are yours, Inspector Field, but how are we to proceed? What are we to do?” Dickens inquired, turning to the more practical aspects of the undertaking.
“We need to know where Partlow went, what ’ee did, in whose company ’ee did it. If you could go there, converse with the members, it would be quite ’elpful. Rogers.” He turned to his faithful shadow, who was rummaging in the pouch which he carried slung over his shoulder.
“Yes sir,” Rogers answered, handing over a folded newspaper.
Field immediately unfolded it to reveal the sensational headline: “PROMINENT WEST END SOLICITOR MURDERED.” It was a two-week-old Times .
“You carry this,” Field directed Dickens, as if he were some playwright blocking out the movements of his actors. “You let it be known that you ’ave been out of the city an’ ’ave been catchin’ up on the news. You’ve been readin’ about Partlow’s murder. Terrible thing. That’s the tack. It is our ’ope that this ruse will loosen some gossip’s tongue. Who knows, it may even flush our killer.” With that, Field turned to me. “And you, Mister Collins, are very important to this scheme. While Mister Dickens is entertainin’ ’is audience and tryin’ to draw ’em out, you remain in the background carefully observin’ the crowd, notin’ every reaction, eye peeled for any suspicious movement, ’urried flight or nervous tick.”
“Spies indeed,” I scoffed. “What you want is the net of Hapheastus.”
“Don’t know the gentleman,” Field’s face was deadly serious, “but if ’is net will catch us a murderer, tell ’im to bring it along.”
“Your plan is excellent,” Dickens said, taking the newspaper. “I can’t wait to set it in motion.” He didn’t bother to ask me if I would accompany him. Like any bold knight, he simply took for granted that his faithful squire, his Sancho, would be at his side. Of course, he was right!
All of the sadness, the loss of his power of concentration was gone from Dickens’s mien. He was animated, trembling to act. He could have been a character in one of his own novels. “It takes a gentleman to catch a gentleman,” Field had said, and Dickens was in the process of inventing a gentleman detective to work side by side with the professional detective.
“Spies!”
April 31, 1851—evening
The maitre d’ at The Player’s Club, with his thin pencil moustache and black frock coat, gushed like a Parisian fountain when Dickens entered: “Oh Meestair Deekens, welcome back to zee Player’s Club. Eet has bean a long time, Meestair Deekens. Welcome back.” The person nodded to me in total non-recognition and said “Zanck you, sir” when he took my hat and gloves. Someday , I thought, they will recognize me as well as him .
Upon entering the dining room, we created quite a stir. No one disturbed our dinner, but a low hubbub of gawking and pointing took possession of the room. When we had finished, Dickens suggested we retire to the smoking lounge for our brandy and cigars. While retrieving his prop newspaper from the cloakroom, Dickens whispered, “Now let us join the rabble!”
“The rabble” were more than eager to close ranks around us. Within seconds upon entering the smoking lounge, we were surrounded by greeters, professed acquaintances, devoted readers, and all manner of actors, writers and theatre patrons. Dickens recognized a few, pretended to recognize many, made new and fervent acquaintance with a multitude, and smiled and shook hands with all. All the while, he kept on prominent display his copy of the Times with its gory headline. Men bowed in and bowed out after shaking the great man’s hand but a few, who felt, because of prior acquaintance, that they held a greater claim to his company, lingered. Ultimately, we were invited by two well-known actors, Mister Grahame Storey of the Adelphi and Mister Earle Davis of Drury Lane, to join their group.
We were ushered to chairs of honor in a circle of
“We need to know where Partlow went, what ’ee did, in whose company ’ee did it. If you could go there, converse with the members, it would be quite ’elpful. Rogers.” He turned to his faithful shadow, who was rummaging in the pouch which he carried slung over his shoulder.
“Yes sir,” Rogers answered, handing over a folded newspaper.
Field immediately unfolded it to reveal the sensational headline: “PROMINENT WEST END SOLICITOR MURDERED.” It was a two-week-old Times .
“You carry this,” Field directed Dickens, as if he were some playwright blocking out the movements of his actors. “You let it be known that you ’ave been out of the city an’ ’ave been catchin’ up on the news. You’ve been readin’ about Partlow’s murder. Terrible thing. That’s the tack. It is our ’ope that this ruse will loosen some gossip’s tongue. Who knows, it may even flush our killer.” With that, Field turned to me. “And you, Mister Collins, are very important to this scheme. While Mister Dickens is entertainin’ ’is audience and tryin’ to draw ’em out, you remain in the background carefully observin’ the crowd, notin’ every reaction, eye peeled for any suspicious movement, ’urried flight or nervous tick.”
“Spies indeed,” I scoffed. “What you want is the net of Hapheastus.”
“Don’t know the gentleman,” Field’s face was deadly serious, “but if ’is net will catch us a murderer, tell ’im to bring it along.”
“Your plan is excellent,” Dickens said, taking the newspaper. “I can’t wait to set it in motion.” He didn’t bother to ask me if I would accompany him. Like any bold knight, he simply took for granted that his faithful squire, his Sancho, would be at his side. Of course, he was right!
All of the sadness, the loss of his power of concentration was gone from Dickens’s mien. He was animated, trembling to act. He could have been a character in one of his own novels. “It takes a gentleman to catch a gentleman,” Field had said, and Dickens was in the process of inventing a gentleman detective to work side by side with the professional detective.
“Spies!”
April 31, 1851—evening
The maitre d’ at The Player’s Club, with his thin pencil moustache and black frock coat, gushed like a Parisian fountain when Dickens entered: “Oh Meestair Deekens, welcome back to zee Player’s Club. Eet has bean a long time, Meestair Deekens. Welcome back.” The person nodded to me in total non-recognition and said “Zanck you, sir” when he took my hat and gloves. Someday , I thought, they will recognize me as well as him .
Upon entering the dining room, we created quite a stir. No one disturbed our dinner, but a low hubbub of gawking and pointing took possession of the room. When we had finished, Dickens suggested we retire to the smoking lounge for our brandy and cigars. While retrieving his prop newspaper from the cloakroom, Dickens whispered, “Now let us join the rabble!”
“The rabble” were more than eager to close ranks around us. Within seconds upon entering the smoking lounge, we were surrounded by greeters, professed acquaintances, devoted readers, and all manner of actors, writers and theatre patrons. Dickens recognized a few, pretended to recognize many, made new and fervent acquaintance with a multitude, and smiled and shook hands with all. All the while, he kept on prominent display his copy of the Times with its gory headline. Men bowed in and bowed out after shaking the great man’s hand but a few, who felt, because of prior acquaintance, that they held a greater claim to his company, lingered. Ultimately, we were invited by two well-known actors, Mister Grahame Storey of the Adelphi and Mister Earle Davis of Drury Lane, to join their group.
We were ushered to chairs of honor in a circle of
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