Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 2. Farjeon Benjamin Leopold

I am at present engaged should fail (although filial love and duty will not allow me to relinquish it until I see no possibility of bringing it to a successful issue), the opportunity of our living happily together in another part of the world will always be open to us. But first to perform a son’s duty, then to offer you a husband’s love and care. All that a man can do shall be done to hasten the day on which I shall be privileged to call you wife.

      “You have placed such trust and confidence in me, you have so firmly relied upon my truth and honour, that I often reproach myself for having kept from you some of the most important incidents in my life. But I was pledged to secresy. I had given my solemn word never to speak of certain matters without the sanction of my father. Thus much you know, and you know, also, that I am now in search of that father for whose mysterious disappearance I am unable to account. When I find him he will release me from a vow I made to him under the most painful and distressing circumstances; then I can offer you the name which is my own, and which I renounced; then I can unfold to you the sad and painful story of my life; then I can hold up my head with honour once more, and take my place among men – the place I lost.

      “You say that you have something to communicate to me which bears upon the murder in Great Porter Square. It is, of course, of the greatest importance to me that I should be cleared of the suspicion which must still attach to me; the police have sharp eyes, and although I gave a false name – as true however, as the charge brought against me – it is quite possible that some person who was in the Police Court might recognise me, and cause me fresh trouble. Therefore I shall scarcely ever feel myself safe in the London streets until the murderer is discovered and punished. But above even this in importance I place the strange disappearance of my father. To find him is my first and paramount desire.

      “The picture you have drawn of Mrs. Bailey, the bedridden old lodger, and her deaf and nearly blind old sister, with the languid linnet, and the moping bullfinch, is most amusing. I shall not be at all surprised if, in your next letter, you inform me that the old lady’s mattress is stuffed with bank notes.

      “How highly I value your true womanly attempts to cheer and comfort me! To read your letters is almost to hear you speak, you write so feelingly and earnestly. My fullest love is yours, and yours only. What a loving grateful heart, what willing hands can do, to make you happy when the clouds have cleared, shall be done by me. Rely upon me; have faith in me; and believe me to be,

“Your faithful lover,“FRED.”

      Becky read the letter slowly, with smiles and tears; then kissed it repeatedly, and placed it in the bosom of her dress.

      Before turning her attention to the newspaper she had bought in the afternoon, she ran upstairs to Mrs. Bailey. The old woman was awake, staring at her birds. She asked Becky to rub her side with the liniment, and the girl – to whose heart Fred’s affectionate letter had imparted fresh happiness – did so in a blithe and cheerful manner.

      “You’re better than a doctor, Becky,” said the old woman, “a thousand times better. I was as young and merry as you once – I was indeed. Pretty – too – eh, Becky?”

      “That’s to be seen,” said Becky, rubbing away. “You have the remains now.”

      “Have I, Becky, have I – eh?”

      “Indeed you have – you’re a good-looking old lady.”

      A gleam of vanity and delight lit up the old creature’s eyes for a moment.

      “Am I, Becky – eh? You’re a good girl – listen; I shall leave you something in my will. I’m going to make one – by and bye, but I don’t want any lawyers. You shall do it for me. I can trust you, eh, Becky?”

      “Indeed you can,” replied Becky, tucking the old woman in; “you feel more comfortable now, don’t you?”

      “Yes, your soft hands rub the pain away. But it comes again, Becky, it comes again.”

      “So will I, to rub it away again. I must go down now, I have so much to do.” She patted the old woman’s shoulder, and reached the door, when she stopped and asked, in a careless tone,

      “Have you heard any more mice to-night scratching at the wall in the next house, Mrs. Bailey.”

      “Not a sound, Becky. It’s been as quiet as a churchyard.”

      As she left the room, Becky heard the old woman mumbling to herself, with the vanity of a child,

      “I was pretty once, and I’ve got the remains now. I’m a good-looking old lady – a good-looking old lady – a good-looking old lady! Becky’s a clever girl – I won’t forget her.”

      As Becky descended to the kitchen, she heard a newsboy calling out a new edition of the Evening Moon. Becky went to the street door and asked the boy if there was anything fresh in the paper about the murder.

      “A lot,” replied the boy; “I’ve only two copies left, and I thought I could sell ’em in the Square.”

      Becky bought the two copies, and the boy, whose only motive for coming into the Square was to look at No. 119, refreshed himself by running up and down the steps, and then, retreating to the garden railings, almost stared his eyes out in the endeavour to see the ghost that haunted the deserted house.

      Once more in the kitchen, Becky sat down, and with a methodical air, opened last evening’s paper, and read the “Romance in Real Life” which had caused so much excitement. The writer of the narrative would have been gratified had he witnessed the interest Becky took in his clever manipulation of his facts. The most thrilling romance could not have fascinated her as much as this story of to-day, formed as it was out of what may be designated ordinary newspaper material. Not once did she pause, but proceeded steadily on, column after column, every detail being indelibly fixed upon her mind. Only when she came to the concluding words did she raise her head, and become once more conscious of her surroundings.

      She drew a long breath, and looked before her into the air, as though endeavouring to obtain from invisible space some connecting links between the new ideas formed by this romance in real life. The dominant thought in her mind as she read the narrative was whether she would be able to obtain from it any clue to connect Richard Manx with the murder. Her desire lay in this direction, without reference to its justice or injustice, and she would have felt better satisfied had such a clue been supplied. But she was compelled to confess that, as far as her knowledge of him went in their brief personal intercourse, he was not in the remotest way connected with the crime. Say that this was so – say that he was as little implicated in it as she herself, what, then, was his motive in making his way secretly into the room in which the murder had been committed? Of the fact that he had done so, without having been an eye-witness of it, Becky was morally convinced. What was his motive for this proceeding?

      But Richard Manx did not entirely monopolise her thoughts. With the threads of the story, as presented in the Supplement of the Evening Moon, she wove possibilities which occasioned her great distress, for in these possibilities she saw terrible trouble in the future. If there was a grain of truth in them, she could not see how this trouble was to be avoided.

      Of the name of the murdered man, Mr. Holdfast, she was utterly ignorant. She had never heard of him, nor of Lydia Holdfast, his second wife, who, living now, and mourning for the dead, had supplied the facts of the case to the Special Reporter of the Evening Moon.

      “Had I been in her place,” thought Becky, “I should, for very shame’s sake, if not out of consideration for the dead, have been less free with my tongue. I would have run every risk rather than have allowed myself to be the talking-stock of the whole country. Lydia Holdfast must be a poor, weak creature. Can I do nothing, nothing?”

      Becky’s lips quivered, and had she not been sustained by a high purpose, she might have sought relief in tears.

      “Let me set down my thoughts in plain words,” she said aloud. “I shall then be able to judge more clearly.”

      She produced pen, ink, and paper, and wrote the names:

      “Mr. Holdfast.

      “Lydia Holdfast.

      “Frederick