The Mystery of Edwin Drood (70 page)

 

  “I won't; I'll come when yer can ketch
me.”

 

  “Stay there then, and show me which is
Mr. Tope's.”

 

  “Ow can I stay here and show you which
is Topeseses, when Topeseses is t'other side the Kinfreederal, and over the
crossings, and round ever so many comers? Stoo-pid! Ya-a-ah!”

 

  “Show me where it is, and I'll give you
something.”

 

  “Come on, then.”

 

  This brisk dialogue concluded, the boy
led the way, and by-and-by stopped at some distance from an arched passage,
pointing.

 

  “Lookie yonder. You see that there
winder and door?”

 

  “That's Tope's?”

 

  “Yer lie; it ain't. That's Jarsper's.”

 

  “Indeed?” said Mr. Datchery, with a
second look of some interest.

 

  “Yes, and I ain't a-goin” no nearer “IM,
I tell yer.”

 

  “Why not?”

 

  “'Cos I ain't a-goin” to be lifted off
my legs and “ave my braces bust and be choked; not if I knows it, and not by
“Im. Wait till I set a jolly good flint a-flyin” at the back o” “is jolly old
“ed some day! Now look t'other side the harch; not the side where Jarsper's
door is; t'other side.”

 

  “I see.”

 

  “A little way in, o” that side, there's
a low door, down two steps. That's Topeseses with “is name on a hoval plate.”

 

  “Good. See here,” said Mr. Datchery,
producing a shilling. “You owe me half of this.”

 

  “Yer lie I don't owe yer nothing; I
never seen yer.”

 

  “I tell you you owe me half of this,
because I have no sixpence in my pocket. So the next time you meet me you shall
do something else for me, to pay me.”

 

  “All right, give us “old.”

 

  “What is your name, and where do you
live?”

 

  “Deputy. Travellers” Twopenny, “cross the
green.”

 

  The boy instantly darted off with the
shilling, lest Mr. Datchery should repent, but stopped at a safe distance, on
the happy chance of his being uneasy in his mind about it, to goad him with a
demon dance expressive of its irrevocability.

 

  Mr. Datchery, taking off his hat to give
that shock of white hair of his another shake, seemed quite resigned, and
betook himself whither he had been directed.

 

  Mr. Tope's official dwelling,
communicating by an upper stair with Mr. Jasper's (hence Mrs. Tope's attendance
on that gentleman), was of very modest proportions, and partook of the
character of a cool dungeon. Its ancient walls were massive, and its rooms
rather seemed to have been dug out of them, than to have been designed
beforehand with any reference to them. The main door opened at once on a
chamber of no describable shape, with a groined roof, which in its turn opened
on another chamber of no describable shape, with another groined roof: their
windows small, and in the thickness of the walls. These two chambers, close as
to their atmosphere, and swarthy as to their illumination by natural light,
were the apartments which Mrs. Tope had so long offered to an unappreciative
city. Mr. Datchery, however, was more appreciative. He found that if he sat
with the main door open he would enjoy the passing society of all comers to and
fro by the gateway, and would have light enough. He found that if Mr. and Mrs.
Tope, living overhead, used for their own egress and ingress a little side
stair that came plump into the Precincts by a door opening outward, to the
surprise and inconvenience of a limited public of pedestrians in a narrow way,
he would be alone, as in a separate residence. He found the rent moderate, and
everything as quaintly inconvenient as he could desire. He agreed, therefore,
to take the lodging then and there, and money down, possession to be had next
evening, on condition that reference was permitted him to Mr. Jasper as occupying
the gatehouse, of which on the other side of the gateway, the Verger's
hole-in-the-wall was an appanage or subsidiary part.

 

  The poor dear gentleman was very
solitary and very sad, Mrs. Tope said, but she had no doubt he would “speak for
her.” Perhaps Mr. Datchery had heard something of what had occurred there last
winter?

 

  Mr. Datchery had as confused a knowledge
of the event in question, on trying to recall it, as he well could have. He
begged Mrs. Tope's pardon when she found it incumbent on her to correct him in
every detail of his summary of the facts, but pleaded that he was merely a
single buffer getting through life upon his means as idly as he could, and that
so many people were so constantly making away with so many other people, as to
render it difficult for a buffer of an easy temper to preserve the
circumstances of the several cases unmixed in his mind.

 

  Mr. Jasper proving willing to speak for
Mrs. Tope, Mr. Datchery, who had sent up his card, was invited to ascend the
postern staircase. The Mayor was there, Mr. Tope said; but he was not to be
regarded in the light of company, as he and Mr. Jasper were great friends.

 

  “I beg pardon,” said Mr. Datchery,
making a leg with his hat under his arm, as he addressed himself equally to
both gentlemen; “a selfish precaution on my part, and not personally
interesting to anybody but myself. But as a buffer living on his means, and having
an idea of doing it in this lovely place in peace and quiet, for remaining span
of life, I beg to ask if the Tope family are quite respectable?”

 

  Mr. Jasper could answer for that without
the slightest hesitation.

 

  “That is enough, sir,” said Mr.
Datchery.

 

  “My friend the Mayor,” added Mr. Jasper,
presenting Mr. Datchery with a courtly motion of his hand towards that
potentate; “whose recommendation is actually much more important to a stranger
than that of an obscure person like myself, will testify in their behalf, I am
sure.”

 

  “The Worshipful the Mayor,” said Mr.
Datchery, with a low bow, “places me under an infinite obligation.”

 

  “Very good people, sir, Mr. and Mrs.
Tope,” said Mr. Sapsea, with condescension. “Very good opinions. Very well
behaved. Very respectful. Much approved by the Dean and Chapter.”

 

  “The Worshipful the Mayor gives them a
character,” said Mr. Datchery, “of which they may indeed be proud. I would ask
His Honour (if I might be permitted) whether there are not many objects of
great interest in the city which is under his beneficent sway?”

 

  “We are, sir,” returned Mr. Sapsea, “an
ancient city, and an ecclesiastical city. We are a constitutional city, as it
becomes such a city to be, and we uphold and maintain our glorious privileges.”

 

  “His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, bowing,
“inspires me with a desire to know more of the city, and confirms me in my
inclination to end my days in the city.”

 

  “Retired from the Army, sir?” suggested
Mr. Sapsea.

 

  “His Honour the Mayor does me too much
credit,” returned Mr. Datchery.

 

  “Navy, sir?” suggested Mr. Sapsea.

 

  “Again,” repeated Mr. Datchery, “His
Honour the Mayor does me too much credit.”

 

  “Diplomacy is a fine profession,” said
Mr. Sapsea, as a general remark.

 

  “There, I confess, His Honour the Mayor
is too many for me,” said Mr. Datchery, with an ingenious smile and bow; “even
a diplomatic bird must fall to such a gun.”

 

  Now this was very soothing. Here was a
gentleman of a great, not to say a grand, address, accustomed to rank and
dignity, really setting a fine example how to behave to a Mayor. There was
something in that third-person style of being spoken to, that Mr. Sapsea found
particularly recognisant of his merits and position.

 

  “But I crave pardon,” said Mr. Datchery.
“His Honour the Mayor will bear with me, if for a moment I have been deluded
into occupying his time, and have forgotten the humble claims upon my own, of
my hotel, the Crozier.”

 

  “Not at all, sir,” said Mr. Sapsea. “I
am returning home, and if you would like to take the exterior of our Cathedral
in your way, I shall be glad to point it out.”

 

  “His Honour the Mayor,” said Mr.
Datchery, “is more than kind and gracious.”

 

  As Mr. Datchery, when he had made his
acknowledgments to Mr. Jasper, could not be induced to go out of the room
before the Worshipful, the Worshipful led the way down-stairs; Mr. Datchery
following with his hat under his arm, and his shock of white hair streaming in
the evening breeze.

 

  “Might I ask His Honour,” said Mr.
Datchery, “whether that gentleman we have just left is the gentleman of whom I
have heard in the neighbourhood as being much afflicted by the loss of a
nephew, and concentrating his life on avenging the loss?”

 

  “That is the gentleman. John Jasper,
sir.”

 

  “Would His Honour allow me to inquire
whether there are strong suspicions of any one?”

 

  “More than suspicions, sir,” returned
Mr. Sapsea; “all but certainties.”

 

  “Only think now!” cried Mr. Datchery.

 

  “But proof, sir, proof must be built up
stone by stone,” said the Mayor. “As I say, the end crowns the work. It is not
enough that justice should be morally certain; she must be immorally
certain—legally, that is.”

 

  “His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery,
“reminds me of the nature of the law. Immoral. How true!”

 

  “As I say, sir,” pompously went on the
Mayor, “the arm of the law is a strong arm, and a long arm. That is the may I
put it. A strong arm and a long arm.”

 

  “How forcible!—And yet, again, how
true!” murmured Mr. Datchery.

 

  “And without betraying, what I call the
secrets of the prisonhouse,” said Mr. Sapsea; “the secrets of the prison-house
is the term I used on the bench.”

 

  “And what other term than His Honour's
would express it?” said Mr. Datchery.

 

  “Without, I say, betraying them, I
predict to you, knowing the iron will of the gentleman we have just left (I
take the bold step of calling it iron, on account of its strength), that in
this case the long arm will reach, and the strong arm will strike. —This is our
Cathedral, sir. The best judges are pleased to admire it, and the best among
our townsmen own to being a little vain of it.”

 

  All this time Mr. Datchery had walked
with his hat under his arm, and his white hair streaming. He had an odd
momentary appearance upon him of having forgotten his hat, when Mr. Sapsea now
touched it; and he clapped his hand up to his head as if with some vague
expectation of finding another hat upon it.

 

  “Pray be covered, sir,” entreated Mr.
Sapsea; magnificently plying: “I shall not mind it, I assure you.”

 

  “His Honour is very good, but I do it
for coolness,” said Mr. Datchery.

 

  Then Mr. Datchery admired the Cathedral,
and Mr. Sapsea pointed it out as if he himself had invented and built it: there
were a few details indeed of which he did not approve, but those he glossed
over, as if the workmen had made mistakes in his absence. The Cathedral
disposed of, he led the way by the churchyard, and stopped to extol the beauty
of the evening—by chance—in the immediate vicinity of Mrs. Sapsea's epitaph.

 

  “And by the by,” said Mr. Sapsea,
appearing to descend from an elevation to remember it all of a sudden; like
Apollo shooting down from Olympus to pick up his forgotten lyre; “THAT is one
of our small lions. The partiality of our people has made it so, and strangers
have been seen taking a copy of it now and then. I am not a judge of it myself,
for it is a little work of my own. But it was troublesome to turn, sir; I may
say, difficult to turn with elegance.”

 

  Mr. Datchery became so ecstatic over Mr.
Sapsea's composition, that, in spite of his intention to end his days in
Cloisterham, and therefore his probably having in reserve many opportunities of
copying it, he would have transcribed it into his pocket-book on the spot, but
for the slouching towards them of its material producer and perpetuator,
Durdles, whom Mr. Sapsea hailed, not sorry to show him a bright example of
behaviour to superiors.

 

  “Ah, Durdles! This is the mason, sir;
one of our Cloisterham worthies; everybody here knows Durdles. Mr. Datchery,
Durdles a gentleman who is going to settle here.”

 

  “I wouldn't do it if I was him,” growled
Durdles. “We're a heavy lot.”

 

  “You surely don't speak for yourself,
Mr. Durdles,” returned Mr. Datchery, “any more than for His Honour.”

 

  “Who's His Honour?” demanded Durdles.

 

  “His Honour the Mayor.”

 

  “I never was brought afore him,” said
Durdles, with anything but the look of a loyal subject of the mayoralty, “and
it'll be time enough for me to Honour him when I am. Until which, and when, and
where,

 

   

 

  “Mister Sapsea is his name, England is
his nation, Cloisterham's his dwelling-place, Aukshneer's his occupation.”

 

   

 

  Here, Deputy (preceded by a flying
oyster-shell) appeared upon the scene, and requested to have the sum of
threepence instantly “chucked” to him by Mr. Durdles, whom he had been vainly
seeking up and down, as lawful wages overdue. While that gentleman, with his
bundle under his arm, slowly found and counted out the money, Mr. Sapsea
informed the new settler of Durdles's habits, pursuits, abode, and reputation.
“I suppose a curious stranger might come to see you, and your works, Mr.
Durdles, at any odd time?” said Mr. Datchery upon that.

 

  “Any gentleman is welcome to come and
see me any evening if he brings liquor for two with him,” returned Durdles,
with a penny between his teeth and certain halfpence in his hands; “or if he likes
to make it twice two, he'll be doubly welcome.”

 

  “I shall come. Master Deputy, what do
you owe me?”