HAGAR THE GYPSY
Created by Fergus Hume (1859-1932)
Fergus Hume was the author of the most popular crime novel of the Victorian era. The Mystery of a Hansom Cab, was set in Melbourne, Australia, where it was first published (by Hume himself) in 1886. The following year it was published in London and became a huge success, far outselling A Study in Scarlet, Conan Doyle’s first Sherlock Holmes novel, which also appeared in 1887. Sadly for him, Hume had sold the English rights in his novel for a mere £50. After moving to England from Australia, he continued to write fiction for the rest of his life, publishing more than 120 novels and volumes of short stories over the next forty-five years, although none of them achieved anything like the sales of his debut. One of these books was the 1898 collection Hagar of the Pawn-Shop. Hagar is a Romany woman who inherits a Lambeth pawn-shop and is drawn into the lives of her customers. She finds that many of them need her problem-solving talents to right wrongs done to them or throw light on mysterious crimes. Lively and resourceful, Hagar is one of the most interesting female detectives of the era. In 1898, and for many decades to come, it was very unusual for a Romany or Gypsy character to appear in popular fiction as anything other than either a vagabond of doubtful morals or a downright villain. By contrast, Hagar is not only attractive and quick-witted, she also possesses a strict sense of duty and a determination to act honestly at all times. The tales in which she appears are some of the most distinctive crime stories of the 1890s.
THE FIFTH CUSTOMER AND THE COPPER KEY
The several adventures in which she had been engaged begot in Hagar a thirst for the romantic. To find that strange stories were attached to many pawned articles; to ascertain such histories of the past; to follow up their conclusions in the future – these things greatly pleased the girl, and gave her an interest in a somewhat dull life. She began to perceive that there was more romance in modern times than latter-day sceptics are willing to admit. Tropical scenery, ancient inns, ruined castles, are not necessary to engender romance. It is of the human heart, of human life; and even in the dingy Lambeth pawn-shop it blossomed and bloomed like some rare flower thrusting itself upward betwixt the arid city stones. Romance came daily to the gipsy girl, even in her prosaic business existence.
Out of a giant tooth, an unburied bone, a mighty footprint, Cuvier could construct a marvellous and prehistoric world. In like manner, from some trifle upon which she lent money, Hagar would deduce tales as fantastic as the Arabian Nights, as adventurous as the story of Gil Blas. Of such sort was the romance brought about by the pawning of the copper key.
The man who pawned it was in appearance like some Eastern mage; and the key itself, with its curious workmanship, green with verdigris, might have served to unlock the tower of Don Roderick. Its owner entered the shop one morning shortly before noon, and at the sight of his wrinkled face, and the venerable white beard which swept his breast, Hagar felt that he was a customer out of the common. With a gruff salutation, he threw down a paper parcel, which clanged on the counter.
‘Look at that,’ said he, sharply. ‘I wish to pawn it.’
In no wise disturbed by his discourtesy, Hagar opened the package, and found therein a roll of linen; this, when unwound, revealed a slender copper key of no great size. The wards at the lower end were nearly level with the stem of the key itself, as they consisted merely of five or six prickles of copper encircling at irregular intervals the round stem. The handle, however, was ornate and curious, being shaped like a bishop’s crozier, while within the crook of the pastoral staff design the letters ‘CR’ were interwoven in an elaborate monogram. Altogether, this key – apparently very ancient – was a beautiful piece of workmanship, but of no value save to a dealer in rarities. Hagar examined it carefully, shook her head, and tossed it on the counter.
‘I wouldn’t give you five shillings on it,’ said she, contemptuously; ‘it is worth nothing.’
‘Bah, girl! You do not know what you are talking about. Look at the workmanship.’
‘Very fine, no doubt; but –’
‘And the monogram, you blind bat!’ interrupted the old man. ‘“CR” – that stands for Carolus Rex.’
‘Oh,’ said Hagar, picking up the key again, and taking it to the light of the window; ‘it is an historic key, then?’
‘Yes. It is said to be the key of the box in which the First Charles kept the treasonous papers which ultimately cost him his head. Oh, you may look! The key is authentic enough. It has been in the Danetree family for close on two hundred and fifty years.’
‘And are you a Danetree?’
‘No; I am Luke Parsons, the steward of the family.’
‘Indeed!’ said Hagar, with a piercing glance. ‘Then how comes the key into your possession?’
‘I don’t recognise your right to ask such questions,’ said Parsons, in an angry tone. ‘The key came into my possession honestly.’
‘Very probably; but I should like to know how. Do not get in a rage, Mr Parsons,’ added Hagar, hastily; ‘we pawnbrokers have to be very particular, you know.’
‘I don’t know,’ snapped the customer; ‘but if your curiosity must be satisfied, the key came to me from my father Mark, a former steward of the Danetrees. It was given to him by the then head of the family some sixty years ago.’
‘What are all these figures graven on the stem?’ asked Hagar, noting a number of hieroglyphic marks.
‘Ordinary Arabic numerals,’ retorted Parsons. ‘What they mean I know no more than you do. If I did I should be rich,’ he added, to himself.
‘Ah! there is some secret connected with
