‘Oh, no,’ Flora assured him. ‘Papa liked to joke, and laugh, and play games. Even when Mama scolded him for coming home late, he would laugh and tell her that he was working out ways to make us all rich.’
‘Would you like to be rich?’
Flora considered the question seriously. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said at last. ‘I have a cousin who is rich. Her papa keeps a carriage.’
‘Then he must be quite rich,’ Mr Dodgson commented.
Flora went on. ‘It must be nice to have a carriage to take one about, but Uncle never smiles, and he calls Papa a “scribbling fool”. We spent Christmas Day with them, and Cousin Elsie wore a red velvet dress; but she was not allowed to eat ice cream because she might spill it on the dress. I ate ice cream and did not spill any,’ she added proudly.
‘You are a very clever girl then,’ Mr Dodgson said. He sat at the desk and found a pen.
‘I shall sign this book, “To Miss Flora Peterson, a clever girl”,’ he told her, dipping the pen into the inkwell.
Flora watched as he signed it, then scrutinized the signature carefully. ‘I thought that doctor man said your name was Dodgson,’ she said accusingly.
‘It is.’
‘But you signed this book “Lewis Carroll”.’
‘So I did. I am Lewis Carroll.’
‘But your name is Dodgson,’ the child persisted.
‘That is my baptismal name. Charles Lutwidge Dodgson.’
Flora shook her head. ‘You can’t be both,’ she decided. ‘You must be one or the other.’
Mr Dodgson smiled and handed her the book. ‘That is a most profound statement, Miss Flora. Now I must speak with your mama. You must be very kind to your little sister, and even kinder if the angels bring you another one. Your mama is going to need you.’
Flora tucked the book under her arm. ‘I shall be good,’ she promised.
Mr Dodgson found Mrs Peterson with Dr Doyle in the dining room, partaking of cold chicken, warmed-up soup, and dried-apple pies.
‘Do sit down, Mr Dodgson,’ Mrs Peterson offered. ‘Dr Doyle reminded me that I had had nothing to eat all day, and that I must sustain myself. I have sent Millie to the telegraph office to notify my parents of David’s unhappy death. By now Mr Portman’s note must have reached David’s brother, George, in the City. They did not get on well, but I know George will see to the funeral arrangements.’
‘I am relieved to hear that you will not be totally alone in the world,’ Mr Dodgson said, refusing the offer of clear soup. ‘I shall have a cup of tea, if you please, and some bread and butter, if there is any.’
This meagre luncheon being provided, Mr Dodgson went back to the subject of David Peterson. ‘What else can you tell me about your husband, Mrs Peterson?’ Mr Dodgson asked between bites of bread and butter.
Mrs Peterson sighed as she thought of her courtship days. ‘David was writing penny dreadfuls for Portman Penny Press when Win Howarth introduced me to him at a lecture,’ she said. ‘We soon found we had much in common, and we managed to be married, although my family was not pleased that I had married into his, and vice versa.’
There was a disparity there?’ Mr Dodgson hinted.
‘Well, my father is schoolmaster in a village school, and his brother is something rather important in banking.’ The widow started crying again. ‘In fact, it was my father and his brother, both, who insisted that David take the permanent position at Youth’s Companion when it was offered.’
‘Offered by Mr Basset?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘Offered by Mr Portman,’ Mrs Peterson corrected him. ‘You see, it was one of the conditions of our marriage that David should have a permanent position that would enable him to support a family. My father and David’s brother, George, were both agreed on it, and so David took the position.’
‘And I am sure he never regretted it,’ Dr Doyle told her.
The doorbell rang. Millie answered it and came into the dining-room looking flustered. ‘Ma’am, it’s Mr Jenkins, the gentleman from next door. It seems he’s read in the newspapers that the Lord Mayor’s Fund is very low, and he’s taking a subscription of all the houses here on Sloane Square. Would we wish to contribute?’
Mrs Peterson swallowed hard and said, ‘I suppose I can spare a few shillings of the housekeeping money. If you will excuse me, gentle-men, I will attend to this.’
‘Considering that one of them murdering ruffians might ’ave done for the master, that’s very good of you, ma’am,’ Millie said, following her mistress up the stairs to the small room next to the nursery that was used for household management.
Mr Dodgson swallowed the last of his tea and wandered through the long hall to the front room, where he stood staring out the bow window at Sloane Street. ‘None of this makes any sense,’ he complained. ‘From all I have heard and seen, Peterson was a jolly, friendly sort of man, who might be careless with money but would not harm a fly.’
‘There was the brandy in his desk drawer,’ Dr Doyle hinted.
‘There was that,’ Mr Dodgson agreed.
‘And he was not above pinching another man’s young lady,’ Dr Doyle went on. ‘Or appropriating a good story.’
‘None of which is cause for murder,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Let us suppose that Mr Peterson was one of those chaps who does not become thoroughly intoxicated, but who enjoys a small libation now and again.’
Dr Doyle nodded, as Mr Dodgson continued his discourse. ‘Are we agreed that Mr Basset was stabbed on the stairs at close to four-fifty yesterday afternoon?’
‘That would appear to be the most logical time for the murder,’ Dr Doyle stated.
‘Very well. Is it possible that Mr Peterson saw or heard something that led him to suspect one of his fellow sufferers at the hands of Mr Basset?’
‘It is certainly possible.’
Mr Dodgson sighed. ‘In that case, our theory that the death of David Peterson is directly related to the death of Samuel Basset is probably the correct one. When we find the murderer of one, we will find the killer of the other.’
‘But we are no closer to finding that person than we were twenty hours ago,’ Dr Doyle complained.
‘Not quite,’ Mr Dodgson corrected him. ‘For we have eliminated a large part of the population of London, limiting it to those men who were in the Youth’s Companion offices at four-fifty yesterday afternoon.’
Dr Doyle shook his head. ‘I still find it hard to believe that any of those men could murder his employer and follow it up with an attack on someone with whom he has been working side by side for years. It would mean someone in that office is mad!’
Mr Dodgson nodded. ‘Passion can be a kind of madness,’ he reminded Dr Doyle. ‘And I believe we are dealing with a person who has succumbed to that sort of madness.’
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a large carriage with a liveried coachman on the box and a footman up behind. From the equipage emerged an elaborately dressed lady and her large and imposing male counterpart.
‘Ah,’ Mr Dodgson remarked. ‘Mr George Peterson must have received the news of his brother’s demise.’
The elder Peterson was let in by Millie, who exhibited the deference due to the wealthy relations visiting the poor ones. Mrs George Peterson descended on her sister-in-law with all the force of a gale.
‘My dear Myrna! What a tragedy! I was never so shocked in my life as when I got the message!’ The elder Mrs Peterson embraced her sister-in-law.
‘It has been dreadful,’ Myrna sniffled into her handkerchief. ‘This is Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle, who are assisting the police in their inquiries.’
Mr George Peterson regarded the two would-be detectives coldly. ‘I assume it was one of the cut-throats who were out last night,’ he said. ‘They will have gone back to their lairs in Southwark or Whitechapel. We will never find them. I warned David about the company he was keeping and look where it got him.’
‘Sir!’ Dr Doyle protested. ‘Mr David Peterson’s death wa
s not the fault of those poor souls who were protesting their wretched lot. Mrs Peterson, Mr Dodgson and I have pledged ourselves to find your husband’s murderer, and that we shall do!’
‘And now, ma’am, we must take our leave,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Your sister- and brother-in-law will see to your comfort, and we will do what we can to see that the murderer is brought to justice.’
‘Thank you, sir, for all you have done and are doing,’ Myrna said, clutching his hand. Mr Dodgson eased gently out of her grip.
‘Whoever did this is guilty of the most depraved indifference to life,’ Mr Dodgson said severely. ‘I will surely find him and deliver him into the hands of the law.’
He bowed to Mrs Peterson, and allowed Millie to help him on with his coat and hat, while Dr Doyle shrugged himself into the plaid balbriggan. Together they left the house of mourning and stepped into Sloane Street, where the cabby with the black horse had pulled up behind the elegant carriage.
‘Where to, gentlemen?’ the cabby asked.
‘Baker Street,’ Mr Dodgson ordered. ‘Perhaps we will find out more about Mr Samuel Basset in his own surroundings.’
CHAPTER 18
By midday the fog had lifted from the London streets, revealing the full extent of the damage to the shops and hotels along the route to Baker Street. The panes of the upper stories of the elegant buildings in Pall Mall had been an irresistible target for stones, bricks, and wooden paving blocks. The glass flower boxes that adorned the windows of the Piccadilly hotels and stores had been especially marked for destruction. Jerry edged his horse carefully around the broken glass, taking the time to avoid the knots of men who gathered at the street corners to confer in lowered tones then shout obscenities at the carriages and cabs that passed by.
‘Pack of fools,’ was the cabby’s opinion, shouted down to his passengers, as they stopped to let a trio of constables oust a quartet of tough-looking characters in velveteen jackets, cloth caps, and bright neckerchiefs from their post in the middle of the road.
‘Surely not,’ Dr Doyle chided him. ‘Workingmen, honest labourers, who only want employment.’
‘Not that lot,’ the cabby said, with a wave of his whip. ‘Layabouts, that’s wot they are.’
‘Dr Doyle, your sentiments do you credit, but Jerry is correct. The men on the street today are not the ones who were picked up last night.’ Mr Dodgson peered through the murky window of the growler. ‘I see Inspector MacRae has been diligent in this, if nothing else. There is a very large police contingent out this afternoon.’
‘Let us only hope that Inspector Calloway has been as energetic.’ Dr Doyle did not sound hopeful. ‘I’m sure if he questions the staff at Youth’s Companion closely, he’ll come to the same conclusions we have. One of them must have stabbed Mr Basset, although I must admit I can’t believe any of them would do such a thing. As for bashing poor Peterson…’
‘Baker Street, gentlemen.’ The cabby had reached their destination, a thoroughly commonplace street of small shops and lodging houses. Baker Street had been laid out in the previous century to accommodate the growing population of middle-class householders who preferred to move away from the crowded streets of the older parts of the city but were not in the category of those who built fine mansions in Mayfair and Belgravia. Number 331-B was a narrow brick building, wedged in between three others on either side, with a modest doorway that was entered directly from the street without the elegance of a set of stairs. Only a single railing separated the building from the street.
Mr Dodgson stepped up to the front door and knocked. A neatly dressed plump woman in a brown dress, apron, and cap appeared. ‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ she asked, her accent holding the slight trace of a Welsh intonation.
‘We have news regarding Mr Samuel Basset,’ Mr Dodgson announced.
‘Mr Basset is not at home,’ the landlady said.
‘We are aware of that,’ Mr Dodgson told her. ‘If you had read the morning newspapers you would have learned that Mr Basset died last night, quite suddenly.’
‘Oh, no!’ Mrs Bering gasped. ‘I thought there was something amiss when he did not come home last night.’
‘Mr Basset was a man of regular habits then?’ Mr Dodgson asked.
‘Mr Basset was a gentleman, no matter what sort of company he kept,’ Mrs Bering said. ‘Are you from the police?’
‘We are here on behalf of Mr Nicholas Portman,’ Mr Dodgson explained. ‘He has asked us to investigate the sad demise of Mr Basset and has given us permission to examine his rooms. May we come in?’
Mrs Bering looked the pair over. Dr Doyle smiled reassuringly. ‘I expect Inspector MacRae will be along as soon as he has dealt with the, er, persons out on the streets,’ he said. ‘It can do no harm to let us look at Mr Basset’s lodgings.’
Mrs Bering stepped aside, to let the pair into the small vestibule, on the theory that if Mr Portman had sent them, they must be worthy gentlemen who would do Mr Basset’s reputation no harm.
‘It must have been them nasty rioters.’ Mrs Bering shook her head, sending the frill on her cap into a flapping frenzy. ‘Scarin’ honest folk on the streets, makin’ speeches, and where does it get ’em, I’d like to know?’
‘Into the Bow Street jail,’ Dr Doyle answered the rhetorical question. ‘But the circumstances of Mr Basset’s death are such that we do not think it was one of the rioters in the street who caused it.’
‘Unfortunately, the police are, ah, otherwise occupied,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘That is why Mr Portman has given us permission to examine Mr Basset’s lodgings to see if there is some indication of whether anyone had some animus against Mr Basset.’
‘Mr Portman, is it? He were just Nicky when he lived here,’ Mrs Bering said, as she led Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle up the stairs. ‘Nicky and Sammy, they called each other. Like brothers, they were. Here you are, gentlemen, just as Mr Basset left it, barring that I redded up the rooms, as I do each morning.’
The rooms were two: a small sitting room with two easy chairs drawn up to the fire and a low table between them, a shelf crowded with books, a desk placed under the window that looked out on to Baker Street, and a bedroom, with a four-poster bed, washstand, and wardrobe.
The walls were adorned with covers and drawings clearly taken from past issues of Youth’s Companion. A plaster model of Michelangelo’s David stood on the mantelpiece, on one side of an American clock. A pile of correspondence was stacked on the table in front of the fire, ready to be dealt with by the absent master of the establishment.
‘Was Mr Basset an easy lodger?’ Dr Doyle asked, while Mr Dodgson poked about the sitting room, picking up papers and scanning the books on the shelves.
‘A quiet gentleman,’ Mrs Bering said, with some pride. ‘Paid his rent on the quarter, kept regular hours. I’d provide his breakfast and his dinner, should he be dining in. Most evenings he dined out, but there were times when he’d dine in or have a visitor.’
‘Visitors?’ Mr Dodgson turned around and approached the housekeeper. ‘Did Mr Basset often have visitors? Did he, for instance, give card parties or other entertainments?’
‘Visitors?’ Mrs Bering sniffed loudly. ‘There you have it, sir. It’s not my place to object to a gentleman’s guests, but some of those young men of Mr Basset’s were not gentlemen, and nothing you can tell me will make me think otherwise.’ She folded her hands at her waist and gave Dr Doyle a knowing look. ‘They were a strange lot, sir. Not what I would have expected a gentleman of Mr Basset’s profession to entertain.’
‘Mr Basset was a literary gentleman,’ Mr Dodgson commented. ‘I have had some acquaintance with literary gentlemen, and some of them are, er, eccentric in their dress and exaggerated in their behaviour.’
‘Eccentric?’ Mrs Bering considered that for a moment. ‘When Mr Portman was here, we had literary persons up to tea, which was all well and good. And I will say, sir, that some of them were very odd. There was an American, Mr Clemens, which Mr Nicky said was also call
ed Mark Twain. Now he was a loud one!’
Mr Dodgson nodded in agreement. ‘I was once introduced to Mr Clemens,’ he remarked. ‘One could scarcely breathe with him in the room. One of the sort who seems to absorb all the oxygen,’ he explained to Dr Doyle.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mrs Bering said. ‘And there were others who would come for tea or dinner, and very odd they looked, all hair and wild beards and no cravat, but a neckerchief instead. But Mr Basset’s guests were of a different stripe altogether. By the way they dressed and the way they acted, I’d call them common. Downright common, they was, and not at all what Mr Portman would have had.’
Mr Dodgson frowned. ‘In addition to his odd friendships, our Mr Basset seems to have been an eclectic reader, Dr Doyle. I see Sir Richard Burton’s Thousand and One Nights, alongside Sir John Speke’s papers on his explorations in Africa. There are a number of volumes of zoological information, and Mr Darwin’s Origin of Species. I see there the Household Tales by the Herren Brothers Grimm, and also several books of lore collected by my friend Lang. Clearly, Mr Basset was a man with wide-ranging interests.’ He drifted over to the writing desk and began to sort through the selection of letters, manuscripts, and cards stacked thereon, placing them into small piles automatically.
‘And an odd selection of friends,’ Dr Doyle added.
‘Is this the entire establishment?’ Mr Dodgson asked. ‘It seems rather small for two gentlemen.’
‘Well, this is the way of it,’ Mrs Bering explained. ‘The house was taken by Mr Nicky, when he came back from Africa with Mr Sammy. He took the rooms here, and Mr Sammy had the upstairs bedroom, which is now kept for anyone who might need it, as a spare room, you might call it. Mr Basset took the downstairs room when Mr Portman moved into his new flat at the Press Club, and Mr Basset told me to leave the spare room for anyone to spend the night.’
‘And did Mr Basset have such visitors?’ Dr Doyle asked.
Mrs Bering’s rosy face betrayed her inward struggle. ‘It sometimes happened,’ she said at last, ‘that when I brought up breakfast, a young man was there. Not very often,’ she hurried to add, ‘and Mr Basset explained that the young man had missed his train or that the weather had been bad. And this was usually so.’
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