The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  Billy Wilks closed it now, but still did not lock it. He went slowly upstairs again to the drawing-room. He found himself wondering, in a vague way, why he was not afraid to go back there, as he would have expected. But, indeed, that now seemed to be the one room in the house he dared enter. To pass another of those doors—open and staring, or ajar and peeping—no. He stepped hurriedly over the dead man and peered once more between the sheets of a blind.

  All was well; there was no curious knot of people staring at the house, no policeman in the front garden, as he had half expected to see. There had been no great noise, then—he had been wondering if there had been any noise. He recrossed the room, bending double again. That was because of the looking-glass over the mantelpiece.

  There was a little blood on his hands—not much. He wiped it off carefully on the dead man’s clothes. There was none on his own things, but he wiped his boots long and thoroughly on the thick carpet, in case he might have stepped heedlessly. So far instinct carried him, helped by a mere shadow of thought. And then he sat in a chair and wept again—more wildly and freely than before, rolling his head on his hands in anguish.

  For now the panic, the numbness, the spurring of instinct were gone, and the sense of his crime fell on him like an avalanche. The man’s wife and children were waiting for him—wondering why he was late at dinner. And here was the husband and father, beaten out of the shape of man, with not a feature they could know again. The murderer beat his hands on his head as he thought of it. He—he himself had made what lay before him of the face that the wife would kiss no more; had driven the life from the knee that the children would never climb again; from the hands that never more could feed them. This thing, this woe of orphan and widow, was what he had made of an honest man, a better man than himself.

  Himself. Yes, he saw himself now for what he was; coward, thief, vermin. All his elaborate excuses to himself, all his conscientious scruples—mere fraud over fraud. He had never been honest even to himself, from his mother’s knee. And here he stood at last, at the gallows foot. For it was that—that and no less; and the sooner the better. For to live and endure the agonies of the hunt, to live in this remorse, and to be tracked down, nearer and nearer till the end: that were to make the gallows loom the blacker when he came to it, as come he must.

  The way, then, was clear. An end of all. If he could not wipe out the past, could not cancel the horror of the hour now past his reach, he could at least give himself to just punishment—the punishment that there was no escaping. He would give himself over to the law and cut the ugly knot of his life.

  He stood up, with a clear mind, and a strange, almost a pleasant, serenity of soul. But first the silver in his pockets. One sin, at least, was not beyond repair. He pulled the trinkets out one or two at a time, as they came, and piled them on the glass of the broken show-table, standing erect before the looking-glass to do it. Then he turned and stepped over the dead man for the last time, treading in the dry places; for now the thing repelled him as it had not done before. He went heavily down the stair, out into the garden, and so openly into the street.

  The street was quiet as ever—he had chosen it for quietness. A boy, with hands in pockets, went dancing and whistling away at the far end, and a man had humped his shoulders in a gateway to light his pipe. Billy Wilks turned the corner by the gate.

  It was now for the first time that he thought of his wife. He would go home first to give her the few coppers in his pocket, and bid her good-bye—her and the child. There was a sudden, palpable blow at his heart as he remembered the child, a rise in his throat and a twitch at his mouth.

  But he walked on, seeing little or nothing, falling, as he went, into something like a brown study, and taking his way by habit. One who knew the neighbourhood could approach Cator’s Rents from behind, by paved alleys, dark archways, and paths between dead walls. It was Billy’s custom, in fact, since he often had reasons for keeping his home-goings private and unobserved; and the last alley came out under the house he lived in, so that it was possible to enter by a little gate in the backyard fence. So by habit Billy Wilks followed these byways, and came at last to the ragged wooden gate.

  He pushed it, but found an unaccustomed resistance, and from between the pales came a yelp of childish laughter.

  “Tan’t tum in!” piped a small voice, and as Billy looked over the gate he saw the muddy little face of his child raised smiling toward his, and the familiar mop of ragged hair over it.

  He reached and lifted the child in his arms. Nobody else was in the squalid yard, and Billy crept quietly in at the back door and gained his room on the first floor.

  The child clung at his neck and patted his face with grimy little hands. Tears and dirt in successive smears were the daily cosmetic of little Billy’s face, and today the mixture was thick and black, though now he smiled through it all. Billy put the child down on the tumbled bed, pitched his hat into a corner, and threw off his coat and waistcoat: habit again.

  He remembered, now, that his wife had gone charing, and would not be back till evening. Well, it could very well wait till then.

  The child scrambled off the bed and pulled open the door at the sound of footsteps descending from above. It was Nuke Fish, from the next floor.

  “Cheer O!” said Nuke, as he passed the door, glancing at Billy Wilks’s shirt and braces. “Ain’t seen you all day. On’y jist up?”

  “Ah, yus,” Billy responded deliberately. “I’ve been ’avin’ a turn in bed today.”

  “Ah—I could do with a day in, meself. Missis out on a job?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Ah—she’s the sort. You can ’ave a bit of an ’oliday with a wife like ’er. So long!”

  Billy Wilks pushed the door to, and took little Billy on his knee. He must think over that idea of going to the police; things began to seem different when he looked at little Billy. It was rather a piece of luck, Nuke Fish coming down like that, and assuming he was only just out of bed. It gave him time to think things over. More, Nuke would be able to swear he saw him getting up, or at any rate dressing, at—what was it? Two o’clock or so—if—yes…

  He leaned aside and looked out of window. A policeman was turning into the Rents at the far end. He knew the policeman very well,—this was his regular beat. Billy put the child down, pushed up the window, unbuttoned his shirt, and leaned out, with his elbows on the sill. He yawned wide and long as the policeman drew near, stretched an arm in the air, and brought it back to the sill. The policeman looked up.

  Billy nodded quickly. “Good morning, sir,” he said cheerfully…

  After all, what was done was over, and at least one could refrain from making it worse. And when he considered little Billy—

  Besides, a man had himself to think about.

  So that Billy Wilks was hanged for quite another murder after all.

  THE DISORDER OF THE BATH

  First published in Pall Mall Magazine, Vol. 35, 1905, pp 573-579

  Snorkey Timms is as disreputable an acquaintance as a man need seek, and full of the most ungenteel information.

  It was from Snorkey’s report that I was able long ago to tell the tale of the Red Cow Anarchist Group; and it was long after that time that I learned, by chance, that he had a surname at all. Not that he had been christened Snorkey; his original given name I cannot tell you now, and it is quite possible he has forgotten it himself; while even “Timms” has so far gone out of use that you may shout it aloud without attracting Snorkey’s notice.

  It was Snorkey, furthermore, who told me the real story of the attempt on the Shah of Persia’s jewelled hat in open London; as well as many others, more credible and less, of the doings of them that live by trades of no respectability. He told them behind bar-screens and in remote snuggeries, not without interruption from thirst and its remedy.

  “I s’pose,” said Snorkey thoughtfully, on one such
occasion, “I s’pose such a party as yourself might ’ave as much objections as what another party might ’ave, for to say what ’is line o’ business might be?”

  Such objections were familiar enough, for good reason, among Snorkey’s acquaintance, and he plainly anticipated my reply. I signified my entire agreement with Snorkey’s supposition.

  “Um!” he answered, and meditatively licked the cigar by the gift whereof I had sought to avert the fumes of Snorkey’s shag. “Um—m—m!” He leaned back on the snuggery bench, put the cigar in his mouth, and reached for a light. “You ain’t one of our mob, any’ow,” he proceeded, “an’ I know you ain’t a nark; I’ll give ye that much credit. But I ’ave ’eard o’ parties, same as it might be you, as is come down to the Ditch, or the Kate, or the Gun, same as you might be here, and got a-talkin’ with other parties, same as it might be me, an’ ’earin’ about all sorts o’ things, an’ then writin’ ’em in the papers, an’ gettin’ paid for it—pecks o’ money: about a bob a word. Gettin’ it all out o’ other parties, an’ then smuggin’ the makin’s.”

  “Disgraceful,” I said.

  Snorkey pushed back a sadly damaged bowler hat and looked fixedly at me. Then he took a drink, wiped his mouth, tugged his grimy neckerchief with a hooked forefinger, and stared again at his cigar. I remained silent and contemplative.

  “Not as you ain’t bin pally, now an’ then,” he resumed awkwardly, after a blank pause. “Standin’, an’ all that; an’ you greased my duke more’n once; I’ll give ye that much credit.” And here Snorkey’s speech tailed off into inarticulate mumblings.

  “Out with it,” I said. “You want something. What is it all about?”

  “I’m a-savin’ up a bit for a ’oliday in the country,” he answered sulkily, evading my eye.

  “In the country?” I asked doubtfully; for the phrase is a euphemism for a convict prison.

  “I mean the real country; not where the dawgs don’t bite. I want a bit of a ’oliday.”

  I judged that there must be some other reason than that of health for this aspiration of Snorkey’s, and I said so.

  “Well, some parties mightn’t call it reasons of ’ealth,” Snorkey answered. “I should. Ginger Bates’ll be out in a day or two, an’ Joe Kelly too—both together.”

  I knew that Ginger Bates and Joe Kelly had experienced the misfortune, some months more than two years back, to be sentenced to three years’ penal servitude. By the ordinary operation of the prison system, with prudence and good luck, they must soon be released. It seemed clear that Snorkey had some particularly good reason for not wishing to meet these old friends, fresh from their troubles.

  “What’s this, then?” I said. “You haven’t been narking, have you?”

  “Me? Narkin’?” Snorkey glared indignantly; and in fact the sin of the informer was the sole transgression of which I could never really have suspected him. “No, I ain’t bin narkin’. I ain’t bin narkin’, but I don’t want to see Ginger Bates an’ Joe Kelly when they come out—not both on ’em together, any’ow. After a week or two they’ll split out after other things, an’ it won’t matter so much; but when they fust come out they’ll be together, an’ the fust thing they’ll do, they’ll ask after me. I don’t want to be at ’ome just then.”

  “Why?”

  “I ’spec’ they’ll be angry. Matter o’ perfessional jealousy.” Snorkey chuckled and winked. “It was a bit of a lark, an’ none so bad a dick, neither—double event. But are you goin’ to grease my duke?”

  This rite—nothing more nor less than the passing over of a contribution to Snorkey’s holiday fund—was accomplished with no more delay; and fresh interest was given to Snorkey’s empty glass.

  “It was none so bad a click,” repeated Snorkey: “quite a lucky touch for a chap workin’ alone, like me. It was when I came ’ome in that dossy knickerbocker suit.”

  I had faint memories of cryptic “chaff” directed at Snorkey by his intimates in the matter of a certain magnificent walking-suit, arrayed in which he was said to have dazzled Shoreditch at some indefinite period of his career. But I waited for explanations.

  “Ginger Bates and Joe Kelly ’ad got their eye on a nice place in the country for a bust,” Snorkey proceeded; meaning thereby that his two friends had in view a burglary at a country house. “It was a nice medium sort o’ place, not too big, but well worth doin’, an’ they got me to go down an’ take the measure of it for a few days, them not wantin’ to show theirselves in the neighbourhood, o’ course. So they gives me a quid for exes, an’ a few odd sheets o’ glass in a glazier’s frame with a lump o’ putty an’ a knife on it, an’ I humps the lot and starts. O’ course I was to take my whack when they’d done the job. Nothin’ better than the glazier caper, if you want to run the rule over a likely place. Buyin’ bottles an’ bones does pretty well sometimes, but you don’t get the same chances.

  “It was very nigh two hours’ run out on the rattler, an’ then a four-mile walk; very good weather, an’ I put in a day or two doin’ it easy in the sun.

  “The ’ouse was a fust-rate place—quite nobby. I had a good look at it from outside the garden wall, an’ I asked a few questions at the pub an’ what not. After that I went in by the back way, with my glass on my back; an’ I had luck straight away, for I see a pantry winder broke. So I ’ad a good look round fust, an’ then I went along, very ’umble an’ civil to everybody, an’ got the job to mend that winder. More luck.

  “They let me do the winder—me offerin’ to do it cheap,—an’ so I sets to work steady enough, with a slavey comin’ to pipe me round the corner every now an’ then, to see I didn’t pinch nothink. An’ o’ course I didn’t. I behaved most industrious an’ honest, an’ you might ha’ made a picture of me, facsimiliar, to go in front of a bloomin’ tract, an’ done it credit, too. But while the slavey was a-pipin’ me, I was a-pipin’ the pantry—what ho! I was a-pipin’ the pantry with my little eye, and there was more bloomin’ luck; for if ever I see a wedge-kip in all my nach’ral puff, I see one fine an’ large under the shelf in that bloomin’ pantry! The luck I ’ad all through that job was jist ’eavenly.”

  Heavenly might not have been the appropriate word in the strictly moral view, but since by the “wedge-kip” Snorkey indicated the plate-basket of the unsuspecting householder, I understood him well enough.

  “It was jist ’eavenly. I never ’ad sich luck before nor since. So I finished the job very slow, an’ took my money very ’umble, an’ a glass o’ beer as they sent out for me, an’ pratted away to the village an’ sent off a little screeve by the post, for Ginger an’ Joe to come along to-morrer night an’ do the job peaceful an’ pleasant. You see the new putty I’d put in ’ud peel out on yer finger, an’ it on’y meant takin’ out the pane an’ openin’ the catch to do the job.

  “Well, I put up cheap at the smallest pub, an’ in the mornin’ I went out for a walk. Bein’ a glazier, ye see, ’twouldn’t ’a’ done for me not to go on the tramp like as if it was after a job. So off I went along the road, an’ it was about the ’ottest stroll ever I took. It was a ’ot day, without any extrys, but you don’t know what a ’ot day’s like till you’ve tramped in it with the sun on yer back, an’ two or three thicknesses o’ winder-glass for it to shine through. I took the loneliest road out o’ the village, not wantin’ to be called on for another job, an’ not wantin’ to be seen more’n I could ’elp. It was a ’orrid long lane, without a soul or a ’ouse on it for miles, an’ I got ’alf frightened after a bit, thinkin’ there never was goin’ to be a pub. It seems unnach’ral an’ weirdlike to be on a road with no pubs—the sort o’ thing you dream about in nightmares.

  “Well, I went along this ’ere lane with no turnin’ till I was ready to drop, an’ I could smell the putty afrizzlin’ in the frame be’ind me; me a-wonderin’ whatever the lane was made for. Not for traffic, I reckon, for there was places with grass ’alf ac
ross it, an’ other places where some ijiot ’ad chucked down long patches o’ stones for to repair it, an’ the stones was washed clean with years o’ rain, but not a wheel-mark on ’em. I didn’t know whether to turn back or go on, not knowin’ which meant the longest job; till at last I b’lieve I’d ’a’ ate the bloomin’ putty off the frame, if I’d ’ad anythink to drink with it. But even the ditch was a dry ’un, an’ I was in that state o’ roastin’ torment, I almost think if there’d been a pond or a river I’d ’a’ took a bath, I was that desp’rit.

  “It was like that when I came to a pub at last. It wasn’t much of a pub, bein’ mostly pigsties, but it was good enough for me. There was beer there, an’ bread an’ cheese, so I sat on a bench under a tree in front, an’ took an hour or two’s rest. An’ the ’ole time not a thing or a livin’ soul come past, except towards the end, an’ then it was a van—a carryvan, ye know, sich as gipsies an’ showmen ’as—a carryvan for livin’ in, with muslin blinds an’ a little chimney-pipe. It’s a sort o’ thing you gen’rally see a purcession of together, but this was all alone. There was a steady-lookin’ ol’ bloke a-sittin’ in front drivin’, an’ as the van came opposyte the pub there was a rare ’ullabaloo o’ shoutin’ inside it, but the ol’ chap drivin’ didn’t take no notice. Then a bloke come flounderin’ an’ hollerin’ out o’ the back door, an’ runs up alongside shoutin’ to the of chap to stop, till he ketches ’im by the elbow, an’ very nigh pulls ’im off the van. Then the ol’ bloke looks round innocent as ye please, an’ pulls up; an’ it turns out that ’e was stone-deaf, an’ what the other chap was after was to pull up ’ere an’ get some water. ’E was a rare toff, this chap—knickerbocker suit an’ eyeglass—quite a dook. It seemed this was ’is way o’ takin’ a quiet ’oliday, goin’ round the country in a van. I’ve ’eard of others doin’ the same, since. Not altogether my idea of a ’oliday, but a sight better’n ’umpin’ a glazier’s frame for miles an’ miles along a road with no pubs in it.