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 II.
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
XX.--The "Evening Moon" concludes its narrative, and
affords a further insight into the child-like and
volatile character of Lydia Holdfast 1
XXI.--Richard Manx makes love to "sweet Becky" 31
XXII.--In which Becky gives way to her feelings, and renews
an old acquaintance 42
XXIII.--"Justice" sends a letter to the Editor of the
"Evening Moon" 62
XXIV.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement 88
XXV.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 96
XXVI.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 125
XXVII.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 158
XXVIII.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (continued) 189
XXIX.--Frederick Holdfast's Statement (concluded) 219
XXX.--Becky's reply to her Lover's Statement 245
GREAT PORTER SQUARE:
A MYSTERY.
CHAPTER XX.
THE "EVENING MOON" CONCLUDES ITS NARRATIVE, AND AFFORDS A FURTHER
INSIGHT INTO THE CHILD-LIKE AND VOLATILE CHARACTER OF LYDIA
HOLDFAST.
In the hope of her husband's return, and looking forward with sweet
mysterious delight to the moment when she would hold her baby to her
breast, Mrs. Holdfast was a perfectly happy woman--a being to be envied.
She had some cause for anxiety in the circumstance that she did not hear
from her husband, but she consoled herself with the reflection that his
last letter to her afforded a sufficient explanation of his silence.
She mentally followed his movements as the days passed by. Some little
time would be occupied in settling his son's affairs; the young man most
likely died in debt. Mr. Holdfast would not rest satisfied until he
had ascertained the exact extent of his unhappy son's liabilities, and
had discharged them. With Frederick's death must be cleared away the
dishonour of his life.
"Now that he was dead," said the widow, "I was ready to pity and forgive
him."
Her baby was born, and her husband had not returned. Day after day
she looked for news of him, until she worked herself into a fever of
anxiety. The result was that she became ill, and was ordered into the
country for fresher air. But she could not rest. Her husband's return
appeared to be delayed beyond reasonable limits. Could anything have
happened to him in the wild part of the world in which Frederick had
met his death? She did not dream that in the tragedy which had occurred
in the very heart of London, the murder in Great Porter Square, with
which all the country was ringing, lay the answer to her fears. In her
delicate state of health she avoided the excitement of the newspapers,
and for weeks did not look at one. Thus, when her health was to some
extent established, and she had returned to her house in London, she had
no knowledge of the murder, and was in ignorance of the few particulars
relating to it which the police had been enabled to bring to light.
She knew nothing of the arrest of Antony Cowlrick, of the frequent
adjournments at the police-court, and of the subsequent release of this
man whose movements have been enveloped in so much mystery.
It happened during her illness that a friend, who witnessed the anxiety
of her mind and sympathised with her, wrote to America for information
concerning Mr. Holdfast, anticipating that the reply to his letter would
enable him to communicate good news to her; and it also happened, most
singularly, after a lapse of time, that it was to this very friend Mrs.
Holdfast appealed for advice as to how she should act.
"I felt as if I was going mad," are the widow's words. "I could endure
the terrible suspense no longer."
She called upon her friend, not being aware that he had written to
America on her behalf. On the table was a letter with the American
post-mark on the envelope, and as her friend, in a hurried manner, rose
to receive her, she observed that he placed his hand upon this letter,
as though wishing to conceal it from her sight. But her quick eyes had
already detected it.
"I did not know," she said, after she had explained the motive of her
visit, "that you had correspondence with America."
He glanced at his hand, which still covered the letter, and his face
became troubled.
"This," he said, "is in answer to a special letter I sent to the States
concerning Mr. Holdfast."
"Ah," she cried, "then I am interested in it!"
"Yes," he replied, "you are interested in it."
Her suspicions were aroused. "Is that the reason," she asked, "why you
seek to hide it from me?"
"I would not," he replied, "increase your anxiety. Can you bear a great
shock?"
"Anything--anything," she cried, "rather than this terrible torture of
silence and mystery!"
"I wrote to America," then said her friend, "to an agent, requesting him
to ascertain how and where your husband was. An hour before you entered
the room I received his answer. It is here. It will be best to hide
nothing from you. I will read what my correspondent says." He opened
the letter, and read: "I have made inquiries after Mr. Holdfast, and am
informed, upon undoubted authority, that he left America for England
some weeks ago."
Mrs. Holdfast's friend read this extract without comment, but Mrs.
Holdfast did not appear to realize the true import of the information.
"Do you not understand?" asked her friend. "Mr. Holdfast, some weeks
ago, left America for England."
"Impossible," said the bewildered woman; "if he were here--in England--I
should not be with you at this moment, asking you to assist me to find
him."
Her friend was silent.
"Help me!" she implored. "Do you think he is here?"
"I am certain that he has left America," was the reply.
A new fear assailed her. "Perhaps," she whispered, "the ship he sailed
in was wrecked."
"That is not probable," said her friend. "Mr. Holdfast, as a man of
the world and a gentleman of means, undoubtedly took passage in a fast
steamer. In all human probability your husband landed at Liverpool
within nine or ten days of his departure from New York."
"And then?" asked Mrs. Holdfast.
"Who can say what happened to him them? It is, of course, certain that
his desire was to come to you without delay."
"He would not have lingered an hour," said Mrs. Holdfast. "An hour!
He would not have lingered a moment. He would be only too eager,
too anxious, to rejoin me. And there was another motive for his
impatience--his child, whose face he has never seen, whose lips he has
never kissed! Unhappy woman that I am!"
Her friend waited until she had somewhat mastered her grief, and then he
asked her a question which opened up another channel for fear.
"Was your husband in the habit of carrying much money about with him?"
"A large sum; always a large sum. He often had as much as a thousand
pounds in notes in his pocket-book."
"It was injudicious."
"He was most careless in money matters," said Mrs. Holdfast; "he would
open his pocket-book in the presence of strangers, recklessly and
without thought. More than once I have said to him that I should not
wonder if he was robbed of it one day. But even in that case--suppose
he _had_ incited some wretch's cupidity; suppose he _was_ robbed--it
would not have prevented him from hastening to me and his child."
"Do not imagine," said her friend, "that in what I am about to say I
desire to add to your difficulties and distress of mind. The length
of time since you have heard from your husband--the fact that he left
America and landed in England--make the case alarming. Your husband is
not a man who would calmly submit to an outrage. Were an attempt made to
rob him he would resist."
"Indeed he would--at the hazard of his life."
"You have put into words the fear which assails me."
"But," said Mrs. Holdfast, clinging to every argument against the
horrible suspicion now engendered, "had anything of the kind happened,
it would have been in the newspapers, and would have been brought to my
ears."
"There are such things," said her friend, impressively, "as mysterious
disappearances. Men have been robbed and murdered, and never more heard
of. Men have left their homes, in the midst of crowded cities, intending
to return within an hour, and have disappeared for ever."
It is easier to imagine than to describe the state of Mrs. Holdfast's
mind at these words. They seemed, as she expressed it, "to drain her
heart of hope."
"What would you advise me to do?" she asked, faintly.
"To go at once to a lawyer," was the sensible answer, "and place the
matter in his hands. Not an hour is to be lost; and the lawyer you
consult should be one who is familiar with criminal cases. I have the
address of such a gentleman, and I should recommend you to drive to his
office immediately, and lay the whole case before him."
Mrs. Holdfast took the advice given to her, and drove at once to the
lawyer who was recommended to her. He listened to her story, and allowed
her to tell it in her own way without interruption; and when she had
finished, he put a variety of questions to her, many of which appeared
to her trivial and unnecessary. Before she left the office the lawyer
said,
"If your husband is in England, we will find him for you."
With this small modicum of comfort she was fain to be satisfied; but as
she rode home she shuddered to think that she had seen on the lawyer's
lips the unspoken words, "dead or alive." That is what the lawyer meant
to express: "If your husband is in England, we will find him for you,
dead or alive." Another of his actions haunted her. At a certain point
of the conversation, the lawyer had paused, and upon a separate sheet of
paper had made the following memorandum--"Look up the murders. How about
the murder in Great Porter Square?" She was curious to see what it
was he had written with so serious an air, and she rose and looked at
the paper, and read the words. How dreadful they were! "Look up the
murders. How about the murder in Great Porter Square?" The appalling
significance of the memorandum filled her with terrible forbodings.
But what were the particulars of the murder in Great Porter Square, of
which till now she had never heard, and what possible relation could
they bear to her? She could not wait for the lawyer; she had placed the
matter in his hands, but the issue at stake was too grave for her to sit
idly down and make no effort herself to reach the heart of the mystery.
That very evening she ascertained that in a certain house, No. 119 Great
Porter Square, a cruel murder had been committed, and that the murdered
man had not been identified. On the date of this murder she was in the
country, endeavouring by quietude to regain her health and peace of
mind; her baby at that time was nearly two months old, and for weeks
before the date and for weeks afterwards she had not read a newspaper.
Now that she learned that the murder might, even by the barest
possibility, afford a clue to the mystery in which she was involved,
she felt as if it would be criminal in her to sleep until she had made
herself fully acquainted with all the details of the dreadful deed. She
went from shop to shop, and purchased a number of newspapers containing
accounts of the discovery of the murder, and of the accusation brought
against Antony Cowlrick. When the lawyer called upon her the following
morning he found her deeply engaged in the study of these papers. He
made no remark, divining the motive for this painful duty.
"I have not closed my eyes all night," she said to him plaintively.
"Where is Great Porter Square?"
"My dear lady," he replied, "it is not necessary for you to know the
locality of this terrible crime. It will not help you to go there.
Remain quiet, and leave the matter with me. I have already done
something towards the clearing-up of the mystery. Do not agitate
yourself needlessly; you will require all your strength."
He then asked her if she had a portrait of her husband. She had a
photograph, taken at her request the day before their marriage.
"Mr. Holdfast was above these small vanities," she said, and suddenly
checked herself, crying, "Good God! What did I say? _Was_ above them!
_Is_ above them, I mean. He cannot be dead--he cannot, he cannot be
dead! I had to persuade him to have the picture taken. It is here--in
this locket."
She gave her lawyer the locket, and he departed with it. When he called
upon her again in the evening, his manner was very grave and sad.
"Did your husband make a will?" he asked.
"Yes," she replied, "and gave it me in a sealed envelope. I have it
upstairs, in a safe, in which I keep my jewels. It is dated on the day
on which he forbade his son Frederick ever again to enter his house.
Would you like to see it?"
"It will be as well," said the lawyer, "for you to place it in my care.
I shall not break the seal until the present inquiry is terminated. It
will be very soon--very soon. Are you strong enough to hear some bad
news, or will you wait till to-morrow? Yes, yes--it will be better to
wait till to-morrow. A good night's rest----"
She interrupted him impetuously. It would be death to her to wait, she
declared, and she implored him to tell her the worst at once. Reluctant
as he was, he saw that it would be the wisest course, and he told her,
as tenderly and considerately as he could, that the portrait she had
given him exactly resembled the description of the man who was found
murdered in Great Porter Square.
"To-morrow morning," he said, "we shall obtain the order to exhume the
body. A most harrowing and painful task awaits you. It will be necessary
for you to attend and state, to the best of your belief, whether the
body is that of your lost husband?"
Our readers will guess how this painful inquiry terminated. Mr. Holdfast
bore upon his person certain marks which rendered identification an easy
task; a scar on his left wrist, which in his youth had been cut to the
bone; a broken tooth, and other signs, have placed beyond the shadow of
a doubt the fact that he is the man who took a room on the first floor
of No. 119 Great Porter Square, and was there ruthlessly and strangely
murdered on the night of the 10th of July. So far, therefore, the
mystery is cleared up.
But the identification of the body of the murdered man as that of a
gentleman of great wealth, with a charming wife, and shortly after
the strange death of his son Frederick, who was the only person whose
life was likely to mar his happiness--the facts that this gentleman
arrived in London, and did not return immediately to his home; that he
proceeded, instead, to a common Square in a poor neighbourhood, and
engaged a room without giving his name; that during the few days he
lived there he received only one visitor, a lady who came and went
closely veiled--these facts have added new and interesting elements of
mystery to the shocking affair. Whether they will assist in bringing the
murderer to justice remains to be seen.
Mrs. Holdfast has been and is most frank and open in her communications
to our Reporter, who, it will be presently seen, has not confined his
inquiries to this lady alone. In other circumstances it would have been
natural, on the part of Mrs. Holdfast, that she should have been less
communicative on the subject of the domestic trouble between herself and
Mr. Holdfast and his son; but as she justly observed,
"Perhaps by and bye something may occur which will render it necessary
that I shall be examined. The murderer may be discovered--I shall pray,
day and night, that he or she may be arrested! In that case, I should
have to appear as a witness, and should have to tell all I know. Then
I might be asked why I concealed all these unhappy differences between
father and son. I should not know how to answer. No; I will conceal
nothing; then they can't blame me. And if it will only help, in the
smallest way, to discover the wretch who has killed the noblest
gentleman that ever lived, I shall be more than ever satisfied that I
have done what is right."
We yield to this lady our fullest admiration for the courageous course
she has pursued. She has not studied her own feelings; she has laid
bare a story of domestic trouble and treachery as strange as the most
ingenious drama on the French stage could present--such a story as
Sardou or Octave Feulliet would revel in; and, without hesitation, she
has thrown aside all reserve, in the light of the great duty which
is before her, the duty of doing everything in her power to hunt the
murderer down, and avenge her husband's death. It is not many who would
have the moral courage thus to expose their wounds to public gaze, and
we are satisfied that our narrative will have the effect of causing a
wide and general sympathy to be expressed for this most unfortunate
lady.
We now come to other considerations of the affair. The gentleman who was
murdered was a gentleman of wealth and position in society. He loved his
wife; between them there had never been the slightest difference; they
were in complete accord in their views of the conduct of the unhappy
young man at whose door, indirectly, the primary guilt of the tragedy
may be laid. The reason why Mr. Holdfast did not write to his wife for
so long a period is partly explained by the account he gives, in his
last letter to her, of the injury he received in his right hand. We
say partly, because, a little further on, our readers will perceive
that this reason will not hold good up to the day of his death. Most
positively it may be accepted that the deepest and strongest motives
existed for his endeavour to keep the circumstance of his being
in London from the knowledge of his wife. Could these motives be
discovered--could any light be thrown upon them--a distinct point would
be established from which the murderer might be tracked. Our Reporter
put several questions to Mrs. Holdfast.
"Is it an absolute certainty that Frederick Holdfast is dead?" he asked.
She gazed at him in wonderment. "Who can doubt it?" she exclaimed.
"There is my husband's letter, saying he had traced his son to
Minnesota, and was journeying after him. There is the account in the
newspaper of the death of the misguided young man in a small town in
Minnesota. The editor of the newspaper, knowing nothing whatever of
any of us, could scarcely have invented such a paragraph--though we
know they _do_ put strange things in the American papers; but this,
unhappily, is too near the truth."
"Certainly," said our Reporter, "the presumption would be a wild
one--but it is possible; and I seldom shut my mind to a possibility."
Mrs. Holdfast was very agitated. "It is _not_ possible--it is _not_
possible!" she cried, repeating the asseveration with vehemence. "It
would be too horrible to contemplate!"
"What would be too horrible to contemplate?"
"That he followed his father to London"----
She paused, overcome by emotion. Our Reporter took up the cue. "And
murdered him?" he asked.
"Yes," answered the lovely widow, in a low tone, "and murdered him! I
would not believe it--no, I would not believe it! Bad and wicked as he
is, he _could_ not be guilty of a crime so horrible. And, after all, it
was partly my fault. Why did I not grow up into the likeness of an ugly
old witch----?"
She paused again, and smiled. There is in this lovely lady so much
animation and vitality, so much pure love of life, so much sunlight,
that they overcome her against her will, and break out in the midst
of the gloomiest fits of melancholy and depression. Hers is a happy,
joyous, and impulsive nature, and the blow that has fallen upon her
is all the more cruel because of her innate brightness and gaiety of
disposition. But it is merciful, also, that she is thus gifted. She
might not otherwise have sufficient strength to bear up against her
affliction.
"We will, then," said our Reporter, "dismiss the possibility--which I
confess is scarcely to be indulged in even by such a man as myself. As
to your being beautiful, a rose might as reasonably complain that nature
had invested it with grace of form and loveliness of colour." Mrs.
Holdfast blushed at this compliment. "You are right in saying that
such an idea as Frederick Holdfast being alive is too horrible to
contemplate. The American newspaper says that his body was identified by
a gentleman who knew him in Oxford, and who happened to be travelling
through the State of Minnesota. It is a strange coincidence--nothing
more--that on the precise day on which Frederick Holdfast ended his
career, a friend should have been travelling in that distant State, and
should have given a name to the dead stranger who was found near the
laughing waters of Minnie-ha-ha."
Mrs. Holdfast replied with a sweet smile. "Yes, it is a strange
coincidence; but young gentlemen now-a-days have numbers of
acquaintances, hundreds I should say. And everybody travels now--people
think nothing of going to America or Canada. It is just packing up their
Gladstone bag, and off they go, as happy as you please. _I_ couldn't do
it. I _hate_ the sea; I hate everything that makes me uncomfortable. I
love pleasure. Strange, isn't it, for me, a country girl, to be so fond
of life and gaiety, and dancing and theatres? But we can't help our
natures, can we? I would if I could, for you must think me a dreadful,
dreadful creature for talking in this way just after my husband has been
brutally killed! Don't think ill of me--don't! It is not my fault, and I
am suffering dreadfully, dreadfully, though I _do_ let my light heart
run away with me!"
"How can I think ill of you?" said our Reporter; "you are child and
woman in one."
"Really!" she cried, looking up into his face with a beaming smile. "Are
you really, really in earnest?"
"You may believe me," replied our Reporter, "for my errand here is not a
personal one, but in pursuance of my professional duties; and although
you charm me out of myself, I must be faithful."
"Ah," said Mrs. Holdfast, "that is the way of you men. So stern, and
strict, and proper, that you never forget yourself. It is because you
are strong, and wise--but you miss a great deal--yes, indeed, indeed you
do! It would spoil the sunshine if one stopped while one was enjoying
the light and warmth, to ask why, and what, and wherefore. Don't you
think it would? Such a volatile, impressionable creature as Lydia
Holdfast does not stop to do such a wise and foolish thing--we can be
both wise and foolish in a breath, let me tell you. No; I enjoy, and am
happy, without wanting to know why. There! I am showing myself to you,
as if you were my oldest friend. _You_ would not do the same by me. You
are steadier, and wiser, and not half so happy--no, not half, not half
so happy! O, I wish I had been born a man!"
Amused, and, as he had declared to her, charmed out of himself, our
Reporter said, somewhat jocosely,
"Why, what would you have done if you had been born a man instead of a
woman?"
"I am afraid," she said, in a half-whisper, and with her finger on her
lips, as though enjoining him not to betray her, "I am afraid I should
have been a dreadful rake."
Our Reporter resisted the beguilement of the current into which the
conversation had drifted, although he would have been entitled to much
excuse had he dallied a little in this vein with the charming and
child-like woman.
"You forget your child," he said; "had you been born a man----"
Before he could complete the sentence, Mrs. Holdfast rushed out of the
room, and in a few moments returned with the child in her arms. She sat
in a rocking chair, and fondled the boy-baby, and kissed him, and sang
to him. It was a picture of perfect and beautiful motherhood.
"Forget my child!" she murmured. "Forget my baby! You must either be
mad or insincere to say such a thing. Ask the darling's forgiveness
immediately."
"I do," said our Reporter, kissing the baby, "and yours. You have proved
yourself a true woman. But my time is getting short, and I have already
trespassed too long upon yours. Let us continue the conversation about
Mr. Holdfast."
She instantly became serious, and with the baby in her arms, said, "Yes!
Well!"
"The landlady of the house," continued our Reporter, "in which he lodged
has declared that he had but one visitor--a lady, closely veiled."
"So I have read in the papers," said Mrs. Holdfast. "Is nothing known
about her--where she came from, where she went to, whether she was a
lady or a common woman?"
"Nothing is known," he replied.
"Are you sure?"
"Quite sure, as far as my information goes. One person says that she was
tall, another that she was short; another that she was fair, another
that she was dark--though they all agree that she never raised her veil.
There is absolutely not a dependable clue upon which a person can work;
nothing reliable can be gathered from statements so conflicting. What I
wish to know is, whether you yourself have any suspicion?"
She flushed with indignation. "You do not mean to ask me whether Mr.
Holdfast was enamoured of a woman with whom he made secret assignations?
You insult me. I thought better of you; I did not believe you capable of
harbouring such a suspicion against the dead?"
"You mistake me," said our Reporter; "no such suspicion was in my mind.
My thoughts were travelling in a different direction, and I was curious
to ascertain whether what has occurred to my mind has occurred to
yours."
"About this woman?" asked Mrs. Holdfast.
"Yes, about this woman."
"I did not wish to speak of it," said Mrs. Holdfast, after a pause, and
speaking with evident reluctance; "it is the one thing in this dreadful
affair I desired to keep to myself. I had a motive--yes; I did not want
to do anyone an injustice. But, what can a weak woman like myself do
when she is in the company of such a man as you? Nothing escapes you. It
seems to me as if you had studied every little incident in connection
with the murder of my poor husband for the purpose of bringing some one
in guilty; but you are better acquainted than I am with the wickedness
of people. You want to know what reason my husband had in taking a
common lodging in Great Porter Square instead of coming home at once to
me and his child. In my weak way I have thought it out. Shall I tell you
how I have worked it out in my mind?"
"If you please."
"Above everything else in the world," said Mrs. Holdfast, looking
tenderly at her baby lying in her lap, "even above his love for me, Mr.
Holdfast valued the honour of his name. There is nothing he would not
have sacrificed to preserve that unsullied. Well, then, after his son's
death he discovered something--who can say what?--which touched his
honour, and which needed skilful management to avoid public disgrace.
I can think of nothing else than that the woman, who was connected in
a disgraceful way with his son, had some sort of power over my poor
husband, and that he wished to purchase her silence before he presented
himself to me and our baby. He came home, and took the lodgings in Great
Porter Square. There this woman visited him, and there he met his death.
That is all I can think of. If I try to get any further, my mind gets
into a whirl. Now you know all; I have concealed nothing from you. It is
my firm belief that when you discover this woman everything else will be
discovered. But you will never discover her--never, never! And my poor
husband's death will never be avenged."
"I will ask you but one more question," said our Reporter. "In what way
do you account for the circumstance of your husband not writing to you
after his return to London?"
"Do you forget," asked Mrs. Holdfast, in return, "that he had injured
his hand, and that he did not wish to disclose his private affairs to a
stranger?"
Here the interview terminated; and here, with the exception of the
statement of three facts, our narrative ends.
Mrs. Holdfast is mistaken in her belief that her husband did not write
to her because he had injured his hand, and was unwilling to employ an
amanuensis. Our Reporter, after he left Mrs. Holdfast, had an interview
with the former landlady of 119 Great Porter Square, who has left the
house, and would under no consideration return to it. The landlady
states that, on three occasions, she entered Mr. Holdfast's room when
he was in it, and that on every occasion he was writing, and apparently
writing freely. It did not appear to her that his hand was injured in
the slightest degree. There was no bandage or plaister upon it, and he
did not complain. We are in a position also to declare that, at the
_post-mortem_ examination, no recent injury of the right hand was
perceptible.
The whole of Mr. Holdfast's property has been left by him, in a properly
attested will, to his widow. When he made this will his son Frederick
was alive. Not a shilling, however, is left to the son.
Mrs. Holdfast has offered a reward of five hundred pounds for the
discovery of the murderer of her husband.
We have no doubt our readers will appreciate our enterprise in
presenting them with this circumstantial account of the latest phase of
the Great Porter Square Mystery.
The question that now remains to be answered is--Where is Mr. Holdfast's
son?
[Decoration]