Dr Doyle took a deep breath, let it out, and glanced at Mr Dodgson, who was examining the bookshelves again. ‘I don’t suppose you could recognize any of the young men should you see them again?’ he asked. Mrs Bering shook her head. ‘That I could not say, sir.’
‘Of course not, Mrs Bering. You are discreet, as all good landladies should be.’ Mr Dodgson looked down into the street.
‘Someone appears to be at the door,’ he said, just as the knocker was applied.
‘Not the police?’ Mrs Bering’s cap began to flap with her excitement.
‘I do not see a helmet,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘I suggest you answer the door. Dr Doyle and I will respect Mr Basset’s privacy to whatever extent we can, but the police will shortly arrive. You must tell them exactly what you told us.’
‘I know better than to tattle,’ Mrs Bering said.
Once the landlady was gone, Mr Dodgson handed Dr Doyle the pile of letters from the mantelpiece. ‘One may learn a great deal about a person from his correspondence,’ he pointed out. ‘Mr Basset has several friends with whom he exchanged letters. In them he appears to be encouraging certain young men in their literary ambitions.’
‘Nothing wrong there,’ Dr Doyle said with a smile. ‘I have had several letters from you with the same sort of advice and encouragement.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Dodgson said gravely. ‘But I do not use quite so fulsome a tone. And, I might add, I hope I have a better sense of judgment than Mr Basset. He did, after all, reject your stories. Now, here are some tradesman’s bills. What do you make of that?’ He handed Dr Doyle a letter, apparently from a Savile Row tailoring establishment, requesting payment.
‘I did not think Mr Basset’s taste ran to quite such expensive attire,’ Dr Doyle commented. ‘Let’s see … one frock coat, one embroidered waistcoat, six linen shirts, one sack suit with jacket, trousers, and waistcoat. I wonder if Mr Basset owned a sack suit.’
He shamelessly entered Mr Basset’s personal quarters and opened the wardrobe. Samuel Basset did not favour sack suits or dittos. The wardrobe held the garments deemed appropriate for a man approaching his middle years: two frock coats that dated to the previous decade, a summer-weight linen suit, two pairs of trousers, and a cutaway coat similar to the one in which he had died. The lower drawers of the wardrobe told the same story. This was a man of neat and modest habits. He wore clothing of good but not superlative quality.
‘And yet,’ Mr Dodgson said, after Dr Doyle pointed this out to him, ‘he has paid a tailor’s bill for a flowered waistcoat, a suit of dittos, and five linen shirts.’
‘But not for himself,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘For one of the young men mentioned by Mrs Bering? A charitable gesture?’
‘A very generous gesture,’ Mr Dodgson said with a frown. ‘I have, on occasion, assisted my young relations who have been financially embarrassed, but not to this extent.’
‘What other charitable gestures did Mr Basset make, I wonder?’ Dr Doyle returned to the pile of correspondence, while Mr Dodgson dealt with the papers on Mr Basset’s writing desk.
‘My goodness!’
Dr Doyle stepped over to see what had caused such a reaction from his usually silent mentor.
‘A tract? From the Church of Latter-day Saints?’ Dr Doyle examined the leaflet. ‘Considering his attitude towards women, Mr Basset is the last person I would expect to be interested in the Mormon religion.’
‘Polygamy is not the entire compass of the sect,’ Mr Dodgson stated primly. ‘But I have seen something similar at the offices of Youth’s Companion. Mr Peterson had written some notes on a tract very much like this one.’
‘I am still confused,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘Where would Mr Basset have come by such a thing? I know the Mormon sect sends missionaries into London to convert us Gentiles, but would Mr Basset have been the target of their efforts?’
‘Perhaps he found them at Toynbee Hall,’ Mr Dodgson mused. ‘Here is another tract, a sort of prospectus, if you will. Mr Portman mentioned that his friend had taken to charitable work when he decided to remove himself to the Press Club. I have heard Canon Barnett speak of his scheme to bring university men into the slums of London and other cities to treat the oppressed people of those areas much like the African heathen tribes with which Mr Basset had become familiar.’
Dr Doyle pulled at his moustache. ‘I’m not sure I like where this is leading us, sir.’
‘Nor do I.’ Mr Dodgson’s usually serene face screwed into a frown. ‘It would appear that Mr Basset sought out young men, befriended them, paid for their clothing. I strongly suspect that his intentions were not completely honourable.’
‘Surely, sir, you don’t mean …?’ Dr Doyle was aghast.
Mr Dodgson’s face was set in lines of deep distaste. ‘I do. Buggery is not unknown at Oxford, Dr Doyle, although it is a grave sin. There have been unpleasant stories put about of abuses at certain boys’ schools, and the students who came from those schools brought those crimes with them. I prefer not to be involved with such tittle-tattle and spiteful gossip. However, one cannot ignore such things. It is possible that Mr Samuel Basset was one of those unfortunates who prefer their own sex to the fair one, and that his charitable efforts had a less salubrious motive than pure altruism. We shall have to go to Toynbee Hall to find out.’
Mrs Bering interrupted the discussion, bringing Inspector MacRae up the stairs to join the other two men.
‘That were Mrs Varney, who keeps rooms down the street. We’re making up a subscription for the Lord Mayor’s Fund to send for the poor women and children of Whitechapel,’ she said breathlessly. ‘And here’s Inspector MacRae, just as you said.’
MacRae was not pleased to find Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle ahead of him. ‘What’re you two doing here?’ he barked.
‘Mr Portman sent us to inform Mr Basset’s landlady of his, er, sad death,’ Mr Dodgson explained.
‘I hope you had the good sense not to disarrange anything,’ MacRae snapped, looking around the room to see if evidence had been removed.
Dr Doyle stepped between Mrs Bering and Inspector MacRae, as if to protect her from persecution. ‘Mrs Bering has touched nothing,’ he declared. ‘Mr Dodgson and I have sorted through Mr Basset’s personal effects and checked over his correspondence, but we have removed nothing, I promise you,’ he said. ‘You may draw the same conclusions from what you see that we have.’
‘Have your investigations revealed anything new?’ Mr Dodgson asked, arranging Mr Basset’s letters and bills into neat piles and patting them into place.
‘Calloway’s interviewed that lot of writers at Youth’s Companion,’ MacRae said, with a grimace of disgust at the slovenly procedures of the City of London Police. ‘Not that any of them knew anything or would tell us if they did. Well, we’ve got the Irishman, and he’ll do for a start.’
‘If you mean O’Casey, he did not kill Mr Basset,’ Dr Doyle stated, moustache bristling pugnaciously.
‘I never said he did. It’s the other one, Peterson, that’s going to hang O’Casey.’
‘But we have conclusively proven—’ Mr Dodgson began.
MacRae cut him off. ‘He may not have done the deed himself, but he and those other two set the mob on fire, and that led directly to Peterson’s death, as I see it. As for Basset, that’s a puzzle, I grant you, but we’ll get to the bottom of it as soon as we clear out those rioters in Trafalgar Square. They’ve called another meeting!’ MacRae gave a snort of disdain at the tactics of radical workingmen. ‘As if that’s going to get them anywhere!’
‘If you refer to the men now gathering in the streets, I wish you good luck with your mission.’ Mr Dodgson turned to Dr Doyle. ‘Our cab is waiting. We must be off.’
‘What shall I do about Mr Basset’s things?’ Mrs Bering asked, as Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle arranged their hats before going back out into the cold.
‘Mr Nicholas Portman is the executor of Mr Basset’s will, Mr Dodgson told her. ‘He will be around shortly to take charge
of Mr Basset’s affairs. Good afternoon, Inspector. I see you and your men have been most assiduous in clearing the streets of the rioters.’
‘If by that you mean that I’ve got the rabble where they belong, then you are right,’ MacRae said. ‘And if that fool Tom Mann and his Fair Trade League think he’s going to start up again, he’ll find himself in Bow Street along with the rest of ’em!’
‘I wish you success in both your endeavours,’ Mr Dodgson told him. He hustled Dr Doyle out on to the street before the young doctor could say another word.
‘Mr Dodgson,’ Dr Doyle spluttered, ‘what is the matter with you? MacRae and his men will destroy every clue Basset left …’
‘Not so,’ Mr Dodgson. ‘Here is the tract from the Mormon missionaries and the one from Toynbee Hall.’
Dr Doyle frowned at his mentor. ‘That’s twice you’ve removed evidence, sir. A very grave offence!’
Mr Dodgson put the two tracts into his pocket. ‘Nonsense. The scarf was not evidence. It was put into my hands, and I returned it to its rightful owner. As for these tracts, there are two others on the desk. I only took this one so that we may have the correct direction.’ He looked up at the cabby. ‘Jerry?’
‘Aye, sir?’
Mr Dodgson consulted the tract from Toynbee Hall. ‘Can you find Commercial Road in Whitechapel?’
The cabby sounded dubious. ‘I can find it, but what would a gentleman like you want in the East End? It’s rough there, sir, very rough; and on a day like this, with the mobs out, it might be worth your life to go there. I wouldn’t do it, sir. Even the coppers don’t go to Whitechapel alone.’
‘There is an establishment called Toynbee Hall on Commercial Road,’ Mr Dodgson said, consulting the tract once again. ‘Do you know of it?’
‘I ’ave ’eard of it,’ Jerry admitted. ‘A fine plan it is to set up schools and suchlike for the poor folks, but what good it may do I do not know. Fine gentlemen come down to teach, but will them street children learn? And why should they, when all that will come to ’em is to work in sweat shops or factories or, for the girls, to go out on the streets?’
‘But if education will help a young person escape the streets, should they not have it?’ Dr Doyle demanded.
‘That is exactly Mr Barnett’s point,’ Mr Dodgson said, as he heaved himself up into the cab and pulled Dr Doyle in with him. ‘Jerry, we shall go to Toynbee Hall.’
‘And what do you think we will learn there?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘If nothing else, we will find out what Samuel Basset did with the copies of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland,’ Mr Dodgson said, settling himself into the cab for another long ride through the freezing streets.
CHAPTER 19
Dr Doyle waited until the cab was underway again, taking the long road around the major shops, from Euston Road to Gower Street, skirting Bloomsbury and the British Museum to High Holborn, and back to the City of London. Then he vented his feelings. ‘How do you come to know about Toynbee Hall?’ he exclaimed. ‘I thought you rarely left Oxford.’
‘Toynbee Hall was widely discussed when Mr Barnett conceived the idea,’ Mr Dodgson told him. ‘Mr Barnett is an Oxford man, although not from the House. When he was appointed Canon of St Jude’s in Whitechapel, he put forward this effort to educate the lower classes of London. He thought that as these miserable people are as devoid of Christian knowledge as are the heathen tribes in Africa, missionaries should be sent, even as we send our good people to those far shores. Furthermore,’ Mr Dodgson added before Dr Doyle could comment, ‘Mr Barnett spoke before our undergraduates, urging young men to settle in these slums, as do missionaries in Africa or Asia, to share the lives and deprivations of the poor.’
‘And did anyone accept this offer?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘I believe one or two of our young men have seriously considered joining Canon Barnett in his work,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Toynbee Hall has only been in existence two years, and there is much to be done. Mr Barnett can be a most persuasive speaker, and the need for such a settlement house, as he calls it, is pressing.’
Dr Doyle was still puzzled. ‘I suppose Mr Basset might have sent copies of Youth’s Companion to Mr Barnett in the name of charity, but I’m not sure I understand why he should go there in person to do so. It seems most unlike what we have heard of him. Except for those young men whom he befriended, he did not strike me as a philanthropist.’
Mr Dodgson said nothing. Dr Doyle concentrated on the passing scene. The ice had thawed into a slushy mire, through which the gallant black horse stepped carefully, testing his footing, as the broad highway of High Holborn led back into the city. Dr Doyle recognized the dome of St Paul’s and the walls of the Old Bailey as they went further and further eastward. They passed the great financial institutions, the Bank of England and the Stock Exchange, and trotted around the grim bulk of the Tower looming over Tower Bridge. From there, the streets grew dark and narrow, as Barker plunged into the heart of the ancient City of London.
On the far side of the old London Wall lay the worst of London’s slums, the East End. Here the streets were filled with pushcarts and barrows, carrying anything and everything for human consumption: old clothes, new vegetables, books, shoes, household goods, and much, much more. Dr Doyle drank in the aroma of frying fish and chips, and more exotic odours, even as his ears were assailed with street cries in a dozen languages, none of which remotely resembled the English or even the Scottish dialects he had grown used to.
The snow that had blanketed the rest of London lay on the roofs of the brick tenements, which had been built in the last twenty years to replace the decrepit wooden structures that had so outraged Mr Dickens. The tenements were hardly an improvement; they lined up in rows, two rooms upstairs, two down, with a paved yard in the back and one outside privy to serve every pair of houses. Water could be had from a communal tap in the back of these houses, making washing a major event.
At that hour of the afternoon, the men of Whitechapel were either looking for work or plying what trades they had, some in sight of possible customers, some behind the doors of shops or small factories. Knots of unemployed day labourers stood in the doors of tumbledown taverns, smoking fiercely and muttering to each other. Stout women carried baskets of meagre provisions back to their squalid lodgings, while ragged children capered up and down the street at will, with little or no adult supervision.
Cabs were scarce here, and this one drew unwelcome attention as it stopped in front of a set of small brick buildings on a street off the Mile End Road, one of which bore the painted sign TOYNBEE HALL to distinguish it from the warehouses that surrounded it. As soon as it stopped, the careworn women and children gravitated to it, certain that whoever had arrived in such a vehicle must be a source of largesse.
One look at the crowd was enough for Jerry. He waved his whip at the beggarly horde and hoped that whatever business it was that would bring the likes of two gentlemen to a place like Mile End Road would finish quickly. He did not like the looks of Whitechapel, and he especially did not like the idea of one of these ragged urchins being unkind to his horse. The horse, on the other hand, seemed to take the grubby hands that reached out to pat him in stride, bobbing his head up and down, and occasionally tapping a foot on the snowy street.
Mr Dodgson seemed to ignore the crowd. He turned to speak to Dr Doyle as they surveyed the doors of Toynbee Hall. ‘Dr Doyle,’ Mr Dodgson said softly, ‘I feel we must be circumspect here.’
‘Precisely what I thought, sir. One does not like to mislead people, particularly those who are attempting to do good, but we have no idea what Mr Basset’s connection with this place was.’
‘I think we may be excused a small subterfuge,’ Mr Dodgson decided. ‘I shall engage Canon Barnett in conversation, whilst you do the same with some of the younger persons.’ Mr Dodgson swallowed hard. ‘There may be some boys here. I do not get on well with boys, but you, Dr Doyle, being nearer their own age, may be able to speak with them on more equal
terms. You have a way of making persons of all orders feel comfortable.’
Dr Doyle smiled under his moustache. ‘Perhaps I ought to remain out here with the cab. That way I can converse with some of these people, especially the young ones,’ he suggested. ‘Meanwhile, you can speak with Canon Barnett as one Oxford man to another.’
‘I am glad you understand,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Although, I must admit I would feel safer if you were with me. These people look quite unpleasant.’ He glanced at the tattered children, the grim-faced men, and the careworn women and hurried into the building.
Toynbee Hall itself was a converted warehouse, with no pretensions to architectural splendour. Inside, the utilitarian motif continued. The walls had been painted a particularly nasty shade of brown, the better to hide the dirt, and the floors were covered with linoleum in lieu of tile or carpet. Photographs of some of the sights of London had been hung on the walls, the better to decorate the entry, but the result was not as lively as the decorators had intended.
Mr Dodgson’s black overcoat and top hat attracted attention from the uniformed porter at the door, who stepped forward to demand what business the gentlemen had in this institution.
Mr Dodgson offered his card. ‘I am Mr Dodgson of Oxford come to speak with Canon Barnett, if he will see me.’
The porter sized Mr Dodgson up with a practised eye. Gentlemen of his stamp had come to observe Canon Barnett’s experiment in social reform several times since its founding and had usually left a generous bequest when Mr Barnett had finished with them. He beckoned to a shabbily dressed youth who was lounging in the doorway. ‘Dolittle, you take this gentleman up to the Warden’s Office, right smart now,’ he ordered.
‘Right-ho, guv!’ The youth grinned, displaying teeth that would never see a dentist.
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