A touch on the lawyer's wrinkled hand as he stands in the dark room,irresolute, makes him start and say, "What's that?""It's me," returns the old man of the house, whose breath is in hisear. "Can't you wake him?""No.""What have you done with your candle?""It's gone out. Here it is."Krook takes it, goes to the fire, stoops over the red embers, andtries to get a light. The dying ashes have no light to spare, andhis endeavours are vain. Muttering, after an ineffectual call tohis lodger, that he will go downstairs and bring a lighted candlefrom the shop, the old man departs. Mr. Tulkinghorn, for some newreason that he has, does not await his return in the room, but onthe stairs outside.
The welcome light soon shines upon the wall, as Krook comes slowlyup with his green-eyed cat following at his heels. "Does the mangenerally sleep like this?" inquired the lawyer in a low voice.
"Hi! I don't know," says Krook, shaking his head and lifting hiseyebrows. "I know next to nothing of his habits except that hekeeps himself very close."Thus whispering, they both go in together. As the light goes in,the great eyes in the shutters, darkening, seem to close. Not sothe eyes upon the bed.
"God save us!" exclaims Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He is dead!" Krook dropsthe heavy hand he has taken up so suddenly that the arm swings overthe bedside.
They look at one another for a moment.
"Send for some doctor! Call for Miss Flite up the stairs, sir.
Here's poison by the bed! Call out for Flite, will you?" saysKrook, with his lean hands spread out above the body like avampire's wings.
Mr. Tulkinghorn hurries to the landing and calls, "Miss Flite!
Flite! Make haste, here, whoever you are! Flite!" Krook followshim with his eyes, and while he is calling, finds opportunity tosteal to the old portmanteau and steal back again.
"Run, Flite, run! The nearest doctor! Run!" So Mr. Krookaddresses a crazy little woman who is his female lodger, who appearsand vanishes in a breath, who soon returns accompanied by a testymedical man brought from his dinner, with a broad, snuffy upper lipand a broad Scotch tongue.
"Ey! Bless the hearts o' ye," says the medical man, looking up atthem after a moment's examination. "He's just as dead as Phairy!"Mr. Tulkinghorn (standing by the old portmanteau) inquires if he hasbeen dead any time.
"Any time, sir?" says the medical gentleman. "It's probable he wullhave been dead aboot three hours.""About that time, I should say," observes a dark young man on theother side of the bed.
"Air you in the maydickle prayfession yourself, sir?" inquires thefirst.
The dark young man says yes.
"Then I'll just tak' my depairture," replies the other, "for I'm naegude here!" With which remark he finishes his brief attendance andreturns to finish his dinner.
The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the faceand carefully examines the law-writer, who has established hispretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.
"I knew this person by sight very well," says he. "He has purchasedopium of me for the last year and a half. Was anybody presentrelated to him?" glancing round upon the three bystanders.
"I was his landlord," grimly answers Krook, taking the candle fromthe surgeon's outstretched hand. "He told me once I was the nearestrelation he had.""He has died," says the surgeon, "of an over-dose of opium, there isno doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enoughhere now," taking an old teapot from Mr. Krook, "to kill a dozenpeople.""Do you think he did it on purpose?" asks Krook.
"Took the over-dose?""Yes!" Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horribleinterest.
"I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in thehabit of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, Isuppose?""I suppose he was. His room--don't look rich," says Krook, whomight have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glancearound. "But I have never been in it since he had it, and he wastoo close to name his circumstances to me.""Did he owe you any rent?""Six weeks.""He will never pay it!" says the young man, resuming hisexamination. "It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead asPharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I shouldthink it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure whena youth, and I dare say, good-looking." He says this, notunfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge with his facetowards that other face and his hand upon the region of the heart.
"I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner,uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so?" hecontinues, looking round.
Krook replies, "You might as well ask me to describe the ladieswhose heads of hair I have got in sacks downstairs. Than that hewas my lodger for a year and a half and lived--or didn't live--bylaw-writing, I know no more of him."During this dialogue Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the oldportmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to allappearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near thebed--from the young surgeon's professional interest in death,noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased asan individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazywoman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive ashis rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking allthis while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, norattention nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. Aseasily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferredfrom its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.
He now interposes, addressing the young surgeon in his unmoved,professional way.
"I looked in here," he observes, "just before you, with theintention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, someemployment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from mystationer--Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knowsanything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!"to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in court, andwhom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show,to go for the law-stationer. "Suppose you do!"While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigationand covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krookand he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing,but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.
Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily in his grey coat and his black sleeves.
"Dear me, dear me," he says; "and it has come to this, has it!
Bless my soul!""Can you give the person of the house any information about thisunfortunate creature, Snagsby?" inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. "He wasin arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, youknow.""Well, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behindhis hand, "I really don't know what advice I could offer, exceptsending for the beadle.""I don't speak of advice," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. "I couldadvise--""No one better, sir, I am sure," says Mr. Snagsby, with hisdeferential cough.
"I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where hecame from, or to anything concerning him.""I assure you, sir," says Mr. Snagsby after prefacing his replywith his cough of general propitiation, "that I no more know wherehe came from than I know--""Where he has gone to, perhaps," suggests the surgeon to help himout.
A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook,with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.
"As to his connexions, sir," says Mr. Snagsby, "if a person was tosay to me, "Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready foryou in the Bank of England if you'll only name one of 'em,' Icouldn't do it, sir! About a year and a half ago--to the best of mybelief, at the time when he first came to lodge at the present ragand bottle shop--""That was the time!" says Krook with a nod.
"About a year and a half ago," says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, "hecame into our place one morning after breakfast, and finding mylittle woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation)in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting and gave her tounderstand that he was in want of copying work to do and was, not toput too fine a point upon it," a favourite apology for plainspeaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort ofargumentative frankness, "hard up! My little woman is not ingeneral partial to strangers, particular--not to put too fine apoint upon it--when they want anything. But she was rather took bysomething about this person, whether by his being unshaved, or byhis hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies'
reasons, I leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, andlikewise of the address. My little woman hasn't a good ear fornames," proceeds Mr. Snagsby after consulting his cough ofconsideration behind his hand, "and she considered Nemo equally thesame as Nimrod. In consequence of which, she got into a habit ofsaying to me at meals, 'Mr. Snagsby, you haven't found Nimrod anywork yet!' or 'Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you give that eight andthirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce to Nimrod?' or such like. Andthat is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; andthat is the most I know of him except that he was a quick hand, anda hand not sparing of night-work, and that if you gave him out, say,five and forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have itbrought in on the Thursday morning. All of which--" Mr. Snagsbyconcludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, asmuch as to add, "I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirmif he were in a condition to do it.""Hadn't you better see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, "whether hehad any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an inquest,and you will be asked the question. You can read?""No, I can't," returns the old man with a sudden grin.
"Snagsby," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "look over the room for him. Hewill get into some trouble or difficulty otherwise. Being here,I'll wait if you make haste, and then I can testify on his behalf,if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If youwill hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon seewhether there is anything to help you.""In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir," says Snagsby.
Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear tohave seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, andthough there is very little else, heaven knows.
The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the law-stationerconducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of thechimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door.
The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breechestied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied inthe bow the peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same placeand attitude.
There are some worthless articles of clothing in the oldportmanteau; there is a bundle of pawnbrokers' duplicates, thoseturnpike tickets on the road of poverty; there is a crumpled paper,smelling of opium, on which are scrawled rough memoranda--as, took,such a day, so many grains; took, such another day, so many more--begun some time ago, as if with the intention of being regularlycontinued, but soon left off. There are a few dirty scraps ofnewspapers, all referring to coroners' inquests; there is nothingelse. They search the cupboard and the drawer of the ink-splashedtable. There is not a morsel of an old letter or of any otherwriting in either. The young surgeon examines the dress on the law-writer. A knife and some odd halfpence are all he finds. Mr.
Snagsby's suggestion is the practical suggestion after all, and thebeadle must be called in.
So the little crazy lodger goes for the beadle, and the rest comeout of the room. "Don't leave the cat there!" says the surgeon;"that won't do!" Mr. Krook therefore drives her out before him, andshe goes furtively downstairs, winding her lithe tail and lickingher lips.
"Good night!" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, and goes home to Allegory andmeditation.
By this time the news has got into the court. Groups of itsinhabitants assemble to discuss the thing, and the outposts of thearmy of observation (principally boys) are pushed forward to Mr.
Krook's window, which they closely invest. A policeman has alreadywalked up to the room, and walked down again to the door, where hestands like a tower, only condescending to see the boys at his baseoccasionally; but whenever he does see them, they quail and fallback. Mrs. Perkins, who has not been for some weeks on speakingterms with Mrs. Piper in consequence for an unpleasantnessoriginating in young Perkins' having "fetched" young Piper "acrack," renews her friendly intercourse on this auspicious occasion.
The potboy at the corner, who is a privileged amateur, as possessingofficial knowledge of life and having to deal with drunken menoccasionally, exchanges confidential communications with thepoliceman and has the appearance of an impregnable youth,unassailable by truncheons and unconfinable in station-houses.
People talk across the court out of window, and bare-headed scoutscome hurrying in from Chancery Lane to know what's the matter. Thegeneral feeling seems to be that it's a blessing Mr. Krook warn'tmade away with first, mingled with a little natural disappointmentthat he was not. In the midst of this sensation, the beadlearrives.
The beadle, though generally understood in the neighbourhood to be aridiculous institution, is not without a certain popularity for themoment, if it were only as a man who is going to see the body. Thepoliceman considers him an imbecile civilian, a remnant of thebarbarous watchmen times, but gives him admission as something thatmust be borne with until government shall abolish him. Thesensation is heightened as the tidings spread from mouth to mouththat the beadle is on the ground and has gone in.
By and by the beadle comes out, once more intensifying thesensation, which has rather languished in the interval. He isunderstood to be in want of witnesses for the inquest to-morrow whocan tell the coroner and jury anything whatever respecting thedeceased. Is immediately referred to innumerable people who cantell nothing whatever. Is made more imbecile by being constantlyinformed that Mrs. Green's son "was a law-writer his-self and knowedhim better than anybody," which son of Mrs. Green's appears, oninquiry, to be at the present time aboard a vessel bound for China,three months out, but considered accessible by telegraph onapplication to the Lords of the Admiralty. Beadle goes into variousshops and parlours, examining the inhabitants, always shutting thedoor first, and by exclusion, delay, and general idiotcyexasperating the public. Policeman seen to smile to potboy. Publicloses interest and undergoes reaction. Taunts the beadle in shrillyouthful voices with having boiled a boy, choruses fragments of apopular song to that effect and importing that the boy was made intosoup for the workhouse. Policeman at last finds it necessary tosupport the law and seize a vocalist, who is released upon theflight of the rest on condition of his getting out of this then,come, and cutting it--a condition he immediately observes. So thesensation dies off for the time; and the unmoved policeman (to whoma little opium, more or less, is nothing), with his shining hat,stiff stock, inflexible great-coat, stout belt and bracelet, and allthings fitting, pursues his lounging way with a heavy tread, beatingthe palms of his white gloves one against the other and stopping nowand then at a street-corner to look casually about for anythingbetween a lost child and a murder.
Under cover of the night, the feeble-............