The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Mr. Tope’s official dwelling, communicating by an upper stair with Mr.
Jasper’s (hence Mrs. Tope’s attendance on that gentleman), was of very
modest proportions, and partook of the character of a cool dungeon. Its
ancient walls were massive, and its rooms rather seemed to have been
dug out of them, than to have been designed beforehand with any
reference to them. The main door opened at once on a chamber of no
describable shape, with a groined roof, which in its turn opened on
another chamber of no describable shape, with another groined roof:
their windows small, and in the thickness of the walls. These two
chambers, close as to their atmosphere, and swarthy as to their
illumination by natural light, were the apartments which Mrs. Tope had
so long offered to an unappreciative city. Mr. Datchery, however, was
more appreciative. He found that if he sat with the main door open he
would enjoy the passing society of all comers to and fro by the
gateway, and would have light enough. He found that if Mr. and Mrs.
Tope, living overhead, used for their own egress and ingress a little
side stair that came plump into the Precincts by a door opening
outward, to the surprise and inconvenience of a limited public of
pedestrians in a narrow way, he would be alone, as in a separate
residence. He found the rent moderate, and everything as quaintly
inconvenient as he could desire. He agreed, therefore, to take the
lodging then and there, and money down, possession to be had next
evening, on condition that reference was permitted him to Mr. Jasper as
occupying the gatehouse, of which on the other side of the gateway, the
Verger’s hole-in-the-wall was an appanage or subsidiary part.
The poor dear gentleman was very solitary and very sad, Mrs. Tope said,
but she had no doubt he would “speak for her.” Perhaps Mr. Datchery had
heard something of what had occurred there last winter?
Mr. Datchery had as confused a knowledge of the event in question, on
trying to recall it, as he well could have. He begged Mrs. Tope’s
pardon when she found it incumbent on her to correct him in every
detail of his summary of the facts, but pleaded that he was merely a
single buffer getting through life upon his means as idly as he could,
and that so many people were so constantly making away with so many
other people, as to render it difficult for a buffer of an easy temper
to preserve the circumstances of the several cases unmixed in his mind.
Mr. Jasper proving willing to speak for Mrs. Tope, Mr. Datchery, who
had sent up his card, was invited to ascend the postern staircase. The
Mayor was there, Mr. Tope said; but he was not to be regarded in the
light of company, as he and Mr. Jasper were great friends.
“I beg pardon,” said Mr. Datchery, making a leg with his hat under his
arm, as he addressed himself equally to both gentlemen; “a selfish
precaution on my part, and not personally interesting to anybody but
myself. But as a buffer living on his means, and having an idea of
doing it in this lovely place in peace and quiet, for remaining span of
life, I beg to ask if the Tope family are quite respectable?”
Mr. Jasper could answer for that without the slightest hesitation.
“That is enough, sir,” said Mr. Datchery.
“My friend the Mayor,” added Mr. Jasper, presenting Mr. Datchery with a
courtly motion of his hand towards that potentate; “whose
recommendation is actually much more important to a stranger than that
of an obscure person like myself, will testify in their behalf, I am
sure.”
“The Worshipful the Mayor,” said Mr. Datchery, with a low bow, “places
me under an infinite obligation.”
“Very good people, sir, Mr. and Mrs. Tope,” said Mr. Sapsea, with
condescension. “Very good opinions. Very well behaved. Very respectful.
Much approved by the Dean and Chapter.”
“The Worshipful the Mayor gives them a character,” said Mr. Datchery,
“of which they may indeed be proud. I would ask His Honour (if I might
be permitted) whether there are not many objects of great interest in
the city which is under his beneficent sway?”
“We are, sir,” returned Mr. Sapsea, “an ancient city, and an
ecclesiastical city. We are a constitutional city, as it becomes such a
city to be, and we uphold and maintain our glorious privileges.”
“His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, bowing, “inspires me with a desire to
know more of the city, and confirms me in my inclination to end my days
in the city.”
“Retired from the Army, sir?” suggested Mr. Sapsea.
“His Honour the Mayor does me too much credit,” returned Mr. Datchery.
“Navy, sir?” suggested Mr. Sapsea.
“Again,” repeated Mr. Datchery, “His Honour the Mayor does me too much
credit.”
“Diplomacy is a fine profession,” said Mr. Sapsea, as a general remark.
“There, I confess, His Honour the Mayor is too many for me,” said Mr.
Datchery, with an ingenious smile and bow; “even a diplomatic bird must
fall to such a gun.”
Now this was very soothing. Here was a gentleman of a great, not to say
a grand, address, accustomed to rank and dignity, really setting a fine
example how to behave to a Mayor. There was something in that
third-person style of being spoken to, that Mr. Sapsea found
particularly recognisant of his merits and position.
“But I crave pardon,” said Mr. Datchery. “His Honour the Mayor will
bear with me, if for a moment I have been deluded into occupying his
time, and have forgotten the humble claims upon my own, of my hotel,
the Crozier.”
“Not at all, sir,” said Mr. Sapsea. “I am returning home, and if you
would like to take the exterior of our Cathedral in your way, I shall
be glad to point it out.”
“His Honour the Mayor,” said Mr. Datchery, “is more than kind and
gracious.”
As Mr. Datchery, when he had made his acknowledgments to Mr. Jasper,
could not be induced to go out of the room before the Worshipful, the
Worshipful led the way down-stairs; Mr. Datchery following with his hat
under his arm, and his shock of white hair streaming in the evening
breeze.
“Might I ask His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, “whether that gentleman we
have just left is the gentleman of whom I have heard in the
neighbourhood as being much afflicted by the loss of a nephew, and
concentrating his life on avenging the loss?”
“That is the gentleman. John Jasper, sir.”
“Would His Honour allow me to inquire whether there are strong
suspicions of any one?”
“More than suspicions, sir,” returned Mr. Sapsea; “all but
certainties.”
“Only think now!” cried Mr. Datchery.
“But proof, sir, proof must be built up stone by stone,” said the
Mayor. “As I say, the end crowns the work. It is not enough that
justice should be morally certain; she must be immorally
certain—legally, that is.”
“His Honour,” said Mr. Datchery, “reminds me of the nature of the law.
Immoral. How true!”
“As I say, sir,” pompously went on the Mayor, “the arm of the law is a
strong arm, and a long arm. That is the way I put it. A strong arm and
a long arm.”
“How forcible!—And yet, again, how true!” murmured Mr. Datchery.
“And without betraying, what I call the secrets of the prison-house,”
said Mr. Sapsea; “the secrets of the prison-house is the term I used on
the bench.”
“And what other term than His Honour’s would express it?” said Mr.
Datchery.
“Without, I say, betraying them, I predict to you, knowing the iron
will of the gentleman we have just left (I take the bold step of
calling it iron, on account of its strength), that in this case the
long arm will reach, and the strong arm will strike.—This is our
Cathedral, sir. The best judges are pleased to admire it, and the best
among our townsmen own to being a little vain of it.”
All this time Mr. Datchery had walked with his hat under his arm, and
his white hair streaming. He had an odd momentary appearance upon him
of having forgotten his hat, when Mr. Sapsea now touched it; and he
clapped his hand up to his head as if with some vague expectation of
finding another hat upon it.
“Pray be covered, sir,” entreated Mr. Sapsea; magnificently plying: “I
shall not mind it, I assure you.”
“His Honour is very good, but I do it for coolness,” said Mr. Datchery.
Then Mr. Datchery admired the Cathedral, and Mr. Sapsea pointed it out
as if he himself had invented and built it: there were a few details
indeed of which he did not approve, but those he glossed over, as if
the workmen had made mistakes in his absence. The Cathedral disposed
of, he led the way by the churchyard, and stopped to extol the beauty
of the evening—by chance—in the immediate vicinity of Mrs. Sapsea’s
epitaph.
“And by the by,” said Mr. Sapsea, appearing to descend from an
elevation to remember it all of a sudden; like Apollo shooting down
from Olympus to pick up his forgotten lyre; “_that_ is one of our small
lions. The partiality of our people has made it so, and strangers have
been seen taking a copy of it now and then. I am not a judge of it
myself, for it is a little work of my own. But it was troublesome to
turn, sir; I may say, difficult to turn with elegance.”
Mr. Datchery became so ecstatic over Mr. Sapsea’s composition, that, in
spite of his intention to end his days in Cloisterham, and therefore
his probably having in reserve many opportunities of copying it, he
would have transcribed it into his pocket-book on the spot, but for the
slouching towards them of its material producer and perpetuator,
Durdles, whom Mr. Sapsea hailed, not sorry to show him a bright example
of behaviour to superiors.
“Ah, Durdles! This is the mason, sir; one of our Cloisterham worthies;
everybody here knows Durdles. Mr. Datchery, Durdles a gentleman who is
going to settle here.”
“I wouldn’t do it if I was him,” growled Durdles. “We’re a heavy lot.”
“You surely don’t speak for yourself, Mr. Durdles,” returned Mr.
Datchery, “any more than for His Honour.”
“Who’s His Honour?” demanded Durdles.
“His Honour the Mayor.”
“I never was brought afore him,” said Durdles, with anything but the
look of a loyal subject of the mayoralty, “and it’ll be time enough for
me to Honour him when I am. Until which, and when, and where,
‘Mister Sapsea is his name,
England is his nation,
Cloisterham’s his dwelling-place,
Aukshneer’s his occupation.’”
Here, Deputy (preceded by a flying oyster-shell) appeared upon the
scene, and requested to have the sum of threepence instantly “chucked”
to him by Mr. Durdles, whom he had been vainly seeking up and down, as
lawful wages overdue. While that gentleman, with his bundle under his
arm, slowly found and counted out the money, Mr. Sapsea informed the
new settler of Durdles’s habits, pursuits, abode, and reputation. “I
suppose a curious stranger might come to see you, and your works, Mr.
Durdles, at any odd time?” said Mr. Datchery upon that.
“Any gentleman is welcome to come and see me any evening if he brings
liquor for two with him,” returned Durdles, with a penny between his
teeth and certain halfpence in his hands; “or if he likes to make it
twice two, he’ll be doubly welcome.”
“I shall come. Master Deputy, what do you owe me?”
“A job.”
“Mind you pay me honestly with the job of showing me Mr. Durdles’s
house when I want to go there.”
Deputy, with a piercing broadside of whistle through the whole gap in
his mouth, as a receipt in full for all arrears, vanished.
The Worshipful and the Worshipper then passed on together until they
parted, with many ceremonies, at the Worshipful’s door; even then the
Worshipper carried his hat under his arm, and gave his streaming white
hair to the breeze.
Said Mr. Datchery to himself that night, as he looked at his white hair
in the gas-lighted looking-glass over the coffee-room chimneypiece at
the Crozier, and shook it out: “For a single buffer, of an easy temper,