The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

“S’elp me, guv’nor, it’s all right!” protested the redheaded man, rising and moving off a little way. “I’m on’y ’avin’ a ’oliday, guv’nor! You can turn me over if you like!”

  Now Tommy did not know that to turn a man over meant to search him, but he did not stop to wonder. For what occupied the whole of his attention now, even to the neglect of the very toffee in his mouth, was the astounding fact that one of the watches was his own father’s!

  There was no mistake about it. There were initials on the silver case—not his father’s initials, but those of a previous owner—and Tommy knew the letters well enough. Here was news of his father since the morning; his watch had been stolen!

  In fact, three links of a broken chain were still hanging to the bow; and Tommy knew the chain as well as he knew the watch.

  Tommy had already approved himself a boy of business, a philosopher, and a practical person. He knew nothing of the second watch, whether it was the red-headed man’s or another’s; nor did he understand a word of the conversation he had overheard. But he did know that this watch with the broken chain was his father’s. So, with no more ado, he put it in his trousers pocket, on top of the bag of bull’s-eyes, and then quietly withdrew from the bush; leaving the red-headed man and his enemy talking some yards away on the opposite side.

  * * * *

  “I can’t go home without him!” cried Mrs. Jepps that evening in the booking-office of Southend station. “My darling child! I can’t! I can’t!”

  “But come an’ ask the station-master,” reasoned her husband. “He might ha’ come here to see about gettin’ home. We never thought o’ that!”

  A small boy, who had been ineffectually trying to weigh himself by clinging fiercely to the arm of the machine used for luggage, let go as he recognised the voices, and came out of the dim corner, calm of demeanour and very bunchy about the pockets.

  “Hullo, mother!” said Tommy. “I’ve been waiting for you a long time!”

  Mrs. Jepps really did faint at last. But it was not for long. When she came to herself, with water from the waiting-room water-bottle in her hair and down her back, she recovered her customary energy with surprising rapidity. “Tommy, you wicked, ungrateful little wretch!” she said, “a nice holiday you’ve made o’ this for me! Wait till I get you home, that’s all!”

  “Why, Tommy,” said his father. “Wasn’t there no dark party after all?”

  “I don’t believe dark parties steal boys at all,” said Tommy. “But ginger parties steal watches! Come!” he added, with a new importance in his small voice, and a rattle of the money in his trousers pockets. “Got your tickets? Keep close to me, an’ I’ll show you the right train.”

  THE LEGEND OF LAPWATER HALL

  Down the Thames, beyond Hole Haven, there is a part of Essex now painful to see for any man who knew it thirty, twenty—even fifteen years ago. For there, late in the nineteenth century, he saw the gay and simple Essex of the eighteenth; and now it has been vastly improved. Little villas of cheap pretension offend the light of day, and a scum of broken brick has choked the green fields, till now they lie dead and dirty, and scarified with schemed roadways.

  But in the days when this was old Essex still, when the people knew the tales and the songs belonging to those parts and were not ashamed of them,—it was then that they told the story of Lapwater Hall.

  The house stood a mile or more from Leigh village. You climbed Church Hill, rising, as it were, through the higher tiers of Leigh’s tiled roofs, you passed the church and the rectory wall under the noisy rooks, and you stood on the brow with the village below you and all the sunny sea beyond it. Hence the way was clear. With back to the sea you crossed a little furzy waste, and went, by stile and path, across three beanfields. As a fact, of course, the fields grew their crops in due rotation, but I like to remember them as beanfields fragrant with blossom, where dozy butterflies tumbled, and where the path rose and dipped, taking you down among the flowers sometimes, and sometimes lifting you to see the world and the shining sea.

  The third field ended in a gate, and through the bars you saw the white London road. Here you might have pitched a stone against the wall of Lapwater Hall, but for the clump of trees on your left which hid the house and the pond beside it. Leigh House, I believe, was its older and proper name, but among all natives—those honest souls, each half-farmer and half-fisherman, and now wholly vanished—it was Lapwater Hall and nothing else. It was not a very large house—Essex people in old days being given to call any house a hall that was much bigger than a cottage—but it was well faced and neat in its proportions, and as good a house of its size as any thereabout, with a ghost of its own. The story you heard by parts from gossips who had learned it from their grandmothers; and put together it went thus:—

  At the beginning of the year 1715 Leigh House was falling to pieces. Old, neglected, and untenanted for years, it was scarce worth touching except to pull down, and there were thrifty souls who had taken to reckoning when it might become a conscionable act to carry the timber. But early in that same year, when Essex roads lay in ruts and mud, they found they had debated too long. For there came news, stirring news in that time and place. For the first part, Leigh House and farm was sold; next, and more stirring, a stranger had bought it; last, and most surprising, he had come on a brown mare, and the mare had no ears.

  Whence the stranger came not a soul could tell. He had been seen riding through Hadleigh, splashed to the wig with mud, and a little afterward he stopped at Leigh House, being observed by one Amos Tricker, who was hedging close by the road. In those times a man might have sat by Leigh House a twelvemonth without seeing a “foreigner” ride by—any absolute stranger being classed a “foreigner.” For this reason Amos Tricker dropped his sickle and stared hard at the man and his mare. Of the two the mare was the handsomer, spite of her uncanny defect. The man seemed of middle height, but of shape as massive and ugly as a bulldog, with a coarse face and a squint; but his animal was fine and brown, hard and handsome, standing well on good legs. The spectacle of a stranger was warrant enough for a mighty stare, but that of an ear-less mare—an unearthly, snaky-headed thing as it was—was stupefying. Amos was stupefied.

  “What’s this place?” asked the stranger.

  A stranger was surprising, and an earless mare was worse; but an earless mare carrying a man who didn’t know Leigh House, in sight of which Amos had spent his life, was paralysing. Amos was paralysed.

  “What the devil are you staring at? Damme, is this Leigh House?”

  Amos nodded feebly. With that the stranger put the brown mare easily over the falling paling, and walked her round the rotten walls of the house. That done he turned and trotted off Eastwood way without another word. Amos stared and stared still, till the apparition was a mile out of sight; then he brought his eyes slowly back to the hedge, picked up his sickle and looked at that; and having by this means collected and concentrated his faculties, he dropped the sickle once more and trudged off. For such an occasion as this there was nothing but confabulation and a mug of beer.

  Now the stranger had been seen at Hadleigh village, as I have said, before he came upon Amos Tricker. And the Hadleigh folk, having watched him all through the street and debated him for the rest of the day, stood in a fair way to produce between them a far more imaginatively embellished picture of the phenomenon than the single slow brain of Amos Tricker could possibly conceive. And yet, in all their diverse and varying tales of his broad frame, his long arms, his squint, his pistols, his brown mare, and his manner of asking the distance of Leigh House, there was not a word of the mare’s lack of ears; and when Amos Tricker spoke of it he was overwhelmed by numbers. The smith, a very old and bow-legged man, who sat permanently at his door while his son worked in the smithy, appealed to the judgment of Hadleigh as to the likelihood of a mare with no ears passing his experienced eyes and leaving him unaware of the deficiency; and the compa
ny supported him with a unanimous vote of ears to the brown mare. Amos, nevertheless, stood valiantly and immovably to his own observation, goading the more downright of his adversaries to something approaching an affirmation that the brown mare had rather more ears than usual.

  Soon news came to Leigh and thereabout, travelling from Rochford by way of Eastwood. Mr. Gilbert Craddock had bought Leigh House and farm, and the house was to be rebuilt, and that in haste; and in truth with scarce a decent fortnight wherein the news might be considered, there descended on Leigh House Mr. Gilbert Craddock himself, with the attorney from Rochford and a master-builder. Whereupon Amos Tricker triumphed in the face of all Hadleigh, for Mr. Gilbert Craddock was the stranger of the debate, and the brown mare he rode had manifestly no ears.

  Then came a great measuring in and staking out, knocking down and digging up, and in due time, or rather before it, the plan of the new house was displayed to the eyes of the curious in lines of red brick, which presently grew into ledges and then into walls. By times Mr. Craddock would come and inspect the work, grumbling unceasingly with many oaths. In everything he found delay and a trick to cheat a too easy gentleman; and he said it in language beyond anything the bricklayers had ever endured from a foreman. They held it uncommon strong, even for a gentleman.

  All this time Leigh learned little of Mr. Gil Craddock beyond his name, and Leigh gossip fed on speculation. The brown mare with no ears brought its rider at irregular periods, and the bricklayers were ever in danger of a chance visitation. Where Mr. Craddock went in the intervals was a mystery; even the attorney had no notion, or said he had none. When Mr. Craddock stayed at Leigh it was at the Smack Inn, where he would stable his mare and walk across the fields to his new house; and when he walked it could be seen that he was bow-legged from much riding. He would never talk; surly reserve and a violent exaction of respect were his personal habits; guess and invention were all the gossips could use. It was largely believed that he was a secret Government official, coming into these quiet parts to serve some ruthless design of the gaugers, the natural foes of half Leigh. It was ascertained, indeed, that the brown mare’s name was Meg; but why had she no ears? The best guess Leigh could make was that it was some part of a horse taming charm—something beyond the lunane and honey-cake that nobody doubted had been already used. For the brown mare was fond of her master, which seemed an unreasonable thing except by effect of cunning interference.

  Now the journeymen who laid brick and rafter at Leigh House were stout Essex men who loved every pot for the ale it would hold; and as was the way in that county, it was provided in their hiring that every man should have his two pots a day as part wage. Wherefore Amos Tricker, cutting hedges no more, travelled back and forth all day with a great wheelbarrow-load of pots, taking solid pay at both ends, and some liquid discount on the way: since no man could ask another to bring a barrow-load of full pots across three lumpy fields without a spill.

  But although each man’s lawful due was no more than two pots a day, every man looked for more on occasion. For past memory of any journeyman in Essex a visit on the work from the owner, the master’s own master, bought an extra pot for each man, or more, according to the gentleman’s gentlemanly qualities. But a pot at least was something near a matter of right; and since Essex ale is the best of drink, it was common enough that the gentleman took his own pot with the rest, and for the short moments of that pot gentle and simple were good neighbours together. So that when Mr. Gil Craddock first came, and, having sworn his hour or two, rode away leaving neither pot nor penny piece behind him, he was thought to err from forgetfulness and nothing worse; for the men had had their two pots, and it is the property of Essex ale to make men very charitable. Furthermore, it was judged as against nature that any gentleman so free with his curses should be sparing with his liquor. But Mr. Gil Craddock came and went and came and went again, and it was plain that he was either illiberal or mighty slow of apprehension; for which latter failing the men took good care to give him no excuse in the world.

  So it went, thirstily enough, till the walls were of full height and the last roof-beam was fixed. At that time, and now, and at all times since houses first were made, not in Essex only, but in all places where houses stand, the fixing of the last roof-beam was, is, and has been an occasion of much rejoicing; and by all precedent and law of the craft now, at any rate, ale was due, and plenty, and time in which to treat it as ale deserves. A gentleman might even spread a meal, but that was a matter of grace, and not to be claimed, like the drink, in the name of ancient custom that was almost law.

  It chanced that as this same last beam was being set in its place, Mr. Craddock looked on from below, and when at last it rested fair the men gave a cheer together, left their places, and gathered about him. But he neither understood their behaviour nor felt delight in the occasion; he opened his mouth, and was three oaths on the way to ordering them back to their work, when he was met by a frank demand for extra beer.

  “Mr. Craddock’s squint intensified, and his face swelled in red lumps. His common flow of language failed him in his extremity, and what words he found came in broken bursts.

  “Beer?… Beer? Ye boozy scabs!… Ha’n’t ye enough a’ready, and more?… Beer?… Don’t I pay for it, and for every minute o’ time you rob me of—Swabs!… Swillpot dogs! Hounds! Lapping all day!… Lap in the pond, ye dogs! Go to the pond!… Lap water, saucy hounds; if more drink ye must have, lap water, as better dogs do every day! Lap water!”

  And with that his faculty of speech returned in full, and the men shrank under a hurricane of oaths that sent Amos Tricker’s daughter Nan, who was bringing a message, out of earshot aghast. Then Mr. Gil Craddock, with a furious promise to the master-builder that he would teach him, and his men too, the respect due to a gentleman, and break the head of the next man he caught loitering or breathing the name of beer, swung up in his saddle and was gone.

  It was more than defeat for those illustrious drinkers, the bricklayers and the carpenters. Here was immemorial precedent, vested interest, privilege of the craft, set at naught, kicked aside, broken down at a blow. And for themselves, insult was heaped on injury by the reference of dry human throats to a pond; insult the sharper because in fact there was little better resort for them, since in anticipation of the proper honour to the last beam every man had already disposed of his two pots. The genius who invented strikes was yet to be born; wherefore there was nothing for it but to get back to work with ill-will and grumbling. And since insult sticks in a man’s mind longer than injury it was the ignoble suggestion of the pond that was grumbled over longest.

  They grumbled and sulked and grumbled over again. They saw no remedy, though they longed to turn Mr. Gil Craddock’s words upon himself; till in course of days and grumbles it occurred to some lesser genius, not tall enough to invent a strike, to dub the new house Lapwater Hall.

  The word went about the place among the new walls and rafters with grins and chuckles.

  “He-he! Ha-ha! Lapwater Hall!”

  “Mighty fond o’ carlin’ names he be, too! Fair’s fair, an’ ’tis none but fair other folk take a turn a-carlin’ names too!”

  “Ha, ha! Hey? Lapwater Hall!”

  “Tells folk to lap water, do he? So ’tis Lapwater Hall! ’Tis a merry word! He-he!”

  “Hey! A true usable name ta be. Lapwater Hall! And so folk’ll know what to expect!”

  “’Tis good jocoshious, that! Lapwater Hall!”

  At night the new name went to every ale-house within five miles, and the next day it radiated from these; and soon it was generally current, so that by the time the wainscoting was well in hand scarce a soul thought of calling the new house anything else. This was partly, in truth, for a reason of convenience. For during the years of desolation at Leigh House another house of that name had arisen in the village at the hill-top by the church. The first and true name of this was the Black House; but dearly Leigh
House was the handsomer name, and since it was fallen out of use with the older place itself, it was picked up and put in service. So that in the confusion between the old Leigh House that was the new house, and the new Leigh House that was now the older of the two, some name of effective distinction was needed, and Lapwater Hall did admirably.

  Lapwater Hall it was then, and the name grew into daily, commonplace use wholly unknown to Mr. Craddock. For as the works neared their end his affairs kept him much away, and his visits grew fewer and shorter, to nobody’s sorrow. But when the last streak of paint had been laid a fortnight and the builder’s men were drinking their ale on a pleasanter job a good way off, Mr. Craddock arrived to take up his residence.

  He stamped about the house in his common mood, but Nan Tricker had so well swept and tidied, under the eye of old Mrs. Fidler, who was to keep house, that he could find no fault for a long while, and so continued to stamp about till he came on Nan herself a-lovering over the fence with Tim Ladds of Belfairs. This gave him the opportunity to drive them both about their business, after which he took his rest.

  It was on the next day that Mr. Gil Craddock began to grow aware of his unpopularity. The stables were ready, and he went forth, riding whip in hand, to fetch the brown mare over from the Smack, taking a little turn about the farm on the way.

  Two men were walking down Lost Lane. “They’re into Lapwater Hall, ’twould seem,” said one.

  Mr. Craddock looked round quickly. The words had not reached his ear clearly, but he went to the hedge and stared very hard after the men.

  He inspected his fields with much complacency. Here he swaggered, a country gentleman, with good house and land of his own, and everything handsome about him. Who the devil had stacked that rick? That person should hear about it, and soon.

  At the first gate on the way to Leigh he met a small boy with a basket. The boy had no hat, but he tugged a rag of hair very respectfully as he held back the gate.