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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.

In the afternoon Dick came to see them, and they chatted in the sitting room in which they had passed so many happy hours. He was not in a bright mood; dreading every minute that the murder would be discovered and made public, he felt that it would be almost a relief when the cloud burst, as burst it must before long. Knowing what he knew, the suspense was maddening.

"Now, Dick," said Aunt Rob, "I've got something to say to you. Reginald and Florence are here, as you know, but that doesn't make any difference in your room. There it is, ready for you, as it has been all through, and I shall begin to think there's some secret reason for your keeping away from us if you don't occupy it at once. I'll take no denial, Dick."

"Let us wait a bit, aunt," said Dick. "I'll sleep here now and then, and take my meals here, but it wouldn't be fair to Mrs. Pond for me to run away after having been in her house only a few days. So, like the kind dear soul that you are, let it remain as it is for a little while. What's that?"

It was a newsboy shouting at the top of his voice, and selling copies of "The Little Busy Bee" as fast as he could hand them out.

"It's a murder!" cried Aunt Rob. "And do you hear that? Hark! 'Horrible discovery!' Merciful heavens! 'Catchpole Square!' Where Reginald's father lives!"

The two men ran out of the house like mad, and were just in time to tear the last copy from the boy's hands. A glance at the headlines was sufficient.

"You were right, Dick, you were right," said Uncle Rob. "Samuel Boyd's murdered!"

They looked at each other with white faces.

"Found dead in his bed! Strangled! We must keep it from them at home, Dick."

"Impossible, uncle. Listen-there's another boy shouting it out. Let's get back to the house."

They read as they walked, Uncle Rob holding the paper, and Dick looking over his shoulder.

"What is it-what is it?" cried Aunt Rob, meeting them in the passage.

"If it's true, it's murder," said Uncle Rob. "Come into the room, and shut the door. Speak low. Is Florence upstairs?"

"Yes. Wait a minute." She stepped softly to the room above, and quickly returned. "Reginald is dozing, and Florence has fallen asleep in her chair. The poor child is tired out. Murder! Where? In Catchpole Square?"

"Yes."

"Reginald's father?"

"Yes." She uttered a cry of horror. "I must go to the office at once."

"Dick! You're not going, too?"

"I can't stop, aunt. I must go with uncle."

He was in a fever of impatience to get out of the house.

"Do what you can, mother, to keep it from Florence," said Uncle Rob, hurriedly. "If it comes to her ears tell her we've gone to see about it. Now, then, Dick."

"Leave me the paper, father. How horrible! How horrible!"

"Here it is; don't let Florence see it. We'll get another as we go along." As they hastened to Bishop Street Station he said, "This is a bad business, Dick."

"A frightful business."

"I wonder if Mr. Boyd made a will."

"Ah, I wonder."

"If he hasn't his money falls to Reginald. The chances are, though, that there's a will, disinheriting him."

"Do you think so?" asked Dick.

"Don't you?" his uncle asked, in return.

"I don't know what to think. Time will show."

"It will show a good many things. It's got to show what has become of Abel Death. I'm sorry for his wife and that poor little girl."

"I'm sorry for a good many people," said Dick. His uncle cast a hurried look at him. "I don't mean anything. My head's in a whirl."

"No wonder. There's another boy shouting the news. Run after him and get a paper."

They both raced, and bought two copies. The boy's face was beaming.

"He's happy enough," said Inspector Robson.

At the police station they learned that two constables had been sent to Catchpole Square to ascertain whether the news was true.

"I've given them instructions," said the day inspector, "if they can't get into the house by the front door, to scale the wall at the back. I can't say I like the way this case has been got up. Those newspaper men are getting too meddlesome altogether."

"But if it's true," suggested Inspector Robson.

"That will make it all the worse for us," grumbled the day inspector. "The next thing the papers will do will be to start a Scotland Yard of their own. The fact is, the police haven't got power enough; we daren't move without proof positive. It's all very well to talk of the liberty of the subject, but it's my opinion the subject's got more liberty than it has a right to have. I'll give you an instance. I know a man who is as mad as mad can be-a dangerous chap, with a bloodthirsty eye, carries knives, and looks at you as if he'd like to murder you. But we daren't touch him. Why? Because nobody charges him. When he sticks a knife into somebody we can lay our hands on him, but not till then; so we've got to wait till mischiefs done. Then they'll prove him mad, and he'll be made comfortable for life. There's this affair; the public will be down on us for not being the first to make the discovery. We can't move, but a newspaper man can. It's like taking the bread out of our mouths."

Inspector Robson made no comment, but offered advice.

"If I were in your place I should send three or four more constables to Catchpole Square. Deadman's Court is a narrow thoroughfare, and there'll be a rush of people to stare at the house. There should be a guard back and front. I'm going there now to have a look round."

"I'll send the men after you," said the day inspector, "instanter."

Off they hurried to Catchpole Square, where they found that a great many sight-seers had already gathered, of whom only a few at a time were allowed to enter to stare up at the windows of Samuel Boyd's house, a constable being stationed at the entrance of Deadman's Court to guard the passage. Inspector Robson asked this officer where the other constable was.

"Gone to the station, sir, for further instructions," replied the constable, whose name was Filey.

"Who is it?"

"Simmons, sir. We was detailed together."

"Have you been in the house?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did you get in?"

"Over the wall, at the back. We borrowed a ladder, and Simmons mounted and got over, while I kept watch outside."

"What did he find?"

"The body, sir, just as the paper describes."

"Did you get into the house the same way as Simmons?"

"No, sir. He found the key of the street door hanging on a cord in Mr. Boyd's bedroom, and he came out that way and let me in."

At this point four constables from the station appeared on the scene, Applebee among them.

"Who has the key of the street door?"

"I have, sir."

"Give it to me. I knew Mr. Boyd by sight, and so did you, Applebee."

"Could pick him out of a thousand, sir."

"And you, Dick, were intimately acquainted with him. We'll go in and see the body. By the way, Filey, was the street door chained and bolted when Simmons unlocked it?"

"I never asked him. Here he is, sir; he can answer for himself."

Constable Simmons joined the group, and Inspector Robson repeated the question.

"Neither locked nor bolted, sir," he replied.

Inspector Robson drew Dick aside, and said, "That's a suspicious circumstance, Dick. The murderer got in by the back entrance, and got out by the front. I argue it this way. He gets in, he kills the man, he finds the key of the street door in the bedroom, he goes down, unchains, unbolts, and unlocks the door. He then returns to the bedroom and fastens the key on the cord, goes down again and lets himself out. It seems to prove that the murder was committed by a novice."

Dick made no remark. He recollected that Mrs. Death had not said anything in the police station of Reginald's visit to his father in the afternoon, and of his having a second key to the street door. That information had been given exclusively to Dick by Mrs. Death in Draper's Mews; it would come out presently, of course, but he would not utter a word to throw the shadow of a suspicion on Reginald. "A nice treacherous part I'm playing," he thought, "but I must go on with it. God knows how things will turn out."

There were some twenty or thirty persons in the Square; a few were airing theories concerning the murder, and recalling other crimes as mysterious and thrilling; one man was boasting that he had seen every house in London in which a murder had been committed during the last forty years; the majority were silent, and appeared to derive a creepy enjoyment by simply staring at the walls and windows. A journalist was jotting down everything he heard that could be incorporated into an article. Two newspaper artists were sketching, and one of these came forward and asked Inspector Robson if he would kindly point out the window of the room in which the body was lying. He replied that he did not know. The other artist, observing that the Inspector had a key in his hand, inquired if it belonged to the house.

"Key of the street door," said the inspector, whereupon the artist immediately took a sketch of it, and wrote beneath, "Key of the Street Door by which the Murderer Made his Escape."

"We go in for realism," he said, as with a few skilful touches he limned the faces of Inspector Robson, Constable Applebee, and Dick on his sketching pad. "Nothing tickles the public so much as sketches from real life in pen and pencil. We live in a melodramatic age, and must go with the times. I belong to 'The Illustrated Afternoon.' Now I call these speaking likenesses. I take it you belong to the force, and are here upon official business. May I inquire your name, or shall I call it the Portrait of a Gentleman who Carried the Street Door Key?"

With no good grace Inspector Robson gave his name, which was placed beneath his portrait. Then Applebee was asked for his name, and it was given more willingly. The worthy constable had no objection to his features appearing in "The Illustrated Afternoon"; the picture would be preserved in the family as an heirloom.

"And yours?" inquired the artist, of Dick.

"Private person," said Dick.

"Thank you," said the artist, and wrote beneath the portrait, "Private Person who, for Unexplained Reasons, Declined to Give his Name."

The insertion of the key in the lock caused much excitement, and all the artillery of the press was brought to bear upon the inspector. The industrious journalists advanced cogent reasons why they should be let into the house; they begged, they clamoured, but they could not convince the obdurate inspector.

"Very sorry, gentlemen," he said, "but it can't be allowed."

He could not, however, prevent them from obtaining a glimpse of the dark passage, and this glimpse was quite sufficient to enable them to give a vivid description of the walls, the staircase, and the umbrella stand with one umbrella in it, which the eagle eye of the smarter of the artists transferred like lightning to his pad. It was an interesting feature in his article, "The Murdered Man's Umbrella." There was great disappointment among the group outside when the door was closed upon them.

"You've been up these stairs often enough, Dick," said Inspector Robson. "Take us to the room."

His eyes opened wide when they reached the office, and both he and Constable Applebee stared around in amazement.

"Did you ever see anything like this, Applebee?"

"Never, sir, out of a play."

They spoke in hushed voices.

Dick could not have explained why he counted the bottles of wine. It was done mechanically, and without motive, but it gave him a surprise. "Seventy-five bottles," he thought. "I'll take my oath that when I counted them the night before last, there were seventy-six."

"Where's the bedroom, Dick?" whispered the inspector.

Dick opened the door, and creeping in, they stood looking down upon the dead face. In this awful presence they were dumb. Stepping very softly they returned to the office. Then Inspector Robson spoke.

"It's Samuel Boyd. What do you say, Applebee-do you recognise the features?"

"I'll swear to the man, sir."

"And you, Dick?"

"There can be no doubt of it."

"The coroner must be informed. Go and see who's knocking at the street door, Applebee. Don't let any one in." The constable departed on his errand. "It's a clear case, Dick. I wouldn't say so to any one but you, and we must keep our own counsel. The name of the murderer of Samuel Boyd is Abel Death. Now we know why he's keeping out of the way. He's got a long start of us. Here's Applebee coming back. Not a word. Who is it, Applebee?"

"Mrs. Death and her little girl, sir. She's half distracted, and tried to force her way in."

"We've seen what we came to see," said Inspector Robson, "and no person must be admitted into the house. You will keep in the Square to-night, Applebee. I'll put another man on your beat."