Field nodded, frowned, stubbed out what was left of his cigar, and said, “Your male friends, some of them, certainly do accept it, Mr Collins. Although you would agree that they do not bring their wives along when they dine at your table. And although there may not be any hypocrisy other than in your public records—in which you told city census officials that Mrs G— was your servant and a certain ‘Harriet Montague’ was your maid-servant, age sixteen (even though Mrs G—’s daughter, Harriet G—, here in your home, was only ten at the time)—and other sworn statements relating to these two worthy ladies, it does explain why Mr Dickens has referred to the child Harriet as ‘the Butler’ and to her mother as ‘the Landlord’ for several years now.”
This startled me. How could this man have known of Dickens’s small drolleries unless the retired inspector had men going through my most private correspondence?
“Harriet is not my daughter, Inspector,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Oh, no, of course not, Mr Collins,” said the old man, waving his finger and smiling. “I never meant to suggest such. Even the poorest detective would know that a certain Caroline Compton, daughter of the carpenter John Compton and his wife, Sarah, met and married a certain George Robert G—, an accountant’s clerk from Clerkenwell, and married him on… I do believe it was 30 March, 1850, sir. The young Caroline was just twenty years of age that year, George Robert G— only a year older. Their daughter, Elizabeth Harriet, whom you prefer to call Harriet, sir, perhaps to honour your own mother, or Carrie, for reasons known only to yourself, was born in Somerset, on the outskirts of Bath, on 3 February, 1851. It’s sad that her father, George G—, came down with consumption the following year and died of it at the Moravian Cottages in Weston, near Bath, on 30 January, 1852, leaving his widow, Caroline, and twelve-month-old baby daughter, Elizabeth Harriet. Poor Mrs G— came to the attention of authorities a few years later, when she was running a junk shop in Charlton Street—near Fitzroy Square, I’m sure you know, sir—and ran into difficulties paying her debts. It could have been a tragic tale, possibly including a debtors prison, Mr Collins, had it not been for the intervention of a gentleman. Probably in May of 1856.”
“Inspector Field,” I said, rising again, “our conversation here is over.” I moved towards the door again.
“Not quite over, sir,” he said softly.
I rounded on him, the fury obvious in my shaking voice and clenched fists. “I say to you, sir, do your worst. I challenge you. Your petty and dishonourable attempts to blackmail me into betraying the confidence and trust of one of my dearest friends will earn you nothing but the ridicule and disapprobation you so obviously deserve. I am a free man, sir. I have nothing to hide.”
Field nodded. His forefinger, which I had already learned to despise, was tapping at his lower lip. “I am sure that is true, Mr Collins. Honest men have nothing to hide from others.”
I opened the door. My hand was shaking on the brass of the handle.
“Tell me before I go, sir,” said Field, picking up his top hat and moving closer, “just for my own edification… have you ever heard of a girl by the name of Martha R—?”
“What?” I managed to say through a constricted throat.
“Miss Martha R—,” he repeated.
I closed the door so quickly that it slammed audibly. I had not seen Caroline lurking in the hallway, but she often stayed within earshot. I opened my mouth again but found no words.
That problem did not afflict the despicable Inspector Charles Frederick Field. “There’s no reason you should know Miss R—,” he said. “She’s a poor serving girl—domestic service and hostelry, to hear her poor parents tell of it, sir, and they are poor, both in finances and emotion these days. Both parents are illiterate. They’re from Winterton, sir. Her father’s male ancestors had served in the herring fleet out of Yarmouth for a century or more, but it seems that Martha’s father made do with other odd jobs around Winterton while Martha, who left home two years ago at the age of sixteen, worked in local hotels.”
I could only stare at Field and force down nausea.
“Do you know Winterton, sir?” asked the despicable man.
“No,” I managed. “I don’t believe I do.”
“Yet you took an extended holiday up Yarmouth’s way just a year ago this summer, is that not true, Mr Collins?”
“Not a holiday,” I said.
“What was that, sir? I could not quite understand you. The cigar smoke affecting your voice, perhaps?”
“It was not a holiday, as such,” I said and walked back to my desk but did not sit. Using all ten splayed and quavering fingers, I leaned forward and supported my weight against the top of that ink-splattered desk. “It was research,” I added.
“Research, sir? Oh… for one of your novels.”
“Yes,” I said. For my current novel, Armadale, I needed to research some coastal waters and landscapes and such.”
“Ah, yes… to be certain.” The despised man’s finger patted his own chest and then pointed towards mine. Patted, pointed. “I have read some of your book, this Armadale, which is currently being serialised in The Cornhill Magazine, if I am not mistaken. There is a fictional Hurle Mere in your tale that sounds very much like the real Horsey Mere, which can be reached by sea from Yarmouth or by taking a road north from Winterton, can it not, sir?”
I said nothing for a minute. Then I said, “I enjoy sailing, Inspector. My research was part holiday, after all, to tell the full truth. I went north with two good friends of my brother, Charles.… They also enjoy sailing.”
“I see.” The inspector nodded, his eyes moist and unreadable. “Telling the full truth is always a good idea, is my opinion. It avoids so many later problems if one starts with the full truth. Could those friends have been a Mr Edward Piggot and a Mr Charles Ward, sir?”
I was beyond surprise. This creature with the moist eyes and corpulent forefinger appeared to be more omniscient than any narrator in any tale written by me, by Dickens, by Chaucer, by Shakespeare, or by any other mortal writer. And more evil than any villain created by any of us, Iago included. I continued to lean on my desk as my splayed fingers turned white with pressure and I continued to listen.
“Miss Martha R— turned eighteen last summer, Mr Collins. Her family believes that she met a man last year, last July to be precise, either at the Fisherman’s Return in Winterton itself or in the hotel in Yarmouth where she was then working as a maid.” He stopped. His forefinger tapped at the dead cigar in the brass tray as if his finger alone could breathe its embers back to life. I was almost surprised that it did not succeed.
I took a breath. “Are you telling me that this… this Miss R—… is missing, Inspector? Or murdered? Presumed dead by her family and the authorities in Winterton or Yarmouth?”
The man laughed. “Oh, bless me, no, sir. Not at all. Nothing like that. They’ve all seen young Martha, on and off, since she reported meeting this ‘nice gentleman’ last summer. But she has gone missing in a way, sir.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. This summer, this June to be precise, when the ‘nice gentleman’ appears by all accounts to have made yet another short trip to Yarmouth, perhaps as part of his work, Martha R— seems to have disappeared for a while from Winterton and Yarmouth but, if such unofficial reports are to be believed, to have made an appearance here in London.”