May 4, 1851—evening
Following that evening of Macbeth at Covent Garden, where so much had transpired both on and off the case, Dickens seemed to rally and return to his vocations and avocations with a renewed enthusiasm. Before the sudden death of little Dora, Dickens had been tyrannically rehearsing his amateur troupe for a benefit performance of Bulwar Lytton’s new comedy, Not So Bad As We Seem. The Duke of Devonshire had graciously offered his residence, Devonshire House, in Picadilly, as the site of its opening benefit performance before Her Majesty and the Court. Rehearsals had only commenced, when first Dickens’s father, and then his younger child, had died so suddenly. With Dickens unable to continue, the date for the performance before the Queen had been tentatively reset for May twenty-second in hopes that, after a time of mourning, Dickens might feel inclined to take up the reins, and resume his seat on the box as both manager and actor. Now, to the joy and relief of all, that seemed to be exactly his intention.
He ordered rehearsals to resume on May third in Devonshire House (the Duke having hospitably offered his manse, not only for the benefit performance itself, but for the getting up of the whole production). I had a small part in the piece, that of valet to Lord Wilmot, which was Charles’s lead role. Douglas Jerrold had another of the major roles, as did Augustus Egg. Wills had declined a part, in fact the part which was given to me, because he felt it might distract him from his duties at the Household Words office. Forster, in a masterful bit of casting, played a dour and inflexible Magistrate. Though much caught up in the rush of the rehearsals, neither Dickens nor myself had forgotten about Inspector Field’s murder investigation, which we had left backstage at Covent Garden Theatre. I was sure that the murder case was not all that Dickens had left backstage at Covent Garden.
Three full days passed before Field once again summoned us. It was early evening, and rehearsal was drawing to a close at Devonshire House, when the taciturn Rogers materialized in the doorway. He saluted Dickens respectfully, and delivered Field’s summons to Bow Street Station. Dickens drew that rehearsal to a precipitate close, and we soon joined Field in the bullpen.
First off, Inspector Field sat us down before the fire to give us a full report. Teasing, he began: “I’ve been keepin’ an eye on you two, I ’ave” (eyes a-twinkle) “and Rogers tells me you’ve been rehearsin’ a play the last two nights. Well, I’m proud to say, I’ve been workin’ on my own little play these three days past, since our night at Covent Garden.”
But Field did not choose to elaborate on his theatrical metaphor. Instead, he announced the results of our little Covent Garden fishing expedition. “Meggy spotted all three of ’em, she did. Your Mister Paroissien, the stage manager, was the primary object, to be sure. With absolute certainty, ’ee is the man who stabbed Solicitor Partlow. The gatherin’ of the proper evidence is all that delays ’is takin’ up.”
“What evidence need be gathered?” I pressed him. “Isn’t Irish Meg’s identification enough?”
Field turned to me with the look one would give a small child who doesn’t understand the intricacies of an adult game. “Lincoln’s Inn lawyers make a ’abit of destroyin’ the testimonies of girls like Meggy.” Field spoke slowly. “She is not a person in a court of law. She is not ’ooman. She ’as no moral right to testify. For the lawyers and the ’onorable judges, she does not exist. She is no more than a low-class common criminal, a piece of garbage off the streets, a perversion of ’oomanity who sells ’erself every night to whoever can pay ’er modest price. No, we cannot take your Mister Paroissien to the dock on Meggy’s word alone. We need corroboration from some more ‘respectable’ members of society.” Field delivered this speech with a moral indignation and contempt for “Lincoln’s Inn lawyers” that bespoke a strong sympathy for Meg and those women like her, and indeed all members, whether male or female, of her disenfranchised class of the streets.
“‘Respectable’?” Dickens echoed.
“Yes,” Field grinned evilly at us, “from the two respectable gentlemen who helped Paroissien murder the esteemed ’oremongerin’ Solicitor Partlow.”
For some reason, my pulse began to race, and the firelit world of the stationhouse began to blur and waver crazily before my eyes, as Field spoke of Irish Meg. My blood was up in indignation, but I held my tongue, not wishing to reveal my weakness for the woman to Dickens and Field. I could no more deny her identity as a human being than I could ignore that devil inside myself which longed desperately to see her again.
“She picked out the other two as well,” Field said, continuing with his report. “Banquo and Macduff,” he laughed, using their character names. “Minor actors whom Partlow seems to ’ave regularly patronized. Banquo is a Mister Kenley Jones Fielding, and Macduff answers to the name of Martin Price. Both are middle-aged drunkards and ’orechasers whose propensities for the seekin’ out of every possible vice match up well with our reports of Solicitor Partlow. Meggy and I ’ad to wait until they removed their wigs, but then she was quite positive in ’er identification.”
“But how do you propose to entice or force these two to offer evidence against Paroissien, to confess to their part in the murder?” Dickens asked.
“Ah,” Field said, “why ‘the play’s the thing.’”
Dickens looked at me: What ho! A detective who quotes Shakespeare?
Inspector Field was a natural storyteller.
“That night, after leavin’ Covent Garden Theatre, after payin’ Meggy for ’er trouble, Rogers and myself retired to our usual place down the ’all in The Lord Gordon Arms.
“‘Mister Rogers,’ says I after we’re comfortably seated with our steamin’ cups of burnt gin, ‘we’ve got to draw ’em out. We’ve got to trap ’em before we can properly threaten ’em.’
“‘Yessir,’ says he (and Field nods to Rogers who has joined us), ‘draw ’em out we must. Meggy is the ticket,’ says he after some consideration, ‘she’s the only witness, the only one who can put a scare into ’em.’
“‘Very good, Mister Rogers,’ says I, ‘very good. But two of ’em are a bit much, even for an old trooper like Meggy Sheehey, to ’andle.’”
“‘Two indeed might be too much,’ says ’ee.
“And then it was that the idea came to me,” Field continued. “‘The play’s the thing,’ says I, ‘the play’s the thing!’”
Dickens was quicker than I in intuiting Inspector Field’s meaning.
“So you organized your own little play within the play, I take it,” Dickens spoke up.
“There you are,” Field answered, “there you are!” He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. “Right there in The Lord Gordon’s back room, Rogers and I put together our own little actin’ troupe, composed the parts they were to play. Subtle stuff it ’ad to be. We didn’t want to spook our Mister Paroissien.” He reined in, took a sip of his gin, then galloped on.
“Rogers and I decided that we would work on our two corroboratin’ witnesses independently. We decided on someone on the inside and someone on the outside. Meggy would be our outside bait. But who for Mister Inside?
“‘I think I’ve got just the man,’ finally says I.
“‘And who might that be sir?’ says ’ee.
“‘Why none other than our old and dear friend Mister Tally Ho Thompson,’ says I, waitin’ to see if Mister Rogers is goin’ to burst into volleys of laughter. There was, indeed, a long interval of quite contemplative silence as Rogers gave the depths of ’is gin glass ’is fullest attention.
“‘No better choice in the city of London,’ finally says ’ee.”
I could tell that Dickens was not only engaged, but fully entertained by Field’s playful narrative. “Man’s got an extraordinary gift for dialogue,” Dickens said later.
“Well,” Field went on, “that settled, we ’ad our actors. All we ’ad left was to figure out what to do with ’em. It took another round of burnt gin to write our script.”
“How did you know that Thompson and Irish Meg would consent to act in your little play?” Dickens interrupted.
Field’s eyes narrowed somewhat as if he was trying to decide just how he was going to answer. When he did answer, he was brutal in his straightforwardness (and reinstated our view of the hardness of the man which had been temporarily softened by his playful narrative).
“No choice for ’em. I own ’em and they know it. They play my game by my rules, or I put ’em where they can’t play any games at all.” He punctuated his cold statement of underworld reality with a brisk tap of his heretofore passive forefinger upon the wooden arm of his easy chair. For someone who had shown such indignation toward “Lincoln’s Inn lawyers,” he showed his own utterly pragmatic and ruthless side as well. In those days, there always seemed to be two sides to everything and everyone.
“I take it then that this Thompson and our friend Irish Meg readily agreed to take their parts in your play,” Dickens pursued.
“Oh, not at all,” Field grinned. “They fought like cornered rats to escape the ignominy of workin’, for a change, on my side of the law. Thompson pleaded professional ethics. Said a gentleman of ’is profession could not afford such an unsavory association. ‘Why, if it ever got out,’ ’ee said, ‘worse than peachin’.’ Meggy just whined and cursed and spat to the end of drivin’ up the price. Shrewd businesswoman of the Moll Flanders school that Meggy.”
“But in the end, they went along, became your actors?” Dickens was thoroughly enjoying gathering this underworld material. I fully expected to encounter a highwayman-turned-actor in his next novel. I also wondered if a harlot working for the police would be the subject of my first.
“Indeed they did. Once they saw the light, they fell into the project with ’eye enthusiasm, and with a talent which surprised even Sergeant Rogers and myself. It took me all of the next mornin’ to extract Tally Ho from Newgate. The man ’as a worldly sort of ’onor about ’im. I knew ’ee’d do the job because ’ee knew that doin’ the job would get ’im a clean slate. Rogers already ’ad Meggy waitin’ at Bow Street when I arrived with Thompson. They waited there for me while I negotiated with your friend Mister Macready the final detail of our little play within a play.”
Once again, Dickens’s raised eyebrows betrayed his surprise.
“I used your name. ’Ope you don’t mind?” Field said, countering Dickens’s eyebrows with a slight bending forward and a quick tap of his forefinger to Dickens’s left knee. “Soon as I mentioned you were on the case, Macready gave me ’is full attention. Needless to say, ’ee was a bit skeptical, but after I assured ’im that Thompson was a born actor and an excellent swordsman, ’ee took ’im on. ‘’Ee shall be one of the murderers in Act Three,’ ’ee said, and that was that. Inspired bit of type castin’, wouldn’t you say? I, of course, ’ad no proof whatsoever upon which to base my claims for Thompson’s talents, yet two night’s performances ’ave proven me a prophet. In fact, your friend Macready is so pleased with Tally Ho’s antics that ’ee ’as actually asked ’im to stay on in the role.”
Dickens chuckled, and shook his head at Field’s inventiveness. “Thompson’s part in my play was to ingratiate ’imself with Fielding who is well known for ’is ’abit of drinkin’ in late-hours clubs. Price was to be Meggy’s lookout. ’Ee is known to ’ave an eye for ladies of the professional sort. Neither of my actors seem to be ’avin’ any trouble in the playin’ of their roles. Last night Thompson drank late at The Blue Welkin Club with Fielding, and Meggy and Price retired to a backstairs room at The ’Addon Inn.” Field was pleased with his actors. I could not share his enthusiasm for Irish Meg’s part in his little play. Field was using her as a paid sexual performer. Perhaps he felt that her getting paid twice for a single performance justified her role. “She is a sharp businesswoman,” Field assured us.
“It is interesting, is it not Inspector Field? You’ve brought the worlds of St. Giles rookery and Covent Garden together on the same stage.” Dickens was setting off on one of his philosophical flights, and I was just not in the mood for it. All I could imagine was Meg Sheehey seducing some stranger capable of strangling her. “A world of thieves and whores and highwaymen intermingling with the rich, supposedly civilized world of artists, lawyers, and even titled gentlemen. What no one realizes is that they are both the same world. The same fog blankets both. The same mud coats the boots of the gentleman, the actor, and the thief.”
“Quite so. Quite so,” agreed Field. Dickens’s sociological ramble seemed to be working as a powerful soporific upon Inspector Field who was compelled to snap himself back to alertness. “Yes. Well. The curtain on Macbeth will be comin’ down, and the curtain on Field’s Folly or St. Giles Meets the West End or Rookeries and Kings, what you wish, will be goin’ up quite soon. Would you and Mister Collins wish to join Rogers and me in the stalls? Tonight we plan to tighten the noose a bit around both of ’em.”
Field’s police carriage set us down a short distance from Covent Garden. The four of us, in a tight phalanx, found a sheltered point of vantage in the dark mouth of a narrow alley opposite the stage entrance. Field’s timing was precise. Within minutes after taking up our concealed position, Macbeth let out, and the streets were flooded with theatre-goers. The flood soon slowed to a mere trickle and Field turned to us: “Our actors shall be emergin’ soon. Look alive. There’s Meggy.”
All my senses pricked at the mention of her name.
Her prey did not keep her waiting. A large bewhiskered man in greatcoat and rakish rounded hat soon strode out of the stage door and offered her his arm. As they moved off, Field nodded sharply to Rogers, and that worthy followed them. Vile images tortured my imagination, and I realized how absurd these impulsive feelings for this common harlot were, and how impossible it was getting for me to drive them away.
“There they are!” Field’s sharp whisper broke my unwholesome reverie.
Two men had emerged from the stage door, and paused in the street under a gaslamp to light their cigars.
“Thompson’s the one on the left,” Field directed us. “Looks like a real actor, don’t ’ee? Other one’s Fielding.”
The man whom Field pointed out seemed a bit taller than medium English height, but looked a rather remarkable physical specimen possessed of wide shoulders and longish wiry-looking legs. He wore a short cape, which came to just below his hips, a long wool scarf looped around his neck, and a double-billed deerstalker upon his head. In the flash of his lucifer, I could see that he was clean-shaven. The other man, Fielding, was large, swollen of girth, heavy of jowl, with a full beard topped by a beret.
“Let us follow these two,” Field whispered, “and see where they choose to imbibe tonight. Then, I’ll stand a warm gin at the Lord Gordon while we wait for the curtain to go up on Act Two of tonight’s performance.”
To my surprise, Dickens checked us. “I will join you in The Lord Gordon Arms,” he whispered hurriedly, for Thompson and Fielding were already beginning to amble off into the darkness. “There is some business I need to discuss with Macready. It will not take long. I will join you.” With that he hurried off toward the theatre.
There was no time to argue with him. Field simply nodded and set off (with me, puzzled, following) after our two cigar-puffing actors. I was slow to comprehend. A rather strange time to discuss business, I thought. I was not even sure that Macready would welcome such a discussion after a strenuous performance of Macbeth. But then the light filtered through. Dickens wasn’t entering the stage door to see Macready.
We followed the two smoking men at a healthy distance, since it was a fairly clear night, for London. They strolled at a leisurely pace up Gower Street until they reached a cellar club frequented by the acting fraternity called The Green Room. They went down, and, within minutes, Field had posted one of his underlings on watch. With that, we escaped the damp chill into the snug comfort of The Lord Gordon Arms.
“We will give our principals some time to work on their projects, before we tighten the noose,” Field chuckled.
Once seated, I asked him directly: “Just how do you plan to tighten your noose around these men?”
“Blackmail, of course.” Field smiled without the least compunction. “Tonight, at exactly twelve-thirty in the mornin’ for Meg and one-thirty for Thompson, our actors are goin’ to mention to their respective charges that the murder of Solicitor Partlow ’as been witnessed, and, unless prevented, could become a well-known fact.”
“Thus, all we have to do is wait to see what they do?”
“That’s it,” Field grinned. “We’re on a fishin’ expedition.”
Our tankards of burnt gin arrived.
“I take it that you expect them to confess to their own presence at the murder, and to give the evidence which will seal your case against Paroissien,” said I.
“Very good,” Inspector Field replied. “That’s it exactly. Our only fear is that they might not feel so inclined to go along; that they might feel inclined to vent their anger on the bearer of the blackmail threat.”
“In other words, you’re afraid they might kill the messengers?”
“Possibly,” Field certainly didn’t show much concern, “but Tally Ho and Meggy can certainly take care of themselves. Nothin’ to fear.”
But fear for Meggy’s safety I did nevertheless.
A brief period of contemplative silence had settled between Field and myself, when Dickens suddenly appeared. He was all flushed animation and enthusiasm. “Hope I haven’t missed anything,” he began, as he took his seat and waved for a gin.
“Not a thing,” Field assured him with a dramatic yawn. “Essence of detective work. Five percent triumph, ninety-five percent waitin’.”
As we partook of a rather lengthy dose of that ninety-five percent essence, Field enumerated the physical evidence of the case. “The other evenin’, while Meggy was makin’ ’er identifications backstage, I was on the lookout for our murder weapon. There are some twenty long swords among the props of the play. All are made of wood but for those of Macbeth and Macduff, which must ring of steel when they clash. There are, ’owever, four ’andswords of a ’eavy antique type which would do quite nicely for our Mister Paroissien’s murder weapon. I interviewed the people who clean up after the actors. Interestin’ enough, one of the daggers was missin’ the mornin’ after Solicitor Partlow was killed,” Dickens leaned intently over the table, hanging on Field’s every word, “but that missin’ dagger mysteriously reappeared by the time the curtain went up that evenin’.”
“So it was the murder weapon?” Dickens stated the obvious.
“It appears so,” Field displayed great patience. “At The Player’s Club, Paroissien and Lawyer Partlow ’ave a violent argument. Later, when the subject is raised again at the brothel, Paroissien disappears for a time then rejoins the group, and later that evenin’ Partlow is murdered.”
“He returned to the theatre to get the dagger.” Dickens was quite proud of himself.
“Precisely,” Field said, punctuating his agreement with a sip from his gin glass. “The next day, after cleanin’ all traces of the murder from the ’andsword, ’ee returns it to the theatre in time for that evenin’s performance. Unfortunately, for Paroissien, one of the cleanin’ people noticed that the ‘andsword was missin’ before ’ee ’ad a chance to replace it. Backstage man searches for missin’ ’andsword, can’t find it, waits for the stage manager to come in, reports ‘andsword missin’, is told to search for it once again, and lo, finds missin’ ’andsword in place which ’ee is sure ’ee ’ad already searched that mornin’. Needless to say, prop man goes off shakin’ ’is ’ead. Promptly forgets the whole affair until I start askin’ ’andsword questions. That story will bear some weight in court, I would say.”
“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.”
“Witness?” he repeated—drunken, befuddled, yet grasping enough of what was being said for fear to show itself in his voice.
“You’re a part of this murder,” Field said, dogging the man mercilessly. “Answer our questions and you might be able to save yourself. Answer.”
“Answer,” the actor repeated dully.
“Why did Paroissien kill Lawyer Partlow?”
“It was the wench. Peggy Ternan’s stupid little wench.”
“How was it the wench?”
“Stage manager flew into a rage when Lawyer said he’d bought her.”
“What was said?” Field asked, showing extraordinary patience.
“Screaming. Curses. Stage manager said again and again ‘She’s mine! She’s mine!’” The sodden actor seemed to be gaining in coherence.
“And? What did Partlow do?”
Fielding’s face twisted in a bit of sick mirth. “Laughed at him, he did. Laughed right in his face.”
“Where was this?”
“At The Player’s Club.”
“And later? At the river?”
“The two of ’em took it up again.”
“Over the girl?”
“The same,” he said, his head lolling, “the little whore. Her own mother panders for her.”
I felt Dickens starting to move beside me, and, instinctively, I reached out and grasped his arm. When I looked into his face, I saw that he was caught in a tide of mad anger. With my restraining hand on his arm, the violent tension of his body relaxed. Our eyes met but he quickly turned away. In embarrassment? Shame? Not a word exchanged between us, but so much revealed. We were gentlemen. Our secrets, those weaknesses revealed, were always held in the strictest confidence.
“You saw Paroissien stab the Lawyer?” Field was losing his witness.
Fielding nodded drunkenly in assent.
“And you ’elped throw the body in the river?”
The actor nodded again, his head lolling wildly at the finish.
Field bent down, grasped Fielding by both lapels, and yanked him to his unsteady feet with his back still against the lamppost. Field shook him hard once, banging his head against the post. Field’s face pressed within an inch of his victim’s bloody countenance. “I own you now,” Field hissed into his face. “In court you will answer every question just as you ’ave answered it this evenin’. If you try to run, to the Continent, to the ends of the earth, I will find you. One lie, and I will ’ang you just as ’eye as I am goin’ to ’ang the murderer. Do you understand my meanin’?”
We left this unfortunate victim of Inspector Field’s terrible wrath propped precariously against that lamppost.
“When will you arrest Paroissien?” Dickens asked.
“Not right away. I want to observe ’im a bit longer. There is one more witness I wish to interview.”
“Who would that be?” I asked.
“Lord ’Enry Ashbee, of course,” Field answered as if I was a dolt.
“Of course.”
“You are going to drag a titled gentleman into such a sordid affair?” Dickens seemed startled.
Again Field’s face revealed surprise and not a little impatience. “Murder ’as no class consciousness,” he finally answered.
“Might we be present to observe the arrest of Paroissien?”
“You ’ave been on this case from its very beginnin’,” Field smiled, “you shall be present at its end. I will send Rogers for you.”
*These evidently were the public names of two of the more popular boxing personalities of the Victorian age. Whether Collins was drawing upon boxers of the 1850’s or the 1860’s could not be determined.