THE BURSTING OF THE CLOUD.
Inspector Robson, being on night duty, was not present at the Bishop
Street Police Station when the reporter of "The Little Busy Bee" gave
information of the murder. Aunt Rob had had a busy day; while
admitting that her son-in-law was very weak, she insisted that he
would have a greater chance of getting well in a short time if he were
removed from his lodgings to their home. "It's his proper place," she
said, "and I won't rest till I get him there." She argued with the
doctor, one of the old school, who shook his head; she continued to
argue with him, and he continued to shake his head. This exasperated
her.
"I suppose, doctor," she said, with freezing politeness, "you won't
allow that women ought to have opinions."
"Not medical opinions," he replied.
"He may shake his head till he shakes it off," she said privately to
Uncle Rob, "but he won't convince _me_." He smiled an admission of
this declaration. "And look at Florence," she continued; "the poor
girl is being worn to skin and bone. We shall have her down
presently."
"But is it safe to move him, mother?" asked Florence, who, next to
Reginald's recovery to health, desired nothing so much as a return to
the 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 been
married. I nursed you through the whooping cough and scarlatina
without a doctor, and are you any the worse for it? I know as much as
a good many of them by this time. There are some doctors who won't
allow you to suggest a single thing. The moment you do they're up in
arms. 'What business have _you_ to know?' they think. This is one of
that kind. Reginald is my son now, and I'm doing by him as I'd do by
you."
The upshot was, all preparations being made, that Reginald was moved
on Saturday morning, and bore the removal well. When Florence saw him
sleeping 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 can
never be again quite like old times in the home in which she was born
and reared. Something is missing, something gone. It is not that the
old 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 looks
back upon her own young days, and realises now what she did not think
of then, that the child she nestled at her bosom is going through the
changes 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 the
sitting room in which they had passed so many happy hours. He was not
in a bright mood; dreading every minute that the murder would be
discovered and made public, he felt that it would be almost a relief
when the cloud burst, as burst it must before long. Knowing what he
knew, 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 any
difference in your room. There it is, ready for you, as it has been
all through, and I shall begin to think there's some secret reason for
your keeping away from us if you don't occupy it at once. I'll take no
denial, 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 to
run away after having been in her house only a few days. So, like the
kind dear soul that you are, let it remain as it is for a little
while. What's that?"
It was a newsboy shouting at the top of his voice, and selling copies
of "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!' Where
Reginald's father lives!"
The two men ran out of the house like mad, and were just in time to
tear the last copy from the boy's hands. A glance at the headlines was
sufficient.
"You were right, Dick, you were right," said Uncle Rob. "Samuel Boyd's
murdered!"
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 Dick
looking 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, and
shut the door. Speak low. Is Florence upstairs?"
"Yes. Wait a minute." She stepped softly to the room above, and
quickly returned. "Reginald is dozing, and Florence has fallen asleep
in her chair. The poor child is tired out. Murder! Where? In Catchpole
Square?"
"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 about
it. 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 go
along." As they hastened to Bishop Street Station he said, "This is a
bad 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 of
Abel 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 a
hurried 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 and
get 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 sent
to Catchpole Square to ascertain whether the news was true.
"I've given them instructions," said the day inspector, "if they can't
get into the house by the front door, to scale the wall at the back. I
can't say I like the way this case has been got up. Those newspaper
men 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 of
their own. The fact is, the police haven't got power enough; we
daren't move without proof positive. It's all very well to talk of the
liberty of the subject, but it's my opinion the subject's got more
liberty than it has a right to have. I'll give you an instance. I know
a man who is as mad as mad can be--a dangerous chap, with a
bloodthirsty eye, carries knives, and looks at you as if he'd like to
murder 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, but
not till then; so we've got to wait till mischiefs done. Then they'll
prove him mad, and he'll be made comfortable for life. There's this
affair; the public will be down on us for not being the first to make
the discovery. _We_ can't move, but a newspaper man can. It's like
taking 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 constables
to Catchpole Square. Deadman's Court is a narrow thoroughfare, and
there'll be a rush of people to stare at the house. There should be a
guard 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 great
many sight-seers had already gathered, of whom only a few at a time
were allowed to enter to stare up at the windows of Samuel Boyd's
house, a constable being stationed at the entrance of Deadman's Court
to guard the passage. Inspector Robson asked this officer where the
other constable was.
"Gone to the station, sir, for further instructions," replied the
constable, 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 mounted
and 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 and
see the body. By the way, Filey, was the street door chained and
bolted 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 the
question.
"Neither locked _nor_ bolted, sir," he replied.
Inspector Robson drew Dick aside, and said, "That's a suspicious
circumstance, Dick. The murderer got in by the back entrance, and got
out 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 the
bedroom and fastens the key on the cord, goes down again and lets
himself out. It seems to prove that the murder was committed by a
novice."
Dick made no remark. He recollected that Mrs. Death had not said
anything in the police station of Reginald's visit to his father in
the afternoon, and of his having a second key to the street door. That
information had been given exclusively to Dick by Mrs. Death in
Draper's Mews; it would come out presently, of course, but he would
not utter a word to throw the shadow of a suspicion on Reginald. "A
nice treacherous part I'm playing," he thought, "but I must go on with
it. God knows how things will turn out."
There were some twenty or thirty persons in the Square; a few were
airing theories concerning the murder, and recalling other crimes as
mysterious and thrilling; one man was boasting that he had seen every
house in London in which a murder had been committed during the last
forty years; the majority were silent, and appeared to derive a creepy
enjoyment by simply staring at the walls and windows. A journalist was
jotting down everything he heard that could be incorporated into an
article. Two newspaper artists were sketching, and one of these came
forward and asked Inspector Robson if he would kindly point out the
window of the room in which the body was lying. He replied that he did
not know. The other artist, observing that the Inspector had a key in
his hand, inquired if it belonged to the house.
"Key of the street door," said the inspector, whereupon the artist
immediately took a sketch of it, and wrote beneath, "Key of the Street
Door by which the Murderer Made his Escape."
"We go in for realism," he said, as with a few skilful touches he
limned the faces of Inspector Robson, Constable Applebee, and Dick on
his sketching pad. "Nothing tickles the public so much as sketches
from real life in pen and pencil. We live in a melodramatic age, and
must go with the times. I belong to 'The Illustrated Afternoon.' Now I
call these speaking likenesses. I take it you belong to the force, and
are here upon official business. May I inquire your name, or shall I
call it the Portrait of a Gentleman who Carried the Street Door Key?"
With no good grace Inspector Robson gave his name, which was placed
beneath his portrait. Then Applebee was asked for _his_ name, and it
was given more willingly. The worthy constable had no objection to his
features appearing in "The Illustrated Afternoon"; the picture would
be 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, "Private
Person who, for Unexplained Reasons, Declined to Give his Name."
The insertion of the key in the lock caused much excitement, and all
the artillery of the press was brought to bear upon the inspector. The
industrious journalists advanced cogent reasons why they should be let
into the house; they begged, they clamoured, but they could not
convince 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 the
dark passage, and this glimpse was quite sufficient to enable them to
give a vivid description of the walls, the staircase, and the umbrella
stand with one umbrella in it, which the eagle eye of the smarter of
the artists transferred like lightning to his pad. It was an
interesting feature in his article, "The Murdered Man's Umbrella."
There was great disappointment among the group outside when the door
was closed upon them.
"You've been up these stairs often enough, Dick," said Inspector
Robson. "Take us to the room."
His eyes opened wide when they reached the office, and both he and
Constable 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. It
was done mechanically, and without motive, but it gave him a surprise.
"Seventy-five bottles," he thought. "I'll take my oath that when I
counted 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 upon
the dead face. In this awful presence they were dumb. Stepping very
softly they returned to the office. Then Inspector Robson spoke.
"It's Samuel Boyd. What do you say, Applebee--do you recognise the
features?"
"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 street
door, Applebee. Don't let any one in." The constable departed on his
errand. "It's a clear case, Dick. I wouldn't say so to any one but
you, and we must keep our own counsel. The name of the murderer of
Samuel Boyd is Abel Death. Now we know why he's keeping out of the
way. He's got a long start of us. Here's Applebee coming back. Not a
word. Who is it, Applebee?"
"Mrs. Death and her little girl, sir. She's half distracted, and tried
to force her way in."
"We've seen what we came to see," said Inspector Robson, "and no
person must be admitted into the house. You will keep in the Square
to-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 took
his hand. An infinite pity filled his heart as he looked down at her
pallid, mournful face.
"It's all right now, mother," she said, hoarsely. "Dick'll stand up
for us."
"Is it true, sir, is it true?" cried Mrs. Death, a wild terror in her
eyes. "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 he
murdered Mr. Boyd! They lie--they lie! Oh, my God! Is there any
justice in the world?"
"Don't make a disturbance, Mrs. Death," said Inspector Robson, very
kindly. "I am truly sorry for you, but you can do no good by coming
here."
"Where else should I come, sir?" she asked, her tears falling fast.
"Mr. Boyd is the only man who can tell me what has become of my
husband, and he's dead, you say. Who killed him? What a wicked
world--oh what a wicked, wicked world! Haven't I enough to bear
without 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 the
convulsive twining of her little fingers round his. "It's all right
now we've got Dick. You're our friend, ain't you, Dick?"
"May they be struck down dead for their lies!" sobbed Mrs. Death. "How
dare they, how dare they accuse my poor husband, who never raised his
hand 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 they
may 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 give
her neighbours a caution. The poor woman has something yet worse in
store for her. Then go home to Aunt Rob and Florence, and remain there
to-night. They need a man's support and sympathy, and my duties will
chain 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's
caused him to look up, and he saw Dr. Vinsen.
"I have heard what has passed," said the doctor, addressing himself to
Inspector Robson, "and shall be glad to offer my services in the
interests 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, I
believe." He shed a benevolent smile around. "This is a most shocking
murder. It would be worth your while, Mr. Remington, if you could
discover the perpetrator of the frightful crime, and so relieve this
unfortunate woman's distress. It shall be done, madam, it shall be
done. Rely upon me. Let not the criminal hope that his guilt can be
for ever hidden. There is an All-seeing Eye--Divine justice will
overtake him--will o-ver-take him. Is that the house in which the
victim lies?"
"Yes," said Dick.
"A singular place for a man to live in--and die in. Now, my dear
madam, if you wish me to admonish these slanderers I am ready to
accompany 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 well
as myself--better, perhaps, he being a literary character." There was
a faint twinkle in his sleepy eyes. "But you have no objection to my
walking a little way with your mother, I hope? Mr. Inspector, have you
any opinion----"
"Don't ask me for opinions," interrupted Inspector Robson.
"Pardon my indiscretion, but one's natural curiosity, you know. There
will be an inquest?"
"Of course there will be an inquest."
"Of course--_of_ course. Good day, Mr. Inspector, I am greatly obliged
to you. Now, my dear madam."
They walked out of Deadman's Court, Mrs. Death and Dr. Vinsen in
front, 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."