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 might be nicer for him to keep Christmas in company than in
solitary state. There seems to be a general prejudice in favour 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 dare say 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 honour of reading that."
"Oh, yes; we both read it," put in Mrs. Wimp. "I told Mr. Wimp it was
very clever and cogent. After that quotation from the letter to the poor
fellow's _fiancee_ 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 humour of the situation, and wore a curious, sub-mocking
smile.
"On the day I was born," said Wimp's grand-mother-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 revised
_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
employees. 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 watercolours. 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 parlour 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 scare-crow!"
"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 into 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 labour 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 stairs
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?" cried the Poet. "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 labour 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 kids'. 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 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 axe 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, elate at being spared the trouble of manoeuvring 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.