The Mystery of Edwin Drood,
Part II, The Solution
By David N. Saunders
Copyright 2012 David N. Saunders
Smashwords Edition
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Frontispiece Dickens’ Original Magazine Cover
Chapter 23 Diverse Discussions
Chapter 28 A Meeting of Two Jackasses
Chapter 35 The Wolf on the Fold
Chapter 37 The View From the Tower
Chapter 38 Weddings in Springtime
The original cover, done by Luke Fildes to Charles Dickens’ specifications.
“HELENA,” cried Neville over a late breakfast, “what am I to do? I still love Rosa, yet she is now farther from me than ever.”
“We have discussed this before, Neville,” replied Helena; “You must put all thought of her out of your mind.”
“You are right, dear sister. Yet I admit, though I admit it only to you, that to see her love another is anguish. Indeed, I cannot decide which is worse: to see her betrothed to a man much her inferior, as was poor Edwin Drood, or to see her smitten by a man who is, in every way, good enough to marry her and, in every way, much better than myself.”
“Tartar is indeed a fine man but, if he is in any way your superior, it is only because he chooses to breath fresh air and feel the sun upon his cheeks. And, would you but seek companionship, you would find the world full of young ladies many of whom are at least the equal of our pretty little friend. For that matter, I cannot see how you can continue to be infatuated with a girl whom you have seen but once.”
“Twice,” quibbled Neville, “I saw her crossing the yard on Tartar's arm after you spoke.” At Helena's withering glare he continued, “But you are right, I say again, and I am in love with an image of a woman rather than the woman herself. You see, Helena, I am adapting myself to this loss; it is, after all, only another disappointment in a lifelong string of disappointments. Tartar is a fine man, and I can honestly wish them a happy life together.”
“I am so pleased to hear you say that,” said Helena. “I have pledged to protect Rosa, yet I must also protect you, my brother; and you can see what strain this has put me under. It is well you accept Tartar, for he is one who may clear the cloud under which you live.”
“A fine man and a worthy friend, even did he not hold some promise of salvation. 'Promise of Salvation' I make it sound as if he could save my soul, not just my reputation. Still, he has become a friend and I think that, rather than wait for his customary visit here, I should like to call upon him at his home. Do you think this wise?”
Helena granting that it was wise, the two soon left his flat for the ancient wooden staircase where he sneezed at the dust and dander left by centuries of wool merchants now as dusty as their stock, and descended three flights to ground level. Thence she proceeded across the courtyard while he stepped from his alcove to the next and climbed three more flights of ancient wooden stairs back to the level from which he had begun.
“I begin to understand why Tartar is so fond of climbing about on roof-tops,” he thought to himself, slightly breathed, as he tapped at Tartar's door.
“Welcome, my friend,” said Tartar, opening wide the door. “I was about to visit you, so your timing is of the best. Come, visit my little abode.”
Once again the tidy attic was put upon display. This time it was Neville who was treated to the sight of rooms compleatly devoid of dirt or clutter; of cabinetry fitted precisely to each nook and cranny; of treasures, value great or little or none, gathered from around the world; of a Hanging Garden to rival Babylon's fabled verdancy. Upon completion of the tour (which had upon Neville the salutary effect of showing him what could be done with his own drab quarters), the two young men settled down to serious conversation.
“Have you, as yet,” began Neville, “been contacted by anyone warning you away from me?”
“Not yet,” returned Tartar, “although I think such contact will come soon. There is a man I have noticed who watches your rooms rather closely, and I fancy he has now started to watch me, as well. A tall, well-dressed man who looks Bristol on first glance, but, I dare-say, would not pass close inspection.”
“If this is the man I think, Helena has espied him already. She is quite the huntress, you know.”
“I know,” laughed Tartar. “Had I not already decided my course, I think I should set my sights on her. Oh, dear me! I am most sorry. I did not think.”
For Tartar's quick eyes had spotted the shadow that crossed Neville's face.
“It is alright,” said Neville, “although, perhaps, it would be wise for us to settle this between us now.”
“Quite right,” agreed Tartar, wondering just what settlement was to be essayed.
Neville struggled within himself for some minutes, both gathering the resolution to renounce his love and seeking out the exact words he would use, then he began again: “Tartar, do you love Rosa Bud?”
“Yes,” came the unequivocal response.
“You are aware that I, too, love the young lady?”
“Yes.”
“You are aware that I threatened her former fiancé‚ with bodily violence?”
“Yes.” Tartar, veteran of navy battle and harbour brawl, was obliged to keep his face straight at this, not being able to imagine how the slender Neville Landless could possibly harm him.
“You are aware that many people consider me to be the murderer of Edwin Drood?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you speak to me as a friend? Knowing that my evil temper could, without warning, dash your brain to bits?”
Again, Tartar suppressed his laughter, understanding that this subject was of the utmost seriousness to his new young friend. In his gravest manner he asked, “Neville, forgive me this question, but it is one that I must ask. Did you kill Edwin Drood?”
“Bless you,” exclaimed Neville, “for asking that question! It is one that no-one has yet asked me, and I have always felt that it was because they were afraid of the answer. No, Tartar, I did not kill Edwin Drood. My temper is hot, I acknowledge it, and I have been much provoked in my youth, but have I never killed anyone.”
“Then I feel safe, indeed proud, to speak to you as friend.”
“And I, for my part, can assure you of this: although I continue to love Rosa, and I believe I shall throughout the length of my life, I put aside all claim to her. I shall never approach her with my love in any way. And I shall wish nothing but blessings on your union.”
“Handsomely spoken,” said Tartar. “Keep your love for Rosa, Neville I shall never reproach you for that. Time will cure the ache but leave the warmth, and will, too, bring you another love.”
“For another love I am not yet ready, but I thank you for the words you intend to bring comfort. I have now a second true friend to add to Mr. Crisparkle.”
“Let us drink, then, as men, to true friendships the kind that last a lifetime!”
At this he produced from one of his cupboards a flask of French brandy and liberally filled two crystal goblets that magically appeared from another.
At the same time as Neville's visit to Tartar, Dick Datchery was preparing to leave Cloisterham for a quick visit to London.
“Thank you, Mrs. Tope, a lunch to eat on the train would be most welcome. No, I shall not return to-night. Probably to-morrow, though perhaps not even then, for I do not know how long my business in London will take. So, do not be perturbed should I not return for two or three days.”
“No, sir, we'll not be perterred,” replied the good woman. “It's not as if we have a steady call to let out your premises. Everything will be kept as is until you return. But, here! It's that wretched boy from the Travellers' Twopenny.”
“Halloa, Dick Datchees!” came echoing from the street.
“Halloa, Winks! Please allow him in, Mrs. Tope. I shall make sure he breaks nothing.”
“It's not what he might break that worries me, Mr. Datchery, it's what you might find missing when he's gone.”
“I've nothing here of value, and I think the boy would find insuperable difficulties in removing your furniture. You may admit him, if you please.
“Now, Deputy,” continued Mr. Datchery, Mrs. Tope retiring with unseemly haste in the face of the youthful barbarian's advance. “What is it that you want? Have you got for me that opium-smoking woman's address?”
“Not 'tirely, Mr. Datchees,” said the Impious One, momentarily humbled by being in a proper gentleman's quarters, however unassuming (and unprofitable) they might be.
“Then some other item, perhaps?”
“Aye,” replied the hideous child, “I was remembered of summat at the Kinfreederel this morning.”
“You were in the Cathedral?” questioned Datchery, surprised that such a transgression had not resulted in the collapse of that ancient edifice.
“Aye,” assented Deputy, “I crawled in to the bit ahind the Choir soes I could see through the brarss bars.” This brought a re-enactment of the struggle to dodge Tope the Verger while making steady progress toward his objective, the performance giving Datchery time to ponder what eccentric metallurgy turned black, wrought-iron bars into 'brarss'.
“When I sees the Puffer Princess a-shaking her fists at Jarsper, I remembers last winter there was a Chayner man at the Inn looking for a hopeum-puffer what lived 'ere. It wasn't 'til I seen her looking at Jarsper this morning that I knewed who the Chayner man was arter.”
“Excellent work, Deputy,” said Datchery, “you have really outdone yourself. A shilling's worth, I think.”
“Give 'ere! I did arsk the Princess where she lived,” continued Deputy, hoping to mine a little more brarss. “She arsked me 'Why's yer want to know, deary?' and I sez 'I wants to smoke hopeum.' Then she tells me 'Don't yer go smoking hopeum, deary, it ain't good for young ones like yer. Yer got to be mighty hard done by afore it'll do yer good, but then it'll do yer more good than ought else, deary.' I reckoned then as how she weren't going to say no more, so I tells her 'There's sometimes travellers what comes through here as wants to know where to find hopeum in London,' so she tells me she lives in Shardwell, nigh the Eastern dock.”
“Half an address, I'll give you sixpence for it, the other six if you can find her street and building. Fair?” said Datchery.
“Fair 'nough, Datchees. Wotcher.” With this pronouncement, the little abhorrence was off.
“Mrs. Tope,” Datchery called up the stairs, “do not pack that lunch. I shall not be going to London to-day, after all.”
“Shadwell,” he thought, “it fits.” And he made for his cupboard with chalk in hand.
Not long after Deputy had finished his business with Datchery, Neville had finished his with Tartar, and the two (scandalously unsteady as a consequence of sealing their eternal friendship) were carefully negotiating the short distance between one alcove and the next.
“Should I leave you here, Neville,” asked Tartar, “or would you prefer my help up the steps?”
“No, shank you, Tar'ar. All is well with me, I'm as ship-shape as a man-o-war, an' I don' wan' Helena to s'speck I migh' have had too mush.”
The sailor, being more experienced with spirits than the student, thought it unlikely Helena's sharp eyes would fail to notice the latter's florid complexion and wobbly gait, but, as he felt sure she would know, in her uncanny fashion, that his condition was a happy one, he allowed Neville to go up the stairs alone. Feeling the need himself for air and exercise, he proceeded across the court to the gateway, intending to walk down to the Temple Stairs to check on his boat. On Chancery Lane, near the Law Courts, he became aware through the fogginess in his mind of a tall man pacing him step for step. He turned onto the Strand, the tall man turned; he crossed over to Arundel, the tall man crossed, as well. At the Embankment he turned upon his shadow.
“What do you want?” he asked, with unaccustomed sharpness.
“Only a word, Mr. Tartar, sir, only a word or two of well-meant advice.”
Tartar, who was sobering rapidly, now recognized his consort to be none other than the man of whom he and Neville had already spoken.
“What do you want?” he repeated.
“You might find it to your advantage not to associate too closely with that young man in the garret next to yours,” said the other. “He is a man not to be trusted.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“This man is a hot-tempered foreigner. A Bully, if you will. Almost certainly worse than that.”
“How so?”
“You would do ill to walk with him at night, doubly so if he finds out your interest in a certain young lady. Watch your back, Mr. Tartar, when you are near him. To stay away from him altogether would be better for you, sir, better for everybody.”
With that, the tall man disappeared back into the busy city streets. And Tartar laughed.
THE SAME bright sun that brought warmth and beauty to the stone ruins of Cloisterham did little for the half-timbered ruins of Staple Inn other than reveal in even greater detail their sootiness and grit. Perhaps the impoverished sparrows of the court sang a little more hopefully, perhaps the scrubbly leaves of the trees showed a trace of green in their grey. Certainly those pedestrians who found themselves in the vicinity found their eyes burning less fearfully than normal as fewer fires let out their acidic smoke.
Mr. Grewgious, at home in this drab inferno, found the weather pleasant and invigorating, conducive to mental labour if not to physical, and had easily dispatched most of the day's business before ten-thirty when the clerk (on temporary loan from the chambers below) announced a visit by a most handsome young lady. This announcement produced in Mr. Grewgious no such reaction as had accompanied Rosa's visit, as he knew only two young ladies in the world and the one who would be labelled as 'handsome' lived no further away than the opposite corner of the court. Nevertheless, (and without his knowledge) his features struggled to give an impression of delight. This impression, upon any other person, would have been suggestive of toothache, but Helena Landless by now knew her brother's co-protector well enough to know she was heartily welcomed.
“My dear Miss Landless ...”
“Helena, please.”
“My dear Helena,” continued Mr. Grewgious, flattered to be so empowered, “to what do I owe this honour?”
“On such a lovely day as this, I wish to go about and explore a corner or two of this greatest city of the world and, as my brother is visiting Tartar, I thought I might ask you if you would be so kind as to accompany me.”
“No task could be more welcome, although I am not sure that an Angular old bachelor such as myself is exactly what you wish to be seen with. If all you require is an escort and, perhaps, someone to carry any purchases for you, I could well delegate that young man who announced you just now. He seems to be a most agreeable chap, more so than Bazzard, my usual clerk, at any rate,” added Grewgious.
“No,” Helena replied, “I should greatly value your own company, should you have the time available to grant it.”
Thus the streets of the ancient city were soon graced with the sight of a captivating, though plainly-dressed young woman accompanied by an uncaptivating middle-aged man with ill-fitting clothes and ill-fitting hair to match.
“Would you think it forward of me,” asked Helena after a short time, “to ask where it is you get your hair cut?”
“I do it myself, with scissors in front of a mirror,” replied Grewgious. “My hair is such an unruly mess that I would feel awkward forcing a professional to have anything to do with it.”
Helena made no response to this. After some moments' pause, he resumed, “Have I made a mistake?”
“Forgive me, my dear, kind Mr. Grewgious, but I fear that you have. Would you allow me to steer you into this barber's shop ....”
“Say rather 'hairdresser' than 'barber',” opined Grewgious, sure that he had once read something to that effect.
“Into this hairdresser's shop of which I have heard good report.” And, indeed, she had been steering Grewgious (him all unaware) in that direction since leaving Staple Inn.
Helena had spent much of the previous several days searching (by herself, for, in spite of what she had told Grewgious, she was quite comfortable walking through the city alone - that 'something tigerish' in her blood that had seen her safely through a vile childhood now seeing her equally safely past London's vile ruffians) among the nearby areas for various types of shop and asking questions of any menservants at Staple Inn with whom she came in contact; nor had any natural philosopher ever applied a keener mind nor a greater clarity of thought to cataloguing the wing markings of the rarest moth of the Celebes than had Helena Landless to finding the finest hairdresser in London.
The hairdresser (or barber, if you will) whom she had so carefully sought out was an elegantly mustachioed man who sported an improbable Italian name - improbable, for his closest contact with Italy had been a seafaring ancestor who had once set foot in Naples. He felt that an Italian name would bring greater recognition to his surprisingly genuine artistic talents.
His immediate action, upon Helena and Grewgious presenting themselves at his door, was to chase the invading woman from the sacred premises. This necessary protective act done, he placed the trepidating Mr. Grewgious in a mechanical chair apparently emancipated from some ancient subterranean torture chamber, regarded him from all angles for several minutes, then laid into his head like a dervish. First, all the hair had to be set straight forward, then to one side, then to the other, then back, then forward again. All the while a tiny, deadly pair of scissors pursued stragglers from this wayward herd, pouncing here and there to prey upon the weak, the lost, the outsized. Combs and brushes darted hither and yon over Grewgious's pate, sprayguns appeared from hidden shelves to anoint him with floridly odiferous mists, and all the while great clumps of hair rained upon the floor at his feet until he was certain that not a single strand would remain upon his newly baldened head.
And yet, some half-hour later, it was manifest that Helena's choice had been correct. No medieval member of the Company of Barber-Surgeons, even by applying scalpel directly to scalp, could have effected a more radical improvement in the appearance of the Angular man than had the talented un-Italian hairdresser. Though no trickery could alter the granitic lines of his face nor improve the sparsity of his tobacco-coloured hair, yet now hair seemed to lend dignity to face rather than to insult it.
“I am most pleased,” said Helena, mysteriously reappearing at the door the very instant the work was done. “Thank you for allowing me my whim in this.”
The hairdresser, equally pleased, allowed her to remain and shower him with the compliments and appreciation that were his due. For Grewgious, however, the effect was problematic. Since not the slightest hint had ever entered his mind that he might be anything other than Angular, the sight, in a mirror, of a presentable (though, admittedly, not unassailably handsome) gentleman looking back was an unfathomable puzzle.
“Come, Mr. Grewgious, it is time we were getting back,” continued Helena.
As they walked, Helena found the opportunity to broach a new subject.
“Have you noticed, my dear Mr. Grewgious, that most people, when they walk, move their arms? Perhaps you could try ... ah! ... perhaps with a little less enthusiasm? ... much better ... now, if you could try swinging them opposite to the movement of your legs, like this? ... Excellent! You must realize, Mr. Grewgious, that you have within you the capacity to move with elegance and grace.”
The last statement was such a conspicuous lie as to cause poor Grewgious to stop swinging both his arms and his legs altogether. When he attempted to recover, his anguished self-awareness resulted in him trying to move all four at once.
“My poor fellow! Did your parents never teach you to walk?” As this odious comment escaped Helena's lips, she, like so many others before, craved some bodily way to pull them back. Like so many others before, she found none.
“My parents were of advanced years when they begot me, Miss Landless.” Grewgious took no ill from her words. Perhaps he had not noticed their indecorum. Perhaps he forgave it. “Both were somewhat infirm and I fear that, when other children learned first to crawl and then to walk, I learned to hobble. But let me practise; I shall walk properly before we return to Staple Inn.”
Helena now peered rather closely at Grewgious's feet, disconcerting him once again.
“Am I mistaken, Mr. Grewgious, or do your boots pinch your feet when you walk?”
This question confronted Grewgious with an entirely new quandary; boots, in his experience, were great, awkward masses of leather into which one forced one's feet regardless of size, shape, or pain - having never had boots that did not pinch, it had never occurred to him that such things might exist. Soon Helena had directed him to a quality bootmaker which, entirely by coincidence, happened to lie on the route she had chosen.
“My dear Miss Landless,” said Grewgious later, as they entered the confines of Staple Inn, “I had never thought such boots as these existed unless in a fairy tale. My feet are as well protected from the rubble in the street as by armour, yet they feel so free that I can scarcely tell where the boots touch them!
“I count that three separate improvements you have made to me in the course of a single morning,” he continued, “hair, gait, and boots. What can I possibly do to repay you?”
“It is I, sir,” replied Helena with the greatest sincerity, “who am trying to repay you. Without your kindness, and that of the Reverend Crisparkle, my brother's life would be intolerable! I beg you to forgive my meddling, but do understand I do it from a desire to bring pleasure into your life. I trust that I have not too deeply upset the balance of your finances?”
“No, Helena,” replied Grewgious, “my income is more than sufficient for my modest needs, and always has been.”
Greatly daring, he hazarded what he considered might be a joke, “I have always envied the spendthrift his knowledge of what is so desirable that one must spend so much to attain it.”
As this elicited no response from Helena (who had not heard it, her attention being diverted to one of Staple Inn's sickly trees) he resumed his usual arid manner.
“Once again, I must thank you for leading me about like a child. However much I have enjoyed this morning, I must insist that you spend no more time upon this dry, old stick. There are a great many men around far better suited to escort one such as yourself. Why, just look over there by the tree: now there is what I should call a very superior-looking young man, and he, if I am not very much mistaken, would call you a very superior-looking young lady.”
“It amuses me that you refer to that person as superior,” said Helena. “'Superior' is the name given him by the servants here. You are aware of the Barrister, Lawrence Brough?”
“Surely that is not he!” squinted Grewgious. “I have had opportunity to meet with Lawrence Brough in the course of business, and he is a much older man.”
“Older, indeed,” replied Helena, “and much more respectable.”
It happened, Helena explained, that Lawrence Brough, Barrister, occupied the first floor set opposite Grewgious (a fact of which Grewgious, in spite of nearly two decades proximity, was compleatly unaware). Somewhat over a year previous, when, in the natural progression of the previous tenant's life, the second floor set became available, the first gentleman to declare interest in the rooms was none other than he whom Grewgious had pointed out. That gentleman being well-dressed and apparently well-supplied with assets, Staple Inn was quick to welcome him. It was not until the papers were signed that it was discovered his name, too, was Lawrence Brough. Now, a year later, Lawrence Brough, Barrister, remained a well-respected man at the Staple Inn, even somewhat well-liked, but his namesake was not. Let it not be said that he was a cad, a rake, or a ne'er-do-well; for cads, rakes, and ne'er-do-wells are not welcome at Staple Inn. But, through his unknown source of income, his worldliness, and his parsimonious, domineering way with the servants, the new Lawrence Brough was universally regarded as much inferior to the old Lawrence Brough in every aspect except location. Thus, to avoid any confusion with the Barrister, and in accord with the custom that any clarification was the better for obfuscating its subject, he became known as the Superior Lawrence Brough.
“What is more,” continued Helena, “I believe him to be the spy we seek.”
“Umps?” inquired Mr. Grewgious.
“I am not so retiring as my brother, Mr. Grewgious, and have made some inquiries of the staff. Of course, we must wait for Tartar's report to confirm this. Now, as it would appear we are in the presence of the enemy, could I impose upon you to accompany me to the top floor or have I already tired you too much?”
“These new boots are a delight,” enthused Grewgious, “and I do believe I could fly to heaven in them. Even if they were not, I am not such a cur as to abandon a lady, as you have put it, 'in the presence of the enemy'.”
“Then, before we go up,” here she paused at the entrance to the alcove, “there is something which I must discuss with you alone. I know but little of this man, Tartar, and I must know all there is to know. Rosa, whom I have sworn to protect as you have, dear little Rosa is in love with the man. You do know Rosa is in love with him, do you not?”
“Umps,” affirmed Grewgious.
“Then tell me what you know of him,” demanded Helena.
“Of personal knowledge,” said Grewgious, “I have none, having but just met the man. But Septimus Crisparkle, a man whose judgement I trust wholly, and of whose judgement I believe you have the same opinion, has the highest regards for him. Apparently, they not only knew each other in school, but Tartar fagged for Crisparkle. The only possible reservation I can see is that Crisparkle's judgement might be influenced by Tartar having once saved his life. And, if that is grounds for mistrusting one's judgement, then I can think of little means of gaining trust. Does this satisfy you, Miss Landless?”
“It does, Mr. Grewgious, but I fear what I must tell my poor brother.”
“Tell him, Miss Landless, that he, like many others before him, must learn to stand quietly aside when the love of his life chooses another.” Helena chose not to remark the melancholy that gnawed at Grewgious's face like a beetle gnawing at an oak as he said this.
Upon their return to the Landless's attic, Helena's evaluation of Lawrence Brough, Superior, was proven correct. Tartar, his boat well cared for and his mind cleared by the exertion, had chosen to return to Neville to acquaint him with the morning's visitation, and remained there still when Grewgious and Helena appeared. He now must needs recount the story again.
“No, Grewgious,” he concluded, answering that gentleman's inquiry, “no kind of threat against myself. Just the implication that Neville is a criminal and probably a murderer.”
“Ahem,” said Grewgious. “As it seems Helena's idea to flush the spy has worked out here, perhaps she has another, equally brilliant idea about what to do with him, for I must admit I have none.”
“As the Bard said,” mused Helena, “'Only a bandit can catch a bandit.'“
“Did the Bard say that?” asked Tartar. “I thought it was 'Only a thief can catch a thief.'“
“It is an ancient proverb,” asserted Grewgious. “'Set a thief to take a thief.' Are you certain it was Shakespeare?”
“Who else could it have been?” asked Tartar. “The Bible?”
“No, much more likely Bard than Bible,” said Grewgious, “but I take Helena's point. Let us set a spy to take a spy. If Mr. Tartar would be willing to publicly distance himself from us, while retaining discrete contact across the rooftop, then he could better acquaint himself with Brough. If he is able to discover Brough's employer, he could learn if it is truly Jasper - remember, we have assumed that it is Jasper, but we have no proof who is behind this attack. He could then discover what, exactly, is alleged against Neville; what knowledge Jasper has of the disappearance that we have not; and even what his plans are.”
“I remain utterly at your disposal,” said Tartar. “But how might I best insinuate myself into his confidence?”
“This Brough seems a low fellow,” entered Grewgious. “Flatter him and he will boast of his duplicities.”
“I expect,” suggested Helena, “you could easily ingratiate yourself with him for the price of a drink.”
“Drinks and flattery. So easily will he be bought. So easily was I bought.” But Neville kept these thoughts to himself.
JOE, gathering passengers for the morning train, was a little put out to discover his omnibus would have but two customers on this fine summer's day. The first was the familiar figure of John Jasper, now a frequent traveller to London where he pursued his investigation of Drood's disappearance; the second, the still mysterious newcomer, Dick Datchery, who had forgotten, once again, to place his over-sized hat on his over-sized head.
“My new neighbour,” said Jasper, politely inclining his head.
“Mr. Jasper,” returned Datchery, equally politely, “I must thank you for your recommendation of the Topes: they have worked out quite splendidly, as has my odd little room.”
“I think you will find it drafty, come winter.”
“I think you will find it empty, come winter.”
“You are leaving?”
“Not today I am just on my way up to London to visit my emp..., uh, an acquaintance but I have absorbed most of the local colour, so to speak, that I came for, and it is time I moved on to other things.”
“Other things. Would I be mistaken in assuming that you are a writer?” inquired Jasper, just a hint of darkness in his face.
“The merest dilettante, sir, a scribbler of no talent,” modestly replied Datchery.
“And would I be mistaken in assuming that your subject concerns my ill-fated nephew?” The darkness spread.
“His disappearance did create something of a stir, hereabouts and in London, too. Of course, if you find the subject too appalling,” offered Datchery, “I could put it away for some future year, or abandon it altogether. But I thought a little notoriety, putting the facts plainly, so to speak, might flush out some additional clue or idea that might lead to the solution of the case. So, I ask you plainly, sir: shall I go ahead or drop the matter?”
Jasper thought on this for a long time, so long, in fact, that Datchery considered the matter dropped. The train depot was in sight before he said, “Go ahead.”
“Might you be willing to advance my inquiries by . . . ?”
“NO!” shouted Jasper. Then he relented, “When you are ready to publish, come to see me with what you have. I shall correct any mistakes for you, and add whatever I have that you may have missed. That way we can approach the problem separately: if our conclusions are the same, they shall carry more weight. Good day to you, Mr. Datchery.”
He waited to see which car Datchery chose, then took another. In London, after once again fending off Datchery with pointed rudeness, Jasper made his way to the London chief offices of the Haven for Philanthropy. There, among the pitiable and the pitiless, he met with the lord of the merciless, Luke Honeythunder.
“Well, sir,” began Honeythunder before Jasper had so much as opened his mouth, “are you here about that rogue Landless. 'Landless' he is called and, by Jove, landless he will remain if I have anything to say in the matter, landless and moneyless and headless, too. I knew him for a rogue before I ever set eyes upon the man; knew it, for his step-father - a noble and worthy man, if ever I saw one - his step-father, as I say, had written to me often telling me what evil this cur and his sister had wrought overseas.”
“I was . . .” Jasper started to say, before being overwhelmed.
“That man in Ceylon was a long-time Philanthropist. I ask you sir, who but a Philanthropist - a Professing Philanthropist, mind you - who but a Professing Philanthropist would bother to take in a couple of stray orphans - no relations of his own, mind you - orphans to make his very existence a continual torment.”
Jasper forbore to point out that, as the orphans were the children of the deceased man's wife, to refer to them as 'no relations of his own' was stretching a point.
“Have you come here to plead on their behalf,” bellowed Honeythunder, “to tell me what sweet and innocent orphans these black-skinned devils are? For, if you have, sir, by St. George and his fiery dragon I'll have the hide off you.”
“Innocent? Not at all! I have no doubt, Mr. Honeythunder,” pronounced Jasper, “no doubt whatsoever, that Neville Landless murdered my nephew and that his sister is his cold-blooded accomplice in the crime.”
“Ah,” said Honeythunder, pleased by thinking that so paralleled his own, “I see I have misjudged you, sir. Mistaken you for another like that lily-livered Canon Crosspickle who should be deprived of his position for his poor judgement and insolence. D'you know that person, Crasspuckle, came in here demanding that he be kept on stipend to educate Landless? Crisparkle? That is what I said! Now tell me, Mr. ...?”
“Jasper,” entered Jasper.
“Jasper a fine name that; a good honest stone, jasper; solid, sir, solid, not like your chalk or Crisparkle (what sort of name is Crisparkle, anyway, is that a stone, too? Sounds like a mica; flake away at a touch.) now tell me, Jade, how can the Haven of Philanthropy help to denounce this fiend, Landless?” asked Honeythunder in his best philanthropic fashion.
John Jasper had found his mood improving from the moment he met the worthy man.
“There are several ways in which you can help, sir. First, I need to know everything you know relating to the Landless's background. Second, would you be willing to travel with me to Cloisterham to meet with the Mayor (a stout fellow, much like yourself. I know you will approve of him) where you may help me persuade the Mayor to lay charges against Neville. Third, and this is most important, I may need you to testify in the case, as a witness against Neville Landless's evil character. Are you willing to do these things, sir, even though they will cause you some hardship?”
“Hardship, sir?” returned Honeythunder. “Hardship will never stop a Professing Philanthropist from destroying a man's reputation or the man himself, for that matter. 'No greater cause', sir, 'no greater cause'. This Haven, and all its resources, are at your disposal.”
“Thank, you. Let us begin: when did you first hear of Neville and Helena Landless?”
“As I said, sir, their step-father was a Philanthropist. A fine man, I signed him into the Brotherhood while he visited London, before he returned to Africa.”
“Africa?” asked Jasper.
“Where Ceylon is, you dolt!” informed Honeythunder, in his kindly way. “Their step-father was one of the finest men it has ever been my pleasure to know. I knew no good would come of it when he married a widow with children.”
“Do you know how she became a widow?”
“Tiger et her husband, I believe. Or lion, or hippostatimus. Some monster God never intended for honest Englishmen to meet, at any rate.”
As it happened, Jasper had already performed much research by writing to various agencies in Ceylon; in this way he had uncovered the facts that the twin's father (one Jeremy Landless, of Whitby) had died of an ague while building the railroad through the mountains to Kandy; that it was widely held that the second husband (Rob Dougalson, born aboard a ship in Goa) had beaten their mother (Marigold Ellsworth, also of Whitby, where she had married Jeremy Landless) to death in a drunken rage; that Dougalson was every bit as brutal a man as Neville claimed, unloved by Cingalese and English alike; and that, consequently, his own, sudden death had scarcely been investigated. This did not stop Jasper from having a little fun.
“Yes, I have been given to understand that a hippostatimus is one of the most dangerous animals in Africa. The name 'Landless', did that belong to the first or second husband?”
“First, unless it was her maiden name, which it might have been - I know nothing of any 'Landlesses' except these two devils. Shouldn't wonder but their father was some shiftless native, it would account for their black skin. My Brother Philanthropist was Rob Dougalson. He had no business marrying that woman, Jasper better he had let her and her brood starve.”
“Much more Philanthropic,” agreed Jasper. “You mentioned earlier that these two had caused trouble overseas.”
“Treacherous, the pair of them. Dougalson was always writing to me about how, no matter how well he treated them, they would perform little or no work around the place and complained constantly of needing clothing or food or books. He was too soft! Whipping, day and night, until they show proper gratitude! Only way to handle children, by George, the only way.”
“Quite so; I shall bear your wise advice in mind should I ever be so blessed. Where did they live?”
“Ceylon, of course! Africa!”
“I meant where in that country; did they live in the city, or on a farm, perhaps?”
“Tea plantation, up in the hills. Odd, really, I thought coffee came from Africa, not tea.”
“What sort of work could Mr. Dougalson have expected small children to do on a tea plantation?” asked Jasper.
“Pick tea, of course!” brayed Honeythunder. “Hillsides are too steep for a grown man. They have women climb up and down, picking the ripe leaves and putting them in baskets. Dougalson wrote all about it to me when he first took charge in the area. Only white man for miles, surrounded by black cannibals. Miracle he wasn't murdered and eaten.”
“Or carried away by a Roc,” added Jasper.
“Eh? What's that? You didn't try a joke, did you? Does no good with me, you know - never understand them; jokes, I mean.”
“A joke, sir? I never joke! I just referred to one of the more common dangers in that part of the world. Rocs are forever carrying the natives off.” Jasper's mood was no longer improving. “I do believe they make good hunting, however.”
At the same time Jasper entered the Haven of Philanthropy, an elderly gentleman with a youthful step, a ridiculous hat, and a shock of white hair around his overly large head passed the doorway guarded by P. J. T. since 1747. Once inside, he shed hat and ermine locks with equal facility.
“Bazzard,” Grewgious stated drily, believing himself to be expressing cheer, “what a pleasure to have you back again.”
“A new suit, sir?” replied Bazzard, somewhat obliquely.
“What? Oh, yes. Miss Landless rather insisted that the old one was a bit threadbare (I thought to make it right simply by patching the elbows) and accompanied me to a tailor of which she had heard. Do you know,” asked Grewgious, “they can make sleeves to fit one's arms? And trousers to fit one's legs. Astounding!”
“Astounding,” agreed Bazzard, wondering if he should dedicate his next play to his employer. “Not this one; a comedy,” he thought. “Better, a farce.”
“Now, Bazzard,” said Grewgious, “you must tell me what your inquiries have uncovered.”
“I should say that, although my discoveries do not constitute proof, they certainly do add up to a strong case against Jasper. Enough, I should warrant, to bring charges against him. But let us wait until this after-noon, for I have asked Mr. Septimus Crisparkle to join us in a Council of War.”
“Excellent idea,” said Grewgious, “As there are more parties than ourselves involved, I shall ask the Landlesses to journey with us over to Mrs. Billickin's, where Rosa and Miss Twinkleton are ensconced.”
“Sir, while I look forward to meeting the young lady whose beauty has caused so much trouble,” spoke the playwright, “I think the fewer people who know my true identity, the fewer chances of it being exposed by mischance. I had better attend as old layabout than as young clerk.”
“Tell me, Bazzard, does Crisparkle know?”
“He does not.”
“Excellent. Let us then continue our little pretension. I pray you resume your costume while we lunch and I shall refer to you as Digby.”
“Datchery, sir.”
“Datchery, of course. Have no fear, I'll not fumble it a second time.”
“Crisparkle, you have met Mr. Dougherty?” fumbled Grewgious after luncheon.
“My dear Grewgious, were you the model of a conspirator, Caesar would be with us yet. But nothing is lost. I had already surmised from his invitation that this Dick Datchery of my acquaintance is none other than your missing clerk, Bazzard. You might do well, however, not to proclaim your affinity so loudly. Were I your agent in Cloisterham, I should hesitate to be seen here at all.”
“Quite so, Mr. Crisparkle,” said Bazzard turning to his employer. “Perhaps it would be best were I to report what I know directly to you now and not attend the meeting this afternoon. Let us at least maintain the pretense that Dick Datchery has no more than a passing interest in the case.”
He returned his attention to the Minor Canon. “Allow me, as I no longer have the audience for which I rehearsed, my flamboyant self-introduction: 'Dick Datchery, Detective, Defender of the Weak, Terror of the Wicked, Fearless Righter of all Wrongs' and, by no means least, erstwhile neighbour of one John Jasper, suspect villain.”
He accompanied this declaration by first drawing himself up to his full, modest height and adopting an oratorical pose remarkably similar, save for the lack of a hammer, to the statue of the elder Sapsea found above the doorway of Cloisterham's auction house then, for the latter clause, leaning toward his audience while affecting a conspiratorial leer and a stage whisper.
“Perhaps, in Christian charity,” enjoined Crisparkle, the Christian spokesman among them, “we ought not to take such pleasure in the persecution of one who may yet prove to be compleatly innocent.”
Bazzard deflated from his pose but recovered swiftly. “Innocent, Mr. Crisparkle? I think not, nor, I believe, will either you or my employer once you have heard my discoveries. I trust that neither of you will find it a surprise that John Jasper has been (for some years, I believe) a user of opium.”
They were surprised, indeed. Minor Canon Crisparkle, well sheltered by his own innate goodness, had not thought upon the evidence. For his part, although through long acquaintance dealing with the courts of law Grewgious was familiar, in his abstract way, with most human vices, he seldom connected such vices with real people.
“Opium use,” continued Bazzard, pleased with the stir he had caused, “caused, as we have already seen, by his unholy lust for Miss Bud. I have spoken with the woman who supplies him with the drug, and she has intimated to me her belief that Jasper killed a young man she knew only as 'Ned', that being, of course, a term he reserved solely for his nephew. I have, also, testimony that he had the Cathedral workman, one Stony Durdles, conduct him through the darkest, most anciently-abandoned corridors of that Cathedral where he drugged the man and stole from him the key to its strongest tomb. No doubt, should we enter that tomb, we should find there the body of Edwin Drood.”
After his meeting with Honeythunder, Jasper went to the hotel in Aldersgate Street where he kept a room. The meeting, fuelled by Honeythunder's wondrous combination of ignorance, arrogance, and bile, had continued rather longer than Jasper had foreseen and, the longer he was forced to be agreeable to the Philanthropist, the fouler his temper had become. Inside the hotel room, he found two men waiting for him. One was Lawrence Brough, Superior.
“Who the Devil is this?” demanded Jasper.
“Allow me to introduce Mr. Tartar,” obsequiated Brough, Superior, “a neighbour of Neville Landless ....”
“Why the Devil should you bring him here?”
“... and, I believe, his only friend other than what we might regard as the 'enemy' party,” concluded Brough.
“Ah,” said Jasper.
“It occurred to me,” continued Brough, “that Mr. Tartar and let me state now, so that there be no misunderstandings amongst us, that Mr. Tartar's only interest is to see justice done, he being what you call 'of independent means', and a true gentleman (not to mention a wealthy one) it occurred to me that we might use Mr. Tartar's influence with young Mr. Landless to find out from the young man what his actions were on the night in question (that being when your nephew, Mr. Drood, disappeared): what he did, and what they were talking about both before your arrival and after their exit to peruse the storm.”
“Ah,” repeated Jasper, intrigued by the idea and bemused by the manner of its presentation.
Tartar felt it was time to speak up for himself. “Mr. Jasper, Mr. Brough, here, has acquainted me with some of the facts of what appears to be a murder committed by my new neighbour. If and let me repeat, if this is truly what happened, then it would be my duty to find him out for the law. If not, it would be equally my duty to prove his innocence.”
“Well spoken, Mr. Tartar!” replied Jasper. “If Neville Landless is innocent, then I, too, shall proclaim that to the world. Brough, would you be so kind as to resume your surveillance? I shall interrogate our new ally.
“Please understand I must inquire after all sorts of matters in my pursuit of the truth,” Jasper continued, after Brough had left. “I should be much obliged to know your name.”
“All the world calls me Tartar,” said he. “That was the name I was known by at school, that was the name I was known by in the navy. It was even what my mother called me, though usually prefixed with 'You little ...'. In truth, my Christian name was so ill-considered that I have tried to forget its very existence. One sometimes wonders what fathers are thinking of!”
“Indeed,” agreed Jasper. “I shall allow you to keep your name to yourself since you find the subject unpleasant.”
“Not so much unpleasant as amusing. My initials are M. A.”
“Michael Andrew?”
“Melchizadek Abednego. Now do feel free to laugh. I shall take not the slightest offense.”
“Tartar,” Jasper continued with an asphyxiated look upon his face, but no laughter, “let me apologize for having to employ such a repugnant fellow as that. He is an ill sort, a paid spy, and I have no confidence in anything he has to say to me. Now, are you prepared to spy for me, knowing that I want to hear only the truth and all of it, the whole truth, as lawyers are wont to say?”
“I am, Jasper, but I must admit to a certain puzzlement. I had thought to hear you wanted proof against Neville, no matter how contrived.”
“I do want proof against Neville, Tartar. Proof, but only genuine proof as my very soul depends on it, for I know that only two people in the world had cause to see Edwin Drood dead, and if it was not the one who killed him, then it must be the other.”
“Clearly so. But who is the other, and why are you so keen to see Neville proven guilty?”
“Why? Because the other is myself! I see I have shocked you. To explain myself, I must confess to a terrible weakness. Do I impose myself too much upon you?”
“You place a great deal of confidence in me, based as it is only upon the word of a scoundrel.”
“It is not. I investigated many inhabitants of Staple Inn before I chose Brough the Inferior as my spy,” confessed Jasper. “I had already heard good report of you, but saw no means to bring you into my sphere.”
“Then, if you are willing to confide in me, I invite your confidence,” said Tartar, echoing the sentiments Minor Canon Crisparkle had given Neville Landless almost a year before.
“In trust?”
“You may trust me, sir,” said Tartar, not at all troubled by the lie.
“Then lend me an ear. My nephew, Edwin Drood, was betrothed little past his infancy to another infant named Rosa Bud. Through tragic circumstances, both became orphans in early childhood, and Edwin, being but six years my junior, was raised as my brother. My childhood, prior to that, had been lonely - grievously unhappy - and, when Edwin became a member of our family, it began the happiest period of my life. When, a few years ago, my parents, too, died, I was able to enroll Edwin in a fine school of engineering - he having an unusual aptitude in that field which more than compensated for, I blush for his sake but it is true, a compleat lack of aptitude in any other. Whenever he had time off from school, it was to Cloisterham he would come, to my chambers where a room was set aside for his sole usage. I think it fair to say no father ever doted on his favourite son more than I doted on Edwin. I even had a special name for him which I have not spoken since his disappearance.”
“Should I know it?” asked Tartar.
“Ned.” Jasper was obliged to wait a few seconds before continuing. “All was well between us. I watched Edwin grow and mature, and, at the same time, I watched his betrothed, Rosa, grow. She was an enchanting child, although always the smallest of her class, and, I must admit, hopelessly spoiled by the kindness and constant attention of others. Do not think this any great criticism! She, herself, was kinder than any, more thoughtful, always the first to spot sadness in her companions and to cure it. I know all of these things, for I taught music at the school where she lived, and what I did not see for myself, I learned about her from the other masters. As she grew - and as Edwin should have grown to love her but did not - so I grew to love her.
“Tartar, listen to me: this conflict created such torment in my heart that I turned to opium to relieve it!”
“No!” cried Tartar, aghast, “I have seen what opium has done to sailors and natives alike in ports to which I have sailed. Tell me you have forsaken it!”
“It is not so easy to forsake, but I nearly accomplished it. But let me return to my account. At first I found the splendid dreams of which De Quincey and others have written; but then a horrible thought crept, all-unwanted, into my mind: if Edwin were no more, then I could pursue Rosa with the love to which she was entitled. Later the thought changed to: if I were to remove Edwin .... Oh, Tartar, you, who have not smoked opium, cannot know how powerfully its dreams grip. 'Thou hast the keys of Paradise, oh just, subtle, and mighty opium!' A thousand times I smoked the drug, a thousand times I murdered my poor nephew in my mind. Half a thousand times I died of remorse when I awoke. But then! Horrid dreams became welcome. Murder became my companion. I planned his death, Tartar. I searched out the very spot in the cathedral tower from which to dash his body to the ground ... but I had not the boldness to do it, nor did my bitterness ever compleatly overpower my love for Edwin.
“Then came Neville. It was clear to me, if not to my poor nephew, that Neville loved Rosa at first glance and who can blame him? Not I, nor most of the men in Cloisterham who had seen her,” here Tartar felt the cold prickings of conscience; he, too, could not blame Neville, or John Jasper, “and that he held Edwin in no regard whatsoever. I, too cowardly to murder Edwin myself, sought to exacerbate their mutual hatred. If Neville killed Edwin, my way was clear. If Edwin killed Neville, that was even better, for Edwin would be discredited in Rosa's eyes, even before he was hanged.
“At their first meeting, alone, except for myself, in my quarters, I drugged their wine with something to inflame their passions. It was my plan to bring them together as often as needed until one killed the other.
“Tartar, believe this much good of me. After the first argument, when the effects of the opium had left me, I strove to keep them apart. I was confused; sometimes I would continue my planning, other times I would struggle against myself once again. Finally, in the early part of last winter, I visited a purveyor of opium other than my normal. This person, known as Jack the Chinaman, told me that, simply by chewing upon certain leaves which he sold me, I could rid myself of the need for opium.
“It worked ... for a time. When Edwin and Neville met to resolve their differences, I was in good spirits and had forsworn my own love for Rosa for my nephew's sake. Then he disappeared! Can you imagine the effect upon me? I did not know, then - I do not know, now! - whether Neville killed him or whether some influence of the opium returned to me and I killed him all unaware!”
Thus addressed, Tartar had no recourse but to sit, stunned, for several moments.
“John Jasper,” he spoke, formally, “I do not know if I will be able to help you or not. This I can, and do, promise: whatever I find out about Neville's guilt, whether he be the murderer or not, I shall tell you the truth and all of it.
“I see,” he continued, “why you could place no trust in that Brough fellow. He would, without any doubt, fabricate evidence to prove the guilt of whomsoever it was to his best advantage to have guilty. If he knew of your pipe-dreams, he would blackmail you without mercy.
“Look to the good, though. At least you have broken your opium habit.”
“No,” said Jasper, “it once again has me in its grip. With all my hopes dashed, I no longer have any strength to fight it.”
“I beg of you, man: do fight it! I have in my employ an excellent fellow, Lobley, who has saved many a sailor enslaved to the drug. Let me send him to your side and he may help you against the poison.”
“Bless you, Tartar! You are a gentleman of the finest sort. I know my confidences are safe with you.”
NEVILLE,” said Helena, spotting the Canon from her window, “bestir yourself from those books and put on those new clothes I bought for you. It is time for us to leave this place, and we must do so without being spotted.”
“I am prepared to go, Helena, but I anticipate with dread spending an hour in the presence of she whom I have so much wronged.”
“Bear up, my brother! Once your name has been cleared, thousands of young ladies - a city full, many as attractive as young Rosa - await your attention. Here, this moustache. Now, are you prepared to exit here in Tartar's acrobatic manner?”
“Yes,” replied Neville with mixed humour. “But wait awhile and watch as I go. A mistake, and everyone's efforts to help me will become abstract.”
In spite of his words, the young man negotiated the way with little more difficulty than his sailor mentor. Upon witnessing his safe arrival, Helena calmly walked across the quadrangle to P. J. T.'s archway, joined the two gentlemen awaiting her, and led them out to the corner of Chancery Lane where Neville watched for his unholy disciple. Thus the little party reached Bloomsbury Square undiscovered.
“Mr. Grewgious,” wheezed Mrs. Billickin, emerging from her back parlour carefully wrapped in her shawl, “I cannot properly hexpress myself as to what a pleasure it is to see a gentleman such as yourself come to visit that poor, little dear as has taken my first floor. I shall make no secret of my opinion; she was not well when she came here, you must know. Not properly fed nor cared for, in my humble opinion. Neglected, Mr. Grewgious, neglected.”