The admonition was needed, for his brain was in a whirl. The disclosure of Reginald's movements made by Florence, his statement to her that he had an idea for improving his circumstances which he intended to carry out "whatever came of it," his silence regarding his visits to the house in Catchpole Square, his fevered ravings about his father--were, as Dick said with a groan, "so many nails in his coffin."
"No doubt can exist," he argued, "that Samuel Boyd was murdered either by his son Reginald or by Abel Death. If what I know were made public Reginald would be immediately arrested and charged. Poor Florence! She little knows what is in store for her, and what can't be hidden much longer. But where, where is Abel Death? Is it possible that he also has been murdered? That would make things worse for Reginald. I'll search the house from top to bottom to-night in the hope of not finding his body, for then the chance of his being the murderer would still be open. If Florence's husband is put in the dock we'll make a fight for his life."
Having thus relieved his mind he struck a bee-line for Aunt Rob's house, and his knock at the door was instantly answered by her and Inspector Robson.
"I bring good news," said Dick, in a cheery tone.
"You have found her!" cried Aunt Rob, quivering with excitement.
"Yes, I have found her."
"Thank God--oh, thank God!"
Inspector Robson, pale as death, grasped Dick's hand, and in a husky voice asked, "Is she well?"
"Quite well--and waiting to see you."
Aunt Rob threw on her bonnet and mantle. "Here's your hat, father," she said, almost breathless, "we must go to her at once. Come, Dick, come."
"Stop a minute," he said, laying his hand on her arm, "I have something to tell you first."
"I don't want to hear anything," she cried, sternly. "I want my child!"
"Let Dick speak," said Inspector Robson.
Then Dick related all that Florence had told him, and their joy at recovering their daughter was so great that they had no word of reproach for her. The dear child was found, and they would be once more re-united. What more could they desire?
"They must come here this very day, father," said Aunt Rob. "This is their home till they get one of their own."
He nodded, and the fond parents, accompanied by Dick, hastened to the dear one, with love and forgiveness in their hearts. When they were all together in Florence's room he stood apart, a silent witness of the joyful meeting. How the parents embraced and wept over their child, how she clung to them and kissed them, and entreated them to believe that her love for them was stronger than it had ever been! Aunt Rob's tearful eyes shone with gladness; her one ewe lamb was restored to her; a sacred joy stirred their hearts at this re-union.
Then, when their agitation had somewhat subsided, and they had stepped in softly to see Reginald, who was still asleep, came the question of his removal.
"It must be left to the doctor," said Uncle Rob. "When do you expect him, Florence?"
"He is coming to-night, between eight and nine o'clock," she answered, and added, with a wistful look, "we are very poor, father."
"You share with us, my dear," was his ready response. "All we have is yours. Mother, it is hardly likely he can be removed for a day or two. You will stay with Florence to-night."
"And every night," said Aunt Rob, "till we get her home. I don't let her out of my sight. Dick, what are you looking so glum for?"
"Am I looking glum?" he said, striving to speak cheerfully. "I was not aware of it."
"Dear Dick!" said Florence, stepping to his side. "How can we thank you?"
"That will do, that will do," he said. "As if anybody in my place wouldn't have done the same! I must be off now--a thousand things to attend to."
"Pop into the office between eight and nine for a chat," said Uncle Rob.
"All right, uncle, I'll be there," answered Dick, waving goodbye to the happy group.
He was glad to get away, to think of the work before him. The search in Samuel Boyd's house for the body of Abel Death must be made to-night; it might be the last opportunity he would have to do so secretly.
"I must dodge the police, and I must get in early," he thought. "At nine I will have a chat with Uncle Rob, at ten I'll be in Catchpole Square. My mind is in a state of muddle. Let me see how the case stands in respect of dates and the consecutive order of events. To save confusion I will jot them down."
Taking a small memorandum book from his pocket he halted at a street corner, and made the following entries:
"Friday, 1st March.--Abel Death discharged by Samuel Boyd. He pays a visit to Catchpole Square at about ten o'clock to beg Boyd to take him back into his service. Reginald's two visits to the house, the first in the afternoon, the second late at night, hour unknown. In his haste to get away on the second occasion he drops in the passage the key of the street door. Samuel Boyd murdered. Query--Did Abel Death and Reginald meet? Would it be advisable, when Reginald is in his right senses, to ask him about this?
"Saturday, 2nd March.--Mrs. Death goes to Catchpole Square to obtain news of her husband. Unsuccessful. Good reason for it. Dead men tell no tales. Reginald back in his lodgings, in bed, delirious. The events of the previous night being fresh in his mind, it is likely he raved about them. Query--Who attended to him? His landlady. Did she hear anything that would furnish a clue, and will this occur to her when the murder is discovered?
"Sunday, 3d March.--Mrs. Death repeats her visits to Catchpole Square. Same result. Same reason for it.
"Monday, 4th March.--Mrs. Death continues her visits to Catchpole Square.
"Tuesday, 5th March.--The day of the great fog. My conversation with Uncle Rob in the police station. Mrs. Death and Gracie are brought in. Her story. Florence leaves home secretly to nurse Reginald. Fearing that he is dying, and gathering from his ravings that he wishes to see his father, she goes to Catchpole Square after midnight. She is seen by the police and drops her handkerchief, which Constable Pond picks up. My conversation with Applebee. He tells me that Pond has a room to let. I reconnoitre Samuel Boyd's house, and determine to force an entrance next night. Only one way of getting in, by means of rope and grapnel.
"Wednesday, 6th March.--At the police court with Mrs. Death and Gracie. I write par. for 'L. B. B.' I take lodgings in Pond's house, and obtain possession of Florence's handkerchief. Visit Aunt Rob, and learn particulars of Florence's flight. I purchase rope and grapnel. I visit Mrs. Death. No news of her husband. Make the acquaintance of Dr. Vinsen. He gives Mrs. Death two pounds. Why should he be so generous? At one in the morning I get over dead wall, and into Samuel Boyd's house. Discovery of the murder. Find Samuel Boyd's written accusation of his son. Pocket it. Find Reginald's key to street door. Pocket it. Things look black.
"Thursday, 7th March--Visit Aunt Rob. Receive letter from Florence. Go to her. Fetch Aunt and Uncle Rob. Leave them together. Things look blacker."
Replacing the memorandum book in his pocket he became conscious that he was being observed. Looking up he saw the sleepy eyes of Dr. Vinsen fixed upon him.
"My dear young friend," said the doctor, with an amused smile, "I have been observing you for quite three minutes, and wondering what engrossing task you were engaged upon to make you oblivious of passers-by. An effort of literature--a poem--an inspiration? I envy the literary character. So free, so untrammelled by the ordinary circumstances of our prosaic existence! It soars on the wings of imagination into fairy realms--in-to fai-ry realms. Who knows that you have not in your pocket"--he tapped Dick's breast with a light finger--"something that will open our minds to noble truths? Who knows--who knows?"
"Iknow," said Dick. "If an account of how many socks, and collars, and handkerchiefs I have sent to the wash will elevate mankind I am sure I have no objection."
"A washing account," said Dr. Vinsen, with a gentle laugh. "Dear, dear, dear! But romance and mystery may be found even in commonplace matters. Look around. Observe the men and women who are passing us. What secrets are hidden in their breasts? In yours? In mine? It occurs to me at this moment to inquire whether mystery is the offspring of romance, or romance the offspring of mystery?"
"You can take your choice," said Dick, attempting to shake Dr. Vinsen off.
"Canone take one's choice?" said Dr. Vinsen, walking by Dick's side, and ignoring his companion's distaste for his society. "Is it open to us to do so? Are we free agents? Are we not rather like boats on a strange sea, with hidden currents that whirl us on, and occasionally bring destruction upon us--des-truc-tion up-on us? Do you happen to be aware if the missing man has returned to the bosom of his family?"
"I am not aware of it. I should consider it very unlikely."
"Then you have a theory concerning his mysterious disappearance." Dick shook his head sullenly. "No? Perhaps you are right not to trouble yourself. I perceive that you are not in the mood for conversation. My dear young friend, I take my leave. If I can be of any service, pray command me."
So saying, Dr. Vinsen raised his hat, affording the world a view of his bald head and his halo, and slowly ambled away.
"Confound you!" said Dick, looking after him. "Why did you raise your hat to me? I am not that kind of man, you know."
His mind was in a state to magnify and distort the simplest matters. To such an extent that the voice of a newsboy shouting in an adjoining street caused him to hurry in that direction to buy a paper. There was nothing in it touching the murder, and he crumpled it up and threw it into the road So he idled away the time until a few minutes before nine, when he entered the Bishop Street Police Station, where his uncle expected him.
"Well, Dick, my lad," said Inspector Robson, "things have taken a turn since our talk the night before last."
"They have, indeed," returned Dick, and thought, "If you knew all!"
"It has been a terrible time," said the inspector, "and we owe you what we can never repay."
"You make too much of it, uncle. What did I do but go to Florence when she asked me? Did you stop long with her?"
"Till the last minute. Had tea there. It's a blessing the mystery's over; it almost drove me mad. It isn't a pleasant reflection that Reginald is the son of such a man as Samuel Boyd, but it would be hard lines to blame children for the faults of their parents. Have you seen Mrs. Death and her little girl?"
"Yes," replied Dick, "I have been twice to their lodgings, and they have heard nothing of the missing man. They are in great poverty--there are seven little children----"
"Poor creature! How's the little girl?"
"There's a chance of her getting well. A friend has unexpectedly turned up, and a doctor is attending her."
Then he related all that he knew of Dr. Vinsen.
"Have you ever heard of him, uncle?"
"Never; he must be a kind gentleman, and I'm glad such a piece of good fortune has fallen to Mrs. Death's share. I wish we could find her husband for her. Dick, now that Reginald is connected with us, a watch ought to be kept on the house in Catchpole Square. Constable Applebee says it looks as if it was quite deserted. If it remains so a day or two longer I shall consider what is best to be done. Abel Death and Mr. Boyd are mixed up together in my mind, and some steps should be taken to clear the mystery. You remember what you said about murder--do you still hold to it?"
It was an awkward question, and Dick gave an evasive reply.
"You might have a look round Catchpole Square yourself, Dick."
"I will do so," said Dick, and soon afterwards took his departure.
A fine starlight night, and the weather fair all over England, especially in Bournemouth where, in their beautiful estate, The Gables, Lord and Lady Wharton are giving their yearly ball. The air is soft and balmy in this favoured southern retreat, and though it is too early yet for the rhododendrons, the gardens are bright with flowers. Guests are riding to The Gables from all parts of the county, for this annual function is eagerly looked forward to by the belles and beaus of Hampshire. At eleven o'clock they begin to arrive, and by midnight the nineteenth century revelry is at its full height; at which hour my Lady Wharton, deeming that she has done her society duty, ceases to receive at the top of the grand staircase, and strolls into the grounds to welcome her tardy friends. Lord Wharton, happily convalescent, but still weak, and, as some whisper, not so strong in his intellect as he might be, is in the card room, where, propped up by cushions, he is entertaining a few choice guests by dropping his guineas to them. My lady's brother, Lord Fairfax, has also contributed to their entertainment, and, feeling that he has donehisduty, he also strolls into the grounds, and flirts. He is in his fourth decade, a handsome gentleman with a blonde moustache, and has not yet made his choice in the matrimonial market; therefore he is gladly welcomed by all the spring beauties here assembled. But he is not an assiduous cavalier, and being weary of most things, is soon weary of languishing glances. Standing by a tiny fountain my lady watches him until he joins her there.
"They do these things better on the Continent," he says languidly.
Some hostesses would have misunderstood him, but she knows he refers to the fountain, and she nods assent. His conversational powers are not remarkable, so he allows her to rattle on for his amusement, putting in an occasional monosyllable as his contribution.
"Did you leave Wharton in the card room?" she asks.
"Yes," he drawls, and hazards three consecutive words. "Your friend arrived?" It is not a question in which he seems to take more than a momentary interest. He does everything languidly; even when he raises his white fingers to caress his moustache, which has been the business of his life, it is done as though the effort were a tax upon his physical powers. This, to many of the opposite sex, is one of his charms.
"Not yet," my lady answers.
"By the way," he says, and either forgets what he was going to say, or finds the effort of a long sentence too great.
"You were going to speak about the old bills?" she asks.
"Yes."
"I wrote to him to bring them to-night. I can't imagine how I forgot to ask him for them when I gave him the new acceptances you and Wharton signed."
"Not--business--woman," he observed, with a pause between each word.
"Don't be ridiculous, Fairfax," she protested, with a merry laugh. "Not a business woman? I should like to know what would become of Wharton if I were not."
"Floored," said Lord Fairfax.
"Indeed he would be. And don't I manageyou?"
"Difficult?" he asked.
"Not at all. You are the dearest fellow! I shall be almost ashamed to ask you for another cheque to-morrow."
"Don't. Stumped"
"Next week, then?" He nods. She casts a critical look around. "Our most brilliant gathering, I think."
"Jolly," he says, and, being by this time exhausted, he leaves her at the fountain, where, presently, she is joined by other guests, with whom she carries on an animated conversation.
The grounds, with their thousands of coloured lights, are dotted with the attractive dresses of the ladies and the soberer costume of the gentlemen. Pleasure shows its smiling face, and doors are shut upon black care. No face brighter than that of Lady Wharton, none more free from the least suspicion of anxiety. Her hearty voice rings out, an invitation to mirth and gaiety. And yet as time wears on there is an anxious thought in her mind. "Why does the man not come?" she thinks. "He promised to be here faithfully, and it must be now nearly one o'clock." She consults a jewelled watch. "Yes, it is--one o'clock." The fact is, my lady is pressed for money, and she is expecting to receive a thousand pounds to-night in ready cash, half of which must go to her dressmaker in the morning. For, come what may, my lady must be dressed. So she stands at the fountain, and taps her foot impatiently. Soft gleaming lights, fair sky with its panoply of stars and bright moon shining, sounds of rippling laughter, gay forms gliding and flitting through the lacework of the trees: a fairy scene, made not less beautiful by the dark spaces wherein the pines, their topmost branches silvered by the moon, stand apart, picturesque sentinels of the night.
To my lady a liveried footman, who presents a card. She moves into the light to read it.
"At last!" she says. "Where is the man?"
"He is waiting to see you, my lady."
She follows the servant, and steps into the shadow of a cluster of trees.
What connection is there between that gay scene in Bournemouth and this more sombre scene in Samuel Boyd's house in Catchpole Square, where, an hour after midnight, Dick moves in search of the body of Abel Death? The invisible links are in the air. Will they ever be brought to light and united to form another chain in the mystery?
Dick's search has lasted two hours, and has been conducted with care and patience. It is not alone traces of Abel Death he seeks for; he searches for anything in the shape of incriminating evidence against Reginald, his intention being to take possession of it, and by-and-by, perhaps, destroy it. That by so doing he will be committing a felonious act and frustrating the course of justice does not trouble him. He is working for Florence.
The first room he lingers in is that in which Samuel Boyd lies. No change there. The bed is still occupied by that silent, awful figure, cold and dead. Incapable of aught for good or evil as it is, it exercises a powerful influence over him. He dreads to approach it, and it draws him to its side. He steals from the room, shuddering, and, closing the door, breathes more freely at the barrier between them; but ever and anon, for some time afterwards, he casts a startled look over his shoulder, as though expecting to see a phantom standing there.
The ghostly moon shines through the windows which are unshuttered, and knowing now, from what Inspector Robson said, that an intermittent watch is being kept upon the house, he dare not in those rooms carry a light. In the rooms with shuttered windows he risks a lighted candle, but holds it close to the floor and moves it warily from spot to spot, and shades it with his hand, in order to lessen the chance of its glimmer being seen from without. This makes his task more difficult, and there are moments when he almost regrets having undertaken it.
The wax figure of the Chinaman is still in its chair, holding in its hand the stick of the reign of Charles the Second. The chair is old-fashioned, too, having a grandmother's hood to it, so that the Chinaman sits, as it were, in a cosy alcove, only those standing in front of the figure being able to obtain a full view of its face.
Dick finds no further incriminating evidence against Reginald than that which he appropriated on his last visit. He makes, however, a curious discovery. He has examined every room with the exception of a small room on the same floor as the office, against the outer wall of which is placed the grand piano. The door of this room opens into the passage, and it is locked. His diligent search is rewarded by finding the key of the door, which he opens. The room is simply furnished, a table and two wooden chairs being all that it contains. A large cupboard with folding doors is fixed to the wall, and by pressing a spring he loosens one of these doors. The cupboard is bare of shelves, and affords ample space for a man to stand upright in. There is a sliding panel at the back, about three feet from the floor, and just wide enough for a man to squeeze through. He is surprised to see that the sliding panel leads to the interior of the grand piano, which is quite hollow and contains no wire or wood-work of any kind. The open space is large enough for a man to lie down in, though not without discomfort. The key of the piano is in the inner part of the lock, and by removing this any person concealed there could see into the office, and could certainly hear any sounds of voices or movements made therein, the watcher being so shrouded in darkness as to be quite safe from observation. "Another of Samuel Boyd's tricks," thinks Dick, "for spying upon his clerks." To verify this he returns to the office, and satisfies himself that he has arrived at the correct explanation.
As he stands pondering over this curious discovery, which in the end he dismisses from his mind as of no importance, he finds himself mechanically counting the bottles of wine stacked against another part of the wall. It is done idly, and without meaning, but he does not forget that there are seventy-six bottles, with the crusted dust of years upon them. "Port wine, I should say," he thinks. "I should like half a pint." But he does not yield to the temptation.
At three in the morning his search is at an end. He can do nothing more. He has met with no traces of Abel Death, and he has not found an additional clue.
"I must keep my own counsel," he mutters. "If Abel Death turns up will it be for good or ill? His absence lays him open to suspicion, but it is altogether a case of circumstantial evidence. Supposing him to be caught, tried, and convicted, and he an innocent man----!"
He cannot pursue this supposition to its just conclusion. The image of Florence presents itself, her hands stretched out, appealing to him to save Reginald.
With a sinking heart, and using every precaution to escape observation, he succeeds in getting out of the office by the front entrance. Oppressed by the conviction that he must now wait for the course of events, and that he is powerless to direct them, he is walking out of Deadman's Court when the voice of Constable Applebee falls upon his ears.
"I thought it was you, sir," said the constable. "Have you been looking at the house?"
"Yes," replies Dick, pulling himself together, "from the outside."
"Of course from the outside, sir," says Constable Applebee. "I should like to have a look at it from the inside. People are beginning to talk about it. It's seven days now since anybody's set eyes on Mr. Boyd, and seven days since Mr. Abel Death disappeared. That's what I call a coincidence. I hope it's nothing more than that. Hope you're comfortable in your new lodgings, sir."
"Quite comfortable, thank you. I must be off to them now. Good night."
"Good night, sir."
Dick is by this time thoroughly tired out, and when he reaches his room is glad to tumble into bed.
Two days afterwards, that is, on the 9th of March, some hours after the morning papers were in circulation, all London was ringing with the news of the mysterious murder in Catchpole Square. The name of Samuel Boyd was on every tongue; the newsboys shouted it out raucously and jubilantly, with the full force of their lungs, and the wind carried it into all the highways and byeways of the vast metropolis; it was printed on the variously coloured waybills of the newspapers in scarlet letters, green letters, yellow letters, as large as the width of the sheets permitted; it was read aloud and discussed in omnibuses, in public-house bars, in the workshops and places of business; it was bandied about, tossed in the air, caught up and passed on, embellished, illustrated and exaggerated, and rolled over the tongue as the most tempting of tempting morsels. Editorial offices were alive with it, their swing doors had not a moment's rest, the whole of the staff were on thequi vive, reporters hurried this way and that in their hunt for facts, fanciful or otherwise, that had the remotest connection, or no connection at all, with the name of the murdered man and the circumstances of the murder, as far as they were known. Now was the chance for the descriptive writer, for the youthful aspirants for journalistic fame, for the enterprising interviewer. Things had been rather dull lately. There had been no stirring crime, no bloodthirsty deed, no sensational trial, no tremendous conflagration, no awful shipwreck, no colliery explosion, no terrible railway collision, for quite a week, and circulation was languishing. But here at last was a dish of hot spice to stir the blood, to set tongues wagging, to fire the imagination, to make the pulses glow. A murder! And such a murder! Dark, thrilling, impenetrable, inscrutable, enveloped in delicious mystery. What is one man's meat is another man's poison, and Samuel Boyd, who had never in life given a beggar a penny or the price of a meal to a starving man, was the means, in death, of filling many a platter and frothing up many a pewter pot. Trade revived. People spent more, drank more, smoked more, went to the music-halls and theatres more, for it was impossible to keep still with such an excitement in the air. See the radiant faces of the ragged street urchins as they shout it out and dispose of their sheets, and are not asked for change of a penny--see the journalistic scouts as they follow the trail, true trail, false trail, any trail--see the crowds in Fleet Street and the Strand and all the narrow thoroughfares leading riverwards--see the smart newspaper carts, with their dapper ponies flying north, south, east, and west with their latest editions--see the travellers on the tops of omnibuses throwing down their coppers and bending over to seize the papers--see the railway bookstalls besieged by eager buyers, who, rushing to catch a train, pick up half a dozen different journals, in the hope of finding in one of them two or three lines of different import from those contained in all the others--see the men standing at street corners, running their eyes down the columns, animated by a similar hope--see the telegraph wires, blind and deaf to human passion, carrying the message of murder, murder, murder, on their hundreds of miles of silent tongues--see the envy of the hawkers of wax matches, penny toys, and bone shirt studs, as they watch the roaring trade that is being done by the busy armies of tag, rag, and bobtail, who form the distributing street agency of journalistic literature, and wish that heaven had sent them such a bit of luck. Sold out again, Jack! Hurrah! Fly off for another quire. As good as a Derby Day, Bill! As good? Ten times better! Where are "all the winners" now? Shorn of their glory they sink into the background, and no small punter so poor to do them reverence? What are "all the winners" to a rattling spicy murder?
Never had "The Little Busy Bee" more fully justified its title than on the present occasion. A daring scheme had suggested itself to one of the members of the staff, which had been crowned with success. Ahead of all its rivals it was the first to publish the exciting news, and needless to say it made the most of its golden opportunity. The office was besieged; it was like a Jubilee Day. Men and boys fought and scrambled for the copies as the steam presses belched them forth, and selling them out before they reached the wider thoroughfares, rushed back for more. The day was Saturday, and the whirling tumult lasted till midnight.
The manner of "The Little Busy Bee's" buzzing in its preliminary editions was as follows: First, a quotation in large type from "Macbeth." "And one cried, Murder!" Then half a column of the usual sensational headings. Then the account of the daring scheme and the discovery in the following fashion:
"Special and exclusive information has just reached us of
A Remarkable and Ghastly Murder
in the North of London, and we hasten to lay the particulars before the public. It will be fresh in the recollection of our readers that in our Tuesday's editions we drew attention to a blind thoroughfare in that neighbourhood, known as Catchpole Square, to which the only access is through a hooded passage, bearing the ominous and significant designation of Deadman's Court. On that morning a poor woman, accompanied by her little daughter, whose pallid face and emaciated appearance evoked general sympathy, made an application to the magistrate at the Bishop Street Police Court respecting the mysterious disappearance of her husband, Mr. Abel Death. It appears that this man was a clerk in the employ of Mr. Samuel Boyd, of Catchpole Square, and that on Friday evening last he was summarily discharged by his employer. He was in needy circumstances and he came home to his lodgings in a very desponding frame of mind, for the loss of his situation spelt ruin to his family. In this desperate strait he left his wife at between nine and ten o'clock on the same night, with the intention, as she stated, of making an appeal to Mr. Boyd to take him back into his service. From that hour to this nothing has been heard of him. Neither has anything been heard of Mr. Samuel Boyd, who, it may be premised, is supposed to be a man of great wealth, and is described by some of his neighbours as a money-lender, by others as a miser. Credence is given to the latter description by the fact that he lived quite alone, and kept no servants in his house, such domestic services as he required being performed by a charwoman who attended only when she was sent for.
"Mrs. Death's application at the police court having been made public through the medium of our columns it was a reasonable presumption that it would have come to the notice of Mr. Samuel Boyd, and that he would have sent a communication either to the distracted wife or to the newspapers, stating if Abel Death visited him on Friday night, and if so, at what hour he left. But Mr. Boyd made no sign. The woman said that she had been several times to the house in Catchpole Square, and had received no response to her knocking at the street door. Nothing was seen of either of the men, and it is probable that nothing would have been known for a considerable time had it not been for the bold action taken by a valued member of our staff, to whose love of adventure we have been frequently indebted.
"We may state at once that this gentleman acted entirely upon his own initiative, and that we accept the full responsibility of his proceedings, and are prepared to defend them. It may be objected in some quarters that he took upon himself duties which did not fall within his province. We will not at present argue the point. There was a dark mystery; there were rumours of foul play; hidden from public gaze stood a house which contained the evidence of
A Terrible Tragedy;
futile endeavours had been made to obtain entrance into this house; the police did not act, probably because they had no authority to act. What followed? That the press stepped in, and by a bold stroke
Laid a Foul Crime Bare.
"History records how officers high in command on land and sea, but not invested with complete authority, have disobeyed orders and won great victories. Success justified them. Success justifies us.
"We come now to details.
"In his endeavour to ascertain whether a search of Mr. Samuel Boyd's house would afford a clue to the silence of its proprietor and to the disappearance of Abel Death, our reporter ran the risk of being arrested for burglary. Except that he did not get in by the front door we do not propose just now to disclose how he obtained an entrance into the open space at the back; sufficient that he did obtain it, and that at ten o'clock this morning he found himself in an enclosed yard at the rear of the house. The merest examination of this part of the premises satisfied him that some person, probably a more experienced burglar, had been before him. The back door was locked and bolted, but a window sill and the panes of glass above had been smashed in, and there were signs that the person who had done this had entered the house through the window. To reach the sill the first burglar had stood upon a rickety bench which had apparently given way beneath him. Our reporter managed to put this together in a sufficiently firm manner to afford him a temporary foothold. Then, with an upward spring, he got his hands upon the sill, and scrambled through the window into a small unfurnished room. He did not effect this violent entrance without noise, but there were no indications that his movements had disturbed any person in the house, which was silent as the grave. His next task was to examine the rooms, all the doors of which were unlocked. He proceeded with great caution, and at length reached an apartment which, from the fact of its containing a writing table, desk, and safe, he concluded was the office in which Mr. Boyd conducted his business affairs, although, from the singular collection of articles scattered about, it might have been the shop of a dealer in miscellaneous goods, comprising as they did several dozens of wine, old tapestry and armour, pictures, valuable china, a grand piano, and, strangest of all, the wax figure of a Chinaman which might have come straight from Madame Tussaud's exhibition. Our reporter confesses to a feeling of alarm when he first saw this figure, the back of which was towards him, and, while it did not lessen his surprise, it was with relief he ascertained its real nature. Up to this point, however, strange as were the objects which met his eyes, he had seen nothing to warrant his breaking into the house. The safe was locked, and there was no appearance of its having been tampered with; with the exception of the broken window at the back of the house, there were no signs of disorder in any part of it, and he began to doubt the wisdom of his proceedings. He was not to remain long in doubt; he was on the threshold of
An Appalling Discovery.
"There are three doors in the apartment in which he stood. One leading to the passage, one on the left, and one on the right. This last door opened into a bedroom, which he entered. Seeing the form of a human being in the bed he retreated, uncertain how to act. Then he called softly, and receiving no answer spoke in a louder tone, and still received no answer. Mustering up courage he approached the bed, stepping very gently, and laid his hand on the man's shoulder. The silence continuing he turned down the bedclothes. The man was dead!
"In view of the proceedings he had determined to take our reporter last night obtained from a policeman a personal description of Mr. Samuel Boyd, and he had no difficulty in identifying the features of the dead man. They were those of Abel Death's employer, and from certain marks on his throat he came to the conclusion that Mr. Boyd had been murdered by strangulation. The position of the furniture did not denote that a struggle had taken place on the floor of the bedroom, and the reasonable conclusion is that Mr. Boyd had been strangled in his sleep. After the deed was done the murderer must have composed the limbs of his victim, and arranged the bedclothes over the body, in order, probably, to make it appear that Mr. Boyd had died a natural death. The shortsightedness of this proceeding is a singular feature in this ruthless crime, for it is scarcely possible that the marks on his throat could escape detection, or that the strangulation could have been effected without some violent efforts on the part of the victim to save himself, whereby the bedclothes must have been tossed about.
"The silence of Mr. Samuel Boyd on the subject of the disappearance of Abel Death is now accounted for; the disappearance of Abel Death has yet to be explained. We make no comment. From this hour the matter is in the hands of the police, who will doubtless set all the machinery of Scotland Yard in motion to discover the murderer and bring him to justice.
"A circumstance remains to be mentioned which may furnish a clue. Before he left the house to give information to the police our reporter's attention was attracted by certain dark stains on the floor of the bedroom and the office. They bear the appearance of having been made by a man's feet. Our reporter traced these dark stains from the office into the passage, and from the passage down a staircase leading to the small room which our reporter first entered through the broken window. There they end. The mystery is deepened by the fact that there are no marks of blood on the clothes of the bed in which the murdered man lies. Our reporter scraped off a portion of the stains, which we have placed in the hands of an experienced analyst, in order to ascertain whether they are stains of human blood.
"An important question, yet to be decided, is, when the murder was committed. Our reporter is of the opinion that it was perpetrated several days ago. The evidence of doctors will be of value here. We understand that no person in the neighbourhood of Catchpole Square has seen Mr. Boyd since last Friday evening. From Mrs. Death's evidence at the Bishop Street Police Court we gather that her husband has not been seen since that day. The presumption is that the murder was committed on Friday night. Much depends upon the discovery of Abel Death and upon the explanation he will be able to give of his movements. It is understood that Mr. Boyd leaves one son, his only child, who is now in London.
"We shall continue to issue editions of 'The Little Busy Bee' until midnight, in which further particulars will be given of this strange and most mysterious murder."
Inspector Robson, being on night duty, was not present at the Bishop Street Police Station when the reporter of "The Little Busy Bee" gave information of the murder. Aunt Rob had had a busy day; while admitting that her son-in-law was very weak, she insisted that he would have a greater chance of getting well in a short time if he were removed from his lodgings to their home. "It's his proper place," she said, "and I won't rest till I get him there." She argued with the doctor, one of the old school, who shook his head; she continued to argue with him, and he continued to shake his head. This exasperated her.
"I suppose, doctor," she said, with freezing politeness, "you won't allow that women ought to have opinions."
"Not medical opinions," he replied.
"He may shake his head till he shakes it off," she said privately to Uncle Rob, "but he won't convinceme." He smiled an admission of this declaration. "And look at Florence," she continued; "the poor girl is being worn to skin and bone. We shall have her down presently."
"But is it safe to move him, mother?" asked Florence, who, next to Reginald's recovery to health, desired nothing so much as a return to the dear old home.
"My darling child," said Aunt Rob, "when did you know me to be wrong? Ask father how much I've cost him for doctors since we've been married. I nursed you through the whooping cough and scarlatina without a doctor, and are you any the worse for it? I know as much as a good many of them by this time. There are some doctors who won't allow you to suggest a single thing. The moment you do they're up in arms. 'What business haveyouto know?' they think. This is one of that kind. Reginald is my son now, and I'm doing by him as I'd do by you."
The upshot was, all preparations being made, that Reginald was moved on Saturday morning, and bore the removal well. When Florence saw him sleeping calmly in her own room she cried for joy.
"It's like old times, mother," she said, tenderly.
Aunt Rob smiled a little sadly; when a daughter is married it can never be again quite like old times in the home in which she was born and reared. Something is missing, something gone. It is not that the old love is dead, but that a new love is by its side, with new hopes, and mayhap new fears, to make up the fulness of life. The mother looks back upon her own young days, and realises now what she did not think of then, that the child she nestled at her bosom is going through the changes she has experienced; and so, if her daughter is happily mated, she thanks God--but now and then a wistful sigh escapes her.
In the afternoon Dick came to see them, and they chatted in the sitting room in which they had passed so many happy hours. He was not in a bright mood; dreading every minute that the murder would be discovered and made public, he felt that it would be almost a relief when the cloud burst, as burst it must before long. Knowing what he knew, the suspense was maddening.
"Now, Dick," said Aunt Rob, "I've got something to say to you. Reginald and Florence are here, as you know, but that doesn't make any difference in your room. There it is, ready for you, as it has been all through, and I shall begin to think there's some secret reason for your keeping away from us if you don't occupy it at once. I'll take no denial, Dick."
"Let us wait a bit, aunt," said Dick. "I'll sleep here now and then, and take my meals here, but it wouldn't be fair to Mrs. Pond for me to run away after having been in her house only a few days. So, like the kind dear soul that you are, let it remain as it is for a little while. What's that?"
It was a newsboy shouting at the top of his voice, and selling copies of "The Little Busy Bee" as fast as he could hand them out.
"It's a murder!" cried Aunt Rob. "And do you hear that? Hark! 'Horrible discovery!' Merciful heavens! 'Catchpole Square!' Where Reginald's father lives!"
The two men ran out of the house like mad, and were just in time to tear the last copy from the boy's hands. A glance at the headlines was sufficient.
"You were right, Dick, you were right," said Uncle Rob. "Samuel Boyd's murdered!"
They looked at each other with white faces.
"Found dead in his bed! Strangled! We must keep it from them at home, Dick."
"Impossible, uncle. Listen--there's another boy shouting it out. Let's get back to the house."
They read as they walked, Uncle Rob holding the paper, and Dick looking over his shoulder.
"What is it--what is it?" cried Aunt Rob, meeting them in the passage.
"If it's true, it's murder," said Uncle Rob. "Come into the room, and shut the door. Speak low. Is Florence upstairs?"
"Yes. Wait a minute." She stepped softly to the room above, and quickly returned. "Reginald is dozing, and Florence has fallen asleep in her chair. The poor child is tired out. Murder! Where? In Catchpole Square?"
"Yes."
"Reginald's father?"
"Yes." She uttered a cry of horror. "I must go to the office at once."
"Dick! You're not going, too?"
"I can't stop, aunt. I must go with uncle."
He was in a fever of impatience to get out of the house.
"Do what you can, mother, to keep it from Florence," said Uncle Rob, hurriedly. "If it comes to her ears tell her we've gone to see about it. Now, then, Dick."
"Leave me the paper, father. How horrible! How horrible!"
"Here it is; don't let Florence see it. We'll get another as we go along." As they hastened to Bishop Street Station he said, "This is a bad business, Dick."
"A frightful business."
"I wonder if Mr. Boyd made a will."
"Ah, I wonder."
"If he hasn't his money falls to Reginald. The chances are, though, that there's a will, disinheriting him."
"Do you think so?" asked Dick.
"Don't you?" his uncle asked, in return.
"I don't know what to think. Time will show."
"It will show a good many things. It's got to show what has become of Abel Death. I'm sorry for his wife and that poor little girl."
"I'm sorry for a good many people," said Dick. His uncle cast a hurried look at him. "I don't mean anything. My head's in a whirl."
"No wonder. There's another boy shouting the news. Run after him and get a paper."
They both raced, and bought two copies. The boy's face was beaming.
"He's happy enough," said Inspector Robson.
At the police station they learned that two constables had been sent to Catchpole Square to ascertain whether the news was true.
"I've given them instructions," said the day inspector, "if they can't get into the house by the front door, to scale the wall at the back. I can't say I like the way this case has been got up. Those newspaper men are getting too meddlesome altogether."
"But if it's true," suggested Inspector Robson.
"That will make it all the worse for us," grumbled the day inspector. "The next thing the papers will do will be to start a Scotland Yard of their own. The fact is, the police haven't got power enough; we daren't move without proof positive. It's all very well to talk of the liberty of the subject, but it's my opinion the subject's got more liberty than it has a right to have. I'll give you an instance. I know a man who is as mad as mad can be--a dangerous chap, with a bloodthirsty eye, carries knives, and looks at you as if he'd like to murder you. But we daren't touch him. Why? Because nobody charges him. When he sticks a knife into somebody we can lay our hands on him, but not till then; so we've got to wait till mischiefs done. Then they'll prove him mad, and he'll be made comfortable for life. There's this affair; the public will be down on us for not being the first to make the discovery.Wecan't move, but a newspaper man can. It's like taking the bread out of our mouths."
Inspector Robson made no comment, but offered advice.
"If I were in your place I should send three or four more constables to Catchpole Square. Deadman's Court is a narrow thoroughfare, and there'll be a rush of people to stare at the house. There should be a guard back and front. I'm going there now to have a look round."
"I'll send the men after you," said the day inspector, "instanter."
Off they hurried to Catchpole Square, where they found that a great many sight-seers had already gathered, of whom only a few at a time were allowed to enter to stare up at the windows of Samuel Boyd's house, a constable being stationed at the entrance of Deadman's Court to guard the passage. Inspector Robson asked this officer where the other constable was.
"Gone to the station, sir, for further instructions," replied the constable, whose name was Filey.
"Who is it?"
"Simmons, sir. We was detailed together."
"Have you been in the house?"
"Yes, sir."
"How did you get in?"
"Over the wall, at the back. We borrowed a ladder, and Simmons mounted and got over, while I kept watch outside."
"What did he find?"
"The body, sir, just as the paper describes."
"Did you get into the house the same way as Simmons?"
"No, sir. He found the key of the street door hanging on a cord in Mr. Boyd's bedroom, and he came out that way and let me in."
At this point four constables from the station appeared on the scene, Applebee among them.
"Who has the key of the street door?"
"I have, sir."
"Give it to me. I knew Mr. Boyd by sight, and so did you, Applebee."
"Could pick him out of a thousand, sir."
"And you, Dick, were intimately acquainted with him. We'll go in and see the body. By the way, Filey, was the street door chained and bolted when Simmons unlocked it?"
"I never asked him. Here he is, sir; he can answer for himself."
Constable Simmons joined the group, and Inspector Robson repeated the question.
"Neither lockednorbolted, sir," he replied.
Inspector Robson drew Dick aside, and said, "That's a suspicious circumstance, Dick. The murderer got in by the back entrance, and got out by the front. I argue it this way. He gets in, he kills the man, he finds the key of the street door in the bedroom, he goes down, unchains, unbolts, and unlocks the door. He then returns to the bedroom and fastens the key on the cord, goes down again and lets himself out. It seems to prove that the murder was committed by a novice."
Dick made no remark. He recollected that Mrs. Death had not said anything in the police station of Reginald's visit to his father in the afternoon, and of his having a second key to the street door. That information had been given exclusively to Dick by Mrs. Death in Draper's Mews; it would come out presently, of course, but he would not utter a word to throw the shadow of a suspicion on Reginald. "A nice treacherous part I'm playing," he thought, "but I must go on with it. God knows how things will turn out."
There were some twenty or thirty persons in the Square; a few were airing theories concerning the murder, and recalling other crimes as mysterious and thrilling; one man was boasting that he had seen every house in London in which a murder had been committed during the last forty years; the majority were silent, and appeared to derive a creepy enjoyment by simply staring at the walls and windows. A journalist was jotting down everything he heard that could be incorporated into an article. Two newspaper artists were sketching, and one of these came forward and asked Inspector Robson if he would kindly point out the window of the room in which the body was lying. He replied that he did not know. The other artist, observing that the Inspector had a key in his hand, inquired if it belonged to the house.
"Key of the street door," said the inspector, whereupon the artist immediately took a sketch of it, and wrote beneath, "Key of the Street Door by which the Murderer Made his Escape."
"We go in for realism," he said, as with a few skilful touches he limned the faces of Inspector Robson, Constable Applebee, and Dick on his sketching pad. "Nothing tickles the public so much as sketches from real life in pen and pencil. We live in a melodramatic age, and must go with the times. I belong to 'The Illustrated Afternoon.' Now I call these speaking likenesses. I take it you belong to the force, and are here upon official business. May I inquire your name, or shall I call it the Portrait of a Gentleman who Carried the Street Door Key?"
With no good grace Inspector Robson gave his name, which was placed beneath his portrait. Then Applebee was asked forhisname, and it was given more willingly. The worthy constable had no objection to his features appearing in "The Illustrated Afternoon"; the picture would be preserved in the family as an heirloom.
"And yours?" inquired the artist, of Dick.
"Private person," said Dick.
"Thank you," said the artist, and wrote beneath the portrait, "Private Person who, for Unexplained Reasons, Declined to Give his Name."
The insertion of the key in the lock caused much excitement, and all the artillery of the press was brought to bear upon the inspector. The industrious journalists advanced cogent reasons why they should be let into the house; they begged, they clamoured, but they could not convince the obdurate inspector.
"Very sorry, gentlemen," he said, "but it can't be allowed."
He could not, however, prevent them from obtaining a glimpse of the dark passage, and this glimpse was quite sufficient to enable them to give a vivid description of the walls, the staircase, and the umbrella stand with one umbrella in it, which the eagle eye of the smarter of the artists transferred like lightning to his pad. It was an interesting feature in his article, "The Murdered Man's Umbrella." There was great disappointment among the group outside when the door was closed upon them.
"You've been up these stairs often enough, Dick," said Inspector Robson. "Take us to the room."
His eyes opened wide when they reached the office, and both he and Constable Applebee stared around in amazement.
"Did you ever see anything like this, Applebee?"
"Never, sir, out of a play."
They spoke in hushed voices.
Dick could not have explained why he counted the bottles of wine. It was done mechanically, and without motive, but it gave him a surprise. "Seventy-five bottles," he thought. "I'll take my oath that when I counted them the night before last, there were seventy-six."
"Where's the bedroom, Dick?" whispered the inspector.
Dick opened the door, and creeping in, they stood looking down upon the dead face. In this awful presence they were dumb. Stepping very softly they returned to the office. Then Inspector Robson spoke.
"It's Samuel Boyd. What do you say, Applebee--do you recognise the features?"
"I'll swear to the man, sir."
"And you, Dick?"
"There can be no doubt of it."
"The coroner must be informed. Go and see who's knocking at the street door, Applebee. Don't let any one in." The constable departed on his errand. "It's a clear case, Dick. I wouldn't say so to any one but you, and we must keep our own counsel. The name of the murderer of Samuel Boyd is Abel Death. Now we know why he's keeping out of the way. He's got a long start of us. Here's Applebee coming back. Not a word. Who is it, Applebee?"
"Mrs. Death and her little girl, sir. She's half distracted, and tried to force her way in."
"We've seen what we came to see," said Inspector Robson, "and no person must be admitted into the house. You will keep in the Square to-night, Applebee. I'll put another man on your beat."
"Very good, sir."
The moment they emerged into the Square Gracie ran to Dick and took his hand. An infinite pity filled his heart as he looked down at her pallid, mournful face.
"It's all right now, mother," she said, hoarsely. "Dick'll stand up for us."
"Is it true, sir, is it true?" cried Mrs. Death, a wild terror in her eyes. "We've run here as fast as we could."
"It is unhappily true," he answered.
"Then where's my husband? Do you know what they're saying? That he murdered Mr. Boyd! They lie--they lie! Oh, my God! Is there any justice in the world?"
"Don't make a disturbance, Mrs. Death," said Inspector Robson, very kindly. "I am truly sorry for you, but you can do no good by coming here."
"Where else should I come, sir?" she asked, her tears falling fast. "Mr. Boyd is the only man who can tell me what has become of my husband, and he's dead, you say. Who killed him? What a wicked world--oh what a wicked, wicked world! Haven't I enough to bear without this being thrown in my teeth?"
"Don't take on so, mother," said Gracie, in a dull, apathetic voice, but Dick understood how great her inward suffering was by the convulsive twining of her little fingers round his. "It's all right now we've got Dick. You're our friend, ain't you, Dick?"
"May they be struck down dead for their lies!" sobbed Mrs. Death. "How dare they, how dare they accuse my poor husband, who never raised his hand against a living creature!"
"Do these people live in your neighbourhood?" asked Inspector Robson.
"Yes, sir; they do."
"They should be warned not to be so free with their tongues, or they may get themselves in trouble. Can you point them out?"
"I can show them you," said Gracie, answering for her mother.
"Go with her," said Inspector Robson to Dick, in a low tone, "and give her neighbours a caution. The poor woman has something yet worse in store for her. Then go home to Aunt Rob and Florence, and remain there to-night. They need a man's support and sympathy, and my duties will chain me to the office."
"Thank you, sir," said Gracie, whose sharp ears caught every word, "you're ever so good to us." A sudden tightening of her hand on Dick's caused him to look up, and he saw Dr. Vinsen.
"I have heard what has passed," said the doctor, addressing himself to Inspector Robson, "and shall be glad to offer my services in the interests of humanity--the in-te-rests of hu-ma-ni-ty."
"Who may you be, sir?" inquired Inspector Robson.
"I am Dr. Vinsen. Our friends here have some knowledge of me, I believe." He shed a benevolent smile around. "This is a most shocking murder. It would be worth your while, Mr. Remington, if you could discover the perpetrator of the frightful crime, and so relieve this unfortunate woman's distress. It shall be done, madam, it shall be done. Rely upon me. Let not the criminal hope that his guilt can be for ever hidden. There is an All-seeing Eye--Divine justice will overtake him--will o-ver-take him. Is that the house in which the victim lies?"
"Yes," said Dick.
"A singular place for a man to live in--and die in. Now, my dear madam, if you wish me to admonish these slanderers I am ready to accompany you."
"Dick's going to speak to 'em," said Gracie.
"Oh, Dick's going to speak to them. And you would rather Dick did it?"
"Yes, if you please, sir."
"Well, then, Dick it shall be. I have no doubt he will do it as well as myself--better, perhaps, he being a literary character." There was a faint twinkle in his sleepy eyes. "But you have no objection to my walking a little way with your mother, I hope? Mr. Inspector, have you any opinion----"
"Don't ask me for opinions," interrupted Inspector Robson.
"Pardon my indiscretion, but one's natural curiosity, you know. There will be an inquest?"
"Of course there will be an inquest."
"Of course--ofcourse. Good day, Mr. Inspector, I am greatly obliged to you. Now, my dear madam."
They walked out of Deadman's Court, Mrs. Death and Dr. Vinsen in front, Dick and Gracie in the rear, at whom now and then the doctor, his head over his shoulder, cast an encouraging smile.
"Do you like him, Dick?" asked Gracie.
"No, I don't," he replied, "and I don't know why."
"Ido," said Gracie. "He's so slimy."