Mr Myame did not challenge the name of the firm. Good!
“I can rely on you, Edward?”
“Certainly, Sir.” And with that Edward Albert escaped and wrote down the name of Colebrook and Mahogany there and then on a scrap of paper.
In many ways Buffin Burleybank had enlarged Edward Albert’s knowledge of the dodges and expedients of life. He had learnt that there were things called Trade Directories. There was one, he discovered, in that accommodating newsagent’s shop. It was an old one, but no Trade Directory was half as old as the firm of Colebrook and Mahogany, Royal Warrant Holders, of North Lonsdale Street. And so Edward Albert, having been sent on a mission to Godberry’s, the school-furnishers in Oxford Street, to inquire if they dealt in second-hand desks and if so, would they give him a list of any bargains they had on offer, successfully lost his way and was presently contemplating for the first time the wonder and beauty of Colebrook and Mahogany’s magnificent windows. There you had the most wonderful china elephants, great blue vases with pictures of delightful scenery, white china statuary, gigantic bowls, lovely half-naked gods and goddesses of shining porcelain, dinner services for kings, decanters and glass beyond description.
He allowed his imagination to play loose with fantastic possibilities. He was related to this man who, for some mysterious purpose, ran this mighty and lovely business in the name of Colebrook and Mahogany. What was he trying to conceal by this? Some relationship? And what, if presently everything was brought to light, would that hidden relationship turn out to be? Edward Albert skipped a vast complication of possibilities, just as he skipped the plot stuff in the stories he read. He landed precisely where he wanted to land for the purpose of reverie. He was the long-lost rightful heir and this man, either out of affection or remorse, or just no reason at all, was going to do him justice.
This place must be worth fousands of pounds, fousands and fousands and fousands of pounds...
He could say to all sorts of people: “I came into some money. I came into—”
“Forty, fifty ’undred fousand? Well, fifty, say?”
He would say it to Mr Myame. He would walk into the classroom when all the school was present. He could come in late for prayers. “Sorry to be late, but I’ve had important news, Sir. ’Fraid I’ll have to be leaving you. You see I came into fifty fousand pounds and I been put down for Eton and ’Arrow and Oxford and Cambridge, leastways as soon as there’s a vacancy anywhere. I’ll be looking in on you’ one of these days when I’m seeing the match at Lord’s. Maybe I’ll be in the match. If so”—here we turn to the school—“I hope I’ll be able to get all of you chaps tickets for the Pavilion....” Make ’em sit up, that will. Or Buffin Burleybanks. “Where’d’you get that ’at?” Buffin would say.
“I lef old Myame’s for Eton,” Edward Albert would answer.
“What sort of school is Mottiscombe?”
Reluctantly he turned away from the great windows and, still dreaming and whistling softly to himself, pursued his errand to Messrs Godberry’s and so home to school again.
“You’ve been a long time,” said Mr Myame, faintly suspicious.
“I lost my way a bit,” said Edward Albert. “I arst a man who told me wrong.”
And now, how to get past the vigilance of Mr Myame to this opulent and mysterious friend behind that tremendous
VIII. Snares for Mr Myame
The letter composed by Edward Albert was coloured in its phraseology by the beginnings of instruction in commercial correspondence and perhaps also by the Home Letter with which the school sessions terminated. It ran as follows:
“DEAR SIR,
In reply to your esteemed inquiries we (corrected to ‘I’) beg to submit to you where I am at present. I am situated at present in a Commercial Academy for Young Gentlemen in the care of my esteemed guardian and principal Mr Abner Myame, A.G.P., Member by Examination of the University of London, etc., who is my trustee and guardian.
It is my pleasure to express to you my gratitude for your kindness in sending her (corrected to ‘my mother’) that very beautiful wreath. I am sure she would have enjoyed it very much could she have known of it, which unhappily was not the case. I would like to see you and talk to you very much, but Mr Myame does not think so. I want your advice, Sir. Please reply to the above address and not directly to the school. With the sincerest thanks for your past valued favours and an assurance of my continued efforts to merit your esteemed patronage,
I beg to submit myself, Sir,
Your most obedient servant,
“Don’t write to the school.”
Mr Jim Whittaker re-read this letter for the sixth time and then handed it to his friend Sir Rumbold Hooper, the well-known patent specialist, the omniscient solicitor, Old Artful, the friend of man and woman, gallant but discreet. They were sitting together in a warm corner of the Reform Club Smoking Room after lunch. They were consuming excellent but deleterious white port—and they realised themselves in a glow of tawny gold. They knew almost too certainly that they were wise and worthy men.
“Document One,” said Mr James Whittaker....” And now for Document Two.... It’s illuminating, isn’t it? And here is what Keyhole and Sludge report. It seems to me that the worthy Myame is a frightened, bad-tempered man. What’s upset him? But read it....”
Document Two ran as follows:
DEAR SIR,
Some days ago I was disagreeably surprised by a visit from a private inquiry agent, one of those instruments of blackmail and intimidation who are becoming such a serious menace nowadays. He mentioned your name and I did not at first realise the nature of his errand. He pressed me with a number of questions some of which I realised later he had no right whatever to ask. If you wanted to communicate with me I should have thought it would have been possible to employ some more acceptable intermediary. I gathered from this agent of yours that you wish to trace your young friend my ward Edward Albert Tewler. Letters sent to his former address had it seems gone astray and been returned. He is in excellent health and making satisfactory progress with his studies, more particularly in Elementary French, commercial correspondence and Scripture. His cricket also has greatly improved. He has asked me to tell you on his behalf how much he appreciated the beautiful wreath you sent when his mother passed over to her peace among God’s chosen. He felt her loss very keenly, but I hope and pray it may prove a blessing in disguise for him, turning his mind to those deeper things in life, to which he has hitherto been somewhat inattentive. I do not know whether you are aware that like his parents he is a Peculiar Baptist and that under the guidance of our dear wise pastor, Mr Burlap, he is now preparing to become a full member of our little church. He is greatly preoccupied with these matters and I think it is very undesirable that he should be distracted. I shall prefer it if you will deal directly with me henceforth and not through a hired investigator.
Sincerely yours,
“That hired investigator seems to have put him through a bit of a grilling, and he seems to have answered a lot of questions he needn’t have done, before he realised what he was doing. Ah! here’s the young sleuth’s report. Quite an intelligent report too. Keyhole and Sludge—I know a thing or two about Keyhole and Sludge. It must be quite a change for them to be fishing in clean water. So Chadband is guardian and trustee and practically everything. He seems to be in a pretty strong position,”
“Chadband? I should have thought it was Squeers we had to deal with.”
“What a fellow Dickens was!” said Mr Jim Whittaker.
“How he knew his English! Bleak House is as complete and deadly a picture of England as we shall ever get. The types, the temperaments, the Tite Barnacles and all the rest of them. Nobody can touch him! How he poured it out! Mixed with mud. With a lot of mud. Like Shakespeare. Like everything English.” (“Dostoyevsky, for example,” whispered Hooper unheeded, “or Balzac.”) “And the public he wrote for! He had to tell them when to laugh and when to cry. And he couldn’t bear not to have ’em all chuckling and sniffing with him. All the same he knew the English mixture. How completely he knew it! No wonder the highbrows hate him! Micawber, Chadband, Horace Skimpole, Mrs Jellaby, Squeers. There isn’t an Englishman alive who doesn’t correspond to some character or other of his—or some combination of them. Not one. How he laced it all together from Tulkinghorn to that poor little wretch ‘Jo’! Marvellous!”