The Last Dickens

“Mr. Forster, if I may,” Tom began. “Why do you think Mr. Dickens called your name in his delirium?”

“Why did… Incredible question!” he roared back. The novelist's biographer began speechifying about his lifelong friendship and their unquestionable intimacy. “All of that, most certainly, occurred to him, as he still clutched this,” Forster continued, picking up the white goose-feather pen he had brought from Gadshill. “I suppose you will want this now.”

“Me?” Osgood asked, surprised at the offer.

Forster nodded his head. “Oh, didn't I say? I suppose it fled my mind. You see, Miss Hogarth was charged with giving away the objects of Mr. Dickens's writing table. She has decided to give this pen-on which is the ink dried from his very final written words-to you.”

“But why?” Osgood asked.

“I asked the same thing! She appears to admire your… what shall we call it? Your fortitude for looking for more about Drood, however foolish. I thought perhaps you would leave England before we could find you. But since you have come…” Forster held it out reluctantly.

Osgood took up the quill pen. “Thank you,” Osgood said, addressed more to the absent Georgy than to Forster. “I shall treasure it.”

“One more question, if you please, Mr. Forster,” said Tom. “When did you get new bolts on this door?”

“What?” Forster asked, for the first time since Osgood's arrival in England speaking in a quiet pitch. “How do you know they're-why do you think they're new at all, sir?”

“Mr. Branagan is a police constable, Mr. Forster,” Osgood answered for him. “He sees enough locks in his line to know the difference at a glance, I'd wager.”

“Very well, I suppose you think that is a great achievement. It was in the days after Mr. Dickens's decease, I believe,” Forster said. “I came here and found that someone had been inside and rifled through my papers related to Dickens. They were all in one place, you see, for I keep my belongings well organized.”

“Was anything taken?” Tom asked.

“No. It was probably some ruffian looking for something of value to sell for drink. But there was one document in particular that seemed to have been, well, wrestled with, shall we say. It was yours, in fact,” he said, nodding to Osgood.

“What do you mean, Mr. Forster?” asked Osgood.

“I mean the telegram from your publishing firm asking that all remaining pages of The Mystery of Edwin Drood be immediately sent to Boston.”

He removed a wrinkled telegram from a file. Urgent. Send on all there is of Drood to Boston at once.

“I have a very particular system of organization for my Dickens collection,” Forster continued. “This was placed back but in the wrong spot.”

Osgood and Tom exchanged a quick glance with each other. “That telegram is how Herman must have gotten the idea to go to Boston in the first place,” Osgood said. “He believed Forster might have sent us what he could not find here.”

“Monstrous whispering!” Forster called out. “What is that you're saying, gentlemen?”

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Forster,” Osgood said. “Only speaking to myself. A bad habit.”

“A wretched one,” Forster bettered him.

“Mr. Forster, besides you and Miss Hogarth, can you think of anyone else that Mr. Dickens may have given confidential business information to in his final months?” Tom asked.

This was the absolute wrong question to ask Forster, unless one's purpose was to evoke a litany of his usual curses and lamentations about the world's lack of understanding of Forster's special intimacy with Dickens. Forster even removed Dickens's will and pointed to a clause.

“Do you see what this line says about me, Mr. Branagan?” Forster asked. “Perhaps you need spectacles, sir, for it says ‘My dear and trusty friend.’ It was there that he left me this chronometer watch, which never fails to remind me of all the work that still must be done in this world to make it worthy of a man like Charles Dickens!” He then shook the instrument. “Not that I shall ever know what o'clock it is with this blasted timepiece.”

Osgood looked distracted as Forster lectured. The publisher's eye rested on the will. “I wonder, Mr. Forster,” said Osgood coolly, “if you would allow Mr. Branagan and myself a moment in private?”

The commissioner's face became red. “Leave my own office? Incredible!”

“Just for a moment, if you please. It is quite important,” Osgood said. “Then we shall leave you in peace.” Forster finally agreed, apparently in hopes of ridding himself of his visitors. Osgood's hand reached for Dickens's will. But before stepping outside, Forster swung around and pocketed the document.

Osgood looked up at Tom and said, “We cannot trust him about this.”

“What do you mean?” Tom asked.

“The will, I have my own copy from Aunt Georgy,” Osgood said, removing the document from his coat. “Dash the thought for having never occurred to me! You see, Miss Hogarth asked me to review it with her. The will bequeaths Forster ‘such manuscripts of my published works as may be in my possession at the time of my decease.’ But all that is unpublished at the time of Dickens's death, goes to Georgina Hogarth. If the last six installments of the novel do indeed exist, at the moment of Dickens's death they'd fall under her control by order of his will.”

“Control over Dickens is the one thing in the world I'd guess Mr. Forster won't relinquish,” Tom said. “Do you believe he is hiding something else from us?”

Forster began knocking insistently on his office door and declaring they were to have exactly half a minute more. Osgood fastened Forster's new door lock, leading to more severe exclamations.

“Not necessarily hiding,” Osgood said more quietly to Tom, “but if he knows more about the ending of the novel or who Dickens may have confided in, he will not tell us. Not if it means making it appear that Dickens trusted any person on earth more than himself to direct his legacy.”

“Stuff! Come out or I send for the police!” Forster boomed out.

Osgood frowned and unlocked the door.

Forster, exuding rage, blinked several times at Osgood and leaned in toward him. “Now, tell me, Mr. Osgood, did you really imagine you, commonplace publisher, and your little girl bookkeeper could find more of Drood that I couldn't? Did you really imagine you could have accomplished any such thing? What is it you wanted from it, anyway? To be the nine days’ talk of the trade? To be made as rich as a Jew, perhaps? You're not still caught in that fool's quest, are you?”

“I shall continue on, sir,” Osgood said without hesitation. “I recall Mr. Dickens's words. There is nothing to do but close up the ranks, march on, and fight it out.”

“Then you hadn't heard?” Forster asked.

“What do you mean?” Tom asked Forster.

“I mean this,” Forster said. He removed a wrinkled slip of paper. “Read for yourself.”

Osgood picked it up and examined it.

June 8, 1870. My dearest friend, I fear, with my illnesses worsening each day, I shall reach no further than the end of the sixth number of my Drood. What hopes I had for a unique ending, I need not tell you! Will this truly be my last? I fancy it would have been my best one, had I had the time to finish.

It was signed, Charles Dickens.

“This is the date he collapsed. Where did this come from?” Osgood asked. “Why did you never show this to me?”

“I received it only yesterday,” Forster explained. “It was found lodged in a box of watercolor paintings at Christie's auction house, carelessly put there by the auction house laborers. Clearly, he did not have time to post it before he collapsed.”

“This can't be,” Osgood said to himself, to the satisfaction of Forster.

“It does not say who it was addressed to,” Tom commented.

“Who else would it be?” Forster asked proudly. “‘My dearest friend,’ who else do you think it would be but me? We have not yet made this note public, but we will. I am sorry this was not discovered earlier, it would have saved you, Miss Sand, and Mr. Branagan valuable time pursuing nonsense. Now,” he said, with a greedy smack of his lips,