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
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. Blavatsky'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
