The brawny printer began to speak, but Portman went on before he could have his say. ‘O’Casey is still being held at Bow Street. I have my solicitor working to get him out, and I have two investigators looking into the matter of Mr Basset’s death. They will surely clear O’Casey of these baseless murder charges.’
‘Thank’ee, sir.’ Hannegan, as short and squat as O’Casey was tall and muscular, touched his forefinger to his paper cap.
‘Now, Hannegan, you get the presses ready. I shall be sending down copy to be set, and I expect galleys within the hour.’ The printer saluted again and left the office to the writing staff.
Portman now turned his attention to the papers scattered about on the floor and piled untidily on the desk.
‘What is all this?’ he asked.
Levin pointed to various items around the room. ‘I believe these are some of the galleys of stories that Mr Basset had already approved. Miss Harvey’s manuscripts are here, and here are some other materials that Mr Basset was in the process of correcting.’
‘I see. Miss Harvey,’ Portman turned to the young woman, ‘will you please sort these out, as you suggested? Levin, you can take the corrected manuscripts down to the compositors as soon as Miss Harvey gives them to you. Roberts,’ he turned to the artist, who had retreated to a corner and was glowering over his sketchpad, ‘have you got the illustrations ready yet?’
‘I can’t illustrate if I don’t know what the story is,’ Roberts objected. ‘It was too cold to work upstairs yesterday. I’m a man; I’m not a machine!’ He glared at Portman as if daring him to replace human fingers with mechanical ones.
‘In that case, I strongly suggest that we get you a fire, and that you get up to your garret and get back to work on whatever you can. Use filler, if necessary. I understand Furniss sent over some small pieces. Use those.’
Roberts gave his new editor a look that would have killed him dead had Portman not been involved with something else by then. With a final snarl, the tortured artist strode out of the inner office. His feet could be heard resounding on the stairs as he bounded up to his attic workroom.
Monteverde and Howarth looked at their new editor-in-chief, expecting more orders.
‘As soon as the columns come up, you chaps will have to help with the, er …’ Portman struggled for a word.
‘Mock-up,’ Howarth supplied it.
‘Meanwhile, I shall be reading through these manuscripts. Eventually I shall have to find someone to fill Sammy’s shoes, but for now, I shall do my best.’ He turned to Miss Harvey and gestured helplessly at the mess on the desk. ‘I could never get Sammy to clear his desk, and now I never will.’ He sighed mightily.
Miss Harvey said, ‘I understand completely, Mr Portman. My poor father used to keep his papers in just such a muddle, and he always said that he knew where everything was. I shall go through these piles and sort them out, and then you can deal with each pile in turn.’
‘Excellent idea,’ Portman said, pulling Mr Basset’s grand chair up and taking the seat of power.
‘Mr Basset would not have approved of a female in the workplace,’ Levin said, with a poisonous glance in Miss Harvey’s direction.
‘What nonsense!’ Portman exclaimed. ‘Miss Harvey’s father wrote several monographs on ancient art for Portman Penny Press, and Miss Harvey served as her father’s amanuensis. A person with Miss Harvey’s experience should be invaluable as copy-reader. Now, Levin, take these down to the composing room and bring back the galley sheets from yesterday.’
‘There were no galleys yesterday,’ Levin reminded him. ‘The men were called out on strike by that murderer, O’Casey.’
‘He’s not a murderer,’ Portman protested. ‘At least, Mr Dodgson doesn’t think so. I wonder how old Dodgson is doing?’
‘Halloo, Nicky!’ A mellifluous voice interrupted the conversation.
Mr Levin opened the office door and peered down the stairs to see who was causing the disturbance.
‘Mr Wilde?’ Levin stared at the tall man who swept into the office with his slouch hat, fur coat, and nonchalant attitude.
‘Oscar!’ Portman was by this time the picture of a busy journalist, his hair on end and a pencil mark on his shirt cuff. ‘Oscar, what are you doing here?’
‘I am applying for the position left vacant by the late Samuel Basset,’ Wilde said.
‘Oscar!’ Portman exclaimed, scandalized. ‘The man’s not even buried yet!’
‘He’s unable to edit this magazine, in any case,’ Wilde pointed out. ‘Unless you were planning to give that fellow Peterson the job. Were you?’
‘Unfortunately, Mr Peterson also met with a fatal accident last night,’ Levin said solemnly.
‘I am sorry to hear it,’ Wilde said. ‘In that case, you may be right, Nicky. There is definitely something amiss here. I should not be happy in a position where my two predecessors met violent ends.’
‘Nevertheless, I’m glad you’re here,’ Portman told him. ‘We’ve only got half this magazine ready for printing, and Sammy would have wanted us to get to press on schedule.’
‘In that case, my dear fellow, I am all yours.’ Wilde removed his coat to reveal an elegantly cut suit of a delicate blue, better suited to May than to February.
Mr Levin cleared his throat expectantly. Portman looked up and realized that the young man was standing in front of the desk waiting for orders.
‘Oh, Levin. Here are some stories to be set. Take them down to Hannegan. Then get up to the garret and fetch whatever Roberts has and bring them down here so that we can fit them into the, er, mock-up. Now what?’
Another knock on the outer office door interrupted the group.
Levin ran to answer the summons. ‘Mr Furniss?’ He allowed the rotund cartoonist to poke his head into the private office, then trotted off on his errands.
Furniss recognized one member of the group in the office at once. ‘Hallo, Wilde. Did Mr Dodgson ever find you?’
‘Of course he did, Furniss. Whoever sent him off to Chelsea?’
‘Oh, that was Tenniel and du Maurier. I knew where you were, but those two old fogeys thought the poor old fellow would have some sort of seizure if he set foot in the Café Royal. He is all right, isn’t he?’ Furniss sounded worried.
‘Of course he is. In fact, he’s out proving my innocence.’ Wilde smirked. ‘That is, innocence of murder. Anything else, I freely admit to. What are you doing here, Furniss? Not up for Basset’s position, are you? There’s definitely danger in assuming it. Basset’s dead, and so’s the chap who would have taken the chair.’
Harry Furniss’s cheerful face darkened for a moment. ‘In that case, the chair is yours, Wilde. No, I’m here about another matter entirely. Tenniel’s dead set against those poor souls out in the street, but the rest of us at Punch thought we’d get up a subscription in the name of all the journalists on the Street to send to the Lord Mayor’s Fund to help them out. After all, we’re better off than they. We may be wretched scribblers, Wilde, but we’re being paid enough to keep body and soul together, and we’ve got roofs over our heads. A shilling apiece wouldn’t do us any harm and might help the women and kiddies. What do you say, Portman?’ Furniss turned to the publisher-turned-editor.
‘If one of those roughs killed old Peterson, I’m all too willing to let them starve,’ Portman growled. ‘But it’s not right that the women and children should go hungry and cold because their men were foolish enough to go on the rampage last night.’
‘There’s another meeting called for tonight,’ Furniss said. ‘I’ll be on the scene, of course, along with everyone else on the Street.’
‘I thought they had Hyndman and Burns locked up,’ Portman said.
‘Oh, they’re still in Bow Street jail,’ Furniss told them. ‘Along with an Irishman who insists he’s innocent of murdering anyone or inciting anyone else to do so.’
‘That’s O’Casey. He’s our printer,’ Portman said, fumbling in his pockets. ‘Have you been do
wn to the Penny Press yet?’
‘If you mean have I seen your revered father, Burnard’s working on the bigwigs,’ Furniss said. ‘I’m taking the Strand end and working down.’
‘Here’s ten shillings,’ Wilde said, handing his offering with the air of King Cophetua doling out largesse to the beggar maid.
Howarth and Monteverde donated a shilling each. Miss Harvey shook her head sadly. ‘I really wish I could contribute,’ she said.
‘I shall have to stand your banker yet again and make another small loan,’ Portman said gallantly.
‘But you’ve done so much already!’ Miss Harvey protested.
‘Nonsense!’ Portman found his pocketbook. ‘Here is five pounds, and tell my father that I expect him to double it at the very least.’
Furness accepted the offerings and clattered down the stairs, forcing Levin to stand aside to let the larger man pass. Furniss headed down Fleet Street, and Levin trotted back up the stairs, a freshly printed set of galleys in hand.
‘Here you are, Mr Portman,’ Levin said breathlessly, handing him the papers, carefully touching only the margins.
‘Aha!’ Portman handed the papers to Monteverde and Howarth. ‘Now if you two will be so kind as to check these for errors, we can get to press.’
‘We can do better upstairs where we can spread out,’ Monteverde pointed out. ‘Win and I usually go over each column, then we send them up to Eddie for the mock-up. Mr Basset would have the final say as to placement.’
‘It’s important, placement,’ Howarth explained, seeing Portman’s puzzled frown. ‘One wouldn’t like to have an unfortunate meaning attached to something. Remember the bird?’
Monteverde began to chuckle to himself. ‘We had a cut of a Bird of Paradise, with a crest on its head, over an article about exotic birds of Australia. All well and good, but the story in the next column was about the Royal family, and the Queen’s birthday celebrations; and the leader, which was right next to the picture of the bird, read, “Victoria Regina et Imperitrix”. I don’t think Her Majesty was amused.’
‘I see what you mean. Very well, go to it. Miss Harvey and I will go over these contributions that Mr Levin solicited and see what nuggets we can find in this pile of dross. Oscar, if you care to stay, your advice would be invaluable.’
‘In that case, I shall demand payment,’ Wilde warned, pulling one of the leopard-skin chairs closer to the windows overlooking Fleet Street.
The rest of the morning was spent in scanning galleys, sending them back for corrections, scanning them again, and fitting the result into the framework of a four-column page, with space for Roberts’s illustrations and appropriate leaders.
Luncheon was called at one. Monteverde and Howarth headed for the Punch Tavern, while Mr Portman debated about Miss Harvey. Clearly, a tavern would be out of the question, and it would be difficult for her to leave at such a delicate time in the proceedings. In the few hours she had been there, she had brought order out of the chaos of Samuel Basset’s papers. The ledgers were now neatly stacked on one side of the desk, while the piles of new manuscripts, corrected manuscripts, and rejected manuscripts had been sorted out.
Levin had been kept trotting back and forth from the printing plant in the basement to the artist’s garret. Now he glared at Miss Harvey, as he requested leave to go to his midday meal.
‘Oh, of course, Levin,’ Portman said carelessly. ‘I am taking Miss Harvey to luncheon. We shall be back at two, when we shall resume our labours. Miss Harvey, will you join me? I usually eat at the Press Club, but today that would be difficult.’ He thought it over. ‘Perhaps there is a private dining room at Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.’
‘I really should be getting home, Mr Portman,’ Miss Harvey demurred.
‘But you can’t leave us now!’ Portman exclaimed. ‘Your mother knows where you are, after all. In fact,’ he seemed to gain momentum as he spoke, ‘I do not think I could have managed without you this morning.’
Miss Harvey flushed prettily. ‘Mr Levin would have been quite adequate to the task, Mr Portman,’ she said.
Portman shook his head. ‘I need Levin to run errands,’ he decided. ‘And Howarth and Monteverde may have to write something quickly to fill up space. Besides, Miss Harvey, if I may say so, you are far more decorative than Mr Levin.’
‘That is unkind to Mr Levin,’ Miss Harvey said. ‘He is quite good-looking, is he not, Mr Wilde?’
The aesthete had been seated near the window, using its light to read the contributed manuscripts. Now he looked at Levin for the first time. ‘He certainly is,’ Wilde said. ‘In fact, I do believe I have seen this young man before, although I cannot recall where.’
Levin’s classical features were tinged with pink. ‘I could not say that we had ever been introduced,’ he said. ‘Mr Portman, if you like, I could escort Miss Harvey home.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘If it were known that Miss Harvey was alone with you in a private room at a place like Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese, her reputation might suffer.’
Portman frowned. ‘I hadn’t thought of that. Well, she’s got to stay here until we can get at Sammy’s keys to unlock his cash box, and we can’t get the keys until that Scotland Yard man gives permission for me to claim poor Sammy’s body and take charge of his possessions.’ Portman let Levin help him on with his coat and overcoat. ‘What we need is a chaperon. Oscar, you come with us and play Mrs Grundy. No one can object to Miss Harvey dining with two gentlemen, with heaven knows how many other people about.’
There was a thunderous knock on the downstairs door. ‘Now what is it?’ Portman shouted into the outer office. ‘Levin!’
Levin bolted down the stairs and back up. ‘It’s Inspector Calloway, sir, with some of his men. He wants another look round to find the knife or whatever it was that killed Mr Basset. And the men are here with the paper for the printing. And Mr Roberts is not satisfied with the woodcuts and wants them run again.’
Sounds of battle filtered up from the press room, as Roberts and Hannegan shouted at each other.
‘In that case, you’d better stay here, Levin, and take care of things. I’ll see to it that something is sent in for you from Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Oscar, Miss Harvey, shall we go?’
The trio exited into the foggy streets, leaving Levin to cope with the policemen, the galleys, the dray with the paper for the new issue, Roberts and his woodcuts, and a growing sense that he was being shoved aside.
CHAPTER 21
Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle arrived at the offices of Youth’s Companion just as Mr Portman, Mr Wilde, and Miss Harvey were making their way up the hill from Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Theirs had been a long and hilarious luncheon, during which Wilde had held forth on every subject under the sun, while Miss Harvey and Mr Portman allowed themselves to forget that Samuel Basset lay at Bart’s awaiting the decision of the coroner as to the disposition of his remains.
Mr Dodgson paid off the cabby, who touched his hat in response.
‘Thank’ee, sir,’ Jerry said with a grin and a flourish of his whip. ‘And should you be needin’ a cab for the day, just ask for Jerry Barker. They know me at all the cabstands in the City.’ He started to move off, but his cab was immediately claimed by two men in sack suits covered by shabby overcoats.
‘Trafalgar Square, cabby, and make it quick!’ One of the men waved a handbill, while the other looked down the hill at a contingent of men marching doggedly along, holding placards and banners. Clearly, the Fair Trade League was going to make another attempt at venting the grievances of the workingmen of London, and the press had to be on hand to record the event.
The acting editor-in-chief of Youth’s Companion appeared to be blithely unaware of the unrest in the streets. ‘Mr Dodgson!’ Mr Portman greeted him. ‘Where have you been? Have you learned anything more about who might have killed poor Sammy?’
‘I have been to many places, Mr Portman, but I cannot discuss them here on the street,’ Mr Dodgson said testily. He scowled disapprovingly at Mr W
ilde, who ignored him.
‘Do come up, sir, and tell me what you know.’ Portman led the way back to the office, passing Levin at his desk. The secretary leaped up when he saw his employer. ‘Mr Portman, may I have a word?’ he asked.
‘Not too long a word, Levin. I have to get back to work. Have the fresh galleys come up yet?’
Levin helped Mr Portman out of his overcoat and hat and hung both on the rack near the wooden settle as he reported on midday events.
‘The expressmen brought more paper,’ Levin reported, ‘and Mr Roberts has had his illustrations redone to his satisfaction. Mr Howarth, Mr Monteverde, and Mr Roberts are upstairs in the art studio putting the final touches on the mock-up for you to look over before it goes to the press. And Inspector Calloway and his men have been over the offices again.’ His icy tone showed what he thought of this second invasion of the offices.
‘Calloway? Who is he?’ Wilde asked. ‘I thought the fellow in charge was that Scottish policeman who doesn’t like me.’
Inspector Calloway is with the City of London Police,’ Mr Dodgson explained. ‘There is something of a jurisdictional dispute, since Mr Basset met his death on Fleet Street, which is, but only just, within the boundaries of the City of London.’
‘And what did Inspector Calloway find out this time?’ Portman asked.
‘Nothing of consequence,’ Levin said with a sniff of disdain. ‘I don’t think Inspector Calloway knows any more than he did this morning. He searched all the offices, including the pressroom downstairs, and the, um, necessary. He found nothing.’
‘Then I hope Mr Dodgson can enlighten us,’ Portman said. ‘Levin, as soon as I have seen the mock-ups, run them down to the pressroom and wait until the first run is off, then bring it up to me.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Levin watched as Miss Harvey followed the others into the private office.
‘That chap looks very familiar,’ Wilde murmured. ‘I do wish I could remember when and where I’ve seen him before.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 22