The Arthur Morrison Mystery

by Arthur Morrison

  ‘Amen!’ It was from the tall black figure.

  Well, well, that was over. The gaoler touched his arm. Right. But first he took a quick glance through the glass partition. Hannah was falling over, or something,—a mere rusty swaying bundle,—and Dicky was holding her up with both arms. Dicky’s face was damp and grey, and twitching lines were in his cheeks. Josh took a step toward the partition, but they hurried him away.

  XXXV

  All this hard thinking would be over in half an hour or so. What was to come now didn’t matter; no more than a mere punch in the eye. The worst was over on Saturday, and he had got through that all right. Hannah was very bad, and so was Dicky. Em cried in a bewildered sort of way, because the others did. Little Josh, conceiving that his father was somehow causing all the tears, kicked and swore at him. He tried to get Hannah to smile at this, but it was no go; and they had to carry her out at last. Dicky was well-plucked though, bad as he was. He felt him shake and choke when he kissed him, but he walked out straight and steady, with the two children. Well, it was over.…

  He hoped they would get up a break in the Jago for Hannah and the youngsters. His own break had never come off—they owed him one. The last break he was at was at Mother Gapp’s, before the Dove-Laners fell through the floor. It must have cost Mother Gapp a deal of money to put in the new floor; but then she must have made a lot in her time, what with one thing and another. There was the fencing, and the houses she had bought in Honey Lane, and the two fourpenny doss-houses in Hoxton that they said were hers, and—well, nobody could say what else. Some said she came of the gipsies that used to live at the Mount years ago. The Mount was a pretty thick place now, but not so thick as the Jago: the Jagos were thick as glue and wide as Broad Street. Bob the Bender fell in Broad Street, toy-getting, and got a stretch and a half.…

  Yes, yes, of course, they always tolled a bell. But it was rather confusing, with things to think about.

  Ah, they had come at last. Come, there was nothing more to think about now; nothing but to take it game. Hold tight—Jago hold tight.… ‘No thank you, sir—nothing to say, special. On’y much obliged to ye, thank ye kindly, for the grub an’—an’ bein’ kind an’ wot not. Thanks all of ye, come to that. Specially you, sir.’ It was the tall black figure again.…

  What, this was the chap, was it? Seedy-looking. Sort of undertaker’s man to look at. All right—straps. Not cords to tie, then. Waist; wrists; elbows; more straps dangling below—do them presently. This was how they did it, then.… This way?

  ‘I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.’

  A very big gate, this, all iron, painted white. Round to the right. Not very far, they told him. It was dark in the passage, but the door led into the yard, where it was light and open, and sparrows were twittering. Another door: in a shed.

  This was the place. All white, everywhere—frame too; not black after all. Up the steps.… Hold tight: not much longer. Stand there? Very well.

  ‘Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower: he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.

  ‘In the midst of life.…’

  XXXVI

  It was but a little crowd that stood at the Old Bailey corner while the bell tolled, to watch for the black flag. This was not a popular murder. Josh Perrott was not a man who had been bred to better things; he did not snivel and rant in the dock; and he had not butchered his wife nor his child, nor anybody with a claim on his gratitude or affection; so that nobody sympathised with him, nor got up a petition for pardon, nor wrote tearful letters to the newspapers. And the crowd that watched for the black flag was a small one, and half of it came from the Jago.

  While it was watching, and while the bell was tolling, a knot of people stood at the Perrotts’ front-doorway, in Old Jago Street. Father Sturt went across as soon as the sleepers of the night had been seen away from the shelter, and spoke to Kiddo Cook, who stood at the stair-foot to drive off intruders.

  ‘They say she’s been settin’ up all night, Father,’ Kiddo reported, in a hushed voice. ‘An’ Poll’s jest looked in at the winder from Walsh’s, and says she can see ’em all kneelin’ round a chair with that little clock o’ theirs on it. It’s—it’s more’n ’alf an hour yut.’

  ‘I shall come here myself presently, and relieve you. Can you wait? You mustn’t neglect trade, you know.’

  ‘I’ll wait all day, Father, if ye like. Nobody sha’n’t disturb ’em.’

  When Father Sturt returned from his errand, ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked.

  ‘No, Father,’ answered Kiddo Cook. ‘They ain’t moved.’

  There were two faint notes from a distant steeple, and then the bell of St Leonards beat out the inexorable hour.

  XXXVII

  Kiddo Cook prospered. The stall was a present fact, and the awning was not far off; indeed, he was vigilantly in search of a second-hand one, not too much worn. But with all his affluence he was not often drunk. Nothing could be better than his pitch—right out in the High Street, in the busiest part, and hard by the London and County branch bank. They called it Kiddo’s Bank in the Jago, and made jokes about alleged deposits of his. If you bought a penn’orth of greens from Kiddo, said facetious Jagos, he didn’t condescend to take the money himself; he gave you a slip of paper, and you paid at the bank. And Kiddo had indulged in a stroke of magnificence that no other Jago would have thought of. He had taken two rooms, in the new County Council dwellings. The secret was that Father Sturt had agreed to marry Kiddo Cook and Pigeony Poll. There would be plenty for both to do, what with the stall and the regular round with the barrow.

  The wedding-day came when Hannah Perrott had been one week a widow. For a few days Father Sturt had left her alone, and had guarded her privacy. Then, seeing that she gave no sign, he went with what quiet comfort he might, and bespoke her attention to her concerns. He invented some charing work in his rooms for her. She did it very badly, and if he left her long alone, she would be found on the floor, with her face in a chair-seat, crying weakly. But the work was something for her to do and to think about, and by dint of bustling it and magnifying its importance, Father Sturt brought her to some degree of mindfulness and calm.

  Dicky walked that morning in a sort of numb, embittered fury. What should he do now? His devilmost. Spare nobody and stop at nothing. Old Beveridge was right that morning years ago. The Jago had got him, and it held him fast. Now he went doubly sealed of the outcasts: a Jago with a hanged father. Father Sturt talked of work, but who would give him work? And why do it, in any case? What came of it before? No, he was a Jago and the world’s enemy; Father Sturt was the only good man in it; as for the rest, he would spoil them when he could. There was something for tomorrow night, if only he could get calmed down enough by then. A builder’s yard in Kingsland with an office in a loft, and money in a common desk. Tommy Rann had found it, and they must do it together; if only he could get this odd numbness off him, and have his head clear. So much crying, perhaps, and so much trying not to, till his head was like to burst. Deep-eyed and pale, he dragged round into Edge Lane, and so into New Jago Street.

  Jerry Gullen’s canary was harnessed to the barrow, and Jerry himself was piling the barrow with rags and bottles. Dicky stood and looked; he thought he would rub Canary’s head, but then he changed his mind, and did not move. Jerry Gullen glanced at him furtively once or twice, and then said: ‘Good ole moke for wear, ain’t ’e?’

  ‘Yus,’ Dicky answered moodily, his talk half random. ‘’E’ll peg out soon now.’

  ‘’Im? Not ’im. Wy, I bet ’e’ll live longer’n you will. ’E ain’t goin’ to die.’

  ‘I think ’e’d like to,’ said Dicky, and slouched on.

&n
bsp; Yes, Canary would be better off, dead. So would others. It would be a comfortable thing for himself if he could die quietly then and there. But it would never do for mother and the children to be left helpless. How good for them all to go off easily together, and wake in some pleasant place, say a place like Father Sturt’s sitting-room, and perhaps find—but there, what foolishness!

  What was this unendurable stupor that clung about him like a net? He knew everything clearly enough, but it was all in an atmosphere of dull heedlessness. There would be some relief in doing something violent—in smashing something to little pieces with a hammer.

  He came to the ruined houses. There was a tumult of yells, and a crowd of thirty or forty lads went streaming across the open waste, waving sticks.

  ‘Come on! come on, Jago! ’Ere they are!’

  A fight! Ah, what more welcome! And Dove Lane, too—Dove Lane, that had taken to bawling the taunt, ‘Jago cut-throats,’ since…

  He was in the thick of the raid. ‘Come on, Jago! Jago! ’Ere they are!’ Past the Board School and through Honey Lane they went, and into Dove Lane territory. A small crowd of Dove-Laners broke and fled. Straight ahead the Jagos went, till they were suddenly taken in flank at a turning by a full Dove Lane mob. The Jagos were broken by the rush, but they fought stoutly, and the street was filled with a surge of combat.

  ‘Jago! Jago hold tight!’

  Thin, wasted and shaken, Dicky fought like a tiger. He had no stick till he floored a Dove-Laner and took his from him, but then he bludgeoned apace, callous to every blow, till he fought through the thick, and burst out at the edge of the fray. He pulled his cap tight, and swung back, almost knocking over, but disregarding, a leather-aproned, furtive hunchback, who turned and came at his heels.

  ‘Jago! Jago hold tight!’ yelled Dicky Perrott. ‘Come on, Father Sturt’s boys!’

  He was down. Just a punch under the arm from behind. As he rolled, face under, he caught a single glimpse of the hunchback, running. But what was this—all this?

  A shout went up. ‘Stabbed! Chived! They chived Dicky Perrott!’

  The fight melted. Somebody turned Dicky on his back, and he moaned, and lay gasping. He lifted his dabbled hands, and looked at them, wondering. They tried to lift him, but the blood poured so fast that they put him down. Somebody had gone for a surgeon.

  ‘Take me ’ome,’ said Dicky, faintly, with an odd gurgle in his voice. ‘Not ’awspital.’

  The surgeon came running, with policemen at his heels. He ripped away the clothes from about the wound, and shook his head. It was the lung. Water was brought, and cloths, and an old door. They put Dicky on the door, and carried him toward the surgery; and two lads who stayed by him were sent to bring his friends.

  The bride and bridegroom, meeting the news on the way home, set off at a run, and Father Sturt followed.

  ‘Good Gawd, Dicky,’ cried Poll, tearing her way to the shutter as it stopped at the surgery door, ‘wot’s this?’

  Dicky’s eye fell on the flowered bonnet that graced the wedding, and his lip lifted with the shade of a smile. ‘Luck, Pidge!’

  He was laid out in the surgery. A crowd stood about the door, while Father Sturt went in. The vicar lifted his eyebrows questioningly, and the surgeon shook his head. It was a matter of minutes.

  Father Sturt bent over and took Dicky’s hand. ‘My poor Dicky,’ he said, ‘who did this?’

  ‘Dunno, Fa’er.’

  The lie—the staunch Jago lie. Thou shalt not nark.

  ‘Fetch mother an’ the kids. Fa’er!’

  ‘Yes, my boy?’

  ‘Tell Mist’ Beveridge there’s ’nother way out—better.’

  THE HOLE IN THE WALL

  Chapter 1

  Stephen’s Tale

  My grandfather was a publican—and a sinner, as you will see. His public-house was the Hole in the Wall, on the river’s edge at Wapping; and his sins—all of them that I know of—are recorded in these pages. He was a widower of some small substance, and the Hole in the Wall was not the sum of his resources, for he owned a little wharf on the river Lea. I called him Grandfather Nat, not to distinguish him among a multitude of grandfathers—for indeed I never knew another of my own—but because of affectionate habit; a habit perhaps born of the fact that Nathaniel Kemp was also my father’s name. My own is Stephen.

  To remember Grandfather Nat is to bethink me of pear-drops. It is possible that that particular sort of sweetstuff is now obsolete, and I cannot remember how many years have passed since last I smelt it; for the pear-drop was a thing that could be smelt farther than seen, and oftener; so that its smell—a rather fulsome, vulgar smell I now believe—is almost as distinct to my imagination while I write as it was to my nose thirty years ago. For pear-drops were an unfailing part of the large bagful of sticky old-fashioned lollipops that my grandfather brought on his visits, stuffed into his overcoat pocket, and hard to get out without a burst and a spill. His custom was invariable, so that I think I must have come to regard the sweets as some natural production of his coat pocket; insomuch that at my mother’s funeral my muddled brain scarce realised the full desolation of the circumstances till I discovered that, for the first time in my experience, my grandfather’s pocket was void of pear-drops. But with this new bereavement the world seemed empty indeed, and I cried afresh.

  Associated in my memory with my grandfather’s bag of sweets, almost more than with himself, was the gap in the right hand where the middle finger had been; for it was commonly the maimed hand that hauled out the paper bag, and the gap was plain and singular against the white paper. He had lost the finger at sea, they told me; and as my notion of losing a thing was derived from my Noah’s ark, or dropping a marble through a grating, I was long puzzled to guess how anything like that could have happened to a finger. Withal the circumstance fascinated me, and added vastly to the importance and the wonder of my grandfather in my childish eyes.

  He was perhaps a little over the middle height, but so broad and so deep of chest and, especially, so long of arm, as to seem squat. He had some grey hair, but it was all below the line of his hat-brim; above that it was as the hair of a young man. So that I was led to reason that colour must be washed out of hair by exposure to the weather; as perhaps in his case it was. I think that his face was almost handsome, in a rough, hard-bitten way, and he was as hairy a man as I ever saw. His short beard was like curled wire; but I can remember that long after I had grown to resent being kissed by women, being no longer a baby, I gladly climbed his knee to kiss my grandfather, though his shaven upper-lip was like a rasp.

  In these early days I lived with my mother in a little house of a short row that stood on a quay, in a place that was not exactly a dock, nor a wharf, nor a public thoroughfare; but where people from the dock trying to find a wharf, people from a wharf looking for the dock, and people from the public thoroughfare in anxious search of dock and wharves, used to meet and ask each other questions. It was a detached piece of Blackwall which had got adrift among locks and jetties, and was liable to be cut off from the rest of the world at any moment by the arrival of a ship and the consequent swinging of a bridge, worked by two men at a winch. So that it was a commonplace of my early childhood (though the sight never lost its interest) to observe from a window a ship, passing as it were up the street, warped into dock by the capstans on the quay. And the capstan-songs of the dockmen—Shenandore, Mexico is covered with Snow, Hurrah for the Black Ball Line, and the like—were as much my nursery rhymes as Little Boy Blue and Sing a Song o’ Sixpence. These things are done differently nowadays; the cottages on the quay are gone, and the neighbourhood is a smokier place, where the work is done by engines, with no songs.

  My father was so much at sea that I remember little of him at all. He was a ship’s officer, and at the time I am to tell of he was mate of the brig Juno, owned by Viney and Marr, one of the small shipowning firms that were c
ommon enough thirty years ago, though rarer now; the sort of firm that was made by a pushing skipper and an ambitious shipping clerk, beginning with a cheap vessel bought with money raised mainly by pawning the ship. Such concerns often did well, and sometimes grew into great lines; perhaps most of them yielded the partners no more than a comfortable subsistence; and a good few came to grief, or were kept going by questionable practices which have since become illegal—sometimes in truth by what the law called crime, even then. Viney had been a ship’s officer—had indeed served under Grandfather Nat, who was an old skipper. Marr was the business man who had been a clerk. And the firm owned two brigs, the Juno and another; though how much of their value was clear property and how much stood for borrowed money was matter of doubt and disagreement in the conversation of mates and skippers along Thames shore. What nobody disagreed about, however, was that the business was run on skinflint principles, and that the vessels were so badly found, so ill-kept, and so grievously under-manned, that the firm ought to be making money. These things by the way, though they are important to remember. As I was saying, I remember little of my father, because of his long voyages and short spells at home. But my mother is so clear and so kind in my recollection that sometimes I dream of her still, though she died before I was eight.

  It was while my father was on a long voyage with the Juno that there came a time when she took me often upon her knee, asking if I should like a little brother or sister to play with; a thing which I demanded to have brought, instantly. There was a fat woman called Mrs. Dann, who appeared in the household and became my enemy. She slept with my mother, and my cot was thrust into another room, where I lay at night and brooded—sometimes wept with jealousy thus to be supplanted; though I drew what consolation I might from the prospect of the promised playmate. Then I could not go near my mother at all, for she was ill, and there was a doctor. And then…I was told that mother and baby-brother were gone to heaven together; a thing I would not hear of, but fought savagely with Mrs. Dann on the landing, shouting to my mother that she was not to die, for I was coming. And when, wearied with kicking and screaming—for I fought with neighbours as well as with the nurse and the undertaker, conceiving them to be all in league to deprive me of my mother—when at last the woman from next door took me into the bedroom, and I saw the drawn face that could not smile, and my tiny brother that could not play, lying across the dead breast, I so behaved that the good soul with me blubbered aloud; and I had an added grief in the reflection that I had kicked her shins not half an hour before. I have never seen that good woman since; and I am ashamed to write that I cannot even remember her name.