He strolls about and about, to pass the time until the dinner-hour. It somehow happens that Cloisterham seems reproachful to him to-day; has fault to find with him, as if he had not used it well; but is far more pensive with him than angry. His wonted callousness is replaced by a wistful looking at, and dwelling upon, all the old landmarks. He will soon be far away, and may never see them again, he thinks. Poor youth! Poor youth!

⯎ ⯎ ⯎

These lines, taken from the fourteenth chapter of The Mystery of Edwin Drood, epitomize the life of the young engineer whose mysterious disappearance forms the basis of the present study. With an enigmatic heading for this chapter wherein Edwin Drood goes up the postern stair to his uncle's lodgings and to that fateful dinner on Christmas Eve, Charles Dickens raised a question that has not yet received a final answer. "When shall these Three meet again?" he called it; by "these Three" he meant Neville Landless, Edwin Drood, and John Jasper. As every reader of the unfinished novel knows, Edwin Drood was never seen again after that night. Was he murdered by his uncle Jasper, who had evidently been plotting to do away with his nephew because of his own passion for Rosa Bud, Edwin's fiancée since childhood, or did he somehow escape his uncle's evil designs and come back to Cloisterham in that half of the novel which Dickens was never to write? I shall present the evidence of the story itself, together with the testimony of several contemporaries of Charles Dickens, to persuade the reader that there can be but one answer to the question: Edwin Drood died the victim of a murderous attack by his uncle.

I have said that the lines quoted at the beginning of this study epitomize the life of Edwin Drood. They are a picture in little of the young man as we know him in what would doubtless be one third of the novel's length, had it reached completion. Young Drood strolls about and about, to pass the time until the dinner hour, just as he traveled between London and Cloisterham to see his fiancée and to pass the time until they should be married and set forth for Egypt, where he hoped to make a name for himself in his profession. Cloisterham reproaches him even as Rosa did, for the young couple were unhappy in their relationship, forced upon them by their respective fathers. The cathedral town finds fault with him, just as Rosa did; is more pensive than angry, as was Rosa. His break with his fiancée has chastened his easygoing nature and made something of a man of him, but he is marked for death. And in the last four words of the passage, Charles Dickens virtually writes his epitaph.

"Poor youth! Poor youth!" Lest any reader should interpret these words as an exclamation of self-pity arising in Edwin's own mind, let me set down here the sentence Dickens originally wrote to follow: "He will soon be far away, and may never see them again, he thinks." I am indebted to Mr. Percy Carden for the information that the manuscript of the novel, housed in the Victoria and AlbertMuseum in South Kensington, London, goes on as follows: "Ah, he little knows how near a case he has for thinking so." Surely here is a comment made by Dickens himself — a comment he evidently considered too revealing of what was to come, since he replaced it by the briefer: 'Poor youth! Poor youth!" I contend that Dickens was fully aware of the fate in store for Edwin Drood, and that he intended the young man to meet death at the hands of his uncle.

Probably the outstanding exponent of the theory that Edwin Drood was to escape the murderous attack of his uncle Jasper and live to confront him in the unwritten portion of the novel was Richard A. Proctor. His famous book, Watched by the Dead: A Loving Study of Dickens's Half-told Tale, appeared in 1887; in it he developed at the outset an argument best expressed in his own words: "The idea which more than any other had a fascination for Dickens, and was apparently regarded by him as likely to be most potent in its influence on others, was that of a wrong-doer watched at every turn by one of whom he has no suspicion, for whom he even entertains a feeling of contempt." And on the very next page of his study he adds: "It became a favorite idea of Dickens to associate the thought of death either with the watcher or the watched; and, unless I mistake, in the final and finest development of his favourite theme, he made one 'dead and buried as all men supposed' watch the very man who supposed him dead, and not only buried but destroyed." In other words, Proctor argues that Edwin Drood returns to Cloisterham in the guise of Dick Datchery and ultimately tracks Jasper to his doom.

Now Mr. Proctor cites examples to bolster up his contention. In The Old Curiosity Shop, Sampson and Sally Brass are watched by the Marchioness; in Martin Chuzzlewit, Jonas Chuzzlewit is watched by Nadgett, and Pecksniff is watched by old Martin Chuzzlewit; Dombey, of Dombey and Son, is under the calculating eye of Carker; Carker in turn is watched by old Mother Brown and her daughter. In Bleak House, Mademoiselle Hortense is watched by Inspector Bucket's wife. In Little Dorrit, Rigaud is dogged by Cavalletto. Magwitch watches Pip in Great Expectations, while Compeyson watches Magwitch. And so it is only natural, argues Proctor, that John Jasper should be watched by Edwin Drood. But Proctor evidently failed to observe that Jasper is watched by Hiram Grewgious, whom I believe to be Dick Datchery, by the Opium Woman, and by Deputy. Nor does he appear to be aware of how relentlessly John Jasper spied upon Neville Landless.

Speaking of Edwin Drood at a later point in his study, Proctor states: "There is not one note of death in aught that he does or says. As the time approaches for Jasper's attack on him, there is much in the music of the story to suggest that trouble is approaching; but he is not to die, albeit the reader is to think him dead. The music of his words was under Dickens's control in the same sense that the timbre of his natural voice was under his control. He might disguise it more or less successfully, according to the quality of his hearer's audition; he could not really change it. So he does all he can to conceal by his words the ideas which, nevertheless, the sound of his voice suggests to those who have ears to hear."

With all due respect for Proctor, I consider most of what he says to be mere assertion, and I still contend that Edwin Drood was marked for death. I admit that he does not do or say anything that hints at his approaching end. How could he, since he was entirely unaware of his uncle's slowly maturing plan to murder him? But what does Dickens himself say with regard to young Drood? When John Jasper goes in quest of Durdles on the night of their unaccountable expedition to the cathedral crypt and tower, Dickens has this to say in his description of the old stonemason's yard: "The two journeymen have left their two great saws sticking in their blocks of stone; and two skeleton journeymen out of the Dance of Death might be grinning in the shadow of their sheltering sentry-boxes, about to slash away at cutting out the gravestones of the next two people destined to die in Cloisterham. Likely enough, the two think little of that now, being alive, and perhaps merry. Curious, to make a guess at the two; — or say one of the two!" (The italics are mine.) Does not Dickens refer to Edwin Drood in those last words? Why should the reader be invited to make a guess at two — or one (with an exclamation mark) — if they or he be utter strangers to the story? There is no point to Dickens's suggestion unless he is hinting at Edwin's ultimate fate.

Again, in the chapter entitled "Both at their Best," wherein Edwin and Rosa agree to break off their irksome engagement and become as brother and sister, Dickens says, with reference to young Drood: "He called her Pussy no more. Never again." Now we know that Hiram Grewgious took Edwin to task for referring casually and openly to his sweetheart by this endearment; the old lawyer held: "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." Supposing Edwin to have recalled the old lawyer's reproach on that score, we might understand that he called Rosa "Pussy" "no more," even though he was alone with her on the occasion in question. But "Never again" is a redundancy. It smacks of too much emphasis — unless Dickens had some hidden meaning behind the forceful reiteration. In that case, it becomes suggestive of finality. I maintain that the "Never again" is the novelist's way of informing the reader that Edwin was soon to die. Had he lived to marry Rosa — the broken engagement having undergone repair, — he would undoubtedly have called her Pussy in their fonder moments, and "Never again" would have been deliberately misleading.

I do not understand too clearly what Proctor means when he says: "The music of his words was under Dickens's control in the same sense that the timbre of his natural voice was under his control. He might disguise it more or less successfully, according to the quality of his hearer's audition; he could not really change it. So he does all he can to conceal by his words the ideas which, nevertheless, the sound of his voice suggests most clearly to those who have ears to hear" If I were to paraphrase the passage just quoted, I should do so in the following manner: "Dickens could write sentences ex pressing clearly his fundamental ideas, just as he could say what he actually meant. He might change his voice sufficiently to deceive an inept listener, although his voice would be essentially the same. So he does all he can to write sentences in such a way that the reader will be deceived about their real meaning — but an acute observer and student of the novelist's style will see through the subterfuge and grasp the true meaning of these sentences."

In other words, Proctor seems to imply that when Dickens writes a passage apparently conveying the idea that Edwin Drood is to die, he really does not mean that at all; he really means that Drood is to live. Whether or not Proctor actually does mean that the novelist could write certain sentences embodying this literary sleight of hand, and so convey one meaning to the ordinary reader at the same time that he offered something vastly different to those of keener perception, I shall leave for my own readers to judge. If they deem that to be the idea underlying this rather obscure bit of writing, let me, quote a later portion of Proctor's argument and consider its validity in the light of two passages taken from Edwin Drood.

Proctor says of Rosa: "She learns from Grewgious, before Cloisterham knows anything about it, that Drood has been the victim of a terrible and murderous attack, but has been saved as by a miracle; and she has had it earnestly impressed upon her that she is not to show by word or deed that she knows of Drood's safety. Later she is to wear mourning for him, as dead. But Mr. Grewgious keeps carefully from her the knowledge that the man who loves her so hatefully is the man who would have slain her once affianced lover, still loved as a dear brother. That she should remain in ignorance on this point is essential to Mr. Grewgious's and Edwin Drood's plans for punishing Jasper." I do not understand how Proctor can make such an assertion when the following passages, written by Charles Dickens, are considered. When Neville Landless is taken before Mayor Sapsea and examined at length after Minor Canon Crisparkle's discovery of Edwin's watch and chain on Cloisterham Weir, Dickens writes: "Even the broad suggestion that the lost young man had absconded, was rendered additionally improbable on the showing of the young lady from whom he had so lately parted; for, what did she say, with great earnestness and sorrow, when interrogated? That he had, expressly and enthusiastically, planned with her, that he would await the arrival of her guardian, Mr. Grewgious. And yet, be it observed, he disappeared before that gentleman appeared." This is an abstract of Rosa's testimony, and Dickens has ccrtin1y concealed from me by his artful use of words any idea that Rosa had learned from Grewgious that Edwin has been the victim of a terrible and murderous attack from which he has been saved as by a miracle. If her sorrow and earnestness on this occasion are feigned, as Proctor must inevitably assume, then she possessed histrionic ability not to be deduced from Dickens's portrayal of her.

Similarly, when Jasper has his interview with Rosa in the garden of the Nuns' House, Dickens says: "She cannot look up at him for abhorrence, but she has perceived that he is dressed in deep mourning. So is she. It was not so at first; but the lost has long been given up, and mourned for, as dead." If Proctor is correct in his assumption that Rosa knows Edwin to be alive, and that she is playing a part to enable her erstwhile fiancée and Grewgious to carry out their plans for punishing Jasper, why did she not wear mourning from the start? Why was it assumed only at a later date? And how could Dickens add the words "and mourned for" and still play fair with his readers? Those words are indicative of Rosa's personal feelings, and we are to infer — if I can understand plain English — that she actually felt sorrow and grief for the man to whom she was once affianced, and that she truly believed him to be dead.

No, I am afraid that Proctor fell in love with a tempting theory, and so overlooked a great deal 4 straightforward writing on the part of Dickens. Evidence that this conclusion is valid is the complete falsity of a statement he makes on page 77 of his study: "Mr. Grewgious was to dine with Rosa on Christmas day." What are the facts of the situation? The whole question of the visit comes up when Grewgious calls upon Rosa at the Nuns' House to sound her out on her attitude with regard to her eventual marriage to Edwin. "Could I," Rosa asks, at the close of their conversation, "could I ask you, most kindly to come to me at Christmas, if I had anything particular to say to you ?"

"Why, certainly, certainly," Grewgious replies. "As a particularly Angular man, I do not fit smoothly into the social circle, and consequently I have no other engagement at Christmas-time than to partake, on the twenty-fifth, of a boiled turkey and celery sauce with a — with a particularly Angular clerk I have the good fortune to possess, whose father, being a Norfolk farmer, sends him up (the turkey up), as a present to me, from the neighbourhood of Norwich. I should be quite proud of your wishing to see me, my dear."

All of which merely signifies that Grewgious would break his engagement if Rosa were to send for him.

What actually happens? When Rosa and Edwin have their final talk resulting in the amicable breaking off of their engagement — and this is on Friday, December 23, because Edwin tells her: "I dine with the dear fellow [his uncle] tomorrow and next day — Christmas Eve and Christmas Day," — Rosa says: "My guardian promised to come down, if I should write and ask him. I am going to do so."

Now she could not have written her letter to Grewgious before Friday evening, for Dickens tells us that "the bright, frosty day declined as they walked and spoke together. The sun dipped in the river far behind them." And she could not reasonably have posted her letter before Saturday morning, December 24, in which case it certainly would not have reached Grewgious, who resided in London, in time to enable him to come to Cloisterham on Christmas Day. Furthermore, we know from Rosa's testimony given before Sapsea that Edwin disappeared prior to the old lawyer s arrival in Cloisterham. Therefore I conclude that Proctor is in error, and that Grewgious dined with his clerk, Bazzard, as he had originally planned.

Again Proctor says, with reference to the startling news given to Edwin's uncle by the old lawyer after he has at last reached Cloisterham in response to Rosa's letter: "Jasper learns that he has murdered Drood uselessly, and, murderous villain though he is, he is horrified." I must remark in passing that I cannot comprehend Proctor's use of the verb form "murdered" or of the term "murderous villain" if he really believes Edwin to be alive. He goes on: "But it does not seem to have been noticed that Grewgious has no special reason, unless he is certain that Jasper believes himself to be the murderer of Drood, for supposing that Jasper will be startled by the news he brings. Yet he does suppose so." I imagine that Proctor arrives at this conclusion because he has said of Grewgious on a preceding page: "It is absolutely impossible that he can have any information justifying his cruel tone with Jasper, except from Drood himself,"

When we examine the actual text of the novel, Proctor's argument falls to pieces. We find that Grewgious does have some information justifying his tone with Jasper; he does have a special reason for supposing that his news will surprise the choirmaster. As the old lawyer himself says upon this very occasion: "I have just left Miss Landless." And note that he makes this revealing statement only after the dialogue which I now reproduce:

Jasper: Have you seen his sister?

Grewgious: Whose?

Jasper: The suspected young man's. [Jasper refers to Neville Landless.]

Grewgious: Do you suspect him?

Jasper: I don't know what to think. I cannot make up my mind.

Grewgious: Nor I. But as you spoke of him as the suspected young man, I thought you had made up your mind. — I have just left Miss Landless.

We learn that Grewgious has talked with Helena Landless, who is well aware of Jasper's passion for Rosa. She has learned of this passion from Rosa's own lips; she knows how abhorrent it is to her young friend. And when Helena and her brother had their talk with Minor Canon Crisparkle by the river, Helena exclaimed, after the good man had urged Neville to apologize to Drood for the quarrel which took place between the two young fellows in Jasper's rooms: "Mr. Crisparkle, would you have Neville throw himself at young Drood's feet, or at Mr. Jasper's, who maligns him every day?" (The italics are mine.) Can we doubt, then, that Helena has poured out her heart to the old lawyer in defense of her brother, or that she has told him all she knows about Jasper? It is as much a certainty as though Dickens had informed us of the fact in so many words. Here, then, is Grewgious's justification for adopting his "cruel tone" with Jasper.

And we may be just as certain that Rosa has informed Grewgious of her interview with Edwin — else why did she write to her guardian ? — and of the mutual breaking off of their engagement. This conclusion is confirmed by what Grewgious says to Jasper later on in this dramatic scene:

"One of this young couple, and that one your nephew, fearful, however, that in the tenderness of your affection for him you would be bitterly disappointed by so wide a departure from his projected life, forbore to tell you the secret, for a few days, and left it to be disclosed by me, when I should come down to speak to you, and he would be gone. I speak to you, and he is gone.

"I have now said all I have to say: except that this young couple parted, firmly, though not without tears and sorrow, on the evening when you last saw them together."

Here is ample evidence that the old lawyer has received Rosa's complete confidence, and that she has revealed to him all that transpired between her and Edwin. Will such news be no surprise to Jasper, who is so desperately in love with Rosa that he has committed murder to remove the obstacle existing between him and the object of his passion? We must give Grewgious credit for some shrewdness, even if Proctor does not. And when Jasper refers to Neville as "the suspected young man," what must be the old lawyer s conclusion? It is my contention that he suspects Jasper of the murder of his nephew, that he sees through the whole plot, but that he remains silent because there is no evidence — direct or circumstantial — to bring against the choirmaster so long as there is no corpus delicti. And it is obviously because of what is in his mind that he refuses to sit down and eat with the man whom he considers to be a murderer.

I have digressed to some extent from the main purpose of this study, that purpose being to answer the question, Was Edwin Drood murdered? Yet in a sense I have not gone too far afield, for I believe I have shown beyond a reasonable doubt that Proctor's theory is not irrefutable; that Edwin Drood may reasonably be assumed to have met his death at the hands of his uncle. One more reference to Watched by the Dead, and I shall have done with Proctor. The grand climax of his work comes on page i66 when he says: "Jasper was to have been tracked remorselessly to his death by the man whom he supposed he had slain. Risen from his grave, Drood was to have driven Jasper to his tomb, there to seek for the dreaded evidence of his guilt; but to find there instead, alive and implacable, the man whom he had doomed to a sudden and terrible death, and in whose dust he had come to seek for the dreaded evidence of his guilt."

Such a conclusion is the logical outcome of Proctor's entire argument, but unfortunately it does not square with all the evidence obtainable from the text — evidence that proves decisively that Edwin Drood died on the night of December 24-25, murdered by his uncle, John Jasper.

Among all the various and varied commentaries I have read on Edwin Drood, I have yet to find one emphasizing the fact that John Jasper was a young uncle. Yet there can be no doubt about it, for Dickens informs us that Mr. Jasper was "a dark man of some six- and-twenty, with thick, lustrous, well-arranged black hair and whiskers." It has occurred to me that the novelist had a definite reason for making Edwin's uncle, a man whose age span was but a few years longer than that of his nephew. And I have always pictured Jasper as a lean, wiry man possessed of considerable strength — perhaps because of the admirable illustrations drawn by Sir Luke Fildes to accompany the text; perhaps, too, because the lustrous black hair and whiskers are somehow indicative of virility. If Jasper is indeed the murderer of his nephew, as I firmly believe, there is every reason why he should have been endowed by his creator with comparative youth; he could not have been many years older than Edwin if he were to deal with his nephew in a physical contest such as might arise out of an attempt at murder by the means Jasper was planning to employ. And comparative youth — plus virility — was needed by Dickens in his conception of the choirmaster to make plausible the latter's intense passion for Rosa Bud, a mere schoolgirl still in her teens. Jasper's lust for his pupil, stronger than the un doubted deep affection he felt for his nephew, forms the basic motive for the murder of Edwin; it was inevitable, given Jasper's age and temperament, that the promptings of the flesh should over come those of the spirit.

I feel very strongly that Dickens gave his readers a direct hint that Jasper was to be the agent of his nephew's death. When Miss Twinkleton addresses her young ladies on the day following the heated quarrel between young Landless and Edwin Drood, she alludes to "the immortal SHAKESPEARE, also called the Swan of his native river, not improbably with some reference to the ancient superstition that that bird of graceful plumage — sang sweetly on the approach of dea1th." (The italics are mine.) In similar fashion, on December 24, when the sands of Edwin's life are running out, John Jasper sings "sweetly on the approach of death." Dickens makes the implication clearly: "Mr. Jasper is in beautiful voice this day. In the pathetic supplication to have his heart inclined to keep this law, he quite astonishes his fellows by his melodious power. He has never sung difficult music with such skill and harmony, as in this day's Anthem. His nervous temperament is occasionally prone to take difficult music a little too quickly; to-day, his time is perfect."

Helena Landless recognizes in John Jasper a potential murderer, or I am much mistaken in the meaning underlying certain of her references to him. I have already had occasion to comment on her speech to Minor Canon Crisparkle: "Oh Mr. Crisparkle, would you have Neville throw himself at young Drood's feet, or at Mr. Jasper's, who maligns him every day " And shortly afterward, when the Minor Canon urges the twin brother and sister to acknowledge openly the wrong done by Neville — a wrong they both acknowledge instinctively, — Helena asks: "Is there no difference between sub.. mission to a generous spirit" — meaning Crisparkle's — "and submission to a base or trivial one?" It is certain that she has Jasper in mind as a base spirit, whereas Edwin is one of a trivial sort. And still later, when Rosa has fled from Jasper's detested lovemaking and taken refuge with her guardian in London, Helena voices her opinion of the choirmaster in even stronger terms. The two young women have met in Tartar's rooms, and as they are about to separate after their heart-to-heart talk, Rosa pleads: "Tell me that you are sure, sure, sure, I couldn't help it."

"Help it, love?" prompts Helena.

"Help making him" — Jasper — "malicious and revengeful. I couldn't hold any terms with him, could I?"

You know how I love you, darling, answers Helena, with indignation; "but I would sooner see you dead at his wicked feet."

Yet it is Rosa herself, achieving maturity as a result of the ordeal through which she has passed, who entertains the deepest suspicion of Jasper; who realizes only too well the motive impelling her music master to murder. With a precision which makes impossible any acceptance of Proctor's theory that Rosa had been told by her guardian that Edwin was still alive, Dickens reveals the confusion existing in her mind throughout the six months that had elapsed since the young man's disappearance. "A half-formed, wholly unexpressed suspicion tossed in it, now heaving itself up, and now sinking into the deep; now gaining palpability, and now losing it. Jasper's self-absorption in his nephew when he was alive, and his unceasing pursuit of the inquiry how he came by his death, if he were dead, were themes so rife in the place, that no one appeared able to suspect the possibility of foul play at his hands. She had asked herself the question, 'Am I so wicked in my thoughts as to conceive a wickedness that others cannot imagine?' Then she had considered, Did the suspicion come of her previous recoiling from him before the fact? And if so, was not that a proof of its baseless ness? Then she had reflected, 'What motive could he have, according to my accusation?' She was ashamed to answer in her mind, The motive of gaming me!

What of the other persons who were closely connected with Edwin Drood and his uncle? How did they feel about John Jasper? In the final chapter of the fragment — the last one he was ever to set down on paper — Dickens tells us: "The dreadful suspicion of Jasper, which Rosa was so shocked to have received into her imagination, appeared to have no harbour in Mr. Crisparkle's." Notice the use of the word "appeared," which introduces an element of doubt. "if it ever haunted Helena's thoughts or Neville's, neither gave it one spoken word of utterance. Mr. Grewgious took no pains to conceal his implacable dislike of Jasper" — the adjective employed by Dickens is forceful, — "yet he never referred it, however distantly, to such a source." Without stating it in a forthright way, Dickens gives us here, I am convinced, a list of those persons who deep down in their hearts suspected Jasper of the murder of his nephew.

It should now appear with some degree of clarity that Edwin Drood was murdered, and that John Jasper was his murderer. What, then, was the method selected by the choirmaster to destroy the young man who had become his rival? Dickens gives several references to strangulation, the way in which Edwin Drood was done to death — and hints at a secret burial place, since such a grave alone provides a reason why there was no corpus delicti. Without taking up space to locate the exact points in the novel where these references appear, I shall list them, and let them speak for themselves. The italicized parts of the excerpts are my own.

1. Then he comes back, pounces on the Chinaman, and seizing him with both hands by the throat, turns him violently on the bed.

2. … whether they were ever walled up alive in odd angles and jutting gables of the building for having some ineradicable leaven of busy Mother Nature in them which has kept the fermenting world alive ever since.

3. Tiresome old burying-grounds! … And then there was Belzoni, or somebody, dragged out by the legs, half-choked with bats and dust. All the girls say: Serve him right, and hope it hurt him, and wish he had been quite choked.

4. "You are not going to be buried in the Pyramids, I hope?"

5. "And as to Beizoni, I suppose he's dead; — I'm sure I hope he is — and how can his legs or his chokes concern you?"

6. "How do you do, Mr. Edwin? Dear me, you're choking!"

7. … and the daring Miss Ferdinand had even surprised the company with a sprightly solo on the comb-and-curl-paper, until suffocated in her own pillow by two flowing-haired executioners.

8." 'Cos I ain't-a-goin' to be lifted off my legs and 'ave my braces bust and be choked; not if I knows it, and not by 'Im."

Surely these passages indicate a preoccupation, on the part of the author, with strangulation, and numbers I and 8 have to do with Jasper, who murdered his nephew by that method — who used his great black silk scarf as the instrument of his crime. There is likewise apparent in the portions of the story I have quoted briefly a hint that Edwin's body will be walled up in some monument — the Sapsea tomb, to be more specific, in the burial ground adjacent to Cloisterham cathedral.

I have saved one particular reference to strangulation for special consideration, since I believe it to be of deeper significance than all the others combined. One of the most famous chapters in the fragment Dickens left us is the twelfth: A Night with Durdles. Herein we find the gripping account of that "unaccountable expedition" made by Jasper in company with the old stonemason to the cathedral crypt; herein we see the two men ascend the great tower. That Dickens himself considered this chapter to be of unusual importance is evidenced by a note he set down beneath its title in his "Number Plans" — a memorandum intended for his eyes alone. And what was the tenor of this note? "Lay the ground for the manner of the murder, to come out at last."

Of all the theories I have read in explanation of this chapter and note, I consider that of Professor Henry Jackson to be not only the most interesting but the most original. It may be found in the third part of his unusual book About Edwin Drood. I should like to quote a few sentences from that part, and I shall endeavor to select them in such a way as to do no injustice to Jackson's logical presentation of his ideas.

Surely this "unaccountable expedition" [he says], made with Durdles on Dec. i, is a rehearsal of the journey which, as we have seen, Jasper proposes to make, and actually makes, with the indispensable fellow traveler:

and presumably the study of the rehearsal will enable us to anticipate some details of the tragedy. From the top of the tower Jasper "contemplates the scene, and especially that stillest part of it which the Cathedral overshadows," Presumably one of his purposes is to estimate the suitability of the Close for murder and concealment. But I think that the estimate formed is unfavourable…

Let us suppose then that Jasper, as he walks to and fro "among the lanes of light," finds a mound of lime similar to that which Durdles in his yard had described as "quick enough to eat your boots: with a little handy stirring, quick enough to eat your bones." To make away with the body of the victim would be better than to deposit it where it might be found: Durdles' hammer could do nothing against a heap of lime: and no casual passer-by could watch what was done in the crypt. The scheme is now complete. Drood, under the influence of strong drink, is to be flung or pushed down the winding staircase of the tower, and his body is to be deposited in a mound of quicklime in the crypt of the cathedral. Moreover, Jasper has made himself acquainted with the route which he is to take: he has ascended and descended the staircase, and has noted the places where Durdles stumbled: he has observed the effects produced upon Durdles by the strong drink: having, no doubt, already taken an impression of the key of the iron gate, he has now taken one of the key of the crypt: somewhere in the crypt he has discovered a heap of quicklime. In short, with Durdles for corpus vile, Jasper has rehearsed in all its details "the journey," that is to say, the ascent of the tower, which he is to make with Edwin on the following Saturday, Dec. 24. "The expedition" of Dec. 19 is then for us no longer "unaccountable."

My theory is then, in brief, as follows. When Drood returned to the gatehouse not long after midnight on Christmas Eve, Jasper, having hospitably pressed upon him some of his "good stuff," proposed a visit to the Cathedral tower, and Drood was nothing loth. As they descended the staircase of the tower, Jasper threw his scarf over Drood's head, and, having thus silenced, blinded, and disabled him, pushed him down the steep stairs. Drood, if he was not killed, was stunned by the fall. Jasper dragged the body into the crypt, and, having removed from it the watch and the shirt-pin, buried it in the heap of quicklime.

In the closing pages of his book Jackson states: "Mr. Cuming Walters and Mr. Charles think that Drood did not escape, and I agree with them."

While I disagree in many respects with the conclusions reached by Jackson, as will be seen if one consults my earlier remarks on "John Jasper — Murderer," yet I am impressed by the originality of his theory and by his painstaking attention to every small detail. I have quoted at some length from About Edwin Drood because so brilliant an interpretation shows just how cleverly Dickens concealed the real answer to the question raised by that brief note written for his own guidance: What was "the manner of the murder, to come out at last"?

Professor Jackson failed to find that answer, I believe, as have many others. I myself failed to discover it when I was writing my study of Edwin Drood's uncle. The twelfth chapter is so masterly a piece of atmospheric writing that the answer, coming as it does at the end — "at last" — is entirely overlooked. And Dickens had method in his reiteration of the phrase: "an unaccountable expedition." He thereby fixed the reader's attention so firmly on the activities of Jasper and Durdles while they were in the cathedral crypt and on the summit of the great tower that the "manner of the murder made no impression when it was actually revealed. The paragraph describing the ascent of the tower is written with so much power that it still lingers in the reader's mind as he hurries on to the end of the chapter. The account of Durdles's dream weaves a similar spell; it gives an added impact to the imagination already deeply stirred by the climb up the winding staircase and the journey through strange places.

And so, with his consummate artistry, Dickens concealed "the manner of the murder" until the end — although he had hinted at it often enough, as I have already shown. Jasper and Durdles have left the precincts of the cathedral, and each is about to turn homeward when Deputy yelps out his "Widdy widdy wen" jargon, and pelts them with stones. And now let the master speak in his own words:

"'What! Is that baby-devil on the watch there!' cries Jasper in a fury: so quickly roused, and so violent, that he seems an older devil himself.' I shall shed the blood of that impish wretch! I know I shall do it!' Regardless of the fire, though it hits him more than once, he rushes at Deputy, collars him, and tries to bring him across.

But Deputy is not to be so easily brought across. With a diabolical insight into the strongest part of his position, he is no sooner taken by the throat than he curls up his legs, forces his assailant to hang him, as it were, and gurgles in his throat, and screws his body, and twists, as already undergoing the first agonies of strangulation." (The italics are mine.)

Why, at this particular point, did Dickens indulge in a detailed — one might almost say, a clinical — analysis of "the first agonies of strangulation? There was no real need of it, for the average reader is inclined, in my opinion, to be rather fond of the impish Deputy, and Jasper's assault on the boy is as unnecessarily brutal as is the description of its attendant torture. Certainly the scene did not result from any sadistic element in the novelist's nature. No, with all due apologies to Professor Jackson, it is Deputy — not Durdles — who is Jasper's corpus rule. It is Deputy who enacts for the reader what Edwin Drood is to suffer at the gatehouse on that momentous night of December 24-25 when his uncle, made wiser by his experience with Deputy's reactions, comes upon his nephew from behind, to throttle him with his great black scarf. Surely here is the "ground for the manner of the murder, to come out at last."

It seems perfectly clear to me that Charles Dickens meant Edwin Drood to meet his death at the hands of John Jasper, his uncle. There is something about the youth's very name that suggests his untimely extinction. Edwin Drood: the dull alliterative recurrence of the "d's" is like so many clods thumping down on a plain wooden coffin; the odd surname holds a brooding sense of doom, a suggestion of dread and death. I suppose we shall never know to what degree Catherine Dickens, herself a Scotchwoman, made her husband cognizant of Scottish words. But to me, at least, it is rather significant that the noun "droud" — similar in sound if not in spelling to Edwin s family name — is Scottish for a codfish; a dull, lumpish fellow."

In a certain sense Edwin Drood really is a dull sort of fellow, with the swaggering self-assurance and self-importance characteristic of young men who have the impulsive enthusiasms of youth without the experience of maturity to control and direct them, In my study "Who Was Dick Datchery?" I have directed attention to the fact that Dickens never describes young Drood with the same careful detail as he does the other characters in the novel; he does emphasize his youth, and he shows by implication that Edwin was not gifted with a quick, perceptive mind. When young Drood is first introduced to us upon his visit to his uncle, Dickens stresses these traits, as the two passages that follow will show.

As the boy (for he is little more) lays a hind on Jasper's shoulder, Jasper cordially and gaily lays a hand on his shoulder -

Laying an affectionate and laughing touch on the boy's extended hand, as if it were at once his giddy head and his light heart, Mr. Jasper drinks the toast in silence.

I have always felt that the physical characteristics of Edwin, deftly characterized though he is, were slurred over by Dickens because the novelist knew that the youth was soon to disappear from the scene. With his great creative genius, Dickens could make a memorable figure of the veriest supernumerary, but Edwin appears more like a cog requisite to the mechanism of the novel's plot than any other person in the fragment. Even the firm of which Edwin's father was a former partner, and upon which the young man himself was a charge until he should come of age, never evinced — so far as we know — the slightest concern about a future shareholder when Edwin disappears. Whether this is an oversight on the part of Dickens, or whether the firm relied upon Mr . Grewgious to supply them with such information as might come to light concerning young Drood's whereabouts, is a matter for speculation. At any rate, we cannot feel — nor do I believe Dickens intended us to feel — any deep or lasting sorrow when Edwin is blotted out of the picture.

The young man was not, however, without honorable intentions; had he lived, he would have returned the ring of diamonds and rubies — the ring gifted with such power "to hold and drag" — to old Hiram Grewgious. And assuredly he would never have allowed Neville Landless to remain under a cloud of suspicion as the probable agent of his disappearance had he been in a position to come forward and clear young Landless. Dickens makes such assumptions logical beyond the shadow of a doubt, if one will but consider the passages listed hereafter:

1. He had a conscience.

2. He must either give the ring to Rosa, or he must take it back.

3. "1 will be guided by what she says, and by how we get on," was his decision, walking from the gatehouse to the Nuns' House. "Whatever comes of it, I will bear his words in mind [Edwin here refers to Mr. Grewgious] and try to be true to the living and the dead."

4. And now, Edwin Drood's right hand closed again upon the ring in its little case, and again was checked by the consideration: "It is certain, now, that I am to give it back to him; then why should I tell her of it?"

5. He would restore them [the jewels] to her guardian when he came down.

Dickens's repeated emphasis on Edwin's firm intention to return the ring to Grewgious can have no raison d'être unless we are to infer that the young man could not keep his pledge to make such restitution because he was dead. His complete silence in regard to the all-important jewel proves his death.

There is something else that does so as well — something I have never seen mentioned in any work I have read concerning this most fascinating of mysteries. I suppose most readers of the novel are aware that there is a break of six months in the time pattern of the story shortly after Edwin has disappeared. Chapter xvii begins with the words: "Full half a year had come and gone, and Mr. Crisparkle sat in a waiting-room in the London chief offices of the Haven of Philanthropy, until he could have audience of Mr. Honeythunder." To the best of my knowledge, only once before in his writing career did Dickens have recourse to any such lapse of time; that was in Barnaby Rudge. It might be interesting to look into these two situations more closely, endeavoring to establish, if possible, the reasons underlying the two time lapses.

In the case of Barnaby Rudge, which opens in the year 1775, we shall have no difficulty in finding a solution to our problem. We learn from John Forster with regard to this novel that, "begun during the progress of Oliver Twist, it had been for some time laid aside; the form it ultimately took had been comprised only partially within its first design." We likewise discover that it was begun before the end of January, 1841. In February of the same year, Dickens writes to Forster that he is relying on Grip the raven, and the Varden household, to arouse interest in his story. In March, the pet raven lending the novelist inspiration for Grip sickens and dies. In June, mention is made to Forster of Lord George Gordon; in September, Dickens writes of the prison riots. The novelist had closed chapter xxxii of Barnaby Rudge in the following abrupt and autocratic manner: "And the world went on turning round, as usual, for five years, concerning which this Narrative is silent." With chapter xxxiii we are ushered in upon a wintry evening in 1780, and are soon plunged into the mad maelstrom of the Gordon Riots.

Now it is not difficult to deduce that Dickens had not originally meant to use these riots as material for his novel, and that the lapse of five years was imposed upon him by virtue of necessity if he wished to be historically accurate when he did introduce them. Seeing their dramatic possibilities, he decided to feature them, and so took the leap forward in time.

Such is not the case, however, when we turn to Edwin Drood, for no historical event plays a part in the action of the story. As Professor Jackson so ably demonstrated, Dickens follows a closely knit and fairly evident time schedule up to the seventeenth chapter, wherein we have a lapse of fully half a year. I have puzzled a good deal over this curious fact, for which there seems no obvious reason. Even the action of the story has been suspended to a considerable degree during these six months, although this hiatus does not particularly impress a reader who is not overcritical or analytical.

It was only while I was making a vain search for some authoritative explanation of the action of quicklime on a cadaver that a possible solution of the problem occurred to me. Tempting though it was, since it afforded additional proof that Edwin Drood was dead, I still felt the necessity of obtaining accurate information concerning quicklime and its effect on a body, for this knowledge I deemed fundamental to the whole situation. I had come to the conclusion that Dickens considered the six months' time lapse an absolute essential if he were to make reasonably certain an important factor in his plot; to achieve this result, he had to proceed on the assumption that within such a space of time the quicklime employed by John Jasper in the secret burial of his victim had completely destroyed the youth's body. But was his assumption scientifically sound?

Making a final attempt to settle this question, I presented my problem in a letter addressed to Dr. Alan R. Moritz, a criminal pathologist and head of the Department of Legal Medicine at HarvardMedicalSchool. A week later I received a highly informative reply from Robert P. Brittain. Just how greatly indebted I am to him and to Dr. Moritz will appear from the paragraphs which, with permission, I now quote.

The answer to your principal question can be given categorically. A body buried in quicklime over a period of six months would not be entirely obliterated or even nearly so. This applies not only to the bones but to the "soft parts" — muscles and internal organs.

It may be of interest to you to have a little more background on this matter. It is a common belief that lime, especially in the form of quicklime, causes rapid destruction and dissolution of the body. Experiments have been carried out which show that this is not so. Theory here coincides with practice. There are a number of elements which play a part in normal putrefaction, the chief of which are moisture, presence of bacteria, and the presence of air. Quicklime absorbs moisture from the air or soil and from the body — forming slaked lime; it acts as an antiseptic and restrains the growth of bacteria; its physical presence helps to exclude air and by causing minor burning and drying of the body surface it tends to prevent free access of air to the deeper tissues. It may, further, effect a combination with fatty tissues — again increasing resistance to putrefaction.

In brief, quicklime does not hasten decomposition and any action it has on this process is in the other direction.

The Crippen Case which occurred in England in 1910 is of particular interest in this regard. Dr. Crippen murdered his wife and buried her in quicklime on or about the 31St of January. Disinterment took place on July 13. The body had been cut in pieces and parts were missing (not by dissolution), but the remainder was in a fair state of preservation. Hair also was found and clothing with the maker's name still legible on it, and a skin scar was identifiable.

I can not help but remark at this point that the interval between the burial of Mrs. Crippen and the disinterment of her body closely approximates the six months' time jump in "The Mystery of Edwin Drood." Surely this is a striking coincidence between fact and fiction.

Lime has been used by other murderers either in the mistaken belief that it would destroy the body or to absorb and conceal unpleasant odors. Cases are those of Manning and of Wainwright. In the latter chloride of lime was used.

Dr. Moritz has perused this letter and concurs with it.

From my study of the plot structure of the novel as we have it today, and in view of the detailed information contained in the letter from which I have quoted at length, I am forced to the conclusion that Dickens entertained the common but entirely erroneous belief that quicklime was capable of completely destroying a body, and that he acted upon such a belief when he planned and wrote The Mystery of Edwin Drood. That John Forster was of the same opinion is evidenced by his reference to the plot of the novel as Dickens outlined it to him: "all discovery of the murderer was to be baffled till towards the close, when, by means of a gold ring which had resisted the corrosive effects of the lime into which he had thrown the body, not only the person murdered was to be identified but the locality of the crime and the man who committed it." I am likewise convinced that the novelist, mistaken though he was with respect to the actual properties of quicklime, felt that he had made acceptable, through the six months' time lapse, the total obliteration of Edwin Drood's remains. If he had not gone upon such an assumption, Dickens would never have written what he did about the ring of diamonds and rubies — the one object carried by Edwin Drood upon his person of which John Jasper had not the slightest inkling; the only existing clue to the secret burial place and identity of the lost youth : — "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 [Edwin's decision not to speak of the ring to Rosa], riveted to the foundations of heaven and earth, and gifted with invincible force to hold and drag." Thus the novelist foreshadows the highly important part the ring is to play in the ultimate solution of the mystery.

Finally, the interest which Edwin Drood had begun to take in Helena Landless impresses me as indirect proof that he was to die. Dickens refers to the young man's feeling on no fewer than three separate and distinct occasions. First mention of it is made when Edwin Drood and Neville Landless fall into bitter conversation on their way home after escorting Rosa and Helena to the Nuns' House: "Now, there are these two curious touches of human nature working the secret springs of this dialogue. Neville Landless is already enough impressed by Little Rosebud, to feel indignant that Edwin Drood (far below her) should hold his prize so lightly. Edwin Drood is already enough impressed by Helena, to feel indignant that Helena's brother (far below her) should dispose of him so coolly, and put him out of the way so entirely."

Again, when Edwin and Rosa have agreed to terminate their engagement and be henceforth as brother and sister, Dickens says:

"And yet there was one reservation on each side; on hers, that she intended through her guardian to withdraw herself immediately from the tuition of her music-master; on his, that he did already entertain some wondering speculations whether it might ever come to pass that he would know more of Miss Landless."

And finally, when we follow Edwin Drood through the streets of Cloisterham on December z, as he "strolls about and about, to pass the time until the dinner-hour" at the gatehouse, we read:

"Though the image of Miss Landless still hovers in the background of his mind, the pretty little affectionate creature [Rosa], so much firmer and wiser than he had supposed, occupies its stronghold.... And still, for all this, and though there is a sharp heartache in all this, the vanity and caprice of youth sustain that handsome figure of Miss Landless in the background of his mind."

I have said that this preoccupation with Helena Landless is indirect proof of Edwin's death, for it does not reveal its full significance until it is linked with the later love affair developing between Rosa and Lieutenant Tartar, and with the deepening respect and love that Helena Landless feels for Minor Canon Crisparkle. If in some miraculous fashion Dickens had brought Edwin back to life in that second half of the novel he was destined never to write, there would have been no woman to be young Drood's mate. These twists and turns of the complicated plot had their purpose; John Forster knew whereof he spoke when he wrote: "Rosa was to marry Tartar, and Crisparkle the sister of Landless."

Some persons might argue that there is not much "mystery" to the novel if it is a foregone conclusion that Edwin Drood is murdered by his uncle; if we have only the ultimate tracking down of an identified murderer and his punishment to anticipate. In that event, they might ask, what is the significance of the story's title: "The Mystery of Edwin Drood"? My answer would be that there is still something more than meets the eye in this last unfinished creation of the genius we know as Charles Dickens. The mystery was more than a personal matter, more than a puzzle involving Edwin Drood and the circumstances of his disappearance; it embraced as well the most dominating factor in the young man's life — his uncle. Shakespeare called his great tragedy of passionate love and jealousy Othello, but what would that drama have been without Iago, who is the dark dynamic force that sets the tragedy in motion? So it is with Edwin Drood. Dickens was, in my opinion, far more concerned with the character and mentality of John Jasper — for reasons I have stated in an earlier study — than with the mystery pertaining to young Drood. The world was once shocked by the callous brutality of the Lindbergh kidnapping — yet some time elapsed before it was realized that the central figure behind that frightful crime was an obscure carpenter. The mystery of Edwin Drood's disappearance would have been solved, I believe, only when the greater mystery of the complex mind of his murderer had been fully revealed — had fate permitted — by the skill of the novelist.

It has been my endeavor to show how the novel itself proves, if I have interpreted it correctly, that Edwin Drood was done to death by his uncle. What is the testimony of Dickens himself in this respect, as well as that of persons who were closely connected with him, and who had some information about his last novel? When I speak of Dickens and the evidence we may obtain from him, I have in mind the fragmentary notes he jotted down for guidance in the development of his plot, chapter by chapter, as he wrote his story. I acknowledge my indebtedness to W. Robertson Nicoll for these notes, reproduced in his book The Problem of "Edwin Drood": A Study in the Methods of Dickens. Under chapter ii, "A Dean and a Chapter Also," we find: "Uncle & Nephew. Murder very far off." Again, under chapter xii, "A Night with Durdles," we have that significant sentence already discussed in this study: "Lay the ground for the manner of the murder, to come out at last." Finally, there are the intriguing entries under chapter xvi, "Devoted": "Edwin disappears. THE MYSTERY. DONE ALREADY." Now it is inconceivable to me that Dickens, setting down these notes for his own use, unaware that they would ever be seen by the eyes of others, should have referred to a "murder" if he had no more than the intention of writing about a murderous attack that somehow failed of its purpose. That would have been carrying his natural desire to keep his plot secret to an unnatural and exaggerated degree of caution. He had no reason whatsoever to deceive himself. It must be remembered also that the notes quoted under chapter xvi come after: "Jasper's Diary. 'I devote myself to his destruction." Montagu Saunders has argued brilliantly that in so devoting himself John Jasper was actually putting a noose about his own neck. In my study, "John Jasper — Murderer," I have added some amplifications to Saunders's theory, which I staunchly support. And so we may safely assume that Charles Dickens intended Edwin Drood to be murdered, and that his uncle was to be his murderer.

The testimony of John Forster — for years one of Dickens's most intimate friends — bears me out in such an assumption. After quoting part of the famous letter he received from the novelist on Friday, August 6, 1869, Forster adds: "The story, I learnt immediately afterward, was to be that of the murder of a nephew by his uncle." It has been disputed whether Forster received his information by letter or by word of mouth from Dickens himself. The arguments need not concern us here; in either case, Forster speaks with authority of "the murder of a nephew by his uncle." And in his subsequent remarks he gives a brief but comprehensive outline of the basic plot of the story, without, however, referring to the Datchery assumption. His authority has been questioned more than once, of course, but it seems illogical to suppose that Dickens withheld the truth of the matter from him. Had he done so, Forster would inevitably have detected some discrepancy between the information he received and the novel as he heard it read from the manuscript prepared for publication in monthly parts.

He finished his first number of Edwin Drood in the third week of October [1869], and on the 26th read it at my house with great spirit.

At my house on New Year's Eve he read to us a fresh number of his Edwin Drood.

And on the 25th [of February, 1870], when he read the third number of his novel.

And on 21 March, when he read admirably his fourth number.

On the night (7 May) when he read to us the fifth number of Edwin Drood.

Thus wrote John Forster in his biography of Dickens.

I have no hesitation in accepting Dickens's old friend as a reliable witness to support my contention that Edwin Drood was murdered, for the novelist's own daughter Kate, who became Mrs. Charles Aliston Collins, and later Mrs. Perugini, gives Forster an excellent reputation for honesty. In an article in the Pall Mall Gazette for June, 1906, entitled "Edwin Drood and Dickens's Last Days," she made the following comments:

It was not upon the Mystery alone that [my father] relied for the interest and originality of his idea. The originality was to be shown, as he tells us, in what we may call the psychological description the murderer gives us of his temptations, temperament, and character, as if told of another; and my father speaks openly of the ring i Mr. Forster — I do not mean to imply that the mystery itself had no strong hold on my father's imagination — [but] he was quite as deeply fascinated and absorbed in the study of the criminal Jasper, as in the dark and sinister crime that has given the book its title. And he also speaks to Mr. Forster of the murder of a nephew by an uncle. He does not say that he is uncertain whether he shall save the nephew, but has evidently made up his mind that the crime is to be committed.

And at a later point:

If my father again changed his plan for the story of Edwin Drood the first thing he would naturally do would be to write to Mr. Forster and inform him of the alteration. We might imagine for an instant that he would per.. haps desire to keep the change as a surprise for his friend, but — Mr. Forster's [jealous and exacting] character renders this supposition out of the question. — That he did not write to Mr. Forster to tell him of any divergence from his second plan for the book we all know, and we know also that my eldest brother Charles positively declared that he had heard from his father's lips that Edwin Drood was dead. Here, therefore, are two very important witnesses to a fact that is still doubted by those who never met my father, and were never impressed by the grave sincerity with which he would have given this assurance.

I shall let Charles Dickens the younger, the second witness mentioned by Mrs. Perugini, speak for himself. In the introduction which he wrote for an edition of Edwin Drood in ii he says:

It was during the last walk I ever had with him at Gadshill, and our talk, which had been principally concerned with literary matters connected with All the Year Round, presently drifting to Edwin Drood, my father asked me if I did not think that he had let out too much of his story too soon. I assented and added: "Of course, Edwin Drood was murdered?" Whereupon he turned upon me with an expression of astonishment at my having asked such an unnecessary question, and said: "Of course; what else did you suppose?"

As a final offering, I should like to bring forward the evidence of Sir Luke Fildes, able illustrator of the text of the novel. He first became acquainted with Charles Dickens when he was chosen to replace Charles Aliston Collins, a brother of Wilkie Collins, and Kate Dickens's first husband. Charles Collins was the designer of the green cover for the monthly parts of Edwin Drood — the cover with the pictures that have been so controversial throughout the past seventy-odd years. He was to have illustrated the text as well, but failing health made the latter undertaking impossible. Sir Luke Fildes was therefore chosen to replace him, and his drawings proved wonderfully in harmony with the grim tone of the mystery.

J. W. T. Ley, in The Dickens Circle, tells us something of interest about the relationship existing between Charles Dickens and his illustrator, then a young man:

They had known one another for only a few months when the novelist was struck down. That sorrowful event occurred on a Wednesday evening. On the following morning Dickens was to have gone to London for the remainder of the week, and he was to have been accompanied on his return by the young artist, whose visit had been arranged so that he might become acquainted with the neighbourhood in which most of the scenes in the books [sic] were laid. We know that he was to have accompanied the novelist to Maidstone Gaol, there to see the condemned cell, with a view to a subsequent illustration.

Another sentence or two from Ley's book will serve to introduce the warm yet dignified letter written by Fildes, a letter which I consider invaluable in the light of the evidence it contains.

A few years ago Sir Luke Fildes gave expression to his regard for the novelist in an indignant letter he wrote to "The Times." A reviewer of Andrew Lang's book, "The Puzzle of Dickens's Last Plot," had suggested that the hints dropped by Dickens to Forster and to members of his family as to the plot, might have been intentionally misleading.

The letter itself, addressed to the Editor of The Times, follows.

SIR, — in an article entitled "The Mysteries of Edwin Drood," in your issue of to-day [October 27, 1905], the writer, speculating on the various theories advanced as solutions of the mystery, ventures to say: -

"Nor do we attach much importance to any of the hints Dickens dropped, whether to John Forster, to any member of his family, or to either of his illustrators. He was very anxious that his secret should not be guessed, and the hints which he dropped may very well have been intentionally misleading."

I know that Charles Dickens was very anxious that his secret should not be guessed, but it surprises me to read that he could be thought capable of the deceit so lightly attributed to him.

The "hints he dropped" to me, his sole illustrator — for Charles Collins, his son-in-law, only designed the green cover for the monthly parts, and Collins told me he did not in the least know the significance of the various groups in the design; that they were drawn from instructions personally given by Charles Dickens, and not from any text — these "hints" to inc were the outcome of a request of mine that he would explain some matters, the meaning of which I could not comprehend, and which were for me, his illustrator, embarrassingly hidden.

I instanced in the printers' rough proof of the monthly part sent to me to illustrate where he particularly described John Jasper as wearing a neckerchief of such dimensions as to go twice round his neck. I called his attention to the circumstance that I had previously dressed Jasper as wearing a little black tie once round the neck, and I asked him if he had any special reasons for the alteration of Jasper's attire, and, if so, I submitted I ought to know. He, Dickens, appeared for the moment to be disconcerted by my remark, and said something meaning he was afraid he was "getting on too fast" and revealing more than he meant at that early stage, and after a short silence, cogitating, he suddenly said, "Can you keep a secret?" I assured him he could rely on me. He then said, "I must have the double necktie! It is necessary, for Jasper strangles Edwin Drood with it."

I was impressed by his earnestness, as indeed, I was at all my interviews with him — also by the confidence which he said he reposed in me, trusting that I would not in any way refer to it, as he feared even a chance remark might find its way into the papers "and thus anticipate his 'mystery' "; and it is a little startling, after more than thirty-five years of profound belief in the nobility of character and sincerity of Charles Dickens, to be told now that he probably was more or less of a humbug on such occasions. — ! am, Sir, yours obediently.

LUKE FILDES

Harrogate, October 27.

Nowhere in the text of the novel as we have it today is there any description of John Jasper wearing a neckerchief "of such dimensions as to go twice round his neck." it is clear to me that the printers' rough proof was revised by Dickens, and that he substituted for the double necktie that great black silk scarf which Jasper hung in a loop upon his arm before he, too, went up the postern stair to greet his dinner guests. But there is no doubting the ring of utter sincerity in the letter Sir Luke Fildes wrote from his heart. Everything in the novel points to the fact that Edwin Drood was to meet death by strangulation at the hands of his uncle Jasper — that he was to be murdered.

Both Charles Dickens the younger and Sir Luke Fildes bear witness to the novelist's concern lest he had been getting on too fast and had let out too much of his story too soon. John Forster has written to the same effect, although he had in mind Dickens's anxiety about the early introduction of the Datchery assumption.

I do not think that the great novelist need have concerned himself in this way; his worry on these scores is to me a revelation of his ill health and of the approaching culmination of his dynamic life. Despite his fears, and even in its half-completed form, The Mystery of Edwin Drood has never been solved to the complete satisfaction of everyone. It remains an abiding mystery in a very real sense. There will be other books and articles written about it in the years to come; they will deal with new theories concerning the true identity of Dick Datchery, or the enigmatic nature of John Jasper, or all those foreshadowings of things to come that point in so tantalizing a manner to this or that conception of how Dickens might have developed the plot in the six parts never to appear before our eyes in print. But it is my firm belief that he played fair with his readers; that we may at least be certain of the death of Edwin Drood — certain that he was murdered by his uncle. Even with such assurance, mystery still remains. We have merely begun to unravel the strands that form only a part of the complicated texture; its final pattern we may never wholly reconstruct.

On January 7, 1914, there was heard by Justice Gilbert Keith Chesterton, sitting with a special jury in the King's Hall, Covent Garden, the trial of John Jasper, Lay Precentor of Cloisterham Cathedral in the County of Kent, for the murder of Edwin Drood, Engineer. I have read the verbatim report of this trial — a literary tour de force of varying degrees of interest — printed from the shorthand notes of J. W. T. Ley. It lasted almost five hours; no less a personage than Mr. Bernard Shaw was foreman of the jury; the verdict was manslaughter.

With that Shavian drollery for which he is so justly renowned, the distinguished playwright returned the verdict as follows:

My Lord, — I am happy to be able to announce to your Lordship that we, following the tradition and practice of British Juries, have arranged our verdict in the luncheon interval. I should explain, my Lord, that it undoubtedly presented itself to us as a point of extraordinary difficulty in this case, that a man should disappear absolutely and completely, having cut off all communication with his friends in Cloisterham; but having seen and heard the society and conversation of Cloisterham here in Court to-day, we no longer feel the slightest surprise at that. Now, under the influence of that observation, my Lord, the more extreme characters, if they will allow me to say so, in this Jury, were at first inclined to find a verdict of Not Guilty, because there was no evidence of a murder having been committed; but on the other hand, the calmer and more judicious spirits among us felt that to allow a man who had committed a cold-blooded murder of which his own nephew was the victim, to leave the dock absolutely unpunished, was a proceeding which would probably lead to our all being murdered in our beds. And so you will be glad to learn that the spirit of compromise has prevailed, and we find the prisoner guilty of Manslaughter.

We recommend him most earnestly to your Lordship's mercy, whilst at the same time begging your Lordship to remember that the protection of the lives of the community is in your bands, and begging you not to allow any sentimental consideration to deter you from applying the law in its utmost vigour.

Surely a most unaccountable verdict!

With it in mind, I should like to propose another — one which the reader of this study shall receive as judge. Let him suppose that John Jasper has again been on trial for his life, charged with murder in the first degree, willful and premeditated. The evidence of the novel itself to support the contention that Edwin Drood died as the result of a murderous assault committed upon his person by his uncle has been presented to the best of my ability. The testimony of various competent witnesses has been taken. The members of the jury are now returning to the courtroom to deliver their verdict. They file slowly into the box; the reader, as judge, looks at their faces and realizes that they are all either characters of fiction or actual personages long since departed from this life. This jury is composed of both men and women, and its panel reads as follows:

1) Hiram Grewgious, foreman; he has waived his right of exemption. Being a lawyer, he might well have declined to serve, but he is a man of absolute integrity, with a stern duty to perform.

2) Rosa Bud, soon to become Mrs. Tartar.

3) Helena Landless, pledged to Minor Canon Crisparkle.

4) Durdles, the stonemason, in a state of unhappy sobriety.

5) The Rev. Septimus Crisparkle. He, too, has waived his right of exemption.

6) Deputy, who feels gingerly of his neck as he looks at the defendant in the dock.

7) The Opium Woman, restraining with difficulty an impulse to shake her fists at the defendant.

8) Sir Luke Fildes, R.A.

9) Charles Dickens the younger.

10) Mrs. Perugini, formerly Kate Dickens.

11) John Forster, literary critic, author, and biographer.

12) Charles Dickens.

Surely an improbable jury! But with literary license, with complete disregard for strict practice and procedure, and with no concern for the fact that Rosa Bud and Deputy are minors, the twelve may be allowed to return their verdict. If I mistake not, the reader — as judge — will hear old Hiram Grewgious say in measured, deliberate tones: "Guilty, my Lord!"