DICK IS OF THE OPINION THAT THE MYSTERY SEEMS
IMPENETRABLE, BUT IS STILL DETERMINED TO PIERCE IT.
In great agitation Reginald and his party left the Court and turned in
the direction of home, followed at a short distance by a few persons,
whose appetite, whetted by what had transpired, thirsted for more.
Those whose fate seemed to hang upon the result of the inquiry
exchanged but few words on the way. Dick was plunged in thought, and
Florence clung more closely to Reginald. Inspector Robson and Aunt Rob
exchanged disturbed glances; she was wildly indignant, but his
official experience warned him that Reginald was in peril.
With respect to the evidence given by Dr. Pye the one chance for the
young man lay in his being able to prove that he had returned to his
lodgings before twelve o'clock on that fatal Friday night, and did not
leave them again. This proof would not only clear him of the suspicion
which naturally attached to him through Dr. Pye's evidence, but would
clear him in other respects. But was the proof obtainable? Reginald's
silence on the point rendered it doubtful. Could he have brought it
forward he would have been eager to speak of it.
When the little party reached the street in which Aunt Rob's house was
situated Inspector Robson, turning, saw Mr. Lambert, the detective who
had given evidence about the finding of the bullet. Telling his people
to go into the house, and saying he would join them presently, he
crossed over to the detective, and gave him good day, to which the
inspector responded. Then they stood a moment or two without saying
anything further.
"On duty?" asked Inspector Robson.
"Partly."
"Anything new stirring?"
"Nothing new."
"I won't beat about the bush," said Inspector Robson, "you have been
following us."
The detective rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
"Come, come, Lambert," continued Inspector Robson, "you and I have
been friends this many a year, and friends I hope we'll remain. Be
frank with me."
"Is it fair to put it that way, Robson?" said the detective. "When
duty calls does friendship count?"
"Perhaps not, perhaps not," replied Inspector Robson, hurriedly, "but
you see the close personal interest I have in this unfortunate affair.
Are you shadowing my son-in-law?"
The detective rubbed his chin again. It was a habit with him when
there was anything unusually grave in his mind, and Inspector Robson
understood the meaning it conveyed.
"Now, I ask you, Lambert," he said, "could any man in the world have
given his evidence more fairly?"
"No man," answered the detective; "but there's the outside of a man,
and the inside of a man. We've had some experience of that, I think.
If it's intimated to me to take up a case, I take it up. I won't go
farther than that, so don't press me. It isn't often that a case so
full of mystery crops up, and there'll be a lot of credit for the man
who manages to get to the heart of it. It's something more than bread
and butter: it's cake, and I don't want another man to get that cake.
Now, mind you, I don't offer an opinion, but so far as this case has
gone there are two or three parties to it."
"My son-in-law for one?" asked Inspector Robson, anxiously.
"Yes, your son-in-law for one. I don't say that he's not as innocent
as the babe unborn, but you've got to convince people. Just you ask a
hundred men and women, and half of 'em 'll wag their heads at mention
of Mr. Reginald Boyd's name. The other half 'll wag their heads at
mention of Mr. Abel Death's name. I'd give a lot to lay hands on that
chap. He's the second party in the case. That's a queer story Lady
Wharton told, and of course a true story, only it wasn't the real
Samuel Boyd she saw. Somebody made up for him. If it wasn't Abel
Death, it was the third party in the case. What a nerve!" said the
detective, admiringly. "I couldn't have done it better myself."
"That ought to remove the suspicions against my son-in-law," said
Inspector Robson. "There are three or four witnesses who can prove he
never left his bed for a week."
"That's all right, but lawyers will say collusion, conspiracy. We're
speaking confidentially, you know."
"Yes, and I'm obliged to you, Lambert."
"No need to be. We've been long in the service, you and me--boys
together, weren't we?--and we can take credit for keeping one thing
steady before us. Duty. The case, you see, doesn't hang only on what
took place in Bournemouth last Thursday night; it hangs quite as much
upon what took place in Catchpole Square the Friday before. A man is
accountable for his actions, and if there's a mystery that's got to be
cleared up, as this has got to be, and Mr. Reginald Boyd is concerned
in it--which there's no denying--the law calls upon him to explain his
actions."
"There's many a man held responsible and accountable for what, in the
absence of witnesses, he finds it out of his power to explain, and
which, in the nature of the circumstances, he couldn't reasonably be
expected to explain. But that doesn't prove him guilty."
"I don't say it does. The hardship to that man is that the law is the
law, and, in the absence of an explanation that can be proved to be
true, refuses to be satisfied. 'Guilty or not guilty?' says the law.
'Not guilty,' says the man. Does the law accept it? No. It proceeds to
open the case. Robson, you've my best wishes, and I hope you and yours
will come well through it. Let us leave it there. We've had a
comfortable chat; let us leave it there."
"Very well," said Inspector Robson, rather stiffly, "we'll leave it
there. If any charge is brought against my son-in-law he will be ready
to meet it. I pledge you my word that he'll not run away. Perhaps, if
any decided step is resolved upon you will give me timely notice, for
old friendship's sake, in return for my promise that you will meet
with no obstruction in the performance of your duty. It will help me
to soften the shock to my dear daughter--our only child, Lambert, the
sweetest girl!"----
He turned his head, to hide his emotion. Lambert pressed his hand, and
said,
"You shall be the first to hear of it, Robson. Cheer up. Things mayn't
be so bad as some people suspect."
Inspector Robson nodded and left him, and rejoined his family in the
house. Aunt Rob had seen him talking to the detective from the window,
and had been so successful in instilling courage into Florence and
Reginald that cheerful faces greeted his entrance; the cloud left his
own at this unexpectedly bright reception.
"We've been talking about things, father," said Aunt Rob in a brisk
voice, "and have made up our minds not to mope and mourn because a bit
of trouble seems to be coming on us. If it passes all the better, but
if we've got to fight it we'll fight it bravely."
"Bravo, mother," said Uncle Rob, "that's the right spirit to show.
Here's my hand, Reginald."
"And here's mine," said Aunt Rob, "with my heart in it."
"Thank you both," said Reginald. "I can bear anything rather than that
you should doubt me."
"No fear of that, my dear. You've behaved like a man, from first to
last. Never speak ill of the dead, they say, and I'm not going to. He
was your father, and if his ways were not our ways, we're the better
for it, and while he lived he was the worse for it. You were right in
refusing to take up his business, right in trying to carve out an
honourable career for yourself, right in going to see him that Friday,
and trying to get the money you were entitled to. Not that you _would_
have got it--but, there, I won't say anything against one that's gone
to where I hope he'll be forgiven. You were right in everything,
Reginald."
"God bless you, mother," said Florence.
"Right even in falling in love with our dear Florence?" said Reginald,
tenderly.
"Who could help it, bless her sweet face! Give me a kiss, my son, and
you, too, Florence, and you, too, Dick, and you, too, father. And mind
you, lad, I'm as glad as glad can be that you gave your evidence as
you did to-day, and made a clean breast of it. You spoke the truth,
the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, with love and innocence in
your heart. Now, father, what did the detective have to say to you?
Don't be afraid to tell us. Is he keeping an eye upon Reginald?"
"He is, mother; and I said if any charge is brought against him he'll
be ready to meet it."
"Of course he will, and we'll stand by him, shoulder to shoulder.
Father, you've been thirty years in the service, and you ought by this
time to be pretty well used to the ways of witnesses. What is your
opinion of Dr. Pye as a witness?"
"He gave his evidence in a straightforward manner," replied Uncle Rob,
guardedly. "What one has to consider in reckoning up a witness is the
effect he produces upon judge and jury, whether they put faith in what
he says, or throw doubt upon it."
"Which way would it be with Dr. Pye?"
"They'd believe every word he spoke."
"What do you think, Dick?" asked Aunt Rob.
"I don't trust him," Dick replied.
"Give your reason."
"Can't. Haven't any?"
"Prejudice, then, Dick," said Uncle Rob.
"Perhaps. Call it that. Aunt, have you never seen a man you disliked,
without being able to account for it?"
"It's happened more than once."
"And you've found him out afterwards to be a bad lot?"
"That has happened, too."
"A kind of instinct, you see," said Dick.
"What gets over me," said Aunt Rob, shaking her head, as though she
had not made up her mind, "is the way he stood up for Reginald. All he
seemed to want was fair play."
"Yes, seemed to want," said Dick, doggedly.
"At all events it was honest in him not to be too positive about the
resemblance to the man he saw. Do you know anyone, Dick, that answers
to the description and that might be mistaken for Reginald?"
"No one, aunt."
"Not Abel Death?"
"Not a bit like Reginald."
"In the name of all that's mysterious, what is he keeping out of the
way for? Did you ever know a case in such a tangle?"
"Never. I don't wonder that Lambert is keen upon it. It would make his
fortune to unravel the tangle."
"I mean to unravel it," said Dick. "Oh, you may shake your head, aunt.
I've certain ideas I'm not going to speak of just now; you would think
me mad if I were to tell you what they were. If you keep your mind
upon a thing it's wonderful how ideas crowd upon you."
"Leading too often to confusion," observed Uncle Rob. "The main thing
is a starting point."
"I've a dozen," said Dick.
"That's the mischief of it. You put a bloodhound on the track. What's
the consequence unless he gets a scent? He flounders; he might as well
be a mongrel for all the use he is. Coming back to the evidence that
was given in Court to-day, might not the man who presented himself to
Lady Wharton as your father, Reginald, be the same man Dr. Pye saw,
who made himself up to resemble you in case any one caught sight of
him. Such things have been done, you know."
"Look out!" cried Dick, starting forward, and catching Reginald, who
was swaying forward.
"We'll talk no more of this miserable business to-day," said Aunt Rob,
in a tone of stern decision. "Take him up to bed, Florence, and keep
him quiet. If we're not careful he'll be having a relapse."
Reginald, indeed, had overtaxed his strength, and the caution did not
come too soon.
"I must be off," said Dick, when Florence and Reginald were gone. "If
I'm not back before nine o'clock you need not expect to see me again
to-night."
In point of fact he had made up his mind to sleep in Catchpole Square,
and to keep secret vigil there. But first he must go to Reginald's old
lodgings in Park Street to speak to the landlady. So much depended
upon proof being forthcoming that Reginald's account of his movements
after leaving his father's house was true that Dick could not rest
until he had questioned her.
When Dick said to his uncle that he had ideas which would be
considered mad if he revealed them, it was no mere figure of speech.
So weird and grotesque was one of these ideas that, even in the midst
of his gloomy forebodings, he could not resist a smile as he pondered
upon it. "It's a game that two can play at," he muttered, "and my
short experience on the stage ought to carry me successfully through.
It may be time wasted, but it's worth the trying. We'll see whether
that flashlight invention of Dr. Pye will come upon the scene again.
If it does he'll see something that will astonish his weak nerves."
He brightened up when he presented himself to the landlady, who not
only welcomed him because he was a favourite with every one, but
because he might be able to impart something new relating to a mystery
with which, through the fact of the son of Samuel Boyd being her
lodger, she was indirectly connected. Mrs. Weevil was one of those
women to whom a gossip is one of the most enjoyable things in life,
and she gave Dick good day with glad anticipation in her voice.
"And 'ow's the poor young gentleman, sir," she said, "after 'is day at
the inkwich? I've been readin' about it in the papers, but wot I say
is, if it wos the last word I spoke, it ain't no more like 'im than
chalk is to cheese."
"What is not like him?" inquired Dick.
"''Is pictcher, sir, and yours, too, sir,' I ses to Mrs. Porter, the 'am
and beef shop across the road, 'It's a shame,' I ses, 'that sech
things is allowed. If a portrait it is, a portrait it ought to be.
Actions 'ave been brought for less.' 'Wot you say, Mrs. Weevil, I
say,' ses Mrs. Porter, 'but we're obliged to put up with it. Them
newspaper men don't mind wot liberties they take.'"
Dick listened with patience to this and to much more to the same
effect, and then approached the object of his visit.
"I've come to ask you," he said, "whether you recollect what occurred
last Friday night week."
"Ah," she said, abstractedly, running her eye along the hem of her
apron, "there's them as 'as cause to remember; there's them as won't
forget to their last hour."
"Meaning?" he asked.
"Mr. Abel Death, sir, and Mr. Samuel Boyd."
"His last hour has gone by; he's past remembering."
"A truer word you never spoke, sir, and it's wot we must all come to.
But Mr. Abel Death ain't past remembering, and wot 'e's got on 'is
conscience I shouldn't like to 'ave on mine."
"That is one of the things that has yet to be settled," said Dick,
ambiguously.
"And settled I 'ope it will be, sir, and better sooner than later, for
Mr. Reginald's sake. You see, sir, I speak of 'im as Mr. Reginald
because that's the name he went by when he first come to me. 'A
reference, is usual, sir,' I ses to 'im, 'if so be as you'll egscuse
me for mentionin' of it.' 'Mrs. Weevil,' he ses, 'I can't give you a
reference, but I can give you a month in advance.' Wot gentleman could
say more? A month in advance 'e paid, from first to last, and never a
word between us when I give 'im the book on Monday mornin'--puncchual,
because 'e said 'e liked to be. When I 'eard 'e wos Mr. Samuel Boyd's
son you might 'ave knocked me down with a feather. I ses to Mrs.
Porter, while she wos spreadin' mustard on a sangwitch for a gent as
eats six every afternoon of 'is life as the clock strikes three,
'Well,' I ses to 'er, 'of all the strange things!' 'That's _my_
opinion, Mrs. Weevil,' she ses."
"Last Friday week," said Dick, taking up the threads of the subject.
"I wish you to tell me at what hour of the night Mr. Reginald came
home."
"And you ain't the first as wishes me to tell you. There's been two
detectives 'ere, and three newspaper men. 'Do you recollec',' they
ses, 'wot time Friday night young Mr. Boyd come 'ome?' Your own words,
sir, as if they wos turned out of a mould. 'No, I don't,' I ses to
them. 'I went to bed at ten, when Mr. Reginald was out. I knocked at
his door,' I ses, 'to see if 'e wanted anythink, but he didn't answer,
and I jest peeped in to make sure 'e was out. Which he wos.' 'Oh,' ses
they, 'did 'e keep 'is door unlocked?' 'Yes, 'e did,' I ses, 'and
everything else as well. 'E wos always as open as open can be. I wish
all wos like 'im, but that can't be egspected, because it takes all
sorts to make a world.' They wanted to go up to 'is rooms, but I ses,
'No, you don't. I know my duties as a landlady,' I ses, 'and I won't
'ave no pokin' and pryin' in a gentleman's private apartments.' Would
you believe it, sir, they orfered me money to let 'em go in, but they
couldn't wheedle me. I ain't one of that sort."
"Try and remember," urged Dick, earnestly, "whether, after you were in
bed you didn't hear him come in on Friday night."
"If I tried ever so 'ard, sir, I couldn't recollec' wot I don't
remember. Why should a gentleman be spied upon when 'e pays 'is rent
reg'lar? Mr. Reginald 'ad 'is own street door key, and wos free to
come and go. 'E might 'ave come 'ome any time in the night without me
knowin' it.
"It is a very important matter," said Dick, greatly disheartened.
"Perhaps your servant may recollect something."
"I'll ring for 'er, sir, and you can arsk 'er yourself."
In answer to the bell the servant came up, a heavy lumbering girl of
twenty, in a chronic state of sulks, with whom Dick fared no better
than he had with her mistress. She did not know what time she went to
bed, nor what time she got up. Sometimes she awoke in the middle of
the night, and sometimes she didn't; she generally didn't, and if she
did she did not know what time it was. She did not recollect when
Friday night was, she could not think so far back as the week before
last. All she knew was that it wasn't her night out, and if the
gentleman kept talking to her all day long how could she get her work
done? So Dick reluctantly let her go, and took his departure himself,
no wiser than when he came. 'Reginald's statement that he had returned
to his lodgings before midnight was of no value in the absence of
corroborative evidence. Thicker and blacker grew the clouds around
him.
From Park Street he proceeded to Draper's Mews, and there he met with
another disappointment. Mrs. Death opened the door for him, and he saw
a change in her. She was embarrassed, suspicious, sorrowful, angry.
The old cordiality was gone.
"Is Gracie at home?" he asked, looking around without seeing the
sallow, wistful face.
"No, she isn't," answered Mrs. Death, in a constrained voice, "and I
don't know where she is. I haven't had misfortune enough, I suppose,
that my own child should go against me."
She dashed away the tears that were gathering in her eyes, and Dick
gazed at her in pity and surprise.
"Go against you, Mrs. Death!" he exclaimed. "No, no. It isn't in
Gracie's nature."
"It wasn't," she retorted, "till you stepped between us."
"You are labouring under some grievous error," he said, sadly. "I have
not seen Gracie. I came to ask how she was--as a friend, Mrs. Death,
as a true friend."
"Oh, yes," she cried, bitterly, "as a true friend! I'm learning the
meaning of that word. It's time, it's time. Hush children!" For one or
two, alarmed at their mother's loud voice, began to cry. They were all
huddled together on the floor, and had looked up eagerly when Dick
entered. "If you're not quiet I'll give you a beating all round." She
turned to Dick. "Come into the next room; it isn't right that they
should hear us. There, children, there, be good."
With compressed lips, and eyes that seemed to be inwardly searching
for an explanation, Dick accompanied her to the adjoining room. Night
was coming on, but there was still light enough for them to see each
other's face.
"Be fair to me, Mrs. Death," he said, in a gentle tone. "Whatever you
may think of me now, think of me for a moment as I was, and tell me
first about Gracie."
"There isn't much to tell," she returned; and she, also, seemed to be
searching inwardly for something she could not understand. "She does
nothing but talk of you. Dr. Vinsen walked home with us from the
funeral yesterday, and Gracie wouldn't keep by our side; she walked
behind. Two or three times he beckoned to her, but she was rebellious.
'What have you been thinking of, child?' he asked when we got home.
'I've been thinking of Dick,' she answered. 'Always of Dick, Gracie?'
he said. 'Yes,' she answered, 'always of Dick.' 'Never of me?' he
asked, and no one in the world could have spoken more kindly. 'Oh,
yes,' she said, 'I think of you a lot, but in another way.' 'Now, tell
me, child,' he said, 'what you think of me?' 'You'd best not ask,' she
answered, and ran away. When we were alone I asked her what she meant
by behaving so to our best friend. I will not tell you what her reply
was; I was shocked and grieved that a child of mine could be so
ungrateful. She looked out for you yesterday afternoon and evening,
and this afternoon, too. 'Why doesn't Dick come?' she kept on saying.
'Where's Dick?' It's three hours now that she went away, and I don't
know what's become of her. That's all I've got to tell you about
Gracie, if you didn't know it before. I want my child, I want my
child! Do you hear, Mr. Remington. I want my child! I have lost my
husband--am I to lose my Gracie, too?"
"I sincerely hope not," said Dick; "I honestly believe not. She will
come back presently. But there is something else in your mind against
me, Mrs. Death."
She stepped close to him, and looked fiercely into his eyes.
"Who killed Mr. Samuel Boyd?" she said, in a hissing whisper. "Tell me
that."
"I wish to God I could!" he replied.
"I wish to God _I_ could!" she retorted, still speaking in a low,
fierce whisper, so that the children in the next room should not hear.
"But though we don't know, we have our suspicions. I know what mine
are. What are yours? Tell me, if you dare!"
He did not answer her. In the presence of misfortune so undeserved, of
suffering so keen, how could he breathe a word against her husband?
"No, you do not dare," she continued. "You haven't the courage to say
to my face that you believe my poor husband to be guilty of the crime;
but you can say so behind my back, you can go about poisoning people's
minds against him, and then come to me smiling in pretended
friendship. Oh, Mr. Remington," she said, with a remorseful sob, and
her changeful moods showed how her heart was torn, "I would not have
believed it of you. You make us trust you, you make us love you, and
then you turn against us. See here!" She pulled up the sleeve of her
gown, and bared her emaciated arm to his pitying gaze. "As this is, so
my whole body is, and my soul is on the rack. You have seen us in our
poverty, you know the state to which we have been driven, you have
witnessed how we live. Is it the work of an honest man to oppress and
malign us?"
"It would be the work of a coward," he answered, "if I had done a
hundredth part of what you bring against me. I have done you no wrong,
no injustice. I think I know who has instilled these thoughts into
your mind, but I will not ask you for his name. Doubtless he has laid
the seal of silence on your lips----"
"He has not," she interrupted. "What he has said to me he would say to
you if you stood before him."
"I think not," said Dick.
"He would. He has been kind and generous to us; if it had not been for
him my children would have starved."
"I would have done as much if I could have afforded it," said Dick,
with set teeth. "Has it not crossed your mind, Mrs. Death, that you
are being deceived?"
"How, deceived?" she asked, and despite the warmth of her championship
there was doubt in her face.
"In being led to believe that those who are your friends are your
enemies?"
"I speak as I find."
"No," said Dick, firmly, "you speak from ideas which have been put
into your head, heaven knows for what purpose. What that man's motive
may be----"
"Yes, yes, yes," she interrupted again. "Motive, motive, motive. I've
heard enough of motive. What is yours, Mr. Remington? Who is more
deeply interested in the death of Mr. Samuel Boyd, who is more
directly connected with it, who has more to gain from it, than you and
your friend. You speak of motive. What motive brings you here?"
"I have told you."
"You have not told me," she said, violently. "You come to seek
information about my poor husband."
"Yes," he admitted, "partly."
"And," she said, very slowly, "to cast suspicion upon him, if the poor
dear is alive, and so avert it from yourself and Mr. Reginald Boyd."
Dick was too startled to reply. No need to ask the source of this
insidious suggestion.
"If it happened that you found him here," she continued, "would you
give information to the police? Would you say, 'Go into that house and
arrest the murderer of Mr. Samuel Boyd?' Oh, I know, I know! But we do
not fear the truth, and we have a friend who will see that justice is
done. That is all we want, and I pray that I may live to see the day."
She had worked herself into a white heat of passion, and Dick saw that
no good would result from prolonging his visit. "May there come a
happier day for all of us," he said, and passed from her presence.
Night was coming on as he took his way to Catchpole Square, but he did
not heed the falling shadows nor the soft drizzling rain that now
began to fall. "This is Dr. Vinsen's work," he thought, "and he does
not work without a purpose. What motive can he have in fixing
suspicion upon me and Reginald, what motive in taking so deep an
interest in Mrs. Death? The mystery seems impenetrable, but I will
pierce it till light comes. I will, I will, I will!" He did not hear
pattering feet behind him, and was not conscious that anyone was by
his side till his hand was clutched.
"Dick!"
"Gracie!" he cried. "I am glad you are here. Your mother is terribly
anxious about you. Let me take you to her."
"No," she said, panting, "not yet, Dick. I've been looking for you
everywhere. I've got something to tell you first. Come, come, come!"
She dragged him in the direction he had been taking, towards Catchpole
Square.