"Love," interposed Mrs. Winterton, "be careful not to shock the young ladies!"
"I will be most cautious, sweet!"
And, in particular, of one Charles Peace whose real name, it seemed, was John Warne, and who on a night in October shot three times at Constable Robinson in an avenue leading from St. John's Park to Blackheath; shot with a revolver that was strapped around Peace's wrist. Captain Winterton had learnt, word for word, the statement made by Peace when Mr. Justice Hawkins asked him whether he had anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon him, and the old chap spared us nothing of this, from—"I have not been fairly dealt with, and I declare before God that I never had any intention to kill the prosecutor—" to "So, my Lord, have mercy upon me; my lord, have mercy upon me!" Peace lived for a time at Greenwich, in a well-furnished house where he sometimes gave musical evenings.
"I always give myself the satisfaction," said Captain Winterton, with relish, "of gazing at the dwelling whenever I happen to pass that way."
If he began to tell the story of the murder of Jane Maria Clousen—discussed and debated at Greenwich to this hour, because no one was hanged for it—Mrs. Winterton placed hands over her ears. Miss Clousen it seemed was, in '71, a domestic servant in the employment of a Greenwich printer; she was found in Kidbrooke Lane, Eltham, on the edge of death, murmuring, "Oh my poor head, oh my poor head!" and the acquittal of a young man, charged with the crime, was followed by noisy and disorderly gatherings outside his father's house, and proceedings at law for libel.
Captain Winterton had, too, political reminiscences of the borough, and of the time when it was notably represented in Parliament, and we had excerpts from Mr. Gladstone's speech on Blackheath, and from Mr. Gladstone's farewell address at the Ship Hotel, and a description of the wonderful moment when Mr. Gladstone said to Captain Winterton, "And what, pray, is your view in regard to the future of our mercantile marine?" and did not wait for an answer, but instead furnished his own opinions on the subject. And we listened (none so eagerly or so absorbedly as Mrs. Winterton) to the Captain's account of the Princess Alice disaster of '78 at Becton Reach near Woolwich, and in the technical details—was the Bywell Castle to blame, or did the Princess Alice starboard her helm, when she ought to have done something else?—in all this, I found myself at first bewildered, then semi-detached, and finally my thoughts went to London Street, and prices of the articles of furniture stored there.
CHAPTER VIII
I should, perhaps, have given more attention to the case of Miss Muriel, but for the demands upon my time made by the business: it appeared that many of my Woolwich customers were well satisfied with their dealings with me, and they handed my cards around, with the result that the shop was rarely free of callers, and sometimes Millwood, and Peter, and myself would be all engaged in answering questions, quoting figures. Once the visitors had made up their minds that they wanted a certain article—a cheval glass, a sideboard, a card table, or anything else—there was little haggling about price: from a well-filled purse they produced one pound notes and ten shilling notes, and settled the account; their chief difficulty came in an urgent and feverish desire to get the articles of furniture home with the least possible delay. I once saw two women, customers of mine, who had bought a music stool, and a settee, and a brass fender with fire-irons, endeavouring to board a tram-car with the burden of these possessions. They told the conductor, after argument, that he would undoubtedly come to a bad end.