The Detective and Mr. Dickens (19 page)

“What is our next step?” Dickens asked. I could not help but notice his automatic inclusion of himself as equal partner with Field in the case.

Inspector Field consulted his watch and drained his gin. “Twelve of the clock, time to check in on Meggy and Mister Martin Price,” he said.

In a blur of settling up, hailing a cab, and clattering through the streets, we soon found ourselves in the shadows of yet another damp, narrow mews. With his usual dispatch, Rogers gave his report. “Back room, second floor, ’aven’t stirred,” he said, pointing to a rusty-looking building of four sparsely windowed storeys dimly lit and poorly painted. The faded sign over the door read “THE HADDON INN, LODGINGS BY THE DAY OR WEEK.”

Inspector Field once again consulted his gold pocket-watch. “In about one more minute, Meggy will be breakin’ the bad news to our friend Price. We’ll give it a few minutes to sink in, and then we’ll observe its effect.”

“What are we going to do?” It was my voice, somewhat faltering.

“Apply the screw, what else?” Field replied.

Two, three minutes passed. I felt panic rising within me. Meg was closed in that room with a man twice her size, who had already participated in one murder, and whom she had just threatened to blackmail. I envisaged him beating her to death, slashing her with a razor, strangling her. Sikes and Nancy all over again, only this time for real.

“Why are we waiting?” I blurted out. “Good God, he could have killed her by now!”

Dickens, Field, Rogers, all stared at me in surprise.

“Yes, it is time to go,” Field gave his order soberly, and moved quickly across the street to the door of the rusty hotel.

We did not pause in the foyer. A man behind a high counter used for the signing in of guests stood up when we entered.

“Stay!” Field pointed his forefinger at the man. The man sat back down on his stool without so much as a word.

We climbed one short flight of steps at a run, and, slowing at a hard-sign from Rogers, traversed a narrow hallway to the back of the building. The door had a wooden numeral 14 on its top panel.

Rogers tried the door knob and found it locked.

Without the slightest hesitation, Inspector Field stepped forward and kicked the door in.

What we encountered, when we flooded through that splintered door, was more the material of comedy than of the bloody tragedy I had been envisaging. Meg stood wearing only her skirt and boots. Kneeling at her feet, stark naked except for his black stockings and garters, his face streaming with tears, was Mister Price. When we entered, he screamed and comically attempted to cover himself—first his nakedness, then his tear-stained face, then, indecisive, the former with one hand, while he tried to erase the evidence of his tears with his other guilty paw. All that I could think of was that comical scene in Mister Fielding’s novel in which young Tom surprises his first love Molly
in flagrante
with Parson Square.

Field charitably allowed Price to dress before the interrogation.

“’Ee hadmits ’ee was there,” Meggy reported to Field. “I told ’im I saw it all, right to ’is ’elpin’ throw the body in the river. All ’ee’s done is blubber ever since.”

“Mister Price,” Field began, “we know you were an accessory to the murder of Solicitor Partlow. You can swing for what you did just as Paroissien is goin’ to swing for the actual killin’. But you can save yourself. You can be my witness in court. What’ll it be?”

“I have no choice. I’ll d-do anything you want. Anything.” The man broke down, covering his face with his hands and quaking with sobs.

“Tell me exactly what ’appened,” Field’s voice showed no pity.

“Par-r-r-roissien and Partlow,” his speech was a weak and nervous stammer, “had b-b-been arguing all evening about the girl. He killed him over the girl.”

“What girl? ’Er name,” Field cut him off.

“Young actress, Ellen Ternan. Old Peggy Ternan’s youngest.”

Dickens’s countenance went completely white, as if some embalmer had drained off all his blood. He reached out and gripped the mantlepiece over the hearth to steady himself. He didn’t, however, say a word.

“What about the girl? Why were they so angry?” Field continued.

“The lawyer was b-b-boasting that the girl was a virgin and that he’d bought her maidenhead from the mother. That’s when our pinch-faced stage manager lost his head. At The Player’s Club. He started screamin’ at Partlow. We were all drunk. We laughed at him. Only made him wilder. Then later, at the river, Paroissien taunts him about the girl, like he was baitin’ him, and Partlow says again that he’s bought her virginity and he means to ’ave ’er. That’s when the stage manager pulls out the knife and sticks it right in Partlow’s belly. It happened so fast, so unexpected.”

“None of you knew of the sword until you saw ’im use it to take the lawyer’s life?”

“No. He took it from under his coat. None of us knew that he had it.” Fear now dominated the actor’s face.

“Meg says that you ’elped Paroissien dispose of the body. Is that true? Be careful ’ere. Watch what you say.” Stab of sharp forefinger.

“It’s true. We had no choice. He threatened us,” the man’s voice was racing. “He’s standing there with blood dripping off that sword in his hand and he tells us to help him put the body in the river and we do it. I d-d-did it without even thinking. Everything was happening so fast. I was drunk. I wanted it to end.”

Field abruptly turned away from him to Dickens and myself. “You ’ave ’eard all, gentlemen. Bear witness.”

He turned sharply back to Price: “You will be summoned to tell this story in court.” Firm tap of the forefinger to the cowed actor’s chest. “Do not change it at all or these gentlemen will bear witness to your perjury.” Another decisive tap. “Mention this conversation tonight to no one if you wish to save yourself.” Tap number three, intimidating forefinger withdrawn. With finality, Field turned on his heel. “Meggy. Gentlemen.” He motioned with a slight bob of his head that it was time to follow him out. We left the man Price alone and cowering in the room.

Outside of that disreputable hotel, Field took Irish Meg aside. He stood with his hand on Meg’s shoulder in an almost fatherly tableau. I assumed that he was complimenting her on a job well done. Money clearly was exchanged. Then Meggy was gone—gone out of my life once again, without even a word exchanged. I was sorely tempted to break off as Dickens had done earlier in the evening, to go after her, but I hadn’t the courage.

“Now, gentlemen,” Field said, “let us see ’ow our other little character group is farin’.”

It was almost one o’clock. Field’s play was unfolding precisely on schedule. Field’s man intercepted us outside of The Green Room. “’Aven’t budged,” he reported. “Been drinkin’ steadily these two ’ours past.”

“Let’s ’ope Fielding can still comprehend what our fellow is about to tell ’im,” Field grinned.

“Will he tell him in there, or bring him outside to break the bad news that he is caught?” Dickens asked.

“Inside. I directed ’im to do it in the public room, to forestall any inclinations to drunken violence which Fielding might consider.”

“Tally Ho can certainly handle ’im, I would think,” Rogers added.

“To be sure,” Field agreed. “But there is no tellin’ what a man will do, when backed into a corner.”

“I would like to see the look on the man’s face when Thompson accuses him,” Dickens said equivocally, half wishing, half requesting permission.

“Go inside, and observe if you wish,” Field said, giving that permission. “Rogers and I will wait out ’ere, in case there is an attempt to flee.”

I followed Dickens into the cellar club. It was a capacious room, with perhaps a dozen tables down its length to where a large hearth blazed. The majority of the tables were occupied. Groups of four or five gathered around single tables, drinking. One group of ten, including three women, had pulled two tables together near the fire. A couple of tables were occupied by solitary drinkers, reading newspapers or studying scripts.

Fielding and Thompson sat by themselves in the rear corner near the large group, which had consolidated its tables in front of the hearth. We took an empty table near a door to what, I presumed, was the establishment’s kitchen. Our drinks were ordered, and promptly arrived. I consulted my timepiece, and nodded to Dickens. “It is almost time,” I said. We were too far away to overhear, but we followed the scene as it played out in dumb show before us. When Thompson began to speak, Fielding had been bent over, staring morosely into his gin glass. As Thompson spoke, Fielding’s head rose slowly, and his mouth dropped open in amazement. He stared into Thompson’s face, then questioned him sharply. “What are you saying? What is this?” These, perhaps, were the questions his lips formed. Thompson glared across the table at him.

Suddenly, Fielding leapt to his feet, and screamed out, “Who are you?” Every eye turned on the two men arguing in the corner. They stood facing each other, anger flashing between them.

Fielding made the first move. He lunged for Thompson’s throat with both hands, but Thompson was much too quick. With a sharp bob of his head and a ducking of his shoulder, Thompson easily evaded his antagonist’s grasp, and side-stepped the big man’s lunge. With his weight committed almost completely forward, Fielding tottered on the edge of losing his balance. With some effort, he righted himself, and turned on Thompson once again. Fielding was quite drunk, as well as enraged. Thompson’s hands, palms out in a placating gesture, attempted to calm Fielding. Fielding picked up a gin tankard from the table, and threw it at Thompson, who ducked. The tankard shattered against the stone face of the hearth.

Everyone in the room was now on their feet. The large group near the hearth had already abandoned their tables, and were fleeing down the room. Others were edging away from the two antagonists, moving toward the door.

Once again, the hulking Fielding lunged at Thompson. Once again, the quicksilver Thompson evaded that charge, and, as Fielding toppled past him, struck him with a sharp upward-angled punch to the kidneys. Fielding howled in pain, and turned on his tormentor. This time, however, Thompson didn’t wait. With a quick motion, he dipped his shoulder, and ran at full speed into Fielding’s belly, bowling the big man over backwards into the two tables run together, which the large group had abandoned. Glassware and crockery shattered, as the flimsy tables splintered beneath the weight of the two catapulting men. Thompson landed on top of Fielding, and, with a quick backward leap of wondrous agility, bounced up onto his feet. Fielding groped forward on his hands and knees. Thompson took one step backwards, and then, with all his strength, stepped forward and kicked Fielding square in the face. So much for the Marquess of Queensberry Rules.

That ended it. The actor crumbled in a drunken heap as Field and Rogers burst through the door with their cudgels at the ready. Peace was quickly restored, as Rogers and Thompson led the semi-conscious Fielding out to the street. Inspector Field identified himself to, and tried to mollify, the landlord, whose tables and crockery had taken such a thrashing. Dickens wore the most angelic of smiles, as if he had just witnessed the championship match between the Tewksbury Duck and Chelsea Smalls.
*

When we joined Rogers and Tally Ho Thompson outside, they had Fielding sitting in the gutter propped against a lamppost. The actor’s face was a bloody mess, and he seemed to be teetering in a daze.

“A bit rough in there, eh?” Inspector Field remarked to Thompson.

“No worse than Shooters Hill,” Thompson grinned. “People tend not to take me seriously enough.”

“Yes. Quite true,” Field said, tapping him affectionately on the shoulder with his forefinger, “but I will never underestimate you, lad.”

Tally Ho Thompson grinned and said, “I’m sure you won’t, not you.”

It was as if they were playing a game, adversaries, yet somehow comrades. Dickens was fascinated by this relationship between the detective and the criminal.

Our attention reverted to Fielding, who seemed to be coming around.

“Why don’t you call it a night’s work?” Inspector Field forcefully suggested to Tally Ho Thompson. “You’ve played your part well. We can now press our advantage with Mister Fielding.”

“Any objections to my continuing in the role of murderer at Covent Garden?” Thompson asked.

Field’s eyebrows went up. “Don’t tell me you’re thinkin’ of takin’ up a life of ’onest labor,” he said.

“I’ve sort of taken a fancy to the actor’s game,” Thompson grinned, “and I certainly wouldn’t call it honest labor. Takes half the effort as my former line of work.”

“Better ye be a murderer on Dunsinane than on Shooters ’Ill, I would say,” Field said, answering wit with wit.

“Who are you? How dare you?” Fielding’s pitiful wounded howl brought an end to Thompson and Field’s conversing. With a quick nod, Tally Ho Thompson faded back into the shadows.

“Interesting fellow, this Tally Ho Thompson,” Dickens, leaning close to me, whispered. “I must talk with him again.” I was now certain that Dickens’s next novel would feature a highwayman-turned-actor.

“Inspector Field of the Metropolitan Protectives,” the policeman said. The interrogation of the helpless Fielding was begun. “We know all about your involvement in the murder of Solicitor Partlow, sir, and you are goin’ to be one of our prime witnesses at the Queen’s Bench.”