GREAT PORTER SQUARE:
A MYSTERY.
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
_Author of "Grif," "London's Heart," "The House of White
Shadows," etc._
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOLUME III.
LONDON:
WARD AND DOWNEY,
12, YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN.
1885.
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
PRINTED BY
KELLY AND CO., GATE STREET, LINCOLN'S INN FIELDS
AND KINGSTON-ON-THAMES.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
XXXI.--Becky gives a description of an interview between
herself and Richard Manx 1
XXXII.--In which Becky narrates how Fanny became acquainted
with Mrs. Lydia Holdfast 15
XXXIII.--In which Becky narrates how Fanny became
acquainted with Mrs. Lydia Holdfast (concluded) 24
XXXIV.--Mr. Pelham makes his appearance once more 31
XXXV.--Fanny discovers who Richard Manx is 45
XXXVI.--Becky and Fanny on the watch 55
XXXVII.--No. 119 Great Porter Square is let to a new Tenant 71
XXXVIII.--The new Tenant takes possession of No. 119 Great
Porter Square 87
XXXIX.--Mrs. Holdfast insists on becoming an active partner 113
XL.--Mrs. Holdfast insists on becoming an active partner
(concluded) 118
XLI.--Frederick Holdfast makes the discovery 134
XLII.--Mr. Holdfast's Diary 147
XLIII.--Mr. Holdfast's Diary (concluded) 177
XLIV.--Caged 207
XLV.--Retribution 218
XLVI.--In which the "Evening Moon" gives a Sequel to its
"Romance in Real Life" 224
GREAT PORTER SQUARE: A MYSTERY.
CHAPTER XXXI.
BECKY GIVES A DESCRIPTION OF AN INTERVIEW BETWEEN HERSELF AND RICHARD
MANX.
MY DEAREST LOVE--How, did you like my little messenger, Fanny? Is she
not steady, and bright, and clever? When she woke this morning I had an
earnest conversation with her, and as far as was necessary I told her my
plans and that I wanted her faithful assistance. She cried for joy. The
few words she managed to get out convinced me that, child as she is,
I could not be better served by a grown-up person. Besides, I want a
child to assist me; a grown-up person might spoil my plans. In what way?
Patience, my dear, patience.
Mrs. Preedy noticed that I looked tired, and I told her that I had been
kept awake all the night with toothache. She expressed great sympathy
with me. It is wonderful the position I hold in the house; I am treated
more like a lady than a servant. That is because I have lent my mistress
forty pounds, and have agreed to pay for little Fanny's board and
lodging. Mrs. Preedy threw out a hint about taking me into partnership,
if I would invest my fancied legacy into the business.
"We could keep on this house," she said, "and take another on the other
side of the Square."
I said it was worth thinking about, but that, of course, I could do
nothing until I received the whole amount of the legacy which would be
in three weeks' time. So the matter rests; during these three weeks Mrs.
Preedy will be very gracious to me, I expect. She said this morning,
when I told her about my toothache,
"You had better lay down, my dear."
Actually! "My dear!"
I did lie down, and I had a good rest, so that my keeping up all night
did not hurt me. I feel now quite refreshed, although it is night, and
eleven o'clock. Mrs. Preedy, as usual, is out gossiping with Mrs. Beale,
and I am writing in the kitchen. When she comes home I shall continue my
letter in my bedroom. I have much to tell you. Things seem to move on
rapidly. I have no doubt that in a very short time something important
will come to light.
After sending Fanny to you this morning, I went up to our bedridden
lady-lodger, Mrs. Bailey. From her I obtained some significant news.
She had passed a bad night; the noise in the next house, as of some one
moving about in the room in which your father met his death, had "come
again," she said, and had continued for at least a couple of hours. She
declared that it did not sound like mice, and that she did not know
really what to think. What she _did_ know was that she was almost
frightened out of her life. I suggested that Fanny should sleep in her
room for a night or two, and I told her about the little girl. "It
will be company for you," I said. The old lady was delighted at the
suggestion, and with the consent of Mrs. Preedy, I made up a bed for
Fanny on the floor, close to the wall, and she is sleeping there now.
I am satisfied she is asleep, because Richard Manx is not in the house.
I have confided in Fanny, and she is so devoted to my service that I
am certain, while she is in her bed, no sound can be made in the room
adjoining without her hearing it. Her faculties have been sharpened by
a life of want, and her nature is a very grateful one.
It was not without reflection that I have taken advantage of the
opportunity to change Fanny's bedroom. It will afford me a better excuse
for going upstairs more frequently than usual, and thus keeping a watch
on the movements of our young man lodger. It will also give Fanny an
opportunity of watching him, for I intend employing her in this way,
and in watching another person, too. Richard Manx has not seen my
little detective yet, nor shall he see her, if it can be prevented. My
instructions to Fanny are to keep herself carefully out of his sight; it
is part of a plan, as yet half formed, that she should be very familiar
with his face, and he not at all familiar with hers. Twice during the
day has she seen him, without being seen, and this evening she gave me
a description of his personal appearance so faithful as to be really
startling. Slight peculiarities in him which had escaped my notice
have not escaped Fanny's; she has found out even that he wears a wig,
and that he paints his face. This poor little child is going to be
invaluable to me. If all goes well with us we must take care of her.
Indeed, I have promised as much.
Now let me tell you what else I have done, and what has occurred. In
the note you sent back by Fanny this morning, you express anxiety
concerning me with reference to Richard Manx. Well, my dear, I intend
to take great care of myself, and in the afternoon I went out shopping
accompanied by Fanny. I paid a visit, being a woman, to a milliner and
dressmaker, and bought some clothes. For myself? No, for Fanny, and with
them a waterproof to cover her dress completely, from top to toe. Then I
made my way to a wig shop in Bow Street, and bought a wig. For myself?
No--again for Fanny. And, after that, where do you think I went? To a
gunsmith, of all places in the world. There I bought a revolver--the
tiniest, dearest little pistol, which I can hold in the palm of my hand
without anyone but myself being the wiser. I learnt how to put in the
cartridges. It is very easy. With that in my pocket, I feel almost as
safe as if you were by my side. Do not be troubled about this, and do
not think I am in any danger. I am perfectly safe, and no harm will
befall me. Of course, there is only one person to whom it might happen
I would show my pretty little pistol--to Richard Manx. And I am
convinced that the merest glimpse of it would be enough for him. You can
tell by looking into a man's face and eyes whether he is brave as well
as bold, and I am satisfied that Richard Manx is a coward.
I saw him this evening. I have not yet had an opportunity to tell you
that he endeavoured to make himself very agreeable to me three days
ago, when he met me, as I was returning to Great Porter Square from the
post-office. He promised to make me a present of some acid drops, of
which he seems to be very fond. He did not keep his word until this
evening, when he presented me with a sweet little packet, which I
put into the fire when I was alone. He spoke of his property and his
expectations.
"I wish," said he, as he offered me the sweets, "that this paper was
filled with diamonds; it would be--a--more agreeable. But I am poor,
miserably poor--as yet. It will be one day that I shall be rich--then
shall I present myself to you, and offer to you what I better wish."
"Why should you do so?" I asked. "You are a gentleman, although you have
no money----"
"Ah, yes," he said, interrupting me, and placing his hand on his heart,
"I am a gentleman. I thank you."
"And," I continued, "I am so much beneath you."
"Never," he said, energetically; "I have said to you before, you are a
lady. Think you I do not know a lady when she presents herself? It is
not station--it is not birth--it is not rank. It is manner. On my honour
I say it--you are a lady."
I gave him a sharp look, doubtful for a moment whether he was in
earnest; but the false ring in his false voice should of itself have
convinced me that he was as insincere as it was possible for any human
being to be.
"It is," he said, with a wave of his hand towards the Square, "still
excitement. People still come to look and see. What do they expect?"
"I suppose," I said, "it is because of that wonderful account in the
newspaper about the poor gentleman who was murdered. Did you read it?"
"Did I read it!" he echoed. "I was the first. It is what you
say--wonderful. What think you of the lady with the pretty name--I
forget it--remind me of it."
"Lydia," I said.
"Ah, yes, Lydia. It is a pretty name--remarkable." ("Then," thought I,
following his words and manner with close attention, "if you think the
name so pretty and remarkable, how comes it that you forget it so soon?"
But I did not say this aloud.) "What think you of her?"
"I think she is to be pitied," I said; "it was a dreadful story she told
the reporter. It is like a romance."
"A romance," he said, "is something that is not true?"
"It _must_ be true," I said. "Do you suppose any person--especially a
lady, as Mrs. Holdfast is--could possibly say what is not true, in such
a position as hers?"
"It is not--a--possible," he replied. "You are right. What say the
people? As you say?"
"They can say nothing else. What object could she have to serve in
speaking anything but the truth? Her husband is dead; that wicked young
man--what was his name?" I asked, serving him in his own coin.
"Frederick," he said, quickly.
"That wicked young man, Frederick, is dead, and she is left alone, a
rich widow. Money is very nice. I should like to have as much. I think
it would almost console me for the loss of a husband--especially a
husband much older than myself."
Forgive me, my dear, for speaking in this way, but to say honestly to a
man like Richard Manx what is in one's mind would not be wise.
He smiled at my words.
"It may be," he said, "that Madame Lydia thinks as you. But you would
not have been so--what do you call it? indiscreet?--yes, that word
will do--you would not have been so indiscreet as to say to a gentleman
of the press as much as she said. It was too candid--there was
no--a--necessity. Why proclaim it?"
"Why not proclaim it?" I asked, "It may assist justice."
"Assist what?"
"Justice," I replied. "What is that unfortunate lady's first and most
earnest desire? To discover the murderer of her husband, and to make him
pay the penalty of his crime. It would be mine. I would even go to see
the monster hanged."
"It is the proper word. Monster--yes, he is, he must be. But you
could never--no never! You are too soft--that is, tender. Who is the
monster? If you it were who was wronged, I am he who would find him.
But this Madame Lydia, she is to me nothing. What say you? Can you
suspect? In this Great Porter Square can anyone suspect? Our amiable
lady of No. 118--Mrs. Preedy--even she cannot say. Ah, but it is
dark--mysterious. Yet I have a thought--it is here." He tapped his
forehead. "Shall I speak it?"
"Yes."
"Bah! Why? It is not to me an interest. But if you wish so much to hear!
Ah! well--my thought is this. The son, the wicked young man, Frederick,
he is, they say, dead. But if he be not dead? What then? The monster,
he--in secret to kill the father he betrayed!"
I turned my face from him, for I felt that it had grown suddenly white.
My heart beat violently. Swiftly to my mind rushed the thought of your
deadly peril. There came to me, in one clear, convincing flash, what,
under other circumstances, would have taken me hours to work out. Think
for yourself--consider calmly the circumstantial force of all that has
passed--and you will see, as I see, how easy it would be to construct a
chain of evidence against you from which it is scarcely possible you
could escape.
"You are agitated," said Richard Manx. "You turn from me. Why?"
In an instant I recovered my self-possession. I turned my face to him,
and it seemed to me as if I had forced colour into it.
"The thought is so horrible," I said. "That a son should kill his father
in cold blood! I cannot bear to contemplate it. What wickedness there is
in the world!"
"It is so," said Richard Manx, with a smile, as though we were
conversing on a pleasant subject. "Then what shall a man do? Live
well--eat well--drink well--sleep well. There is a reason. The world is
wicked. I cannot alter it. You cannot alter it. A lesson comes. Enjoy.
Must you go? Must you leave me? I kiss your hand. No? In my fancy, then.
Till again, fair Becky, adieu."
Our conversation was at an end, and I was thankful. I have been
particular in my endeavour to show you the man, from his words and
manner of speech. Good-night, my dearest. In my own mind I am satisfied
that this day has not been wasted. It leads to days more important to
you and to your ever devoted.
[Decoration]