"How do you know?"
"I – I was often in Stepney Green. My business took me past the house of an evening. Sometimes there was no light in her room. That meant she was downstairs gossiping with the landlady."
"She might have been out with Tom?"
"No, sir; I knew Tom was on the platform somewhere or other. He was working up to all hours organizing the eight hours working movement."
"A very good reason for relaxing his sweethearting."
"It was. He never went to Stepney Green on a week night."
"But you always did."
"No – not every night."
"You didn't go in?"
"Never. She wouldn't permit my visits. She was a girl of strong character. She always reminded me of Flora Macdonald."
"Another lady of your acquaintance?"
"A lady I know better than the shadows who surround me; who is more real to me than the women who pester me for the price for apartments. Jessie Dymond, too, was of the race of heroines. Her eyes were clear blue, two wells with Truth at the bottom of each. When I looked into those eyes my own were dazzled. They were the only eyes I could never make dreamy." He waved his hand as if making a pass with it. "It was she who had the influence over me."
"You knew her then?"
"Oh, yes. I knew Tom from the old 'New Pork Herald' days, and when I first met him with Jessie hanging on his arm he was quite proud to introduce her to a poet. When he got on he tried to shake me off."
"You should have repaid him what you borrowed."
"It – it – was only a trifle," stammered Denzil.
"Yes, but the world turns on trifles," said the wise Wimp.
"The world is itself a trifle," said the pensive poet. "The Beautiful alone is deserving of our regard."
"And when the Beautiful was not gossiping with her landlady, did she gossip with you as you passed the door?"
"Alas, no! She sat in her room reading, and cast a shadow – "
"On your life?"
"No; on the blind."
"Always one shadow?"
"No, sir. Once or twice, two."
"Ah, you had been drinking."
"On my life, not. I have sworn off the treacherous wine-cup."
"That's right. Beer is bad for poets. It makes their feet shaky. Whose was the second shadow?"
"A man's."
"Naturally. Mortlake's, perhaps?"
"Impossible. He was still striking eight hours."
"You found out whose? You didn't leave it a shadow of doubt?"
"No; I waited till the substance came out."
"It was Arthur Constant."
"You are a magician! You – you terrify me. Yes, it was he."
"Only once or twice, you say?"
"I didn't keep watch over them."
"No, no, of course not. You only passed casually. I understand you thoroughly."
Denzil did not feel comfortable at the assertion.
"What did he go there for?" Wimp went on.
"I don't know. I'd stake my soul on Jessie's honor."
"You might double your stake without risk."
"Yes, I might! I would! You see her with my eyes."
"For the moment they are the only ones available. When was the last time you saw the two together?"
"About the middle of November."
"Mortlake knew nothing of their meetings?"
"I don't know. Perhaps he did. Mr. Constant had probably enlisted her in his social mission work. I knew she was one of the attendants at the big children's tea in the Great Assembly Hall early in November. He treated her quite like a lady. She was the only attendant who worked with her hands."
"The others carried the cups on their feet, I suppose?"
"No; how could that be? My meaning is that all the other attendants were real ladies, and Jessie was only an amateur, so to speak. There was no novelty for her in handing kids cups of tea. I daresay she had helped her landlady often enough at that – there's quite a bushel of brats below stairs. It's almost as bad as at friend Crowl's. Jessie was a real brick. But perhaps Tom didn't know her value. Perhaps he didn't like Constant to call on her, and it led to a quarrel. Anyhow, she's disappeared, like the snowfall on the river. There's not a trace. The landlady, who was such a friend of hers that Jessie used to make up her stuff into dresses for nothing, tells me that she's dreadfully annoyed at not having been left the slightest clue to her late tenant's whereabouts."
"You have been making inquiries on your own account apparently."
"Only of the landlady. Jessie never even gave her the week's notice, but paid her in lieu of it, and left immediately. The landlady told me I could have knocked her down with a feather. Unfortunately, I wasn't there to do it, for I should certainly have knocked her down for not keeping her eyes open better. She says if she had only had the least suspicion beforehand that the minx (she dared to call Jessie a minx) was going, she'd have known where, or her name would have been somebody else's. And yet she admits that Jessie was looking ill and worried. Stupid old hag!"
"A woman of character," murmured the detective.
"Didn't I tell you so?" cried Denzil eagerly. "Another girl would have let out that she was going. But, no! not a word. She plumped down the money and walked out. The landlady ran upstairs. None of Jessie's things were there. She must have quietly sold them off, or transferred them to the new place. I never in my life met a girl who so thoroughly knew her own mind or had a mind so worth knowing. She always reminded me of the Maid of Saragossa."
"Indeed! And when did she leave?"
"On the 19th of November."
"Mortlake of course knows where she is?"
"I can't say. Last time I was at the house to inquire – it was at the end of November – he hadn't been seen there for six weeks. He wrote to her, of course, sometimes – the landlady knew his writing."
Wimp looked Denzil straight in the eyes, and said, "You mean, of course, to accuse Mortlake of the murder of Mr. Constant?"
"N-n-no, not at all," stammered Denzil, "only you know what Mr. Grodman wrote to the 'Pell Mell.' The more we know about Mr. Constant's life the more we shall know about the manner of his death. I thought my information would be valuable to you, and I brought it."
"And why didn't you take it to Mr. Grodman?"
"Because I thought it wouldn't be valuable to me."
"You wrote 'Criminals I Have Caught.'"
"How – how do you know that?" Wimp was startling him to-day with a vengeance.
"Your style, my dear Mr. Cantercot. The unique noble style."
"Yes, I was afraid it would betray me," said Denzil. "And since you know, I may tell you that Grodman's a mean curmudgeon. What does he want with all that money and those houses – a man with no sense of the Beautiful? He'd have taken my information, and given me more kicks than ha'pence for it, so to speak."
"Yes, he is a shrewd man after all. I don't see anything valuable in your evidence against Mortlake."
"No!" said Denzil in a disappointed tone, and fearing he was going to be robbed. "Not when Mortlake was already jealous of Mr. Constant, who was a sort of rival organizer, unpaid! A kind of blackleg doing the work cheaper – nay, for nothing."
"Did Mortlake tell you he was jealous?" said Wimp, a shade of sarcastic contempt piercing through his tones.
"Oh, yes! He said to me, 'That man will work mischief. I don't like your kid-glove philanthropists meddling in matters they don't understand.'"
"Those were his very words?"
"His ipsissima verba."
"Very well. I have your address in my files. Here is a sovereign for you."
"Only one sovereign! It's not the least use to me."
"Very well. It's of great use to me. I have a wife to keep."
"I haven't," said Denzil with a sickly smile, "so perhaps I can manage on it after all." He took his hat and the sovereign.
Outside the door he met a rather pretty servant just bringing in some tea to her master. He nearly upset her tray at sight of her. She seemed more amused at the rencontre than he.
"Good afternoon, dear," she said coquettishly. "You might let me have that sovereign. I do so want a new Sunday bonnet."
Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the hall door viciously when he got to the bottom of the stairs. He seemed to be walking arm-in-arm with the long arm of coincidence. Wimp did not hear the duologue. He was already busy on his evening's report to headquarters. The next day Denzil had a body-guard wherever he went. It might have gratified his vanity had he known it. But to-night he was yet unattended, so no one noted that he went to 46 Glover Street, after the early Crowl supper. He could not help going. He wanted to get another sovereign. He also itched to taunt Grodman. Not succeeding in the former object, he felt the road open for the second.
"Do you still hope to discover the Bow murderer?" he asked the old bloodhound.
"I can lay my hand on him now," Grodman announced curtly.
Denzil hitched his chair back involuntarily. He found conversation with detectives as lively as playing at skittles with bombshells. They got on his nerves terribly, these undemonstrative gentlemen with no sense of the Beautiful.
"But why don't you give him up to justice?" he murmured.
"Ah – it has to be proved yet. But it is only a matter of time."
"Oh!" said Denzil, "and shall I write the story for you?"
"No. You will not live long enough."
Denzil turned white. "Nonsense! I am years younger than you," he gasped.
"Yes," said Grodman, "but you drink so much."
CHAPTER VII
When Wimp invited Grodman to eat his Christmas plum-pudding at King's Cross Grodman was only a little surprised. The two men were always overwhelmingly cordial when they met, in order to disguise their mutual detestation. When people really like each other, they make no concealment of their mutual contempt. In his letter to Grodman, Wimp said that he thought it would be nicer for him to keep Christmas in company than in solitary state. There seems to be a general prejudice in favor of Christmas numbers, and Grodman yielded to it. Besides, he thought that a peep at the Wimp domestic interior would be as good as a pantomime. He quite enjoyed the fun that was coming, for he knew that Wimp had not invited him out of mere "peace and goodwill."
There was only one other guest at the festive board. This was Wimp's wife's mother's mother, a lady of sweet seventy. Only a minority of mankind can obtain a grandmother-in-law by marrying, but Wimp was not unduly conceited. The old lady suffered from delusions. One of them was that she was a centenarian. She dressed for the part. It is extraordinary what pains ladies will take to conceal their age. Another of Wimp's grandmother-in-law's delusions was that Wimp had married to get her into the family. Not to frustrate his design, she always gave him her company on high-days and holidays. Wilfred Wimp – the little boy who stole the jam – was in great form at the Christmas dinner. The only drawback to his enjoyment was that its sweets needed no stealing. His mother presided over the platters, and thought how much cleverer Grodman was than her husband. When the pretty servant who waited on them was momentarily out of the room, Grodman had remarked that she seemed very inquisitive. This coincided with Mrs. Wimp's own convictions, though Mr. Wimp could never be brought to see anything unsatisfactory or suspicious about the girl, not even though there were faults in spelling in the "character" with which her last mistress had supplied her.
It was true that the puss had pricked up her ears when Denzil Cantercot's name was mentioned. Grodman saw it and watched her, and fooled Wimp to the top of his bent. It was, of course, Wimp who introduced the poet's name, and he did it so casually that Grodman perceived at once that he wished to pump him. The idea that the rival bloodhound should come to him for confirmation of suspicions against his own pet jackal was too funny. It was almost as funny to Grodman that evidence of some sort should be obviously lying to hand in the bosom of Wimp's hand-maiden; so obviously that Wimp could not see it. Grodman enjoyed his Christmas dinner, secure that he had not found a successor after all. Wimp, for his part, contemptuously wondered at the way Grodman's thought hovered about Denzil without grazing the truth. A man constantly about him, too!
"Denzil is a man of genius," said Grodman. "And as such comes under the heading of Suspicious Characters. He has written an Epic Poem and read it to me. It is morbid from start to finish. There is 'death' in the third line. I daresay you know he polished up my book." Grodman's artlessness was perfect.
"No. You surprise me," Wimp replied. "I'm sure he couldn't have done much to it. Look at your letter in the 'Pell Mell.' Who wants more polish and refinement than that showed?"
"Ah, I didn't know you did me the honor of reading that."
"Oh, yes; we both read it," put in Mrs. Wimp. "I told Mr. Wimp it was clever and cogent. After that quotation from the letter to the poor fellow's fiancée there could be no more doubt but that it was murder. Mr. Wimp was convinced by it, too, weren't you, Edward?"
Edward coughed uneasily. It was a true statement, and therefore an indiscreet. Grodman would plume himself terribly. At this moment Wimp felt that Grodman had been right in remaining a bachelor. Grodman perceived the humor of the situation, and wore a curious, sub-mocking smile.
"On the day I was born," said Wimp's grandmother-in-law, "over a hundred years ago, there was a babe murdered." Wimp found himself wishing it had been she. He was anxious to get back to Cantercot. "Don't let us talk shop on Christmas Day," he said, smiling at Grodman. "Besides, murder isn't a very appropriate subject."
"No, it ain't," said Grodman. "How did we get on to it? Oh, yes – Denzil Cantercot. Ha! ha! ha! That's curious, for since Denzil wrote 'Criminals I have Caught,' his mind's running on nothing but murders. A poet's brain is easily turned."
Wimp's eye glittered with excitement and contempt for Grodman's blindness. In Grodman's eye there danced an amused scorn of Wimp; to the outsider his amusement appeared at the expense of the poet.
Having wrought his rival up to the highest pitch Grodman slyly and suddenly unstrung him.
"How lucky for Denzil!" he said, still in the same naive, facetious Christmasy tone, "that he can prove an alibi in this Constant affair."
"An alibi!" gasped Wimp. "Really?"
"Oh, yes. He was with his wife, you know. She's my woman of all work, Jane. She happened to mention his being with her."
Jane had done nothing of the kind. After the colloquy he had overheard Grodman had set himself to find out the relation between his two employes. By casually referring to Denzil as "your husband" he so startled the poor woman that she did not attempt to deny the bond. Only once did he use the two words, but he was satisfied. As to the alibi he had not yet troubled her; but to take its existence for granted would upset and discomfort Wimp. For the moment that was triumph enough for Wimp's guest.
"Par," said Wilfred Wimp, "what's a alleybi? A marble?"
"No, my lad," said Grodman, "it means being somewhere else when you're supposed to be somewhere."
"Ah, playing truant," said Wilfred self-consciously; his schoolmaster had often proved an alibi against him. "Then Denzil will be hanged."
Was it a prophecy? Wimp accepted it as such; as an oracle from the gods bidding him mistrust Grodman. Out of the mouths of little children issueth wisdom; sometimes even when they are not saying their lessons.
"When I was in my cradle, a century ago," said Wimp's grandmother-in-law, "men were hanged for stealing horses."
They silenced her with snapdragon performances.
Wimp was busy thinking how to get at Grodman's factotum.
Grodman was busy thinking how to get at Wimp's domestic.
Neither received any of the usual messages from the Christmas Bells.
The next day was sloppy and uncertain. A thin rain drizzled languidly. One can stand that sort of thing on a summer Bank Holiday; one expects it. But to have a bad December Bank Holiday is too much of a bad thing. Some steps should surely be taken to confuse the weather clerk's chronology. Once let him know that Bank Holiday is coming, and he writes to the company for more water. To-day his stock seemed low and he was dribbling it out; at times the wintry sun would shine in a feeble, diluted way, and though the holiday-makers would have preferred to take their sunshine neat, they swarmed forth in their myriads whenever there was a ray of hope. But it was only dodging the raindrops; up went the umbrellas again, and the streets became meadows of ambulating mushrooms.
Denzil Cantercot sat in his fur overcoat at the open window, looking at the landscape in water colors. He smoked an after-dinner cigarette, and spoke of the Beautiful. Crowl was with him. They were in the first floor front, Crowl's bedroom, which, from its view of the Mile End Road, was livelier than the parlor with its outlook on the backyard. Mrs. Crowl was an anti-tobacconist as regards the best bedroom; but Peter did not like to put the poet or his cigarette out. He felt there was something in common between smoke and poetry, over and above their being both Fads. Besides, Mrs. Crowl was sulking in the kitchen. She had been arranging for an excursion with Peter and the children to Victoria Park. She had dreamed of the Crystal Palace, but Santa Claus had put no gifts in the cobbler's shoes. Now she could not risk spoiling the feather in her bonnet. The nine brats expressed their disappointment by slapping one another on the staircases. Peter felt that Mrs. Crowl connected him in some way with the rainfall, and was unhappy. Was it not enough that he had been deprived of the pleasure of pointing out to a superstitious majority the mutual contradictions of Leviticus and the Song of Solomon? It was not often that Crowl could count on such an audience.
"And you still call Nature beautiful?" he said to Denzil, pointing to the ragged sky and the dripping eaves. "Ugly old scarecrow!"
"Ugly she seems to-day," admitted Denzil. "But what is Ugliness but a higher form of Beauty? You have to look deeper into it to see it; such vision is the priceless gift of the few. To me this wan desolation of sighing rain is lovely as the sea-washed ruins of cities."
"Ah, but you wouldn't like to go out in it," said Peter Crowl. As he spoke the drizzle suddenly thickened into a torrent.
"We do not always kiss the woman we love."
"Speak for yourself, Denzil. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know if Nature isn't a Fad. Hallo, there goes Mortlake! Lord, a minute of this will soak him to the skin."
The labor leader was walking along with bowed head. He did not seem to mind the shower. It was some seconds before he even heard Crowl's invitation to him to take shelter. When he did hear it he shook his head.
"I know I can't offer you a drawing-room with duchesses stuck about it," said Peter, vexed.
Tom turned the handle of the shop door and went in. There was nothing in the world which now galled him more than the suspicion that he was stuck-up and wished to cut old friends. He picked his way through the nine brats who clung affectionately to his wet knees, dispersing them finally by a jet of coppers to scramble for. Peter met him on the stair and shook his hand lovingly and admiringly, and took him into Mrs. Crowl's bedroom.
"Don't mind what I say, Tom. I'm only a plain man, and my tongue will say what comes uppermost! But it ain't from the soul, Tom, it ain't from the soul," said Peter, punning feebly, and letting a mirthless smile play over his sallow features. "You know Mr. Cantercot, I suppose? The poet."
"Oh, yes; how do you do, Tom? Seen the 'New Pork Herald' lately? Not bad, those old times, eh?"
"No," said Tom, "I wish I was back in them."
"Nonsense, nonsense," said Peter, in much concern. "Look at the good you are doing to the working man. Look how you are sweeping away the Fads. Ah, it's a grand thing to be gifted, Tom. The idea of your chuckin' yourself away on a composin' room! Manual labor is all very well for plain men like me, with no gift but just enough brains to see into the realities of things – to understand that we've got no soul and no immortality, and all that – and too selfish to look after anybody's comfort but my own and mother's and the kid's. But men like you and Cantercot – it ain't right that you should be peggin' away at low material things. Not that I think Cantercot's gospel's any value to the masses. The Beautiful is all very well for folks who've got nothing else to think of, but give me the True. You're the man for my money, Mortlake. No reference to the funds, Tom, to which I contribute little enough, Heaven knows; though how a place can know anything, Heaven alone knows. You give us the Useful, Tom; that's what the world wants more than the Beautiful."
"Socrates said that the Useful is the Beautiful," said Denzil.
"That may be," said Peter, "but the Beautiful ain't the Useful."
"Nonsense!" said Denzil. "What about Jessie – I mean Miss Dymond? There's a combination for you. She always reminds me of Grace Darling. How is she, Tom?"
"She's dead!" snapped Tom.
"What?" Denzil turned as white as a Christmas ghost.
"It was in the papers," said Tom; "all about her and the lifeboat."
"Oh, you mean Grace Darling," said Denzil, visibly relieved. "I meant Miss Dymond."
"You needn't be so interested in her," said Tom, surlily. "She don't appreciate it. Ah, the shower is over. I must be going."
"No, stay a little longer, Tom," pleaded Peter. "I see a lot about you in the papers, but very little of your dear old phiz now. I can't spare the time to go and hear you. But I really must give myself a treat. When's your next show?"
"Oh, I am always giving shows," said Tom, smiling a little. "But my next big performance is on the twenty-first of January, when that picture of poor Mr. Constant is to be unveiled at the Bow Break o' Day Club. They have written to Gladstone and other big pots to come down. I do hope the old man accepts. A non-political gathering like this is the only occasion we could both speak at, and I have never been on the same platform with Gladstone."
He forgot his depression and ill-temper in the prospect, and spoke with more animation.
"No, I should hope not, Tom," said Peter. "What with his Fads about the Bible being a Rock, and Monarchy being the right thing, he is a most dangerous man to lead the Radicals. He never lays his ax to the root of anything – except oak trees."
"Mr. Cantycot!" It was Mrs. Crowl's voice that broke in upon the tirade. "There's a gentleman to see you." The astonishment Mrs. Crowl put into the "gentleman" was delightful. It was almost as good as a week's rent to her to give vent to her feelings. The controversial couple had moved away from the window when Tom entered, and had not noticed the immediate advent of another visitor who had spent his time profitably in listening to Mrs. Crowl before asking to see the presumable object of his visit.
"Ask him up if it's a friend of yours, Cantercot," said Peter. It was Wimp. Denzil was rather dubious as to the friendship, but he preferred to take Wimp diluted. "Mortlake's upstairs," he said. "Will you come up and see him?"
Wimp had intended a duologue, but he made no objection, so he, too, stumbled through the nine brats to Mrs. Crowl's bedroom. It was a queer quartette. Wimp had hardly expected to find anybody at the house on Boxing Day, but he did not care to waste a day. Was not Grodman, too, on the track? How lucky it was that Denzil had made the first overtures, so that he could approach him without exciting suspicion.
Mortlake scowled when he saw the detective. He objected to the police – on principle. But Crowl had no idea who the visitor was, even when told his name. He was rather pleased to meet one of Denzil's high-class friends, and welcomed him warmly. Probably he was some famous editor, which would account for his name stirring vague recollections. He summoned the eldest brat and sent him for beer (people would have their Fads), and not without trepidation called down to "Mother" for glasses. "Mother" observed at night (in the same apartment) that the beer money might have paid the week's school fees for half the family.
"We were just talking of poor Mr. Constant's portrait, Mr. Wimp," said the unconscious Crowl; "they're going to unveil it, Mortlake tells me, on the twenty-first of next month at the Bow Break o' Day Club."
"Ah," said Wimp, elated at being spared the trouble of maneuvering the conversation; "mysterious affair that, Mr. Crowl."
"No; it's the right thing," said Peter. "There ought to be some memorial of the man in the district where he worked and where he died, poor chap." The cobbler brushed away a tear.
"Yes, it's only right," echoed Mortlake a whit eagerly. "He was a noble fellow, a true philanthropist. The only thoroughly unselfish worker I've ever met."
"He was that," said Peter; "and it's a rare pattern is unselfishness. Poor fellow, poor fellow. He preached the Useful, too. I've never met his like. Ah, I wish there was a Heaven for him to go to!" He blew his nose violently with a red pocket-handkerchief.
"Well, he's there, if there is," said Tom.
"I hope he is," added Wimp fervently; "but I shouldn't like to go there the way he did."
"You were the last person to see him, Tom, weren't you?" said Denzil.
"Oh, no," answered Tom quickly. "You remember he went out after me; at least, so Mrs. Drabdump said at the inquest."
"That last conversation he had with you, Tom," said Denzil. "He didn't say anything to you that would lead you to suppose – "
"No, of course not!" interrupted Mortlake impatiently.
"Do you really think he was murdered, Tom?" said Denzil.
"Mr. Wimp's opinion on that point is more valuable than mine," replied Tom, testily. "It may have been suicide. Men often get sick of life – especially if they are bored," he added meaningly.
"Ah, but you were the last person known to be with him," said Denzil.
Crowl laughed. "Had you there, Tom."
But they did not have Tom there much longer, for he departed, looking even worse-tempered than when he came. Wimp went soon after, and Crowl and Denzil were left to their interminable argumentation concerning the Useful and the Beautiful.
Wimp went west. He had several strings (or cords) to his bow, and he ultimately found himself at Kensal Green Cemetery. Being there, he went down the avenues of the dead to a grave to note down the exact date of a death. It was a day on which the dead seemed enviable. The dull, sodden sky, the dripping, leafless trees, the wet spongy soil, the reeking grass – everything combined to make one long to be in a warm, comfortable grave, away from the leaden ennui of life. Suddenly the detective's keen eye caught sight of a figure that made his heart throb with sudden excitement. It was that of a woman in a gray shawl and a brown bonnet standing before a railed-in grave. She had no umbrella. The rain plashed mournfully upon her, but left no trace on her soaking garments. Wimp crept up behind her, but she paid no heed to him. Her eyes were lowered to the grave, which seemed to be drawing them toward it by some strange morbid fascination. His eyes followed hers. The simple headstone bore the name: "Arthur Constant."
Wimp tapped her suddenly on the shoulder.
Mrs. Drabdump went deadly white. She turned round, staring at Wimp without any recognition.
"You remember me, surely," he said. "I've been down once or twice to your place about that poor gentleman's papers." His eye indicated the grave.
"Lor! I remember you now," said Mrs. Drabdump.
"Won't you come under my umbrella? You must be drenched to the skin."
"It don't matter, sir. I can't take no hurt. I've had the rheumatics this twenty year."
Mrs. Drabdump shrank from accepting Wimp's attentions, not so much perhaps because he was a man as because he was a gentleman. Mrs. Drabdump liked to see the fine folks keep their place, and not contaminate their skirts by contact with the lower castes. "It's set wet, it'll rain right into the new year," she announced. "And they say a bad beginnin' makes a worse endin'." Mrs. Drabdump was one of those persons who give you the idea that they just missed being born barometers.
"But what are you doing in this miserable spot, so far from home?" queried the detective.
"It's Bank Holiday," Mrs. Drabdump reminded him in tones of acute surprise. "I always make a hexcursion on Bank Holiday."