Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 1

by B. L. Farjeon

A more grotesque fancy was it to dream that the wooden old impostor in the weather indicator on her mantelshelf was the murderer. This antiquated farmer, who was about four inches in height, unhooked himself from his catgut suspender, slid down to the ground, and stood upon the floor of the kitchen, with Murder in his Liliputian carcase. With no sense of wonder did the dreamer observe the movements of this incredible dwarf-man. He looked around warily, his wooden finger at his wooden lips. All was quiet. He walked to the wall, covering about a quarter of an inch at every step, and rapped at it. A small hole appeared; he vanished through it. The opening was too small for Mrs. Preedy’s body, and the current of her fancies carried her to a chair, upon which she sat and waited for the murderer’s return. The opening in the wall led to the next house, No. 119, and the sleeper knew that, as she waited, the dreadful deed was being done. The wooden old impostor returned, with satisfaction in his face and blood on his fingers, which he wiped on Mrs. Preedy’s apron. He slid up to his bower in the weather indicator, and re-hooked himself on to his catgut suspender, and stood “trembling in the balance,” but perfectly easy in his mind, predicting foul weather.

“Ah, my man,” said Mrs. Preedy, in her sleep, shaking her fist at him, “it will be foul weather for you to-morrow, when I have you taken up and hanged for it!”

Then came another fancy, that he had murdered the wooden young woman in her bower (so that she should not appear as a witness), and that it would never be fine weather any more.

These and other fancies faded and were blotted out, as though they had never been, and a dread silence fell upon the soul of the slumbering woman.

She was alone in a room, from which there was no outlet but a door which was locked on the outside. No person was within hail. She was cut off from the world, and from all chance of help. She had been asleep, dreaming of an incident in her childhood’s days. A dream within a dream.

From the inner dream she was suddenly awakened. Still asleep, and nodding over the table, upon which lay the copies of the Evening Moon, she believed herself to be awake. What had roused her? A footfall upon the stairs in the upper part of the house.

It was a deserted house, containing no other occupant but herself. The door was locked; it was impossible to get out. The very bed in which she lay was a prison; she could not move from it. Afraid almost to breathe, she listened in fear to the sound which had fallen on her sleeping senses.

She knew exactly how the house was built—was familiar with every room and every stair. Another footfall—another—a long pause between each. The man, who was creeping down to her chamber to murder her, was descending the staircase which led from the third to the second floor. He reached it, and paused again.

There was no doubt about his intention. In her dream, it appeared as if she knew the whole history of this murderer, and that he was the terror of every householder in London. He worked in secret, and always with fatal, deadly effect. He left nothing to chance. And Mrs. Preedy was to be his next victim.