Drood (82 page)
“To Dorking to breed roses,” I corrected with a strange surge of déjà vu.
“Of course. But the
character
of Sergeant Cuff—this idea, as I said, to have a private rather than public detective the centre of a novel of mystery—is wonderful. I believe that readers would resonate wonderfully to such a master of deduction, perhaps as lean and commanding as Cuff, eccentric, almost totally unemotional, if his background and character were fleshed out a bit more. I shall enjoy seeing whether I can create such a character for my
Mystery of Edmond Dickenson,
should I ever get around to writing such a thing.”
“You can bring back your Inspector Bucket from
Bleak House,
” I said morosely. “He was most popular. I believe we discussed the fact that there were images of Bucket on tobacco cards.”
“We did. There were,” chuckled Dickens. “He was perhaps the most popular character in the book, and I admit to enjoying his scenes very much. But Inspector Bucket was a man of the world and a man
in
the world… he lacked the mystery and appeal of your lean, cool, detached Sergeant Cuff. Besides, since the original for Bucket, Inspector Charles Frederick Field, is no longer among the living, I should, by all propriety, consign his copy to the grave as well.”
For what seemed like a long time I could not speak. I had to concentrate on breathing and not showing through my expression the riot of thoughts and emotions that was surging through me. At long last I said, as calmly as I could, “Inspector Field is dead?”
“Oh, yes! Died last winter while I was on tour in America. Georgina noticed it in the
Times
and clipped the obituary for me, knowing that I should like it in my files.”
“I’ve heard nothing of this,” I said. “Do you happen to remember the date of his death?”
“I do,” said Dickens. “It was nineteen January. Two of my sons—Frank and Henry—were born on fifteen January, you may recall, so I remembered the date for Field’s death.”
“Extraordinary,” I said, although I have no idea whether I was commenting on Dickens’s memory or Inspector Field’s death. “Did the obituary in the
Times
say how he died?”
“In bed, at home, of ill health, I believe,” said Dickens. The subject of the inspector obviously bored him.
January 19 would have been the day after—or perhaps the night of—our expedition into Undertown. I had been unconscious until 22 January and in no shape to read the newspapers carefully for some time after that. No wonder I had missed the notice. And no wonder I had never come into contact with Field’s men in the months since. Undoubtedly the inspector’s private investigations office had been closed, the agents disbanded and scattered to other work.
Unless Dickens was lying to me.
I remembered my insight the previous year that Dickens, Drood, and Inspector Field were all playing some complicated three-way game, with me caught as pawn in the middle. Could this be a lie as part of some ploy on Dickens’s part?
I doubted it. It would be too easy for me to check with someone I knew at the
Times
to see if the obituary was real. And if there
had
been a death in January, there was a grave for poor old Charles Frederick Field somewhere. I could check on that as well. For a mad moment I wondered if this were another ploy by Inspector Field himself—faking his own death so as to be safe from Drood’s minions—but that was too far-fetched even for the events of the past three years. I shook that idea out of my head.
“Are you well, my dear Wilkie? You suddenly look terribly pale.”
“Just this vicious gout,” I said. We both stood.
“You will stay for supper? Your brother has not been well enough to attend regular meals, but perhaps tonight, if you are here…”
I looked at my watch. “Another time, Charles. I need to get back to the city. Caroline is preparing something special for us tonight and we are going to the theatre.…”
“Caroline?” cried Dickens in surprise. “She has come back?”
I shook my head, smiled, and tapped my forehead with three fingers. “I meant
Carrie,
” I said. I was lying there as well. Carrie was spending the entire week with the family for which she governessed.
“Ah, well, another time soon,” said Dickens. He walked me outside and down the stairs and through the tunnel.
“I’ll have one of the servants drive you to the railway station.”
“Thank you, Charles.”
“I am glad you came to Gad’s Hill Place today, my dear Wilkie.”
“As am I, Charles. It has been most edifying.”
I
DID NOT
go directly back to London. At the station, I waited until Dickens’s man and his pony cart were out of sight and then I boarded the train to Rochester.
I had not brought any brandy so I waited until the cathedral graveyard seemed well and truly empty—the afternoon summer shadows creeping long from the headstones—and then I strolled briskly back to the lime pit. There was no sign of the puppy on the turgid grey surface. A moment’s searching in the grass brought up the branch I had used before. Three or four minutes of stirring and poking brought up the remnants—mostly bone and teeth and spine and gristle, but also some hair and hide left. I found it difficult to bring what was left of the little carcass to the surface with the stick.
“Dradles thinks this mi’ be the instrooment Mr Billy Wilkie Collins needs,” said a voice directly behind me.
I jumped so violently that I almost tumbled forward into the pit of quick-lime.
Dradles steadied me with a rock-hard hand on my forearm. In his other hand, he was carrying a barbed iron staff that looked to be about six feet long. It may have once been part of the cathedral’s iron fence in front, or a decoration on a steeple, or a lightning rod from one of the spires.
Dradles handed it to me. “Stirs easier wi’ this, sir.”
“Thank you,” I said. Indeed, with its length and barbs, it worked perfectly. I turned the puppy’s carcass over, decided that five or six days in the lime pit would be required for a larger form, and used the iron staff to press what was left of the little shape back under the surface again. For a second I had an image of myself as some sort of grisly cook, stirring my broth, and I had to suppress the urge to giggle.
I handed the iron staff back to Dradles. “Thank you,” I said again.
“Dradles urges the ge’mun to think nothing of it,” said the filthy mason. His face seemed as red this cool evening as it had during the heat of the daytime labour some days before.
“I forgot brandy today,” I said with a smile, “but I wanted to treat you to a few drinks at the Thatched and Twopenny the next time you go.” I handed him five shillings.
He clinked the coins in his begrimed and calloused palm and smiled broadly at me. I counted four teeth.
“Thank ’ee, Mr Billy Wilkie Collins, sir. Dradles’ll be sure to drink your health when I go.”
“Very good,” I said with a smile and a nod. “I need to be going.”
“Mr C. Dickens, the famous author, used that same iron instrooment a year ago when ’e was ’ere,” said Dradles.
I turned back. The fumes from the lime pit were causing tears to streak down my cheeks, but they did not seem to affect Dradles. “I beg your pardon?” I said.
Dradles smiled again. “’E used the same instrooment I give ’im as I give you, to stir the stew, as it were, sir,” he said. “But Mr C. Dickens, famous author, ’e brought a bigger dead dog, ’e did.”
O
n 29 October of that year, 1868, I dressed in my finest formal clothes and took a hired carriage to St Marylebone Parish Church to see Caroline G—— be married to Joseph Charles Clow.
The bride looked every bit of her thirty-eight years, and more. The groom looked even younger than his twenty-seven years. Someone just dropping into the church and spying the wedding ceremony without knowing the Happy Couple might have been forgiven for thinking that Caroline was the mother of the bride or groom.
The mother of the groom was there—a fat, stupid little gnome of a woman in an absurd maroon dress ten seasons out of style. She wept through the entire ceremony and brief reception after and had to be helped to her carriage after the Happy Couple had ridden off, not to an elaborate honeymoon but back to the tiny home they would later share again with his mother.
There were few other guests on either side. Not surprisingly, Mrs G——, Caroline’s mother-in-law, did not attend (although the old woman had been pining for her daughter-in-law to marry again). Another reason that Caroline’s former mother-in-law chose not to attend (if the old woman was sufficiently aware of events in her current state of addlement to be able to choose) became clear when I glanced at the marriage book: Caroline had invented a false name for her father—a certain “John Courtenay, gentleman.” This was part of an entire reinvention of herself, her family, and her past, even her first marriage, which I had agreed to support in any particulars (as her “previous employer of record”) if ever pressed to do so.
The temptation to reinvent oneself seemed contagious. I noticed that young Carrie, signing as a witness, had signed herself as “Elisabeth Harriette G——” on the marriage certificate, which was a reinvention of the spelling of her names. But perhaps the largest lie on the marriage certificate belonged to the groom, who signed his occupation simply as “gentleman.”
Well, if a plumber with permanent ground-in filth behind his ears and eternal grime under his fingernails was now an English gentleman, England had reached that wonderful socialist state that so many medical reformers had agitated so diligently to bring about.
I have to admit that the only person to look happy at this wedding was Carrie, who, either through the obliviousness of youth or sheer dedication to her mother, not only looked beautiful but acted as if she and we were all attending a joyous occasion. But when I say “we,” I mean just the tiny handful of people. There were two people on Joseph Clow’s side of the aisle: the weeping, crepe-draped mother and an unintroduced, unshaven man who might have been Clow’s brother or perhaps merely another plumber who had come hoping that there would be food after the service.
On Caroline’s side, there was only Carrie and Frank Beard, and me. Our group was so small that Beard had to be the second person to sign alongside Carrie as one of the two required witnesses. (Beard suggested that I sign, but my taste for the ironic absurd was not quite that well developed.)
Joseph Clow looked paralysed with fear and tension throughout the ceremony. Caroline’s smile was so broad and her face so flushed that I felt certain she would burst into tears and hysterics any second. Even the rector seemed to sense something odd about the proceedings and glanced up frequently from his missal, peering myopically out at the tiny gathering as if waiting for some word that it had all been a joke.
Throughout the ceremony I felt an odd numbness spreading through my body and brain. It may have been the extra dose of laudanum I had ingested to help me through the day, but I believe it was more a sense of true detachment. As the bride and groom repeated their final vows, I admit to looking at Caroline, standing so tensely upright in her ill-fitted and rather cheap-looking bridal gown, and remembering the precise touch and texture of every soft— now too soft—curve and bulge under that fabric. I felt no emotion throughout the proceedings except for a strange, spreading emptiness that had first come over me the past weeks when I arrived at Number 90 Gloucester Place to find no Caroline, no Carrie, and even my three servants often missing (with permission) because of an illness in Besse’s family. It was a large house to be so empty of human voices and sounds.
When the wedding was over, there was no food or reception to speak of—merely a brief and uncomfortable milling-about in the chilly courtyard of the parish church. Then the new bride and groom left in an open carriage—it was too cold a day for an open carriage and it had begun to rain, but the couple had obviously been unable to spend the extra amount for a closed carriage. The image of the happy couple headed off to bliss was spoiled a bit when Frank Beard offered to use his carriage to drop Carrie and Joseph Clow’s mother at the same home for which the newlyweds had just left. (It had seemed important to Caroline that Carrie spend the first few weeks of her mother’s married life in that crowded, spartan little house, although the girl would still be working as a governess from time to time and soon would move back to live with me at Gloucester Place.)
Finally, after the rector had retreated back inside his dark church in true confusion, there was only the other plumber (I had decided that he was no relation to Joseph) and me left standing in the chilly late-October wind in front of the church. I tipped my hat to the hungry man and walked all the way to my brother Charley’s home in South Audley Street.
Charley’s health had improved somewhat as the hot summer ended, and by mid-September he and Katey were spending most of their time at their London home rather than at Gad’s Hill Place. Charles was also working on various illustration jobs when he could, although the stomach pains and general disability struck often.
Still, I was surprised to find him not at home on that Thursday, 29 October, when I knocked at their door. Katey was home and she greeted me in their small and rather dark parlour. She knew of Caroline’s wedding and asked me to tell her “all the marvellous high points.” She offered me some brandy—which I happily accepted; my nose, cheeks, and hands were red with the autumn cold—and I received the distinct impression that she had been drinking before I arrived.
At any rate, I told her “all the marvellous high points,” but I expanded the definition of “high points” from the wedding ceremony to my entire history with Mrs Caroline G——. The tale is shocking, of course, to bourgeois sensibilities, but I had long known that Kate suffered from few of her father’s middle-class illusions. If the many rumours and reports were to be believed, Katey had long since taken a lover—or several lovers—to make up for my brother’s lack of ardour (or inability to express it). This was a woman of the world, sipping brandy so close to me in the dark and shuttered little parlour with its tiny coal fire offering most of the dim light we had, and I found myself telling her details of my history with Caroline that I had told almost no one, including her father.
