The Victorian Mystery Megapack (31 page)

“Excuse
me
a minute. I’m going, and I want to say before I go—I feel it is only right you should know at once—that after what has passed today I can never be on the same footing here as in the—shall I say pleasant?—days of yore.”

“Oh, no, Cantercot. Don’t say that; don’t say that!” pleaded the little cobbler.

“Well, shall I say unpleasant, then?”

“No, no, Cantercot. Don’t misunderstand me. Mother has been very much put to it lately to rub along. You see she has such a growing family. It grows—daily. But never mind her. You pay whenever you’ve got the money.”

Denzil shook his head. “It cannot be. You know when I came here first I rented your top room and boarded myself. Then I learnt to know you. We talked together. Of the Beautiful. And the Useful. I found you had no soul. But you were honest, and I liked you. I went so far as to take my meals with your family. I made myself at home in your back parlor. But the vase has been shattered (I do not refer to that on the mantelpiece), and though the scent of the roses may cling to it still, it can be pieced together—nevermore.” He shook his hair sadly and shambled out of the shop. Crowl would have gone after him, but Mrs. Crowl was still calling, and ladies must have the precedence in all polite societies.

Cantercot went straight—or as straight as his loose gait permitted—to 46 Glover Street, and knocked at the door. Grodman’s factotum opened it. She was a pock-marked person, with a brickdust complexion and a coquettish manner.

“Oh, here we are again!” she said vivaciously.

“Don’t talk like a clown,” Cantercot snapped. “Is Mr. Grodman in?”

“No, you’ve put him out,” growled the gentleman himself, suddenly appearing in his slippers. “Come in. What the devil have you been doing with yourself since the inquest? Drinking again?”

“I’ve sworn off. Haven’t touched a drop since—”

“The murder?”

“Eh?” said Denzil Cantercot, startled. “What do you mean?”

“What I say. Since December 4, I reckon everything from that murder, now, as they reckon longitude from Greenwich.”

“Oh,” said Denzil Cantercot.

“Let me see. Nearly a fortnight. What a long time to keep away from Drink—and Me.”

“I don’t know which is worse,” said Denzil, irritated. “You both steal away my brains.”

“Indeed?” said Grodman, with an amused smile. “Well, it’s only petty pilfering, after all. What’s put salt on your wounds?”

“The twenty-fourth edition of my book.”

“Whose book?”

“Well, your book. You must be making piles of money out of
Criminals I Have Caught
.”

“
Criminals I Have Caught
,” corrected Grodman. “My dear Denzil, how often am I to point out that I went through the experiences that make the backbone of my book, not you? In each case I cooked the criminal’s goose. Any journalist could have supplied the dressing.”

“The contrary. The journeymen of journalism would have left the truth naked. You yourself could have done that—for there is no man to beat you at cold, lucid, scientific statement. But I idealized the bare facts and lifted them into the realm of poetry and literature. The twenty-fourth edition of the book attests my success.”

“Rot! The twenty-fourth edition was all owing to the murder! Did you do that?”

“You take one up so sharply, Mr. Grodman,” said Denzil, changing his tone.

“No—I’ve retired,” laughed Grodman.

Denzil did not reprove the ex-detective’s flippancy. He even laughed a little.

“Well, give me another fiver, and I’ll cry ‘quits.’ I’m in debt.”

“Not a penny. Why haven’t you been to see me since the murder? I had to write that letter to the ‘Pell Mell Press’ myself. You might have earned a crown.”

“I’ve had writer’s cramp, and couldn’t do your last job. I was coming to tell you so on the morning of the—”

“Murder. So you said at the inquest.”

“It’s true.”

“Of course. Weren’t you on your oath? It was very zealous of you to get up so early to tell me. In which hand did you have this cramp?”

“Why, in the right, of course.”

“And you couldn’t write with your left?”

“I don’t think I could even hold a pen.”

“Or any other instrument, mayhap. What had you been doing to bring it on?”

“Writing too much. That is the only possible cause.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Writing what?”

Denzil hesitated. “An epic poem.”

“No wonder you’re in debt. Will a sovereign get you out of it?”

“No; it wouldn’t be the least use to me.”

“Here it is, then.”

Denzil took the coin and his hat.

“Aren’t you going to earn it, you beggar? Sit down and write something for me.”

Denzil got pen and paper, and took his place.

“What do you want me to write?”

“The Epic Poem.”

Denzil started and flushed. But he set to work. Grodman leaned back in his armchair and laughed, studying the poet’s grave face.

Denzil wrote three lines and paused.

“Can’t remember any more? Well, read me the start.”

Denzil read:

“Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit

Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste

Brought death into the world—”

“Hold on!” cried Grodman; “what morbid subjects you choose, to be sure.”

“Morbid! Why, Milton chose the same subject!”

“Blow Milton. Take yourself off—you and your Epics.”

Denzil went. The pock-marked person opened the street door for him.

“When am I to have that new dress, dear?” she whispered coquettishly.

“I have no money, Jane,” he said shortly.

“You have a sovereign.”

Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the door viciously. Grodman overheard their whispers, and laughed silently. His hearing was acute. Jane had first introduced Denzil to his acquaintance about two years ago, when he spoke of getting an amanuensis, and the poet had been doing odd jobs for him ever since. Grodman argued that Jane had her reasons. Without knowing them he got a hold over both. There was no one, he felt, he could not get a hold over. All men—and women—have something to conceal, and you have only to pretend to know what it is. Thus Grodman, who was nothing if not scientific.

Denzil Cantercot shambled home thoughtfully, and abstractedly took his place at the Crowl dinner-table.

CHAPTER VI

Mrs. Crowl surveyed Denzil Cantercot so stonily and cut him his beef so savagely that he said grace when the dinner was over. Peter fed his metaphysical genius on tomatoes. He was tolerant enough to allow his family to follow their Fads; but no savory smells ever tempted him to be false to his vegetable loves. Besides, meat might have reminded him too much of his work. There is nothing like leather, but Bow beefsteaks occasionally come very near it.

After dinner Denzil usually indulged in poetic reverie. But today he did not take his nap. He went out at once to “raise the wind.” But there was a dead calm everywhere. In vain he asked for an advance at the office of the “Mile End Mirror,” to which he contributed scathing leaderettes about vestrymen. In vain he trudged to the city and offered to write the “Ham and Eggs Gazette” an essay on the modern methods of bacon-curing. Denzil knew a great deal about the breeding and slaughtering of pigs, smoke-lofts and drying processes, having for years dictated the policy of the “
New Pork Herald
” in these momentous matters. Denzil also knew a great deal about many other esoteric matters, including weaving machines, the manufacture of cabbage leaves and snuff, and the inner economy of drain-pipes. He had written for the trade papers since boyhood. But there is great competition on these papers. So many men of literary gifts know all about the intricate technicalities of manufactures and markets, and are eager to set the trade right. Grodman perhaps hardly allowed sufficiently for the step backward that Denzil made when he devoted his whole time for months to
Criminals I Have Caught
. It was as damaging as a debauch. For when your rivals are pushing forward, to stand still is to go back.

In despair Denzil shambled toilsomely to Bethnal Green. He paused before the window of a little tobacconist’s shop, wherein was displayed a placard announcing:

“PLOTS FOR SALE.”

The announcement went on to state that a large stock of plots was to be obtained on the premises—embracing sensational plots, humorous plots, love plots, religious plots, and poetic plots; also complete manuscripts, original novels, poems and tales. Apply within.

It was a very dirty-looking shop, with begrimed bricks and blackened woodwork. The window contained some musty old books, an assortment of pipes and tobacco, and a large number of the vilest daubs unhung, painted in oil on Academy boards, and unframed. These were intended for landscapes, as you could tell from the titles. The most expensive was “Chingford Church,” and it was marked 1s. 9d. The others ran from 6d. to 1s. 3d., and were mostly representations of Scotch scenery—a loch with mountains in the background, with solid reflections in the water and a tree in the foreground. Sometimes the tree would be in the background. Then the loch would be in the foreground. Sky and water were intensely blue in all. The name of the collection was “Original oil paintings done by hand.” Dust lay thick upon everything, as if carefully shoveled on; and the proprietor looked as if he slept in his shop window at night without taking his clothes off. He was a gaunt man with a red nose, long but scanty black locks covered by a smoking cap, and a luxuriant black mustache. He smoked a long clay pipe, and had the air of a broken-down operatic villain.

“Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Cantercot,” he said, rubbing his hands, half from cold, half from usage; “what have you brought me?”

“Nothing,” said Denzil, “but if you will lend me a sovereign I’ll do you a stunner.”

The operatic villain shook his locks, his eyes full of pawky cunning. “If you did it after that it would be a stunner.”

What the operatic villain did with these plots, and who bought them, Cantercot never knew nor cared to know. Brains are cheap today, and Denzil was glad enough to find a customer.

“Surely you’ve known me long enough to trust me,” he cried.

“Trust is dead,” said the operatic villain, puffing away.

“So is Queen Anne,” cried the irritated poet. His eyes took a dangerous hunted look. Money he must have. But the operatic villain was inflexible. No plot, no supper.

Poor Denzil went out flaming. He knew not where to turn. Temporarily he turned on his heel again and stared despairingly at the shop window. Again he read the legend:

“PLOTS FOR SALE.”

He stared so long at this that it lost its meaning. When the sense of the words suddenly flashed upon him again, they bore a new significance. He went in meekly, and borrowed fourpence of the operatic villain. Then he took the ’bus for Scotland Yard. There was a not ill-looking servant girl in the ’bus. The rhythm of the vehicle shaped itself into rhymes in his brain. He forgot all about his situation and his object. He had never really written an epic—except “Paradise Lost”—but he composed lyrics about wine and women and often wept to think how miserable he was. But nobody ever bought anything of him, except articles on bacon-curing or attacks on vestrymen. He was a strange, wild creature, and the wench felt quite pretty under his ardent gaze. It almost hypnotized her, though, and she looked down at her new French kid boots to escape it.

At Scotland Yard Denzil asked for Edward Wimp. Edward Wimp was not on view. Like kings and editors, Detectives are difficult of approach—unless you are a criminal, when you cannot see anything of them at all. Denzil knew of Edward Wimp, principally because of Grodman’s contempt for his successor. Wimp was a man of taste and culture. Grodman’s interests were entirely concentrated on the problems of logic and evidence. Books about these formed his sole reading; for
belles lettres
he cared not a straw. Wimp, with his flexible intellect, had a great contempt for Grodman and his slow, laborious, ponderous, almost Teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse the radiant tradition of Grodman by some wonderfully ingenious bits of workmanship. Wimp was at his greatest in collecting circumstantial evidence; in putting two and two together to make five. He would collect together a number of dark and disconnected data and flash across them the electric light of some unifying hypothesis in a way which would have done credit to a Darwin or a Faraday. An intellect which might have served to unveil the secret workings of nature was subverted to the protection of a capitalistic civilization.

By the assistance of a friendly policeman, whom the poet magnetized into the belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzil obtained the great detective’s private address. It was near King’s Cross. By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon. He was writing when Denzil was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but he got up and flashed the bull’s-eye of his glance upon the visitor.