Gooseberry: Chapter Five

“Where was you yesterday?” George hissed into my left ear, as he trudged beside me down the corridor in the direction of Mr. Crabbit’s office.

“Yes, where was you?” echoed his namesake in my right. “We was made to run errands!”

“That’s right. Errands. All of them!”

I thought about different ways to respond to this—including (but not limited to, as Mr. Bruff would have me add) the obvious, the fact that, as office boys, this was their job—but then it suddenly dawned on me. If I wanted to cause a reaction, why not tell them the truth?

“George, George, if you really want to know, yesterday Mr. Bruff paid me to sit in a coffee shop and eat cake.”

“You was eating cake while we was running us-selves ragged?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Mr. Bruff was paying you?”

“Well, he will have paid me as soon as I claim back my expenses,” I said. And, with that, I pulled my receipts from my pocket and knocked briskly on Mr. Crabbit’s door.

A crotchety voice called out, “Enter!”

To rub salt into their wounds, I purposely left the door ajar as I strode into the petty cash clerk’s tiny sanctuary, so that George and George would be able to witness the transaction for themselves. As it turned out, this was a gross miscalculation on my part.

Mr. Crabbit inspected each of the three receipts I handed him as if he were a judge assessing the admissibility of evidence in a murder case.

“What’s this, boy?” he asked.

“It’s a receipt for a pencil, sir. I had to buy a pencil in order to make some notes.” The way I saw it, I had bought the pencil for my brother out of my own pocket; I was simply using the receipt in lieu of the one I had failed to get at the ticket booth.

“I can see it’s for a pencil, boy. No, look again. Look carefully. What’s this?”

“It’s crumpled?”

He smiled and lowered his spectacles on to the bridge of his nose. “Yes, it’s crumpled.”

“So?”

“Observe, boy.” Without turning to look himself, he raised a short, bony finger and pointed to the sign that hung behind him on the wall:

No illegible receipts
No indecipherable receipts
No torn receipts
No crumpled receipts
No defaced receipts
No stained or water-damaged receipts
No receipts with additions or alterations
No receipts that require further explanation

A burst of muffled sniggering wafted through the doorway. Mr. Crabbit rose from his desk like a whirlwind—not an easy task for a slight, balding man of his particular stature—and pulled the door open as if he were about to rip it off its hinges, unstoppable force of nature that he had become.

“George and George. Why am I not surprised? Well? What do you require?”

“N-nothing, sir.”

“N-no, sir, nothing.”

“Then be about your business, both of you, before I report your idleness to Mr. Bruff.”

Mr. Crabbit shut the door and calmly returned to his desk.

Having collected my money, but only for the cake and the candle, I made my way up the stairs to Mr. Bruff’s office. The Georges were perched on the bench outside. They scowled at me as I knocked and entered.

I was in two minds as to just how much of yesterday’s adventure I was prepared to share with Mr. Bruff. Without incriminating Miss Penelope directly—a thing that I wished to avoid until I’d had a chance to investigate her myself—it seemed prudent not to reveal too much. Too many facts were bound to lead to questions, and questions demanded answers—answers that I wasn’t yet ready to give. Mr. Bruff, bless him, was quite entranced by the dry and rather limited account of my movements, as I described how I had traced the flower girl in question, followed her to a nearby pub noted for hosting bare-knuckled fistfights, then trailed her as she made her way east as far as the Thames Tunnel, where, upon entering, she had managed to give me the slip. I summed up by saying that I was sure I could trace the girl again, and that I had devised a plan for making her talk.

“Excellent work, Gooseberry,” said Mr. Bruff. “I really don’t know how you manage it.”

It’s easy, I thought. I simply leave out all the important parts, such as the fact that the flower girl was actually a man, who was currently moping about in my lodgings, too scared to set foot outside my door. And he would happily whistle like a canary if he thought I might turf him out.

Aloud I said, “Sir, it occurs to me that the gang may attack again.”

It was almost certain they would, now that they thought Mrs. Blake’s aunt was in possession of the daguerreotype.

“You may be right. I’ll warn the Blakes to take extra precautions.”

“I think you should include Mrs. Merridew, too.”

Mr. Bruff grunted his assent. He took out a sheet of paper and began to scrawl a hasty note.

“George!” he called out at the top of his voice. I kept my eye on the door, curious to see which one of them would appear.

It was the younger of the two who answered the call. He glared at me mutinously as Mr. Bruff gave him his instructions. When it came time for him to leave, instead of going, he hovered like a lump in the doorway. He turned a bright beet-red when Mr. Bruff asked what the matter was.

“Sir, why can’t you send him?” he said, pointing his finger at me. “George and me, we ran all the errands yesterday. Why can’t he go this time?”

Mr. Bruff raised his eyebrows. “Gooseberry? No, it’s out of the question. I require Gooseberry for other duties.”

“Like bleedin’ eating cake,” George muttered.

“I beg your pardon?”

He scowled angrily at Mr. Bruff and then he scowled at me. “I didn’t say nothing,” he replied at last, before finally shutting the door.

For several seconds Mr. Bruff sat staring at the spot where George had been standing. “Would you believe that boy is only sixteen? The other one’s seventeen, yet they waddle about like a pair of middle-aged men. I only have myself to blame. I should never have allowed them to become so slothful or fat.”

Mr. Bruff rose, took a key from his desk drawer, and proceeded to open his office safe. He extracted the daguerreotype, dusted it down with his fingers, and placed it in his pocket.

“Come,” he said. “We have an appointment with a certain gentleman in Hanover Square. I am hopeful that he will be able to identify the people in this picture.”

Again he requested my presence in the cab. As he was in an amiable mood, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to bring up the matter of my expenses.

“Mr. Bruff, sir,” I began, “last night I was obliged to take a cab home from Wapping. As I didn’t have any money, I was forced to find an alternative method of payment.”

Mr. Bruff stared at me. “Octavius, please tell me that you didn’t resort to stealing?”

“I didn’t filch anyone’s wallet, sir.” Which was true as far as it went. Mr. Bruff looked touchingly relieved. “But if I am to investigate this case as you would have me do…” I left it up to my employer to finish the sentence.

“Then you will require sufficient funds to enable you move about the city at will. Yes, I can see that. I shall have a word with Mr. Crabbit when we return to the office. He will provide you with an allowance by the end of the day.”

The cab turned off Oxford Street into Hanover Square and pulled up outside an impressive-looking building, which, Mr. Bruff explained, was a rather exclusive gentleman’s club. He also warned me that there might be a problem about my accompanying him in. There was. The man at the desk was quite adamant that on no account were children to be admitted to the Oriental Club. We remained in that polite state of impasse until Mr. Murthwaite, the gent we had come to see, arrived and insisted that the three of us be shown to a private chamber, out of sight and out of sound of any member who might object to my obviously troublesome and distressing presence. The man at the desk regarded me sullenly, and called for one of his minions. I returned his look with a beaming smile as the underling led us away.

We were shown to a surprisingly nice room, the likes of which Mr. Bruff might call ‘well appointed’. It had a roaring fire down one end, and prints of Indian scenes on the walls. Upon entering, Mr. Murthwaite, a tall, lean man with skin the color of mahogany, turned to my employer and clasped his hand warmly.

“It’s been a long time,” he said.

“Too long, sir,” Mr. Bruff replied. “May I present Octavius Guy, one of my most trusted and valued employees, who, you might be interested to hear, was instrumental in unraveling the mystery of the Moonstone diamond?”

A pair of steady, attentive eyes studied me with interest. The gentleman whom they belonged to reached out and offered me his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Octavius.”

“It’s very nice to meet you, sir.”

“Mr. Murthwaite is the celebrated Indian traveler, famed for his exploits in the East,” Mr. Bruff explained.

“If we have time, I do hope you will honor me by relating your contribution to the Moonstone affair, for I had some small part to play in it myself. However, I believe Mr. Bruff wishes to consult me on another matter first.”

“I do, sir.” My employer took the daguerreotype from his pocket. “I wonder if you can cast any light on this?”

Mr. Murthwaite opened the case and gazed at the photograph. For a minute he neither moved nor spoke.

“What is it you would like to know?” he asked presently.

“Can you identify either of these people?”

“Certainly. During my time in India I was privileged to meet them both. The man’s name is Login. Dr. John Login. Solid sort. Dependable. The boy seated next to him is Duleep Singh, the Maharajah of Lahore, leader of the deeply troubled Sikh Empire.”

“The boy’s a maharajah?” I burst out, unable to hold my tongue. Note to self: if you can keep your expression suitably blank when you’re pocketing things, surely you can learn to control your tongue?

Mr. Murthwaite smiled. “He most certainly is. He was five when he assumed the title. He would would be about your age now, Octavius. I imagine this photograph was taken two or three years ago.”

“This Dr. Login, is he some kind of adviser?” inquired Mr. Bruff.

“In one sense, yes. Though it may be fairer to say that he is boy’s warder. It’s a long story.”

“Sir, I would be grateful if you can tell me anything you can.”

Mr. Murthwaite nodded. “Then we should sit.”

He herded us towards the fireplace and we took our seats around the fire.

“Duleep’s father was the great Ranjit Singh, the Lion of the Punjab,” he began, “who conquered the rival Sikh nations and forged them into one great Sikh empire. During the course of his life he took several wives, who between them bore him a total of eight sons. Only two of these were ever recognized as his legitimate offspring, however: Kharak, the eldest, and Duleep, the youngest, who was born barely a year before Ranjit’s death in 1839.

“Naturally, it fell to Kharak to succeed him. But within three months Kharak found himself brought up on charges of sedition, the most damning of which alleged that he’d been colluding with the British. You can bet your last cheroot that these charges were pure trumpery, for they were based solely on the rumors spread by one man—Ranjit’s old adviser, the Wazir Dhian Dogra, a deceitful wretch who had designs on the throne himself. Nevertheless Kharak was deposed and imprisoned, and died within the year, the victim of slow and gradual poisoning.

“It was Kharak’s son, the nineteen-year-old Nau Nihal, who inherited the title on his father’s deposition—though he was not to hold it for long, as things turned out. He was struck by falling masonry when re-entering the Fort of Lahore, having just overseen his father’s cremation. While his companion was killed outright, Nau Nihal was merely wounded. Dhian had the unconscious ruler dragged inside, and then ordered the gates to be locked, so that none, not even his mother Chand Kaur, could enter the fort. By the time she was permitted to see him, a strange transformation had occurred. What was once a simple flesh wound had become a mortal injury. Somehow his skull was now cracked wide open, and Nau Nihal lay dead.”

Mr. Bruff threw me a nervous look. I think he was worried that the tone the story was beginning to take on was unsuitable for my young, delicate ears. Bless his naive, deluded soul!

“Chand Kaur now proclaimed herself regent,” Mr. Murthwaite continued, “ruling in the place of Nau Nihal’s as yet unborn son, for, as it happened, Nau Nihal’s young widow was with child. Chand’s brazenness so infuriated the wazir Dhian that he wrote at once to Sher Singh, son of Ranjit by his estranged first wife, urging him to muster his troops and march on Lahore. Sher Singh did as the wazir requested, and after the ensuing battle, Chand Kaur conceded defeat. She agreed to retire to her late son’s palace on one singularly ill-conceived condition: that she receive a pension of a million rupees. It was a fatal error of judgment on her part. When her daughter-in-law gave birth to a stillborn infant—signaling the end of Kharak’s bloodline and any further claim to power—Dhian replaced her servants with his own, and had them club her brutally to death.”

“I say,” Mr. Bruff interjected, “remember the boy is listening!”

“Do not trouble yourselves on my account, good sirs,” I tried to reassure them both. “There’s nothing I love more than a good story, and the bloodthirstier the better, as far as I’m concerned.”

Mr. Bruff nearly choked. Mr. Murthwaite, on the other hand, burst out laughing.

“Then I shall try to make the climax as gruesome as I can,” he promised. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Sher Singh. By all accounts the new leader was anxious to re-establish harmonious relations between all the feuding Sikh factions. He managed to broker approximately twenty months of relative peace, but then, one morning, when he was attending a friendly wrestling match on the outskirts of the city, he was lured outside by a pair of brothers who’d been supporters of the late Chand Kaur. Sher had always had a fascination with weapons, so when they offered to show him their latest rifle, he readily agreed to accompany them. As Sher took the barrel in his hand to examine it, the first brother pulled the trigger and shot the maharajah in the chest. The second brother then took his sword and hacked off the poor man’s head. That done, the pair rode away to Lahore, carrying the severed head with them. They tracked down the wazir and made him grovel at their feet, then placed the rifle at his temple and put a bullet through his brain. Which is how the five-year-old Duleep came to rule an empire, although, of course, it was his mother who acted as his regent.”

“Extraordinary!” I cried, clapping for all I was worth while Mr. Bruff sat fuming.

Mr. Murthwaite took out his cigarette case and extracted a cigarette, having offered Mr. Bruff one first. He lit it, drew the smoke into his lungs, then blew it out again towards the ceiling.

“In December of 1845,” he said, “Britain declared war on the Sikh nation, in what was to become known as the First Anglo-Sikh War. They—or should I say we?—won.” I sensed a touch of bitterness in his voice. “Although they kept Duleep as the nominal figurehead, they imprisoned his mother, and subsequently sent her into exile. After the Second Anglo-Sikh War four years later, Britain annexed the Punjab, deposed young Duleep, and placed him in the care of Dr. John Login. At first the two of them went to live in the fortress of Fatehgarh. I imagine they hoped that his followers would come to forget him. Out of sight and out of mind, and all that. In all likelihood, this photograph of yours dates from that period. 1849; 1850, at most. It can’t be any later.”

“Why not?” asked Mr. Bruff.

“Because although Fatehgarh was capable of holding a twelve-year-old boy captive with astonishing ease, it proved unequal to the task of containing his story. While Duleep remained on Indian soil, he would always inspire supporters. So last year they brought him here to England on the pretext of visiting the Great Exhibition. I know this because I saw him there.”

“So the maharajah’s here? Do you know by any chance where he is staying?”

“I may be on a nodding acquaintance with royalty, Mr. Bruff, but I can hardly claim a place in his social circle. Dr. Login, on the other hand, is quite another matter. I happen to know he’s a member of this club. The secretary is bound to have his address on record. If I remember rightly, the chap runs some kind of hospital, somewhere out Richmond way. If anybody can tell you where the maharajah is staying, it is he.”

Mr. Murthwaite smiled and stubbed out his cigarette. He closed the clasp of the daguerreotype and handed it back to my employer.

“Now, Octavius,” he said, as he turned to me, “it’s almost midday. Let us see how that damnable lackey, who refused you entry, likes it when I order us all a good, slap-up dinner.”


Gooseberry continues next Friday, August 8th.
Copyright Michael Gallagher 2014.
You can follow Michael’s musings on the foolhardiness of this project. Just click on this link to his blog: Writing Gooseberry.

So what did you think? Did you find any typos or continuity errors? Please let me know—use the comment box below.