The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries

by The Big Book of Victorian Mysteries (retail) (epub)

  “The ‘Red Earl’!” I cried. “The ‘Red Earl’ twelve hours too late!”

  “Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?” asked Northmour.

  I obeyed him, and I think I must have become deadly pale. My revolver had been taken from me.

  “You see, I have you in my power,” he continued. “I disarmed you last night while you were nursing Clara; but this morning—here—take your pistol. No thanks!” he cried, holding up his hand. “I do not like them; that is the only way you can annoy me now.”

  He began to walk forward across the links to meet the boat, and I followed a step or two behind. In front of the pavilion I paused to see where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen; but there was no sign of him, nor so much as a trace of blood.

  “Graden Floe,” said Northmour.

  He continued to advance till we had come to the head of the beach.

  “No farther, please,” said he. “Would you like to take her to Graden House?”

  “Thank you,” replied I; “I shall try to get her to the minister at Graden Wester.”

  The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, and a sailor jumped ashore with a line in his hand.

  “Wait a minute, lads!” cried Northmour; and then lower and to my private ear, “You had better say nothing of all this to her,” he added.

  “On the contrary!” I broke out, “she shall know everything that I can tell.”

  “You do not understand,” he returned, with an air of great dignity. “It will be nothing to her; she expects it of me. Good-bye!” he added, with a nod.

  I offered him my hand.

  “Excuse me,” said he. “It’s small, I know; but I can’t push things quite so far as that. I don’t wish any sentimental business, to sit by your hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that. Quite the contrary: I hope to God I shall never again clap eyes on either one of you.”

  “Well, God bless you, Northmour!” I said heartily.

  “Oh, yes,” he returned.

  He walked down the beach; and the man who was ashore gave him an arm on board, and then shoved off and leaped into the bows himself. Northmour took the tiller; the boat rose to the waves, and the oars between the tholepins sounded crisp and measured in the morning air.

  They were not yet half way to the “Red Earl,” and I was still watching their progress, when the sun rose out of the sea.

  One word more, and my story is done. Years after, Northmour was killed fighting under the colors of Garibaldi for the liberation of the Tyrol.

  The Knightsbridge Mystery

  CHARLES READE

  Although once one of the most popular and influential writers of the nineteenth century, Charles Reade (1814–1884) was eventually recognized as a major dramatist and novelist of his time, but not for all time.

  He largely ignored his fellowship at Oxford, keeping his living quarters but moving to London, and, despite having been admitted to the bar in 1843, never practiced law. After traveling and dabbling at playing the violin—and collecting Cremonas—he began to write plays, several of which enjoyed great success, notably Gold! (1853) and Masks and Faces (1852), written with Tom Taylor, which he turned into Peg Woffington (1853) at the urging of the actress Laura Seymour, who became his intimate friend and companion until her death in 1879.

  It was with his first long novel, It Is Never Too Late to Mend (1856), that he discovered his true identity as an author. It exposed the terrible cruelties to which criminals were subjected; seeking accuracy, he visited prisons and saw firsthand the dreadful conditions that had been accepted as natural and commonplace.

  From that point on, Reade’s books were preoccupied with social problems, and spring from his genuine philanthropy. Although largely treated coolly by critics, readers were enthusiastic and he was regarded as second only to Charles Dickens in battling injustice and accomplishing social reforms.

  The one of his novels still taught in literature classes is The Cloister and the Hearth (1861), recognized for decades after its publication as one of the greatest historical novels in the English language. While it was being serialized in Once a Week under the title A Good Fight, weekly circulation increased by twenty thousand copies.

  “The Knightsbridge Mystery” was originally published in the May 4–June 1, 1882 issues of Life magazine. It was first collected in The Jilt and Other Stories (London, Chatto & Windus, 1884).

  THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY

  Charles Reade

  CHAPTER I

  In Charles the Second’s day the “Swan” was denounced by the dramatists as a house where unfaithful wives and mistresses met their gallants.

  But in the next century, when John Clarke was the Freeholder, no special imputation of that sort rested on it: it was a country inn with large stables, horsed the Brentford coach, and entertained men and beast on journey long or short. It had also permanent visitors, especially in summer, for it was near London, and yet a rural retreat; meadows on each side, Hyde Park at back, Knightsbridge Green in front.

  Amongst the permanent lodgers was Mr. Gardiner, a substantial man; and Captain Cowen, a retired officer of moderate means, had lately taken two rooms for himself and his son. Mr. Gardiner often joined the company in the public room, but the Cowens kept to themselves up-stairs.

  This was soon noticed and resented, in that age of few books and free converse. Some said, “Oh, we are not good enough for him!” others inquired what a half-pay captain had to give himself airs about. Candor interposed and supplied the climax, “Nay, my masters, the Captain may be in hiding from duns, or from the runners: now I think on’t, the York mail was robbed scarce a se’nnight before his worship came a-hiding here.”

  But the landlady’s tongue ran the other way. Her weight was sixteen stone, her sentiments were her interests, and her tongue her tomahawk. “ ’Tis pity,” said she, one day, “some folk can’t keep their tongues from blackening of their betters. The Captain is a civil-spoken gentleman—Lord send there were more of them in these parts!—as takes his hat off to me whenever he meets me, and pays his reckoning weekly. If he has a mind to be private, what business is that of yours, or ours? But curs must bark at their betters.”

  Detraction, thus roughly quelled for certain seconds, revived at intervals whenever Dame Cust’s broad back was turned. It was mildly encountered one evening by Gardiner. “Nay, good sirs,” said he, “you mistake the worthy Captain. To have fought at Blenheim and Malplaquet, no man has less vanity. ’Tis for his son he holds aloof. He guards the truth like a mother, and will not have him to hear our tap-room jests. He worships the boy—a sullen lout, sirs; but paternal love is blind. He told me once he had loved his wife dearly, and lost her young, and this was all he had of her. ‘And,’ said he, ‘I’d spill blood like water for him, my own the first.’—‘Then, sir,’ says I, ‘I fear he will give you a sore heart one day.’—‘And welcome,’ says my Captain, and his face like iron.”

  Somebody remarked that no man keeps out of company who is good company; but Mr. Gardiner parried that dogma. “When young master is abed, my neighbor does sometimes invite me to share a bottle; and sprightlier companion I would not desire. Such stories of battles, and duels, and love intrigues!”

  “Now there’s an old fox for you,” said one, approvingly. It reconciled him to the Captain’s decency to find that it was only hypocrisy.

  “I like not—a man—who wears—a mask,” hiccoughed a hitherto silent personage, revealing his clandestine drunkenness and unsuspected wisdom at one blow.

  These various theories were still fermenting in the bosom of the “Swan,” when one day there rode up to the door a gorgeous officer, hot from the minister’s levee, in scarlet and gold, with an order like a star-fish glittering on his breast. His servant, a private soldier, rode behind him, and, slipping hastily from his saddle, held his master’s horse while he dismounted
. Just then Captain Cowen came out for his afternoon walk. He started, and cried out, “Colonel Barrington!”

  “Ay, brother,” cried the other, and instantly the two officers embraced, and even kissed each other, for that feminine custom had not yet retired across the Channel; and these were soldiers who had fought and bled side by side, and nursed each other in turn; and your true soldier does not nurse by halves; his vigilance and tenderness are an example to women, and he rustleth not.

  Captain Cowen invited Colonel Barrington to his room, and that warrior marched down the passage after him, single file, with long brass spurs and sabre clanking at his heels; and the establishment ducked and smiled, and respected Captain Cowen for the reason we admire the moon.

  Seated in Cowen’s room, the newcomer said, heartily, “Well, Ned, I come not empty-handed. Here is thy pension at last”; and handed him a parchment with a seal like a poached egg.

  Cowen changed color, and thanked him with an emotion he rarely betrayed, and gloated over the precious document. His cast-iron features relaxed, and he said, “It comes in the nick of time, for now I can send my dear Jack to college.”

  This led somehow to an exposure of his affairs. He had just, £110 a year, derived from the sale of his commission, which he had invested at fifteen per cent, with a well-known mercantile house in the City. “So now,” he said, “I shall divide it all in three; Jack will want two parts to live at Oxford, and I can do well enough here on one.” The rest of the conversation does not matter, so I dismiss it and Colonel Barrington for the time. A few days afterward Jack went to college, and Captain Cowen reduced his expenses, and dined at the shilling ordinary, and, indeed, took all his moderate repasts in public.

  Instead of the severe and reserved character he had worn while his son was with him, he now shone out a boon companion, and sometimes kept the table in a roar with his marvellous mimicries of all the characters, male or female, that lived in the inn or frequented it, and sometimes held them breathless with adventures, dangers, intrigues in which a leading part had been played by himself or his friends.

  He became quite a popular character, except with one or two envious bodies, whom he eclipsed; they revenged themselves by saying it was all braggadocio; his battles had been fought over a bottle, and by the fireside.

  The district east and west of Knightsbridge had long been infested with foot-pads; they robbed passengers in the country lanes, which then abounded, and sometimes on the King’s highway, from which those lanes offered an easy escape.

  One moonlight night Captain Cowen was returning home alone from an entertainment at Fulham, when suddenly the air seemed to fill with a woman’s screams and cries. They issued from a lane on his right hand. He whipped out his sword and dashed down the lane. It took a sudden turn, and in a moment he came upon three foot-pads, robbing and maltreating an old gentleman and his wife. The old man’s sword lay at a distance, struck from his feeble hand; the woman’s tongue proved the better weapon, for, at least, it brought an ally.

  The nearest robber, seeing the Captain come at him with his drawn sword glittering in the moonshine, fired hastily, and grazed his cheek, and was skewered like a frog the next moment; his cry of agony mingled with two shouts of dismay, and the other foot-pads fled; but, even as they turned, Captain Cowen’s nimble blade entered the shoulder of one, and pierced the fleshy part. He escaped, however, but howling and bleeding.

  Captain Cowen handed over the lady and gentleman to the people who flocked to the place, now the work was done, and the disabled robber to the guardians of the public peace, who arrived last of all. He himself withdrew apart and wiped his sword very carefully and minutely with a white pocket-handkerchief, and then retired.

  He was so far from parading his exploit that he went round by the park and let himself into the “Swan” with his private key, and was going quietly to bed, when the chambermaid met him, and up flew her arms, with cries of dismay. “Oh, Captain! Captain! Look at you—smothered in blood! I shall faint.”

  “Tush! Silly wench!” said Captain Cowen. “I am not hurt.”

  “Not hurt, sir? And bleeding like a pig! Your cheek—your poor cheek!”

  Captain Cowen put up his hand, and found that blood was welling from his cheek and ear.

  He looked grave for a moment, then assured her it was but a scratch, and offered to convince her of that. “Bring me some luke-warm water, and thou shalt be my doctor. But, Barbara, prithee publish it not.”

  Next morning an officer of justice inquired after him at the “Swan,” and demanded his attendance at Bow Street, at two that afternoon, to give evidence against the foot-pads. This was the very thing he wished to avoid; but there was no evading the summons.

  The officer was invited into the bar by the landlady, and sang the gallant Captain’s exploit, with his own variations. The inn began to ring with Cowen’s praises. Indeed, there was but one detractor left—the hostler, Daniel Cox, a drunken fellow of sinister aspect, who had for some time stared and lowered at Captain Cowen, and muttered mysterious things, doubts as to his being a real captain, etc. Which incoherent murmurs of a muddle-headed drunkard were not treated as oracular by any human creature, though the stable-boy once went so far as to say, “I sometimes almost thinks as how our Dan do know summut; only he don’t rightly know what ’tis, along o’ being always muddled in liquor.”

  Cowen, who seemed to notice little, but noticed everything, had observed the lowering looks of this fellow, and felt he had an enemy: it even made him a little uneasy, though he was too proud and self-possessed to show it.

  With this exception, then, everybody greeted him with hearty compliments, and he was cheered out of the inn, marching to Bow Street.

  Daniel Cox, who—as accidents will happen—was sober that morning, saw him out, and then put on his own coat.

  “Take thou charge of the stable, Sam,” said he.

  “Why, where be’st going, at this time o’ day?”

  “I be going to Bow Street,” said Daniel doggedly.

  At Bow Street Captain Cowen was received with great respect, and a seat given him by the sitting magistrate while some minor cases were disposed of.

  In due course the highway robbery was called and proved by the parties who, unluckily for the accused, had been actually robbed before Cowen interfered.

  Then the oath was tendered to Cowen: he stood up by the magistrate’s side and deposed, with military brevity and exactness, to the facts I have related, but refused to swear to the identity of the individual culprit who stood pale and trembling at the dock.

  The attorney for the Crown, after pressing in vain, said, “Quite right, Captain Cowen; a witness cannot be too scrupulous.”

  He then called an officer, who had found the robber leaning against a railing fainting from loss of blood, scarce a furlong from the scene of the robbery, and wounded in the shoulder. That let in Captain Cowen’s evidence, and the culprit was committed for trial, and soon after peached upon his only comrade at large. The other lay in the hospital at Newgate.

  The magistrate complimented Captain Cowen on his conduct and his evidence, and he went away universally admired. Yet he was not elated, nor indeed content. Sitting by the magistrate’s side, after he had given his evidence, he happened to look all round the Court, and in a distant corner he saw the enormous mottled nose and sinister eyes of Daniel Cox glaring at him with a strange but puzzled expression.

  Cowen had learned to read faces, and he said to himself: “What is there in that ruffian’s mind about me? Did he know me years ago? I cannot remember him. Curse the beast—one would almost—think—he is cudgelling his drunken memory. I’ll keep an eye on you.”

  He went home thoughtful and discomposed, because this drunkard glowered at him so. The reception he met with at the “Swan” effaced the impression. He was received with acclamations, and now that public
ity was forced upon him, he accepted it, and revelled in popularity.

  About this time he received a letter from his son enclosing a notice from the college tutor, speaking highly of his ability, good conduct, devotion to study.

  This made the father swell with loving pride.

  Jack hinted modestly that there were unavoidable expenses, and his funds were dwindling. He enclosed an account that showed how the money went.

  The father wrote back and bade him be easy; he should have every farthing required, and speedily. “For,” said he, “my half-year’s interest is due now.”

  Two days later he had a letter from his man of business, begging him to call. He went with alacrity, making sure his money was waiting for him as usual.

  His lawyer received him very gravely, and begged him to be seated. He then broke to him some appalling news. The great house of Brown, Molyneux, and Co. had suspended payments at noon the day before, and were not expected to pay a shilling in the pound. Captain Cowen’s little fortune was gone—all but his pension of eighty pounds a year.

  He sat like a man turned to stone; then he clasped his hands with agony, and uttered two words—no more—“My son!”

  He rose and left the place like one in a dream. He got down to Knightsbridge, he hardly knew how. At the very door of the inn he fell down in a fit. The people of the inn were round him in a moment, and restoratives freely supplied. His sturdy nature soon revived; but, with the moral and physical shock, his lips were slightly distorted over his clenched teeth. His face, too, was ashy pale.

  When he came to himself, the first face he noticed was that of Daniel Cox, eyeing him, not with pity, but with puzzled curiosity. Cowen shuddered and closed his own eyes to avoid this blighting stare. Then, without opening them, he muttered, “What has befallen me? I feel no wound.”