“Naturally, she is deeply shocked by her husband’s death and I did not think it right to interrogate her. Do you have a theory that will explain the mysteries?”
Dickens leaned closer to her and whispered. “Certainly.”
“Tell me.”
He chose his words carefully. “Consider this. What if Datchery were the pawn in a wicked plot on the part of the Major to drive your friend insane? But something went awry with the scheme. Before the day is done, I shall endeavour to discover the truth of the matter.”
“Charles, please. The Major was murdered in a most terrible fashion. Promise me that you will have a care.”
He beamed, relishing the tremor in her voice and the hint of admiration it conveyed. “Never fear, Scheherezade. If I succeed in identifying the Major’s nemesis, think what a story we will have to tell!”
It was easier said than done. Dickens scouted around the Heath methodically for an hour or more, but could find no trace of the mysterious stranger whose appearance had so distressed Clarissa. None of the people he spoke to had seen a man answering Datchery’s description and, as the minutes ticked by, Dickens began to lose heart. The theory he had formed – and which he had taken good care not to share with Elizabeth – was outlandish and he could find no evidence to support it. Reluctantly, he found himself wondering if the tramp had any existence outside Clarissa’s imagination.
As night fell, a chill settled on the town. Even wrapped in a heavy coat, he could not help shivering as he strode towards the Moor. For all its proximity to the bustle of King Street, it struck him as an uncommonly lonely place. Squelching along the soft, muddy track that people had trodden between the tall reeds, he could hear the rustle of wind in the trees and the scuttling of a fox. Otherwise the Moor was graveyard-quiet.
He regretted his lack of candour when speaking to Elizabeth, but he felt he had no choice. Her sole concern was for her friend’s well-being and it would never do to voice his suspicion that Clarissa might have played a part, however unwitting, in the death of her husband. Besides, even if he was right, the chances of learning the precise truth were slim. Tomorrow, he must return to the capital, and make arrangements to spend a few days with Ellen. If he failed to find Datchery tonight, he would have no choice but to leave the Mystery of Canute Villa – as his good friend Collins might like to term it – to be solved by others.
It was slow going with the pathways – such as they were – so treacherous underfoot and visibility fading. Much as he enjoyed walking in the darkness, the terrain was unfamiliar and he needed to take care to avoid slipping into a ditch or streamlet. Every now and then a branch would graze his cheek. It would be so easy for one of them to put an eye out. He found himself yearning for the lights of London at night-time and the warm, reassuring consciousness that, even though invisible, teeming humanity was always close at hand. The countryside was so isolated. Who knew how much wickedness lurked here?
Suddenly, as he trudged towards a small copse, he thought he heard something. A cracking of twigs, succeeded by a cough. Dickens froze, straining his ears. Within a few moments came another sound. A low, painful groan.
Was this a trap? Did someone intend him to suffer the same fate as the Major? He peered through the gloom and thought he could make out the faintest shape amongst the trees. Perhaps it was wishful thinking; too often his imagination mastered him.
Another groan, louder this time, and then another, quite prolonged. He did not believe this was a hoax. Nobody, surely, could counterfeit such a noise of pain and despair.
“Who is there?” he hissed.
No answer. He advanced to the edge of the copse. The darkness was quite impenetrable and a branch grazed his cheek, making his eyes water.
“Datchery?”
This time he heard another sound. Was it a man, dragging himself through the undergrowth? Dickens took a stride forward.
“Datchery! I am a friend of Clarissa. We must speak.”
Suddenly, he felt an arm wrap itself around his neck. The shock of the attack knocked the breath out of him for an instant, but there was no strength in the attack. After a brief struggle Dickens thrust his elbow into the midriff of his assailant. Winded, the fellow lost his footing and Dickens seized his chance. Before the man could right himself, Dickens knelt upon his chest, and gripped his captive’s wrists as though his life depended on it.
“Listen! I do not want to arrest you. I just want to talk.”
The man said nothing; although strongly built, there was no fight left in him. He was wearing a ragged coat and had a beard and, although in the darkness it was difficult to make out his features, his breath smelled foul. This was the tramp Clarissa had described in her letter to Elizabeth, of that Dickens had no doubt.
“I am Charles Dickens. Do you know my name?”
“Dickens?” the tramp gasped. “What – what are you doing here?”
“I am helping my friend Mrs Gaskell to…”
“Mrs… Gaskell?” The tramp’s shock was palpable.
“Yes.” Dickens leaned over the man’s face. “You know of her? She is a well-known author from these parts and her friend is Mrs Clarissa Pettigrew of Canute Villa.”
“Not Pettigrew!” the man hissed. “Do not call her that!”
“Ah!” A thrill of triumph coursed through Dickens. His guesswork – no, his deduction! – must be correct. “You know Clarissa?”
“I… I knew her. Long ago.”
“And you ventured to renew the acquaintance?”
“No – I wanted to save her from that beast Pettigrew. That is all.”
“Did she recognize your name, Datchery?”
“Of course not. She knew me as someone else.”
A shiver of excitement ran through Dickens’ body.
“You dared not tell her your real name. What is it?”
The man groaned. “Mr Dickens, I am dying. Let me leave this world in peace.”
Dickens frowned in the darkness. It took no more than an instant for him to make up his mind.
“I believe I may hazard a guess at your true identity.”
A soft gasp. “You cannot!”
“You are John Stevenson, are you not? Elizabeth’s brother.”
A long silence. “How… how did you know?”
Dickens could not resist a smile of triumph. “Murder by strangulation is a crime often associated with the sub-continent. I wondered if the murderer had learned his craft there. He might have been a past associate of Pettigrew’s, but I also remembered that Elizabeth’s lost brother spent time in India. And if John had by some miracle remained alive – that might explain Datchery’s apparent familiarity with the town and his interest in Pettigrew’s wife. As well as explaining why Clarissa, having met him secretly, tried to throw us off his scent.”
“Dear Clarissa,” the man whispered.
“As for your sister…”
Stevenson raised a trembling hand. “She must never know.”
Within a few minutes Dickens had teased out the whole story. John had been a free mariner on the private vessels working the Indian Ocean, but one terrible day in the winter of 1828, shortly after arriving at the port of Bombay, he had been attacked by the bosun, who had conceived a deep dislike for him following an argument over a game of cards and had started drinking heavily the moment they reached dry land. A brawl ensued and, in falling to the ground, the man had cracked open his skull and died. Two of the bosun’s cronies had accused John of starting the fight and, terrified that he might fall victim to summary justice, the young man fled into the back streets of the city. There he quickly discovered that, in order to survive, he had little choice but to become much more ruthless and dangerous than the cheerful, God-fearing young fellow that Elizabeth, twelve years his junior, had so admired. He became a creature of the shadows, coining the name Datchery as a mark of his decision to become a different man.