Mr Portman’s curiosity was aroused. He led Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle down to the anteroom where Bert and Ern, the two young men from the Café Royal, were waiting. They had covered their loud checked suits with long black coats and substituted broad-brimmed black hats for their rakish billycocks to match their serious expressions.
Ern bowed to Mr Portman and nodded affably to Dr Doyle, as to a comrade-in-arms. ‘We was in Trafalgar Square last night,’ he began.
‘And we saw how Aaron, which you knew as Andrew Levin, were run down by the homnibus,’ Bert went on. ‘And we saw them coppers took up by a cab and brought over ’ere by yon Jock in the plaid coat.’
‘And we wants to know,’ Ern took up the inquisition, ‘wot’s toward wif our Aaron?’
‘He was trying to escape capture by the police,’ Dr Doyle explained. ‘My friend Mr Dodgson had proof that he murdered two men, one of them his employer, Mr Basset.’
Bert and Ern exchanged meaningful glances.
Dr Doyle added, ‘I assure you, there was nothing we could have done. It was a dreadful accident.’
The two youths nodded silently as if to say, If you say so.
‘There is to be an inquest at Bow Street this morning,’ Mr Portman told them. ‘If you have any evidence, you may give it there.’
‘Thank’ee, but Bert and me stays clear of the perlice,’ Ern said.
‘I allus told Aaron as ’ow ’e shouldn’t ’ave pushed it,’ Bert declared. ‘But ’e ’ad ambitions.’
‘And wot’s done is done,’ Ern decided, philosophically. ‘I’m ’is cousin. Wot we wants ter know is, where is ’e? So’s we can see ’im ’ome, so to speak.’
‘I believe the body of that unfortunate young man is still at Bart’s,’ Mr Dodgson told them. ‘Once the verdict has been handed down at the coroner’s inquest, you may inter him as you see fit.’
With this information in hand, the two young men left on their melancholy errand. The Portman carriage was ready to transport Mr Portman and his two guests to Bow Street, around knots of workmen clearing up the debris of the last two nights of snow, slush, and rioting.
The Bow Street Police Station was, if anything, even more crowded than it had been on Thursday morning. Mr Gosport had taken his cold home and was replaced by Mr Hampton, a relatively young and jovial justice, with a waggish turn of mind.
He gazed at the assembled riffraff and decided that it was to no one’s interest to keep any of them in custody. ‘Get on home,’ he ordered, ‘and find yourself better occupation than listening to lunatics, Socialists, and trade unionists.’
The men dispersed, grateful that they had not been fined and making up stories to tell their wives and mothers as to where they had been all night.
‘And now, let’s have the ringleaders,’ Hampton said. ‘Burns, Hyndman, O’Casey. How plead you?’
Hyndman stared grandly about the courtroom. The only people left to impress were the gentlemen of the Fourth Estate. He raised his head and declared. ‘I am guilty of demanding justice! The workingmen of the world will not be denied their rights!’
Hampton shrugged. ‘What about you two? Do you want to spend the next year in prison, or will you go back to your own families and stop this ceaseless bawling and brawling in the streets?’
Burns scowled. O’Casey looked at his employer, then at his newfound comrades-in-arms.
‘We stand united,’ Burns stated. O’Casey nodded in agreement.
‘This won’t do,’ Hampton scolded them. ‘O’Casey,’ he consulted the notes laid before him by O’Casey’s solicitor (provided by Mr Portman), ‘you’re the only honest workingman in this lot. Do you really think you can change the world by going to jail for a year?’
O’Casey looked at Burns and Hyndman, then at Portman. ‘I been talking to John here, and he’s right. Us workingmen have to stand together. I’ll go to jail if I have to, but I won’t go back to what I was.’
‘Then so ruled.’ The magistrate slammed his gavel down, and the three men were led back into the cells.
‘It’s a pity O’Casey has no thought for his family,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘His wife must be quite upset. There are children, too, I understand.’
‘I’ll do what I can,’ Portman promised him. ‘But a man who turns his back on a good position to join the likes of Henry Hyndman and John Burns must be as mad as Levin.’
Hampton looked around to see what was next on his agenda. ‘Coroner’s inquest?’ he asked, looking at his papers. ‘Whose inquest?’
‘A result of two nights’ riots.’ Inspector MacRae stood up, with Inspector Calloway at his side. ‘Three deaths: Mr Samuel Basset, on Fleet Street; Mr David Peterson, in the Strand; Mr Aaron Levy, also known as Andrew Levin, in Trafalgar Square.’
Hampton examined the reports in front of him. ‘Aha. Basset … stab wound? That doesn’t sound like the result of a riot. People don’t go stabbing other people in the middle of a riot.’
‘The murder may ’ave been committed by Mr Andrew Levin, ’oo was inflamed by the speeches and took a knife to ’is employer in consequence,’ Calloway said ponderously. ‘Which Andrew Levin, also known as Aaron Levy, were run down by a homnibus in the fog last night.’
‘How providential,’ Justice Hampton observed. ‘What proof do you have that this Levin stabbed his employer?’
‘We have the knife used for the purpose. We also have evidence provided by Mr Dodgson here,’ Inspector MacRae said, indicating the shrinking scholar, ‘that places Levin at the scene of the crime with sufficient motive and with the means to do it. That would have placed him in the dock had he not had the fatal accident.’
‘As for Mr Peterson,’ Calloway went on, ‘ ’e were ‘it by a brick in the middle of Wednesday night’s snow. Death by misadventure, if ever there was one.’
‘Don’t presume to do my job for me, Inspector.’ Hampton looked about the nearly empty courtroom. The press had followed Hyndman, Burns, and O’Casey in hopes of getting more rhetoric to pad out their stories. Only two women sat in the public gallery: a careworn Irishwoman in a hand-knitted shawl of the same pattern as O’Casey’s woollen scarf and Myrna Peterson, draped in black.
‘Is there any evidence to the contrary?’ Justice Hampton asked sharply. There was no answer.
Dr Doyle opened his mouth, then closed it again as he met Mr Dodgson’s accusing gaze. Should he mention the fact that Levin had not worn gloves last night, although he was otherwise elegantly dressed? Should he tell the police to look for those gloves, which may well be soiled with brick dust and the remains of David Peterson?
Dr Doyle closed his mouth and shook his head. Perhaps there were some things that were best left undeclared. It would do no one any good to reveal Mr Basset’s secret vice, or David Peterson’s brief attempt at blackmail, or Andrew Levin’s sordid youthful indiscretions. Better to let these sleeping dogs lie and go back to Southsea.
‘Then it is the opinion of this court that Samuel Basset died at the hands of Andrew Levin, also known as Aaron Levy, who was himself killed in a street accident. David Peterson was the victim of a felonious attack by persons unknown as a consequence of the riot on Wednesday night.’ The gavel came down sharply, and the magistrate looked about for the next case.
Myrna Peterson stepped up to Nicky Portman as he was preparing to leave the Bow Street Police Court.
‘Mrs Peterson,’ Mr Portman greeted her. ‘I am truly sorry the murderer of your husband could not be apprehended….’
Myrna put her veil aside. ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘However, I had to speak to you about something quite different. I know this is not really the time to discuss business, but I have to think of my children….’ She took another breath, then said, ‘I have several manuscripts, written by my husband, for publication. They were never submitted to Portman Penny Press, or anywhere else, because he had not quite finished the stories to his own satisfaction, but She stopped, peering up into Portman’s face.
‘I shall publish them, never
fear,’ Portman promised her.
Mr Dodgson coughed diffidently behind them. ‘Ahem. May I point out that Mr Samuel Basset’s new volume, King Arthur in London, was taken from an outline submitted by Mr Peterson. Perhaps this fact could be incorporated into the tide page, and Mrs Peterson could be given a portion of the royalties? This, with the royalties from Mr Peterson’s other works, might provide a small income for Mrs Peterson and her children.’
Portman nodded. ‘Of course, Mr Dodgson. An excellent idea. And I shall attend the funeral, Mrs Peterson. I am truly sorry for your loss. David was a good writer. He shall be sorely missed at Youth’s Companion.’
Mr Portman turned to Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle. ‘I do wish I could have been more helpful about printing your stories, Dr Doyle, but you see how it is. I would be quite happy to read any of your new writings, should you send them.’ He smiled briefly at Dr Doyle, then went on. ‘Mr Dodgson, thank you for your efforts in uncovering the truth about poor Sammy’s death, but you are quite right when you say that it would be best for all concerned if the events of the last two days never came to light. Good day, gentlemen!’
He put on his silk hat, strode out into Bow Street, and mounted his carriage, leaving Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle to seek a cab for themselves.
‘I must get to Victoria,’ Dr Doyle told his mentor.
‘And I must get to Paddington,’ Mr Dodgson said.
‘Do you suppose Mr Portman was right? That I should give up my idea for a historical novel and try my hand at a mystery story instead?’
Mr Dodgson considered and said, ‘I think you should write what suits you, Dr Doyle.’
‘In that case,’ Dr Doyle decided, as he flagged down a cab, ‘I shall take this tangled skein of ours and weave a shilling shocker out of it that will make Mr Nicholas Portman sit up and take notice!’
‘And I shall look forward to reading it,’ Mr Dodgson said. ‘I should expect no less of Dicky Doyle’s nephew.’
AFTERWORD
Youth’s Companion continued to be published under the imprimatur of Portman Penny Press. Mr Nicholas Portman took on the editing chores for a year, then passed them on to his able assistant, Miss Helen Harvey, when he inherited Portman Penny Press on the death of his father. They were married in the spring of 1887. While Mr Portman expanded the Penny Press into a publishing empire, Mrs Portman ruled the world of the children’s literature until after the Great War, when she reluctantly retired from active participation in publishing. They died within a few months of each other in the influenza epidemic of 1920, leaving the Portman Penny Press in the hands of their two sons.
The painting of Miss Helen Harvey as Queen Mab, by Edgar Roberts, was one of the sensations of the Royal Academy Salon in 1887. As a result, Mr Roberts became one of the most popular painters of the fantastic, with a great vogue in the 1880s and ’90s. Although the market for fairy painting slackened after the turn of the century, he continued to paint scenes of fairy palaces and strange landscapes that no one wanted to buy until he died of malnutrition in 1930. His works are now coming back into style; one recently sold at auction for £20,000.
Roberto Monteverde and Winslow Howarth continued at Youth’s Companion, with Miss Harvey (later Mrs Portman) at the helm. They also collaborated on the Monte Winslow Guides to Fine Dining, published annually by the Portman Penny Press.
Myrna Peterson managed to live on the royalties left by her husband’s books until she married Winslow Howarth after her year of mourning was over. Their marriage was long and happy, and Howarth was a kind stepfather to his old friend’s children, as well as fathering several of his own.
The autographed copy of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland remained one of Flora Peterson’s prized possessions, handed down from mother to daughter for four generations. It was only after the Second World War, when the Howarth-Peterson family fell on hard times, that the book was offered for auction. It was sold to a private collector for £250,000.
Seamus O’Casey never went back to the printing plant. Instead, he became a professional rabble-rouser and trade union agitator, much to the despair of his wife, who was left to raise the children on the salary she earned as a cleaner at Youth’s Companion. (See Historical Notes).
Mr Dodgson returned to Oxford and explained to Dean Liddell that he had been unavoidably detained because of the bad weather. He did not mention the riots, the Bow Street jail, or the Café Royal.
Dr Doyle regaled his wife with the story of his adventures, and then drew up the plot of a new story, to be called ‘A Tangled Skein’. He later changed the name of the story, the name of the chief characters, and some of the plot … but that is, in itself, another story.
HISTORICAL NOTES
The Trafalgar Square Riots of 9, 10, and 11 February 1886, are a matter of public record, leading off what amounted to a decade of social unrest. Henry Hyndman and John Burns led a group of dissatisfied unemployed workers to Trafalgar Square through the Strand, where they met the Fair Trade League, led by Tom Mann, who had been given permission to hold a meeting protesting the lack of employment for unskilled workers. The two groups fought each other, the police fought all of them, and through it all, a heavy snow fell, making it hard to tell friend from foe. The following two days were filled with fear for the upper and middle classes and hopes of mob action for the working classes. The matter was resolved, as I have shown, by private contributions to the Lord Mayor’s Fund, a discretionary fund that provided some sort of relief to the indigent. This proved to be only a temporary stopgap. There was labour agitation through the 1880s and ’90s until legislation was passed guaranteeing workers some basic rights. Henry Hyndman and John Burns were tried for sedition in April of 1886, and were acquitted.
I have taken certain liberties with the actual events, by moving the day of the riot from Tuesday to Wednesday, mostly to save Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle a long and ultimately pointless journey to Maida Vale to interview John Tenniel, and including a more dramatic conclusion to the event than was reported at the same time.
The Wednesday-night dinners at Punch were occasions of great hilarity, with food brought in from the best restaurants, and fine wines to accompany the meal. This was a ‘working dinner’, strictly stag, after which the following week’s issue would be lined out, and the subject matter for the ‘big cut’, i.e., the political cartoon on the front page, would be given to Tenniel, who would then come up with the required illustration. The big cut for the week of 12 February showed the allegorical figures as I have described them.
The printing history of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland is complex, partly because there were two first printings. The first run of the book did not pass the stern eyes of either Tenniel or Dodgson, who saw minute discrepancies in the illustrations. That run was to be discarded, and the books were sent to such institutions as could not afford better copies (at Mr Dodgson’s expense, since he was paying for the printing). The few copies of this run that survived are now museum pieces and are literally priceless.
The Café Royal still stands in Regent Street, although under different management. Oscar Wilde held court there in the Grill Room, as I have described, throughout the 1880s and ’90s, until his arrest on a charge of Gross Indecency in 1896. Wilde held an editorial position at a magazine for women from 1886 to 1887, when he began to write for the theatre.
Oscar Wilde and Arthur Conan Doyle actually met at a dinner party in 1889. They never became intimate associates, but each read and respected the works of the other.
Toynbee Hall was established by Canon Samuel Augustus Barnett in 1884 in Whitechapel as the forerunner of the settlement-house movement that inspired such social reformers as Jane Addams in Chicago and Lilian Wald in New York. The early buildings have been replaced by an education complex, and the institution now encompasses social services for all ages, from the very young to the very old.
The clubs still occupy St James’s Square and Pall Mall, but the Press Club is not one of them, since it is my own invention.
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Mr Dodgson and Dr Doyle never met. This story is an exercise in ‘What if …’
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Information about the February riots came from two sources: Outcast London: A Study in the Relationship Between Classes in Victorian Society, by Gareth Stedman Jones (Pantheon, 1971), and The Journals of Beatrix Potter (1995). Miss Potter was nineteen at the time, very politically aware, and gives a full account of the incident and its repercussions among the moneyed classes. Mr Jones, writing from the perspective of a century later, puts the incident into the larger context of Victorian society and quotes extensively from contemporary sources.
I found photographs and maps of Victorian London in Charles Viney’s Sherlock Holmes in London (Smithmark, 1995) and photographs of London working people in John Thomson’s Victorian London Street Life (Dover Publications, 1994).
In addition, I would like to thank the following people for their kind advice and information: Mr Fred Wharton, Head Custodian at Christ Church, Oxford, and ex-policeman, who put me right about British police procedure; Dr Gayithri R. Keshav, M.D., who spent several hours on a plane to Chicago explaining the finer points of back stabbing; Mr John Hale, of Robert Hale Publishing, who explained about British office life and allowed me to use his desk; Ms Stella Wilkins, of Abner Stein, my London agent, who took me to lunch at a perfect restaurant; Mark, the doorman at the Café Royal, who gave me a brief history of the place. And, as always, Keith Kahla, my faithful editor at St Martin’s Press; Cherry Weiner, my ever-helpful agent and mentor; and my husband and biggest fan, Murray Rogow.
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Problem of the Evil Editor Page 30