But, on the whole, it is a strange story in its way—No? A little out of the ordinary—Yes?
BONE FOR DEBUNKERS
On a blast of bitter east wind that rushed down Great Russell Street came a spatter of cold raindrops that bit like small shot. I reached the portico of the British Museum one jump ahead of the storm, and there, standing apart from the students who had come out of the reading room for air and sandwiches, illuminated by a lightning flash, stood Karmesin in a black rubber Inverness cape reaching to his ankles and an oilskin hat shaped like a gloxinia. One hand grasped a Kaffir knobkerrie with a gold-plated head, while the other applied motions as of artificial respiration to his half-drowned moustache, and he was glaring at a Polynesian monolith in such a manner that I half expected its great stone eyes to look uneasily away.
“Third storm this morning,” I said. He looked at me, glowering like the Spirit of the Tempest.
“A wretched day would not be complete without you. I would invite you to offer me coffee, if I did not object to sitting at table with imbeciles,” he muttered. “Do you realize I could sue you, your publishers and printers, your distributors, newsagents and booksellers for millions? And I would, too, if I needed petty cash. How dare you describe me as ‘either the greatest criminal or the greatest liar the world has ever known’? This is libelous: a liar always betrays a desire to be believed. Damn your impudence, have I ever cared whether you believed me or not?”
“No,” I said, “but——”
“No,” he interrupted. “And you assume that a truly great criminal never talks of his work, but how wrong you are! A confession unsupported by evidence is only a story, and I leave no evidence. I run no risk in telling you certain incidents, you scribbler, to enable you to put a few greasy pennies in your moth-eaten pockets. Remember this: the most pitiful sucker on earth is your sceptic. If you insist, we will go to the Cheese Restaurant and have a bit of Brie and a glass of wine.”
The rain abating, we went; but Karmesin was not easily to be placated this morning. He continued, “It’s not so much your catchphrases that annoy me as your writing; I read your version of how, having disguised myself as a statue in Westminster Abbey, I discovered a sonnet of Shakespeare in Spenser’s tomb, and I blushed for you.”
“All I did was——” I began, but Karmesin interjected, “You be quiet!” At least the cheese appeared to please him. “I like Brie and wine,” he said.
“They are the two things in this world that are impossible to fake. Not even Melmoth Agnew could successfully counterfeit their flavor.”
“Strange name,” I said.
“Strange man,” said Karmesin. “If only you could write, what a story you might tell about him and me—for without me, he is nothing—and about the Society for the Clarification of History.” He shook his great head. “But I can just see you describing Melmoth Agnew, for instance, as ‘an anaglyphic character’—here you put three dots—‘a personality in low relief’—then more dots—‘In other words, he had practically no individuality of his own.’”
I said, “Have more cheese. For goodness’ sake, have some more wine. Have a cigarette.”
He accepted gruffly and continued, “I had occasion just now to upbraid a certain inky little penny-a-liner not a hundred miles from here in connection with a sonnet of Shakespeare. Then, the name of Melmoth Agnew comes up in connection with cheese, and in spite of myself I find myself telling you that I once employed the fellow in a matter concerning quite a different kind of Shakespearean document.”
I said, “What sort of document?”
“Ah, you are saying to yourself, ‘Old Karmesin is going to tell me now that he discovered a lost play by that greatest of poets.’ As usual, you are entirely wrong,” he said, then told this story:
I employed Agnew when I felt morally bound to do a service for a distressed gentleman. Do you know what a gentleman is? A gentleman is one who, among other things, does not twist his friends’ conversation into excruciating prose forms and hawk them from editor to editor (said Karmesin, giving me a hard look).
The gentleman we will call Sir Massey Joyce of King’s Massey, in Kent. I had not seen him for a long time; nobody had. They said he had turned recluse and buried himself in the country. Having been abroad for some years I had lost touch with him. Then, one day, certain business taking me to Ashford, it occurred to me to drive over and say “How d’you do.”
You have seen photographs of King’s Massey in Stately Homes of England. It is a beautiful old house, in three different styles of architecture—early Tudor, part of it “modernized” by Inigo Jones in the 1620’s, with a wing by Adam built in the eighteenth century—the incongruities oddly harmonious. Massey Joyce was confused, almost embarrassed. He said, “My dear fellow, come in! Come in!”
For a recluse, I thought, he was remarkably pleased to have company. “It’s nearly dinner time,” Massey said. “Let’s have a glass of sherry,” and the old butler, Hubbard, served us, while my host chattered of things past in London.
He is lonely, I said to myself as we went in to dinner. The great mahogany table was set sumptuously with the Joyce plate. The huge silver-gilt centerpiece was heaped with fresh fruit. Old Hubbard poured us a rare old Chablis and served a fish course—three tinned sardines. After this, the entrée came up: there was a profusion of garden vegetables and, on a gleaming silver platter, canned corned beef, thinly sliced. With this—Well, did you ever try bully beef with a vintage Clos de Vougeot? It’s rather curious. And then there was a little block of pasteurized synthetic cheese with a bottle of rare old port, and some coffee-type essence in cups of Sèvres porcelain accompanied by a hundred-year-old brandy and superlative cigars.
After dinner, sitting over more brandy in the library, Massey Joyce said to me, “There’s enough wine and cigars in the cellar and the cabinets to last out my time: I don’t entertain much nowadays. But for the rest, one rubs along, what?”
I said, “It might appear, old friend, that things aren’t all they should be.”
He answered, “Confidentially, I’m stone broke. I say nothing of taxes. Certain domestic affairs, which we’ll not discuss, set me back more than I had—over a quarter of a million. Everything you see, except the wine, the tobacco and these books, is entailed or mortgaged.”
I said, “I know, Massey. Norway sardines and Argentine beef might be a quirk of taste; but never penny paraffin candles in silver-gilt sconces.”
“Well, I can’t bilk the fishmonger and the butcher,” said he. “The books must go next.”
I was shocked at this; Sir Massey Joyce’s library was his haven, his last refuge. It was not that he was a bibliophile: He loved his library—the very presence of all those ranged volumes with their fine scent of old leather comforted him and soothed his soul.
He went on, “Anyway, this is a deuced expensive room to heat. I’ll save insurance too. I’ll read in the little study, where it’s snug. Oh, I know what’s in your mind, old boy. How much do I need, and all that, eh? Well, to see my way out with a clear conscience, I want ten thousand pounds. Borrowing is out of the question—I could never pay back.”
I said, “Between old friends, Massey, is there nothing I can do for you?”
“Stay with me a day or two. There’s a man coming about the library. I thought I might get more, selling by private treaty. He isn’t a dealer; he’s an agent for the Society for the Clarification of History. You know, ever since Boswell’s diary was found in an old trunk, there’s hardly an attic or a private collection in England they haven’t pawed over. I’m told they have all the money in the world, and anything they want they’ll pay a fancy price for. What the devil is this Society for the Clarification of History, anyway?”