Mr Dodgson followed the boy up a flight of stairs, past a large room, full of young men in baggy drawers doing calisthenics, and another room, where young girls sat sewing while a severe-looking woman read to them, to a corner office that overlooked the fluttering garments that marked Petticoat Lane, the used-clothing centre of London.
‘There’s a gent to see the warden,’ Dolittle announced, as he opened the door.
‘Have you an appointment?’ the stout man behind the barrier of a desk asked, glaring at them through pince-nez.
Once again Mr Dodgson produced his card, and once again the magic words CHRIST CHURCH, OXFORD produced the desired result. Mr Dodgson was ushered into the inner sanctum, a small room filled largely by Canon Barnett, a tall clean-shaven man dressed in frock coat and clerical collar and vest, who embodied the phrase ‘muscular Christianity’.
‘Mr Dodgson,’ Mr Barnett carolled, bounding forward with outstretched hand. ‘This is indeed an honour! I have sent some literature to each of the colleges, and I had hoped to encourage more interest in our undertaking, but I admit, sir, I did not expect to have a man of your distinction take the time to inspect our institution in person. What brings you to our doors, sir?’
Mr Dodgson smiled gently. ‘I was up for the day, but the snow stopped the trains. I found one of your prospectuses at the offices of Youth’s Companion and recalled the talk you gave at the House last year.’
Mr Barnett accepted the explanation and went burbling on, ‘Were you, perhaps, considering giving us the benefit of your wisdom by lecturing? I am afraid most of our young men would not appreciate your system of logic. They are of a more practical bent.’ Mentally, he congratulated himself on having attracted the attention of so noted a scholar as Mr Dodgson, the author of Euclid and His Modern Rivals. It was also an open secret in Oxford that Mr Dodgson had written a few books for children and that he was especially generous to any charity concerning juvenile education.
‘I noticed several boys,’ Mr Dodgson seemed to shudder as he pronounced the word, ‘engaged in physical activities. And I see you also have opportunities for girls.’
‘I will give you a tour of the facilities if you like,’ Mr Barnett offered. ‘The London City Council has made every effort to assist me in helping these young people, for it is only by education that we can become better, more moral persons.’
‘A worthy aim, indeed,’ Mr Dodgson murmured.
Mr Barnett’s enthusiasm was undeterred by Mr Dodgson’s tepid response. ‘We try to bring these young people the benefits enjoyed by happier children, whose hours are enhanced by play and not toil in gardens and fields, and not in filthy hovels or streets. You have already noticed our gymnasium, where the young fellows may enjoy healthful exercise. We are even planning to build a swimming bath, and a true People’s Palace, a place where young and old can receive the benefits of health and education.’
‘I hope you do not neglect the minds of these young persons,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘By that, I mean their imaginations.’
‘Indeed we do not,’ Mr Barnett told him. ‘We have a library, where young persons of either sex may find works of instruction and entertainment in equal measure. But you must excuse my enthusiasm, Mr Dodgson. I believe in what I am doing, and I find much satisfaction in knowing that the young men who come here may find the means to better their position in life, to rise above the miserable streets of Whitechapel. Urban settlements are as necessary as those of our brothers who toil farther afield. Mr Booth and his Salvation Army have acted as scouts, so to speak, but the Church of England cannot permit Dissenters to take the high ground, while we cower in the trenches!’ Mr Barnett glowered at the imaginary enemy.
‘I see you borrow your military terminology as well as your sentiments from Mr Booth,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘I am sure that my friend Mr Samuel Basset would concur.’
Mr Barnett’s face lost its rosy glow of self-satisfaction. ‘I was shocked to read of Mr Basset’s death in this morning’s newspapers,’ he said slowly. ‘He was most active in promoting our activities, particularly the library.’
‘I should very much like to see the library,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘And I would like to speak with some of your students, if I may.’
‘Of course, Mr Dodgson.’ Mr Barnett called out, ‘Dolittle!’
The enterprising youth had been lingering outside the door of the office waiting for the chance to hit up the toff for a tip.
‘Yer called, sir?’
‘This is Mr Dodgson, Dolittle. You are to show him about and especially show him the library.’ Mr Barnett turned to Mr Dodgson. ‘I would come with you, but today we are somewhat busy. I have been receiving subscriptions for the Lord Mayor’s Fund all day. No matter how desperately poor these people are, they will still advance a penny or two for those still less fortunate than they.’
‘I have noted that many people have been reminded of their duty towards those less fortunate than themselves,’ Mr Dodgson said.
Mr Barnett’s habitual smile faded into a worried frown. ‘It is truly unfortunate that it took a riot, and the loss of a life, to bring people to own up to their responsibilities.’
‘Surely you do not refer to the death of Mr Basset,’ Mr Dodgson demurred. ‘That occurred well before the events in Trafalgar Square.’
‘I read in this afternoon’s newspapers that the body of an unknown man was discovered in the snow during the riot,’ Mr Barnett said. ‘However, Mr Mann is holding another meeting in Trafalgar Square tonight.’
‘I sincerely hope it will not produce the same disturbance as last night’s riot!’ Mr Dodgson looked alarmed. ‘My friend Doyle and I were caught up in it. A dreadful scene, Mr Barnett.’
‘Tonight’s event will be properly run, I assure you,’ Mr Barnett said firmly. ‘Mr Mann, who leads the Fair Trade League, has applied for their permit. According to the newspapers, the Metropolitan Police have already got the perpetrators of last night’s disgraceful upheaval under lock and key.’ He tapped the afternoon Standard, which lay open on the secretary’s desk.
‘In that case, I will not detain you from your good work,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘I only wish to assure myself that Toynbee Hall is all you have said it is, and I will most certainly discuss your efforts in the Senior Common Room at the House.’
The two men shook hands ceremoniously, and Dolittle led Mr Dodgson through the halls, where he could see small classrooms filled with children of various ages, in varying states of cleanliness, reading aloud or doing sums on slates. Eventually they got to the library, a small room filled with bookshelves but not with books. Only half the shelves were covered, and many of those wore the yellow bindings of the Portman Penny Press. Mr Dodgson scanned the shelves and wondered if Dr Doyle had learned more than he had.
Dr Doyle had drawn quite a crowd by virtue of his dashing balbriggan coat, his cab, and the cab horse, who regarded the children clustered around him with a mild interest.
‘That’s a fine, gentle animal,’ Dr Doyle commented, as the horse picked up one foot and then another, so as not to step on the very small child who had got under the cab.
‘Now, if that creetur could talk, it might tell a tale,’ Jerry agreed.
‘It must be an interesting life, driving a cab about London,’ Dr Doyle went on. He kept a wary eye on the men in the tavern on the corner of the street, who kept just as wary an eye on him.
Jerry pulled his coat higher around his ears. ‘It’s a ’ard life,’ the cabby said. ‘O’ course, there’s some as takes to it and some as don’t. We gets all sorts as thinks they can tool a cab, but the London streets flummoxes ’em. Once we even ’ad a Yank.’
‘An American?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘Aye. ’E were good wif the ’osses, but when it come to finding ’is way about London, ’e were ’opeless. Jest ’opeless!’
Jerry sighed, then flourished his whip at a pair of nattily dressed young men who were approaching the cab with a predatory look in their eyes. ‘Be off, you! This ’ere cab’s engage
d!’
‘No it ain’t, for we’ve got it,’ the darker of the two declared. His fairer friend agreed, and tried to wrench open the door. Jerry stepped down from the box ready to defend his client’s prerogatives.
Dr Doyle stepped between Jerry and the two young men and looked the two of them over. ‘I do believe we have seen each other before,’ Dr Doyle said, with sudden insight. ‘You were at the Café Royal last night with Mr Wilde.’
‘And wot if we were?’ The dark one glared at him suspiciously.
‘I know you,’ the fair lad said. ‘You was wif that old gent in the tile ’at, looked like some sort of vicar.’ He turned to his friend. ‘I told yer I’d seen that coat afore.’
‘It ain’t the thing,’ the dark one objected. ‘Are yer on the game?’
‘I don’t think—’ Dr Doyle began.
‘ ’Cos if yer goin’ on the game, yer better lose the soup strainer,’ the fair lad instructed him.
Dr Doyle’s hand involuntarily found his moustache. ‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Makes yer look old,’ the dark youth said. ‘Marks likes ’em young. Not too young, mind. That’s sinful, that is.’
‘And wot would a nipper do wi’ the coin anyways?’ The fair lad shrugged. ‘Now, me an’ Ern, we knows ’ow to do fer ourselfs.’ He adjusted his derby hat to a more flourishing angle.
‘If you dine with Mr Wilde of an evening, you must be quite the lads,’ Dr Doyle commented. ‘And at the Café Royal, too. Are the rest of the, er, marks so generous?’
‘You are a right Jock!’ Bert mocked Dr Doyle’s Scottish burr. ‘Aye, they’re good fer a meal, and sometimes a bit more, eh, Ern?’
‘I don’t suppose you’d take money …’ Dr Doyle began.
Bert bristled. ‘Wot d’ye think we are? ’Ores?’
Ern tried to mollify his friend. ‘Don’t take on like that. ’E’s new on the game, Bert. Y’see,’ he turned to Dr Doyle, ‘a little present, like a tip, that’s all right, something just to tide us over till we can find something else. Or a present, like. But money … that’s low. That’s trade, that is.’
Dr Doyle was fascinated by the delicate gradations of the underworld. ‘If someone were to pay for a suit, now, would that be acceptable?’
Bert and Ern consulted in whispers. ‘Is that a hoffer?’ Ern’s dark eyes were bright at the thought of the acquisition.
‘I just wondered, because I knew Samuel Basset, and he might have paid someone’s tailor…’
The name Basset acted on the two young men like a dose of very unpleasant medicine.
‘Sam Basset’s dead,’ Bert said with a grimace. ‘Good riddance.’
‘Really? I thought he was well-liked hereabouts. He brought books to the library and assisted some of the young people here. Who was it? Oh, yes … Levin. That was the name, I think.’
‘Levin? Haw!’ Ern guffawed. ‘Aaron Levy, settin’ ’imself up. Sam Basset come ’ere and took to our Aaron, only now ’e’s Andrew and Levin, not Levy. Got ’imself a job o’ work, a position!’ He uttered the last work with a scornful grimace.
‘Arf a crown a week and fer wot? Sittin’ in a hoffice on Fleet Street, runnin’ herrands like a bloody fool? Puttin’ on a clean shirt an’ collar every day, so’s ’e could say ’e’s a gent? We knows different, we do!’ Bert snorted his opinion of such pretensions.
‘Still, ’e says ’e’s got hexpectations,’ Ern said. ‘An’ ’e gets ter meet nobs.’
‘So do we,’ Bert said with a knowing grin. ‘Ern, let’s you and me leave this ’ere Jock to ’is old geezer, wot’s gettin’ the spiel from old Barnett.’
‘And where are you off to then?’ Dr Doyle asked.
‘Doin’s on Trafalgar Square,’ Bert said with another grin. ‘Plenty of cash for those ’oo knows where it’s ’id.’ He twiddled his fingers and winked knowingly.
‘Just you be careful, Jock,’ Ern warned him. ‘Them old geezers is the wust. Aaron’s not the first lad old Basset took on. D’yer mind the bloke wif the ’air?’
‘But ’e’ll be the last,’ Bert said. The two youths winked knowingly again at Dr Doyle and headed for the City, leaving Dr Doyle to ponder what he had learned and wonder if Mr Dodgson was getting anything more from Mr Barnett.
Mr Dodgson had tested the contents of the little library and found it wanting. However, he did not make his displeasure evident to Mr Barnett, who bounded into the library exuding confidence in his creation. ‘How are you getting on?’ Mr Barnett’s enthusiasm filled the small room.
‘I wondered how you selected which books to use in your library,’ Mr Dodgson said, his eyes roaming the empty shelves.
‘We wish to provide those books that the children most need,’ Mr Barnett told Mr Dodgson earnestly. ‘The schools here are inadequate, to say the least, and many of the children in this district do not attend school at all. They are constrained by circumstances to earn their living, either on the streets or in a sweatshop. We have night classes, for those who wish to attend them, in such things as accountancy and bookkeeping, as well as such fine trades as engraving, watchmaking, and so on. We also give instruction in housewifery, cooking, and sewing. Some of these girls do not know one end of a needle from another!’
‘I sincerely hope you do not neglect the children’s souls in your efforts to improve their minds,’ Mr Dodgson said sharply.
‘Of course not,’ Mr Barnett hastened to reassure him. ‘There are church services every Sunday, and we have had many worthy persons to speak here. General Booth and his daughter have come, for instance.’
‘That is not what I meant,’ Mr Dodgson reproved him. ‘Children need laughter and nonsense as well as cold facts.’
‘Well,’ Mr Barnett said defensively, ‘we have some charming stories brought in by Mr Basset. He came every week with copies of Youth’s Companion to distribute to the children. He even gave us a copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and nothing is more nonsensical than that!’
Mr Barnett waved the volume in front of Mr Dodgson’s nose. Mr Dodgson took the book and said, ‘The first printing. I am gratified that Mr Basset did not attempt to suborn every copy that was given him for distribution.’
‘Sir, I do not understand….’
‘It is quite all right, Mr Barnett. You may have heard that I am the author of this work, and I had specifically indicated that this printing was to be reserved for charitable organizations like this one. I was quite upset when I thought that Mr Basset had failed in his trust by selling copies that were to be given to institutions.’
Mr Barnett was speechless with embarrassment. ‘I had no idea that Mr Basset was that sort of man,’ he said. ‘He took such an interest in the young people, especially the young man who assisted him.’
‘Mr Levin?’
‘A Hebrew, of course. There are many who take advantage of our educational work without necessarily belonging to our church.’ Mr Barnett considered Mr Levin briefly, then said, ‘Mr Bassett thought he had promise. He even offered him a position when his former clerk moved into another place.’
‘Indeed. Mr Basset’s death will be a double loss, then, since he was such a benefactor to this institution.’ Mr Dodgson offered his hand to Mr Barnett, who bowed and shook it heartily. ‘I shall certainly send another contribution to your excellent institution,’ Mr Dodgson said, as the warden accompanied him down to the street door. ‘Thank you for your tour. It has been most educational.’
Mr Dodgson found his cab under siege when he emerged from Toynbee Hall. Both Jerry and Dr Doyle were engaged in keeping the children away from the horse, who had had enough petting and clearly wanted to move on. ‘Now where to, gentlemen?’ the cabby asked.
‘Back to Fleet Street, I think, and then you may take yourself and your noble steed home,’ Mr Dodgson told him. ‘You have done good service, Jerry.’
‘Thank’ee, sir!’ The cabby flourished his whip and the crowd parted so that the horse could make his way back to the City and civilization
. Inside the cab, Dr Doyle and Mr Dodgson exchanged information.
‘Apparently, Mr Basset was in the habit of befriending some of the more intelligent of these young men,’ Dr Doyle summed it up. ‘Especially one Aaron Levy, alias Andrew Levin.’
‘In that case,’ Mr Dodgson said, ‘I believe it is time we had a word with the staff of Youth’s Companion and especially with Mr Andrew Levin. He clearly knows more than he is willing to admit about the private life of Samuel Basset.’
Once more they headed to Fleet Street, into the setting sun, leaving the grimy slums behind them.
CHAPTER 20
While Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle were following the trail of Samuel Basset from Baker Street to Whitechapel, the offices of Youth’s Companion had been gripped by a creative frenzy.
Once the weeping widow had been escorted off the premises and Inspector Calloway had decided to take his men back to Jewry Street for further consultations with authorities, Nicky Portman had assembled the two writers, the artist, Miss Harvey, and Mr Levin in his office. He had even included Hannegan, the chief printer hastily summoned from Portman Penny Press at the Farringdon Road end of Fleet Street, who would, presumably, transmit the words of wisdom and encouragement from management to labour.
‘My dear friends,’ Mr Portman began with a deep sigh, ‘Mr Samuel Basset is dead.’ He sighed again and looked around the room at the staff, who looked back with appropriately grave expressions. ‘This magazine was his life. The best memorial we can give him is to bring out this issue, as he would have wanted it, on time.’ Portman pounded his right fist into his left palm for emphasis.
‘Hear, hear,’ Howarth applauded him.
‘Now, I know you are as shocked as I to learn that our good friend and colleague Mr David Peterson was attacked in the riots last night and is also dead. This magazine depended on him for much of its content. The best memorial we can give to him is to continue his work,’ Portman went on. ‘Howarth, Monteverde … or may I call you Win and Monte? We must all be friends here.’ Nicky Portman grinned boyishly at his staff. ‘I want you to use your talents to the best of your abilities so that this issue will be a fitting tribute to your fallen friend. Hannegan, I depend on you and your men to do your very best.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 21