‘What do you think you will find at the office?’ Mr Portman asked.
‘It is elementary,’ Mr Dodgson said, picking his way across the hospital yard to where the coach waited for them. ‘As Dr Doyle has just proven, Mr Basset must have been stabbed within the confines of that building before O’Casey ever spoke to him in the street. The killer was one of those who was in the office between four and five o’clock.’
‘If we have come to this conclusion now, Mr Peterson must have reached it last night,’ Dr Doyle stated. ‘He must have approached the killer, who used the disorder in the streets to mask his deed. The killer must have hoped that Peterson’s death would be put down to misadventure and blamed on some unknown rioter.’
‘Instead of which,’ Portman said, ‘you have now convinced me that one of the staff at Youth’s Companion harboured such hatred for poor Sammy that he took a knife to him and then whacked old Peterson when he taxed him with it! I cannot believe it!’
Mr Dodgson shook his head sadly. ‘Dr Doyle and I have discovered that there is murder even in the best of families,’ he said. ‘Mr Basset had nurtured a snake in his bosom.’
‘And I depend on you to remove it,’ Portman said firmly. ‘Thomas! Fleet Street!’
Behind them, Inspector Calloway fumed. He was not going to let either the Metropolitan Police or some interfering amateur get the better of him. He would obtain the necessary warrant and conduct his investigation properly, by the book, as per the system, while MacRae and Scotland Yard ran after radicals, and the amateur sleuthhounds chased phantoms.
With these thoughts, Inspector Calloway headed for the headquarters of the City of London Police on Jewry Street to obtain the necessary warrants. He’d show that scrawny pipsqueak from Scotland Yard how a proper investigation should be run!
CHAPTER 14
By the time the Portman carriage reached Fleet Street, the early traffic had eased somewhat, so that Thomas the coachman could actually manoeuvre his vehicle between the omnibuses, drays, carts, and cabs. Reporters who had been out all night observing the activities in Trafalgar Square had filed their stories and were now enjoying their ‘elevenses’ at the many pubs patronized by the Fourth Estate. The presses were even now steamed up and running off the afternoon editions, which would be on the streets by lunchtime.
The street was still covered with the remains of the last night’s snow, which was now in the process of melting down into slimy slush. The only sign of trouble on Fleet Street was a gang of tough-looking men lounging about the stone griffin, where Mr Hyndman had taken his stand the night before. The presence of blue-clad constables ostentatiously wielding their batons left no doubt as to the fate of the toughs should they try to repeat the previous night’s adventures.
Mr Portman descended from his carriage in front of the Youth’s Companion building, with his two guests close behind him. ‘I don’t think I’ll need you any more today, Thomas,’ he said carelessly. ‘I have no idea how long this is going to take, and I can find a cab when I’m ready to leave.’
‘Aye, sir.’ Thomas touched his high hat with the butt of his whip in salute and eased the horses back into the traffic, while Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle followed Portman through the door to the offices, which had already been embellished with a large black bow.
Mr Portman noted this with a satisfied nod. ‘Good. Levin’s here, I see.’ That individual had apparently been busy on Portman’s behalf. The coal fires had been lit in the two offices on the first storey, and Howarth, Monteverde, and Roberts were in Levin’s anteroom, waiting for orders. Only one of the staff, David Peterson, was conspicuously absent.
Portman nodded affably to Monteverde and Howarth, and shook hands with Roberts.
‘I cannot say how sorry I am—’ Mr Portman began to speak, his normally cheerful face clouded with grief.
‘I do not know where Mr Peterson is,’ Levin said, before his employer could remark on the absence of the chief writer.
There was a knock at the downstairs door. Levin darted down the stairs to let in a well-built dark woman, on the sunny side of thirty, dressed in what must have been her best fur jacket and matching hat. She made her way laboriously up the stairs, panting with the effort of negotiating the stairs in her bustle and tight corsets.
‘Myrna? What are you doing here?’ Winslow Howarth sprang to her side to support her as she tottered into the office, with Levin at her heels. He turned to Mr Portman. ‘You remember Mrs Peterson, sir.’
‘Win, Monte, something dreadful must have happened to David. He didn’t come home last night. I thought he might have spent the night with one of you because of the snow, but this morning’s newspapers said there was a riot …’ She looked from one of her husband’s friends to another, seeking an answer. Howarth and Monteverde gazed back at her blankly.
‘There was some trouble in the streets,’ Monteverde said. ‘But I was going home in the other direction, so I didn’t have any difficulties.’
Howarth shook his head. ‘David did ask me to join him in a drink, but I had to get on home to Post-Office Polly. Dogs must be taken out, snow or no snow. I left Peterson here in the Strand.’
‘I thought I saw him coming out of a tavern,’ Roberts put in. He glared back at his comrades’ accusing eyes. ‘Well, he might have been having a short toddy against the cold. I wanted to see what was forward in the square, along with everyone else.’ He tossed his hair back out of his eyes and stood in his favourite spot, leaning up against the fireplace as if daring anyone to accuse him of anything else.
‘And then, this morning, this note came,’ Myrna said, producing a folded piece of paper. ‘Delivered by hand, by some boy from the streets, who told me it came from the Press Club.’
She suddenly recognized the proprietor of the magazine. ‘I do beg your pardon, Mr Portman, but I am quite overset by all this. It’s not like David to stay out all night and not even send me word.’
‘A most faithful and diligent spouse,’ Mr Dodgson commented.
‘Usually,’ Mrs Peterson amended. ‘Once in a while, when he was with friends, he’d come in late, but he’s never been out for a whole night.’ She looked anxiously at her husband’s co-workers, then at Mr Portman. ‘I do hope he was not taken up by the police in the rioting last night. This morning’s newspaper said that any number of innocent persons found themselves in the cells, all through being on the Strand or in Piccadilly when the police vans went by.’
‘Oh dear,’ Portman moaned, ‘this is going to be worse than I thought.’ He turned to the woman, who was becoming more and more distraught with every delay. ‘Mrs Peterson, I have bad news. Your husband met with an … an accident last night.’
Myrna gasped and looked about her for some place to sit. Howarth and Monteverde eased her on to the wooden settle, where Dr Doyle and Mr Dodgson had waited so uncomfortably the day before.
‘Where is he?’ Myrna whispered.
‘At Bart’s Hospital,’ Portman told her.
‘Is he injured? When can I see him? I must go to him at once!’ Myrna tried to rise. The two men beside her exchanged glances. Clearly, their friend and colleague had met with more than a mere ‘accident’.
‘Mrs Peterson,’ Dr Doyle said gently, ‘your husband is beyond your help. I very much regret to tell you this, but Mr Peterson is dead.’
‘David? Dead? How?’ Monteverde and Howarth exclaimed, while Levin fussed with the fire, poking it into a higher blaze.
‘He was apparently struck by a missile during last night’s disturbances,’ Mr Dodgson said carefully.
‘Dreadful!’ Mr Levin murmured into the fire. ‘Left in an alley, in the snow!’
Myrna’s walls drowned out Levin’s soothing voice. ‘He can’t be dead. He can’t be!’ she shrieked suddenly. ‘What am I going to do? What am I going to do now?’ She began to weep noisily.
Monteverde produced a large handkerchief and handed it to Myrna, while Howarth clutched her hand to offer silent solace. Roberts looked at the tri
o from his vantage point, drew out his small sketchpad, and expressed his concern with his pencil instead of his voice. Clearly, this death meant far more to the staff of Youth’s Companion than the shocking demise of the editor-in-chief.
Portman drew Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle to the fire, leaving the staff to deal with the widow. ‘This is dreadful,’ he said. ‘I had hoped to break the news to her gently, under more propitious circumstances.’
‘What should we do?’ Howarth asked, looking in the direction of Mr Portman, as befitted the most senior member of the staff present.
‘We should take her home,’ Monteverde declared. ‘And I suppose someone should notify David’s brother. They didn’t get along, but he’ll have to know. And there’s the funeral and all that.’
‘She’ll have to identify the body first,’ Howarth reminded him. ‘And there’re the kiddies to think of.’ He turned to Mr Portman. ‘David had two little girls, and he told us there’s another on the way. He was going to hit old Basset … that is,’ he stopped in confusion.
‘He was about to ask for a rise in pay,’ Monteverde stepped in. ‘But it wasn’t the right time for it. Mr Basset was in one of his economical moods, and he’d had some odd visitors.’ He stopped suddenly, recalling that Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle were among the odd visitors.
Mr Dodgson was drifting about the room, poking at the papers on Mr Levin’s desk, much to that gentleman’s annoyance. ‘Has anything been touched here since last night?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
Levin blinked in confusion. ‘I do not believe so. Mr Basset would not pay for a daily charwoman, so I hired a porter to come in twice a week to remove wastepaper from the dustbins, sweep the floors, and so on.’
‘No night porter? No watchman?’ Mr Dodgson pursued the issue.
‘There’s an old chap who has a sort of kennel in the yard behind us,’ Monteverde explained. ‘Mr Basset did not believe it was necessary to hire a watchman, since there was precious little in here to steal, barring the presses, and it would be a job and a half to get them out of the basement!’ He turned around to see if this witticism had drawn any laughter. It had not, and he went on, ‘It was David’s idea to find some old geezer to stay in the yard, rent-free, to keep an eye on the place for us. We’d give him a penny or two for food and a fire and a dram of gin.’
‘But who lays the fires in the mornings?’ Mr Dodgson asked, still puzzled by the domestic arrangements at Youth’s Companion.
‘Er … I do,’ Levin said reluctantly. ‘I have the responsibility of opening in the morning and locking up at night. Although,’ he added, after a moment of thought, ‘Mr Roberts also has a key to the front door. He occasionally comes in to complete his cuts for the following day.’ Levin gave Roberts a sniff, which Roberts greeted with a snarl.
‘I see.’ Mr Dodgson started drifting about the room again. ‘In that case, Mr Levin, you must have been the last one out of the door last night.’
‘I was,’ Levin said proudly. ‘At five o’clock precisely I told everyone to go home and locked the doors. As you recall, sir, I let you and Inspector MacRae into the vestibule to get out of the cold and snow.’
‘And you locked the door behind us when we left,’ Mr Dodgson said.
Mr Portman frowned. ‘Five o’clock? I thought our business hours were from eight-thirty until six-thirty.’
Mr Levin reddened. ‘Mr Basset had already left for the day,’ he said defensively. ‘For his weekly meeting with you, sir. He left at four-fifty, by my watch. The snow was beginning to fall quite heavily, and I felt that it would be better for all concerned if I let the staff return to their homes before it got too deep for navigation. Between that and the agitation in the street, I took it upon myself …’
Portman’s frown deepened. ‘It was not your place to do so,’ he scolded. ‘However, it happened, and you were probably right to let the staff leave early. I might well have done the same thing had I been here. Sammy, of course, would have insisted on everyone’s staying until the exact hour, but he wasn’t here, was he?’
Levin’s handsome features were flushed with chagrin at being berated in front of the rest of the staff. ‘I did what I thought best,’ he repeated.
The uncomfortable moment was interrupted by a feminine voice from the stairs.
‘Mr Levin, I worked all night to finish these … Oh dear, am I interrupting?’ Miss Harvey appeared at the office door, her red woollen hat and gloves making a bright spot of colour amongst the drab blacks and browns of the rest of the office staff.
Mr Levin hurried forward to take the packet of manuscript from her hands. ‘Miss Harvey! I had no idea you would come all the way into town today! What with the cold, and they say the rioters will be out again … and I am sure you have heard of the unfortunate accident that befell Mr Basset … and now it seems that our Mr Peterson was also attacked in the riot … Mrs Peterson is here …’ Levin fussed about, putting the typed manuscript on his desk, pushing one of the ledgers aside to make room for it.
The ledger fell to the floor, its pages splayed open. Mr Dodgson retrieved it, smoothed the folded page, closed it, and laid it back on top of a pile of similar ledgers.
Mr Portman stepped forward, eager for any distraction from the sad news of two deaths in one evening. Mr Levin hurried to make the proper introductions: ‘Mr Portman, this is Miss Helen Harvey, our manuscript typewriter. I thought it a good idea to have the copy typewritten before sending it on to the printing room, rather than making our compositors suffer with the dreadful handwriting of some of our writers.’ He glared at Monteverde and Howarth, who were still sitting with Mrs Peterson.
Nicky Portman smiled down at the young woman. Not bad-looking, he decided. Not a child, but definitely not an old maid either. Aloud he said, ‘You are not related to the Harvey who wrote those pieces in the Illustrated London News about decorative arts in Japan? The fellow who bought all that blue-and-white pottery and fobbed it off on Whistler for his study?’
‘I should not say that my father “fobbed off” anything,’ Miss Harvey said sharply. ‘He was considered an authority on oriental and classical pottery and the decorative arts.’
‘Was?’ Portman picked up on the verb.
‘He died last year,’ Miss Harvey explained.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Portman said. ‘What have we here?’
‘Last night Mr Basset told me to retype these manuscripts. I have done so. If you please, Mr Levin, I would like to collect the money that is owed me. My mother is waiting for me at home.’ Miss Harvey raised her chin in an attempt to gain dignity.
Portman raised his eyebrows at Levin, whose flush deepened. ‘I made the arrangements with Miss Harvey,’ he explained. ‘She was to be paid for piecework, from our petty cash. However, in light of his unhappy experiences during the afternoon, I felt it best not to disturb Mr Basset with so minor a matter. In fact, I made Miss Harvey a small loan to tide her over until such time as Mr Basset would allow me access to the cash box.’
‘In that case, let’s pay Miss Harvey what is owed her,’ Portman said expansively. ‘And Mrs Peterson, you must not remain here. It’s unfortunate that I have already dismissed my coachman, or I would have had Thomas take you home. However, the least I can do is provide a cab. Mrs Peterson, have you any relations to turn to at this sad time?’
‘My mother’s in Hereford,’ Myrna said between sobs. ‘I’ll have to go home to her, I suppose; but she’s only got the small cottage, and how we’ll manage I do not know. David was not the most provident of men. I suppose his brother will help … Oh, what am I going to do?’ She started to cry gustily, while Monteverde and Howarth looked helplessly about them for someone to take over the duties of providing solace for the widow.
Portman tried to bring order into what had become a scene fraught with emotional turmoil.
‘Mrs Peterson, I am truly sorry for your loss. If you will give Levin, here, your brother-in-law’s direction, I will send a note immediately and notify him of this sad eve
nt. And I suppose I had better get into Sammy’s office, Miss Harvey, and give you what is owed you.’
Mr Portman smiled at Helen Harvey. She smiled back, and her face took on an elfin sort of beauty.
Mr Portman opened the door to the inner office and gasped, bringing everyone else to the door to see what was amiss.
The inner office was in total disarray. Papers were strewn over the floor. The mounted heads of antelopes and leopards had been wrenched from the walls, apparently with the aid of one of the African spears that had originally been stationed on either side of the doors and were now ranged in a grisly row under the windows.
‘What on earth …’ Portman gasped, as he took in the destruction.
Mr Dodgson followed him into the room. ‘Dear me,’ he murmured. It seemed inadequate to the occasion.
As always, Dr Doyle came to the point. ‘Is anything missing? The cash box, for instance?’
Levin darted forward and made for the desk. ‘It’s here,’ he announced, removing the metal box from the bottom drawer of the desk. ‘But I don’t have the keys. Mr Basset kept them on his person, attached to his watch fob.’
‘How like Sammy,’ Portman muttered. He turned to Miss Harvey. ‘I see I shall have to turn banker and make you a brief loan until such time as I can recover Sammy’s keys and pay you for your trouble.’
‘All I want is what is owed me,’ Miss Harvey said resolutely. ‘And I hope the manuscript is satisfactory.’
Levin was making an effort to collect the papers from the floor.
‘Do not touch anything!’ Mr Dodgson snapped out. ‘The police will wish to examine this room.’
‘The police!’ Mr Levin’s flushed cheeks turned pale.
‘It is possible that Mr Basset was stabbed here in this room and not out on the street at all,’ Mr Dodgson pointed out. ‘In any case, this room has been ransacked. By whom and for what purpose I cannot say at this time. Where is Dr Doyle?’
‘I’m here,’ Dr Doyle called from the stairwell. ‘Look here, Mr Dodgson.’
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