The Mystery of a Hansom Cab

by Fergus Hume

  ‘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, ‘th
at 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.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  THE CONFESSION

  ‘What I am now about to write is set forth by me so that the true circumstances connected with the “Hansom Cab Tragedy,” which took place in Melbourne, in 18—, may be known. I owe a confession, particularly to Brian Fitzgerald, seeing that he was accused of the crime. Although I know he was rightfully acquitted of the charge, yet I wish him to know all about the case, though I am convinced, from his altered demeanour towards me, that he is better acquainted with it than he chooses to confess. In order to account for the murder of Oliver Whyte, I must go back to the beginning of my life in this colony, and show how the series of events began, which culminated in the committal of the crime.

  ‘Should it be necessary to make this confession public, in the interests of justice, I can say nothing against such a course being taken; but I would be grateful if it could be suppressed, both on account of my good name and of my dear daughter Margaret, whose love and affection has so soothed and brightened my life.

  ‘If, however, she should be informed of the contents of these pages, I ask her to deal leniently with the memory of one who was sorely tried and tempted.

  ‘I came to the Colony of Victoria, or rather, as it was called then, New South Wales, in the year 18—. I had been in a merchant’s office in London, but not seeing much opportunity for advancement, I looked about to see if I could better myself. I heard of this new land across the ocean, and though it was not then the El Dorado which it afterwards turned out, and, truth to tell, had rather a shady name, owing to the transportation of convicts, yet, I longed to go there and start a new life. Unhappily, however, I had not the means to go, and saw nothing better before me than the dreary life of a London clerk, as it was impossible that I could save out of the small salary I got. Just at this time, however, an old maiden aunt of my mother’s died and left a few hundred pounds to me, so, with this, I came out to Australia, determined to become a rich man. I stayed some time in Sydney and then came over to Port Phillip, now so widely known as marvellous Melbourne, where I intended to pitch my tent. I saw that it was a young and rising colony, though, of course, coming as I did, before the days of the gold diggings, I never dreamt it would spring up, as it has done since, to a nation. I was careful and saving in those days, and, indeed, I think it was the happiest time of my life.

  ‘I bought land whenever I could scrape the money together, and, at the time of the gold rush, was considered well-to-do. When, however, the cry that gold had been discovered was raised, and the eyes of all the nations were turned to Australia, with her glittering treasures, men poured in from all parts of the world, and the “Golden Age” commenced. I began to get rich rapidly, and was soon pointed out as the wealthiest man in the colonies. I bought a station, and, leaving the riotous, feverish Melbourne life, went to live on it. I enjoyed myself there, for the wild, open air life had great charms for me, and there was a sense of freedom to which I had hitherto been a stranger. But man is a gregarious animal, and I, growing weary of solitude and communings with Mother Nature, came down on a visit to Melbourne, where, with companions as gay as myself, I spent my money freely, and, as the phrase goes, saw life. After confessing that I loved the pure life of the country, it sounds strange to say that I enjoyed the wild life of the town, but I did. I was neither a Joseph nor a St Anthony, and I was delighted with Bohemia, with its good fellowship and charming suppers, which took place in t
he small hours of the morning, when wit and humour reigned supreme.

  ‘It was at one of these suppers that I first met Rosanna Moore, the woman who was destined to curse my existence. She was a burlesque actress, and all the young fellows in those days were madly in love with her. She was not exactly what was called beautiful, but there was a brilliancy and fascination about her which few could resist. On first seeing her I did not admire her much, but laughed at my companions as they raved about her. On becoming personally acquainted with her, however, I found that her powers of fascination had not been overrated, and ended by falling desperately in love with her. I made enquiries about her private life, and found that it was irreproachable, as she was guarded by a veritable dragon of a mother, who would let no one approach her daughter. I need not tell about my courtship, as these phases of a man’s life are generally the same, but it will be sufficient to prove the depth of my passion for her when I at length determined to make her my wife. It was on condition, however, that the marriage should be kept secret until such time as I should choose to reveal it. My reason for such a course was this, my father was still alive, and, he being a rigid Presbyterian, would never have forgiven me for having married a woman of the stage; so, as he was old and feeble, I did not wish him to learn that I had done so, fearing that the shock would be too much for him in his then present state of health. I told Rosanna I would marry her, but wanted her to leave her mother, who was a perfect fury, and not an agreeable person to live with. As I was rich, young, and not bad looking, Rosanna consented, and, during an engagement she had in Sydney, I went over there and married her. She never told her mother she had married me, why, I do not know, as I never laid any restriction on her doing so. The mother made a great noise over the matter, but I gave Rosanna a large sum of money for her, and this the old harridan accepted and left for New Zealand.