Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

"It was. He always slept there."

The Juror: "Is it the only bedroom in the house?"

"No; there is another bedroom on the second floor."

The Juror: "Occupied by any person?"

"By no person during my service with the deceased."

The Juror: "But at some time or other occupied by another person?"

"I believe by Mr. Reginald Boyd when he lived in the house."

The Juror: "Under what circumstances did he leave his father's house?"

"It is hardly a question that should be put to me."

The Juror: "You think it would be better to ask Mr. Reginald Boyd?"

"That is for you to decide."

The Coroner: "You were in the house yesterday?"

"Yes."

"We understand you are searching for a will?"

"Yes."

"And have found none?"

"None."

The Coroner: "I am now going to put a question to you which I put to Inspector Robson. When you saw the body did you receive any impression as to the length of time Mr. Boyd had been dead?"

"Yes. He must have been dead four or five days at least."

Lady Wharton: "They are stark staring mad!"

The Coroner: "I assure Lady Wharton that if she persists in these interruptions she cannot be allowed to remain in Court."

The evidence of Constable Applebee, who was the next witness, was then taken. Catchpole Square is within the radius of his beat, and not a week passed without his seeing Mr. Samuel Boyd two or three times. He was positive that the body was that of Samuel Boyd, and he would not admit the possibility of his being mistaken.

"Did you see any suspicious persons about on the night of the 1st?"

The witness answered "No," and happened to glance in the direction of Lady Wharton, upon which another scene occurred. Her ladyship exclaimed, "Gracious Powers! I am in a hornet's nest! Does the man suspect me?" It was with difficulty that she was calmed, and it was only upon her giving her promise that she would not speak again that an order for her removal was not carried out.

Mr. Finnis: "Her ladyship visited Mr. Samuel Boyd on the night of the 1st upon a matter of business, and the witness probably saw her."

The Coroner: "That is no excuse for these interruptions, Mr. Finnis." (To the witness.) "On any subsequent occasion did you see any suspicious persons about?"

"Yes, on the night of the great fog something occurred. The fog was so thick that I missed my way, and by accident I stumbled upon Constable Pond, whose beat joins mine. We were close by Catchpole Square, and we went into it. As we were moving away I saw a woman trying to steal from the Square into Deadman's Court. I ran and caught the person by the arm, but somehow or other she slipped through my hands and escaped."

"Did you see her face?"

"No, she was too quick for me."

"At what time did this take place?"

"I can't say exactly, but it was past midnight."

"Is it usual for people to be in the Square so late?"

"Quite unusual."

"That is all you can tell us?"

"That's all, except-" Here the witness hesitated.

"Except what?"

"Well, it has nothing to do with the case, but it come into my mind that two nights last week I met Mr. Richard Remington near the Square."

"You must have met many persons. What is there special in your meeting Mr. Remington?"

"Only that both times it was two or three o'clock in the morning. It isn't worth mentioning."

"The smallest incident in connection with a case of this description is worth mentioning. Did you have any conversation with him?"

"Oh, yes. The first time we had a long talk together."

"Did he say what brought him out so late!"

"Well, he said he was looking for a lodging."

"What! At two or three in the morning?"

"Yes, that is what he said."

"It sounds like a joke; he can hardly have been serious."

A Juror: "Perhaps Mr. Remington would like to explain."

Mr. Richard Remington (from the body of the Court): "I am quite ready to explain."

The Coroner (to Constable Applebee): "We have nothing further to ask you."

Mr. Richard Remington was recalled.

"You have heard what the last witness said in reference to yourself?"

"Yes; he spoke the truth. I met him on two occasions last week, in the middle of the night, and we had a chat. Of course it is absurd to suppose I was looking for lodgings at that time, but I intended to do so next morning, and I mentioned it to Constable Applebee, thinking it likely he might know of a place to suit me. In point of fact he did know, and it was upon his introduction that I took a room next day in the house of Constable Pond in Paradise Row. You might like to hear why I went in the direction of Catchpole Square on the night of the fog. Well, I was in the Bishop Street Station at about midnight when Mrs. Abel Death reported the disappearance of her husband and asked the assistance of the police. As I had been in the employ of Mr. Samuel Boyd I took an interest in her story, and, my time being my own, I thought I would have a look at the old house."

The Coroner: "Thank you, Mr. Remington."

The last witness called was Mrs. Jewel, a charwoman, whose evidence was mainly interesting from the insight it afforded of the singular domestic habits of the deceased. She was the only female servant employed by Mr. Boyd, and her services were not requisitioned for more than two half-days every week. The witness described the deceased as the hardest master she ever had. When she swept out a room or made a bed he grumbled at the way it was done, and made it an excuse for beating her down to the last farthing. She did no cooking for him; he took his dinner at some cheap eating house, and prepared his own breakfast and tea. "He'd skin a flint," the witness remarked. The value of Mrs. Jewel's evidence lay in her intimate familiarity with the personal appearance of the deceased. She swore positively to the body, and laughed at the idea of her being mistaken. Some amusement was caused by her being hard of hearing, and she resented this by giving short snappy replies to the questions put to her, and declining to be moved by so much as a hair's breadth from any statement she made. The last of these questions were put by the juror who had taken so prominent a part in the proceedings, and who resisted every effort made by the Coroner to abbreviate his inquiries.

The Juror: "You worked for the deceased during the time his son, Mr. Reginald Boyd, lived in the house?"

Mrs. Jewel: "Of course I did, and Mr. Reginald's a gentleman."

"Were they on good terms with each other?"

"No," she answered, "old Mr. Boyd was always quarrelling with Mr. Reginald. He stormed a lot, but Mr. Reginald was very quiet, and hardly answered his father. At last he went away, and I don't blame him."

Nothing further was elicited from the witness, and the inquiry was adjourned till Wednesday, when, the Coroner said, important evidence would be laid before the jury.

CHAPTER XXXIV

GATHERING CLOUDS

"There's trouble coming, there's trouble coming." This was the dominant thought in Dick's mind as he emerged from the court. Reporters, hurriedly gathering their sheets of notes and sketches, were hastening to their respective offices, and persons who had been unable to obtain admission were eagerly asking for news of what had taken place. The jurymen filed out, with a judicial weight on their brows, and the man who had put and prompted so many questions gave Dick a searching look as he passed. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Remington," said a cheery interviewer, "I belong to 'The Hourly Inquirer,' and if you would give me a few minutes-" "No time for interviewing-nothing to say," interrupted Dick, and hurried on. Of which the interviewer made a quarter of a column. Dick was not in the mood to impart information or impressions; he had more serious matters to think of. It seemed to him as though sinister forces were at work inimical to Florence and Reginald. "I wonder," he thought, "what kind of evidence Lady Wharton has to give-she seems terribly in earnest."

Clear of the crowd he felt a light touch upon his arm; looking down he saw it was Florence.

"Reginald sent me," she said; "he is very anxious. Is it over?"

"Not by a long way," he replied. "People are staring at us. Let us walk on."

"What has been done, Dick?"

"Evidence of identification has been taken, and a lot of stupid and unnecessary questions asked. You will read all about it in the papers, one part true, and three parts fiction." He spoke with a light air to relieve her mind. "Reporters make the most of everything; it is their business to lay on colour pretty thickly. There is one rather vexatious thing-your visit to Catchpole Square on the night of the fog."

"Has my name been mentioned?" asked Florence, in alarm.

"No, but it may be, and we must consider what we ought to do. Don't look distressed; a straightforward explanation will set it right. Docs Uncle Rob know you went there?"

"No."

"Aunt Rob?"

"No. There was no harm in my going-"

"None whatever, dear."

"And none in my not speaking of it. There has been so much else to think of."

"Indeed there has, and you have done everything for the best; but in this unfortunate matter Uncle Rob is very delicately and peculiarly placed; he is not only privately but officially connected with it. You see that, don't you?"

"Yes, Dick."

"People are so uncharitable that a false step, though taken quite innocently, may lead to trouble. I am afraid you will read many unpleasant thing in the papers, and I want you to be prepared for them." She gave him a startled look. "You must have courage, Florence."

"I will."

"That's right. Now go home and tell them about your visit to Catchpole Square, and why you went. I will be there in an hour or so. And don't for one moment lose heart. There are some unhappy days before us, but before long the clouds will clear, and all will be well."

She left him at the entrance to Deadman's Court, and he gave her a bright smile to cheer her; but when she was out of sight he murmured again, "There's trouble coming, there's trouble coming." He feared he knew not what; every hidden danger seemed to grow, and the dark clouds to deepen. How to ward this danger from Florence? This was his aim and hope, and to this end he was continually nerving himself.

Up to the present nothing but perplexity and mystery had attended his search in the house of the murdered man. There were the bottles of wine. On the first occasion he had mechanically counted seventy-six bottles, on the second occasion seventy-five, and now there were but seventy-four. "Either I am out of my senses," he thought, "or some person has been twice in the house since I forced an entrance into it." Wildly improbable as was the suggestion he found it impossible to reject it. True, he was not the only person who had been there these last two days. Scotland Yard was astir, and had sent detectives and policemen, to whom free access was granted by Dick. These officials made themselves very busy, but for the most part kept a still tongue. Plans of the room were drawn, and every inch of the walls and floors and staircases was examined. When it was proposed to photograph the blood-stained footprints made by Dick, he looked on calmly, and assisted in the preparations.

On this Monday afternoon the undertaker's men were waiting for Dick in the Square, and they followed him upstairs with the coffin. It had been a gruesome task, and he felt as if he could not breathe freely till the body was taken to its last resting place.

Then there was the safe, of which he had found the key. During his service with Samuel Boyd this safe had been the receptacle of all the documents of value and of all the record books belonging to the dead man-bank book, bill book, ledger, mortgage deeds, undue bills, etc.; he expected to see these articles in the safe, but to his astonishment it contained only a few unimportant papers.

At five o'clock the undertaker's men had departed, and Dick with a last look around also took his departure. As he pulled the street door behind him he heard a familiar cough, and a little hand was slid into his. Gracie's hand.

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you, Dick," she said, clinging to him. "I've been everywhere to find you."

"Has your father come back?" he asked, in sudden expectation that she brought him news of the missing man.

"No such luck. You didn't come to see us yesterday."

"I was too busy, Gracie. Are you any better?"

"Ever so much." Her pallid face and the sunken rims round her large black eyes did not confirm the statement. "I can't rest, Dick, I can't rest. Is he caught?"

"Who, Gracie?"

"The man that murdered Mr. Boyd?"

"No; and God knows when he will be."

"If God don't catch him," said Gracie, slowly, "and you don't, I

will. You just see if I don't. I've got to, because of what they're saying of father. Dick, if I was a man I'd tear 'em to pieces. Poor father! It's too bad, ain't it?"

"Altogether too bad."

"There's mother fretting herself to skin and bone. She gets up in the night, and goes down to the Mews, and when she thinks nobody sees her she cries and cries fit to break her heart; but I see her, and I feel like killing somebody!"

Not a trace of emotion in her dark little face; no kindling light in her eyes; no tremor in her voice. The passion which agitated her was expressed only in the clinging of her fingers to the hand of the friend in whom she trusted and believed.

"I dreamt of father last night, Dick," she continued. "He was running as hard as he could, and there was a mob of people after him. I kept 'em back. 'If you dare,' I cried, 'if you dare!' So we got away together, and where do you think we got to?"

"Couldn't say for my life, Gracie, dreams are such funny things."

"Yes, they are, ain't they? We got into Mr. Boyd's house in Catchpole Square, and we went all over it, into every room, creeping up and down the stairs, looking for the murderer. 'You didn't do it, father?' I said. He swore a big oath that he was innocent, and he cried to me to save him and catch the murderer. I'm going to. I promised I would, and I'm going to."

"It was only a dream, Gracie."

"It was real. I can hear him now, I can see him now. I've promised to catch the murderer, and I'm going to."

They had reached Aunt Rob's house, and Dick stopped.

"I must leave you now, Gracie. My friends live here."

"You won't throw us over, will you? You'll come and see us?"

"Yes, I will come."

She raised her face; he stooped and kissed her and she went away with a lighter heart.

CHAPTER XXXV

LADY WHARTON STARTLES THE COURT

When the jury re-assembled on Wednesday the excitement created by the mystery had reached fever heat, and long before the Court was opened a crowd of people had gathered round the doors. Numbers of influential persons had applied for admission, and as many of these were accommodated as the limited space at the disposal of the Coroner would permit. The first day's proceedings had whetted curiosity, and many members of the aristocracy were present to hear the evidence which Lady Wharton was to give, the nature of which had been kept a profound secret. The learned professions were adequately represented; the stage sent some of its best actors and actresses, and literature some of its most famous authors. Never in the history of crime had a gathering so notable assembled at the initial inquiry into the circumstances of a mystery murder.

The murdered man had been buried the previous day, and a vast concourse of people had attended the funeral. Reginald-still very weak-and Florence were the chief mourners, and in their carriage were Inspector Robson and his wife. There was but one other mourning carriage, and this was occupied by Dick and the poor charwoman who had been fitfully employed domestically by the deceased. The newspapers devoted columns to descriptions of the funeral and to those pictorial sketches of personages and incidents which have become almost a craze in up-to-date journalism. Standing by the grave, Dick, looking over the heads of the people, saw Gracie and her mother and Dr. Vinsen, side by side. Mrs. Death was in tears, Gracie wore her accustomed impassive expression, and Dr. Vinsen bared his halo to the skies.

"My young friend, my dear young friend," he said, sidling up to Dick, "this is the end of a crafty life, but let us extend our pity-ex-tend our pi-ty. The grave, like charity, covereth a multitude of sins. We will be clement; we will soften our judgment; it is the least we can do in the presence of death, in the solemn presence of death. If it teaches us a lesson, Mr. Samuel Boyd will not have lived in vain."

"What lesson?" asked Dick, half angrily; the voice, the manner, jarred upon him.

"The lesson of humility, of charity-sweet charity-of justice."

"You call the life that ends here," said Dick, pointing to the grave, "a crafty life. Where does justice come in?"

"Ah, my young friend," responded Dr. Vinsen, shaking his head remonstrantly, "ah, my dear young friend!"

"Meaning-what?" demanded Dick.

"Meaning that you are young, that you have much to learn, much to unlearn."

"You speak in enigmas," said Dick. "Good day."

"Not in anger," said Dr. Vinsen, gently, "not in anger, my dear young friend, lest the dead rise to reproach you."

"He is better where he is," said Dick, cynically. "I knew him-did you?"

"I had not the privilege. In life we never met."

"But you take it very much to heart. Why?"

"My heart is large; it bleeds for all." He laid his hand upon the shoulder of Mrs. Death, and repeated, "It bleeds for all."

"More enigmas-more platitudes," said Dick, scornfully.

Dr. Vinsen looked at him with a pitying smile. "I fear I do not find favour in your eyes."

"To speak plainly, you do not."

"To speak plainly is commendable. But give a reason for it."

"I cannot. You have a scientist for a friend."

"Dr. Pye? Yes."

"He will tell you that there are certain chemicals that will not mix."

"I do not need to be told. I know it."

"Well, then, Dr. Vinsen, we don't mix; and there's an end of it."

"No, my young friend, not an end of it. The end is there, for him, for you, for all. Better for some of us if we were in our graves." There was no change in his voice; it was mild, benignant, reproachful. "Better, far better, for some of us if we were in our graves. Come, Mrs. Death; come, Gracie, my child."

They turned away, but not before Gracie had taken Dick's hand and kissed it.

And now, on Wednesday morning, the Coroner took his place, and addressed the jury in the following terms:

"Upon the opening of this inquiry I advised you to keep an open mind respecting it, and to turn a deaf ear to the strange rumours and reports which were in circulation. I feel it necessary to repeat this caution. The extraordinary statements which have appeared in the public press may or may not have a foundation of fact, but with these statements we have nothing to do, and I beg you to dismiss them. You are here to give your verdict in accordance with the evidence which will be presented to you, and not in accordance with unauthorised and unverified rumour. If you do this without fear or favour you will have performed your duty. Before medical evidence is taken Inspector Robson has requested permission to make a statement, to which, as he is an important witness in the case, I see no objection."

Inspector Robson was then called.

The Coroner: "Does the statement you wish to make, Inspector Robson, relate to the present inquiry?"

Inspector Robson: "It does, Mr. Coroner, though it has no direct bearing upon it. A matter has come to my knowledge since Monday which, although it is purely of a private nature, I consider it my duty to make public. Constable Applebee, in his evidence on that day, mentioned that on the night of the 5th, when he was in Catchpole Square, he saw a woman there whom he challenged, and who escaped from him. The incident was reported at the Bishop Street Station, and note was taken of it. I wish to state that the lady he challenged is my daughter."

"You were not aware of the fact when Constable Applebee was under examination?"

"I was not. My daughter, hearing on Monday that the incident had been mentioned in court, informed me that it was she who had visited Catchpole Square on the night in question."

"Is there any special reason why she did not inform you of it before?"

"None. Had the matter been of importance she would have spoken of it earlier."

"Perhaps we had better hear from her own lips the reason of her visit. Is she in court?"

"She is."

"Let her be called."

Florence came forward. She was sitting between Reginald and her mother, who gave her an encouraging smile as she left them.

The Coroner: "You have heard what your father has said. There is no obligation upon you to state why you went to Catchpole Square at such an hour on such a night; but we are ready to listen to any explanation you may desire to make."

Florence: "I will answer any questions you ask."

"Previous to your visit where were you on that night?"

"At my husband's lodgings in Park Street, Islington. He was very ill, and I was nursing him."

"Did he send you for his father?"

"No, he was delirious. He spoke of his father several times, and it appeared to me to be my duty to make him acquainted with his son's dangerous condition. There was no one else to go but myself, and I went to Catchpole Square because I considered it right to do so."

The Juror (who had taken so conspicuous a part in Monday's proceedings): "When he spoke of his father, what were his precise words?"

The Coroner: "I do not think the witness should be asked that question."

Florence: "Oh, yes, there is nothing to conceal. He simply said, 'My father, my father!' and I gathered from that that he wished to see him. It was natural that I should think so."

The Coroner: "Quite natural. You arrived at Catchpole Square, and knocked at the door of the deceased?"

"Yes, I knocked a good many times, but no one answered me. As I was about to leave the square I heard voices, and saw, very dimly, two men very close to me. I did not know they were policemen, and one of them called out to me to stop, and caught hold of me. I was so frightened that I tore myself away, and ran out of the Square as quickly as I could."

The Juror: "Did you know at that time that your husband was not on good terms with his father?"

The Coroner: "You need not answer that question."

"I wish to answer every question. I did know it, and I knew that there was no fault on my husband's part. It was my hope that his illness would lead to a reconciliation between them. I thank God that my husband is spared to me, but if he had died I should never have forgiven myself if I had not made the attempt to bring his father to him."

"Thank you, Mrs. Boyd; that is all we have to ask."

A buzz of admiration ran through the court as Florence returned to her seat by Reginald's side.

Dr. Talbot Rowbottom, of Harley Street, a member of the Royal College of Surgeons and a doctor of medicine, was then called.

"You examined the body of the deceased?"

"Yes, on Sunday, at the request of Mr. Reginald Boyd, who wrote me a note to that effect. I had read of the discovery of the body in the newspapers, and, anticipating an inquest, I called first upon you, as coroner of the district, and received your permission to make the examination."

"Did the deceased die a natural death?"

"No. He met his death by strangulation."

"You have no doubt upon the subject?"

"Not the slightest."

"He could not have strangled himself?"

"From the condition of the body that is impossible."

"Does your examination of the body warrant you in saying that there was resistance on the part of the deceased?"

"Great resistance. There is every indication of a violent struggle having taken place."

"So that the orderly state of the bed and bedclothes was unnatural?"

"Most unnatural. After the deed was done singular care must have been taken to compose the limbs and arrange the bedclothes."

"Do you consider it likely that, during the struggle, the deceased succeeded in getting out of bed?"