Dan Simmons - Drood

“I went to view that as a young man,” I said, turning slightly to look off in the direction of St Enon. I remembered the stench then on that cool February day I had viewed the awful spectacle. I could not imagine what the smell would be like on a hot and humid summer day such as this one.

“You and some six thousand other Londoners came to stare,” said Inspector Field.

“What does Saint Enon Chapel have to do with Dickens and June nine?”

“He managed to vanish from our view near there, Mr Collins,” said Field, tapping angrily at the cobblestones with his heavy brass-headed stick. “Seven of my best agents and myself, perhaps the finest detective London has ever known, in pursuit, and your writer gave us the slip.”

I had to smile again. “He is enjoying this, Inspector. As I said, Dickens is a child at heart. He loves mysteries and ghost stories. And upon occasion he has a cruel sense of humour.”

“Indeed, sir. But more to the point, somehow your friend knew about a secret entrance to that very drainage tunnel dug in 1844 when all the thousands of leaking and rotting corpses were still there. We found the tunnel eventually—it opens into scores of leaking, stinking holes where hundreds of squatters are living beneath the streets of London—and that in turn opens to another labyrinth of tunnels, sewers, and caverns.”

“But you couldn’t find Dickens?”

“We did, sir. We saw his lantern in the maze ahead of us. But at that point, we came under attack—hand-thrown and slingshotted stones, many as big as your fist, sir.”

“The Wild Boys,” I said.

“Precisely, sir. Detective Hatchery actually had to fire his weapon before the attackers—mere shadows, emerging from side tunnels and flinging at us, then retreating into deeper shadows—fled and we could continue our pursuit of your friend. But by then it was too late. He gave us the slip in the flooded labyrinth.”

“It sounds to be very frustrating, Inspector,” I said. “And exciting. But what, exactly, is your point?”

“My point, Mr Collins, is that it seems rather doubtful that Charles Dickens— the Charles Dickens—should go to such absurd lengths to lose us while traipsing through the Undertown of London all night… unless there is a man named Drood waiting for him.”

I was able to laugh. I was unable not to laugh. “I would suggest just the contrary, Inspector. It is the fun of the pursuit and the fiction of the mystery he has created that brings Dickens to waste so much time leading you on this wild goose chase through the tunnels under London. Had he not been aware that your men would be following him, I assure you that he would not have come to London that night. There is no Drood. ”

Inspector Field shrugged. “Have it as you wish, sir, but we appreciate your continued cooperation in helping us track down the murderer and mastermind whom you do not believe exists. Those of us in police work who have come up against Drood and his agents know him to be a real and frightening force.”

There was nothing to be said to that.

“Was your query about the brigands in Birmingham the only reason you asked for this meeting, Mr Collins?”

“No, actually,” I said, shuffling unconsciously in my embarrassment. “I wished to take you up on an offer you made to me.”

“Ninety Gloucester Square and Mrs Shernwold?” said Field. “I am working on that, sir. I remain confident that you and your… Mrs G—… shall have the place by this time next year.”

“No,” I said. “The other offer. When you said that I might borrow the good services of Detective Hatchery should I wish to go back to Saint Ghastly Grim’s Cemetery, move the slab in the crypt, and find my own way down to King Lazaree and his opium den in the catacombs there. The rheumatical gout has been all but intolerable in recent weeks… the laudanum helps almost not at all anymore.”

“Detective Hatchery will be at your service whenever you wish,” the inspector replied crisply with no discernible tone of censure or victory in his voice. “When would you like him to report for duty, Mr Collins?”

“Tonight,” I said. I could feel my pulse accelerate. “Tonight at midnight.”

October of 1866 turned especially cool and rainy. I split my days and nights between my club, my home, and King Lazaree’s underground den, with many weekends given over to being a guest at Gad’s Hill Place.

One rainy Saturday afternoon there, while under the mellowing influence of my laudanum, I told Dickens about various ideas I had concerning my next book.

“I am thinking of something in the line of the supernatural,” I said.

“Do you mean a ghost story?” asked Dickens. We were in his study, enjoying the warmth of the fire. The Inimitable had finished his day’s work on his annual Christmas story and been persuaded by me that the rain was too cold for his usual afternoon walk. Wind whipped raindrops against the bow windows beyond his desk. “Something involving spirit rapping?” he continued, frowning slightly.

“Not in the least,” I said. “I was thinking rather of some adroit mixture of the themes I mentioned to you some time ago—detection, theft, mystery—along with some item that has a curse on it. The reality of that curse would, of course, be decided by the reader.”

“What kind of item?” asked Dickens. I could tell that I had piqued his interest.

“A gem, I believe. A ruby or sapphire. Or even a diamond. I can see the plotting arising from the effects of the cursèd stone on each person who acquires it by fair means or foul.”

“Interesting, my dear Wilkie. Very interesting. The gem or diamond would be carrying some ancient family curse?”

“Or a religious one,” I said, warming under the influence of the mid-day laudanum and Dickens’s interest. “Perhaps if the stone had been stolen from some ancient and superstitious culture…”

“India!” cried Dickens.

“I had been thinking Egypt,” I said, “but India would serve. Might serve very nicely, I think. As for a title, I’ve jotted down The Serpent’s Eye or The Eye of the Serpent .”

“A bit sensational,” said Dickens, steepling his fingers and extending his legs towards the fire. “But intriguing as well. Would you work your idea of a ‘Sergeant Cuff’ into this tale?”

I blushed and only managed a shrug.

“And would opium figure in this book as well?” he asked.

“It might,” I said defiantly, all warmth at his earlier interest now fled. I had heard through several mutual friends of Dickens’s absolute disapproval of my Lydia Gwilt’s praise of the drug in Armadale .

Dickens changed the subject. “I presume you are using as a model here the Koh-i-noor diamond that was exhibited in the Crystal Palace here at the Great Exhibition and presented to the Queen in June of 1850.”

“I have made some rough notes about that artefact,” I said stiffly.

“Well, my dear Wilkie, there were certainly rumours that the Koh-i-noor was indeed cursed after it was exacted as tribute to the crown by the ‘Lion of the Punjab,’ that heathen Maharaja Dhulip Singh. Just the true story of how that diamond was smuggled from Lahore to Bombay by Governer General Lord Dalhousie himself, even while the Mutiny was still active, should give enough material for two or three exciting novels. It’s said that Lady Dalhousie herself sewed the diamond into a belt which Lord Dalhousie wore for weeks until he handed the Koh-i-noor over to the captain of a British warship in Bombay Harbour. They say that he chained two fierce guard-dogs to his camp bed each night to wake him if thieves or Thugees entered his tent.”