* * * * *
Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 105, December 30, 1893.
_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_
* * * * *
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF MR. "MINCE-PIE,"
_THE_ M.P. FOR CHRISTMAS.]
* * * * *
THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.
(_By Cunnin Toil._)
No. VII.--THE STOLEN MARCH.
(_Continued._)
As soon as we entered the drawing-room all the little GUMPSHONS
clapped their hands with delight, and surrounded their Uncle PICKLOCK,
each of them attempting to infer from the expression on the great
detective's countenance what it was that he carried in his left
coat-tail pocket. "I know what it is," said EDGAR ALLAN POE GUMPSHON,
a boy of fifteen; "it's plum-cake. I know it must be, because I never
seed it, so it ain't seed-cake." GABORIAU GUMPSHON, aged thirteen,
opined it was a packet of bull's-eyes, "'cos that's what detectives
always carry on dark nights," whilst ANN RADCLIFFE GUMPSHON declared
with certainty that it must be nuts, for she had just heard a cracker
explode in the street. "Children," said PICKLOCK HOLES, "you are
nearly right. Your powers have much improved. I am delighted to see
that you are kept up to the mark;" and, speaking thus, he produced
from his pocket an apple, which he presented to EDGAR, a pocket-knife
which he handed to the jubilant GABORIAU, and a pincushion, which was
immediately clasped and carried off in the chubby hand of little ANN
RADCLIFFE. "A year ago," said PICKLOCK, turning to me, "these children
could not have reasoned inductively with one half of their present
approximate accuracy; but my dear sister, Heaven bless her! is a
wonderful teacher, the best and cleverest of us all. Indeed, indeed
you are, PHILIPPA," he continued, warmly embracing Mrs. GUMPSHON. "I
am a mere bungler compared to you. But come, let us to business." At
a signal from Lady HOLES the happy children trooped off to bed, and we
elders were left alone.
Sir AMINADAB opened the conversation. "I sent for you, my dear boy,"
he said, "because I have just received from one of my agents in
the North information of an important case which demands immediate
investigation. Neither HAYLOFT nor SKAIRKROW can go, having business
that keeps them in London. I look, therefore, to you to cover the
family name with new lustre by solving this extraordinary mystery."
Here the old man paused, as though overcome by emotion. PICKLOCK
encouraged him with an expressive look, and he continued:--
"This morning," he said, "I received from my agent this letter." He
drew a sheet of paper from his breast-pocket, and read, in tremulous
tones, as follows:--
"'_Tochtachie Castle, Daffshire._
"'SIR,--Lord TOCHTACHIE has been robbed. I overheard him last night
conversing with the Hon. IAN STRUNACHAR, his eldest son, who used the
following words: "Not a doubt of it. They have stolen a march----"
More I could not hear at the moment. The case is of immense
importance, and I trust you will lose no time in sending a competent
investigator. I have, of course, concealed both my presence here and
my knowledge of the theft from his lordship.
"'Yours faithfully, 'DAVID MCPHIZZLE.'"
"There, my boy, is the case. Will you go and help a Scotch
representative peer to recover his own? Think how terrible it must
be to lose the march or boundary that separates your ancestral
domain from that of a neighbour whose whole course of life may be
antipathetic to you. Will you go?"
A wave of emotion passed over my friend's face. I could see that
a struggle of no ordinary kind was raging in his breast. Finally,
however, he looked at me, and his mind, I knew, was made up. In
another ten minutes we had bidden adieu to his family, and were
speeding northwards in the Scotch express.
Over the details of the journey it is not necessary to linger. Suffice
it to say that on the following morning we arrived at Tochtachie, and
took up our quarters in a deserted barn situated in the very centre of
the estate. From this point we pursued our investigations. Our first
proceeding was to interview the local constabulary, but we found them
as obtuse and as foolishly incredulous as policemen are all the world
over. One of them, indeed, went so far as to hint that HOLES was
"havering," which I understand to be an ancient Gaelic word signifying
metaphysical talk, but a look from the great detective chilled him
into silence. Day by day we worked, and not even the night gave us
a rest from our self-sacrificing labours. We mapped out the whole
district into square yards; we gathered the life-history of every
single inhabitant on the estate; we left no clue untracked, no
loophole unblocked, no single piece of evidence unexamined, no
footstep unmeasured. We collected every scrap of torn letter, every
crumpled telegram-form. The very heather of the moor, and the trees
growing in the policies of the Castle were compelled by HOLES'
marvellous inductive powers to yield to us their secrets, until after
weeks of patient toil we at last judged ourselves to be in possession
not only of the stolen march, but also of evidence that would bring
conviction home to the guilty party. We had paused, I remember, by a
heap of granite at the roadside. HOLES seemed strangely excited. "A
march," I heard him muttering, "is performed by footsteps; steps are
often made of stone. Can this be it? It must be! It is!" Then, with
a shout of triumph, he gave orders to have the heap loaded on to a
country cart, which was to follow us to the Castle.
We arrived in the great courtyard at about seven o'clock in the
evening. HOLES slipped from my side, entered the house, and after
a few moments returned to my side. We then clanged the bell, and
demanded to see his lordship. In a few moments Lord TOCHTACHIE
appeared, surrounded by kilted retainers, bearing torches, and
intoning in unison the mournful sporan of the clan. It was a weird and
awful sight. But HOLES, unemotional as ever, advanced at once to the
haughty Scotchman, before whose eye half a county was accustomed to
tremble, and, without any ado, addressed him thus: "My Lord, your
march has been stolen. Nay, do not interrupt me. Your guards are
careless, but not criminal--of that I can assure you. Here is the
stolen property; I restore it to you without cost." At this moment
the cart rumbled up, and ere the peer had time to utter a word, it had
discharged its contents into the middle of the yard. HOLES went on,
but in a lower voice, so as to be heard only by Lord TOCHTACHIE: "The
guilty party, my Lord, is your honoured father-in-law. He dare not,
he cannot, deny it. He is, I know, blind and deaf and dumb. These
qualities do not, however, exclude the possibility of crime. I have
just found these pieces of granite in his morning-room. The proof is
complete."
At this moment a shot was heard in the Castle, and directly afterwards
a frightened butler rushed up to his lordship and whispered to him.
"Ha! say you so?" almost screamed Lord TOCHTACHIE. "That amounts to a
confession. Mr. HOLES," he continued, "you have indeed rendered me a
service. My unfortunate, but guilty father-in-law has shot and missed
himself through the head. But in any ease the honour of the house is,
I know, safe in your hands."
I need hardly say that HOLES has never violated his lordship's
confidence, and the Daffshire peasants still speculate amongst
themselves upon the tortuous mystery of the march which was stolen and
restored.
NOTE.--There is no proof positive given by any eye-witness
whose veracity is unimpeachable of the death of the great
amateur detective as it has been described in the _Strand
Magazine_ for this month. _Where is the merry Swiss boy who
delivered the note and disappeared?_ What was the symbolic
meaning of the alpenstock with the hook at the end, left on
the rock? Why, that he had _not_ "taken his hook." PICKLOCK
HOLES has disappeared, but so have a great many other people.
That he will turn up again no student of detective history and
of the annals of crime can possibly doubt. Is it not probable
that he has only dropped out of the _Strand Magazine_? And
is it not equally probable that under some alias he will
re-appear elsewhere?
_Verb. sap._--ED.
* * * * *
FATHER CHRISTMAS leaves his cards on everybody about this time, as he
is here only for one day, and off the next. He has employed Messrs.
MARCUS WARD & CO. to do them, and excellent they are all round.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE OLD ORDER CHANGETH.
_Lady Betty_ (_proud of the old ancestral mansion where the
family have lived ever since the reign of Henry the Eighth_).
"JUST FANCY WHAT PAPA'S HAVING DONE! HE'S HAVING THE ELECTRIC
LIGHT PUT IN!"
_Prosaic Sister-in-law_ (_from Chicago_). "I'M REAL GLAD TO
HEAR IT. IT'LL BE THE MAKING OF THE PLACE!"]
* * * * *
ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT.
EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.
_House of Commons, Friday, December 22._--House adjourned for
Christmas Recess; pleased to find that it will include the whole of
Christmas Day. Some talk of being satisfied with the Sunday, spending
Christmas Day in further pursuit of Parish Councils Bill. But after
deliberation decided to have a real good holiday on Christmas Day.
Came across SQUIRE OF MALWOOD just now. Was chalking up on door "Back
in ten minutes."
"It's a little more than that, of course, TOBY," he said. "But that
has business-like look. Am told it's what they do in the City before
going out for hasty luncheon."
[Illustration: Toby, M.P., enjoys his holiday.]
Enjoyed my holiday reading HERBERT MAXWELL'S life of OLD MORALITY
just published by BLACKWOOD. A difficult task; much easier to make
attractive book out of life of NAPOLEON BONAPARTE than with WILLIAM
HENRY SMITH as subject. That MAXWELL has succeeded appears from fact
that one leaves these volumes with warmer esteem and sincerer liking
for OLD MORALITY even than was born of close observation through
many Parliamentary sessions. MAXWELL has had full access to his
correspondence and journals. Uses them with great discretion; they
bring into mellow, clear light the capable, unselfish, courageous man,
ever following the loadstar of Duty. House of Commons used to smile
when OLD MORALITY, faced by any difficulty or dilemma, talked about
his "duty to his QUEEN and country." In his private letters he does
not put it in that oratorical form. But they are full of references
to the calls of duty. Stricken with a painful malady, worn in body and
wounded in spirit, OLD MORALITY still sturdily trod the narrow path.
There is little doubt that had he, two years before the end came,
retired from the Leadership of the House of Commons his genial
presence might have been with us to-day. But he was wanted at his
post, and he stuck to it.
Writing on the 17th March, 1889, he says: "We have trouble in
politics, and I am very weary. But I must go on doing my daily work as
best I can, looking for guidance and wisdom where alone it can be had
until my rest comes." This cry for rest was always sounding, through
day and night. A few weeks earlier he wrote to another friend: "I can
say God help me. He will take me out of my work when I am no longer
required, and then will come rest."
[Illustration: The last I saw of Harcourt.]
His last appearance in a semi-official capacity was in July, 1891,
when he went to Hatfield to meet the German Emperor. In the last
letter written to his wife he says, "Observing I looked tired last
night, Lady SALISBURY urged me to go to bed early: which I did." One
of his colleagues in the Cabinet, a fellow-guest at Hatfield on this
occasion, tells me he had occasion to know that OLD MORALITY was
in such pain he could not rest in his bed, spending the long night
walking about the room, with occasional rest in an arm-chair. Not
a word of this is written in the letter to Mrs. SMITH, in which he
reports that "everything has gone off wonderfully well to-day, which
must be very satisfactory to the Salisburys." Under his bourgeois
habit and unassuming manner W. H. SMITH modestly hid a chivalrous
mind and a noble nature. He had a kindly heart, too. But everyone knew
that, since he wore it on his sleeve.
_Business done._--Adjourned for so-called Christmas holidays. Think
I'll go and call on Lobengula. "Back in ten minutes," as the SQUIRE
says.
* * * * *
EDEPOL!
SIR,--"I'm all the way from Westminster," and the work I have to do
is to let you know about the Latin play performed there. PLAUTUS,
in truth, is not a wildly exciting writer, and there is in the
_Trinummus_ a tameness which, extending, as it does, through five
acts, becomes almost oppressive at the end. The young actors looked
well and enunciated clearly, and one of them, Mr. J. F. WATERS, showed
considerable ability as an actor. But we don't go to the College
of St. Peter at Westminster merely to see the play. There are other
interests. It is pleasant to watch the Old Westminsters rubbing
recollections with one another between the acts, and endeavouring
gallantly during the performance to keep their rusty Latin abreast of
the various situations. Laughter in a Latin play straggles. It is like
a dropping fire of musketry. A Westminster master probably leads
it off; various intelligent veterans take it up dutifully, and the
ladies, bless their unlatinised minds, follow faintly towards the
end. If a London manager wants applause in his theatre let him hire a
contingent of small Westminster boys. They have attained to absolute
perfection in the arts of the _claque_. At no Paris Theatre is it
better done. The epilogue showed a pretty wit and a high degree of
skill in the management of hexameter and pentameter. No one could have
believed that the Kodak advertisement, "you press the button, we do
the rest," would have made so good a Latin line. Much pleased, and so
to bed.
Yours, A VAGRANT.
* * * * *
"A MERE QUESTION OF TIME."--_Example:_ "What o'clock is it?"
* * * * *
[Illustration: OUR "HOUSE PARTY" AT CHRISTMAS.]
* * * * *
NEW YEAR'S EVE AT LATTERDAY HALL.
(_An Incident._)
SCENE I.--_Library in Latterday Hall_, Sir LYON TAYMER'S _Country
House_. Sir LYON TAYMER _discovered fuming by the mantelpiece, while
his_ Secretary _is glancing over some correspondence_.
_Sir Lyon_ (_irritably_). Here--I suppose you will have to answer
this.
_Secretary._ What is that, Sir LYON?
_Sir Lyon._ You know how anxious I am that my New Year's party
should be a success. A whole heap of celebrities are coming, and,
notwithstanding the immense expense, I engaged a party of Ghosts to
amuse them. Now I have just had a telepathic communication from these
Shadows of Shades--(that's all they are--only Ghosts of departed
heroes and heroines in fiction)--asking whether they're to be treated
on an equality with the other guests, or as mere entertainers! Did you
ever hear of such impertinence! The spokesman--I should say, perhaps,
the Spooksman--is, of all people in the other world, the VICAR OF
WAKEFIELD. A clergyman too! It's quite inconsistent; and so snobbish!
_Secretary._ Dear Sir LYON, excuse me, but it's perfectly natural that
Ghosts should be a little sensitive on the social question. Remember,
for years they were ignored, or looked upon as mountebanks. It is
really only of late that there has been all this excitement about
them, so it is not surprising they are anxious to be taken seriously.
_Sir Lyon._ Well, I suppose I am old-fashioned, but it seems to me
quite ridiculous. These infernal Ghosts give themselves as many airs
as though they were--the Blue Hungarians, at least.
_Secretary._ Ah, from a band we might expect airs. But I should advise
you very strongly, Sir _Lyon_, to treat them as friends. You _must_ be
up to date.
_Sir Lyon_ (_with disgust_). Allow them to dine--perhaps to
_dance_--with my guests?
_Secretary_ (_with calmness_). Certainly they will have to dine; and,
as to dancing, of course they _must_, if they're received on an equal
_footing_.
[_Smiles to himself at his joke._
_Sir Lyon._ Oh--well--I suppose I must give in. Let them know at once,
and for heaven's sake mind they're punctual.
[_Scene closes as the Secretary hastily seizes a slate,
and automatically writes to the Ghosts a very cordial and
courteously-worded invitation._
[Illustration: Dorian Gray taking Juliet in to dinner.]