I PAY A VISIT TO MRS. LEMON.
I must now speak of the letter which I received on the morning of the
murder, as I stood at my street-door. It was from a Mrs. Lemon,
entreating me to call upon her at any hour most convenient to me on
this Sunday, and it was couched in terms so imploring that it would
have been cruel on my part to refuse, more especially as the writer
had some slight claim upon me. Mrs. Lemon had been for many years a
nurse and servant in my parents' house, and the children were fond of
her. She was then a spinster, and her name was Fanny Peel. We used to
make jokes upon it, and call her Fancy Peel, Orange Peel, Candied
Peel, Lemon Peel--and we little dreamt, when we called her Lemon Peel,
that we were unconsciously moved by the spirit of prophecy. For though
she was thirty years of age she succeeded in captivating a widower a
few years older than herself, Ephraim Lemon, a master barber and
hairdresser, who used to haunt the area. We youngsters were in the
habit of watching for him and playing him tricks, I am afraid, but
nothing daunted his ardour. He proposed for Fanny, and she accepted
him. Some enterprising tradesmen, when their stock is stale or
old-fashioned, put bills in their windows announcing that no
reasonable offer will be refused. Fanny Peel, having been long on the
shelf, may have thought of this when she accepted Ephraim Lemon's
hand. After her marriage she came to see me once a year to pay her
respects; but suddenly her visits became less frequent, until they
ceased altogether. For a long time past I had heard nothing of my old
nurse.
"It is a fine morning," I said to my wife, "and I shall walk to
Fanny's house."
In the course of an hour I presented myself at Mrs. Lemon's
street-door, and knocked. She herself opened it to me, and after an
anxious scrutiny asked me eagerly to walk in. There was trouble in her
face, tempered by an expression of relief when she fully recognised
me. She preceded me into her little parlour, and I sat down, awaiting
the communication she desired to make. Up to the point of my sitting
down the only words exchanged between us were--
From her: "O, sir, it _is_ you, and you _have_ come!"
From me: "Yes, Fanny; I hope I am not later than you expected?"
From her: "Not at all, sir. You always was that punkchel that I used
to time myself by you."
It is a detail to state that I had not the remotest idea what she
meant by this compliment, especially as I had not made an appointment
for any particular hour. However, I did not ask her for an
explanation. I addressed her as Fanny quite naturally, and when I
followed her into the parlour an odd impression came upon me that I
had gone right back into the past, and that I was once more a little
boy in pinafores.
The house Mrs. Lemon inhabits is situated in the north of London, in a
sadly resigned neighbourhood, which bears a shabby genteel reputation.
If I may be allowed such a form of expression I may say that it is
respectable in a demi-semi kind of way. I do not mean in respect of
its morals, which are unexceptionable, but in respect of its social
position. It is situated in a square, and is one of a cluster of
tenements so exactly alike in their frontage appearance that were it
not for the numbers on the doors a man, that way inclined, might hope
for forgiveness for walking in and taking tea with his neighbour's
wife instead of with his own. In the centre of the square is an
enclosure, bounded by iron railings, which once may have been intended
for the cultivation of flowers; at the present time it contains a few
ancient shrubs which nobody ever waters, and which are, therefore,
always shabby and dusty in dry weather. Even when it rains they do not
attempt to put on an air of liveliness; it is as though they had
settled down to the conviction that their day is over. To this
enclosed rural mockery, each tenant in the square is supposed to have
a key, but the only use the ground is put to is to shake carpets in,
and every person in or out of the neighbourhood is made free of it, by
reason of there being no lock to the gate. There are no signs of
absolute poverty in the square. Vagrant children do not play at
"shops" on the doorsteps and window-sills; organ men avoid it with a
shudder; beggars walk slowly through, and do not linger; peripatetic
vendors of food never venture there; and the donkey of the period is
unfamiliar with the region. Amusement is provided twice a week by a
lanky old gentleman in a long tail coat and a frayed black stock
reaching to his ears, whose instrument is a wheezy flute, and whose
repertoire consists of "The Last Rose of Summer" and "Away with
Melancholy," which he blows out in a fashion so unutterably mournful
and dismal as to suggest to the ingenious mind that his nightly
wanderings are part of a punishment inflicted upon him at some remote
period for the commission of a dark, mysterious crime.
"It's very good of you to come, sir," said Mrs. Lemon, working her
right hand slowly backwards and forwards on a faded black silk dress,
which I judged had been put on in honour of my visit. "I hope you are
well, sir, and your lady, and your precious family."
I replied that my wife and children were quite well, and that we
should be glad to see her at any time. When she heard this she burst
into tears.
"You always _was_ the kindest-hearted gentleman!" she sobbed. "You
never _did_ object to being put upon, and you give away your toys that
free that all the other children used to take advantage of you. But
you didn't mind, sir, not you. Over and over agin have your blessed
father said when he was alive, 'That boy'll never git along in the
world, he's so soft!'" Mrs. Lemon's tears at this reminiscence flowed
more freely. "I can't believe, sir, no, I can't believe as time has
flown so quick since those happy, happy days!"
The happy days referred to were, of course, the days of my childhood;
and my father's prophecy, which I heard now for the first time,
respecting my future, brought a contemplative smile to my lips.
"Ah, sir," said Mrs. Lemon, with a sigh, "if we only knew when we was
well off, what a lot of troubles we shouldn't have!"
I nodded assent to this little bit of philosophy, and looked round the
room, not dreaming that in the humble apartment I was to receive a
clue to the mystery of the murder of pretty Lizzie Melladew.