The group followed Mr Dodgson to the stairs. Dr Doyle had opened the door to allow more light into the dark cavity of the stairwell. A ray of watery sunlight illuminated the wooden stairs. There, clearly outlined, were reddish brown stains.
‘He must have been stabbed here in the stairwell,’ Dr Doyle announced.
The shadow of a man fell on the stained stairs. The group looked up to see Inspector MacRae standing in the doorway, with Inspector Calloway looming behind him.
‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ MacRae said, touching his bowler hat. ‘I’m glad to see that everyone’s here. Now we can get on with finding out who killed Mr Samuel Basset.’
CHAPTER 15
Inspector MacRae stamped the snow off his feet in the vestibule, while two large constables and Inspector Calloway lurked behind him. Dr Doyle sprang up from his crouch to guard his find against the vandals who would grind it into the wooden risers.
‘Inspector, mind where you step!’ Dr Doyle cried out. ‘There are bloodstains on these stairs!’
MacRae peered at the rust-coloured drops and nodded at Calloway. ‘They might be bloodstains,’ he conceded. ‘Step carefully, lads,’ he warned his men, as they edged up the stairs and into Mr Levin’s office.
Mr Portman had recovered some of his composure when the two policemen emerged from the stairwell. He frowned at Inspector MacRae. ‘Aren’t you the inspector who charged my printer with murder?’ He turned to Calloway. ‘And you were at the autopsy.’
The two men, one large and red-faced, the other small and bespectacled, glared at each other in mutual loathing, then turned to the civilian in front of them.
‘Inspector MacRae, Metropolitan Police,’ MacRae snapped out. ‘I was the first officer on the scene when Mr Basset died.’
‘Inspector Calloway, City of London Police,’ the other said, with a look of disdain at his smaller colleague. ‘Because Mr Basset met ’is end on Fleet Street, this case is officially the business of the City of London,’ Calloway explained.
‘But it has been turned over to the Metropolitan Police, since the City of London is not equipped to deal with crimes of violence, such as this murder,’ MacRae stated. ‘Therefore, I am in charge of the case, and Inspector Calloway here will conduct the interviews as per my orders.’ He settled his spectacles firmly on his nose. ‘And now that you know who we are, sir, who are you?’
Portman looked affronted. How dare this policeman not know the face of the publisher of Portman Penny Press! ‘I am Nicholas Portman,’ he said, ‘and Samuel Basset was my oldest and dearest friend.’
‘In that case,’ MacRae said briskly, ‘maybe you can tell me who hated him enough to stick a knife in his back. Aye, Doyle,’ he turned to the young doctor, ‘Calloway gave me the news. I’m man enough to admit when I’m mistaken. You were right, and it was not the blow to the head that killed him.’
Dr Doyle smiled smugly under his moustache, then remembered the second death of the night before. ‘And what about Peterson?’
‘Who?’ MacRae took a moment to recall the second unhappy victim of the riot. ‘Oh, that fellow. The fat one who stopped a brick.’
A wail from the settle drew the attention of the two policemen to the two ladies and their protectors.
‘Be more careful, Inspector!’ Howarth scolded the policeman.
‘This is the wife, or, I should say, widow of that unfortunate man,’ Portman explained. The two inspectors removed their hats in deference to Mrs Peterson and Miss Harvey, then turned back to Mr Portman.
Portman had other things on his mind. ‘Where is my printer?’ he demanded. ‘Where is O’Casey? Now that it’s been proven that he could not have killed Sammy, he should be freed at once. I’ll have my solicitor post his bail.’
MacRae glared at the publisher. ‘O’Casey is to be remanded to the court on the charge of Inciting to Riot, in defiance of the reading of the Riot Act. He’ll be tried, along with his friends, as soon as we can clear the streets of the rabble.’
‘Nonsense!’ Portman exclaimed. ‘O’Casey’s been with the Portman Penny Press for years. He’s no agitator!’
‘O’Casey was rather, ah, vocal,’ Mr Dodgson reminded him. ‘And he was certainly in the forefront of the disturbance in the Strand last night.’
‘He’s also charged with the murder of one David Peterson, as identified by you, Mr Dodgson,’ Calloway took over.
MacRae looked the scholar over with a frown. ‘I am surprised to see you still here, Mr Dodgson. I thought you’d be on your way to Oxford by now.’
‘The trains have been delayed,’ Mr Dodgson said frostily. ‘Besides, Mr Portman has asked me to assist him in getting his magazine through the press. As for O’Casey, Dr Doyle’s examination proved that Mr Peterson’s wounds were inflicted by several blows to the head. This is not at all consistent with the activities we observed in the Strand during the, um, agitation. O’Casey was plainly in sight of the crowds during most of the evening. Whoever struck down Mr Peterson, it was most certainly not he.’
Myrna shrieked in anguish. Helen put an arm around the sobbing woman and turned on the men with righteous indignation. ‘Gentlemen! Have some consideration for Mrs Peterson’s feelings! If you must discuss horrors, do it somewhere else!’
The other men made consoling noises. Monteverde and Howarth arranged themselves on either side of the grieving widow, while the artist, Roberts, took his place against the mantelpiece again and sketched the scene with a cynical smirk.
It was Levin who made the decision as to how to proceed. ‘The fire has been made up in Mr Basset’s office, gentlemen. Perhaps this discussion would be best done in privacy.’
Portman nodded. ‘Good thinking, Levin. Come along, Inspector. I can give you my statement in the office.’ He started to move, then turned back to the secretary. ‘Levin, if we’re going to press today we will need a press crew. Better get over to Portman Penny Press and see if Hannegan can spare some of his men.’
‘Should I not remain here, sir, in case some of the printing crew should decide to come in?’ Levin’s face was white and drawn, making him look more than ever like a classic Greek statue.
‘Sammy should have hired an office boy to run the errands,’ Portman grumbled.
‘There are plenty of boys in the street,’ Howarth said. ‘One of those lads can do your errand for a penny. Have him run over to the Penny Press.’
Portman looked for paper and pen on Levin’s desk. The obsequious secretary provided them. The note was written, and Levin descended the stairs to dispatch it. He returned with Mr Smythe, the proprietor of the bookshop below. The delicate-looking shopkeeper was dressed in his usual black frock coat and striped trousers, but had added a small black ribbon to the lapel of his coat in token of mourning.
‘Mr Portman,’ the shopkeeper said with a low bow. ‘I had no idea that you had decided to honour us with a visit. I wish to know what is to be done about the shop. I have ordered a wreath, of course, but do not know where it is to be directed, and I have placed a crepe bow on the door, as Mr Levin ordered.’
Portman stopped the flow of words with a grand gesture. ‘By all means leave the bow upon the door,’ he ordered. ‘I have not decided where to hold the funeral, but the shop will be closed for that day, when I shall announce the time and the place. As for the shop and stock, I have not yet decided what to do about it.’
‘Who actually owns the shop downstairs?’ Mr Dodgson asked sharply.
‘It was my grandfather’s shop, when he first started,’ Portman said with a shrug. ‘My father expanded the business and took over the rest of the building; and when he moved over to the new place down the street, he made it over to me. Sammy thought it would be a good idea to keep it up, to sell Youth’s Companion and Portman Penny Press books for children and young persons, so I let Sammy run it, and we split the profits. Sammy was always one to turn a penny.’
Mr Dodgson’s expression grew stern. ‘I only wish to know because he was selling, at full price, merchandise that
had been removed from the active market as defective, to wit, the first printing of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. I wish that merchandise to be removed from the shop at once, to be distributed, as I and Mr Tenniel had originally decided, to village schools and institutions that could not afford a perfect copy.’
Portman looked blankly at the shopkeeper.
‘I believe the gentleman is referring to the copies of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland that Mr Basset discovered in the storeroom when he did inventory last summer,’ Smythe said. ‘They must have been given to your father for his charitable donations. Mr Basset was of the opinion that although the books were twenty years old, they were in good condition and should bring a tidy sum when sold. If the gentleman is adamant in his request, I can remove them from the stock; but I assure you, sir, the imperfections are so minute that no one could detect them.’
‘I can detect them,’ Mr Dodgson said stubbornly.
Mr Portman sighed. ‘If you like, I can turn the entire box over to you, Mr Dodgson,’ he said. ‘I can’t answer for Sammy’s behaviour, except to excuse it on the grounds that he was somewhat careful about money.’
Inspectors Calloway and MacRae exchanged looks. Clearly, they considered Mr Dodgson’s distress over the sale of a book that was twenty years old unimportant when compared to the deaths of two men yesterday.
MacRae glared at the assemblage. ‘Don’t anybody leave,’ he ordered. ‘I want Calloway here to have a word with each of you.’
‘Is there somewhere else where we can conduct our interviews?’ Calloway asked. ‘This ’ere office is too public fer my taste.’
‘I want to use Sammy’s offices myself,’ Portman stated. ‘Levin, have you built up the fires upstairs? Perhaps Inspector Calloway can use the writers’ room.’
‘I can build up the fires now, if you wish,’ Levin said, holding the office door open for Mr Portman to enter Mr Basset’s office. Portman led the way into Basset’s private office, while Levin fussed behind them, and the two constables took up positions next to the door to the outer office, preventing Monteverde, Howarth, and Roberts from entering. The two writers and the artist had to peer into the office around their shoulders.
MacRae stopped in the doorway and took in the scene of chaos. ‘What happened here?’ he asked.
‘That should be obvious,’ Dr Doyle replied. ‘Someone tore the place apart.’
‘Whatever for?’ MacRae shook his head at the damage.
‘More to the point,’ Mr Dodgson said, ‘when did this occur?’
‘Eh?’ MacRae swivelled his head to look at the scholar, who was picking his way around the room, carefully examining the debris.
‘This building was locked last night by Mr Levin. You and I were present at the time, Inspector. There is no night porter, but there is a man who has been allowed to use the yard behind as a place to sleep in return for watching the building. You will, of course, question him.’
‘Teaching your granny to suck eggs, sir? I’ll have my men on it,’ Calloway said with a nod at MacRae.
Mr Dodgson went on, ignoring the interruption. ‘However, between the snow and the disturbance in the street, it is unlikely that he would have seen anything. The question remains: When was this destruction done?’
‘And why?’ Dr Doyle shook his head. ‘Look at those heads! Wrenched off the walls, mounting boards and all!’
‘It would take a strong man to do that,’ MacRae observed.
‘Or a madman,’ Mr Portman put in. ‘What could he expect to gain by this?’
‘I don’t suppose Mr Basset had been in India and stolen some exotic jewel,’ MacRae said sarcastically.
‘Oh dear, not again,’ Mr Dodgson murmured, with an anguished look at Dr Doyle.
Portman put his fears to rest. ‘Nothing at all like that, Inspector. Sammy lived a blameless life, as far as I know.’
‘Indeed.’ Inspector MacRae looked about the room again. ‘Someone must have hated him, that’s for certain. Otherwise, why destroy all these things? I take it Mr Basset was fond of hunting?’
‘Only when we were together on our African adventure,’ Portman answered. His voice grew thick with emotion. ‘It was the most wonderful time of our lives! Poor dear Sammy never really got over it.’ He looked at the battered taxidermy and reached for a handkerchief, suddenly overcome with the enormity of what had happened to his friend.
Mr Dodgson turned to Mr Portman. ‘Sir, one hates to ask, but had Mr Basset any expectations? Any heirs or other persons who might gain by his death?’
‘In other words,’ Inspector MacRae was more blunt, ‘who gets his money?’
Portman looked blank. ‘Do you mean, who is his beneficiary under his will?’
‘Did he have a will?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘Oh, yes, my father insisted on it before we went off to Africa,’ Portman said. ‘Of course, that was some time ago, but I never felt any need to change my will, and as far as I know, neither did he.’
‘And who does benefit from Mr Basset’s death?’ Inspector Calloway pressed on.
‘I suppose I do. We made out our wills in each other’s favour,’ Portman admitted. ‘We were young, we were friends, and we were about to go into places where there was a distinct possibility of not returning. Neither of us had much to leave, since my father was very much alive, and except for a small legacy from my mother’s family, I had no money of my own at that time. As for Sammy, he was completely dependent on his own exertions to rise in the world.’
‘But circumstances change, do they not?’ Mr Dodgson was now peering at the objects on the late Mr Basset’s desk. ‘You now have a considerable income thanks to the legacy you inherited, as well as your share in Youth’s Companion and the shop downstairs.’
Mr Portman nodded. ‘Sammy drew his stipend from the profits from the magazine,’ he explained. ‘What he did with it was his own concern.’
‘He had no wife or children?’ MacRae had his notebook out and was scribbling notes to himself. ‘Any close relations, who might want to take a knife to him?’
‘Not any of which I am aware,’ Mr Portman said frostily. ‘When we were at school together, he never had visitors and often had to spend the school holidays with the staff. My father took pity on him and allowed him to take his Christmas holidays with us. My mother and sisters treated Sammy like a relation, although he was no such thing, of course.’
‘Hmmm.’ MacRae looked at Calloway, who shrugged.
‘Sammy and I even took lodgings together when we came back from Africa,’ Portman went on, nostalgia welling up in his voice.
‘But you did not invite him to share your flat at the Press Club,’ Mr Dodgson commented.
‘Well,’ Portman looked embarrassed. ‘One moves on. As I told you, I received a legacy that gave me enough to start the Press Club, and I decided to move there.’
‘But not with Mr Basset,’ Inspector MacRae said, his eyes glittering behind his spectacles. ‘Now, why was that, sir? Considering that you two were once so close?’
Mr Portman drew himself up haughtily. ‘I find that question impertinent, Inspector. My personal relations are none of your business. And if you are implying that I killed my friend in order to inherit his share of Youth’s Companion, might I remind you that Portman Penny Press is an extremely lucrative concern, in which I own a considerable share, and that I am hardly in want of funds! In any case, I could not have stabbed Sammy. If Dr Doyle is right, and Sammy was killed before four-fifty, I was not here. Mr Levin will tell you that when he informed me of the sad death of my dear friend, I was in my rooms at the Press Club, dressing for dinner. What with the state of the roads, the snow, and the disturbances outside, it would have been impossible for me to get from St James’s to Fleet Street and back between four and five o’clock.’
Inspector MacRae grimaced and acknowledged the logic of this. Mr Dodgson had transferred his examination from the battered heads to the mess of papers on the desk. ‘Where is it?’ he muttere
d to himself. ‘I thought I saw it … It should be here…’
‘What are you looking for?’ MacRae asked irritably.
‘I don’t know,’ Mr Dodgson said, ‘but I will when I see it. Mr Portman, where did Mr Peterson and the others work when they were not invading Mr Levin’s office?’
‘Oh, upstairs,’ Mr Portman waved a hand in the direction of the ceiling. ‘They have their room upstairs, and Roberts does his engraving in the attic. You can do your interviews in the rooms upstairs, Inspectors. I’ll need this one to put the next issue together. Levin, where are the stories for this week’s issue?’
‘I believe those are the ones Miss Harvey has just brought in.’ Mr Levin scrambled about, picking up the papers that had been scattered about on the carpeted floor. ‘These are the manuscripts that were submitted to Youth’s Companion for consideration for future issues.’
Mr Dodgson frowned. ‘Submissions?’ He turned to Mr Portman. ‘Did you not tell me that Mr Basset wished the entire magazine to be written by his own staff?’
Mr Portman nodded and turned his gaze to Mr Levin.
Levin licked his lips and said, ‘That is true, sir, but I thought that the magazine was beginning to lose readership because the stories were, if I may say so, all of a piece. I suggested to Mr Basset that perhaps a variety of styles and experiences might be better suited to today’s youth.’
‘And you took it upon yourself to remedy the situation?’ Portman asked sharply.
‘I wrote to various persons associated with literature for children …’
‘Including myself,’ Mr Dodgson put in.
‘… Reminding them that Youth’s Companion would value any contribution they might make,’ Levin continued, wilting under Portman’s icy stare.
‘Apparently Mr Basset didn’t think the same way you did,’ Inspector MacRae commented. ‘Isn’t this a poem? What’s that signature?’
‘Mr Stevenson,’ Levin said.
MacRae’s eyebrows went up and his eyes glittered behind his spectacles. ‘Now there’s a name a Scotsman can recognize,’ he said.
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 16