Matthew Pearl - The Last Dickens

“What is this about?” young Mason demanded hoarsely. “Turner, tell Superintendent Dickens he's mistaken!”

By this point in the narrative, Turner's face had hardened and his hand stiffened on his bayonet, as if he would run his superior officer through the chest.

Frank clapped his hands. Two police officers rushed onto the roof from the stairway below. They surrounded Turner.

“He was a darkie dacoit! ” Turner shouted, his teeth grinding, his voice hollow.

Frank Dickens nodded. “Yes, he was. This isn't about talking Narain into his jump-good riddance to him. You don't seem to recognize, Mr. Turner, that it is our responsibility to ensure that the opium trade moves freely and safely through Bengal and to China. In contributing to its disruption, you contribute to those who wish the European success around the world to fail. You leave room for smugglers and traders far less reputable than those our government chooses to make partners in these endeavors-harming not only the English, but the natives in India, in China, around the globe. It is Bengal's right to share in the prosperity of civilization.”

Frank bowed with satisfaction, leaving his inferior officer prisoner of the other policemen.

“Damn you!” Turner screamed over a peal of thunder. “Goddamn you and goddamn Charles Dickens for bringing you onto this earth!”

ALONG THE RIVER GANGA, in the region bordering Bengal, was Chandernagore, a territory seized by the French years before. There in a palace sat a solemn Chinese man, called Maistree, in robes that sparkled as did the walls in delicate gold and silver leaf. Indian and Parsee servants brought him food and wine.

One of the members of a Chandernagore criminal family entered and reported that the stolen opium balls had been repacked into sardine boxes and were ready for transport. He salaamed and left Baboo Maistree in peace. Maistree had lost two men, Narain and Mogul, through the course of this theft-Narain leaping to his death and Mogul sentenced to two years’ penal transportation. Plus a mounted policeman had been exposed. It was a large treasure, though, and there were always more men in wait for the next one. It required far more effort by the Bengal police to find one of his agents than it took Maistree to hire ten more.

A tinge of worry might have been seen in a dull gleam in Maistree's eye as he swatted his spoon in his soup like an oar. He had not heard yet from the purchaser-whose name he did not know, for Maistree dealt only with the Parsee headman of the rugged sailors who came to take the disguised opium away. This man, Hormazd, Maistree knew, did not work on his own. He had always been reliable, though. Much of the palace where Maistree now sat had been built with money given by the unknown buyer. And as long as Maistree did not step one foot outside of Chandernagore, the English police in Bengal could not arrest him and the smuggling could continue.

So what could be wrong?

In fact, last time Hormazd had expressed a directive for Maistree to secure even more opium than the season before. Markets were opening, namely the United States. The purchaser wanted as much pure Bengal opium as could be smuggled out immediately, and the receiver should await their message with instructions for when they would pick it up.

Yet here the next shipment was ready. Where was the purchaser?

McLean Asylum, Boston, late at night

WALKING BRISKLY THROUGH THE CORRIDOR OF THE HOSPITAL, Rebecca Sand had already braced herself for the bleak sights she knew to expect. It was hard, though, to keep that in mind, for the place seemed more like an English country home than a hospital for the insane.

Osgood had not even stopped at his home at Pinckney Street first or to see Mr. Fields at the office-he was too eager and asked to go directly to the McLean Asylum in Somerville.

“Are you certain you would not like to go home, Miss Sand?” Osgood had asked her.

“I am no more tired than you must be, I'm sure, Mr. Osgood. Besides, I don't think you'd be permitted inside the women's wing.”

“Of course,” Osgood said, and then paused wistfully. “I am lucky to have you with me.”

The hospital was separated into its divisions for men and women, all of whom came from circumstances of great wealth and status except for the occasional pauper patient taken in charitably. No person of the opposite sex could enter a wing unless a medical professional. Rebecca could hear women screaming and crying, but others laughing and singing, and she did not know which set of noises most unnerved her soul. All the windows were barred, the walls inside the rooms muffled.

Reaching the privilege room, Rebecca was given a comfortable chair by a stout female attendant with a muslin cap and rosy face. Inside the dimly lit but lavishly furnished room there sat a woman looping a finger through her thinned, graying hair. Much of it had been pulled out, the rest tied on top and dripping with sad, multi colored ribbons. A wide scarf was wrapped around her neck. She did not look up.

The attendant nodded to the visitor for her to begin.

“Mrs. Barton?” Rebecca asked.

Finally, the patient twisted her head in her direction. It was only momentary. She quickly returned attention to the wall.

“Succubus,” said the patient in an embittered register.

“Mrs. Barton, what I have come to ask is quite important. Urgent, in fact. It is about Charles Dickens.”

The patient's eyes slid upward. “They told me he is dead.” Her voice was creaky and whispery, not the vigorous shout it had been in Tom Branagan's encounters with her. Perhaps her injury had changed the range of her voice. As the inmate-or “boarder,” as patients were called here-leaned toward her visitor, she asked, “Is it true?”

“Yes. I am afraid so,” said Rebecca.

Tears filled the patient's eyes. “They won't let me keep any of his books in here, did you know that? These ill-mannered physicians here say it excites me too much. They wouldn't even tell me how he died, my Chief. How did the poor Chief's mortal parts die?”

“We don't want to excite her, miss,” the attendant cautioned before Rebecca could answer.

Rebecca heard in Louisa's voice a promise of something in return, if she could give her something satisfactory. Rebecca tried to recall all the details she could from Georgina Hogarth and Henry Scott and relayed them: Dickens coming in from the chalet after a long day's work, collapsing at dinner, being moved by the servants onto the sofa, the heated bricks at his feet, the doctors coming one by one and shaking their heads hopelessly as the family gathered and stood by him in his final hours.

“Now, as for Mr. Dickens's last book…” Rebecca said after this.

“ A New Book of Job by Charles John Huffam Dickens !” Louisa howled out in her old yell. Clearly getting this close to the heart of the matter had put her in a different state of mind. Rebecca decided it was the wrong approach to try to tell her anything about her purpose.

“He whispered,” Rebecca said confidentially. “Mr. Dickens did. The Chief whispered to you the night when you picked him up from the street in that coach, didn't he?”

After Rebecca had repeated the sentiment with slight variation several more times, Louisa nodded and said it was true.

“What was it he said to you?” Rebecca asked carefully.

She was nodding again and then she giggled. This was the satisfied giggle of a rich little girl of Beacon Hill at being given her first puppy. Rebecca, frustrated to her core, was about to shout. But it was not clear the other woman cared a fig about what anyone needed, even herself.