“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.”
“But what became of him?”
“That’s more than I can tell you. Perhaps you can tell me. You see, it was this way.”
Mr. Kennard was communicative. Business was slack just then. Apparently I had hit upon a favourite theme.
“Mr. Robertson was one of your quiet kind. Kept himself to himself; lived all alone; seemed to know no one; no one ever came to see him. He never even had any letters; because, afterwards, the postman told me so with his own lips; he said he’d never known of his having a letter all the time he was in this district. Sometimes nothing would be seen of him for three weeks together. Whether he went away or simply shut himself up indoors I never could make out. He was the least talkative old chap I ever came across. When you asked him a question which he didn’t want to answer, which was pretty well always, he pretended he was silly and couldn’t understand. But he was no more silly than I was; eccentric, that was all. Anyhow, when the weeks slipped by, and he wasn’t seen about, no one thought it odd, his habits being generally known. When quarter day came round I sent my little girl, Louisa—she’s married now, and got a family—across with my bill. She came back saying that she could make no one hear; and, through my window, I could see she couldn’t. ‘That’s all right,’ I said, ‘There’s no fear for Mr. Robertson’—I’d such a respect for the man—‘he’s sure to pay.’ But, if sure, he’s been precious slow; for, as I say, that three seven four is on my books to this hour.”
“If, as you say, the old gentleman lived alone, he may have been lying dead in the house all the time.”