CHAPTER XVII.
IN WHICH BECKY, CONTINUING HER LETTER, RELATES HER IMPRESSIONS OF MRS. PREEDY'S YOUNG MAN LODGER.
MY OWN DEAR FRED,--Once more I am in my little cupboard of a bedroom,writing to you. Again it is past twelve o'clock, and Mrs. Preedy isasleep.
I will now tell you why I have altered my mind with regard to RichardManx, and why I have determined to watch his movements. The seal to thisresolution was fixed the night before last.
Mrs. Preedy was sitting up, as usual, drinking her regular allowance ofgin and water. I was in my bedroom, supposed to be asleep, but reallyvery wide awake. Peeping through a chink in my bedroom door, I saw Mrs.Preedy thus engaged, and engaged also in reading an account of thepolice-court proceedings in which you were so cruelly implicated. Therewas nothing interesting in this picture of Mrs. Preedy, and I crept intobed again. I was dozing off, when I was roused by the sound of Mrs.Preedy leaving the kitchen, and going up-stairs to the street-door,which she opened. I ventured out into the passage, and listened. She wastalking to a policeman. Presently she came down-stairs and mixed a glassof gin and water, which she took up to him. Then after a little furtherchat, she came down again, and resumed her melancholy occupation. Afterthat, I fell asleep.
Changes have taken place in me, my dear. Once I was nervous; now I ambold. Once I could not sleep without a light in my room; now I can sleepin the dark. Once I was a sound sleeper, and was not easily awakened;now the slightest sound arouses me. The dropping of a pin would bealmost sufficient to cause me to start up in bed.
On the occasion I refer to, it was something more than the dropping ofa pin that aroused me. It was the sound of voices in the kitchen--Mrs.Preedy's voice and the voice of a man. What man? I peeped through thechink. It was Richard Manx, our new lodger.
He was standing on the threshold of the kitchen door; from where I kneltI could not obtain a good view of his face, but I saw Mrs. Preedy's, andit seemed to me as if she had received a fright.
Richard Manx, in reply to an observation made by Mrs. Preedy, said herclock on the mantelpiece was wrong, and that he had heard twelve o'clockstrike a quarter of an hour ago. Mrs. Preedy asked him if he had come topay his rent. No, he said, he had not come to pay his rent. Then Mrs.Preedy very naturally inquired what he _had_ come for, and Richard Manx,in a voice resembling that of a raven with a bad cold, said,
"I have--a--heard it once more again!"
My dear, the moment he uttered these strange words, Mrs. Preedy rushedat him, pulled him into the kitchen, and then flew to my bedroom door.I was in bed before she got there, and when she opened it and called myname, I was, of course, fast asleep. She made sure of this by cominginto my little cupboard, and passing her hand over my face. My heartbeat quickly, but she herself was too agitated to notice it. When sheleft my room, I thought it prudent to remain in bed for awhile, so as toavoid the risk of discovery. My mind was in a whirl. Richard Manx hadheard _it_ once more again! What had he heard?
I rose quietly, and listened. Richard Manx was speaking of a sound inthe empty house next door, No. 119. He had heard it twice--a week ago,and again on this night. He said that he was in the habit of smoking inbed, and asked if Mrs. Preedy was insured. He was interrupted by thebreaking of a storm, which appeared to frighten them both very much. Iwill not attempt to repeat, word for word, all that passed between them.Its substance is now what I am going to relate.
Eight nights ago, Richard Manx, sitting in his attic, was startled (sohe says) by the sound of a tapping or scratching in the house nextdoor, in which the murder was committed. Being, according to hisown declaration, of a nervous nature, he left his attic, and creptdownstairs. In the passage below he met Mrs. Preedy, and related to herwhat he had heard. She endeavoured to persuade him that his fancy hadbeen playing him tricks.
"How is it possible," she asked him, "that you could have heard anysound in the next house when there's nobody there?"
A convincing question, my dear, which carries its own convincing answer.
Richard Manx wavers, and promises her not to speak to the neighbours ofhis distressing impression. He says he will wait "till it comes again."It comes again on this night the events of which I am describing, and ingreat fear (which may or may not be real) he creeps downstairs to Mrs.Preedy to inform her of it. He says the noise may not be made by amortal; it may be made by a spirit. So much the worse. A man or a womanone can meet and hold, and ask questions of, but a spirit!----the veryidea is enough to make one's hair stand on end.
It did not make my hair stand on end, nor did Richard Manx's suggestionfrighten me in the least. It excited me almost to fever heat, butthere was no fear in my excitement. Expectation, hope, painfulcuriosity--these were the feelings which animated me.
What if Richard Manx were, for some reason of his own, inventing thisstory of strange noises in an empty house, the boards of which arestained with the blood of a murdered man? The idea did not dawn upon me;it flashed upon me in a certain expression which dwelt upon RichardManx's face while Mrs. Preedy's back, for a moment, was turned to him.
When they were sitting opposite each other at the kitchen table, the manwas timid, confiding, humble; but when Mrs. Preedy turned towards thedresser for the sugar basin, there stole into his face the expressionI have referred to. What did it denote? Cunning, ferocity, triumph,duplicity. It was but for a moment; upon Mrs. Preedy confronting himagain, he relapsed into humbleness and timidity.
What was the meaning of this sudden change? That the man was playing apart? Clearly. Then behind his systematic acting was hidden a motive.What motive?
He had accepted Mrs. Preedy's invitation to a glass of gin and water,and had asked for sugar. It was while she was getting the sugar that hehad allowed the mask to slip from his false face.
"If it gets known," she said, "I'm a ruined woman!"
"Ah," said Richard Manx, "I comprehend what you mean by ruined. A housewith a shadow--a spirit ghost in it, would be--a--horrible! Listen you.This house is likewise." Mrs. Preedy shuddered. "Well," he continued,"I will say--a--nothing." He placed his hand on his heart and leeredat her. "On my honour. But be you positive--what I have heard isnot--a--fancy. It is veritable."
He said a great deal more to the same effect, and I never saw a womanmore completely prostrated.
Richard Manx speaks imperfect English, and I cannot make up my mindwhether he is a Frenchman, or a German, or an Italian, or an Impostor.I am not only suspicious of the man, I am suspicious of his brokenEnglish.
What I wanted now to ascertain was whether any person had heard thetapping or the scratching in No. 119, and the person I fixed upon tosettle this point was Mrs. Bailey, our old lady lodger on the firstfloor. If anything was going on in the next house it could scarcely haveescaped her ears.
Yesterday morning while I was tidying up her room, I broached thesubject.
"I wonder," I said, "whether the next house will ever be let."
"_I_ wouldn't take it," said Mrs. Bailey, "if they offered it to me fornothing a-year--eh?"
"It wouldn't be a pleasant place to live in certainly," I remarked. "Ishould be afraid of ghosts."
"Do you believe in them, eh, Becky?"
"I've never seen one," I replied, "but I can't help believing in them--alittle. There's one comfort--they don't trouble people who haven'twronged them. So _we're_ all right."
"Yes, Becky, yes--they wouldn't come through brick walls to scare a poorold woman, eh?"
"No," I said, "and I've never read of a ghost speaking or making a noiseof any kind. Have you?"
"Not that I can remember," replied the old lady.
"Mrs. Bailey," I said, "since the night of the murder you have not heardanything going on next door?"
"Not a sound, Becky. It's been as still as a mouse."
"As a mouse," I repeated; "ah, but mice scratch at walls sometimes."
"So they do; but there can't be any mice next door, or I should haveheard them. Nothing for them to eat, Becky--eh? Mice can't eatg
hosts--eh?"
"No, indeed," I said. "I hope you are sleeping well, Mrs. Bailey."
"No, I am not, Becky. As night comes on I get a pain in my side, and itkeeps me awake for hours."
"What a shame!" I exclaimed. "I'll come and rub it for you, if you like,when my work's done. Were you awake last night, Mrs. Bailey?"
"I didn't close my eyes till past two this morning; too bad, eh, Becky?"
"Indeed it is. I hope you were not disturbed."
"Only my side, Becky; nothing else."
This conversation convinced me that Richard Manx had not heard any suchsound as he stated. What was his purpose in endeavouring to deceive Mrs.Preedy?
The same day I was sent out to the greengrocer's, and the woman said tome that she supposed I was not going to stop much longer in my place.
"Why not?" I asked.
"There isn't one girl in a thousand," said the woman, "as had livewillingly in a haunted house. Why, Becky, it's the talk of theneighbourhood!"
"All I can say is," I replied, "that I have heard nothing of it, and Idon't think Mrs. Preedy has, either."
"Ah," remarked the woman, "they say you must go abroad if you want tohear any news about yourself."
My dear, the woman in the greengrocer's shop spoke the truth. Before theday was out, it was the talk of the neighbourhood, that both houses,Nos. 118 and 119 Great Porter Square, were haunted. When I went outlast evening to write my first letter to you, I was told of it byhalf-a-dozen people, and the policeman himself (they are all friendsof mine) made inquiries as to the time and shapes in which the ghostlyvisitants presented themselves. And to-day I have observed more than adozen strangers stop before our house and point up to it, shaking theirheads mysteriously.
Mrs. Preedy opened the subject to me this evening.
"Becky," she said, "there is no end to the wickedness of people."
"That there isn't, mum," I replied, sympathetically.
"Why, Becky," she exclaimed, "have _you_ heard what they are sayingabout the house?"
"O, yes," I said, "everybody says its haunted."
"Do _you_ believe it, Becky?"
"Not me, mum!" (Observe my grammar, my dear.) "Not me! Who should knowbetter than those that live in a house whether it's haunted or not?"
"That's it, Becky," cried Mrs. Preedy, excitedly; "that's it. Who shouldknow better than us? And I'm sure _I've_ never seen anything nor heardanything. Nor you either, Becky."
"Nor me, neither," I replied. "But the worst of it is, mum, mud sticks.Give a dog a bad name, and you may as well hang him at once."
Now, who spread this rumour about our house being haunted? Somebody, forsure, who has a motive in giving the place a bad reputation. There isnever smoke without a fire. Shall I tell you who is the cause of allthis? Richard Manx.
What leads me to this conclusion? you ask. Instinct, my dear. It is animportant quality in animals; why not in human beings? What possiblemotive _can_ Richard Manx have in spreading such a report? you ask next.A just Heaven only knows, my dear. But I will find out his motive, as Iam a living and loving woman.
You are not acquainted with Richard Manx, you may say. Nor am I. Butis it certain that it is his true name? You are not the only person inthe world who has concealed his true name. You concealed yours for aninnocent reason. Richard Manx may conceal his for a guilty one. Thenthink of me, known simply as Becky. Why, my dearest, the world is aperfect medley! Shall I tell you something else about him? My dear, hepaints. I hear you, in your unsophisticated innocence, exclaim, "O, heis an artist!" He is, in one sense. His canvass is the human skin. Hepaints his face.
What will you ask now? Of course, your question will be, "How on earthdo you know that he paints his face?" My dear, here I am your superior.Trust a woman to know a natural from an artificial colour. These fewlast questions trouble your soul. "Does _she_ paint, then?" you mutter."No, my dear," I answer, "my complexion _is my own_!"
Twice have I seen Richard Manx to-day, and I have not avoided him. Ilooked at him. He looked at me.
"You are Becky," he said; and if ever a foreigner spoke like anEnglishman, Richard Manx did when he said, "You are Becky."
"Yes, if you please, sir," I replied, coyly.
"You are a--what you call maid-of-all work here," he said.
Maid-of-all-work! What do real, genuine foreigners know of Englishmaids-of-all-work? The very use of the term was, in my judgment, anargument against him.
"Yes," I replied.
"And a very pretty maid-of-all-work," he said, with a smile.
"There's missus calling!" I cried, and I ran downstairs.
In that short interview I had convinced myself that he painted, and Ihad made up my mind that he wore a wig. Think of that, my dear! Ourinnocent, timid, humble young man lodger, with a false head of hair! Iblush.
The meaning of all this is, that Richard Manx is no chance lodger.He came here designedly. He has not paid his rent. It is part of hisdesign. He would be more likely to attract attention as a man withplenty of money than as a man with none. There are so many poor peoplein the world, and they are comparatively so unimportant? He has spreada rumour that the house he lodges in and the next house are haunted. Itis part of his design. To bring the houses into disrepute will causepeople to avoid them, will lessen the chance of their being occupied.The better opportunity for him to carry out, without being observed, anyscheme he may have in his false and wicked mind.
I have but one thing more to relate, and that will bring the history ofyour adventurous little woman up to the present moment of writing. It isan important incident, and has a direct bearing upon all that has gonebefore. At nine o'clock to-night the street door was opened and closed.My mistress and I were in the kitchen.
"It is Mr. Manx," said Mrs. Preedy.
"I didn't know he had a latch key," I observed.
"I gave him one to-day," said Mrs. Preedy. "He is looking for asituation, poor young man, and asked me for a latch key, as he mighthave to keep out late at night, and didn't like to disturb me."
"Very considerate of him," I said. "What kind of situation is he after?Is he anything at all?"
"He is a professor of languages, Becky, and a musician besides."
"What kind of musician?" I asked, scornfully. "A trombone player?"
"I can't say, Becky."
"Does he play the cornet, or the fiddle," I continued, with a certainrecklessness which overcame me for a few moments, "or the harp, or theflute, or the piano?" And as I said "or the piano?" a dish I was wipingslipped clean out of my hands, and was broken to pieces.
"What a careless girl you are, Becky!" cried my mistress. "That makesthe third you have broken since you've been here."
"Never mind," I said, "I have had a legacy left me."
She stared at me, and cried "A legacy!" And, upon my word, my dear,until she repeated the words, I scarcely knew what it was I _had_ said.However, I was committed to it now, and was bound to proceed.
"Yes; a legacy. That is what I really went about last night."
The information so staggered her that her voice became quitedeferential.
"Is it much, Becky?"
"A clear three hundred pounds," I replied, "and perhaps a little more.I shall know for a certainty in a week or two."
"You'll be giving me notice presently, I daresay, Becky, now you'vecome into money."
"Not unless you want to get rid of me," I replied.
"Becky," said Mrs. Preedy, graciously, "I am very satisfied with you.You can remain with me as long as you like, and when we part I hope weshall part friends."
"I hope so too, mum; and I hope you'll think none the worse of mebecause I've been so fortunate. I should like to hear of _your_ havingsuch a slice of luck."
"Thank you, Becky," said my mistress, meekly, "but _I_ wasn't born witha silver spoon in my mouth."
"Ah," said I, wisely, "it isn't always the most deserving as gets thebest rewarded."
Do you know, my dear, so strong is the force of e
xample and association,that I sometimes catch myself speaking exactly as if I had been born inthat station of life which I am at present occupying in Mrs. Preedy'sservice.
Here a bell rang. "That's Mrs. Bailey's bell," I said; "shall I go up toher, or will you?"
"You go, Becky," said Mrs. Preedy; "she likes you best."
Up I went, and found Mrs. Bailey writhing in bed; she was evidently inpain.
"My side, Becky, my side!" moaned the old creature. "You promised to rubit for me?"
"Wait a minute," I said, "I'll go and fetch some liniment."
I ran downstairs, and took from my little bedroom a bottle of linimentwhich I had bought at the chemist's in expectation of such an emergencyas this. Then I rubbed the old lady's side, and soon afforded herrelief.
"What a soft hand you've got!" she said, "It's almost like a lady'shand."
I sighed. "I haven't been a common servant all my life," I said. "Butnever mind me. Do you feel easier?"
"I am another woman, dear," she replied. "O dear, O dear!"
And the old creature began to cry, and moan, and shake. I pitied hermost truly at that moment.
"What are you crying for?" I asked.
"O dear, O dear!" she repeated. "I had a daughter once, who might havelooked after me in my old days. My Lizzie! my Lizzie!" She continued toweep in the most distressing manner, calling upon her Lizzie in touchingtones. I asked tenderly if her daughter was dead, and her reply was--
"God only knows!"
And then she related to me, often stopping to sob and moan in grief, asad, sad story of a girl who had left her home, and had almost brokenher parents' hearts. I cannot stop now to tell you the story as thislonely woman told it to me, for my fingers are beginning to pain mewith the strain of this long letter, and I have still something more tosay which more nearly concerns ourselves.
Bear in mind that from the time Richard Manx had entered the house, noother persons had entered or left it. Had the street door been opened Ishould for a certainty have remarked it.
Mrs. Bailey had told the whole of the sad story of her daughter's shameand desertion, and was lying in tears on her bed. I was sitting by herside, animated by genuine sympathy for the lonely old lady. Suddenly anexpression of alarm appeared on her face, which gradually turned quitewhite.
"Becky!" she cried.
I leant over her, my heart beating quick, for she had startled me. Ifeared that her last hour had arrived. I was mistaken. It was fear ofanother kind which had aroused her from the contemplation of her specialsorrow.
"Don't you hear?" she asked, presently.
"What?" I exclaimed, following her looks and words in an agony ofexpectation.
"The next house," she whispered, "where the man was murdered! The emptyhouse! Something is moving there!"
I threw myself quickly on the bed, and lay by the old lady's side.
"There, Becky! Do you hear it now?"
"Hush," I whispered. "Don't speak or stir! Let us be sure."
It was not possible that both of us could be dreaming the same dreamat the same moment. There _was_ a sound as of some person moving inNo. 119.
"Answer me in a whisper," I said, with my mouth close to Mrs. Bailey'sear. "The room in which the murder was committed is on a level withthis?"
"Yes," she replied, in a whisper, as I had directed.
"Do you think the sounds are in that room?"
"I am sure of it, Becky."
I lay still for about the space of a another minute. Then I rose fromthe bed.
"What are you going to do, Becky?" asked Mrs. Bailey; "Don't leave me!"
"I must," I said, firmly. "For about five minutes. I will come back.I promise you faithfully I will come back. Are you afraid to be leftalone?"
"Somebody--or _something_--might come into the room while you are away,"said the old lady, shuddering. "If you _must_ go, lock me in, and takethe key with you. But don't be longer than five minutes, if you have aspark of pity for a poor, deserted old woman!"
I acted upon her suggestion. I locked her in and went---- Where?Upstairs or down? Up, to Richard Manx's room.
I reached his door and listened. No sound came to my ears--no sound ofa waking or sleeping inmate of the room. I retreated down half-a-dozenstairs with a heavy tread. No one appeared at the attic door to inquirethe meaning of the noise. I ascended the stairs again, and, with awoman's touch, placed my hand on the handle of the door. It yielded. Ilooked into the room. No person was there. I ventured boldly in. Theroom was empty!
Assuring myself of this, I left the room as quickly as I had entered it.I did not pause at Mrs. Bailey's room on the first floor. I went downto the street door, and quietly put up the door chain. _Now_, no personcould possibly enter or leave the house without my knowledge.
Then I went down to Mrs. Preedy in the kitchen, and said that Mrs.Bailey was unwell, and wished me to stop with her for a little while.
"Stop, and welcome, Becky," said Mrs. Preedy, with the sweetest smile.
What a power is money! My fanciful legacy of a paltry three hundredpounds had placed this woman and me on an equality, and she was thefirst to acknowledge it.
I ascended to Mrs. Bailey's room, and unlocked her door. I had reallynot been absent for more than five minutes, but she said it seemed likethirty. I remained with her for over an hour, during which time themuffled sounds in the next house continued. I convinced myself that theycould not be heard in any other room by going out, now and again, fora few moments, and listening in other rooms on the first and secondfloors. At length the sound ceased, and after waiting a quarter of anhour longer without it being renewed, I bade Mrs. Bailey good night,telling her, in a cheerful voice, that she was mistaken in supposingthere were no mice in the empty house next door.
"Are you sure it is mice, Becky?" she asked, anxiously.
"Am I sure?" I repeated, laughing. "Why, you nervous old creature, whatelse can it be? Let us make a bargain to say nothing about it except toeach other, or we shall have everybody laughing at us. And what would beworse, the detectives might appear again."
The bargain was made, and I kissed the old lady, and left her.
I went straight upstairs, cautiously, as before. Richard Manx was in hisroom!
I went down to the street door. The chain was up! A convincing proofthat it was this very Richard Manx, our young man lodger--the man whopaints and wears a wig, and who is flat-footed--whose movements I hadheard through the wall which divides Mrs. Bailey's room from the roomin which the murder was committed.
I am too tired to write a minute longer. This is the longest letter Ihave ever written. Good night, dear love. God bless and guard you!
Your ever devoted, BECKY.
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Great Porter Square: A Mystery. v. 1 Page 17
