Great detective stories from Dickens to Gaboriau

Front matter

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Foreword

I N pursuance of our original plan to present the detective-story, either as fact or fiction, in due chronological sequence, we offer in our second vol¬ ume a condensed version of three great master¬ pieces: “ Bleak House ’’ by Charles Dickens, The Moonstone ” by Wilkie Collins, and “ File No. 113 by Gaboriau.

Even the reader who is more or less familiar with Dickens’ perhaps greatest work, will find the sheer detective motive which is the plot — stripped of all extraneous details — absorbing reading. The same holds equally true regarding Wilkie Collins’ long novel “ The Moonstone.” “ File No. 113,” a masterpiece of sheer detective story-telling, is not necessarily so highly condensed in the present ver¬ sion. Gaboriau devoted a short but very laborious life to the long detective-story and has been called in consequence the father of the detective-novel.” Certainly in the present instance he divides his honors with two of the greatest masters of English fiction.

Joseph Lewis French

CHARLES DICKENS

J^LEAK House which according to some authorx) ities shares with David Copperfield the honor of being Dickens' masterpiece is, so jar as the plot is concerned, purely a detective-story. An atmos¬ phere which enshrouds some great mystery haunts the reader from the moment Lady Dedlock, one of the three principal characters, appears on the scene. The shadow grows and deepens as the narrative unfolds with all the art of which Dickens was so supreme a master. Finally at just the proper moment of suspense Inspector Bucket is intro¬ duced — and the thrilling denouement — one of the most remarkable in all literature, — be¬ gins. The creation of Inspector Bucket was a labor of love in the hands of Dickens, who drew the por¬ trait from a very intimate friend with whom he often explored Darkest London — Inspector Field of the Metropolitan Police Force. What an admir¬ able union of qualities meets in Inspector Bucket! Coolness, sagacity, shrewd reasoning powers, unique deductive genius, combined with a courtesy that could captivate a lord, and the courage of a whole squadron of tried veterans. It is entirely conceiv¬ able that these were the personal traits of the origi¬ nal. We have as a result on the whole a living picture of a very human and likable person, — per¬ haps the most so in all detective litera¬ ture. — Editor.

From “ Bleak House.”

CHARLES DICKENS OLUMNIA, LADY DEDLOCK, has returned

▼ to her house in town for a few days previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship in¬ tends to stay some weeks; after which her move¬ ments are uncertain. The fashionable intelligence says so, for the comfort of the Parisians, and it knows all fashionable things. To know things otherwise, were to be unfashionable. My Lady Dedlock has been down at what she calls, in famil¬ iar conversation, her ‘‘ place ” in Lincolnshire.

Sir Leicester Dedlock is only a baronet, but there is no mightier baronet than he. His family is as old as the hills, and infinitely more respect¬ able. He has a general opinion that the world might get on without hills, but would be done up without Dedlocks. He would on the whole admit Nature to be a good idea (a little low, perhaps, when not inclosed with a park-fence), but an idea dependent for its execution on your great county families. He is a gentleman of strict conscience, disdainful of all littleness and meanness, and ready, on the shortest notice, to die any death you may please to mention rather than give occasion for the least impeachment of his integrity. He is an honor¬ able, obstinate, truthful, high-spirited, intensely prejudiced, perfectly unreasonable man.

Sir Leicester is twenty years, full measure, older than my lady. He will never see sixty-five again, nor perhaps sixty-six, nor yet sixty-seven. He has a twist of the gout now and then, and walks a little stiffly. He is of worthy presence, with his light gray hair and whiskers, his fine shirt-frill, his pure white waistcoat, and his blue coat with bright buttons always buttoned. He is ceremonious, stately, most polite on every occasion to my Lady, and holds her personal attractions in the highest estimation. His gallantry to my Lady, which has never changed since he courted her, is the one little touch of romantic fancy in him.

Indeed, he married her for love. A whisper still goes about, that she had not even family; howbeit. Sir Leicester had so much family that perhaps he had enough, and could dispense with any more. But she had beauty, pride, ambition, insolent re¬ solve, and sense enough to portion out a legion of fine ladies. Wealth and station, added to these, soon floated her upward; and for years, now, my

Lady Dedlock has been at the center of the fashion¬ able intelligence, and at the top of the fashionable tree.

How Alexander wept when he had no more worlds to conquer, everybody knows — or has some reason to know by this time, the matter having been rather frequently mentioned. My Lady Ded¬ lock, having conquered her world, fell, not into the melting, but rather into the freezing mood. An exhausted composure, a worn-out placidity, an equanimity of fatigue not to be ruffled by interest or satisfaction, are the trophies of her victory. She is perfectly well-bred. If she could be trans¬ lated to Heaven to-morrow, she might be ex¬ pected to ascend without any rapture.

She has beauty still, and if it be not in its hey¬ day, it is not yet in its autumn. She has a fine face — originally of a character that would be rather called very pretty than handsome, but im¬ proved into classicality by the acquired expression of her fashionable state. Her figure is elegant, and has the effect of being tall. Not that she is so, but that “ the most is made,’^ as the Honorable Bob Stables has frequently asserted upon oath, “ of all her points.’^ The same authority observes, that she is perfectly got up; and remarks, in commendation of her hair especially, that she is the best-groomed woman in the whole stud.

With all her perfections on her head, my Lady Dedlock has come up from her place in Lincoln¬ shire (hotly pursued by the fashionable intelli¬ gence), to pass a few days at her house in town previous to her departure for Paris, where her ladyship intends to stay some weeks, after which her movements are uncertain. And at her house in town, upon this muddy, murky afternoon, pre¬ sents himself an old-fashioned old gentleman, at¬ torney-at-law, and eke solicitor of the High Court of Chancery, who has the honor of acting as legal adviser of the Dedlocks and has as many castiron boxes in his office with that name outside, as if the present baronet were the coin of the con¬ juror’s trick, and were constantly being juggled through the whole set. Across the hall, and up the stairs, and along the passages, and through the rooms, which are very brilliant in the season and very dismal out of it — Fairy-land to visit, but a desert to live in — the old gentleman is conducted, by a Mercury in powder, to my Lady’s presence.

The old gentleman is rusty to look at, but is reputed to have made good thrift out of aristo¬ cratic marriage settlements and aristocratic wills, and to be very rich. He is surrounded by a mys¬ terious halo of family confidences; of which he is known to be the silent depository. There are noble

Mausoleums rooted for centuries in retired glades of parks, among the growing timber and the fern, which perhaps hold fewer noble secrets than walk abroad among men, shut up in the breast of Mr. Tulkinghorn. He is of what is called the old school — a phrase generally meaning any school that seems never to have been young — and wears knee breeches tied with ribbons, and gaiters or stock¬ ings. One peculiarity of his black clothes, and of his black stockings, be they silk or worsted, is that they never shine. Mute, close, irresponsive to any glancing light, his dress is like himself. He never converses, when not professionally consulted. He is found sometimes, speechless but quite at home, at corners of dinner-tables in great country houses, and near doors of drawing-rooms, concerning which the fashionable intelligence is eloquent: where every¬ body knows him, and where half the Peerage stops to say “ How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn? ” He receives these salutations with gravity, and buries them along with the rest of his knowledge.

Sir Leicester Dedlock is with my Lady, and is happy to see Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“ My Lady’s cause has been again before the Chancellor, has it, Mr. Tulkinghorn? ” says Sir Leicester, giving him his hand.

“ Yes. It has been on again to-day,” Mr. Tulkinghorn replies, making one of his quiet bows to my Lady who is on a sofa near the fire, shading her face with a hand-screen.

“ It would be useless to ask,” says my Lady, “ whether anything has been done.”

“ Nothing that you would call anything, has been done to-day,” replies Mr. Tulkinghorn.

“ Nor ever will be,” says my Lady.

Sir Leicester has no objection to an intermin¬ able Chancery suit. It is a slow, expensive, British, constitutional kind of thing. To be sure, he has not a vital interest in the suit in question, her part in which was the only property my Lady brought him; and he has a shadowy impression that for his name — the name of Dedlock — to be in a cause, and not in the title of that cause is a most ridicu¬ lous accident. But he regards the Court of Chan¬ cery, even if it should involve an occasional delay of justice and a trifling amount of confusion, as a something, devised in conjunction with a variety of other somethings, by the perfection of human wisdom, for the eternal settlement (humanly speak¬ ing) of everything.

As a few fresh affidavits have been put upon the file,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, “ and as they are short, and as I proceed upon the troublesome principle of begging leave to possess my clients with any new proceedings in a cause; ” cautious man Mr. Tulkinghom, taking no more respon¬ sibility than necessary; “ and further, as I see you are going to Paris; I have brought them in my pocket.

(Sir Leicester was going to Paris too, by-thebye, but the delight of the fashionable intelligence was in his Lady.)

Mr. Tulkinghom takes out his papers, asks per¬ mission to place them on a golden talisman of a table at my Lady’s elbow, puts on his spectacles, and begins to read by the light of a shaded lamp.

“ ‘ In Chancery. Between John Jarndyce-’ ”

My Lady interrupts, requesting him to miss as many of the formal horrors as he can.

Mr. Tulkinghom glances over his spectacles, and begins again lower down. My Lady carelessly and scornfully abstracts her attention. Sir Leicester in a great chair looks at the fire, and appears to have a stately liking for the legal repetitions and prolixities, as ranging among the national bulwarks. It happens that the fire is hot, where my Lady sits; and that the hand-screen is more beautiful than useful, being priceless but small. My Lady, changing her position, sees the papers on the table — looks at them nearer — looks at them nearer still — asks impulsively:

Who copied that? ”

Mr. Tulkinghorn stops short, surprised by my Lady’s animation and her unusual tone.

“ Is it what you people call law-hand? ” she asks, looking full at him in her careless way again, and toying with her screen.

Not quite. Probably ”— Mr. Tulkinghorn ex¬ amines it as he speaks —“ the legal character which it has, was acquired after the original hand was formed. Why do you ask? ”

“ Anything to vary this detestable monotony. O, go on, do! ”

Mr. Tulkinghorn reads again. The heat is greater, my Lady screens her face. Sir Leicester dozes, starts up suddenly, and cries “ Eh? what do you say? ”

“ I say I am afraid,” says Mr. Tulkinghorn, who had risen hastily, that Lady Dedlock is ill.”

“ Faint,” my Lady murmurs, with white lips, ‘‘only that; but it is like the faintness of death. Don’t speak to me. Ring, and take me to my room! ”

Mr. Tulkinghorn retires into another chamber, bells ring, feet shuffle and patter, silence ensues. Mercury at last begs Mr. Tulkinghorn to return.

“ Better now,” quoth Sir Leicester, motioning the lawyer to sit down and read to him alone.