Bleak House by Charles Dickens (the top 100 crime novels of all time .txt) 📖

CHAPTER XXXIII

Interlopers

 

Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and

buttons who attended the last coroner’s inquest at the Sol’s Arms

reappear in the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, in

fact, breathlessly fetched by the active and intelligent beadle),

and institute perquisitions through the court, and dive into the

Sol’s parlour, and write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper.

Now do they note down, in the watches of the night, how the

neighbourhood of Chancery Lane was yesterday, at about midnight,

thrown into a state of the most intense agitation and excitement by

the following alarming and horrible discovery. Now do they set

forth how it will doubtless be remembered that some time back a

painful sensation was created in the public mind by a case of

mysterious death from opium occurring in the first floor of the

house occupied as a rag, bottle, and general marine store shop, by

an eccentric individual of intemperate habits, far advanced in

life, named Krook; and how, by a remarkable coincidence, Krook was

examined at the inquest, which it may be recollected was held on

that occasion at the Sol’s Arms, a well-conducted tavern

immediately adjoining the premises in question on the west side and

licensed to a highly respectable landlord, Mr. James George Bogsby.

Now do they show (in as many words as possible) how during some

hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was observed by

the inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical occurrence

which forms the subject of that present account transpired; and

which odour was at one time so powerful that Mr. Swills, a comic

vocalist professionally engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby, has himself

stated to our reporter that he mentioned to Miss M. Melvilleson, a

lady of some pretensions to musical ability, likewise engaged by

Mr. J. G. Bogsby to sing at a series of concerts called Harmonic

Assemblies, or Meetings, which it would appear are held at the

Sol’s Arms under Mr. Bogsby’s direction pursuant to the Act of

George the Second, that he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriously

affected by the impure state of the atmosphere, his jocose

expression at the time being that he was like an empty post-office,

for he hadn’t a single note in him. How this account of Mr. Swills

is entirely corroborated by two intelligent married females

residing in the same court and known respectively by the names of

Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins, both of whom observed the foetid

effluvia and regarded them as being emitted from the premises in

the occupation of Krook, the unfortunate deceased. All this and a

great deal more the two gentlemen who have formed an amicable

partnership in the melancholy catastrophe write down on the spot;

and the boy population of the court (out of bed in a moment) swarm

up the shutters of the Sol’s Arms parlour, to behold the tops of

their heads while they are about it.

 

The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night,

and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of the ill-fated house, and look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely rescued

from her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with a

bed at the Sol’s Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor shuts

its door all night, for any kind of public excitement makes good

for the Sol and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. The

house has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves or in

brandy-and-water warm since the inquest. The moment the pot-boy

heard what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to

his shoulders and said, “There’ll be a run upon us!” In the first

outcry, young Piper dashed off for the fire-engines and returned in

triumph at a jolting gallop perched up aloft on the Phoenix and

holding on to that fabulous creature with all his might in the

midst of helmets and torches. One helmet remains behind after

careful investigation of all chinks and crannies and slowly paces

up and down before the house in company with one of the two

policemen who have likewise been left in charge thereof. To this

trio everybody in the court possessed of sixpence has an insatiate

desire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid form.

 

Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at the Sol

and are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains if they

will only stay there. “This is not a time,” says Mr. Bogsby, “to

haggle about money,” though he looks something sharply after it,

over the counter; “give your orders, you two gentlemen, and you’re

welcome to whatever you put a name to.”

 

Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put names

to so many things that in course of time they find it difficult to

put a name to anything quite distinctly, though they still relate

to all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it,

and of what they said, and what they thought, and what they saw.

Meanwhile, one or other of the policemen often flits about the

door, and pushing it open a little way at the full length of his

arm, looks in from outer gloom. Not that he has any suspicions,

but that he may as well know what they are up to in there.

 

Thus night pursues its leaden course, finding the court still out

of bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being

treated, still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had

a little money left it unexpectedly. Thus night at length with

slow-retreating steps departs, and the lamplighter going his

rounds, like an executioner to a despotic king, strikes off the

little heads of fire that have aspired to lessen the darkness.

Thus the day cometh, whether or no.

 

And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that the

court has been up all night. Over and above the faces that have

fallen drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hard

floors instead of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of the

very court itself looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbourhood,

waking up and beginning to hear of what has happened, comes

streaming in, half dressed, to ask questions; and the two policemen

and the helmet (who are far less impressible externally than the

court) have enough to do to keep the door.

 

“Good gracious, gentlemen!” says Mr. Snagsby, coming up. “What’s

this I hear!”

 

“Why, it’s true,” returns one of the policemen. “That’s what it

is. Now move on here, come!”

 

“Why, good gracious, gentlemen,” says Mr. Snagsby, somewhat

promptly backed away, “I was at this door last night betwixt ten

and eleven o’clock in conversation with the young man who lodges

here.”

 

“Indeed?” returns the policeman. “You will find the young man next

door then. Now move on here, some of you,”

 

“Not hurt, I hope?” says Mr. Snagsby.

 

“Hurt? No. What’s to hurt him!”

 

Mr. Snagsby, wholly unable to answer this or any question in his

troubled mind, repairs to the Sol’s Arms and finds Mr. Weevle