Martin Hewitt, Investigator by Arthur Morrison (1894)

Arthur Morrison wrote some 24 stories featuring his charming, affable and calmly logical detective, Martin Hewitt, and his sometime assistant and confidant, the journalist Brett (I don’t think we ever learn his first name). Morrison collected the stories into four book-length volumes. This is the first volume, containing the first seven stories.

They solve at a flash the question I raised in my review of Tales of Mean Streets, which was whether Morrison’s use of elaborate facetiousness, garnished with Biblical locutions and ironically high-falutin’ turns of phrase, was unique to him or part of the wider style of the time.

Because it is completely absent from these detective stories, which are written in a much plainer, simpler, to-the-point style. So the answer appears to be that Morrison used his heavily jocose voice to deal only with his tales from the underworld. The over-elaborate phraseology was part of a strategy of irony – ranging from sarcasm to satire – which controlled and shaped his anger and disgust at his subject matter.

Here is an example of Morrison in underworld mode in an excerpt from his most notorious short story, Lizerunt. I’ve italicised the phrases which I’m talking about, which are facetious in their unnecessary grandiosity.

When Billy Chope married Lizerunt there was a small rejoicing. There was no wedding-party; because it was considered that what there might be to drink would be better in the family. Lizerunt’s father was not, and her mother felt no interest in the affair; not having seen her daughter for a year, and happening, at the time, to have a month’s engagement in respect of a drunk and disorderly. So that there were but three of them; and Billy Chope got exceedingly tipsy early in the day; and in the evening his bride bawled a continual chorus, while his mother, influenced by the unwonted quartern of gin the occasion sanctioned, wept dismally over her boy, who was much too far gone to resent it.

It’s the juxtaposition of would-be posh phraseology such as ‘a month’s engagement’ or ‘the occasion sanctioned’, with the chaotic reality of the drunken, shouting underclass, which creates the effect.

Whereas in the Martin Hewitt stories of decent chaps solving crimes among, on the whole, more decent chaps, the prose is… well, pretty clean and decent, thus:

Those who retain any memory of the great law cases of fifteen or twenty years back will remember, at least, the title of that extraordinary will case, ‘Bartley v. Bartley and others,’ which occupied the Probate Court for some weeks on end, and caused an amount of public interest rarely accorded to any but the cases considered in the other division of the same court. The case itself was noted for the large quantity of remarkable and unusual evidence presented by the plaintiff’s side – evidence that took the other party completely by surprise, and overthrew their case like a house of cards.

Clear and considered, isn’t it? More than that, it is suave and confident. It is upper-class English, the confidently long, well-balanced and well-arranged periods of the urbane professional class. The case ‘was noted for’, generated an interest ‘rarely accorded to…’ – this is the tone of a doctor or lawyer or scholar.

The narrator’s address to ‘those who retain any memory… etc’ evokes his imagined audience, a community of leisured professional men, readers of quality newspapers, followers of public affairs, and mature enough to have been following these affairs for fifteen or twenty years.

These are the opening two sentences of the very first Martin Hewitt story and they conjure up the entire moneyed, professional class within which the fictional detective operates, and for whom the stories are written. If ‘officialese’ is used to counterpoint and mock the grim affairs of the slum-dwellers in Mean Streets and A Child of the Jago, here it is used to stroke the rich, and accentuate their finer feelings and pukka decency.

For the clients and locations are (in general) posh, notably Sir James Norris (baronet) whose country house is the setting for The Lenton Croft Robberies, Sir Valentine Quinton, owner of ‘an old country establishment’, Radcot Hall, and a wealthy wife whose jewels are stolen in The Quinton Jewel Affair, Lord Stanways is the wronged owner of The Stanway Cameo, and so on.

And another quality they share with the Holmes stories is that the subject matter – the jewels or things stolen – are often the best in the world – the world-famous x, the renowned y, the famous affair of the z. They are eminent, which a) makes them shine out against the vast majority of police detective work which is, after all, usually among the poor and wretched – and b) has the flattering effect of making the reader feel eminent, too. As if we are all used to hob-nobbing with lords and ladies and top jewellers and art collectors and so on.

The stories offer the pleasure of flattering both the reader’s intelligence (if we can spot the culprit before Hewitt, and certainly before the slow and obtuse Brett) and social standing.

Martin Hewitt and Brett (Hewitt is clean shaven, on the left) illustrated by Sidney Paget

Martin Hewitt and Brett (Hewitt is clean shaven, on the left) illustrated by Sidney Paget

This volume contains:

  • The Lenton Croft Robberies (published March 1894 in The Strand magazine)
  • The Loss of Sammy Crockett (April 1894, The Strand)
  • The Case of Mr Foggatt (May 1894, The Strand)
  • The Case of the Dixon Torpedo (June 1894, The Strand)
  • The Quinton Jewel Affair (July 1894, The Strand)
  • The Stanway Cameo Mystery (July 1894, The Strand)
  • The Affair of the Tortoise (September 1894, The Strand)

The stories

1. The Lenton Croft Robberies

Lenton Croft is the country seat (near Twyford) of Sir James Norris. Meeting Hewitt at the train station, Sir James outlines the case: three times in the last year, female guests have had valuable jewellery stolen from them. Each time the windows to the room in question were only slightly opened or closed altogether, or people were in a nearby room. Each time a spent match was found just where the jewellery went missing.

Martin is shown around the house in great detail, receives a precise account of each theft, asks questions about all the staff. He stops at the stables to chat to a servant with a dog, rather to Sir James’s impatience, then asks to see the rooms of the servants.

And solves the case. Sir James’s faithful secretary, Vernon Lloyd, keeps a pet parrot. He has trained it to keep quiet by keeping a spent match gripped in its mouth but, once introduced into a room – either through an only slightly-open window or, as on one occasion, hidden in the room when both windows and doors are closed – to find the nearest shiny thing, drop the match, nab the shiny, and wait for his master.

they confront Lloyd and he confesses.

2. The Loss of Sammy Crockett

The key to an important case is held by one ‘Gaffer’ Kentish, owner of the Hare and Hounds pub in the northern town of Padfield, where he is a trainer of athletes who run in the local competitive races. Hewitt travels there and puts up in the pub to get to know Kentish and try to get the facts he needs from him.

The task is made simpler when Kentish’s star runner, Sammy Crockett, goes missing, just before a championship race in which Kentish has bet lots of money. Some mystery is created by the discovery of scraps of paper near the place Crockett was last seen, and the fact that the trail left by his spiked running shoes stops dead yards from a fence, as if the man had flown up into the air – but Hewitt sees beyond these distractions to the heart of the matter, which is that Crockett has been kidnapped by a bookmaker rival of Kentish’s, named Danby, who also happens to be a property developer and has locked Crockett up in one of a little parade of shops he’s building in a new estate.

Hewitt and Kentish’s tough son break into the shop, punch the local tough guarding Crockett, take him back to Kentish’s pub where he is fed, rested, massaged and – proceeds to win the ‘Padfield Annual 135 Yards Handicap’. With the result that Kentish willingly gives Hewitt the information he needed to solve the other, more important case with which the story began.

3. The Case of Mr Foggatt

Brent explains Hewitt’s theory of ‘accumulative probabilities’ i.e. facts which are in themselves trivial can, if rare enough, gain importance as they increase in number. One odd circumstance means nothing: life is full of oddities. Two odd circumstances, combined, begin to suggest things. Three odd things begin to narrow down the range of possibilities, and so on. Thus the accumulation of evidence points you to the solution.

‘Trivialities, pointing in the same direction, became important considerations.’

‘A fat, middle-aged man, named Foggatt’ who has rooms in the same building off the Strand where Hewitt has his offices and Brett his apartment, is found shot dead. Hewitt and Brett had dined at the latter’s club and were enjoying a cigar in his rooms when – bang! They run upstairs and pry open the locked door with a poker. The body is there, by a gun with one shot fired, all the windows closed.

Seven or so weeks after the inquest, Hewitt invites Brett to dinner at Luzatti’s, off Coventry Street. He insists they sit at a particular table, in chairs opposite

a rather fine-looking fellow, with a dark, though very clear skin, but had a hard, angry look of eye, a prominence of cheek-bone, and a squareness of jaw that gave him a rather uninviting aspect.

Hewitt starts talking about bicycle racing and the young fellow can’t help being interested then joining in. When the young man calls for coffee, to Brett’s amazement, Hewitt reaches out and pinches the half-eaten apple off his plate. The man notices but says nothing and, moments later, makes his excuses and leaves.

Hewitt asks the amazed Brett if he can recall the contents of the dead man’s apartment when they broke in? Did he, for example, notice the half-eaten apple on the table? At the time Hewitt took a plaster cast of the teeth marks in the apple. Now he goes home and does the same to this apple. They are identical.

A few days later Hewitt receives a long letter from the young man who signs himself Sidney Mason, explaining that Foggatt ruined his family. A financial genius, he used Mason’s weak father as a front man for all his deals, until they went sour, at which point Mason’s father was sent to prison which he endured for three years, before killing himself. Thereafter Mason was brought up by his mother who struggled with poverty and shame and social stigma, but he never knew the name of the man who had ruined his family.

His father’s old colleagues and good luck helped him to a clerkship in a legal firm, where he more than once bumped into Foggatt without a clue who he was, each time the fat man betraying inexplicable signs of nerves. Finally Mason bumped into Foggatt in that very house, on an errand to someone else, but Foggatt was sweating and turned white. He invited young Mason to his rooms that evening and there, after offers of brandy and cigars, Foggatt offered him £500 to emigrate and start again, say, in South Africa and then began apologising about his father.

At which point the scales dropped from Mason’s eyes and he realised Foggatt was the wretch who blighted his family. So he grabbed the revolver off the mantelpiece and shot the man dead. Hearing steps on the stairs he locked the door on the inside, made for the window, stepped out onto the ledge and closed it, then reached out to a metal gutter just about within reach, pulled himself up and onto the roof and made his escape.

At his first inspection of the room Hewitt had instantly realised the only way of escape was by reaching over to the gutter and pulling yourself up – therefore he was looking for a tall, and very fit man. Several times he had seen Mason around in legal offices and that night at the restaurant, seeing him at a table, had taken a gamble, based on intuition, at engaging him in conversation.

This summary shows you how a Hewitt story follows the detective template – violent crime, apparently unsolveable because of lack of evidence, the canny detective sees evidence and links where nobody else does (the apple), revelation of the culprit’s motivation in a long and sentimental backstory.

But… It still has a big hole, namely the accident that Mason happened to work in the Law trade so that Hewitt saw him around legal offices – and the whopping coincidence that Mason happened to be in the restaurant the night Hewitt and Brett dine there.

4. The Case of the Dixon Torpedo

Morrison starts many of the stories with exactly the kind of general thoughts and reflections upon the nature of crime and detection with which the Holmes stories often begin. Here, there are a couple of paragraphs about the importance of accident and coincidence before we get on with the plot.

One fine day at 1.30, Hewitt has a visitor in his office.

A gaunt, worn-looking man of fifty or so, well, although rather carelessly, dressed, and carrying in his strong, though drawn, face and dullish eyes the look that characterizes the life-long strenuous brain-worker.

It is the inventor and engineer F. Graham Dixon comes to visit Hewitt on a matter of national importance. Dixon has designed a new, much more effective torpedo. Detailed plans of it were stolen from his office this morning. They were there in the drawer of his desk at 10am this morning. His office is locked. He has two assistants, Worsfold and Ritter, who he trusts. Only the postman came to deliver some letters. It is the usual fol-de-rol of highly detailed circumstances which make the theft, on the face of it, impossible and which are in fact designed to highlight the uncanny brilliance of the detective.

I suppose nobody ever did so much devastation in a photographic studio in ten minutes as I managed.

While they’re puzzling over it a ‘Mr Hunter’ arrives asking to meet with Dixon. It is the second time he’s called today, to discuss new technical innovations. His assistant puts the man off, who stalks off in a huff. Suddenly Hewitt is galvanised. To cut a long story short, he had seen ‘Hunter’ place his walking stick in the walking stick and umbrella stand, an odd thing for a casual visitor to do. Hewitt has Dixon get his men out of the way, and retrieves the stick. It turns out to be a hollow tube with a crew top. Inside are the missing plans.

Hewitt tells Dixon to call the more junior of his two assistants in. When faced with a direct accusation of guilt, the man breaks and confesses. Hewitt tells him to write a note to his confederate, ‘Mr Hunter’, telling him to meet him here at the offices, which will be empty, at 6pm.

This is a blind: Hewitt just wants the address, which is a shabby street in Westminster. He goes there, finds from the concierge that Mr Hunter is more generally known as ‘Mirsky’, goes up to his room, inveigles the man into the hall, then jumps into his room, slams and locks the door. Now he investigates at leisure and discovers a dark room set up in a corner and negatives drying of the famous torpedo plans. He exposes all the plates and gathers up all the negatives.

But he discovers something more which is photos of Russian bank notes. Mr Mirsky has been forging Russian roubles and Hewitt links this with recent police reports of forged roubles flooding Russia, allegedly from London. Here is the source.  Through a window Mirsky sees Hewitt rummaging through his things and holding the fake rouble prints, a look of terror on his face. He scarpers.

Hewitt returns to Dixon’s office, hands over the negatives, and says it’s up to Dixon what he wants to do with the wretched assistant.

The plan had been simple. After bribing the assistant, Ritter, to take part, Mirsky had observed his walking stick and had a facsimile made with a hollow tube. Ritter had come to work with the fake stick. He had taken the first opportunity to screw the plans up tight and slip them into the fake stick and place it in the stand. Hunter had arrived, placed his stick in the stand, made a fuss about an appointment, then retrieved the hollow stick containing the plans, gone back to his rooms and made the photographs. Then replaced the plans in the hollow stick, returned to Dixon’s offices, made another fuss and switched the sticks again, leaving the hollow one, for Ritter to find a moment to extract the plans from, replace where they should be, all good. They thought the plans would be absent for just a few hours and no-one would notice.

Dixon foiled the plan by asking to see the plans first thing.

Hewitt’s detective work really boils down to noticing Mr ‘Hunter’ put his stick in the stand. The rest follows from that.

The addition of the fact that Hunter-Mirsky was mass producing faked roubles doesn’t really contribute to the solution of the torpedo blueprints. It happens side by side but doesn’t affect the case or its solution. It appears to be clever but (I may be being rather dim about this) I don’t think makes any material contribution to the case.

I’m probably drawing too big a conclusion on the basis of slender evidence, but it seems that it’s a characteristic Hewitt moment in that it gives the appearance of complexity and cleverness, without the substance.

5. The Quinton Jewel Affair

As usual a few preliminary remarks, this time to the effect that Hewitt keeps surprisingly up to date with the ever-changing slang of the criminal underworld, and especially Romany language of gypsies.

Sir Valentine Quinton lives in Radcot Hall with his wealthy wife, who owns a collection of rare jewellery including the famous ruby sent to this country to be sold by the King of Burma, set in gold and bought by Lady Quinton. One fine evening it is all stolen by a true professional.

A week later Hewitt and Brett are just stepping into his offices near the Strand, when they are accosted by an irate Irishman. He’s just been pointed towards Hewitt by a passing copper. The Irishman proceeds to let loose a long, complex tale in a transcription of Irish dialect.

‘Well, I got along to me room, sick an’ sorry enough, an’ doubtsome whether I might get in wid no key. But there was the key in the open door, an’, by this an’ that, all the shtuff in the room – chair, table, bed, an’ all – was shtandin’ on their heads twisty-ways, an’ the bedclothes an’ every thin’ else; such a disgraceful stramash av conglomerated thruck as ye niver dhreamt av. The chist av drawers was lyin’ on uts face, wid all the dhrawers out an’ emptied on the flure. ‘Twas as though an arrmy had been lootin’, sor!’

Whereas I was fairly confident that Morrison caught the accent of working class Londoners in his slum stories, I’ve no idea how much his transcription of Irish peasant speech is accurate or not, but it certainly dominates the first half of the tale.

The gist of the story is that he was on the train from the West, where he’d just arrived from rural Ireland. When the train didn’t stop at a particular station the stranger sitting opposite him said, ‘Drat’, he’d wanted to get out at that stop, and asked Leamy to take the heavy sealed bag he gave him to a certain address in London while he, the speaker, got the first train back to the missed stop.

Leamy dutifully takes the bag to the requested address and hands it over to a fellow named Mr Hollams, was paid for his troubles, then set off to find some lodgings in the big, bad city. And what’s happened since is that he’s been accosted and assaulted every day since – mugged in the street, drugged in a pub, pushed under an underground train (which he survived unscathed) only to find the doctor who attends him going through his pockets and, finally, having his apartment comprehensively turned over.

Now, this reader confidently deduces that the man who gave Leamy the bag was the thief who stole Lady Quinton’s jewellery. And the man Leamy gave the bag to, was the head of the gang. And the fact that he’s been mugged and searched every day since suggests something was missing – the famous ruby! And if it was not in the bag then the original thief must have kept it.

Hewitt and Brett stroll round to the address of this Mr Hollams only to come upon a fight. A figure with a half-torn coat is struggling up the steps from the area, with two others hanging on to him, one brandishing a revolver. As soon as they’re in the street the two antagonists desist and Mr Torn-Coat makes off.

Hewitt recognises him as Sim Wilks, a well-known burglar. They follow him along Buckingham Palace Road where Hewitt amazes Brett by suddenly adopting the posture and speech of a successful rowdy. He claps Sim on the back, insists he knows him, drags him into a pub for a few beers and insists on lending him a few quid since he’s just carried off a good job and is rolling in swag.

It is this scene which justifies Brett’s opening paragraph about Hewitt’s familiarity with thieves’ slang, because he liberally uses it in buttering up a very suspicious Wilks and the text has copious footnotes telling us that ‘cady’ means hat, ‘touch’ means robbery and ‘cannon’ means drunk. During this swaggering drunken piece of acting, Hewitt tips Wilks the nod that the gang at 8 Gold Street (where we’ve just observed Wilks being manhandled by his boss, Hollam) is about to be raided by the coppers. Is that so? says Wilks musingly. Then pleads another engagement and leaves.

The general idea is that Hewitt has planted the notion that Hollam is about to be arrested, so that it’ll be safe to go and get the ruby from the hiding place where he put it after the robbery. There then follows a sort of tense sequence where Hewitt and Brett follow Wilks to Euston, catch the same train as him, get off at the same station, follow him along winding country lanes at a distance and then catch him red-handed in a church graveyard, removing the ruby from its hiding place behind the brick of a table tomb.

Wilks is arrested for theft, Hollam for receiving stolen goods, Lady Quinton has her jewellery restored, and Michael Leamy gets a respectable job as a doorman ‘guarding the door of a well-known London restaurant’.

Reviewing the logical content of the story you see that the crime was virtually solved as soon as Leamy was pointed towards Hewitt and told his story, particularly once he’d named Hollam as the fence. The solution entirely depended, then, on the Irishman happening to have come across Hewitt’s name and deciding to contact him.

The flim-flam about Hewitt’s competence with criminal slang bears some relation to his ability to speak to Wilks in his own argot, but our heroes could quite simply have followed Wilks to the ruby’s hiding place with much the same result. It feels more as if the idea of dialects – Leamy’s Irish and Wilk’s criminal – colours the story, rather than drives or explains it.

6. The Stanway Cameo Mystery

The ‘famous’ Stanway cameo is discovered by one of the fleet of travelling agents who scour Italy for precious relics, and sold on to the eminent art dealer, Mr. Claridge of St. James Street. He sells it to the Marquis of Stanway for five thousand pounds, the Marquis intending to donate such a rare piece to the British Museum. The piece is kept at Claridge’s for cleaning.

One morning Claridge goes into his office to find it gone. The trapdoor to the roof has been forced and the door into his inner room also forced open by a jemmy or crowbar. A few rooftops away the luxury bag which contained it is discovered by the police. Claridge immediately reimburses Lord Stanway the £5,000 he paid for the piece.

Puzzled, Lord Stanway strolls round to Hewitt’s chambers and hires him to solve the crime. Hewitt goes through the motions, studies the layout of Claridge’s offices, interviews his staff, gets Claridge to describe his precise movements the evening before the crime, and so on. A great deal is made of a Mr Woollett, a jealous rival collector, who has rooms whose windows overlook Claridge’s offices. This seems too obviously a red herring, even to a non-detective story reader, like myself.

Long story short, Hewitt has almost immediately realised that Claridge destroyed the cameo himself and faked the burglary. Every detail of the way the trap door and office door were forced rings fake. Crucially there are spots of rain on a dusty old hat on a peg beneath the trapdoor. It had spitted a bit when Claridge was in the office at the end of the day, but was otherwise a fine clear night. Ergo, whoever ‘forced’ the trapdoor did it during the early evening when Claridge was still there. Ergo Claridge did it himself.

Confronted point blank by Hewitt Claridge breaks down and confesses. His motive was that, upon cleaning the cameo, he realised it was one of the best fakes ever made. But if this fact ever got out his reputation as a dealer would be ruined, the value of all his existing stock plummet, he would lose all his clients. He’d spent a long afternoon pondering all the possible consequences (which he explains in detail to Hewitt and the reader) before opting to fake a burglary and dispose of the cameo.

This option, although expensive, got him off the hook and preserved his reputation. Hewitt sits back, points out the flaws in his procedure and lets things stand. No crime has been committed. Nobody is out of pocket except Claridge himself. He’ll let the police do their best and if they find nothing further – so be it.

7. The Affair of the Tortoise

Two characters live in a row of new buildings near the National Gallery. One, a Mr Rameau, is a big, loud, colourful black man, often drunk and argumentative. He drinks, shouts, parties, slides down the bannisters and intimidates the other inhabitants. The other is a small Frenchman Victor Goujon, once a skilled watchmaker who hurt his hand and has fallen on bad times. Rameau intimidates and taunts Goujon. Goujon has a pet tortoise. Rameau plays with it and one day throws it against a wall so hard he cracks the shell. Goujon goes mad with anger and vows to kill the big man.

Goujon gets a job back in France, packs his bags and leaves. Later the same day Rameau is found dead by the maid, with a hatchet wound in his head and a piece of paper on his chest on which is scrawled puni par un vengeur de la tortue – ‘Punished by an avenger of the tortoise.’

The maid goes to fetch the landlord but when they return – the body has gone!!!!

Everyone assumes the culprit was angry little Goujon but Hewitt sets about dismantling this hypothesis, not least by comparing the ragged scrawl the death note is written in with an example of Goujon’s small precise handwriting which has been found by the police. Also, Goujon is too slight to have carried a big dead man anywhere.

Long story short, they’ve all misunderstood the note. La Tortue is the French name of an island off the north coast of Haiti. Rameau is a member of the brutal, corrupt family which ruled Haiti under the psychotic President Domingue. Domingue’s political opponents took shelter on La Tortue where Domingue’s forces tracked them down and all but exterminated them. Then there was a revolution in which Domingue was overthrown. Our victim, César Rameau, was brother to Domingue’s nephew and Chief Minister, Septimus Rameau.

After the coup, he fled to England where he took rooms in a modest house but carried on the brutish behaviour of a member of a corrupt ruling family. One day he was attacked by one of his enemies who, from the message, had survived the La Tortue massacre and devoted his life to tracking him down.

Where did the body go? Hewitt laughs as he presents Inspector Netting with the murderer and remover of the body of César Rameau – César Rameau himself! Yes, he was never killed but stunned!! He awoke after the maid had gone to fetch the landlord, and made his escape down one of the dumb waiters which served the tall narrow house, hid out in a nearby empty house, then, wrapped in a dark coat, got a cabman to drive him to a safe house.

Hewitt had gone out and chatted to the cabmen waiting outside the house, discovered one who had given a ride the night before to a big man wrapped in a dark coat and nursing his arm, and followed the route to discover Rameau terrified and in hiding.

The police never find the attacker. Rameau is now keen to get out of England. Little Goujon who the police had arrested on his way to the coast sues for wrongful arrest. All is settled.

N.B. Racism This story is a gold mine for researchers investigating the myths and stereotypes surrounding black people in 1890s England, and it would be easy to get worked up by Morrison’s ‘racism’ and use of ‘racist stereotypes’, such as that this black man is loud, aggressive and likes wearing colourful clothing. To be precise:

He got uproariously drunk, and screamed and howled in unknown tongues. He fell asleep on the staircase, and ladies were afraid to pass. He bawled rough chaff down the stairs and along the corridors at butcher-boys and messengers, and played on errand-boys brutal practical jokes that ended in police-court summonses. He once had a way of sliding down the balusters, shouting: ‘Ho! ho! ho! yah!’ as he went, but as he was a big, heavy man, and the balusters had been built for different treatment, he had very soon and very firmly been requested to stop it. He had plenty of money, and spent it freely; but it was generally felt that there was too much of the light-hearted savage about him to fit him to live among quiet people.

Well, there’s a whole world of outrage to be mined from the story, if that’s what you like, and anybody who objects to use of the n-word will have a nervous breakdown and might throw away the book in disgust, especially when the inspector and Hewitt agree that black people have abnormally thick skulls – which explains why Rameau survived a blow to the head with an axe!

But what struck me was that, despite the negative characterisation of Rameau, both the police, inspector Netting, Hewitt and the narrator, Brett, all take it for granted that the case is worth investigating. That Rameau’s life was worth the life of any other person in the UK. In fact, his life is worth more than the lives of the poverty-stricken babies and children of the Jago who Morrison was writing about at the same time. They die like rats and no-one laments them. Rameau is given more importance than them.

And then, as the case unfolds, your initial outrage is tempered as you realise that it isn’t a generic description of black men – it is a description of a very particular type, namely the spoilt, violent, untouchable member of the ruling family of a black dictatorship, used to throwing his weight around and intimidating everyone around him, with no consequences. He is the forebear of Papa Doc and Baby Doc Duvalier who exerted a reign of terror over Haiti enforced by the terrifying Tontons Macoutes from 1957 to 1986.

It isn’t a generic racist stereotype. It is a specific portrait of a particular kind of person.

It’s fascinating to learn that Haiti had enough of a reputation for violence and corruption as far back as 1894 to be thought a suitable location for the backstory to a popular detective story. This is Hewitt explaining Haiti to Inspector Netting (and the reader):

‘The biggest island of the lot on this map, barring Cuba, is Hayti. You know as well as I do that the western part of that island is peopled by the black republic of Hayti, and that the country is in a degenerate state of almost unexampled savagery, with a ridiculous show of civilization. There are revolutions all the time; the South American republics are peaceful and prosperous compared to Hayti. The state of the country is simply awful – read Sir Spenser St. John’s book on it. President after president of the vilest sort forces his way to power and commits the most horrible and bloodthirsty excesses, murdering his opponents by the hundred and seizing their property for himself and his satellites, who are usually as bad, if not worse, than the president himself. Whole families – men, women, and children – are murdered at the instance of these ruffians, and, as a consequence, the most deadly feuds spring up, and the presidents and their followers are always themselves in danger of reprisals from others.

Compare the continuity of the country’s terrible political culture through to nearly a century later.

Thousands of Haitians were killed or tortured, and hundreds of thousands fled the country during [Baby Doc’s] presidency. He maintained a notoriously lavish lifestyle (including a state-sponsored US$ 3 million wedding in 1980) while poverty among his people remained the most widespread of any country in the Western Hemisphere. (Wikipedia article about Jean-Claude Duvalier)


Thoughts about Martin Hewitt

Well, the obvious result of reading these seven stories is to make you appreciate the style and panache of the Sherlock Holmes stories. Morrison has come up with plausible enough crimes and obfuscates and confuses them enough to give his detective (and the reader) pleasurable mazes of puzzles and red herrings to work through in trying to solve the crimes.

From Conan Doyle Morrison has copied:

  • the idea of the dim sidekick and amanuensis
  • the idea that each story begins with a preliminary explanation of this or that other aspect of Hewitt’s character and technique
  • the idea that the ordinary detectives from Scotland Yard (named in the stories as Inspector Netting and Inspector Plummer) are decent chaps who just lack Hewitt’s brilliant insight (‘Well, Mr. Hewitt,’ Nettings said, ‘this case has certainly been a shocking beating for me. I must have been as blind as a bat when I started on it.’)
  • the rhetorical tricks which Conan Doyle’s uses to boost his fictional character, repeating phrases like ‘this case was the most famous of the eminent detectives many successes’ or, in the case of the Stanway Cameo, that it was always held against the great detective that no culprit was ever found (although we, the readers, know the real reason for this)
  • the notion that there is a vast casebook of stories which Brett could be telling, and that he selects this or that case an example of this or that quality in Hewitt’s character or working practice

In other words, he copies Sherlock Holmes to death.

But all this copying tends to highlight the way that the Holmes stories are, in a sense, only the backdrop against which is set the world-straddling character of the detective himself –  lean and aquiline, unexpectedly violent when he needs to be, otherwise playing his out-of-tune violin while a little high on cocaine and complaining that crime these days is so boring, there’s nothing to challenge his great intellect – in every way Holmes is a complex and compelling character.

Compared to this colourful creation, Martin Hewitt (even the name is bland and boring) is made of cardboard, and the narrator of the stories, Brett, is little more than a cipher.


Related links

Reviews of other fiction of the 1890s

Joseph Conrad

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

Tales of Mean Streets by Arthur Morrison (1894)

Morrison was born into the skilled working class – his father was an engine fitter – in Poplar on the Isle of Dogs.

His family was a couple of notches above the penniless, unemployed, illiterate class of violent thieves which he portrayed in his most famous book, A Child of The Jago. His parents were responsible enough to secure young Arthur an education, which he used to get a job as a clerk, aged 17. He began writing sketches of East End life, which were picked up by local and then national papers, the first one appearing in 1891.

He expanded the sketches into short stories which he sold to some of the quality magazines which proliferated in the 1880s and 1890s, such as The National ObserverMacmillan’s Magazine, and The Pall Mall Budget. The editor of the The National Observer, W.E. Henley, took Morrison under his wing and provided help and guidance. When Morrison gathered the best of these early stories into this collection, published in 1894, he dedicated the volume to Henley. The stories are:

  • Introduction: A Street
  • Lizerunt –
    1. Lizer’s Wooing
    2. Lizer’s First
    3. A Change of Circumstances
  • Without Visible Means
  • To Bow Bridge
  • That Brute Simmons
  • Behind the Shade
  • Three Rounds
  • In Business
  • The Red Cow Group
  • On the Stairs
  • Squire Napper
  • ‘A Poor Stick’
  • A Conversion
  • ‘All that Messuage’

Lizerunt

Elizabeth Hunt, facetiously referred to as Lizerunt, is 17 and works in a pickle factory. On Wanstead Flats at the Whitsun Fair, she is fought over by Billy Chope and Sam Cardew. For five minutes she feels like Helen of Troy.

17 is a bit late for girls to get wed in her circles, so she hurries up and marries Billy. Since her dad is dead and her mother is serving a month in prison for drunk and disorderly, it is a small wedding party – the groom drinks himself unconscious by noon and his mum gets trolleyed on gin. Billy’s only source of income had been extorting money from his mother, who makes a pittance mangling wet washing. Now he takes all Lizer’s wages, too.

Soon Billy beats Lizer. She gets pregnant. A zealous local vicar gives Billy half a crown on hearing about the baby, but Billy avoids him like the plague after the vicar tries to offer him a job. Not bloomin’ likely, mate. Billy demands more money from Lizer, even after she’s stopped working due to being heavily pregnant. One particular morning he demands money and, when she says she’s saving it for the baby, kicks her, and kicks her again.

He storms out, loiters around a protest by unemployed workers hoping to cadge some money, before going to get drunk at a pub, then returning to demand his dinner at 3pm. Instead he finds Lizer in bed, very weak, having given birth to a feeble baby which is bruised down one side from where Billy kicked her.

When she says dinner isn’t ready, Billy begins dragging her out of bed at which point the medical student who delivered the baby returns from washing his hands in the kitchen, sizes up the scene, drags Billy to the street door and kicks him out. Returning to the bedroom, the student finds… Lizer and Billy’s mum yelling abuse at him. But… but… he just protected Lizer! That means nothing to working class solidarity. The women hound him out of the flat, leaving Billy free to come back home later and take his violent revenge.

You can see very clearly why Morrison thinks there is no helping these people. They literally reject all attempts at help. All values are inverted so that anyone who dresses well, keeps clean, has rooms full of furniture, is considered uppity. Anyone who can read is suspect. Any man not on the scrounge is suspicious, probably a sneak. And all the women rally round their menfolk no matter how much they beat them up.

By age 21 Lizer has had her third child, lost the job at the pickle factory, ekes an uncertain income from charring, and gives all her money to Billy, who still gives her a regular beating. One day Billy comes across the money his mum had been saving for her funeral hidden away in the base of the mangle. He rants and raves and confiscates it. A few days later his mum dies of heart disease. Unable to face the body which, as per working class tradition, is kept in the coffin in the front room for days, Billy avoids the house till the coroner comes to fetch the corpse.

Billy tries to wangle some sympathy money from the coroner’s jury at the inquest, but they’re wise to people like him. The mangling work which local folk had given to the old lady now dries up, redistributed to other older women, thus reducing Billy’s income. So one rainy night he bullies and kicks Lizer into going out on the street to become a prostitute.

This is the most harsh, unforgiving story in the set and the finale – a husband forcing his beaten wife to go on the game – ensured the book achieved notoriety among moralistic Victorian reviewers.

Without visible means

This story describes the tramp north of a handful of men who’ve been thrown out of work by the Great Strikes of 1888. In a vague, uneducated way, without maps or a sense of the distance, they set off for Newcastle. We’re introduced to the accordionist among them, who soon gets work entertaining in pubs, to Skulker Newman who talks about overthrowing the capitalist classes and then, one night, steals the toolbag of poor Joey Clayton, weak and victimised because he didn’t immediately join the strike.

Now Joey’s had his last belongings in the world nicked off him, he slowly gets weaker and weaker, worn down by the long days tramping, eventually coughing blood and well on the way to dying. His sole surviving companion on the march leaves him passed out in a pub with a chalked message on the table asking that he be taken to the workhouse.

To Bow Bridge

More an urban sketch than a story, this an account of the 11 o’clock journey of the tram from Stratford to Bow which is packed with drunks travelling from outer London, where pubs shut at 11, to the County of London (Bow), where pubs shut at 12, to get an extra hour of drinking.

The drunks on the tram jostle and fight, a tired prostitute tries to be friendly to a child travelling with a ‘respectable’ woman, who pulls the child closer, a fat woman sits athwart a number of other passengers, a man throws up in the tram doorway, a loud fight upstairs comes tumbling down the steps as the tram arrives at Bow Bridge and all the drunks and drabs hurriedly exit.

That Brute Simmons

A genuinely funny story in which polite, well-employed carpenter and joiner Tommy Simmons is quietly married to Hannah, widow of a Mr Ford.

Hannah always gets her own way. She has Tommy washing the cutlery and cleaning the stairs every week, as well as bathing and putting to bed the children. Then Hannah has the bright idea of making Tommy’s clothes for him out of shreds and patches found in rag shops, with the result that he becomes a laughing stock at work. Long-suffering is Tommy Simmons.

One day there’s a knock at his door and a very shifty, dirty man introduces himself as her first husband, Bob Ford, presumed drowned in a shipping accident but in fact rescued by a German ship and spent years at sea. Now, he says, he’s returned to claim his marriage rights!

Tommy is gobsmacked. Bob observes the effect, then, in the manner of all good confidence men, says he is prepared to waive his claims for a mere £5. At this point the reader realises he is scamming Tommy. But the joke is on Bob because the crux of the story is that Bob’s return is the straw which cracks Tommy’s morale. Rather than offer to pay Ford to clear off, Tommy says that, No, he will go, he will do the decent thing and let Ford get back together with Hannah!

Ford now panics because this wasn’t his plan at all, so he drops his price to £3. But Tommy’s mind is made up and he says, ‘No, he’s going to do the decent thing and leave. Bob can have her.’ ‘How about £1?’ wheedles Bob. ‘And I’ll buy you a pint into the bargain.’

At that point there’s a knock on the door and it is the egregious Hannah. Tommy goes downstairs to open the door, greets Hannah and tells her there’s someone upstairs to see her. As she turns to go inside, Tommy legs it down the street, planning never to come back. Meanwhile, old Bob, having seen all this from the first floor, swiftly:

flung into the back room, threw open the window, dropped from the wash-house roof into the back-yard, scrambled desperately over the fence, and disappeared into the gloom.

This is described so vividly it made me laugh out loud.

But because no-one saw Bob arrive, or leave, or knew who he was or heard of his offer, all the neighbours – and indeed Hannah – ever understood about the affair was that Tommy Simmons thoughtlessly abandoned his wife. So he goes down in street legend as that brute!

Behind the Shade

A rather grim short couple of scenes in which Mrs and Miss Perkins try to keep up appearances after the death of the respectable Mr Perkins removes their only source of income. But then an ‘accident’ occurs to Mrs Perkins – i.e. she is savagely beaten up by a passing drunk – leaving her bed-bound. Miss Perkins wastes away, and one day their bodies are both found dead from starvation.

Three Rounds

A vivid description of young Neddy Milton, 18 and out of work, wandering the Bethnal Green Road having eaten nothing all day, until the evening brings his involvement in one of the prize fights organised in the back of the Prince Regent pub.

It’s a really vivid, visceral description of a hungry and rather puny young man getting badly beaten by his stronger opponent, Patsy Beard, but trying to respond under the encouragement of the one-eyed pug-sized ‘second’, who gives him pep talks and cold water between each of the three rounds.

It’s short and intense and makes the reader feel like they’ve just been through a three-round fight.

In Business

This is a story about snobbery.

Ted Munsey inherits £100 from his uncle. His wife’s family had always thought she married beneath her, since her dad was a dock timekeeper and Ted was only a moulder at Moffat’s. Mrs Munsey immediately decides they must set up a haberdasher’s shop, solely in order to move up into the shop-keeping class. So they hire a shop with rooms in Bromley, and fit it out with stock, and Ted finds himself told to leave Moffat’s, wear smart clothes, brylcreem his hair and become a ‘shopwalker’.

Inevitably it fails. It not only fails but both the Moffats are taken in by a smooth-talking salesman who persuades them to take a quantity of towels and aprons off him, at a very decent wholesale price, the whole to be repaid, with credit, in three months time. The shop attracts fewer customers than ever, and Mrs M takes out her frustration with relentless criticism of Ted, who her mother warned her against etc etc.

One day she wakes up to find he has tried to write a legal document, taking all legal responsibilities for the debt on himself, and has left. What becomes of him, her or the shop, we never find out.

The Red Cow Group

A satire on the low stupidity, ignorance and selfishness of a so-called ‘political’ grouping.

The blowsy, middle-aged inhabitants of the hidden-away Red Cow bar are happy to spend their evenings drinking their pints, until the frustrated young firebrand Sotcher is introduced into their midst, with his simple message that they are the salt of the earth and deserve more. Who wouldn’t believe such a message?

Slowly the Red Cow group came around. Plainly other people were better off than they; and certainly each man found it hard to believe that anybody else was more deserving than himself.

He then persuades them to blow something up, to strike a blow at the, er, you know, them toffs and the system and everythink.

The whole story is played for a series of laughs. Even once the pub drunks are persuaded that they’re ‘as good as any man’ and ‘why shouldn’t they live in big houses with fancy servants’ and that blowing something up will be ‘the first blow in overthrowing the system’ – they are still upset to learn that they won’t be getting paid to blow up the local gasworks. No, explains the young firebrand Sotcher.

They would get the glory, Sotcher assured them, and the consciousness of striking a mighty blow at this, and that, and the other… There was no committee, and no funds: there was nothing but glory, and victory, and triumph, and the social revolution, and things of that kind.

Sotcher gives a couple of the least stupid among them instructions on how to manufacture nitro-glycerine at home. The group begins to take up Sotcher’s rhetoric, especially his form of revolutionary bullying, namely that anyone who questions his orders or hesitates to carry them out is an enemy of the people and of the revolution who must be treated to ‘revolutionary justice’ i.e. whatever he says.

Which makes it all the funnier when the lads one evening turn up in the little pub with a canister of what they claim is pure nitro-glycerine and tell Sotcher that, in his absence, they’ve held a democratic vote and nominated him to be the man to plant the bomb at the gasworks.

Revealing himself to be a first-class coward, Sotcher squeals that he can’t do it, and pompously declares that he’s from the Education Branch not the Active Branch of the group – at which the other members begin muttering that he’s a backslider, probably a copper’s nark. Maybe they ought to ‘eliminate’ him there and then – and while a couple of strong men hold Sotcher in their grip, the others have an educated discussion about the best way to do it – the most garish being putting a stick in his neckerchief and twisting it till he’s garrotted.

During all this they keep plying Sotcher with beer till he’s insensible – then, in the dead of night, they carry him down to the gasworks, prop his unconscious body against the gasometer, tie the explosive canister to his body, light the fuse and scarper.

A small bang alerts the local constable who goes to the scene, finds Sotcher unconscious and reeking of booze, near a homemade firework. Next morning at the magistrates court, the young firebrand is charged with being drunk and incapable, and is fined five shillings.

Morrison implies that so-called ‘radical’ or ‘anarchist’ politics is a sordid and ridiculous shambles.

On the Stairs

Brief sketch of two old women meeting on the stairs in a dilapidated old house inhabited by eight poor families, and discussing the fact that the son of one of them, Bob, is at death’s door. The mother knows, ‘cos she heard a fateful knocking at the bedhead last night. They discuss funeral arrangements and expenses and Mrs Manders describes (for the umpteenth time) the grand sending-off she gave her husband.

They’re disturbed by the arrival of the doctor’s assistant. He goes in to see the sick young man, emerges and says he really needs medicine. Mrs Curtis says she can’t afford it. The assistant is pricked by his conscience and eventually gives her five shillings to buy some – blissfully ignorant that his superior, the doctor, gave the woman the self-same sum the day before.

He tips his hat and leaves. Now she can give her son a decent sending off, she winks at her wizened friend.

Moral: bourgeois charity is misplaced because it misunderstands the completely different value system of the slum dwellers who will do or say anything in order to screw money, now, out of any willing sap prepared to give it, regardless of long-term consequences.

Squire Napper

A very funny account of Bill Napper who inherits £300 from his brother (who had emigrated to Australia and has just passed away). Bill has a job and so is pretty respectable:

Bill Napper was a heavy man of something between thirty-five and forty. His moleskin trousers were strapped below the knees, and he wore his coat loose on his back, with the sleeves tied across his chest. The casual observer set him down a navvy, but Mrs. Napper punctiliously made it known that he was ‘in the paving’; which meant that he was a pavior.

Nonetheless, Bill has the stupid craftiness of the uneducated and is suspicious of every aspect of the lawyer’s office where he’s called, refuses to sign anything, thinking he’s very crafty and canny. The whole thing is done with a nice ironic, comedic touch.

In a nutshell, Bill drinks his way through the entire inheritance, and then beats his wife in his anger at its disappearance. Along the way there are several very comic scenes, such as the time he persuades his entire gang of pavement layers to chuck in work and spend the afternoon in the pub ‘on the wet’; or the way he hires a Victoria Park orator, the shifty Minns, to come to his house and deliver his speeches pulverising Capital and the Greedy Classes in the comfort of his front room.

‘A Poor Stick’

Mrs Jennings:

was what is called rather a fine woman: a woman of large scale and full development; whose slatternly habit left her coarse black hair to tumble in snake-locks about her face and shoulders half the day; who, clad in half-hooked clothes, bore herself notoriously and unabashed in her fulness.

She lords it over her husband, Robert, who has a regular job but is also expected to wash and dress for bed the filthy children. One day she runs off with the lodger, but poor pathetic Robert, though mocked at work, and gently chided by his brother-in-law, refuses to accept she’s gone and, every night, dresses smart and goes to the stretch of the High Street where they used to promenade up and down when they were courting. Genuinely pathetic.

A Conversion

The criminal career of Scuddy Lond, told with hilarious facetiousness describing his unbending commitment to a life of crime, except when he’s caught and brought up before the beak, when he breaks down into a sincere and tearful repentance. Again.

Scuddy went regularly into business as a lob-crawler: that is to say, he returned to his first love, the till: not narrowly to any individual till, but broad-mindedly to the till as a general institution, to be approached in unattended shops by stealthy grovelling on the belly. This he did until he perceived the greater security and comfort of waiting without while a small boy did the actual work within.

From this, and with this, he ventured on peter-claiming: laying hands nonchalantly on unconsidered parcels and bags at railway stations, until a day when, bearing a fat portmanteau, he ran against its owner by the door of a refreshment bar.

[Brought before the magistrate he claimed…] This time the responsibility lay with Drink. Strong Drink, he declared, with deep emotion, had been his ruin; he dated his downfall from the day when a false friend persuaded him to take a Social Glass; he would still have been an honest, upright, self-respecting young man but for the Cursed Drink. From that moment he would never touch it more. The case was met with three months with hard labour, and for all that Scuddy Lond had so clearly pointed out the culpability of Drink, he had to do the drag himself. But the mission-readers were comforted: for clearly there was hope for one whose eyes were so fully opened to the causes of his degradation.

Note the ‘mission-readers’ here i.e. the self-deluding high-minded members of Christian Missions to the East End who see in Scuddy’s long list of slick repentances the chance that he might, one day, actually mean it.

This turns out to be the point of the story which describes how, one hungry evening, as Scuddy is wandering the streets, smelling food, feeling sorry for himself, he listens to a woman on a street corner singing a sentimental song and then, for once, allows one of the barkers on the door of a Christian Mission to persuade him to go inside the hall.

Here he listens to moving testimony from a big navvy about his conversion to Jesus, and then a long sermon from the vicar who preaches the Love of God. At the end of the service Scuddy is presented to the vicar along with a few other converts of the evening. Born again! A new life!

None of which stops him, upon exiting the church and walking along a dank passage, from nicking the day’s takings of the lame woman selling hot pigs’ trotters, when she momentarily turns her back.

The moral doesn’t need to be made explicit but it is the same in all Morrison’s stories: the slum-dwellers are hard cases, can’t be saved, it is folly to think so.

‘All That Messuage’

A story in eleven sections which tells the decline and fall of Old Jack Randall after he spends all his savings to put down a deposit and take out a mortgage on Number Twenty-seven Mulberry Street, Old Ford. Very ignorant, neither his wife nor Old Jack have factored in the rates and other costs of such a project, and right at the start Morrison shows that they will fail, financially.

But it also has social costs. Word gets round that Old Jack is now a landlord with all the respect that engenders. So everyone thinks it must mean he’s rich. So his son comes round to borrow half a pound and when Old Jack refuses – because he genuinely has used up every penny of his saving on the deposit – his son goes away chagrined and his daughter-in-law starts bad-mouthing him. That’s the start of the family rejecting Old Jack.

In the same way a few blokes from the workshop where he works ask Jack to lend them a quid. When he embarrassedly refuses, they turn against him. A landlord has loads of money. Everyone knows that.

Things get worse when the old tenant quits and a new one, a bold pushing public orator named Joe Parsons, offers to rent the house. As the weeks pass it becomes clear that he is not going to pay. More, he is sub-letting the upper room. When Old Jack protests, Parsons calls him a blood-sucking leech and subjects him to one of his ‘radical’ tirades:

‘Y’ ain’t earnt it. It’s you blasted lan’lords as sucks the blood o’ the workers. You go an’ work for your money.’

When Old Jack points out that he, Parsons, is taking (illegal) rent, Parson ignores him, threatens to punch him and finally pushes him out the front door before slamming it in his face.

Meanwhile, Old Jack hasn’t been able to pay the mortgage to the credit company. He’s going deeper into debt. There’s a strike at another factory which extends to his workshop. Everyone downs tools except Old Jack, who can’t afford to, but is vilified as not only a scab but as a filthy rich landlord of a scab.

In the penultimate scene, Old Jack comes across Parsons orating to a crowd in the park, and is unwise enough to shout out ‘Pay me your rent’. Parsons uses the full force of his radical rhetoric to persuade the crowd that Jack is not only a heartless, rich landlord who wants to throw him – Parsons – and his wife out onto the street, but he is a blackleg and a scab too.

The surly crowd punch and hit Jack, knocking him to the ground. His wife, who had been shopping nearby, comes running and throws herself over his body, but the mob just start kicking her as well.

Old Jack was down. A dozen heavy boots were at work about his head and belly. In from the edge of the crowd a woman tore her way, shedding potatoes as she ran, and screaming; threw herself upon the man on the ground; and shared the kicks. Over the shoulders of the kickers whirled the buckle-end of a belt. ‘One for the old cow,’ said a voice.

Months later, alive but unable to work, the house repossessed by an unconcerned mortgage company, all their possessions pawned to pay for necessities, Old Jack and his wife enter a workhouse.


Tone

The tone is knowing and facetious, in several ways. Morrison describes the habits, mindset, values and behaviours of his slum-dwellers in often elaborate and Biblical language, in order to highlight the discrepancy between discourse and content, to create irony, to be funny.

Here he is ventriloquising the thoughts of Bill Napper after he’s inherited his fortune, putting the thoughts into the cod-Biblical phraseology of pompous Victorian prose.

One of the chief comforts of affluence is that you may have beer in by the barrel; for then Sundays and closing times vex not, and you have but to reach the length of your arm for another pot whenever moved thereunto.

Another Morrison tactic is to state unexpected and dire aspects of the life in the slums as if they were well-known facts and commonly accepted values. For example, that all good young ladies should be married by the age of 16 (Lizerunt) or that a man will live off the labour of his wife and regularly beat her up to keep her in line – these are facetiously treated as universal truths which who could possibly deny?

In the end there was a vehement row, and the missis was severely thumped. (Squire Napper)

From within came a noise of knocks and thuds and curses – sometimes a gurgle. Old Jack asked a small boy, whose position in the passage betokened residence, what was going forward. ‘It’s the man downstairs,’ said the boy, ‘a-givin’ of it to ‘is wife’. (‘All That Messuage‘)

It is the casual way that violence, especially against women, is accepted as a boring everyday occurrence, which makes it all the more shocking.

Violence permeates all aspects of life, and is in fact one of the few forms of entertainment the slum-dwellers have. Here is Squire Napper exuding the superiority of his new-found wealth:

In his own street, observing two small boys in the prelusory stages of a fight, he put up sixpence by way of stakes, and supervised the battle from the seat afforded by a convenient window-sill.

That is broad humour, where the permanent background violence which saturates life in the slums is treated as a joke.

Something more complicated is going on in this description of the small house built at the end of a slum terrace, whose tenants reckon themselves a cut above the neighbours. The comedy is at the expense of the ladies’ pretentions to respectability.

Although the house was smaller than the others, and was built upon a remnant, it was always a house of some consideration. In a street like this mere independence of pattern gives distinction. And a house inhabited by one sole family makes a figure among houses inhabited by two or more, even though it be the smallest of all. And here the seal of respectability was set by the shade of fruit – a sign accepted in those parts.

Now, when people keep a house to themselves, and keep it clean; when they neither stand at the doors nor gossip across back-fences; when, moreover, they have a well-dusted shade of fruit in the front window; and, especially, when they are two women who tell nobody their business: they are known at once for well-to-do, and are regarded with the admixture of spite and respect that is proper to the circumstances. They are also watched.

‘Proper to the circumstances’. Morrison lards the stories with the values of the slum-dwellers taken at face value and simultaneously revealing and funny. But it ain’t all fun and games. Contrast both these examples with a slice of much more savage humour.

Then Mrs. Perkins met with her accident. A dweller in Stidder’s Rents overtook her one night, and, having vigorously punched her in the face and the breast, kicked her and jumped on her for five minutes as she lay on the pavement. (In the dark, it afterwards appeared, he had mistaken her for his mother.)

That last phrase made me burst out laughing for its unexpectedness, but it is at the same time a harsh, horrible description, and is meant to be. Mrs Perkins is permanently bed-bound because of this savage attack. It is an example of the way Morrison often lulls you into a state of acquiescence in the humdrum lives of the poor – and then hits you with a sucker punch describing something really horrible – the bottling of a woman, the death of a baby.

(The use of paradox – if that’s the right word – the technique of saying the most outrageous things in the calmest, most natural way, began to remind me of Oscar Wilde. Not the tone, the tone is completely different. Just the structure. Saying the outrageous with cavalier indifference.)

Politics

None of the characters have any serious politics, and Morrison doesn’t waste time editorialising about the viciousness he describes. Maybe it was this lack of sermons, and the sometimes savage way that he accepts the brutality of life in the slums, which made his stories notorious and controversial.

The Press He is consistently dismissive of anyone or anything which is under the delusion that it can change these people. In a throwaway phrase he conveys the uselessness of the Press’s high-minded editorials, all piss and vinegar which change nothing.

After the inquest the street had an evening’s fame: for the papers printed coarse drawings of the house, and in leaderettes demanded the abolition of something. Then it became its wonted self.

‘The abolition of something’ – so irrelevant he can’t even be bothered to specify what. In Squire Napper Orator Minns and his shifty mate try to persuade Napper to invest money in a new newspaper which, it is clear to all concerned, is regarded as simply a money-making scam.

Radicals The Red Cow Group is supposedly about an ‘anarchist’ group and so ought to contain a tincture of political thought, but is used solely as the opportunity for satire.

Here [in the Red Cow pub] he [Sotcher] had an audience, an audience that did not lecture on its own account, a crude audience that might take him at his own valuation. So he gave it to that crude audience, hot and strong. They (and he) were the salt of the earth, bullied, plundered and abused. Down with everything that wasn’t down already. And so forth and so on.

‘And so forth and so on’ – Morrison dismisses the entire radical rhetoric as meaningless puff. The young firebrand Sotcher is shown to be full of highfalutin’ phrases which mean nothing. And then turns out to be a coward. All he stirs in the drinkers in the Red Cow is their long-standing sense of grievance and injustice that other people are somehow richer than them. ‘T’ain’t fair’. There’s no thought or policy behind their griping.

think the ‘anarchists’ make a bomb not with nitro-glycerine but with sand and castor oil as a joke on Sotcher, though it might be their own incompetence. Either way, the whole ‘anarchist’ movement is shown to be the piss and wind of idiot braggers.

Minns In the story Squire Napper Minns, the public orator who Bill Napper hires to sound off in the comfort of his own front room, is revealed to be not only a windy bullshitter, like Sotcher, but a liar and a thief. With an associate he one night tries to break into Bill’s house. Having opened the casement window, he is just peering his head through the gap when Bill hits him hard with the heel of his boot and Minns tumbles back down into the yard. The real punchline to this is later, at one of his regular public orations to a crowd in the park, Minns claims that the cut and bruise on his head are evidence of police brutality:

the proof and sign of a police bludgeoning at Tower Hill – or Trafalgar Square.

Parsons The shifty-looking man who moves into Old Jack Randall’s house is a well-known orator and agitator and – turns out to be a crook who uses the language of radicalism – all landlords are blood-sucking leeches – purely to justify his own thieving and skiving.

Summary: all socialists and radicals are self-serving hypocrites who use the rhetoric of radicalism solely to express their own personal grievances, who turn out to be liars, bullies and thieves, and who, given half a chance, don’t hesitate to exploit people just as hard as the landlords or owners they execrate.

The fatuousness of political opinions

On Sundays and Saturday afternoons Bill would often take a turn down by the dock gates, or even in Victoria Park, or Mile End Waste, where there were speakers of all sorts. At the dock gates it was mostly Labor and Anarchy, but at the other places there was a fine variety; you could always be sure of a few minutes of Teetotalism, Evangelism, Atheism, Republicanism, Salvationism, Socialism, Anti-Vaccinationism, and Social Purity, with now and again some Mormonism or another curious exotic. Most of the speakers denounced something, and if the denunciations of one speaker were not sufficiently picturesque and lively, you passed on to the next. Indeed, you might always judge afar off where the best denouncing was going on by the size of the crowds, at least until the hat went round.

Bill had always vastly admired the denunciations of one speaker – a little man, shabbier, if anything, than most of the others, and surpassingly tempestuous of antic. He was an unattached orator, not confining himself to any particular creed, but denouncing whatever seemed advisable, considering the audience and circumstances. He was always denouncing something somewhere, and was ever in a crisis that demanded the circulation of a hat. Bill esteemed this speaker for his versatility as well as for the freshness of his abuse.

All these radical oppositional views are seen as interchangeable forms of entertainment, with no higher meaning. This view is taken to extremes when Bill Napper takes a fancy to orator Minns, and pays him a shilling a time to come to his home, stand in the living room and denounce, well, whatever he has handy. When he ran out of steam denouncing one subject, Bill sets him off denouncing another. Like a record player.

Political or social issues are reduced to the level of music hall songs: people make requests for their favourites. All gas and gaiters. Nothing ever changes.

Individual charity such as that of the medical assistant in On the Stairs, is deluded and wasted. He gives the poor old lady five shillings for medicine for her son. 1. Her son dies anyway. 2. She spends it on a smart funeral. 3. His boss, the doctor, had already given her five shillings which disappeared in drink. The only tangible result of his impulse to charity will be that the assistant will now be a prey to every beggar, conman and bleeding heart in the neighbourhood.

He was not a wealthy young man – wealthy young men do not devil for East End doctors – but he was conscious of a certain haul of sixpences at nap the night before; and, being inexperienced, he did not foresee the career of persecution whereon he was entering at his own expense and of his own motion.

Names

The colourful names of Morrison’s proles or near-proles remind me of the lively monikers of Damon Runyon’s characters. They include: Billy Chope, Bella Dawson, Sam Cardew, Joey Clayton, Skulky Newman, Tommy Simmons, Bob Ford, Neddy Milton, Tab Rosser, Beard Patsy, Tab Rosser, Hocko Jones, Tiggy Magson, Ted Munsey, Jerry Shand, Gunno Polson, Snorkey, Bill Napper, and Scuddy Lond.


Related links

Other fiction of the 1890s

Joseph Conrad

Rudyard Kipling

Henry Rider Haggard

Sherlock Holmes

Arthur Morrison

Robert Louis Stevenson

Bram Stoker

H.G. Wells

Oscar Wilde

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