Dan Simmons - Drood

“I do not think that for a second, my sausage,” I said and turned back to the newspaper.

CHARLES DICKENS, DESPITE his continuing illnesses and growing anxieties when travelling by rail, seemed to be having a relaxed summer. I overheard Wills telling Forster at the offices of All the Year Round that the total receipts for Dickens’s spring tour had earned the writer £4,672. The Chappells—whom Dickens had once described to me as “speculators, Wilkie, pure speculators, though, of course, of the worthiest and most honourable kind”—were so delighted with their share of the profits that no sooner had Dickens completed his last London reading on 12 June and returned to Gad’s Hill “… to rest and hear the birds sing,” than they proposed to Dickens another tour for the next winter, consisting of fifty nights on the road. Wills told Forster that Dickens had considered asking for £70 a night—he was sure that the ticket sales would support that—but instead offered the Chappells forty-two readings for £2,500. They accepted at once.

The days at Gad’s Hill through June and July were busy with guests, local fairs at which Dickens judged everything from pie contests to cricket matches, and—of course—more business. The Inimitable was not working on a novel at the moment, but he had begun work on a projected new edition of his works, the so-called Charles Dickens Edition, that would have each of his novels, freshly set, appearing once a month for 3/6. Naturally he could not leave such well-enough alone, so he offered in his prospectus to write a new preface for each volume.

As it turned out, this would be not only the most popular of all the many editions of Dickens’s work, but would be—for him—his last edition.

I saw Dickens frequently that summer, both at Gad’s Hill (where he never seemed to be entertaining fewer than half a dozen guests) and in London (he came up to his offices at All the Year Round at least twice a week, and we would often meet for lunch or dinner). Besides already planning his next Christmas story for our magazine, rehearsing new material for his winter tour, and writing the prefaces for his new editions, Dickens told me that he had some ideas for a new novel that he hoped to serialise in the spring of 1867. He asked me what I was working on.

“I have a few ideas,” I said. “A thread or two and a few beads to string on them.”

“Anything that we might serialise?”

“Quite possibly. I’ve been thinking of a tale involving a detective.”

“One from Scotland Yard Detectives Bureau?”

“Or one working for a private detection bureau.”

“Ah,” said Dickens and smiled. “Something along the lines of the further adventures of Inspector Bucket.”

I shook my head. “I was thinking that the name Cuff might work,” I said. “Sergeant Cuff.”

Dickens’s smile widened. “Sergeant Cuff. Very good, my dear Wilkie. Very good indeed.”

I TOLD THE boy waiting on my corner to tell the inspector that we should meet. The time and place had long since been prearranged, and the next day at two PM, I saw his short, squat figure hurrying towards me at Waterloo Bridge.

“Mr Collins.”

“Inspector.” I nodded towards the shadows under the bridge. “ ‘Unfurnished lodging for a fortnight.’ ”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Sam Weller to Pickwick.”

“Ah, yes, sir. Of course. Mr Dickens has always been an admirer of this bridge. I helped him with his piece ‘Down with the Tide’ by introducing him to the night toll-taker here some years ago. The literary gentleman was quite interested in the suicides and bodies floating in on the tides, I was told.”

“Thirteen,” I said.

“Pardon me, sir?”

“Thirteen years ago,” I said. “Dickens published ‘Down with the Tide’ in Household Words in February of 1853. I edited it.”

“Ah, of course,” said Inspector Field. He brushed his chin with his thumb. “Is there a reason you suggested we meet, Mr Collins? News of any kind?”

“Rather an absence of news,” I said. “You never responded to my written report or query.”

“I apologise,” said the inspector, but there was no real tone of apology in his husky voice. “It has been very busy, Mr Collins. Very busy indeed. I very much appreciated your report on Mr Dickens’s reading in Birmingham, even though our friend Drood did not appear. Was there a specific query I could answer?”

“You could tell me if any of those three men died,” I said.

“Three men?” The inspector’s flushed, chapped, and heavily veined visage was the picture of innocent ignorance.

“The three men in the alley, Inspector. The three men who assaulted me and whom your Detective Reginald Call-Me-Reggie Barris clubbed down. Barris said that one or more of them might be dead from the blow. I went back to that alley the next morning before leaving Birmingham, but there was no sign of them.”

Inspector Field was smiling and nodding now, his forefinger along the side of his nose. “Yes, yes, of course. Barris did report to me about the incident in the alley. I’m sure that all of those ruffians suffered no more than a headache and an insult to their thieves’ pride, Mr Collins. You have to forgive Barris. He has a penchant for melodrama. Sometimes I believe he would have preferred a career on the stage to the life of private investigative enquiries.”

“Why did you have him follow me, Inspector? I thought that the idea was to observe Charles Dickens in the hope that Drood might contact him… not follow me around.”

Field’s bushy eyebrows lifted towards what remained of his hairline. “Surely Detective Barris must have explained that to you, sir. We have concerns that this Drood might make an attempt on your life.”

“Barris said that the three men in the alley were most likely simple thieves,” I said.

“Aye,” agreed Inspector Field, nodding again. “Them being white men and all, that is almost certainly the case. But you must admit that it was fortuitous that Barris was there. You might have been severely injured, Mr Collins, and you certainly would have been robbed.”

We had walked across the Waterloo Bridge twice by now and this time continued walking north towards the Strand. Somewhere to the west along the river here was the Warren’s Blacking Factory, where Katey Dickens had once told me her father had been sent to labour as a child. He had mentioned it to her in an almost joking manner, but Katey confided in me that she felt it may have been the most upsetting and formative event of his life.

“I know where your Drood is, Inspector,” I said as we turned right on the Strand towards Somerset House and Drury Lane.

Field stopped. “You do, sir?”

“I do, sir.” I let the silence between us fill the air under the rumble and roar of passing traffic. “Dickens is Drood,” I said at last.

“I beg your pardon?” said the inspector.

“Dickens is Drood,” I said again. “There is no Drood.”

“That seems highly unlikely, Mr Collins.”

I smiled almost patronisingly. “I’ve said before that Drood appears to be a figment of the writer’s imagination, Inspector. Now I know that the phantom is no more than that. Dickens has created Drood to suit his own purposes.”

“And what might those purposes be, sir?”

“Power,” I said. “A mischievous sense of power over others. For many years, as I’ve told you, Dickens has played with magnetic influence and mesmerism. Now he invents this Master of Mesmerism as his alter ego, as it were.”

We had resumed walking east and now Inspector Field tapped the pavement with his heavy stick. “He could hardly have invented Drood, Mr Collins, seeing as I have been pursuing the blackguard for twenty years come this August.”