Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

"Jolly," he says, and, being by this time exhausted, he leaves her at the fountain, where, presently, she is joined by other guests, with whom she carries on an animated conversation.

The grounds, with their thousands of coloured lights, are dotted with the attractive dresses of the ladies and the soberer costume of the gentlemen. Pleasure shows its smiling face, and doors are shut upon black care. No face brighter than that of Lady Wharton, none more free from the least suspicion of anxiety. Her hearty voice rings out, an invitation to mirth and gaiety. And yet as time wears on there is an anxious thought in her mind. "Why does the man not come?" she thinks. "He promised to be here faithfully, and it must be now nearly one o'clock." She consults a jewelled watch. "Yes, it is-one o'clock." The fact is, my lady is pressed for money, and she is expecting to receive a thousand pounds to-night in ready cash, half of which must go to her dressmaker in the morning. For, come what may, my lady must be dressed. So she stands at the fountain, and taps her foot impatiently. Soft gleaming lights, fair sky with its panoply of stars and bright moon shining, sounds of rippling laughter, gay forms gliding and flitting through the lacework of the trees: a fairy scene, made not less beautiful by the dark spaces wherein the pines, their topmost branches silvered by the moon, stand apart, picturesque sentinels of the night.

To my lady a liveried footman, who presents a card. She moves into the light to read it.

"At last!" she says. "Where is the man?"

"He is waiting to see you, my lady."

She follows the servant, and steps into the shadow of a cluster of trees.

* * * * *

What connection is there between that gay scene in Bournemouth and this more sombre scene in Samuel Boyd's house in Catchpole Square, where, an hour after midnight, Dick moves in search of the body of Abel Death? The invisible links are in the air. Will they ever be brought to light and united to form another chain in the mystery?

Dick's search has lasted two hours, and has been conducted with care and patience. It is not alone traces of Abel Death he seeks for; he searches for anything in the shape of incriminating evidence against Reginald, his intention being to take possession of it, and by-and-by, perhaps, destroy it. That by so doing he will be committing a felonious act and frustrating the course of justice does not trouble him. He is working for Florence.

The first room he lingers in is that in which Samuel Boyd lies. No change there. The bed is still occupied by that silent, awful figure, cold and dead. Incapable of aught for good or evil as it is, it exercises a powerful influence over him. He dreads to approach it, and it draws him to its side. He steals from the room, shuddering, and, closing the door, breathes more freely at the barrier between them; but ever and anon, for some time afterwards, he casts a startled look over his shoulder, as though expecting to see a phantom standing there.

The ghostly moon shines through the windows which are unshuttered, and knowing now, from what Inspector Robson said, that an intermittent watch is being kept upon the house, he dare not in those rooms carry a light. In the rooms with shuttered windows he risks a lighted candle, but holds it close to the floor and moves it warily from spot to spot, and shades it with his hand, in order to lessen the chance of its glimmer being seen from without. This makes his task more difficult, and there are moments when he almost regrets having undertaken it.

The wax figure of the Chinaman is still in its chair, holding in its hand the stick of the reign of Charles the Second. The chair is old-fashioned, too, having a grandmother's hood to it, so that the Chinaman sits, as it were, in a cosy alcove, only those standing in front of the figure being able to obtain a full view of its face.

Dick finds no further incriminating evidence against Reginald than that which he appropriated on his last visit. He makes, however, a curious discovery. He has examined every room with the exception of a small room on the same floor as the office, against the outer wall of which is placed the grand piano. The door of this room opens into the passage, and it is locked. His diligent search is rewarded by finding the key of the door, which he opens. The room is simply furnished, a table and two wooden chairs being all that it contains. A large cupboard with folding doors is fixed to the wall, and by pressing a spring he loosens one of these doors. The cupboard is bare of shelves, and affords ample space for a man to stand upright in. There is a sliding panel at the back, about three feet from the floor, and just wide enough for a man to squeeze through. He is surprised to see that the sliding panel leads to the interior of the grand piano, which is quite hollow and contains no wire or wood-work of any kind. The open space is large enough for a man to lie down in, though not without discomfort. The key of the piano is in the inner part of the lock, and by removing this any person concealed there could see into the office, and could certainly hear any sounds of voices or movements made therein, the watcher being so shrouded in darkness as to be quite safe from observation. "Another of Samuel Boyd's tricks," thinks Dick, "for spying upon his clerks." To verify this he returns to the office, and satisfies himself that he has arrived at the correct explanation.

As he stands pondering over this curious discovery, which in the end he dismisses from his mind as of no importance, he finds himself mechanically counting the bottles of wine stacked against another part of the wall. It is done idly, and without meaning, but he does not forget that there are seventy-six bottles, with the crusted dust of years upon them. "Port wine, I should say," he thinks. "I should like half a pint." But he does not yield to the temptation.

At three in the morning his search is at an end. He can do nothing more. He has met with no traces of Abel Death, and he has not found an additional clue.

"I must keep my own counsel," he mutters. "If Abel Death turns up will it be for good or ill? His absence lays him open to suspicion, but it is altogether a case of circumstantial evidence. Supposing him to be caught, tried, and convicted, and he an innocent man-!"

He cannot pursue this supposition to its just conclusion. The image of Florence presents itself, her hands stretched out, appealing to him to save Reginald.

With a sinking heart, and using every precaution to escape observation, he succeeds in getting out of the office by the front entrance. Oppressed by the conviction that he must now wait for the course of events, and that he is powerless to direct them, he is walking out of Deadman's Court when the voice of Constable Applebee falls upon his ears.

"I thought it was you, sir," said the constable. "Have you been looking at the house?"

"Yes," replies Dick, pulling himself together, "from the outside."

"Of course from the outside, sir," says Constable Applebee. "I should like to have a look at it from the inside. People are beginning to talk about it. It's seven days now since anybody's set eyes on Mr. Boyd, and seven days since Mr. Abel Death disappeared. That's what I call a coincidence. I hope it's nothing more than that. Hope you're comfortable in your new lodgings, sir."

"Quite comfortable, thank you. I must be off to them now. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Dick is by this time thoroughly tired out, and when he reaches his room is glad to tumble into bed.

CHAPTER XXVI

"THE LITTLE BUSY BEE" GETS AHEAD OF ITS RIVALS

Two days afterwards, that is, on the 9th of March, some hours after the morning papers were in circulation, all London was ringing with the news of the mysterious murder in Catchpole Square. The name of Samuel Boyd was on every tongue; the newsboys shouted it out raucously and jubilantly, with the full force of their lungs, and the wind carried it into all the highways and byeways of the vast metropolis; it was printed on the variously coloured waybills of the newspapers in scarlet letters, green letters, yellow letters, as large as the width of the sheets permitted; it was read aloud and discussed in omnibuses, in public-house bars, in the workshops and places of business; it was bandied about, tossed in the air, caught up and passed on, embellished, illustrated and exaggerated, and rolled over the tongue as the most tempting of tempting morsels. Editorial offices were alive with it, their swing doors had not a moment's rest, the whole of the staff were on the qui vive, reporters hurried this way and that in their hunt for facts, fanciful or otherwise, that had the remotest connection, or no connection at all, with the name of the murdered man and the circumstances of the murder, as far as they were known. Now was the chance for the descriptive writer, for the youthful aspirants for journalistic fame, for the enterprising interviewer. Things had been rather dull lately. There had been no stirring crime, no bloodthirsty deed, no sensational trial, no tremendous conflagration, no awful shipwreck, no colliery explosion, no terrible railway collision, for quite a week, and circulation was languishing. But here at last was a dish of hot spice to stir the blood, to set tongues wagging, to fire the imagination, to make the pulses glow. A murder! And such a murder! Dark, thrilling, impenetrable, inscrutable, enveloped in delicious mystery. What is one man's meat is another man's poison, and Samuel Boyd, who had never in life given a beggar a penny or the price of a meal to a starving man, was the means, in death, of filling many a platter and frothing up many a pewter pot. Trade revived. People spent more, drank more, smoked more, went to the music-halls and theatres more, for it was impossible to keep still with such an excitement in the air. See the radiant faces of the ragged street urchins as they shout it out and dispose of their sheets, and are not asked for change of a penny-see the journalistic scouts as they follow the trail, true trail, false trail, any trail-see the crowds in Fleet Street and the Strand and all the narrow thoroughfares leading riverwards-see the smart newspaper carts, with their dapper ponies flying north, south, east, and west with their latest editions-see the travellers on the tops of omnibuses throwing down their coppers and bending over to seize the papers-see the railway bookstalls besieged by eager buyers, who, rushing to catch a train, pick up half a dozen different journals, in the hope of finding in one of them two or three lines of different import from those contained in all the others-see the men standing at street corners, running their eyes down the columns, animated by a similar hope-see the telegraph wires, blind and deaf to human passion, carrying the message of murder, murder, murder, on their hundreds of miles of silent tongues-see the envy of the hawkers of wax matches, penny toys, and bone shirt studs, as they watch the roaring trade that is being done by the busy armies of tag, rag, and bobtail, who form the distributing street agency of journalistic literature, and wish that heaven had sent them such a bit of luck. Sold out again, Jack! Hurrah! Fly off for another quire. As good as a Derby Day, Bill! As good? Ten times better! Where are "all the winners" now? Shorn of their glory they sink into the background, and no small punter so poor to do them reverence? What are "all the winners" to a rattling spicy murder?

Never had "The Little Busy Bee" more fully justified its title than on the present occasion. A daring scheme had suggested itself to one of the members of the staff, which had been crowned with success. Ahead of all its rivals it was the first to publish the exciting news, and needless to say it made the most of its golden opportunity. The office was besieged; it was like a Jubilee Day. Men and boys fought and scrambled for the copies as the steam presses belched them forth, and selling them out before they reached the wider thoroughfares, rushed back for more. The day was Saturday, and the whirling tumult lasted till midnight.

The manner of "The Little Busy Bee's" buzzing in its preliminary editions was as follows: First, a quotation in large type from "Macbeth." "And one cried, Murder!" Then half a column of the usual sensational headings. Then the account of the daring scheme and the discovery in the following fashion:

CHAPTER XXVII

"THE LITTLE BUSY BEE" ENLIGHTENS THE PUBLIC

"Special and exclusive information has just reached us of

A Remarkable and Ghastly Murder

in the North of London, and we hasten to lay the particulars before the public. It will be fresh in the recollection of our readers that in our Tuesday's editions we drew attention to a blind thoroughfare in that neighbourhood, known as Catchpole Square, to which the only access is through a hooded passage, bearing the ominous and significant designation of Deadman's Court. On that morning a poor woman, accompanied by her little daughter, whose pallid face and emaciated appearance evoked general sympathy, made an application to the magistrate at the Bishop Street Police Court respecting the mysterious disappearance of her husband, Mr. Abel Death. It appears that this man was a clerk in the employ of Mr. Samuel Boyd, of Catchpole Square, and that on Friday evening last he was summarily discharged by his employer. He was in needy circumstances and he came home to his lodgings in a very desponding frame of mind, for the loss of his situation spelt ruin to his family. In this desperate strait he left his wife at between nine and ten o'clock on the same night, with the intention, as she stated, of making an appeal to Mr. Boyd to take him back into his service. From that hour to this nothing has been heard of him. Neither has anything been heard of Mr. Samuel Boyd, who, it may be premised, is supposed to be a man of great wealth, and is described by some of his neighbours as a money-lender, by others as a miser. Credence is given to the latter description by the fact that he lived quite alone, and kept no servants in his house, such domestic services as he required being performed by a charwoman who attended only when she was sent for.

"Mrs. Death's application at the police court having been made public through the medium of our columns it was a reasonable presumption that it would have come to the notice of Mr. Samuel Boyd, and that he would have sent a communication either to the distracted wife or to the newspapers, stating if Abel Death visited him on Friday night, and if so, at what hour he left. But Mr. Boyd made no sign. The woman said that she had been several times to the house in Catchpole Square, and had received no response to her knocking at the street door. Nothing was seen of either of the men, and it is probable that nothing would have been known for a considerable time had it not been for the bold action taken by a valued member of our staff, to whose love of adventure we have been frequently indebted.

"We may state at once that this gentleman acted entirely upon his own initiative, and that we accept the full responsibility of his proceedings, and are prepared to defend them. It may be objected in some quarters that he took upon himself duties which did not fall within his province. We will not at present argue the point. There was a dark mystery; there were rumours of foul play; hidden from public gaze stood a house which contained the evidence of

A Terrible Tragedy;

futile endeavours had been made to obtain entrance into this house; the police did not act, probably because they had no authority to act. What followed? That the press stepped in, and by a bold stroke

Laid a Foul Crime Bare

"History records how officers high in command on land and sea, but not invested with complete authority, have disobeyed orders and won great victories. Success justified them. Success justifies us.

"We come now to details.

"In his endeavour to ascertain whether a search of Mr. Samuel Boyd's house would afford a clue to the silence of its proprietor and to the disappearance of Abel Death, our reporter ran the risk of being arrested for burglary. Except that he did not get in by the front door we do not propose just now to disclose how he obtained an entrance into the open space at the back; sufficient that he did obtain it, and that at ten o'clock this morning he found himself in an enclosed yard at the rear of the house. The merest examination of this part of the premises satisfied him that some person, probably a more experienced burglar, had been before him. The back door was locked and bolted, but a window sill and the panes of glass above had been smashed in, and there were signs that the person who had done this had entered the house through the window. To reach the sill the first burglar had stood upon a rickety bench which had apparently given way beneath him. Our reporter managed to put this together in a sufficiently firm manner to afford him a temporary foothold. Then, with an upward spring, he got his hands upon the sill, and scrambled through the window into a small unfurnished room. He did not effect this violent entrance without noise, but there were no indications that his movements had disturbed any person in the house, which was silent as the grave. His next task was to examine the rooms, all the doors of which were unlocked. He proceeded with great caution, and at length reached an apartment which, from the fact of its containing a writing table, desk, and safe, he concluded was the office in which Mr. Boyd conducted his business affairs, although, from the singular collection of articles scattered about, it might have been the shop of a dealer in miscellaneous goods, comprising as they did several dozens of wine, old tapestry and armour, pictures, valuable china, a grand piano, and, strangest of all, the wax figure of a Chinaman which might have come straight from Madame Tussaud's exhibition. Our reporter confesses to a feeling of alarm when he first saw this figure, the back of which was towards him, and, while it did not lessen his surprise, it was with relief he ascertained its real nature. Up to this point, however, strange as were the objects which met his eyes, he had seen nothing to warrant his breaking into the house. The safe was locked, and there was no appearance of its having been tampered with; with the exception of the broken window at the back of the house, there were no signs of disorder in any part of it, and he began to doubt the wisdom of his proceedings. He was not to remain long in doubt; he was on the threshold of

An Appalling Discovery

"There are three doors in the apartment in which he stood. One leading to the passage, one on the left, and one on the right. This last door opened into a bedroom, which he entered. Seeing the form of a human being in the bed he retreated, uncertain how to act. Then he called softly, and receiving no answer spoke in a louder tone, and still received no answer. Mustering up courage he approached the bed, stepping very gently, and laid his hand on the man's shoulder. The silence continuing he turned down the bedclothes. The man was dead!

"In view of the proceedings he had determined to take our reporter last night obtained from a policeman a personal description of Mr. Samuel Boyd, and he had no difficulty in identifying the features of the dead man. They were those of Abel Death's employer, and from certain marks on his throat he came to the conclusion that Mr. Boyd had been murdered by strangulation. The position of the furniture did not denote that a struggle had taken place on the floor of the bedroom, and the reasonable conclusion is that Mr. Boyd had been strangled in his sleep. After the deed was done the murderer must have composed the limbs of his victim, and arranged the bedclothes over the body, in order, probably, to make it appear that Mr. Boyd had died a natural death. The shortsightedness of this proceeding is a singular feature in this ruthless crime, for it is scarcely possible that the marks on his throat could escape detection, or that the strangulation could have been effected without some violent efforts on the part of the victim to save himself, whereby the bedclothes must have been tossed about.

"The silence of Mr. Samuel Boyd on the subject of the disappearance of Abel Death is now accounted for; the disappearance of Abel Death has yet to be explained. We make no comment. From this hour the matter is in the hands of the police, who will doubtless set all the machinery of Scotland Yard in motion to discover the murderer and bring him to justice.

"A circumstance remains to be mentioned which may furnish a clue. Before he left the house to give information to the police our reporter's attention was attracted by certain dark stains on the floor of the bedroom and the office. They bear the appearance of having been made by a man's feet. Our reporter traced these dark stains from the office into the passage, and from the passage down a staircase leading to the small room which our reporter first entered through the broken window. There they end. The mystery is deepened by the fact that there are no marks of blood on the clothes of the bed in which the murdered man lies. Our reporter scraped off a portion of the stains, which we have placed in the hands of an experienced analyst, in order to ascertain whether they are stains of human blood.

"An important question, yet to be decided, is, when the murder was committed. Our reporter is of the opinion that it was perpetrated several days ago. The evidence of doctors will be of value here. We understand that no person in the neighbourhood of Catchpole Square has seen Mr. Boyd since last Friday evening. From Mrs. Death's evidence at the Bishop Street Police Court we gather that her husband has not been seen since that day. The presumption is that the murder was committed on Friday night. Much depends upon the discovery of Abel Death and upon the explanation he will be able to give of his movements. It is understood that Mr. Boyd leaves one son, his only child, who is now in London.

"We shall continue to issue editions of 'The Little Busy Bee' until midnight, in which further particulars will be given of this strange and most mysterious murder."

CHAPTER XXVIII

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.