“When Herman disappeared in the middle of the ocean, where had you hidden him? The captain, the stewards, the ship detective all looked for him,” Osgood said.
“They work for me. Me, me, Osgood. Herman no more disappeared in the middle of the ocean than you did. It didn't occur to us that you'd pay a visit without escort days after the charade of locking him up. He was safely stored away in our secret rooms below the captain's quarters as he was on the passage back to Boston we've just completed. But by that point you trusted me, dare I say, with your life. As well you should have. Herman protected you in London from the opium fiends when those fools attacked you for your purse and left you where you were sure to be given help. He saved you.”
“So I could live long enough to find what you were after.”
Wakefield nodded. “In the meantime, my entire business began to suffer-payments gone unmade, opium managers avoiding my suppliers. Why do you think those opium fiends salivated at the sight of you? They'd kill any stranger for a shilling. The whole field of opium dealers had become dry as they all read The Mystery of Edwin Drood in its serial parts along with the rest of the world.”
“But why?” Osgood asked.
“Because my trade had very quickly recognized in Dickens's words what you've unearthed, the story of Edward Trood, and saw in those hints of Drood's survival a looming danger to our enterprise. Nor could we afford any further attention on the ‘murderers’ of Trood- that is why Herman stole the statue from the auction house. That Turk, in the statue, you see, was done by some interfering artist of the real man, Imam, one of the opium pushers who helped conceal ‘my’ body. We didn't need Imam's face on display at the biggest auction to be held at Christie's in the last hundred years! This attention to everything related to Dickens's final days and book was all nothing less than disaster!”
“If people believed Trood was alive,” said Rebecca, “your organization could collapse, be overtaken by doubts, because of your lie that started it. People began to believe that the supposedly murdered Trood was alive and knew your secrets.”
Wakefield waved his hand in the air. “You see, Mr. Osgood, your bookkeeper is a natural woman of business. Yes, it's true. If it was believed that Eddie Trood had not died, it meant he could be out there somewhere waiting to use his knowledge to bring us down. Yet that is not all that has haunted me since Dickens picked up his pen to retell my story. After the case of Webster and Parkman of your city became famous, the methods it also made famous spread. The skeleton of Parkman was identified by his teeth. Since then, death does not bring an end to all things. And if the police were to hear the tales that Trood might be alive and decide to dig up the grave of Edward Trood? Would they determine it was not Trood, and then what? If that was not Trood lying beneath the earth, where was he? You can imagine the entertainment Scotland Yard would have with that question. You can imagine how free I would be to move about London-my old self suddenly resurrected! Arthur Grunwald convinced the Surrey to perform just such an ending in their production of Mr. Dickens's book, so Herman burned it down early on the morning of our departure. A shame, though, that Grunwald had to be in the green room, I did enjoy him as Hamlet at the Princess. You see, even Herman and myself are not always perfect.
“Of course, I read Tom Branagan's wire when we made port at Queenstown. The captain directed it toward me upon my instructions before you saw it. What a dear soul your Constable Tom is, to find proof that the letter to Forster was Grunwald's forgery. That letter would have been a great interference to us.”
“These six installments,” Osgood said, gripping the satchel with the remainder of Dickens's novel tightly. “That's all you want, then, to destroy these?” Osgood folded his satchel into his chest.
Wakefield laughed. “If only there were happy music,” he mused suddenly. “Yes, that would put all our minds at ease. What do you say, Ironhead Herman?” Wakefield extended his hand and Herman took it, being swept around the room, dancing a brisk waltz around Osgood and Rebecca. “Are we graceful enough for you, Osgood?” Wakefield asked, laughing and bowing.
It was a chilling scene to watch the two killers waltz across the warehouse. Strangest in the tableau was this: Ironhead Herman was ready to look like a fool on command of Wakefield. If Herman were a killer who respected only brutality and force, what were the depths of Wakefield's own brutality to have that kind of hold over him? The meaning of it sunk into Osgood. The dance, step by step, made one thing clear as noontime. They would die there.
“Please, for mercy's sake, let Miss Sand go free,” Osgood said prayerfully.
Wakefield examined his captives, saying, “I am not the terrible man you must now imagine. My curse in life is to have the vision others do not. I can understand what your government and mine still cannot. People are beginning to make a devil out of opium and opium use; in their minds the opium eater is as unreal and unwanted as a human vampire. They have protested the morality of the trade with China. Before long the Americans and the English will hold opium accountable for all their own faults and pass more rules and regulations. China has finally surrendered their will against the drug and will grow the poppy themselves to feed their people's appetite. Besides, with the opening of the Suez Canal, every damned little parleyvou with a tugboat can get to China without any skills or knowledge of trading: the coasts will be positively overrun. It is your own people who clamor for supply, with scores of soldiers-Yankee and Rebel alike-returned to their homes under the spell of injury and the need for relief and ignored by a society that has moved on with commerce and progress while those brave souls wither. Now with the hypodermic, any man or woman who wishes will provide themselves with the medication and enjoyment they can no longer find in the devouring cities without artificial assistance. America is the land of experimentation-a new religion, a new medicine, a new invention-if there is something to transform, Americans will throw away all constraints with the freedom of self-indulgence. Alcohol makes man into beast, but opium makes him divine. The syringe will replace the flask and be an unfailing remedy in the pocket of the businessman, the bookkeeper, the mother, the teacher, and the lawyer who suffer the curse of modern cares. What do you think of it, Osgood? Oh, I know your trade is books, but it all comes down to this: to know your customers, to know how they wish to make their escapes from this bleak world, and to make sure they can't live without you. The modern brain will wither without finding a way to join excitement and numbness. We have sought the same thing through Dickens, you and I, to protect ourselves and the people we depend on. No, I seek nobody's death.”
“Daniel Sand depended on me,” Osgood said, “and I could not protect him.”
“But I could have,” Wakefield said, “if he had not been so set on your approval.” He turned solicitously to Rebecca. “My dear girl, I'm afraid you've gained too much intelligence today to live freely without causing me some degree of future consternation. You have fascinated me from the moment I saw you. We have both been made invisible by unjust forces. Damn the rules of your divorce, damn the little position Osgood has thrown at you for half pay, the peasant laborer he made your brother into: come with me back to England, you will have all you ever ask for, all you deserve. That is why I have unfolded every-thing for you now. I'd want you to understand all the reasons for what has happened, so that you could consider my offer honestly once and for all within your heart.”