The Grey Wig: Stories and Novelettes

by Израэль Зангвилл

"Gentlemen, I am aware that this sounds impossible and contradictory. But it is the facts that contradict themselves. It seems clear that the deceased did not commit suicide. It seems equally clear that the deceased was not murdered. There is nothing for it, therefore, gentlemen, but to return a verdict tantamount to an acknowledgment of our incompetence to come to any adequately grounded conviction whatever as to the means or the manner by which the deceased met his death. It is the most inexplicable mystery in all my experience." (Sensation.)

  The FOREMAN (after a colloquy with Mr. Sandy Sanderson): We are not agreed, sir. One of the jurors insists on a verdict of "Death from visitation by the act of God."

  IV.

  But Sandy Sanderson's burning solicitude to fix the crime flickered out in the face of opposition, and in the end he bowed his head to the inevitable "open verdict." Then the floodgates of inkland were opened, and the deluge pattered for nine days on the deaf coffin where the poor idealist mouldered. The tongues of the Press were loosened, and the leader-writers revelled in recapitulating the circumstances of "The Big Bow Mystery," though they could contribute nothing but adjectives to the solution. The papers teemed with letters-it was a kind of Indian summer of the silly season. But the editors could not keep them out, nor cared to. The mystery was the one topic of conversation everywhere-it was on the carpet and the bare boards alike, in the kitchen and the drawing-room. It was discussed with science or stupidity, with aspirates or without. It came up for breakfast with the rolls, and was swept off the supper-table with the last crumbs.

  No. 11 Glover Street, Bow, remained for days a shrine of pilgrimage. The once sleepy little street buzzed from morning till night. From all parts of the town people came to stare up at the bedroom window and wonder with a foolish face of horror. The pavement was often blocked for hours together, and itinerant vendors of refreshment made it a new market centre, while vocalists hastened thither to sing the delectable ditty of the deed without having any voice in the matter. It was a pity the Government did not erect a toll-gate at either end of the street. But Chancellors of the Exchequer rarely avail themselves of the more obvious expedients for paying off the National Debt.

  Finally, familiarity bred contempt, and the wits grew facetious at the expense of the Mystery. Jokes on the subject appeared even in the comic papers.

  To the proverb, "You must not say Bo to a goose," one added, "or else she will explain you the Mystery." The name of the gentleman who asked whether the Bow Mystery was not 'arrowing shall not be divulged. There was more point in "Dagonet's" remark that, if he had been one of the unhappy jurymen, he should have been driven to "suicide." A professional paradox-monger pointed triumphantly to the somewhat similar situation in "the murder in the Rue Morgue," and said that Nature had been plagiarising again-like the monkey she was-and he recommended Poe's publishers to apply for an injunction. More seriously, Poe's solution was re-suggested by "Constant Reader" as an original idea. He thought that a small organ-grinder's monkey might have got down the chimney with its master's razor, and, after attempting to shave the occupant of the bed, have returned the way it came. This idea created considerable sensation, but a correspondent with a long train of letters draggling after his name pointed out that a monkey small enough to get down so narrow a flue would not be strong enough to inflict so deep a wound. This was disputed by a third writer, and the contest raged so keenly about the power of monkeys' muscles that it was almost taken for granted that a monkey was the guilty party. The bubble was pricked by the pen of "Common Sense," who laconically remarked that no traces of soot or blood had been discovered on the floor, or on the nightshirt, or the counterpane. The Lancet's leader on the Mystery was awaited with interest. It said: "We cannot join in the praises that have been showered upon the coroner's summing up. It shows again the evils resulting from having coroners who are not medical men. He seems to have appreciated but inadequately the significance of the medical evidence. He should certainly have directed the jury to return a verdict of murder on that. What was it to do with him that he could see no way by which the wound could have been inflicted by an outside agency? It was for the police to find how that was done. Enough that it was impossible for the unhappy young man to have inflicted such a wound, and then to have strength and will power enough to hide the instrument and to remove perfectly every trace of his having left the bed for the purpose." It is impossible to enumerate all the theories propounded by the amateur detectives, while Scotland Yard religiously held its tongue. Ultimately the interest on the subject became confined to a few papers which had received the best letters. Those papers that couldn't get interesting letters stopped the correspondence and sneered at the "sensationalism" of those that could. Among the mass of fantasy there were not a few notable solutions, which failed brilliantly, like rockets posing as fixed stars. One was that in the obscurity of the fog the murderer had ascended to the window of the bedroom by means of a ladder from the pavement. He had then with a diamond cut one of the panes away, and effected an entry through the aperture. On leaving he fixed in the pane of glass again (or another which he had brought with him) and thus the room remained with its bolts and locks untouched. On its being pointed out that the panes were too small, a third correspondent showed that that didn't matter, as it was only necessary to insert the hand and undo the fastening, when the entire window could be opened, the process being reversed by the murderer on leaving. This pretty edifice of glass was smashed by a glazier, who wrote to say that a pane could hardly be fixed in from only one side of a window frame, that it would fall out when touched, and that in any case the wet putty could not have escaped detection. A door panel sliced out and replaced was also put forward, and as many trap-doors and secret passages were ascribed to No. 11 Glover Street, as if it were a mediaeval castle. Another of these clever theories was that the murderer was in the room the whole time the police were there-hidden in the wardrobe. Or he had got behind the door when Grodman broke it open, so that he was not noticed in the excitement of the discovery, and escaped with his weapon at the moment when Grodman and Mrs. Drabdump were examining the window fastenings.

  Scientific explanations also were to hand to explain how the assassin locked and bolted the door behind him. Powerful magnets outside the door had been used to turn the key and push the bolt within. Murderers armed with magnets loomed on the popular imagination like a new microbe. There was only one defect in this ingenious theory-the thing could not be done. A physiologist recalled the conjurers who swallow swords-by an anatomical peculiarity of the throat-and said that the deceased might have swallowed the weapon after cutting his own throat. This was too much for the public to swallow. As for the idea that the suicide had been effected with a penknife or its blade, or a bit of steel, which had then got buried in the wound, not even the quotation of Shelley's line:-

  "Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it,"

  could secure it a moment's acceptance. The same reception was accorded to the idea that the cut had been made with a candle-stick (or other harmless necessary bedroom article) constructed like a sword stick. Theories of this sort caused a humorist to explain that the deceased had hidden the razor in his hollow tooth! Some kind friend of Messrs. Maskelyne and Cook suggested that they were the only persons who could have done the deed, as no one else could get out of a locked cabinet. But perhaps the most brilliant of these flashes of false fire was the facetious, yet probably half-seriously meant letter that appeared in the Pell Mell Press under the heading of

  "THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED

  "Sir,-You will remember that when the Whitechapel murders were

  agitating the universe, I suggested that the district coroner was the

  assassin. My suggestion has been disregarded. The coroner is still at

  large. So is the Whitechapel murderer. Perhaps this suggestive

  coincidence will incline the authorities to pay more attention to me

  this time. The problem seems to be this. The deceased could not have
/>   cut his own throat. The deceased could not have had his throat cut for

  him. As one of the two must have happened, this is obvious nonsense. As

  this is obvious nonsense I am justified in disbelieving it. As this

  obvious nonsense was primarily put in circulation by Mrs. Drabdump and

  Mr. Grodman, I am justified in disbelieving them. In short, sir, what

  guarantee have we that the whole tale is not a cock-and-bull story,

  invented by the two persons who first found the body? What proof is

  there that the deed was not done by these persons themselves, who then

  went to work to smash the door and break the locks and the bolts, and

  fasten up all the windows before they called the police in?-I enclose

  my card, and am, sir, yours truly,

  "ONE WHO LOOKS THROUGH HIS OWN SPECTACLES."

  "[Our correspondent's theory is not so audaciously original as he seems to imagine. Has he not looked through the spectacles of the people who persistently suggested that the Whitechapel murderer was invariably the policeman who found the body? Somebody must find the body, if it is to be found at all.-Ed. P.M.P.]"

  The editor had reason to be pleased that he inserted this letter, for it drew the following interesting communication from the great detective himself:-

  "THE BIG BOW MYSTERY SOLVED

  "Sir,-I do not agree with you that your correspondent's theory lacks

  originality. On the contrary, I think it is delightfully original. In

  fact it has given me an idea. What that idea is I do not yet propose to

  say, but if 'One who looks through his own spectacles' will favour me

  with his name and address I shall be happy to inform him a little

  before the rest of the world whether his germ has borne any fruit.

  I feel he is a kindred spirit, and take this opportunity of saying

  publicly that I was extremely disappointed at the unsatisfactory

  verdict. The thing was a palpable assassination; an open verdict has a

  tendency to relax the exertions of Scotland Yard. I hope I shall not be

  accused of immodesty, or of making personal reflections, when I say

  that the Department has had several notorious failures of late. It is

  not what it used to be. Crime is becoming impertinent. It no longer

  knows its place, so to speak. It throws down the gauntlet where once it

  used to cower in its fastnesses. I repeat, I make these remarks solely

  in the interest of law and order. I do not for one moment believe that

  Arthur Constant killed himself, and if Scotland Yard satisfies itself

  with that explanation, and turns on its other side and goes to sleep

  again, then, sir, one of the foulest and most horrible crimes of the

  century will for ever go unpunished. My acquaintance with the unhappy

  victim was but recent; still, I saw and knew enough of the man to be

  certain (and I hope I have seen and known enough of other men to judge)

  that he was a man constitutionally incapable of committing an act of

  violence, whether against himself or anybody else. He would not hurt a

  fly, as the saying goes. And a man of that gentle stamp always lacks

  the active energy to lay hands on himself. He was a man to be esteemed

  in no common degree, and I feel proud to be able to say that he

  considered me a friend. I am hardly at the time of life at which a man

  cares to put on his harness again; but, sir, it is impossible that I

  should ever know a day's rest till the perpetrator of this foul deed is

  discovered. I have already put myself in communication with the family

  of the victim, who, I am pleased to say, have every confidence in me,

  and look to me to clear the name of their unhappy relative from the

  semi-imputation of suicide. I shall be pleased if any one who shares my

  distrust of the authorities, and who has any clue whatever to this

  terrible mystery or any plausible suggestion to offer, if, in brief,

  any 'One who looks through his own spectacles' will communicate with

  me. If I were asked to indicate the direction in which new clues might

  be most usefully sought, I should say, in the first instance, anything

  is valuable that helps us to piece together a complete picture of the

  manifold activities of the man in the East-end. He entered one way or

  another into the lives of a good many people; is it true that he

  nowhere made enemies? With the best intentions a man may wound or

  offend; his interference may be resented; he may even excite jealousy.

  A young man like the late Mr. Constant could not have had as much

  practical sagacity as he had goodness. Whose corns did he tread on? The

  more we know of the last few months of his life the more we shall know

  of the manner of his death. Thanking you by anticipation for the

  insertion of this letter in your valuable columns, I am, sir, yours

  truly,

  "George Grodman.

  "46 Glover Street, Bow.

  "P. S.-Since writing the above lines, I have, by the kindness of Miss

  Brent, been placed in possession of a most valuable letter, probably

  the last letter written by the unhappy gentleman. It is dated Monday,

  3 December, the very eve of the murder, and was addressed to her at

  Florence, and has now, after some delay, followed her back to London

  where the sad news unexpectedly brought her. It is a letter couched,

  on the whole, in the most hopeful spirit, and speaks in detail of his

  schemes. Of course there are things in it not meant for the ears of

  the public, but there can be no harm in transcribing an important

  passage:-

  "'You seem to have imbibed the idea that the East-end is a kind of

  Golgotha, and this despite that the books out of which you probably got

  it are carefully labelled "Fiction." Lamb says somewhere that we think

  of the "Dark Ages" as literally without sunlight, and so I fancy people

  like you, dear, think of the "East-end" as a mixture of mire, misery,

  and murder. How's that for alliteration? Why, within five minutes' walk

  of me there are the loveliest houses, with gardens back and front,

  inhabited by very fine people and furniture. Many of my university

  friends' mouths would water if they knew the income of some of the

  shopkeepers in the High Road.

  "'The rich people about here may not be so fashionable as those in

  Kensington and Bayswater, but they are every bit as stupid and

  materialistic. I don't deny, Lucy, I do have my black moments, and

  I do sometimes pine to get away from all this to the lands of sun and

  lotus-eating. But, on the whole, I am too busy even to dream of

  dreaming. My real black moments are when I doubt if I am really doing

  any good. But yet on the whole my conscience or my self-conceit tells

  me that I am. If one cannot do much with the mass, there is at least

  the consolation of doing good to the individual. And, after all, is it

  not enough to have been an influence for good over one or two human

  souls? There are quite fine characters hereabout-especially in the

  women-natures capable not only of self-sacrifice, but of delicacy of

  sentiment. To have learnt to know of such, to have been of service to

  one or two of such-is not this ample return? I could not get to St.

  James's Hall to hear your friend's symphony at the Henschel concert.

  I have been reading Mme. B
lavatsky's latest book, and getting quite

  interested in occult philosophy. Unfortunately I have to do all my

  reading in bed, and I don't find the book as soothing a soporific as

  most new books. For keeping one awake I find Theosophy as bad as

  toothache....'"

  * * * * *

  "The Big Bow Mystery Solved

  "Sir,-I wonder if any one besides myself has been struck by the

  incredible bad taste of Mr. Grodman's letter in your last issue. That

  he, a former servant of the Department, should publicly insult and run

  it down can only be charitably explained by the supposition that his

  judgment is failing him in his old age. In view of this letter, are the

  relatives of the deceased justified in entrusting him with any private

  documents? It is, no doubt, very good of him to undertake to avenge one

  whom he seems snobbishly anxious to claim as a friend; but, all things

  considered, should not his letter have been headed 'The Big Bow Mystery

  Shelved'? I enclose my card, and am, sir,

  "Your obedient servant,

  "Scotland Yard."

  George Grodman read this letter with annoyance, and crumpling up the paper, murmured scornfully, "Edward Wimp!"

  V.

  "Yes, but what will become of the Beautiful?" said Denzil Cantercot.

  "Hang the Beautiful!" said Peter Crowl, as if he were on the committee of the Academy. "Give me the True."

  Denzil did nothing of the sort. He didn't happen to have it about him.

  Denzil Cantercot stood smoking a cigarette in his landlord's shop, and imparting an air of distinction and an agreeable aroma to the close leathery atmosphere. Crowl cobbled away, talking to his tenant without raising his eyes. He was a small, big-headed, sallow, sad-eyed man, with a greasy apron. Denzil was wearing a heavy overcoat with a fur collar. He was never seen without it in public during the winter. In private he removed it and sat in his shirt sleeves. Crowl was a thinker, or thought he was-which seems to involve original thinking anyway. His hair was thinning rapidly at the top, as if his brain was struggling to get as near as possible to the realities of things. He prided himself on having no fads. Few men are without some foible or hobby; Crowl felt almost lonely at times in his superiority. He was a Vegetarian, a Secularist, a Blue Ribbonite, a Republican, and an Anti-tobacconist. Meat was a fad. Drink was a fad. Religion was a fad. Monarchy was a fad. Tobacco was a fad. "A plain man like me," Crowl used to say, "can live without fads." "A plain man" was Crowl's catchword. When of a Sunday morning he stood on Mile-end Waste, which was opposite his shop-and held forth to the crowd on the evils of kings, priests, and mutton chops, the "plain man" turned up at intervals like the "theme" of a symphonic movement. "I am only a plain man and I want to know." It was a phrase that sabred the spider-webs of logical refinement, and held them up scornfully on the point. When Crowl went for a little recreation in Victoria Park on Sunday afternoons, it was with this phrase that he invariably routed the supernaturalists. Crowl knew his Bible better than most ministers, and always carried a minutely printed copy in his pocket, dog's-eared to mark contradictions in the text. The second chapter of Jeremiah says one thing; the first chapter of Corinthians says another. Two contradictory statements may both be true, but "I am only a plain man, and I want to know." Crowl spent a large part of his time in setting "the word against the word." Cock-fighting affords its votaries no acuter pleasure than Crowl derived from setting two texts by the ears. Crowl had a metaphysical genius which sent his Sunday morning disciples frantic with admiration, and struck the enemy dumb with dismay. He had discovered, for instance, that the Deity could not move, owing to already filling all space. He was also the first to invent, for the confusion of the clerical, the crucial case of a saint dying at the Antipodes contemporaneously with another in London. Both went skyward to heaven, yet the two travelled in directly opposite directions. In all eternity they would never meet. Which, then, got to heaven? Or was there no such place? "I am only a plain man, and I want to know."