Death and Mr. Pickwick (33 page)

 

*

‘YOUR TEETH AREN'T CROOKED, AND
they're tolerably white. That's a start,' said Thomas Kelly, leaning forward in his chair towards a straw-haired pinkish fellow, verging on handsome, who sat in front of Kelly's desk. One minute before, the man had walked in off the street, having responded to an ‘Apply Within' notice in the window of Kelly's Paternoster Row establishment: an establishment which was itself as clean and well ordered as the desired set of teeth, and made additionally pleasant by means of potted plants, engravings, the aroma of fresh coffee, and Kelly's middle-aged head-to-toe smartness – insofar as such touches were compatible with a life in trade, while not making the whole seem too showy. The office suggested neither effeteness nor sharp practice.

‘You won't put a lady off when you open your lips,' continued Kelly. ‘And when you came in the office just now, you did nothing to make me think: “Here's a liar, if ever I saw one.”'

‘Good to know that's in my favour,' said the man.

‘Don't get cocky. Sense of humour, yes. Confidence, yes. Cocky no. I am going to tell you what you'll be doing – if I take you on. Remember as much as you can of what I am now going to say. I'll give you a night to think about it. Then you'll come back tomorrow, same time, and you'll give me a little speech on canvassing like I'll now give to you. That'll be your first test, to see if you're suitable.'

Kelly stood up and walked around the room, speaking as he paced. ‘The first thing to ask yourself is: “What is it that I am selling?” Is it the words printed in the latest number? No, it's the words that come out of your potato trap. Patter well – you'll sell, as long as it seems natural. Always remember that. And you can send me an invoice for shoe leather, because you must have smart shoes. In three months you can expect better 'n fifteen hundred miles of travel, whether by coach, gig or foot. You'd better be up for it.'

‘I'm not afraid to go anywhere.'

‘It won't be anywhere. I deploy my troops where they are effective. And that's mostly the North and Midlands.' Kelly approached a large map of England on the wall behind his chair. The map was divided into regions and labelled with flagged pins, indicating where his canvassers worked. The south of England was all but bereft of pinpricks.

‘The South is a desert,' he said. ‘People down here – they think they are better 'n us. “Oh, canvassers!”' said Kelly, imitating a sneering voice. ‘“Oh, I buy from shops, like respectable people, not from a thief who comes to the street door.” Most people down here hardly know we exist. They think canvassers are vagrants, just because they wander. “Oh, stay away from the likes of them, they force you to buy!” Force! What nonsense! Though – mind you' – he stood with his hands upon the desk, leaning over the applicant – ‘if a person buys to get rid of us,' he whispered, ‘then it is not our fault if we profit from their lack of sociability, is it?' He laughed, and appeared pleased that the applicant joined in.

‘So, let us say,' continued Kelly, ‘there is a cook in the kitchen, and you knock, and you say to her, “Oh the smell of that mutton, reminds me of my mother's cooking.” You say it even if it smells likes cats' meat with rancid fat sauce. You sniff in, and you look like your whole frame is invigorated with strength. Then you look at her, and even if her face is wrinkled and old and her hands so rough you could use her skin to grind corn, you say, as you pass her a sample of the number you are selling, “Now, you be careful, my dear, because paper can cut delicate hands like yours.” And if she asks you, “What's this about, then?” you open it at one of the pictures. When she has looked at that, show her another picture. Get her interested.

‘Now what if you meet the hostler? Well you eye up his horse, and let's suppose it has a white flash on its head. So you say, “My father had a horse just like that, always said horses with a flash demanded the greatest skill from the hostler because of the animal's temperament.” You give the hostler a friendly poke and say, “I bet you have a dodge or two!” Then you wink as if there is some rascally secret of the hostler's trade that you know all about. Then once you have got him talking his fudge, you say, “There is a bit in this book, in one of the numbers to come, on that very subject.” By the time he is reading, he'll have forgotten, and if he
does
remember, you say, “Oh I am so sorry. I thought it was in that work. Perhaps it's this one instead.”

‘And make certain you mention a new edition. So if you meet a maidservant, tell her: “This is the
twelfth
edition of
The Mysterious Marriage
.” Then tell her, “
The Victim of Fashion
will probably even make thirteen, and that may not be the last, that's how popular it is, quite a fashion in its own right.” Then show her a picture.'

Kelly opened a number on his desk to an illustration with the caption: ‘Cecilia screamed but the fatal trigger was pulled, and he fell a lifeless corpse at her feet.'

‘
Nothing
will stop you leaving a number for inspection. Inspection don't cost a farthing. How can anyone turn down a free read? They won't, if you're doing your job prop'ly. When I've done canvassing myself, I have had a man
throw
the number at me – thrown it in my face! I have
still
talked him round and made him take it. Once, a man tore the number up, and I made him regret that! I got the order because he was ashamed. “What will my employer say?” I said, on the verge of despair, with tears welling up in my eyes. Even though I
was
the employer! Here's a piece of experience: if you can get a liveried servant to take your card, and you can get it into the parlour for his mistress to examine, very soon you'll be having a cup of tea, and you're three-quarters of the way to the sale.

‘Now, remember this. A number consists of twenty-four pages, with the pictures stitched into the front, and the lot always stitched into a wrapper, and usually a light-brown wrapper. But sometimes the wrapper colour is a bit different, when we can't get the supplies, and there is always
someone
who remarks on it, who asks why the wrapper is not the same for this number, as though it makes all the difference in the world. So when you meet a person like that, tell 'em the papermaker is next to a cigar importer, and depending on which part of Cuba they've had deliveries from, and the strength of the wind, the colour changes. Tell 'em we only charge a bandy a number, or sixpence if they look the sort who says sixpence. Show 'em a picture again, tell 'em we always finish in about twenty parts, on a number that's twice the length, and we still only charge a bandy.

‘And if they are wavering, show 'em the description on the wrapper. Here, this one, for instance.' He picked up a number from his desk, and read aloud: ‘“The most delightfully entertaining work that has for a length of time engaged the attention of the public. For its moral is impressive, and its scenes, though seductive, are not dangerous, because vice is certainly shown as a monster that to be hated needs only to be seen.” That's good, ain't it?

‘Now suppose the customer wants to talk. Suppose she's a lonely old soul with only a cat for company, who is glad of a visitor – well, talk to her. You'll need a story to tell her, something fascinating, but you want to keep her mind on the numbers. So here's what you talk about.

‘You tell her about your employer – that's me. And you call me “Old Kelly”, like you are a bit disrespectful, because that will make her trust you all the more. And you say: “I expect you have heard the story about Old Kelly?” And of course she won't. “Well,” you say, “when he was a young lad he was working for Hogg, the famous old bookseller of Paternoster Row,” and you say, “You must have heard of Hogg?” She will say “Yes.” Of course she won't have a clue who you're talking about. So then you tell the tale. I want you to memorise this.

‘You tell her: “When Old Kelly was a lad, his job was to make up parcels of books in numbers, like those I am showing you now. There was a long series of pigeonholes, and a pile of the first number in the first pigeonhole, and then a pile of the second number in the second, and so on, right down the line, if you see what I mean.” She'll nod and say yes, even if she's only thinking about how clean your shoes are. Then say: “Old Kelly – or young Kelly as he was then – would move along, taking one number from each pigeonhole, until a complete work in numbers was assembled. The job was tedious enough. Well, one morning, the monotony got the better of Old Kelly and he fell asleep while compiling. And what do you know?” Touch her if you can at this point. Then say: “He compiled them in his sleep!” She will say “No!” And you say, “Yes! He put together
eighty copies
of Foxe's
Book of Martyrs
, all in correct order, when he was sleepwalking. His life has been dedicated to works in numbers, ever since.” Now any questions on anything I have said so far?'

‘That isn't true about you sleepwalking, is it?'

‘It will grab a lady's attention. You just tell her that Old Kelly always says that, when he compiled Foxe's
Martyrs
in his sleep, visions of tortured Christians infected his dreams – she will be astounded and bless my soul, she will buy. So – tomorrow morning, I want you here at nine precisely and then you will repeat, in your own words, as much of what I have just said that you remember, or make up your own patter if you can. Practise what you're going to tell me tonight. Let me just give you this.' He passed over a number to the prospective canvasser. ‘You are going to convince me tomorrow that I should take this number. It's an easy one to sell, which I am just bringing out now, and if I take you on, you will be flogging it at the doors. You have heard of William Corder, haven't you?'

‘I have.'

‘Prove it.'

‘The man who did the murder in the red barn in Bury St Edmunds.'

‘The very same. This is the first part of our account of the crime. If nothing else works at the doorstep, mention the murder in the red barn – you'll get a sale.'

*   *   *

At another office in Paternoster Row a few doors from Kelly's, Mr Henry Lacey, of the publishing company Knight and Lacey, sipped coffee sweetened with apple brandy on the company's doorstep. He gave furtive glances over the steaming rim, watching who was leaving and who entering the Row, paying special attention to the carts loaded with other publishers' wares. He noticed the prospective canvasser with the straw hair leave the threshold of Thomas Kelly, and noticed too the wrapper the man held concerning the notorious murder – Lacey's head tilted, which was normally an indication of his special interest in a subject – but any thoughts engendered by the red barn were susceptible to interruption, as was then the case, for passing the prospective canvasser, and coming towards Lacey's doorstep, was the illustrator who did odd jobs for the company.

‘Mr Seymour,' said Henry Lacey.

*   *   *

The ‘odd jobs', often anonymous diagrams of gearing in industrial machinery, or of glass retorts and other apparatus to be found on a chemist's bench, became a livelier assignment a few weeks later when Lacey commissioned Seymour to draw pictures to accompany
The Red Barn: A Tale Founded on Facts
, a fictionalised account of the notorious murder, which the company rushed out in the wake of Kelly's exploitation of the subject. To one of the pictures, a card-playing scene in a darkened gambling den, Seymour chanced adding his name when Lacey requested a redrawing because of an accident at the printers – in contrast to the artist's normal anonymity for the firm.

This publication was also memorable for another reason: Knight and Lacey decided to copy the methods of Thomas Kelly, and issued the illustrated novel in sixpenny weekly numbers.

‘It is selling
thousands
,' Seymour told Jane as he took a break from sketching to join her at the kitchen table, as she kneaded bread. ‘They have never had a success like it. And without even using canvassers, like Kelly!'

‘Then perhaps the company has a sound future.'

‘I am not so sure of
that.
I am working on other drawings which I may sell somewhere. Come, I want to show you.' They adjourned to his desk.

The predominant theme of the pictures was incompetence in sport. The first showed two men about to load their guns. One maladroit asked the other: ‘I say – which do you put in first – powder or shot?' ‘Why, powder to be sure,' said his friend. ‘Do you?' was the reply. ‘Then I don't!'

Jane smiled as she leant over the drawing. ‘It takes a moment to get the humour, but when you do, it's very good, Robert. Do a finished version.'

‘You'll notice that I often leave the hammers and triggers off the guns – too much fussy detail. Rather too delicate for an instrument that goes BANG!'

His sudden shout made her jump and she grabbed her chest, and they laughed together.

‘You are absolutely
wicked
to me, Robert!' She came and sat on his lap, and they kissed.

‘There is something very funny about gunpowder, don't you think, Jane?'

‘Not
many
people would take that view.'

‘One spark and you have chaos. It is like magic dust for humour. Have a look at this.'

An irate member of the public confronted a London sportsman: ‘How dare you carry a loaded gun pointed at people's viscera, you booby.' The sportsman replied: ‘I don't know what you mean by wiscera. I never shot a wiscera.'

The next picture showed a sign: ‘All persons trespassing on these grounds will be pursued with utmost rigour' – a sportsman chased by a whip-cracking landowner proved the point.