by Tim Mason
“Forgive me, Mother.”
She lowered her sack to the ground and fished a half round from it. “Thank you,” said Field humbly.
“Don’t drink,” said the old woman. “Look after your wife and children.” She hoisted the bag and moved on. He bit into the loaf and ate ravenously, even as tears came streaming down his face.
Belinda. Tom. Josiah. Sam.
He dried his face and dressed himself. From Jake Figgis at the butcher’s stall he got a cup of tea.
“Bless you and your wife for taking in Mrs. Ginty, Inspector,” said Jake. “She’s that troubled in her mind, along of her boy gone missing.”
“I had her boy and lost him. Whatever you do, don’t bless me.”
And then Field began to walk. He walked from the Fortune of War to Green Park, scanning the ground for even a hint of little Belinda. He walked back again, along a different route. And to the park again, searching for the girl and for everything else he’d lost. Between Charles Dickens and Charles Darwin, Field was no longer certain who he was. Clearly he was not the clever detective Dickens had drawn. Was he no more than a fortuitous collection of atoms?
Perhaps not even fortuitous, if it comes to that.
Again and again, he crossed the town. It was very late when he finally presented himself at No. 2 Bow Street. Jane opened the door to him in her nightclothes. Field stood empty-handed and silent before her. Without a word Jane led him up to their bed where he slept like a dead thing.
Oxford
Samuel Wilberforce was a quivering jelly by the time Richard Owen arrived at Oxford in answer to the bishop’s urgent bidding. Wilberforce’s normally ruddy complexion was ashen. His reedy voice shook and his hands trembled as they clasped each other. Owen suggested they walk together along the Isis.
“Why me?” said Wilberforce. “I’ve never even met the man.”
“When did it come?”
“Yesterday. I was never a party to any conspiracy!”
“Now, now, Wilberforce . . .”
“I was not! I never knew what you and the others were getting up to and I never wanted to know!”
“Don’t shout, man. People are looking.”
Fog and morning rain had given way to cool September sunshine. The grass in Christ Church meadow glistened.
“From where was it sent?”
“Ostend. ‘What’s this,’ I thought—a parcel from Belgium.”
“So he’s already launched himself,” muttered Owen.
“I have former students throughout the continent; it’s not unheard of for one of them to send me a little gift, a token of gratitude or affection. It never occurred to me not to open it. Oh, God, I feel sick, even now!”
“Steady on, Wilberforce.”
“It’s no wonder poor Sir Jasper hobbled so. The toe in the parcel was three times the size it should have been. ‘Sir Jasper would send his regrets if he were able, full stop.’” The bishop stopped and put his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths.
“Calm yourself, Wilberforce.”
“Calm myself? I’m in fear of my life!”
“Mr. Cobb has gone out of the country, anyway.”
“Stop!” The bishop looked about guiltily and then lowered his voice. “No names! I will hear no names!” They walked on in silence for a few moments. “Who is this man? Some sort of assassin?”
“You know very well he is an assassin, Wilberforce. Your hypocritical posing is wasted on me.”
“Damn you, Owen! You’re an arrogant prick! Everyone knows it, everyone agrees. No one can bear you actually, did you know that? No one!”
“When you’ve done with your childish taunts, my lord bishop, perhaps we can discuss a strategy.”
“Here is my strategy: I am finished with you! You may consider our acquaintance to be at an end!”
Owen sighed. “Tiresome man. Well, let it be as you wish. You will be discreet, my lord? Thoroughly so?”
“Of course. What do you take me for?”
A flock of starlings swooped and dove in the distance.
“We will watch quietly, then, as events unfold,” said Owen, looking off at the birds. “Perhaps he will be apprehended.”
“Pray God they hang him on the spot!”
London
The Huxley household was once again in a state of profoundest anxiety. At the beginning of the summer, the little boy, Noel, had recovered from whatever childhood disease he had suffered. The visits from the physicians had ceased. Thomas Huxley and his wife had rejoiced (and so had Mary Do-Not, née Withers).
Now, though, the doctors were back. The nursery again became a sick ward. People talked in whispers, and the servants put down straw in the road outside the house to quiet the wheels of the passing carriages. Noel Huxley lay gravely ill and his parents were distraught. Mary, going about her duties, renewed her prayers for the little boy’s recovery.
And then—Mary called it answered prayer—Cook reported that the doctors were saying it was the scarlet fever that laid the boy low—not typhoid at all! No one could accuse Mary of somehow bringing the typhoid into the house, because it wasn’t there! The girl was very sorry for the little boy and his parents, but there was a voice deep within her that was singing for joy. Her history of the world made wonderful progress during late-night writing sessions; it leapt forward. By the time the four-year-old died, she was up to the beheading of Charles I.
Less than a week later, though, Cook herself took to bed with a high fever and stomach pains. A swath of rose-colored spots spread across her abdomen. The next day her fever was even higher. Mary quietly packed her clothing and her pages. She stole a quantity of cash from the household box and slipped out in the dead of night.
Near Ostend, Belgium
Tom didn’t know whose grand country house they were staying in, and, of course, he didn’t inquire. From the elegant bedroom he’d been assigned, he heard voices in the night. The servants spoke German, never mind that Master called this place Belgium. Tom was learning words. He surprised himself and those around him by how quickly he was able to understand short phrases and to repeat them.
But the big thing was the horse. Master said she was to be his! Standing before her, Tom was suddenly reminded of his first journey, when he was eight years old. They called the place Dorset. His mother and father were there, and sister Lily, aged six. Uncles, aunts, cousins. But mostly he remembered the horse! She was a brown mare called Julie. His father put him in the saddle and walked alongside, one hand on Tom’s ankle, talking quiet to Julie. How did you know to talk to horses, Dad? It was the good time, the best, before the sickness came.
“Tom,” said Master, bringing the boy out of his memories, “what will you call her?” A groom helped Tom up into the saddle.
“Lily.”
Day after day he rode. He was up before dawn with the staff. At first he rode with the groom; soon he rode alone. He rode over the wet meadows as the sun rose. A saddle, he felt, was the place on earth where he most belonged: the strong chestnut flanks between his legs, the sweat and smell of the hide, the rhythms of the different gaits jolting his body, the dizzying speed and the heart-pounding thunder of the hooves.
In no time at all Tom on his chestnut could ride better than Master on his jet-black horse; Master generally stood in the stirrups, rather than sit, as if always ready to leap.
32
London
At No. 2 Bow Street, Bessie Shoreham left the gentleman standing at the door while she went to confer with her mistress. Eventually she returned, dipped a curtsy, and said, “Lady of the house begs pardon but says Master is laid up ill.”
“Kindly tell the lady of the house that my errand with her husband is of the greatest urgency, or I wouldn’t press the matter.”
Once again Bessie made the trip from street door to her employers’ bedchamber and back with a refusal. Finally Charles Field himself descended the stairs in a dressing gown and a temper.
“Listen, you. If you want to take
me in charge, have the goodness to wait a day, will you? For old times’ sake and for all I done for the Metropolitan? I’ve been long gone from my good wife and I’ve been unwell. Surely Commissioner Mayne can wait one day more to see me in custody!” Field was just a few steps from the gentleman when he stopped. “Good Lord, who are you?”
The gentleman smiled. “We have met, you know, Inspector Field.”
“Shoot me for a fool, you’re Sir Horace Dugdale. From the palace.”
Sir Horace bowed.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Field.
Jane stood on the staircase above her husband, and Bessie with her. Martha Ginty had come up from the kitchen below and stood staring at the visitor.
“Well,” said Sir Horace, cheerily, “hullo, all!”
Jane and Bessie curtsied.
“Now that we’ve cleared up the mystery of my identity, I hope I can prevail upon you, Inspector, to accompany me, unless of course you truly are too ill to attend the Prince.”
“The Prince,” repeated Field.
“His Royal Highness summoned your colleague Llewellyn to the palace early this morning, and the constable already has told us quite a tale.”
“Summoned my Sam Llewellyn to the palace? His Highness did?”
“He is most eager to speak with you as well, Inspector Field.”
“You understand, sir, I am no longer a detective inspector, I am no longer with the Metropolitan Police.”
“Nonsense. You were reinstated this morning. Commissioner Mayne is currently mulling an appropriate rise in your wages and, I imagine, an apology.”
Field stared in confusion at the man from the palace.
“The Prince, by the way, is unaware of your brief sabbatical from the force. I see no reason to disturb him with the knowledge of a minor contretemps that is now well behind us.”
“Come along then, Mr. Field,” said Jane. “We’ll get him dressed and brushed up for you, sir, if you just give us a moment.”
“By all means,” said Sir Horace.
Field indicated a chair by the door, wishing it weren’t quite so shabby. “Do have a seat, sir.”
Suddenly Martha Ginty took a step forward. “Have you seen my Tom? Tom Ginty, ginger hair.”
“I have not seen him, ma’am, but I do believe I have heard of him. The butcher’s apprentice?”
Martha nodded eagerly.
“I assure you, ma’am, we all are concerned about your boy. We shall do everything we can, one way or another, I promise you.”
Whatever that meant.
Sir Horace ushered Field into the Prince’s study. Llewellyn was already there, smiling wanly, and a young man whom Llewellyn introduced as his friend, the Peter Sims I told you about, sir, a groom with the royal household. In response to Sir Horace’s raised eyebrows, Peter said, “His Highness stepped out soon after you left, sir.” The groom tilted his head in the direction of a communicating door.
The courtier crossed the room, tapped gently on the door, and opened it. Moments later the Prince Consort entered and sat behind his desk.
“Detective Inspector Field,” said Albert, “how good of you to come.”
Field, utterly bewildered, tried to indicate with a nod and a deprecatory smile that he had been only too happy to rearrange his schedule.
“Sims here suggested not long ago that a friend of his—a member of the Metropolitan Police—suspected a plot was afoot against my life and so forth. When I could find the time—this morning, in fact—I invited this man in to enlighten me, and he turned out to be your man, Mr. Field. I confess I was somewhat skeptical. But Llewellyn asked for and received a separate interview with our friend, Sir Horace. It seems he possessed evidence that he wished to share with him but not with me. Well, fair enough, I suppose. When I returned from my breakfast, Sir Horace assured me that the matter was of the gravest urgency. Is that fair to say, Sir Horace?”
“Yes, my lord. Although I have yet to see any evidence of a broad conspiracy amongst the notables of the land, as Mr. Llewellyn has suggested, I can confirm that one is dealing here with a profound criminality.”
“Mr. Llewellyn?” said the Prince. “You have a question?”
“Only this, sir,” he said. “Begging your pardon, Sir Horace, for interrupting, but Inspector Field has been right about this all along. If we got no conspiracy amongst the notables, we got no reason to be sitting here today—we’d merely have a devil who enjoys cutting people up, and sooner or later we’d run him to earth.” He turned to the Prince. “Forgive me, sir, but it’s the way I see it.”
“According to Mr. Llewellyn,” said Albert, turning to Field, “you have put forth several names—names of persons not unknown to myself and the Queen, persons we might even consider to be friends—who may be participants in this plot.”
“Yes, sir,” said Field.
“And this hostility, this alleged conspiracy is all because of my esteem for the work of Mr. Charles Darwin?”
“We believe so, sir.”
“Extraordinary. I fervently hope you are mistaken, Mr. Field. But woe betide you if you are; this would be a fearful slander on your part.” Albert pursed his lips. “He . . . cuts people up, you say?”
Field bowed his head in mute affirmation.
The Prince turned to Llewellyn. “The evidence you did not wish me to see had to do with this?”
“Your Highness, yes, sir.”
The Prince sighed. “Well, Inspector Field, what would you suggest?”
Field cleared his throat. “You are planning a trip, I believe, sir?”
“Indeed, to my homeland.”
“Cancel it, sir.”
“You are joking?”
“Can you believe, sir, that I would make light of such a situation? Cancel it.”
“Impossible.”
Llewellyn was alarmed to see his superior’s face redden.
“Sir,” said Field, “the killer is, we believe, already on his way to Germany or is there already, just a-waiting for you. Cancel your travel plans now and I’m confident this man will return to these shores. He will pursue you here—this one’s not the sort to give up and go home, sir. But it will be much more within the grasp of the police to catch the bugger, individual, here on home ground.”
“The Crown will not cower, Mr. Field. I shall not cower before a threat of this sort. The planning for this journey has been extensive and has taken up much of the past year. The Queen has prorogued Parliament and signed a new copy of her will. Three heads of state and their respective courts await us. My own daughter awaits us, and the grandchild whom we have never seen. We shall be making this trip.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you ever traveled on the continent, Mr. Field?”
“I have, sir.”
“A holiday, perhaps?”
“Police work, sir.”
“The Nightingale affair, Your Highness,” murmured Sir Horace.
Albert’s brow furrowed and he glanced uneasily at the inspector. “Ah, yes. Well. Here is what we will do. You will accompany the royal party on its journey to Coburg. Llewellyn and Sims, you also. Now listen to me. Under no circumstance are you there to protect myself. It is Her Majesty the Queen whose safety you are to ensure. This is how I will explain your presence to the Queen and the court. Do you understand? Good.”
The news that the royal party would embark in only fifteen days put Jane Field into a state. There was so much to prepare, so many things to attend to! She dispatched Mr. Field to the barber, and Bessie cleaned and pressed his best clothing. Jane bought him new boots, and since Llewellyn had no woman in his life, she did the same for him.
Police Commissioner Mayne seemed to have no memory of the recent unpleasantness between himself and Inspector Field. Field was and always had been his chief of detectives. Abercrombie was transferred to Norwich.
Field issued orders and they were obeyed. A watch was to be placed on No. 4 Half Moon Street. A small girl named Belinda, a residen
t at this address, was missing and needed to be found; she had information pertinent to the case. An older woman at Oxford calling herself Andrews was of interest to Field: a Sergeant Willette of the local police would keep her guest house under observation. When Field asked for his pistol back, Commissioner Mayne grudgingly acquiesced. The only request that the commissioner flatly refused was to alert law enforcement in the royal party’s destination, the kingdom of Saxe-Coburg; the palace had been firm on this matter. But Commissioner Mayne was quite willing to authorize the inspector’s raid on the Fortune of War and Shepherd’s Rest.
The chapel was shuttered; the Carmichaels were gone. Field dispatched two officers to search the building while he bearded Mickie Goodfellow in his tavern.
“I’m telling you, Charlie, I have no idea where they went! They must have gone in the night, I didn’t hear nor see a thing.”
“What about the little girl?”
“For the last time, Charlie, there wasn’t no little girl! Not that I saw, anyways. Come, Charlie—would I lie to you?”
Field stared at the publican. “In the old days I would have followed my impulse to pound your face to a jelly, Mick. Those days are behind me.”
Goodfellow grinned indulgently and shrugged.
“Officer Llewellyn,” said Field, “take him away.”
“What? Whatever for?” Llewellyn quickly snapped handcuffs on Goodfellow’s wrists. “On what charge, Charlie? You can’t do this! I got rights!”
“Yes, I can, and no, you don’t.”
With Goodfellow gone, Field returned to the chapel. His men had found nothing to indicate the whereabouts of the reverend or his wife, but one of the constables put a paper tag and a bit of string in the inspector’s palm.
Will Tailor, the tag read.
The other officer had found a fine gold-link bracelet in the back room. The last time Inspector Field had seen it, it had been on young Belinda’s wrist.
Near Ostend