‘In that case,’ Portman stated, ‘we shall go to St. Bartholomew’s and find out what we can. The sooner we can find the real murderer, the sooner I can get my printer back, and the sooner I can get Youth’s Companion out.’
CHAPTER 13
Mr Portman and his two guests stood for several minutes until the brougham tooled up to the door of the Bow Street Police Station, with Thomas apologetically explaining that the bloody bobbies wouldn’t let him stay there, and in any case, he wanted to walk the horses, lest they take a cramp by standing about in the cold.
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 13