Lydia Trent

by Abigail Blanchart

  Alfred had come every day throughout her illness and her convalescence, and although she was very glad to see him, bringing with him a little taste of the outside world as he did, she was troubled.

  Eventually she found her moment to speak. Adeline and Catherine were at the piano – Catherine, though a lover of music, had never had opportunity to learn, and Adeline was attempting to teach her. The youth and inexperience of the teacher was in some part atoned for by the enthusiasm and aptitude of the pupil, for Catherine had a fine natural taste and a good ear.

  Under cover of the noise of their lesson, Lydia took her opportunity, and spoke to Alfred in a low tone.

  “Alfred, I wish you would tell me what you have been doing all this time.”

  “Doing? Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “We have been in London nearly two months now – have you decided what your profession will be? What steps have you taken toward establishing yourself?”

  “Why, Lydia! What is the rush? There is plenty of time for that.”

  “Is there? You are six-and-twenty now, and I fear beginning to fall into bad habits. I know you have been visiting here a great deal – what else have you been doing? How have you spent your evenings?”

  “Well, a man doesn't like to snub his friends, and after all I don't think I have been doing anything very harmful – a few evenings at the theatre, a few quiet dinners, a few hands of cards at the club – when one is invited, what can one say?”

  “If it is an invitation to drink and gamble, one can say 'no'. Tell me, you used to pride yourself on saving out of your income – do you still? I ask as a sister, you understand, not to be impertinent.”

  “It is strange you should ask – somehow the money just seems to run away like water in this town, I have actually had to dip into my savings just to present a creditable appearance.”

  “And a creditable appearance, I suppose, means a new pair of gloves every week, and hansoms everywhere, and a bottle a night, and playing cards for a guinea a point or more with the like of Montague Vane.” said Lydia, and Alfred was surprised by the sudden bitterness in her voice. “Yes, Uncle has told me what company you keep. Beware, Alfred, those men are no friends to you. They will lead you into bad ways, they will fleece you as much as they can, and then they will abandon you.”

  “Oho, so I am spied on by your uncle, am I?” fired up the young gentleman, “And what does he have to do with my choice of friends?”

  “Oh, Alfred,” sighed Lydia, “Don't make me ashamed of you. In your heart you know the course you are steering on is a bad one. You owe it to yourself, and to us, to stop it while you can.”

  There was a long pause, while Alfred considered this, and Lydia held her breath, half expecting an explosion of indignance at her interference. But he answered her in quite a different tone.

  “Yes, I do believe you are right – but what can I do?”

  “You have professed to want to write – speak to Uncle, he knows some magazine editors and other literary men, who may be able to help and advise you. Instead of spending your evenings at the club, read, go to see good plays and hear good concerts – do anything that will inspire you and bring out the stronger parts of your intellect. Or take chambers and study the law – that will fill your time usefully. In either case, I believe my Uncle will be able to help and advise you. Shall I ask him for you?”

  “No, no,” replied Alfred, stung a little, “I can at least do that much for myself.”

  “I am glad.” smiled Lydia, “I am sure you will make us proud of you.”

  Alfred went home that evening in a thoughtful frame of mind. Examining his conscience – and his bills – he found he had indeed been led into extravagance and, little by little, almost into imprudence, on the score of card-playing and little drinking-parties. Little damage had been done as yet, he was neither a habitual toper nor an inveterate gambler, but he was on the slippery slope, and he thanked heaven he had been given warning in time to scramble to safety.

  The very next day, while his resolve was still strong, he went out and paid all his bills and debts of honour, then called on Mr Trent at his office. That gentleman was happy to assist the young man in any way he could, and promised to introduce him to the literary men of his acquaintance – advising him in the meantime to polish his pen so as to have something to show the editors. Accordingly, Alfred went to work with a will, spoiling many sheets of paper and several pens, and being absent from the house in Bayswater for several days.

  When he did call, he was happy to be able to place before Lydia several sheets of manuscript, being a couple of lively little travel sketches, and a review or two of a book or concert.

  “Oh, Alfred,” beamed Lydia, “I am so glad! When you did not come, I thought perhaps I had mortally offended you, but now I am so proud of you.” and she actually kissed the scribbled sheets, saying “God speed these little paper boats – may they sail on to great things.”

  Adeline was also very pleased, and projected a grand literary career for her future husband. She was busy settling how he would take the world of letters by storm, when she was interrupted by the entrance of Catherine, looking somewhat flustered.

  “Why, Catherine,” broke in Lydia, “Whatever is the matter? You look as if you had seen a ghost.”

  “I almost believe I have.” returned Catherine, in strained accents. “I would swear on the bible that I just saw – my father.”

  Chapter the 24th

  Lydia suppressed her natural urge to call this nonsense, and questioned Catherine – where and when had she seen him? How did she know it was him?

  “I saw him in the street just now, not very far from here – I had been to buy some ribbon for Adeline, and as I came out of the haberdashers, a passing carriage obliged me to pause a moment at the side of the road. At that moment, an old man shuffled past me – there was something about his walk and his face which arrested my attention. I looked more closely, and the more I looked the more I became convinced, it was him. He was a little different – older, of course, very tanned, and his hair and beard were turned white, as if by some great shock, but in every other particular he answered my father's description. Yes, of course I knew him – I lived every day with him for the first 15 years of my life.

  “I followed him a few streets, and he went into a lodging house. I dared not follow further, and so I came home.”

  “But how could it have been our father?” asked Adeline, “When we know that Mrs Trent had him put out of the way?”

  “We do not know for certain – we only suspect.” said Lydia. “It is possible that Mrs Trent's brother lied, or that we have misread the evidence entirely. (not much chance of that – she thought privately)

  “Perhaps Catherine is mistaken, but such a matter calls for thorough investigation before we dismiss her story out of hand. And so your impression was that it really was him?”

  “Yes, for all that it has been ten years since I saw him last, I swear I should know him anywhere. I looked him over closely, and am quite satisfied it was my father.”

  “Well, there is one way to find out, and that is to go and see him.” said Lydia firmly. “Can you show us the way to the lodging-house?”

  Not very long afterwards, three young ladies were ringing on the doorbell of a large, square, ugly house, in a dull, ugly street. A large, square, ugly woman answered the door – like the house, she had also been scrubbed to within an inch of her life.

  “Excuse me, is Mr Wade at home?” inquired Lydia.

  “Mr who?” said the lodging-house keeper, who, having been called from a pleasant little ceremony involving prawns, soft white rolls, and a steaming tea-pot from which issued a fragrant invitation to the delights of the tea-table, was not in the best of tempers.

  “Mr Malcolm Wade. I believe he is residing here.”

  “Never heard of him.” snapped the lodging-house woman, conscious that as she stood here 'jawing' her tea was going cold.

  “Oh, Perhaps he
was visiting someone here, then.”

  “Not at all. Don't allow visitors. Good day.” and without further ado, the woman shut the door in their faces.

  “Well, that is an end of that.” said Adeline, sadly. But Catherine was not beside her. She had run a few steps, and now accosted a man coming out of a small tobacconist shop over the way.

  “Papa, papa, don't you know me?” she cried, “It's Catherine!”

  “Catherine? Why I have a daughter called that – but you can't be her, she's a much younger girl. Hardly more than a babe in arms. Excuse me miss.”

  So saying, the man walked off.

  “Oh, Lydia, Adeline, it is him, I am sure of it! Why doesn't he know me?” and Catherine burst into tears.

  The three hurried back to Uncle John's house, Lydia and Adeline trying and failing to comfort the despondent Catherine. She had not wept for long, but was very subdued.

  “Of course he would not wish to know me.” she said bitterly. “Did he not get rid of me ten years ago?”

  Lydia reminded her of the anxiety he had shown in his letters to Evelyn for news of her, and his expressed wish to make amends.

  “I know, dear, pay no attention. I am but sad and disappointed, and so I vent my disappointment in bitter speeches. Pay them no heed, and I shall be as unruffled as ever quite shortly.”

  “Kitty, dearest, let us lay the whole matter before Uncle John. I am sure he will know what to do.” said Adeline, for since Alfred had told of the help the old gentleman had been in his first literary endeavours, the girl looked upon him as a sort of oracle of all things wise and good.

  Catherine demurred at first, but was at last induced to consent, and so when their uncle came home, they told him the history of their afternoon.

  “Well, dears,” began Mr Trent, after some thought, “You obtained some very useful information from that detective friend of Mr Denham's. My advice would be – call him in again. Perhaps he can sift to the bottom of this mystery.”

  “Of course, what an excellent idea!” cried Adeline, and kissed her uncle. A note to Alfred was dispatched, and the young man was able to bring Mr Dodd to them on the following afternoon.

  That gentleman looked thoughtful as they explained the story, stroked his chin over the letters, which he had not hitherto seen, and eventually went off, puffing his pipe hard as he walked – always a sure sign of deep cogitation with him.

  His first call was to the nearest Post Office, where he borrowed a copy of the London Directory, and within a very short time was in a hansom, bowling along the narrow sidestreets of London.

  He alighted from the vehicle in a somewhat shabby district of the city, in front of a tall, narrow, dingy building. Affixed to the railings was a peeling sign, which proclaimed, in cracked and faded letters, that this venerable edifice was the grandly-named 'Lambscourt Hotel'.

  He entered this less-than imposing hostelry, and soon found himself in conversation with a dilapidated waiter- cum- porter- cum- general factotum, in a rusty black livery and tarnished gold buttons, who emanated a general atmosphere of dust, tobacco-smoke, unwashed linen and stale beer. Following the exchange of a modest amount of silver, which disappeared quickly and furtively into the aged waiter's sagging pocket, this unpreposessing informant turned out to be a mine of information about the previous year's tragic 'haccident'.

  “For the genn'lman who occupied the room was not to be found, he giv his name as Mr Collins, but I don't thinks as that was the name he went by. Didn't leave no luggage either, which was queer – blowed if he had any to leave. Anyway, big chap he was, nose had been broke at one time, told me if anyone came asking after a Mrs Parrish they was to refer to him. Before too long, the genn'lman who fell, he comes in and asks for the lady, as I'd bin told, so I sends him on up. Ten minutes later there's a stir outside, and there he lays with his head broke. Of course the constables were called, but by that time Mister Collins as he called himself was vanished like a ghost in the night. So it was coming pretty clear as how the feller came to drop out of the window. Anyway, the constables fetched the hand-ambulance, and whisks the one as dropped – never did know his name – off to the free ward at St Thomas's. And that's the last I heerd of it. Of course the police poked about a rare bit, but nothing ever came of it.”

  Mr Dodds thanked the elderly gent, and hopped in another hansom, which he directed to take him to Saint Thomas' hospital.

  There he made some discreet enquiries, and after talking to several people - nurses, and porters, all more or less busy, but perfectly amenable to chat for a moment when they saw the glimmer of silver in the detective's friendly paw – he was able to ascertain that the gentleman had not died, but was now somewhat simple, had given his name as Mr Tom Alcott, and after a long convalescence, had retired to lodgings near Bayswater, where he kept body and soul together by means of whittling little trinkets out of wood.

  The Bayswater connection decided the matter – Mr Dodds repaired to the lodging house where Lydia, Adeline and Catherine had met with such a rude repulse, and enquired after Mr Alcott.

  “You shan't find 'im 'ere at this time of day.” snapped the Amazon who guarded the gates. “I arsks my gents to leave between ten am and seven pm, which is quite usual in my line of business.”

  “Can you tell me, my good woman, where I might find him at this present moment?”

  The lodging-house virago pursed her lips, in a manner that suggested she was mortally affronted by being called anyone's good woman. However, she did speak.

  “Probably in the public, else sitting in the gardens chipping away with his pocket knife at some infernal bit of wood.” she grudgingly admitted, with a moue of disgust at both these habits in equal measure. Then, without any further ado, she shut the door. However, the gentleman he sought was not to be seen at either of the resorts the woman had named, so Mr Dodds decided to return after seven.

  He had dined comfortably upon a mutton chop at an inn in a slightly less shabby neighbourhood, and at seven fifteen sharp was ringing the doorbell of the lodging-house once again.

  This time, he found the woman in a towering rage.

  “Oh, you've come back, have you?” she snapped. “Well, I'll tell you where you can find your Mr Alcott – in bed. He comes a crawling back at five this afternoon, a-complaining of feeling ill, and begging to be let in. Rules are rules, says I, and until the clock strikes seven, not one foot shall cross that threshold. Allow it once, and you'll find yourself obliged to allow it again. And so I shut the door on him. Blest if at seven o clock one of my other gents weren't causing a ruckus at the door because Alcott was a-laying on the step! Well we couldn't get him to stand, so Mr Terwhillie just carried him up to his bed, says there ought to be a doctor. And who's to pay for that, I ask, not to mention the inconvenience. I don't have time for nursing and coddling, and he's a week behind on the rent as it is. I only let him off with it a few days as he's always punctual with it, and now look.” and the termagant folded her arms in mortal offence at the gentleman having had the effrontery to fall ill at her expense.

  “Perhaps I can be of assistance, Madam.” said Mr Dodd smoothly, and in a very few moments he had paid the grumbling woman her few shillings rent, caused a doctor to be summoned, and taken possession of Mr Alcott and this unfortunate gentleman's room. Here the detective found an important piece of evidence concerning the true identity of 'Mr Alcott', after he had taken the sick gentleman's glassy, threadbare shirt up from the floor, where it had been thrown by Mr Terwhillie (now invisible) in a hasty preparation for bed - involving the simple expedient of removing his boots and outer garments, and pitching him pell-mell under the covers - and found it to be marked, in Turkey-red thread now faded to a pale fawn colour, the stitches almost worn through - 'MW'.

  Chapter the 25th

  It was an epoch in the history of Mrs Gant's lodging house (for such was the name of the formidable lady who ran that inhospitable abode with such implacable efficiency), when not one, but three young ladies crossed
the threshold. O, black day indeed, when these bachelor halls were sullied by the footfalls of the fair! Mrs Gant was near apoplectic at the unwarranted intrusion, but her anger availed naught – come in they would.

  These three were Adeline, Lydia, and Catherine, who had been summoned thither by a hasty note from Mr Dodd. This gentleman now met them in the hallway.

  “Thankyou for coming, ladies,” he said. “I called you here because I am now more or less convinced of the truth of your assertion, Mrs Parrish, that this man is indeed Malcolm Wade, your father. Whether he is using a false name for some private reason, or whether his memory was as deranged as his intellect by the severe blow to the head he received, I am not entirely certain. At any rate, Malcolm Wade was lost sight of, and so he preserved himself from further attempts on his life.”

  “Oh, thankyou!” cried Adeline.

  “You say he is ill – how is he?” queried Catherine, more to the point.