Chapter LIII. The Track

by Charles Dickens

　　Mr. Bucket and his fat forefinger are much in consultation togetherunder existing circumstances. When Mr. Bucket has a matter of thispressing interest under his consideration, the fat forefinger seemsto rise, to the dignity of a familiar demon. He puts it to hisears, and it whispers information; he puts it to his lips, and itenjoins him to secrecy; he rubs it over his nose, and it sharpenshis scent; he shakes it before a guilty man, and it charms him tohis destruction. The Augurs of the Detective Temple invariablypredict that when Mr. Bucket and that finger are in muchconference, a terrible avenger will be heard of before long.Otherwise mildly studious in his observation of human nature, onthe whole a benignant philosopher not disposed to be severe uponthe follies of mankind, Mr. Bucket pervades a vast number of housesand strolls about an infinity of streets, to outward appearancerather languishing for want of an object. He is in the friendliestcondition towards his species and will drink with most of them. Heis free with his money, affable in his manners, innocent in hisconversation--but through the placid stream of his life thereglides an under-current of forefinger.Time and place cannot bind Mr. Bucket. Like man in the abstract,he is here to-day and gone to-morrow--but, very unlike man indeed,he is here again the next day. This evening he will be casuallylooking into the iron extinguishers at the door of Sir LeicesterDedlock's house in town; and to-morrow morning he will be walkingon the leads at Chesney Wold, where erst the old man walked whoseghost is propitiated with a hundred guineas. Drawers, desks,pockets, all things belonging to him, Mr. Bucket examines. A fewhours afterwards, he and the Roman will be alone together comparingforefingers.It is likely that these occupations are irreconcilable with homeenjoyment, but it is certain that Mr. Bucket at present does not gohome. Though in general he highly appreciates the society of Mrs.Bucket--a lady of a natural detective genius, which if it had beenimproved by professional exercise, might have done great things,but which has paused at the level of a clever amateur--he holdshimself aloof from that dear solace. Mrs. Bucket is dependent ontheir lodger (fortunately an amiable lady in whom she takes aninterest) for companionship and conversation.A great crowd assembles in Lincoln's Inn Fields on the day of thefuneral. Sir Leicester Dedlock attends the ceremony in person;strictly speaking, there are only three other human followers, thatis to say, Lord Doodle, William Buffy, and the debilitated cousin(thrown in as a make-weight), but the amount of inconsolablecarriages is immense. The peerage contributes more four-wheeledaffliction than has ever been seen in that neighbourhood. Such isthe assemblage of armorial bearings on coach panels that theHerald's College might be supposed to have lost its father andmother at a blow. The Duke of Foodle sends a splendid pile of dustand ashes, with silver wheel-boxes, patent axles, all the lastimprovements, and three bereaved worms, six feet high, holding onbehind, in a bunch of woe. All the state coachmen in London seemplunged into mourning; and if that dead old man of the rusty garbbe not beyond a taste in horseflesh (which appears impossible), itmust be highly gratified this day.Quiet among the undertakers and the equipages and the calves of somany legs all steeped in grief, Mr. Bucket sits concealed in one ofthe inconsolable carriages and at his ease surveys the crowdthrough the lattice blinds. He has a keen eye for a crowd--as forwhat not?--and looking here and there, now from this side of thecarriage, now from the other, now up at the house windows, nowalong the people's heads, nothing escapes him."And there you are, my partner, eh?" says Mr. Bucket to himself,apostrophizing Mrs. Bucket, stationed, by his favour, on the stepsof the deceased's house. "And so you are. And so you are! Andvery well indeed you are looking, Mrs. Bucket!"The procession has not started yet, but is waiting for the cause ofits assemblage to be brought out. Mr. Bucket, in the foremostemblazoned carriage, uses his two fat forefingers to hold thelattice a hair's breadth open while he looks.And it says a great deal for his attachment, as a husband, that heis still occupied with Mrs. B. "There you are, my partner, eh?" hemurmuringly repeats. "And our lodger with you. I'm taking noticeof you, Mrs. Bucket; I hope you're all right in your health, mydear!"Not another word does Mr. Bucket say, but sits with most attentiveeyes until the sacked depository of noble secrets is brought down--Where are all those secrets now? Does he keep them yet? Did theyfly with him on that sudden journey?--and until the processionmoves, and Mr. Bucket's view is changed. After which he composeshimself for an easy ride and takes note of the fittings of thecarriage in case he should ever find such knowledge useful.Contrast enough between Mr. Tulkinghorn shut up in his darkcarriage and Mr. Bucket shut up in his. Between the immeasurabletrack of space beyond the little wound that has thrown the one intothe fixed sleep which jolts so heavily over the stones of thestreets, and the narrow track of blood which keeps the other in thewatchful state expressed in every hair of his head! But it is allone to both; neither is troubled about that.Mr. Bucket sits out the procession in his own easy manner andglides from the carriage when the opportunity he has settled withhimself arrives. He makes for Sir Leicester Dedlock's, which is atpresent a sort of home to him, where he comes and goes as he likesat all hours', where he is always welcome and made much of, wherehe knows the whole establishment, and walks in an atmosphere ofmysterious greatness.No knocking or ringing for Mr. Bucket. He has caused himself to beprovided with a key and can pass in at his pleasure. As he iscrossing the hall, Mercury informs him, "Here's another letter foryou, Mr. Bucket, come by post," and gives it him."Another one, eh?" says Mr. Bucket.If Mercury should chance to be possessed by any lingering curiosityas to Mr. Bucket's letters, that wary person is not the man togratify it. Mr. Bucket looks at him as if his face were a vista ofsome miles in length and he were leisurely contemplating the same."Do you happen to carry a box?" says Mr. Bucket.Unfortunately Mercury is no snuff-taker."Could you fetch me a pinch from anywheres?" says Mr. Bucket."Thankee. It don't matter what it is; I'm not particular as to thekind. Thankee!"Having leisurely helped himself from a canister borrowed fromsomebody downstairs for the purpose, and having made a considerableshow of tasting it, first with one side of his nose and then withthe other, Mr. Bucket, with much deliberation, pronounces it of theright sort and goes on, letter in hand.Now although Mr. Bucket walks upstairs to the little library withinthe larger one with the face of a man who receives some scores ofletters every day, it happens that much correspondence is notincidental to his life. He is no great scribe, rather handling hispen like the pocket-staff he carries about with him alwaysconvenient to his grasp, and discourages correspondence withhimself in others as being too artless and direct a way of doingdelicate business. Further, he often sees damaging lettersproduced in evidence and has occasion to reflect that it was agreen thing to write them. For these reasons he has very little todo with letters, either as sender or receiver. And yet he hasreceived a round half-dozen within the last twenty-four hours."And this," says Mr. Bucket, spreading it out on the table, "is inthe same hand, and consists of the same two words."What two words?He turns the key in the door, ungirdles his black pocket-book (bookof fate to many), lays another letter by it, and reads, boldlywritten in each, "Lady Dedlock.""Yes, yes," says Mr. Bucket. "But I could have made the moneywithout this anonymous information."Having put the letters in his book of fate and girdled it up again,he unlocks the door just in time to admit his dinner, which isbrought upon a goodly tray with a decanter of sherry. Mr. Bucketfrequently observes, in friendly circles where there is norestraint, that he likes a toothful of your fine old brown EastInder sherry better than anything you can offer him. Consequentlyhe fills and empties his glass with a smack of his lips and isproceeding with his refreshment when an idea enters his mind.Mr. Bucket softly opens the door of communication between that roomand the next and looks in. The library is deserted, and the fireis sinking low. Mr. Bucket's eye, after taking a pigeon-flightround the room, alights upon a table where letters are usually putas they arrive. Several letters for Sir Leicester are upon it.Mr. Bucket draws near and examines the directions. "No," he says,"there's none in that hand. It's only me as is written to. I canbreak it to Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, to-morrow."With that he returns to finish his dinner with a good appetite, andafter a light nap, is summoned into the drawing-room. SirLeicester has received him there these several evenings past toknow whether he has anything to report. The debilitated cousin(much exhausted by the funeral) and Volumnia are in attendance.Mr. Bucket makes three distinctly different bows to these threepeople. A bow of homage to Sir Leicester, a bow of gallantry toVolumnia, and a bow of recognition to the debilitated Cousin, towhom it airily says, "You are a swell about town, and you know me,and I know you." Having distributed these little specimens of histact, Mr. Bucket rubs his hands."Have you anything new to communicate, officer?" inquires SirLeicester. "Do you wish to hold any conversation with me inprivate?""Why--not tonight, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.""Because my time," pursues Sir Leicester, "is wholly at yourdisposal with a view to the vindication of the outraged majesty ofthe law."Mr. Bucket coughs and glances at Volumnia, rouged and necklaced, asthough he would respectfully observe, "I do assure you, you're apretty creetur. I've seen hundreds worse looking at your time oflife, I have indeed."The fair Volumnia, not quite unconscious perhaps of the humanizinginfluence of her charms, pauses in the writing of cocked-hat notesand meditatively adjusts the pearl necklace. Mr. Bucket pricesthat decoration in his mind and thinks it as likely as not thatVolumnia is writing poetry."If I have not," pursues Sir Leicester, "in the most emphaticmanner, adjured you, officer, to exercise your utmost skill in thisatrocious case, I particularly desire to take the presentopportunity of rectifying any omission I may have made. Let noexpense be a consideration. I am prepared to defray all charges.You can incur none in pursuit of the object you have undertakenthat I shall hesitate for a moment to bear."Mr. Bucket made Sir Leicester's bow again as a response to thisliberality."My mind," Sir Leicester adds with a generous warmth, "has not, asmay be easily supposed, recovered its tone since the latediabolical occurrence. It is not likely ever to recover its tone.But it is full of indignation to-night after undergoing the ordealof consigning to the tomb the remains of a faithful, a zealous, adevoted adherent."Sir Leicester's voice trembles and his grey hair stirs upon hishead. Tears are in his eyes; the best part of his nature isaroused."I declare," he says, "I solemnly declare that until this crime isdiscovered and, in the course of justice, punished, I almost feelas if there were a stain upon my name. A gentleman who has devoteda large portion of his life to me, a gentleman who has devoted thelast day of his life to me, a gentleman who has constantly sat atmy table and slept under my roof, goes from my house to his own,and is struck down within an hour of his leaving my house. Icannot say but that he may have been followed from my house,watched at my house, even first marked because of his associationwith my house--which may have suggested his possessing greaterwealth and being altogether of greater importance than his ownretiring demeanour would have indicated. If I cannot with my meansand influence and my position bring all the perpetrators of such acrime to light, I fail in the assertion of my respect for thatgentleman's memory and of my fidelity towards one who was everfaithful to me."While he makes this protestation with great emotion andearnestness, looking round the room as if he were addressing anassembly, Mr. Bucket glances at him with an observant gravity inwhich there might be, but for the audacity of the thought, a touchof compassion."The ceremony of to-day," continues Sir Leicester, "strikinglyillustrative of the respect in which my deceased friend"--he lays astress upon the word, for death levels all distinctions--"was heldby the flower of the land, has, I say, aggravated the shock I havereceived from this most horrible and audacious crime. If it weremy brother who had committed it, I would not spare him."Mr. Bucket looks very grave. Volumnia remarks of the deceased thathe was the trustiest and dearest person!"You must feel it as a deprivation to you, miss, replies Mr. Bucketsoothingly, "no doubt. He was calculated to be a deprivation, I'msure he was."Volumnia gives Mr. Bucket to understand, in reply, that hersensitive mind is fully made up never to get the better of it aslong as she lives, that her nerves are unstrung for ever, and thatshe has not the least expectation of ever smiling again. Meanwhileshe folds up a cocked hat for that redoubtable old general at Bath,descriptive of her melancholy condition."It gives a start to a delicate female," says Mr. Bucketsympathetically, "but it'll wear off."Volumnia wishes of all things to know what is doing? Whether theyare going to convict, or whatever it is, that dreadful soldier?Whether he had any accomplices, or whatever the thing is called inthe law? And a great deal more to the like artless purpose."Why you see, miss," returns Mr. Bucket, bringing the finger intopersuasive action--and such is his natural gallantry that he hadalmost said "my dear"--"it ain't easy to answer those questions atthe present moment. Not at the present moment. I've kept myselfon this case, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," whom Mr. Buckettakes into the conversation in right of his importance, "morning,noon, and night. But for a glass or two of sherry, I don't think Icould have had my mind so much upon the stretch as it has been. Icould answer your questions, miss, but duty forbids it. SirLeicester Dedlock, Baronet, will very soon be made acquainted withall that has been traced. And I hope that he may find it"--Mr.Bucket again looks grave--"to his satisfaction."The debilitated cousin only hopes some fler'll be executed--zample.Thinks more interest's wanted--get man hanged presentime--than getman place ten thousand a year. Hasn't a doubt--zample--far betterhang wrong fler than no fler."You know life, you know, sir," says Mr. Bucket with acomplimentary twinkle of his eye and crook of his finger, "and youcan confirm what I've mentioned to this lady. You don't want to betold that from information I have received I have gone to work.You're up to what a lady can't be expected to be up to. Lord!Especially in your elevated station of society, miss," says Mr.Bucket, quite reddening at another narrow escape from "my dear.""The officer, Volumnia," observes Sir Leicester, "is faithful tohis duty, and perfectly right."Mr. Bucket murmurs, "Glad to have the honour of your approbation,Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet.""In fact, Volumnia," proceeds Sir Leicester, "it is not holding upa good model for imitation to ask the officer any such questions asyou have put to him. He is the best judge of his ownresponsibility; he acts upon his responsibility. And it does notbecome us, who assist in making the laws, to impede or interferewith those who carry them into execution. Or," says Sir Leicestersomewhat sternly, for Volumnia was going to cut in before he hadrounded his sentence, "or who vindicate their outraged majesty."Volumnia with all humility explains that she had not merely theplea of curiosity to urge (in common with the giddy youth of hersex in general) but that she is perfectly dying with regret andinterest for the darling man whose loss they all deplore."Very well, Volumnia," returns Sir Leicester. "Then you cannot betoo discreet."Mr. Bucket takes the opportunity of a pause to be heard again."Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I have no objections to tellingthis lady, with your leave and among ourselves, that I look uponthe case as pretty well complete. It is a beautiful case--abeautiful case--and what little is wanting to complete it, I expectto be able to supply in a few hours.""I am very glad indeed to hear it," says Sir Leicester. "Highlycreditable to you.""Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet," returns Mr. Bucket veryseriously, "I hope it may at one and the same time do me credit andprove satisfactory to all. When I depict it as a beautiful case,you see, miss," Mr. Bucket goes on, glancing gravely at SirLeicester, "I mean from my point of view. As considered from otherpoints of view, such cases will always involve more or lessunpleasantness. Very strange things comes to our knowledge infamilies, miss; bless your heart, what you would think to bephenomenons, quite."Volumnia, with her innocent little scream, supposes so."Aye, and even in gen-teel families, in high families, in greatfamilies," says Mr. Bucket, again gravely eyeing Sir Leicesteraside. "I have had the honour of being employed in high familiesbefore, and you have no idea--come, I'll go so far as to say noteven you have any idea, sir," this to the debilitated cousin, "whatgames goes on!"The cousin, who has been casting sofa-pillows on his head, in aprostration of boredom yawns, "Vayli," being the used-up for "verylikely."Sir Leicester, deeming it time to dismiss the officer, heremajestically interposes with the words, "Very good. Thank you!"and also with a wave of his hand, implying not only that there isan end of the discourse, but that if high families fall into lowhabits they must take the consequences. "You will not forget,officer," he adds with condescension, "that I am at your disposalwhen you please."Mr. Bucket (still grave) inquires if to-morrow morning, now, wouldsuit, in case he should be as for'ard as he expects to be. SirLeicester replies, "All times are alike to me." Mr. Bucket makeshis three bows and is withdrawing when a forgotten point occurs tohim."Might I ask, by the by," he says in a low voice, cautiouslyreturning, "who posted the reward-bill on the staircase.""I ordered it to be put up there," replies Sir Leicester."Would it be considered a liberty, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,if I was to ask you why?""Not at all. I chose it as a conspicuous part of the house. Ithink it cannot be too prominently kept before the wholeestablishment. I wish my people to be impressed with the enormityof the crime, the determination to punish it, and the hopelessnessof escape. At the same time, officer, if you in your betterknowledge of the subject see any objection--"Mr. Bucket sees none now; the bill having been put up, had betternot be taken down. Repeating his three bows he withdraws, closingthe door on Volumnia's little scream, which is a preliminary to herremarking that that charmingly horrible person is a perfect BlueChamber.In his fondness for society and his adaptability to all grades, Mr.Bucket is presently standing before the hall-fire--bright and warmon the early winter night--admiring Mercury."Why, you're six foot two, I suppose?" says Mr. Bucket."Three," says Mercury."Are you so much? But then, you see, you're broad in proportionand don't look it. You're not one of the weak-legged ones, youain't. Was you ever modelled now?" Mr. Bucket asks, conveying theexpression of an artist into the turn of his eye and head.Mercury never was modelled."Then you ought to be, you know," says Mr. Bucket; "and a friend ofmine that you'll hear of one day as a Royal Academy sculptor wouldstand something handsome to make a drawing of your proportions forthe marble. My Lady's out, ain't she?""Out to dinner.""Goes out pretty well every day, don't she?""Yes.""Not to be wondered at!" says Mr. Bucket. "Such a fine woman asher, so handsome and so graceful and so elegant, is like a freshlemon on a dinner-table, ornamental wherever she goes. Was yourfather in the same way of life as yourself?"Answer in the negative."Mine was," says Mr. Bucket. "My father was first a page, then afootman, then a butler, then a steward, then an inn-keeper. Liveduniversally respected, and died lamented. Said with his lastbreath that he considered service the most honourable part of hiscareer, and so it was. I've a brother in service, and a brother-in-law. My Lady a good temper?"Mercury replies, "As good as you can expect.""Ah!" says Mr. Bucket. "A little spoilt? A little capricious?Lord! What can you anticipate when they're so handsome as that?And we like 'em all the better for it, don't we?"Mercury, with his hands in the pockets of his bright peach-blossomsmall-clothes, stretches his symmetrical silk legs with the air ofa man of gallantry and can't deny it. Come the roll of wheels anda violent ringing at the bell. "Talk of the angels," says Mr.Bucket. "Here she is!"The doors are thrown open, and she passes through the hall. Stillvery pale, she is dressed in slight mourning and wears twobeautiful bracelets. Either their beauty or the beauty of her armsis particularly attractive to Mr. Bucket. He looks at them with aneager eye and rattles something in his pocket--halfpence perhaps.Noticing him at his distance, she turns an inquiring look on theother Mercury who has brought her home."Mr. Bucket, my Lady."Mr. Bucket makes a leg and comes forward, passing his familiardemon over the region of his mouth."Are you waiting to see Sir Leicester?""No, my Lady, I've seen him!""Have you anything to say to me?""Not just at present, my Lady.""Have you made any new discoveries?""A few, my Lady."This is merely in passing. She scarcely makes a stop, and sweepsupstairs alone. Mr. Bucket, moving towards the staircase-foot,watches her as she goes up the steps the old man came down to hisgrave, past murderous groups of statuary repeated with theirshadowy weapons on the wall, past the printed bill, which she looksat going by, out of view."She's a lovely woman, too, she really is," says Mr. Bucket, comingback to Mercury. "Don't look quite healthy though."Is not quite healthy, Mercury informs him. Suffers much fromheadaches.Really? That's a pity! Walking, Mr. Bucket would recommend forthat. Well, she tries walking, Mercury rejoins. Walks sometimesfor two hours when she has them bad. By night, too."Are you sure you're quite so much as six foot three?" asks Mr.Bucket. "Begging your pardon for interrupting you a moment?"Not a doubt about it."You're so well put together that I shouldn't have thought it. Butthe household troops, though considered fine men, are built sostraggling. Walks by night, does she? When it's moonlight,though?"Oh, yes. When it's moonlight! Of course. Oh, of course!Conversational and acquiescent on both sides."I suppose you ain't in the habit of walking yourself?" says Mr.Bucket. "Not much time for it, I should say?"Besides which, Mercury don't like it. Prefers carriage exercise."To be sure," says Mr. Bucket. "That makes a difference. Now Ithink of it," says Mr. Bucket, warming his hands and lookingpleasantly at the blaze, "she went out walking the very night ofthis business.""To be sure she did! I let her into the garden over the way."And left her there. Certainly you did. I saw you doing it.""I didn't see you," says Mercury."I was rather in a hurry," returns Mr. Bucket, "for I was going tovisit a aunt of mine that lives at Chelsea--next door but two tothe old original Bun House--ninety year old the old lady is, asingle woman, and got a little property. Yes, I chanced to bepassing at the time. Let's see. What time might it be? It wasn'tten.""Half-past nine.""You're right. So it was. And if I don't deceive myself, my Ladywas muffled in a loose black mantle, with a deep fringe to it?""Of course she was."Of course she was. Mr. Bucket must return to a little work he hasto get on with upstairs, but he must shake hands with Mercury inacknowledgment of his agreeable conversation, and will he--this isall he asks--will he, when he has a leisure half-hour, think ofbestowing it on that Royal Academy sculptor, for the advantage ofboth parties?