did endeavour to pave the way a little towards these unpleasant disclosures yesterday by saying that very strange things happened even in high families sometimes.
All this, and more, has happened in your own family, and to and through your own Lady. It's my belief that the deceased Mr.
Tulkinghorn followed up these inquiries to the hour of his death and that he and Lady Dedlock even had bad blood between them upon the matter that very night. Now, only you put that to Lady Dedlock, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, and ask her ladyship whether, even after he had left here, she didn't go down to his chambers with the intention of saying something further to him, dressed in a loose black mantle with a deep fringe to it.'
Sir Leicester sits like a statue, gazing at the cruel finger that is probing the life-blood of his heart.
'You put that to her ladyship, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, from me, Inspector Bucket of the Detective. And if her ladyship makes any difficulty about admitting of it, you tell her that it's no use, that Inspector Bucket knows it and knows that she passed the soldier as you called him (though he's not in the army now) and knows that she knows she passed him on the staircase. Now, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, why do I relate all this?'
Sir Leicester, who has covered his face with his hands, uttering a single groan, requests him to pause for a moment. By and by he takes his hands away, and so preserves his dignity and outward calmness, though there is no more colour in his face than in his white hair, that Mr. Bucket is a little awed by him. Something frozen and fixed is upon his manner, over and above its usual shell of haughtiness, and Mr. Bucket soon detects an unusual slowness in his speech, with now and then a curious trouble in beginning, which occasions him to utter inarticulate sounds. With such sounds he now breaks silence, soon, however, controlling himself to say that he does not comprehend why a gentleman so faithful and zealous as the late Mr. Tulkinghorn should have communicated to him nothing of this painful, this distressing, this unlooked-for, this overwhelming, this incredible intelligence.
'Again, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,' returns Mr. Bucket, 'put it to her ladyship to clear that up. Put it to her ladyship, if you think it right, from Inspector Bucket of the Detective. You'll find, or I'm much mistaken, that the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn had the intention of communicating the whole to you as soon as he considered it ripe, and further, that he had given her ladyship so to understand. Why, he might have been going to reveal it the very morning when I examined the body! You don't know what I'm going to say and do five minutes from this present time, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet; and supposing I was to be picked off now, you might wonder why I hadn't done it, don't you see?'
True. Sir Leicester, avoiding, with some trouble those obtrusive sounds, says, 'True.' At this juncture a considerable noise of voices is heard in the hall. Mr. Bucket, after listening, goes to the library-door, softly unlocks and opens it, and listens again.
Then he draws in his head and whispers hurriedly but composedly,
'Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, this unfortunate family affair has taken air, as I expected it might, the deceased Mr. Tulkinghorn being cut down so sudden. The chance to hush it is to let in these people now in a wrangle with your footmen. Would you mind sitting quiet-on the family account-while I reckon 'em up? And would you just throw in a nod when I seem to ask you for it?'
Sir Leicester indistinctly answers, 'Officer. The best you can, the best you can!' and Mr. Bucket, with a nod and a sagacious crook of the forefinger, slips down into the hall, where the voices quickly die away. He is not long in returning; a few paces ahead of Mercury and a brother deity also powdered and in peach-blossomed smalls, who bear between them a chair in which is an incapable old man. Another man and two women come behind. Directing the pitching of the chair in an affable and easy manner, Mr. Bucket dismisses the Mercuries and locks the door again. Sir Leicester looks on at this invasion of the sacred precincts with an icy stare.
'Now, perhaps you may know me, ladies and gentlemen,' says Mr.
Bucket in a confidential voice. 'I am Inspector Bucket of the Detective, I am; and this,' producing the tip of his convenient little staff from his breast-pocket, 'is my authority. Now, you wanted to see Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Well! You do see him, and mind you, it ain't every one as is admitted to that honour. Your name, old gentleman, is Smallweed; that's what your name is; I know it well.'
'Well, and you never heard any harm of it!' cries Mr. Smallweed in a shrill loud voice.
'You don't happen to know why they killed the pig, do you?' retorts Mr. Bucket with a steadfast look, but without loss of temper.
'No!'
'Why, they killed him,' says Mr. Bucket, 'on account of his having so much cheek. Don't YOU get into the same position, because it isn't worthy of you. You ain't in the habit of conversing with a deaf person, are you?'
'Yes,' snarls Mr. Smallweed, 'my wife's deaf.'
'That accounts for your pitching your voice so high. But as she ain't here; just pitch it an octave or two lower, will you, and I'll not only be obliged to you, but it'll do you more credit,' says Mr. Bucket. 'This other gentleman is in the preaching line, I think?'
'Name of Chadband,' Mr. Smallweed puts in, speaking henceforth in a much lower key.
'Once had a friend and brother serjeant of the same name,' says Mr.
Bucket, offering his hand, 'and consequently feel a liking for it.
Mrs. Chadband, no doubt?'
'And Mrs. Snagsby,' Mr. Smallweed introduces.
'Husband a law-stationer and a friend of my own,' says Mr. Bucket.
'Love him like a brother! Now, what's up?'
'Do you mean what business have we come upon?' Mr. Smallweed asks, a little dashed by the suddenness of this turn.
'Ah! You know what I mean. Let us hear what it's all about in presence of Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet. Come.'
Mr. Smallweed, beckoning Mr. Chadband, takes a moment's counsel with him in a whisper. Mr. Chadband, expressing a considerable amount of oil from the pores of his forehead and the palms of his hands, says aloud, 'Yes. You first!' and retires to his former place.
'I was the client and friend of Mr. Tulkinghorn,' pipes Grandfather Smallweed then; 'I did business with him. I was useful to him, and he was useful to me. Krook, dead and gone, was my brother-in-law.
He was own brother to a brimstone magpie-leastways Mrs. Smallweed.
I come into Krook's property. I examined all his papers and all his effects. They was all dug out under my eyes. There was a bundle of letters belonging to a dead and gone lodger as was hid away at the back of a shelf in the side of Lady Jane's bed-his cat's bed. He hid all manner of things away, everywheres. Mr.
Tulkinghorn wanted 'em and got 'em, but I looked 'em over first.
I'm a man of business, and I took a squint at 'em. They was letters from the lodger's sweetheart, and she signed Honoria. Dear me, that's not a common name, Honoria, is it? There's no lady in this house that signs Honoria is there? Oh, no, I don't think so!
Oh, no, I don't think so! And not in the same hand, perhaps? Oh, no, I don't think so!'
Here Mr. Smallweed, seized with a fit of coughing in the midst of his triumph, breaks off to ejaculate, 'Oh, dear me! Oh, Lord! I'm shaken all to pieces!'
'Now, when you're ready,' says Mr. Bucket after awaiting his recovery, 'to come to anything that concerns Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, here the gentleman sits, you know.'
'Haven't I come to it, Mr. Bucket?' cries Grandfather Smallweed.
'Isn't the gentleman concerned yet? Not with Captain Hawdon, and his ever affectionate Honoria, and their child into the bargain?
Come, then, I want to know where those letters are. That concerns me, if it don't concern Sir Leicester Dedlock. I will know where they are. I won't have 'em disappear so quietly. I handed 'em over to my friend and solicitor, Mr. Tulkinghorn, not to anybody else.'
'Why, he paid you for them, you know, and handsome too,' says Mr.
Bucket.
'I don't care for that. I want to know who's got 'em. And I tell you what we want-what we all here want, Mr. Bucket. We want more painstaking and search-making into this murder. We know where the interest and the motive was, and you have not done enough. If George the vagabond dragoon had any hand in it, he was only an accomplice, and was set on. You know what I mean as well as any man.'
