Mascella di Caino by

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riccardomardegan — 2022-08-11 20:42:18 UTC

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riccardomardegan — 2022-08-11 20:42:33 UTC

Page 2

riccardomardegan — 2022-08-11 20:44:35 UTC

I plunged for the last time. The few remaining figures and letters swam as they came up to me. Then I took them in. There were no more. I glanced about me. I felt I was getting my money’s worth. London is like that ; it accepts the wanderer home with a sort of warm indifference. The woman’s beauty was, I surmised, profound ; her creamy dress, contrasting with her vivid colouring, showed to me, though more as white against a gay brick sepulchre than snow against roses. Yes it was a dreadful beauty, as far as I could see, and I recalled the stark phrases : Which swept an hundred thousand souls away ; yet I alive. But he was not ; the writer had strangely died to-day. And again they continued this wretched course three or four days : but they were every one of them carried into the great pit before it was quite filled up. Where was Henry? Ah, he was standing by her, close enough to touch the small buoyant face that topped her pillared neck most like a bell-flower on its bed. Would he appreciate?

Page 3

riccardomardegan — 2022-08-11 20:46:37 UTC

At my meeting with Clement yesterday, he had been quite specific : less than twenty thousand yards as average---seventeen thousand six hundred to be exact---full ration of the assassin’s wonderful substance, a little act of justice at the end of less than a week, and then the glorious stuff galore for ever. I felt excellent as I took my second pill. At least I was on my way, for I had come upon the major half of a publishing firm ; they had always been very good to me, what with Austin Freeman, Oppenheim and Mary Roberts Rinehart. O my mother was loath to have her go away, all the week she thought of her, she watched for her many a month. And then there was a forgotten line. But the red squaw never came nor was heard of there again. I thought it a pity that Hodder was not there : what a sweet name for a village! My signs are a rain-proof coat, good shoes. No friend of mine takes his ease in my chair. I have no chair.

Page 1

riccardomardegan — 2022-08-11 20:47:25 UTC

I sit down alone at the appointed table and take up my pen to give all whom it may concern an exact account of what may happen. Call me nervous, call me fey, if you will ; at least this little pen, this mottled black and silver Aquarius, with its nib specially tempered to my order in Amsterdam, is greedy. It has not had much work since it flew so nimbly for the dead old man. As I watch the sea, Casy Ferris passes with down-dropped eyes. Of course, to-day is the day. Her father reminds me of a valetudinarian walrus. But she has, I suppose, to have somebody. St. Lazarus-in-the-Chine is full, no doubt, already. I think she is rash ; but it is none of my business. Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, my heart remembers how. Strange that he comes into my head so much to-day. I hope it’s over some flotsam fish that the birds are making whaupee. But all the nice gulls love a sailor. Ugh.

Page 5

riccardomardegan — 2022-08-11 20:48:23 UTC

I hated my eye for being caught by what didn’t concern me : the powerful grip of the new young man. But it was parading a couple of letters for all to see. Thomas Hardy had been, and my doctor uncle in the war had been just the reverse. And I would have to cut out the stops, I realised futilely, for something vaguely Buddhistic. He went on about Browning. I always used Bisto myself, and anyway Henry, the angel, was plying his intended fifth with Emperor’s Peg---equal parts of vitriol and applejack in his case---at the top of the ruined lighthouse. I incontinently powdered my nose. He told me that, as far as I could gather, a certain good-looking Evelyn Hope was dead. What Hopes? I meant, did one know the family? It was really the way he took it for granted that I would rather hear him talking about Cerebos and Cerebos and Cerebos or something than attend to poor Henry that irritated me beyond endurance.

Page 6

riccardomardegan — 2022-08-11 20:48:37 UTC

I considered that venerable whose winter Achilles thought to take from the lips of Cressida. Why not? I set fire to one end of him, gloatingly, and my nerves benefited. Electric Febrifuge may be ; but bad for life’s fitful fever. Its active ingredient had finally let me down. I was nothing if not generous. I started my fellow garden enthusiast on the foxgloves. He would appreciate that if he knew. Yes, I was doing my best for the dear girl. I wished I could make up (she would appreciate this) my mind about her. If we did decide---and that weighed with a girl---she would not have to change the initials on her parti-panties. I thought of the old spare-room in this very house, where Mrs. Gay used to lie upon her visits. When I was ill, I was put there, with the only dangling bell-wire in all the place, descending behind my head. I used of course to have nightmares of the Speckled Band, and awfully scream down the house.

A friendly note

2025-10-17 02:51:48 UTC

I came across this page while doing research for this mystery book with a friend. We had a good laugh at the chances of finding someone else with an online board for sorting out their notes. It's intense within the first few pages, yeah?

Good luck with your detective work!