At about this time a stranger appeared in Cloisterham; a white-haired personage, with black eyebrows. Being buttoned up in a tightish 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 farther 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. Both announcements were made in the coffee-room of the Crozier, to all whom it might or might not concern, by the stranger as he stood with his back to the empty fireplace, waiting for his fried sole, veal cutlet, and pint of sherry. And the waiter (business being chronically slack at the Crozier) represented all whom it might or might not concern, and absorbed the whole of the information.

This gentleman’s white head was unusually large, and his shock of white hair was unusually thick and ample.

◊ ◊ ◊

During my work on the sequel to the novel, to my own surprise, I came up against an unexpected obstacle: I was unable to find any character in The Mystery of Edwin Drood who was capable of (and entitled to) arresting Jasper.

Consider this: the Cloisterham police are conspicuously absent from the novel. The townspeople look for the body in the river, the townspeople chase after Neville, the priest finds the evidence in the river, but he does not take it to the police; instead, with the evidence in hand and the "suspect" in his possession, he goes to the Mayor of the town. The professional police force (organised in 1837, just five years before the novel begins) is mentioned only once in the novel: when constables chase vagrants out of the city in chapter nineteen. In an earlier article I wrote that in 1842 the police force of Rochester (the town that served as the prototype for the novel Cloisterham) had been reduced and reformed because of the corruption of Superintendent Thomas Cork. It existed, one might say, only on paper. Constables had no right to investigate. That had to be done by the authorities or by 'visiting' specialists such as coroners and judges. But for these specialists to open an investigation at all, the crime itself had to be proven; for example, the body of Edwin Drood had to be found.

The London Metropolitan Police did not have the necessary powers in Cloisterham. And in any case they would have investigated nothing because there was no crime: it could well be that Edwin Drood simply fled the town, frightened by, say, an attempted robbery, and his watch and pin ended up in the river because the robber, fearing exposure, disposed of the evidence. There is nothing impossible in this supposition. Yes, the townspeople, led by the Mayor, suspect a crime and even twice arrest the suspect. But then they are forced to release Neville, as they are unable to prove his guilt enough to bring the case to trial.

And this is Neville, whom everyone suspected. What about Jasper, whom nobody suspected? Forster mentioned that Dickens had written to him about his plans to send Jasper to the gallows at the end of the novel. But to be hanged you need to be tried, and to be tried you need to be arrested first. And this had to come from the local government, namely the Mayor, who, let us remember, was entirely in Jasper's pocket.

What happens if, let's say, Mr Sapsea is not re-elected in a few months and the new Mayor then orders Jasper arrested? This is also impossible, because in the novel we see no suitable candidates among the townspeople: all the townspeople are deeply convinced of Neville's guilt, with the exception of Canon Crisparkle. And the Canon himself is incapable of becoming a secular authority in the town; his position precludes him from even running for Mayor.

Thus, Dickens sets up the universe of the novel in such a way that help for the impotent "forces of good" can only come from outside.

‘And you must expect no miracle to help you, Neville,’ said Mr. Crisparkle, compassionately.

But a miracle does happen - in the form of Mr Datchery. And his offer of help comes as a complete surprise, even to the novel's main positive characters, Grewgious and Crisparkle. But the question I posed at the beginning of this article remains: if Mr Datchery suddenly unravels Jasper's crime by some unimaginable mental effort, will he be able to arrest the criminal? Does he have the power to do so?

Once again: Mr Datchery can't be an ordinary policeman - not from London, not from Cloisterham. The police are not yet involved in the story because there is no crime. Dick Datchery cannot be Drood, Helena Landless, Tartar, Bazzard or any other civil character - all of whom are legally incapable of making arrests. Dick Datchery is not a private detective who could be hired by Grewgious or Crisparkle - private detectives don't arrest anyone. Nor can Dick Datchery be a "bounty hunter" - that is, a private citizen helping the police catch criminals for a bounty. As long as there's no crime, there's no reward to be paid.

In order to continue the novel, I had to invent and introduce inspector Porters, a person with the power to make arrests. But even with this "help" I found it difficult to legally arrest Jasper in Cloisterham. The London police cannot investigate crimes on foreign soil, so my inspector Porters goes to Cloisterham as a private citizen and takes three days' vacation. He is also staying at the hotel as a private person, and even the fact that constable Green is assisting the inspector is a considerable exaggeration; in reality it would be impossible. To make a legal arrest, I had to send Jasper to London, where Inspector Porters had the necessary powers to arrest him. But that was what I had. And how was Dickens going to get round this obstacle? 

In an absolutely fantastic and ingenious way. In a way that neither you, nor I, nor the reading public could ever have imagined.

In the course of my previous research, I have already established that Dickens took all the images of his characters and all the details of his plots from real life, and simply refined them creatively. I was able to find the prototypes of such characters as Princess Puffer, Mr Sapsea, Canon Crisparkle, Stonemason Durdles, Helena Landless and a few others. The person who prototyped the philanthropist Honeythunder was known before me. But if they are all taken from life, from Dickens's own acquaintances, what about Mr Datchery? Can we not find a prototype for him in real life, and thus answer one of the sacramental questions of Droodism: "Who are you, Mr Datchery?"

It is more or less clear that the novel town of Cloisterham is largely based on the real English town of Rochester. Its inhabitants are also characters based on people known to Dickens. But here is Jasper's crime - it comes from the other side of the ocean. There are many unique details in Jasper's crime reminiscent of the 1849 "Boston Murder" - where chemistry professor John Webster killed his impatient creditor Dr Parkman, removed the victim's watch from the corpse and threw it into the river, and burned the body in the laboratory furnace. So if Jasper's crime is borrowed from America, won't Mr Datchery be found there too?

And he'll be found right away! Meet the grey-haired detective, Mr Derastus Clapp!

It was Derastus Clapp, America's very first detective, who arrested the Boston killer Webster (but no sooner had he done so than laboratory technician Ephraim Littlefield, the prototype of the stonemason Durdles, made a hole in the brick wall of the laboratory and found the remains of Dr. Parkman). And this feat was by no means the only one in his astonishing career as a "rogue-catcher" - a curious term he used to describe himself. The Wikipedia article gives only a general overview of him; much more can be gleaned from Matthew Pearl's article on this "America's first detective" in the Boston Globe.

Derastus Clapp (this strange-sounding name is related to modern name Erast) was born on 1 May 1792 in Claremont, New Hampshire. Unlike London Inspector Field, who served as Dickens' prototype for Inspector Bucket in the novel The Cold House, and who was the son of an innkeeper, Derastus' parents came from families of local intellectuals - for example, his paternal grandfather Preserved Clapp (another strange name) was a Doctor of Science. This fact goes some way to resolving the contradiction noted by Ray Dubberke in Dickens, Drood and the Detectives: if Dickens's Inspector Bucket speaks like a man of the people, Mr Datchery's speech is that of an educated man.

After coming of age in 1813, young Derastus tried his hand at auctioneering (hello, Mr Sapsea!), but after marrying Susan Bodwich in 1818, he settled down and became a constable in the city of Boston in 1828. From then on (and with the blessing of the aged Mayor Quincy), he began his very long service in law enforcement. 

It's hard to imagine now, but for twenty years Derastus Clapp, with his office at number three Franklin Avenue, was Boston's only detective. In those days, people didn't really understand why they needed the police. Clapp later recalled with a laugh how a citizen once tried to hire him to find a lost gold watch. "Do you suspect anyone of theft, sir?" Derastus asked him. "Why should I suspect anyone!" resented the Bostonian. "Just find me the watch, and quickly!" 

Indeed, Detective Clapp's duties included the search for lost watches, stolen silver forks and even boys who had been absent from Sunday school. The constable's salary was not very high: two dollars for a day's duty and one dollar for a night's - a month's pay was only twice that of an ordinary labourer. And Derastus's family was not small: a daughter, Susan Olivia, was born in 1819, a son, Roger, in 1822, another son, George Washington, in 1823, and Charlie, Nathaniel and Agatha, born in 1824, 1832 and 1834 respectively. They all had to be fed, and Constable Clapp found the best way to earn extra money: he became a "rogue-catcher".

The crimes he solved on duty were poorly paid, but there were still weekends and evenings to devote to the hunt for criminals. If Constable Clapp arrested someone while off-duty - for example, simply because he saw an attempted shoplifting while walking down the street - the mayor's office paid him a bonus. These were very different, much larger sums. Here is an extract from the Boston City Hall account book for 1844:

Derastus Clapp, for the arrest of B. Harford - $60;
Derastus Clapp, for the apprehension of two counterfeiters, $80.
Derastus Clapp, for arresting three deserters, $77.20.
Derastus Clapp, for the impeachment of Levi Jennings - $35.
Derastus Clapp, for the arrest of David Watson, $56.72.
Derastus Clapp, for the arrest of E. G. Greeley - $39.75.

Total: $348.74 (that's over $12,000 in today's dollars)

And that's just Boston City Hall. If Clapp uncovered a crime anywhere in the province and arrested the criminal, he was paid by the town hall of the town where the arrest was made. And Constable Clapp began to look deliberately for possible crimes: when he read in the newspapers or heard some news that might conceal a fraud, Derastus would go to the place, sniff, look, watch at night, and then, when he had gathered enough evidence, he would suddenly arrest some David Watson, a murderer who had already thought himself unpunished. Or those two moonshiners who put their magic potion in whisky bottles and sold the fake stuff in the taverns. Such work required constant travel and patience, of course, but it also paid well. Moreover, there was no prohibition on the town constable offering detective services to wealthy citizens.

In an 1874 interview with the Boston Traveler, Derastus Clapp reported that in forty-six years he had arrested 136 criminals and sent several hundred more to the House of Correction; he had recovered many thousands of dollars worth of stolen property alone. Criminals throughout the state did not feel safe: at any moment, Derastus Clapp, nicknamed "Disastrous Clapp", could put his hand on their shoulder and say softly, "Come along with me". 

Derastus was known for his good-natured and humane treatment of suspects, but no amount of kindness could stop him from elbowing a criminal in the back of the head and handcuffing him when necessary. Towards the end of his career, Clapp claimed that his right hand had become so sore from arrests that even a friendly handshake was painful. And here we are forced to remember that when Mr Datchery met Jasper and Mayor Sapsea, he did not shake their hands, but bowed with his hat under his arm, as was his custom. Mr Datchery simply had arthritis!

In 1846, the new mayor of Boston, Josiah Quincy Jr. (following the English example), organises a Detective Police Force in the city. Derastus, the most obvious candidate for his staff, is in no hurry to join the ranks of the Detective Police (soon nicknamed "The Shadows"). His numerous outside jobs pay too well. As a result, the mayor's office is forced to recruit the detectives at random: one of the new "shadow" policemen was previously a fireman, the second a waiter, and the third's only merit is that he once saved a drowning man from the water.

Moreover, the citizens' attitude towards the innovation was mostly negative. The new policemen also began to do their work in a "new way": they did not hesitate to recruit informants from the criminal world, to beat suspects during interrogation and to commit many other quite reprehensible acts. "The new police is the outgrowth of a diseased and corrupted state of things, and is, consequently, morally diseased himself," wrote a state judge at the time. "The detectives would have to be dishonest, crafty, unscrupulous, when necessary to be so." Derastus, who valued his reputation, did not want to be seen in the same light.

But the new police "shadows" took up the cause so eagerly that within a few years Clapp was almost out of lucrative commissions. In 1848, Derastus willy-nilly joins the ranks of the Shadows, becoming their oldest and most experienced officer. Together with Detective Starkey, he takes over the pursuit and arrest of recidivist criminals. Boston detectives used "new investigative methods" (i.e. informants, bribery, plea bargains and unauthorised surveillance) so well and on such a massive scale that investigating crime began to appear to Bostonians as "a magical, supernatural art". It will be remembered that Mr Datchery, after appearing at Cloisterham, first found an informer in the person of the boy Deputy and conducted an unauthorised surveillance of Jasper.

In 1849, Derastus Clapp had a "breakthrough" in his career: the Boston authorities hired him to investigate the mysterious disappearance of a wealthy citizen of Harvard (a suburb of Boston). The missing man's name was Dr George Parkman, and he was known to lend money on bail. On 23 November 1849, Parkman entered the campus of Harvard Medical School to speak with his debtor, chemistry professor John Webster, and apparently never left. Professor Webster did not deny seeing Parkman, but claimed that he had paid him in full when he met him, and Parkman left the college alive and well. The police eagerly took up the case: the missing man was searched here and there, 28,000 flyers were distributed offering a three thousand dollar reward for information on his whereabouts, City Marshal Francis Tukey sifted the riverbed with a dredge in an attempt to find Parkman's body, but found only his pocket watch in the water. This discovery led the police to believe that a possible murder had been committed. On 26 November, Detective Clapp and Constables Klee and Fuller entered the Medical College to search the premises. Professor Webster, understandably agitated by the appearance of the police, accompanied them from one door to another.

What happened next was an anecdote. When Detective Clapp asked to open the laboratory where the murder had taken place a few days earlier, Professor Webster, whose love of pyrotechnics was well known, warned the detective that explosives were stored there. Derastus Clapp, saying "I will not go in to be blowed up!", limited his inspection of the laboratory to a cursory glance inside through the slit in the ajar door. Had he entered, he might have discovered the incompletely burned bone fragments of Dr Parkman's skeleton in the oven. But that didn't happen. After searching the college and finding no trace of the missing man, Detective Clapp left. He would search the college again the next day, with the same result.

Meanwhile, Ephraim Littlefield, the college's warden and janitor, began to suspect something: in the last few days, Professor Webster had been behaving extremely strangely, locking himself in the laboratory at night, burning something, using up a month's supply of coal, and then acting as if he were trying to bribe the warden by sending him a turkey for Thanksgiving - the first time he had ever worked at the college. Littlefield decided to break into the locked laboratory and examine it. To do so, he punched a hole in the basement wall, and the dismembered fragments of Dr Parkman's body literally fell on his head. Terrified, Littlefield rushed to the college authorities, who sent him to Detective Clapp, and Littlefield told him of his gruesome discovery.

Clapp, accompanied by two policemen, set off to arrest Professor Webster. When the police arrived at the professor's house in a hansom cab, he was on the porch saying goodbye to a visitor. Derastus, wishing the arrest to be made without scandal or resistance, told the professor that the police needed to inspect the college building again and asked Webster to accompany them. Webster agreed and, taking his coat and hat from the wardrobe, accompanied the detective down the stairs, but then 'realised' that he had left the keys to the laboratory at home. Clapp assured him that the police already had all the keys they needed. Nodding, Webster quietly took his seat in the cab.

On the way, after a few common phrases, Detective Clapp began to talk to him about the search for Dr Parkman. Clapp told the professor how far the search had progressed, taking care to phrase it in such a way as to leave no doubt as to the truth of the professor's statement. Near the bridge over the river, Webster tried to attract (or distract) the detective's attention by pointing to a woman strolling along the bank. "That's Mrs Bent," he said. "Maybe she knows something about the doctor's disappearance. Let's talk to her." Clapp assured the professor that they would, but later. As the cab rumbled across the bridge, the detective, pointing to the river, remarked to the professor that the search for Dr Parkman's body had been conducted on both sides of the bridge, but that nothing had been found except a hat, probably belonging to the missing man (he did not reveal the operative information about the discovery of the watch). Webster made no comment on these words, but a moment later he anxiously pointed out to Clapp that the cabman had missed the turn for the college and taken the wrong road. Clapp replied reassuringly that the cabbie was probably new to the job and didn't know the town very well, but no doubt he'd get everyone where they needed to go eventually. After that, Webster was silent.

Near the prison building, Clapp 'remembered' that he had to stop at the office for a moment to pick up some papers. "Would you gentlemen be kind enough to show me in, as I don't know my way around yet," he said, addressing all three of them. The constables readily agreed, and Webster had to join them as well. All four of them made their way into the prison building. There the Professor, as if suddenly awake, stopped abruptly and exclaimed: "What is the meaning of all this? Why have you brought me here?" - "Professor Webster," replied Detective Clapp, "do you remember when I told you on the bridge that we had searched up and down the river for the body? Well, we searched your college in the same way, and now, Professor Webster, I am arresting you on suspicion of Dr Parkman's murder." 

Professor Webster was tried in January, convicted in April and hanged at the end of August. Before that, Webster had time to appeal the verdict, get it rejected, and then write a confession to the murder to give to the prosecutor. In the confession, written like Jasper from the death cell, he claimed he killed the doctor in self-defence when he became too aggressive in demanding repayment of a debt. The murder weapon was a heavy wooden walking cane (and here we can remember poor Neville Landless).

The college had organized tours for the local people, who wanted to see the scene of such a famous crime with their own eyes; more than five thousand citizens attended. In 1868 (and one year before the beginning of the writing Edwin Drood), during his American tour, Charles Dickens visited there. It is not known whether the great writer met Derastus Clapp - although he was still alive and quite well at the age of 74 - but he must have been told the story of the professor's arrest, and Clapp was also mentioned. It was probably from this story that Dickens learned details such as the early grey hair of the famous detective and his dislike of shaking hands.

So if Dickens needed someone in the plot who could use his insight to solve a crime similar to the Boston murder and then arrest the criminal, despite the fact that the local authorities were in the killer's pocket, the writer would be hard-pressed to find a better prototype for such a character than Detective Clapp. Just as Conan Doyle invented the "consulting detective" Holmes twenty years later, Dickens invented (from life) the "rogue-catcher" Dachery for his novel.

Let's see how the events of the novel might unfold if we follow this version.

It is December 1842 when Edwin Drood disappears from the town of Cloisterham. The town's mayor (through his subordinate, the Superintendent of Police) arrests the suspect, Neville Landless, and puts him under house arrest and then in jail. The story hits the newspapers (Dachery later mentions in a conversation with Mrs. Top that he read about the incident in the press). "Rogue-catcher" notes to himself that there must have been a murder in the provincial town, but does not do anything about it yet. For two reasons: the police still have a chance to find the killer on their own, and Edwin Drood may yet turn up alive and well. Datchery makes a brief note of the circumstances of the disappearance and decides to wait a few months before investigating.

Exactly six months pass, day after day. Leafing through his notebook, Datchery stumbles across his memo marker in his calendar and decides it's time to act. Note that no one is hiring him to investigate - he is doing it all on his own. Datchery is not related to anyone, he's not out for revenge, and he doesn't harbor the slightest animosity toward Jasper personally. Datchery has simply "catched" a crime and wants to solve it - to be rewarded later by Cloisterham Town Hall.

Saturday night at the Staple Inn, Grewgious sees Jasper watching Neville from a window and points him out to Crisparkle, noting that someone should "having him under his eye". That same evening, Tartar meets Neville.

The next morning, Mr. Datchery knocks on Grewgious' door. Since the detective has begun his search in London, the most logical thing to do before going to Cloisterham would be to talk to a witness who is nearby. Datchery informs Grewgious that he is interested in the fact of Drood's disappearance and will begin an informal investigation into the case. Note that Grewgius is not hiring Datchery to investigate - he is already doing so on his own. After this conversation, Datchery takes a stagecoach from London to Cloisterham and, after a five-hour journey, disembarks at the door of the Crozier Inn, where he settles in. As soon as he arrives, he dines - and Dickens introduces him to us. The time on the clock: half past six in the evening (recall that in the first chapter, Jasper also returned from London by stagecoach, just in time for the evening service).

While Mr. Datchery dines and walks across town to the cathedral to settle in with Mrs. Top, Jasper proposes to Rosa Button, is rebuffed, and returns home. On the way, he meets Mayor Sapsea, who escorts him to his apartment and even stops to visit the choirmaster. The two are definitely walking down the main street of the town, and now it becomes clear why Dickens sent Datchery on a detour - so that they would not run into the "rogue-catcher" somewhere on the street: that would have made illogical the very winning conversation scene between Datchery and Jasper in the latter's apartment.

By this time, Rosa has recovered from her fainting spell, escaped from "Noon's House," and is on the last train to London. At ten o'clock in the evening she knocks on the door of her guardian's apartment, and at twelve o'clock she is settled in a room at the Furnival Inn. 

In Cloisterham, Miss Twinkleton, the headmistress of the boarding school, discovers Rosa's disappearance and runs to inform Crisparkle personally. But there are no trains to London at that hour, and the canon must wait until morning.

The next morning, Crisparkle is in London to meet Rosa and Grewgious. The hotel maid informs them that a certain young gentleman has requested a meeting. Grewgious utters the strange phrase, "When one is in a difficulty or at a loss, one never knows in what direction a way out may chance to open. <...> I could relate an anecdote in point, but that it would be premature." This is clearly a reference to his conversation with Datchery the previous morning. Note that Datchery's interest in the Drood investigation was unexpected by Grewgious, and that he does not pass on this information, considering it "premature".

And so it is that, from this day forward, Tartar watches over Neville in London, and Mr. Datchery watches over Jasper in Cloisterham. And every new fact that might point to Jasper's guilt, Mr. Datchery marks it with a chalk line on the corner cupboard door.

It should be noted that this way of keeping accounts is new to Mr. Datchery - in fact, he "evaluates" it after a few days of use by saying, "I like the old tavern way of keeping scores." If Mr. Datchery had always done it this way, there would be no need for him to say it now. So he was trying it for the first time. But why, and where did he learn it? From Mr. Grewgious, of course!

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

It was likely that Grewgious had demonstrated this way of organizing facts in his conversation with Datchery a few days earlier. Datchery liked it and adopted it. But not immediately. On his first evening at Cloisterham, although he has already met Jasper, Sapsea, Deputy, Durdles and Mrs. Top, Mr. Datchery makes no marks on the cupboard door, but merely remarks to his reflection in the mirror that he has had "a bisy afternoon". Why, by the way? Talking to all these characters took Dachery a good two hours, so where was the trouble? But we must remember that Dachery talked to Grewgious early in the morning, that he may have refreshed his memory by reading newspapers in the library, that he traveled five hours by stagecoach, then checked into a hotel, checked out, and found a new place to live - and then we realize that it was indeed quite tiring for an aged man.

My assertion that Mr. Datchery is a constable and yet not a policeman in the conventional sense may seem strange. But it is merely a projection of the American realities of the forties of the nineteenth century onto England. 1842 was one of the turning points: the old police force was being replaced by a new one, and for a few years both were operating simultaneously. Derastus Clapp belonged to the "old guard" and was the constable of the Town Hall, i.e. the magistrate. He did not join the new type of police until 1847, and then only after he had been dismissed from the "old type of police" - he was on trial for falsely releasing the counterfeiter Haskett Staples from custody.

Mr. Datchery could therefore be a member of a parallel police force - the City of London Police, which traces its origins back to the so-called Bow Street Runners. At first, these Runners were like couriers, delivering the magistrate's warrant for the arrest of criminals. But in order to deliver such a warrant, the criminal had to be located - and that was the kind of detective work that was done by the six men who initially made up the team that occupied the office at Number Four Bow Street. They reported directly to the magistrate and received their funding from him.

After the establishment of the City of London Police in 1829, the work of the runners diminished considerably: only 10% of all crimes in the capital were solved with their help. But their experience was in demand in the provinces, and the London magistrate increasingly entrusted his constables to assist the public prosecutor in investigating crimes outside London. So Mr. Datchery (if we accept that he was sometimes a "Runner") could well have conducted a search at Cloisterham - the rules allowed him to do so.

Moreover, in order to legally secure the Runners' authority to operate in the province, their chief, Sir John Fielding, became a member of the Peace Commissions in a number of English counties, including Kent. So Constable Datchery would have had every right to arrest any criminal in Cloisterham if he needed to.

In 1834, the Runners attempted (unsuccessfully at first) to re-subordinate the City of London Police; a second attempt was made in 1837, after which the Magistrate's Constables ceased to be an independent structure. The Runners wore the uniforms of the City of London Police.

This is what we see in the opening lines of chapter eighteen, where Mr. Datchery appears to the reader in a civilian version of the City of London Police uniform, i.e., a fitted and "buttoned up" (like a uniform) navy blue coat and gray trousers. This was the color combination adopted by the City Police; the other Metropolitan Police wore all dark blue. Mr. Datchery's military bearing is explained by the fact that he was simply a policeman.

And immediately the strange dialogue between Mayor Sapsea and Mr. Datchery becomes clear:

"‘Retired from the Army, sir?’ suggested Mr. Sapsea.
‘His Honour the Mayor does me too much credit,’ returned Mr. Datchery.
‘Navy, sir?’ suggested Mr. Sapsea.
‘Again,’ repeated Mr. Datchery, ‘His Honour the Mayor does me too much credit.’
‘Diplomacy is a fine profession,’ said Mr. Sapsea, as a general remark.
‘There, I confess, His Honour the Mayor is too many for me,’ said Mr. Datchery, with an ingenious smile and bow; ‘even a diplomatic bird must fall to such a gun.’"

Dickens here sort of cuts off the "fields" that might explain Mr. Datchery's military bearing. We learn that Datchery never served in the military or navy. Perhaps he served in another paramilitary organization, the police? But Mr. Sapsea does not make this assumption, and instead mentions diplomacy "as a general remark," even though this is not to be expected from diplomats of the military persuasion. But it is not the attire, but Datchery's demeanor and manner of speaking that reminds the Mayor of diplomats. And Mr. Datchery, without directly confirming the correctness of the assumption, slyly agrees with Sapsea's general remark that diplomacy is a worthy profession. Datchery is not saying that he himself is a diplomat; he is saying that diplomacy as a profession is a worthy occupation. And nothing else!

It becomes clear and these strange manipulations Datchery with a hat, which Dickens describes in the eighteenth chapter. Police regulations passed in 1829 required constables to wear a special design of leather cylinder helmet - such headgear (along with a special high collar with a metal hoop sewn inside) was supposed to protect constables from gangs of "stranglers" who attacked nighttime passersby with a garrote for the purpose of robbery. This cylinder was so sturdy that a constable could even stand on it, like on a bench, if he suddenly needed to look over a fence or through a window. Obviously, a leather helmet with wooden inserts was extremely heavy and uncomfortable to wear. Nevertheless, it was forbidden to take it off. After many years of service, a policeman could not imagine going out on the street without his inseparable helmet-cylinder. The civilian hat was an exotic, almost unfamiliar object for a policeman.

But Mr. Datchery arrives in Cloisterham disguised as a civilian. The helmet cylinder had been left behind in London, so Mr. Datchery had to get a hat. For a Victorian policeman to wear a civilian hat instead of a helmet was a step down, equivalent to a demotion; to wear a civilian hat on his head was simply shameful to them. A helmet was sacred; the Scots Guards at the gates of the Royal Palace tolerated almost any kind of abuse from tourists, but try to touch their helmet and punishment would follow immediately. Dachery simply does not want to wear a hat on his head, preferring to carry it in his hand, but also in a military manner - under his arm. In the army, navy, and police, there are rare situations when it is customary to bare one's head: during prayers, at funerals, or in the presence of royalty. Then it is customary to keep helmets and caps below the elbow. This is what Mr. Datchery does in the company of the town's mayor, which the arrogant fool Sapsea takes as a sign of respect for his position, but Mr. Datchery himself explains as a desire to keep his head cool.

It is funny, but here Dickens also gave a hint about the professional affiliation of his character. The fact that in the forties of the 19th century (i.e. exactly at the time of the events of the novel) the problem of ventilation of police helmets was widely discussed. Heavy and dense leather cylinders, which could not be removed even in summer, did not allow any air to pass through. Newspapers of the time even published cartoons depicting policemen with helmets fitted with fans and ventilators, making law enforcement look like Dutch mills. It was not until the mid-forties that police helmets were fitted with two small holes for ventilation. The question of "coolness for the head" was therefore a pressing one for Mr. Datchery. For this reason, he was happy to let the fresh breeze ruffle his gray hair, a rare and almost forbidden pleasure for a constable.

Thus we see that all the peculiarities of Mr. Datchery's conduct which we are accustomed to explain by the presence on his head of a gray wig, can be explained much more logically by the absence on his head of his customary police helmet.

As soon as he arrives in town, Mr. Datchery hires an informant, a young boy nicknamed Deputy. A case like this requires caution and complete trust in Deputy, and over the next few days, Mr. Datchery inquires about his informant at the boarding house where he works. There he learns his real name: Winks. This is logical; remember, the boy was taken his nickname "Deputy" only after he was hired to work at the inn. Before that moment, he was not called "deputy", i.e. "assistant". The boy gave his real last name to the owner of the inn when he was hired. When in the last chapter he realizes that his real last name is no longer a secret, the boy tries (rather foolishly and unsuccessfully) to turn his mistake into a joke by saying that Winks is not a last name at all, but a sort of nickname, which, believe it or not, was given to him by the guests because he doesn't get much sleep at night. When Mr. Datchery calls out the real name of his new informant, he does not check to see if it is really his name - he hints to his assistant that he now knows his secret, and that he can (in case of disobedience or deception) turn Winks over to the authorities who are looking for him. This was the "carrot and stick" method of blackmail and bribery used by the new police officers in Boston and London.

Finally, let us recall how, in his conversation with the keeper of the opium den, Mr. Datchery "introduces" the choirmaster to her:

"‘Surname Jasper, Christian name John. Mr. John Jasper.’"

Doesn't it seem to you that this is exactly the way the first and last names of, say, an arrestee are written down, as if in boxes on a page of a police book?

Derastus Clapp, for the arrest of David Watson - $56.72
Richard Datchery, for the arrest of John Jasper - £40.00

To summarize: Mr. Datchery is a completely new character in the novel, who not only does not appear in the pages of the novel until chapter eighteen, but is not even mentioned. Mr. Datchery is not related to anyone, he is not avenging anyone, and he has no personal animosity toward Jasper. Mr. Datchery does not wear a gray wig. Mr. Datchery is not a "bounty hunter" or a private detective. He has not been hired by anyone to investigate. Mr. Datchery is a constable of the City of London Police, a "rogue-catcher". The driving motive behind his activities on the pages of the novel is the desire to receive a cash reward from the City Hall for the capture of the criminal - John Jasper.

15.04.2022
Translated with DeepL