The Club of Queer Trades, G. K. Chesterton [leveled readers .TXT] 📗

heard something which—I cannot describe it—something which seemed to—but I really cannot describe it.”

“What did you hear?” I asked, with some impatience.

“I heard,” said the vicar solemnly, “I heard Miss Mowbray (the lady with the silver hair) say to Miss James (the lady with the woollen shawl), the following extraordinary words. I committed them to memory on the spot, and as soon as circumstances set me free to do so, I noted them down on a piece of paper. I believe I have it here.” He fumbled in his breastpocket, bringing out mild things, note-books, circulars and programmes of village concerts. “I heard Miss Mowbray say to Miss James, the following words: `Now’s your time, Bill.’”

He gazed at me for a few moments after making this announcement, gravely and unflinchingly, as if conscious that here he was unshaken about his facts. Then he resumed, turning his bald head more towards the fire.

“This appeared to me remarkable. I could not by any means understand it. It seemed to me first of all peculiar that one maiden lady should address another maiden lady as `Bill’. My experience, as I have said, may be incomplete; maiden ladies may have among themselves and in exclusively spinster circles wilder customs than I am aware of. But it seemed to me odd, and I could almost have sworn (if you will not misunderstand the phrase), I should have been strongly impelled to maintain at the time that the words, `Now’s your time, Bill’, were by no means pronounced with that upper-class intonation which, as I have already said, had up to now characterized Miss Mowbray’s conversation. In fact, the words, `Now’s your time, Bill’, would have been, I fancy, unsuitable if pronounced with that upper-class intonation.

“I was surprised, I repeat, then, at the remark. But I was still more surprised when, looking round me in bewilderment, my hat and umbrella in hand, I saw the lean lady with the woollen shawl leaning upright against the door out of which I was just about to make my exit. She was still knitting, and I supposed that this erect posture against the door was only an eccentricity of spinsterhood and an oblivion of my intended departure.

“I said genially, `I am so sorry to disturb you, Miss James, but I must really be going. I have—er—’ I stopped here, for the words she had uttered in reply, though singularly brief and in tone extremely business-like, were such as to render that arrest of my remarks, I think, natural and excusable. I have these words also noted down. I have not the least idea of their meaning; so I have only been able to render them phonetically. But she said,” and Mr Shorter peered short-sightedly at his papers, “she said: `Chuck it, fat ‘ead,’ and she added something that sounded like `It’s a kop’, or (possibly) `a kopt’. And then the last cord, either of my sanity or the sanity of the universe, snapped suddenly. My esteemed friend and helper, Miss Brett, standing by the mantelpiece, said: `Put ‘is old ‘ead in a bag, Sam, and tie ‘im up before you start jawin’. You’ll be kopt yourselves some o’ these days with this way of coin’ things, har lar theater.’

“My head went round and round. Was it really true, as I had suddenly fancied a moment before, that unmarried ladies had some dreadful riotous society of their own from which all others were excluded? I remembered dimly in my classical days (I was a scholar in a small way once, but now, alas! rusty), I remembered the mysteries of the Bona Dea and their strange female freemasonry. I remembered the witches’ Sabbaths. I was just, in my absurd lightheadedness, trying to remember a line of verse about Diana’s nymphs, when Miss Mowbray threw her arm round me from behind. The moment it held me I knew it was not a woman’s arm.

“Miss Brett—or what I had called Miss Brett—was standing in front of me with a big revolver in her hand and a broad grin on her face. Miss James was still leaning against the door, but had fallen into an attitude so totally new, and so totally unfeminine, that it gave one a shock. She was kicking her heels, with her hands in her pockets and her cap on one side. She was a man. I mean he was a wo—no, that is I saw that instead of being a woman she—he, I mean—that is, it was a man.”

Mr Shorter became indescribably flurried and flapping in endeavouring to arrange these genders and his plaid shawl at the same time. He resumed with a higher fever of nervousness:

“As for Miss Mowbray, she—he, held me in a ring of iron. He had her arm—that is she had his arm—round her neck—my neck I mean— and I could not cry out. Miss Brett—that is, Mr Brett, at least Mr something who was not Miss Brett—had the revolver pointed at me. The other two ladies—or er—gentlemen, were rummaging in some bag in the background. It was all clear at last: they were criminals dressed up as women, to kidnap me! To kidnap the Vicar of Chuntsey, in Essex. But why? Was it to be Nonconformists?

“The brute leaning against the door called out carelessly, `‘Urry up, ‘Arry. Show the old bloke what the game is, and let’s get off.’

“`Curse ‘is eyes,’ said Miss Brett—I mean the man with the revolver—`why should we show ‘im the game?’

“`If you take my advice you bloomin’ well will,’ said the man at the door, whom they called Bill. `A man wot knows wet ‘e’s doin’ is worth ten wot don’t, even if ‘e’s a potty old parson.’

“`Bill’s right enough,’ said the coarse voice of the man who held me (it had been Miss Mowbray’s). `Bring out the picture, ‘Arry.’

“The man with the revolver walked across the room to where the other two women—I mean men—were turning over baggage, and asked them for something which they gave him. He came back with it across the room and held it out in front of me. And compared to the surprise of that display, all the previous surprises of this awful day shrank suddenly.

“It was a portrait of myself. That such a picture should be in the hands of these scoundrels might in any case have caused a mild surprise; but no more. It was no mild surprise that I felt. The likeness was an extremely good one, worked up with all the accessories of the conventional photographic studio. I was leaning my head on my hand and was relieved against a painted landscape of woodland. It was obvious that it was no snapshot; it was clear that I had sat for this photograph. And the truth was that I had never sat for such a photograph. It was a photograph that I had never had taken.

“I stared at it again and again. It seemed to me to be touched up a good deal; it was glazed as well as framed, and the glass blurred some of the details. But there unmistakably was my face, my eyes, my nose and mouth, my head and hand, posed for a professional photographer. And I had never posed so for any photographer.

“`Be’old the bloomin’ miracle,’ said the man with the revolver, with ill-timed facetiousness. `Parson, prepare to meet your God.’ And with this he slid the glass out of the frame. As the glass moved, I saw that part of the picture was painted on it in Chinese white, notably a pair of white whiskers and a clerical collar. And underneath was a portrait of an old lady in a quiet black dress, leaning her head on her hand against the woodland landscape. The old lady was as like me as one pin is like another. It had required only the whiskers and the collar to make it me in every hair.

“`Entertainin’, ain’t it?’ said the man described as ‘Arry, as he shot the glass back again. `Remarkable resemblance, parson. Gratifyin’ to the lady. Gratifyin’ to you. And hi may hadd, particlery gratifyin’ to us, as bein’ the probable source of a very tolerable haul. You know Colonel Hawker, the man who’s come to live in these parts, don’t you?’

“I nodded.

“`Well,’ said the man ‘Arry, pointing to the picture, `that’s ‘is mother. ‘Oo ran to catch ‘im when ‘e fell? She did,’ and he flung his fingers in a general gesture towards the photograph of the old lady who was exactly like me.

“`Tell the old gent wot ‘e’s got to do and be done with it,’ broke out Bill from the door. `Look ‘ere, Reverend Shorter, we ain’t goin’ to do you no ‘arm. We’ll give you a sov. for your trouble if you like. And as for the old woman’s clothes—why, you’ll look lovely in ‘em.’

“`You ain’t much of a ‘and at a description, Bill,’ said the man behind me. `Mr Shorter, it’s like this. We’ve got to see this man Hawker tonight. Maybe ‘e’ll kiss us all and ‘ave up the champagne when ‘e sees us. Maybe on the other ‘and—‘e won’t. Maybe ‘e’ll be dead when we goes away. Maybe not. But we’ve got to see ‘im. Now as you know, ‘e shuts ‘isself up and never opens the door to a soul; only you don’t know why and we does. The only one as can ever get at ‘im is ‘is mother. Well, it’s a confounded funny coincidence,’ he said, accenting the penultimate, `it’s a very unusual piece of good luck, but you’re ‘is mother.’

“`When first I saw ‘er picture,’ said the man Bill, shaking his head in a ruminant manner, `when I first saw it I said—old Shorter. Those were my exact words—old Shorter.’

“`What do you mean, you wild creatures?’ I gasped. `What am I to do?’

“`That’s easy said, your ‘oldness,’ said the man with the revolver, good-humouredly; `you’ve got to put on those clothes,’ and he pointed to a poke-bonnet and a heap of female clothes in the corner of the room.

“I will not dwell, Mr Swinburne, upon the details of what followed. I had no choice. I could not fight five men, to say nothing of a loaded pistol. In five minutes, sir, the Vicar of Chuntsey was dressed as an old woman—as somebody else’s mother, if you please—and was dragged out of the house to take part in a crime.

“It was already late in the afternoon, and the nights of winter were closing in fast. On a dark road, in a blowing wind, we set out towards the lonely house of Colonel Hawker, perhaps the queerest cortege that ever straggled up that or any other road. To every human eye, in every external, we were six very respectable old ladies of small means, in black dresses and refined but antiquated bonnets; and we were really five criminals and a clergyman.

“I will cut a long story short. My brain was whirling like a windmill as I walked, trying to think of some manner of escape. To cry out, so long as we were far from houses, would be suicidal, for it would be easy for the ruffians to knife me or to gag me and fling me into a ditch. On the other hand, to attempt to stop strangers and explain the situation was impossible, because of the frantic folly of the situation itself. Long before I had persuaded the chance postman or carrier of so absurd a story, my companions would certainly have got off themselves, and in all probability would have carried me off, as a friend of theirs who had the misfortune to be mad or drunk. The last thought, however, was an inspiration; though a very terrible one. Had it come to this, that the Vicar of Chuntsey must pretend to be mad or