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Authors: William J. Palmer
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of Forster’s. In fact, one of Forster’s close neighbours.” Dickens’s voice gained strength with each word. “Forster lives at fifty-eight Lincoln’s Inn Fields and Partlow at sixty-two. We shared a hansom back from the theatre one evening. Their addresses were a subject of the conversation.”
Both Field and Rogers were impressed by Dickens’s novelist’s memory.
“You ’ave no idea ’ow much better than a ‘FOUND DEAD’ notice posted on boards across the city your identification is,” Field gushed.
“We wouldn’t ’ave identified this bloke for days,” Rogers nodded.
“Partlow is well known among the players at Covent Garden Theatre. He is one of the most visible patrons and the theatre’s solicitor, said to be an expert in angel contracts and private fund raising. He has even taken his turn in the crowd scenes of some of the more populous productions.” Dickens’s voice had gradually become clinical and detached. “Macready dislikes him, but then Macready dislikes everyone,” Dickens finished with a quip, the procession of facts from his capacious memory having dispelled his initial shock at being acquainted with such a brutally murdered corpse.
“Excellent work, Mister Dickens,” Inspector Field complimented him. “You ’ave saved me days of work with your identification.”
Dickens bowed and smiled.
A lorry clattered up on the street; the horse stood snorting in the cold wind. Two Bow Street constables placed the body in a winding sheet, the sheet in the lorry and drove off. Field directed us to wait, which occasioned Dickens and me to retreat once again into the shelter of the same overturned boat we had employed earlier. From that protected vantage we watched as Inspector Field tied up the loose ends of the evening.
First he summoned his water rat, honest Humphrey, and lectured him at some length. Through it all, the dredger repeatedly shook his head in denial, and held out his hands in shrugs of the sort the guilty make when their good character is being impugned. Finally, Field threw up his hands and, with a curse, paid the man with one large coin. With that, the water rat scurried to his mongrel boat, pushed off the mud, clambered aboard and was carried off by the flood.
Field next turned to Irish Meg Sheehey. He moved her off toward the river out of our hearing. I could barely make out their shadows standing close together against the grey-black of the river. I imagine that Field was outlining her responsibilities as the chief witness in the case. I am also certain that money was exchanged. Their private colloquy ended, they moved back toward our point of vantage.
As they approached up that beach of oily mud, without really knowing why, I stepped toward her. Actually, Inspector Field was somewhat startled when I suddenly popped out from under that overturned boat. I stopped short. I had nothing to say, especially with Dickens and Field standing by. My sudden impulsive movement toward this fallen creature made me feel quite foolish indeed.
Meg Sheehey did a strange thing, however. She smiled as if she understood.
“Mind your manners, Meggy,” Inspector Field snapped. He missed nothing. “Be gone,” he ordered with a harsh jab of his frightening forefinger.
Her face twisted into a sudden look of disdain for all of us. She turned and ran off into the night.
I was, of course, embarrassed by my impulsiveness, embarrassed by my romantic idealization of this common street harlot, but most of all I was embarrassed that Dickens and Field had seen my attraction to the woman. Yet, the woman had cast a strange spell over me. She had an independence about her atypical of her sex in our age. When she disappeared into the night, all that was left was that image of her gazing raptly into the fire in her blood-red dress back at the stationhouse. I was convinced that Meggy Sheehey, the fire-woman, was different from all the others. I felt a strange sadness that our brief intercourse
Both Field and Rogers were impressed by Dickens’s novelist’s memory.
“You ’ave no idea ’ow much better than a ‘FOUND DEAD’ notice posted on boards across the city your identification is,” Field gushed.
“We wouldn’t ’ave identified this bloke for days,” Rogers nodded.
“Partlow is well known among the players at Covent Garden Theatre. He is one of the most visible patrons and the theatre’s solicitor, said to be an expert in angel contracts and private fund raising. He has even taken his turn in the crowd scenes of some of the more populous productions.” Dickens’s voice had gradually become clinical and detached. “Macready dislikes him, but then Macready dislikes everyone,” Dickens finished with a quip, the procession of facts from his capacious memory having dispelled his initial shock at being acquainted with such a brutally murdered corpse.
“Excellent work, Mister Dickens,” Inspector Field complimented him. “You ’ave saved me days of work with your identification.”
Dickens bowed and smiled.
A lorry clattered up on the street; the horse stood snorting in the cold wind. Two Bow Street constables placed the body in a winding sheet, the sheet in the lorry and drove off. Field directed us to wait, which occasioned Dickens and me to retreat once again into the shelter of the same overturned boat we had employed earlier. From that protected vantage we watched as Inspector Field tied up the loose ends of the evening.
First he summoned his water rat, honest Humphrey, and lectured him at some length. Through it all, the dredger repeatedly shook his head in denial, and held out his hands in shrugs of the sort the guilty make when their good character is being impugned. Finally, Field threw up his hands and, with a curse, paid the man with one large coin. With that, the water rat scurried to his mongrel boat, pushed off the mud, clambered aboard and was carried off by the flood.
Field next turned to Irish Meg Sheehey. He moved her off toward the river out of our hearing. I could barely make out their shadows standing close together against the grey-black of the river. I imagine that Field was outlining her responsibilities as the chief witness in the case. I am also certain that money was exchanged. Their private colloquy ended, they moved back toward our point of vantage.
As they approached up that beach of oily mud, without really knowing why, I stepped toward her. Actually, Inspector Field was somewhat startled when I suddenly popped out from under that overturned boat. I stopped short. I had nothing to say, especially with Dickens and Field standing by. My sudden impulsive movement toward this fallen creature made me feel quite foolish indeed.
Meg Sheehey did a strange thing, however. She smiled as if she understood.
“Mind your manners, Meggy,” Inspector Field snapped. He missed nothing. “Be gone,” he ordered with a harsh jab of his frightening forefinger.
Her face twisted into a sudden look of disdain for all of us. She turned and ran off into the night.
I was, of course, embarrassed by my impulsiveness, embarrassed by my romantic idealization of this common street harlot, but most of all I was embarrassed that Dickens and Field had seen my attraction to the woman. Yet, the woman had cast a strange spell over me. She had an independence about her atypical of her sex in our age. When she disappeared into the night, all that was left was that image of her gazing raptly into the fire in her blood-red dress back at the stationhouse. I was convinced that Meggy Sheehey, the fire-woman, was different from all the others. I felt a strange sadness that our brief intercourse
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