Lydia Trent (18 page)

“
Oho,
so I am spied on by your uncle, am I?” fired up the young
gentleman, “And what does he have to do with my choice of friends?”

“
Oh,
Alfred,” sighed Lydia, “Don't make me ashamed of you. In your
heart you know the course you are steering on is a bad one. You owe
it to yourself, and to us, to stop it while you can.”

There
was a long pause, while Alfred considered this, and Lydia held her
breath, half expecting an explosion of indignance at her
interference. But he answered her in quite a different tone.

“
Yes,
I do believe you are right – but what can I do?”

“
You
have professed to want to write – speak to Uncle, he knows some
magazine editors and other literary men, who may be able to help and
advise you. Instead of spending your evenings at the club, read, go
to see good plays and hear good concerts – do anything that will
inspire you and bring out the stronger parts of your intellect. Or
take chambers and study the law – that will fill your time
usefully. In either case, I believe my Uncle will be able to help and
advise you. Shall I ask him for you?”

“
No,
no,” replied Alfred, stung a little, “I can at least do that much
for myself.”

“
I
am glad.” smiled Lydia, “I am sure you will make us proud of
you.”

Alfred
went home that evening in a thoughtful frame of mind. Examining his
conscience – and his bills – he found he had indeed been led into
extravagance and, little by little, almost into imprudence, on the
score of card-playing and little drinking-parties. Little damage had
been done as yet, he was neither a habitual toper nor an inveterate
gambler, but he was on the slippery slope, and he thanked heaven he
had been given warning in time to scramble to safety.

The
very next day, while his resolve was still strong, he went out and
paid all his bills and debts of honour, then called on Mr Trent at
his office. That gentleman was happy to assist the young man in any
way he could, and promised to introduce him to the literary men of
his acquaintance – advising him in the meantime to polish his pen
so as to have something to show the editors. Accordingly, Alfred went
to work with a will, spoiling many sheets of paper and several pens,
and being absent from the house in Bayswater for several days.

When
he did call, he was happy to be able to place before Lydia several
sheets of manuscript, being a couple of lively little travel
sketches, and a review or two of a book or concert.

“
Oh,
Alfred,” beamed Lydia, “I am so glad! When you did not come, I
thought perhaps I had mortally offended you, but now I am so proud of
you.” and she actually kissed the scribbled sheets, saying “God
speed these little paper boats – may they sail on to great things.”

Adeline
was also very pleased, and projected a grand literary career for her
future husband. She was busy settling how he would take the world of
letters by storm, when she was interrupted by the entrance of
Catherine, looking somewhat flustered.

“
Why,
Catherine,” broke in Lydia, “Whatever is the matter? You look as
if you had seen a ghost.”

“
I
almost believe I have.” returned Catherine, in strained accents. “I
would swear on the bible that I just saw – my father.”

Lydia
suppressed her natural urge to call this nonsense, and questioned
Catherine – where and when had she seen him? How did she know it
was him?

“
I
saw him in the street just now, not very far from here – I had been
to buy some ribbon for Adeline, and as I came out of the
haberdashers, a passing carriage obliged me to pause a moment at the
side of the road. At that moment, an old man shuffled past me –
there was something about his walk and his face which arrested my
attention. I looked more closely, and the more I looked the more I
became convinced, it was him. He was a little different – older, of
course, very tanned, and his hair and beard were turned white, as if
by some great shock, but in every other particular he answered my
father's description. Yes, of course I knew him – I lived every day
with him for the first 15 years of my life.

“
I
followed him a few streets, and he went into a lodging house. I dared
not follow further, and so I came home.”

“
But
how could it have been our father?” asked Adeline, “When we know
that Mrs Trent had him put out of the way?”

“
We
do not know for certain – we only suspect.” said Lydia. “It is
possible that Mrs Trent's brother lied, or that we have misread the
evidence entirely. (not much chance of
that
– she thought
privately)

“
Perhaps
Catherine is mistaken, but such a matter calls for thorough
investigation before we dismiss her story out of hand. And so your
impression was that it really was him?”

“
Yes,
for all that it has been ten years since I saw him last, I swear I
should know him anywhere. I looked him over closely, and am quite
satisfied it was my father.”

“
Well,
there is one way to find out, and that is to go and see him.” said
Lydia firmly. “Can you show us the way to the lodging-house?”

Not
very long afterwards, three young ladies were ringing on the doorbell
of a large, square, ugly house, in a dull, ugly street. A large,
square, ugly woman answered the door – like the house, she had also
been scrubbed to within an inch of her life.

“
Excuse
me, is Mr Wade at home?” inquired Lydia.

“
Mr
who?” said the lodging-house keeper, who, having been called from a
pleasant little ceremony involving prawns, soft white rolls, and a
steaming tea-pot from which issued a fragrant invitation to the
delights of the tea-table, was not in the best of tempers.

“
Mr
Malcolm Wade. I believe he is residing here.”

“
Never
heard of him.” snapped the lodging-house woman, conscious that as
she stood here 'jawing' her tea was going cold.

“
Oh,
Perhaps he was visiting someone here, then.”

“
Not
at all. Don't allow visitors. Good day.” and without further ado,
the woman shut the door in their faces.

“
Well,
that is an end of that.” said Adeline, sadly. But Catherine was not
beside her. She had run a few steps, and now accosted a man coming
out of a small tobacconist shop over the way.

“
Papa,
papa, don't you know me?” she cried, “It's Catherine!”

“
Catherine?
Why I have a daughter called that – but you can't be her, she's a
much younger girl. Hardly more than a babe in arms. Excuse me miss.”

So
saying, the man walked off.

“
Oh,
Lydia, Adeline, it is him, I am sure of it! Why doesn't he know me?”
and Catherine burst into tears.

The
three hurried back to Uncle John's house, Lydia and Adeline trying
and failing to comfort the despondent Catherine. She had not wept for
long, but was very subdued.

“
Of
course he would not wish to know me.” she said bitterly. “Did he
not get rid of me ten years ago?”

Lydia
reminded her of the anxiety he had shown in his letters to Evelyn for
news of her, and his expressed wish to make amends.

“
I
know, dear, pay no attention. I am but sad and disappointed, and so I
vent my disappointment in bitter speeches. Pay them no heed, and I
shall be as unruffled as ever quite shortly.”

“
Kitty,
dearest, let us lay the whole matter before Uncle John. I am sure he
will know what to do.” said Adeline, for since Alfred had told of
the help the old gentleman had been in his first literary endeavours,
the girl looked upon him as a sort of oracle of all things wise and
good.

Catherine
demurred at first, but was at last induced to consent, and so when
their uncle came home, they told him the history of their afternoon.

“
Well,
dears,” began Mr Trent, after some thought, “You obtained some
very useful information from that detective friend of Mr Denham's. My
advice would be – call him in again. Perhaps he can sift to the
bottom of this mystery.”

“
Of
course, what an excellent idea!” cried Adeline, and kissed her
uncle. A note to Alfred was dispatched, and the young man was able to
bring Mr Dodd to them on the following afternoon.

That
gentleman looked thoughtful as they explained the story, stroked his
chin over the letters, which he had not hitherto seen, and eventually
went off, puffing his pipe hard as he walked – always a sure sign
of deep cogitation with him.

His
first call was to the nearest Post Office, where he borrowed a copy
of the London Directory, and within a very short time was in a
hansom, bowling along the narrow sidestreets of London.

He
alighted from the vehicle in a somewhat shabby district of the city,
in front of a tall, narrow, dingy building. Affixed to the railings
was a peeling sign, which proclaimed, in cracked and faded letters,
that this venerable edifice was the grandly-named 'Lambscourt Hotel'.

He
entered this less-than imposing hostelry, and soon found himself in
conversation with a dilapidated waiter- cum- porter- cum- general
factotum, in a rusty black livery and tarnished gold buttons, who
emanated a general atmosphere of dust, tobacco-smoke, unwashed linen
and stale beer. Following the exchange of a modest amount of silver,
which disappeared quickly and furtively into the aged waiter's
sagging pocket, this unpreposessing informant turned out to be a mine
of information about the previous year's tragic 'haccident'.

“
For
the genn'lman who occupied the room was not to be found, he giv his
name as Mr Collins, but I don't thinks as that was the name he went
by. Didn't leave no luggage either, which was queer – blowed if he
had any to leave. Anyway, big chap he was, nose had been broke at one
time, told me if anyone came asking after a Mrs Parrish they was to
refer to him. Before too long, the genn'lman who fell, he comes in
and asks for the lady, as I'd bin told, so I sends him on up. Ten
minutes later there's a stir outside, and there he lays with his head
broke. Of course the constables were called, but by that time Mister
Collins as he called himself was vanished like a ghost in the night.
So it was coming pretty clear as how the feller came to drop out of
the window. Anyway, the constables fetched the hand-ambulance, and
whisks the one as dropped – never did know his name – off to the
free ward at St Thomas's. And that's the last I heerd of it. Of
course the police poked about a rare bit, but nothing ever came of
it.”

Mr
Dodds thanked the elderly gent, and hopped in another hansom, which
he directed to take him to Saint Thomas' hospital.

There
he made some discreet enquiries, and after talking to several people
- nurses, and porters, all more or less busy, but perfectly amenable
to chat for a moment when they saw the glimmer of silver in the
detective's friendly paw – he was able to ascertain that the
gentleman had not died, but was now somewhat simple, had given his
name as Mr Tom Alcott, and after a long convalescence, had retired to
lodgings near Bayswater, where he kept body and soul together by
means of whittling little trinkets out of wood.

The
Bayswater connection decided the matter – Mr Dodds repaired to the
lodging house where Lydia, Adeline and Catherine had met with such a
rude repulse, and enquired after Mr Alcott.

“
You
shan't find 'im 'ere at this time of day.” snapped the Amazon who
guarded the gates. “I arsks my gents to leave between ten am and
seven pm, which is quite usual in my line of business.”

“
Can
you tell me, my good woman, where I might find him at this present
moment?”

The
lodging-house virago pursed her lips, in a manner that suggested she
was mortally affronted by being called anyone's good woman. However,
she did speak.

“
Probably
in the public, else sitting in the gardens chipping away with his
pocket knife at some infernal bit of wood.” she grudgingly
admitted, with a moue of disgust at both these habits in equal
measure. Then, without any further ado, she shut the door. However,
the gentleman he sought was not to be seen at either of the resorts
the woman had named, so Mr Dodds decided to return after seven.

He
had dined comfortably upon a mutton chop at an inn in a slightly less
shabby neighbourhood, and at seven fifteen sharp was ringing the
doorbell of the lodging-house once again.

This
time, he found the woman in a towering rage.