Samuel Boyd of Catchpole Square: A Mystery

by B. L. Farjeon

There were three communicating doors in the apartment--one leading to the passage, one to Mr. Boyd's bedroom, one to a room which had always been kept locked. Against the wall between that room and the office the grand piano was placed, and Dick recollected that in his time a large screen had been there, covering the space now occupied by the back of the piano. Very cautiously and slowly he opened the door of the bedroom. Wrought to a pitch of intense excitement it was not surprising that his hand shook--to such an extent, indeed, had he lost control of himself that the candle dropped to the ground and was extinguished. He was plunged in darkness.

In the brief glance he had directed to the bed he fancied he had seen the outline of a sleeping form, and as he knelt to search for the candle he called aloud, "Mr. Boyd!" and trembled at the sound of his voice. "Mr. Boyd! Mr. Boyd!" he called again in louder tones, and his heated fancy created a muffled echo of the name, "Mr. Boyd! Mr. Boyd!" Finding the candle he relighted it, and rising to his feet, slowly approached the bed.

A dumb form was there, its back towards him. The bed was in the middle of the room, the head against the wall. Treading very gently he passed to the other side, and bending forward, with the candle in his upstretched hand, he saw a man's face--the face of Samuel Boyd, cold and dead!

CHAPTER XXI.

[THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.]

He reeled back in horror, but even in that one moment of discovery the necessity of preserving self-control forced itself upon him, and he became calm. The first real step in the mystery was taken, and all his powers of sober reason were needed to consider what would follow, and in what way the dread discovery would affect the beings he held most dear. Fortifying himself with a sip of brandy, and putting into a candlestick the candle he had held in his hand, he turned down the sheets to ascertain how the hard master he had served--the man in whose breast had dwelt no spark of compassion for any living creature--had met his death. There was no blood on the bedclothes, no stab or bullet in the dead man's body. On his face was an expression of suffering, as of one who had died in pain, and his neck was discoloured, as though a hand had tightly pressed it. But this might have been his own act in the agony of the death struggle, and his presence in his bed went far to prove that his end had been a natural one. A closer examination, however, dispelled this theory. The marks on his throat could scarcely have been made by himself, for his arms lay by his side in a natural position. Undoubtedly there had been violence done. By whom?

The first person whose image came to Dick's mind was Abel Death. The image immediately suggested a train of circumstance which, in the heat of the moment, proclaimed the absent man guilty. Abel Death had made his appeal to Samuel Boyd, and had made it in vain. In a paroxysm of fury he had fallen upon his master, and had strangled him. Then, searching for money and finding it, he had fled from the house and taken passage in some outgoing vessel for a foreign land. Presuming that the murder had been committed on the night of the 1st of March there had been ample time to make his escape, but not sufficient time to communicate with his wife. Or, perhaps the man, overwhelmed by terror, was afraid to write.

But upon further reflection this train of circumstance fell apart, and Dick perceived how false it was. It was hardly probable that Samuel Boyd had received Abel Death while he was abed, and still less probable that in his sleeping attire he would open his street door to such a visitor. By no other means than through the door could Abel Death have obtained access to the house. No, it was not he who had committed the crime. But the man was gone, and the mystery of his disappearance was still unexplained.

But if Abel Death could have obtained access to the house only by permission of Samuel Boyd, there was another man who had no need to ask for it. That man was Mr. Reginald Boyd. He possessed a key to the street door, and could obtain admittance at any hour. At any hour? No. Not after Samuel Boyd had chained and bolted the door from within before he went to bed. What was the presumption? That Reginald had quietly entered before the door was fastened, and had secreted himself until his father had retired to rest. Easy to imagine what followed: his appearance in the bedroom when his father was half asleep, his demands for money, the stern refusal and the taunting exchange of angry words, the hot blood roused, the clutching his father by the throat, the murder committed, the disposal of the limbs to make it appear that he had died a natural death, the unbolting and unchaining of the street door, and, finally, the frantic flight. But how to account for the key being upon the mat? As Dick mentally asked this question his eyes fell upon a key hanging by a cord at the head of the bed. Was it Samuel Boyd's own private key to the street door? So much depended upon this that Dick hastened downstairs to settle the point. Yes, it was Samuel Boyd's key. And the second key which Dick had picked up? Dropped by Reginald in his frenzy as he flew out of the house.

Dick's heart sank within him. This plausible chain of circumstance fitted the theory that Reginald was the murderer. Horrible! Most horrible! And Florence loved this guilty man. He it was who was responsible for her flight from her peaceful, happy home; he it was who, for some sinister reason, had imposed secrecy upon her! It seemed to Dick as if he held the fate of Florence's lover in his hands. He returned the second key to its place at the head of the bed, and mechanically--but yet in pursuance of some immature thought--put the key he had found on the mat into his pocket. Then he quitted the room of death, and closing the door, sank into a chair, and rested his head on his hand.