Dubious Deeds

by Philip Ardagh

  Malcontent’s funeral was an impressive affair. As well as the black horses with plumes on their heads – rather like those pulling the hearse containing the coffin containing the very-much-alive Great Zucchini, in one of Eddie’s previous adventures – there were many official mourners who’d never known Dr Malcontent Dickens in life, but were paid to weep and wail and generally moan in sadness at his untimely passing. One such official mourner was Gherkin the dwarf.

  Because there weren’t funerals every day and not every funeral required his services anyway, Gherkin was only a part-time mourner. Amongst other things – make a note of that – he was also a part-time freak in a freakshow, a mummer (not to be confused with a mamma), and an occasional tumbler – one who tumbles, not the drinking tumbler variety – in a touring group of undersized acrobats called ‘The Remarkably Small Garfields’ which wasn’t the catchiest of names, even in the nineteenth century. The pretence was that the troupe was made up of members of the Garfield family who were all, for some unexplained reason, remarkably small. This conceit was wholly unconvincing, not least because some of the ‘Garfields’ were, like Gherkin, dwarfs whilst others were what they called midgets. Also, all of them were Chinese except for Gherkin and the midget Ebony, who was a black African.

  At funerals, Gherkin was by far the best blubberer. He would fight back tears, sob uncontrollably and blow his nose on a white silk handkerchief almost as big as he was. At Malcontent’s funeral, Malcontent’s widow, Ivy Dickens (née Porker) was so impressed by Gherkin’s grief that, though she’d already paid extra to have him as a part of her husband’s funeral cortège, she pressed a gold sovereign into the hand of Mr Gagstaff of the funeral directors Gagstaff, Wagg and Homily and, between whimpers, asked that it be given to ‘the little man’. As it was, Mr Gagstaff put the money on a horse – not literally, he placed a bet – which, to his considerable surprise, won its race. Out of the winnings, he passed half-a-crown to Gherkin which, though not as much as a sovereign, was not to be sniffed at.

  Also at the funeral that day were Malcontent and Ivy’s three sons, George, Jack (MUJ) and Percy. Jack had been fascinated by Gherkin at the funeral and couldn’t take his eyes off him. Whilst he should have been lamenting the untimely passing of his father, he found himself wondering whether he’d be able to lift the dwarf with one hand, or to wear him in a gold cage around his neck. He was wondering where he might be able to buy such a cage, or whether he’d have to have one specially made.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said MUJ sidling up beside Gherkin once the door to the Dickens family vault had been closed on his father’s coffin. ‘Might I have a word with you?’

  ‘Surely, sir,’ said Gherkin, looking up at this thinnest of thin young gentlemen.

  ‘I was wondering whether you could fit inside this box?’

  The dwarf looked at the empty wooden crate stamped EAST INDIA COMPANY, which the beakiest-of-beaky-nosed young men seemed to have pulled out from behind a bush to the side of the mausoleum. He thought it rather an odd thing for a son of the deceased to be dragging around at a funeral. ‘I suspect I might be able to, sir,’ he said, a little hesitantly, ‘should the need arise.’

  ‘Would you mind stepping inside it, just to be sure?’

  ‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible at present,’ said Gherkin, looking across to Mr Gagstaff, who was deep in conversation with the widow. ‘I’m still on duty.’

  ‘I see, I see,’ said Jack. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to call on me at your earliest convenience and to try the box for size then?’ He put his hand in his pocket and handed Gherkin something. ‘My card,’ he said.

  Gherkin looked in his palm. He was holding what appeared to be a very small, very dried, fish.

  *

  Now I expect that one or two of you – if there’s more than one person reading this – are thinking, That’s all very well, but why is that nice Mr Ardagh suddenly telling us all of this? What does this have to do with Mad Uncle Jack pouring water on Moo-Cow Moot – with the bloody imprint of a steakbeater on his forehead – whilst being watched by a mortified Aunt Hetty and a flabbergasted Eddie? Well, you’re about to find out. I’m not sure who it was who said ‘Patience is a virtue/Virtue is a Grace/And Grace is a little girl/Who wouldn’t wash her face’ but I do hope:

  That it’s out of copyright; and

  They’ll be quiet and leave me alone … because Fate is about to play a big hand again.

  *

  Eddie and Mad Uncle Jack helped the groaning Dr Moot to his feet. Blood was still pouring from the poor doctor’s head wound and he was now soaked through with cold water from the outside tap.

  At least he’s alive, thought Eddie, looking across at his Aunt Hetty, who still looked mortified.

  Moot lost his footing and staggered to the left, nearly knocking Eddie off his feet. The height difference between Eddie and his extraordinarily thin, tall great-uncle didn’t make them an ideal partnership for supporting a semiconscious man under each arm.

  ‘Steady on, boy!’ MUJ ordered then, suddenly completely distracted by something or someone, he let go of Moot altogether, causing Eddie and the doctor to land, unceremoniously, on the ground in a heap of writhing arms and legs.

  The distraction was, indeed, a someone and that someone was an elderly dwarf striding as fast as his little legs would carry him.

  Episode 8

  Lurkin’ with Gherkin

  In which Eddie befriends an extraordinary man and enjoys a hearty breakfast

  Now, dear reader, you know that the man was Gherkin and I know that the man was Gherkin and there’s absolutely no doubt in my mind that Mad Uncle Jack knew that the man was Gherkin – not least because he gasped, ‘Gherkin!’ in amazement – but, at this stage of the proceedings, Eddie had never even heard of the man, nor knew of his role in great-grandfather’s funeral.

  When Eddie heard the word ‘Gherkin!’ pass MUJ’s lips he, quite understandably, assumed that it was an oath – a swear word of sorts – that his great-uncle was muttering as a result of an apparent stranger stumbling upon the unfortunate scene of the family trying to revive an innocent doctor who had been beaten over the head with a meat tenderiser by one Aunt Hetty. He was even more surprised, therefore, when the elderly dwarf thrust a very grubby dog-eared calling card into Mad Uncle Jack’s hand. Eddie could see that it read:

  MAD JACK DICKENS, ESQ.

  Awful End

  ‘I came at my earliest convenience,’ said Gherkin, his voice deep. He must have been busy. A great many years had passed since MUJ gave him that card (after that fish) at Malcontent’s funeral.

  Despite the dwarf probably being the oldest person present and, undoubtedly, the smallest, he was also immensely strong – and not just for his size. Having assessed the situation, and waiting for neither instruction nor invitation, he hoisted the dazed Dr Moot up onto his back, in a position known today as ‘the fireman’s lift’, and carried him back into the house, jogging across the brick courtyard with a bouncing gait that even the butcher’s young delivery boy couldn’t achieve with a far lesser weight of meat on his shoulders.

  Before anyone else knew quite what was going on, Gherkin had positioned Dr Moot in a semi-upright position on a Knole sofa, and rustled him up two fingers of Irish whiskey in a crystal-cut glass. Moments later, he was applying a linen napkin to the doctor’s wound. He then lifted the doctor’s own hand to it. ‘If you’d be good enough to hold this here, sir,’ he said.

  The befuddled doctor nodded appreciatively. He felt in safe hands. They all felt in safe hands. For the first time since the head of the steakbeater had come flying off and hit Dr Moot, Aunt Hetty felt that things might turn out right after all. Eddie also felt that, despite their saviour’s unusual appearance (as in looks) and unexplained appearance (as in arrival-on-the-scene), an air of authority and sanity had descended on the proceedings.

  Mad Uncle Jack, who’d had the initiative to revive old Moo-Cow Moot by sticking his head under the tap, wa
s simply rather pleased that the little fellow from his father’s funeral had been true to his word and shown up, even if a little later than he’d hoped.

  It was soon after Dr Moot had found himself able to speak, and to accept Aunt Hetty’s profound apologies for what had happened – particularly when it transpired that she’d been trying to crush one of the pills that he’d supplied for her husband, Alfie – that Dawkins entered the room. He was horrified to see Dr Moot drinking whiskey. It was his job to hand out drinkies as and when required. It would be bad enough if Mad Mister Dickens (MUJ) or Mr Dickens (Eddie’s father) or Mr Grout (Uncle Alfie) started pouring their own drinks, and unheard of for the ladies to do so, but for a complete stranger to come into the house and pour out a whiskey for another – a mighty small, complete stranger, at that – well, it was unheard of! An outrage! It was his job and no one else’s. It wasn’t that Dawkins actually liked pouring their drinks, far from it, in fact. Many was the occasion, in truth, when he’d thought, ‘Why don’t they pour their own stupid drinks? They’re not babies!’ but, at this precise moment, that wasn’t the point.

  How did he know that it was the dwarf who’d poured the drink? Because none of the others would have. That’s how.

  Dawkins cleared his throat and was about to try to convey how hurt he felt (without overstepping the mark in the servant/master relationship, of course) when he felt something sinking its teeth into his bottom. He spun around with a yelp, to come face to face not with the young crocodile, as expected, but Even Madder Aunt Maud. She was smirking.

  ‘I don’t see why Annabelle should have all the fun,’ she said, scrambling to her feet, Malcolm tucked under one arm.

  ‘Indeed not, madam,’ said Dawkins, all thoughts of whiskey now forgotten.

  ‘Ah, there you are, er –’

  ‘Dawkins, sir.’

  ‘Dawkins,’ said Mad Uncle Jack. ‘Would you be good enough to lay an extra place for breakfast and then take Dr Moot home in his horse and trap? I don’t want him bleeding all over the place here.’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said Dawkins.

  ‘Don’t you think he should at least stay here until he’s –’ began Hetty.

  ‘Nonsense! Nonsense!’ said MUJ, with a dismissive wave of one of his thinnest of thin arms.

  ‘Shouldn’t he at least see a doctor?’ Hetty protested.

  ‘Perhaps he could look in a mirror!’ snorted Even Madder Aunt Maud.

  ‘I shall be fine, Mrs Grout,’ Dr Moot assured her. ‘Please think nothing of it. Accidents do happen.’ His voice sounded rather weak and wobbly.

  ‘Good, that’s settled then,’ said Mad Uncle Jack. ‘Get him off my property as soon as possible, er –’

  ‘Dawkins, sir,’ said Dawkins.

  ‘Yes,’ said Mad Uncle Jack. ‘Exactly.’

  Gherkin strode over to the gentleman’s gentleman, went up on tiptoe, and whispered something in his ear. Dawkins nodded.

  Eddie realised what the whispering must have been about when he was the first to enter the breakfast room for – you guessed it, the clue being in the name and all – breakfast.

  Not only had an extra place been laid at the table but the chair at that place had a footstool next to it and a pile of books* on it, topped by a comfy cushion. When Gherkin came into the room some five minutes or so after Eddie (who was tucking into a pile of bacon) he stepped up onto the footstool and positioned himself on the chair.

  ‘My name is Gherkin,’ he said.

  ‘I’m Edmund – Eddie – Dickens,’ said Eddie. ‘My parents and I moved here when our own home was destroyed by fire. Mad Uncle – Mad Mister Dickens is my great-uncle.’

  ‘I see,’ said Gherkin. ‘It is very good of your great-uncle to receive me in this manner.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand, sir,’ said Eddie.

  ‘I am not a gentleman,’ the dwarf explained. ‘I was a humble showman and a professional mourner, retired now, of course.’

  ‘Mourner?’ asked Eddie.

  By way of an answer, Gherkin burst into (very convincing) tears and picked up a napkin, using it like a hanky to dab his eyes. A moment later, he stopped, as though nothing had happened. ‘At funerals,’ he said.

  ‘Aha!’ said Eddie, clearly fascinated.

  ‘It was at a funeral that I met your great-uncle on the one and only occasion until now.’

  ‘Really?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Really,’ nodded Gherkin. ‘He took an instant interest in me. Some people find it awkward to discuss my height with me, as though being small might somehow be embarrassing, but not him.’

  Eddie took another mouthful of bacon.

  ‘He wanted to know whether I was able to fit in a box of a particular size, and, having presented me with his card, seemed to be entertaining the idea of wearing me in a cage around his neck.’

  ‘You’re not that small!’ Eddie blurted, instantly hoping that he hadn’t overstepped the mark.

  ‘No,’ said Gherkin. ‘I’m not. Your great-uncle would need extremely strong neck muscles to achieve such a feat.’

  ‘Whose funeral was it, if you don’t mind my asking?’ said Eddie.

  The dwarf thought for a moment. ‘If Mad Mr Jack Dickens is your great-uncle, then the deceased must have been your great-grandfather.’

  ‘Dr Malcontent Dickens?’ said Eddie in surprise, ‘Then you can’t have seen Mad Uncle Jack in a very long time indeed!’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Gherkin. He eyed Eddie’s plate.

  ‘You have to help yourself at breakfast,’ Eddie explained, nodding in the direction of the silver-domed warmers laid out on the side table keeping the various dishes hot.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Gherkin. ‘I’m not really used to the ways of life in such a grand house.’ He was about to climb down via the footstool, when Fabian came into the room (wearing a pair of slippers that Eddie’s mother, Mrs Dickens, had given Eddie the previous Christmas). Gherkin looked from Fabian to Eddie and then back again. ‘Twins?’ he asked.

  ‘Cousins,’ said Eddie. ‘This is Mister Gherkin. Mr Gherkin, this is Fabian.’

  ‘Ah,’ nodded the dwarf. ‘The son of the poor lady who inadvertently injured the doctor.’

  Fabian’s eyes narrowed. ‘Haven’t we met before, Mr Gherkin?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s possible, I suppose,’ said Gherkin, ‘but, in all honesty, I don’t recall, Master Fabian. And, please, it’s not Mister Gherkin, just plain Gherkin.’

  ‘Isn’t it your real name, then?’ asked Fabian. He was already at the side table shovelling scrambled eggs onto a plate.

  ‘I never knew my real name if I had one, nor my parents,’ explained Gherkin. ‘According to the very long and badly spelled note that was written on a luggage label and tied around my neck when I was left outside Bramworth’s Stern But Fair Home For Foundlings, my mother – whoever she was – had wanted to keep me, but my father – whoever he was – had taken one look at me and decided not to.’

  ‘How awful!’ said Eddie.

  ‘Kind of you to say so, Master Edmund,’ said the dwarf, ‘but at least my mother left me on the steps of the foundlings’ home. Many babies suffer far worse.’

  Eddie was about to tell Gherkin about the St Horrid’s Home for Grateful Orphans escapees … when Even Madder Aunt Maud entered the breakfast room.

  She took one look at Gherkin teetering on the top of his pile of books and gave one of her most indignant-sounding indignant snorts. ‘Ridiculous!’ she said. ‘A grown man trying to read so many books at once, and with his bottom!’

  * These were a selection of books about Australia, which played a small but vital part in the second of these Further Adventures, Horrendous Habits. The books that is, not Australia.

  Episode 9

  Warts and All

  In which a famous painter arrives at Awful End and probably wishes that he hadn’t

  No one was thrilled at the prospect of the arrival of A. C. Pryden, to paint the official portrait of Mad Major Jack Dickens
for the War Office. Under normal circumstances, Mr Dickens might have been delighted at the prospect of the arrival of a ‘fellow artist’ … but he was currently going through his play-writing phase, and felt MUJ having his picture painted was an intrusion. The performance of his as-yet untitled play in the grounds of Awful End was supposed to be the highlight of the Dickenses’ artistic calendar for that year and he didn’t want some world-famous professional portrait painter getting all the attention.

  Eddie was more concerned that some serious harm might come to the great painter. If Even Madder Aunt Maud’s stuffed stoat didn’t get him, perhaps her baby croc would? And the crumbling chimney stack falling on his own dear father hadn’t happened that long ago, though now he was almost fully recovered. (The one lasting side effect was that Mr Dickens could now rotate his head on his neck through almost 360 degrees, in much the same way that an owl can).

  For the reputation of the family, Eddie thought it best if he was to meet Mr Pryden (who had insisted on travelling by train). Excusing himself from that morning’s rehearsal (in which Mr Pumblesnook was playing just about everyone except for the bush over which the character of Mad Aunt Maud first lays eyes on Fabian’s wheel-on version of Marjorie the hollow cow), he arrived at the railway station a matter of minutes before the train pulled into the platform.