The Last Dickens

fragrance through the open window.”

Amidst it all, there arrived a fair-haired, pretty, and tightly cloaked young woman, a woman whom everyone knew about even if they were not meant to. But the master of the house did not stir under the frightened gaze of her bright blue eyes, either. Deep into the night, the same stillness persisted. An even more somber doctor from London joined the others in the dining room. Pale and rattled, the London doctor pronounced brain hemorrhage.

“The poor Chief, he would never be moved from this sofa again.”

Henry bowed with a regretful frown that he could say no more.

“Thank you, Mr. Scott,” said Osgood. “I know it must be a painful thing to recount.”

“On the contrary. It is my finest honor to have been here.”

THE TRAIN INTO London could not move fast enough for the two travelers. A few hours after their arrival in London, Datchery had received the message from the landlord of the Falstaff and met them at their Piccadilly hotel. Osgood could not go to Scotland Yard without betraying William Trood's trust, but the eccentric Datchery, mesmerized or not, could investigate unfettered. Osgood poured out all the information about Edward Trood and his connections to his uncle's opium merchant friends.

“Remarkable!” Datchery said, his long slender frame pacing the floor up and down. He looked as though he might break into a laugh. “Why, Ripley, I believe you have turned a corner in the investigation!”

Osgood snapped his fingers. “If it's true, it all fits together now, my dear Datchery, doesn't it? When Dickens said there was something ‘curious and new,’ this is what he meant-he was opening the case of a real murder mystery. It was different from anything he had done before, different from anything Wilkie Collins or other novelists had written. Think of how one of the first chapters of Drood begins.”

Osgood had read the installments so many times, he could recite it from memory, but he removed the first installment from his trunk to point it out to Datchery. “For sufficient reasons which this narrative will itself unfold,” he read from the first sentence of chapter 3, “as it advances, a fictitious name must be bestowed upon the old Cathedral town. Let it stand in these pages as Cloisterham.”

“Indeed!” Datchery called out.

“The reason for the alias Cloisterham to stand in for Rochester,” Osgood said, “is that a real crime was about to be revealed, and a real criminal unveiled.”

Datchery nodded vigorously. “And when The Mystery of Edwin Drood began to be published in serial, every eye was on it, and every eye in the world of these opium pushers and smugglers could see in it the story of poor Edward Trood. Think of it: Nathan Trood is dead, but if he had help in the murder of his nephew, someone would fear exposure.”

“Except that William never involved the police. Edward's murderer may have felt comfortable for these long years,” Osgood said.

“Indeed. But if Dickens's novel revealed new clues, it could lead the police to the discovery of the facts of the actual case and to the other killers of Edward Trood!” Datchery interrupted himself by putting up a hand for silence. He pointed toward the door, where there was a slight shuffling noise.

“Miss Rebecca?” Datchery whispered.

“No, I do not think it can be her… Miss Sand is out making arrangements for credit at the bank in London for our stay,” Osgood said in a quiet voice. “The money we brought with us has melted away. She will be out another hour at least.”

Datchery motioned for Osgood to move aside and indicated that someone was eavesdropping on them. Then he grabbed the iron poker from the hearth. He stealthily made his way across the length of the well-furnished room and opened the door slowly. A strong hand shot out and grabbed Datchery's wrist, twisting it until the poker fell to the floor.

“Good God!” Datchery cried out, tumbling backward. Struck with a quick fist in the jaw, he staggered and fell.

“Help! Call for help!” Datchery moaned while attempting to drag himself away.

“No need for that, Mr. Osgood,” said the attacker.

Osgood had reached for the bellpull but, being addressed by name, stopped and stared at the newcomer with amazement.

The young man stepping toward him removed his cape and cap to reveal the figure of Tom Branagan. Tom Branagan! A man whom Osgood had not seen in more than two years-since the end of Dickens's American tour-now plunging through Osgood's hotel door in a brazen assault!

Branagan, who no longer looked to be the lad he was in America, but a powerfully built man, retrieved some rope from the curtains and began tying Datchery's hands together

“Mr. Branagan!” Osgood exclaimed. “What is this about?”

“What do you want from me?” Datchery moaned pitiably.

Branagan, eyes dark with anger, stood over Datchery and held him down with the heel of his boot on the soft middle of his neck. “In the name of Charles Dickens, the time has come for answers.”

Chapter 29

OSGOOD LOWERED HIMSELF ONTO THE RUG NEXT TO DATCHERY. The publisher could not fathom the sudden upheaval. He turned over in his thoughts what had occurred to try to make sense of it: the near fatal visit to the opium rooms, the revelations of William Trood about his son, Tom Branagan's sudden appearance out of nowhere at the London hotel and senseless attack on his companion.

“Branagan!” Osgood cried. “What have you done? What are you doing here?” Taking Datchery's hand, Osgood attempted to restore his senses. He untied the curtain rope that Tom had used to bind him.

“I wouldn't do that, Mr. Osgood,” Tom said.

“Mr. Branagan, please soak a cloth with cold water from that nightstand. My good Datchery, this is some kind of preposterous misunderstanding. I knew this man briefly as a porter when Mr. Dickens had come to America.”

“It is not I who misunderstand, Mr. Osgood,” said Tom. “I am a porter no more.”

“Then explain yourself at once, if you dare!” Osgood shouted to the handsome younger man. He had tried to restrain his anger but could not once he saw Tom's unrepentant demeanor. “This is what you'd still call acting upon your instinct, I suppose?”

Tom closed the door to the hall. “This man is a fraud and a double dealer. He is not who he says he is.”

“I know he is not Dick Datchery, of course-Datchery is a character in a Dickens novel! I fear you are out of your depth. This man is unwell and under no fault of his own has fallen under a powerful magnetic spell initiated by Mr. Dickens before his death-one that has allowed us unique insights into an important case through his talents as investigator.”

By this time, Datchery had risen to his feet and was steadying himself along the wall until he could be lowered into a chair.

Tom said, “Why not ask him to explain for himself?”

“I don't know what you mean by browbeating me, laddie,” Datchery protested, rubbing his bloody jaw but trying to approximate a smile. “You mistake me.”

“If you will not divulge the truth, so be it. I will. Mr. Osgood, this wretch, disguised in George Washington costume, acted as a speculator and a rioter during the whole of Chief's tour of America-set on sabotage and ruin for the reading tour's financial success.”

The accused's eyes narrowed with anger and he lumbered toward Tom. “I shall not stand here and be insulted!”

Tom threw a long punch into Datchery's stomach. Then he drew a pistol from his pocket and pointed it at the man doubled over in pain.

Osgood stood immovable at the sight of the weapon.