The Victorian Mystery Megapack (30 page)

“THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED.

“Sir—I wonder if anyone besides myself has been struck by the incredible bad taste of Mr. Grodman’s letter in your last issue. That he, a former servant of the Department, should publicly insult and run it down can only be charitably explained by the supposition that his judgment is failing him in his old age. In view of this letter, are the relatives of the deceased justified in entrusting him with any private documents? It is, no doubt, very good of him to undertake to avenge one whom he seems snobbishly anxious to claim as a friend; but, all things considered, should not his letter have been headed ‘The Big Bow Mystery Shelved?’ I enclose my card, and am, sir,

“Your obedient servant,

“Scotland Yard.”

* * * *

George Grodman read this letter with annoyance, and, crumpling up the paper, murmured scornfully, “Edward Wimp.”

CHAPTER V

“Yes, but what will become of the Beautiful?” said Denzil Cantercot.

“Hang the Beautiful!” said Peter Crowl, as if he were on the committee of the Academy. “Give me the True.”

Denzil did nothing of the sort. He didn’t happen to have it about him.

Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette in his landlord’s shop, and imparting an air of distinction and an agreeable aroma to the close leathery atmosphere. Crowl cobbled away, talking to his tenant without raising his eyes. He was a small, big-headed, sallow, sad-eyed man, with a greasy apron. Denzil was wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar. He was never seen without it in public during the winter. In private he removed it and sat in his shirt sleeves. Crowl was a thinker, or thought he was—which seems to involve original thinking anyway. His hair was thinning rapidly at the top, as if his brain was struggling to get as near as possible to the realities of things. He prided himself on having no fads. Few men are without some foible or hobby; Crowl felt almost lonely at times in his superiority. He was a Vegetarian, a Secularist, a Blue Ribbonite, a Republican, and an Anti-Tobacconist. Meat was a fad. Drink was a fad. Religion was a fad. Monarchy was a fad. Tobacco was a fad. “A plain man like me,” Crowl used to say, “can live without fads.”

“A plain man” was Crowl’s catchword. When of a Sunday morning he stood on Mile-end Waste, which was opposite his shop—and held forth to the crowd on the evils of kings, priests and mutton chops, the “plain man” turned up at intervals like the “theme” of a symphonic movement. “I am only a plain man and I want to know.” It was a phrase that sabered the spider-webs of logical refinement, and held them up scornfully on the point. When Crowl went for a little recreation in Victoria Park on Sunday afternoons, it was with this phrase that he invariably routed the supernaturalists. Crowl knew his Bible better than most ministers, and always carried a minutely-printed copy in his pocket, dogs-eared to mark contradictions in the text. The second chapter of Jeremiah says one thing; the first chapter of Corinthians says another. Two contradictory statements may both be true, but “I am only a plain man, and I want to know.” Crowl spent a large part of his time in setting “the word against the word.” Cock-fighting affords its votaries no acuter pleasure than Crowl derived from setting two texts by the ears. Crowl had a metaphysical genius which sent his Sunday morning disciples frantic with admiration, and struck the enemy dumb with dismay. He had discovered, for instance, that the Deity could not move, owing to already filling all space. He was also the first to invent, for the confusion of the clerical, the crucial case of a saint dying at the Antipodes contemporaneously with another in London. Both went skyward to heaven, yet the two traveled in directly opposite directions. In all eternity they would never meet. Which, then, got to heaven? Or was there no such place? “I am only a plain man, and I want to know.” Preserve us our open spaces; they exist to testify to the incurable interest of humanity in the Unknown and the Misunderstood. Even ’Arry is capable of five minutes’ attention to speculative theology, if ’Arriet isn’t in a ’urry.

Peter Crowl was not sorry to have a lodger like Denzil Cantercot, who, though a man of parts and thus worth powder and shot, was so hopelessly wrong on all subjects under the sun. In only one point did Peter Crowl agree with Denzil Cantercot—he admired Denzil Cantercot secretly. When he asked him for the True—which was about twice a day on the average—he didn’t really expect to get it from him. He knew that Denzil was a poet.

“The Beautiful,” he went on, “is a thing that only appeals to men like you. The True is for all men. The majority have the first claim. Till then you poets must stand aside. The True and the Useful—that’s what we want. The Good of Society is the only test of things. Everything stands or falls by the Good of Society.”

“The Good of Society!” echoed Denzil, scornfully. “What’s the Good of Society? The Individual is before all. The mass must be sacrificed to the Great Man. Otherwise the Great Man will be sacrificed to the mass. Without great men there would be no art. Without art life would be a blank.”

“Ah, but we should fill it up with bread and butter,” said Peter Crowl.

“Yes, it is bread and butter that kills the Beautiful,” said Denzil Cantercot bitterly. “Many of us start by following the butterfly through the verdant meadows, but we turn aside—”

“To get the grub,” chuckled Peter, cobbling away.

“Peter, if you make a jest of everything, I’ll not waste my time on you.”

Denzil’s wild eyes flashed angrily. He shook his long hair. Life was very serious to him. He never wrote comic verse intentionally.

There are three reasons why men of genius have long hair. One is, that they forget it is growing. The second is, that they like it. The third is, that it comes cheaper; they wear it long for the same reason that they wear their hats long.

Owing to this peculiarity of genius, you may get quite a reputation for lack of twopence. The economic reason did not apply to Denzil, who could always get credit with the profession on the strength of his appearance. Therefore, when street Arabs vocally commanded him to get his hair cut, they were doing no service to barbers. Why does all the world watch over barbers and conspire to promote their interests? Denzil would have told you it was not to serve the barbers, but to gratify the crowd’s instinctive resentment of originality. In his palmy days Denzil had been an editor, but he no more thought of turning his scissors against himself than of swallowing his paste. The efficacy of hair has changed since the days of Samson, otherwise Denzil would have been a Hercules instead of a long, thin, nervous man, looking too brittle and delicate to be used even for a pipe-cleaner. The narrow oval of his face sloped to a pointed, untrimmed beard. His linen was reproachable, his dingy boots were down at heel, and his cocked hat was drab with dust. Such are the effects of a love for the Beautiful.

Peter Crowl was impressed with Denzil’s condemnation of flippancy, and he hastened to turn off the joke.

“I’m quite serious,” he said. “Butterflies are no good to nothing or nobody; caterpillars at least save the birds from starving.”

“Just like your view of things, Peter,” said Denzil. “Good morning, madam.” This to Mrs. Crowl, to whom he removed his hat with elaborate courtesy. Mrs. Crowl grunted and looked at her husband with a note of interrogation in each eye. For some seconds Crowl stuck to his last, endeavoring not to see the question. He shifted uneasily on his stool. His wife coughed grimly. He looked up, saw her towering over him, and helplessly shook his head in a horizontal direction. It was wonderful how Mrs. Crowl towered over Mr. Crowl, even when he stood up in his shoes. She measured half an inch less. It was quite an optical illusion.

“Mr. Crowl,” said Mrs. Crowl, “then I’ll tell him.”

“No, no, my dear, not yet,” faltered Peter helplessly; “leave it to me.”

“I’ve left it to you long enough. You’ll never do nothing. If it was a question of provin’ to a lot of chuckleheads that Jollygee and Genesis, or some other dead and gone Scripture folk that don’t consarn no mortal soul, used to contradict each other, your tongue ’ud run thirteen to the dozen. But when it’s a matter of takin’ the bread out o’ the mouths o’ your own children, you ain’t got no more to say for yourself than a lamppost. Here’s a man stayin’ with you for weeks and weeks—eatin’ and drinkin’ the flesh off your bones—without payin’ a far—”

“Hush, hush, mother; it’s all right,” said poor Crowl, red as fire.

Denzil looked at her dreamily. “Is it possible you are alluding to me, Mrs. Crowl?” he said.

“Who then should I be alludin’ to, Mr. Cantercot? Here’s seven weeks come and gone, and not a blessed ’aypenny have I—”

“My dear Mrs. Crowl,” said Denzil, removing his cigarette from his mouth with a pained air, “why reproach me for your neglect?”

“My neglect! I like that!”

“I don’t,” said Denzil, more sharply. “If you had sent me in the bill you would have had the money long ago. How do you expect me to think of these details?”

“We ain’t so grand down here. People pays their way—they don’t get no bills,” said Mrs. Crowl, accentuating the word with infinite scorn.

Peter hammered away at a nail, as though to drown his spouse’s voice.

“It’s three pounds fourteen and eight-pence, if you’re so anxious to know,” Mrs. Crowl resumed. “And there ain’t a woman in the Mile End Road as ’ud a-done it cheaper, with bread at fourpence threefarden a quartern and landlords clamorin’ for rent every Monday morning almost afore the sun’s up and folks draggin’ and slidderin’ on till their shoes is only fit to throw after brides, and Christmas comin’ and seven-pence a week for schoolin’!”

Peter winced under the last item. He had felt it coming—like Christmas. His wife and he parted company on the question of Free Education. Peter felt that, having brought nine children into the world, it was only fair he should pay a penny a week for each of those old enough to bear educating. His better half argued that, having so many children, they ought in reason to be exempted. Only people who had few children could spare the penny. But the one point on which the cobbler-skeptic of the Mile End Road got his way was this of the fees. It was a question of conscience, and Mrs. Crowl had never made application for their remission, though she often slapped her children in vexation instead. They were used to slapping, and when nobody else slapped them they slapped one another. They were bright, ill-mannered brats, who pestered their parents and worried their teachers, and were happy as the Road was long.

“Bother the school fees!” Peter retorted, vexed. “Mr. Cantercot’s not responsible for your children.”

“I should hope not, indeed, Mr. Crowl,” Mrs. Crowl said sternly. “I’m ashamed of you.” And with that she flounced out of the shop into the back parlor.

“It’s all right,” Peter called after her soothingly. “The money’ll be all right, mother.”

In lower circles it is customary to call your wife your mother; in somewhat superior circles it is the fashion to speak of her as “the wife” as you speak of “the Stock Exchange,” or “the Thames,” without claiming any peculiar property. Instinctively men are ashamed of being moral and domesticated.

Denzil puffed his cigarette, unembarrassed. Peter bent attentively over his work, making nervous stabs with his awl. There was a long silence. An organ-grinder played a waltz outside, unregarded; and, failing to annoy anybody, moved on. Denzil lit another cigarette. The dirty-faced clock on the shop wall chimed twelve.

“What do you think,” said Crowl, “of Republics?”

“They are low,” Denzil replied. “Without a Monarch there is no visible incarnation of Authority.”

“What! do you call Queen Victoria visible?”

“Peter, do you want to drive me from the house? Leave frivolousness to women, whose minds are only large enough for domestic difficulties. Republics are low. Plato mercifully kept the poets out of his. Republics are not congenial soil for poetry.”

“What nonsense! If England dropped its fad of Monarchy and became a Republic tomorrow, do you mean to say that—?”

“I mean to say that there would be no Poet Laureate to begin with.”

“Who’s fribbling now, you or me, Cantercot? But I don’t care a button-hook about poets, present company always excepted. I’m only a plain man, and I want to know where’s the sense of givin’ any one person authority over everybody else?”

“Ah, that’s what Tom Mortlake used to say. Wait till you’re in power, Peter, with trade-union money to control, and working men bursting to give you flying angels and to carry you aloft, like a banner, huzzahing.”

“Ah, that’s because he’s head and shoulders above ’em already,” said Crowl, with a flash in his sad gray eyes. “Still, it don’t prove that I’d talk any different. And I think you’re quite wrong about his being spoiled. Tom’s a fine fellow—a man every inch of him, and that’s a good many. I don’t deny he has his weaknesses, and there was a time when he stood in this very shop and denounced that poor dead Constant. ‘Crowl,’ said he, ‘that man’ll do mischief. I don’t like these kid-glove philanthropists mixing themselves up in practical labor disputes they don’t understand.’”

Denzil whistled involuntarily. It was a piece of news.

“I daresay,” continued Crowl, “he’s a bit jealous of anybody’s interference with his influence. But in this case the jealousy did wear off, you see, for the poor fellow and he got quite pals, as everybody knows. Tom’s not the man to hug a prejudice. However, all that don’t prove nothing against Republics. Look at the Czar and the Jews. I’m only a plain man, but I wouldn’t live in Russia not for—not for all the leather in it! An Englishman, taxed as he is to keep up his Fad of Monarchy, is at least king in his own castle, whoever bosses it at Windsor. Excuse me a minute, the missus is callin’.”