CHAPTER I

MAYOR SAPSEA GIVES AUDIENCE

The Worshipful the Major of Cloisterham sits in high state in his Mansion House. Perhaps not in these very words, but certainly in the same spirit would he put it, to the ear of confidence, in describing the state really held by the head of the ancient and honourable borough, at any period during the present term of official incumbency, when men have returned once more to the allegiance so often departed from^ and when, in at least one of the high places of England, talent and originality hold power.

His Mansion House, and he the Lord Mayor, instead of being merely the Worshipful. Why not? His stereotype imitation of the Dean, once his ideal, has faded and changed, more than a little thinking of this—into a shadowy copy of some magnate of the bench, once seen, or some puissant statesman temporarily flashing across the line of vision. Why not the Lord Mayor instead of merely the Worshipful?—the indignant question may be asked once more.

The blending of private residence and auctioneer s premises, on the High Street, over the door of which the newly-incarnated figure of Time, taking the place of the old, and substituting the hammer for the scythe, daily and hourly cries, "Going! going! gone!" to the hours, and knocks down any lagging minutes straggling along after the main body—that might possibly need certain ameliorations, within and without, before venturing to claim place beside the civic palace of the world's metropolis; but beyond this, what more? That imposing room, but one pair from the street and overlooking it, alternately devoted to valuatory conferences and vendatory conflicts innumerable, might well be the recognized seat of power, police-guarded and urchin-dreaded, if Cloisterham really had its rights and privileges instead of continuing the victim of cruel precedents. Why not a Mansion House, indeed, with the desk of the civic dignitary, at certain hours of the morning, holding behind it a stately person, fur-mantled and gold-chained, and at least announced on entrance as "The Worshipful the Mayor!" even if that higher flight should not be reached, and the proclamation fail to be "The Bight Honourable the Lord Mayor!" Why not here, instead of in that less-impressive place, the Town Hall, with its bench of magistrates dividing honour and labour? Yes, why not here? ruminates Sir Thomas Sapsea, Knt., so created—

But of this latter, anon. Merit does not always receive complete recognition in the first instance, even when there is some approach towards justice; and, the course of amelioration begun, its completion can always be more patiently waited for than can be endured the first tedium of absolute neglect—just as two hours of time following the dawn, and yet preceding the sunrise, seem far less tedious to the watcher than appears one half-hour of that thick darkness before the first grey in the East. It may or may not be that some historical event will chance, like that connected with the return of a banished sovereign and the gathering around him of the chief notables of the honoured city, such as the brown old gabled Nuns' House opposite once saw in those days when the right divine was less questioned than now, if not better defined—titles and honours flowing from the momentary contact with royalty in a specially generous mood, and the chief magistrate of the city necessarily first remembered. And, failing this, who can say at what day it may be necessary for Cloisterham, loyal as well as tenacious of privilege, to send up that Address before briefly referred to, of which the before-mentioned chief magistrate, active or retired, must be the appropriate bearer, being on that occasion "put to the sword" in that pleasant manner so well known in local history, and so grateful to the sufierer? And then, if at no other time, and in no other way—then Sir Thomas——

The reverie of Mayor Sapsea, in which that type-donkey has been indulging to quite the length of the lady with the basket of eggs, at this stage changes its character, and the rude present resumes the place of the possibly golden future. The dignitary has been indulging in it, seated alone in his chair of imaginary state and chamber of fancied power; and his chair and desk stand in such a position that, looking directly before him, he sees the quaint overhanging gables and latticed windows of the Nuns' House.

From the house his active thought—that active thought which travels around the world by atmospheres, so to speak, sees China in a tea-caddy, and the Arctic regions in a fur tippet—naturally recurs to the young ladies who, during the school season, make the old house and gardens musical, and thence to that one of the late number who was said to have borne a close personal connection with the great event of his administration.

An unfortunate event, so far, he cannot but think. He does not ignore the fact that in the history of Cloisterham, yet to be written, more than a little of importance will be imparted by the knowledge that during the Sapsea Mayoralty occurred the mysterious disappearance and alleged murder of one Edwin Drood; but is it not just possible that the surpassing lustre of that period may be dimmed by the additional record of the mystery remaining unravelled, in spite of the (naturally supposed) bending of the chief magistrate's gigantic mind to its elucidation?

More than once, of late weeks, this has occurred to him, until there is danger of this new mortification taking rank beside the one already sapping his vitals—that the late Mrs. Sapsea, albeit possibly a victim to the effort of looking up too high, had not been spared to look up yet higher, to Mind incorporated with Mayor, before crawling, in her abasement, into her chaste monument, and giving occasion for that brow-contracting Epitaph.

He has said to Mr. Datchery, some weeks before—a most meritorious person, this Datchery, showing credible deference to both Intellect and Position,—that his friend, Mr. John Jasper, man of iron will, swaying the long and strong arm of the law, will undoubtedly succeed in tracing home the gilt to the suspected perpetrator. But additional time has elapsed; Mr. Jasper seems to have made slow progress, if any; what if——

At this juncture there is a knock at the door, and a servant conveys the request of the respectful and approved Mr. Datchery, that he may be allowed to intrude for a few moments on the valuable time of the Worshipful the Mayor. He is permitted to enter, more truly from the grand wave of the magisterial hand than the word of permission; and the man of the white hair and the dark eyebrows is immediately in the presence. He has worn his hat to the door; Mr. Sapsea observes how quickly he removes it as he crosses the threshold, and the incident strengthens the toleration with which this highly respectful visitor to Cloisterham, temporarily become a resident, is regarded by its first magistrate.

"Thanks for the permission. I may hope that the Worshipful the Mayor is in good health," courteously suggests the new comer; adding, however, in a moment, "Now that I look a second time, may I take the liberty of remarking that His Honour the Mayor is scarcely looking at his best? shows signs of—what may I be allowed to call it?—possibly mental fatigue?"

Mr. Sapsea passes his hand over his brow, then runs it upward across the front hair, and ends by sweeping away a little of the hirsute encumbrance from the temples, after the manner of one suddenly made aware of the weariness of long mental effort. He is evidently gratified—as this man seems to have the faculty of gratifying him on all occasions, simply by supplying more adulatory oats to the pompous donkey nature than the average of those thrown in contact with him. It almost seems that he might be covertly a relative of the defunct and much-respected, from the facility with which lie subjects his mental vertebrae to the straining curve of the glance directed above its level.

The Mayor, as already said, experiences intense gratification at finding that mental efforts are beginning to tell upon his face, and is thereupon amiable to a degree which might have gone far towards conciliating even the impracticable Durdles.

"Highly pleased to see Mr. Datchery," he says. "I trust that you and your residence in Cloisterham as agreeable as you expected on first taking lodgings. As to mental efforts and fatigue,"—another stroke of the fat hand over face and hair, and another pretence of sweeping away some annoying anxiety,—"as to that, you will recognize, Mr. Datchery, that we who are charged with the public interests, in responsible positions, do not sleep upon beds of roses—that is how I put it—not upon beds of roses: and if sometimes the eye and manner evince fatigue, those cares which none understand except such as bear them, must plead the excuse; as connected with the legal profession by occupancy of the bench, I say again that these must plead the excuse."

"Good heavens!" says Mr. Datchery, as if struck to the heart by the manner of the great man's last remark, "Do I hear aright? Do I hear the Worshipful the Mayor speaking of 'excuses' for that which really covers him with respect? May I beg that His Honour will give me his hand, in evidence that I have not been so painfully misunderstood?"

Mr. Datchery, without taking his eyes off the Mayor s face, commences fumbling for the coveted hand, upon which demonstration the official, his broad meaningless face informed with all the gratifying vanity of Justice Shallow, superadded to the asinine profundity of Dogberry, holds out the member with impressment, and warmly returns the shake instantly given it.

"No, Mr. Datchery," he says, with profound appreciation of that duty of putting his visitor at ease, devolving on him as both host and superior. "No,—I am pleased to say that I do not misunderstand, your remark, which I take to be intended as complimentary, however liable to possible misconstruction if not analyzed by Mind. We are at times fatigued; such a possibility does exist; and the strongest back—I used that phrase on the bench only a day or two since—the strongest back, as I put it, can only bear one load at a time."

"So pleased that His Honour the Mayor does not misunderstand me," Mr. Datchery replies, with effusion. "And I am the more anxious that such a misunderstanding should not arise at the present moment, as I am about to take what may be held an unwarrantable liberty."

It is not too strong a term to say that Mr. Sapsea is alarmed, and that he shows the alarm, unconsciously to himself, and yet as plainly as he has lately shown his swelling self-complacency. About to take a liberty; the phrase is seldom or never a welcome one. What may it not mean? Possibly borrowing of money? Ah, then, how likely the mental hands are to go down to the pockets and button them, even if the physical are restrained by very shame! Tendering of unpalatable advice? What hardening of the heart and sharpening of the will, in advance, to meet that most violent of all assaults upon the liberty of the individual! Revealing of unpleasant facts and letting out of skeletons from dark closets! Then what homicidal wishes, half covered with hollow thanks, and what regrets that in the days of Job some process had not been discovered and put in operation by the patriarch, for the benefit of- all his descendants, filling the office of exterminating all "comforter" and bearers of untoward news, at the instant when they break silence!

It is not to be supposed that Mr. Sapsea feels or philosophises all this, in the brief space following the threatening words of Datchery; he would be less a pompous fool, and so less fitted for the straw mayoralty of Cloisterham, had he that capacity. But he recognizes an uncomfortable feeling creeping through the numb skull and the thick cuticle; and the lips are pursed a little and the full cheeks puffed additionally, immediately thereafter.

"A liberty?—Mr. Datchery—I do not quite understand——" He flounders and pauses. Datchery comes in at once with great vigour and readiness.

"The liberty I was about to take with the Worshipful the Mayor," he explains, "is merely to venture upon consulting with him, if he will permit such a term of apparent equality, with reference to one of those very cares of his office, of which mention has just been made."

"Ah!"

This interjectory reply of Mr. Sapsea may mean anything or nothing, like the Italian ''altro," which sounds all the gamut from satisfaction to despair. It may be relief from a worse fear; it may be surprise at the audacity, not yet declared enough for violent repression; it may be a mild form of tacit permission to the other to go on. Judging from the self-satisfied smirk accompanying, the latter may be presumed, and the man of liberties presumes accordingly.

"His Honour the Mayor did me the great courtesy, at my first coming to Cloisterham, to speak of a case of great local interest, not long before occurred."

"Referring," says Mr. Sapsea, with a wave of the hand at once explanatory and magisterial, "to the disappearance and understood murder of the young man Drood. Yes, I remember speaking of the affair to you, in the presence, as I think, of Mr. Jasper. Humph! you are about to ask, I have no doubt, whether anything additional has been discovered; and I am obliged to reply that—as I may have before remarked—mills turn slowly that grind exceedingly fine. That is how I put it—slowly, sir, for fine work. Nothing as yet, because the time has not yet arrived; though there is reason to believe that the investigation has not been conducted without Intellect and a certain amount of Energy."

"Ha! the Worshipful the Mayor puts it with his usual force and felicity," suggests the visitor. "Only personal presence prevents my pointing out that place in the combination in which Intellect reigns: may I be pardoned for adding that I presume at least a part of the Energy incarnated in Mr. Jasper, of whom the Worshipful the Mayor also spoke— the man who, if it is possible for a single buffer of care- less habits to remember correctly, was mentioned as a man of strong will, and as having the reason of relationship for seeking out the murderer!"

Mr. Sapsea bows. The sentence is a slightly long one, and necessarily a little confusing; but it has the requisite flavour of adulation, and the waves of anxiety on the erewhile thought-ruffled forehead are placidly smoothed as the dignitary replies,—

"Not only very well guessed, Mr. Datchery, but I may say very well turned. Mr. Jasper has Energy: it is not for me to deny, any more than to accept, your remark suggesting the presence of Intellect."

Mr. Sapsea has bowed, Mr. Datchery followed him in that genu- flexion, and the entente cordials may be said to have arrived at that position which it often holds in the intercourse of nations—being very warm in spite of being blind and meaningless: possibly because of those characteristics.

But something definite approaches, likely to be as disturbing as definite understandings between the powers so calmly at peace in their ignorance.

Mr. Datchery, with the air of a single buffer, who is not only idle and careless, as he has before proclaimed himself but also exceedingly indolent, thrusts his hand into his pocket empty, and withdraws it holding a dark brown object of some four inches by two and a half, and possibly an inch in thickness, leathery and damp-looking, with suspicion of spots, and suggestions of dirt.

It is a pocket-book, of which he loosens the strap and throws back the folds, holding it out to the Mayor.

"The worshipful the Mayor supposed, very naturally, that I was about to ask some question as to die progress of the Drood mystery. On the contrary, it is my high privilege, as I hold it my duty, to assist His Honour, even in the humblest way, and the most un- important of particulars, with a single link that may be of eventual use in—may I borrow from His Honour's epigrammsitic habit? in forming the fetters of the criminal."

The fat magisterial hand is extended to take the object offered; while the magisterial face assumes an aspect of innate stupidity and want of comprehension, struggling with a pretence of that wisdom understanding all things and impossible to nonplus by the announcement of any new discovery in thought or physics—which would be irresistibly ludicrous if a certain element of the pitiful did not enter into it.

The magisterial eyes, glass-assisted, take in the object handed by Datchery; and at last they take in one peculiarity, at first ignored. Then the lips of wisdom speak again sententiously.

"Pocket-book, dark brown leather, wet, name of E. Drood under the flap. Likely to have been on the body of the unfortunate young man, when murdered by — by one whom we will not name. I see in this, Mr. Datchery, if yon can fortunately prove before the court that you came into possession of it without taking part in the crime — I see in this, sir, possible means of tracking out the criminal, and of convicting him; that is how I put it, nothing less than tracking out the criminal, and convicting him."

So much in words, Mayor Sapsea. But what mode of expression, appreciable by the mere reader, shall convey the additional and un- spoken words involved in air and gesture? As thus, in corrugation of the labouring brow, wave of the fat hand, and throwing back of the shoulders to a distance delightful to His Honour's tailor:—''You have brought to Mind and to Power something; but you have no more idea what, than the slave in one of the Brazilian mines, who picks up an ounce diamond in the rough, and carries it in his pouch as a mere pebble, while he seeks for something a thousandth part the worth that happens to glitter. Here is the crucible in which the true worth off objects must be determined; here Intellect will deal with that which his thus far been only the sport of Accident."

But far is it from the idle, careless, and indolent buffer, who possibly sees all this in the demeanour of his interlocutor, to show any knowledge beyond that conveyed in words. He merely responds with a wondrous sustaining of his old air of humility, not to say subserviency.

"So pleased that the Worshipful the Mayor recognizes at least some worth in the slight link that I have been enabled to supply. Possibly, however. His Honour will be more gratified as well as instructed, when I inform him how this wallet, which undoubtedly was the property of the missing Edwin Drood, and probably on his person at the time when he met with his sad end, came into my possession."

"Humph," responds the Mayor. "It is very well, Mr. Datchery, that you see the necessity. How, sir — that is how I put it, as I must do—when—if called upon to act upon the case, on the Bench—how does it happen that I discover in your hands this article, which I believe—yes, which I may say I am confident, from my past experience, to have been in the possession of the murdered man at the time of the commission of the crime?"

Mr. Datchery is not staggered, as well he might be, at this some-what forcible adoption of his own words against himself. Possibly he has been quite prepared for this, as for nearly anything else that could occur in that peculiar presence. At all events, he is quite as bland and good-humoured as ever, as he accepts the permission, and in his own rambling way gives the story of the wallet.

"I have already had the privilege of telling His Honour the Mayor the fact of my being a single buffer, and an idle one; but I may also tell him that I am an odd one as well, and that I habitually do what others are not much in the habit of doing. Suspicious, in the eyes of the Worshipful? Let me hope not, or at least let me try to remove the impression. My arrangements are simply a little odd, nothing more. For instance, I often employ the fisherman's boats and go fishing up the river, though I am free to say that I do not remember having caught a single fish as yet, since I came to this pleasant town. I do not deny that I have had nibbles, though I may be encroaching on the valuable time of the Worshipful the Mayor, by presuming to mention such a trifle. However, it is to be supposed that the supreme authority desires all the information at my command — not simply a part of it?"

"All, Mr. Datcliery—all; that is how I put it in examinations from the Bench—all or nothing. Be good enough to go on, sir!" replies the Mayor, with one of those commanding and benevolent waves of the hand which show him entirely unsuspicious of the narrator's good faith.

"Thanks for the permission "—continuing. "I was about to say, then, that there is an old fisherman, occupying a cabin not far from the Weir, named Crawshe, whom I have several times employed to row me up the river, and help me in indulging my odd humour. He has a poor boy, his son, whom they call Little Crawshe—helpless from some accident—the falling of a stick of timber, I think, which has broken away some of the cords of the back of the neck, compelling him always to hold one hand under the chin, to keep the head from falling forward on the breast. May I hope that His Honour the Mayor knows anything of Crawshe and his boy? No— of course not: they are not likely to approach such Position. Well, the poor fisherman often asks the privilege of his employers of taking the crippled boy with him in the boat, as a means of amusing him in his inability to share in the rough play of the other boys. Yesterday I went up the river, rowed by Crawshe, and little Crawshe accompanying. I gave the boy some pence when about to leave the boat, and he took this wallet from his pocket to put them into it. Watching him a little closely, to see how he managed with one hand, I caught the name under the flap, and at once pretended a certain interest in the looks of the article, and bought it from him for a shilling. Inquiring on that point, though I had no doubt on the subject, I learned that neither Little Crawshe nor his father could read a word, so that neither could have had any knowledge of the name on the inside. Inquiring further, in my idle way, I learned that the boy had picked up the wallet on the river bank, very near the Weir, only a day or two before, in such a spot that it would seem impossible that it could long have lain there without attmcting attention. I need not ask if His Honour follows me, and if he arrives at the obvious conclusion to be drawn from the latter fact?"

Datchery pauses, as he may well do after so long a story without interruption. At once the Mayor brings to the subject the force of Intellect.

"Conclusion obvious," he observes, sententiously. "Wallet not long found, criminal been lately along river bank, and dropped it accidentally, after having robbed it of contents. You are quite excusable, Mr. Datchery, as a man without legal training, for not having arrived at such a conclusion, which demands Mind and Experience. But that is how I put it, sir—late dropping of stolen article, late presence of criminal, possibly remaining even now in the neighbourhood."

"Reasoned with the well-known acuteness of the Worshipful the Mayor!" exclaims the other, with glee. "May I take the liberty of shaking hands again, in felicitation? Thanks, many. And now may I beg to offer one more suggestion?"

His Honour the Mayor nods loftily but suavely.

"More than once, as the Worshipful the Mayor will remember, the name of Mr. John Jasper has been alluded to, as the person most interested in tracing out the crime. Might I suggest that this wallet should be at once placed in his hands, for his information and encouragement?"

The Major seeing no objection, and briefly expressing himself to that effect, Mr. Datchery adds,—

"And should I be contravening the wishes of His Honour the Mayor, in requesting the privilege of being present at the exhibition or delivery to Mr. Jasper (whichever His Honour may think proper under the circumstances) of this—this article, as His Honour has well called it, which suddenly assumes a certain interest and value in this case?"

Mr. Sapsea at once retires within himself again to a certain extent; and the pomposity is much more marked as he inquires,—

"Humph! I do not understand, Mr. Datchery. Desire to be present at Mr. Jasper's receiving this—this article? I am not to presume that any connection exists, in this affair, between Mr. Jasper and yourself?"

"Certainly not, as the Worshipful the Mayor should be assured at once," replies the man, who has again fallen under tacit suspicion; and replies somewhat hurriedly. "Let me implore His Honour not to place me under impressions which I should deprecate, in spite of my high respect for the energetic Mr. Jasper. No; my motive is easily told, and, I may hope, not a discreditable one, as appealing to the cultivated Intellect which I address. I have the honour to be a student of humanity, though an idle buffer; and I find a singular pleasure, sometimes, in observing the first moments of sensations in minds bent to special objects."

"Ah!"

This interjectory comment of the Mayor again conveys relief, if not satisfaction, and the other proceeds,—

"Now, venturing to make use of the information kindly imparted by the Worshipful the Mayor, in this permitted interview and others, and assuming all Mr. Jasper's great energies to be worthily bent upon pursuing this concealed though suspected murder, may I not name, as some slight compensation for the benefit which I have been accidentally enabled to bestow upon the search, the privilege of watching Mr. Jasper's triumphal sensations when this new link of evidence is put into his hands? I take the liberty of asking His Honour the Mayor if this may not be allowed, without derogation to the dignity of his position, and without compromising my own, so much more humble."

Mayor Sapsea is finally conquered, as it would seem. What mere mortal would not be, under corresponding circumstances, however the gods of old might require the rising of additional incense to the divine nostrils? Certainly the idle buffer has smoked the very-wooden god sufficiently, and it is time that some answering blessing should be reached. It comes, in one of Mr. Sapsea's most benevolent and condescending waves of the hand, and in the full accordance of the required permission, which the donor no doubt considers compensation enough for a lifetime of service.

"You may be present at the delivery to Mr. Jasper of the—the article, Mr. Datchery. It may be contrary to legal precedent, si —and that, when on the Bench and off it, I consider the palladium of English liberty—that is how I put it, in occasional consultation with my learned brothers—the palladium of English liberty. But this shall be waived, Mr. Datchery—this shall be waived," waving the fat hand meanwhile, as if unconsciously punning on the word. "We will call upon Mr. Jasper, and I will show him the article, and possibly deliver it to him, you being present."

The conference is ended with these words, as conferences must end between the highest of earthly dignitaries and those who are temporarily permitted to approach them on terms of conversational equality. Mr. Sapsea rises from that chair which has for the preceding half-hour been more or less a throne; assumes that hat so marvellously French in the bell of the crown and the curl of the brim, and with which Cloisterham is now quite as well acquainted and almost as loftily, as with the Cathedral tower itself; and the two make their way, the Mayor the least trifle in advance, and Mr. Datchery only putting on his hat at the latest possible moment,—to that interview with Mr. Jasper which is to fortify him with a new prospect of revenge on the murderer of his dear boy.

Read more on the Archive.org website