The Enigma of the Errant Editor

It was a dark and stormy night, followed by a dark and stormy morning, and leading directly into a dark and stormy day. In early afternoon the clouds abated for a period, but by evening the weather had returned, and continued d. and s. throughout the night-time hours. The second morning was dark, but not stormy.

I had not left my rooms for some days, as there was tea and jam, and nothing outside to engage my attention. In the afternoon, however, the insatiable ‘gas’ meter having consumed my last ha’penny, it became necessary to make a sally.

At the tobacconist’s shop, his wife, Mrs Treebottle, allowed herself to be imposed upon to the extent of a half-shilling and a small quantity of shag.¹ Further venturing profited me a half-pint bottle of milk and, mirabile dictu, half of a dozen scones, slightly stale.

On returning to my lodgings, I found stopped at the kerb a large and well-polished motor-carriage. The uniformed coachman was standing at the doorway, and turned expectantly toward me as I neared. ‘Are you Ashford?’ he asked. ‘The detective? Investigates things? For hire?’

‘Who else?’ I asked, before taking a firm grip on myself. Among my minor foibles is an occasional weakness on the who/whom question, a little like a recurrent case of malaria, and it unnerved me more than was justified. ‘I am,’ I said, in self-correction. ‘Cedric P. Ashford at your service, or, if I gauge the circumstance correctly, at your employer’s. Would you be so good as to relate to me his name?’

‘It’s Falconridgeburn,’ he said. ‘The publisher?’ Indeed, I knew the name. Morrison Falconridgeburn, though an arriviste, was cutting a swath through literary circles, by printing paper-back editions of minor works of the recent century. In fact, my waste-bin contained a sample of his product.

I noted the silhouette of a man seated in the back-seat of the vehicle. ‘Send him up, then,’ I said, employing my latch-key upon the door. ‘The housekeeper is not in, so I must ask you to show yourselves up.’ With that, I entered, and ascended the stair.

A few minutes later I heard a knock at my door. ‘Who is it?’ I called. There was momentary silence, then a gruff voice responded, ‘It’s Falconridgeburn. Who the devil did you expect?’ He sounded somewhat miffed, which I find is often a productive frame of mind for a client.

I opened the door. ‘Please come in. Your man can wait downstairs.’ I added, ‘I am just making tea. Can I offer you some?’ To sweeten the offer, I added, ‘Darjeeling?’

‘Yes, yes,’ he said, ‘whatever you have is fine. I want to talk to you. Business. Yours and mine, that is. Hope you’re not engaged? I can make it worth your while.’ I certainly expect so, thought I.

I laid out tea upon the deal table, though reserving the scones and jam for later employment. When we were both seated and tea poured, I invited him to begin his explication.

‘It’s my editor,’ he said. ‘I’m a publisher. Did you know that? That’s what I am. A publisher, and I have an editor. Compulsory, I’m told. Can’t be in the publishing business without one. Mine’s a good one! I pay, and I get what I pay for. That’s the way I work. Alway has been. Always will be.’

I began to doubt if I had enough tea to last through his maundering. In an effort to accelerate proceedings, I invited him to condense the narrative and proceed to the crux.

‘Well, she’s gone,’ he said. ‘Just up and gone! And I have galleys and proofs that need editing, or whatever. I asked the pressman, but he said it’s not his job. Can’t do anything. It’s costing money. Need her back, toot sweet!’

He continued his speech, with occasional prompting and corrections of course on my part. Out of compassion for the reader, I condense the subsequent information.

His editor, a woman named Mercy Sealgood, was a spinster, of good character and sterling professional reputation. He had hired her (‘poached’ her, he said) from a more-established firm located on Fleet Street. In eight months under his employ, she had worked well and conscientiously, and her work brought his firm grudging respect within the industry. He had, I noted, a ‘hands-off’ approach to her work, which must have been, for her, a mercy (which would make it her second).

Around this juncture, Falconridgeburn abruptly noticed the declining afternoon, and announced his incipient departure. We agreed that I would see him at his offices at ten o’clock the next morning, and, leaving a few banknotes and some loose coins by way of a retainer, he left as gratifyingly as a prostrating ague. I dug out my cordovan Houndstooth pipe and began to fill it with shag tobacco.

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The morning dawned uncommonly clear, rendering my parapluie merely decorative as I made my way to the offices of Falcon Publishers in West Cheap. Cathedral bells announced my timely arrival as I saw myself in.

The offices comprised a large, open room with several desks, several smaller glass-windowed rooms being situated at the far end. I do not know what was the tenor on other days, but on this one the front room was a hive, buzzing with chaotic activity. It took more than a moment to catch the attention of one worker (little more than a lad), as he careered from one task to another.

‘I am Cedric Ashford,’ I informed him, ‘and I am here for Mr Falconridgeburn.’

He gaped at me for a moment, before bursting out with, ‘They’ve already gone, sor!’

‘Gone? And “they?”’ I have come particularly to see him.’ As I spoke, a familiar figure emerged from one the far cubicles. It looked like …

‘But he’s dead, sor!’

… Lieutenant Pomfritz, of the London Metropolitan Police.

Read the conclusion: The Return of the Errant Editor.

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