Twenty-Three – Inquests, Inquests, InquestsArt critics! That's what the authorities and representatives of law and order in London's East End had become. Rather, that was the role to which I had reduced them as, day in and day out, from one end of the district to another, they were forced to convene one Coroner's Inquest after another, to observe, question, and critique my brilliant work. I'd made them all art critics!
The newspapers, meanwhile, owing to the public's right to know, the reporter's mania to tell, and the publisher's desire to grow fat off the lucre, had been forced to devote massive blocks of column inch space to the findings and results of those same inquiries. What a lark! I was everyone's darling! Even the radical press had been forced to abandon their usual propaganda,
