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 the
disappearance of Abel Death was associated with it. The wildest
speculations were indulged in. He had gone to Australia, he had gone
to America, he had never left England at all, he had taken with him an
enormous sum of money which he had found in the house in Catchpole
Square, he had so disguised himself that his own wife and children
would not have known him, he had been seen in various parts of London.
He was generally condemned, and had no defenders. Had his fate, if
caught 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 no
other subject.
"Applebee says that when Inspector Robson saw the body he turned as
white as a ghost."
"Why should he?" asked Mrs. Pond. "It's not the first body he's seen
by many."
"Why, don't you know, my dear," said Mrs. Applebee, "that his
daughter's married to Mr. Boyd's son?"
"No, I never heard of it."
Mrs. Applebee bristled with importance. "They were married only a few
weeks ago, and they do say it was a runaway match. Off they went one
morning, arm in arm, to the registrar's office, and she comes home
half an hour afterwards, and says, 'Mother, I'm married to Mr.
Reginald Boyd.' 'Married, Florence!' cries Mrs. Robson, and bursts
into 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 lucky
one. Applebee says if Mr. Boyd hasn't made a will her husband'll come
in for everything. Mr. Boyd must have been worth piles of money. Let's
hope it'll do somebody good; it never did while he was alive. It's
curious that your lodger, Mr. Remington, is mixed up in it, too. He's
Inspector Robson's nephew, you know; him and Miss Florence was brought
up together. He's been hanging about Catchpole Square a good deal the
last week or two; in the dead of night, too. Applebee says he'd like
to get hold of that woman that slipped through his hands on the night
of the fog. He's got an idea that she must have something to do with
the 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 be
mixed up with it somehow. Just listen to those boys shouting out
another edition. What are they calling out? Fresh discoveries! I must
get a paper; that'll be the third I've bought to-day. Perhaps they've
caught Abel Death. The man on 'The Illustrated Afternoon' took
Applebee's portrait, and I'm dying to see it. I wouldn't miss it for
anything."
There was, of course, but one subject in Aunt Rob's mind when Dick
presented himself. She told him that Reginald was in a terrible state.
"I couldn't stop the boys coming into the street," she said, "and
Reginald heard them. Florence ran down to me all in a flutter, and
asked if I didn't hear them calling out something about a murder in
Catchpole Square, and what was it? Then she caught sight of the paper
that I was trying to hide, and when she looked at it she was
frightened out of her life. We did all we could to keep it from
Reginald, but he couldn't help seeing from our faces that there was
something serious the matter. At last there was nothing for it but to
tell him, and we did it as gently as we could. But the shock was
dreadful; he sobbed like a little child. Then he cried that he must go
to the house, and we had almost to use force to prevent him leaving
his bed. Florence threw her arms round him, and begged and implored so
that he had to give in. We tried to comfort him by saying that it
mightn't be true, that it might be another man who was murdered, and
that you and Uncle Rob had gone to see about it. I'm afraid to ask you
if it's true, Dick."
"It is too true," he replied, and rapidly related all that had passed
since he and Uncle Rob had left her. She listened horror-struck, and
when he finished could hardly find voice to ask who he thought was the
murderer.
"I don't know what to think," he said.
"There can be only one man," she said, but he stopped her from
proceeding.
"Don't let's talk about it just now, aunt. There are a dozen men who
would rather see Samuel Boyd dead than alive. He had plenty of
enemies, and he deserved to have. If Reginald knew I was here he would
want to see me."
"He made me promise the moment either of you came back to bring you up
to 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. "Have
you 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 the
wall. They did not disturb him--did not dare to speak. "Is it certain
that he was murdered," he said presently in a broken voice, "that he
did not die a natural death?"
"I fear there is no doubt."
"Strangled, the paper says--strangled!" Dick was silent. "Strangled in
his sleep! Without having time to think, to pray! Oh, Florence, what
shame, what misery I have brought upon you!"
"It is an awful misfortune, Reginald, dear," said Florence, her arms
round his neck, her face nestled close to his, "and it makes us all
very 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 his
complicity in the terrible deed. Innocent or guilty, the shock of the
news could have produced no other effect than was shown in the white
face, the shaking body, the sobbing voice. There was another interval
of silence, which, again, Reginald was the first to break. "Tell me
everything."
"You know the worst," said Dick, "let us wait till you are stronger."
"No," cried Reginald, "I cannot wait. You must tell me
everything--now, here! Wait? With those cries ringing in my ears?
Don't you hear them? Hark!" They listened, and heard nothing. It was
the spiritual echo of the ominous sounds that was in Reginald's ears.
"Is anyone suspected? Is there any clue? Are not the people speaking
about it in the streets?"
"There are all sorts of rumours," said Dick, reluctantly. "When Uncle
Rob and I went into the house we found everything as the papers
describe. Nothing seems to have been taken away, but of course we
can't be positive on that point yet. There were no signs of a
struggle."
"The paper speaks of bloody footprints," said Reginald, a white fear
in 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 to
account for that? How did you get into the house?"
"Through the front door."
"But--the key!" exclaimed Reginald, and Dick fancied he detected signs
of confusion. "Where did you get the key from?"
"A policeman scaled the wall at the back of the house, and entered
through the broken window. He found the key in your father's room, and
he 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 checked
himself. "Go on."
"When Uncle Rob and I left the house Mrs. Death and her little girl
were in the square; she had tried to force herself into the house, but
the policeman kept her back. You know from the papers that her husband
has not been seen since Friday week."
"Until I read it in this paper an hour ago," said Reginald, pointing
to the copy of "The Little Busy Bee" that lay on the bed, "I was in
ignorance of it. I cannot understand his disappearance; it is a
mystery. The last I saw of him was on the afternoon of that very
Friday, 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 upon
his eyes, and a long silence ensued. They looked at him anxiously, and
Florence, her finger at her lips, warned them not to speak. Removing
his hand, he proceeded: "I ought to tell you now why I went to see my
father. 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 you
not 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 and
faithfulness, and in my eyes, also, Dick. It is my hope that we shall
always be firm friends."
With but one thought in his mind, the peace and happiness of the woman
he loved, Dick answered, "And mine."
"Thank you," said Reginald, gravely. "What I wish to tell you
commences with my child-life. My mother, when she married my father,
brought him a small fortune, and she had money, also, in her own
right. Young as I was, I knew that she was not happy, and that there
were differences between her and my father, arising partly from his
endeavours to obtain the sole control of every shilling she possessed.
There were probably other causes, but they did not come to my
knowledge. My mother's refusal to comply with his demands was prompted
by her solicitude for my future. She was the best of women, and never
uttered one word of reproach against my father; she suffered in
silence, as only women can, and she found some solace in the love she
bore 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. He
had but one aim, the amassing of money, and there was no sympathy
between us. I hope there are not many homes in which such estrangement
exists. She died when I was ten, and I lost the one dear friend I had
in the world. In our last embrace on her deathbed she said to me, in a
whisper, 'Promise me that when you are a man--a happy man, I fervently
pray--you will not become a money-lender.' I gave her the promise, and
an 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 there
should be no bitterness, and though my heart is sore I will strive to
avoid it. My mother left me her little fortune, and appointed a
trustee over whom, by ill chance, my father subsequently obtained
great influence, and in the end had him completely in his power. This
trustee died when I was twenty-two, and before then my inheritance was
in my father's hands to deal with as he pleased. My mother's will was
very precise. A certain sum every year was to be expended upon my
education until I came of age, when the residue was to be handed to me
to make a practical start in life. She named the schools and colleges
in which I was to be educated, and when I was nineteen I was to spend
the next two years in France and Germany and Italy, to perfect myself
in the languages of those countries. It was at my option whether I
remained 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 by
these provisions that I was cut off entirely from the domestic and
business life of my father, and I understood and appreciated her
reasons when I became intimately acquainted with it--as I did when, my
education completed, I returned to his home in Catchpole Square. I
lived with him between two and three years, and during that time his
one endeavour was to induce me to share the business with him, to obey
his orders, to carry out his directions, to initiate myself into a
system which I detested, into practices which I abhorred. We had
numberless discussions and quarrels; he argued, he stormed, he
threatened, and I steadily resisted him. At length matters came to a
head, and I finally convinced him that I would not go his way, but
would carve out a path for myself. 'Upon what kind of foundation will
you carve out this path?' he asked. 'You will want money to keep
yourself in idleness till you establish a position, and are able to
pay 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 you
have hidden from me?' 'I have my inheritance,' I said. He laughed in
my face. 'Your inheritance!' he exclaimed. 'You haven't a shilling.
Every penny of it, and more, has been spent upon your education and
riotous living since your beautiful lady mother died.' The sneering
reference to my dear mother angered me more than his statement that I
was a beggar, and hot words passed between us, in the midst of which I
left the room. The next day I returned to the subject, and said I had
understood from my trustee that when I was twenty-one years of age I
should come into a fortune of eight thousand pounds. 'He lied,' my
father 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 I
will deal fair by you, ungrateful as you have proved yourself to be. I
could refuse to produce the papers for your private inspection, but I
am honest and generous, and though all is at an end between us unless
you consent to assist me in my business, I will satisfy you that your
father 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 replied
that I would choose the humblest occupation rather than remain with
him, and he took from his safe a mass of documents and said I must
examine them in his presence. I did examine them, but could make
nothing of them, the figures were so confusing. There were records of
transactions into which my trustee had entered on my behalf, losses
upon speculations, of charges for my education, of sums of money which
had been sent to me from time to time for my personal expenses, of
interest upon those advances, of interest upon other sums, of the cost
of my board and lodging during the time I had lived at home with my
father, of the small sums he had given me during the last two or three
years, and of interest upon those sums. At the end of these documents
there 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, but
cunning as the figures were, there was no doubt in my mind that I had
been defrauded, and by the last man in the world who should have
inflicted this wrong upon me. What could I do but protest? I did
protest. My father, putting the papers back in his safe, retorted that
I was reflecting upon his honesty, that I was his enemy and had better
go to law, and that he renounced me as his son. We had a bitter
quarrel, which ended in my leaving his house, a beggar, to begin the
world; and so strong were the feelings I entertained towards him, and
so sensitive was I to the opprobrium which, in the minds of many
people, was attached to the name of Boyd, that I determined to
renounce it, as he had renounced me. Thus it was that you knew me only
as Mr. Reginald; it caused me many a bitter pang to deceive you, and I
was oppressed with doubts as to the wisdom of my resolve. All that is
now at an end, however, and I ask your pardon for the deceit. Perhaps
you have heard from Florence of the struggle I made to provide a home
for her, and of my disappointment and despair at not seeing the way to
its accomplishment. I thought much of the fraud of which I had been
the victim, and the more I thought the more was I convinced that my
father was retaining money which rightly belonged to me. At length it
seemed 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 own
sake, no. Had I not my dear Florence I think I should have left
England, and have striven in another country to carve my way; but
having seen her I could not, could not leave her. It was in pursuance
of 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 this
confession, and it was with a feeling of dismay that he heard the last
words, "Now you know all." Did they know all? Not a word about the
key, not a word about the second visit to his father late on that
fatal Friday night!
"Are people speaking about Abel Death?" asked Reginald, turning to
Dick.
"Yes. They are coupling his disappearance with the murder. A strong
suspicion is entertained. His poor wife is nearly mad with grief."
"Do you tell me he is suspected of the crime?" cried Reginald, in an
excited 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 the
truth is known, how can any man be certain? I speak from my knowledge
of his character. A drudge, working from hand to mouth. Alas! what
misery and injustice this dreadful deed brings in its train!"
"Reginald, dear," said Florence, gently, "you are exhausted. Do not
talk any more. Rest a little. Dick will remain here, and will come up
when you want him."
"Yes, I am tired. You are a true friend, Dick. You will assist us, I
know. Do all you can to avert suspicion from Abel Death. I must rest
and 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 closed
his eyes. There was nothing more to be said at present, and Dick and
Aunt 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 upon
Reginald he needs a man of business to act for him." Dick looked at
her for an explanation. "A man of business," she repeated, "and a
devoted friend, rolled into one. I am a practical woman as you know,
Dick, and we mustn't lose sight of Reginald's interests--because his
interests are Florence's now, and ours. He stands to-day in a very
different position from what he did when he married Florence without
our knowledge. Mr. Boyd's death is very shocking, and it will be a
long time before we get over it; but after all it's not like losing
one 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 more
poor people he'd have made miserable. It sounds hard, but it's the
honest truth. I'm looking the thing straight in the face, and I feel
that 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 in
Catchpole Square, with any amount of valuable property in it, and no
one 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 or
four days. Now, who's to attend to his interests? You. Who's to search
for the will, supposing one was made--which with all my heart and soul
I hope wasn't? You. Even if there is a will, leaving the money away
from him, he can lay claim to the fortune his mother left him, for
there isn't a shadow of doubt that he has been robbed of it. There's
no one else with time on their hands that will act fair by him. You
must 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 done
legally."
"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 gentleman
that will do for us. In High Street, about a dozen doors down on the
left 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 kind
enough to come and see me on very particular business. While you're
gone I'll say just three words to Reginald; I'll answer for it he'll
not 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? Cut
away, Dick."
Away he went, and soon returned with Mr. Lamb, a very large gentleman
with a very small practice; and being a gentleman with a very small
practice 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 gentleman
who could instantly produce any legal document she required.
Aunt Rob then explained matters, and asked what Reginald's position
was.
"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 act
for 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 words
as possible."
"At once, madam!" exclaimed Mr. Lamb, with a professional objection to
a 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 my
son-in-law upstairs, unable to leave his bed. If you cannot do what
you want I must consult----"
"Madam," said Mr. Lamb, hastily, "there is no occasion for you to
consult another solicitor. I will draw out such an authority as you
require, and it can be stamped on Monday. Favour me with the name of
the 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 trifled
with, 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 consented
gladly. It is to be a matter of business, mind that. We can't have you
wasting your time for nothing."
In due time the solicitor announced that the document was ready, and
read it out to them, not quite to Aunt Rob's satisfaction, who shook
her head at the number of words, and was only reconciled when Dick
said it was all right.
"It is in proper form and order," said Mr. Lamb, "though shorter than
it 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's
permission we will attend to it on Monday. To this present power of
attorney 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. Your
signature will be valid, and there is probably a servant in the
house."
"Of course there is," said Aunt Rob, resentfully. "The law seems to me
to be nothing but going round corners and taking wrong turnings
purposely. 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 the
individual, madam. The law is a thing to be thankful for."
"_Is_ it?" she snapped.
"Without law, madam," he said, in feeble protest, "society could not
exist. 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 and
seal," she trembled visibly. Then instructions were given for the
taking out of letters of administration, and Mr. Lamb took his
departure.
"Your worthy aunt," he said, as Dick opened the street door for him,
"is a very extraordinary woman. The manner in which she has rushed
this business through is quite unique, and I am not sure, in the
strict sense of the term, that it is exactly professional. I can only
trust it will not be accepted as a precedent."