The Mystery of a Hansom Cab (26 page)

‘For God's sake, no,' she cried.

But it was too late. Madge had caught sight of the names on the paper—‘Marriage—Rosanna Moore—Mark Frettlby'—and the whole awful truth flashed upon her. These were the papers Rosanna Moore had handed to Whyte. Whyte had been murdered by the man to whom the papers were of value—

‘God! My father!'

She staggered blindly forward, and then, with one piercing shriek, fell to the ground. In doing so, she struck against her father, who was still standing beside the table. Awakened suddenly, with that wild cry in his ears, he opened his eyes wide, put out feeble hands as if to keep something back, and with a strangled cry fell dead on the floor beside his daughter. Sal, horror-struck, did not lose her presence of mind, but, snatching the papers off the table, she thrust them into her pocket, and then shrieked aloud for the servants. But they, already attracted by Madge's wild cry, came hurrying in, to find Mark Frettlby, the millionaire, lying dead, and his daughter lying in a faint beside her father's corpse.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

HUSH-MONEY

As soon as Brian received the telegram which announced the death of Mark Frettlby, he put on his hat, stepped into Calton's trap and drove along to the St Kilda station in Flinders Street, with that gentleman. There Calton dismissed his trap, sending a note to his clerk with the groom, and went down to St Kilda with Fitzgerald. On arrival they found the whole house perfectly quiet and orderly, owing to the excellent management of Sal Rawlins. She had taken the command in everything, and although the servants, knowing her antecedents, were disposed to resent her doing so, yet such was her administrative powers and strong will, that they obeyed her implicitly. Mark
Frettlby's body had been taken up to his bedroom, Madge had been put to bed, and Dr Chinston and Brian sent for. When they arrived they could not help expressing their admiration at the capital way in which Sal Rawlins had managed things.

‘She's a clever girl that,' whispered Calton to Fitzgerald, ‘curious thing she should have taken up her proper position in her father's house. Fate is a deal cleverer than we mortals think her.'

Brian was about to reply when Dr Chinston entered the room. His face was very grave, and Fitzgerald looked at him in alarm.

‘Madge—Miss Frettlby,' he faltered.

‘Is very ill,' replied the doctor, ‘has an attack of brain fever—I can't answer for the consequences yet.'

Brian sat down on the sofa, and stared at the doctor in a dazed sort of way. Madge dangerously ill—perhaps dying—what if she did die, and he lost the true-hearted woman who stood so nobly by him in his trouble.

‘Cheer up,' said Chinston patting him on the shoulder, ‘while there's life there's hope, and whatever human aid can do to save her will be done.'

Brian grasped the doctor's hand in silence, his heart being too full to speak.

‘How did Frettlby die?' asked Calton.

‘Heart disease,' said Chinston. ‘His heart was very much affected, as I discovered a week or so ago. It appears he was walking in his sleep, and entering the drawing-room, he alarmed Miss Frettlby, who screamed and must
have touched him—he awoke suddenly, and the natural consequences followed—he dropped down dead.'

‘What alarmed Miss Frettlby?' asked Brian in a low voice, covering his face with his hand.

‘The sight of her father walking in his sleep, I suppose,' said Chinston, buttoning his glove, ‘and the shock of his death which took place indirectly through her, accounts for the brain fever.'

‘Madge Frettlby is not the woman to scream and waken a somnambulist,' said Calton decidedly, ‘knowing as she did the danger—there must be some other reason.'

‘This young woman will tell you all about it,' said Chinston, nodding towards Sal, who entered the room at this moment. ‘She was present, and since then has managed things admirably—and now I must go,' he said, shaking hands with Calton and Fitzgerald. ‘Keep up your heart my boy, I'll pull her through yet.'

After the doctor had gone, Calton turned sharply to Sal Rawlins, who stood waiting to be addressed.

‘Well,' he said briskly, ‘can you tell us what startled Miss Frettlby?'

‘I can, sir,' she answered quietly. ‘I was in the drawing-room when Mr Frettlby died—but—we had better go up to the study.'

‘Why?' asked Calton in surprise, as he and Fitzgerald followed her upstairs.

‘Because, sir,' she said, when they had entered
the study and she had locked the door, ‘I don't want anyone but yourselves to know what I tell you.'

‘More mystery,' muttered Calton, as he glanced at Brian, and took his seat at the escritoire.

‘Mr Frettlby went to bed early last night,' said Sal, calmly, ‘and Miss Madge and I were talking together in the drawing-room, when he entered, walking in his sleep, and carrying some papers—'

Both Calton and Fitzgerald started, and the latter grew pale.

‘He came down the room, and spread out a paper on the table, where the lamp was. Miss Madge bent forward to see what it was—I tried to stop her, but it was too late—she gave a scream, and fell on the floor. In doing so she happened to touch her father— he awoke and fell down dead.'

‘And the papers?' asked Calton, uneasily.

Sal did not answer, but producing them from her pocket, laid them in his hands.

Brian bent forward, as Calton opened the envelope in silence, but both gave vent to an explanation of horror at seeing the certificate of marriage which they knew Rosanna Moore had given to Whyte. Their worst suspicions were confirmed, and Brian turned away his head, afraid to meet the barrister's eye. The latter folded up the papers thoughtfully, and put them in his pocket.

‘You know what these are?' he asked Sal, eyeing
her keenly.

‘I could hardly help knowing,' she answered. ‘It proves that Rosanna Moore was Mr Frettlby's wife, and—' she hesitated.

‘Go on,' said Brian, in a harsh tone, looking up.

‘And they were the papers she gave Mr Whyte.'

‘Well!'

Sal was silent for a moment, and then looked up with a flush.

‘You needn't think I'm going to split,' she said, indignantly, recurring to her Bourke Street slang in the excitement of the moment. ‘I know what you know, but s'elp me God, I'll be as silent as the grave.'

‘Thank you,' said Brian fervently, taking her hand, ‘I know you love her too well to betray this terrible secret.'

‘I would be a nice 'un, I would,' said Sal with scorn, ‘after her lifting me out of the gutter, to round on her—a poor girl like me, without a friend or a relative now gran's dead.'

Calton looked up quickly. It was plain Sal was quite ignorant that Rosanna Moore was her mother. So much the better, they would keep her in ignorance, perhaps not altogether, but it would be folly to undeceive her at present.

‘I'm goin' to Miss Madge now,' she said, going to the door, ‘and I won't see you again; she's getting light-headed, and might let it out; but I'll not let anyone in
but myself,' and so saying she left the room.

‘Cast thy bread upon the waters,' said Calton oracularly. ‘The kindness of Miss Frettlby to that poor waif is already bearing fruit—gratitude is the rarest of qualities, rarer even than modesty.'

Fitzgerald made no answer, but stared out of the window, and thought of his darling lying sick unto death, and he could do nothing to save her.

‘Well,' said Calton, sharply.

‘Oh, I beg your pardon,' said Fitzgerald, turning in confusion. ‘I suppose the will must be read, and all that sort of thing.'

‘Yes,' answered the barrister, ‘I am one of the executors.'

‘And the others?'

‘Yourself and Chinston,' answered Calton, ‘So I suppose,' turning to the desk, ‘we can look at his papers and see that all is straight.'

‘Yes; I suppose so,' replied Brian mechanically, his thoughts far away, and then he turned again to the window. Suddenly Calton gave vent to an exclamation of surprise, and, turning hastily, Brian saw him holding a thick roll of papers in his hand, which he had taken out of the drawer.

‘Look here, Fitzgerald,' he said, greatly excited, ‘Here is Frettlby's confession, look!' and he held it up.

Brian sprang forward in astonishment. So at last
the hansom cab mystery was to be cleared up. These sheets, no doubt, contained the whole narration of the crime, and how it was committed.

‘We will read it, of course,' he said, hesitating, half hoping that Calton would propose to destroy it at once.

‘Yes,' answered Calton. ‘The three executors must read it, and then—we will burn it.'

‘That will be the better way,' answered Brian, gloomily. ‘Frettlby is dead, and the law can do nothing in the matter, so it would be best to avoid the scandal of publicity. But why tell Chinston?'

‘We must,' said Calton, decidedly. ‘He will be sure to gather the truth from Madge's ravings, and may as well know all. He is quite safe, and will be silent as the grave. But I am more sorry to tell Kilsip.'

‘The detective? Good God! Calton, surely you will not do so.'

‘I must,' replied the barrister, quietly. ‘Kilsip is firmly persuaded that Moreland committed the crime, and I have the same dread of his pertinacity as you had of mine. He may find out all.'

‘What must be, must be,' said Fitzgerald, clenching his hands. ‘But I hope no one else will find out this miserable story. There's Moreland, for instance.'

‘Ah, true!' said Calton, thoughtfully. ‘He called and saw Frettlby the other night, you say?'

‘Yes! I wonder what for?'

‘There is only one answer,' said the barrister, slowly. ‘He must have seen Frettlby following Whyte when he left the hotel, and wanted hush-money.'

‘I wonder if he got it?' observed Fitzgerald.

‘Oh, I'll soon find that out,' answered Calton, opening the drawer again, and taking out the dead man's chequebook. ‘Let me see what cheques have been drawn lately.'

Most of the blocks were filled up for small amounts, and one or two for a hundred or so. Calton could find no large sum such as Moreland would have demanded, when, at the very end of the book, he found a cheque torn off, leaving the block slip quite blank.

‘There you are,' he said, triumphantly, holding out the book to Fitzgerald. ‘He wasn't such a fool as to write in the amount on the block, but tore the cheque out and wrote in the sum required.'

‘And what's to be done about it?'

‘Let him keep it, of course,' answered Calton, shrugging his shoulders. ‘It's the only way to secure his silence.'

‘I expect he cashed it yesterday, and is off by this time,' said Brian, after a moment's pause.

‘So much the better for us,' said Calton, grimly. ‘But I don't think he's off, or Kilsip would have let me know. We must tell him, or he'll get everything out of Moreland, and the consequences would be that all Melbourne will know the story. Whereas, by showing
him the confession, we get him to leave Moreland alone, and thus secure silence in both cases.'

‘I suppose we must see Chinston?'

‘Yes, of course; I will telegraph to him and Kilsip to come up to my office this afternoon at three o'clock, and then we will settle the whole matter.'

‘And Sal Rawlins?'

‘Oh! I quite forgot about her,' said Calton, in a perplexed voice. ‘She knows nothing about her parents, and, of course, Mark Frettlby died in the belief that she was dead.'

‘We must tell Madge,' said Brian, gloomily. ‘There is no help for it. Sal is by rights the heiress to the money of her dead father.'

‘That depends upon the will,' replied Calton, dryly. ‘If it specifies that the money is left to “my daughter, Margaret Frettlby,” Sal Rawlins can have no claim, and if such is the case, it will be no good telling her who she is.'

‘And what's to be done?'

‘Sal Rawlins,' went on the barrister, without noticing the interruption, ‘has evidently never given a thought to her father or mother, as the old hag, no doubt, swore they were dead. So, I think, it will be best to keep silent, that is, if no money is left to her, and as her father thought her dead, I don't think there will be any. In that case, it would be best to settle an income on her. You can easily find a pretext, and let the matter
rest.'

‘But, suppose, in accordance with the wording of the will, she is entitled to all the money?'

‘In that case,' said Calton, gravely, ‘there is only one course open, she must be told everything, and the dividing of the money left to her generosity. But I don't think you need be alarmed, I'm pretty sure Madge is the heiress.'

‘It's not the money I think about,' said Brian, hastily. ‘I'd take Madge without a penny.'

‘My boy,' said the barrister, placing his hand kindly on Brian's shoulder, ‘when you marry Madge Frettlby, you will get what is better than money—a heart of gold.'

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

DE MORTUIS NIL NISI BONUM

‘Nothing is certain but the unforeseen,' so says a French proverb, and judging from the unexpected things which daily happen to us, it is without doubt a very true one. If anyone had told Madge Frettlby one day that she would be stretched on a bed of sickness the next, and would be quite oblivious of the world and its doings, she would have laughed the prophet to scorn. Yet it was so, and she was tossing and turning on a bed of pain to which the couch of Procrustes was one of roses. Sal sat beside her, ever watchful of her wants, and listened through the bright hours of the day, or the still ones of the night, to the wild and incoherent words which issued from her lips. She kept incessantly calling on
her father to save himself, and then would talk about Brian, and sing snatches of song, or sobbed out broken sentences about her dead mother, until the heart of the listener ached to hear her. No one was allowed into the room except Sal, and when Dr Chinston heard the things she was saying, although used to such cases, he recoiled.

‘There is blood on your hands,' cried Madge, sitting up in bed, with her hair all tangled and falling over her shoulders; ‘red blood, and you cannot wash it off. Oh, Cain! God save him! Brian, you are not guilty; my father killed him. God! God!' and she fell back on her disordered pillows weeping bitterly.

‘What does she mean?' asked the doctor, startled by her last words.

‘Nothing,' answered Sal, curtly, going to the bed.

Dr Chinston did not say anything, but shortly afterwards took his leave, after telling Sal on no account to let anyone see the patient.

‘'Taint likely,' said Sal, in a disgusted tone, as she closed the door after him. ‘I'm not a viper to sting the bosom as fed me,' from which it may be gathered she was advancing rapidly in her education.

Meanwhile Dr Chinston had received Calton's telegram, and was considerably astonished thereat. He was still more so when, on arriving at the office at the time appointed, he found Calton and Fitzgerald were not alone, but a third man whom he had never seen
was with them. This latter Calton introduced to him as Mr Kilsip, of the detective office, a fact which began to make the worthy doctor uneasy, as he could not divine the meaning of the presence of a detective. However, he made no remark, but took the seat handed to him by Mr Calton, and prepared to listen. Calton locked the door of the office, and then went back to his desk, having the other three seated before him in a kind of semicircle.

‘In the first place,' said Calton to the doctor, ‘I have to inform you that you are one of the executors under the will of the late Mr Frettlby, and that is why I asked you to come here today. The other executors are Mr Fitzgerald and myself.'

‘Oh, indeed,' murmured the doctor, politely.

‘And now,' said Calton, looking at him, ‘do you remember the hansom cab murder, which caused such a sensation some months ago?'

‘Yes, I do,' replied the doctor, rather astonished; ‘but what has that to do with the will?'

‘Nothing to do with the will,' answered Calton, gravely, ‘but the fact is, Mr Frettlby was implicated in the affair.'

Dr Chinston glanced inquiringly at Brian, but that gentleman shook his head.

‘It's nothing to do with my arrest,' he said, sadly.

Madge's words, uttered in her delirium, flashed across the doctor's memory.

‘What do you mean?' he gasped, pushing back his
chair. ‘How was he implicated?'

‘That I cannot tell you,' answered Calton, ‘until I read his confession.'

‘Ah!' said Kilsip, becoming very attentive.

‘Yes,' said Calton, turning to Kilsip, ‘your hunt after Moreland is a wild goose chase, for the murderer of Oliver Whyte is discovered.'

‘Discovered!' cried Kilsip and the doctor in one breath.

‘Yes, and his name is Mark Frettlby.'

Kilsip shot a glance of disdain out of his bright, black eyes, and gave a low laugh of disbelief, but the doctor pushed back his chair furiously, and arose to his feet.

‘This is monstrous,' he cried, in a rage. ‘I won't sit still and hear this accusation against my dead friend.'

‘Unfortunately, it is too true,' said Brian, sadly.

‘How dare you say so,' said Chinston, turning angrily on him. ‘And you going to marry his daughter.'

‘There is only one way to settle the question,' said Calton, coldly. ‘We must read his confession.'

‘But why the detective?' asked the doctor, ungraciously, as he took his seat reluctantly.

‘Because I want him to hear for himself that Mr Frettlby committed the crime, and that he may keep it quiet.'

‘Not till I've arrested him,' said Kilsip, determinedly.

‘But he's dead,' said Brian.

‘I'm speaking of Roger Moreland,' retorted Kilsip. ‘For he and no other murdered Oliver Whyte.'

Chinston nodded approvingly.

‘That's a much more likely story,' he said.

‘I tell you no,' said Calton, vehemently. ‘God knows, I would like to preserve Mark Frettlby's good name, and it is with this object I have brought you all together. I will read the confession, and when you know the truth, I want you all to keep silent about it, as Mark Frettlby is dead, and the publication of his crime can do no good to anyone.'

There was a dead silence.

‘I know,' resumed Calton, addressing the detective, ‘that you are firmly convinced in your own mind that you are right and I am wrong, but what if I tell you that Mark Frettlby died holding those very papers for the sake of which the crime was committed?'

Kilsip's face lengthened considerably.

‘What were the papers?'

‘The marriage certificate of Mark Frettlby and Rosanna Moore, the woman who died in the back slum.'

Kilsip was seldom astonished, but he was this time, while Dr Chinston fell back in his chair and looked at the barrister with a dazed sort of expression.

‘And what's more,' went on Calton, triumphantly, ‘do you know that Moreland went to Frettlby two nights ago and obtained a certain sum for hush-money?'

‘What!' cried Kilsip.

‘Yes, Moreland, in coming out of the hotel, evidently saw Frettlby, and threatened to expose him unless he paid for his silence.'

‘Very strange,' murmured Kilsip, to himself, with a disappointed look on his face. ‘But why did Moreland keep quiet so long?'

‘I cannot tell you,' replied Calton, ‘but, no doubt, the confession will explain all.'

‘Then for heaven's sake read it,' broke in Dr Chinston, impatiently. ‘I'm quite in the dark, and all your talk is Greek to me.'

‘One moment,' said Kilsip, dragging a bundle from under his chair, and untying it. ‘If you are right, what about this?' and he held up a light coat, very much soiled and weather worn.

‘Whose is that?' asked Calton, startled. ‘Not Whyte's?'

‘Yes, Whyte's,' repeated Kilsip, with great satisfaction. ‘I found it in the Fitzroy Gardens, near the gate that opens to George Street, East Melbourne. It was up in a fir tree.'

‘Then Mr Frettlby must have got out at Powlett Street, and walked down George Street, and then through the Fitzroy Gardens into town,' said Calton.

Kilsip took no heed of the remark, but took a small bottle out of the pocket of the coat and held it up.

‘I also found this,' he said.

‘Chloroform,' cried everyone, guessing at once
that it was the missing bottle.

‘Exactly,' said Kilsip, replacing it. ‘This was the bottle which contained the poison used by—by—well, call him the murderer. The name of the chemist being on the label, I went to him and found out who bought it. Now, who do you think?' with a look of triumph.

‘Frettlby,' said Calton, decidedly.

‘No—Moreland!' burst out Chinston, greatly excited.

‘Neither,' retorted the detective calmly. ‘The man who purchased this was Oliver Whyte himself.'

‘Himself?' echoed Brian, now thoroughly surprised, as indeed were all the others.

‘Yes—I had no trouble in finding out that, thanks to the “Poisons Act.” As I knew no one would be so foolish as to carry chloroform about in his pocket for any length of time, I mentioned the day of the murder as the probable date it was bought. The chemist turned up his book and found that Whyte was the purchaser.'

‘And what did he buy it for?' asked Chinston.

‘That's more than I can tell you,' said Kilsip, with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘It's down in the book as being bought for medicinal uses, which may mean anything.'

‘The law requires a witness,' observed Calton, cautiously. ‘Who was the witness?'

Again Kilsip smiled triumphantly.

‘I think I can guess,' said Fitzgerald, quickly.
‘Moreland?'

Kilsip nodded.

‘And I suppose,' remarked Calton, in a slightly sarcastic tone, ‘that is another of your proofs against Moreland. He knew that Whyte had chloroform on him, therefore, he followed him that night and murdered him?'

Kilsip hesitated.

‘Well, I—'

‘It's a lot of nonsense,' said the barrister, impatiently. ‘There's nothing against Moreland to implicate him. If he killed Whyte, what made him go and see Frettlby?'

‘But,' said Kilsip, sagely, nodding his head, ‘if, as Moreland says, he had Whyte's coat in his possession before the murder, how is it that I should discover it afterwards up a fir tree in the Fitzroy Gardens with an empty chloroform bottle in his pocket.'

‘He may have been an accomplice,' suggested Calton.

‘What's the good of all this conjecturing?' said Chinston, impatiently, now thoroughly tired of the discussion. ‘Read the confession, and we will soon know the truth without all this talk.'

Calton assented, and all having settled themselves to listen, he began to read what the dead man had written.