Thus he came to Cawthorns, where lived Baring Spencer, esquire, that illustrious invisible; and the high privet hedge, like a massive black wall, was so good a wind screen that Hendy turned up a side lane and followed it, walking close, with bowed head and shoulder brushing the twigs. The hedge took a wide curve and, following this, he came plump against a small wooden gate, which swung inward at the shock. At this he stopped and looked about him. Without a doubt this was the kitchen entrance. Here was a narrow path, with a tall hedge at each side, a short path ending in a door with a pent roof.
He took a step back and another forward. The wind was as sharp as ever and there was a wetness in the snowdrops, now more frequent, that told of coming sleet. To follow the lane were to emerge presently in open country; here was shelter under the lee of a good-sized house, with a pent roof to make it better. More, here was a “situation.” The homeless outcast, wronged by all the world, would seek shelter, for half an hour at least, on the doorstep of the proud and haughty capitalist, who, if only he were awake and aware of the trespass, would probably send his pampered minions to drive him forth into the bitter night. The fancy accorded with the outcast’s mood, and truly for one bent on wallowing deep in the pathos of his predicament this was the most promising spot thereabout, and one not at all exposed to the weather.
He let the gate swing behind him and walked quietly to the kitchen door. All was silent and, as he stood under the pent roof, he saw that the path he had come by went farther and skirted all the back premises, dividing them from the kitchen garden. As he looked, a projecting frame caught his eye, like that of an open window, but nearer the ground than he would have expected. It was but a few yards away, and he went idly toward it. It was a window, no doubt left open by the carelessness of a servant. There was a stain on the snow below it which betrayed the occasion. Plainly the servant had flung out coffee grounds or the like and taken no care to shut the casement. The house was rather old, and for a moment he wondered vaguely what room it might be whose window was so near the ground. And then the answer came to his hungry senses from the window itself. Clearly it was the larder, and no empty larder either. Pickles could be smelled — pickles plainly and something else, something of fulsome steaminess and sweet recollection — Christmas pudding.
No doubt it was a large larder, though a mere blackness to sight now; no doubt crammed to the ceiling with a superfluity of the Christmas fare that Hendy saw no chance of tasting. Was it really so large as he fancied? He felt his pocket and found a matchbox with a few matches still remaining. At least it was no sin to take a peep. Everybody was in bed. He struck a match in the shelter of the window frame and held it within.
A larder it was, indeed, with both windows — wire within and glass without — left open; a long, brick paved place — the floor was a yard at least below the path he stood on and fitted round with shelves everywhere. And on the shelves —
He gazed till the match burned his fingers. But the picture remained vivid in his mind. Six plum puddings (was it six or seven — at any rate six) in a row, in china molds, with cloths tied on top; a cut ham on a dish, and three whole ones, hanging; two birds — geese — hanging also; a mass of cold sirloin, half cut away; another mass of sirloin, uncooked; a large dish of mince pies, a tub of water in a dark corner, with oatmeal spilled about it — oysters, no doubt; rows of jam pots, butter, cheese — everything. The agony of it!
Was it six puddings or seven? No harm in counting, at any rate. He struck another match.
Six plum puddings! And what could one man — a bachelor — want with six plum puddings, to say nothing of all the rest of this extravagant provision? Probably the housekeeper or the cook was swindling her master and preparing all this to regale herself and her friends. It would serve her right it somebody were to walk off with one of those puddings and, say, one ham — a mere act of justice, indeed. Not that he could do such a thing as that himself, of course, though, indeed, it would he rather a lark — the sort of joke you could tell your friends of years after — how the rich company monger supported the drama, after all, without knowing it.
It would be the easiest thing in the world to get in, too — as easy as going down stairs. Nobody would know, of course, and it would really seem a capital joke afterward. And, while this would be a joke, going without a Christmas dinner would be a serious matter. Were they oysters in that tub? The spilled oatmeal would seem to indicate as much, though you couldn’t tell with certainty at this distance. And then —
Mr. Baring Spencer sat late, with a box of cigars and a decanter. He was a florid, heavy jowled man of forty-five or thereabout, and it was probable that in his time he had emptied more decanters than this one. A few draft prospectuses and such papers lay about the table, but they were done with hours ago. He had discovered a very excellent port in the cellar, and now, the decanter being empty, Mr. Baring Spencer, after a look at his watch, decided that on the whole he would see about another bottle. The rest of the household were in bed, so he took a candle and went down stairs himself. He was on the cellar stairs when he heard a slight noise in the direction of the larder. Perhaps a cat had got into it.
Joe Hendy had burned his last match and, with a pudding dangling by its cloth from one hand, was feeling along the shelf with the other in pursuit of the cut ham when the door flew open behind him, and his heart flew up into his mouth. There were a light and a crash and two hands on his collar behind and, at that, with a yell of despair, Hendy twisted about and fought wildly with both hands. The candle went over and out, the pudding mold smashed against a shelf and the cloth, still gripped in his fingers, shed cool, moist pudding about the heads of thief and financier alike.
But Hendy was the weaker, and the shock had despoiled him of wind. Presently he was dragged through the door and found himself imploring pardon and release in abject terms. He was starving, and the window was open to tempt him; he had a sick wife, no food for her, disgrace would kill her, and so forth.
“Come,” said his captor, hard of breath himself; “you just come along, and we’ll see about that.” And he pushed the captive, now all terror and submission, up stairs before him in the dark, tripping and stumbling. For it struck Mr. Baring Spencer for reasons that possibly, if no particular harm were done, it would be better to terrify the intruder and send him about his businesss rather than engage in troublesome business at a police court. So at the top of a short flight Hendy found himself pushed first across a dimly lighted passage and then through a study door.
From a landing high above came a trembling female voice: “Mr. Spencer, sir! Are you there, sir? I — I thought I heard a noise!”
Whereto Mr. Spencer, In the passage without, replied with so terrifying a mouthful of language that the voice was heard no more.
Poor Hendy, pale and trembling, smeared across the face with pudding and staring at the decanter on the table without seeing it, started at that amazing string of rhetoric. Surely — surely the idiom was somehow familiar.
Mr. Baring Spencer came in at the door, and for the first time their eyes met in full light. Both were to some extent disguised in pudding, but Hendy knew his man at once. “Why,” he gasped, “Fitz — Fitz-Howard.”
“Eh?” grunted the other sharply. “What’s that?” for his own recollection was slower. But the name —
Hendy took a long breath, wiped the back of his hand across his face and sat down uninvited. “My name’s Hendy,” he said; “Joseph Hendy, juveniles, Trevor Fitz-Howard’s company, Leeds; Trevor Fitz-Howard’s company, Bristol. You’ve got your pudding back; give me my boots.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“All right, all right,” Hendy went on, now clear in mind and dangerous. “P’raps you might bluff it off with one stone broke busker, but there’s Miss Beaumont here, too; same company. You owe her a week or two salary, I think. An’ there’s Norton — Teddy Norton. Remember him? Walking gentleman. Trevor Fitz-Howard’s company, Leeds.”
Mr. Baring Spencer s
at down. “Well?” he said, after a pause.
“Well,” Hendy went on slowly, “you seem to be doing pretty well now. P’raps you can afford to pay off those arrears.”
“Oh,” answered the other laconically, and there was another pause. “But suppose I won’t? Suppose I just call the Police and put you in jail? For, of course, I know nothing of all this nonsense you talk of.”
“Very well,” Hendy replied, rising wearily, “call ‘em, but I’m afraid you’ll get county courted over those salaries. An’ when it begins — Lor’, when will it stop?”
This was quite true. For if all the unliquidated debts incurred in Mr. Trevor Fitz-Howard’s theatrical career were to be called up at once by creditors all over the country Mr. Baring Spencer would be squeezed very tight, indeed. And once the two names were identified the rush would begin. But there was another consideration. Mr. Baring Spencer was at a critical stage in his present operations, but his name just now stood good for anything; whereas, Mr. Trevor Fitz-Howard was a notorious swindler. So anything that might reveal the fact that the two names stood for one financial operator would mean a crash indeed. So Mr. Baring Spencer, like a man of business, went to the root of the matter straightway.
“Look here,” he said. “We’ll fool about no longer. How much do you want?”
Hendy sat down again.
“For me,” he said, “say four weeks at thirty bob, and say nothing about the boots. Miss Beaumont four weeks at thirty bob, too, an’ Teddy Norton a fortnight at the same. That’s fifteen quid.”
The sum seemed enormous in these lean days, but he was dealing with a capitalist and the estimate was honest enough. “An’ then,” he went on, “you might give poor old Leatherby a lift on the road—”
“Never mind all that,” the other said, unlocking a drawer. “You don’t expect to make me believe you’re interested in all those people, do you? Or that you’d give them a cent? I ain’t a baby; no more are you. See here.” He took a small parcel of notes and counted, “One, two, three, four, five — a pony; £25. Take it and clear out, and keep your mouth shut. As for getting the show on the road, do it anyhow you please and as soon as you like. Only mind” — and he raised his finger— “if any of those others get on the scent and come here I shall tell them you’ve got their money. Now you can go as soon as you like.”
But, indeed, Mr. Baring Spencer was just a trifle too clever. He was much too clever, in fact, to suppose that Hendy — a man just caught stealing pudding — would not part with any of that money unless he were obliged. He assumed, of course, that Hendy would keep the money to himself, say nothing of the encounter, and, moreover, use every exertion to get the show out of the neighborhood, because of the threat to set the others after a share of the notes if he, Spencer, were troubled by them. Indeed, he judged it a very cunning shift to shut Hendy’s mouth and clear away the players from the town at one stroke. He was never safe from recognition among players.
But he miscalculated, for Leatherby’s company signalized Christmas by two dinners at the Crown, one at midday and one at 7, and Leatherby gave the health of Baring Spencer, founder of the feast, with great fervor and proclaimed him an ornament to the theatrical profession, which he had an lately left, for Hendy had made no secret of whence he had the money or of the debts it was to liquidate, and some of it he represented as a subscription toward a Leatherby benefit designed to set the show on its legs again in the next town. And the company called Mr. Baring Spencer a noble fellow and, moreover, insisted on tearing the butcher from the bosom of his family (the drover was not to be found) and making him drink Mr. Spencer’s health, too, a great many times, so that they were all mighty merry together that Christmas, and every hour was an hour of joy and feasting. And at last, to cap everything, all the male part of the company, with the butcher in the midst of them, stood in the early evening on Mr. Baring Spencer’s lawn roaring “For he’s a jolly good fellow!” at the top of their voices, to the amazement and scandal of all Crowbridge and the speechless fury of the jolly good fellow himself, till at Last he found his voice and, throwing open a window and shaking his fist, flung out such a shower of the rhetoric that Hendy so well remembered that the players went off mightily astonished.
“It is his modesty.” said Leatherby, outside, with tears of gratitude trembling in his eyes; “just his modesty. Truly he is a noble fellow!”
But the story spread about Crowbridge, and ere long it was very generally known that Mr. Baring Spencer was Mr. Trevor Fitz-Howard and that Mr. Trevor Fitz-Howard probably had half a dozen other names as well. And it was even said in the end that the thing hastened his arrest by three days. He had bought the house at Crowbridge, had managed to pay for it in worthless shares and had mortgaged it instantly for hard cash. His companies were timed to burst just after the new year, and he was laid by the heels just a day before his appointed steamer left Liverpool, a sad victim of his own excess of cunning and the misplaced gratitude of others.
THE END
The Short Stories
Whitechapel High Street, 1905 — Morrison fondly recalled his youth frequenting used bookstores in this area.
Whitechapel Road today
LIST OF SHORT STORIES IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER
THE LENTON CROFT ROBBERIES
THE LOSS OF SAMMY CROCKETT
THE CASE OF MR. FOGGATT
THE CASE OF THE DIXON TORPEDO
THE QUINTON JEWEL AFFAIR
THE STANWAY CAMEO MYSTERY
THE AFFAIR OF THE TORTOISE
THE IVY COTTAGE MYSTERY.
THE NICOBAR BULLION CASE.
THE HOLFORD WILL CASE.
THE CASE OF THE MISSING HAND.
THE CASE OF LAKER, ABSCONDED.
THE CASE OF THE LOST FOREIGNER.
THE AFFAIR OF MRS. SETON’S CHILD
THE CASE OF MR. GELDARD’S ELOPEMENT
THE CASE OF THE DEAD SKIPPER
THE CASE OF THE “FLITTERBAT LANCERS”
THE CASE OF THE LATE MR. REWSE
THE CASE OF THE WARD LANE TABERNACLE
THE AFFAIR OF SAMUEL’S DIAMONDS
THE CASE OF MR. JACOB MASON
THE CASE OF THE LEVER KEY
THE CASE OF THE BURNT BARN
THE CASE OF THE ADMIRALTY CODE
THE ADVENTURE OF CHANNEL MARSH
THE VAULT AT AHRENSBURG
THE LICH-WAKE AT MONIFIETH
THE STRANGE EXPERIENCE OF MR. ROBERT BRUCE
THE WRAITH OF FRANCIS TANTUM
THE APPARITION OF LIEUTENANT COLT
THE STRANGE CASE OF ESTHER T ——
THE POLTERGEIST OF LEIGNITZ CASTLE
THE BINSTEAD MYSTERY
THE TRANSLATION OF MAURICE TULLING
THE HAUNTED HOUSE AT WILLINGTON
No. 15 ST. SWITHIN’S LANE
THE STRANGE CASE OF EMÉLIE SAGÉE
THE HAUNTING OF WILLIAM MOIR
CURIOUS INCIDENT AT BEAUMARIS
A DOUBLE CASE
LIZERUNT.
WITHOUT VISIBLE MEANS.
TO BOW BRIDGE.
THAT BRUTE SIMMONS.
BEHIND THE SHADE.
THREE ROUNDS.
IN BUSINESS.
THE RED COW GROUP.
ON THE STAIRS.
SQUIRE NAPPER.
A POOR STICK.
A CONVERSION.
ALL THAT MESSUAGE.
ZIG-ZAG PRELUSORY
ZIG-ZAG URSINE
ZIG-ZAG CAMELINE
ZIG-ZAG MISCELLAVIAN
ZIG-ZAG LEONINE
ZIG-ZAG ELEPHANTINE
ZIG-ZAG CURSOREAN
ZIG-ZAG PHOCINE
ZIG-ZAG CONKAVIAN
ZIG-ZAG OPHIDIAN
ZIG-ZAG MARSUPIAL
ZIG-ZAG ACCIPITRAL
ZIG-ZAG CANINE
ZIG-ZAG CORVINE
ZIG-ZAG ENTOMIC
ZIG-ZAG PACHYDERMATOUS
ZIG-ZAG MUSTELINE
ZIG-ZAG PISCINE
ZIG-ZAG BATRACHIAN
>
ZIG-ZAG DASYPIDIAN
ZIG-ZAG SCANSORIAL
ZIG-ZAG SAURIAN
ZIG-ZAG SIMIAN
ZIG-ZAG RODOPORCINE
ZIG-ZAG BOVINE
ZIG-ZAG FINAL
THE NARRATIVE OF MR. JAMES RIGBY
THE CASE OF JANISSARY
THE CASE OF “THE MIRROR OF PORTUGAL”
THE AFFAIR OF THE. “AVALANCHE BICYCLE & TYRE CO., LTD.”
THE CASE OF MR. LOFTUS DEACON
OLD CATER’S MONEY
THE FIRST MAGNUM
MR. NORIE’S MAGNUM
MR. CLIFTON’S MAGNUM
THE STEWARD’S MAGNUM — AND ANOTHER
MR. POOLEY’S MAGNUM
A BOX OF ODDMENTS
MR. SMITH’S MAGNUMS
THE GREEN EYE
CHANCE OF THE GAME
SPOTTO’S RECLAMATION
A “DEAD ‘UN”
THE DISORDER OF THE BATH
HIS TALE OF BRICKS
TEACHER AND TAUGHT
HEADS AND TAILS
ONE MORE UNFORTUNATE
INGRATES AT BAGSHAW’S
RHYMER THE SECOND
CHARLWOOD WITH A NUMBER
A POOR BARGAIN
STATEMENT OF EDWARD CHALONER
LOST TOMMY JEPPS
OLD ESSEX. THE LEGEND OF LAPWATER HALL
THE BLACK BADGER
THE TORN HEART
A SKINFUL OF TROUBLE
THE ABSENT THREE
THE STOLEN BLENKINSOP
CAP’EN JOLLYFAX’S GUN
SNORKEY TIMMS, HIS MARKS
THE COPPER CHARM
DOBBS’S PARROT
THE SELLER OF HATE
THE RODD STREET REVOLUTION
THE CHAMBER OF LIGHT: A FANTASY
MR. BOSTOCK’S BACK-SLIDING
THE HOUSE OF HADDOCK
A LUCIFO MATCH
ARTS AND CRAFTS
WICKS’S WATERLOO
THE DRINKWATER ROMANCE
MR. WALKER’S AEROPLANE
Delphi Complete Works of Arthur Morrison Page 282