Draper's Mews and its purlieus were on fire with excitement, raised by a spark dropped by a vicious beetle-browed coster, whose chronic state for years past had been too much beer, and liquor of a worse kind. Mrs. Death's neighbours were by no means unfavourably disposed towards her and her family. The kindness of the poor to the poor is proverbial, and there is much less friction in the way of social scandal among the lower classes than among those of higher rank. This was exemplified in Draper's Mews, where the Death family had long resided, and had fought life's bitter battle in amity with all around them. Now and then, of course, small differences had cropped up, but they were soon got over, and there was no serious disturbance of friendly relations. To this happy state of things there was, however, an exception. It happened in this way.
Two or three years ago, on a bright summer day, the beetle-browed coster wheeled his barrow through the poor neighbourhood, disposing of his stock of early cherries at fourpence the standard pound. Children who had a halfpenny or a penny to spare, beggared themselves incontinently, and walked about with cherry ear-rings dangling in their ears, while some made teapots with fruit and stalks, and refreshed themselves with imaginary cups of the finest leaf of China. Abel Death stood by, and looking at the children thought of his own, and fingered the few loose coppers in his pocket. Strange that fruit so tempting and young--the cherries were whitehearts, with the daintiest blush on their innocent cheeks--should have been destined to bring sorrow to the hearts of those who were dear to the poor clerk! But in this reflection we must not forget the apple in the Garden of Eden.
Unable to resist the temptation Abel Death bought half a pound of the pretty things, and had received and paid for them, when he noticed an ugly piece of lead at the bottom of the scale in which the fruit was weighed. What made the matter worse was that on the coster's barrow was displayed an announcement in blazing letters of vermilion, "Come to the Honest Shop for Full Weight." Which teaches a lesson as to the faith we should place in boisterous professions. Abel Death remonstrated, the coster slanged and bullied, there was a row and a growling crowd, some of whom had been defrauded in like manner, and among the crowd an inspector of weights and measures, who, backed by a constable, forthwith brought before the magistrate the cheat, the barrow (the coster wheeling it), the innocent cherries, and the scales with the piece of lead attached to the wrong balance. The moving scene, with its animated audience laughing, babbling, explaining at the heels of the principal actors in the drama, was almost as good a show as a Punch and Judy. With tears in his eyes, which he wiped away with his cuff, the coster declared that he'd take his oath he didn't know how the piece of lead could have got on the bottom of the scale, all he could say was that some one who had a down on him must have put it there to get him in trouble, he'd like to find out the bloke, that he would, he'd make it hot for him; and, despite this whining defence, was fined, would not pay the fine, and went to prison for seven days, whimpering as he was led from the court, "Wot's the use of a cove tryin' to git a honest livin'?"
The result of this swift stroke of justice was a mortal enmity against Abel Death. He proclaimed a vendetta, and waited for his chance, meanwhile avenging himself by kicking and cuffing the younger members of the Death family when he met them, and encouraging his children to do the same. The chance came with the disappearance of Abel Death and the discovery of the murder of Samuel Boyd. Forthwith he set light to a fire which spread with startling rapidity, and he went about instilling his poison into the ears of Mrs. Death's neighbours. Hence her agony of mind.
Dick traced the rumours to their fountain head, found the man, talked to him, argued with him--in vain. It was a public matter, and the usual crowd collected.
"Look 'ere," cried the coster, to Dick, "we don't want none o'yourcheek, we don't. Who are you, I'd like to know, puttin'yourspoke in? A innercent man, is 'e? Looks like it, don't it? Wot's the innercent man a-keepin' out of the way for? Why don't 'e come 'ome? Tell me that? 'Ere, I'll wait till you've made up somethink, somethink tasty, yer know. Take yer time. Wot! Ain't got a bloomin' word to say for yerself? Wot do you think?" Appealing to the people surrounding them. "'E's a nice sort o' chap to come palaverin' to me, ain't 'e?"
The listeners were not all of one mind, many of them, indeed, being mindless. Some took one side, some took another, while Mrs. Death and Gracie stood by, pitiful, white-faced spectators of the scene.
"Why, it's as clear as mud," continued the coster. "The sneakin' thief killed 'is master, and then laid 'ands on everythink 'e could collar, and cut away. Put them things together, and there you are, yer know."
"I know whereyou'llbe," said Dick, speaking in his best judicial manner, "if you're not careful. It won't be the first time you've got yourself in trouble." The shot told, and the listeners wavered. "We're Englishmen, I believe," said Dick, following up his advantage. "We don't carry knives like the Italians, or fight with our legs like the French, and we're not made in Germany." This cosmopolitan reference was an immense hit, and two or three politicians said "Hear, hear!" Dick went on. "We fight with our fists, and we don't hit a man when he's down. What we insist upon is fair play; that's what we wave our flag for--fair play. Look at Mrs. Death, a hard-working, respectable woman, that's lived among you all these years, and never done one of you an ill turn. Look at her innocent children that this great hulking brute is flinging stones at. It's cowardly, sneaking work. Oh, I'm not afraid of you, my man; if you lift your hand against me I'll give you something to remember me by. You haven't the pluck to hit one of your own size; you only hit women and children. I don't believe you've got a drop of English blood in your cowardly carcase." With sparkling eyes and glowing face he turned to the crowd. "I appeal to a jury of English men and women. Is what this brute is doing manly, is it fair, is it English--that's the point, is it English?"
There was no doubt now as to the sympathy. It went out full and free to Mrs. Death and Gracie, who stood, as it were, in the dock, with the beetle-browed, sodden-faced coster accusing them, and this generous, bright-eyed, open-faced young fellow defending them. A woman who had a good recollection of the cherry incident, called out, "Cherries!" and they all began to laugh. This laughter completely settled the matter; the victory was won. The coster slunk off.
Dick was overwhelmed with congratulations, and Mrs. Death cast grateful glances at him, and wistful glances at her old friends and neighbours. They answered the mute appeal by thronging about her. To her they said, "Never you mind, my dear, we'll see you righted." And to Dick, "You spoke up like a man, sir, and we're proud of you." Which he capped, rather vaguely, by retorting, "I'm proud ofyou. You're the sort of women that have made England what it is. Wives and mothers, that's whatyouare." A shrill voice called out, "Not all of us, sir," amid shouts of laughter, which caused Dick to add, "Then I hope you soonwillbe." This happy rejoinder won him the admiring glances of all the single women, many of whom (as yet unattached) breathed silent aspirations that heaven would send them such a man. At the worst of times Dick was a good-looking young fellow; seen now at his best, glowing with fervour, and espousing the cause of the weak, he was positively handsome. What wonder that maiden hearts were fluttering! He could have picked and chosen.
Dr. Vinsen had been an amused witness of the encounter.
"My young friend," he said, "my dear young friend, victorious again, always victorious; and in eloquence a Demosthenes. Accept my congratulations. Mrs. Death, take your little girl home and put her to bed, then apply a hot linseed poultice. I will call upon you to-morrow morning. Mr. Dick Remington--pardon the familiarity, but Dick is so appropriate--I salute you--sal-ute you."
Dick nodded good-day, and turned off with Gracie.
"Oh, Dick," she said, fondling his hand, "you're splendid, splendid!" No knight of chivalry in "the good old times" (which were much worse than the present) ever inspired deeper admiration in the breast of lady fair than Dick did in the breast of this poor little waif. "I told you, mother, it would be all right if we had Dick with us."
"Yes, you did, dear."
"Don't I wish I was old enough to walk out with you!" said Gracie.
"How do you know I'm not a married man, Gracie?" he asked.
"Go along!" she replied, with a touch of scorn. "As if I don't know the married ones by only looking at 'em!"
"You mustn't mind her foolishness, sir," said Mrs. Death. "She says the silliest things! We're very grateful to you, sir."
"Oh, nonsense," he said, "anyone else would have done the same."
"They wouldn't," said Gracie. "They couldn't."
With a kind pressure of their hands he turned in the direction of Aunt Rob's house, where a very different task awaited him.
As it was in Draper's Mews so was it in other parts of the metropolis. The murder was talked of everywhere, and in some mysterious way the disappearance of Abel Death was associated with it. The wildest speculations were indulged in. He had gone to Australia, he had gone to America, he had never left England at all, he had taken with him an enormous sum of money which he had found in the house in Catchpole Square, he had so disguised himself that his own wife and children would not have known him, he had been seen in various parts of London. He was generally condemned, and had no defenders. Had his fate, if caught and in the clutches of the law, depended upon the public vote, his doom would have been sealed.
So was it with Mrs. Pond and Mrs. Applebee, who could talk upon no other subject.
"Applebee says that when Inspector Robson saw the body he turned as white as a ghost."
"Why should he?" asked Mrs. Pond. "It's not the first body he's seen by many."
"Why, don't you know, my dear," said Mrs. Applebee, "that his daughter's married to Mr. Boyd's son?"
"No, I never heard of it."
Mrs. Applebee bristled with importance. "They were married only a few weeks ago, and they do say it was a runaway match. Off they went one morning, arm in arm, to the registrar's office, and she comes home half an hour afterwards, and says, 'Mother, I'm married to Mr. Reginald Boyd.' 'Married, Florence!' cries Mrs. Robson, and bursts into tears.
"Florence!" said Mrs. Pond, in dismay, thinking of the handkerchief.
"That's her name, my dear, and a pretty girl I'm told. She's a lucky one. Applebee says if Mr. Boyd hasn't made a will her husband'll come in for everything. Mr. Boyd must have been worth piles of money. Let's hope it'll do somebody good; it never did while he was alive. It's curious that your lodger, Mr. Remington, is mixed up in it, too. He's Inspector Robson's nephew, you know; him and Miss Florence was brought up together. He's been hanging about Catchpole Square a good deal the last week or two; in the dead of night, too. Applebee says he'd like to get hold of that woman that slipped through his hands on the night of the fog. He's got an idea that she must have something to do with the murder."
"But doesn't he think Abel Death did it?" asked Mrs. Pond, faintly.
"Oh, yes, he thinks that, as everybody does, but the woman might be mixed up with it somehow. Just listen to those boys shouting out another edition. What are they calling out? Fresh discoveries! I must get a paper; that'll be the third I've bought to-day. Perhaps they've caught Abel Death. The man on 'The Illustrated Afternoon' took Applebee's portrait, and I'm dying to see it. I wouldn't miss it for anything."
There was, of course, but one subject in Aunt Rob's mind when Dick presented himself. She told him that Reginald was in a terrible state.
"I couldn't stop the boys coming into the street," she said, "and Reginald heard them. Florence ran down to me all in a flutter, and asked if I didn't hear them calling out something about a murder in Catchpole Square, and what was it? Then she caught sight of the paper that I was trying to hide, and when she looked at it she was frightened out of her life. We did all we could to keep it from Reginald, but he couldn't help seeing from our faces that there was something serious the matter. At last there was nothing for it but to tell him, and we did it as gently as we could. But the shock was dreadful; he sobbed like a little child. Then he cried that he must go to the house, and we had almost to use force to prevent him leaving his bed. Florence threw her arms round him, and begged and implored so that he had to give in. We tried to comfort him by saying that it mightn't be true, that it might be another man who was murdered, and that you and Uncle Rob had gone to see about it. I'm afraid to ask you if it's true, Dick."
"It is too true," he replied, and rapidly related all that had passed since he and Uncle Rob had left her. She listened horror-struck, and when he finished could hardly find voice to ask who he thought was the murderer.
"I don't know what to think," he said.
"There can be only one man," she said, but he stopped her from proceeding.
"Don't let's talk about it just now, aunt. There are a dozen men who would rather see Samuel Boyd dead than alive. He had plenty of enemies, and he deserved to have. If Reginald knew I was here he would want to see me."
"He made me promise the moment either of you came back to bring you up to him."
"We'll go at once. There must be no further concealment."
Reginald was sitting up in bed, very white and haggard.
"I thought I heard voices," he said when they entered the room. "Have you been there?"
"Yes, I have been there," said Dick.
"Did you see him? Speak--speak!"
"I saw him."
"You saw him! Well--well?"
"He is dead."
"My God! My God! My father!--Dead! And he died at enmity with me!" groaned Reginald, sinking down in bed, and turning his face to the wall. They did not disturb him--did not dare to speak. "Is it certain that he was murdered," he said presently in a broken voice, "that he did not die a natural death?"
"I fear there is no doubt."
"Strangled, the paper says--strangled!" Dick was silent. "Strangled in his sleep! Without having time to think, to pray! Oh, Florence, what shame, what misery I have brought upon you!"
"It is an awful misfortune, Reginald, dear," said Florence, her arms round his neck, her face nestled close to his, "and it makes us all very unhappy. But there is no shame in it, dearest."
"There is, there is," he moaned. "Shame, shame--misery and disgrace!"
Dick, observing him closely, strove to arrive at some conclusion, apart from the evidence in his possession, with respect to his complicity in the terrible deed. Innocent or guilty, the shock of the news could have produced no other effect than was shown in the white face, the shaking body, the sobbing voice. There was another interval of silence, which, again, Reginald was the first to break. "Tell me everything."
"You know the worst," said Dick, "let us wait till you are stronger."
"No," cried Reginald, "I cannot wait. You must tell me everything--now, here! Wait? With those cries ringing in my ears? Don't you hear them? Hark!" They listened, and heard nothing. It was the spiritual echo of the ominous sounds that was in Reginald's ears. "Is anyone suspected? Is there any clue? Are not the people speaking about it in the streets?"
"There are all sorts of rumours," said Dick, reluctantly. "When Uncle Rob and I went into the house we found everything as the papers describe. Nothing seems to have been taken away, but of course we can't be positive on that point yet. There were no signs of a struggle."
"The paper speaks of bloody footprints," said Reginald, a white fear in his eyes.
"There are signs of them," said Dick, with a guilty tremor.
"And no blood on my--my father's body, nor in the bed?"
"None."
"The house has been broken into?"
"Yes."
"The man who broke into it did the deed," said Reginald, in a low, musing tone; then, after a pause, "But the blood--the blood! How to account for that? How did you get into the house?"
"Through the front door."
"But--the key!" exclaimed Reginald, and Dick fancied he detected signs of confusion. "Where did you get the key from?"
"A policeman scaled the wall at the back of the house, and entered through the broken window. He found the key in your father's room, and he came down and let us in."
"He had to draw the bolts?"
"The door was not bolted, and the chain was not up."
"Then my father couldn't----," said Reginald, and suddenly checked himself. "Go on."
"When Uncle Rob and I left the house Mrs. Death and her little girl were in the square; she had tried to force herself into the house, but the policeman kept her back. You know from the papers that her husband has not been seen since Friday week."
"Until I read it in this paper an hour ago," said Reginald, pointing to the copy of "The Little Busy Bee" that lay on the bed, "I was in ignorance of it. I cannot understand his disappearance; it is a mystery. The last I saw of him was on the afternoon of that very Friday, when I went to see my father in Catchpole Square."
"Yes?" said Dick, eagerly, greatly relieved at this candid confession. It was a gleam of comfort.
"My father was not at home, and I came away." He pressed his hand upon his eyes, and a long silence ensued. They looked at him anxiously, and Florence, her finger at her lips, warned them not to speak. Removing his hand, he proceeded: "I ought to tell you now why I went to see my father. Had I been well I should have spoken of it before. Even you, Florence, have not heard what I am about to say. Dick, I can trust you not to speak of this to any one."
"You may trust me thoroughly, Reginald."
"I know, I know. In my dear wife's eyes you are the soul of honour and faithfulness, and in my eyes, also, Dick. It is my hope that we shall always be firm friends."
With but one thought in his mind, the peace and happiness of the woman he loved, Dick answered, "And mine."
"Thank you," said Reginald, gravely. "What I wish to tell you commences with my child-life. My mother, when she married my father, brought him a small fortune, and she had money, also, in her own right. Young as I was, I knew that she was not happy, and that there were differences between her and my father, arising partly from his endeavours to obtain the sole control of every shilling she possessed. There were probably other causes, but they did not come to my knowledge. My mother's refusal to comply with his demands was prompted by her solicitude for my future. She was the best of women, and never uttered one word of reproach against my father; she suffered in silence, as only women can, and she found some solace in the love she bore for me and in the love I bore for her. We were inseparable, and, occupying the home with my father, we lived a life apart from him. He had but one aim, the amassing of money, and there was no sympathy between us. I hope there are not many homes in which such estrangement exists. She died when I was ten, and I lost the one dear friend I had in the world. In our last embrace on her deathbed she said to me, in a whisper, 'Promise me that when you are a man--a happy man, I fervently pray--you will not become a money-lender.' I gave her the promise, and an abhorrence of the trade my father practised took deep root in me, and has grown stronger every year of my life. Over an open grave there should be no bitterness, and though my heart is sore I will strive to avoid it. My mother left me her little fortune, and appointed a trustee over whom, by ill chance, my father subsequently obtained great influence, and in the end had him completely in his power. This trustee died when I was twenty-two, and before then my inheritance was in my father's hands to deal with as he pleased. My mother's will was very precise. A certain sum every year was to be expended upon my education until I came of age, when the residue was to be handed to me to make a practical start in life. She named the schools and colleges in which I was to be educated, and when I was nineteen I was to spend the next two years in France and Germany and Italy, to perfect myself in the languages of those countries. It was at my option whether I remained abroad after I came of age, and, in point of fact, I did, returning home a year after the death of my trustee. You will see by these provisions that I was cut off entirely from the domestic and business life of my father, and I understood and appreciated her reasons when I became intimately acquainted with it--as I did when, my education completed, I returned to his home in Catchpole Square. I lived with him between two and three years, and during that time his one endeavour was to induce me to share the business with him, to obey his orders, to carry out his directions, to initiate myself into a system which I detested, into practices which I abhorred. We had numberless discussions and quarrels; he argued, he stormed, he threatened, and I steadily resisted him. At length matters came to a head, and I finally convinced him that I would not go his way, but would carve out a path for myself. 'Upon what kind of foundation will you carve out this path?' he asked. 'You will want money to keep yourself in idleness till you establish a position, and are able to pay for your livelihood.' 'I have it,' I replied. 'Indeed,' he said, 'I was not aware of it. Have you some secret hoard of wealth which you have hidden from me?' 'I have my inheritance,' I said. He laughed in my face. 'Your inheritance!' he exclaimed. 'You haven't a shilling. Every penny of it, and more, has been spent upon your education and riotous living since your beautiful lady mother died.' The sneering reference to my dear mother angered me more than his statement that I was a beggar, and hot words passed between us, in the midst of which I left the room. The next day I returned to the subject, and said I had understood from my trustee that when I was twenty-one years of age I should come into a fortune of eight thousand pounds. 'He lied,' my father said. 'I have the papers and the calculations here in my safe. You can look them over if you like. I deal fair by every man, and I will deal fair by you, ungrateful as you have proved yourself to be. I could refuse to produce the papers for your private inspection, but I am honest and generous, and though all is at an end between us unless you consent to assist me in my business, I will satisfy you that your father is not a rogue. You are indebted to me a large sum of money, and I shall be happy to hear how soon you intend to pay it.' I replied that I would choose the humblest occupation rather than remain with him, and he took from his safe a mass of documents and said I must examine them in his presence. I did examine them, but could make nothing of them, the figures were so confusing. There were records of transactions into which my trustee had entered on my behalf, losses upon speculations, of charges for my education, of sums of money which had been sent to me from time to time for my personal expenses, of interest upon those advances, of interest upon other sums, of the cost of my board and lodging during the time I had lived at home with my father, of the small sums he had given me during the last two or three years, and of interest upon those sums. At the end of these documents there was a debit upon the total amount of twelve hundred pounds, which my father said I owed him. All this I saw as in a mist, but cunning as the figures were, there was no doubt in my mind that I had been defrauded, and by the last man in the world who should have inflicted this wrong upon me. What could I do but protest? I did protest. My father, putting the papers back in his safe, retorted that I was reflecting upon his honesty, that I was his enemy and had better go to law, and that he renounced me as his son. We had a bitter quarrel, which ended in my leaving his house, a beggar, to begin the world; and so strong were the feelings I entertained towards him, and so sensitive was I to the opprobrium which, in the minds of many people, was attached to the name of Boyd, that I determined to renounce it, as he had renounced me. Thus it was that you knew me only as Mr. Reginald; it caused me many a bitter pang to deceive you, and I was oppressed with doubts as to the wisdom of my resolve. All that is now at an end, however, and I ask your pardon for the deceit. Perhaps you have heard from Florence of the struggle I made to provide a home for her, and of my disappointment and despair at not seeing the way to its accomplishment. I thought much of the fraud of which I had been the victim, and the more I thought the more was I convinced that my father was retaining money which rightly belonged to me. At length it seemed to me that it was my duty to see him again upon the subject, and to make an earnest endeavour to obtain restitution. For my own sake, no. Had I not my dear Florence I think I should have left England, and have striven in another country to carve my way; but having seen her I could not, could not leave her. It was in pursuance of this resolution that I went to Catchpole Square last Friday week, and saw Abel Death, who informed me that my father was not at home. Now you know all."
It was with almost breathless interest that Dick listened to this confession, and it was with a feeling of dismay that he heard the last words, "Now you know all." Did they know all? Not a word about the key, not a word about the second visit to his father late on that fatal Friday night!
"Are people speaking about Abel Death?" asked Reginald, turning to Dick.
"Yes. They are coupling his disappearance with the murder. A strong suspicion is entertained. His poor wife is nearly mad with grief."
"Do you tell me he is suspected of the crime?" cried Reginald, in an excited tone.
"Many suspect him."
"What cruelty to defame an innocent man--what cruelty, what cruelty!"
"Do you know for a certainty that he is innocent?" asked Dick.
"That is a strange question, Dick. How can I be certain? Until the truth is known, how can any man be certain? I speak from my knowledge of his character. A drudge, working from hand to mouth. Alas! what misery and injustice this dreadful deed brings in its train!"
"Reginald, dear," said Florence, gently, "you are exhausted. Do not talk any more. Rest a little. Dick will remain here, and will come up when you want him."
"Yes, I am tired. You are a true friend, Dick. You will assist us, I know. Do all you can to avert suspicion from Abel Death. I must rest and think. There are so many things to think of--so many things!"
He held out his hand to Dick, and then sank back in his bed and closed his eyes. There was nothing more to be said at present, and Dick and Aunt Rob stole softly to the room below.
"Now, Dick," she said, "I am going to open my mind to you."
"Do, aunt."
"Has it occurred to you that in this trouble that has fallen upon Reginald he needs a man of business to act for him." Dick looked at her for an explanation. "A man of business," she repeated, "and a devoted friend, rolled into one. I am a practical woman as you know, Dick, and we mustn't lose sight of Reginald's interests--because his interests are Florence's now, and ours. He stands to-day in a very different position from what he did when he married Florence without our knowledge. Mr. Boyd's death is very shocking, and it will be a long time before we get over it; but after all it's not like losing one we loved. He's dead and gone, and the Lord have mercy upon him. The longer he lived the more mischief he'd have done, and the more poor people he'd have made miserable. It sounds hard, but it's the honest truth. I'm looking the thing straight in the face, and I feel that something ought to be done without delay."
"What ought to be done, aunt?"
"Well, Reginald is Mr. Boyd's only child, and there's that house in Catchpole Square, with any amount of valuable property in it, and no one to look after it. It mustn't be left to the mercy of strangers."
"It ought not to be."
"Reginald won't be able to stir out of the house for at least three or four days. Now, who's to attend to his interests? You. Who's to search for the will, supposing one was made--which with all my heart and soul I hope wasn't? You. Even if there is a will, leaving the money away from him, he can lay claim to the fortune his mother left him, for there isn't a shadow of doubt that he has been robbed of it. There's no one else with time on their hands that will act fair by him. You must be Reginald's man of business, Dick."
"Some person certainly should represent him," said Dick, thoughtfully, "and I shall have no objection if he wishes it. But it must be done legally."
"Of course it must. Do you know a solicitor?"
"Not one."
"And I don't, but I think I can put you on the scent of a gentleman that will do for us. In High Street, about a dozen doors down on the left hand side from here, there's a brass plate with 'Mr. Lamb, Solicitor,' on it. Just step round, and ask Mr. Lamb if he'll be kind enough to come and see me on very particular business. While you're gone I'll say just three words to Reginald; I'll answer for it he'll not object."
"Youarea practical woman, aunt," said Dick, putting on his hat.
"Have you lived with us all these years without finding it out? Cut away, Dick."
Away he went, and soon returned with Mr. Lamb, a very large gentleman with a very small practice; and being a gentleman with a very small practice he brought with him a capacious blue bag.
"This is professional, Mr. Lamb," said Aunt Rob.
"So I judge, madam, from your message," he answered, taking a seat, and pulling the strings of his blue bag with the air of a gentleman who could instantly produce any legal document she required.
Aunt Rob then explained matters, and asked what Reginald's position was.
"If there is no will, madam, he is heir at law," said Mr. Lamb.
"Until a will is found can he enter into possession of the house?"
"Undoubtedly."
"And being too ill to leave his bed, can he appoint some one to act for him?"
"He has an indisputable right to appoint any person he pleases."
"Then please draw up at once a paper to that effect, in as few words as possible."
"At once, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Lamb, with a professional objection to a course so prompt and straightforward.
"At once," said Aunt Rob, with decision. "This is an unusual case. There is the house with no one to take care of it, and here is my son-in-law upstairs, unable to leave his bed. If you cannot do what you want I must consult----"
"Madam," said Mr. Lamb, hastily, "there is no occasion for you to consult another solicitor. I will draw out such an authority as you require, and it can be stamped on Monday. Favour me with the name of the attorney."
"The attorney?" she said, in a tone of inquiry.
"The gentleman whom Mr. Reginald Boyd appoints to act for him?"
"Oh, Mr. Dick Remington. My nephew."
The solicitor, recognising that Aunt Rob was not a woman to be trifled with, even by a solicitor, accepted the situation with a good grace, and set to work.
"I have spoken to Reginald, Dick," said Aunt Rob, "and he consented gladly. It is to be a matter of business, mind that. We can't have you wasting your time for nothing."
In due time the solicitor announced that the document was ready, and read it out to them, not quite to Aunt Rob's satisfaction, who shook her head at the number of words, and was only reconciled when Dick said it was all right.
"It is in proper form and order," said Mr. Lamb, "though shorter than it should be."
"The shorter the better," said Aunt Rob.
He smiled sadly. "There is another thing Mr. Reginald Boyd should do, madam. He should take out letters of administration."
"Is that a long job?" she asked.
"No, madam, it is very simple, very simple."
"Then let it be done immediately."
"There are certain formalities, madam. With Mr. Reginald Boyd's permission we will attend to it on Monday. To this present power of attorney the signatures of two witnesses are necessary."
"I'm one, and my nephew's another."
"Your nephew, madam, being an interested party, is not available. Your signature will be valid, and there is probably a servant in the house."
"Of course there is," said Aunt Rob, resentfully. "The law seems to me to be nothing but going round corners and taking wrong turnings purposely. Such a fuss and to-do about a signature I never heard."
Mr. Lamb gave her a reproachful look. "It is for the protection of the individual, madam. The law is a thing to be thankful for."
"Isit?" she snapped.
"Without law, madam," he said, in feeble protest, "society could not exist. We should be in a state of chaos."
The formalities were soon concluded. Reginald signed, Aunt Rob signed, and the servant signed, though at the words, "This is your hand and seal," she trembled visibly. Then instructions were given for the taking out of letters of administration, and Mr. Lamb took his departure.
"Your worthy aunt," he said, as Dick opened the street door for him, "is a very extraordinary woman. The manner in which she has rushed this business through is quite unique, and I am not sure, in the strict sense of the term, that it is exactly professional. I can only trust it will not be accepted as a precedent."
From time to time there had been murders committed in London with details dismal and sordid enough to satisfy the most rabid appetites, but it was generally admitted that the great Catchpole Square Mystery outvied them all in just those elements of attraction which render crime so weirdly fascinating to the British public. Men and women in North Islington experienced a feeling akin to that which the bestowal of an unexpected dignity confers, and when they retired to bed were more than ordinarily careful about the fastening of locks and bolts. Timid wives woke in the middle of the night, and tremblingly asked their husbands whether they did not hear somebody creeping in the passages, and many a single woman shivered in her bed. Shopkeepers standing behind their counters bristled with it; blue-aproned butchers, knife in hand, called out their "Buy, buy, buy!" with a brisk and cheery ring; crossing sweepers touched their hats smartly to their patrons, and preceding them with the unnecessary broom as they swept nothing away, murmured the latest rumour; the lamplighters, usually a sad race, lighted the street lamps with unwonted alacrity; and the Saturday night beggars took their stands below the kerb in hopeful anticipation of a spurt in benevolence. Naturally it formed the staple news in the newspapers on Sunday and Monday, and all agreed that the excitement it had created was unparallelled in the records of the criminal calendar.
"On Saturday evening," said "The Little Busy Bee" in its Monday's editions, "numbers of people wended their way to Catchpole Square from every part of the metropolis. Up till late the usually quiet streets resembled a Saturday night market, and there was an extraordinary demand for the literature of crime, with which the vendors of second-hand books had provided themselves. Towards midnight the human tide slackened, but even during the early hours of the morning there were many fresh arrivals. On Sunday the excitement was renewed, and it is calculated that seven or eight thousand persons must have visited the Square in the course of the day, many of whom seemed to regard the occasion as a picnic.
"In our columns will be found picturesque accounts of incidents that came under the notice of our reporters, not the least amusing of which is that of the mother and father who brought with them a large family of children, and had come provided with food for a day's outing. They arrived at eleven in the morning, and at eleven at night were still there. They had been informed that when a murdered man was lying in his own bed unburied on the Day of Rest he was ordered to get up and dress himself when the church bells rang, and go to church to pray for his sins. If he disobeyed his soul was lost, and his ghost would appear on the roof at midnight, surrounded by flames and accompanied by the Evil One. 'Did he go to church?' asked our reporter, who, in a conversation with the woman late on Sunday night, elicited this curious piece of information. 'No,' replied the woman, 'and it's a bad day's work for him. I shouldn't like to be in his shoes.' The woman furthermore said that she would give anything to see the ghost at midnight on the roof, thus evincing small regard for Samuel Boyd's salvation. 'It would be a better show, wouldn't it?' she observed, with an eye to theatrical effect. 'I've never seen the Devil.' It is deplorable that in this age such silly superstitions should obtain credence, and that with numbers of people in different parts of the country the belief in witchcraft and in demoniacal demonstrations should still exist.
"Secondary only in importance to the murder is the disappearance of Samuel Boyd's clerk, Abel Death. To suggest anything in the shape of complicity would be prejudging the case, but whatever may be the fate of Abel Death his poor family are to be commiserated. The theories and conjectures respecting the disappearance of this man are perfectly bewildering, and many are the excited discussions concerning it. Such licence of speech cannot be commended, and we suggest to those persons indulging in it the advisability of suspending their judgment.
"A full report of the inquest held this morning appears in our columns. In view of the burial of the body of the murdered man, which will take place to-morrow, it was deemed necessary to open the inquiry to-day, although it was anticipated that little progress would be made; but although the Coroner stated that the proceedings would be of a formal character, it will be seen that matters were introduced the development of which will be followed with the keenest interest. The appearance of an eminent barrister for Lord and Lady Wharton, whose names have not hitherto been associated with the mystery, aroused general curiosity, which was intensified by the conduct of Lady Wharton herself. The Court was crowded, and numbers of persons could not obtain admittance. Among the audience we noticed several famous actors and actresses."
This morning, at the Coroner's Court, Bishop Street, Mr. John Kent, the Coroner for the district, opened an inquiry into the death of Mr. Samuel Boyd, of Catchpole Square, who was found dead in his house on Saturday, the 9th inst., under circumstances which have already been reported in the newspapers.
The coroner, addressing the jury, said the initial proceedings would be chiefly formal. Their first duty would be to view the body of the deceased; after that certain witnesses would be examined who would testify to the finding of the body, and others who would give evidence of identification. The inquiry would then be adjourned till Wednesday, on which day medical and other evidence would be forthcoming. He refrained from any comment on the case, and he advised the jury to turn a deaf ear to the strange rumours and reports which were in circulation; it was of the utmost importance that they should keep an open mind, and be guided only by the evidence which would be presented to them. Much mischief was frequently done by the prejudice aroused by injudicious public comment on a case presenting such singular features as the present. Comments of this nature were greatly to be deplored; they hampered, instead of assisting, the cause of justice.
The jury then proceeded to Catchpole Square to view the body, and upon their return to court Mr. Finnis, Q.C., rose and stated that he appeared for Lord and Lady Wharton, who had a close and peculiar interest in the inquiry.
The Coroner said the inquiry would be conducted in the usual manner, without the aid of counsel, whose assistance would be available in another court, but not in this, where no accusation was brought against any person, and where no person was on his trial.
Mr. Finnis: "Our desire is to render material assistance to you and the jury. Lady Wharton----"
The Coroner: "I cannot listen to you, Mr. Finnis."
Mr. Finnis: "Lady Wharton has most important, I may say most extraordinary evidence to give----"
The Coroner: "Her evidence will be received, but not to-day. Pray be seated."
Mr. Finnis: "Her ladyship is in attendance."
The Coroner: "She is at liberty to remain; but I repeat, her evidence cannot be received to-day. Only formal evidence will be taken to enable the body to be buried."
Mr. Finnis: "Evidence of identification, I understand?"
The Coroner: "Yes."
Mr. Finnis: "Lady Wharton's evidence bears expressly upon this point."
The Coroner: "It must be tendered at the proper time."
Mr. Finnis: "With all respect, Mr. Coroner, I submit that this is the proper time."
The Coroner: "I am the judge of that. I ask you not to persist. I shall conduct this inquiry in accordance with my duties as Coroner."
The first witness called was Mr. Robert Starr.
"You are a reporter?"
"A special reporter and descriptive writer for 'The Little Busy Bee.'"
"Were you the first person to enter the house in Catchpole Square after the death of Mr. Samuel Boyd?"
"I cannot say. Some person or persons had been there before me, as is proved by a broken window at the back of the house through which I obtained entrance, but whether after or before the death of Mr. Boyd is unknown to me."
"It appears, however, to have been a recent entrance?"
"It appears so."
"You have no knowledge of these persons?"
"None whatever."
"Having obtained entrance into the house, what next did you do?"
"I went through a passage, and up a staircase to another passage which leads to the street door. In this passage are doors opening into various rooms. I looked into these rooms without making any discovery, until I came to one which seems to have been used as an office. There are two doors in this office, one opening into a small room in which I saw nothing to arouse my suspicions, the other opening into a larger room which I found was a sleeping apartment."
"Examine this plan of the rooms, and tell us whether it is accurate?"
"Quite accurate, so far as my memory serves."
"The room on the right is the sleeping apartment?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Samuel Boyd's bedroom?"
"I do not know. There was a bed in it, and the usual appointments of a bedroom. I stepped up to the bed, and saw it was occupied. Examining closer, I discovered that the person in it was dead."
"By the person you mean Mr. Samuel Boyd?"
"I do not. I have never seen Mr. Boyd in his lifetime, and I could not therefore identify the body. But from the fact of the house being his, and from certain rumours of foul play which had reached me, I assumed that it was he."
"You examined the body?"
"Yes, and I observed marks on the throat which favoured the presumption that the man had been murdered."
"In his sleep?"
"I cannot vouch for that."
"Were there any signs of a struggle?"
"None. The limbs were composed, and what greatly surprised me was the orderly condition of the bedclothes."
"How long did you remain in the house?"
"About two hours."
"During that time were you quite alone?"
"Quite alone."
"Were there any indications of a robbery having been committed?"
"I observed none. The clothes of the deceased were on a chair, and there was no appearance of their having been rifled. There is a safe fixed to the wall; it did not seem to have been tampered with."
"Having completed your examination, what next did you do?"
"I left the house, and proceeded to the Bishop Street Police Station to give information of my discovery."
"And after that?"
"I went to the office of 'The Little Busy Bee,' and wrote an account of what I had seen and done, which, being published, was the first information the public received of the murder--if murder it was."
"Had any orders been given to you to take action in this matter?"
"None. I acted entirely on my own initiative."
"What impelled you?"
"Well, there seemed to me to be a mystery which should be unravelled in the public interests. I pieced three things together. The disappearance of Mr. Boyd's clerk, as reported in our paper, the silence of Mr. Boyd respecting that disappearance, upon which, had he written or spoken, he could probably have thrown some light, and the house in Catchpole Square sealed up, so to speak. These things required to be explained, and I set about it."
Mr. Finnis, Q.C.: "Now, Mr. Starr, at what time in the morning----"
The Coroner: "No, no, Mr. Finnis. I instruct the witness not to answer any questions you put to him."
Mr. Finnis: "Will you, then Mr. Coroner, ask him at what hour in the morning he made the discovery? I assure you it is a most important point."
The Coroner: "At what hour in the morning did you enter the house?"
"At a little after ten."
"And you left it?"
"At a few minutes before twelve. I went straight to the police station, where, no doubt, the time can be verified."
"Have you any other information to give bearing on this inquiry?"
"One thing should be mentioned. In my printed narrative I state that I noticed dark stains upon the floor of the office and the bedroom, and that I traced these stains to the window at the back. I scraped off a portion of the stains, which I gave to my chief, who handed it to an analyst. His report is that they are the stains of human blood."
"Were they stains of old standing?"
"No. I scraped them off quite easily."
"Did you observe any blood on the bedclothes?"
"None whatever."
The next witness was Constable Simmons, who stated that he and Constable Filey were instructed by the day inspector at the Bishop Street Police Station to enter the house for the purpose of ascertaining whether there was any truth in the information given by Mr. Starr.
"At what time were those instructions issued?"
"Somewhere about three o'clock."
"So that three hours elapsed before any action was taken?
"I am under orders, sir."
The witness then gave an account of how he got into the house by means of a ladder over the wall at the back, and through the window. Corroborating in every particular the evidence of the reporter, he went a step farther. In the bedroom of the deceased he found the key of the street door, which he opened to admit Constable Filey, who was keeping watch in the Square outside. The street door was neither chained nor bolted. He did not see any stains of blood on the floor; he did not look for them.
Constable Filey, who was next examined, gave evidence to the same effect. Neither of these officers was acquainted with Mr. Samuel Boyd, and could not therefore speak as to the identification of the body.
Inspector Robson was then called. His appearance caused some excitement, it being understood that his daughter was married to the son of the deceased.
"You are an inspector of police?"
"Yes. At present on night duty at the Bishop Street Station."
"You were acquainted with Mr. Samuel Boyd?"
"Not personally. I have seen him several times, but have never spoken to him."
"You are sufficiently familiar with his features to identify him?"
"I am."
"When did you first hear of his death?"
"On Saturday afternoon, when I was sitting at home with my wife and my nephew, Mr. Richard Remington. The boys were calling out news of a murder in Catchpole Square, and we went out and bought a paper."
"Before Saturday afternoon had your attention been directed in any way to the house in which the deceased resided?"
"Yes. Last Tuesday night a woman was brought into the office who made a statement respecting the disappearance of her husband, who had been in the service of the deceased."
"What is the name of the woman?"
"Mrs. Abel Death. I advised her to apply to the magistrate on the following morning, in order that it might be made public."
"After reading the news in the paper on Saturday afternoon what did you do?"
"I went to the Bishop Street Station, and learned that constables had been sent to enter the house, for the purpose of ascertaining if the statement made by the reporter was correct."
"And then?"
"I went to Catchpole Square, accompanied by Constable Applebee and my nephew, Mr. Richard Remington--both of whom were acquainted with the deceased--I entered the house and saw the body. I identified it as the body of Mr. Samuel Boyd."
"Is there any doubt in your mind on the point?"
"Not the slightest. I have seen him scores of times, and his features were quite familiar to me."
"You saw the marks on his throat?"
"Yes."
"Have you any idea as to the cause of his death?"
"It appeared to me to have been caused by strangulation."
"Now, Inspector Robson, I wish to ask you if you formed any idea as to how long he had been dead. You cannot, of course, speak with the authority of an expert, but we should like to hear what your impression was?"
"My impression was that he had been dead several days."
At this answer considerable commotion was caused by a lady exclaiming "Impossible! Impossible!"