Her Majesty’s Final Episode

Chapter 1

‘Is there anything else James?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty, one other thing. I’m sorry to inform you that Mr Dickens has passed away.’

‘Mr Dickens!’, exclaimed the Queen. ‘Dead?’

‘Yes, Your Majesty. Charles Dickens, the noted auth…’

‘Yes James, I know who Charles Dickens is’.

The Queen’s expression softened a little. ‘Or was. What on earth has happened?’

Sir James Fitzgerald, the Queen's equerry, inclined his head slightly in sorrow. ‘It seems that Mr Dickens suffered a stroke whilst at his home in Gads Hill. Despite the attentions of a physician, sadly they were not able to revive him.’

‘Good heavens, how awful. I must admit to being more than a little shocked.’ The Queen sat back in her chair and let the news sink in.

‘I know that Your Majesty was a great admirer of Mr Dickens’ work.’

‘I was, indeed. But of course, this is more than just a shock for ourselves. This is a great loss. This is a loss for the nation.’

‘Indeed, ma’am.’

‘We looked forward every week to the latest episode of his book in the periodicals.’

‘Indeed, ma’am. I believe that was a tactic successfully employed by Mr Dickens to keep his readers engaged.’

The Queen closed her eyes momentarily. Sir James had the most infuriating habit of telling her things of which she was already perfectly aware.

Queen Victoria gazed out of the palace windows, from where she could glance the rush and tumble of London below. A London over which she reigned, but had only ever glimpsed in passing. Fleeting moments from carriages, windows and fortifications. A London that Mr Dickens not only inhabited but understood and described so very well. It occurred to her that he had been, in some ways, her only real view of that colourful and unruly place. Who would tell her its stories now?

The Queen's Lady of the Bedchamber, the Countess of Gainsborough, approached silently behind her. ‘Your Majesty, is there anything I can do?’

The Queen looked around sadly. ‘Bring Mr Dickens back to life?’ The Countess smiled softly. ‘Would that I could, ma’am. I know how much you looked forward to his latest episode.’

At this comment the Queen sat bolt upright so sharply that the Countess jumped.

‘His latest episode!’, the Queen exclaimed. ‘Edwin Drood!’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am?’

‘The Mystery of Edwin Drood. Mr Dickens’ current novel. We are due episode 7, next week. I believe that leaves us’, the Queen counted quickly on her fingers and looked askance, ‘Only half-way through!’

‘I don’t mean for you to write it, Sir James’, snapped the Queen. ‘I mean for you to find it.'

The full scale of the problem had now begun to dawn on the Countess of Gainsborough. ‘Yes, I see the…erm…’

‘We must have an answer, Frances', the Queen demanded. 'This cannot do. There must be another episode. Good heavens, there must be an ending. Summon Sir James immediately!’

---

Sir James Fitzgerald had just put his feet up on the table in his small office and was opening his copy of The Times newspaper, when the bell from Her Majesty’s offices began to ring insistently. Sighing lightly he folded his newspaper neatly in half and made his way to the Queen’s offices, where he found her in a condition of advanced agitation. She came bustling over. ‘Edwin Drood, Sir James. The next episode!’

‘Good Lord!’, he exclaimed, immediately realising. ‘Of course. But how will we…’,

‘Precisely’, the Queen interrupted. ‘How will we finish the story? You must come up with an answer.’

‘With all due respect Your Majesty, I am not Mr Dickens…’

‘I don’t mean for you to write it, James’, snapped the Queen. ‘I mean for you to find it. It must be somewhere, must it not?’

‘I am not aware how Mr Dickens wrote his books ma’am. If they were written completely and then serialised or just written week to week.’

‘Well we must hope he wrote them in their entirety, mustn’t we? Summon Mr Gentleberry, the Footman, there must be an expedition launched to find the next episode, indeed the entire manuscript of Edwin Drood.’

‘I’m sorry to say, Majesty, that Mr Gentleberry has been taken poorly. He is quite gravely ill.’

‘Must everyone be dying?’, the Queen snapped.

‘Apologies ma’am’. Sir James bowed slightly.

‘What about his boy? The Junior Footman?’

Sir James groaned inwardly. That dreadful Cockney.

‘Harkins, ma’am. Samuel Harkins. Quite unsuitable for…’

A former military man, I believe’, continued the Queen, ignoring her courtier completely. ‘Resourceful, yes?’

A former military man, I believe’, continued the Queen, ignoring her courtier completely. ‘Resourceful, yes?’

‘A mere Lance-Corporal in the Guards, ma’am.’

Queen Victoria considered briefly how it was that her courtiers were most often bigger snobs than the royalty they served. ‘Well, that is a higher rank than you achieved Sir James, is it not?’, she said icily.

This particular barb stung more sharply than the Queen’s other arrows, as Sir James had indeed been turned down for military service on account of his flat feet. He smiled thinly. ‘That is correct, Your Majesty.’

‘Well then, summon Harkins and let us go.’

‘Us?’ enquired Sir James, his brow furrowing.

‘Yes James, us. I intend to come with you and assist in resolving this matter today.’

‘Your Majesty, I cannot allow this. What of your safety, it is quite simply out of the question.’

‘Nonsense Frances. I don’t look remotely like that pretty confection they put on the stamps. Well, do I?

Queen Victoria's eyes narrowed. ‘The only question that concerns me, Sir James, is what happens next in Edwin Drood. I suspect John Jasper of the murder, and I must have the answer.’

The Countess of Gainsborough, who had been listening with some concern, finally spoke. ‘Your Majesty’s appearance is most familiar to her subjects. You may be recognised and that could cause a crowd to gather or some other unpleasantness.’

‘Nonsense Frances. I don’t look remotely like that pretty confection they put on the stamps. Well, do I?’

At this, the Countess flushed a little, whilst Sir James suddenly discovered a spot of lint on his sleeve that required immediate attention.

‘But Your Majesty’s apparel is…most recognisable’, Sir James noted, diplomatically.

The Queen paused for a moment. This was true. She had been wearing mourning black for the last nine years, since Bertie had passed away. She was indeed universally recognised in this garb. Reluctant to dishonour Prince Albert’s memory, she hesitated.

The Queen thought on this for a while. ‘I have been considering what Prince Albert would do, were he in my position and what his wishes would be.’

'I have been considering what Prince Albert would do, were he in my position'

‘He would act, is what he would do. And so must I. Sir James, who might Mr Dickens have confided his literary thoughts to, or better still a complete manuscript?’

Albeit reluctantly, Sir James considered this for a moment and then came up with a suitable answer.

‘Wilkie Collins, ma’am. I believe he was both a good friend to Mr Dickens and also a literary confidant. Mr Collins is a noted author of suspense and mystery novels, which…’ His words withered on the royal vine. ‘Apologies ma’am.’

Nonetheless, the Queen nodded her assent, and looked down at her black mourning dress. ‘Frances’, she commanded. ‘Find me something less…less…sad!’

Chapter 2

‘Samuel ‘arkins Your Majesty, a pleasure to meet you. I recognised you immediately from the stamps.’

‘Good God man’, spluttered Sir James.

‘And very lovely you look on them, if I may say so’, continued Harkins. ‘Particularly fetching on the red ones, I found.’

The Queen flushed. ‘Thank you Mr Harkins, I believe they are a little too flattering however.’

‘Ah, but they always touch up kings and queens in the pictures, don’t they? It’s a privilege of royalty, and richly deserved. Make the most of it, I say. Only that ugly old bugger Cromwell wanted the harsh truth and he was not, as I recall, a person of the royal lineage.’

‘He most certainly was not!’, replied the Queen.

Maintaining, as best he could, his stoniest glare, Sir James said, ‘Now we have the matter of royal portraiture dealt with so comprehensively may we, please, proceed on Her Majesty’s business?’

‘Harkins at your disposal. Mind your nice shoes ladies — and gentleman — and climb aboard Her Majesty’s coach. Where are we off to?’

‘We are off to Gloucester Place, Mr Harkins. The residence of the noted author Mr Wilkie Collins.’

Sir James closed his eyes momentarily at the sound of a polite cough from the cockney footman, who had taken up his position as coach driver but as yet failed to move the horses.

‘Are you honestly suggesting that we take Her Majesty the Queen to a pub?'

‘Is there a problem with these instructions, Harkins, which are also the wishes of Her Majesty the Queen?’

‘Oh no sir, I live to serve and the Queen’s breath is my command. However as I understand it, our mission is to expeditiously locate the author Mr Wilkie Collins. As such, I believe we would be better off heading to the Hog and Hare Tavern in Whitechapel, where he spends more time than he does at home.’

Sir James scoffed expansively. ‘Are you honestly suggesting that we take Her Majesty the Queen to a pub? In Whitechapel?’

‘In the interests of our mission, I am indeed sir.’

‘Your Majesty please. This is an outrage and as your liege man and senior courtier I cannot tolerate or allow...’

‘I’ve never been to a pub before’, said the Queen, ignoring Sir James entirely. ‘Mr Dickens wrote about them a good deal though.’

‘And he frequented more than a few as well’, added Harkins from the top of the coach.

Sir James cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Your Majesty, it is not my wish to prevent you any pleasure, however dubious. But you are the Head of State and your safety is my concern. Please, I beg of you.’

The Queen considered this for a moment. Sir James could be irritating but he had a point. Recklessness was not becoming of a monarch.

‘Harkins’, she said eventually. ‘Are you armed?’

‘To the teeth ma’am, as befits a member of Your Majesty’s coaching staff and royal bodyguard. A Beaumont–Adams revolver, as issued by the General Quartermaster, and a Persian hooked knife, as removed from the body of an Afghan gentleman, North West Frontier, who was no longer in need of it.’

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed the Queen ‘Are you a very good shot also?’

‘I have been known to take aim and fire, Your Majesty’, said Sam modestly, before continuing on. ‘Shooting is a simple craft in itself, it tends to be the person being aimed at that most often presents the problem. Skills such as that do come in handy on the Khyber Pass though, a fact lost on some.

‘There isn’t a sadder sight in the world than watching a horde of marauding brigands descend upon a politely-mannered British officer who has no idea how to accurately discharge the weapon so prudently provided to him.’

Sir James placed a hand over his eyes and sighed.

Thank you Mr Harkins’, said the Queen, relaxing back into her seat. I believe the Hog and Hare in Whitechapel is our destination.’

Chapter 3

Alighting outside the Hog and Hare, Sir James turned to address the Royal party.

‘May I politely remind all concerned, that the safety of Her Majesty the Queen is paramount and as such some security measures are required. For the only time in your life, Mr Harkins, you may abandon protocol, and not address Her Majesty as, well, Her Majesty, Your Highness, The Queen or any other similar formulation. Her Majesty uses the code name Mrs Brown when travelling incognito. Please employ that usage.’

Harkins touched the brim of his hat in agreement and then nodded in the direction of the Countess of Gainsborough. ‘And milady, sir?’

‘I am Frances Noel, the Countess of Gainsborough. My dear husband refers to me as Lady Frances whilst the children prefer to address me as ma’am’, said the Lady of the Bedchamber happily.

Sir James smiled awkwardly in the manner of English public servants everywhere. ‘I believe Mr Harkins is suggesting that, in identifying you as such, we may inadvertently also identify the Queen.’

‘Wonderfully put, sir.’

‘Oh I see, how silly of me! Well, Nanny Hopkins always called me Franny Poo. So sweet.’

The two men exchanged the swiftest of glances. Sam spoke. ‘Might I suggest Miss Fran, milady. A decent name for a polite London girl.’

‘How delightful!’

---

The interior of the Hog and Hare swirled with pipe smoke and rough laughter. Queen Victoria and the Countess looked around bemusedly. ‘It is as my husband once described’, said the Countess. ‘A most male environment. And so I am surprised to see the presence of some ladies here.’

The interior of the Hog and Hare swirled with pipe smoke and rough laughter.

‘Ladies ma’am?’ enquired Harkins in a rare, albeit temporary, state of confusion.

‘The ones over there at the bar Mr Harkins, dressed in such gay and colourful attire and black stockings, laughing and drinking with the men.’

‘Ah, yes. With respect Miss Fran, they are indeed ladies but of the type — with respect to yourselves — that do actually work for a living.’

‘Women who work!’ exclaimed the Countess. ‘What wonderful modern times we live in. What role do they perform exactly?’ The Queen leaned forward inquisitively also.

Sir James Fitzgerald, who had by now turned a vivid shade of white, simply uttered the word, ‘Harkins’, one hand fluttering vaguely in Sam’s direction.

‘Indeed sir. I think now would be a most opportune moment to exercise our rights as freeborn English people and have a drink from the bar. Simply occupy a vacant seat Your Majes…Mrs Brown and Miss Fran, and his nibs and I will sort out the necessary. Do you ladies have a favoured tipple?’

The Queen smiled indulgently. ‘A glass of sweet Madeira please, and I believe the Countess of Gainsb…Miss Fran, will join me? Naturally the Household will cover all expenditures as required.’

The two men headed quickly to the bar. ‘If I might Sir James…’

‘You have spent all morning ‘mighting’ Harkins, I don’t suppose you are going to stop now.’

‘Thank you sir. Can I suggest that if you kindly do the paying, I will do the ordering. There is a certain vernacular that suits an establishment such as this. We don’t want to give the game away by ordering two glasses of sweet Madeira in the manner of the Earl of Rochester admonishing his Hindoo slaves on one of his many plantations in the godforsaken Americas.’

‘Meanwhile, I believe the gentleman you are searching for may be found at the table in the corner over there. Big fellow, bushy beard and spectacles. I’ll get a drink in for him too.’

Indeed, in the corner of the Hog and Hare tavern in Whitechapel, at a table alone, looking as solitary and sad as a person might be, sat the noted author of mystery and suspense novels, Wilkie Collins. Nodding briefly at Sam, Sir James approached the table.

‘Who? Leave me be man, I am currently indisposed.’

Sir James removed his hat and nodded gravely. ‘Yes, with regard to that. Might I offer our sincere condolences on the recent loss of your colleague, Mr Dickens. We were truly sorry to hear it.’

‘Colleague? Ha! Good God, that would have made him laugh at least. Yes, he was a colleague if you really must employ such terms. Who are you? And who is ‘we?’

‘If I may?’

Collins shrugged. ‘Sit, sir. Why not. You can buy me a drink for the pleasure I suppose.’

‘No sooner said than delivered sir’, announced a perfectly timed Harkins.

‘A pint of the Tavern’s very best ale apparently, which may not live up to advertised expectations. Sam ‘arkins sir, common Londoner and great admirer of your work. I preferred The Moonstone if I may make so bold. Had I had the brains and whiskers I should have liked to have been a detecting officer myself.’

Collins smiled. ‘A thankless task in reality Mr Harkins, but I appreciate your sentiments. And one thing sir, the character bred by this remarkable city, means there is no such thing as a common Londoner.’

Harkins nodded humbly. ‘Thank you sir. And I believe your late and esteemed friend would concur with that assessment.’

Turning to Sir James, Collins asked a little warily. ‘And so, my well-spoken friend with an odd touch of the regal about him. How may I be of assistance?’

Leaning forward conspiratorially, Sir James began to talk.

---

‘Mr Wilkie Collins ma’am. I believe he has some thoughts regarding our matter.’

The Queen leant forward excitedly to greet the author. ‘Oh good. Mr Collins, do you know what happens at the end of Edwin Drood?’

‘Ma’am, I’m sorry to report that I do not.’

‘Oh.’ The Queen sat back, deflated. ‘That is disappointing, I must admit.’

Collins inclined his head. ‘Inconvenient of Charles to drop dead without finishing his book, particularly a mystery of all things.’

The Queen flushed. ‘Quite.’

‘Ma’am, in answer to Sir James’s queries, no I do not know the ending to Edwin Drood, nor do I know if Charles had completed the entire story.’

Wilkie Collins took a sip of ale and considered the matter further.

‘However, I do know someone who might.’

Chapter 4

In a small, but well-appointed mansion in Gads Hill, Ellen Ternan, attired fully in black mourning, placed a single rose in a vase, considered it for a moment, and then took a seat looking out over the fields. The rose had been left at the door of the house, by an unknown someone. It had been two days now since Charles’s death, two days in which she had spoken to no one, only him, and only in the mind they once shared. She was taken aback therefore at the sound of a coach and horses pull up outside.

Opening the door, she was confronted by two gentlemen, one who she recognised and one she did not.

‘Wilkie’, she smiled. ‘I didn’t expect you to come by so soon.’

‘My apologies Miss Ternan, for reasons which will become clear, I was delivered earlier than I also expected. As such, may I present to you Sir James Fitzgerald, Equerry to Her Majesty Queen Victoria.’

Ternan blinked, smiled politely and then peered more closely at the coach behind Wilkie Collins, where she saw two well-dressed lady passengers, who nodded in greeting from the windows, and a coachman who tipped his hat in respect.

‘Well, this is most unexpected but not unwelcome. I suppose you had all better come in.’

---

‘So, you don’t know what happens at the end either?’ said the Queen a little despairingly.

'I’m afraid not Your Majesty. Whilst Charles talked of the plot often, he also changed his mind often, sometimes many times a day. He was subject to flights of fancy involving current, past and future stories, random fits of laughter, reading letters and dictating correspondence aloud to himself at all hours of the night and day, leaping around the office pretending to be one of his characters. He was a kind and remarkable man. But it could be hard to keep up with Charles Dickens sometimes.’

Not ready to give up quite yet, Queen Victoria persisted. ‘And no completed manuscript that you know of? Perhaps held with a close family friend or solicitor?’

‘Charles was not very fond of lawyers, I’m afraid. As for his writing, sometimes he would complete a whole novel quickly, but most often he would just…’

‘Make it up as he went along?’, said Collins with a smile.

Ellen laughed quietly. ‘More often than not, Wilkie. As for friends, he had many who were dear to him, but he guarded his manuscripts carefully, as one does with a child. If he were going to leave a completed manuscript with anyone…’

The Queen nodded. ‘Then it would be with you. I too have lost the kind of person with whom one shares only certain things. But would it not be respectful to Mr Dickens to employ someone, Mr Collins for example, to finish the story on his behalf? Everyone, including ourselves, wishes to solve the mystery of Edwin Drood.’

A polite cough was heard. ‘If I might say just one small thing?’, enquired Harkins.

Sir James smiled to himself.

‘I’m of the opinion that us clever people here could indeed piece together the bits and bobs of Mr Dickens’ sadly uncompleted work, and thus solve The mystery of Edwin Drood. As Her Majesty says, we have here the celebrated author of detective and suspense novels Mr Wilkie Collins, a specialist in the field. We have Miss Ternan, the keeper of Mr Dickens’ closest secrets. We have Her Majesty Queen Victoria no less, a devoted admirer of Mr Dickens, who has an Empire of knowledge at her command. Using all this, and with a bit of London wit, we could certainly do it.’

'Mr Dickens spoke in the other direction, from the ground up, so to speak'

Queen Victoria smiled broadly, only to be disappointed seconds later.

‘But we cannot. Because we lack the one thing that matters most, and that is the voice. No one else had that voice. When the Prime Minister speaks, he speaks for Parliament and other panjandrums. When Her Majesty speaks, she speaks for the Empire and all its people. They may well be fine words but, with the greatest respect, they are spoken down to us.’

‘As a common man himself, and in his own inimitable way, Mr Dickens spoke in the other direction, from the ground up, so to speak. And in so doing, I believe he spoke for England. I think that it is not possible to reproduce such a voice.’

A silence befell the room.

Queen Victoria cleared her throat. ‘Sir James?’

‘Whilst it pains me for a variety of reasons ma’am, I believe that Mr Harkins is correct. I imagine the entire nation wishes to find out who is the culprit in the matter of Edwin Drood. We can emulate, we can fabricate, and we can certainly imagine. But we cannot add or subtract to that which was unique.’

A longer silence was eventually broken again by the Queen.

‘Well. I thank you all for your words. But I still think it was John Jasper.’

‘A perfectly reasonable estimation, Your Majesty’, said Collins.

‘Miss Ternan, I am not Charles Dickens and, as Mr Harkins has noted, may not speak for England in the way that he so eloquently did. But as your Queen, I know I speak for the nation when I offer you our heartfelt condolences. Britain, and indeed the world, feels your loss greatly and mourns with you.’

Ellen Ternan bowed her head.

Sam clapped his hands together. ‘Well, I don’t know about you lot, but I’ve fair run out of handkerchiefs after all that. I’ve blubbed more just now than I did when poor Tiny Tim got robbed of his Christmas goose by that rotten old scoundrel Ebenezer Scrooge.’

Rising from her chair, Queen Victoria said, ‘I think we have taken enough of Miss Ternan’s time. Mr Harkins, the horses.’

---

Outside the house in Gads Hill, Sir James Fitzgerald walked to the Royal coach where footman Harkins was preparing the horses.

‘We have had an unsatisfactory result I’m afraid Sir James, for which I apologise. We did not succeed in satisfying Her Majesty’s desire for Mr Dickens’ final episode.’

‘Harkins, your apology is quite unnecessary. You have done your duty well. For whilst we did not achieve the desired result, I do believe that we achieved the correct one.’

‘Household Words, as it were’, said Sir James, with a wink.

‘I believe we did sir. Furthermore, I believe that in two hundred and fifty years time, when the British Empire is at its grandest peak and rules all those bits currently not pink, Mr Dickens’ words and characters will still be known to us all.’

‘Household Words, as it were’, said Sir James, with a wink.

Sam smiled. ‘The very phrase I was looking for sir, and more importantly the first time today that I have been thoroughly outwitted by your good self.’

Sir James tipped his hat. ‘I shall see you around the Palace, Mr Harkins.’

Climbing aboard the coach, Sam snapped his whip. ‘Mrs Brown and her posh entourage to the Palace double quick, divesting ourselves of Mr Wilkie Collins at the Hog and Hare Tavern along the way.’

Epilogue

At the mansion in Gads Hill, Ellen Ternan placed the rose in the case by the window in the hope it would have some further bloom, however brief.

Drawing down the blinds halfway, Ellen turned to a wooden writing desk in the parlour, unlocked it and looked at the large brown envelope that lay sealed in front of her. Across it, in a familiar scrawling hand, the words, ‘Ellen! Keep safe!’

Opening it for the first time, she gently emptied the contents onto the desk. Heavy, handwritten sheafs of paper toppled out, followed by a small note.

‘My dearest Ellen, wonderful news. Finally I know who killed Edwin Drood! Such a relief to have solved my own foolish conundrum. Please keep safe until publication and show no one otherwise. I am too busy, but once Drood is finished there will be more time for everything. As ever, your devoted Charles.’

Ellen looked at the sheafs.

Drood, Chapter 8, marked ‘complete’. Chapter 9, ‘complete’. Chapters 10 and 11, all complete.

Reaching the final sheaf, marked at the top as Chapter 12 - The End, Ellen Ternan read the contents and smiled, for the page was completely blank, save for one characteristic phrase, scrawled hurriedly across the middle:

‘Ellen! I’ve changed my mind!’

The End.

Author's Note

It is, of course, well-known that Charles Dickens died before completing The Mystery of Edwin Drood, leaving his global audience of admiring readers on an eternal cliffhanger. As a writer of stories published episodically, with each chapter nearly always ending as such, in order to keep his audience keen, he perhaps would have appreciated the irony. Many writers have since tried to finish Drood and 'solve' the mystery, but - as Sam Harkins correctly notes - it is simply not possible. There was only one Charles Dickens, and the characters and stories he created were unique.

Of the characters in this modest Dickensian pastiche, only Sam Harkins and Sir James Fitzgerald are fictional. To the best of my abilities, they represent at least something of the glorious world that Charles Dickens, and also Wilkie Collins, so ably conjured in their brilliant novels.