Bleak House. Charles Dickens

his dinner' The dark young surgeon passes the candle across and across the face, and carefully examines the law-writer, who has established his pretensions to his name by becoming indeed No one.

      'I knew this person by sight, very well,' says he. 'He has purchased opium of me, for the last year and a half. Was anybody present related to him?' glancing round upon the three bystanders.

      'I was his landlord,' grimly answers Krook, taking the candle from the surgeon's outstretched hand. 'He told me once, I was the nearest relation he had.'

      'He has died,' says the surgeon, 'of an over-dose of opium, there is no doubt. The room is strongly flavoured with it. There is enough here now,' taking an old teapot from Mr. Krook, 'to kill a dozen people.'

      'Do you think he did it on purpose?' asks Krook.

      'Took the over-dose?'

      'Yes!' Krook almost smacks his lips with the unction of a horrible interest.

      'I can't say. I should think it unlikely, as he has been in the habit of taking so much. But nobody can tell. He was very poor, I suppose?'

      'I suppose he was. His room – don't look rich,' says Krook, who might have changed eyes with his cat, as he casts his sharp glance around. 'But I have never been in it since he had it, and he was too close to name his circumstances to me.'

      'Did he owe you any rent?'

      'Six weeks.'

      'He will never pay it!' says the young man, resuming his examination. 'It is beyond a doubt that he is indeed as dead as Pharaoh; and to judge from his appearance and condition, I should think it a happy release. Yet he must have been a good figure when a youth, and I dare say, good-looking.' He says this, not unfeelingly, while sitting on the bedstead's edge, with his face towards that other face, and his hand upon the region of the heart. 'I recollect once thinking there was something in his manner, uncouth as it was, that denoted a fall in life. Was that so?' he continues, looking round.

      Krook replies, 'You might as well ask me to describe the ladies whose heads of hair I have got in sacks down-stairs. Than that he was my lodger for a year and a half, and lived– or didn't live – by law-writing, I know no more of him.'

      During this dialogue, Mr. Tulkinghorn has stood aloof by the old portmanteau, with his hands behind him, equally removed, to all appearance, from all three kinds of interest exhibited near the bed – from the young surgeon's professional interest in death, noticeable as being quite apart from his remarks on the deceased as an individual; from the old man's unction; and the little crazy woman's awe. His imperturbable face has been as inexpressive as his rusty clothes. One could not even say he has been thinking all this while. He has shown neither patience nor impatience, nor attention nor abstraction. He has shown nothing but his shell. As easily might the tone of a delicate musical instrument be inferred from its case, as the tone of Mr. Tulkinghorn from his case.

      He now interposes; addressing the young surgeon, in his unmoved, professional way.

      'I looked in here,' he observes, 'just before you, with the intention of giving this deceased man, whom I never saw alive, some employment at his trade of copying. I had heard of him from my stationer – Snagsby of Cook's Court. Since no one here knows anything about him, it might be as well to send for Snagsby. Ah!' to the little crazy woman, who has often seen him in Court, and whom he has often seen, and who proposes, in frightened dumb-show, to go for the law-stationer. 'Suppose you do!'

      While she is gone, the surgeon abandons his hopeless investigation, and covers its subject with the patchwork counterpane. Mr. Krook and he interchange a word or two. Mr. Tulkinghorn says nothing; but stands, ever, near the old portmanteau.

      Mr. Snagsby arrives hastily, in his grey coat and his black sleeves. 'Dear me, dear me,' he says; 'and it has come to this, has it! Bless my soul!'

      'Can you give the person of the house any information about this unfortunate creature, Snagsby?' inquires Mr. Tulkinghorn. 'He was in arrears with his rent, it seems. And he must be buried, you know.'

      'Well, sir,' says Mr. Snagsby, coughing his apologetic cough behind his hand; 'I really don't know what advice I could offer, except sending for the beadle.'

      'I don't speak of advice,' returns Mr. Tulkinghorn. 'I could advise—'

      ('No one better, sir, I am sure,' says Mr. Snagsby, with his deferential cough.)

      'I speak of affording some clue to his connexions, or to where he came from, or to anything concerning him.'

      'I assure you, sir,' says Mr. Snagsby, after prefacing his reply with his cough of general propitiation, 'that I no more know where he came from than I know—'

      'Where he has gone to, perhaps,' suggests the surgeon, to help him out.

      A pause. Mr. Tulkinghorn looking at the law-stationer. Mr. Krook, with his mouth open, looking for somebody to speak next.

      'As to his connexions, sir,' says Mr. Snagsby, 'if a person was to say to me, "Snagsby, here's twenty thousand pound down, ready for you in the Bank of England, if you'll only name one of 'em," I couldn't do it, sir! About a year and a half ago – to the best of my belief at the time when he first came to lodge at the present rag and bottle shop—'

      'That was the time!' says Krook, with a nod.

      'About a year and a half ago,' says Mr. Snagsby, strengthened, 'he came into our place one morning after breakfast, and, finding my little woman (which I name Mrs. Snagsby when I use that appellation) in our shop, produced a specimen of his handwriting, and gave her to understand that he was in want of copying work to do, and was – not to put too fine a point upon it—' a favourite apology for plain-speaking with Mr. Snagsby, which he always offers with a sort of argumentative frankness, 'hard up! My little woman is not in general partial to strangers, particular – not to put too fine a point upon it – when they want anything. But she was rather took by something about this person; whether by his being unshaved, or by his hair being in want of attention, or by what other ladies' reasons, I leave you to judge; and she accepted of the specimen, and likewise of the address. My little woman hasn't a good ear for names,' proceeds Mr. Snagsby, after consulting his cough of consideration behind his hand, 'and she considered Nemo equally the same as Nimrod. In consequence of which, she got into a habit of saying to me at meals, "Mr. Snagsby, you haven't found Nimrod any work yet!" or "Mr. Snagsby, why didn't you give that eight-and-thirty Chancery folio in Jarndyce, to Nimrod?" or such like. And that is the way he gradually fell into job-work at our place; and that is the most I know of him, except that he was a quick hand, and a hand not sparing of night-work; and that if you gave him out, say five-and-forty folio on the Wednesday night, you would have it brought in on the Thursday morning. All of which—' Mr. Snagsby concludes by politely motioning with his hat towards the bed, as much as to add, 'I have no doubt my honourable friend would confirm, if he were in a condition to do it.'

      'Hadn't you better see,' says Mr. Tulkinghorn to Krook, 'whether he had any papers that may enlighten you? There will be an Inquest, and you will be asked the question. You can read?'

      'No, I can't,' returns the old man, with a sudden grin.

      'Snagsby,' says Mr. Tulkinghorn, 'look over the room for him. He will get into some trouble or difficulty, otherwise. Being here, I'll wait, if you make haste; and then I can testify on his behalf, if it should ever be necessary, that all was fair and right. If you will hold the candle for Mr. Snagsby, my friend, he'll soon see whether there is anything to help you.'

      'In the first place, here's an old portmanteau, sir,' says Snagsby.

      Ah, to be sure, so there is! Mr. Tulkinghorn does not appear to have seen it before, though he is standing so close to it, and though there is very little else, Heaven knows.

      The marine-store merchant holds the light, and the lawstationer conducts the search. The surgeon leans against the corner of the chimney-piece; Miss Flite peeps and trembles just within the door. The apt old scholar of the old school, with his dull black breeches tied with ribbons at the knees, his large black waistcoat, his long-sleeved black coat, and his wisp of limp white neckerchief tied in the bow the Peerage knows so well, stands in exactly the same place and attitude.

      There are some worthless