Mr Portman took the centre chair as if by right. Miss Harvey and Mr Wilde ranged themselves on either side of him as honour guard. Mr Dodgson removed his hat and opened his ulster, while Dr Doyle shrugged himself out of the balbriggan greatcoat, glad to be out of it.
Mr Dodgson cleared his throat with an embarrassed cough. ‘Perhaps Miss Harvey should leave,’ he suggested. ‘What Dr Doyle and I have to say may be painful, Mr Portman, and it is not for the ears of young ladies.’
Miss Harvey smiled sweetly. ‘My father’s circle of friends included some very, um, eccentric gentlemen,’ she reminded them. ‘He was not a charter member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, but he was familiar with many of that circle. I assure you, Mr Basset’s private life will not shock me. I had thought he was a bachelor, but that does not mean that he would not have kept a female companion in a private establishment.’
Mr Portman gave a crack of laughter. ‘Sammy? I don’t think he’s so much as looked at a woman since we left school!’
Mr Dodgson reddened at such ribald raillery. Dr Doyle took over, since Mr Dodgson seemed unable to continue with so frank a young woman in the conversation. ‘It seems, Mr Portman, that your old friend found his, um, companions in some very insalubrious parts of London.’
‘Meaning, I suppose, he went to Toynbee Hall for more than charity work,’ Mr Portman sighed. ‘I can’t say I’m surprised. I did warn him, when I left Baker Street, that one of those young thugs would do him a mischief some day.’
‘But none of those young thugs, as you put it, were in this office yesterday,’ Miss Harvey objected.
‘As to that,’ Dr Doyle said, ‘certain facts have come to light that make it imperative that we have a word with each of the staff concerning the events of yesterday afternoon. Mr Dodgson has come to some conclusions. Mr Dodgson?’
Mr Dodgson had been staring at Mr Basset’s desk. Thanks to Miss Harvey’s efforts, the muddle of papers had been neatly sorted and arranged: one pile of manuscripts to be accepted; one to be rejected; a stack of ledgers to be read; a pile of correspondence to be answered; and a pile that had already been answered that was now to be filed. The pens were set up in the penholder, the inkwell was filled, the pencils had been sharpened, and even the African paper-weights were now lined up like specimens in an exhibit case, instead of being tossed on to different stacks of paper, helter-skelter.
‘I see someone has been busy here,’ he stated.
‘That’s Helen. I should say, Miss Harvey,’ Portman corrected himself. ‘She’s a wonder. I wish I could have her here every day.’
‘My mother might not like my going out to work,’ Miss Harvey reminded him. ‘Today was, after all, an emergency. I shall have to get back to her quite soon.’ Her voice held a note of regret. Miss Harvey had been enjoying her excursion, playing in the boys’ games.
‘Mr Dodgson,’ Dr Doyle tried to bring the scholar out of his reverie. ‘What do you see?’
‘It is not what I see. It is what I don’t see. How many of those knives did Mr Basset have on his desk yesterday? Were there three or four?’ Mr Dodgson turned around to face his young friend.
Dr Doyle closed his eyes and tried to visualize the desk as it had been. ‘Four, I think. Yes, I am certain of it. There were four.’
Mr Dodgson pointed one grey-gloved finger at the line of daggers. ‘There are now three, Mr Portman. The conclusion to be drawn? One of those daggers was used by the murderer to kill Mr Basset.’
‘The longest, thinnest one,’ Dr Doyle declared. ‘There was one that looked just like an Italian stiletto. I wondered that it should be amongst those African artefacts.’
Portman blinked at the collection of knives. ‘That was Sammy’s fancy. He bought it from some pedlar just as we were boarding the ship to go home. The rest of these we got on our safari from native tribes on our route.’
‘Why do unpleasant people insist on collecting weapons?’ Mr Dodgson murmured to himself. ‘Is it for the sole purpose of providing their enemies with the means to remove them?’
‘In Sammy’s case, it was nothing more than curiosity,’ Portman said. ‘He wanted a souvenir of our African adventures, just as he liked having the heads of the animals we shot placed here instead of at Baker Street. There really wasn’t enough room in the digs, in any case.’
‘We visited Baker Street, and you are quite right, the rooms are small,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘The flat at the Press Club is quite spacious. Forgive me for asking such a personal question, but was it Mr Basset’s choice to remain at Baker Street, in sole possession, as it were?’
Mr Portman shifted uneasily in his chair. ‘I have said it before, and I will tell you one more time: There was no quarrel between Sammy and myself. I came into some money and decided to move out. I couldn’t throw Sammy into the street, so I told him to keep the rooms for himself. That is all there was to it.’ He looked at the two investigators. ‘What did you find there, besides the fact that Sammy went to Toynbee Hall?’
‘Ah, yes,’ Mr Dodgson fumbled in his coat pocket. ‘We found these tracts at 331-B Baker Street.’ He displayed the Mormon pamphlets. ‘And we saw a similar tract at Mr Peterson’s residence, with some notes on it for future stories.’
Wilde laughed when he saw the tracts. ‘Nicky, I don’t see you marching off to Utah to marry five wives,’ he chortled.
‘Of course not,’ Portman snapped. ‘I can only assume that Sammy must have picked them up at Toynbee Hall. Mr Barnett will show his establishment to anyone who asks. As for Sammy, he had no interest in women at all.’
‘As we have discovered,’ Dr Doyle said, glancing at Miss Harvey, who seemed amused by their care for her supposed innocence.
‘As for his choice of companions,’ Mr Dodgson said with a disapproving frown, ‘that may or may not be of consequence. I must speak with your staff, Mr Portman. Dr Doyle has a very good idea of how the deed was done, and when, and where, but by whom is another matter.’
‘And why,’ Portman added.
‘Yes, indeed. That was what Mr Basset asked as he lay dying. He was staring at the door to this building and at the people who were leaving, and he asked, “Why?” Miss Harvey,’ Mr Dodgson turned to her. ‘When did you leave this office?’
Miss Harvey frowned slightly. ‘I remained until Mr Basset had come out of his office again,’ she said. ‘I thought I might be able to get my payment if Mr Levin could get to the cash box. Unfortunately, Mr Basset was very much out of sorts, and I felt that perhaps I should stay out of his way.’
‘So you were still here when Mr Levin told the staff to go home?’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Can you recall the exact movements of the people in the office after Mr Basset left?’
Miss Harvey’s frown deepened, as she concentrated. ‘Let me see. Mr Basset had had a very painful scene with Mr Levin. We could hear him roaring right through the door.’
‘We?’ Mr Dodgson pounced on the pronoun.
‘Well,’ Miss Harvey explained, ‘there was I, and Mr Peterson, and the other two gentlemen, and Mr Roberts. Then Mr Levin came out of Mr Basset’s office very upset, and Mr Peterson went into the office to try to get him reinstated.’
‘Did he have so much influence?’ Mr Dodgson asked. ‘From what we saw and heard, we did not think that Mr Basset valued any of his staff. He called Mr Peterson a hack in our hearing.’
Mr Wilde shrugged. ‘He also called me a mincing mannequin, who could not write a story to save his soul. The late Sammy had the literary acumen of a brick.’
Mr Portman shook his head at the lack of judgment of his late partner. ‘Sammy and David had worked together at Portman Penny Press when David was one of the main writers and Sammy was his editor. He’d shout at David, but he’d never have let him go; and sometimes he did listen to him. And, of course, David could charm birds off the trees. If Levin and Sammy had had some sort of tiff, David would be the one to put things right.’
‘In the interests of the publication. I see.’ Mr Dodgson nodded, then sai
d, ‘Continue, Miss Harvey. Mr Peterson went in to remonstrate with Mr Basset. Did he succeed?’
‘Mr Levin declared that he would not stay where he was not wanted and so the matter stood when Mr Peterson and Mr Basset came out of the office.’
‘Levin told me nothing of this last night,’ Portman said with a frown.
Miss Harvey took up her narrative. ‘Mr Levin assisted Mr Basset on with his coat and handed him his hat and accompanied him down the stairs to open the door. I could hear them speaking on the stairs, but I could not tell what they were saying. At least, Mr Basset was not shouting.’
‘And what about the rest of them? Mr Roberts, Mr Howarth, and Mr Monteverde?’ Dr Doyle asked.
Once again Miss Harvey tried to picture the scene. ‘I believe Mr Howarth followed Mr Levin and Mr Basset down the stairs, but Mr Roberts, Mr Peterson, and Mr Monteverde might have gone up. I remained in the office alone.’
‘The necessary is in the basement next to the printing plant,’ Portman explained. ‘One or more of the staff may have, ah, felt the call of nature, especially after all that excitement.’
‘And with Mr Basset gone, I realized that I would get no money besides what Mr Levin had given me for my fare for the Underground. I decided to take Mr Levin’s advice and go home to type the manuscripts over again.’
She looked from Mr Dodgson to Mr Portman. ‘If that is all, Mr Portman, I really must get back to Chelsea. My mother will be wondering what has become of me.’
Before Portman could speak, Oscar Wilde said, ‘My dear Miss Harvey, I insist on accompanying you. My charming Constance is having one of her tea parties this afternoon, which is why I decided to come here. However, I now see that I must come to your rescue. Your dragon of a mama must be fought at all costs, and I am the man to do it.’ He struck a mock-heroic pose, drawing a giggle from Miss Harvey.
‘I would be very glad of your company, Mr Wilde,’ she admitted. ‘I saw some men on Fleet Street going towards the Strand when we came back from our luncheon. They looked quite fierce.’
‘In that case, Nicky, you may add “bodyguard” to the character reference you are about to write for me,’ Wilde said. ‘And by the by, I have looked over that stack of submissions. Most of them are dreadful, but there are a few that warrant attention. This one, Captain of the Polestar. Marvellous atmosphere!’
‘I wrote that one,’ Dr Doyle admitted. ‘Mr Basset refused it.’
‘Which only goes to show how little Sammy Basset knew of literature,’ Wilde said, looking around for his hat and coat. ‘If this is a sampling of your style, sir, all I can say is, keep at it!’
Dr Doyle flushed with pride, then remembered why he was there. ‘There is a large police presence in the West End,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘Inspector MacRae and his men must be doing double shifts tonight to prevent another outbreak like last night’s riot.’
‘In that case, I insist that you let Oscar see you home, Miss Harvey. And I hope I may be allowed to call on you quite soon.’ Mr Portman bowed briefly over Miss Harvey’s hand.
‘Are you asking for my services here at Youth’s Companion or in a more personal context?’ Miss Harvey asked with that elfin smile.
‘Possibly both,’ Mr Portman said. The young lady put on her woollen hat and jacket, while Oscar Wilde donned his dramatic slouch hat and fur coat. Their departure was marked by a sigh from Portman and a loud ‘Ahem!’ from Levin, who had been standing at the door waiting to be admitted during the last part of the interview.
‘Hannegan has made his final run and would like your approval before the magazine goes to press,’ the secretary announced.
The writers and artist marched into the office with the finished product: eight pages, four columns each, with a tasteful selection of stories, factual articles, puzzles, and suggestions for handicrafts, all illustrated with carefully hand-lined woodcuts. Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle stepped out of the way into Levin’s anteroom.
Mr Dodgson muttered to himself as he moved from the inner office to the stairwell. ‘Let us see: Mr Basset is alive and quite well enough to shout at poor Peterson at four forty-five. He leaves the building at four-fifty. He is accosted by O’Casey at four fifty-five. We see him at five o’clock, and he is dead by five-fifteen. The bloodstains show that he was stabbed on these stairs, and the only time it could have happened is between four-fifty and four fifty-five. The office staff were given permission to leave at five o’clock.’
Dr Doyle’s frown matched that of his mentor. ‘How do we know that Basset didn’t wait a few minutes here in the vestibule until the next omnibus should come along? It would be more practical than waiting out in the snow.’
Mr Dodgson nodded in approval. ‘That would give our murderer time to come down the stairs, do the deed, and trot up again…. But then would not Miss Harvey have heard him? She could hear the footsteps on the stairs.’
‘And what about that dagger? Where could the murderer have put it?’ Dr Doyle asked. The two of them gazed up and down the shaft, seeking an answer.
The stairwell was lit by the last rays of sunlight finding their way through the skylight. As they stood on the upper landing, Mr Dodgson gazed down the stairs at the front door. A shadow caught his eye. He blinked, then looked again. He was right; something had been perched precariously on the lintel over the front door, something that was thin enough to fit on that narrow wooden ledge.
‘Dr Doyle,’ Mr Dodgson ordered, ‘come here, and see if you can reach the top of this door.’
Dr Doyle obediently stretched his arms to their greatest length, standing on tiptoe to reach to the edge of the lintel. ‘There’s something up there!’
‘There is indeed. I suspect it is the missing knife, although we will not know until we get it down. I begin to understand what happened. The murderer must have followed Mr Basset down the stairs, knife in hand, and struck while on the stairs. The blade did not reach any vital organ, as it would have had they been level. Instead, as you noted at Bart’s, the blade nicked the renal artery, and Mr Basset bled to death internally.
‘There was not a lot of blood,’ Mr Dodgson went on. ‘However, the murderer did not wish to bring the weapon back into the office. He could not drop it into the street, since Mr Basset stood in his way.’
‘Couldn’t he have waited and dropped it into the street when Mr Basset left the vestibule for his omnibus?’ Dr Doyle played devil’s advocate.
Mr Dodgson demurred. ‘I think not, Dr Doyle. Remember, that night the street was full of people; not only the usual crowds, but the unemployed ruffians who were being incited to riot by Mr Hyndman. If, as you say, this is a crime of passion, the perpetrator would not have wished to face that mob while holding a dagger in his hands.’
‘So,’ Dr Doyle picked up the thread of the argument, ‘he had to put it where it would not be seen, that is, on the lintel. And that means that this murderer is quite tall, with long arms.’
‘Like Mr Roberts,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘What is more, I found this in the wastepaper in Mr Roberts’s attic.’ He drew a sheet of paper from his overcoat pocket. The face was that of Mr Samuel Basset, but the features had been elongated and twisted into an expression of lustful malevolence. ‘Clearly Mr Roberts was not fond of Mr Basset.’
Dr Doyle examined the drawing. ‘Should we not bring this to the attention of the police? If we can show that anyone else had better cause and a better opportunity to remove Basset, O’Casey will be let go.’
‘Unfortunately, O’Casey has let his Irish tongue get away from him. He will remain in custody, along with Mr Hyndman and the Scotsman Burns, until they can be arraigned for the crime of Inciting to Riot,’ Mr Dodgson said with a sigh. ‘It would be all too easy for the good inspector to allow this misguided man to be tried for the murder of Mr Basset and chalk the death of Mr Peterson up to a misadventure.’
‘Surely not!’ Dr Doyle was indignant. ‘No jury would convict a man on such specious evidence, particularly when there are other suspects.’
‘None of whom have made themselves so visible as Mr O’Casey,’ Mr Dodgson said sadly. ‘Even if he is acquitted, which may not necessarily be the case, there is the disgrace brought upon his family. No, Dr Doyle, we must persevere until the true criminal is brought to justice to the satisfaction of the police.’
‘And how are we to do that?’ Dr Doyle asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Mr Dodgson gave the matter some thought. ‘The murderer must realize that the dagger will be found shortly. He will come to retrieve it. Dr Doyle, you must remain in the outer office, within sight of the doorway, to see if anyone tries to remove that dagger from its hiding place, for that will be the person who put it there.’
‘And what will you do, sir, while I am staring at this door?’ Dr Doyle’s sarcasm sharpened.
Mr Dodgson remained serene. ‘I shall have a word with Mr Howarth, Mr Monteverde, and Mr Roberts,’ he stated. ‘But first, we shall join Mr Portman and his staff for tea.’
A knock on the door heralded a veritable procession from Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese: a large man carrying a tea urn and a stand on which to set it up and two more with trays of sandwiches and fresh cakes.
Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle led the way up the stairs and into the anteroom, where the caterers set up their offerings to the intense disgust of Mr Levin and the unabashed joy of Messrs. Monteverde, Howarth, and Roberts. The tea urn was soon bubbling merrily away, and the waiters handed out slices of cake and small egg-and-cress sandwiches. The staff eagerly fell on the food as if they had had nothing since breakfast, while Mr Portman beamed paternally and munched along with them.
‘Now this is more like it!’ Roberts decided, tossing back his chestnut tresses.
‘Good show!’ Howarth crowed.
Mr Monteverde simply filled his mouth with cake and followed it with a swallow of tea.
Mr Levin did not join in the merriment. ‘Is there anything else you wish, Mr Portman?’ he asked with a look of disdain at those who would shirk their duty to fill their bellies.
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 23