The lady put forth this unreasonable request with so ravishing a smile, I had no heart to refuse; though in truth I had preferred to be a watcher ’tother side of the bolt.
“Then I’ll join you,” cried Dr. Johnson, reading my mind, “to preserve the proprieties.”
“Damn your proprieties!” cried I inwardly.
As we stood thus clustered about the door, a mighty rapping upon the other side of the panel startled us. We gave ground.
“Enter,” said Mistress Winwood.
Whereupon, ducking under the door-frame, in marched quite the tallest man I had ever seen without first paying a fee. ’Twas James Bruce, the Abyssinian traveller, who lodged in the second floor front. He stood a magnificent seven feet.
’Twas my first view of my fellow-lodger. Mistress Winwood made him known to us, and he bowed without a word. His presence in the lady’s chamber, seven feet tall and handsome as a god, boded little good to the suit of James Boswell, five feet odd and indifferent pretty. I seated myself sullenly.
The seven-foot Scotchman chose a dubious Chippendale chair, and sat mum. We sat as mum, and tried to freeze him. But the lady shone upon him. Under her smile and her wide-eyed interest, he thawed indeed, and began to regale us with wonders. I saw Dr. Sam: Johnson shift and mutter uneasily at the romantick traveller’s story. We must needs hear of the fabled lyre of the antient Egyptians—
“There’s one liar the less in Egypt,” muttered Dr. Johnson sotto voce, “now that you’re returned to London—”
Unhearing, the fabulous traveller fabled on, of the Abyssinians, who cut their steaks from the living cow, and the Watussi, a race of giants, who absolutely looked down their noses at a mere seven feet, and the Wambutti—
“Who,” burst in Johnson, unable to brook more wonders, “have no doubt their heads beneath their shoulders, as Mandeville fabled before you. Sir, your servant, I’ve had enough of romantick extravagance, so I’ll e’en take my leave. Ma’am, yours, and we’ll wait upon you after supper.”
Perforce I made my bow, and left the giant master of the field.
As we mounted to my lodging above, we encountered the rope-dancer. He was running, absolutely running, down the balustrade. The man had the feet of a fly. When he saw me, he came to a halt by dropping lightly to the landing. He seized me by the lappet and breathed alcoholic fumes in my face.
“Pray, Mr. Boswell,” he whined, “a trifle till Monday; for then I’ll be flush of the cole, I assure ’ee, ’tis Hoxham Fair, and I’ll dance on the rope again.”
I looked at the narrow keel of a face, the rough wigless head, the closeset darting eyes, and liked him ill.
“Be off,” said I, “for I’ve nothing on me.”
“Then I know who has,” replied he insolently, “where there’s a little fellow-feeling too for a poor mountebank—”
And he danced off down the stair on his long shoeless toes. I heard him clatter at the Jamaican actress’s door. So, Mr. Abyssinian traveller, I reflected sourly, where’s your tête-à-tête now?
’Twas the rope-dancer, after all, who held the field. He was still there when we returned after supper, wigless and unbuttoned, working his long unshod feet on the fender and drinking tea from a flowery saucer. He pulled a long face when he saw us, and rose unwillingly to go. As he strolled to the door he jingled a pocketful, as if to flaunt the success of his errand. At the door he turned with his hand on the latch. He gave the Jamaican lady a servile congee, included us in an insolent nod, and drew the door softly to.
“Poor man,” said Mistress Winwood, “the life of the stroller is thorny.”
We in our turn drank tea from flowery saucers. Then we gave the lady into the broad black hands of Hannah, who dighted her for bed while we waited in the passage.
When the pug and the paraqueet had been turned out, and the black woman had retired to her pallet, it came our turn. Quietly we entered the chamber. How my heart beat as the tinkling voice greeted us from the shadow of the Chinese damask bed-curtains. The lady lay on the pillow, pallid as her linens, in a cloud of black hair. Her night-rail was another froth of lace, held with a diamond brooch.
“Have no fear, ma’am,” says Dr. Sam: Johnson, “for here’s what shall make all secure.”
From his capacious pocket he dragged two stout bolts, and we proceeded to affix them on either side the hook, half-way up and half-way down the stout wooden door.
“Now, ma’am,” says he, “with your permission I’ll e’en make fast the window—”
“There’s no need,” says she, “for the wall falls sheer.”
“Here’s a balcony,” said Dr. Johnson, peering out into the summer moonlight.
“That only a fly could come at,” replied Mistress Winwood, “on that smooth brick wall.”
“Then we’ll lock out the flies,” said Dr. Johnson firmly, and swung the catch tight.
“And pray, Dr. Johnson,” whispered the lady, shame-faced, “look under the bed.”
We looked under the bed. No desperado lurked there. But Dr. Johnson advanced the candle, and from a murky corner picked up some small object. On our knees on the Chinese rug we scanned it. ’Twas another shuttlecock. Dr. Johnson shook his head over it, and hastily concealed it from the lady in his capacious pocket.
“Nothing,” said he to Mistress Winwood; “but we’ll give the rest of the chamber a turnout.”
We looked in the wardrobe. Nothing but the lady’s silken gowns, breathing otto. We looked up the chimney. Nothing but soot. We looked into every corner that might conceal a man. Nothing but candle-shadows.
“All’s safe, ma’am,” said Dr. Johnson. “Do you hook and bolt after us, and your citadel is triple-lock’d.”
“Good night,” whispered she.
I bowed in the dark, not daring to approach and kiss her hand, and we took our leave.
Behind us we heard the hook fall into place and the bolts ram home.
There was a damask sofa in the shadowy hall, and there we sat ourselves. The line of light under the door died as the lady blew out her candle. The house was still a while.
Beside me Dr. Sam: Johnson yawned mightily.
“This is a sleeveless errand,” muttered he. “We have eased the lady’s mind; let us ease ourselves with a bed. Nothing can come at Mistress Winwood through yonder triple-lock’d door. Come, let us go up.”
’Twas my secret hope that through the triple-lock’d door, if I but waited long enough, would come the lady seeking the solace of my presence.
“Do you go up,” said I.
“You’ll come with me,” said my stern mentor, “for a rake-helly young dog.”
I could but laugh, and follow. We stole to the house-door, and opened it gently. I thought at the far end of the passage a door was eased open, but I could not be sure. We drew the door to, and mounted the stair.
My coat and waistcoat were off, and I was attacking my breeches-buttons, when I heard Mistress Winwood scream. In my shirt as I was I ran down the stair, and Dr. Sam: Johnson lumbered behind. As I ran the screaming ceased abruptly, to be succeeded by a silence more sinister yet. I ran down the long hall, thrust aside the mulatto woman where she stood dumbly shaking the door-handle, and flung myself against the panels.
We had done our work too well. The three locks held. Dr. Johnson added his great strength to mine, but to no purpose. If one lock gave, the others held it in line.
In a moment the seven-foot Scotchman ran in in his shirt-sleeves. In another moment the shoeless rope-dancer joined us, fully sober and fully cloathed, with his hair on end. We all four rushed at the door. It was too stout.
“Fetch the axe!” cried Dr. Johnson.
“Fetch a rope!” cried the mountebank. “If a rope be stretched from yonder tree opposite my window, I’ll engage to walk across and so in at Mistress Windwood’s casement.”
“’Tis lock’d.”
“A window may be smashed.”
“A door may be smashed. Fetch the axe.”
&nb
sp; “Do you wield the axe. I’ll adventure by the rope.”
“Do so,” cried the Abyssinian traveller. “I’ve what shall assist you, which I used in climbing the Mountains of the Moon. ’Tis as it were a grappling-hook, which shall carry your rope from the ground to the balcony, and so a man may swarm up like a monkey.”
“Do you break in like a monkey,” cried Dr. Sam: Johnson contemptuously, “I’ll break in like a man. Where’s the axe?”
The explorer and the rope-dancer rushed off. The mulatto was dispatched backwards for the axe. We once more put our shoulders to the stout panels. In vain. At last we desisted and wiped our brows.
At that instant we heard from within the tinkle of breaking glass, and then the window creaked up. Another long moment, and we heard the three locks released. The door opened, and the mountebank stood before us. He was whiter than his ruffles.
“Mistress Winwood is dead,” said he.
We stepped sombrely in. The mountebank touched flame to the candles. James Bruce hauled himself over the sill and entered; his shoes crunched on the broken glass of the window.
The Jamaican lady lay dead in her bed. A carving knife was buried to the hilt in the disordered laces of her night-rail. Save for that disorder, the room was as we left it.
“This is the work of the devil himself!” cried the mountebank, going green as he took in the situation. He looked fearfully behind him at our shadows wavering on the wall. “The window was lock’d tight; I had to break it. The door was hooked and double-bolted; you heard me lift the hook and undo the twin bolts. How could anything human do this, and make its way out again?”
A horrible cry, as from the Tartarian Lake, broke out behind us. With jangled nerves I forced my head to turn. The mulatto stood in the doorway with the axe in her hand. As I looked at her she dropped the axe and fell to the floor by the bedside.
“Damballa Oueddo!” she cried. “Ezilee! Ogoun Badagris!”
“These are devils she calls on!” cried the rope-dancer. “This woman it is that has called up fiends to do this devil’s work!”
“This is devil’s work,” said Dr. Johnson heavily, “and the devil is flown through the triple-lock’d door; or it is man’s work—and the man is still here.”
With one consent we fell to searching. The mulatto woman ignored us, and pursued her own strange rites. She cut a tress of the shadowy hair, and bound it around her wrist. She traced on the floor, in powder, designs I could not fathom. When the designs were complete, and muttered over, she set about kindling a fire. Dr. Johnson did not check her; he had already got soot on his venerable brow assuring himself there was still nothing else up the chimney. Backward she went for coals. I stared at her strength; she heaved the hod in, filled, as easily as she had carried it out. It must have held a quarter-chaldron.
Hunched over the grate she struck flint and steel. The paper fan blazed; she blew up the coals. When she had a good glow, she laid aside the bellows and, crouching over the flame, she began to mutter. Again she called upon Damballa and Ogoun Badagris, rocking herself from side to side.
Our search was over. We had repeated in every detail our search of one short hour before; and as before, had found nothing. We stood to watch the woman’s curious proceedings.
“What do you do, good woman?” enquired Bruce curiously.
“I find the murderer. I see him in the flame.”
“This is a rank superstition!” cried Dr. Johnson.
“Sir,” said Bruce, “it may be; but I have seen in Africa such things as have made me wonder. What do you see, good woman?”
“I see a man. He comes down like a juju from the sky. He breaks the window, and turns back the bolt, and enters the room. I see him approach my lady. She screams. He strikes. Ah!”
The woman hid her face and wailed. The rope-dancer turned to Bruce.
“Your balcony is directly above. How easy to descend—”
“And break the glass?” Bruce caught him up. “You broke the glass. I saw you do it.”
“And we heard you!” cried I.
“Perhaps Mistress Winwood admitted him,” said the rope-dancer.
“If you were a gentleman,” I cried hotly, “I’d call you to account for such a word!”
“Nay,” said Bruce coolly, “let him prate. If the lady let me in, who let me out after the lady lay dead? Who shot the bolts after me? Robin Goodfellow belike? Or was it done by enchantment?”
“Why,” said I slowly, “there’s a way to shoot bolts from without. ’Tis done with packthread, and they shewed in court how it was done when they tried Sarah Malcolm.”
“And the hook?”
“There must be a way for that too.”
“And so,” said Bruce with his cold smile, “you came running, and found me at the door with a handful of packthread!”
“We did not, Sir,” owned Dr. Johnson. “Enough of this. This is matter for Bow Street. Let the watch be called.”
I bellowed “Pompey!” into the hall. The rope-dancer at the broken window was bawling “Watch!”
“The child is too little,” protested Hannah. “He will get lost.”
The child in question came trotting down the hall to cut her short. He was in his little shirt-tail, rubbing his eyes as he trotted along.
“Pompey here, sah.”
A shout from the rope-dancer ended the matter. The watch had heard, and was even now upon the stair. Another moment, and in came the watchman in his antient coat to the heels, with his flapped hat, his lanthorn, and his staff. He saw at once how things stood, and acted decisively. First he opened the coffer of jewels.
“They are all there,” said Hannah. “Nothing is missing.”
Then he bellowed for his mate, and they took us all up.
They took us up!—me, James Boswell Esq: of Auchinleck, James Bruce the Abyssinian traveller, and Dr. Sam: Johnson the great lexicographer!
I would have made indignant proclamation of our names and qualities, but Dr. Johnson checked me with a look. The great man preferred to spend the night in the round-house with an unemployed rope-dancer and two Jamaican slaves!
So to the round-house we went. As we paraded on the pavement, I saw in the moonlight the rope dangling from the balcony, by which the rope-dancer had ascended. The great grappling-hook was plain to see, caught over the balcony rail. It had three prongs, and a ball to throw it by.
Late ramblers must have stared at the strange procession. As was his unhappy wont, Dr. Sam: Johnson lurched along muttering to himself, and touching the posts of the footway as he passed. The rope-dancer’s narrow feet skimmed along without shoes; he seemed oblivious of the uneven paving-blocks. The mulatto woman slouched and mumbled. James Bruce the Abyssinian traveller strode along like a king. At first little Pompey trotted along behind like a puppy; but after a while Mr. Bruce took pity on his short legs and hoisted him to a towering shoulder.
Thus, each wrapped in who knows what thoughts, our ill-assorted company came to the round-house, and passed within. ’Twas an unfriendly structure of old brick and stone. I cannot say what amenities were provided in the forward chamber for the refreshing of the watch. We were thrust into the detention hold. A stale smell insulted our nostrils. Stark stone was rough under foot; the walls were bare. A rough deal table held the center; long benches lined the walls. Narrow windows interposed bars between us and the moonlight. Sixpence to the watch brought us an exiguous farthing dip, which did little to dispel the gloom of the place. As if from far away came the rumble of coach-wheels and the cries of roysterers between taverns.
’Twas an uneasy place to spend the night, most like some antient tower in the wastes of Africa. As if it had been so, Abyssinian Bruce laid himself stoically down like an old campaigner. The rope-dancer paced like a tiger on his noiseless unshod feet. The mulatto woman sat and stared; her Lilliputian philosopher curled himself up like a dog in the corner. ’Twas our luck that we had the place to ourselves. I stared up at the full moon through the barred window.
“Unravel me this, Sir,” said I to my learned friend, seated bolt upright on the bench. “If ’twas not the devil, who was it?”
“One of these,” he replied softly. “One of these. Watch.”
“Watch for what?”
“Let ’em smoulder, they’ll smoak themselves,” said he.
The staymaker’s lodgers smouldered as the moon swung over the sky. The rope-dancer kept up his noiseless pacing. Hannah sat rigid, and muttered. Curled in his corner Pompey slept the sleep of childhood, and stretched on the bench the imperturbable explorer slept like a child too. My friend and I waked, and heard nothing. The moon was waning as Dr. Johnson leaned towards me and said in a loud whisper:
“’Tis taedious to wait, but soon now we’ll have this murderer.”
“How so?”
“Why, I can tell you how,” boomed my friend with unnecessary loudness. “You must know, this knifehandle was of an exotick wood, which stains the hand. The stain deepens as time passes. This murderer will be caught, my friend, red-handed.”
The rope-dancer resumed his steady pacing. Hannah swayed and muttered. Silence thickened.
A moment later my friend nudged me sharply, and I followed his gaze. Outlined against the narrow window was the mulatto woman. By the uncertain light of the moon she was staring intently at the palms of her hands.
“Never fear,” said Dr. Johnson to me in his bull’s mutter, “we’ll be cleared before the face of the magistrate. Trust me, this murderer cannot escape. There’s a diamond missing, d’ye see; I missed it from the lady’s night-rail though Hannah did not. The murderer carries it on his person; and when he’s searched, ’tis all up with him.”
The rope-dancer stopped his pacing, and stood stock still. The mulatto woman stiffened. The Abyssinian traveller lay like the dead. Then the mulatto woman began to mutter between her teeth, angrily, without stopping. Pompey in his corner slept unstirring. Suddenly the woman’s wrath fell upon the hapless page. She hauled him out from under the bench, and addressed her biting patois to him. The little page answered placatingly, but the woman was not to be placated. Words brought blows; she shook him till his teeth rattled, and then blows rained about his shoulders, till Dr. Johnson was fain to step between them.
The Detections of Dr. Sam Johnson Page 18