of our neighbours brought to a close an argument with another of our
neighbours with a chopper. The papers described this as a “West-End
Chopper Attack,” yet anything less “West-End,” as I understood
the expression, than Milk Row was hard to imagine. I marked that,
too. Obviously the populace found something more stimulating in a
West-End Chopper Attack than in a Chopper Attack in other areas. This
extraordinary psychological mystery took me some time to solve, but I
learnt to understand it perfectly. And so as I matured and read and
read and read, I realised that there is an absolute and comprehensive
difference between life as it appears in the Press and life as it
really is. I shall not enlarge upon that, for anyone who compares
what he reads in the papers about Sex, Religion, Sport, Business,
the Theatre, the many-coloured globe of human activity, with what
he experiences himself, knows this to be beyond dispute. When I had
proved to my satisfaction that my father was right I thought very
hard. Ninety-five per cent. of human beings must _like_ to be mugs
and mugged, I decided, must prefer soft tales to hard truths, they
must find a solace and a stimulant in being incessantly bamboozled by
the other five per cent., newspaper proprietors, bookies, bishops,
financiers and politicians. Certainly there must be a percentage of
mugs amongst these professional men, but roughly they represent my
father’s “crooks,” in other words, exploiters of the mass credulity of
the ninety-five per cent. This is not a thesis on human behaviour, so
suffice it to say that I eventually definitely decided the inhabitants
of Great Britain were ninety-five per cent. mugs and five per cent.
crooks, and I used to find great amusement and instruction in following
the workings of this truth down the most obscure and unexpected
bye-ways of our comic civilisation. I was then eighteen, a very junior
clerk. Not to act upon a profound conviction is laziness and cowardice,
so I had to make up my mind which I was to be, mug or crook, exploiter
or exploited.
With the necessity for this decision harshly exercising my mind, I went
to the White City one evening to observe the reactions of humanity
to the spectacle of a succession of thin, rather graceful hounds
in pursuit of a metal mechanism, which I discovered about as much
resembled a hare as poor Miss Flint resembled a “pretty girl.”
As a spectacle it had its points. That deep, dark pool circumscribed by
a green and tan track, the focus for the eyes of ninety-five thousand
half-wits and five thousand live-by-wits, the curious surging, harsh
hum of the Worst Hundred Thousand, the sudden appearance in the
distance of half-a-dozen tiny white two-legged figures with still
tinier four-legged figures pacing beside them, wandering round the
vast arena till they reached a sort of chicken house into which the
two-legged hoisted the dangling four-legged, who, stirred by the sound
of a bell and the sight of an individual ascending a peculiarly lousy
tower, whimpered and grumbled and thrust eager paws through the bars.
All this was admirably calculated to put the mugs into the right
mood for the crooks’ purposes. I wandered about amongst the excited,
liquor-sprung horde, fighting their way to rows of leather-lunged
sharps who, wedged like unsavoury sardines, bellowed out their inane
jargon, and exchanged pieces of cardboard with their lamentable
faces gummed upon them for the silver and paper of the Triumphs of
Evolution--and I made up my mind.
Some exploiter, a politician as far as I remember, once, in a gust
of vote-snatching sentimentality, declared he was on the side of the
angels; he would have been hard put to find an ally at the White City,
and he would certainly not have found one in me.
It would be humiliating and debasing to be a Private in the ranks
of muggery, far better to be an Officer and a crook. Only so could
I keep my self-respect. I consider that this was the decision of a
philosopher and a superior man, and I have never changed my opinion.
How to begin? I carefully studied the pages of _Truth_, an organ I have
always found most useful; it is an encyclopædia of muggery. Its editor
has kept on my track, but he is at a hopeless disadvantage, for there
is a sucker born every minute and a reader of _Truth_ perhaps once a
day, odds too great even for a Labouchere. The present editor is a
charming personality, and I have to thank his ably conducted periodical
for many of my most remunerative conceptions, but I’d have liked him in
that third coach all the same.
I decided to make a beginning with a Begging Letter. It hardly sounded
like that, for it was manly, suggesting rows of medals, a patient
little wife, and many hostages to fortune. It ended with a pathetic
suggestion of suicide, and a defiant repudiation of the dole. I sent
this to a carefully selected list, and netted £84 13s. 2d., and then I
knew that bounding sense of exhilaration which a man gains from finding
that he is destined for success in his life’s work.
Shortly after, I noticed one who was clearly a policeman in mufti
hanging about, so I changed my address. A week later _Truth_ had a
paragraph about me, and was good enough to congratulate me on my
epistolary skill, which, it suggested, would eventually bring me to a
place where I should have few opportunities of exercising it.
My next conception concerned that shocking instance of human
callousness, the Holiday Cat, or rather the cat that doesn’t get a
holiday, or a square saucer of milk, when its thoughtless owner is at
Southend. In a carefully composed epistle I reminded a large number of
maiden ladies of this sickening victimisation, and stated that I should
devote any funds provided to the cause of feline felicity. I enclosed
with it a portrait of a tortoise-shell animal in an advanced state of
emaciation. £122 10s. 3¾d. (and another change of address).
This time _Truth_ sat up and took notice. By a flash of genius it
suggested that the honest victim of circumstances, “Wilfred Town,” and
the humane Cat Lover, “John Reddy,” were one and the same person, and
expressed the opinion that this combined individual was well worthy of
mention in its Cautionary List.
From these crude beginnings I advanced to far greater subtlety and
versatility, till I was making a steady £2,000 a year--sometimes more.
But for one thing I could have retired long ago, and that is the
scandalous and narrow-minded and anachronistic bar which prevents
women from entering the Church of England Ministry. Clergymen are no
good for charitable schemes, but they are invariably attracted by
possibilities of getting a new suit of clothes by means of a little
investment proposition. Maiden ladies, while they like a flutter at
times, are splendidly charitable. The combination of these two--a
maiden lady parson! Well, it’s time our legislators were up and doing.
I was convicted once, but knowing more than a little law got off
on appeal, and _Truth’s_ exuberation was short-lived. I have had
seventy-four aliases and seventy-four changes of address.
Except in their charitable aspect, I had practically no dealings with
women for many years, but then it occurred to me that the right type
might be useful to me for business purposes. There are many little jobs
for which a woman is better than a man--one of them is getting money
out of men. I didn’t mean to embark upon blackmail--it earns too long
a sentence nowadays--and is extremely hazardous, but it is possible
for women to get money from men without going to extreme lengths. I
resolved to keep my eyes open. It was about this time that I had that
curious experience at Pantham.
I was having tea at an A.B.C. shop one afternoon when the waitress
banged down my cup and splashed some of its contents over my spats. I
began to remonstrate angrily, and found myself looking into a pair of
black indomitable eyes--battle, murder, and sudden-death eyes. So I
laughed it off and began watching her as she went from table to table.
She was tall and powerfully built, and her face, I was convinced, was
that sort which compels men--for some queer reason which has always
been a mystery to me--to behave in fatuous, unexpected, and erratic
ways. I could see by the expression on it that she was furiously
discontented and in the mood to do something drastic and dangerous to
improve her lot--in the mood to exploit male mugs, I diagnosed.
I returned to this shop the next day and had a few words with her. But
those few words on my part were very carefully chosen, and she agreed
to dine with me that night. She was in the mood I had guessed--prepared
to slip a double dose of strychnine into every cup of tea, coffee, or
bovril in the establishment. She passionately desired pretty clothes,
ease, and power. She expressed utter contempt for every member of my
sex. I believed her when she said she was a virgin. Very gently and
delicately I began to explain my means of livelihood, and suggested
she should come into partnership. This delicacy I found was quite
unnecessary, for she agreed with enthusiasm, and like a true enthusiast
expressed herself ready to begin work at once.
We started to live together the next day--quite platonically, I may
say. I spent £200 on a trousseau for her and carefully instructed her
in the technique of her business. She was a wonderfully apt pupil and
“quick study.”
Within a week she had a wealthy married member of the Stock Exchange
neatly on the hook. We had agreed that she should retain 75% of any
small sums and the value of any presents she received, and when I say
that my 25% represented £84 in five months, the generosity of this
expert in American Rails cannot be questioned. But then he began to get
a little frightened and rather bored, and he gave Charity to understand
that she was about to have a more amenable successor. The critical
moment! Now blackmail was barred, so Charity merely rang him up at his
home and his office about ten times a day, and he found her waiting
for him weeping bitterly every time he entered and left the Exchange,
much to his chagrin and the amusement of the man at the door and his
fellow-members. There is no law against ringing up business men at
home or at the office, or exhibiting all the symptoms of a broken heart
in Threadneedle Street, however much susceptible stockbrokers may
regret the fact. Charity acted beautifully, and, I believe, aroused
genuine sympathy in the breast of this speculator’s solicitor as he
handed her a cheque for £2,000, which she and I divided equally as per
contract. And she was brilliantly still a virgin!
I grew to admire her greatly, and though we had no sexual relationship
whatsoever, sometimes when I heard her turning over in bed, or saw her
coming back naked from her bath I knew vague stirrings and excitement.
But I repressed them vigorously and, indeed, they were never much more
than the ripples on a pond as compared with the combers off the Horn of
the average Mug.
Our combined income for the next three years averaged £5,000, not
one penny of which went into the coffers of the Chancellor of the
Exchequer. By now I was a badly wanted and notorious person, but I have
a sixth sense for evading the constable, and I could see retirement
and ease before me very soon, when the one thing I had considered
inconceivable happened. Charity fell in love with a poor man in the
middle stage of consumption, who most improvidently and prematurely
caused her to be with child. After she had told me this she cut short
my remonstrances and protests, by informing me she must have money to
marry on, and that I must supply it to the tune of £2,000 a year for
six years.
I replied I would make it £200 a year for three years, and not a penny
more.
“In that case,” she said, “I go round to the Editor of _Truth_
to-morrow and tell him everything.”
“And ruin yourself!” I replied. “What’s come over you? Be sensible.
Have the baby quietly, leave this young dying fool for ever, and
concentrate on business. A child might be useful to us. I’ll think that
point over.”
“I shouldn’t waste your valuable time if I were you,” she answered,
“and don’t be too sure I _shall_ ruin myself. _You’re_ the big game
they are after. If I give you away they won’t bother about me, and I
doubt if they could convict me, anyway. And I don’t mind betting the
papers will pay me anything I like to ask for my story after you’ve
been jugged.”
“Give me time to think,” I said.
Was she bluffing? I didn’t believe so. She was probably right. The
police would merely use her as evidence against me, and she would be
able to get thousands of pounds for her version of the last three
years. Yet pay her £2,000 a year for six years! It would _just not_
ruin me, and she knew it. The gross ingratitude!
I tried to get her to lower her terms, but she was adamant.
“I don’t feel well, and am going down to Folkestone to-morrow for a
week. I shall expect your answer directly I return,” was her ultimatum.
I spent the most wretched night of my life. I saw all that I had
planned for going by the board. Sooner or later I should be forced into
extreme recklessness by this dreadful drain on my resources, and then,
“Ten years’ hard labour” at least. This little vixen I had reared!
Making her teeth meet in the hand which had fed her, for the sake of
some broken-lunged piece of worm-fodder. I’d like to have flung her
into a cell full of drunken stokers! And then I dozed off, and woke in
the most confident, buoyant mood. That is why I am superstitious, for
I have had this experience several times--just when I have felt that
I was trapped at last, I have had these sudden flashes of confidence
and ease, and always something has happened to save me. It would come
this time! I went to see Charity off, pretending to be in despair, and
imploring her to make some concession.
“Oh, shut up!” she said. “I’m not doing this for myself, I’m doing it
for Jim. He’s sweet and he’s straight and I love him. Words you don’t
know the meaning of, you mixture of dirty crook and frozen fish, so you
can work for him or go to clink and work for His Majesty, and you’ve
got a week to choose.”
She had just got into a coach about half-way up the train, and I was
about to leave when my eye was caught by an individual in clerical
attire who was sauntering down the platform and glancing sharply at
the people upon it. As he drew near he seemed vaguely familiar to me.
Suddenly he saw me, and gave me a quick, meaning look. He passed close
to me, and as he went past he said slowly and distinctly, “There’s more
room in the third coach.”
The third coach! The third coach! And in a flash I saw a third coach
turn to matchwood.
“There’s more room in front, Charity,” I said. “Come along!” The
compartment was packed, and she came readily. Just as we reached the
third coach the whistle went, and I bundled her into a compartment
already filled to the brim. She gave me a venomous glance as the train
pulled out.
And then I looked round for that slightly familiar individual. He was
far down the platform by now, but he turned round, saw me, waved his
hand, and disappeared. As the train was passing out I happened to catch
my reflection in a window glass, and then I knew why he had seemed
familiar, for his face was mine!
I left the station and took a taxi to Pantham Station. During the
hour’s run I was in a state of high excitement.
About a mile from the station we were stopped by a policeman. “You
can’t go down this road,” he said, “there’s been a smash on the line.”
“What train?” I asked anxiously.
“The down Folkestone express.”
“My God!” I cried. “I had a friend in it!”
“Well,” he said, “they’ve got the killed and injured on the side of the
embankment, you’d better go down there; anyway, they want help.”
It wasn’t a pleasant sight. I identified Charity by the remnant of
her watch-garter which was still hanging to what had been her leg.
Then, saying nothing to anyone, I went away. Otherwise she was never
identified.
And then, for some reason or other, I became a clergyman. I don’t
really know why. In fact I think I’ve become that individual who told
me about that third coach.
* * * * *
Here the delicate little script came to an end, and a moment later
Lanton came back.
“Finished?” he asked. “Well, what do you think of it?”
“A very rascally and curious tale,” I replied.
“But the most curious part of it is,” said Lanton, “that there’s not a
word of truth in it.”
“What!”
“The Reverend Wellington Scot was a mild, timid, East End curate. Going
down for a holiday to Folkestone he was in the Pantham disaster, and
hurled from the third coach on to his head. He was unconscious for ten
days, and when he came to he had to come here. He spends every moment
writing that story in notebooks. He completes it twice a week. We read
it carefully to see if his narrative ever changes, but it is always
almost word for word the same. He is very docile and easy to manage so
long as he is allowed to write. For an experiment we took his writing
materials away, whereupon he delivered himself of the most appalling
filth and blasphemy I have ever heard. He never speaks unless he is
spoken to. When he first came in his face was round, chubby, and
ingenuous in expression; it has slowly lengthened, hardened, and its
expression has become cunning, watchful and malevolent. That is the
story of the Reverend Wellington Scot.”
“And the explanation?” I asked.
Lanton shrugged his shoulders.
“How can there be one? I have known somewhat similar cases, though
never so perfect, where some injury to the head has changed the
disposition and to some extent the memory, but, as I say, never to this
extent. As a matter of fact one can find traces of the curate in that
narrative. A quotation from Shelley, a familiarity with strange types,
a distaste for sex and so on, and, of course, the closing sentences;
otherwise he is, as he appears in his story, the precise opposite of
what he actually was. Perhaps you may have missed almost the most
remarkable thing. His description of the accident, as seen in his
vision, is precisely identical with that of the two eye-witnesses of
it, yet, of course, he never could have seen it, and he hasn’t read a
word since he recovered consciousness. I said just now there wasn’t a
word of truth in that narrative, but that in a sense is presumptuous
and unscientific. The fashionable theory to-day is that we each one of
us create our own particular god and our own particular universe--it
is subjectivity’s innings. We certainly create our own truths.
Fortunately in the case of most of us our truth roughly corresponds
with the truth of others. The Reverend Wellington Scot’s violently
diverges, so we have to lock him up. He has been here a year, and I
found he went to a Greyhound Racing Meeting at the White City the night
before the accident. Would you like to see him again?”
“Yes and no. On the whole, yes.”
Lanton took me along a corridor and unlocked a door. The Reverend
Wellington Scot was seated at a table, his face partly shaded by a
reading lamp. He was writing busily, but looked up after a moment and
shot that penetrating glance at me.
“I hope you have everything you want, Mr. Scot,” said Lanton.
“Yes, thank you, sir,” he replied, in the mild, slightly clipped,
slightly sing-song voice of a stage-curate, “but I have one little
question to ask of you, should the words watch-garter be hyphenated, in
your opinion, or not?”
“Hyphenated, I think,” replied Lanton.
“I am much obliged to you, and glad to find that we are in agreement. I
suppose, sir, I shall be here for some little time yet?”
“Oh yes, just for a little while longer,” said Lanton. “Good-night.”
“Good-night, sir,” he replied, his pencil already busy again.
“Poor devil,” I said, as we walked back to Lanton’s study. “Is he
happy?”
“Perfectly,” replied Lanton. “There ought to be a deep truth hidden
somewhere in that fact; and now for a drink.”
THE RED LODGE
THE RED LODGE
I am writing this from an imperative sense of duty, for I consider
the Red Lodge is a foul death-trap and utterly unfit to be a human
habitation--it has its own proper denizens--and because I know its
owner to be an unspeakable blackguard to allow it so to be used for
his financial advantage. He knows the perils of the place perfectly
well; I wrote him of our experiences, and he didn’t even acknowledge
the letter, and two days ago I saw the ghastly pest-house advertised
in _Country Life_. So anyone who rents the Red Lodge in future will
receive a copy of this document as well as some uncomfortable words
from Sir William, and that scoundrel Wilkes can take what action he
pleases.
I certainly didn’t carry any prejudice against the place down to it
with me: I had been too busy to look over it myself, but my wife
reported extremely favourably--I take her word for most things--and I
could tell by the photographs that it was a magnificent specimen of the
medium-sized Queen Anne house, just the ideal thing for me. Mary said
the garden was perfect, and there was the river for Tim at the bottom
of it. I had been longing for a holiday, and was in the highest spirits
as I travelled down. I have not been in the highest spirits since.
My first vague, faint uncertainty came to me so soon as I had crossed
the threshold. I am a painter by profession, and therefore sharply
responsive to colour tone. Well, it was a brilliantly fine day, the
hall of the Red Lodge was fully lighted, yet it seemed a shade off
the key, as it were, as though I were regarding it through a pair of
slightly darkened glasses. Only a painter would have noticed it, I
fancy.
When Mary came out to greet me, she was not looking as well as I had
hoped, or as well as a week in the country should have made her look.
“Everything all right?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” she replied, but I thought she found it difficult to say so,
and then my eye detected a curious little spot of green on the maroon
rug in front of the fireplace. I picked it up--it seemed like a patch
of river slime.
“I suppose Tim brings those in,” said Mary. “I’ve found several; of
course, he promises he doesn’t.” And then for a moment we were silent,
and a very unusual sense of constraint seemed to set a barrier between
us. I went out into the garden to smoke a cigarette before lunch, and
sat myself down under a very fine mulberry tree.