CHAPTER VII. In Which William Dent Pitman takes Legal Advice
Norfolk Street, King's Road--jocularly known among Mr Pitman's lodgersas 'Norfolk Island'--is neither a long, a handsome, nor a pleasingthoroughfare. Dirty, undersized maids-of-all-work issue from it inpursuit of beer, or linger on its sidewalk listening to the voice oflove. The cat's-meat man passes twice a day. An occasional organ-grinderwanders in and wanders out again, disgusted. In holiday-time thestreet is the arena of the young bloods of the neighbourhood, andthe householders have an opportunity of studying the manly art ofself-defence. And yet Norfolk Street has one claim to be respectable,for it contains not a single shop--unless you count the public-house atthe corner, which is really in the King's Road.
The door of No. 7 bore a brass plate inscribed with the legend 'W. D.Pitman, Artist'. It was not a particularly clean brass plate, nor wasNo. 7 itself a particularly inviting place of residence. And yet ithad a character of its own, such as may well quicken the pulse ofthe reader's curiosity. For here was the home of an artist--and adistinguished artist too, highly distinguished by his ill-success--whichhad never been made the subject of an article in the illustratedmagazines. No wood-engraver had ever reproduced 'a corner in the backdrawing-room' or 'the studio mantelpiece' of No. 7; no young lady authorhad ever commented on 'the unaffected simplicity' with which Mr Pitmanreceived her in the midst of his 'treasures'. It is an omission I wouldgladly supply, but our business is only with the backward parts and'abject rear' of this aesthetic dwelling.
Here was a garden, boasting a dwarf fountain (that never played) in thecentre, a few grimy-looking flowers in pots, two or three newlyplanted trees which the spring of Chelsea visited without noticeableconsequence, and two or three statues after the antique, representingsatyrs and nymphs in the worst possible style of sculptured art. On oneside the garden was overshadowed by a pair of crazy studios, usuallyhired out to the more obscure and youthful practitioners of Britishart. Opposite these another lofty out-building, somewhat more carefullyfinished, and boasting of a communication with the house and a privatedoor on the back lane, enshrined the multifarious industry of Mr Pitman.All day, it is true, he was engaged in the work of education at aseminary for young ladies; but the evenings at least were his own, andthese he would prolong far into the night, now dashing off 'A landscapewith waterfall' in oil, now a volunteer bust ('in marble', as he wouldgently but proudly observe) of some public character, now stoopinghis chisel to a mere 'nymph' for a gasbracket on a stair, sir', or alife-size 'Infant Samuel' for a religious nursery. Mr Pitman had studiedin Paris, and he had studied in Rome, supplied with funds by a fondparent who went subsequently bankrupt in consequence of a fall incorsets; and though he was never thought to have the smallest modicumof talent, it was at one time supposed that he had learned his business.Eighteen years of what is called 'tuition' had relieved him of thedangerous knowledge. His artist lodgers would sometimes reason with him;they would point out to him how impossible it was to paint by gaslight,or to sculpture life-sized nymphs without a model.
'I know that,' he would reply. 'No one in Norfolk Street knows itbetter; and if I were rich I should certainly employ the best modelsin London; but, being poor, I have taught myself to do without them. Anoccasional model would only disturb my ideal conception of the figure,and be a positive impediment in my career. As for painting by anartificial light,' he would continue, 'that is simply a knack I havefound it necessary to acquire, my days being engrossed in the work oftuition.'
At the moment when we must present him to our readers, Pitman was in hisstudio alone, by the dying light of the October day. He sat (sure enoughwith 'unaffected simplicity') in a Windsor chair, his low-crowned blackfelt hat by his side; a dark, weak, harmless, pathetic little man, cladin the hue of mourning, his coat longer than is usual with the laity,his neck enclosed in a collar without a parting, his neckcloth pale inhue and simply tied; the whole outward man, except for a pointed beard,tentatively clerical. There was a thinning on the top of Pitman's head,there were silver hairs at Pitman's temple. Poor gentleman, he was nolonger young; and years, and poverty, and humble ambition thwarted, makea cheerless lot.
In front of him, in the corner by the door, there stood a portly barrel;and let him turn them where he might, it was always to the barrel thathis eyes and his thoughts returned.
'Should I open it? Should I return it? Should I communicate with MrSernitopolis at once?' he wondered. 'No,' he concluded finally, 'nothingwithout Mr Finsbury's advice.' And he arose and produced a shabbyleathern desk. It opened without the formality of unlocking, anddisplayed the thick cream-coloured notepaper on which Mr Pitman wasin the habit of communicating with the proprietors of schools and theparents of his pupils. He placed the desk on the table by the window,and taking a saucer of Indian ink from the chimney-piece, laboriouslycomposed the following letter:
'My dear Mr Finsbury,' it ran, 'would it be presuming on your kindnessif I asked you to pay me a visit here this evening? It is in no triflingmatter that I invoke your valuable assistance, for need I say more thanit concerns the welfare of Mr Semitopolis's statue of Hercules? I writeyou in great agitation of mind; for I have made all enquiries, andgreatly fear that this work of ancient art has been mislaid. I labourbesides under another perplexity, not unconnected with the first. Prayexcuse the inelegance of this scrawl, and believe me yours in haste,William D. Pitman.'
Armed with this he set forth and rang the bell of No. 233 King's Road,the private residence of Michael Finsbury. He had met the lawyer at atime of great public excitement in Chelsea; Michael, who had a sense ofhumour and a great deal of careless kindness in his nature, followedthe acquaintance up, and, having come to laugh, remained to drop intoa contemptuous kind of friendship. By this time, which was four yearsafter the first meeting, Pitman was the lawyer's dog.
'No,' said the elderly housekeeper, who opened the door in person, 'MrMichael's not in yet. But ye're looking terribly poorly, Mr Pitman. Takea glass of sherry, sir, to cheer ye up.'
'No, I thank you, ma'am,' replied the artist. 'It is very good in you,but I scarcely feel in sufficient spirits for sherry. Just give MrFinsbury this note, and ask him to look round--to the door in the lane,you will please tell him; I shall be in the studio all evening.'
And he turned again into the street and walked slowly homeward. Ahairdresser's window caught his attention, and he stared long andearnestly at the proud, high--born, waxen lady in evening dress, whocirculated in the centre of the show. The artist woke in him, in spiteof his troubles.
'It is all very well to run down the men who make these things,'he cried, 'but there's a something--there's a haughty, indefinablesomething about that figure. It's what I tried for in my "EmpressEugenie",' he added, with a sigh.
And he went home reflecting on the quality. 'They don't teach you thatdirect appeal in Paris,' he thought. 'It's British. Come, I am going tosleep, I must wake up, I must aim higher--aim higher,' cried the littleartist to himself. All through his tea and afterward, as he was givinghis eldest boy a lesson on the fiddle, his mind dwelt no longer on histroubles, but he was rapt into the better land; and no sooner was he atliberty than he hastened with positive exhilaration to his studio.
Not even the sight of the barrel could entirely cast him down. He flunghimself with rising zest into his work--a bust of Mr Gladstone from aphotograph; turned (with extraordinary success) the difficulty ofthe back of the head, for which he had no documents beyond a hazyrecollection of a public meeting; delighted himself by his treatmentof the collar; and was only recalled to the cares of life by MichaelFinsbury's rattle at the door.
'Well, what's wrong?' said Michael, advancing to the grate, where,knowing his friend's delight in a bright fire, Mr Pitman had not sparedthe fuel. 'I suppose you have come to grief somehow.'
'There is no expression strong enough,' said the artist. 'MrSemitopolis's statue has not turned up, and I am afraid I shall beanswerable for the money; but I think nothing of that--what I fear, mydear Mr Finsbu
ry, what I fear--alas that I should have to say it!is exposure. The Hercules was to be smuggled out of Italy; a thingpositively wrong, a thing of which a man of my principles and in myresponsible position should have taken (as I now see too late) no partwhatever.'
'This sounds like very serious work,' said the lawyer. 'It will requirea great deal of drink, Pitman.'
'I took the liberty of--in short, of being prepared for you,' repliedthe artist, pointing to a kettle, a bottle of gin, a lemon, and glasses.Michael mixed himself a grog, and offered the artist a cigar.
'No, thank you,' said Pitman. 'I used occasionally to be rather partialto it, but the smell is so disagreeable about the clothes.'
'All right,' said the lawyer. 'I am comfortable now. Unfold your tale.'
At some length Pitman set forth his sorrows. He had gone today toWaterloo, expecting to receive the colossal Hercules, and he hadreceived instead a barrel not big enough to hold Discobolus; yetthe barrel was addressed in the hand (with which he was perfectlyacquainted) of his Roman correspondent. What was stranger still, a casehad arrived by the same train, large enough and heavy enough tocontain the Hercules; and this case had been taken to an address nowundiscoverable. 'The vanman (I regret to say it) had been drinking, andhis language was such as I could never bring myself to repeat.
He was at once discharged by the superintendent of the line, who behavedmost properly throughout, and is to make enquiries at Southampton.In the meanwhile, what was I to do? I left my address and brought thebarrel home; but, remembering an old adage, I determined not to open itexcept in the presence of my lawyer.'
'Is that all?' asked Michael. 'I don't see any cause to worry. TheHercules has stuck upon the road. It will drop in tomorrow or the dayafter; and as for the barrel, depend upon it, it's a testimonial fromone of your young ladies, and probably contains oysters.'
'O, don't speak so loud!' cried the little artist. 'It would cost me myplace if I were heard to speak lightly of the young ladies; and besides,why oysters from Italy? and why should they come to me addressed inSignor Ricardi's hand?'
'Well, let's have a look at it,' said Michael. 'Let's roll it forward tothe light.'
The two men rolled the barrel from the corner, and stood it on endbefore the fire.
'It's heavy enough to be oysters,' remarked Michael judiciously.
'Shall we open it at once?' enquired the artist, who had grown decidedlycheerful under the combined effects of company and gin; and withoutwaiting for a reply, he began to strip as if for a prize-fight, tossedhis clerical collar in the wastepaper basket, hung his clerical coatupon a nail, and with a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other,struck the first blow of the evening.
'That's the style, William Dent' cried Michael. 'There's fire for--yourmoney! It may be a romantic visit from one of the young ladies--a sortof Cleopatra business. Have a care and don't stave in Cleopatra's head.'
But the sight of Pitman's alacrity was infectious. The lawyer couldsit still no longer. Tossing his cigar into the fire, he snatched theinstrument from the unwilling hands of the artist, and fell to himself.Soon the sweat stood in beads upon his large, fair brow; his stylishtrousers were defaced with iron rust, and the state of his chiseltestified to misdirected energies.
A cask is not an easy thing to open, even when you set about it in theright way; when you set about it wrongly, the whole structure must beresolved into its elements. Such was the course pursued alike by theartist and the lawyer. Presently the last hoop had been removed--acouple of smart blows tumbled the staves upon the ground--and whathad once been a barrel was no more than a confused heap of broken anddistorted boards.
In the midst of these, a certain dismal something, swathed in blankets,remained for an instant upright, and then toppled to one side andheavily collapsed before the fire. Even as the thing subsided, aneye-glass tingled to the floor and rolled toward the screaming Pitman.
'Hold your tongue!' said Michael. He dashed to the house door and lockedit; then, with a pale face and bitten lip, he drew near, pulled asidea corner of the swathing blanket, and recoiled, shuddering. There was along silence in the studio.
'Now tell me,' said Michael, in a low voice: 'Had you any hand in it?'and he pointed to the body.
The little artist could only utter broken and disjointed sounds.
Michael poured some gin into a glass. 'Drink that,' he said. 'Don't beafraid of me. I'm your friend through thick and thin.'
Pitman put the liquor down untasted.
'I swear before God,' he said, 'this is another mystery to me. In myworst fears I never dreamed of such a thing. I would not lay a finger ona sucking infant.'
'That's all square,' said Michael, with a sigh of huge relief. 'Ibelieve you, old boy.' And he shook the artist warmly by the hand. 'Ithought for a moment,' he added with rather a ghastly smile, 'I thoughtfor a moment you might have made away with Mr Semitopolis.'
'It would make no difference if I had,' groaned Pitman. 'All is at anend for me. There's the writing on the wall.'
'To begin with,' said Michael, 'let's get him out of sight; for to bequite plain with you, Pitman, I don't like your friend's appearance.'And with that the lawyer shuddered. 'Where can we put it?'
'You might put it in the closet there--if you could bear to touch it,'answered the artist.
'Somebody has to do it, Pitman,' returned the lawyer; 'and it seems asif it had to be me. You go over to the table, turn your back, and mix mea grog; that's a fair division of labour.'
About ninety seconds later the closet-door was heard to shut.
'There,' observed Michael, 'that's more homelike. You can turn now, mypallid Pitman. Is this the grog?' he ran on. 'Heaven forgive you, it's alemonade.'
'But, O, Finsbury, what are we to do with it?' walled the artist, layinga clutching hand upon the lawyer's arm.
'Do with it?' repeated Michael. 'Bury it in one of your flowerbeds, anderect one of your own statues for a monument. I tell you we should lookdevilish romantic shovelling out the sod by the moon's pale ray. Here,put some gin in this.'
'I beg of you, Mr Finsbury, do not trifle with my misery,' cried Pitman.'You see before you a man who has been all his life--I do not hesitateto say it--imminently respectable. Even in this solemn hour I can lay myhand upon my heart without a blush. Except on the really trifling pointof the smuggling of the Hercules (and even of that I now humbly repent),my life has been entirely fit for publication. I never feared thelight,' cried the little man; 'and now--now--!'
'Cheer up, old boy,' said Michael. 'I assure you we should count thislittle contretemps a trifle at the office; it's the sort of thing thatmay occur to any one; and if you're perfectly sure you had no hand init--'
'What language am I to find--' began Pitman.
'O, I'll do that part of it,' interrupted Michael, 'you have noexperience.' But the point is this: If--or rather since--you knownothing of the crime, since the--the party in the closet--isneither your father, nor your brother, nor your creditor, nor yourmother-in-law, nor what they call an injured husband--'
'O, my dear sir!' interjected Pitman, horrified.
'Since, in short,' continued the lawyer, 'you had no possible interestin the crime, we have a perfectly free field before us and a safe gameto play. Indeed, the problem is really entertaining; it is one I havelong contemplated in the light of an A. B. case; here it is at lastunder my hand in specie; and I mean to pull you through. Do you hearthat?--I mean to pull you through. Let me see: it's a long time since Ihave had what I call a genuine holiday; I'll send an excuse tomorrow tothe office. We had best be lively,' he added significantly; 'for we mustnot spoil the market for the other man.'
'What do you mean?' enquired Pitman. 'What other man? The inspector ofpolice?'
'Damn the inspector of police!' remarked his companion. 'If you won'ttake the short cut and bury this in your back garden, we must find someone who will bury it in his. We must place the affair, in short, in thehands of some one with fewer scruples and more resources.' r />
'A private detective, perhaps?' suggested Pitman.
'There are times when you fill me with pity,' observed the lawyer. 'Bythe way, Pitman,' he added in another key, 'I have always regretted thatyou have no piano in this den of yours. Even if you don't play yourself,your friends might like to entertain themselves with a little musicwhile you were mudding.'
'I shall get one at once if you like,' said Pitman nervously, anxious toplease. 'I play the fiddle a little as it is.'
'I know you do,' said Michael; 'but what's the fiddle--above all as youplay it? What you want is polyphonic music. And I'll tell you what itis--since it's too late for you to buy a piano I'll give you mine.'
'Thank you,' said the artist blankly. 'You will give me yours? I am sureit's very good in you.'
'Yes, I'll give you mine,' continued Michael, 'for the inspector ofpolice to play on while his men are digging up your back garden.' Pitmanstared at him in pained amazement.
'No, I'm not insane,' Michael went on. 'I'm playful, but quite coherent.See here, Pitman: follow me one half minute. I mean to profit by therefreshing fact that we are really and truly innocent; nothing but thepresence of the--you know what--connects us with the crime; once let usget rid of it, no matter how, and there is no possible clue to traceus by. Well, I give you my piano; we'll bring it round this very night.Tomorrow we rip the fittings out, deposit the--our friend--inside, plumpthe whole on a cart, and carry it to the chambers of a young gentlemanwhom I know by sight.'
'Whom do you know by sight?' repeated Pitman.
'And what is more to the purpose,' continued Michael, 'whose chambers Iknow better than he does himself. A friend of mine--I call him my friendfor brevity; he is now, I understand, in Demerara and (most likely)in gaol--was the previous occupant. I defended him, and I got him offtoo--all saved but honour; his assets were nil, but he gave me what hehad, poor gentleman, and along with the rest--the key of his chambers.It's there that I propose to leave the piano and, shall we say,Cleopatra?'
'It seems very wild,' said Pitman. 'And what will become of the pooryoung gentleman whom you know by sight?'
'It will do him good,'--said Michael cheerily. 'Just what he wants tosteady him.'
'But, my dear sir, he might be involved in a charge of--a charge ofmurder,' gulped the artist.
'Well, he'll be just where we are,' returned the lawyer. 'He'sinnocent, you see. What hangs people, my dear Pitman, is the unfortunatecircumstance of guilt.'
'But indeed, indeed,' pleaded Pitman, 'the whole scheme appears to me sowild. Would it not be safer, after all, just to send for the police?'
'And make a scandal?' enquired Michael. '"The Chelsea Mystery; allegedinnocence of Pitman"? How would that do at the Seminary?'
'It would imply my discharge,' admitted the drawing--master. 'I cannotdeny that.'
'And besides,' said Michael, 'I am not going to embark in such abusiness and have no fun for my money.'
'O my dear sir, is that a proper spirit?' cried Pitman.
'O, I only said that to cheer you up,' said the unabashed Michael.'Nothing like a little judicious levity. But it's quite needless todiscuss. If you mean to follow my advice, come on, and let us get thepiano at once. If you don't, just drop me the word, and I'll leave youto deal with the whole thing according to your better judgement.'
'You know perfectly well that I depend on you entirely,' returnedPitman. 'But O, what a night is before me with that--horror in mystudio! How am I to think of it on my pillow?'
'Well, you know, my piano will be there too,' said Michael. 'That'llraise the average.'
An hour later a cart came up the lane, and the lawyer's piano--amomentous Broadwood grand--was deposited in Mr Pitman's studio.