Armed with a long iron pole, with a flat hoe at the end, Steve dug through a crevice where something was lodged. He opened the slide on his lantern, which hung from his belt, so he could see more clearly through the dim, noxious air.
“God bless!” he said to himself, reaching out his arm and pulling up two silver table knives. “God bless, silver!” he exclaimed, stuffing them in his pocket. This, along with the gold milk jug found a day be-fore, gave Steve an ancient air of heroic triumph. He noticed a bulge in the muddy floor near the drain out to the east end. Poking the lumpy mud with his pole, a flurry of rats the size of small cats rushed past him. Steve stepped forward two boots’ lengths and coughed. He did not cough at the awful air, punctuated by the waste of the butchers thrown into the drains, which he was used to after three years hunting in sewers, but at the sight of another dead body washed up in the tunnels. Though their treasure seeking was illegal, the police were permissive of the sewer hunters as long as they reported dead bodies and human remains. This one wore a nice suit.
But on closer inspection, he found that the prostrate man was not dead. He was even breathing.
“Now come along, fellow, how'd you get in this place?” Steve called out, pulling up the man's arm. “Get along, you beasts!” he said. There were massive rats clinging to the man's arms, legs, head, and body and chirping at a deafening volume. “Get along!” Steve used his pole to knock off the rats and fight off others trying to climb on his discovery. He removed a pouch and forced a powdery substance into the man's mouth.
“Take these Epsom salts-take some of this. It will draw the blood from your head.”
Rising to his feet, finally, hugging his sides in pain, the man stumbled forward and found himself falling down again into the filth.
“Rebecca! Tell her!” he cried out.
“What do you mean? What is all this choke-pear?” answered Steve.
“Stop him! I saw him! You must…!”
“Who? Who ever did you see, gov'n'r?”
“Herman,” Osgood groaned. “It was always Herman!”
Fourth Installment
Chapter 23
Boston, December 24, 1867
BACK AT THE PARKER HOUSE, IN THE PARLOR OF GEORGE DOLBY'S hotel room, Tom Branagan sat in a state of dejection. Dolby had put him in a worn oak chair that faced the fireplace, which was overrun with Christmas stockings and mistletoe; it was a hard punishment to be forced to watch the ashes fall one by one into the grate when there was too much to do. Tom's mind was on the woman who had caused all this. His insides burned hot, not with anger so much as with desire for the truth. Suddenly every detail he could remember about her took on significance. Suddenly the coming new year became portentous.
Dolby was walking up and down the room, and James Osgood, there to dutifully represent the outrage of the Boston publishing firm sponsoring the tour, was sitting diagonally across from Tom. Christmas gifts left at the hotel for Dickens-which could not all fit in the novelist's own rooms-were in careless piles under the furniture.
Tom's attention snapped back to the present. Dolby was shouting, “I know not what to say. Did I not-remind me now, perhaps my own memory fails me-did I not instruct you specifically to forget about playing hide-and-seek with that hotel intruder after it happened? I cannot but conclude I erred in trusting you, boy, was swayed by my duty to your father. Is this your Celtic excitability displaying itself?”
“Mr. Dolby, please understand…” Tom tried to interrupt.
“You are fortunate Mr. Fields has as much political influence as he does, and that he chose to use it in your favor, Mr. Branagan,” Osgood chimed in.
Dolby went on listing his grievances. “You accost a lady-a blue-blood lady of society-at the theater, cause a commotion, and draw attention away from the grand success of Mr. Dickens. And, if it were not bad enough, all on Christmas Eve! The Chief has enough of a burden right now with his influenza and being away from his family during the holiday season. And what will the press make of it if they get ahold of it!”
“Your thoughtless actions have risked tainting the entire reading tour to the public eye, Mr. Branagan,” Osgood said. “The future reputation of our publishing house is at stake.”
Tom shook his head. “That woman is a danger. I know it in my heart and my bones. She should not have been released, and we must urge the police to locate her!”
“A woman,” Dolby cried. “You want Charles Dickens to look like he is afraid of a woman! That woman, by the by, is named Louisa Parr Barton-her husband is a renowned diplomat and great scholar of European history. She comes from an American branch of the Lock-ley family of Bath.”
“Does that prove she is sane or well-meaning?” Tom asked.
“You're right,” Osgood replied. “Understand, Mr. Branagan-Mrs. Barton is known for her eccentricities and is unwelcome in many homes of society in Boston and New York owing to her strange behavior. Mr. Barton, it is said by some, married her chiefly for the connection to her family name, and she never could master housekeeping or be a proper mistress to her servants. Others say Barton was passionately in love with her. Whatever the truth, he spends most of the time traveling. It is rumored he would have received the appointment as our ambassador in London if not for her behavior. Ever since she slapped the Prince of Wales in the face upon being introduced to him, she is forbidden from joining Mr. Barton's trips.”
“That is why she is able to do as she pleases here,” Tom said.
Osgood nodded. “With her husband away, she is alone and free with her strange habits and money. She is harmless.”
“She struck an old woman at the Westminster Hotel!” Tom said.
“We cannot prove that. Don't you see what thin ground you stand on, Branagan?” Dolby replied. “What compelled you?”
“Perhaps I speak above my position, but I've acted on my instinct,” Tom replied.
Dolby shook his head again. “You speak and you acted above your position, Branagan. The Boston police hadn't any choice but to let her go.”
“What about the fact that she broke into Mr. Dickens's room, Mr. Dolby?”
“Well, what if it was her, Branagan? We may box her ears, have the police court fine her but not jail her, as she never threatened the Chief nor took any of his belongings. Save a hotel pillow, for which the most severe magistrate would order this Boston Brahmin to pay a dollar!”
“I think she might have been the one to take the Chief's pocket diary,” Tom said.
“And your evidence?” Dolby asked, pausing for an answer that didn't come. “Thought not. What would she want with an old diary, anyway?”
“To learn private details,” Tom persisted. “Mr. Dolby, I am only trying to see to the protection of the Chief.”
“Who asked you to do so?” Dolby asked.
“You instructed me to serve him,” Tom answered.
“Well, you've taken it too far,” Dolby said. “And you won't do it any longer.”
Osgood, taking a long drink of punch, shook his head sadly and added a comment with a thoughtful air. “You say you act upon instinct. Men like Mr. Dolby and myself act upon what is right and proper, what is within the rules. What is safe for people who put their trust in us. If we could, Mr. Branagan, we would be tempted to send you back to England. But that would bring attention in the newspapers.”
“Instead,” Dolby broke in with the voice of a disciplining father, “you are from this point on to act strictly a porter, as you were hired. You are to stay in the hotel, unless instructed otherwise, and carry out chores when asked. When we've returned to Ross, I shall decide on your future-if I hadn't paid three guineas for your livery, I'd give you walking papers now.”