The Club of Queer Trades [23]
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
"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