Lord Arthur Savile's Crime

Chapter 5

Mr. Merton was a good deal distressed at the second postponement of

the marriage, and Lady Julia, who had already ordered her dress for

the wedding, did all in her power to make Sybil break off the match.

Dearly, however, as Sybil loved her mother, she had given her whole

life into Lord Arthur's hands, and nothing that Lady Julia could say

could make her waver in her faith. As for Lord Arthur himself, it

took him days to get over his terrible disappointment, and for a

time his nerves were completely unstrung. His excellent common

sense, however, soon asserted itself, and his sound, practical mind

did not leave him long in doubt about what to do. Poison having

proved a complete failure, dynamite, or some other form of

explosive, was obviously the proper thing to try.

He accordingly looked again over the list of his friends and

relatives, and, after careful consideration, determined to blow up

his uncle, the Dean of Chichester. The Dean, who was a man of great

culture and learning, was extremely fond of clocks, and had a

wonderful collection of timepieces, ranging from the fifteenth

century to the present day, and it seemed to Lord Arthur that this

hobby of the good Dean's offered him an excellent opportunity for

carrying out his scheme. Where to procure an explosive machine was,

of course, quite another matter. The London Directory gave him no

information on the point, and he felt that there was very little use

in going to Scotland Yard about it, as they never seemed to know

anything about the movements of the dynamite faction till after an

explosion had taken place, and not much even then.

Suddenly he thought of his friend Rouvaloff, a young Russian of very

revolutionary tendencies, whom he had met at Lady Windermere's in

the winter. Count Rouvaloff was supposed to be writing a life of

Peter the Great, and to have come over to England for the purpose of

studying the documents relating to that Tsar's residence in this

country as a ship carpenter; but it was generally suspected that he

was a Nihilist agent, and there was no doubt that the Russian

Embassy did not look with any favour upon his presence in London.

Lord Arthur felt that he was just the man for his purpose, and drove

down one morning to his lodgings in Bloomsbury, to ask his advice

and assistance.

'So you are taking up politics seriously?' said Count Rouvaloff,

when Lord Arthur had told him the object of his mission; but Lord

Arthur, who hated swagger of any kind, felt bound to admit to him

that he had not the slightest interest in social questions, and

simply wanted the explosive machine for a purely family matter, in

which no one was concerned but himself.

Count Rouvaloff looked at him for some moments in amazement, and

then seeing that he was quite serious, wrote an address on a piece

of paper, initialled it, and handed it to him across the table.

'Scotland Yard would give a good deal to know this address, my dear

fellow.'

'They shan't have it,' cried Lord Arthur, laughing; and after

shaking the young Russian warmly by the hand he ran downstairs,

examined the paper, and told the coachman to drive to Soho Square.

There he dismissed him, and strolled down Greek Street, till he came

to a place called Bayle's Court. He passed under the archway, and

found himself in a curious cul-de-sac, that was apparently occupied

by a French Laundry, as a perfect network of clothes-lines was

stretched across from house to house, and there was a flutter of

white linen in the morning air. He walked right to the end, and

knocked at a little green house. After some delay, during which

every window in the court became a blurred mass of peering faces,

the door was opened by a rather rough-looking foreigner, who asked

him in very bad English what his business was. Lord Arthur handed

him the paper Count Rouvaloff had given him. When the man saw it he

bowed, and invited Lord Arthur into a very shabby front parlour on

the ground floor, and in a few moments Herr Winckelkopf, as he was

called in England, bustled into the room, with a very wine-stained

napkin round his neck, and a fork in his left hand.

'Count Rouvaloff has given me an introduction to you,' said Lord

Arthur, bowing, 'and I am anxious to have a short interview with you

on a matter of business. My name is Smith, Mr. Robert Smith, and I

want you to supply me with an explosive clock.'

'Charmed to meet you, Lord Arthur,' said the genial little German,

laughing. 'Don't look so alarmed, it is my duty to know everybody,

and I remember seeing you one evening at Lady Windermere's. I hope

her ladyship is quite well. Do you mind sitting with me while I

finish my breakfast? There is an excellent pate, and my friends are

kind enough to say that my Rhine wine is better than any they get at

the German Embassy,' and before Lord Arthur had got over his

surprise at being recognised, he found himself seated in the back-

room, sipping the most delicious Marcobrunner out of a pale yellow

hock-glass marked with the Imperial monogram, and chatting in the

friendliest manner possible to the famous conspirator.

'Explosive clocks,' said Herr Winckelkopf, 'are not very good things

for foreign exportation, as, even if they succeed in passing the

Custom House, the train service is so irregular, that they usually

go off before they have reached their proper destination. If,

however, you want one for home use, I can supply you with an

excellent article, and guarantee that you will he satisfied with the

result. May I ask for whom it is intended? If it is for the

police, or for any one connected with Scotland Yard, I am afraid I

cannot do anything for you. The English detectives are really our

best friends, and I have always found that by relying on their

stupidity, we can do exactly what we like. I could not spare one of

them.'

'I assure you,' said Lord Arthur, 'that it has nothing to do with

the police at all. In fact, the clock is intended for the Dean of

Chichester.'

'Dear me! I had no idea that you felt so strongly about religion,

Lord Arthur. Few young men do nowadays.'

'I am afraid you overrate me, Herr Winckelkopf,' said Lord Arthur,

blushing. 'The fact is, I really know nothing about theology.'

'It is a purely private matter then?'

'Purely private.'

Herr Winckelkopf shrugged his shoulders, and left the room,

returning in a few minutes with a round cake of dynamite about the

size of a penny, and a pretty little French clock, surmounted by an

ormolu figure of Liberty trampling on the hydra of Despotism.

Lord Arthur's face brightened up when he saw it. 'That is just what

I want,' he cried, 'and now tell me how it goes off.'

'Ah! there is my secret,' answered Herr Winckelkopf, contemplating

his invention with a justifiable look of pride; 'let me know when

you wish it to explode, and I will set the machine to the moment.'

'Well, to-day is Tuesday, and if you could send it off at once--'

'That is impossible; I have a great deal of important work on hand

for some friends of mine in Moscow. Still, I might send it off to-

morrow.'

'Oh, it will be quite time enough!' said Lord Arthur politely, 'if

it is delivered to-morrow night or Thursday morning. For the moment

of the explosion, say Friday at noon exactly. The Dean is always at

home at that hour.'

'Friday, at noon,' repeated Herr Winckelkopf, and he made a note to

that effect in a large ledger that was lying on a bureau near the

fireplace.

'And now,' said Lord Arthur, rising from his seat, 'pray let me know

how much I am in your debt.'

'It is such a small matter, Lord Arthur, that I do not care to make

any charge. The dynamite comes to seven and sixpence, the clock

will be three pounds ten, and the carriage about five shillings. I

am only too pleased to oblige any friend of Count Rouvaloff's.'

'But your trouble, Herr Winckelkopf?'

'Oh, that is nothing! It is a pleasure to me. I do not work for

money; I live entirely for my art.'

Lord Arthur laid down 4 pounds, 2s. 6d. on the table, thanked the

little German for his kindness, and, having succeeded in declining

an invitation to meet some Anarchists at a meat-tea on the following

Saturday, left the house and went off to the Park.

For the next two days he was in a state of the greatest excitement,

and on Friday at twelve o'clock he drove down to the Buckingham to

wait for news. All the afternoon the stolid hall-porter kept

posting up telegrams from various parts of the country giving the

results of horse-races, the verdicts in divorce suits, the state of

the weather, and the like, while the tape ticked out wearisome

details about an all-night sitting in the House of Commons, and a

small panic on the Stock Exchange. At four o'clock the evening

papers came in, and Lord Arthur disappeared into the library with

the Pall Mall, the St. James's, the Globe, and the Echo, to the

immense indignation of Colonel Goodchild, who wanted to read the

reports of a speech he had delivered that morning at the Mansion

House, on the subject of South African Missions, and the

advisability of having black Bishops in every province, and for some

reason or other had a strong prejudice against the Evening News.

None of the papers, however, contained even the slightest allusion

to Chichester, and Lord Arthur felt that the attempt must have

failed. It was a terrible blow to him, and for a time he was quite

unnerved. Herr Winckelkopf, whom he went to see the next day was

full of elaborate apologies, and offered to supply him with another

clock free of charge, or with a case of nitro-glycerine bombs at

cost price. But he had lost all faith in explosives, and Herr

Winckelkopf himself acknowledged that everything is so adulterated

nowadays, that even dynamite can hardly be got in a pure condition.

The little German, however, while admitting that something must have

gone wrong with the machinery, was not without hope that the clock

might still go off, and instanced the case of a barometer that he

had once sent to the military Governor at Odessa, which, though

timed to explode in ten days, had not done so for something like

three months. It was quite true that when it did go off, it merely

succeeded in blowing a housemaid to atoms, the Governor having gone

out of town six weeks before, but at least it showed that dynamite,

as a destructive force, was, when under the control of machinery, a

powerful, though a somewhat unpunctual agent. Lord Arthur was a

little consoled by this reflection, but even here he was destined to

disappointment, for two days afterwards, as he was going upstairs,

the Duchess called him into her boudoir, and showed him a letter she

had just received from the Deanery.

'Jane writes charming letters,' said the Duchess; 'you must really

read her last. It is quite as good as the novels Mudie sends us.'

Lord Arthur seized the letter from her hand. It ran as follows:-

THE DEANERY, CHICHESTER,

27th May.

My Dearest Aunt,

Thank you so much for the flannel for the Dorcas Society, and also

for the gingham. I quite agree with you that it is nonsense their

wanting to wear pretty things, but everybody is so Radical and

irreligious nowadays, that it is difficult to make them see that

they should not try and dress like the upper classes. I am sure I

don't know what we are coming to. As papa has often said in his

sermons, we live in an age of unbelief.

We have had great fun over a clock that an unknown admirer sent papa

last Thursday. It arrived in a wooden box from London, carriage

paid, and papa feels it must have been sent by some one who had read

his remarkable sermon, 'Is Licence Liberty?' for on the top of the

clock was a figure of a woman, with what papa said was the cap of

Liberty on her head. I didn't think it very becoming myself, but

papa said it was historical, so I suppose it is all right. Parker

unpacked it, and papa put it on the mantelpiece in the library, and

we were all sitting there on Friday morning, when just as the clock

struck twelve, we heard a whirring noise, a little puff of smoke

came from the pedestal of the figure, and the goddess of Liberty

fell off, and broke her nose on the fender! Maria was quite

alarmed, but it looked so ridiculous, that James and I went off into

fits of laughter, and even papa was amused. When we examined it, we

found it was a sort of alarum clock, and that, if you set it to a

particular hour, and put some gunpowder and a cap under a little

hammer, it went off whenever you wanted. Papa said it must not

remain in the library, as it made a noise, so Reggie carried it away

to the schoolroom, and does nothing but have small explosions all

day long. Do you think Arthur would like one for a wedding present?

I suppose they are quite fashionable in London. Papa says they

should do a great deal of good, as they show that Liberty can't

last, but must fall down. Papa says Liberty was invented at the

time of the French Revolution. How awful it seems!

I have now to go to the Dorcas, where I will read them your most

instructive letter. How true, dear aunt, your idea is, that in

their rank of life they should wear what is unbecoming. I must say

it is absurd, their anxiety about dress, when there are so many more

important things in this world, and in the next. I am so glad your

flowered poplin turned out so well, and that your lace was not torn.

I am wearing my yellow satin, that you so kindly gave me, at the

Bishop's on Wednesday, and think it will look all right. Would you

have bows or not? Jennings says that every one wears bows now, and

that the underskirt should be frilled. Reggie has just had another

explosion, and papa has ordered the clock to be sent to the stables.

I don't think papa likes it so much as he did at first, though he is

very flattered at being sent such a pretty and ingenious toy. It

shows that people read his sermons, and profit by them.

Papa sends his love, in which James, and Reggie, and Maria all

unite, and, hoping that Uncle Cecil's gout is better, believe me,

dear aunt, ever your affectionate niece,

JANE PERCY.

PS.--Do tell me about the bows. Jennings insists they are the

fashion.

Lord Arthur looked so serious and unhappy over the letter, that the

Duchess went into fits of laughter.

'My dear Arthur,' she cried, 'I shall never show you a young lady's

letter again! But what shall I say about the clock? I think it is

a capital invention, and I should like to have one myself.'

'I don't think much of them,' said Lord Arthur, with a sad smile,

and, after kissing his mother, he left the room.

When he got upstairs, he flung himself on a sofa, and his eyes

filled with tears. He had done his best to commit this murder, but

on both occasions he had failed, and through no fault of his own.

He had tried to do his duty, but it seemed as if Destiny herself had

turned traitor. He was oppressed with the sense of the barrenness

of good intentions, of the futility of trying to be fine. Perhaps,

it would be better to break off the marriage altogether. Sybil

would suffer, it is true, but suffering could not really mar a

nature so noble as hers. As for himself, what did it matter? There

is always some war in which a man can die, some cause to which a man

can give his life, and as life had no pleasure for him, so death had

no terror. Let Destiny work out his doom. He would not stir to

help her.

At half-past seven he dressed, and went down to the club. Surbiton

was there with a party of young men, and he was obliged to dine with

them. Their trivial conversation and idle jests did not interest

him, and as soon as coffee was brought he left them, inventing some

engagement in order to get away. As he was going out of the club,

the hall-porter handed him a letter. It was from Herr Winckelkopf,

asking him to call down the next evening, and look at an explosive

umbrella, that went off as soon as it was opened. It was the very

latest invention, and had just arrived from Geneva. He tore the

letter up into fragments. He had made up his mind not to try any

more experiments. Then he wandered down to the Thames Embankment,

and sat for hours by the river. The moon peered through a mane of

tawny clouds, as if it were a lion's eye, and innumerable stars

spangled the hollow vault, like gold dust powdered on a purple dome.

Now and then a barge swung out into the turbid stream, and floated

away with the tide, and the railway signals changed from green to

scarlet as the trains ran shrieking across the bridge. After some

time, twelve o'clock boomed from the tall tower at Westminster, and

at each stroke of the sonorous bell the night seemed to tremble.

Then the railway lights went out, one solitary lamp left gleaming

like a large ruby on a giant mast, and the roar of the city became

fainter.

At two o'clock he got up, and strolled towards Blackfriars. How

unreal everything looked! How like a strange dream! The houses on

the other side of the river seemed built out of darkness. One would

have said that silver and shadow had fashioned the world anew. The

huge dome of St. Paul's loomed like a bubble through the dusky air.

As he approached Cleopatra's Needle he saw a man leaning over the

parapet, and as he came nearer the man looked up, the gas-light

falling full upon his face.

It was Mr. Podgers, the cheiromantist! No one could mistake the

fat, flabby face, the gold-rimmed spectacles, the sickly feeble

smile, the sensual mouth.

Lord Arthur stopped. A brilliant idea flashed across him, and he

stole softly up behind. In a moment he had seized Mr. Podgers by

the legs, and flung him into the Thames. There was a coarse oath, a

heavy splash, and all was still. Lord Arthur looked anxiously over,

but could see nothing of the cheiromantist but a tall hat,

pirouetting in an eddy of moonlit water. After a time it also sank,

and no trace of Mr. Podgers was visible. Once he thought that he

caught sight of the bulky misshapen figure striking out for the

staircase by the bridge, and a horrible feeling of failure came over

him, but it turned out to be merely a reflection, and when the moon

shone out from behind a cloud it passed away. At last he seemed to

have realised the decree of destiny. He heaved a deep sigh of

relief, and Sybil's name came to his lips.

'Have you dropped anything, sir?' said a voice behind him suddenly.

He turned round, and saw a policeman with a bull's-eye lantern.

'Nothing of importance, sergeant,' he answered, smiling, and hailing

a passing hansom, he jumped in, and told the man to drive to

Belgrave Square.

For the next few days he alternated between hope and fear. There

were moments when he almost expected Mr. Podgers to walk into the

room, and yet at other times he felt that Fate could not be so

unjust to him. Twice he went to the cheiromantist's address in West

Moon Street, but he could not bring himself to ring the bell. He

longed for certainty, and was afraid of it.

Finally it came. He was sitting in the smoking-room of the club

having tea, and listening rather wearily to Surbiton's account of

the last comic song at the Gaiety, when the waiter came in with the

evening papers. He took up the St. James's, and was listlessly

turning over its pages, when this strange heading caught his eye:

SUICIDE OF A CHEIROMANTIST.

He turned pale with excitement, and began to read. The paragraph

ran as follows:

Yesterday morning, at seven o'clock, the body of Mr. Septimus R.

Podgers, the eminent cheiromantist, was washed on shore at

Greenwich, just in front of the Ship Hotel. The unfortunate

gentleman had been missing for some days, and considerable anxiety

for his safety had been felt in cheiromantic circles. It is

supposed that he committed suicide under the influence of a

temporary mental derangement, caused by overwork, and a verdict to

that effect was returned this afternoon by the coroner's jury. Mr.

Podgers had just completed an elaborate treatise on the subject of

the Human Hand, that will shortly be published, when it will no

doubt attract much attention. The deceased was sixty-five years of

age, and does not seem to have left any relations.

Lord Arthur rushed out of the club with the paper still in his hand,

to the immense amazement of the hall-porter, who tried in vain to

stop him, and drove at once to Park Lane. Sybil saw him from the

window, and something told her that he was the bearer of good news.

She ran down to meet him, and, when she saw his face, she knew that

all was well.

'My dear Sybil,' cried Lord Arthur, 'let us be married to-morrow!'

'You foolish boy! Why, the cake is not even ordered!' said Sybil,

laughing through her tears.