CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE BURSTING OF THE CLOUD.
Inspector Robson, being on night duty, was not present at the BishopStreet Police Station when the reporter of "The Little Busy Bee" gaveinformation of the murder. Aunt Rob had had a busy day; whileadmitting that her son-in-law was very weak, she insisted that hewould have a greater chance of getting well in a short time if he wereremoved from his lodgings to their home. "It's his proper place," shesaid, "and I won't rest till I get him there." She argued with thedoctor, one of the old school, who shook his head; she continued toargue with him, and he continued to shake his head. This exasperatedher.
"I suppose, doctor," she said, with freezing politeness, "you won'tallow that women ought to have opinions."
"Not medical opinions," he replied.
"He may shake his head till he shakes it off," she said privately toUncle Rob, "but he won't convince _me_." He smiled an admission ofthis declaration. "And look at Florence," she continued; "the poorgirl is being worn to skin and bone. We shall have her downpresently."
"But is it safe to move him, mother?" asked Florence, who, next toReginald's recovery to health, desired nothing so much as a return tothe 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 beenmarried. I nursed you through the whooping cough and scarlatinawithout a doctor, and are you any the worse for it? I know as much asa good many of them by this time. There are some doctors who won'tallow you to suggest a single thing. The moment you do they're up inarms. 'What business have _you_ to know?' they think. This is one ofthat kind. Reginald is my son now, and I'm doing by him as I'd do byyou."
The upshot was, all preparations being made, that Reginald was movedon Saturday morning, and bore the removal well. When Florence saw himsleeping 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 cannever be again quite like old times in the home in which she was bornand reared. Something is missing, something gone. It is not that theold 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 looksback upon her own young days, and realises now what she did not thinkof then, that the child she nestled at her bosom is going through thechanges 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 thesitting room in which they had passed so many happy hours. He was notin a bright mood; dreading every minute that the murder would bediscovered and made public, he felt that it would be almost a reliefwhen the cloud burst, as burst it must before long. Knowing what heknew, 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 anydifference in your room. There it is, ready for you, as it has beenall through, and I shall begin to think there's some secret reason foryour keeping away from us if you don't occupy it at once. I'll take nodenial, 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 torun away after having been in her house only a few days. So, like thekind dear soul that you are, let it remain as it is for a littlewhile. What's that?"
It was a newsboy shouting at the top of his voice, and selling copiesof "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!' WhereReginald's father lives!"
The two men ran out of the house like mad, and were just in time totear the last copy from the boy's hands. A glance at the headlines wassufficient.
"You were right, Dick, you were right," said Uncle Rob. "Samuel Boyd'smurdered!"
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 Dicklooking 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, andshut the door. Speak low. Is Florence upstairs?"
"Yes. Wait a minute." She stepped softly to the room above, andquickly returned. "Reginald is dozing, and Florence has fallen asleepin her chair. The poor child is tired out. Murder! Where? In CatchpoleSquare?"
"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 aboutit. 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 goalong." As they hastened to Bishop Street Station he said, "This is abad 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 ofAbel 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 ahurried 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 andget 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 sentto Catchpole Square to ascertain whether the news was true.
"I've given them instructions," said the day inspector, "if they can'tget into the house by the front door, to scale the wall at the back. Ican't say I like the way this case has been got up. Those newspapermen 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 oftheir own. The fact is, the police haven't got power enough; wedaren't move without proof positive. It's all very well to talk of theliberty of the subject, but it's my opinion the subject's got moreliberty than it has a right to have. I'll give you an instance. I knowa man who is as mad as mad can be--a dangerous chap, with abloodthirsty eye, carries knives, and looks at you as if he'd like tomurder 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, butnot till then; so we've got to wait till mischiefs done. Then they'llprove him mad, and he'll be made comfortable for life. There's thisaffair; the public will be down on us for not being the first to makethe discovery. _We_ can't move, but a newspaper man can. It's liketaking 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 constablesto Catchpole Square. Deadman's Court is a narrow thoroughfare, andthere'll be a rush of people to stare at the house. There should be aguard 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 greatmany sight-seers had already gathered, of whom only a few at a timewere allowed to enter to stare up at the windows of Samuel Boyd'shouse, a constable being stationed at the entrance of Deadman's Courtto guard the passage. Inspector Robson asked this officer where theother constable was.
"Gone to the station, sir, for further instructions," replied theconstable, 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 mountedand 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 andsee the body. By the way, Filey, was the street door chained andbolted 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 thequestion.
"Neither locked _nor_ bolted, sir," he replied.
Inspector Robson drew Dick aside, and said, "That's a suspiciouscircumstance, Dick. The murderer got in by the back entrance, and gotout 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 thebedroom and fastens the key on the cord, goes down again and letshimself out. It seems to prove that the murder was committed by anovice."
Dick made no remark. He recollected that Mrs. Death had not saidanything in the police station of Reginald's visit to his father inthe afternoon, and of his having a second key to the street door. Thatinformation had been given exclusively to Dick by Mrs. Death inDraper's Mews; it would come out presently, of course, but he wouldnot utter a word to throw the shadow of a suspicion on Reginald. "Anice treacherous part I'm playing," he thought, "but I must go on withit. God knows how things will turn out."
There were some twenty or thirty persons in the Square; a few wereairing theories concerning the murder, and recalling other crimes asmysterious and thrilling; one man was boasting that he had seen everyhouse in London in which a murder had been committed during the lastforty years; the majority were silent, and appeared to derive a creepyenjoyment by simply staring at the walls and windows. A journalist wasjotting down everything he heard that could be incorporated into anarticle. Two newspaper artists were sketching, and one of these cameforward and asked Inspector Robson if he would kindly point out thewindow of the room in which the body was lying. He replied that he didnot know. The other artist, observing that the Inspector had a key inhis hand, inquired if it belonged to the house.
"Key of the street door," said the inspector, whereupon the artistimmediately took a sketch of it, and wrote beneath, "Key of the StreetDoor by which the Murderer Made his Escape."
"We go in for realism," he said, as with a few skilful touches helimned the faces of Inspector Robson, Constable Applebee, and Dick onhis sketching pad. "Nothing tickles the public so much as sketchesfrom real life in pen and pencil. We live in a melodramatic age, andmust go with the times. I belong to 'The Illustrated Afternoon.' Now Icall these speaking likenesses. I take it you belong to the force, andare here upon official business. May I inquire your name, or shall Icall it the Portrait of a Gentleman who Carried the Street Door Key?"
With no good grace Inspector Robson gave his name, which was placedbeneath his portrait. Then Applebee was asked for _his_ name, and itwas given more willingly. The worthy constable had no objection to hisfeatures appearing in "The Illustrated Afternoon"; the picture wouldbe 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, "PrivatePerson who, for Unexplained Reasons, Declined to Give his Name."
The insertion of the key in the lock caused much excitement, and allthe artillery of the press was brought to bear upon the inspector. Theindustrious journalists advanced cogent reasons why they should be letinto the house; they begged, they clamoured, but they could notconvince 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 thedark passage, and this glimpse was quite sufficient to enable them togive a vivid description of the walls, the staircase, and the umbrellastand with one umbrella in it, which the eagle eye of the smarter ofthe artists transferred like lightning to his pad. It was aninteresting feature in his article, "The Murdered Man's Umbrella."There was great disappointment among the group outside when the doorwas closed upon them.
"You've been up these stairs often enough, Dick," said InspectorRobson. "Take us to the room."
His eyes opened wide when they reached the office, and both he andConstable 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. Itwas done mechanically, and without motive, but it gave him a surprise."Seventy-five bottles," he thought. "I'll take my oath that when Icounted 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 uponthe dead face. In this awful presence they were dumb. Stepping verysoftly they returned to the office. Then Inspector Robson spoke.
"It's Samuel Boyd. What do you say, Applebee--do you recognise thefeatures?"
"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 streetdoor, Applebee. Don't let any one in." The constable departed on hiserrand. "It's a clear case, Dick. I wouldn't say so to any one butyou, and we must keep our own counsel. The name of the murderer ofSamuel Boyd is Abel Death. Now we know why he's keeping out of theway. He's got a long start of us. Here's Applebee coming back. Not aword. Who is it, Applebee?"
"Mrs. Death and her little girl, sir. She's half distracted, and triedto force her way in."
"We've seen what we came to see," said Inspector Robson, "and noperson must be admitted into the house. You will keep in the Squareto-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 tookhis hand. An infinite pity filled his heart as he looked down at herpallid, mournful face.
"It's all right now, mother," she said, hoarsely. "Dick'll stand upfor us."
"Is it true, sir, is it true?" cried Mrs. Death, a wild terror in hereyes. "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 hemurdered Mr. Boyd! They lie--they lie! Oh, my God! Is there anyjustice in the world?"
"Don't make a disturbance, Mrs. Death," said Inspector Robson, verykindly. "I am truly sorry for you, but you can do no good by cominghere."
"Where else should I come, sir?" she asked, her tears falling f
ast."Mr. Boyd is the only man who can tell me what has become of myhusband, and he's dead, you say. Who killed him? What a wickedworld--oh what a wicked, wicked world! Haven't I enough to bearwithout 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 theconvulsive twining of her little fingers round his. "It's all rightnow we've got Dick. You're our friend, ain't you, Dick?"
"May they be struck down dead for their lies!" sobbed Mrs. Death. "Howdare they, how dare they accuse my poor husband, who never raised hishand 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 theymay 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 giveher neighbours a caution. The poor woman has something yet worse instore for her. Then go home to Aunt Rob and Florence, and remain thereto-night. They need a man's support and sympathy, and my duties willchain 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'scaused him to look up, and he saw Dr. Vinsen.
"I have heard what has passed," said the doctor, addressing himself toInspector Robson, "and shall be glad to offer my services in theinterests 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, Ibelieve." He shed a benevolent smile around. "This is a most shockingmurder. It would be worth your while, Mr. Remington, if you coulddiscover the perpetrator of the frightful crime, and so relieve thisunfortunate woman's distress. It shall be done, madam, it shall bedone. Rely upon me. Let not the criminal hope that his guilt can befor ever hidden. There is an All-seeing Eye--Divine justice willovertake him--will o-ver-take him. Is that the house in which thevictim lies?"
"Yes," said Dick.
"A singular place for a man to live in--and die in. Now, my dearmadam, if you wish me to admonish these slanderers I am ready toaccompany 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 wellas myself--better, perhaps, he being a literary character." There wasa faint twinkle in his sleepy eyes. "But you have no objection to mywalking a little way with your mother, I hope? Mr. Inspector, have youany opinion----"
"Don't ask me for opinions," interrupted Inspector Robson.
"Pardon my indiscretion, but one's natural curiosity, you know. Therewill be an inquest?"
"Of course there will be an inquest."
"Of course--_of_ course. Good day, Mr. Inspector, I am greatly obligedto you. Now, my dear madam."
They walked out of Deadman's Court, Mrs. Death and Dr. Vinsen infront, 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."
"_I_ do," said Gracie. "He's so slimy."
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 29