J. Farjeon - Number Nineteen - Ben’s Last Case

‘Was there?’

‘I ain’t fergot that.’

‘Then you might remind me?’

‘Yer sed yer’d lorst the old ’un.’

‘So I did.’

‘Well, ’ow did yer lose ’im?’

Mr Smith did not respond at once. The question seemed both to interest and surprise him. A very faint smile entered his expression when he replied.

‘You’re a careful one, aren’t you, Mr Jones?’

‘If yer wanter learn somethink,’ retorted Ben, ‘I ain’t sich a fool as I look!’

He hoped his tone was convincing. Mr Smith’s smile grew a little more distinct.

‘That, if you will forgive me,’ he returned, ‘would be difficult. Although perhaps you have no precise idea at this moment how you do look—but we will return to that later.’

‘That’s okay by me if we can return nah to that hother caretaiker. Wot ’appened ter ’im?’

‘Ah!’

‘That don’t tell me nothink.’

‘It was not intended to. I only intend to tell you—that is, until I have learned to know you a little better—what is strictly necessary. But I see no reason why I should not tell you that our last caretaker was not a very good one.’

‘Meanin’ that ’e didn’t keep the plice clean, or go ter the door when the bell rang?’

‘What else should I mean?’

‘That’s wot I’m arskin’.’

‘Then let us put it this way. He proved disappointing—after, I admit, a very good start—in not completely fulfilling his job.’

‘And s’pose I don’t fulfil my job?’

‘That would be a pity for both of us. You see, Mr Jones, however well you started—and you are not really making such a bad beginning—you would have to keep it up. You would have to prove yourself trustworthy. In that way, you might eventually be given more responsibility, and end up by doing quite well for yourself. Do you get that?’

‘P’r’aps I do, and p’r’aps I don’t,’ answered Ben, cautiously, ‘but wot I don’t git is wot’s goin’ ter ’appen ter me if I don’t turn aht more satisfact’ry than t’other chap? See, that was why I arsked yer wot ’appened ter ’ im ?’

Mr Smith shook his head.

‘I would not press that,’ he said.

‘’Oo’s pressin’ wot?’ replied Ben. ‘Orl right, jest tell me this. If I ain’t no good in this job, will I be free ter go and git another?’

‘You are more tenacious, Mr Jones, than a tiger with a hunk of juicy meat, but let me warn you that I am growing tired of these questions. You would be no more free to go and get another job than you are free at this moment to go and get any job. You forget that you have just done one job on a park seat from the consequences of which I am—so far—saving you. I shall only continue in this Christian mood so long as you yourself continue to give satisfaction in the new job I am now offering you.’

‘I see. And so that’s really why yer brort me along? It wasn’t jest ’cos yer was sorry fer me like? Okay, that’s orl right by me, on’y if I’m goin’ ter work fer yer I likes ter start straight—no matter ’ow crooked we git laiter on,’ he added, with a wink which he hoped was impressive. He must not appear too virtuous, for that clearly would be of no use to him. ‘So let’s ’ear wot I gotter do?’

‘Then you accept the job?’

‘Well, I dunno as I’m up ter it, not afore yer tells me?’

‘True,’ nodded Mr Smith. ‘But I feel sure you will be up to it, for—to start with—you will find it quite simple. This house is in the market to be sold. Sold as it stands, with everything in it. Some of the rooms are furnished, some are not. You will keep those that are furnished reasonably tidy. You will not be dismissed, however, if you leave a few cobwebs. Personally I rather like cobwebs. Do you? Nor need you exert yourself chasing spiders. There are a number of spiders here, some quite large ones. I rather like spiders, too. Beetles, for some occult reason, I am less fond of. There is one room here practically devoted to them. A small room at the back, with three loose boards. But in spite of the condition of the house, and the livestock, a big price is being asked for it, because it is really a valuable property—’ he paused, and an odd expression came into his face ‘—yes, a very valuable property, and so we are waiting until somebody comes along who realises its worth. But the price, of course, has nothing to do with you.’

‘No, I ain’t buyin’ it,’ said Ben.

‘That I hardly expected, and I merely mentioned it in case any people who are sent here by the agent make any comments about the price which you otherwise would not understand. The agent is Wavell and Son. The original Wavell died recently, and it is the son who carries on. You may meet him some day, but that is not very likely. He rarely comes here himself, but just sends his clients on with a list, which includes this house among others on his books. Wavell and Son. Make a note of it. The address does not matter to you.’

Mr Smith paused, as though considering what else to tell his new caretaker. Ben took advantage of the pause to put a question.

‘No, the address of the agent don’t matter ter me,’ he said, ‘but it wouldn’t ’urt ter know the address of the ’ouse I’m lookin’ arter.’

‘That certainly would not hurt,’ Mr Smith agreed. ‘The house is in Billiter Road, and the number is Nineteen.’

‘Oh! Nummer Nineteen?’

‘Anything wrong with it?’

There was a lot wrong with it. Earlier that day Ben had been cogitating over numbers, sorting out the lucky ones from the unlucky ones, and as we know he had decided that all the teen-numbers boded no good!

‘If there is, I carn’t alter it,’ he replied. ‘Okay. This is Nummer 19, Billiter Road, and it’s fer sale at a top price, spiders and orl, and the agent is Wavell and Son. I got orl that. Wot’s next?’

‘You will answer the bell and then leave whoever comes to go over the house, staying here in this room till they have gone—unless otherwise instructed. The bell is all you will answer. You are not here to answer questions. Or, for that matter, to ask them.’

‘Why should I arsk ’em?’

‘That was one. I am telling you you shouldn’t. In fact, Mr Jones, you must restrain your bump of curiosity in every possible way, on every possible subject. You will remain in the house, and you will not leave it until you receive permission.’

Ben considered this last instruction. It had its virtues. He did not want to go out—for a while, at any rate. There might be a policeman at the corner, and although he could go up to him and say, if the policeman did not speak to him first, ‘I’m caretaker fer the bloke wot murdered the man on the park seat,’ it was his, Ben’s fingerprints that were on the knife, and the truth about them would appear a somewhat tall story. Though, admittedly, it might be to prevent the opportunity for such a statement that Mr Smith wanted his caretaker confined to the house.

But there were objections to staying perpetually indoors. One was the obvious one of shopping. How was Ben going to buy his food? Yes, and how about the money to buy it with? The question of salary had not yet been raised.

He dealt with these two important points in order.

‘’Ere’s a cupple o’ questions fer yer, if I should arsk ’em or not,’ he said. ‘Fust, I gotter eat? Ain’t I ter go ter no shops?’

‘There is some tinned stuff in the larder,’ replied Mr Smith, ‘and as I shall call periodically, you can always tell me if there is anything you need.’

‘I see. You does me shoppin’ for me, like?’

‘Won’t that be kind of me?’

‘So long as yer don’t fergit me supper beer. Wot’s periodic? Wot time do I expeck yer?’