THE WORLD IS SO LARGE
As for the man who had made the extraordinary assertion, he seemed
quite unconscious of the effect which it had produced: as if the fact
that the supposed heir to an earldom, being actually the son of a
Clapham bricklayer, was one that found its natural place in every-day
life.
He had his cap in his hand--a shabby, gray tweed cap--and he was
twirling it between his fingers round and round with an irritatingly
nervous gesture. His eyes now and again were furtively raised at the
coroner, as if he were wondering anxiously what punishment would be
meted out to him for having created so much commotion, and then with
equal furtiveness he dropped them again. His shoulders were bowed and
his knees parted company from each other, thus giving him more than
ever the appearance of a beetle.
Of course the coroner had to recover his official manner as quickly as
possible. But even to him the statement had come as a surprise. He had
only known very vaguely that a witness had come forward at the
eleventh hour, having only just had time to communicate with the
police before the opening of the inquest.
In view of the importance of the evidence, the witness was called as
soon as possible; what he had to say would materially affect the
whole trend of the inquiry; he had, it seems, brought others with
him--members of his own family among them--in order that they might
corroborate the truth of what he said.
Quite a minute or so had elapsed in the meanwhile; then at last was
the coroner able to resume with at least a semblance of official
indifference:
"Now," he said, "let the jury understand a little more clearly what
you said just now."
"What I said?" rejoined the man vaguely.
"Yes, what you said. Let us understand it clearly. You went to the
mortuary this morning, and saw the body of the deceased?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you state here on oath that in the deceased you recognized your
own son?"
"I'll swear to 'im!" replied the witness simply. "Ask 'is mother
there!"
And with a long, thin finger, generously edged with grime, he pointed
to the woman in seedy black hat and shabby tweed jacket who sat quite
close to Luke de Mountford.
"Never mind about his mother just now," admonished the coroner. "We
want your statement first. You realize that you are on oath?"
"Yes, sir. I've sworn my Bible oath."
"And you understand the importance of an oath?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you swear that the body of the murdered man whom you saw in the
mortuary chamber this morning is that of your son?"
"I swear to that, sir."
I believe that had coroner and jury and practically every man there
present, dared to put their thoughts into words at that moment, the
ejaculation: "Well! I am blowed!" or "I'm d----d!" as the case might
be--would have been generally heard throughout the room. The women, on
the other hand, were far too excited even to think.
"Now," resumed the coroner, "tell the jury please when you first
identified the deceased as your son?"
"This morning, sir."
"In the mortuary chamber?"
"Yes, sir."
"You had not seen the body before?"
"No, sir."
"Did you know that other witnesses have sworn that the body is that of
a gentleman called Philip de Mountford?"
"Yes, sir. I knew that."
"Then do you mean to assert that those other witnesses have sworn
false oaths?"
"Oh, no, sir," rejoined James Baker with an apologetic smile of
self-deprecation, "I wouldn't say such a thing, sir."
"Well, then?"
"They was mistaken, sir, that's all. Paul was that clever, sir; ask
'is mother there."
And once more the lean and grimy finger pointed to the seedy-looking
matron who nodded a melancholy head, half in pride, half in regret.
"Clever, did you say?" asked the coroner, more briskly now. At last he
held a thread in this extraordinary tangled skein. "Then do you mean
to assert that your son--Paul Baker--went about the world calling
himself Philip de Mountford?"
"That must 'ave been it, sir, I think."
"Deceiving people?"
"Aye! 'e was ever a bit o' no good."
"You think he imposed upon his lordship, the Earl of Radclyffe?"
"'E must 'ave done, sir, mustn't 'e now? seein' as 'ow 'is lordship
must 'ave been took in."
"You helped him in the deception, I suppose?"
"Me, sir? Lor' bless ye no! Me an' 'is mother ain't clever enough for
such things! We knew nothin' of Paul's doin's, and 'e allus went 'is
own way, sir."
"But at least you knew that this fraud was going on?"
"Not exactly, sir."
"How do you mean 'not exactly?'" retorted the coroner sharply. "You
seem to be unconscious of the fact that this story which you are
telling the jury is a very serious matter indeed. If it is true, you
are not only making a grave accusation against your dead son, but with
this accusation you may be involving yourself or some other member of
your family in an exceedingly serious charge of fraud, the penalty for
which if proved would be very severe indeed. On the other hand if the
story you tell is nothing but a cock-and-bull tale, which further
evidence would presently demolish, then you lay yourself open to a
charge of perjury and of conspiracy to defeat the ends of justice. I
have thought best to give you this word of warning--the last which you
will get from me--because really you do not seem to be fully conscious
of the extreme gravity of your position."
The bricklayer from Clapham had listened to this admonition, delivered
with solemn emphasis and no small measure of severity, with a kind of
stolid indifference. He retained his humble, apologetic attitude, but
clearly the coroner's threats did not affect his simple equanimity.
"I thank you, sir, kindly," he said when the coroner had ceased
speaking, "but I can't 'elp it. Paul would go on 'is own way. Ask 'is
mother there. 'E never would be spoken to, wouldn't Paul. And me and
'is mother allus said 'e'd come to mischief some day."
"Did you know anything at all of this fraud?"
"No, sir. We knew nothin' of it really. You see Paul left 'ome nearly
two year ago come Christmas. 'E didn't tell us nothing."
"Then you last saw your son alive two years ago?"
"Yes, sir. That's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im. Christmas
Day, sir, 'twas two year ago nearly. Paul 'e said then 'e'd 'ad enough
of knockin' about in London. 'E was goin' abroad, 'e was, that's what
'e said. And 'e left 'ome, sir, the next day. Bank 'oliday 'twere, and
that's the last me and 'is mother seed of 'im."
He had told this with all the simple fatalism peculiar to his class.
The son went "abroad," and "abroad" to a Clapham labourer is a very
vague term indeed. It means so many things: geographically it means
any place beyond a twelve-mile radius from home; the Antipodes are
"abroad," but so is Yorkshire. Domestically it means that the
traveller passes out of the existence of those that are left behind as
surely as if he had stepped into the grave. Financially, it means a
mouth less to feed, seeing that the intending traveller is nearly
always a wastrel at home. In any event the proposed journey "abroad"
is taken with quiet philosophy by family and friends. The traveller
starts for "abroad" as easily, as simply, as he would for the nearest
public house. He has no impedimenta, nothing to burden him or to cause
him regret. Strangely enough, no one ever has any idea where the money
comes from that pays for the journey "abroad." The traveller being a
wastrel never has any himself, and the family is invariably too poor
to provide it. But the wastrel goes, nevertheless.
And life within the narrowed precincts of the family circle goes on
just as it had done before. Sometimes news comes from the traveller--a
picture post-card from "abroad," usually a request for pecuniary
assistance. Seldom does good news arrive; still more seldom does the
traveller come back home.
But it is all very simple. Nothing to make a fuss about.
"Then," said the coroner, "he didn't tell you where he meant to go?"
"No, sir," replied Jim Baker, "he just was going abroad."
"Do you know where he went?"
"No, sir."
"Did you ever try to find out?"
"No, sir. Where 'ad been the use?"
Where indeed? The world is so large! and the Baker family so
insignificant!
"He didn't write to you?"
"No, sir."
"Nor communicate with you in any way?"
"No, sir."
"You had no idea what had become of him?"
"Not until last summer, sir."
"What happened then?"
"His sister, sir, our Emily, she was out walkin' with Harry
Smith--young Smith from next door to us, sir--and she was down in the
West End o' London with 'im one day, and 'oo should they meet, sir,
but Paul."
"Did they speak to him?"
"Yes, sir. They says, ''Ello, Paul, we didn't know as 'ow you was
'ome,' and 'e seemed upset like at first, and pretended 'e didn't know
'em, and that they'd made a mistake. But they chaffed 'im and went on
talkin', so I suppose Paul 'e thought it best to make a clean breast
of it all."
"Do you mean to say that he told his sister and his friend that he was
carrying on a criminal fraud against the Earl of Radclyffe?"
"Oh, no, sir; not all that. 'E only told 'em that 'e was in for a good
thing. A gentleman's gentleman 'e told 'em 'e was and doin' well for
hisself. 'E said 'e would come and see the fam'ly--'e meant me and 'is
mother, sir--some day soon. But 'e never come."
"Did he say where he was living?"
"Yes, sir. 'E gave 'is address to Emily. Up 'Ampstead way it were. A
long way, sir. Me and 'is mother never seemed to 'ave the time to go
and look 'im up; but Emily she went with young Smith one Sunday, but
they never found the street, not where Paul said 'e was livin'. There
weren't no such street in 'Ampstead, sir."
"And you never thought of making further inquiries?"
"No, sir." This again with that quiet philosophy, the stolid fatalism,
peculiar to those who live from day to day, from hand to mouth, who
have neither leisure nor desire to peer outside the very circumscribed
limits of their own hearths.
"You never made any effort to know more about what your son was doing
or how he was living?" suggested the coroner, who, though accustomed
to this same quiet philosophy in men and women of that class, was
nevertheless strangely moved in this instance by the expression of a
fatalism that carried in its train such extraordinary consequences.
But Jim Baker, mildly astonished at the coroner's insistence over so
obvious a matter, explained meekly:
"We knew that Paul was doin' well, you see, sir. 'E was that
splendidly dressed when Emily and young Smith seed 'im they was quite
respectful like to 'im. So we knew 'e was all right."
"And you never troubled any further about your son?"
"We didn't want to interfere with 'im, sir. Gentlemen don't allus like
their servants to be 'aving visitors, or to 'obnob with poor people
like us."
More calm philosophy not unmixed with a delicate sense of pride this
time, and a sublime if unconscious vein of selflessness.
"Well," rejoined the coroner, not unkindly this time--the man who
looked so like a beetle, who was so humble and apologetic, compelled
quite a certain amount of regard--"we'll leave that matter for the
moment, Mr. Baker. Now will you tell the jury what made you come to
this court to-day? What led you to think that the man who had been
murdered in a cab the night before last, and of whom all the
newspapers spoke as Mr. Philip de Mountford--what made you think that
he was your son?"
Jim Baker by way of a reply plunged one of his thin hands in the
pocket of his shabby coat and drew out a portion of very grimy
newspaper carefully folded up quite small. He undid the folds until
his eyes lighted on that which they sought. Then he held the paper
out toward the coroner and pointed to a picture sandwiched in among
the letter-press.
"I saw this," he said, "in the _Daily Graphic_ yesterday. It's the
picture of Paul, I says to myself."
The coroner took the paper from the witness and laid it down on the
table, glancing at it casually. There had been innumerable portraits
of the murdered man published both in the morning and the evening
papers of yesterday.
"It's Paul to the life," insisted Jim Baker. "I was at my work, you
understand, when I seed the paper in one o' the other chaps' 'ands. I
couldn't give up my work then. I 'ad to wait till evenin' to speak to
my missus. Then we talked it all over, and young Smith 'e took a day
off and me too, and Mrs. Baker and Emily and Jane Smith, they all come
along."
"And you looked on the face of the dead man, and you swear that it is
your son?"
"I take my oath, sir. Ask 'is mother there. She knows 'er own son.
She'll tell you just what vaccination marks 'e 'ad on 'is arm, and
about the scar on 'is leg and all. The ladies, sir, they are that
sharp----"
Jim Baker--feeling no doubt that his ordeal was nearly over--was
losing his nervousness, or perhaps it took a new form, that of
jocularity. The coroner thought it best to check his efforts at humour
in the bud.
"That will do!" he said curtly.
And the Clapham bricklayer at once retired within his shell of humble
self-deprecation. He answered a few more questions that the coroner
put to him, but clearly his own circle of vision was so circumscribed
that, willing as he undoubtedly was, he could throw no light whatever
on the unknown events which led up to the extraordinary fraud
practised on the Earl of Radclyffe and which culminated in the
mysterious murder in the taxicab.
The father of the strangely enigmatic personality, who indeed had
taken many a secret with him to the grave, was far too indifferent,
too fatalistic, to put forth any theory as to his son's motives, or
the inducements and temptations which had first given birth to the
astoundingly clever deception.
Wearied and impatient at last the coroner gave up his questionings. He
turned to the jury with the accustomed formula:
"Would any of you gentlemen like to ask this witness any questions?"
The foreman of the jury wanted to know if the witness's son had any
birthmarks on him, or other palpable means of identification.
"Yes, sir," replied Jim Baker, "but 'is mother'll tell you better'n
me--she knows best--about the vaccination marks and all."
The foreman then asked the coroner whether the jury would be allowed
to identify the marks. On being assured by the coroner that after
adjournment this very day every means would be taken to corroborate
Jim Baker's statement, the jury seemed satisfied.
And the corner called the next witness.