Fields told him how the shorthand writers they'd consulted could not make it out, and they did not want to give them too much of it to see.
“No, we mustn't let anyone else get wind of this. Clerk!” Chapman leaned out the door and waited for anyone to appear. Though it was one of the financial men who presented himself, Chapman snapped his fingers and said, “Some champagne in here, won't you?” Chapman then closed the door on the confused man and insisted on shaking both men's hands again with his hunter's iron grip. “Gentlemen, I have it! This shall be historical! Long after we are all-pardon the morbidity-out of print permanently, our names will be honored for this. The end of the last Dickens, for all the world to see!
“I happen to know several court reporters who worked alongside Dickens in the capacity of shorthand writers thirty years ago; in some cases, they competed with the younger rival, attempting to replicate his altered version of the shorthand technique. Some of them, though their heads have grown white with the creeping of age, still live retired lives in London and are known to me personally. I have no doubt that for the right price their success in ‘translating’ this text will be assured.”
“Upon my word, we shall contribute liberally to such a fund,” Fields said.
“Good. I'll book my passage back early to deal with this without delay,” Chapman said. “Say, you have made a copy of the chapter, haven't you?”
Fields shook his head. “The truth is, this shorthand is of such a strange design, I fear any copies could be worthless. Dashes and lines and curly symbols not replicated exactly would render a word or paragraph potentially indecipherable. It would be like an illiterate copying out a page from a Chinese scroll. Perhaps with two or three of the best copyists checking each other. The best copyists in Boston are also the greediest, and it would be a risk to entrust them.”
“You did not even make a copy for yourself?” Chapman asked, surprised.
“Mr. Fields cannot, with his hand,” Osgood said. “We didn't know you were coming, Mr. Chapman. I would have tried, but I am afraid even the attempt to could take weeks.”
“And tracing it is out of the question,” Chapman noted, “for these papers have not exactly been well kept, wherever it is you found them, and the chemicals of tracing paper could tamper with the ink. No matter, the original shall be safe”-here he stopped to caress the end of his rifle-“even from your so-called Bookaneers. Let them try me!”
Chapman put the chapter in his case. As soon as the transcription was complete, Chapman would send a private messenger in whom he had complete trust to deliver the fully transcribed pages back to Boston, so the Fields, Osgood & Co. edition could appear well before any pirated editions.
“Tell me-for a lark-before we finally know the truth, what do you think, Osgood?” asked Chapman as he prepared to depart from the office, his assistant handing him his overcoat and brown felt hat with its jaunty blue ribbon. “Tell us, do you think Drood lives or dies in the end?”
“I don't know whether he lives or dies,” answered Osgood. “But I know he is not dead.”
Chapman, shouldering his rifle, nodded but moved his mouth in a rehearsal of confusion at the enigmatic response.
Some minutes later, after their guest's departure, some impulse or feeling gripped Osgood. It made him get up from his desk. He stood looking down at the palms of his own hands and the scars from their adventures.
He could not have said why, but he was soon walking down the hall; hurrying down the stairs, dancing around the slower climbers; bursting through the reception hall, past the shining glass cases of Ticknor & Fields and Fields & Osgood books, out the front doors; pushing past the line at the peanut vendor and the Italian organ grinder, looking out, looking at the tourists to Boston in bright bonnets and light hats loitering under the shady elms of the Great Mall along the Common, looking over at squirrels scrambling for lost crumbs and pleading pitifully for donations of other scraps, looking for Fred Chapman in the dappled light of the summer scene. Osgood got as far as the tents pitched by the traveling circus, which were sheltering exhibitions of overheated animals and myriad humanity.
It is impossible to claim to know what James Osgood thought to have said had he caught up with him. It wouldn't have mattered, though, because the strapping visitor from London and the pages in his case were already gone.
Sixth Installment
ALL THAT WAS LEFT OF “EDWIN DROOD” IS HERE published. Beyond the clues therein afforded to its conduct or catastrophe, nothing whatever remains; and it is believed that what the writer would himself have most desired is done, in placing before the reader, without further note or suggestion, the fragment of “The Mystery of Edwin Drood.” The tale is left half told; the mystery remains a mystery forever.
– 1870 EDITION,
Chapter 40
Boston, December 1870, five months later
CROSSING THE ORNATE LOBBY, THE MAN WITH THE FLOWING white beard made a graceful stop at the front desk.
“Is Mr. Clark in?”
He addressed this question to a definitively New England shop boy, whose dream was one day to turn thirteen years old and another day to write a book of his own like the ones in the shining glass cases. For now he was content to be sitting and reading one. “Guess he ain't,” was his reply, too absorbed to break his concentration.
“Can you say when he'll return?”
“Guess I can't.”
“Mr. Osgood or Mr. Fields, then?”
“Mr. Osgood's out on business, and Mr. Fields, he's not to be disturbed today, guess I don't know why.”
“Well,” the caller chuckled to himself. “I entrust these important papers with you, then, sir.”
The lad looked up at the documents and took the card that sat on top with a surprised and astonished expression.
“Mr. Longfellow,” he said, jumping to his feet from his stool. He stared at the visitor with the same intensity he had reserved for his book. “Say, old man! Do you mean to say you are really Long fellow?”
“I am, young man.”
“Wall! I wouldn't have thought it! Now, how old was you when you wrote
After satisfying this and the shop boy's other burning questions, the poet turned toward the front doors as he secured his heavy coat, lowered his hat, and braced himself for the wintry air.
“My dear Mr. Longfellow!”
Longfellow looked up and saw it was James Osgood coming in. He greeted the young publisher.
“Come upstairs and warm awhile by the fire in the Authors’ Room, Mr. Longfellow?” suggested Osgood.
