The Murders in Praed Street quotes

Praed Street is not at any time one of London’s brighter thoroughfares.

Certainly it ends upon a note of hope, terminating as it does on the fringe of the unquestioned respectability of Bayswater, but for the rest of its course it is frankly lamentable.

It seems to have done very little to adapt itself to its new role. Beyond an occasional grudging widening, it has left the unending streams of buses, of heavy railway lorries, of hurrying foot passengers, to shift for themselves as best they can.

It almost seems as though Praed Street regarded Paddington Station as an intrusion, and those who throng to and from it as unwelcome strangers.

It had its own interests long before the railway came—one of the termini of the Grand Junction Canal lies within a few yards of its sombre limits.

Tovey’s proud boast that he always moved with the times, and since his neighbours, the butcher and the grocer, had respectively converted themselves into Meat Purveyors and Provision Dealers, he had abandoned the vulgar term of greengrocer for the more high-sounding appellation.

Sunday was a day of strict observance with Mr. Tovey, its presiding deity his own comfort.

One can hardly blame him for this indulgence, since the rest of the week left him little leisure for repose. His habit was to rise before six, in order to drive the van to Covent Garden.

His habit was to rise before six, in order to drive the van to Covent Garden. The van, a secondhand Ford, was the subject of the ribald mirth of his acquaintances.

Every nonessential part had long since fallen off, as an aged elm sheds its branches, and the essentials were held together by odd pieces of rope.

But to any suggestion of the van’s imperfections, Mr. Tovey merely shrugged his shoulders. “ ’Tisn’t ’er looks as matters,” he would reply. “So long as she does ’er job she’ll do for me.”

Every nonessential part had long since fallen off, as an aged elm sheds its branches, and the essentials were held together by odd pieces of rope. But to any suggestion of the van’s imperfections, Mr. Tovey merely shrugged his shoulders.

“ ’Tisn’t ’er looks as matters,” he would reply. “So long as she does ’er job she’ll do for me.”

And perhaps this phrase, applied to things at large, was a complete summing up of Mr. Tovey’s philosophy.

This supposition is demonstrably false.

At no other age in the earth’s history has superstition owned so many votaries.

From the most rapt spiritualist to the man who refuses to walk under a ladder, the world is full of people who allow superstition to play an important part in their lives.

You may go in and buy two pennyworth of some dried plant with a high-sounding Latin name, the herbalist assuring you that, mixed with boiling water and drunk as tea, it will cure the most obscure disease.

If you have sufficient faith, it probably will.

But this is the least of the herbalist’s abilities. It is, in fact, merely the outward sign of an inward and spiritual wisdom.

Mr. Samuel Copperdock had from the first taken a great fancy to old Ludgrove, as he called him. When the name had first appeared over the shop, which had stood empty for years, almost opposite his own premises, he had been intrigued at once.

Curiosity⁠—or perhaps it was not mere vulgar curiosity, but a thirst for information⁠—was one of Sam Copperdock’s chief characteristics.

He must have been one of Mr. Ludgrove’s first customers, if not the very first, for on the very day the herbalist’s shop was opened he had walked across the road, pushed open the door, and thumped upon the counter.

That first introduction had, in the course of years, ripened into friendship. Nearly every morning Mr. Copperdock was in the habit of stepping across the road and having a chat with old Ludgrove.

Mr. Copperdock loved somebody to talk to.

If you went into his shop to buy a packet of your favourite cigarettes you were lucky if you got out after less than five minutes conversation.

But what could be the motive for the murder of these three men, so entirely disconnected from one another? And, if one adopted the theory of a homicidal maniac, the difficulty was scarcely diminished.

Homicidal maniacs either kill indiscriminately, or, as in the classic case of Jack the Ripper, they attack a certain class or type.

Yet the receipt of the numbered counters implied some process of definite selection. Upon what possible grounds could such a selection be based?

A large number of practical jokers despatched counters bearing the number IV to their friends, many of whom arrived hotfoot at Scotland Yard demanding instant police protection.

The fatal counter became for the moment a national symbol.

The Opposition newspapers contained cartoons depicting the Prime Minister opening an envelope labelled “Public Opinion,” and containing a numbered counter.

With a crash Mr. Martin fell down at the foot of the door.

The little cellar resumed its accustomed silence.

“

Suspicions aren’t evidence,

” said the Assistant Commissioner shortly. “Bring home the original murders to him by all means and then perhaps you’ll be able to link him up with the death of this man Martin.

The door of Mr. Copperdock’s bedroom stood open, and they rushed in together. On the threshold they halted, moved by a simultaneous impulse.

Before them, in the middle of the floor, lay Mr. Copperdock, stripped to the waist, with an expression of innocent surprise upon his face.

No, what altogether upset Whyland’s applecart was that another man received a counter, some time after the death of the man whom Whyland suspected of delivering them.”

“It is remarkable how frequently hypotheses founded upon pure conjecture are upset by one simple fact,” remarked the Professor acidly.

“Now, what was the name of this man whom Whyland suspected, and who so inconsiderately spoilt the theory by his premature death?”

“You have!” exclaimed Hanslet excitedly. Then, seeing the slow movement of the Professor’s head, he smiled. “I know you won’t tell me until you are certain,” he continued. “But at least tell me this. Are there likely to be any more of these mysterious deaths?”

“There will be one more, unless I am able to prevent it,” replied the Professor.

“Tell the truth,” replied Mr. Ludgrove solemnly. “Hide nothing, for if it is discovered that you have concealed anything, it will tell all the more heavily against your father.

There is only one true court of justice, the court of our own hearts.

A consciousness of innocence is the only support against an unjust accusation. It would perhaps have been better had your father realized this.”

He held out a scrap of paper as he spoke, and Harold took it from him. It ran as follows: “

Dr. Priestley, whose scientific writings have rendered his name familiar to the British public

, has received a cablegram begging him to deliver a series of lectures at a number of the Australian Universities. Dr. Priestley, who has just completed the manuscript of his forthcoming book, Some Aspects of Modern Thought, has accepted the invitation.

On the other hand, if Copperdock had been the murderer, what became of the Professor’s theory? Why should one of the jurymen wish to murder his colleagues? The problem became more complicated with every fresh discovery.

“This blessed case would drive an archangel to drink,” he observed disgustedly, as he wrapped up the knife again and put it in his pocket.

“Well, we’d better go across and see what young Copperdock has to say about this, eh, Whyland?”

Dr. Priestley cast a swift glance round it, noting with interest the scientific instruments on the bench, the cases full of books, and two comfortable armchairs. “This is a very comfortable room of yours, Mr. Ludgrove,” he remarked approvingly.

“It has heard some queer stories in its time,” replied Mr. Ludgrove with a smile.

“You can form no idea of the extraordinary confessions which some of my clients force me to listen to. But I can assure you that it has heard nothing more amazing that the story which I am about to unfold to you this evening.”

The man immediately took the chair opposite. “

Artists are naturally vain, Dr. Priestley,

” he began, “and I think my exploits entitle me to consider myself an artist. I have long promised myself the pleasure of recounting them to one who would appreciate their ingenuity, and you are the very man for such a purpose.