‘Not as … fit … as I used to be,’ Howarth confessed.
‘Get back to the Café Royal and tell Mr Portman that Levin’s headed for Trafalgar Square,’ Dr Doyle told them. ‘Mr Roberts and I will try to find him.’
‘Good luck!’ Monteverde said. ‘You’d think people would stay indoors in this fog!’
‘Not bloody likely,’ Roberts swore. He peered through the murk, then pointed to a tall man well ahead of them. ‘There he is! Come on, Doyle! With all these folk about, he’ll have to stop, and we’ll have him then!’
Dr Doyle joined Mr Roberts as Howarth and Monteverde made their way back to the Café Royal with the news that Dr Doyle and Mr Roberts were after Levin and there was another mob out in Trafalgar Square.
By that time Levin had reached Piccadilly and was casting about looking for somewhere to run. Dr Doyle pointed him out to Mr Roberts.
‘We’ve got to stop him before he reaches Trafalgar Square,’ he panted. ‘He’ll be able to lose himself in that mob.’
Roberts’s face was set in lines of grim determination. ‘That little bastard killed David,’ he rasped out. ‘I found the knife he stuck old Basset with in my papers. Try to frame me, will he?’
The fog had settled in over London, turning the gaslights to mere blobs of luminescence and nearly drowning the torches carried by the protesters in Trafalgar Square. There was barely enough visibility to make out some sort of torchlight procession winding its way up Fleet Street and through the Strand towards the square.
Dr Doyle and Mr Roberts joined the press of people that had taken possession of Trafalgar Square. Their quarry had been swallowed up in the mass of bodies. Nevertheless, the two men pressed forward, following the rest of the crowd into Trafalgar Square, where the fog swirled and eddied around the speakers, the listeners, and the police, while omnibuses, cabs, and carriages tried to make their way through the crowd and into the West End.
The mood of the gathering had changed. The most violent of the protesters had been hauled off to Bow Street to face the magistrate in the morning. Now Tom Mann, the leader of the Fair Trade League, could finally make his official plea for more work, and make it he did, at great length, while the torchlight procession came closer.
‘Isn’t that Inspector MacRae?’ Dr Doyle recognized the small, spare figure in the long overcoat.
‘Something’s happening,’ Roberts observed, pushing forward toward the line of policemen, who were forcing a passage for the procession through the crowd by the simple act of poking anyone who got in their way with their batons. Dr Doyle and Mr Roberts were in the front rank as the police shoved them aside to make way for the procession. They could only stare helplessly across the passageway made by the City of London Police, as Levin stared back, unable to move through the crowd that pressed in on him from behind.
The parade was led by a stout man in the anachronistic garb of a beadle of the previous century, complete with knee breeches, velvet coat, and cocked hat. He was followed by two smaller men in the magnificent robes of the aldermen of the City of London.
‘We can’t get through this,’ Dr Doyle fumed, as the larger of the two aldermen mounted one of the soapboxes and roared out, ‘My good people!’
This was greeted with jeers and catcalls and cries of, ‘Let ’im speak!’
‘We have good news for you!’
More jeers, more catcalls. ‘I wish he’d get on with it!’ Roberts tried to get around the large policeman in front of him and was blocked off with a well-placed shove to the shoulder.
‘Let ’is Honour speak!’ the constable ordered, as Dr Doyle and Mr Roberts watched Levin, and Levin stared helplessly at them.
‘It will be in tomorrow’s newspapers.’ There was a general muttering and a respectful silence, so that the alderman’s voice could ring out across the square. The reporters in the crowd reached for their pads and pencils. Something was in the wind, and each of them wanted to be the first with the story.
‘The people of London have responded to the distress of the poor,’ the alderman announced. ‘We have been receiving donations all day from all sorts of our citizens. Some of the members of Parliament contributed a subscription for the relief of the indigent …’
‘And not before needed!’ someone in the crowd shouted, echoed by similar sentiments.
The alderman raised his hand for silence. ‘If you please!’ He cleared his throat and continued, ‘Thanks to the generosity of the populace, the Lord Mayor’s Fund has tripled in the last twenty-four hours.’
There was a general cheer at this news. The alderman went on: ‘Therefore, the City of London, in collaboration with the councils of the City of Westminster and the other boroughs of London, will be able to offer work to any able-bodied man who desires it. Be at the Guildhall tomorrow morning at eight o’clock.’
‘Wot sort o’ work?’ someone in the crowd wanted to know.
‘The recent fall of snow and the, er, disturbances have left the streets blocked with mud and, er, other things,’ the alderman explained. ‘Any man who reports for street-cleaning duty at the Guildhall tomorrow morning will receive a shilling for the day, with the promise of more if the man is married with children dependent upon him.’
There was a general cheer. Suddenly the mood of the crowd changed from sullen anger to jubilation. They had got what they wanted. Work would be forthcoming, and spring was right around the corner.
None of this made any difference to the miserable Levin. He was trapped in the crowd, unable to break out of the press of people around him.
‘Let us through!’ Dr Doyle ordered the constable in front of him. ‘We have important information for Inspector MacRae of the Metropolitan Police!’
‘Do you now?’ The constable looked the two of them over. Robert’s artistic velveteen jacket was covered with the remains of their excursion into the Café Royal’s kitchens. Dr Doyle’s evening clothes looked battered, in more ways than one. Neither of them wore overcoats or hats.
‘Wot’s your business with Inspector MacRae?’ the constable asked, certain that two such vagabonds were up to no good.
‘We’ve got information about the murderer of Samuel Basset,’ Dr Doyle said.
‘He’s right there!’ Mr Roberts pointed to Levin. Levin turned and tried to work his way through the crowd.
Dr Doyle did not wait for the constable to answer. He darted across the aisle, right in front of the astonished alderman, shouting, ‘Levin! Give it up!’
Levin scrambled through the crowd with Dr Doyle behind him. The protesters protested as their toes were trampled and they were roughly shoved out of the path of the fugitive.
‘That man’s a killer!’ Dr Doyle shouted, plunging after Levin.
Roberts wasted no time in dodging through the crowd. He made a quick calculation and headed towards the Strand, hoping to cut the fleeing Levin off as he emerged from the crowd.
The aldermen were marching in stately fashion through the path cleared for them by the police, when Levin broke through the line of constables.
‘Stop him!’ Dr Doyle gasped.
Levin looked wildly around, saw that he was the centre of attention, and dashed through the line of policemen towards the carriages ranged at the Strand.
‘Who’s that man?’
‘Wot’s ’e done?’ someone else shouted out.
‘He’s killed two men,’ Dr Doyle told them. The aldermen uttered cries of horror. The constables muttered amongst themselves. The crowd was ready to turn into a mob again. There was a general murmur that grew into a roar as the men in Trafalgar Square moved in on the hunted man. Levin saw the mob and veered eastward, down the Strand, into the fog that was gathering at the Strand end of the square.
The mob surged forward. Levin turned to look behind him, when out of the fog loomed the last omnibus of the night, making its final run before the weary horse headed for its barn.
There was a sickening crunch, a jolt, and a whinny from the horse, which reared and pa
wed the air in alarm. The heavy hooves landed twice on the body under the wheels of the omnibus.
There was a positive symphony of tweets from the whistles of constables and sergeants of two police forces. Inspectors MacRae and Calloway were drawn away from their attendance on the alderman by the commotion at the Strand. By the time Mr Roberts and Dr Doyle arrived, Levin’s body had been pulled out from under the horse’s feet, and the horrified driver had been taken in hand by Inspectors Calloway and MacRae.
‘I swear to you, Inspector, I never saw ’im coming! ’E were right in front o’ me …’ the driver blubbered.
‘That’s all right,’ MacRae soothed the driver. ‘We saw it all. It’s no fault of yours.’
Dr Doyle bent over Levin’s broken body. ‘He’s dead,’ he pronounced. ‘As for the victim,’ he glanced at Levin, then faced the policemen, ‘this man was a fugitive, a murderer fleeing the law.’
‘Wot’s this?’ Inspector Calloway rumbled.
‘If you had taken the time to attend Mr Portman’s little party, you would have learned that Mr Levin is the one who killed both Samuel Basset and David Peterson,’ Dr Doyle informed him.
Inspector MacRae digested this, then turned to the driver of the omnibus. ‘We’ll need your number, and you’ll give a statement to Inspector Calloway here, but you may rest easy, my man.’
‘You’ve saved the Crown the cost of a trial and the trouble of ’angin’ ’im,’ Calloway added. ‘Nasty little bugger. ‘Oo would’ve thought ’e ’ad it in ’im?’
The thought was echoed by Mr Roberts and Dr Doyle as they slowly made their way back to the Café Royal.
‘Poor Levin,’ Roberts sighed, as they turned up Regent Street. ‘To tell you the truth, Doyle, I didn’t think he had the nerve. He must have been desperate.’
‘There’s no excuse for murder,’ Dr Doyle declared.
There was a brief note waiting for them at the Café Royal. Dr Doyle read it as he and Mr Roberts retrieved the dramatic cloak and balbriggan greatcoat that they had forgotten in their haste to find Levin.
‘Mr Portman has taken Miss Harvey back to her mother,’ Dr Doyle told Mr Roberts. ‘He says we’re all to meet back at the Press Club. He won’t like what we have to tell him.’
‘It’ll all be in the newspapers tomorrow,’ Roberts reminded him, as they hailed what must have been the last cab on Regent Street. ‘I wonder how your Mr Dodgson managed to work it all out.’
‘That,’ Dr Doyle told him, as they gave the directions to the cabby, ‘is what we are going to find out.’
CHAPTER 26
Peace had been restored in Trafalgar Square. The protesters had dispersed, jubilant at the announcement that work for street labourers would be forthcoming and aid to the indigent was to be doled out from the Guildhall. The reporters had it all in their notes: the procession, the announcement by the aldermen, and the reaction of the crowds. The odd behaviour of the young man who was subsequently run down by the omnibus was dealt with by Inspector MacRae, who issued a modest statement to the effect that the young man had apparently lost his way in the fog and that further information on the sad accident would be forthcoming from Scotland Yard when the young man had been identified. There was no mention of the murder of Samuel Basset.
MacRae and Calloway faced each other in Trafalgar Square as the reporters hustled off to Fleet Street to get their notes to their editors in time for the morning editions. The body of Andrew Levin had been taken off to Bart’s to join those of Samuel Basset and David Peterson, waiting for inquest.
‘Now wot?’ Calloway asked hoarsely.
MacRae adjusted his spectacles. ‘Now we make out our reports,’ he stated.
‘Hullo! Inspector MacRae! Inspector Calloway!’
The two policemen looked around to see who would address them at this hour of the night.
They were beckoned over to a cab that had been stopped at the Whitehall end of the square. Dr Doyle leaned out the door, the better to see in the fog.
‘We’re going to the Press Club. Mr Portman wanted you to be there when Mr Dodgson explained about Levin,’ Dr Doyle said, somewhat incoherently.
MacRae looked at Calloway, then back at Dr Doyle. ‘It was you chased that young man under the omnibus,’ MacRae said sternly.
‘I didn’t chase him,’ Dr Doyle retorted. ‘He ran. And if one of your constables had done his duty and stopped him, he wouldn’t have got that far.’
‘This don’t get us nowhere,’ Calloway said, heaving himself into the cab. ‘Come on, MacRae. I’d like to ’ear this Oxford perfesser explain ’ow ’e knows wot we don’t.’
MacRae summoned one of his constables. ‘Tell the chief inspector that I’m continuing the investigation into the death of Samuel Basset,’ he said. He turned back to Dr Doyle. ‘This is all very irregular,’ he complained.
Calloway wasted no time. He hauled MacRae into the cab and ordered the cabby to continue to St James’s. ‘At least we’ll be warm and dry,’ he said. Calloway hoped the gentlemen in the Press Club would be quick about their business so that he could get on home, where his stout wife waited for him with a late supper of cold meat and ale.
MacRae frowned into the darkness. He hated the idea of amateurs meddling in police business, especially when it led to tragedy. He was certain that, given time, he would have been able to collar Levin without loss of life or limb to anyone.
Dr Doyle sighed to himself and tried to decide if he had actually caused Levin to bolt or if the high-strung young man would have killed someone else if he had not been stopped.
Mr Roberts tried to visualize the exact angle of Levin’s head as he lay on the ground, and the glaze in his eyes. He could use that, perhaps, in another painting … Saint George and the Dragon? Or Gawain and the Green Knight?
All ruminations stopped as the cab pulled up to the Press Club. Norwich, the superior butler, led the group to the private elevator. ‘Mr Portman is waiting for you, sir,’ he pronounced, addressing Dr Doyle, who was clearly the only one of the four who could be considered a gentleman by a respectable butler.
The glum group in Mr Portman’s sitting room was not the same jolly crew that had laughed so heartily over dinner. Mr Wilde and Mr Portman sat on one of the long sofas, while Monteverde and Howarth, the two writers, perched unhappily on the other. Mr Dodgson stood in front of the fire staring into the coals.
‘I’ve brought Inspector Calloway and Inspector MacRae,’ Dr Doyle announced, as the two policemen were escorted into the private sitting room, hats in hands, and Mr Roberts took his favourite position propped up against the mantelpiece. ‘How is Miss Harvey?’
‘I have sent my own doctor around to attend her,’ Mr Portman said. ‘She is a very brave young woman.’
‘And a very determined one,’ Mr Dodgson murmured.
‘And where is Levin?’ Portman demanded, looking past Mr Roberts and the two policemen.
‘ ’E’s gone,’ Calloway said bluntly.
‘Gone?’ Mr Dodgson inquired. ‘Gone where?’
‘Gone under an omnibus,’ Roberts said, tossing his hair back. ‘He ran right under the horse and was trampled before we could stop him.’
There was a hushed silence. Then Mr Dodgson said serenely, ‘Perhaps Divine Providence works in mysterious ways. Mr Levin alive would have been disastrous.’
‘What do you mean?’ Portman’s attention was drawn back to the tall scholar who stood before the fire ready to lecture.
‘Mr Levin’s relationship to Mr Basset may have been quite innocent,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘However, there are other interpretations of their friendship, if one may call it that.’
‘Friendship?’ Wilde’s voice rose in pitch. ‘How can you call a relationship between two souls a mere friendship?’
Mr Dodgson shook his head. ‘Mr Wilde, I doubt very much whether Samuel Basset considered Andrew Levin a soul mate.’
There was a general hubbub as the rest of the staff of Youth’s Companion added their own comments to Wil
de’s.
Portman raised his hands to call for quiet. ‘Mr Dodgson,’ he said, ‘how did you come to suspect it was Levin who stabbed poor Sammy in the back? And why did he do it?’
‘In the first place, I did not suspect Mr Levin of anything more than intrusiveness,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘He was officious, but many clerks are. It is sometimes a part of their duties to sift through their employer’s letters, to bring those that are important to the attention of a busy man and answer those that are not with a polite but meaningless reply. Mr Levin, however, had begun to encroach upon Mr Basset’s prerogatives, and this Mr Basset would never allow.’
‘How do you mean, “encroach”?’ MacRae asked, notebook at the ready.
‘He had written to various well-known authors, myself included, requesting contributions,’ Mr Dodgson told him. ‘You yourself noted a small item from Mr Stevenson. My friend Harry Furniss had contributed a few illustrations.’
Portman looked around at the rest of the staff. ‘How did Levin think he could get away with it?’
Mr Dodgson said, ‘There are no bylines in your publication, Mr Portman. If one of my small offerings was included on a page, for instance, it might well be attributed to one of the staff writers. The fee for such a contribution may have been taken from the magazine’s profits.
‘Levin kept the books, of course, and he would have had to deduct the fees paid to contributors. He may well have deducted other sums for his own use. You will have to have one of your own accountants go over the ledgers very carefully, Mr Portman. And while you are doing so, you might check the cash box.’
‘Eh?’ Portman frowned in confusion.
‘Mr Levin was so insistent that there was no other key to the cash box than the one on Mr Basset’s watch chain that I suspect he might have had one made.’
Portman’s face grew crimson at the implications of this. ‘But that would mean that he had access to Sammy’s watch chain …’
‘Which, under normal circumstances, would not be removed in the office,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘Another indication that the relationship between Mr Basset and Mr Levin was one of great, ah, intimacy.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 28