CHAPTER XXX.
REGINALD'S MAN OF BUSINESS.
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 thedisappearance of Abel Death was associated with it. The wildestspeculations were indulged in. He had gone to Australia, he had goneto America, he had never left England at all, he had taken with him anenormous sum of money which he had found in the house in CatchpoleSquare, he had so disguised himself that his own wife and childrenwould not have known him, he had been seen in various parts of London.He was generally condemned, and had no defenders. Had his fate, ifcaught 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 noother subject.
"Applebee says that when Inspector Robson saw the body he turned aswhite as a ghost."
"Why should he?" asked Mrs. Pond. "It's not the first body he's seenby many."
"Why, don't you know, my dear," said Mrs. Applebee, "that hisdaughter's married to Mr. Boyd's son?"
"No, I never heard of it."
Mrs. Applebee bristled with importance. "They were married only a fewweeks ago, and they do say it was a runaway match. Off they went onemorning, arm in arm, to the registrar's office, and she comes homehalf an hour afterwards, and says, 'Mother, I'm married to Mr.Reginald Boyd.' 'Married, Florence!' cries Mrs. Robson, and burstsinto 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 luckyone. Applebee says if Mr. Boyd hasn't made a will her husband'll comein for everything. Mr. Boyd must have been worth piles of money. Let'shope it'll do somebody good; it never did while he was alive. It'scurious that your lodger, Mr. Remington, is mixed up in it, too. He'sInspector Robson's nephew, you know; him and Miss Florence was broughtup together. He's been hanging about Catchpole Square a good deal thelast week or two; in the dead of night, too. Applebee says he'd liketo get hold of that woman that slipped through his hands on the nightof the fog. He's got an idea that she must have something to do withthe 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 bemixed up with it somehow. Just listen to those boys shouting outanother edition. What are they calling out? Fresh discoveries! I mustget a paper; that'll be the third I've bought to-day. Perhaps they'vecaught Abel Death. The man on 'The Illustrated Afternoon' tookApplebee's portrait, and I'm dying to see it. I wouldn't miss it foranything."
There was, of course, but one subject in Aunt Rob's mind when Dickpresented himself. She told him that Reginald was in a terrible state.
"I couldn't stop the boys coming into the street," she said, "andReginald heard them. Florence ran down to me all in a flutter, andasked if I didn't hear them calling out something about a murder inCatchpole Square, and what was it? Then she caught sight of the paperthat I was trying to hide, and when she looked at it she wasfrightened out of her life. We did all we could to keep it fromReginald, but he couldn't help seeing from our faces that there wassomething serious the matter. At last there was nothing for it but totell him, and we did it as gently as we could. But the shock wasdreadful; he sobbed like a little child. Then he cried that he must goto the house, and we had almost to use force to prevent him leavinghis bed. Florence threw her arms round him, and begged and implored sothat he had to give in. We tried to comfort him by saying that itmightn't be true, that it might be another man who was murdered, andthat you and Uncle Rob had gone to see about it. I'm afraid to ask youif it's true, Dick."
"It is too true," he replied, and rapidly related all that had passedsince he and Uncle Rob had left her. She listened horror-struck, andwhen he finished could hardly find voice to ask who he thought was themurderer.
"I don't know what to think," he said.
"There can be only one man," she said, but he stopped her fromproceeding.
"Don't let's talk about it just now, aunt. There are a dozen men whowould rather see Samuel Boyd dead than alive. He had plenty ofenemies, and he deserved to have. If Reginald knew I was here he wouldwant to see me."
"He made me promise the moment either of you came back to bring you upto 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. "Haveyou 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 thewall. They did not disturb him--did not dare to speak. "Is it certainthat he was murdered," he said presently in a broken voice, "that hedid not die a natural death?"
"I fear there is no doubt."
"Strangled, the paper says--strangled!" Dick was silent. "Strangled inhis sleep! Without having time to think, to pray! Oh, Florence, whatshame, what misery I have brought upon you!"
"It is an awful misfortune, Reginald, dear," said Florence, her armsround his neck, her face nestled close to his, "and it makes us allvery 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 hiscomplicity in the terrible deed. Innocent or guilty, the shock of thenews could have produced no other effect than was shown in the whiteface, the shaking body, the sobbing voice. There was another intervalof silence, which, again, Reginald was the first to break. "Tell meeverything."
"You know the worst," said Dick, "let us wait till you are stronger."
"No," cried Reginald, "I cannot wait. You must tell meeverything--now, here! Wait? With those cries ringing in my ears?Don't you hear them? Hark!" They listened, and heard nothing. It wasthe spiritual echo of the ominous sounds that was in Reginald's ears."Is anyone suspected? Is there any clue? Are not the people speakingabout it in the streets?"
"There are all sorts of rumours," said Dick, reluctantly. "When UncleRob and I went into the house we found everything as the papersdescribe. Nothing seems to have been taken away, but of course wecan't be positive on that point yet. There were no signs of astruggle."
"The paper speaks of bloody footprints," said Reginald, a white fearin 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 toaccount for that? How did you get into the house?"
"Through the front door."
"But--the key!" exclaimed Reginald, and Dick fancied he detected signsof confusion. "Where did you get the key from?"
"A policeman scaled the wall at the back of the house, and enteredthrough the broken window. He found the key in your father's room, andhe 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 checkedhimself. "Go on."
"When Uncle Rob and I left the house Mrs. Death and her little girlwere in the square; she had tried to force herself into the house, butthe policeman kept her back. You know from the papers that her husbandhas not been seen since Friday week."
"Until I read it in this paper an hour ago," said Reginald, pointingto the copy of "The Little Busy Bee" that lay on the bed
, "I was inignorance of it. I cannot understand his disappearance; it is amystery. The last I saw of him was on the afternoon of that veryFriday, 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 uponhis eyes, and a long silence ensued. They looked at him anxiously, andFlorence, her finger at her lips, warned them not to speak. Removinghis hand, he proceeded: "I ought to tell you now why I went to see myfather. 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 younot 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 andfaithfulness, and in my eyes, also, Dick. It is my hope that we shallalways be firm friends."
With but one thought in his mind, the peace and happiness of the womanhe loved, Dick answered, "And mine."
"Thank you," said Reginald, gravely. "What I wish to tell youcommences with my child-life. My mother, when she married my father,brought him a small fortune, and she had money, also, in her ownright. Young as I was, I knew that she was not happy, and that therewere differences between her and my father, arising partly from hisendeavours to obtain the sole control of every shilling she possessed.There were probably other causes, but they did not come to myknowledge. My mother's refusal to comply with his demands was promptedby her solicitude for my future. She was the best of women, and neveruttered one word of reproach against my father; she suffered insilence, as only women can, and she found some solace in the love shebore 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. Hehad but one aim, the amassing of money, and there was no sympathybetween us. I hope there are not many homes in which such estrangementexists. She died when I was ten, and I lost the one dear friend I hadin the world. In our last embrace on her deathbed she said to me, in awhisper, 'Promise me that when you are a man--a happy man, I ferventlypray--you will not become a money-lender.' I gave her the promise, andan 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 thereshould be no bitterness, and though my heart is sore I will strive toavoid it. My mother left me her little fortune, and appointed atrustee over whom, by ill chance, my father subsequently obtainedgreat influence, and in the end had him completely in his power. Thistrustee died when I was twenty-two, and before then my inheritance wasin my father's hands to deal with as he pleased. My mother's will wasvery precise. A certain sum every year was to be expended upon myeducation until I came of age, when the residue was to be handed to meto make a practical start in life. She named the schools and collegesin which I was to be educated, and when I was nineteen I was to spendthe next two years in France and Germany and Italy, to perfect myselfin the languages of those countries. It was at my option whether Iremained 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 bythese provisions that I was cut off entirely from the domestic andbusiness life of my father, and I understood and appreciated herreasons when I became intimately acquainted with it--as I did when, myeducation completed, I returned to his home in Catchpole Square. Ilived with him between two and three years, and during that time hisone endeavour was to induce me to share the business with him, to obeyhis orders, to carry out his directions, to initiate myself into asystem which I detested, into practices which I abhorred. We hadnumberless discussions and quarrels; he argued, he stormed, hethreatened, and I steadily resisted him. At length matters came to ahead, and I finally convinced him that I would not go his way, butwould carve out a path for myself. 'Upon what kind of foundation willyou carve out this path?' he asked. 'You will want money to keepyourself in idleness till you establish a position, and are able topay 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 youhave hidden from me?' 'I have my inheritance,' I said. He laughed inmy face. 'Your inheritance!' he exclaimed. 'You haven't a shilling.Every penny of it, and more, has been spent upon your education andriotous living since your beautiful lady mother died.' The sneeringreference to my dear mother angered me more than his statement that Iwas a beggar, and hot words passed between us, in the midst of which Ileft the room. The next day I returned to the subject, and said I hadunderstood from my trustee that when I was twenty-one years of age Ishould come into a fortune of eight thousand pounds. 'He lied,' myfather 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 Iwill deal fair by you, ungrateful as you have proved yourself to be. Icould refuse to produce the papers for your private inspection, but Iam honest and generous, and though all is at an end between us unlessyou consent to assist me in my business, I will satisfy you that yourfather 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 repliedthat I would choose the humblest occupation rather than remain withhim, and he took from his safe a mass of documents and said I mustexamine them in his presence. I did examine them, but could makenothing of them, the figures were so confusing. There were records oftransactions into which my trustee had entered on my behalf, lossesupon speculations, of charges for my education, of sums of money whichhad been sent to me from time to time for my personal expenses, ofinterest upon those advances, of interest upon other sums, of the costof my board and lodging during the time I had lived at home with myfather, of the small sums he had given me during the last two or threeyears, and of interest upon those sums. At the end of these documentsthere 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, butcunning as the figures were, there was no doubt in my mind that I hadbeen defrauded, and by the last man in the world who should haveinflicted this wrong upon me. What could I do but protest? I didprotest. My father, putting the papers back in his safe, retorted thatI was reflecting upon his honesty, that I was his enemy and had bettergo to law, and that he renounced me as his son. We had a bitterquarrel, which ended in my leaving his house, a beggar, to begin theworld; and so strong were the feelings I entertained towards him, andso sensitive was I to the opprobrium which, in the minds of manypeople, was attached to the name of Boyd, that I determined torenounce it, as he had renounced me. Thus it was that you knew me onlyas Mr. Reginald; it caused me many a bitter pang to deceive you, and Iwas oppressed with doubts as to the wisdom of my resolve. All that isnow at an end, however, and I ask your pardon for the deceit. Perhapsyou have heard from Florence of the struggle I made to provide a homefor her, and of my disappointment and despair at not seeing the way toits accomplishment. I thought much of the fraud of which I had beenthe victim, and the more I thought the more was I convinced that myfather was retaining money which rightly belonged to me. At length itseemed 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 ownsake, no. Had I not my dear Florence I think I should have leftEngland, and have striven in another country to carve my way; buthaving seen her I could not, could not leave her. It was in pursuanceof 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 thisconfession, and it was with a feeling of dismay that he heard the lastwords, "Now you know all." Did they know all? Not a word about thekey, not a word about the second visit to his father late on thatfatal Friday night!
"Are people speaking about Abel Death?" asked Reginald, turning toDick.
"Yes. They are coupling his disappearance with the murder. A strongsuspicion is entertained. His poor wife is nearly mad with grief."
"Do you tell me he is sus
pected of the crime?" cried Reginald, in anexcited 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 thetruth is known, how can any man be certain? I speak from my knowledgeof his character. A drudge, working from hand to mouth. Alas! whatmisery and injustice this dreadful deed brings in its train!"
"Reginald, dear," said Florence, gently, "you are exhausted. Do nottalk any more. Rest a little. Dick will remain here, and will come upwhen you want him."
"Yes, I am tired. You are a true friend, Dick. You will assist us, Iknow. Do all you can to avert suspicion from Abel Death. I must restand 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 closedhis eyes. There was nothing more to be said at present, and Dick andAunt 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 uponReginald he needs a man of business to act for him." Dick looked ather for an explanation. "A man of business," she repeated, "and adevoted friend, rolled into one. I am a practical woman as you know,Dick, and we mustn't lose sight of Reginald's interests--because hisinterests are Florence's now, and ours. He stands to-day in a verydifferent position from what he did when he married Florence withoutour knowledge. Mr. Boyd's death is very shocking, and it will be along time before we get over it; but after all it's not like losingone 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 morepoor people he'd have made miserable. It sounds hard, but it's thehonest truth. I'm looking the thing straight in the face, and I feelthat 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 inCatchpole Square, with any amount of valuable property in it, and noone 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 orfour days. Now, who's to attend to his interests? You. Who's to searchfor the will, supposing one was made--which with all my heart and soulI hope wasn't? You. Even if there is a will, leaving the money awayfrom him, he can lay claim to the fortune his mother left him, forthere isn't a shadow of doubt that he has been robbed of it. There'sno one else with time on their hands that will act fair by him. Youmust 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 donelegally."
"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 gentlemanthat will do for us. In High Street, about a dozen doors down on theleft 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 kindenough to come and see me on very particular business. While you'regone I'll say just three words to Reginald; I'll answer for it he'llnot object."
"You _are_ a practical woman, aunt," said Dick, putting on his hat.
"Have you lived with us all these years without finding it out? Cutaway, Dick."
Away he went, and soon returned with Mr. Lamb, a very large gentlemanwith a very small practice; and being a gentleman with a very smallpractice 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 gentlemanwho could instantly produce any legal document she required.
Aunt Rob then explained matters, and asked what Reginald's positionwas.
"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 actfor 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 wordsas possible."
"At once, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Lamb, with a professional objection toa 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 myson-in-law upstairs, unable to leave his bed. If you cannot do whatyou want I must consult----"
"Madam," said Mr. Lamb, hastily, "there is no occasion for you toconsult another solicitor. I will draw out such an authority as yourequire, and it can be stamped on Monday. Favour me with the name ofthe 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 trifledwith, 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 consentedgladly. It is to be a matter of business, mind that. We can't have youwasting your time for nothing."
In due time the solicitor announced that the document was ready, andread it out to them, not quite to Aunt Rob's satisfaction, who shookher head at the number of words, and was only reconciled when Dicksaid it was all right.
"It is in proper form and order," said Mr. Lamb, "though shorter thanit 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'spermission we will attend to it on Monday. To this present power ofattorney 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. Yoursignature will be valid, and there is probably a servant in thehouse."
"Of course there is," said Aunt Rob, resentfully. "The law seems to meto be nothing but going round corners and taking wrong turningspurposely. 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 theindividual, madam. The law is a thing to be thankful for."
"_Is_ it?" she snapped.
"Without law, madam," he said, in feeble protest, "society could notexist. 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 andseal," she trembled visibly. Then instructions were given for thetaking out of letters of administration, and Mr. Lamb took hisdeparture.
"Your worthy aunt," he said, as Dick opened the street door for him,"is a very extraordinary woman. The manner in which she has rushedthis business through is quite unique, and I am not sure, in thestrict sense of the term, that it is exactly professional. I can onlytrust it will not be accepted as a precedent."
Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery Page 31