August 14, 1852—Morning
I was sitting next to Dickens in the Kensington Magistrate’s Court the next morning when Ellen Ternan was led in. She did not look much the worse for wear despite having been forced to spend two nights in the holding room at St. James Station. Much to Dickens’s relief both Field and Rogers had joined us in the gallery of the courtroom just before Miss Ternan was brought in.
Her hair was a bit tousled, but she had clearly been allowed to make a complete morning toilette, and she looked clean and fresh despite her ordeal. Of course, that sort of appearance comes easily, even under stress, to persons of Miss Ternan’s youth. If I had been forced to sleep in gaol two nights running, I would emerge looking like a disgruntled porcupine.
The magistrate was a Mr. McWhelply, who exhibited all of the gruff disinterest of his Scottish ancestry until Miss Ternan was announced and the word “murder” raised its viperous head in his courtroom. The word caught his (and everyone else’s) attention. A murmur buzzed through the courtroom as if a hive had just been whacked. All eyes flew to Dickens’s Ellen as she was escorted into the dock.
Magistrate McWhelply made quick work of her.
“For murder? A woman? Worst kind,” he pronounced, and turned to Inspector Collar for an explanation.
“Yes sir.” Collar, a model of fawning respect for the court and bloodless protector of the civil peace, addressed the high justice like a true martinet. “The affair at Coutts Bank, Your Honor, murder of another woman it is.”
“Evidence?”
“Yes sir.” Collar produced the green scarf. “Belongs to the accused and was used to strangle a Miss Eliza Lane at the previous mentioned bank.”
“Quite so. Thank you, Inspector Collar.” And that seemed to close the case for Chief Magistrate McWhelply. However, as a necessary afterthought, he stared off into space as if contemplating a beckoning trout stream and asked no one in particular: “Is there anyone present here to speak for Miss”—and he consulted his charge sheet to find her name—“um, Ternan?”
“Yes, Your Honor, indeed. Here to speak for the accused, your honor. Jaggers of the Middle Temple, Your Honor. Council for Miss Ternan, Your Honor.” He had heaped enough toadying “Your Honors” upon the magistrate that that worthy seemed almost buried under them.
Dickens had wasted no time in retaining the formidable Jaggers. That worthy’s name immediately caught Magistrate McWhelply’s attention, and, for the second time that morning, a knowing buzz spread through the courtroom. I guess in those parts the words “murder” and “Jaggers” had come to be synonomous.
Jaggers is a bulky, bald specimen who bludgeons his way through the frail gate that bars entrance from the gallery to the small stage before the bench where the legal theatrics are acted out.
Jaggers is incredulous.
Jaggers is incensed.
Jaggers is intense.
Jaggers is aghast that such meagre evidence and malicious hearsay would even be considered in such a fair and universally esteemed court of justice.
But, unfortunately, none of Jaggers’s theatrical exertions are enough to carry the cause this day.
“Thank you, Mr. Jaggers.” Magistrate McWhelply nods knowingly as he looks around for his mallet of justice, which has somehow been misplaced. He proceeds to dismiss Ellen’s lawyer with a wave of his hand in lieu of a good gavel pound, as if that worthy were a piece of lint that had landed annoyingly upon his sleeve.
Jaggers withdraws reluctantly, his face flushed from his entreaties, his unargued brief clutched in his troubled hand.
“Bound over to the Queen’s Bench,” McWhelply growls, still swiveling his head in search of his missing gavel. “Take her away. She will be remanded to Newgate.” With that dreaded pronouncement, Magistrate McWhelply finally found his wooden mallet and gave the table a resounding bang even though it was too late. From the tragic look on Charles’s face, the magistrate might well have been pounding the last nail into Ellen Ternan’s coffin.
Dickens rushed to the front of the courtroom to try to get a final word with his Ellen, but the constable hurried her off so quickly that he could not speak with her. Frantically, he followed her outside, but by the time he fought his way through the indolent crowd of court hangers-on, she was already padlocked into the closed prison cart and he could not even catch a glimpse of her as that tumbril rumbled off.
We—Field, Rogers, and myself—caught up with Dickens, standing, utterly forlorn, in the cobblestone street. But before we had even a chance to plot our next move, Collar and his man descended upon us, no doubt to gloat. Field, however, never gave him a chance to lord it.
“Inspector Collar, congratulations. It is in the hands of the courts now, it is.” The tone of Field’s voice gave all evidence of his having washed his hands of the case.
“Yes,” Collar said with a smirk, “I am sure, and the court obviously agrees, that we have got our man.”
“You mean ‘woman,’” Field corrected him with a congenial grin.
“Yes, of course, ‘woman,’” Collar corrected himself with a knowing laugh of the sort men exchange amongst themselves in the privacy of their clubrooms.
I was afraid that Dickens was going to step up and strike the man, but he restrained himself. To all of our relief, Collar decided not to tarry to discuss the case, but with a patronizing salute continued on with his man in tow to their waiting police post-chaise.
“Bloody twit!” Serjeant Rogers cursed him in a stage whisper as soon as they were out of earshot.
“That he is, foursquare,” Inspector Field agreed, “but the good is that he is out of our hair.” And with that Field turned to Dickens, more to cheer him up, I think, than to plot any startling new strategy. “Which means that we have an open field.”
“While Miss Ternan pines away in Newgate.” Dickens was a portrait of despondence.
“There is no good to be gained in feelin’ sorry for ourselfs,” said Field, turning deadly serious. “We have no choice but to keep turnin’ over rocks till we find our murderer.”
Field paused to let Dickens think on that.
“I have a good feelin’ about your Miss Nightingale.” Field’s gravity seemed to pull Dickens out of his depression and back into the detective’s game. “If she can lead us to this Frenchwoman who dresses like a man, then I will wager we’ll find our friend Barsad close by.”
“This spirit rapping, then, may be our best chance,” said Dickens, grasping eagerly at the hope that Field held out like some poor shipwrecked mariner grasping for a spar.
“Yes, and tonight we shall see where Miss Nightingale’s phantoms will lead us.” And with that Field nodded to Rogers and turned to leave.
“But I fear there is another possibility,” Dickens said, stopping them.
“And wot might that be?” Field’s crook’d forefinger shot to the side of his right eye.
“Angela Burdett-Coutts has apprised me of a man out of her past, a seducer of women, who she fears might be involved in this confusing affair.”
“And who might that be?” Field’s sudden anger was nearly palpable, smoldering beneath his dark eyebrows and the grim set of his mouth as he spoke.
Dickens told the whole story, of this James Barton and the false marriage, to Field and Rogers right there in the street. It was information Dickens should have imparted (in fact, was directed to by Miss Angela herself) to Field before.
Field held himself under admirable control, I thought. He did not admonish Dickens for holding back the story to this late hour, but it was clear that he was displeased.
“Perhaps, and perhaps not,” Field finally said when Dickens had completed his revelation. “But we must follow the signs that are the clearest, and for now this Barsad and his gang of women is our best chance. Tonight at Bow Street.”
And with that curt order, Field turned on his heel and was gone.