Chapter 18: Counsel’s Opinion.

I should not myself have cared to live in Camford Street, though it had many residents. It was in the heart, if not exactly of a slum, then certainly of an unsavoury district. Its surroundings, residentially speaking, were about as undesirable as they could have been. Camford Street itself was long, dreary, out-at-elbows, old enough to look as if it would be improved by being rebuilt. Painters, whitewashers, people of that kind, had not been down that way for years; that was obvious from the fronts of the houses. Buildings stretched from end to end in one continuous depressing row. Half-a-dozen houses, then a shop; half-a-dozen more, and a blacking manufactory; three more, and a public-house; another six and a “wardrobe dealer’s,” doubtful third and fourth hand garments dimly visible through dirty panes of glass, and so on, for a good half mile.

Eighty-four looked, what it undoubtedly was, an abode of mystery, as grimy an edifice as the street contained. I know nothing of the value of property thereabouts; whatever it might have been it was not the kind of house I should care to have bequeathed to me. Especially if I had to reside in it. I would rather pass it on to someone who was more deserving. Shutters were up at all the windows. There was not a trace of a blind or curtain. At the front door there was neither bell nor knocker. It seemed deserted. I rapped at the panels with the handle of my stick; once, and then again. An urchin addressed me from the kerb.

“There ain’t no one living in that ‘ouse, guv’nor.”

I thanked him for the information; it never occurred to me to shed a shadow of doubt on it. I felt sure that he was right. I crossed to a general shop on the other side of the way.

“Excuse me,” I said to the individual whom I took for the proprietor—”Kennard” was the name over the shop front—”Can you tell me who lives at No. 84?”

“No one.”

Mr. Kennard—I was convinced it was he—was a short, paunchy man, with a bald head and a club foot. He pursed his lips and screwed up his eyes in a fashion which struck me as rather comical.

“Who is the landlord?”

“No one knows.”

“No one?” I smiled. “I presume you mean that you don’t know. Someone must; the local authorities, for instance.”

“The local authorities don’t. I’m a vestryman myself, so you can take that from me. There’s been no rates and taxes paid on that house for twenty years or more; because no one knows to whom to go for them.”

He thrust his hands under his white apron, protruding his stomach in a manner which was a little aggressive.

“The last person who lived at Eighty-four was an old gentleman, named Robertson. He was a customer of mine, and owed me three pound seven and four when he was missing. It’s on my books to this hour.”

“Missing? Did he run away?”

“Not he; he wasn’t that sort. Besides, there was no reason. He was a pensioner; he told me so himself. I don’t know what he got his pension for, but it must have been a pretty comfortable one, because he paid me regular for over seven years; and I understood at that time, from what he said, that the house was his own. If it wasn’t I can’t say to whom he paid rent. The last time I saw him was a Friday night. He came in here and bought a pound of bacon—out of the back; twelve eggs—breakfast; five pounds of cheese—I never knew anyone who was fonder of cheese, he liked it good; a pound of best butter—there was no margarine nor Australian either in those days; and a pound of candles. I’ve never seen or heard anything of him since; and, as I say, that’s more than twenty years ago.”