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The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Charles Dickens
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The Mystery of Edwin Drood
Charles Dickens
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A sense of impending evil hovers over a cathedral town, where one man, an outwardly respectable opium addict, is consumed with jealousy over the engagement of his nephew, Edwin Drood, to a lovely young lady. So enraged is he, that he even plots the younger man's murder. But Drood's sudden disappearance halts further scheming and leaves only one big mystery. What happened to Edwin Drood? And what became of his body?
Unfinished at the time of his death, Charles Dickens's intriguing story has become all the more tantalizing for its lack of an ending, leaving a grim puzzle that avid readers, over the years, have tried to solve. A gem for lovers of murder mysteries and the legions of Dickens fans, The Mystery of Edwin Drood remains a gripping and haunting masterpiece.
Unfinished at the time of his death, Charles Dickens's intriguing story has become all the more tantalizing for its lack of an ending, leaving a grim puzzle that avid readers, over the years, have tried to solve. A gem for lovers of murder mysteries and the legions of Dickens fans, The Mystery of Edwin Drood remains a gripping and haunting masterpiece.
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ClassiciCHAPTER I
The Dawn
AN ANCIENT English Cathedral Town? How can the ancient English Cathedral town be here! The well-known massive grey square tower of its old Cathedral? How can that be here! There is no spike of rusty iron in the air, between the eye and it, from any point of the real prospect. What is the spike that intervenes, and who has set it up? Maybe, it is set up by the Sultanās orders for the impaling of a horde of Turkish robbers, one by one. It is so, for cymbals clash, and the Sultan goes by to his palace in long procession. Ten thousand scimitars flash in the sunlight, and thrice ten thousand dancing-girls strew flowers. Then, follow white elephants caparisoned in countless gorgeous colours, and infinite in number and attendants. Still, the Cathedral tower rises in the background, where it cannot be, and still no writhing figure is on the grim spike. Stay! Is the spike so low a thing as the rusty spike on the top of a post of an old bedstead that has tumbled all awry? Some vague period of drowsy laughter must be devoted to the consideration of this possibility.
Shaking from head to foot, the man whose scattered consciousness has thus fantastically pieced itself together, at length rises, supports his trembling frame upon his arms, and looks around. He is in the meanest and closest of small rooms. Through the ragged window-curtain, the light of early day steals in from a miserable court. He lies, dressed, across a large unseemly bed, upon a bedstead that has indeed given way under the weight upon it. Lying, also dressed and also across the bed, not long-wise, are a Chinaman, a Lascar, and a haggard woman. The two first are in a sleep or stupor; the last is blowing at a kind of pipe, to kindle it. And as she blows, and shading it with her lean hand, concentrates its red spark of light, it serves in the dim morning as a lamp to show him what he sees of her.
āAnother?ā says this woman, in a querulous, rattling whisper. āHave another?ā
He looks about him, with his hand to his forehead.
āYeāve smoked as many as five since ye come in at midnight,ā the woman goes on, as she chronically complains. āPoor me, poor me, my head is so bad! Them two come in after ye. Ah, poor me, the business is slack, is slack! Few Chinamen about the Docks, and fewer Lascars, and no ships coming in, these say! Hereās another ready for ye, deary. Yeāll remember like a good soul, wonāt ye, that the market price is dreffle high just now? More than three shillings and sixpence for a thimbleful! And yeāll remember, too, that nobody but me (and Jack Chinaman tāother side the court; but he canāt do it as well as me) has the true secret of mixing it? Yeāll pay up according, deary, wonāt ye?ā
She blows at the pipe as she speaks, and, occasionally bubbling at it, inhales much of its contents.
āOh me, oh me, my lungs is weak, my lungs is bad! Itās nearly ready for ye, deary. Ah, poor me, poor me, my poor hand shakes like to drop off! I see ye coming-to, and I ses to my poor self, āIāll have another ready for him, and heāll bear in mind the market price of opium, and pay according.ā Oh my poor head! I makes my pipes of old penny ink-bottles, ye see, dearyāthis is oneāand I fits in a mouthpiece, this way, and I takes my mixter out of this thimble with this little horn spoon; and so I fills, deary. Ah, my poor nerves! I got Heavens-hard drunk for sixteen year afore I took to this; but this donāt hurt me, not to speak of. And it takes away the hunger as well as wittles, deary.ā
She hands him the nearly-emptied pipe, and sinks back, turning over on her face.
He rises unsteadily from the bed, lays the pipe upon the hearth-stone, draws back the ragged curtain, and looks with repugnance at his three companions. He notices that the woman has opium-smoked herself into a strange likeness of the Chinaman. His form of cheek, eye, and temple, and his colour, are repeated in her. As he lies on his back, the said Chinaman convulsively wrestles with one of his many Gods, or Devils, perhaps, and snarls horribly. The Lascar laughs and dribbles at the mouth. The hostess is still.
āWhat visions can she have?ā the waking man muses, as he turns her face towards him, and stands looking down at it. āVisions of many butchersā shops, and public-houses, and much credit? Of an increase of hideous customers, and this horrible bedstead set upright again, and this horrible court swept clean? What can she rise to, under any quantity of opium, higher than that!āEh?ā
He bends down his ear, to listen to her mutterings.
āUnintelligible!ā
As he watches the spasmodic shoots and darts that break out of her face and limbs, like fitful lightning out of a dark sky, some contagion in them seizes upon him: insomuch that he has to withdraw himself to a lean arm-chair by the hearthāplaced there, perhaps, for such emergenciesāand to sit in it, holding tight, until he has got the better of this unclean spirit of imitation.
Then he comes back, pounces on the Chinaman, and, seizing him with both hands by the throat, turns him violently on the bed. The Chinaman clutches the aggressive hands, resists, gasps, and protests.
āWhat do you say?ā
A watchful pause.
āUnintelligible!ā
Slowly loosening his grasp as he listens to the incoherent jargon with an attentive frown, he turns to the Lascar and fairly drags him forth upon the floor. As he falls, the Lascar starts into a half-risen attitude, glares with his eyes, lashes about him fiercely with his arms, and draws a phantom knife. It then becomes apparent that the woman has taken possession of his knife, for safetyās sake; for, she too starting up, and restraining and expostulating with him, the knife is visible in her dress, not in his, when they drowsily drop back, side by side.
There has been wild chattering and clattering enough between them, but to no purpose. When any distinct word has been flung into the air, it has had no sense or sequence. Wherefore āunintelligible!ā is again the comment of the watcher, made with some reassured nodding of his head, and a gloomy smile. He then lays certain silver money on the table, finds his hat, gropes his way down the broken stairs, gives a good-morning to some rat-ridden doorkeeper, a-bed in a black hutch beneath the stairs, and passes out.
That same afternoon, the massive grey square tower of an old Cathedral rises before the sight of a jaded traveller. The bells are going for daily vesper service, and he must needs attend it, one would say, from his haste to reach the open Cathedral door. The choir are getting on their sullied white robes, in a hurry, when he arrives among them, gets on his own robe, and falls into the procession filing in to service. Then, the Sacristan locks the iron-barred gates that divide the sanctuary from the chancel, and all of the procession having scuttled into their places, hide their faces; and then the intoned words, āWHEN THE WICKED MANāā rise among groins of arches and beams of roof, awakening muttered thunder.
CHAPTER II
A Dean, and a Chapter Also
WHOSOEVER has observed that sedate and clerical bird, the rook, may perhaps have noticed that when he wings his way homeward towards nightfall, in a sedate and clerical company, two rooks will suddenly detach themselves from the rest, will retrace their flight for some distance, and will there poise and linger; conveying to mere men the fancy that it is of some occult importance to the body politic, that this artful couple should pretend to have renounced connection with it.
Similarly, service being over in the old Cathedral with the square tower, and the choir scuffling out again, and divers venerable persons of rook-like aspect dispersing, two of these latter retrace their steps, and walk together in the echoing Close.
Not only is the day waning, but the year. The low sun is fiery and yet cold behind the monastery ruin, and the Virginia creeper on the Cathedral wall has showered half its deep-red leaves down on the pavement. There has been rain this afternoon, and a wintry shudder goes among the little pools on the cracked uneven flagstones, and through the giant elm trees as they shed a gust of tears. Their fallen leaves lie strewn thickly about. Some of these leaves, in a timid rush, seek sanctuary within the low arched Cathedral door; but two men coming out, resist them, and cast them forth again with their feet; this done, one of the two locks the door with a goodly key, and the other flits away with a folio music-book.
āMr. Jasper was that, Tope?ā
āYes, Mr. Dean.ā
āHe has stayed late.ā
āYes, Mr. Dean. I have stayed for him, your Reverence. He has been took a little poorly.ā
āSay ātaken,ā Topeāto the Dean,ā the younger rook interposes in a low tone with this touch of correction, as who should say: āYou may offer bad grammar to the laity, or the humbler clergy, not to the Dean.ā
Mr. Tope, Chief Verger and Showman, and accustomed to be high with excursion parties, declines with a silent loftiness to perceive that any suggestion has been tendered to him.
āAnd when and how has Mr. Jasper been takenāfor, as Mr. Crisparkle has remarked, it is better to say takenātakenāā repeats the Dean; āwhen and how has Mr. Jasper been Takenāā
āTaken, sir,ā Tope deferentially murmurs.
āāPoorly, Tope?ā
āWhy, sir, Mr. Jasper was that breathedāā
āI wouldnāt say āThat breathed,ā Tope,ā Mr. Crisparkle interposes with the same touch as before. āNot Englishāto the Dean.ā
āBreathed to that extent,ā the Dean (not unflattered by this indirect homage), condescendingly remarks, āwould be preferable.ā
āMr. Jasperās breathing was so remarkably shortā; thus discreetly does Mr. Tope work his way round the sunken rock, āwhen he came in, that it distressed him mightily to get his notes out: which was perhaps the cause of his having a kind of fit on him after a little. His memory grew DAZED.ā Mr. Tope, with his eyes on the Reverend Mr. Crisparkle, shoots this word out, as defying him to improve upon it: āand a dimness and giddiness crept over him as strange as ever I saw: though he didnāt seem to mind it particularly, himself. However, a little time and a little water brought him out of his DAZE.ā Mr. Tope repeats the word and its emphasis, with the air of saying: āAs I have made a success, Iāll make it again.ā
āAnd Mr. Jasper has gone home quite himself, has he?ā asked the Dean.
āYour Reverence, he has gone home quite himself. And Iām glad to see heās having his fire kindled up, for itās chilly after the wet, and the Cathedral had both a damp feel and a damp touch this afternoon, and he was very shivery.ā
They all three look towards an old stone Gate House crossing the Close, with an arched thoroughfare passing beneath it. Through its latticed window, a fire shines out upon the fast-darkening scene, involving in shadow the pendent masses of ivy and creeper covering the buildingās front. As the deep Cathedral bell strikes the hour, a ripple of wind goes through these at their distance, like a ripple of the solemn sound that hums through tomb and tower, broken niche and defaced statue, in the pile close at hand.
āIs Mr. Jasperās nephew with him?ā the Dean asks.
āNo, sir,ā replied the Verger, ābut expected. Thereās his own solitary shadow betwixt his two windowsāthe one looking this way, and the one looking down into the High Streetādrawing his own curtains now.ā
āWell, well,ā says the Dean, with a sprightly air of breaking up the little conference, āI hope Mr. Jasperās heart may not be too much set upon his nephew. Our affections, however laudable, in this transitory world, should never master us; we should guide them, guide them. I find I am not disagreeably reminded of my dinner, by hearing my dinner-bell. Perhaps Mr. Crisparkle you will, before going home, look in on Jasper?ā
āCertainly, Mr. Dean. And tell him that you had the kindness to desire to know how he was?ā
āAy; do so, do so. Certainly. Wished to know how he was. By all means. Wished to know how he was.ā
With a pleasant air of patronage, the Dean as nearly cocks his quaint hat as a Dean in good spirits may, and directs his comely gaiters towards the ruddy dining-room of the snug old red-brick house where he is at present āin residenceā with Mrs. Dean and Miss Dean.
Mr. Crisparkle, Minor Canon, fair and rosy, and perpetually pitching himself head-foremost into all the deep running water in the surrounding country; Mr. Crisparkle, Minor Canon, early riser, musical, classical, cheerful, kind, good-natured, social, contented, and boy-like; Mr. Crisparkle, Minor Canon and good man, lately āCoachā upon the chief Pagan high roads, but since promoted by a patron (grateful for a well-taught son) to his present Christian beat; betakes himself to the Gate House, on his way home to his early tea.
āSorry to hear from Tope that you have not been well, Jasper.ā
āOh, it was nothing, nothing!ā
āYou look a little worn.ā
āDo I? Oh, I donāt think so. What is better, I donāt feel so. Tope has made too much of it I suspect. Itās his trade to make the most of everything appertaining to the Cathedral, you know.ā
āI may tell the DeanāI call expressly from the Deanāthat you are all right again?ā
The reply, with a slight smile, is: āCertainly; with my respects and thanks to the Dean.ā
āIām glad to hear that you expect young Drood.ā
āI expect the dear fellow every moment.ā
āAh! He will do you more good than a doctor, Jasper.ā
āMore good than a dozen doctors. For I love him dearly, and I donāt love doctors, or doctorsā stuff.ā
Mr. Jasper is a dark man of some six-and-twenty, with thick, lustrous, well-arranged black hair and whisker. He looks older than he is, as dark men often do. His voice is deep and good, his face and figure are good, his manner is a little sombre. His room is a little sombre, and may have had its influence in forming his manner. It is mostly in shadow. Even when the sun shines brilliantly, it seldom touches the grand piano in the recess, or the folio music-books on the stand, or the bookshelves on the wall, or the unfinished picture of a blooming schoolgirl hanging over the chimney-piece; her flowing brown hair tied with a blue riband, and her beauty remarkable for a quite childish, almost babyish, touch of saucy discontent, comically conscious of itself. (There is not the least artistic merit in this picture, which is a mere daub; but it is clear that the painter has made it humorouslyāone might almost say, revengefullyālike the original.)
āWe shall miss you, Jasper, at the āAlternate Musical Wednesdaysā to-night; but no doubt you are best at home. Good-night. God bless you! āTell me, shep-herds, te-e-ell me; tell me-e-e, have you seen (have you seen, have you seen, have you seen) my-y-y Flo-o-ora-a pass this way!āā Melodiously good Minor Canon the Reverend Septimus Crisparkle thus delivers himself, in musical rhythm, as he withdraws his amiable face from the doorway and conveys it down-stairs.
Sounds of recognition and greeting pass between the Reverend Septimus and somebody else, at the stair-foot. Mr. Jasper listens, starts from his chair, and catches a young fellow in his arms, exclaiming:
āMy dear Edwin!ā
āMy dear Jack! So glad to see you!ā
āGet off your greatcoat, bright boy, and sit down here in your own corner. Your feet are not wet? Pull your boots off. Do pull your boots off.ā
āMy dear Jack, I am as dry as a bon...