Publisched at "Trollopian" Vol. 2, No. 4, Mar., 1948

Part ONE

"Mrs. Topes care has spread a very neat, clean breakfast ready for her lodger. Before sitting down to it, he opens his corner-cupboard door; takes his bit of chalk from its shelf; adds one thick line to the score, extending from the top of the cupboard door to the bottom; and then falls to with an appetite."

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When Charles Dickens wrote these words in his little Swiss chalet on the eighth of June, 1870, he knew that he had come close to the end of the twenty-third chapter of The Mystery of Edwin Drood. He probably did not know that he was rapidly nearing the end of his life, or that what Shakespeare called the "fell sergeant" was to bring it to a close within a matter of hours. Chapter xxiii — as we have since learned — was underwritten by approximately two pages, and the novel itself was only half completed. Thus the untimely death of the second greatest creative genius in English literature left to posterity a mystery in a real sense; the fragment he had so aptly named was, furthermore, to break down into three additional mysteries, of which the first two have proved more compelling than the third. These further problems are best summed up by the questions they have posed. Was Edwin Drood actually murdered? Who was Dick Datchery? Who was the Opium Woman, and why did she pursue John Jasper so relentlessly? It is my present purpose to deal with the second of these questions.

Dick Datchery is first introduced to the reader at the very beginning of the eighteenth chapter. "At about this time a stranger appeared in Cloisterham; a white haired personage, with black eyebrows. Being buttoned up in a lightish blue surtout with a buff waistcoat and gray trousers, he had something of a military air; but he announced himself at the Crozier (the orthodox hotel, where he put up with a portmanteau) as an idle dog who lived upon his means; and he further announced that he had a mind to take a lodging in the picturesque old city for a month or two, with a view of settling down there altogether." In reality, he has come to the cathedral city to spy upon the activities of John Jasper and to learn all he can about him. Dickens describes him further. "This gentleman white head was unusually large, and his shock of white hair was unusually thick and ample."

It has generally been asserted that Dick Datchery is an important character previously introduced in the novel who now comes to Cloisterham in disguise for the purpose of eventually clearing up the mystery of Edwin Drood's disappearance. Most of the writers who have dealt with Dickens's last work have had their say about the Datchery assumption — it was John Forster who first used this term — and have ingeniously proved him to be either Edwin Drood himself, or Neville Landless, or Helena Landless, or Lieutenant Tartar, or even the gloomy clerk Bazzard. Mr. Montagu Saunders, however, believes him to be an entirely new character, a man with a propensity for legal talk provided by the firm of solicitors to whom old Hiram Grewgious turned over his legal business. I shall endeavor to show that he was none of these, for the good and simple reason that he was, in my candid opinion, someone else.

I do, however, accept the general contention that Datchery is a personage already familiar to the reader but wearing a disguise, and before I attack the theories advanced by earlier Droodians to explain who he really is, I should like to discuss the disguise itself at some length. It consists chiefly of that shock of white hair which is so manifestly a wig, and an ample, uncomfortable one, at that. Datchery shakes it at the beginning of the chapter; later — in a passage which Dickens intended to cut from his manuscript when it was published, but which Forster retained after Dickens was dead — he takes off his hat to give it another shake. Before the eighteenth chapter comes to an end, we have no fewer than three references to Datchery walking along with his hat under his arm and his white hair streaming in the breeze. Perhaps because he was aware that he had reiterated this fact once too often, Dickens deleted the second reference; but again, Forster left it in when the sixth monthly installment of the story was printed. In the twenty-third chapter, where Datchery makes his second appearance, the white hair has become gray — a minor slip of which even the great writers are capable but the large head (or wig) is there, and once more its owner lounges along "with his uncovered gray hair blowing about."

Now it seems to me fairly evident that Datchery wants people to see him without his hat; that he deliberately invites their scrutiny of his white mane. And here we should remember the black eyebrows, which not only form a striking contrast to the white hair, but serve to arouse an inclination on the part of a person beholding Datchery to contemplate the upper part of his face. Dickens, an amateur actor of unusual talent, who first grew his full beard to play more realistically a part in Wilkie Collins's drama "The Frozen Deep", was too well acquainted with make-up to indulge in false whiskers and grease paint; he relies upon the disparity in color between Datchery's hair and eyebrows to alter the appearance of a person who would otherwise be recognized by several of the inhabitants of Cloisterham. That Datchery's eyebrows have been dyed black to conceal their natural color is a foregone conclusion. That the wig has been selected for a similar reason is likewise evident, although the choice of contrasting color is deliberate. For all we know to the contrary, Datchery may have reminded this or that dweller in Cloisterham who came in contact with him of the individual whom I believe him to be; Dickens does not tell us so, of course, for it would have defeated his purpose.

The true identity of Datchery was to have been one of the major points of interest in the story; witness the fact that so many writers have been concerned with the assumption. And I shall endeavor to show that Dickens played fair with the reader by giving many a subtle hint of who Datchery really is. I am not at all convinced that Dickens had the assumption in mind when he wrote as follows to John Forster on Friday, August 6, 1869: "I laid aside the fancy I told you of, and have a very curious and new idea for my new story. Not a communicable idea (or the interest of the book would be gone), but a very strong one, though difficult to work." Nevertheless, I do feel certain that he was thinking of the Datchery assumption when he penned the following letter to James T. Fields:

5 Hyde Park Place, London, W.

Friday, Fourteenth January 1870

Forster (who has been ill with his bronchitis again) thinks No. 2 of the new book (Edwin Drood) a clincher, — I mean that word (as his own expression) for Clincher. There is a curious interest steadily working up to No. 5, which requires a great deal of art and self-denial. I think also, apart from character and picturesqueness, that the young couple are placed in a very novel situation. So I hope — at Nos. 5 and 6 the story will turn upon an interest suspended until the end.

I do not need to inform any reader familiar with the story that Datchery makes his only appearances in the fifth and sixth monthly parts, to which Dickens refers in his last sentence, and it seems clear to me that the "interest suspended until the end" refers to the Datchery assumption. Indeed, Forster tells us that Dickens was worried because it was introduced too early in Part V; it seems as if he were afraid that some clever readers might penetrate the disguise and perceive the true identity of the white-haired stranger. Forster, as editor of the story after Dickens's death, is responsible for the position of chapter xviii as it now appears in the printed version. In the manuscript, it was originally chapter xix, and Professor Jackson has demonstrated with considerable logic that it might well have been placed between the present chapters xxii and xxiii. Who, then, was Dick Datchery, who was to have so important a part in the subsequent development of the plot, and whose efforts were ultimately to fasten the guilt for the murder of Edwin Drood upon that unhappy young manes uncle, John Jasper?

As I consider the theories of earlier writers only to disagree with their conclusions; as I develop my own conception of who Datchery really is, I shall try to be mindful of the words of J. Cuming Walters, who gave so much thought to the mystery, and who wrote so prolifically about it. He said — and this might well be a maxim for many a commentator, — "No conclusion can be held to be good and justified which departs from Dickens's own lines." A little later on in the same volume, Mr. Walters likewise echoes the old query: "Who was Datchery? This is the actual mystery. This was the surprise Dickens had in store, steadily working up from the first. And it says much for his triumph that either this point has been belittled or entirely overlooked. It would seem that Mr. Walters also had read the letter which Dickens wrote to James T. Fields.

Messrs. Proctor, Lang, Archer, and Carr are of the opinion that Edwin Drood himself was Dick Datchery. They believe that the young man somehow escaped from the encircling folds of Jasper's great black scarf, death by strangulation, and the corrosive quicklime into which the uncle planned to throw his nephews body. They overlook the weight of the evidence contained in Forsters remarks concerning the general content of the novel as Dickens himself had outlined it to him — remarks which follow immediately after his quotation from the authors letter of Friday, August 6, 1869. They do not take into account the statement made by Sir Luke Fildes, the famous illustrator of Edwin Drood, in his splendid letter to the Editor of "The Times". They pass lightly over the testimony of Charles Dickens the younger and of Madame Perugini, the novelist's daughter. All this valuable material has been presented in earlier studies; to introduce it here in detail would be mere repetition, but it leaves me convinced that Edwin Drood was murdered.

Perhaps the circumstances resulting in a letter written by Charles Dickens to the Hon. Robert Lytton might be cited as additional proof that Edwin Drood actually met death at the hands of his uncle. The Hon. Robert Lytton had written a story entitled "John Acland", the plot of which was remarkably similar to that of "Edwin Drood", begun at a later date. Lytton's story concerned the murder of a man by his closest friend; the body could not be discovered, yet there was the intimation that the murdered man might still be alive. At last the "corpus delicti" was found in an icehouse, and its identity was proved by means of a watch. Publication of this story, which was begun in "All the Year Round", the magazine of which Dickens was editor, was abruptly terminated because he declared that the plot had been used before. Despite this fact, he was himself to make use of a similar idea some six months later. Prior to the suspension of the tale, however, he had written to the Hon. Robert Lytton as follows:

26, Wellington Street, London

Thursday, Second September, I869

My dear Robert Lytton, — John Acland is most willingly accepted, and shall come into the next monthly part. I shall make bold to condense him here and there (according to my best idea of story-telling) and particularly where he makes the speech: — And with the usual fault of being too long, here and there, I think you let the story out too much — prematurely — and this I hope to prevent artfully. I think your title open to the same objection, and therefore propose to substitute:

"The Disappearance of John Acland".

This will leave the reader in doubt whether he really was murdered, until the end.

When one considers the striking similarity existing between the plots of "John Acland" and "Edwin Drood", and when one turns to the few original notes which Dickens left behind him at his death and which had served to guide him in the writing of his own novel, one is surprised to find that among several tentative tides listed by the novelist is "The Disappearance of Edwin Drood," followed immediately by the title which the story bears today. If, in the mind of Dickens, "The Disappearance of John Acland" would leave the reader in doubt whether a man were really murdered or not, why would not the word "mystery" answer a similar purpose? This conclusion is strengthened by the fact that two other titles under consideration were "Jamess Disappearance" and "The Mystery in the Drood Family."

No, Edwin Drood was really dead, and "the very curious and new idea" of which Dickens spoke to Forster was not Edwins return to Cloisterham in the guise of Datchery for the purpose of confounding his wicked uncle. Strangely enough, Edwin is never described to any extent by Dickens; the most we know about his external appearance is gleaned from a greeting given him by the matronly Tisher when he comes to visit Rosa at the Nuns House. "I hope I see Mr. Drood well," she says, "though I neediest ask, if I may judge from his complexion." From that remark, one might deduce ruddy cheeks; but we are never told the color of Edwin's eyes or of his hair. It would almost seem as if Dickens neglected to portray Edwin's outward appearance because he knew that the young man was to disappear from the scene forever. We do learn later, however, in the course of this same visit, that Edwin has had half his hair cut off. I suspect that Rosas statement to this effect has been introduced by Dickens as a red herring; he may have felt that some readers would associate Edwins cropped poll with the wig worn by Datchery. But there is no further reference to the shorn locks, so the red herring may be consigned to the dustbin.

There is really very little about Edwin to endear him to us, or to cause us any degree of anguish when he disappears. Indeed, he is sometimes too smug and self-satisfied to invite affection. He has drifted away from Rosa and has become interested in Helena Landless. In this "off with the old love, on with the new" mood, somewhat dampened by his conversation with the Opium Woman, he goes to the supper party on that stormy Christmas Eve and is done to death by his uncle. He is a youth of honor nonetheless, and 1 doubt that, had he been alive, he would ever have remained in concealment while Neville Landless brooded under a cloud of suspicion as his murderer. He had promised Grewgious to return the ring of diamonds and rubies which had belonged to Rosa's mother, should circumstances make it impossible for him to place it upon the finger of the young woman pledged from childhood to be his fiance; he would undoubtedly have kept his promise had he been in a position to do so after he and Rosa broke their engagement and parted as brother and sister. From an artistic point of view as well as from the exigencies of the plot Edwin must be dead. There will be no Rosa to whom he might return, for she has become enamored of the agile Lieutenant Tartar; and Helena Landless, of whom he had begun to dream, will eventually become the wife of Minor Canon Crisparkle. Dickens had often used the "watched by the dead" idea, but he was not to do so again in his last novel. Edwin Drood, undoubtedly his uncle's victim, is not Dick Datchery.

What of Neville Landless, favored by Messrs. Stephens and Lang, as the stranger who appeared in Cloisterham? Dickens himself rules out this possibility when he first describes young Landless. Since this description involves both Neville and his twin sister Helena, so that the two are inextricably intermingled, I shall quote the passage referring to them in full, and then return to it later when I speak of Miss Landless as a contestant for the role of Datchery. "An unusually handsome little young fellow, and an unusually handsome lithe girl; much alike; both very dark, and very rich in colour, she of almost the gipsy type; something untamed about them both; a certain air upon them of hunter and huntress; yet withal a certain air of being the objects of the chase, rather than the followers." Objects of the chase, rather than the followers. But Datchery is a follower, spying upon Jasper, learning all he can about him, waiting until the time shall be propitious to prove him the murderer of his nephew. Neville Landless is temperamental, proud, and impetuous; he is the ideal type of man upon whom to fasten blame for a murder, as Jasper quickly perceives. But Dickens goes out of his way to show us that Neville is guiltless of Edwin's death: the preparations for his walking tour are logically made, so that he may not be a source of embarrassment to anyone after his unfortunate quarrel with Edwin, cleverly fomented by Jasper. But above all, he wants to be away from Rosa, whom he has come to love at first sight with a love which he has given his sacred pledge to keep hidden from the object of his passion. When he reappears after the tempestuous Christmas Eve upon which Edwin met his death, we find him sitting in the sanded parlor of the Tilted Wagon, a roadside tavern eight miles distant from Cloisterham. And what are his thoughts? He is "wondering in how long a time after he had gone, the sneezy fire of damp fagots would begin to make somebody else warm." Certainly this is not the conjecture of a murderer, unless he be made of vastly different stuff.

Besides, when he is in London a good six months after having been apprehended and brought before the authorities, detained and re-detained, and finally released because the body of Edwin Drood is still missing, he is even then so much oppressed by the shadow of suspicion hanging over him that he cannot go out into the streets — even at night — without feeling marked and tainted. Only the friendly visits and constant encouragement of Minor Canon Crisparkle, who has induced him to study for the law, together with the example of fortitude set him by his sister's conduct, enable him to struggle on in the hope that time and circumstances may vindicate his name. A man living day by day in this sort of mental and physical seclusion, a man who looks upon himself as a social pariah, could not suddenly appear in Cloisterham in the guise of Dick Datchery, jovial, urbane, a shrewd judge of human nature and gifted with legal ability to ask leading questions in a subtle way which masks their true purpose. Again I suspect a red herring when Neville says to Crisparkle: "Excellent circumstances for study, anyhow! and you know, Mr. Crisparkle, what need I have of study in all ways. Not to mention that you have advised me to study for the difficult profession of the law, specially, and that of course I am guiding myself by the advice of such a friend and helper." Neville is but a novice in this difficult profession, whereas Datchery is an old, experienced hand. By no possible exercise of the imagination can I conceive of Neville Landless as Dick Datchery.

It was Mr. J. Cuming Walters who evolved the startling theory that Neville's sister Helena was Dick Datchery. His ideas on the subject are succinctly expressed in his thoroughly interesting book, "The Complete Mystery of Edwin Drood". As recently as I939, in a lecture to the students of English given during the summer at the University of Chicago, Mr. Edmund Wilson stated that this solution was the "first of the important discoveries about Drood". Despite the brilliance of Mr. Walters's argument and the opinion expressed by Mr. Wilson, I am forced to disagree with both gentlemen. In order to disprove the theory advanced by Mr. Walters, I shall have to summarize his contentions and quote him at some length.

After stating that the problem of Edwin Drood has been set forth in the first sixteen chapters of the novel, Mr. Walters remarks that all the important characters have already been introduced: it would be the "worst of tricks" if an indispensable fact or person were to be brought in later. He then rules out Lieutenant Tartar and Bazzard — with whom I shall deal later — as possibilities for the role of Datchery. Finally he asserts that Helena Landless is "revealed from the first and fully developed" for the Datchery assumption.

"Who would be selected?" he goes on to ask. "Obviously a courageous, and, if possible, an experienced person; a person with a real interest, and with a decided incentive; a person with suspicion already excited; a person impelled to activity not only by what had already happened but by what was likely to happen." A little later on he adds: "The stimulus must come from within; there must be a reason in the heart itself."

These are excellent sentiments, with which I agree most heartily, but they do not characterize Helena Landless with half the emphasis they gain when used to qualify another personage. And the same is true of Mr. Walters's additional remark: "We must look to the beginning of the story for this essential person. And that person must have motive and capacity."

What, according to Mr. Walters, is Helena's motive for disguising herself as Datchery? She has, he tells us, an instinctive hatred, but no fear, of Jasper; and she has the threefold desire not only to avenge Edwin Drood, but also to save her brother and to save Rosa. I have no objection to the second part of this motive; it is undoubtedly true that Helena would be ready to do anything within reason to clear her brother of the cloud of suspicion hanging over him. But whatever she might have done in that part of the novel which Dickens carried with him to the grave, she would have done under the guidance of Minor Canon Crisparkle, for whom she has a deep admiration bordering on love, and under the direction of Hiram Grewgious. She had a peculiar, telepathic ability to see through Jasper and to read his mind; she was almost instantly aware of his passion for Rosa — a passion little short of lust — and it was naturally revolting to her. A far stronger character than her brother, she was prompt to spring to the defense of a woman younger than herself, especially a woman of so childlike a nature as Rosa, and in that respect she did have a motive for protecting her friend from Jaspers unwelcome attentions. But I have been unable to discover that she had any incentive to avenge the death of Edwin. She knew that her brother was in love with Rosa, and I suggest that it would have been only a natural, human instinct on her part to hope that some day, when his name had been cleared of suspicion, Neville might honorably avow his love to Rosa and propose marriage. When she first realizes that Rosa has become interested in Lieutenant Tartar, Helenas immediate reaction is compassionate concern for Neville.

"She was experienced," says Mr. Walters. "As a child she had dressed as a boy and shown the daring of a man — why should we be told this so precisely if she were not to play a masculine part again?" Why indeed? Mr. Walters might have added that, upon the occasion to which he refers, Helena tried to tear out, or bite off, her hair when Neville lost the pocket knife with which she was to have cut it short. Of course, Dickens had a motive in giving the reader this aspect of Helena the untamed. Some day I hope to show that she was to play the part of a man — but not that of Datchery. It is far more likely that she was to confront Jasper in the likeness of her twin brother, dressed in his clothes, in a scene of great import. Does not Dickens tell us that Helena and Neville were "much alike; both very dark, and very rich in colour"? How could Dickens have played fair with the reader when he described the white hair and black eyebrows of Datchery, if he had left out this richness of color? No, the reference to Helenas assuming the disguise of a man on several occasions is just another red herring so far as Dick Datchery is concerned.

"At an early stage we are told of her threat against Jasper" Mr. Walters continues. "Why should she threaten if she was to do nothing? When Rosa was frightened at Jasper, Helena's dark eyes 'gleamed with fire', and the warning was uttered — 'Let whomsoever is most concerned look well to it'. Jasper was the person concerned — was the warning meaningless?"

By no means. But again, Helena was eventually to come to grips with Jasper in the guise of her brother Neville, not in the person of Dick Datchery, the idle buffer living on his means.

And now Mr. Walters becomes even more precise: "The big wig, unnecessary in a man, is essential to a woman with profuse locks. The surtout, unnecessary in a man (and worn, by the way, in fine weather), was essential to conceal the woman's figure. A man does not forget his hat, even when wearing a wig, but a woman with a wig on her own luxuriant hair would be liable to do so. Datchery shook his hair. Men do not shake their hair. Datchery 'made a leg' — practically the curtsey of a woman. Datchery let his hair 'stream in the wind'. Only a woman would have been unembarrassed by that."

I have not been able to find, at any point in his descriptions of Datchery, that Dickens uses the adjective "big" with reference to Datchery's crop of hair, although I believe it to be a wig and not a natural growth. He does employ the term "shock of white hair" several times, and states that Datchery's head was unusually large. For a successful disguise the wig must have fitted snugly; otherwise it might have come off at a crucial moment. If a manes head is large, the wig he wears will have to be correspondingly large. If the hair of such a wig is unusually thick and ample, we shall probably speak of the ensemble as a "large," even a "big" wig; but it does not necessarily follow that it has to be of this size to go over a woman's profuse locks. And by the same token, the long hair of such a wig will naturally "stream in the wind" if the wind is blowing.

As to the surtout, it is described by Dickens as "tightish" This being so, would it not bring some discomfort to Helena's bosom, and reveal rather than conceal it? Since she was almost of the gypsy type, I can hardly picture her as a flat-chested female. And if the person disguised as Datchery were elderly, I can conceive of the surtout being worn even in fine weather. An elderly person — especially a man of advanced years — requires warmer covering than a young, warm-blooded woman.

Datchery does not actually forget his hat, as Mr. Walters seems to imply, for Dickens himself says: "All this time Mr. Datchery had walked with his hat under his arm, and his white hair streaming. He had an odd momentary appearance upon him of having forgotten his hat, when Mr. Sapsea now touched it; and he clapped his hand up to his head as if with some vague expectation of finding another hat upon it." The "appearance" of having forgotten the hat is precisely stated as a "momentary" one, it should be noted, and Datchery could not have been unaware for any length of time that he had it under his arm. The purpose of this passage, as I see it, is to inform the reader — not bluntly, but in a roundabout fashion — that Datchery is wearing a wig. Now the wig may well have felt like a hat, which would account for Datchery's gesture. Dickens certainly conveys the idea that Datchery was conscious of something resting on his head, and in phraseology typically Dickensian invites the reader to wonder what it might be.

"Men do not shake their hair," affirms Mr. Walters. I concede that this is not an ordinary procedure on the part of members of the male sex; hut what if a habitual, revealing action closely connected with the head is denied a man if he is playing the part of another person, and wearing an uncomfortable wig to boot? Such a habitual action, in this particular instance, might displace the wig, so what could the wearer thereof do but shake the hair?

Datchery "made a leg," to be sure, but it was in the presence of that pompous ass, Mayor Sapsea, and was done for a definite purpose. Datchery was playing up to the mayores inflated egotism in every way; to bow the knee, as it were, was a clever form of flattery, a sop to Sapsea's exalted idea of his own importance; it does not indicate a woman.

Mr. Walters glosses over Datchery's meal of "fried sole, veal cutlet and a pint of sherry" by saying that Helena was robust, and that since she was acting the part of a man she would naturally call for a manes meal. I have no fault to find with this argument; I shall simply state that the meal is also typical of the person whom I have in mind as Datchery, and that his predilection for fine wines is established by the author early in the story. Mr. Walters is absolutely right when he concludes that the meal "is absolutely non-committal"

"It has been objected," continues Mr. Walters, "that Helena would not use chalk-marks as a score. Why not? Any woman can use a piece of chalk; the old tavern custom is well-known; and it would appeal to a person who did not wish to be betrayed by handwriting. It is exactly the sort of device a woman would adopt. Of course, there was no need to keep a score at all — it was merely byplay, and very feminine byplay, too."

I do not disagree with the first part of Mr. Walters's last sentence; but I mean to prove that the keeping of the score was one of the most characteristic traits of the man who is really Datchery.

"It is contended that Datchery's conversation is not like Helenas. That is no argument, because it is not like anybody in the story. It was an obvious artifice. But now we have to think of capacity. Datchery's sentences are long, flowing, and easy. Helena's conversation was fluent, even eloquent."

Here Mr. Walters lays himself open to contradiction. Datchery's conversation is very like that of someone else in the story, as I shall show presently. And some of his sentences — later to be reproduced — are short almost to the point of curtness. Indeed, Datchery alternates between curtness and fluency, and he uses expressions of which Helena would never have been capable. I simply cannot imagine Helena — for all the capacity Mr. Walters might give her — uttering the following words: "Even a diplomatic bird must fall to such a gun."

"Datchery spoke in a low tone," says Mr. Walters, quoting briefly — and incorrectly — from the text. "Helena, we are told, had a low, rich voice' — just suitable for Datchery."But upon what occasion did he speak in this way, and under what circumstances? It was when the Opium Woman came upon him sitting in the vaulted room he had rented from Mrs. Tope, and when Jasper, pursued by the crone, had just gone up the stairs. Let us examine the complete text. "Halloa!" he cries in a low voice, seeing her brought to a standstill: "who are you looking for?" Notice the verb: Datchery "cries" in a low voice. He is naturally startled by this apparition, this ugly hag who interrupts his writing, so he cries out. But Dickens makes him do so in a low voice because Datchery knows that Jasper has ascended the stairs only a moment before; he may not yet have entered his room and closed the door; he may even be eavesdropping. Surprise tempered by caution is all I can read from this passage; it scarcely proves that Datchery spoke habitually in low tones.

"Helena's movements are compatible with her acting the part of Datchery. She disappearances, strangely enough, we are not told where. She reappears in London just at the moment she could be spared from Cloisterham. Datchery is then heard of again in Cloisterham, and this time Helena is not to be traced. An amazing conjunction of circumstances — as Helena goes, Datchery comes. Was it accidental?"

I do not fully understand what Mr. Walters means by saying: "She disappears — and, strangely enough, we are not told where."

When Minor Canon Crisparkle visits Neville in his gloomy room at Staple Inn six months after Edwin's disappearance, he says to the youth: "Next week, you will cease to be alone, and will have a devoted companion." "And yet this seems an uncongenial place to bring my sister to," Neville replies. It would appear that Helena is still at Miss Twinkleton's school, waiting for the end of term. The conversation I have cited occurs in chapter xvii of the novel, and we know as a result of the brilliant work done by Professor Jackson that the events of chapter xviii, which follows immediately in the ordinary version and in which Datchery first appears, were prematurely introduced in the chronological pattern of the novel. Now in the very first paragraph of chapter xix — which should have been chapter xviii — we are told: "Once again Miss Twinkleton has delivered her valedictory address, with the accompaniments of white-wine and pound-cake, and again the young ladies have departed to their several homes. Helena Landless has left the Nuns' House to attend her brother's fortunes, and pretty Rosa is alone." Then comes the ugly scene in the garden by the sun dial; we may be sure that Jasper hastened to Rosa as soon as he possibly could after the close of school. As a result of her ordeal with Jasper, Rosa flees to her guardian, Grewgious, in London — and there, on the very day after her arrival, she meets Helena, who has obviously come to look after her brother, precisely as Dickens has told us. I do not see how this natural visit can be termed a "disappearance." As for the final chapter of the novel, it is devoted primarily to Jasper, to the Opium Woman, and to Datchery. It is true that it contains no reference to Helena's whereabouts — already well enough established, — but it seems farfetched to conclude, just because of this fact, that she is not to be traced. Presumably she is still in London, caring for her brother.

No, despite the ingenuity displayed by Mr. Walters, he does not persuade me that Helena Landless is Dick Datchery. And it should be remembered that in "The Mystery of Edwin Drood", Dickens was admittedly attempting to outdo his friend, Wilkie Collins; the younger author had achieved great success with "The Moonstone", considered by some critics to have the most perfect plot of any story of the type ever written. Dickens, who published it, had not approved of the method, by means of which Collins unfolded the history of the yellow diamond, but he did recognize the general excellence of the narrative, and it was a challenge to him to create something in a similar vein. Now the idea of a young girl assuming male disguise had already been developed by Collins in "No Name". It is hardly conceivable that Dickens, deliberately setting out to surpass him at his own game, would have employed the same device in one of the major aspects of Edwin Drood.

Long after I had arrived at this conclusion, I was fortunate enough to purchase a copy of R. C. Lehmann's "Charles Dickens as Editor". This book contains a large collection of letters written by the novelist to W. H. Wills through the years when the latter was subeditor of "Households Words" and "All the Year Round". In one of these letters, Dickens refor to "The Moonstone" as follows:

Gad's Hill place

Higham by Rochester, Kent, Sunday

Thirtieth June, 1867

My Dear Wills: — I have heard read the first 3 Nos. of Wilkie's story this morning, and have gone minutely through the plot of the rest to the last line. Of course it is a series of "Narratives," and of course such and so many modes of action are open to such and such people; but it is a very curious story — wild, and yet domestic — with excellent character in it, great mystery, and nothing belonging to disguised women or the like.

The words I have put in [bold-] italics appear to confirm the conclusion I had already formed prior to my discovery of this letter.

If Helena is to masquerade as a man, she will impersonate her twin brother, as I have already suggested, and so make good the warning directed against Jasper; she will not turn out to be the chief detecting personality at the very center of the interest which Dickens planned to keep suspended from Parts V and VI of the novel up to the end.

I turn now to Lieutenant Tartar, created to supplant the memory of Edwin in Rosa's mind and affections and undoubtedly designed to play an important part in the final tracking down of Jasper. Messrs. Smetham, Gadd, and Carden have reached the conclusion that he is Dick Datchery. Here again, I contend that Dickens has made it utterly impossible to consider this energetic young man for the role of Datchery by the rather detailed description he gives of him. We first meet Tartar in chapter xvii, when he is discovered by Neville in the platters rooms. Dickens depicts him thus: "A handsome young gentleman, with a young face, but with an older figure in its robustness and its breadth of shoulder; say a man of eight-and-twenty, or at the utmost thirty; so extremely sun-burnt that the contrast between his brown visage and the white forehead shaded out of doors by his hat, and the glimpses of white throat below the neckerchief, would have been almost ludicrous but for his broad temples, bright blue eyes, clustering brown hair, and laughing teeth." I suggest that Tartar's white forehead would have been equally as ludicrous had he worn Datchery's wig and dyed his eyebrows black. Indeed, his eyebrows, so darkened, would have attracted even greater attention to his pale forehead and brown face. It will be recalled that Datchery went about hatless most of the time, with the deliberate purpose, as I believe, of inviting attention to the marked contrast between his white hair and black eyebrows. Tartar, on the other hand, must have worn his hat habitually when out of doors, to achieve the disparity in color emphasized by Dickens.

In his conversation with Neville at their first meeting, Tartar remarks at one point: "I am always afraid of inconveniencing busy men, being an idle man." Some writers have straightway pounced upon the adjective "idle" to link it with Datchery's characterization of himself as "an idle buffer." Here, they exclaim, is the proof that Tartar and Datchery are one and the same person. Now it may well be that Dickens employed the qualification in this instance as a minor red herring; it is likewise evident that the word "idle" is a very common opposite of the adjective"busy."

Lieutenant Tartar, who is extremely polite and apologetic, is fond of neatness and orderliness in everything; Dickens dwells at length upon the impeccable, shipshape appearance of his rooms. Datchery, on the contrary, when he seeks lodgings in Cloisterham, calls for something odd and out of the way, venerable, architectural, and inconvenient. Assuming for the moment that Tartar did adopt the disguise of Datchery, I maintain that he would not so far have violated the fastidious side of his nature as to demand rooms of such a type, even though he were bent on playing the part of the white-haired stranger right up to the hilt. Such fidelity to his conception of a person he was enacting would have been quite unnecessary, if not psychologically impossible. Furthermore, since he was unknown to any of the inhabitants of the cathedral city, there would have been no incentive for him to put on any disguise whatsoever.

It is interesting to note that Tartar smokes, whereas Datchery does not. Now a man addicted to smoking would find it extremely difficult to forego that pleasure if he were playing the part of another, especially when there would not be the slightest reason to refrain from indulging in the habit.

In point of fact, Tartar does not know anything about the crisis which so much occupies the thoughts and emotions of those most deeply concerned in it when he first meets them. He is willing to be of service, and declare hie readiness to see Neville openly and often — indeed, almost daily. He has made this promise indirectly to Helena, fully aware that Miss Landless is devoted to Rosa and that she has a great deal of influence over the lovely young creature who has already made an impression upon him. We may be sure that he will keep this promise — perhaps a little more literally than Rosa would have desired, as is evidenced by her anxiety when the gritty state of affairs comes on, when day after day goes by without the slightest sign from the handsome lieutenant. Yes, Tartar is extremely forthright; he will make it a point to frequent Neville.

I do not believe that Tartar, late of the Royal Navy, would have made any comment — or certainly not the one that is made — on the term employed by Deputy when that impish boy was being questioned about the Opium Woman. The episode to which I refer occurs in the twenty-third chapter. Datchery, intensely interested in the crone because of revelations she has made concerning Edwin, encounters Deputy and plies him with questions. At one point of the interrogation, we have the following dialogue, begun by Datchery.

"What is her name?"

" 'Er Royal Highness the Princess Puffer."

"She has some other name than that; where does she live?"

"Up in London. Among the jacks"

"The sailors?"

Tartar, had he been Datchery, would never have made that query; he would have recognized the term immediately as the abbreviation of the colloquial expression "jack-tar," having been a sailor himself.

Tartar is too young and inexperienced a person to have assumed the role of Datchery, and he is totally lacking in the knowledge of things legal evinced by the white-haired stranger. His failure to call upon Rosa during the days following their idyllic trip on the river, so eagerly seized upon by those who assert that he is the man of mystery who appeared in Cloisterham, is just another of the many red herrings which Dickens has drawn across the trail leading to the final solution of the problem.

Bazzard, "a gloomy person with tangled locks," who fulfilled in a highly ambiguous manner the duties of clerk to Grewgious, may likewise be removed from the list of contestants for the role of Dick Datchery. How does Dickens describe him, when we first make his acquaintance? "A pale, puffy-faced, dark-haired person of thirty, with big dark eyes that wholly wanted lustre, and a dissatisfied doughy complexion, that seemed to ask to be sent to the baker's, this attendant was a mysterious being, possessed of some strange power over Mr. Grewgious."

I find it hard to believe that writers like Messrs. Charles, Matchett, Odgers, Fitzgerald, Macdermott, and R. H. Newell, whose pseudonym was Orpheus C. Kerr, should select this minor character as the man who was Dick Datchery. When Bazzard speaks — he does so but rarely, — it is with a brevity bordering upon rudeness. He is vain, surly, and moody; his nature and Datchery's are antipodal. He is one of those innumerable characters, sharply and deftly drawn, whom Dickens created to play subordinate, albeit important, parts. I can think of only one reason why Bazzard should be at all essential to the plot of the novel so far as it is developed in the fragment which remains to us. I can think of only one reason why he should be essential to the concluding chapters of the story which Dickens carried with him to the grave. He was a witness to the fact that the ring of diamonds and rubies passed literally from the keeping of Grewgious into that of Edwin; he was present — although just roused from deep slumber caused by rich food and drink — when the lawyer handed the case containing the jeweled band to young Drood.

Much has been made of the information given Rosa by Grewgiens when he said, with reference to Bazzard: "In fact, he is off duty here, altogether, just at present." The gloomy clerk's adherents say there is proof positive that he was even then walking the streets of Cloisterham in the guise of Datchery. They cast aside the evidence indicating that Dickens intended to place the white-haired stranger's advent in Cloisterham at a date much later than that upon which Grewgious made his statement. I have no doubt that Dickens intended them to react in this very manner. But Grewgious had sent Bazzard away for quite a different reason — a reason which was soon to be revealed, and which I feel certain was in some subsidiary way connected with "The Thorn of Anxiety," that famous tragedy written by Bazzard, with a title typical of the man himself, but never produced.

It has been suggested that Bazzard may have become a tool of John Jasper, and that he may have told Jasper about the ring which Edwin still carried with him, all unbeknown to his uncle, the night he was murdered. Only three persons knew about the gold band set with jewels, to which Dickens gave such significance: Grewgious, Edwin Drood, and Bazzard. But had Grewgious entertained the slightest suspicion that his clerk would ally himself in any way with Jasper, he would never have lodged Rosa, whom he had sworn to protect from Jasper's machinations, in the home of Mrs. Billickin, a widowed cousin of Bazzard's, "divers times removed." The shrewd old lawyer would certainly have foreseen the possibility, that Bazzard might learn of Rosa's presence in his cousins home, and had he doubted his clerk's integrity he would never have placed his ward in a position of such potential danger.

Had Bazzard been Datchery, he would have had no need of wearing a disguise in Cloisterham. He, too, was completely unknown to the inhabitants. Furthermore, there is no reason to suppose that a writer of tragedies — presumably mediocre — is also an actor, and Bazzard would have had to be a very great actor indeed to have played the part of Datchery as we know him. Even if he had been eager to attempt a role of such difficulty, Grewgious would never have entrusted so delicate a mission, in so vital a situation, to so lumpish a man.

Who, then, was Dick Datchery? J. Cuming Walters, despite his theory that Helena Landless was Datchery, for which I have taken him to task at some length, came far nearer than he realized to the heart of the matter and to a logical solution of the oft-reiterated question. In his short but provocative book, "Clues to Dickens's "Mystery of Edwin Drood," he said: "Part of a further surprise in the story would have awaited the reader in finding that in this tale, without an orthodox hero and with but a very uncertain heroine, the real hero and heroine in moral worth and strength of deed, were undoubtedly to be Mr. Grewgious and Helena Landless." With this statement I concur. Mr. Walters's one mistake was that he backed the wrong person, as I purpose to prove in the remainder of this discussion.

Dick Datchery was none other than Hiram Grewgious.

Part TWO

Dick Datchery was none other than Hiram Grewgious. I realize that when I make this assertion I am going contrary to the opinions expressed by all the writers who have previously dealt with this topic. But the belief that Grewgious is Datchery has been growing on me for more than three years. For a long time I hesitated to express my belief in writing, but at last the conviction that I had something new to contribute to the Datchery problem impelled me to set down my ideas on paper. My conviction was later strengthened by a startling discovery I made while rereading the most fascinating of mysteries. What this discovery is, must be withheld until I reach the end of this study. At present I have the heavy burden of bringing forward proof to establish the validity of my contention. This I shall do to the best of my ability, letting the reader judge of its worth.

What sort of person was the man whom I assert to be Dick Datchery, the white-haired stranger who suddenly appeared in Cloisterham? Dickens presents him to us in the ninth chapter of the novel, when he comes to visit Rosa at the Nuns' House. His description of the old lawyer is striking and unforgettable. "Grewgious had been well selected for his trust, as a man of incorruptible integrity, but certainly for no other appropriate quality discernible on the surface. He was an arid, sandy man, who, if he had been put into a grinding mill, looked as if he would have ground immediately into high dried snuff. He had a scanty flat crop of hair, in colour and consistency like some very mangy yellow fur tippet; it was so unlike hair, that it must have been a wig, but for the stupendous improbability of anybody's voluntarily sporting such a head. The little play of feature that his face presented, was cut deep in it in a few hard curves that made it more like work; and he had certain notches in his forehead, which looked as though Nature had been about to touch them into sensibility or refinement, when she had impatiently thrown away the chisel, and said: ‘I really cannot be worried to finish off this man; let him go as he is."

"With too great length of throat at his upper end, and too much ankle-bone and heel at his lower; with an awkward and hesitating manner; with a shambling walk; and with what is called a near sight — which perhaps prevented his observing how much white cotton stocking he displayed to the public eye, in contrast with his black suit — Mr. Grewgious still had some strange capacity in him of making on the whole an agreeable impression."

One cannot fail to note the importance of the outstanding moral quality possessed by Mr. Grewgious: his absolute integrity. Dickens gives it a position of some prominence. Then he proceeds to the physical aspects of the man, permitting the reader to infer that the lawyer's scanty flat crop of hair is admirably suited for the wearing of a wig. Indeed, the word "wig" is mentioned almost immediately, though not with the striking force which the sentence containing it will reveal later. The too great length of throat and the too much ankle-bone and heel are preparations for Mr. Grewgious's often repeated reference to himself as an "angular person." The awkward and hesitating manner, the shambling walk, and the nearsightedness are characteristics which I suspect are legitimately introduced by Dickens for the express purpose of leading the reader astray. At this point in the novel, Dickens would hardly want to depict Grewgious as the person whom the reader might readily recall as the most logical candidate for the part of Datchery. He does, however, play fair to the extent of saying that the old lawyer's near sight "perhaps" prevented his observing certain grotesque particulars of his attire. And he concludes with the statement that the man "had some strange capacity in him of making on the whole an agreeable impression" despite his apparent awkwardness.

We meet Mr. Grewgious for the second time on a foggy December afternoon when Edwin Drood comes to visit him in his chambers at Staple Inn. It is on this momentous occasion that Mr. Grewgious hands over to Edwin the precious ring of diamonds and rubies.

We learn that Mr. Grewgious had been bred to the Bar and had laid himself out for chamber practice — to draw deeds. Then an arbitration had come his way, in which he had gained great credit "as one indefatigable in seeking out right and doing right." This phrase is of the utmost importance for the gray-haired stranger who visits Cloisterham is likewise tireless in his efforts to establish justice; he, too, is doing right by tracking down a man whom he suspects of murder.

Mr. Grewgious had at last found his vocation when a receivership was "blown into his pocket." During the period of time in which the events of the story take place, he is a receiver and agent to two wealthy estates — but we must remember that he deputes their legal business to a firm of solicitors on the floor below. As the English critic Mr. George Orwell has so keenly observed, very few of the leading characters created by Dickens work hard at any stated trade or profession; we are not told in detail what they do to earn their daily bread. I believe that we are unusually favored in what we are told of Grewgious, because his legal training is to have significance. At any rate, it may safely be assumed that Mr. Grewgious was a man of some means, for his hospitality in the way of food was generous; he had a closet "usually containing something good to drink"; "and he held some not empty cellar age at the bottom of the common stair." It is not too illogical, then, to suppose that Mr. Grewgious enjoyed a manner of living that permitted him to be "idle" whenever he so desired. In all these respects he and Datchery were kindred spirits — for the single buffer living upon his means was likewise not averse to good fare.

Dickens then tells us, after referring to the accounts and account books, the files of correspondence, and the several strongboxes with which the lawyer's rooms were encumbered, that "the apprehension of dying suddenly, and leaving one fact or one figure with any incompleteness or obscurity attaching to it, would have stretched Mr. Grewgious stone-dead any day. The largest fidelity to a trust was the life-blood of the man." Substitute for "one fact or one figure" the "disappearance of Edwin Drood," and you have the motive for the activities of Dick Datchery.

Furthermore, in his description of the old lawyer's chamber, Dickens adds: "There was no luxury in his room. Even its comforts were limited to its being dry and warm, and having a snug though faded fireside." In other words despite his implied ability to provide himself with a more comfortable home, Grewgious prefers to live in humble surroundings. The same is true of Dick Datchery, for when he asks the waiter at the Crozier whether a fair lodging may be found in Cloisterham, he specifies it further as "something old," "something odd and out of the way; something venerable, architectural, and inconvenient."

Yes, Hiram Grewgious had the legal training, the strongly developed sense of justice, and the leisure which we associate with Datchery.

But had he an incentive, a motive powerful enough to draw him from his secluded chamber in London and send him forth as Dick Datchery to track down a murderer? It is my contention that he had; and that his motive, like the one ascribed to Helena Landless by Mr. Walters, was threefold. After he had given the ring to Edwin and was left alone with his thoughts, Dickens tells us that he "walked softly and slowly to and fro, for an hour and more." He talks to himself, revealing the fact that he loved Rosa's mother "at a hopeless, speechless distance"; that he still loved her when she married the man who "struck in" upon him and won her. Here we have the explanation of his apparent lack of ambition, and of the almost Spartan lodgings in which he lives. He had lost the woman be loved. And now he loves Rosa, not only because she has been for years a sacred trust as his ward — and the largest fidelity to a trust is his lifeblood, — but because she is so like her mother. The ring of diamonds and rubies, taken from the dead hand of that mother, has long been a very dear though inanimate symbol of its owner; her daughter is the living symbol keeping her memory green. What did Dickens say about this ring, in a sentence seemingly obscure at first glance, but weighted with profound significance? "Among the mighty store of wonderful chains that are for ever forging, day and night, in the vast iron-works of time and circumstance, there was one chain forged in the moment of that small conclusion, riveted to the foundations of heaven and earth, and gifted with invincible force to hold and drag." The "small conclusion" was, of course, Edwin's decision to say nothing about the ring to Rosa, since they had agreed to break their engagement and part as brother and sister. This decision carried with it the implication that Edwin would keep his pledged word and return the ring to Grewgious. But he disappears, and with him vanishes the ring, the only keepsake of the woman Grewgious adored remaining in his possession. Now every chain has several links; is it too much to assume that one of the links of that particular chain "gifted with invincible force to hold and drag" is the old lawyers desire to recover the ring he prized so highly?

When Rosa, threatened and tormented by Jasper, flees to her guardian for refuge, what is his first reaction, startled as he is by the complete unexpectedness of her arrival?

"He saw her, and he said, in an undertone: 'Good Heaven!'

"Rosa fell upon his neck, with tears and then he said, returning her embrace:

" 'My child, my child! I thought you were your mother!' "

And later, when Rosa tells him that Jasper has made odious love to her, entreating him to protect not only her but all of those concerned from his evil designs, what is the old lawyers reply?

" 'I will,' cried Mr. Grewgious, with a sudden rush of amazing energy. ‘Damn him!' "

Then, lest this outburst be too revealing of what is to come later, Dickens makes Grewgious continue, in a heroic comic manner:

"Confound his politics!

Frustrate his knavish tricks!

On Thee his hopes to fix?

Damn him again!"

But it is worth noting that, soon afterward, Dickens refers to the lawyer's vehemence as "most extraordinary."

Grewgious is certain in his own mind that John Jasper is the murderer of Edwin Drood: he has refused to eat with the wretched uncle after the dramatic scene in which Jasper learns, from him, that the murder has been in vain, since Edwin was not to marry Rosa, the innocent cause of the crime. But he is a shrewd enough lawyer to realize that nothing can be proved against Jasper as long as the corpus delicti is still missing. Now that Rosa has actually been threatened, he is stirred to such a degree that he will take an active part in clearing up the mystery surrounding the disappearance of the ill-fated youth. By bringing a murderer to justice he will not only remove Rosa from danger and free Neville Landless from the suspicion darkening his life, but perhaps find the ring he treasures so dearly, as well. This is the triple motive which literally drives him to the Datchery assumption.

That he has been considering ways and means to keep Jasper under close personal surveillance is now a reasonable inference, and explains why Bazzard is off duty at the moment. Ostensibly, Grewgious has given his clerk permission to leave so that he may deal with some matter involving "The Thorn of Anxiety." Actually, the old lawyer wants a clear field for the execution of the strategic move he has been planning — with no witness to its intimate details. Such an interpretation of events at this point in the novel is borne out by what Grewgious says on the morning following his outburst, during his conference with Rosa in her room at Staple Inn, a conference including Minor Canon Crisparkle. "When one is in a difficulty or at a loss, one never knows in what direction a way out may chance to open. It is a business principle of mine, in such a case, not to dose up any direction but to keep an eye on every direction that may present itself. I could relate an anecdote in point, but that it would be premature." Not to close up any direction — even though it might mean the donning of a wig, the blackening of his sandy eyebrows, and the playing of a difficult role. He has already been turning over in his mind the idea of going in disguise to Cloisterham; he could put this idea into words, but that it would be premature.

Later that same day, after Lieutenant Tartar has been admitted to the group, and after Rosa has met Helena in Tartar's rooms, Miss Landless, greatly worried about her brother, entreats Rosa to seek Mr. Crisparkle's advice in the following terms: "Ask him whether it would be best to wait until any more maligning and pursuing of Neville on the part of this wretch shall disclose itself, or to try to anticipate it: I mean, so far as to find out whether any such goes on darkly about us." The Minor Canon finds is difficult to express an opinion without consulting Grewgious. And what does Dickens tell us about the lawyer's decision? "Mr. Grewgious held decidedly to the general principle, that if you could steal a march upon a brigand or a wild beast, you had better do it; and he also held decidedly to the special case, that John Jasper was a brigand and a wild beast in combination." I believe that is Dickens's way of revealing Grewgious's determination to go to Cloisterham in the guise of Datchery and prove that Jasper is the murderer of his nephew.

Yes, Hiram Grewgious had a powerful motive for the Datchery assumption: love for Rosa's mother and for the daughter who so resembled her; his anxiety to recover the ring; and his promise to Rosa — given in the strongest words we ever hear him utter — that he will protect her and the others involved in Jasper's threat.

Among those others is Neville Landless, fretting under the general suspicion that it was he who caused Edwin's death. And we should not forget Jasper's declaration to Rosa that he will eventually put the hangman's noose about Neville's neck because he has learned, from statements made by Minor Canon Crisparkle, that young Landless was his nephew's rival for her love — an inexpiable offense in Jasper's eyes. We must remember also that, six months after Edwin's disappearance, when the Minor Canon visits Grewgious in London, we are told that Grewgious has taken an interest in Neville, and that it was he who recommended the rooms now occupied by young Landless. And the lawyer is even then keeping a watch over Jasper, who is spying on Neville; his sense of justice is even then being prompted to a passive form of activity, although not of so direct a sort as he will display when he tracks the murderer through the streets of Cloisterham

Incidentally, we learn something of importance in the course of this visit, when Grewgious says to the Minor Canon: "If you will kindly step round here behind me, in the gloom of the room, and will cast your eye at the second-floor landing window in yonder house, I think you will hardly fail to see a slinking individual in whom I recognize our local friend." Excellent powers of vision indeed have been developed by the man whom Dickens described earlier as having a "near sight."

If Grewgious has a compelling motive and a carefully laid plan to go to Cloisterham as Dick Datchery, it must follow inevitably that we shall find some points of similarity between him and the white-haired stranger. I maintain that such resemblances do exist, although Dickens deemed it wise to touch upon them lightly, lest the average reader's suspicions — if any existed — be roused to such a degree that they might become convictions too sudden or apparent a revelation would have defeated the novelists purpose; it would have destroyed the interest which was to be suspended from Parts V and VI up to the end. It is no easy task for the writer of a first-rate mystery story to play fair with the reader without disclosing the solution of his problem before the moment when it will achieve its maximum effect. Yet such is the challenge which must be accepted by all who desire to be outstanding exponents of this exacting form of creative writing. Now Dickens not only met the challenge to play fair, but also kept secret the solution of the riddle he had contrived. The hundreds of books and articles written about his last, unfinished novel proclaim that it still remains a real mystery; that its author, although approaching the valley of the shadow of death, was in complete control of his most tightly woven and intricate plot; and that he was developing it with unusual mastery. He made use of every legitimate device to fool the reader, but he did leave subtle indications linking Grewgious with Datchery.

It has already been pointed out that his detailed account of the growth of Grewgious's legal training was not without special intent. A sound knowledge of the law underlying Datchery's method of questioning the persons with whom he came in contact is so evident that Mr. Montagu Saunders thought the gray-haired stranger an entirely new character, a man of sound legal training placed at Grewgious's disposal by the firm of solicitors who handled matters for the old lawyer. Despite the fact that Dickens was not in the habit of introducing fresh characters of importance when halfway through a story, Mr. Saunders is perfectly correct in his recognition of the legal tone of Datchery's questions. When Datchery is sounding that pompous ass, Mayor Thomas Sapsea, for the purpose of learning whether suspicion of foul play in connection with Edwin's disappearance has fallen upon any particular person (he knows full well it has, but is drawing out His Honor to get his reactions), the following delightful exchange of conversation takes place:

" 'But proof, sir, proof must be built up stone by stone,' said the Mayor. 'As I say, the end crowns the work. It is not enough that Justice should be morally certain; she must be immorally certain — legally, that is.'

" 'His Honour,' said Mr. Datchery, reminds me of the nature of the law. Immoral. How true!' "

The conceited Sapsea undoubtedly interprets this remark of Datchery's as confirmation of his deep perspicacity; we realize that the gray-haired stranger not only takes the measure of the boastful mayor, but expresses an opinion of the law itself — an opinion born of long experience with its intricacies.

Even in quite simple matters, such as the rental of lodgings, Dickens suggests that both Grewgious and Datchery proceed with the same degree of thoroughness based upon familiarity with the legal aspects of the situation. When Grewgious makes arrangements to settle Rosa and Miss Twinkleton in one of the apartments available in the home of Mrs. Billickin, Dickens tells us: "By this time Mr. Grewgious had his agreement-lines, and his earnest money, ready. 'I have signed it for the ladies, ma'am,' he said, 'and you II have the goodness to sign it for yourself, Christian and Surname, there, if you please.' " There follows an interlude in the course of which Mrs. Billickin explains most emphatically why she will not sign her Christian name, whereupon we read: "Details were then settled for taking possession on the next day but one, when Miss Twinkleton might reasonably be expected." In like manner, Dick Datchery, when he decides to take the rooms offered by Mrs. Tope, the Verger's wife, acts with the same care and does everything in accordance with legality. "He found the rent moderate, and everything as quaintly inconvenient as he could desire. He agreed, therefore, to take the lodging then and there, and money down, possession to be had next evening, on condition that reference was permitted him to Mr. Jasper as occupying the gatehouse, of which on the other side of the gateway, the Verger's hole-in-the- wall was an appanage or subsidiary part."

The procedure on the part of both men is the same; it is but one of the many ways in which Dickens has linked them together inevitably.

Since mention has been made of Datchery's lodgings in Cloisterham, it might be well to consider the encouraging words spoken to Rosa by Grewgious when he leaves her at Furnival's on the night of that same torrid day when she fled in terror from Jasper: " ‘There is a stout gate of iron bars to keep him out,' said Mr. Grewgious, smiling ; ‘and Furnival's is fire-proof, and specially watched and lighted, and I live over the way!' " It may be mere coincidence, but when Datchery takes up residence at Mrs. Tope's in Cloisterham, he, too, lives "on the other side of the gateway," which was "over the way" from John Jasper.

We have seen how Datchery was accustomed to lounge hatless about the streets of the cathedral city, with his long white hair streaming. Dickens reiterates this tendency not once or twice but several times. In my earner discussion of the Datchery disguise, I have already given my interpretation of this insistence on a small detail. Slight as the similarity may be, it is interesting to observe that Grewgious, anxious to provide Rosa with food on the occasion of her flight from Cloisterham, "ran across to Furnival's, without his hat, to give his various directions." It was by no means necessary for Dickens to insert that little touch; it is possible that he did so deliberately.

I have already dealt with Datchery's habit of shaking his hair — a gesture inducing Mr. J. Cuming Walters to the belief that he was really Helena Landless, — and I intimated that he did so because he was obliged to repress a more characteristic mannerism made impossible by reason of the wig he was wearing. What is this gesture but a modification of the lawyer's well-known smoothing action, so often described by Dickens, in so many different ways?

1. "Mr. Grewgious, with a sense of not having managed his opening point quite as neatly as he might have desired, smoothed his head from back to front as if he had just dived, and were pressing the water out — this smoothing action, however superfluous, was habitual with him — and took a pocket-book from his coat-pocket, and a stump of black-lead pencil from his waistcoat-pocket."

2. "Mr. Grewgious pulled off his hat to smooth his head, and, having smoothed it, nodded it contentedly, and put his hat on again."

3. "Mr. Grewgious smoothed his head and face, and stood looking at the fire."

The wig worn by Dick Datchery permits Dickens to kill two birds with one stone: accompanied by this tendency of Datchery's to shake his hair, it subtly suggests what it actually is — while it also serves to conceal the Grewgious smoothing action, modified by necessity. And furthermore, the reader will consider it perfectly natural for a person to shake the long hair of an oppressive wig, especially when the person concerned, whoever he may be, is not accustomed to wearing such an article.

Before the first of the three quotations describing Mr. Grewgious's smoothing habit has been forgotten, mention must be made of the fact that Mr. Datchery, too, carried a pocketbook, and presumably a pencil. Now this point of similarity may well appear puerile in the extreme; yet Dickens seems to emphasize it needlessly with respect to Datchery. When the gray-haired stranger, still in the company of Mayor Sapsea, first beholds the amazing inscription composed by His Honor in memory of his deceased wife and engraved upon her monument, Dickens describes his reactions in the following manner: "Mr. Datchery became so ecstatic over Mr. Sapsea's composition, that, in spite of his intention to end his days in Cloisterham, and therefore his probably having in reserve many opportunities of copying it, he would have transcribed it into his pocket-book on the spot, but for the slouching towards them of its material producer and perpetuator, Durdles, whom Mr. Sapsea hailed, not sorry to show him a bright example of behaviour to superiors."

The pocket-book and pencil naturally call to mind another of the old lawyer's characteristics: that of checking off the various items of a list, real or fancied. Dickens gives us at least three examples of this methodical habit.

1. "Mr. Grewgious smoothed his smooth head again, and then made another reference to his pocket-book; lining out 'well and happy,' as disposed of."

2. " 'I have now, my dear,' he added, blurring out 'Will' with his pencil, discharged myself of what is doubtless a formal duty in this case, but still a duty in such a case.' "

3. " 'I am right so far,' said Mr. Grewgious. 'Tick that off'; which which he did, with his right thumb on his left."

When he appears in Cloisterham as Dick Datchery, Grewgious translates this checking habit into the old tavern method of keeping score, with a piece of chalk in lieu of a pencil. "At length he rises, throws open the door of a corner cupboard, and refers to a few uncouth chalked strokes on its inner side. — He sighs over the contemplation of its poverty, takes a bit of chalk from one of the cupboard shelves, and pauses with it in his hand, uncertain what addition to make to the account. 'I think a moderate stroke,' he concludes, 'is all I am justified in scoring up'; so, suits the action to the word, closes the cupboard, and goes to bed."

It is amazing to me how the writing down of one similarity between Grewgious and Datchery, illustrated by direct quotations from the text of the novel, almost invariably suggests another. The passage above brings to my mind the tendency of both men to talk aloud when they are alone, and to suit the action to the word, as Dickens so neatly puts it by borrowing Hamlet's phrase. The next two selections are so striking in their parallelism that I shall let them speak for themselves. It is just possible that they may be coincidental in this respect, but I very much doubt it. Dickens, always extremely sensitive to criticism, had been nettled by the accusation that some of his plots were loosely constructed, and that certain of his melodramatic denouements were poorly motivated. He was determined, therefore, that "The Mystery of Edwin Drood" should give the lie to such observations; he was manipulating its intricate problem with the skill of a watchmaker. But let us consider the passages to which I have alluded.

1. "Mr. Grewgious crossed the staircase to his raw and foggy bedroom, and was soon ready for bed. Dimly catching sight of his face in the misty looking-glass, he held his candle to it for a moment."

" 'A likely some one, you, to come into anybody thoughts in such an aspect!' he exclaimed. 'There! there! there! Get to bed, poor man, and cease to jabbers!'

"With that, he extinguished his light, pulled up the bedclothes around him, and with another sigh shut out the world."

2. "Said Mr. Datchery to himself that night, as he looked at his white hair in the gas-lighted looking-glass over the coffee-room chimney-piece at the Crozier, and shook it out: 'For a single buffer, of an easy temper living idly on his means, I have had a rather busy afternoon!' "

I can not refrain from directing attention to Grewgious's exclamation in the first of the two passages quoted above; it affords a perfectly pat answer to the question: "Who can Dick Datchery possibly be?" "A likely some one, you, to come into anybody thoughts in such an aspect!"

The various writers who have backed one character or another in the novel for the role of Dick Datchery have contended, with but few exceptions, that their candidate talks like the white-haired stranger; they have quoted certain words or phrases not unlike those uttered by Lieutenant Tartar, Helena Landless, and others. There is then, nothing new about my intention to follow the same sort of procedure. But in doing so I shall limit myself to four points of similarity only, not because there are no others which might be brought forward, but for the sake of brevity. For the same reason, also, I do not propose to multiply the speeches adduced as proofs, nor shall I establish the circumstances in which they were made. They are all taken from the text of the novel, and those who are familiar with it will have no difficulty in recognizing these spot passages, if I may so term them.

First of all, I would point out the tendency displayed by both Grewgious and Datchery for long, sonorous speeches alternating with short, pithy ones. The inclination to speak at some length is more marked in Grewgious, for he is often the dominating personality by reason of the situation in which he appears; he is therefore in a position to have his say according to his pleasure. When he goes about Cloisterham as Dick Datchery, the lawyer is not so prone to talk in round periods — although he does so on occasion.

Illustrations of both styles follow.

DATCHERY

1. "Let him be! Don't you see you have lamed him?"

"Come here."

"Stay there, then, and show me which is Mr. Tope's."

"Show me where it is, and I'll give you something."

"That's Tope's?"

"Indeed?"

"Why not?"

2. "Might I ask His Honour whether that gentleman we have just left is the gentleman of whom I have heard in the neighbourhood as being much afflicted by the loss of a nephew, and concentrating his life on avenging the loss?"

"The Worshipful the Mayor gives them a character of which they may indeed be proud. I would ask His Honour (if I might be permitted) whether there are not many objects of great interest in the city which is under his beneficent sway?"

GREWGIOUS

1. " 'Yes,' said Mr. Grewgious, 'I refer it to you, as an authority.' "

" 'Likely so,' assented Mr. Grewgious, 'likely so. I am a hard man in the gram."

"No to be sure; he may not."

" 'His responsibility is very great, though,' said Mr. Grewgious at length, with his eyes on the fire."

" 'And let him be sure that he trifles with no one,' said Mr. Grewgious; neither with himself, nor with any other."

2. " 'Mr. Edwin will correct it where it's wrong,' resumed Mr. Grewgious, 'and will throw in a few touches from the life. I dare say it is wrong in many particulars, and wants many touches from the life, for I was born a Chip, and have neither soft sympathies nor soft experiences. Well! I hazard the guess that the true lovers mind is completely permeated by the beloved object of his affections. I hazard the guess that her dear name is precious to him cannot be heard or repeated without emotion, and is preserved sacred. If he has any distinguishing appellation of fondness for her, it is reserved for her, and is not for common ears. A name that it would be a privilege to call her by, being alone with her own bright self, it would be a liberty, a coldness, an insensibility, almost a breach of good faith, to flaunt elsewhere.' "

The habit of repeating themselves is common to both Grewgious and Datchery, as may be seen even in the passages just quoted for a totally different purpose not only single words, but whole phrases, are reiterated by the two men. As one might expect, the tendencies under discussion are more pronounced in Grewgious; Dickens did not want to make the similarities between them too apparent for interest would be gone if the reader were able to deduce almost immediately that the lawyer and the gray-haired stranger were one and the same person. But Datchery is certainly an echo, albeit a faint one, of his rear ego.

DATCHERY

"Good. See here. You owe me half of this."

"I tell you you owe me half of this, because I have no sixpence in my pocket. So the next time you meet me you shall do something else for me, to pay me."

"His Honour the Mayor does me too much credit."

"Again, His Honour the Mayor does me too much credit."

"His Honour reminds me of the nature of the law. Immoral. How true!"

"How forcible! — And yet, again, how true!"

In order to conserve space, I shall merely add that in his conversation with Thomas Sapsea, Datchery addresses the worthy gentleman as "The Worshipful the Mayor" twice; as "His Honour the Mayor" six times; and as "His Honour" no less than eight times.

GREWGIOUS

"My dear, how do you do? I am glad to see you. My dear, how much improved you are. Permit me to hand you a chair, my dear."

" 'Not at all, I thank you,' answered Mr. Grewgious."

" 'Not at all, I thank you,' answered Mr. Grewgious again."

" 'I couldn't get a morsel down my throat, I thank you,' answered Mr. Grewgious."

Interjections suggestive of either a meditative frame of mind or a clearing of the throat to attract attention are used by both men. The "Umps!" employed by Mr. Grewgious on at least two occasions is quite naturally not discoverable in anything that Datchery says; such an unusual exclamation, had it been voiced by Datchery, would have given away the whole show.

GREWGIOUS

" 'Marriage.' Hem!"

" 'Hem! Permit me, sir, to have the honoured,' said Mr. Grewgious, advancing with extended hand, 'for an honour I truly esteem it.' "

DATCHERY

"Hum; ha! A very small score this; a very poor score!"

What I may call a deprecatory or belittling note is sounded in the speeches of both men. It is an outstanding characteristic of Grewgious, who seems reluctant to attribute to himself any of the qualities of which the average individual so frequently boasts. When he has to put himself forward as Datchery in Cloisterham, Grewgious is in no position to indulge this habitual understatement of his virtues, of which he has a great many. It may have been with full knowledge and intent that Dickens gave him the name "Hiram," which means "noble." But this Grewgious characteristic does crop up in Datchery on at least one occasion.

GREWGIOUS

" 'I made,' he said, turning the leaves: 'I made a guiding memorandum or so — as I usually do, for I have no conversational powers whatever — to which I will, with your permission, my dear, refer.' "

" 'And May!' pursued Mr. Grewgious — 'I am not at liberty to be definite — May! — my conversational powers are so very limited that I know I shall not come well out of this — May! — it ought to be put imaginatively, but I have no imagination — May! — the thorn of anxiety is as nearly the mark as I am likely to get — May it come out at last!' "

DATCHERY

"I beg pardon. A selfish precaution on my part, and not personally interesting to anybody but myself. But as a buffer living on his means, and having an idea of doing it in this lovely place in peace and quiet, for remaining span of life, I beg to ask if the Tope family are quite respectable?"

l submit that the speeches presented to the reader, especially those so strikingly marked by repetition of the same words and phrases, were uttered by one and the same man.

And now I come at last to the discovery made one night while I was pondering over certain parts of the book which I have had before my eyes as often as any other that I can recall. I would not venture to guess how many times I have compared the descriptions of Mr. Grewgious and Dick Datchery, but I can say with assurance that they have been by no means few. Both men are so familiar to me as the result of constant rereading of what they are like and what they say that they seem like old friends who tend to be taken for granted — and are so taken far too often. I was well along in my manuscript when I turned again to Dickens's portrayal of the two characters in whom I have been so deeply interested. But I did so on this occasion with a result which was as startling as it was unforeseen. There on the pages blackened by notes and heavy underscorings I saw what had never appeared before. Reluctant as I am to use such a word to sum up my experience, it was nothing less than a revelation.

What I perceived with instantaneous awareness on the part of the mind's eye, to borrow Hamlet's felicitous expression for something like an inward vision, was the transparent possibility of so rearranging certain parts of the Grewgious and Datchery descriptions as to make the link between the two men a certainty. I make this statement advisedly, for I cannot conceive of such a rearrangement as resulting from mere chance. I am no mathematician, but I doubt that the probability of its so doing could be expressed by any figures short of those we are wont to term astronomical. In order to make clear to the reader what I saw, I must first set down a part of Dickens's description of Dick Datchery, and then place after it a portion of the description of Mr. Grewgious.

DATCHERY: "This gentleman white head was unusually large, and his shock of white hair was unusually ample."

GREWGIOUS: "He had a scanty flat crop of hair, in colour and consistency like some very mangy yellow fur tippet; it was so unlike hair, that it must have been a wig, but for the stupendous improbability of anybody's voluntarily sporting such a head."

And now for the rearrangement, which records for the first time, to the best of my knowledge, an entirely new sentence.

This gentleman's white head was unusually large, and his shock of white hair was unusually ample; it was so unlike hair, that it must have been a wig, but for the stupendous improbability of anybody's voluntarily sporting such a head.

Is that sentence perfect in its grammatical construction, punctuation, and significance, the result of pure coincidence or blind chance? I cannot believe so; it is my firm conviction that the juxtaposition I have effected was deliberately made possible by Charles Dickens himself. Mark well the adjective with which the author qualifies so strongly the word "improbability" — "stupendous." Yes, here indeed is the stupendous improbability — the climax of that interest which was to be kept suspended from Parts V and VI of "The Mystery of Edwin Drood" until the end: Hiram Grewgious is Dick Datchery. The two, through the demonstrable intermingling of the descriptions Dickens gave them, are made one.

Whether the readers of this study will find my composite a legitimate argument in favor of my contention that Grewgious and Datchery are one and the same person, I do not know. They must judge for themselves the validity of the device which has impressed me deeply. Meanwhile, with all the courage of my convictions, I give them Hiram Grewgious, alias Dick Datchery, the mysterious white-haired stranger of Cloisterham.