‘Quite all right, Thomas. We want to go to Bart’s Hospital. Do you know where it is?’
‘Smithfield, I believe,’ Dr Doyle put in. ‘It was considered quite a plum to get a position there when I was a medical student.’
Mr Portman mentally ran a map of London through his head. ‘High Holborn, then, Thomas.’
‘If you say so, sir,’ The coachman waited until the three men mounted the carriage, then carefully made his way through the press of police vans, delivery carts, and cabs, and headed eastward towards the City.
‘Are you certain we can gain admittance?’ Mr Dodgson fussed.
‘I think Ogilvie is in Pathology,’ Dr Doyle said, after a moment’s thought. ‘He was a class ahead of me, but he’ll remember me. Dr Bell was very pleased with his work. Of course, now his patients are all dead, which helps enormously in diagnosis.’ Dr Doyle laughed heartily.
Mr Dodgson had other things on his mind. ‘I noticed you did not mention Mr Levin last night, when we were discussing the staff of Youth’s Companion,’ he reminded Mr Portman. ‘Is he not to be considered as staff?’
Portman looked blank. ‘I suppose he is,’ he said at last. ‘He was Sammy’s discovery.’
‘How so?’
‘You recall, last night I told you about how Sammy had taken to charity work,’ Portman explained. ‘We heard Mr Barnett lecture on his scheme for bringing university people down to Whitechapel to educate the poor children and bring young men into a more respectable way of life. Sammy was especially impressed by Mr Barnett’s ideas, since he’d been a poor lad himself. I’d just started the Press Club, and I suppose he wanted something of his own to do, so he took to bringing books over to Mr Barnett’s church, St Jude’s, even though it wasn’t his parish. Far from it!’
‘I have heard Mr Barnett myself,’ Mr Dodgson murmured. ‘He is a most enthusiastic speaker.’
‘He certainly impressed Sammy,’ Mr Portman said. ‘He even started a little lending library, using the books from Portman Penny Press. As I understand it, young Levin hung about St Jude’s to help in the library, and so they became friendly.’
‘An odd sort of friendship,’ Mr Dodgson mused. ‘They did not seem to get along at the office. Mr Basset was quite rude to Levin in the presence of the rest of the staff.’
‘That was Sammy’s way.’ Portman sighed. ‘He was very touchy about being respected. I never understood it myself; but if, as I suspect, he was born on the wrong side of the blanket, he might take any encroachment on what he considered his prerogatives in bad part.’
‘Which would certainly explain why he was so upset when he found out that Mr Levin had been conducting correspondence with contributors to Youth’s Companion in his name.’ Mr Dodgson gripped the strap inside the window of the carriage as the horses lurched along.
‘Sammy was upset with him?’ Portman’s eyebrows rose. ‘Levin said nothing about this to me last night. So he was taking on a few new chores, was he?’
‘Apparently, he was. He wrote to me, soliciting material, and I sent a small selection of puzzles and conundrums,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘And Mr Harry Furniss of Punch seems to have done the same. I have no idea how many others were approached, nor how much material of this sort found its way into the magazine.’
Mr Portman frowned. ‘One of the things Sammy was insistent on was that everything in Youth’s Companion should come from our own writers and artists. In that way we could be certain of the quality of both the material and the source. We didn’t want any of our readers or their parents to be exposed to anything that would offend or shock.’
Dr Doyle grinned under his moustache. ‘If that’s so, I can understand why Mr Basset was so upset at the idea of hiring Mr Wilde for the staff position. I’m surprised you considered him, sir.’
Portman laughed. ‘There’s no harm in Oscar, in spite of his poses and airs. He’s a talented young man, and I thought I could give him a hand up, as it were. Besides, I like his wife. Thomas!’ He leaned out the window. ‘Where are we?’
‘Just about there, sir!’ The carriage arrived at a vast pile of a building, like a square box of stone, with Georgian lintels over the doorways.
They pulled up into a large cobbled yard, where ambulances stood at the ready, their drivers muffled against the fog, and the horses harnessed and blanketed.
‘Walk the horses and find yourself something hot to drink,’ Mr Portman ordered. ‘Be back here in half an hour.’
The coachman flourished his whip, leaving the three men to deal with the uniformed porter at the hospital door. A brief exchange of coins, and the porter led them through dank and malodorous halls, down a flight of steps, and into a stark gaslit chamber presided over by a stout young man with sandy hair, thick spectacles, a snub nose, and an infectious grin. He wore a heavy knitted jersey under his bloodstained apron to keep out the cold, and he greeted his old schoolmate with a wave of his hand and a look of astonishment.
‘Hello, Doyle,’ he carolled. ‘Didn’t expect to find you in London. I thought you’d gone to sea.’
‘I did, but I didn’t like it. I’m in private practice now.’
‘Come for a busman’s holiday, eh?’ Young Dr Ogilvie waved at the sheeted bodies that filled the morgue. ‘We’re full up this morning.’
‘I heard you had taken on the job of police surgeon and wanted to compare notes. I’ve done a few autopsies myself down in Portsmouth,’ Dr Doyle told him. ‘And since I’ve been trapped here in London, thanks to the snowfall that’s stopped the trains, I thought I’d drop by.’
‘And ’oo let you in, eh?’ snarled the second man in the room. Dr Doyle looked up to see Inspector Calloway bearing down upon him.
Ogilvie shrugged and said, ‘Look here, Doyle, I know you’re anxious to get on, but bringing observers in is strictly against the rules!’ He glanced at the other two men, who tried to look as if they were just passing by.
‘And you bein’ a witness, the last person we want is you!’ Calloway rumbled.
‘Nonsense,’ Dr Doyle retorted. ‘They used to open autopsies to paying observers—’
‘Not now they don’t,’ Ogilvie interrupted him.
Dr Doyle smiled with bluff charm. ‘See here, Ogilvie, this is a particular favour. The man who was brought in last night was a … a sort of acquaintance.’
‘Which one?’
‘Eh?’ Dr Doyle’s moustache quivered in perplexity.
‘It’s been a busy night,’ Ogilvie said grimly. ‘What with the cold and the rioting, we’ve got five bodies on the table.’
‘The one I want is a man—’
‘That lets out the poor old biddy over in the corner and the little missie yonder.’ Ogilvie gestured towards a pathetic bundle of rags that had once been a beggar woman and her far younger associate.
‘About forty years of age,’ Dr Doyle continued. ‘Rather stout, with a beard—’
‘And that lets out the old gent with the long hair and side whiskers taken out of the Thames,’ Ogilvie said. ‘What colour was the beard?’
‘Brown, with some grey,’ Dr Doyle said after some consideration.
Ogilvie shook his head. ‘We’ve got two of them,’ he said.
Mr Dodgson had been straining to hear the conversation. Now he heard Dr Doyle’s sharp exclamation.
‘Two!’
‘Aye, that’s right,’ Ogilvie said with a grin. ‘As I said, last night was a busy one. We got the two gentlemen in, one just on six o’clock, and another at around eight. I don’t suppose either one of ’em’s the one you’re looking for.’
Mr Portman stepped forward. ‘I am here to make the identification of my friend Samuel Basset,’ he declared. ‘I shall do so. After that, you may release the body to me for proper interment.’
‘I haven’t done my autopsy yet,’ Ogilvie objected.
‘That’s what I’d hoped for,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘I was there when Basset died, so I can fix the time of death. As for the means, that’s what I want to find
out.’
‘We know the means,’ Calloway told him. ‘ ’e were struck down.’
‘I don’t think so,’ Doyle said, his moustache bristling. I tried to tell you that last night, but you would not listen to me. I told the magistrate in court this morning that I suspected that Basset had been stabbed, but—’
‘Well, let’s have a look.’ Ogilvie interrupted his old classmate’s tirade and indicated the two bodies lying on wooden tables, their faces covered with canvas sheets. The smell of putrefaction lay heavy over the room, mingling with the odours of disinfectant and human waste products. Mr Dodgson cringed away from the tables while Dr Doyle and his friend stepped closer to the two male bodies. Neither of them had been undressed, an oversight that Ogilvie was about to correct.
‘Which one?’ Ogilvie asked.
‘I think this one.’ Doyle indicated the sheet that covered the less rotund of the two. ‘Mr Basset was wearing black trousers, I believe.’
‘He usually wore black trousers and a frock coat to the office,’ Mr Portman said.
‘And ’oo might you be?’ Calloway demanded.
‘I am Nicholas Portman. I was Sammy Basset’s oldest friend,’ the publisher said.
‘Portman Penny Press?’ Ogilvie asked with a wry twist of the mouth.
‘The same,’ Mr Portman nodded. Calloway was not impressed. Dr Ogilvie turned back the cover over the face of the corpse. ‘Mr Portman, can you identify this person as Mr Samuel Basset?’
‘Of course I can!’ Portman snapped out.
‘I say, Doyle, can you take the notes?’ Ogilvie asked. ‘I’m supposed to keep records on all autopsies. New orders from on high.’ He gestured expressively with his lancet towards a sheaf of cheap paper attached to the table with a cotton string.
‘Not a bad idea,’ Dr Doyle said, fumbling for his pencil and notebook.
‘Just means more work for the likes of you and me,’ Ogilvie groused. ‘Well, then, let’s see what we have here. A male, identified by friend as Samuel Basset, age forty or thereabouts …’
‘He would have been forty-one on his next birthday,’ Portman murmured. ‘Poor Sammy!’
‘Very well, age forty. Weight, sixteen stone; height six feet; in good physical condition…’
‘Sammy liked to keep fit,’ Portman said. ‘He walked everywhere and enjoyed swimming.’
‘Difficult to do in London,’ Mr Dodgson observed.
‘There are swimming baths and clubs,’ Portman said. ‘And I believe he skated during the winter.’
Oglivie went on: ‘Clothing: one greatcoat, frock coat, black trousers, waistcoat, shirt, combinations, socks, shoes. Watch and chain in waistcoat pocket. Wallet in breast pocket of greatcoat, contents’ – he glanced at the wallet, before handing it on to Calloway – ‘twenty pounds in notes. Pocket change: ten pennies, two shillings, and a couple of sovereigns. Cardcase in waistcoat pocket, penknife in trousers pocket—’
‘Robbery was not a factor,’ Dr Doyle observed with a glance at Calloway. ‘No street ruffian would have left a full wallet or a watch like that one.’
‘Time of death—’ Ogilvie droned on.
‘I can give you that to the second,’ Dr Doyle announced. I was on the spot. Five-fifteen precisely.’
‘All the easier for me,’ Ogilvie said with a nod. ‘Observations include bruise on left temple—’
‘But that’s not what killed him,’ Doyle insisted.
‘Doesn’t seem to have done more than break the skin,’ Ogilvie agreed. ‘Not unless the old boy was exceptionally thin-skulled.’
‘I think he must have been stabbed some time before we even got to him. Let me help you lift him up and you’ll see what I mean.’
Carefully the two men turned the body over. There, in the middle of Basset’s back, was the aforementioned wound: a barely noticeable slit in the coat, with a thin crust of dried blood around it.
‘One for you, Doyle,’ Ogilvie said. ‘Let’s have the coat off and see how deep this goes.’
It took some time to remove Mr Basset’s greatcoat, frock coat, waistcoat, linen shirt, and woollen combination underwear. Whatever had stabbed him had gone through all that and still entered his body. Most of the blood from the wound had been absorbed by the layers of his clothing. By the time they got down to the skin, the bloodstain was distinctly wider.
‘Narrow entry wound,’ Doyle said with some satisfaction. ‘And a slit, not a round hole. I’d say the man was killed with some sort of long dagger, a stiletto, perhaps?’
Mr Dodgson had been edging further and further away from the late Mr Basset. He now bumped into the table that held the sheeted figure of another man, whose damp shoes projected over the edge of the table.
‘I beg your pardon,’ he stammered. He peered at the shoes, then at the edges of the trousers that flapped over them.
‘Dr Ogilvie!’ Mr Dodgson called imperiously. ‘Who is this?’
‘Unknown, brought in about eight o’clock last night,’ Ogilvie mumbled. ‘Look here, Doyle, I think you’re right, and this chap died of internal bleeding. This wound itself doesn’t look deep enough to cause death instantly.’
Dr Doyle bent over the body to examine it more closely. ‘What I suspect is that the knife, or whatever it was, nicked an artery, maybe the renal artery, and Basset bled to death in half an hour, maybe less. He may not even have known he was dying!’
‘Poor chap!’ Ogilvie allowed himself a moment of human feeling, then picked up his scalpel and applied it to the body, laying open the thoracic cavity. ‘Here you are, Doyle! Full of blood, just as you said. Whoever bashed this fellow was bashing a dead man, although neither of them knew it.’
‘Wot!’ Calloway exclaimed. ‘You mean this ’ere bloke was dyin’ when ’e ’it the street?’
‘So it would appear,’ Ogilvie said. ‘Whoever did for this fellow, he didn’t do it on the street itself. It would have taken at least fifteen minutes for him to die.’
Mr Portman’s face took on a greenish tinge, only partly because of his gruesome surroundings. ‘Then he must have been stabbed inside the office,’ he said slowly.
‘Which completely exonerates O’Casey, who was well out of the place before we left,’ Dr Doyle said, as he scribbled assiduously at the report, which would, in time, find its way into the files of a new and improved Scotland Yard. ‘You’d better inform Bow Street. Whatever else he’s accused of, O’Casey’s no murderer.’
‘Dr Doyle! Mr Portman!’ Mr Dodgson’s voice trembled with emotion. ‘I believe we know this man!’
He lifted the sheet off the face of the second man in the dead room. Mr David Peterson’s balding head and line of chin beard were revealed.
‘How did he die?’ Mr Portman turned on the medical examiner.
‘A blow to the head, and this time, it really was the cause of death, no doubt about it,’ Ogilvie said, pointing to the congealed mass on the back of the skull. ‘There is a definite break in the cranium, and grey matter was spattered in his hair.’
‘Was the weapon found?’ Mr Portman asked.
‘In this snow?’ Ogilvie shrugged. ‘He was found half-frozen. No telling how long he’d been lying out there. I heard he was in the middle of the riots. He must have been clipped by one of the stones those idiots were tossing right and left at the shopwindows.’
‘But that wouldn’t have left brains all over him,’ Dr Doyle objected. ‘And look here, Ogilvie, there are at least two marks on his noggin. This man was hit at least twice, and that makes it murder, deliberate and possibly premeditated. What’s more, he wasn’t hit with a stone. Look at the wound; it’s regular, not rounded, and there are flakes of brick dust in it.’ He produced his magnifying glass to prove his point.
‘But why should anyone take a brick to Peterson?’ Mr Portman asked. ‘He could be extremely tiresome, cracking senseless puns and playing cruel pranks. He was always short of money, and he could be thoughtlessly unkind to his poor wife, but that’s no reason to bash him like that
.’
‘Nothing in his pockets, nothing on his waistcoat,’ Calloway said sagely. ‘This pore chap were robbed, sure enough. ’E must lave been in that riot, and one of the lads took advantage, as you might say.’
‘Unless,’ Mr Dodgson said thoughtfully, ‘Mr Peterson knew, or thought he knew, something about the death of Mr Basset. He seemed to be a very clever man, with a taste for puzzles and conundrums. Perhaps he recognized something or thought he had discovered who had killed Mr Basset. If, as you say, he was always short of funds, he might have tried a bit of extortion on the murderer.’
‘But that would be very dangerous,’ Dr Doyle pointed out. ‘A man who has just killed is in a delicate state of mind. Mr Peterson must have been mad—’
‘Or drunk,’ Mr Portman put in. ‘David liked his glass.’
‘We shall not learn anything more here,’ Mr Dodgson announced. ‘Mr Portman, I believe we will have to question the staff at Youth’s Companion if you wish me to discover the true killer.’
‘And ’oo gave you the right to question anyone?’ Calloway demanded. ‘You’re nothin’ but a bloody hamateur!’
‘Possibly so,’ Mr Dodgson said with great dignity, ‘but I am willing to proceed with an open mind, whereas you, Inspector Calloway, are bound by your so-called system. If you wish to continue your investigation, you would be well to do it at the offices of Youth’s Companion. That is where Mr Portman’s staff is gathering, and that is where the answer to the question asked by Mr Basset in his death throes will be.’
‘Wot question?’ Calloway followed the trio through the corridors and back to the yard, where the carriage was still waiting.
‘Mr Basset asked, “Why?” ’ Mr Dodgson explained. ‘I am now certain that he was not naming Mr Wilde or anyone else. He wanted to know why he had been stabbed. He must have known his killer, which means it must have been one of the men at the office. Ergo, we must go there to find the answer.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 14