‘So Sammy discovered that Levin was corresponding with contributors on his own,’ Portman said hurriedly, obviously uncomfortable at the public revelations of his friend’s private life.
‘That was my fault. I deeply regret any harm I may have done,’ Mr Dodgson said with painful honesty. ‘I only wished to assist my friend Doyle by introducing him to some of the people who might take an interest in his work. I may have precipitated events.’
‘It would have come out sooner or later,’ Howarth said, consoling the distraught scholar. ‘And when Basset went over the books, he’d have found out what Levin was up to.’
Monteverde shrugged expressively. ‘But that wouldn’t make Levin want to kill the old hound,’ he objected. ‘Unless this was more than just the usual lovers’ quarrel.’
‘Surely,’ Portman said, ignoring the implications of the last remark, ‘Levin could have found another position.’
‘But not that one,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘What Mr Levin wanted was what Mr Basset had promised him, without, as my theatrical friends have it, paying one’s dues. He wanted the editorial position now, not in twenty years. Young people can be very impulsive.’ He shook his head sadly.
‘You still haven’t told us how you worked it all out,’ Howarth said.
‘How did you hit on Levin?’ Monteverde added.
‘And why did Levin hit poor old Peterson?’ Wilde asked.
‘Actually, there were two persons in the office who drew my attention.’ Mr Dodgson took a deep breath, to control his stammer.
‘Two” Calloway had his own notebook out.
‘Mr Roberts had several grievances against Mr Basset. He is a man of strong passions with a hot temper. I saw him handle the fatal dagger during the argument in Mr Basset’s office that afternoon. What is more, he was in the Strand that night, he had keys to the building, and he is a tall man with long arms. And to clinch the matter, as my students would say, Dr Doyle and I found the bloodstained dagger amongst his papers after we interviewed him this afternoon.’
‘What?’ Roberts strode forward, ready to throttle the scholar.
Mr Portman stepped between them. ‘Easy on, Roberts.’ He turned to Mr Dodgson. ‘What drew your attention off Roberts and on to Levin?’
‘I would have dismissed Mr Levin as another officious clerk, as I said, except that he seemed to know a great deal more about Mr Basset than any clerk had a right to know, such as his flat direction on Baker Street. And then, the following day, when Mrs Peterson came into the office, what was it that Mr Levin said?’ He turned to Dr Doyle.
‘To tell the truth,’ Dr Doyle admitted, ‘I didn’t pay much attention to Levin, what with Mrs Peterson having hysterics.’
‘I do not hear well, but I certainly heard Mr Levin remark that Mr Peterson had been, in his words, “left in an alley in the snow”,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘But the police had not said anything about the particulars of Mr Peterson’s death, and there was nothing about it in the newspapers.’
‘No need to tell a pack of meddling reporters wot they ’ad no reason to know,’ Calloway said defensively, reddening under the sudden scrutiny of so many pairs of eyes.
‘And then I spoke to Miss Flora Peterson, who is a very clever child.’ Mr Dodgson took back the centre stage. ‘She remarked that one cannot be two people. However, it struck me that there are certain persons who hide their true nature, who are indeed two people. Mr Basset seemed to have a double life. Could not there be another person in that office, someone with a secret to hide?
‘As Dr Doyle and I continued to discover more about Mr Basset, we kept running into Mr Levin. He had been known to the people at Toynbee Hall and St Jude’s in Whitechapel. He knew the young men who haunt the Café Royal, and although he had been the one to hire Miss Harvey, as soon as she appeared to make herself at home at the office, he evinced clear signs of jealousy.’
‘Of Miss Harvey?’ Portman exploded.
‘Miss Harvey was taking on the position of executive assistant that Mr Levin considered his own,’ Mr Dodgson pointed out. ‘Whereas you relegated Mr Levin to the position of errand boy, sending him to fetch and carry.’
Portman looked embarrassed. ‘I couldn’t stick him,’ he admitted. ‘There was something about him that made me uneasy.’
‘He was certainly nervous,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘As well he should have been. He was holding on to his nerves with both hands, as it were.’
‘And I suppose he was the one who took the animals off the wall in Mr Basset’s office and messed up the papers,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘But why?’
Mr Dodgson sighed. ‘Undoubtedly, Mr Levin removed the mounted heads before he locked up the office for the night in anticipation of taking possession of the office for what he was certain would be his own occupation of the position.’
‘But that’s nonsense,’ Mr Portman burst out. ‘Levin was never even in the running for that position!’
‘But he did not know that,’ Mr Dodgson went on. ‘I suspect that one of the reasons he killed Mr Peterson was because Mr Peterson made it clear that he, and not Levin, was the most likely prospect for the chair.’
‘I saw David in the Strand,’ Roberts said. ‘I should have said something….’
‘I doubt that you could have known what Mr Levin was about,’ Mr Dodgson consoled him. ‘There is the true tragedy. Like the rest of you, Mr Peterson thought that Mr Levin was a person of no account, a worm who had turned but would turn no more. He did not know that Andrew Levin would literally do anything to gain what he thought he had earned through his, ah, relationship with Mr Basset.
‘It was bad enough that he should stab his benefactor, but to destroy a man with whom he had worked for several years, a man with children … I am only sorry that he will not hang. Divine Providence has taken that responsibility from us.’ Mr Dodgson stopped, overcome with indignation.
‘What about the knife?’ Monteverde asked. ‘When did he pick that up?’
‘He must have taken it during his final argument with Mr Basset,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘He could have seen me discover the knife over the lintel while he was running to and from the printing plant in the cellar. He had to find another hiding place for it and chose to incriminate another of the staff, one who may have derided him in his illustrations.’
Mr Dodgson shook his head as he contemplated the duplicity of the clerk. ‘That, of course, was the final error, the one thing he could have done that would eliminate you, Mr Roberts, as the murderer.’
‘Eh?’ Calloway was trying to follow Mr Dodgson’s reasoning. ‘How do you know that?’
‘Because Mr Roberts was in his garret with Mr Peterson while Mr Basset was being let out by Mr Levin,’ Mr Dodgson explained. ‘Miss Harvey confirmed what I had already surmised. Neither Mr Roberts nor Mr Peterson could have come down the stairs without being seen by Miss Harvey who was in the office with the door wide-open.
‘Miss Harvey heard the voice of the street corner orator and the sounds of the crowd; therefore, the front door must have been open, for the street noises were not apparent when the door was shut. She heard Mr Basset cry out and thought it was one of the rioters in the street.
‘Mr Basset must have known who had stabbed him. That is what he was trying to tell us when he died. He was looking at Mr Levin, who had just closed the door.’ Mr Dodgson stopped for breath.
Dr Doyle shook his head. ‘The man must have been mad,’ he whispered.
‘As I said, obsession is a kind of madness,’ Mr Dodgson agreed. ‘Mr Levin was obsessed with the need to put his past behind him, and to take on responsibilities for which he was in no way suited.’
Inspector MacRae was still unconvinced. ‘Just how did Basset make the acquaintance of this Levin?’
Mr Dodgson looked into the fire. ‘I think, Inspector, that you will discover that Mr Levin, or Aaron Levy, was one of those young men who hang about places like the Café Royal hoping to attract the attention of a gentleman like Samuel Basset. They were seen d
ining there at least once, possibly more than once. Mr Levin’s features are quite striking, and Mr Basset is not unknown.’
‘I can vouch for that,’ Wilde put in.
‘I must now depart from fact and descend into supposition,’ Mr Dodgson went on. ‘I cannot tell whether Mr Levin placed himself in Mr Basset’s orbit by deliberately going to Toynbee Hall before or after their first meeting. What is certain is that the two men did become acquainted and, perhaps, intimate.’ Mr Dodgson swallowed hard, then forged ahead with his speech. ‘Mr Levin may have affected an interest in Mr Basset’s work. Mr Basset, to his credit, offered to train the young man. He probably offered to pay for some clothes that would be more suitable to an office position than the garments worn by the, um, young men at the Café Royal. However, there was a price to be paid for Mr Basset’s patronage. Mr Levin was to be berated in public, made to work like a drudge, and generally treated like a servant.’
‘We always wondered why he took it,’ Monteverde said, shaking his head. ‘David would have his opinion, of course. He’d known Basset since they were both at Portman Penny Press, and he knew the kind of company Basset kept. Begging your pardon, sir,’ he turned to Mr Portman.
Portman sighed. ‘You see, Mr Dodgson, I was right. It was one of those young thugs after all.’
‘Indeed it was,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘And now, Mr Portman, you see your dilemma.’
‘My dilemma?’ Portman echoed.
‘It is quite bad enough that Mr Basset should have died at the hands of an employee with a grudge. If the exact nature of the grudge became common gossip, parents may well refuse to let their children read Youth’s Companion. Your publication would be considered tainted because of the editor’s, um, peccadilloes.’
Portman turned to the two policemen. ‘We must keep this quiet,’ he said urgently.
Inspectors MacRae and Calloway looked at each other, then at the rich and influential publisher.
‘This has been a difficult day for all London,’ MacRae said slowly. ‘What with the riot last night, and more of the same tonight, it’s possible that someone might have got carried away.’
‘This ’ere Levin, ’e might ’ave ’eard yon socialists on their soapbox and taken ’em literal,’ Calloway conjectured.
‘And the writer, Peterson?’ MacRae shrugged. ‘As we said before, a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. With your Mr Levin gone, who’s to say differently?’
‘I shall have to make a statement to the press,’ Portman said. ‘I shall express deep regret at the loss of my dear friend Sammy Basset and I will be equally unhappy at the loss of David Peterson, a valued member of our little family at Youth’s Companion. And I will be quite shocked to hear that Andrew Levin, Mr Basset’s confidential secretary, was run down by an omnibus in the fog tonight.’
Dr Doyle listened, appalled. ‘You are going to perpetrate a fraud on the public!’ he exclaimed.
Mr Portman eyed the young doctor with a look of experience. ‘It will do no one any good to vilify poor Sammy now,’ he said. ‘David’s family need not know that he was capable of blackmail, and Levin … I don’t even know if he had a family.’
‘I suspect the young men at the Café Royal will know,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘As for Mr Peterson’s wife and children, they will remember him as a loving father and husband. There are times, Dr Doyle, when the truth is best left unsaid, and this is one of them.’
‘Thank goodness this week’s issue is printed up,’ Monteverde said. ‘I don’t know what we’re going to do about next week though.’ He glanced at his comrade-in-arms. ‘Win is the writer; I’m the editor. David could do it all, of course, but he’s not here. What do we do now?’
Portman frowned, then said, ‘I think tomorrow the offices will remain closed so that we may attend the inquests on our dear friends Samuel Basset and David Peterson, and also on Mr Andrew Levin, who was, after all, a person employed by Portman Penny Press. After that, I may have to take up the reins until we can find someone else.’
‘Not Mr Wilde?’ Mr Dodgson asked innocently.
‘Definitely not Mr Wilde,’ Portman stated firmly.
‘Why not?’ Oscar protested. ‘I can choose a story as well as Sammy Basset could, and I’m a much better writer.’
Mr Portman shook his head and smiled at his friend. ‘Oscar, you are a good chap, but I do not think you are really a suitable editor for a magazine for young persons. No, I had another thought. I shall speak to Miss Harvey as soon as she is recovered from her distressing adventure. She appears to be a young woman of amazing good sense, with a talent for bringing order out of chaos. Women are good with children. It would be a real innovation for a woman to assist in a publication devoted to children. I must think about it.’
‘A most interesting idea,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘And now, if you please, Mr Portman, I must seek my bed. It has been, as you have said, a most eventful day, and I must take the early train back to Oxford.’
The scholar and the others bowed themselves out of the room, leaving the two policemen to consult with Mr Portman as to the time and place of the inquest on the staff of Youth’s Companion and the disposition of the body and personal effects of Mr Samuel Basset.
‘And that’s that,’ MacRae told his City of London Police colleague, as they were shown out by the supercilious butler. ‘Mob’s gone, murderer’s taken care of. Now we can all go home.’
CHAPTER 27
Friday dawned bright and fair, a positive relief after the snow and fog of the previous two days. The February sky overhead was blue, and the chilly air held a promise of spring.
The streets of London rang with the sound of workmen plying their many trades. The Guildhall had fulfilled the promise given by the Lord Mayor and aldermen, and an army of sweepers were busily removing the debris of the last two days’ riots. Bread and milk were being doled out to small children, and ragged women lined up to receive a few pennies each, which would buy enough stringy beef or suspiciously pungent fish to keep the men at their labours. Clearly, God was in his Heaven, all was right with the world, and London was itself again.
The morning newspapers were full of the dramatic events of the previous night. The speeches were described in detail, as was the aldermen’s announcement of the replenishment of the Lord Mayor’s Fund. Nothing was said about the unfortunate young man who had run under the omnibus in the fog.
Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle met Mr Portman at breakfast in the dining-room of the Press Club. Mr Portman had taken great care with his toilet this morning. He had to walk the fine line between extravagant mourning and businesslike attire fit for the halls of justice.
‘You need not attend the inquest,’ Mr Portman explained to his overnight guests.
‘We may be called upon to give testimony on Mr Basset’s demise,’ Mr Dodgson pointed out. ‘I can only hope that the press will find the arraignment of Mr Hyndman and Mr Burns more entertaining than an inquest on the editor of a publication devoted to children. I should not like Dean Liddell to find out how I spent the last two days.’
Portman laughed heartily. ‘I don’t see what difference it could possibly make to Christ Church if you chose to stay in London,’ he said, digging into a plateful of bacon and eggs.
Mr Dodgson sighed. ‘You are relatively young, Mr Portman, and you associate chiefly with literary persons. I can assure you, sir, that Dean Liddell does not look favourably on my recent endeavours to further the literary ambitions of some of my younger colleagues.’ He looked hard at Dr Doyle, who was cheerfully boning a kipper. ‘As for the last two days, I can always explain that I was detained in London because of the weather. First the snow and then the fog made any railway travel out of London well-nigh impossible.’
‘And you don’t have to mention the Café Royal, or Baker Street, or Toynbee Hall,’ Dr Doyle said. ‘However, I mean to tell all of it to Touie as soon as I see her. My wife,’ he explained to Mr Portman.
‘Of course,’ Mr Portman said.
Mr Dodgs
on drank his tea and swallowed carefully. Then he cleared his throat and asked, ‘How did you get on with the, er, editing yesterday?’
Portman beamed. ‘Quite interesting. So many people trying to get their stories published and in quite the wrong place, too. I never knew there were so many writers in London, let alone England.’
‘And Scotland, Ireland, and Wales,’ Dr Doyle put in. He fidgeted in his chair, then blurted out, ‘Mr Wilde said that he liked my stories. Have you read them yourself?’ His voice rose in anticipation.
Portman stopped beaming. ‘Ahem. Well, actually, yes, I did.’
‘And …?’ Dr Doyle leaned forward eagerly.
Portman’s face twisted in an agony of indecision. I thought they were very … interesting,’ he said at last. ‘But Sammy was right about one thing. They were not what we want for Youth’s Companion.’
Dr Doyle’s face fell. Then he asked hopefully, ‘Perhaps they could be used in another publication of the Portman Penny Press?’
Portman took a deep breath. ‘The difficulty,’ he said at last, ‘the difficulty is the length of the tales. They are too long and complex for Youth’s Companion, but they are too short to be published by themselves. What we need,’ he said, warming to his subject, ‘is a good shilling shocker, some story that will grab the reader, with a set of characters who can be used in several novels, in a series. A mysterious death in a strange and unusual place, a heroine in danger, and a dauntless hero …’
‘A Gothic romance?’ Dr Doyle shook his head. ‘I think not, Mr Portman. What would be truly interesting to the public would be a perfectly ordinary setting, like London, and a detective who uses the latest scientific knowledge to solve his cases. That, sir, would be new and exciting.’
‘I would like to see a story like that,’ Mr Portman said. ‘Norwich, what is it?’
The butler was summoning him to the door. ‘There are some persons outside, Mr Portman. I did not wish to permit them further than the vestibule.’
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 29