‘How do we know that?’ Dr Doyle interrupted the flow of chatter. ‘Mr Portman has said that he did not know how Mr Basset spent his stipend. For all we know, he could have been some kind of miser, squirrelling his savings into a mattress in his lodgings, wherever they are.’
‘I believe Mr Levin said Mr Basset lived in Baker Street.’ Mr Dodgson let Dr Doyle back into Levin’s office. The secretary was hovering at the door to the inner office, where Mr Monteverde and Mr Howarth had joined Mr Portman in organizing the next issue of Youth’s Companion while Miss Harvey hovered in the background, picking up papers and sorting them out.
Mr Portman frowned to himself. ‘Levin!’ he called out.
‘Did you call me, sir?’ Levin popped his head in the office door.
‘Yes. I want to see the books, and the list of subscribers and distributors. And have the presses warmed up.’
Before Levin could respond to the verbal barrage, Mr Dodgson poked his head into the office and coughed gently. ‘Mr Portman, you offered me a commission last night. On due consideration, I shall undertake to do what you asked. However, in order to do so, I shall have to visit Mr Basset’s lodgings. Can you give me his direction?’
‘Of course. 331-B Baker Street. It’s a lodging house, run by a Mrs Bering. And perhaps you could accompany Mrs Peterson home? If there are still rioters about, I’d feel better if she had some male company. Inspector Calloway will wish to interview her before she leaves, of course, but once that’s done, she can go back to her own house.’
‘Will she have to, er, identify the, er, remains?’ Mr Dodgson asked delicately.
‘Oh, I don’t think she’ll have to do that,’ Mr Portman said. ‘We’ve already told them all they have to know. It’s Peterson, I will swear it.’
‘And what of Miss Harvey?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘Oh, she’s staying here,’ Mr Portman said carelessly. ‘She’s going to help with the proofs so that Monte and Win can get on with the layout.’
Miss Harvey’s smile was not at all wistful. She was clearly enjoying herself immensely. She had removed her jacket, revealing a dark tartan dress with a modest bustle and long sleeves. The other three seemed to have accepted the fact that there was a female in their midst.
Mr Portman produced his purse. ‘See if you can find a cab,’ he instructed Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle. ‘Spend what you need and give me the reckoning later. Poor, poor Sammy!’ He sighed deeply, then turned back to his newly augmented staff.
‘As soon as the printers get the presses ready, we can block out and set type,’ he said gleefully. ‘I’d forgotten how much work this is, but once it’s done, you have something worthwhile!’
‘Until next week,’ Howarth reminded him.
‘It might be more convenient if Miss Harvey were to type the manuscripts here,’ Roberts blurted out. ‘A typewriting machine could be brought in, and she could use part of Levin’s office.’
Mr Portman nodded slowly. ‘That had occurred to me,’ he said. ‘Although it would be even more convenient if all authors typed their own manuscripts.’
‘Perhaps in the future, all manuscripts will arrive ready for the press,’ Monteverde said. ‘David had a story about the future in which the writers send their stories in by a sort of airwave.’
‘Right now, we’ve got these,’ Miss Harvey told him, patting her stack of typed pages. ‘And if you like, I can sort them out by type: adventure tales, fairy stories, and so on.’
‘A good idea,’ Portman said. ‘Levin, take Mrs Peterson up to Inspector Calloway.’
Ten minutes with Myrna Peterson convinced Inspector Calloway that she knew nothing about Mr Basset’s death. According to the grieving widow, David Peterson must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been waylaid and robbed by some unknown cut-throat during the riot. She knew of no one who would harm her beloved David and no reason why he should have been in the Strand in a snowstorm when she was waiting dinner for him in Holbein Street.
Calloway looked at the mass of material in front of him and groaned inwardly. He would now have to go back to Jewry Street and consider the evidence before him, which amounted to five people stating that they did not know how Mr Basset could have been stabbed while they were in the building, and one person who could be crossed off because he was definitely elsewhere.
‘You can go ’ome, ma’am,’ Calloway told Mrs Peterson gruffly. ‘There’ll ’ave to be an inquest, but yer ’usband’ll be turned over to yer as soon as may be.’
Myrna sniffled into her handkerchief. Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle were waiting by the stairs to escort her down to the office.
Mr Portman emerged to wave the widow on her way. ‘Mrs Peterson, I cannot express how sorry I am to have lost David,’ he said. ‘He was a grand fellow and a good writer. I’ve asked Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle, here, to see that you get home safely, and I have sent a note to David’s brother, giving him the sad news.
‘That is very kind of you, Mr Portman.’ Myrna took a deep breath to try and control her tears. ‘I only hope they find the ruffian who did this to David.’
Calloway had descended from the upper rooms and shook his head behind her, as if to say, ‘Not likely.’
Mr Dodgson allowed Dr Doyle to lead Mrs Peterson down the stairs and into Fleet Street. I only hope we can find a cab,’ Mr Dodgson fussed. ‘Once we get Mrs Peterson to her home, we can get about the business of discovering who killed her husband … and why!’
‘Until then,’ Mr Portman said, ‘we have work to do!’ He bustled back into the office, leaving the others to pursue their investigations.
CHAPTER 17
The fog had lifted a little when Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle looked out into Fleet Street and flagged down a growler.
‘Sloane Square,’ Mr Dodgson ordered, handing the grieving widow into the cab, while Dr Doyle negotiated with the cabby.
Myrna Peterson had regained some control over her overwrought emotions. ‘It is very kind of you to come with me,’ she said, wiping her eyes on her sodden handkerchief. ‘I don’t know what to say to the girls.’
‘Your children?’ Mr Dodgson’s ears seemed to perk up at the thought of little girls.
Dr Doyle said gallantly, ‘You seem scarcely old enough to be the mother of two children, ma’am.’
‘Flora is five,’ Mrs Peterson said, with a watery smile. ‘Susanna is only two, hardly old enough to realize her loss. And now …’ She laid her hands across her midsection.
Dr Doyle felt compelled to change the subject. ‘Not much traffic on the roads,’ he commented.
It was true; the only vehicles on the move were cabs and omnibuses. The owners of private carriages had apparently decided that this was no day to call out the horses for mere pleasure. Between the fog in the air and the slush underfoot, the going was treacherous for both man and beast.
The passersby on the Strand were not the working men and women who had formed the bulk of the crowd the previous night. The hardy souls who had braved the elements and glowered at the shopkeepers on the Strand and in Piccadilly were tough-looking men, dressed in heavy woollen coats and bowler hats, who swaggered along as if daring anyone to stop them. The icy slush had melted into a disgusting species of muck that was churned up by the wheels of the passing cabs and omnibuses to coat the trouser cuffs or skirts of the passersby. Crossing sweeps plied their trade, hoping for a penny for their trouble. The toughs ignored these pitiful creatures, secure in the knowledge that none of them would ever descend to such demoralizing work.
The cab made its way along the Strand and into Trafalgar Square. After a moment’s hesitation, the cabby decided to take the Whitehall route, on the theory that if any road would be cleared, it would be the one in front of the government buildings.
Mrs Peterson accepted a fresh handkerchief from Dr Doyle, as the cab marched along past St James’s Park, unable to respond to the eerie beauty of the winter scene in her personal distress.
‘Who could have done such a thing
?’ she moaned. ‘It must have been one of the rioters.’
‘Did your husband have any enemies?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘Of course not!’ Mrs Peterson stopped moaning long enough to be outraged. ‘Everyone loved David!’
‘Someone did not,’ Mr Dodgson remarked. ‘What were his relations with the men at the office?’
Mrs Peterson wiped her eyes and gave the matter some thought. ‘David made it a point to give a hand up to people like Win Howarth and Monte Monteverde,’ she said. ‘When he got the position at Youth’s Companion, he insisted on bringing them over from the Penny Press.’
‘Indeed? I trust they were suitably grateful,’ Mr Dodgson murmured.
‘They all got along, if that is what you mean,’ Mrs Peterson said. ‘Of course, I knew Win before I met David. In fact, he introduced me to David.’
Dr Doyle frowned. ‘A rival in love? And they worked together all this time?’
‘Win and David were the best of friends. Win even stood up for David at our wedding.’ Mrs Peterson smiled happily into the darkness of the cab.
‘And Mr Monteverde?’ Mr Dodgson broke into her reminiscent mood.
‘Monte? Oh, there was some foolishness, about a story David wrote. Monte has some relations who were with Garibaldi in South America, and he told David about them, and David put it into a story, and the relations were upset about it.’
‘Italians?’ Dr Doyle asked eagerly. ‘The Italians are passionate people, are they not?’
Mrs Peterson sniffed into her handkerchief. ‘Monte has a temper, but it all blew over. David pointed out that no one would know who he meant by the story, since he’d changed everyone’s names, and in any case, the only people who read Youth’s Companion are far too young to do any mischief to Monte’s relations in Italy or anywhere else.’
‘What about the hot-tempered Mr Roberts?’ Dr Doyle asked.
Myrna shook her head again. ‘He’s Welsh, of course, and David would make jokes about the Welsh and how they love to sing. Mr Roberts was not amused, but even he couldn’t stay angry with David for long. No one could.’
They had reached the King’s Road and Sloane Square. Dr Doyle hopped out of the cab to hand Mrs Peterson out.
Dr Doyle looked up and down the street. There were no cabs to be seen. ‘Hi, cabby,’ he called out. ‘Do you hire by the day?’
The cabby, a wiry little man with a good-humoured expression, shrugged. ‘I own me own cab and ’oss, guv’nor,’ he said. ‘I do oblige, from time to time.’
‘Mr Dodgson,’ Dr Doyle turned to his older companion, ‘perhaps we should hire this fellow for the rest of the day, since we have several errands to do and there do not seem to be many other cabs available.’
‘Do you think so? We may be some time at each place,’ Dr Dodgson said.
‘That is true, but we will spend less time in searching for transportation,’ Dr Doyle pointed out. ‘In the long run, it will be more efficient.’
The cabby put in his mite. ‘There’s a mort of bad’uns out there, and not many of us is out today.’ The cabby touched his hat with his whip and gathered the reins, as if preparing to move off in search of another fare.
Dr Doyle put forward the clinching argument. ‘You know, sir, this cabby is sure to know where we are to go, which we may not. We have no idea what we will find out at Mr Basset’s lodgings. What is more, sir, he is quite right about the men on the street. I had no fear last night when I was with honest working men who were only demanding what was theirs by right and by law, but those fellows we saw in Piccadilly today were not of that stamp. I doubt that any of them’s done an honest day’s work in their lives.’
‘As always, Dr Doyle, you are a fountain of good sense.’ Mr Dodgson turned back to the cabby.
‘My good man, what is your name?’ he called up.
‘Jerry will do, sir.’ The cabby touched his hat with his whip in a genial salute.
‘Very well, Jerry, you may wait here until we are done, and we will use your services for the rest of the day.’ Mr Dodgson looked at the cab horse, a black stallion with a blaze on his forehead and scarred knees. ‘I see you take good care of your animal, cabby.’
‘Aye, sir, Black Jack’s a fine horse.’
Mr Dodgson nodded as if to say that a cabby who takes care of his horse will take care of his passengers. ‘You may have to walk the horse, Jerry, but we should not be above half an hour.’
Jerry saluted again, and Mr Dodgson followed Dr Doyle and Mrs Peterson up the steps into the brick row house, where the unsuspecting Peterson ménage waited for the mistress.
Mrs Peterson was greeted by her maid, who stared at the unexpected midday guests.
‘Millie, bring Cook and Nanny here,’ Mrs Peterson ordered. ‘And the children. It would be better that you should hear this from me than read it in the newspapers.’
‘Ooh, ma’am, whatever ’as ’appened to the master?’ Millie gasped out. ‘Was it them Commonists, wot Cook says is out fer blood?’
Mrs Peterson said solemnly, ‘Mr Peterson has met with a fatal accident.’
Millie screamed. The cook, who had come upstairs from the basement kitchen, caught the end of this conversation.
‘The master’s dead?’
Mrs Peterson could not go on. ‘Would you explain, Dr Doyle?’ she asked piteously, resorting to her handkerchief once again.
‘ ’E’s ’ad a doctor to ’im?’ Millie was confused.
‘Mr Peterson was attacked during last night’s disturbance,’ Dr Doyle explained. ‘This is Mr Dodgson, who is a friend of Mr Peterson’s employer, Mr Portman.’ A slight exaggeration, since the two men had only met that morning, but Dr Doyle did not feel he could explain the exact relationship. He didn’t understand it himself.
‘Mama!’ A dark-haired girl of five ran to her mother. ‘Nanny says something has happened to Papa, and he’s not coming home!’
Mrs Peterson’s sobs grew more intense. That set off the roly-poly two-year-old in her nurse’s arms. Nanny did her best to comfort them, while Mr Dodgson drew Miss Flora aside. ‘How do you do,’ he said seriously, offering her his grey-gloved hand.
She took it and bobbed a curtsey. Clearly, she had been taught proper manners.
‘I am not supposed to speak with strange men,’ she said. ‘Do you know my papa?’
‘We met but yesterday,’ Mr Dodgson confessed. ‘However, I know that he cared very much for you and your sister and your mama for I saw your photograph on his desk at his office.’
‘That was taken on my birthday,’ Flora said. ‘What happened to my papa?’
Mr Dodgson chose his words carefully. ‘He was hit upon the head.’
‘Who did it?’
‘We do not know,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Perhaps you can help us find out.’
‘Me?’ Flora considered it, then shook her head. ‘Papa didn’t know any people who hit other people on the head. He said that violence was no way to solve problems.’
‘Did he, now.’
‘Yes, for when Baby took my doll and I hit her, Papa made me sit in the Angry Corner for a whole hour looking at the wall. He said I was to picture on that wall the consequences.’ She stumbled over the word. ‘Papa was funny, always telling stories.’ Flora’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Do you really mean that he is never coming home again?’ Tears began to leak out of her eyes as the true enormity of the situation came to her.
Mr Dodgson felt in his pockets and produced his handkerchief, which he passed to Flora. ‘Your papa told very clever stories,’ he said. ‘I tell stories, too. In fact, your papa asked me to give you a copy of one of my stories. You are a very clever girl and will soon be able to read it for yourself. I shall sign it for you, so that you will remember who gave it to you.’
Mr Dodgson pulled the objectionable copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland out of his overcoat pocket. He did not like giving out bad copies, but it was the only one he had with him, and he liked the little girl.
‘W
here is your papa’s desk?’ he asked Flora gently. ‘I wish to use a pen to sign the book.’
Flora led Mr Dodgson from the beruffled and bedecked front room through the house to a back study, a dark room filled with books that looked out on a paved yard, now filled with grimy snow.
‘This is Papa’s room,’ Flora told her new friend. ‘Baby was never allowed in here, especially after she ate one of Papa’s papers.’ She sat on a little chair that had been placed beside the fireplace. ‘This is my chair, where Papa told me my letters. Soon I shall be ready for lessons,’ she added with pride.
Mr Dodgson lit the gas and looked around the room. He could feel at home here among the artefacts of the working writer. Pens, pencils of two colours, a ruler, a letter opener in the shape of a medieval sword, a pair of scissors, a kneaded rubber eraser … any or all of these could be found on any desk in Oxford.
He examined the papers littering the desk. Peterson’s work habits at home were no improvement over those at Youth’s Companion. He wrote notes to himself on odd scraps of paper, including a laundry list and the back of a tract from the Church of Latterday Saints.
‘Interesting,’ murmured Mr Dodgson, as he read several notes on King Arthur and his knights. Clearly, Mr Peterson had not been mistaken when he said he had been working on a modern version of the Arthurian legend.
Mr Dodgson turned his attention to Peterson’s home library. ‘Dictionary, of course. Mr Roget’s Thesaurus. The Encyclopaedia Britannica.’ He read the titles aloud.
Flora watched him with large dark eyes. ‘What are you looking for?’ she asked.
‘I do not know,’ Mr Dodgson replied. ‘Perhaps I am looking for a reason why someone would wish to knock your father on the head. Did he get angry often?’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 18