Complete Works of Wilkie Collins (1757 page)

In place of luggage, fragments of broken steam carriages, and red carpet bags filled with other mementos of railway accidents, occupied the roof. Chance passengers appeared to be the only tenants of the outside places. In front sat Julius Caesar and Mrs. Hannah Moore; and behind, Sir Joseph Banks and Mrs. Brownrigge. Of all the “insides” I could, I grieve to say, see nothing.

On the box was a little man with fuzzy hair and large iron grey whiskers; clothed in a coat of engineers’ skin, with gloves of the hide of railway police. He pulled up opposite my friend, and bowing profoundly motioned him to the box seat.

A gleam of unutterable joy irradiated the Stage Coachman’s countenance, as be stepped lightly into his place, seized the reins, and with one hearty “good night,” addressed to an imaginary inn-f of people, started the horses.

Off they drove! my friend in the plenitude of his satisfaction cracking the whip every instant as he drove the phantom coach into the air. And amidst the shrieks of the railway directors at the wheel, the groans of
James Watt
, the bugle of the guard, and the tremendous cursing of the invisible “insides,” fast and furiously disappeared from my eyes.

The story first appeared in a French translation in the 1883 Christmas edition of Le Figaro Illustré and in the Christmas edition of The Pictorial World in London. It was reprinted in the Seaside Library in new York and later appeared in Love’s Random Shot and Other Stories by Wilkie Collins (New York: George Munro’s Sons, 1894).
 
In January 1887 Collins wrote a note concerning ‘The Devil’s Spectacles’, ‘Love’s Random Shot’ and ‘Fie! Fie! Or, the Fair Physician’:
 
“These stories have served their purpose in periodicals, but are not worthy of republication in book form. They were written in a hurry, and the sooner they are drowned in the waters of oblivion the better. I desire that they shall not be republished after my death.”

I

The scene is a famous city in Scotland.

The chief personage is the best police-officer we had in the time when I served the office of Sheriff.

He was an old man, about to retire on a well-earned pension at the period of his life to which my narrative refers. A theft of a priceless picture, which had escaped discovery by the other members of our police force, roused old Benjamin Parley to exert himself for the last time. The money motive was not the motive that mainly influenced him, although the large reward originally offered for the recovery of the picture had been doubled. ‘If the rest of you can’t find the thief,’ he said, ‘I must take the case in hand, for the honour of Scotland.’

Having arrived at this decision, Parley presented himself at my house. I gave him a letter of introduction to the proprietor of the picture — then on the point of applying for help to London.

You have heard of Lord Dalton’s famous gallery. A Madonna, by Raphael, was the gem of the collection. Early one morning the servants discovered the empty frame, without finding a trace of the means by which the audacious robbery had been committed. Having allowed our veteran officer to make his own preliminary investigations, my lord (a man of rare ability and of marked originality of character) was at once impressed by the startling novelty of the conclusion at which Parley arrived, and by the daring nature of the plan that he devised for solving the mystery of the theft.

Lord Dalton pointed to a letter on his library table, addressed to the Chief of the London Detective Police Force.

‘I will delay posting this for a week,’ he said. ‘If, at the end of the time, you send me a sufficiently encouraging first report, the case shall be left unreservedly in your hands.’

At the end of the week the report was sent in. Lord Dalton first destroyed his letter to London, and then spoke to Parley on the subject of the reward.

‘As a well-informed police-officer,’ he said, ‘you are no doubt aware that I am one of the three richest men in Scotland. Have you also heard that I am a stingy man?’

‘I have heard exactly the contrary, my lord,’ Parley answered, with perfect truth.

‘Very good. You will be inclined to believe me, when I tell you that the money value of my picture (large as it may be) is the least part of its value in my estimation. The sheriff tells me that you have a wife and two daughters at home, and that you were about to retire on a pension when you offered your services. At your age, I must take that circumstance into consideration. Do you mind telling me what income you have to look forward to; adding your other pecuniary resources (if you have any) to your pension?’

Parley answered the question without hesitation, and without reserve. Ha was not an easy man to astonish; but Lord Dalton’s next words literally struck him speechless.

‘Put my Raphael back in the frame, within a month from this day,’ said his lordship, ‘and I will treble your income, and secure it to your widow and children after you.’

In less than three weeks from that date, Benjamin Parley (just arrived from Brussels) walked into the picture gallery, and put the Raphael back into the frame with his own hands. He refused to say how he had recovered the picture. But he announced, with an appearance of self-reproach which entirely failed to deceive Lord Dalton, the disastrous escape of his prisoner on the journey to Scotland. At a later period, scandal whispered that this same prisoner was a vagabond member of my lord’s family, and that Parley’s success had been due, in the first instance, to his wise courage in daring to suspect a nobleman’s relative. I don’t know what your experience may be. For my own part, I have now and then found scandal building on a well-secured foundation.

I
I

In relating the circumstances which made the generous nobleman and the skilled police-officer acquainted with each other, I have borne in mind certain results, the importance of which you have yet to estimate. The day on which Benjamin Parley received his magnificent reward proved to be the fatal day in his life.

He had originally planned to retire to the village in Perthshire in which he had been born. Being now possessed of an income which enabled him to indulge the ambition of his wife and daughters, it was decided that he should fix his residence in one of the suburbs of the city. Mrs Parley and her two girls, established in ‘a genteel villa,’ assumed the position of ‘ladies’; and old Benjamin, when time hung heavy on his hands, was within half an hour’s walk of his colleagues in the police force. ‘But for my lord’s generosity,’ his wife remarked, ‘he would not have had the resource. If we had gone to Perthshire, he would never, in all likelihood, have seen our city again.’

To give you some idea of this poor fellow’s excellent character, and of the high estimation in which he was deservedly held, I may mention that his retirement was celebrated by the presentation of a testimonial. It assumed the quaint form of a receipted bill, representing the expenses incurred in furnishing his new house. I took the chair at the meeting. The landed gentry, the lawyers, and the merchants were present in large numbers; all equally desirous of showing their respect for a man who, in a position beset by temptations, had set an example of incorruptible integrity from first to last.

Some family troubles of mine, at that time, obliged me to apply for leave of absence. For two months my duties were performed by deputy.

Examining the letters and cards which covered the study-table on my return, I found a morsel of paper with some lines of writing on it in pencil, signed by Parley’s wife. ‘When you can spare a little time, sir, pray be so good as to let me say a word to you — at your house.’

The handwriting showed plain signs of agitation; and the last three words were underlined. Was the good woman burdened with a domestic secret? and were her husband and children not admitted to her confidence?

I was so busily occupied, after my absence, that I could only make an appointment to see Mrs Parley at my breakfast time. The hour was so early that she would be sure to find me alone.

The moment she entered the room I saw a change in her, which prepared me for something serious. It may be, perhaps, desirable to add, by way explaining a certain tendency to excitement and exaggeration in Mrs Parley’s ways of thinking and speaking, that she was a Welsh woman.

‘Is there anything wrong at home?’ I asked.

She began to cry. ‘You know how proud I was, sir, of our grand house, and our splendid income. I wish we had gone where we first thought of going — hundred, of miles away from this place! I wish Parley had never seen his lordship, and never earned the great reward!’

‘You don’t mean to tell me,’I said, ‘that you and your husband have quarrelled?’

‘Worse, sir, — worse than that. Parley is so changed that my own husband is like a stranger to me. For God’s sake, don’t mention it! In your old age, after sleeping together for thirty years and more, I’m cast off. Parley has his bedroom, and I have mine!’ She looked at me — and blushed. At nearly sixty years of age, the poor creature blushed like a young girl!

It is needless to say that the famous question of the French philosopher was on the tip of my tongue: ‘Who is she?’ But I owed it to Parley’s unblemished reputation to hesitate before I committed myself to a positive opinion. The question of the beds was clearly beyond the reach of my interference. ‘In what other ways does Parley seem to be changed?’ I inquired.

‘Seem?’ she repeated. ‘Why even the girls notice it! They their father doesn’t care about them now. And it’s true! In our present prosperity, we can afford to pay a governess; and when we first settled in the new house, Parley agreed with me that the poor things ought to be better educated. He has lost all interest in their welfare. If I only mention the matter now, he says, “Oh! bother!” and discourages me in that way. You know, sir, he always dressed respectably, according to his station and time of life. That’s all altered now. He has gone to a new tailor; he wears smart cutaway coats, like the young men; I found an elastic belt among his clothes — the sort of thing they advertise to keep down fat, and preserve the figure. You were so kind as to give him a snuff-box, on his last birthday. It’s of no more use to him now. Benjamin has given up taking snuff.’

Here I thought it desirable, in the interests of good Mrs Parley herself, to bring the recital of her grievances to a close. The domestic situation (to speak the language of the stage) was more than sufficiently revealed to me. After an exemplary life, the model husband and father had fallen in the way of one of those temptations which are especially associated with the streets of a great city — and had yielded at the end of his career. A disastrous downfall; not altogether without precedent in the history of frail humanity, even at the wintry period of life! I was sorry, truly sorry; but in my position what could I do?

‘I am at your service,’ I said, ‘if you will only tell me how I can advise you.’

‘Some hussy has got hold of Benjamin!’ cried the poor woman. ‘And I don’t know where to find her. What am I to do? Benjamin’s too deep for me — I believe I shall go mad!’

She fell back on her chair, and began to beat her hands on her lap. If I permitted this hysterical agitation to proceed in its usual course of development, the household would be alarmed by an outburst of screaming. There was but one way of composing Mrs Parley, and I took it.