 THE BIG BOE MYSTERY by Israel Zangwill, read by Adrian Predsellus. THE BIG BOE MYSTERY by Israel Zangwill, CHAPTER VI Mrs. Crowell surveyed Denzel Canticott so stonily and cut him his beef so savagely that he said grace when the dinner was over. Peter fed his metaphysical genius on tomatoes. He was tolerant enough to allow his family to follow their fads, but no savory smells ever tempted him to be false to his vegetable loves. Besides, meat might have reminded him too much of his work. There is nothing like leather, but bow-beef steaks occasionally come very near it. After dinner Denzel usually indulged in poetic reverie, but today he did not take his nap. He went out at once to raise the wind. But there was a dead calm everywhere. In vain he asked for an advance at the office of the Mile End Mirror, to which he contributed scathing literates about vestrumen. In vain he trudged to the city and offered to write the Ham and Eggs Gazette an essay on the modern methods of bacon curing. Denzel knew a great deal about the breeding and slaughtering of pigs, smoke lofts and drying processes, having for years dictated the policy of the New Pork Herald in these momentous matters. Denzel also knew a great deal about many other esoteric matters, including weaving machines, the manufacture of cabbage leaves and snuff, and the inner economy of drain pipes. He had written for the trade papers since boyhood, but there is a great competition on these papers, so many men of literary gifts know all about the intricate technicalities of manufactures and markets, and are eager to set the trade right. Groedman perhaps hardly allowed sufficiently for the step backward that Denzel made when he devoted his whole time for months to criminals I have caught. It was as damaging as a debauch. For when your rivals are pushing forwards, to stand still is to go back. In despair Denzel shambled toilsomely to Bethnal Green. He paused before the window of a little tobacconist's shop, wherein was displayed a placard announcing Plots for sale. The announcement went on to state that a large stock of Plots was to be obtained on the premises, embracing sensational Plots, humorous Plots, love Plots, religious Plots and poetic Plots, also complete manuscripts, original novels, poems and tales, apply within. It was a very dirty looking shop with begrimed bricks and blackened woodwork. The window contained some musty old books, an assortment of pipes and tobacco, and a large number of the vilest dwarbs unhung, painted in oil on academy boards, and unframed. These were intended for landscapes, as you could tell from the titles. The most expensive was Chingford Church, and it was marked one and ninepence. The others ran from Sixpence to One and Thruppence, and were mostly representations of Scottish scenery, a lock with mountains in the background, with solid reflections in the water, and a tree in the foreground. Sometimes the tree would be in the background. And the lock would be in the foreground. Sky and water were intensely blue in all. The name of the collection was Original Oil Paintings Done by Hand. Dust lay thick upon everything, as if carefully shoveled on, and the proprietor looked as if he'd slept in his shop window at night without taking his clothes off. He was a gaunt man with a red nose, long but scanty black locks covered by a smoking cap, and a luxurious black moustache. He smoked along clay pipe, and had the air of a broken-down operatic villain. Good afternoon, Mr. Cantor-Cott!" he said, rubbing his hands, half from cold, half from usage. What have you brought me? Nothing, said Denzel, but if you'll lend me a sovereign, I'll do you a stunner. The operatic villain shook his locks, his eyes full of porky cunning. If you did it after that it would be a stunner. What the operatic villain did with these plots, and who bought them? Cantor-Cott neither knew nor cared to know. Brains are cheap to-day, and Denzel was glad enough to find a customer. Surely you've known me long enough to trust me," he cried. "'Trust is dead,' said the operatic villain, puffing away. "'So is Queen Anne,' cried the irritated poet. His eyes took a dangerous, hunted look. Money he must have. But the operatic villain was inflexible. No plot, no supper. Poor Denzel went out flaming. He knew not where to turn. Temporarily he turned on his heel again, and stared despairingly at the shop window. Again he read the legend, Plots for sale. He stared so long at this that it lost its meaning. When the sense of the word suddenly flashed upon him again, they bought a new significance. He went in meekly and borrowed forpence of the operatic villain. Then he took the bus for Scotland Yard. There was a not ill-looking servant-girl in the bus. The rhythm of the vehicle shaped itself into rhymes in his brain. He forgot all about his situation and his object. He had never really written an epic except Paradise Lost, but he composed lyrics about wine and women, and often wept to think how miserable he was. But nobody ever bought anything of him except articles on bacon-curing or attacks on vestrymen. He was a strange wild creature, and the wench felt quite pretty and his ardent gaze. It almost hypnotized her, though she looked down at her new French kid boots to escape it. At Scotland Yard Denzel asked for Edward Wimp. Edward Wimp was not on view. Like kings and editors, detectives are difficult to approach, unless you are a criminal, when you cannot see anything of them at all. Denzel knew of Edward Wimp principally because of Groedman's contempt for his successor. Wimp was a man of taste and culture. Groedman's interests were entirely concentrated on the problems of logic and evidence. Books about these formed his soul-reading. For bell-let, he cared not a straw. Wimp, with his flexible intellect, had a great contempt for Groedman and his slow, laborious, ponderous, almost teutonic methods. Worse, he almost threatened to eclipse the radiant tradition of Groedman by some wonderfully ingenious bits of workmanship. Wimp was at his greatest in collecting circumstantial evidence, in putting two and two together to make five. He would collect together a number of dark and disconnected data and flash across them the electric light of some unifying hypothesis in a way which would have done credit to a Darwin or a Faraday. An intellect which might have served to unveil the secret workings of nature was subverted to the protection of a capitalistic civilization. By the assistance of a friendly policeman whom the poet magnetized into the belief that his business was a matter of life and death, Denzel obtained the great detective's private address. It was near King's Cross. By a miracle Wimp was at home in the afternoon, he was writing when Denzel was ushered up three pairs of stairs into his presence, but he got up and flashed the bullseye of his glance upon the visitor. "'Mr. Denzel Kenticard, I believe,' said Wimp. Denzel started. He had not sent up his name merely describing himself as a gentleman. "'That is my name,' he murmured. "'You were one of the witnesses at the inquest on the body of the late Arthur Constance. I have your evidence here,' he pointed to a file. "'Why have you come to give fresh evidence?' Again Denzel started, flushing in addition this time. "'I want money,' he said almost involuntarily. "'Sit down,' Denzel sat. Wimp stood. Wimp was young and fresh-coloured. He had a Roman nose and was smartly dressed. He had beaten Grodman by discovering the wife heaven meant for him. He had a bouncing boy who stole jam out of the pantry without anyone being the wiser. Wimp did what work he could do at home in a secluded study at the top of the house. Outside his chamber of horrors he was the ordinary husband of commerce. He adored his wife, who thought poorly of his intellect but highly of his heart. In domestic difficulties Wimp was helpless. He could not even tell whether the servant's character was forged or genuine. Probably he could not level himself to such petty problems. He was like the senior wrangler who has forgotten how to do quadratics and has to solve equations of the second degree by the calculus. "'How much money do you want?' he asked. "'I do not make bargains,' Denzel replied. His calm come back by this time. "'I came here to tender you a suggestion. It struck me that you might offer me a fiver for my trouble. Should you do so? I should not refuse it.' "'You shall not refuse it, if you deserve it.' "'Good!' I come to the point at once. My suggestion concerns Tom Mortlake.' Denzel threw out the name as if it were a torpedo. Wimp did not move. "'Tom Mortlake,' went on Denzel, looking disappointed, had a sweet heart.' He paused impressively. Wimp said, "'Nyes, where is that sweet heart now?' "'We're indeed.' "'You know about her disappearance?' "'You have just informed me of it.' "'Yes, she is gone, without a trace. She went about a fortnight before Mr. Constance's murder.' "'Murder?' "'How do you know it was murder?' "'Grodman says so,' said Denzel, startled again. "'Hmmm. Isn't that rather proof that it was suicide?' "'Well, go on. About a fortnight before the suicide, Jesse Diamond disappeared, so they tell me in Stepney Green where she lodged and worked. What was she? She was a dressmaker. She had a wonderful talent. Quite fashionable ladies got to know of it. One of her dresses was presented at court. I think the lady forgot to pay for it. So Jesse's landlady said, did she live alone?' She had no parents, but the house was respectable. Good-looking, I suppose. "'As a poet's dream!' "'As yours, for instance?' "'I am a poet. I dream.' "'You dream you are a poet?' "'Well, well. She was engaged to Mortlake.' "'Oh, yes, they made no secret of it. The engagement was an old one. When he was earning thirty-six shillings a week as a compositor, they were saving up to buy a home. He worked at Railton and Hawks, who print the Newpork Herald. I used to take my copy into the comps-room, and one day the father of the chapel told me all about Mortlake and his young woman. Ye gods! How times are changed! Two years ago Mortlake had to struggle with my calligraphy. Now he is in with all the knobs, and goes to the at-homes of the aristocracy. "'Medical impes,' murmured Wimp, smiling. While I am still barred from the dazzling drawing-rooms where beauty and intellect foregather, a mere artisan, a manual labourer,' Denzel's eyes flashed angrily. He rose with excitement. They say he always was a jabber-o in the compositing-room, and he jabbered himself right out of it and into a pretty good thing. He didn't have much to say about the crimes of Capitol when he was set up to second the toast of Railton and Hawks at the bean-feast. "'Toast in batter, toast in batter,' said Wimp, genuinely, and I shouldn't blame a man for serving the two together, Mr. Cantor-Cut.' Yes, but consistency is my motto. I like to see the royals so immaculate, unchanging, immovable by fortune. Anyhow, when better times came for Mortlake, the engagement still dragged on. He did not visit her so much. This last autumn he saw very little of her. "'How do you know? I was often in Stepney Green. My business took me past the house of an evening. Sometimes there was no light in her room. That meant she was downstairs gossiping with the landlady.' She might have been out with Tom. "'No, sir. I knew Tom was on the platform somewhere or other. He was working up at all hours, organizing the eight-hours working-movement.' A very good reason for relaxing his sweet-hearting. It was. He never went to Stepney Green on a week-night.' "'But you always did?' "'No, not every night.' "'You didn't go in?' "'Never. She wouldn't permit my visits. She was a girl of strong character. She always reminded me of Flora MacDonald.' "'Another lady of your acquaintance?' "'A lady I know better than the shadows who surround me, who is more real to me than the women who pester me for the price of apartments. Jesse Diamond, too, was of the race of heroines. Her eyes were clear blue, two wells with truth at the bottom of each. When I looked into those eyes, my own were dazzled. They were the only eyes I could never make tree me.' He waved his hand as if making a pass with it. It was she who had the influence over me.' "'You knew her, then?' "'Oh, yes. I knew Tom from the old New Pork Herald days. And when I first met him with Jesse hanging on his arm, he was quite proud to introduce her to a poet. When he got on, he tried to shake me off.' "'You should have repaid him, would you, borrower?' "'It was only a trifle,' stammered Denzel. "'Yes, but the world turns on trifles,' said the wise wimp. "'The world is itself a trifle,' said the pensive poet. "'The beautiful alone is deserving of our regard.' "'And when the beautiful was not gossiping with her landlady, did she gossip with you as you passed the door?' "'Alas, no. She sat in her room reading and cast a shadow on your life. No, on the blind.' "'Oh, was one shadow?' "'No, sir. Ah, once or twice, two.' "'Ah, you had been drinking?' "'On my life, not. I have sworn off the treacherous wine-cup.' "'That's right. Beer is banned for poets. It makes their feet shaky.' "'Who was the second shadow?' "'A man's.' "'Naturally. Mortlakes, perhaps.' "'Impossible. He was still striking eight hours.' "'You found out who's shadow? You didn't leave a shadow of doubt?' "'No. I waited till the substance came out.' "'It was Arthur Constance.' "'You are a magician. You terrify me. Yes, it was he.' "'Only once or twice, you say?' "'I didn't keep watch over them.' "'No, no, of course not. You only passed casually. I understand you thoroughly.' Denzel did not feel comfortable at the assertion. "'What did he go there for?' Wimp went on. "'I don't know. I'd stake my soul on Jess's honour. You might double your stake without risk.' "'Yes, I might. I would. You see her with my eyes. For the moment they are the only ones available.' "'When was the last time you saw the two together?' "'About the middle of November. Like knew nothing of the meetings?' "'I don't know. Perhaps he did. Mr. Constance had probably enlisted her in his social mission work. I knew she was one of the attendants of the big children's tea in the Great Assembly Hall early in November. He treated her quite like a lady. She was the only attendant who worked with her hands.' The others carried the caps on their feet, I suppose. "'No. How could that be? My meaning is that all the other attendants were real ladies, and Jesse was only an amateur, so to speak. There was no novelty for her in handling kids' cups of tea. I daresay she had helped her landlady often enough at that. There's quite a bushel of brats below stairs. It's almost as bad as at friend-crowls.' Jesse was a real brick, but perhaps Tom didn't know her value. Perhaps he didn't like Constance to call on her, and it led to a quarrel. Anyhow she's disappeared like the snowfall on the river. There's not a trace. The landlady, who was such a friend of hers that Jesse used to make her up her stuff into dresses for nothing, tells me that she's dreadfully annoyed at not having been left the slightest clue to her late tenant's whereabouts. You have been making inquiries on your own account, apparently. Only of the landlady, Jesse never even gave her the week's notice, but paid her in lieu of it and left her immediately. The landlady told me I could have knocked her down with a feather. Unfortunately, I wasn't there to do it, or I should certainly have knocked her down for not keeping her eyes open better. She says if she had only the least suspicion beforehand that the minx—she dared to call Jesse a minx—was going, she'd have known where or her name would have been somebody else's. And yet she admits that Jesse was looking ill and worried, stupid old hag—a woman of character, moment the detective. Didn't I tell you, sir? cried Denzel eagerly. Another girl would have let out that she was going, but no, not a word. She plumped down the money and walked out. The landlady ran upstairs. None of Jesse's things were there. She must have quietly sailed them off or transferred them to the new place. I never in my life met a girl who so thoroughly knew her own mind or had a mind so worth knowing. She always reminded me of the maid of Saragosa. Indeed. And when did she leave? On the nineteenth of November. Mort Lake, of course, knows where she is. I can't say. Last time I was at the house to inquire, it was at the end of November. He hadn't been seen there for six weeks. He wrote to her, of course, sometimes the landlady knew his writing. Looked Denzel straight in the eyes and said, You mean, of course, to accuse Mort Lake of the murder of Mr. Constance? No, no, not at all, stammered Denzel. Only you know what Mr. Grondman wrote in the pale mail. The more we know about Mr. Constance's life, the more we shall know about the manner of his death. I thought my information would be valuable to you, so I brought it in. And why didn't you take it to Mr. Grondman? Because I thought it wouldn't be valuable to me. You wrote criminals I have caught? How did you know that? Wimp was startling him today with a vengeance. Your style, my dear Mr. Canticott, the unique noble style. Yes, I was afraid it would betray me, said Denzel. And since you know, I may tell you that Grondman's a mean commudian. What does he want with all that money in those houses, a man with no sense of the beautiful? He'd have taken my information and given me more kicks than haypence for it, so to speak. Yes, he's a shrewd man, after all. I don't see anything valuable in your evidence against Mort Lake. No, said Denzel in a disappointed tone and fearing he was going to be robbed. Not when Mort Lake was already jealous of Mr. Constant, who was a sort of rival organizer, unpaid. A kind of black leg doing the work cheaper, nay, for nothing. Did Mort Lake tell you he was jealous? said Wimp, a shade of sarcastic contempt piercing through his tones. Oh, yes, he said to me, that man will work mischief. I don't like your kid-glove philanthropists meddling in matters they don't understand. Those were his very words. His ipsissima verba. Very well. I have taken your address in my files. Here is a sovereign for you. Only a sovereign? It's not the least used to me. Very well. It's of great use to me. I have a wife to keep. I haven't," said Denzel, with a sickly smile, so perhaps I can manage on it, after all. He took his hat and the sovereign. Outside the door he met a rather pretty servant, just bringing in some tea to her master. He nearly upset her tray at the sight of her. She seemed more amused at the wrong conch than he. Good afternoon, dear," she said coquettishly. He might let me have that sovereign. I do so want a sandy bonnet. Denzel gave her the sovereign and slammed the hall door viciously when he got to the bottom of the stairs. He seemed to be walking arm in arm with the long arm of coincidence. Wimp did not hear the duolog. He was already busy on his evening's report to headquarters. The next day Denzel had a bodyguard wherever he went. It might have gratified his vanity had he known it, but tonight he was yet unattended, so no one noted that he went to 46 Glover Street after the early-crow supper. He could not help going. He wanted to get another sovereign. He also itched to taunt Grodman. Succeeding in the former object, he felt the road open for the second. Do you still hope to discover the bow-murderer? He asked the old bloodhound. I can lay my hand on him now," Grodman announced curtly. Denzel hitched his hair back involuntarily. He found conversations with detectives as lively as playing at skittles with bombshells. He got on his nerves terribly, these undemonstrative gentlemen with no sense of the beautiful. "'But why don't you give him up to justice?' he murmured. "'Ah, it has to be proved yet. But it is only a matter of time.' "'Oh,' said Denzel, "'and shall I write the story for you?' "'Nope. You will not live long enough.' Denzel turned white. "'I am years younger than you,' he gasped. "'Yes,' said Grodman, "'but you drink so much.' End of CHAPTER VI. The Big Bow Mystery by Israel Zangwell, read by Adrian Predsellus. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Big Bow Mystery by Israel Zangwell CHAPTER VII 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 conceded. 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 Denzel Canticott'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 a confirmation of suspicions against his own pet Jackall 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 handmaiden, so obviously that Wimp could not see it. Wimp 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 Denzel without grazing the truth, a man constantly about him too. "'Denzel is a man of genius,' said Grodman, and, as such, comes under the head-in 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 surprised me,' Wimp replied. I am sure he couldn't have done much to it. Look at your letter in the pale mail. Who wants more polish and refinement than that, Shode?' "'Oh, 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 fiancée, there could be no more doubt 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 grandmother-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 counter-cotte. "'Don't let us talk sharp on Christmas Day,' he said, smiling at Grodman. "'Besides murder isn't a very imprepareate subject.' "'No, it ain't,' said Grodman. "'And if we get on it?' "'Oh, yes, Denzel counter-cotte. Ha, ha, ha! That's curious. Oh, yes, Denzel counter-cotte. Ha, ha, ha! That's curious. For since Denzel revised criminal's eye of court, his mind's running on nothing but murders. A poet's brain is easily turned.' Wimp's eyes 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. Everything wrought his rival up to the highest pitch, Grodman's slyly, and suddenly unstrung him. "'How lucky for Denzel,' 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 Denville 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. According 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. "'Pah,' said Wilfred Wimp. "'What's that alibi, a marble?' "'No, my lad,' said Grodman. "'It means being somewhere else, when you're supposed to be somewhere.' "'Oh, plain truant,' said Wilfred. Self-consciously, his schoolmaster had often proved an alibi against him. "'Then Denzer 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 snap-dragon 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-clark's chronology. Once let him know that bank holiday is coming, and he writes to the company for more water. Today 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. Old Canticott 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. Crowell was with him. They were in the first-floor front, Crowell's bedroom, which, from its view of the mile-in road, was livelier than the parlour with its outlook on the backyard. Mrs. Crowell was an anti-tobaccanist, 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 there both being fads. Besides Mrs. Crowell 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. Crowell 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 Crowell could count on such an audience. "'And you still call nature beautiful,' he said to Denzel, pointing to the ragged sky and the dripping eaves. Ugly old Scarecrow!' "'Ugly, she seems to-day,' admitted Denzel. "'But what is ugliness, but a higher form of beauty? You have to look deeper into it to see it. Which vision is the priceless gift of the fuel? To me this wand desolation of sighing rain is lovely, as the sea-washed ruins of cities.' "'Ah, but you would like to go out in it,' said Peter Crowell, as he spoke the drizzle suddenly thickened into a torrent. We do not always kiss the woman we love. Speak for yourself, Denzel. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know if nature isn't a fad. Hello? 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 Crowell's invitation to him to take shelter. When he did hear it, he shook his head. "'I know I can't offer you a drawer-in-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. Crowell's bedroom. "'Don't mind what I say, Tom. I'm only a playman, 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 shallow features. "'You know Mr. Cantacott, 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 him.' "'Nonsense! Nonsense!' said Peter, in much concern. "'Look at the good you are doing to the working man. Look at how you are sweeping away the fads. Ah, it's a grand thing to be gifted, Tom. The idea of you chucking yourself away on a compositing-room—manual labour is all very well for plain men like me, with no gifts, but just enough brains to see into the reality 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 Cantacott, it ain't right that you should be pegging away at low material things. Not that I think Cantacott'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." Louise said that the useful is the beautiful. Said Denzel. "'That may be,' said Peter, but the beautiful ain't the useful.' Nonsense!' said Denzel. "'What about Jesse? I mean Miss Diamond, there's a combination for you. She always reminds me of Grace, darling. How is she, Tom?' She's dead, snapped Tom. "'What?' Denzel turned as white as a Christmas-ghost. It was in the papers,' said Tom, all about her in the life-boat. "'Oh, you mean Grace, darling?' said Denzel, visibly relieved. I meant Miss Diamond. You needn't be so interested in her,' said Tom, surlyly. "'She don't appreciate it. Ah, the shower is over. I must be going.' "'Nah, sigh a little longer, Tom,' pleaded Peter. "'I can see a lot about you in the papers, but little of your dear old fizz 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'm 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 Bowbreaker 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've never been on the same platform with Gladstone. He forgot his depression and ill temper in the prospect, and spoke with more animation. "'Nah, I should hope not, Tom,' said Peter. "'What with his fads about the Bible being a rock and monarchy being the right thing? He's a most dangerous man to lead the radicals. He never lays his axe to the root of anything, except oak trees.' "'Mr. Canticott?' it was Mrs. Crowell's voice that broke in upon the tirade. "'There's a gentleman to see you.' The astonishment Mrs. Crowell 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. Crowell before asking to see the presumable object of his visit. "'Ask him up if it's a friend of yours, Canticott,' said Peter. It was Wimp. Denzel was rather dubious as to the friendship, but he preferred to take Wimp diluted. "'Mort likes 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. Crowell's bedroom. It was a queer quartet. 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 Denzel had made the first overtures, so that he could approach him without exciting suspicion. Not like Scowled when he saw the detective. He objected to the police on principle. But Crowell had no idea who the visitor was, even when to hold his name. He was rather pleased to meet one of Denzel'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 the 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. Constance's portrait, Mr. Wimp,' said the unconscious Crowell. "'They're going to unveil it,' Mort Lake tells me, on the twenty-first of next month, at the Bow Breaker Day Club.' "'Ow,' said Wimp, elated at being spared the trouble of manoeuvring the conversation. "'Mysterious affair that, Mr. Crowell.' "'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 Mort Lake, awit 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 his unselfishness. Poor fellow, poor fellow, he preached the useful to, I've never met his like. Ah, wish there was a heaven for him to go to!' He blew his nose violently with a red pocket-hanker-chief. "'Well, he's there. If there is,' said Tom. "'Ah, 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 Denzel. "'Oh, no,' answered Tom quickly. "'You remember he went out after me. At least. So Mrs. Raddump said at the inquest.' "'That last conversation he had with you, Tom,' said Denzel. "'He didn't say anything to you that would lead you to, suppose?' "'Nah, of course not,' interrupted Mortlake impatiently. "'Do you really think he was murdered, Tom?' said Denzel. "'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. Only if they're bored,' he added meaningly. "'Ah, but you were the last person known to be with him,' said Denzel. Crow laughed. "'Adjure there, Tom,' but they did not have Tom there much longer, for he departed, looking even worse tempered than when he came. Wimp went soon after, and Crowell and Denzel were left to their interminable argumentation concerning the useful and the beautiful. Wimp went west. He had several strings or cords to his bow, and he ultimately found himself at Kenzel Green Cemetery. Being there he went down the avenues of the dead to a grave to note down the exact date of a death. It was a day on which the dead seemed enviable. The dull, sudden sky, the dripping, leafless trees, the wet, spongy soil, the reeking grass—everything combined to make one long to be in a warm, comfortable grave, away from the leaden ennui of life. Suddenly the detective's keen eye sought a sight of a figure that made his harp throb with sudden excitement. It was that of a woman in a grey shawl and a brown bonnet, standing before a railed-in grave. She had no umbrella. The rain plashed mournfully upon her and left no trace on her soaking garments. Wimp crept up behind her, but she paid no heed to him. Her eyes were lowered to the grave, which seemed to be drawing them towards it by some strange morbid fascination. His eyes followed hers. The simple headstone bore the name Arthur Constant. Wimp tapped her suddenly on the shoulder. How do you do, Mrs. Drab-Dump?" Mrs. Drab-Dump went deadly white. She turned round, staring at Wimp, without any recognition. "'You remember me, surely,' he said. "'I've been down once or twice to your place about that poor gentleman's papers.' His eye indicated the grave. "'Law, I'll remember you now,' said Mrs. Drab-Dump. "'Whence you come under my umbrella, you must be drenched to the skin.' "'Oh, it don't matter, sir. I can't take no hurt. I've had the rheumatics this twenty year.' Mrs. Drab-Dump shrank from accepting Wimp's attentions, not so much perhaps because he was a man, as because he was a gentleman. Mrs. Drab-Dump liked to see the fine folks keep their place and not contaminate their skirts by contact with the lower castes. "'It's set wet. It'll rain right into the new year,' she announced. "'But they say a bad beginning makes a worse end in.'" Mrs. Drab-Dump was one of those persons who give you the idea that they just missed being born barometers. "'But what are you doing in this miserable spot so far from home?' queried the detective. "'It's bank holiday,' Mrs. Drab-Dump reminded him in tones of acute surprise. "'I'll always make a excursion on bank holiday.'" End of CHAPTER VIII. THE BIG BOE MYSTERY by ISRAEL ZANGWIL Read by ADRIAN PRED CELLUS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. THE BIG BOE MYSTERY by ISRAEL ZANGWIL CHAPTER VIII. The new year drew Mrs. Drab-Dump a new lodger. He was an old gentleman with a long grey beard. He rented the rooms of the late Mr. Constant and lived a very retired life. Haunted rooms, or rooms that ought to be haunted if the ghosts of those murdered in them had any self-respect, are supposed to fetch a lower rent in the market. The whole Irish problem might be solved if the spirits of Mr. Balfour's victims would only depreciate the value of a property to a point consistent with the support of an agricultural population. But Mrs. Drab-Dump's new lodger paid so much for his new rooms that he laid himself open to a suspicion of a special interest in ghosts. Perhaps he was a member of the Psychical Society. The neighbourhood imagined him another mad philanthropist, but as he did not appear to be doing any good to anybody, it relented and conceded his sanity. Mort Lake, who occasionally stumbled across him in the passage, did not trouble himself to think about him at all. He was too full of other troubles and cares. Though he worked harder than ever, the spirit appeared to have gone out of him. Sometimes he forgot himself in a fine rapture of eloquence, lashing himself up into a divine resentment of injustice or a passion of sympathy with the sufferings of his brethren, but mostly he plodded on in a dull mechanical fashion. He still made brief provincial tours, starring a day here and a day there, and everywhere his admirers remarked how jaded or overworked he looked. There was talk of starting a subscription to give him a holiday on the continent. A luxury obviously unobtainable on the few pounds allowed him per week. The new lodger would doubtless have been pleased to subscribe, for he seemed quite to like occupying Mort Lake's chamber the nights he was absent, though he was thoughtful enough not to disturb the hard-worked landlady in the adjoining room by unseemly noise. Wimp was always a quiet man. Meanwhile the twenty-first of the month approached, and the east end was in excitement. Mr. Gladstone had consented to be present at the ceremony of unveiling the portrait of Arthur Constant, presented by an unknown donor to the Bow Breaker Day Club, and it was to be a great function. The whole affair was outside the lines of party politics, so that even conservatives and socialists consider themselves justified in pestering the committee for tickets, to say nothing of ladies. As the committee desired to be present themselves, nine-tenths of the applications for admission had to be refused, as is usual on these occasions. The committee agreed among themselves to exclude the fair sex altogether as the only way of disposing of their womankind who were making speeches as long as Mr. Gladstone's. Each committee man told his sisters, female cousins, and aunts that the other committee man had insisted on divesting the function of all grace, and what could a man do when he was in a minority of one? Kroll, who was not a member of the Breaker Day Club, was particularly anxious to hear the great orator whom he despised. Fortunately Mortlake remembered the cobbler's anxiety to hear himself, and on the eve of the ceremony sent him a ticket. Kroll was in the first flush of possession when Denzel Cantacott returned, after a sudden and unannounced absence of three days. His clothes were muddy and tattered, his cocked hat was deformed, his cavalier beard was matted, and his eyes were bloodshot. The cobbler nearly dropped a ticket at the sight of him. Hello, Cantacott, he gasped. Why, where have you been away all these days? Terribly busy. Here, give me a glass of water. I'm as dry as the Sahara. Kroll ran inside and got the water, trying hard not to inform Mrs. Kroll of their lodger's return. Mother had expressed herself freely on the subject of the poet during his absence and not in terms which would have commended themselves to the poet's fastidious literary sense. Indeed, she did not hesitate to call him a sponger and a low swindler who would run away to avoid paying the piper. Her fool of a husband might be quite sure that he would never set eyes on the scoundrel again. However, Mrs. Kroll was wrong. Here was Denzel back again. And yet Mr. Kroll felt no sense of victory. He had no desire to crow over his partner and to us that, say, didn't I tell you so, which is a greater consolation than a religion in most of the misfortunes of life? Unfortunately, to get the water, Kroll had to go to the kitchen. And as he was usually such a temperate man, this desire for drink in the middle of the day attracted the attention of the lady in possession. Kroll had to explain the situation. Mrs. Kroll ran into the shop to improve it. Mr. Kroll followed in dismay, leaving a trail of spilt water in his wake. You good for nothing, disreputable scarecrow. Where have you? Oh, hush, mother, let him drink. Mr. Canticott is thirsty. Does he care if my children are hungry? Denzel tossed the water greedily down his throat, almost at a gulp as if it were brandy. Madam, he said, smacking his lips, I dual care, I care intensely. Few things in life would grieve me more deeply than to hear a child, a dear little child, the beautiful in a nutshell had suffered hunger. You wrong me. His voice was tremulous with the sense of injury. Tears stood in his eyes. Wrong you? I had no wish to wrong you. Said Mrs. Kroll, I should like to hang you. Don't talk of such ugly things, said Denzel, touching his throat nervously. Well, what have you been doing all this time? Why, what should I be doing? How should I know what became of you? I thought it was another murder. What? Denzel's glass smashed the fragments on the floor. What do you mean? But Mrs. Kroll was glaring too viciously at Mr. Kroll to reply. He understood the message as if it were printed. It ran, you have broken one of my best glasses, you have annihilated threpants or a weak school fees for half the family. Peter wished you would turn the lightning upon Denzel, a conductor down whom it would run innocuously. He stooped down and picked up the pieces as carefully as if they were cuttings from the co-enor. Thus the lightning passed harmlessly over his head and flew towards Cantacot. What do I mean? Mrs. Kroll echoed as if there had been no interval. I mean that it would be a good thing if you had been murdered. What unbeautiful ideas you have to be sure, murmured Denzel. Yes, but they'd be useful, said Mrs. Kroll, who had not lived with Peter all these years for nothing. And if you haven't been murdered, what have you been doing? My dear, my dear, put in Kroll depreciatingly, looking up from his quadrupedal position like a sad dog, you're not Mr. Cantacot's keeper. Oh, ain't I? flashed his spouse. Who else keeps him, I should like to know. Peter went on picking up the pieces of the co-enor. I have no secrets from Mrs. Kroll, Denzel explained courteously. I have been working day and night, bringing out a new paper. I haven't had a wink of sleep for three nights. Peter looked up at his bloodshot eyes with respectful interest. The capitalist met me in the street, an old friend of mine. I was overjoyed at the wrong conch and told him the idea I'd been brooding over for months, and he promised to stand all the racket. What sort of a paper, said Peter? Can you ask to what you think I've been devoting my days and nights, but to the cultivation of the beautiful? Is that what the paper will be devoted to? Yes, to the beautiful. I know, snorted Mrs. Kroll, with portraits of actresses. Portraits? Oh, no, said Denzel. That would be the true, not the beautiful. And what's the name of the paper? Asked Kroll. Oh, that's a secret, Peter. Like Scott, I prefer to remain anonymous, just like your fads. I'm only a plain man, and I want to know where the fun of anonymity comes in. If I had any gifts, I should like to get the credit. It's a right and a natural feeling to my thinking. Unnatural, Peter. Unnatural. We're all born anonymous, and I'm for sticking close to nature. Enough for me that I should disseminate the beautiful. Any letters come during my absence, Mrs. Kroll? No, she snapped, but a gent named Grodman called. He said you hadn't been to see her for some time and looked annoyed to hear you disappeared. How much have you let him in for? The man's in my debt, said Denzel, annoyed. I wrote a book for him, and he's taken all the credit for it, the rogue. My name doesn't appear even in the preface. What's that ticket you're looking so lovingly at, Peter? That's for tonight. The unveiling of Constance Paltrow, Gladstone Speaks, or Fogdemar for Places. Gladstone, sneered Denzel, who wants to hear Gladstone, a man who's devoted his life to pulling down the pillars of church and state, a man who's devoted his life to propping up the crumbling fads of religion and monarchy, but for all that the man has his gifts and I'm burning to hear him. I wouldn't go out of my way an inch to hear him, said Denzel, and went up to his room. And when Mrs. Kroll sent him up a nice cup of strong tea at tea time, the brat who bought it found him lying dressed on the bed, snoring unbeautifully. The evening wore on. It was fine frosty weather. The White Chapel Road swarmed with noisy life as though it were a Saturday night. The stars flared in the sky like the lights of celestial costamangers. Everybody was on the alert for the advent of Mr. Gladstone. He must surely come through the road on his journey from the west to bow wards, but no one saw him or his carriage except for those about the hall. Probably he went by tram most of the way. He would have caught cold in an open carriage or bobbing his head after the window overclosed. If he had only been a German prince or a cannibal king, said Crowe bitterly as he plotted toward the club, we should have disguised my land in bunting and blue fire, but perhaps as a compliment, he knows his London and it's no use trying to hide the facts from him. They must have a queer notion of cities these monarchs. They must fancy everybody lives in a flutter of flags and walks about under triumphant arches, like as if I was to stitch shoes in my Sunday clothes. By a defiance of chronology, Crowe had them on today and they seemed to accentuate the simile. And why shouldn't life be fuller of the beautiful? Said Denzel. The poet had brushed the reluctant mud off his garments to the extent he was willing to go and had washed his face, but his eyes were still bloodshot from the cultivation of the beautiful. Denzel was accompanying Crowe to the door of the club out of good fellowship. Denzel was himself accompanied by Grodman, though less abtrusively. Least abtrusively was he accompanied by his usual Scotland Yard shadows, Wimps agents. There was a surging, nondescript crowd about the club so that the police and the doorkeeper and the stewards could with difficulty keep out the tide of the ticketless, though which the current of the privileged had equal difficulty in permeating. The streets all around were thronged with people logging for a glimpse of Gladstone. Mortlake drove up in a handsome. His head a self-conscious pendulum of popularity swaying and bowing to right and left and received all the pent-up enthusiasm. Well, goodbye, Cantacot, said Crowe. No, I'll see you to the door, Peter. They fought their way shoulder to shoulder. Now that Grodman had found Denzel, he was not going to lose him again. He had only found him by accident, for he was himself bound to the unveiling ceremony, to which he had been invited in view of his known devotion to the task of unveiling the mystery. He spoke to one of the policemen about, who said, Aye, aye, sir. And he was prepared to follow Denzel if necessary, and to give up the pleasure of hearing Gladstone for an acuter thrill. The arrest must be delayed no longer. But Denzel seemed as if he were going in on the heels of Crowe. This would suit Grodman better. He could then have the two pleasures. But Denzel was stopped halfway through the door. Dick it, sir. Denzel drew himself up to his full height. Press, he said majestically, all the glories and granges of the Fourth Estate were concentrated in that haughty monosyllable. Heaven itself is full of journalists who have overawed St. Peter. But the doorkeeper was a veritable dragon. What pipe, sir? New York Herald, said Denzel sharply. He did not relish his word being distrusted. New York Herald, said one of the bystanding stewards, scarce catching the words, pass him in. And in a twinkling of an eye Denzel had eagerly slipped inside. During the brief altercation Wimp had come up. Even he could not make his face quite impassive. And there was a suppressed intensity in the eyes and a quiver about the mouth. He went in on Denzel's heels, blocking up the doorway with Grodman. The two men were so full of their coming coups that they struggled for some seconds side by side before they recognized each other. Then they shook hands heartily. It was Kentaker just went in, wasn't it, Grodman? Said Wimp. I didn't notice. Said Grodman in tones of utter indifference. At bottom Wimp was terribly excited. He felt that his coup was going to be executed under very sensational circumstances. Everything would combine to turn the eyes of the country upon him, nay of the world, for had not the big bow mystery been discussed in every language under the sun. In these electric times the criminal receives a cosmopolitan reputation. It is a privilege he shares with few other artists. This time Wimp would be one of them. And he felt deservedly so. If the criminal had been cunning to the point of genius in planning the murder, he had been acute to the point of divination. In detecting it, never before had he pieced together so broken a chain. He could not resist the unique opportunity of setting a sensational scheme in a sensational framework. The dramatic instinct was strong in him. He felt like a playwright who has constructed a strong melodramatic plot and has the Drury Lane stage suddenly offered him to present it on. It would be folly to deny himself the luxury, though the presence of Mr Gladstone and the nature of the ceremony should perhaps have given him pause. Yet, on the other hand, these were the very factors of the temptation. Wimp went in and took a seat behind Denzel. All the seats were numbered so that everybody might have the satisfaction of occupying somebody else's. Denzel was in the special reserved places in the front row just behind the central gangway. The crowd was squeezed into a corner behind a pillar near the back of the hall. Grodman had been honoured with a seat on the platform, which was accessible by steps on the right and left, but he kept his eye on Denzel. The picture of the poor idealist hung on the wall behind Grodman's head, covered by its curtain of brown Holland. There was a subdued buzz of excitement about the hall, which swelled into cheers every now and again as some gentleman known to fame or beau, took his place upon the platform. It was occupied by several local MPs of varying politics, a number of parliamentary satellites of the great man, three or four labour leaders, a peer or two of philanthropic pretensions, a sprinkling of Toynbee and Oxford Hall men, the president and other honorary officials, some of the family and friends of the deceased, together with the inevitable percentage of persons who had no claim to be there saved cheek. Gladstone was late. Later the Mort Lake, who was cheered to the echo when he arrived, someone starting, for he's a jolly good fellow, as if it were a political meeting, Gladstone came in just in time to acknowledge the compliment. The noise of the song trolled out from iron lungs, had drowned the hazards heralding the old man's advent. The convivial chorus went to Mort Lake's head, as if Champagne had already preceded it. His eyes grew moist and dim. He saw himself swimming to the millennium on waves of enthusiasm. Ah, how his brother Toilers should be rewarded in their trust in him. In his usual courtesy and consideration, Mr. Gladstone had refused to perform the actual unveiling of Arthur Constant Portrait. That, he said in his postcard, will fall most appropriately to Mr. Mort Lake. A gentleman who has, I am given to understand, enjoyed the personal friendship of the late Mr. Constant, and has cooperated with him in various schemes for the organisation of skilled and unskilled classes of labour, as well as for the diffusion of better ideals. Ideals of self-culture and self-restraint among the working men of Beau who have been fortunate so far as I can perceive in the possession, if in one case unhappily only temporary possession, of two such men of undoubted ability and honesty to direct their divided councils to lead them along a road which, though I cannot pledge myself to approve of it in all its turnings and windings, is yet not unfitted to bring them somewhat nearer to goals to which there are few of us, but would extend some measure of hope that the working classes of this great empire may in due course, yet with no unnecessary delay, be enabled to arrive. Mr. Gladstone's speech was an expansion of his postcard punctuated by cheers. The only new thing in it was the grateful and touching way in which he revealed what had been a secret up till then, that the portrait had been painted and presented to the Beau Breaker Day Club by Lucy Brent, who in the fullness of time would have been Arthur Constance's wife. It was a painting for which he had sat to her while alive, and yet she had stifled yet pampered her grief by working harder since his death. The fact added the last touch of pathos to the occasion. Crowe's face was hidden behind his red handkerchief. Even the fire of excitement in Wimp's eye was quenched for a moment by a teardrop as he thought of Mrs. Wimp and Wilfred. As for Grudman, there was almost a lump in his throat. Denssel Canticott was the only unmoved man in the room. He thought the episode quite too beautiful and was already weaving it into rhyme. At the conclusion of his speech Mr. Gladstone called upon Tom Mortley to unveil the portrait. Tom Rose, pale and excited, he faltered as he touched the cord. He seemed overcome with emotion. Was it the mention of Lucy Brent that had moved him to his depths? The Brown Holland fell away. The dead stood revealed as he had been in life. Every feature painted by the hand of love was instinct with vitality. The fine earnest face, the sad kindly eyes, the noble brow seemed still a throb with the thought of humanity. A thrill ran through the room. There was a low, undefinable murmur. Oh, the pathos and the tragedy of it. Every eye was fixed, misty with emotion, upon the dead man in the picture, and the living man who stood pale and agitated and visibly unable to commence his speech at the side of the canvas. Suddenly a hand was laid upon the labour leader's shoulder, and there rang through the hall in wimps, clear, decisive tones the words, term at Moortlake, I arrest you for the murder of Arthur Constance. End of chapter eight. The Big Bow Mystery by Israel Zangwell, read by Adrian Pretzelis. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Big Bow Mystery by Israel Zangwell, chapter nine. For a moment there was an acute, terrible silence. Moortlake's face was that of a corpse. The face of the dead man at his side was flushed with the hues of life. To the overstrung nerves of the onlookers, the brooding eyes of the picture seemed sad and stern with menace and charged with the lightnings of doom. It was a horrible contrast. For wimp alone the painted face had fuller, more tragical meanings. The audience seemed turned to stone. They sat or stood in every variety of attitude, frozen, rigid. Arthur Constance's picture dominated the scene, the only living thing in a whole of the dead. But only for a moment. Moortlake shook off the detective's hand. Boys, he cried in accents of infinite indignation. This is a police conspiracy. His words relaxed the tension. The stony figures were agitated. A dull, excited hubbub answered him. The little cobbler darted from behind his pillar and leapt upon a bench. The cords of his brow were swollen with excitement. He seemed a giant overshadowing the hall. Boys, he roared in his best Victoria Park voice. Listen to me. This charge is a foul and damnable lie. Bravo! Here, here! Hooray! It is! Was roared back at him from all parts of the room. Everybody rose and stood in tentative attitudes, excited to the last degree. Boys! Peter roared on. You all know me. I'm a plain man, and I want to know if it's likely a man would murder his best friend. No! In a mighty volume of sound. Wimp had scarcely calculated upon Mortlake's popularity. He stood on the platform, pale and anxious, as his prisoner. And if he did, why didn't they prove it the first time? Here, here! And if they want to arrest him, why couldn't they leave it till the ceremony was over? Tom Mortlake's not the man to run away. Tom Mortlake! Tom Mortlake! Three cheers for Tom Mortlake. Here, here, hooray! Three groans for the police. Hooray! Hooray! Hooray! Wimp's melodrama was not going well. He felt like the author to whose ears is borne the ominous sibilance of the pit. He almost wished he had not followed the curtain raiser with his own stronger drama. Unconsciously, the police scattered about the hall, drew together. The people on the platform knew not what to do. They had all risen and stood in a densely packed mass. Even Mr. Gladstone's speech failed him in circumstances so novel. The groans died away. The cheers for Mortlake rose and swelled, and fell and rose again. Sticks and umbrellas were banged and rattled. Hankerchiefs were waved. The thunder deepened. The motley crowd, still surging about the hall, took up the cheers. And for hundreds of yards around, people were going black in the face out of mere irresponsible enthusiasm. At last Tom waved his hand. The thunder dwindled, died. The prisoner was master of the situation. Groedman stood on the platform, grasping the back of his chair. A curious, mocking, Mesterfoloffian glitter about his eyes. His lips wreathed in a half-smile. There was no hurry for him to get Denzel Canticott arrested now. Wimp had made an egregious, a colossal blunder. In Groedman's heart there was a great glad calm as of a man who has strained his sinews to win in a famous match and has heard the judge's word. He almost felt kindly to Denzel now. Tom Mortlake spoke. His face was set and stony. His tall figure was drawn up haughtily to its full height. He pushed the black main back from his forehead with a characteristic gesture. The fevered audience hung upon his lips. The man at the back leaned eagerly forward. The reporters were breathless with fear, lest they should miss a word. What would the great labour leader have to say at this supreme moment? Mr Chairman and gentlemen, it is to me a melancholy pleasure to have been honoured with the task of unveiling tonight this portrait of a great benefactor to Beau and a true friend to the labouring classes, except that he honoured me with his friendship while living and that the aspirations of my life have, in my small and restricted way, been identical with his. There is little reason why this honourable duty should have fallen upon me. Gentlemen, I trust that we shall all find an inspiring influence in the daily vision of the dead, who yet liveth in our hearts and in this noble work of art, wrought, as Mr Gladstone has told us, by the hand of one who loved him. The speaker paused a moment, his low vibrant tones faltering into silence. If we humble working men of Beau can never hope to exert individually a tithe of the beneficial influence wielded by Arthur Constant, it is yet possible for each of us to walk in the light he has kindled in our midst, a perpetual lamp of self-sacrifice and brotherhood. That was all. The room rang with cheers. Tom Mortlake resumed his seat. To wimp, the man's audacity averged on the sublime. To denzel, on the beautiful. Again there was a breathless hush. Mr Gladstone's mobile face was working with excitement. No such extraordinary scene had occurred in the whole of his extraordinary experience. He seemed about to rise, the cheering subsided to a painful stillness. Wimp cut the situation by laying his hand again upon Tom's shoulder. Come quietly with me, he said. The words were almost a whisper. But in the supreme silence they travelled to the ends of the hall. Don't you go, Tom! The trumpet tomes were Peters. The call thrilled an answering cord of defiance in every breast and a low ominous murmur swept through the hall. Tom rose and there was silence again. Boys, he said, let me go. Don't make any noise about it. I shall be with you again tomorrow. But the blood of the break-a-day boys was at fever-heat. A hurtling mass of men struggled confusedly from their seats. In a moment all was chaos. Tom did not move. Half a dozen men, headed by Peter, scaled the platform. Wimp was thrown to one side and the invaders formed a ring round Tom's chair. The platform-people scampered like mice from the centre. Some huddled together in the corners, others slipped out at the rear. The committee congratulated themselves on having had the self-denial to exclude ladies. Mr Gladstone's satellites hurried the old man off and into his carriage, though the fight promised to become Homeric. Grondman stood at the side of the platform, secretly more amused than ever, concerning himself no more with Denzel Canticott, who was already strengthening his nerves at the bar upstairs. The police about the hall blew their whistles and policemen came rushing in from outside and the neighbourhood. An Irish MP on the platform was waving his gingham like a chilele in sheer excitement, forgetting his newfound respectability and dreaming himself back at Donnybrook Fair. Him a conscientious constable floored with a truncheon. But a shower of fists fell upon the zealot's face and he tottered back bleeding. Then the storm broke in all its fury. The upper air was black with stave, sticks and umbrellas, mingled with the pallid hailstones of knobby fists. Yells and groans and hoots and battle-cries blend in grotesque chorus like one of Dvorak's weird diabolical movements. Mort Lake stood impassive with arms folded, making no further effort and the battle raged round him as the water swirls round some steadfast rock. A posse of police from the back fought their way steadily towards him and charged up the heights of the platform steps, only to be sent tumbling backwards as their leader was hurled at them like a battering-ram. Upon the top of the heap he fell, surmounting the strata of policemen. But others clamoured upon them, escalating the platform. A moment more and Mort Lake would have been taken. Then the miracle happened. As when of old, a reputable goddess ex-Makena saw her favourite hero in dire peril. Straight away she drew down a cloud from the celestial stores of Jupiter and enveloped her fondling in kindly night, so that his adversaries strove with the darkness. So did Crowell, the cunning cobbler, the much-daring assay to ensure his friend's safety. He turned off the gas at the meter. An arctic night, unprecedented by twilight, fell. And there dawned the sabbath of the witches. The darkness could be felt and it left blood and bruises behind it. When the lights were turned on again, Mort Lake was gone, but several of the rioters were arrested triumphantly. And through all and over all, the face of the dead man who had sought to bring peace on earth brooded. Crowell sat meekly eating his supper of bread and cheese with his head bandaged while Denzel Canticott told him the story of how he had rescued Tom Mort Lake. He had been among the first to scale the height and had never budged from Tom's side or from the forefront of the battle till he had seen him safely outside and into a by-street. I'm so glad you saw that he got away safely. said Crowell. I wasn't quite sure he would. Yes, but I wish some cowardly fool hadn't turned off the gas. I like men to see that they are beaten. But it seemed easier, faltered Crowell. Easier. Echo Denzel taking a deep draft of bitter. Really, Peter? I'm sorry to find you always will take such low views. It may be easier, but it's shabby. It shocks one sense of the beautiful. Crowell ate his bread and cheese shame-facedly. But what was the use of breaking your head to save him? Said Mrs. Crowell with an unconscious pun. He must be cold. Oh, I don't see how the useful does come in now, said Peter thoughtfully. But I didn't think of that at the time. He swallowed his water quickly and it went down the wrong way and added to his confusion. It also began to dawn upon him that he might be called to account. Let it be said at once that he wasn't. He had taken two prominent apart. Meanwhile, Mrs. Wimp was bathing Mr. Wimp's eye and rubbing him generally with Arnica. Wimp's melodrama had been, indeed, a sight for the gods. Only virtue was vanquished and vice triumphant. The villain had escaped and without striking a blow. End of chapter nine.