Detective and mystery stories, English; Murder -- Fiction; Nobility -- Fiction; Suburbs -- England -- London -- Fiction
The local directory is a useful institution to the stranger, but the
intimate directory of suburbia, the libellous "Who’s Who," has never and
will never be printed. Set in parallel columns, it must be clear to the
meanest intelligence that, given a free hand, the directory editor could
produce a volume which for sparkle and interest, would surpass the
finest work that author has produced, or free library put into
circulation. Thus:—
AUTHORIZED STATEMENT. PRIVATE AMENDMENT.
KYMOTT CRESCENT.
44. Mr. A. B. Wilkes. Wilkes drinks: comes home
Merchant. in cabs which he can ill
afford. Young George
Wilkes is a most insufferable
little beast, uses scent
in large quantities. Mrs.
W. has not had a new dress
for years.
56. Mr. T. B. Coyter. Coyter has three stories which
Accountant. he *will* insist upon repeating.
Mrs. C. smokes and is
considered a little fast.
No children: two cats,
which Mrs. C. calls "her
darlings." C. lost a lot of
money in a ginger beer
enterprise.
66. Mrs. Terrill. Very close, not sociable, in
fact, "stuck up." Daughter
rather pretty, but
stand−offish—believed to have
lived in great style before
Mr. T. died, but now
scraping along on £200 a
year. Never give parties
and seldom go out.
74. Mr. Nape Retired civil servant. Son
Roderick supposed to be
very clever; never cuts his
hair: a great brooder,
reads too many trashy
detective stories.
And so on _ad infinitum_, or rather until the portentous and grave
pronouncement "Here is Kymott Terrace" shuts off the Crescent, its
constitution and history. There are hundreds of Kymott Crescents in
London Suburbia, populated by immaculate youths of a certain set and
rigid pattern, of girls who affect open-worked blouses and short
sleeves, of deliberate old gentlemen who water their gardens and set
crude traps for the devastating caterpillar. And the young men play
cricket in snowy flannels, and the girls get hot and messy at tennis,
and the old gentlemen foregather in the evening at the nearest open
space to play bowls with some labour and no little dignity. So it was
with the Crescent.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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