A GRIM JOKE
A week later Leicester was still in London. He had removed from the
little hotel to which he had at first gone, and had taken a room in one
of those old-fashioned enclosures which still remain in the heart of
London. Here he fended for himself, the room being cleaned by an old
deaf and nearly blind woman, who was glad to earn a few shillings a week
in this way. He saw no one. Throughout the day he kept in his solitary
chamber; he only went out at night, and then after the city had gone to
sleep. What was in his mind it was difficult to say.
One night after midnight he went out alone. The theatres had all emptied
themselves, and the streets, save for an occasional passer-by, were
deserted. The lights still burned, but to him it looked like a city of
the dead. The echoing footfalls which occasionally reached his ears
sounded like the steps of some ghostly visitant rather than of a being
of flesh and blood.
He presently came to the Law Courts, and walked in the direction of
Ludgate Hill. The great buildings rose up stately and grand at his side,
but they reminded him rather of a stupendous monument of the dead than
of a battle-ground where keen intellects and grave wisdom waged war.
"Justice," he thought. "What justice is there in the world? What do
either judges, or barristers, or juries care about justice? The whole
world stinks with lies and injustice and cruelty. And yet why do I prate
about these things? What is justice? Is there any such thing? What are
all our thoughts but blind gropings after a phantom?"
The moon shone clearly overhead, and the spring air was clear and sweet
even in the heart of the city; nevertheless there was a cold bite in the
wind which found its way across the open spaces.
"As though Anything cared?" he went on musing. "What does it matter
whether one is good or bad, idle or industrious? Some work and some
play, some are rich and some are poor. Well, what's the odds? We are
only like gnats, born when the sun rises, and die when it goes down. The
worst of it is that this beastly little race leaves others of the same
species behind. And so the farce will go on, until the earth grows cold
and the race dies. Well, and what then? Whether one dies young or old,
what does it affect? Who cares? Nothing cares."
He looked up at the great dome of blue, and saw here and there a star.
"As though, if there is Anything at the back of all things, the Force
which caused those worlds could care for a paltry little earthworm like
I am!"
He laughed aloud, and then shuddered at the sound of his own voice. The
city seemed like some huge phantom which had no real existence.
He turned into one of the many ways which lead from Fleet Street to the
river. If possible, it seemed more silent than ever here. The lights
were less brilliant, life seemed to be extinct.
"Oh, what a coward, a poor whining coward I am," he said. "I think, and
brood, and drink, and dream, and curse; but I do nothing. I, who used to
boast of my will-power and my determination. I live like a rat in a
hole; I dare not come out and show myself, and I dare not put an end to
the dirty business called life, because I have a sort of haunting fear
that I should not make an end of myself even although this carcase of
mine should rot."
Presently he reached the Embankment, and he walked to the wall which
bounded the river and looked over. The tide was going out. The dark,
muddy river, carrying much of the refuse of London, rolled on towards
the sea. Yet the waters gleamed bright, both in the light of the moon as
well as in those of the lamps which stood by its banks, but the water
was foul all the same, foul with the offal of a foul city. He turned
away from it with a shudder.
"Why haven't I the pluck to take the plunge, instead of being the
whining, drivelling idiot I am?" he cried. "Nothing cares, and nothing
would happen--except nothingness."
He walked along the Embankment. "And yet I told her that I could be a
man. After all, was she not right? What if she were unjust? Was such a
creature as I am fit to be the husband of a pure woman? See the thing I
have become in less than a month. Might I not, if I had married her,
have become tired of my new _role_, and drifted? Well, if I had I should
have dragged her with me. Did I really love her? Did I not love myself
all the time? It was not of her I thought. It was all of my miserable,
sordid little self. Still, if there is an Almighty, He made a mistake in
treating me so! But there, as though an Almighty cared about such as I.
If He does, He regards us all as a part of a grim joke."
"I'nt got a bit a bacca on yer, 'ave yer, guv'nor?"
A man rose from a seat as he spoke, and shivered. At the other end of
the seat lay a woman asleep.
"I cawn't sleep, I'm so bloomin' cold," went on the man, "and I'm just
dyin' for a bit a bacca."
"Why do you try to sleep here?" asked Leicester.
"'Cause I in't got no weers else, guv'nor. That's why. Besides, my
hinsides is empty, and yer cawn't sleep when yer empty. Tell yer, I'm
fair sick on it."
"Why don't you make an end of it?"
"Wot yer mean?"
Leicester pointed to the river.
"Would for tuppence," said the man.
Leicester put his hand in his pocket and took out the first coin he
felt. It was a two-shilling piece.
"Here's a dozen tuppences," he said; "now let's see if you've got the
pluck."
The man snatched at the coin, examined it in the light of the lamp, and
spat on it. Then he went to the woman and shook her.
"Cum on, Mord," he said.
"Weer?" said the woman sleepily.
"Daan ter ole Jerry's doss-aas."
"We cawn't; we in't got fo'pence."
"Yus, we 'as; a swell hev chucked me two bob. Cum on."
The woman rose and prepared to follow the man.
"But you told me----"
"That I'd do it for tuppence, but not fer two bob, guv'nor. Goo'-night,
and thenk yer."
Leicester laughed. He had not expected the man to throw himself into the
river; indeed, had he attempted it, he would most likely have stopped
him; but he laughed all the same. Two shillings meant food and a warm
place to lie, and the tramp clung to life.
"We are all such cowards," he said, as he walked on towards Blackfriars
Bridge. The great space outside Blackfriars underground railway station
was empty. Not a soul was to be seen. He crossed to the road at the end
of the bridge, and stood at the top of the steps which led down to the
river.
"I'll look at it closer," he said. "It'll be fun to stand and watch the
dirty stuff sweep on to the sea."
He went down the granite steps which led to the river, and crept under
the barrier that was placed halfway down. It felt much colder as he came
close to the water, and the sudden roll of the river sounded awesome. A
few steps from the bottom he stopped.
"If there was any good in living!" he said. "But there isn't. What lies
before me? I am a hopeless, purposeless, whisky-sodden fool. There's
nothing to live for."
He went nearer the river.
His attention was drawn to a shapeless something which the river had
swept to the bottom step, and which, as the tide had receded, had left
lying there. He went closer to it and examined it.
It was the dead body of a man.
He turned quickly and retraced his steps, and then stopped.
"He's had the pluck to do it," he muttered; "he must have thrown himself
in farther up the river. The tide has washed him there and left him
stranded. Poor beggar, I wonder who he is?"
He went down again and looked at the gruesome thing lying there. He lay
in the shadow of the bridge, and the moon's rays did not reach him.
"I wonder who he is," repeated Leicester.
Almost mechanically, and with a steady hand, he struck a match and
examined the body.
"It might have been me," he muttered. "About my own age and build. His
clothes are good, too. I suppose this thing was what is called a
gentleman." He laughed quietly and grimly. A sort of gruesome curiosity
possessed him, and a wild fancy flashed into his mind. "I wonder if he's
left any mark of his identity?" he said, whereupon he lit another match
and made a closer examination. Yes, the thing's hands belonged to what
was once a man of leisure. It is true they were discoloured and swollen,
but they had been carefully manicured. Without a shudder he examined the
pockets. There was nothing, absolutely nothing, in them--not even a
pocket-handkerchief. The shirt was fastened at the wrists by a pair of
gold sleeve-links, but they bore no marks of any sort. He unfastened the
links and looked at the inside of the cuffs, but there was no name
written on them. He fastened them again. He examined the dead man's
collar. Again it was without name. Evidently the suicide had taken
trouble to leave no traces of his identity behind.
He took another look at the face. Yes, it might have been himself, if he
had been in the water a long time. It was the face of a young man, as
far as he could judge, between thirty and forty. It was clean-shaven,
too, just as his own was. It was true it was much distorted and
discoloured; evidently the poor wretch had been in the water for days.
Almost mechanically he took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands.
The light was bright enough to show him that his own name was in the
corner.
"It might be me, it might be me," he repeated again and again.
There was a sort of fascination in the thought.
"If twenty-four hours ago, or forty-eight hours ago, I had thrown myself
into the river, and ever since had been rolled about by the muddy
waters, I should be like that, just like that. Only he is nameless;
there are no means of identifying him. Well, what's the odds?"
He started, as though some one had struck him.
"Why shouldn't it be?"
In a moment he saw the possibilities of the thought.
"Yes, why shouldn't it? To-morrow morning some one will come down these
steps, and then the police will take the poor wretch to a mortuary,
after which there will be the usual fiasco of an inquest. As there are
no marks by which to identify him, hosts of stupid questions will be
asked. After that--he will be forgotten, unless some one comes to claim
him. But why shouldn't I become----?"
His eyes flashed with a new light. He was no longer cold and calm. He
was eager, excited.
He listened eagerly. All was silent, save for a rumbling noise which he
heard some distance away. He felt his pockets carefully. Yes, here was
an old letter; it would do perfectly. He soaked it in the muddy waters
of the river and crumpled it. It had the appearance of being in the
river for days. He put the letter in the dead man's pocket.
Again he wiped his hands, and listened. Then he took the handkerchief he
had used and dipped it in the river. It became saturated with the waters
of the Thames. Yes, that would strengthen the chain of identity. He put
the handkerchief in another pocket of the dead man's clothes. Was there
anything else he needed to do? No. He had examined the poor wretch, and
there was nothing on him by which it could be known who he was. Now, the
mystery would be made clear. A letter addressed to Radford Leicester,
Esq., was in his pocket; a handkerchief also bearing his name would be
found on his person. He gave the body a parting glance and came up the
steps.
"Poor beggar, I wonder who he is, after all?" he said. "Anyhow, if there
is any secret to learn, the thing that was he has learned it. He had the
pluck, I hadn't; but, after all, it has given me an idea."
By the time he reached the top step he was to all outward appearances
calm again. For a moment he hesitated, and then walked up New Bridge
Street.
A policeman passed him and gave him a suspicious glance, but, seeing a
well-dressed, gentlemanly-looking man, said nothing.
"Good-night, constable."
"Good-night, sir; out late."
"Yes, rather." He was tempted to tell the man what he had seen, but did
not yield to it. It was far better to say nothing. So they passed on, he
towards Ludgate Circus, the policeman towards Blackfriars Bridge.
When he reached his solitary room he sat down and began to think. What
he had done appeared to him in the light of a grim joke, and he wondered
what the result of it would be. There was something intensely
interesting in the thought of what would be said when the body was found
on the following morning. He was in a strange humour, and the events of
the night had fallen in with it. Ever since the day on which he had left
Taviton he had desired to hide himself from those who had hitherto known
him, and the feeling had grown as the days went by. Why should he who,
according to the world's standards, had disgraced himself at Taviton,
appear before the empty-headed gossiping crew he had known? He had
played his old acquaintances a trick now. What would they say when they
heard the news?
He thought of Olive Castlemaine. What would she say? Had she forgotten
him? he wondered. No, no, that could not be. The woman who had cared
enough about him to promise to be his wife could not forget him so
easily.
Oh, but this was a joke, a joke he really enjoyed. Let all those who
knew him be fooled! He laughed at the thought of it, and there was a
sort of bitter pleasure in his heart as he went to bed.
The following day the old woman who swept his room and did odd jobs for
him came in the ordinary way. She had not the slightest idea who he was.
If some one told her that he was Radford Leicester, it would have meant
nothing to her. She knew nothing, and cared just as little about the
doings of the world. If she met him in the street she would not have
recognised him; she was too blind.
"Want me any more to-day?" she asked as she was leaving.
"No--yes," said Leicester; "you might come about half-past six to-night.
I may want you, and will you bring me an evening newspaper?"
"All right. Which? there's so many on 'em."
"Oh, it does not matter. Bring half a dozen. You can get them off the
man who stands at the corner of the top of Chancery Lane."
"'L right," she said, taking the sixpence he gave her.
Throughout the rest of the day he sat alone, still thinking and
brooding. When evening came he looked impatiently at his watch. He was
anxious to see the evening newspapers.
The old woman did not come till seven o'clock.
"Here are the papers," she said; "anything you want me to do?"
"Yes, go out and buy a chop, and then bring it back and grill it."
The woman took the money for the chop, nodded, and went away without a
word. Leicester opened one of the newspapers eagerly.
He had no need to search long for what he wanted to find. Almost the
first paragraph which caught his eye was about himself. He laughed aloud
as he read it. Truly, it was a grim joke.
"This morning, at early dawn, as a police constable was passing over
Blackfriars Bridge, he looked over the parapet and saw something which
appeared to him as a strange-looking object lying on one of the steps
which lead down to the river. On going nearer, he found it was the body
of a dead man, which to all appearance had been in the river some time,
and had been carried to the steps by the outgoing tide, and left
stranded there. The constable whistled, and was immediately joined by
two others. The body was taken to the ---- mortuary. On examination, two
proofs of the man's identity were found. The first was a letter, and the
other a handkerchief bearing the deceased's name in the corner. But for
these two things it would have been impossible to identify him, as the
face is distorted and swollen beyond all recognition. It is with great
regret that we have to state that both the letter and the handkerchief
bore the name of Radford Leicester. Many of our readers will have known
Mr. Radford Leicester by repute. After a brilliant career at Oxford, he
eventually became Parliamentary candidate for Taviton, and many
prophesied that his splendid abilities would take him high in the
councils of the nation. He became engaged to a charming young lady of
wealth and position, but although the wedding-day was fixed, the
marriage never took place. Whatever the reason for this, it is believed
that it unhinged the late gentleman's mind. Since the sad circumstances
which took place in Taviton, and which were recorded in the daily press
some time ago, Mr. Leicester has not been seen, and until the sad
discovery of this morning, no one had any idea of his whereabouts. The
deceased gentleman was a man of few friends, and until his engagement
lived very much the life of a recluse. It is with great sorrow that we
record the above, as it was fully hoped and believed that he would not
only have a very distinguished future, but that he would have been of
great value to his country."
Leicester threw down the paper.
"Good," he said; "everything is turning out exactly as I thought."
He read the other papers, and found that each gave very nearly the same
version. One moralised at some length on the sad end of the deceased,
and enlarged on the evils of drinking.
It was a strange experience, this reading of his own obituary notices,
but it agreed with his mood. He had not enjoyed himself so much for a
long time.
He did not leave the house. He determined to do nothing which might
shake any one's belief in the farce that was being played. He would see
the mockery out to the bitter end. This was not long in coming. The
inquest was held without delay, and the early impressions were
confirmed. It was a case of circumstantial evidence. Radford Leicester
had hinted at suicide to the proprietor of the Red Lion Hotel, Taviton.
Since that time he had not been seen alive by any who had previously
known him. He had also left Taviton in disgrace, his political career
being blighted, while it was commonly believed that Miss Castlemaine had
refused to marry him because she had discovered something disgraceful in
his life. His drinking habits were known to many. Therefore, when a body
was discovered, and on it two proofs of its identity, the jury could
come to no other conclusion than they did.
Moreover, a strange coincidence took place at the inquest. The solicitor
of Radford Leicester appeared, bearing a document signed by the said
Radford Leicester, stating his desire that, in the event of his death,
his property should be allowed to accumulate for ten years from the date
of his decease, and should then be given to Guy's Hospital. This
solicitor was an old man of the name of Mr. Flipp, an exceedingly
eccentric but a much respected member of the profession nevertheless.
Accordingly a verdict of suicide while in an unsound condition of mind
was brought in; and orders were given that the body should be buried,
the expenses to be paid out of the deceased gentleman's estate.
Leicester went to the funeral. Mr. Flipp was there, together with
Winfield and two or three others with whom he had been on terms of
intimacy. He had so disguised himself that no suspicion was aroused, and
he stood quite near the grave when the service was read.
He could have laughed aloud. No grimmer joke was ever perpetrated. He
looked curiously at the by-standers, and watched the expression on their
faces. Mr. Flipp's face was as expressionless as that of the Sphinx.
Winfield looked very thoughtful; the others seemed to pay but little
heed.
"A product of heredity, environment, and hard lines," said Winfield to
his companion as he accompanied him to the carriage.
"Poor old Leicester, I wonder where he is now?" said the other.
The carriage door closed, and a few seconds later no one but himself
stood at the graveside, save the workmen who were filling in the grave.
"There's not much grief nor sentiment about the matter," said Leicester
as he walked away. "Still, it's been an experience worth having. I fancy
I am one of the very few men who have ever attended their own funeral in
this fashion."
When he got outside the cemetery he passed by a newsagent's shop, and
noticed the placards on the board outside:
"THE CURSE OF DRINK: SAD END OF A BRILLIANT YOUNG POLITICIAN"
He went in and bought the paper, which could best be described as a kind
of religious police news. When he got back to his room he read the
article, which had used him for its text.
"I'm of some value to the world anyhow," he said with a laugh. "I should
not be surprised if sermons are not preached about me on Sunday. It
would be worth while to find it out. But there, no one would preach a
funeral sermon about me, although I must say I should like to hear one."
"I'm finished with London, finished with the world now," he continued
presently. "From this time I'm a dead man. Radford Leicester committed
suicide, has been 'sat upon' by a coroner and jury, and has been buried.
After all, I'm glad he's not buried at the expense of the public.
Henceforth Radford Leicester is no more. Some one else takes his place.
Now I must carry my plans into effect."