The Detective and Mr. Dickens (18 page)

“‘Yessir,’ says he (and Field nods to Rogers who has joined us), ‘draw ’em out we must. Meggy is the ticket,’ says he after some consideration, ‘she’s the only witness, the only one who can put a scare into ’em.’

“‘Very good, Mister Rogers,’ says I, ‘very good. But two of ’em are a bit much, even for an old trooper like Meggy Sheehey, to ’andle.’”

“‘Two indeed might be too much,’ says ’ee.

“And then it was that the idea came to me,” Field continued. “‘The play’s the thing,’ says I, ‘the play’s the thing!’”

Dickens was quicker than I in intuiting Inspector Field’s meaning.

“So you organized your own little play within the play, I take it,” Dickens spoke up.

“There you are,” Field answered, “there you are!” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Right there in The Lord Gordon’s back room, Rogers and I put together our own little actin’ troupe, composed the parts they were to play. Subtle stuff it ’ad to be. We didn’t want to spook our Mister Paroissien.” He reined in, took a sip of his gin, then galloped on.

“Rogers and I decided that we would work on our two corroboratin’ witnesses independently. We decided on someone on the inside and someone on the outside. Meggy would be our outside bait. But who for Mister Inside?

“‘I think I’ve got just the man,’ finally says I.

“‘And who might that be sir?’ says ’ee.

“‘Why none other than our old and dear friend Mister Tally Ho Thompson,’ says I, waitin’ to see if Mister Rogers is goin’ to burst into volleys of laughter. There was, indeed, a long interval of quite contemplative silence as Rogers gave the depths of ’is gin glass ’is fullest attention.

“‘No better choice in the city of London,’ finally says ’ee.”

I could tell that Dickens was not only engaged, but fully entertained by Field’s playful narrative. “Man’s got an extraordinary gift for dialogue,” Dickens said later.

“Well,” Field went on, “that settled, we ’ad our actors. All we ’ad left was to figure out what to do with ’em. It took another round of burnt gin to write our script.”

“How did you know that Thompson and Irish Meg would consent to act in your little play?” Dickens interrupted.

Field’s eyes narrowed somewhat as if he was trying to decide just how he was going to answer. When he did answer, he was brutal in his straightforwardness (and reinstated our view of the hardness of the man which had been temporarily softened by his playful narrative).

“No choice for ’em. I own ’em and they know it. They play my game by my rules, or I put ’em where they can’t play any games at all.” He punctuated his cold statement of underworld reality with a brisk tap of his heretofore passive forefinger upon the wooden arm of his easy chair. For someone who had shown such indignation toward “Lincoln’s Inn lawyers,” he showed his own utterly pragmatic and ruthless side as well. In those days, there always seemed to be two sides to everything and everyone.

“I take it then that this Thompson and our friend Irish Meg readily agreed to take their parts in your play,” Dickens pursued.

“Oh, not at all,” Field grinned. “They fought like cornered rats to escape the ignominy of workin’, for a change, on my side of the law. Thompson pleaded professional ethics. Said a gentleman of ’is profession could not afford such an unsavory association. ‘Why, if it ever got out,’ ’ee said, ‘worse than peachin’.’ Meggy just whined and cursed and spat to the end of drivin’ up the price. Shrewd businesswoman of the Moll Flanders school that Meggy.”

“But in the end, they went along, became your actors?” Dickens was thoroughly enjoying gathering this underworld material. I fully expected to encounter a highwayman-turned-actor in his next novel. I also wondered if a harlot working for the police would be the subject of my first.

“Indeed they did. Once they saw the light, they fell into the project with ’eye enthusiasm, and with a talent which surprised even Sergeant Rogers and myself. It took me all of the next mornin’ to extract Tally Ho from Newgate. The man ’as a worldly sort of ’onor about ’im. I knew ’ee’d do the job because ’ee knew that doin’ the job would get ’im a clean slate. Rogers already ’ad Meggy waitin’ at Bow Street when I arrived with Thompson. They waited there for me while I negotiated with your friend Mister Macready the final detail of our little play within a play.”

Once again, Dickens’s raised eyebrows betrayed his surprise.

“I used your name. ’Ope you don’t mind?” Field said, countering Dickens’s eyebrows with a slight bending forward and a quick tap of his forefinger to Dickens’s left knee. “Soon as I mentioned you were on the case, Macready gave me ’is full attention. Needless to say, ’ee was a bit skeptical, but after I assured ’im that Thompson was a born actor and an excellent swordsman, ’ee took ’im on. ‘’Ee shall be one of the murderers in Act Three,’ ’ee said, and that was that. Inspired bit of type castin’, wouldn’t you say? I, of course, ’ad no proof whatsoever upon which to base my claims for Thompson’s talents, yet two night’s performances ’ave proven me a prophet. In fact, your friend Macready is so pleased with Tally Ho’s antics that ’ee ’as actually asked ’im to stay on in the role.”

Dickens chuckled, and shook his head at Field’s inventiveness. “Thompson’s part in my play was to ingratiate ’imself with Fielding who is well known for ’is ’abit of drinkin’ in late-hours clubs. Price was to be Meggy’s lookout. ’Ee is known to ’ave an eye for ladies of the professional sort. Neither of my actors seem to be ’avin’ any trouble in the playin’ of their roles. Last night Thompson drank late at The Blue Welkin Club with Fielding, and Meggy and Price retired to a backstairs room at The ’Addon Inn.” Field was pleased with his actors. I could not share his enthusiasm for Irish Meg’s part in his little play. Field was using her as a paid sexual performer. Perhaps he felt that her getting paid twice for a single performance justified her role. “She is a sharp businesswoman,” Field assured us.

“It is interesting, is it not Inspector Field? You’ve brought the worlds of St. Giles rookery and Covent Garden together on the same stage.” Dickens was setting off on one of his philosophical flights, and I was just not in the mood for it. All I could imagine was Meg Sheehey seducing some stranger capable of strangling her. “A world of thieves and whores and highwaymen intermingling with the rich, supposedly civilized world of artists, lawyers, and even titled gentlemen. What no one realizes is that they are both the same world. The same fog blankets both. The same mud coats the boots of the gentleman, the actor, and the thief.”

“Quite so. Quite so,” agreed Field. Dickens’s sociological ramble seemed to be working as a powerful soporific upon Inspector Field who was compelled to snap himself back to alertness. “Yes. Well. The curtain on
Macbeth
will be comin’ down, and the curtain on
Field’s Folly
or
St. Giles Meets the West End
or
Rookeries and Kings
, what you wish, will be goin’ up quite soon. Would you and Mister Collins wish to join Rogers and me in the stalls? Tonight we plan to tighten the noose a bit around both of ’em.”

Field’s police carriage set us down a short distance from Covent Garden. The four of us, in a tight phalanx, found a sheltered point of vantage in the dark mouth of a narrow alley opposite the stage entrance. Field’s timing was precise. Within minutes after taking up our concealed position,
Macbeth
let out, and the streets were flooded with theatre-goers. The flood soon slowed to a mere trickle and Field turned to us: “Our actors shall be emergin’ soon. Look alive. There’s Meggy.”

All my senses pricked at the mention of her name.

Her prey did not keep her waiting. A large bewhiskered man in greatcoat and rakish rounded hat soon strode out of the stage door and offered her his arm. As they moved off, Field nodded sharply to Rogers, and that worthy followed them. Vile images tortured my imagination, and I realized how absurd these impulsive feelings for this common harlot were, and how impossible it was getting for me to drive them away.

“There they are!” Field’s sharp whisper broke my unwholesome reverie.

Two men had emerged from the stage door, and paused in the street under a gaslamp to light their cigars.

“Thompson’s the one on the left,” Field directed us. “Looks like a real actor, don’t ’ee? Other one’s Fielding.”

The man whom Field pointed out seemed a bit taller than medium English height, but looked a rather remarkable physical specimen possessed of wide shoulders and longish wiry-looking legs. He wore a short cape, which came to just below his hips, a long wool scarf looped around his neck, and a double-billed deerstalker upon his head. In the flash of his lucifer, I could see that he was clean-shaven. The other man, Fielding, was large, swollen of girth, heavy of jowl, with a full beard topped by a beret.

“Let us follow these two,” Field whispered, “and see where they choose to imbibe tonight. Then, I’ll stand a warm gin at the Lord Gordon while we wait for the curtain to go up on Act Two of tonight’s performance.”

To my surprise, Dickens checked us. “I will join you in The Lord Gordon Arms,” he whispered hurriedly, for Thompson and Fielding were already beginning to amble off into the darkness. “There is some business I need to discuss with Macready. It will not take long. I will join you.” With that he hurried off toward the theatre.

There was no time to argue with him. Field simply nodded and set off (with me, puzzled, following) after our two cigar-puffing actors. I was slow to comprehend.
A rather strange time to discuss business
, I thought. I was not even sure that Macready would welcome such a discussion after a strenuous performance of
Macbeth
. But then the light filtered through. Dickens wasn’t entering the stage door to see Macready.

We followed the two smoking men at a healthy distance, since it was a fairly clear night, for London. They strolled at a leisurely pace up Gower Street until they reached a cellar club frequented by the acting fraternity called The Green Room. They went down, and, within minutes, Field had posted one of his underlings on watch. With that, we escaped the damp chill into the snug comfort of The Lord Gordon Arms.

“We will give our principals some time to work on their projects, before we tighten the noose,” Field chuckled.

Once seated, I asked him directly: “Just how do you plan to tighten your noose around these men?”

“Blackmail, of course.” Field smiled without the least compunction. “Tonight, at exactly twelve-thirty in the mornin’ for Meg and one-thirty for Thompson, our actors are goin’ to mention to their respective charges that the murder of Solicitor Partlow ’as been witnessed, and, unless prevented, could become a well-known fact.”

“Thus, all we have to do is wait to see what they do?”

“That’s it,” Field grinned. “We’re on a fishin’ expedition.”

Our tankards of burnt gin arrived.

“I take it that you expect them to confess to their own presence at the murder, and to give the evidence which will seal your case against Paroissien,” said I.

“Very good,” Inspector Field replied. “That’s it exactly. Our only fear is that they might not feel so inclined to go along; that they might feel inclined to vent their anger on the bearer of the blackmail threat.”

“In other words, you’re afraid they might kill the messengers?”

“Possibly,” Field certainly didn’t show much concern, “but Tally Ho and Meggy can certainly take care of themselves. Nothin’ to fear.”

But fear for Meggy’s safety I did nevertheless.

A brief period of contemplative silence had settled between Field and myself, when Dickens suddenly appeared. He was all flushed animation and enthusiasm. “Hope I haven’t missed anything,” he began, as he took his seat and waved for a gin.

“Not a thing,” Field assured him with a dramatic yawn. “Essence of detective work. Five percent triumph, ninety-five percent waitin’.”

As we partook of a rather lengthy dose of that ninety-five percent essence, Field enumerated the physical evidence of the case. “The other evenin’, while Meggy was makin’ ’er identifications backstage, I was on the lookout for our murder weapon. There are some twenty long swords among the props of the play. All are made of wood but for those of Macbeth and Macduff, which must ring of steel when they clash. There are, ’owever, four ’andswords of a ’eavy antique type which would do quite nicely for our Mister Paroissien’s murder weapon. I interviewed the people who clean up after the actors. Interestin’ enough, one of the daggers
was
missin’ the mornin’ after Solicitor Partlow was killed,” Dickens leaned intently over the table, hanging on Field’s every word, “but that missin’ dagger mysteriously reappeared by the time the curtain went up that evenin’.”

“So it was the murder weapon?” Dickens stated the obvious.

“It appears so,” Field displayed great patience. “At The Player’s Club, Paroissien and Lawyer Partlow ’ave a violent argument. Later, when the subject is raised again at the brothel, Paroissien disappears for a time then rejoins the group, and later that evenin’ Partlow is murdered.”

“He returned to the theatre to get the dagger.” Dickens was quite proud of himself.

“Precisely,” Field said, punctuating his agreement with a sip from his gin glass. “The next day, after cleanin’ all traces of the murder from the ’andsword, ’ee returns it to the theatre in time for that evenin’s performance. Unfortunately, for Paroissien, one of the cleanin’ people noticed that the ‘andsword was missin’ before ’ee ’ad a chance to replace it. Backstage man searches for missin’ ’andsword, can’t find it, waits for the stage manager to come in, reports ‘andsword missin’, is told to search for it once again, and lo, finds missin’ ’andsword in place which ’ee is sure ’ee ’ad already searched that mornin’. Needless to say, prop man goes off shakin’ ’is ’ead. Promptly forgets the whole affair until I start askin’ ’andsword questions. That story will bear some weight in court, I would say.”