Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

by B. L. Farjeon

"When Uncle Rob and I left the house Mrs. Death and her little girl were in the square; she had tried to force herself into the house, but the policeman kept her back. You know from the papers that her husband has not been seen since Friday week."

"Until I read it in this paper an hour ago," said Reginald, pointing to the copy of "The Little Busy Bee" that lay on the bed, "I was in ignorance of it. I cannot understand his disappearance; it is a mystery. The last I saw of him was on the afternoon of that very Friday, when I went to see my father in Catchpole Square."

"Yes?" said Dick, eagerly, greatly relieved at this candid confession. It was a gleam of comfort.

"My father was not at home, and I came away." He pressed his hand upon his eyes, and a long silence ensued. They looked at him anxiously, and Florence, her finger at her lips, warned them not to speak. Removing his hand, he proceeded: "I ought to tell you now why I went to see my father. Had I been well I should have spoken of it before. Even you, Florence, have not heard what I am about to say. Dick, I can trust you not to speak of this to any one."

"You may trust me thoroughly, Reginald."

"I know, I know. In my dear wife's eyes you are the soul of honour and faithfulness, and in my eyes, also, Dick. It is my hope that we shall always be firm friends."

With but one thought in his mind, the peace and happiness of the woman he loved, Dick answered, "And mine."

"Thank you," said Reginald, gravely. "What I wish to tell you commences with my child-life. My mother, when she married my father, brought him a small fortune, and she had money, also, in her own right. Young as I was, I knew that she was not happy, and that there were differences between her and my father, arising partly from his endeavours to obtain the sole control of every shilling she possessed. There were probably other causes, but they did not come to my knowledge. My mother's refusal to comply with his demands was prompted by her solicitude for my future. She was the best of women, and never uttered one word of reproach against my father; she suffered in silence, as only women can, and she found some solace in the love she bore for me and in the love I bore for her. We were inseparable, and, occupying the home with my father, we lived a life apart from him. He had but one aim, the amassing of money, and there was no sympathy between us. I hope there are not many homes in which such estrangement exists. She died when I was ten, and I lost the one dear friend I had in the world. In our last embrace on her deathbed she said to me, in a whisper, 'Promise me that when you are a man--a happy man, I fervently pray--you will not become a money-lender.' I gave her the promise, and an abhorrence of the trade my father practised took deep root in me, and has grown stronger every year of my life. Over an open grave there should be no bitterness, and though my heart is sore I will strive to avoid it. My mother left me her little fortune, and appointed a trustee over whom, by ill chance, my father subsequently obtained great influence, and in the end had him completely in his power. This trustee died when I was twenty-two, and before then my inheritance was in my father's hands to deal with as he pleased. My mother's will was very precise. A certain sum every year was to be expended upon my education until I came of age, when the residue was to be handed to me to make a practical start in life. She named the schools and colleges in which I was to be educated, and when I was nineteen I was to spend the next two years in France and Germany and Italy, to perfect myself in the languages of those countries. It was at my option whether I remained abroad after I came of age, and, in point of fact, I did, returning home a year after the death of my trustee. You will see by these provisions that I was cut off entirely from the domestic and business life of my father, and I understood and appreciated her reasons when I became intimately acquainted with it--as I did when, my education completed, I returned to his home in Catchpole Square. I lived with him between two and three years, and during that time his one endeavour was to induce me to share the business with him, to obey his orders, to carry out his directions, to initiate myself into a system which I detested, into practices which I abhorred. We had numberless discussions and quarrels; he argued, he stormed, he threatened, and I steadily resisted him. At length matters came to a head, and I finally convinced him that I would not go his way, but would carve out a path for myself. 'Upon what kind of foundation will you carve out this path?' he asked. 'You will want money to keep yourself in idleness till you establish a position, and are able to pay for your livelihood.' 'I have it,' I replied. 'Indeed,' he said, 'I was not aware of it. Have you some secret hoard of wealth which you have hidden from me?' 'I have my inheritance,' I said. He laughed in my face. 'Your inheritance!' he exclaimed. 'You haven't a shilling. Every penny of it, and more, has been spent upon your education and riotous living since your beautiful lady mother died.' The sneering reference to my dear mother angered me more than his statement that I was a beggar, and hot words passed between us, in the midst of which I left the room. The next day I returned to the subject, and said I had understood from my trustee that when I was twenty-one years of age I should come into a fortune of eight thousand pounds. 'He lied,' my father said. 'I have the papers and the calculations here in my safe. You can look them over if you like. I deal fair by every man, and I will deal fair by you, ungrateful as you have proved yourself to be. I could refuse to produce the papers for your private inspection, but I am honest and generous, and though all is at an end between us unless you consent to assist me in my business, I will satisfy you that your father is not a rogue. You are indebted to me a large sum of money, and I shall be happy to hear how soon you intend to pay it.' I replied that I would choose the humblest occupation rather than remain with him, and he took from his safe a mass of documents and said I must examine them in his presence. I did examine them, but could make nothing of them, the figures were so confusing. There were records of transactions into which my trustee had entered on my behalf, losses upon speculations, of charges for my education, of sums of money which had been sent to me from time to time for my personal expenses, of interest upon those advances, of interest upon other sums, of the cost of my board and lodging during the time I had lived at home with my father, of the small sums he had given me during the last two or three years, and of interest upon those sums. At the end of these documents there was a debit upon the total amount of twelve hundred pounds, which my father said I owed him. All this I saw as in a mist, but cunning as the figures were, there was no doubt in my mind that I had been defrauded, and by the last man in the world who should have inflicted this wrong upon me. What could I do but protest? I did protest. My father, putting the papers back in his safe, retorted that I was reflecting upon his honesty, that I was his enemy and had better go to law, and that he renounced me as his son. We had a bitter quarrel, which ended in my leaving his house, a beggar, to begin the world; and so strong were the feelings I entertained towards him, and so sensitive was I to the opprobrium which, in the minds of many people, was attached to the name of Boyd, that I determined to renounce it, as he had renounced me. Thus it was that you knew me only as Mr. Reginald; it caused me many a bitter pang to deceive you, and I was oppressed with doubts as to the wisdom of my resolve. All that is now at an end, however, and I ask your pardon for the deceit. Perhaps you have heard from Florence of the struggle I made to provide a home for her, and of my disappointment and despair at not seeing the way to its accomplishment. I thought much of the fraud of which I had been the victim, and the more I thought the more was I convinced that my father was retaining money which rightly belonged to me. At length it seemed to me that it was my duty to see him again upon the subject, and to make an earnest endeavour to obtain restitution. For my own sake, no. Had I not my dear Florence I think I should have left England, and have striven in another country to carve my way; but having seen her I could not, could not leave her. It was in pursuance of this resolution that I went to Catchpole Square last Friday week, and saw Abel Death, who informed me that my father was not at home. Now you know all."

It was with almost breathless interest that Dick listened to this confession, and it was with a feeling of dismay that he heard the last words, "Now you know all." Did they know all? Not a word about the key, not a word about the second visit to his father late on that fatal Friday night!

"Are people speaking about Abel Death?" asked Reginald, turning to Dick.