The Mystery of Edwin Drood
A Settler in Cloisterham
AT about this time a stranger appeared in Cloisterham; a white- haired personage, with
black eyebrows. Being buttoned up in a tightish blue surtout, with a buff waistcoat and
gray trousers, he had something of a military air, but he announced himself at the Crozier
(the orthodox hotel, where he put up with a portmanteau) as an idle dog who lived upon
his means; and he farther announced that he had a mind to take a lodging in the
picturesque old city for a month or two, with a view of settling down there altogether.
Both announcements were made in the coffee-room of the Crozier, to all whom it might
or might not concern, by the stranger as he stood with his back to the empty fireplace,
waiting for his fried sole, veal cutlet, and pint of sherry. And the waiter (business being
chronically slack at the Crozier) represented all whom it might or might not concern, and
absorbed the whole of the information.
This gentleman's white head was unusually large, and his shock of white hair was
unusually thick and ample. 'I suppose, waiter,' he said, shaking his shock of hair, as a
Newfoundland dog might shake his before sitting down to dinner, 'that a fair lodging for
a single buffer might be found in these parts, eh?'
The waiter had no doubt of it.
'Something old,' said the gentleman. 'Take my hat down for a moment from that peg, will
you? No, I don't want it; look into it. What do you see written there?'
The waiter read: 'Datchery.'
'Now you know my name,' said the gentleman; 'Dick Datchery. Hang it up again. I was
saying something old is what I should prefer, something odd and out of the way;
something venerable, architectural, and inconvenient.'
'We have a good choice of inconvenient lodgings in the town, sir, I think,' replied the
waiter, with modest confidence in its resources that way; 'indeed, I have no doubt that we
could suit you that far, however particular you might be. But a architectural lodging!'
That seemed to trouble the waiter's head, and he shook it.
'Anything Cathedraly, now,' Mr. Datchery suggested.
'Mr. Tope,' said the waiter, brightening, as he rubbed his chin with his hand, 'would be
the likeliest party to inform in that line.'
'Who is Mr. Tope?' inquired Dick Datchery.
The waiter explained that he was the Verger, and that Mrs. Tope had indeed once upon a
time let lodgings herself or offered to let them; but that as nobody had ever taken them,