There was no doubt about it; Dolly Williamson was becoming something of a nuisance. Not that the great detective pounded the pavements himself – he had people for that, dodgy-looking men in plain clothes who trailed Grand and Batchelor or both in whatever combination they left the Strand. True, the enquiry agents were able to lose them sooner or later, but that took time and ingenuity that could better be spent in tracking down Charles Dickens’s killer.
The really annoying thing was that Williamson had told them that he too was looking into Dickens’s death. How far had he got, they wondered. What were his lines of enquiry? Or was Williamson’s only plan to send his flatfeet after them in the hope that they would solve the case and the Yard could take the credit?
No, they had to shake off Williamson’s shadows. And how do you rid yourself of a nasty policeman? You go and see a nice one.
Matthew Grand had still not really worked out how London was joined together. He knew lots of bits of it, but not necessarily how it all dovetailed together; it was walking around in London when he most felt that he was a stranger in a strange land; this was a foreign country where they happened to speak English. For this reason, he was often the half of the partnership who dove off the levy that was London into the deep water that was what he always called ‘The Rest’; the other towns and cities that filled Batchelor’s home country. Even Batchelor had had to get the atlas out to find Alresford, where ex-Inspector Dick Tanner was keeping his hostelry. Tanner’s rheumatism had beaten him in the end, and he had taken the route of so many policemen: retirement to run a pub; although his sounded rather a cut above, being the Swan Hotel. It turned out that Alresford was just outside Winchester, connected to it by rail. Batchelor had informed Grand that Winchester was in that direction – a wave of the arm implied that it might easily be to the west; so, accordingly, Grand had made his way to Waterloo. For once, he could do it on foot – even Grand could manage getting around London when all he had to do was walk in a straight line. He went east first, losing his copper shadow before doubling back.
Grand kept a wary eye out for vicars as he took his seat on the train. He had no idea what to expect when he reached his destination, reputedly one of the most beautiful parts of England; though, unlike its American namesake, they made no guns there. Grand had a picture in his head of soaring countryside, the dappling water of the river and a cathedral not far away. He had packed a small valise, in case he should be pressed to stay the night. London was like no other city he had ever known, and he loved it almost like a native, but sometimes he just needed to breathe air that hadn’t gone through three million other pairs of lungs before his own.
As he headed further west, he began to sit up and take notice. There were some towns, certainly, bustling stations with market produce piled in teetering ziggurats of lettuce; hens; new potatoes spilling from their burlap sacks. The smell of the countryside came in through the open window and soon, across to his left, he saw the soaring tower of Winchester cathedral, growing as something alive out of the watercress beds of the river. He gathered his belongings around him and sat, excited, on the edge of his seat. He realized all at once how much he needed a holiday; how much he missed his home.
The train to Alresford was steaming quietly to itself in the station when the London train pulled in. A guard screamed in Grand’s ear that the train now standing on Platform Two was the … something or other to somewhere. It seemed to the American that there was yet another language in this country, along with the ones used by newspaper vendors and chestnut sellers, and it was the most impenetrable of them all – and yet, surely, the most important to be clear and comprehensible to all. He turned to a woman, laden with baskets.
‘Ma’am, could you tell me if this train goes to Alresford?’
‘Where, my lovely?’
Grand made his voice louder by a notch. ‘All-Res-Ford,’ he enunciated clearly.
‘Oh,’ she said, with one foot on the step, ‘Orlsfud, you must mean. Yes, my lovely, it’s going there. I’m going there! I’ve been marketing, as you can see.’ She handed Grand some baskets absentmindedly and used her free hand to haul herself aboard. ‘Come on, my lovely. Upsidaisy or you’ll miss the train.’
Grand handed her her baskets and followed her into the carriage. It seemed full of women and baskets and screams of delight. ‘Ladies.’ He tipped his hat.
‘Oh, Betty Smithers, you’m a dark horse,’ one of them said, poking the woman in the ribs, or where her ribs may once have been, covered as they now were by a comfortable cushion.
‘Oh, you leave me be,’ she replied, smugly. ‘This young gentleman just axed me about the train. He’m going to Orlsfud.’
More shrieks greeted this information. One of the other women leaned forward. ‘Who you visiting, my lovely?’
‘Richard Tanner,’ Grand said. There was clearly no point in trying subterfuge in this carriage.
‘The new landlord at the Swan?’
‘You be staying?’ One of the women had noticed his grip.
‘Well,’ Grand said, squashing down into a seat between two ample shoppers, ‘I may stay overnight, if he’ll have me. He’s an old friend, from London.’
‘Oh, my lovely,’ the woman on his left said, chucking him under the chin. ‘You’m not old enough to have old friends!’ The other women shrieked with laughter again and Grand smiled a desperate smile.
‘I’ve known him since I came to England, more or less,’ he explained. Then, before the questions could begin, he gave them a quick potted history of his life thus far, which the women punctuated with clucks and tuts as appropriate. West Point was easy enough and he would gloss over the battlefield casualties as too grim a subject for ladies.
Before he had reached much further than Bull Run, the train began to slow in a series of jerks and the women began to gather their parcels. Grand’s first acquaintance passed him half her baskets as though to the manner born, and got down on to the platform with the help of the guard. She looked back at Grand, who was struggling down by himself. ‘Are you all right there, my lovely? No, don’t bother to put those down, I’m on the way to the Swan, I can show you.’ And she swept out of the station, with Grand staggering under his load, as though she owned the town.
The others watched her go, envy in their eyes. ‘That Betty Smithers,’ one of them muttered, ‘she’s never been no better nor she should be.’ And with nods of agreement, the shoppers separated to their homes, looking back at Grand, the best-looking man Alresford had seen for many a long year.
‘There you are, my lovely,’ the woman said, stopping outside a pretty little cottage set back from the road in a rose-filled garden. ‘There’s the Swan, just down the road, there. Thank you for carrying my bags. It’s getting a bit much for me, these days, but needs must. I hope you find Mr Tanner well.’
‘Why don’t you come and take a drink with us, later?’ Grand asked, flexing his fingers to get some life back into them.
‘Oh, you and your London ways!’ she shrieked, but was smiling nevertheless. ‘Me, a respectable widow, drinking with two men. I would never live it down. No, you go and have a nice stop with your friend, my dear. And thank you for your help.’
Grand was smiling as he walked down the dusty lane to the Swan Hotel. He felt as though he had travelled to another country, not just seventy miles from Waterloo. Even if Tanner couldn’t help them, it would still have been a worthwhile journey, just to get the stink of the Thames out of his nostrils.
The Commissioner of Lunacy was hard at work when the maid showed James Batchelor into his study. The sun streamed in through the open casement and the noises of Kensington wafted with it. John Forster was in his late fifties, judging by his appearance, thick set and with piercing dark eyes. His dundrearies were magnificent, resting on his lapels, and the quiff of hair at the front disguised to all intents and purposes his incipient middle-aged baldness.
‘An enquiry agent?’ Forster read the card lying on his desk. ‘Well, I suppose you could call me a sort of literary agent. What can I do for you, Mr …?’
‘Batchelor,’ Batchelor said and took the proffered chair. ‘My colleague Grand and I have been commissioned to look into the death of the late Charles Dickens, Mr Forster. I understand that you knew him better than anyone.’
‘Indeed I did.’ Forster put his pen down. ‘I am committing it all to paper as we speak.’ He waved his hand over the sheaves of manuscript on his desk. ‘The Biography.’
Batchelor smiled, wondering how far George Sala had got with his.
‘I loved that man, Mr Batchelor.’ Forster trumpeted into a handkerchief. ‘I’m not embarrassed to admit it. A literary agent is only an agent, but a friend is a friend for life.’ He rather liked the sound of that, snatched up his pen again and wrote it down. ‘But,’ he frowned, ‘I’m confused. Charles died of a stroke, surely.’
‘Perhaps not,’ Batchelor said, having lost count of the times he had heard that. ‘We have reason to believe that poison may have been involved.’
Forster sat back in his chair, his eyes wide. ‘Dear God!’ he muttered.
‘You were called,’ Batchelor said, ‘on the day he died?’
‘To Gads Hill, yes. I got there too late, I fear. He was lying on the sofa, looking at peace with himself and the world. I kissed his forehead, the only farewell I could think of.’
‘And you went to the funeral?’
‘Of course,’ Forster sniffed. ‘A small circle of family and friends.’
‘And no Mrs Dickens?’
‘Catherine? Lord, no. That would have been difficult. One of the most awkward chapters I shall have to write, I expect. I next saw Charles, before the funeral, I mean, in his coffin. The undertakers had put this ridiculous ribbon, scarf thing under his chin. Looked just like Marley’s ghost, I thought. Perhaps it was some sort of backhanded compliment, but I didn’t approve.’
‘Since you knew him so well, Mr Forster,’ Batchelor went for the jugular, ‘can you think of anyone who would want to see him dead?’
Forster exploded with laughter. ‘Trollope,’ he said. ‘Wilkie Collins. Elizabeth Gaskell. That dreadful Ouida woman. If he weren’t dead himself, I’d have to add Thackeray to the list.’
‘But, surely, they are – or were – his friends?’
Forster looked at the detective’s face from under his beetling brows. ‘Do writers have friends, Mr Batchelor? Charles and myself apart, I can’t think of any. The man was seriously wealthy, Mr Batchelor, partly through his own brilliance, partly through my, I won’t deny it, bullying of publishers. Well, they are tradesmen, after all. But, surely, if Charles were poisoned, wouldn’t it have to be someone in the household? Someone with access to Charles and his comestibles?’
‘In theory, yes,’ Batchelor said, ‘but I understand that Gads Hill was a mecca for anybody who had ever read any Dickens. The world and his wife often turned up.’
‘That’s true, they did. And of course, he had other premises. Broadstairs. His offices in Wellington Street; the place he rented near Marble Arch; Win …’ and his voice tailed away.
‘Win?’ Batchelor took it up.
‘Win or lose, Mr Batchelor, I’m intrigued to know for whom you are working.’
‘Sorry, Mr Forster,’ Batchelor said. ‘Client confidentiality.’
‘Of course, of course. I’m just trying to think. Charles was a bit of an imbiber, to tell you the truth. Brandy, sherry. Then again, he did love his egg and anchovy rolls. You know, I suppose, about the laudanum? That’s another chapter I’ll have to be careful about. It was his lameness, you see. In his heyday, Charles thought nothing of twelve-mile hikes, at a steady four miles an hour – I’m amazed he had time for that, bearing in mind his astonishing output. Said it was while walking he got his best ideas. Drood was getting him down, though. He told me it wasn’t going well. I don’t suppose the opium helped.’
‘The laudanum?’ Batchelor checked.
‘No, no, that was just for daily fitness. No, Charles would sneak off to Bluegate Fields now and then to smoke the stuff. Said it did him the world of good, but I’m not sure. You don’t suppose poor Charles could have poisoned himself, do you? By accident, I mean?’
But James Batchelor didn’t answer. Because James Batchelor had gone.
The Swan Hotel seemed to sleep in the dusty sun, standing wrapped in its midday silence at the edge of the road. The walls were whitewashed and cast back the glare so that Grand had to shield his eyes to look at the name above the door. ‘Richard Tanner, prop.,’ it said, ‘licensed to sell intoxicating liquor.’ Grand smiled; this was all rather a long way from feeling villains’ collars in Shadwell. He pushed the door and went in and was immediately struck blind, or as near as made no difference. After the glare outside, the inside was like being down a mine. Grand could see a chink of light in the distance, which seemed to sparkle and quiver. But everything between him and it – and it was even difficult to judge how far that might be – was a mystery.
He took a tentative step forward and felt uneven slabs under his feet.
‘Oh!’ A voice came from within the quivering light. ‘Be careful, young sir. The floor’s uneven and we don’t want you going a purler.’
Grand stopped in his tracks. He had no idea what a purler might or might not be, but it was clearly something to avoid if possible.
A girl came out of the light and crossed the gloom towards Grand. ‘I keep telling Mr Tanner we must put the lights up on days like this. That white wall outside, it makes folks as blind as bats in here. Wait there a minute, sir, and your eyes will accustom.’
Grand raised his hat. ‘Thank you for the warning, ma’am,’ he said, laying the accent on a bit thick. It worked with women of all ages, but most of all on those under twenty, which this one clearly was, though only by a little. She was pretty and buxom and spilling out over her bodice, in best barmaidly tradition.
‘You’re not from round here,’ she told him. ‘I expect you’re here for Mr Tanner.’
‘I am, yes, but …’
‘Oh,’ she said, flapping at him with a damp tea towel she wore over her shoulder like a stole, ‘Mr Tanner gets all sorts coming to see him. He was famous, so they say. When he was a policeman, I mean.’
A familiar voice sounded from a doorway in a corner which was still dark, despite the fact that Grand’s eyes were fully acclimatized now to the gloom. ‘I’m still a policeman, Molly,’ Tanner said. ‘Once a policeman, always a policeman. Is that Mr Grand I see?’
Grand stepped forward. ‘It is, Inspector Tanner. How are you?’
‘Just mister now, please. Just plain mister.’
‘What about once a policeman, always a policeman?’ Grand laughed.
‘Oh, that’s just for the visitors,’ Tanner explained, coming forward to shake Grand’s hand. ‘They like to think they’re brushing shoulders with a bit of genuine East End thuggery when they come to see me. Like to think they’re shaking the same hand that felt the collar of Muller the Railway Murderer, back in the day. But I’m a landlord now, am I not, Molly?’
She smiled up at him. ‘He is, Mr … Grand, is it? And the best landlord in Alresford.’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Grand agreed politely.
‘Get along with you, Moll,’ Tanner said, slapping her backside in a casual manner. ‘She’s having a joke with us, Mr Grand. There is only the George in Alresford apart from my Swan, and nobody goes there unless they want to end up with a nice attack of the flux. It’s said they don’t wash the glasses there, just leave them out in the rain. Our Moll, here, she’s always polishing ours, to make sure they’re clean as a bosun’s whistle. Speaking of which, would you like to wet your whistle, Mr Grand? It’s a dry old day out there.’
Grand was delighted to find his old friend in such a good humour. He and Batchelor had worried for the man when they heard he had retired and that he was unwell. Try as they might, they couldn’t imagine him in any other setting than London. And yet, here he was, a landlord to his fingertips. ‘I would love a drink,’ Grand admitted. ‘The journey wasn’t long but it was hot.’ He amused Tanner, while Molly poured their beer, with the story of the shopping women of Alresford. The girl laughed. ‘You’ll be the talk of the town by nightfall,’ she told him, ‘if you aren’t already. Not much happens around here.’
‘You have custom, though?’ Grand asked, looking around. Although it was as clean as a new pin, there wasn’t a soul in the place.
‘Evenings, evenings are our busy time,’ Tanner said. ‘We even have people coming in their carriages, out from Winchester. It’s a pleasant drive and they can stroll along the river before they come for a bite to eat and a drink before setting off back home. It’s quite the thing, isn’t it, Moll?’
‘Mr Tanner has made this place lovely,’ the girl said. ‘It was a dirty hole before he took it over.’ She beamed at him and pushed the drinks across the bar. ‘I’ll leave you two to talk. I’ve got a pile of potatoes in the scullery I need to get ready.’ And dropping a bob and flashing a dimple, she was gone.
Tanner took a deep drink from his beer, holding it up to the light like a connoisseur. ‘She’s a good girl, is Moll,’ he said.
‘And quite a draw in her own right, I would imagine,’ Grand said, smiling.
‘We do get a lot of the young bloods in,’ Tanner agreed. ‘The younger masters from along at the school, they do like to see if they can catch a glimpse of her ankle. But I don’t think you’ve come all this way just to see what kind of a barmaid I’ve managed to find for myself, Mr Grand.’
‘As always, there’s no fooling you, Mr Tanner,’ Grand agreed. ‘James and I …’
‘How is Mr Batchelor? Well, I hope.’
‘James is well. He is currently … pursuing our enquiries.’
‘That was my next question, but now I don’t need to ask – your business is flourishing, I can see.’
‘It would flourish even more if it weren’t for one of your erstwhile colleagues.’
‘Not that idiot Field!’ Tanner said, almost spilling his drink. ‘I wondered when your paths would cross.’
‘We have met him, yes, but he isn’t the reason I’m here. While we’re on the subject, though, do tell me what you know about him. He does a lot of skulking in shrubberies and that seems to be about it.’
‘Charlie Field is an idiot, pure and simple. I expect he’s given you the chat about being a professional and how that makes all the difference.’
‘Umm … yes, he has, as a matter of fact. But then, so has—’
‘Take no notice. He’s had more official warnings than I’ve had hot dinners. Don’t tell him I said so, but he couldn’t catch a cold. Never could. But, he’s not the reason for your visit, you say.’
‘That’s right. Adolphus Williamson is our problem.’
‘Dolly?’ Tanner sucked the froth from his upper lip. ‘Ah, now there’s a real copper. Breathing down your neck, is he?’
‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘That’ll be because of the file, I’m afraid.’
‘The file?’ Grand frowned.
‘There’s a file on you and Batchelor at the Yard. As there is on Field and Polliak; on every private detective agency. No doubt Dolly’s been rummaging through the shoe boxes and he’ll have come across you. Which reminds me …’ Tanner raised an eyebrow and nodded in the direction of Grand’s chest.
Grand sighed and opened his coat. No shoulder-holster. No gun.
Tanner laughed. ‘Glad you took my advice,’ he said. ‘We’ll make an Englishman of you yet.’
‘I was hoping,’ Grand said, ‘I could persuade you to rat on your former colleague and tell us how to get Williamson off our case.’
‘Lie through your teeth,’ Tanner shrugged. ‘It was always the bane of our lives at the Yard, but it works. If you’ve got a trasseno – er, that’s villain to you, Mr Grand – that’s hard as nails and sticks to his story, however implausible that story may be, there’s not much we can do about that.’
‘What about “falling down stairs”?’ Grand asked.
‘Beg pardon?’ Tanner was innocence itself.
‘I understand that quite a few … trassenos … fall downstairs in English police stations. Leaves them with nasty lacerations.’
‘Ah, well,’ Tanner smiled, winking. ‘It’s a fatal combination, isn’t it? Careless villains and badly designed buildings. What are you going to do?’
‘Williamson’s having us followed.’
‘Is he now?’ Tanner took another swig. ‘He’s got it in for you right enough. But there are two of you, aren’t there?’
‘There are,’ Grand agreed.
‘Split your command. Double back on yourselves. If you’ve got time, go on pointless journeys. Unless he wants you for murder, Dolly hasn’t got the resources to go outside the Met area, and there are all sorts of jurisdictional issues. If he realizes he’s getting the run-around, he’ll back off.’
‘That’s good advice, Mr Tanner.’
‘It is, Mr Grand,’ the landlord nodded, ‘but it doesn’t come cheap, I’m afraid.’
‘Ah.’ Grand reached for his wallet. ‘No, of course not.’
Tanner laughed. ‘I don’t want your money, Mr Grand. I want information. Why is Williamson nosing into your affairs particularly? Yes, there’s the Yard file but, in theory at least, you and he are on the same side. There has to be a reason. What case are you working on?’
For a moment, Grand hesitated, and was about to come out with the usual client confidentiality claptrap, when he realized who he was talking to. ‘The murder of Charles Dickens,’ he said.
Tanner whistled through his teeth. ‘Get away!’ he murmured. ‘Who’ve you got in the frame?’
Grand shrugged. ‘Nobody,’ he said. ‘Everybody.’
‘There’s a woman involved, of course.’
‘There is?’ Grand’s eyes widened.
‘Oh, yes.’ Tanner was sure. ‘There’s always a woman involved. There is a Mrs Dickens, isn’t there, if memory serves?’
‘There is and we haven’t talked to her yet, but I can’t see a motive. He left her years ago.’
‘Hell hath no fury, Mr Grand, like a woman left years ago. And revenge is a dish best served cold. I can let you have a whole load of other platitudes if you like.’
‘There was a mysterious woman at the funeral,’ Grand was thinking aloud. ‘We haven’t been able to identify her yet. And another – or is it the same one? – called Stella. We don’t know who she is either.’
‘I think I can promise you she won’t be what she appears to be,’ Tanner said.
‘What does that mean?’ Grand had not travelled seventy miles and been jostled and poked by the ladies of Alresford to be given platitudes and cryptic.
‘I don’t know,’ Tanner said. ‘Call it an old copper’s nose. If I were you,’ he leaned forward and became conspiratorial, ‘I’d call in the Yard. I hear that Dolly Williamson’s a good bloke.’
Fortunately for Matthew Grand, the beds at the Swan Hotel were comfortable and reached by a single staircase. He was quite the hero of the hour that night, with the ladies who had rapidly adapted to his London ways just happy to listen to his accent whilst buying him drinks, and the teachers from up at the college all quizzing him on the recent hostilities, whilst also buying him drinks. Moll helped him up the stairs and then left him at his door, despite mild protestations from him that he needed help taking his boots off. In the morning, still booted, he awoke to a tremendous headache, not helped by the mad Hampshire bird sitting on his windowsill that was not so much singing as shouting ‘tweet’ down its own personal megaphone. He crept downstairs, refused breakfast and made his way to the train. His plans to visit Winchester Cathedral were all put aside in favour of sitting rocking slightly with closed eyes on the platform of the city’s station, waiting with tensed muscles for the London-bound train to arrive with an almost preternaturally loud scream of whistles, howl of engine and yell of brakes, applied with what he considered unnecessary vigour. A sleep in his corner seat made him a little more human, but even so it was fully evening before he felt able to share his findings with Batchelor, or fully understand what his partner had discovered. A bath and a plate of something greasy concocted by Mrs Rackstraw and he was finally fit to face the world, the world of Canton Kitty.