“That there’s a yarn. Not that it’s anythin’ particular. I’ve a-done many a more highly absent-minded thing myself, so I don’t count it much. But I never heard o’ that Tom Brewitt. Who were he?”
“Tom Brewitt? Why, he were Bob Brewitt’s brother, surely.”
“Well, an’ who were Bob? I s’pose you’ll say he were Tom’s brother?”
“No,” Dan replied; “that wouldn’t be a straightforard answer. Bob were brother to Sam, an’ Sam were brother to both on ’em. You may disbelieve in Tom by hisself, an’ ’tis arl a possibility you might cast doubts on Bob; but you can’t get away with Tom, Bob, and Sam together; ’taren’t logic.”
“’Tis a true word, an’ a very reasonable argyment,” observed Banham the carrier, with a judicial shake of the head. And the company murmured agreement.
Abel Pennyfather stared blankly for five seconds. Then he said: “Well, well, I’m not sayin’ ’taren’t. I only said I never heared tell on ’em. An’ I don’t think so overmuch of Tom Brewitt’s absent-minded doin’s, nayther.”
“There again,” Dan went on, “you mightn’t think much of Tom’s absent-mindedness, an’ maybe you might doubt the quality of Bob’s; but when you come to Sam’s, an’ more especial when you come to Tom’s an’ Bob’s an’ Sam’s all together, then there aren’t no more argufyin’. They be too many for any argufyer.”
“Well, that may be,” persisted Abel Penny-father, “but I hoad a shillun, man for man, they den’t beat me. Now I tell ’ee, when we putt the four-acre field down to grass, I were a-goin—”
“Did your absence o’ mind ever keep your sister an oad maid all her life?” demanded Dan.
“Why, no,” Abel admitted, “seein’ as you know she’s been married three times a’ready. But—”
“Then you’re beat,” interrupted Dan. “You’re beat all to crumbles, as anybody can tell you as knows the story o’ the three Brewitts an’ their sister Jane. An’ who don’t know that?”
It seemed that nobody knew it, a discovery whereat Dan expressed profound surprise. “Why,” he said, “the three Brewitts kep’ farm up there beyond Thundersley—I’ll call the very name to mind, presently, maybe—long enough ago. There was Tom, Bob, an’ Sam, like as I’ve told you. They was bachelors all, by reason of absence of mind. Tom forgot to go to church on his weddin’-day, and was clawed down the face an’ forsook for that reason. Bob was all arranged for, by the other party an’ her relations, but when they got him there he forgot to ask her the question, so the fam’lies was enemies henceforth, an’ his absence of mind saved him. Sam forgot about marryin’ altogether, an’ died at eighty-fower without having remembered it. Their sister Jane, she were a single woman at forty for a different reason. What prevented her weren’t so much the absence of her mind as the presence of her face. ’Twere a face o’ vinegar, an’ no mistake.”
“Was it as ugly as yours, Dan?” Prentice asked, with much show of interest.
“Wuss than that, a mile,” Dan resumed, unperturbed. “’Twere as bad as any man’s face in this here room, though you’d scarce believe it. ’Twould ha’ kep’ a regiment out o’ gunshot; and there’s no guessing how her brothers lived in the same house with it, ’cept they were too absent-minded to notice. Little boys used to go the other way round to school for fear o’ seeing Jane Brewitt, and ’twere said nothing could be made o’ the milk on that farm ’cept cheese.”
“Talkin’ o’ cheese,” interposed Abel Pennyfather, “I’ve made as much as—”
“We won’t talk o’ cheese, then!” shouted Dan, and the company supported him with clamor sufficient to quell Abel. “We won’t talk o’ cheese, but come back to Jane Brewitt. She were a good enough housekeeper, spite of her face, an’ a good housekeeper were needful in a place with three sich moonin’ gapesters about. She were a good housekeeper, and, what with one thing an t’other, business were good an’ good again at Brewitts’; an’ Bob Brewitt, he had a safe let into his bedroom wall, and a good full cashbox was snug inside the safe. Why that should be few could understand, with three chaps as were like as not to go an’ plough a meadow ’stead o’ mowin’ it, or sow a young wheatfield twice over with carrots. But so ’twas howsomedever, an’ ’tis like Jane had her share in keepin’ things square.
“But ugly as she were, and forty as she were, Jane were still the youngest o’ the family, an’ den’t forget to publish the fact abroad nayther, without goin’ into the ’zact arithmetic o’ the years. An’ she wore a bonnet that made the church look like a penny show. An’ so at last what nobody expected came to pass, an’ a man went a-courting to Brewitts’; an’ not a blind man, nayther.
“He were so far from blind that folk swore he could see, quite distinct, through Brewitts’ brick wall and iron safe into the cashbox, afore he made up his mind to go a-courtin’ to Jane. ’Tis sarten he were more than half her age, but none so much more, if you den’t count the time he’d been in gaol. Bates were his name, an’ the poor friendless chap hadn’t a soul in arl Essex to say a good word for him, consekence of his havin’ lived in the county arl his life. ’Twasn’t that he ever took another man’s job away from him, either, for if there was one thing in the world he’d never take it was work.
“The three brothers weren’t so absent-minded as to overlook a thing like this, an’ they pitched Jim Bates out o’ doors reg’lar, whenever the sight of him reminded ’em. But Jane, she stood up for him through thick an’ thin, as was natural. The more the folks were down on Bates the better she thought him, an’ as for him, the more he saw of the Brewitts’ house, and the more he heard of the cashbox, the deeper in love he got. But Tom and Bob, an’ Sam, they got so mighty objectionable that Jim Bates had to take to meetin’ Jane by dark in the lane, which had two advantages: first, the brothers couldn’t see him; an’ second, he couldn’t see Jane.
“Things got desprit. The brothers swore that if she were such a fool as to go to church with Jim Bates, she should take what belonged to her an’ no more; which, put in round numbers, was nothin’. But she was quite game for this, an’ she told Jim Bates as much, an’ openly admitted she was full aged an’ could do as she liked. But Jim Bates was that thoughtful he wouldn’t part she an’ the cashbox, an’ at last he persuaded her that all three should make a bolt together in the dogcart. ’Tis like she might have doubted about bringing the cashbox; but Jim Bates he told her it was good as hers, seein’ she’d kep’ house for her brothers so long, an’, rather than she should be done out of her rights, he’d take care of it himself.
“So they settled to make a bolt of it one night after market-day. Jim Bates chose that night for reasons. ’Twas only to be supposed that both cashbox and brothers would be fullest after market-day; an’ if absent-mindedness be to be took advantage of, when was an Essex farmer likely to hey more of it than on market-night? So ’twere settled to do so. Jim Bates were to come into the yard at midnight an’ tip the whistle. Jane were to be all ready, an’ pitch out o’ winder the key o’ the stable-door, which she’d hey to get from Tom Brewitt’s room. This was another thing easier done on market-night. Then, while Jim Bates set about harnessin’ the mare to the dogcart, Jane was to go into Bob’s room, get his keys, unlock the safe, and bring out the cashbox. That was another thing only safely to be done on market-night, an’, market-night an’ all, poor Jane Brewitt felt mighty trembly about doin’ it. After that she were to gather up all three pairs o’ topboots, where the brothers had a-left ’em outside the bedroom doors—for she kep’ her brothers up to gentry ways, did Jane—an’ pitch ’em away somewheres, to keep Tom, Bob, an’ Sam indoors for a bit, in case they got roused, an’ give the loviers true a good clear start. That was Jane’s department, an’ so much done, she were to mount the dogcart with her lovin’ Jim and the cashbox, an’ live happy ever arter.
“But there ain’t no dependin’ on plans with absent-minded men about. Poor Jane Brewitt got frightender an’ frightender every minute
arter her brothers had gone to bed, an’ she hadn’t the pluck to go into Tom’s room for the stable-key before she heard Jim Bates in the yard. ’Twere a fine moonlight night, an’ she peeped an’ saw him.
“‘Be that you, Jim?’ says she, whisperin’ out o’ winder.
“‘Ay,’ says he, whisperin’ back. ‘’Tis arl right. I don’t want the stable-key.’
“He said he den’t want the stable-key,” Dan said, turning to the company; “an’ I’d bet a piece you won’t guess why. Tom Brewitt, so fresh from market as he were, had wound his watch an’ hung it on the stable-door, an’ took the padlock up to bed with him; an’ now that watch were tickin’ away safe in Jim Bates’s pocket I D’ye cap that, Abel Pennyfather?”
Abel said not a word, and Dan went on.
“Well, that looked like good luck, and a watch in extry, for poor Jane, but it weren’t; you can’t make no counts with absent-minders. But there were more to come. Jim Bates looked up again, and he said: ‘Hey ye been to the safe?’
“‘No,’ says poor Jane. ‘I aren’t been; an’ I’m ready to faint with fear at the thought. I count it be robbery!’
“‘Stay a bit,’ says Jim Bates to her. ‘What’s that black thing I see in the rosebush under Bob’s winder?’
“Well, neighbors,” Dan went on, turning again to the company at large, “if Abel Penny-father told you what I’m goin’ to tell you, you mightn’t believe it; but, seein’ I say it myself, there’s no question. Bob Brewitt had finished his market-day so chock full of absent-mindedness that he’d opened the casement instead o’ the safe-door, an’ shoved the cashbox out o’ winder! Can ye cap that?
“Well, now, that looked as if the course o’ true love were runnin’ smoother than ever, den’t it? But I tell ’ee again, ye can’t make no count with absent-minders. The absence o’ mind proper to market-night had helped the loviers true as regards two brothers, but it ruined an’ shipwrecked the whole venture in the case o’ the third. There was nothin’ to do now for Jane, but to gather up the boots, an’ pelt off for a weddin’ licence; but that she never did, for something occurred.
“Jim Bates, when he found hisself out in the yard with the cashbox an’ Tom Brewitt’s watch, began to think things over very sudden. He changed his mind about separatin’ Jane an’ the cashbox, an’ he started off to part ’em just as far as possible in the longest jumps he could make. An’ poor Jane, she couldn’t go after him because of what occurred in the meantime; an’ so she lost the only man that ever came a-courtin’ to her, an’ died an old maid at last.”
“What was it as occurred in the meantime?” asked somebody.
“It’s all very well for you to laugh, neighbors,” proceeded Dan, ignoring the interruption; “but I count ’tis a bitter thing for a poor gal to live her life through, young at first an’ old at last, an’ die, an’ never get the kindness a woman looks for, and that she sees the others getting. You laugh at poor Jane Brewitt with her ugly face, but she’s the same under her skin as the handsomest gal in Essex. An’ that’s the same with all of us. Abel Penny-father ’ud look quite decent if you skinned him. Well, well!”
“But you ha’n’t told us what occurred that stopped her,” protested Prentice.
“Den’t I? Well there now It caused a rare fanteeg, though, the hullabaloo after Jim Bates. When they all woke up, Tom Brewitt wasted ten minutes tryin’ to tell the time o’ night by the padlock; an’ Bob, not quite awake and still mixin’ up the safe-door an’ the casement in his mind, shoved his head into the safe an’ bawled, ‘Stop thief!’ till he nigh deaf-an’-dumbed hisself. But they caught Jim Bates in the mornin’, though, an’ he went to Springfield gaol once more. Here’s better luck to us. ’Tis a dry oad tale.”
Dan reached for Abel Pennyfather’s new-filled mug, and Abel, loudly protesting, recovered it empty.
“Your mug? Well there,” said Dan, with his hand on the door-knob as he rose. “There be nothing so catchin’ in the world as that there absence o’ mind. It’ll be Banham’s turn next.”
“But what was’t occurred to stop Jane Brewitt?” cried everybody, except Pennyfather.
“Oh, that?” Dan answered, turning the doorknob and pulling the door conveniently ajar. “Well, you see, she picked up two pairs o’ top-boots all right, but when she got to Sam’s door—you see he’d come home from market as full of absence o’ mind as any man could carry, an’ you know they brew it strong at Rochford. So, natural enough, he tucked up his boots in bed an’ went asleep outside hisself. So that when his sister came along in the dark with two pair o’ boots an’ fell over him, he jumps up an’—”
But the empty mug hit the door as it closed, and it cost Abel Pennyfather eighteen pence.
THE STOLEN BLENKINSOP
First published in The Strand Magazine, Aug 1908
I
IF it had been necessary for Mr. Hector Bushell to make a fortune for himself there can be little doubt that he would have done it, fortunately or unfortunately—just as you please—the necessity did not exist, for his father had done it for him before he was born. Consequently, Hector, who was a genial if somewhat boisterous young man, devoted his talents to the service of his friends, whose happiness he insisted on promoting, with their concurrence or without it, by the exercise of his knowledge of the world and whatever was in it, his businesslike acumen, his exuberant animal spirits, and his overflowing, almost pestilential, energy. Quiet-mannered acquaintances who spied him afar dodged round corners and ran, rather than have their fortunes made by his vigorously-expressed advice, enforced by heavy slaps on the shoulder and sudden digs in the ribs, and sometimes punctuated with a hearty punch in the chest. For he was a large and strong, as well as a noisy, young man, accurately, if vulgarly, described by his acquaintance as perpetually “full of beans.”
He had given himself a reputation as an art critic, on the strength of a year or two’s attendance at an art school in Paris; and, indeed, he maintained a studio of his own, expensively furnished, where he received his friends and had more than once begun a picture. But his energies in this matter were mainly directed to the good of painters among his acquaintances, who were under the necessity of living by their work. He told them how their pictures should be painted, and how they could certainly be sold. Indeed, in this latter respect he did better than advise the painter—he advised the buyer, when he could seize one, and trundled him captive in the studio of his nearest friend with great fidelity and enthusiasm.
“The chance of your life, my dear sir!” he would say, snatching at the lapel of some wealthy friend’s coat, and raising the other hand with an imminent threat of a slap on the shoulder. “The chance of your life! The coming man, I assure you! Something like an investment. A picture they’ll offer you thousands for some day, and I do believe I can get it for you for a couple of hundred! Come and see it before some dealer gets in!”
It was with some such speech as this that he interrupted Mr. Higby Fewston, the margarine magnate, full of the report of the robbery a day before of a Gainsborough portrait from a house in Charles Street, Berkeley Square. Mr. Fewston was not the sort of man to take a deal of interest in pictures for their own sake, but the newspapers estimated the money value of the missing picture at twenty thousand pounds, and he found that very touching. He had the same respect for that Gainsborough, which he had never seen, that he would have had for a cheque for the sum signed by the firm of Rothschild; rather more, in fact, for if the cheque were stolen it might be stopped, and so rendered valueless; but there was no stopping the Gainsborough till you had caught the thief. So that Mr. Fewston found himself taking an unwonted interest in art; and when Hector Bushell, seizing the opportunity and pulling at his arm, drew him in the direction of Sydney Blenkinsop’s studio, he offered less resistance than otherwise he might have done.
“Man named Blenkinsop,” declaimed the zealous Hector. “Capital chap, and paints like—like a
double archangel. His studio’s close by—come and look for yourself. Of course, nothing need be said about buying the picture, if you don’t want to. But just come and see it—I’ll pretend we were passing and just dropped in. You’ll have the sort of chance that people had in Gainsborough’s own time. Why, I don’t suppose he got more than a couple of hundred or so for the very picture the papers are so full of today!”
Mr. Fewston suffered himself to be dragged through many streets—the studio was not so near as Hector’s enthusiasm made it seem—and finally into the presence of Mr. Sydney Blenkinsop, the painter. Blenkinsop was, by the side of Bushell, a comparatively quiet young man, not without apprehension of the possible consequences of his friend’s devotion; for one never could tell what wild things Bushell might have been saying about one.
“Ah, Sydney, old boy!” cried that enthusiast. “How have you been all this time?” They had last met the day before, when Hector had hauled in some other possible patron. “How have you been? Just looked in as we were passing, you know—just looked in! This is my friend, Mr. Higby Fewston, much interested in art, and what he don’t know about a picture—well, there! Working on anything just now, eh? I say”—this with a start of apprehension—“you haven’t sold that picture yet, have you? The stunner, you know, the Keston?”
“Oh, that?” responded Blenkinsop, who had never sold a picture in his life. “No, I haven’t. Not that one.”
“Ah, plain enough Agnew hasn’t been here lately. I’d like to have another look at it, old chap; probably sha’n’t have another chance, unless it goes somewhere where I know the people. Ah, there now; look at that now!”
Mr. Fewston looked at it blankly. “It—it’s a landscape,” he said, presently, after consideration. The stolen Gainsborough had been a portrait, and Mr. Fcwston liked things up to sample.
“Rather!” replied Hector. “It is a landscape, as you say, and no mistake! Something like a landscape that, eh? I knew you’d like it, of course, having an eye for such a thing. Ah, it’s a topper!”
The Arthur Morrison Mystery Page 151