The Mystery of a Hansom Cab by Fergus Hume (autobiographies to read txt) 📕

de Whyte helped to sew the Bayeux tapestry, I suppose—and graduated at the Frivolity Theatre as a masher. In common with the other gilded youth of the day, he worshipped at the gas-lit shrine of Musette, and the goddess, pleased with his incense, left her other admirers in the lurch, and ran off with fortunate Mr. Whyte. So far as this goes there is nothing to show why the murder was committed. Men do not perpetrate crimes for the sake of light o’ loves like Musette, unless, indeed, some wretched youth embezzles money to buy jewellery for his divinity. The career of Musette, in London, was simply that of a clever member of the DEMI-MONDE, and, as far as I can learn, no one was so much in love with her as to commit a crime for her sake. So far so good; the motive of the crime must be found in Australia. Whyte had spent nearly all his money in England, and, consequently, Musette and her lover arrived in Sydney with comparatively very little cash. However, with an Epicurean-like philosophy, they enjoyed themselves on what little they had, and then came to Melbourne, where they stayed at a second-rate hotel. Musette, I may tell you, had one special vice, a common one—drink. She loved champagne, and drank a good deal of it. Consequently, on arriving at Melbourne, and finding that a new generation had arisen, which knew not Joseph—I mean Musette—she drowned her sorrows in the flowing bowl, and went out after a quarrel with Mr. Whyte, to view Melbourne by night—a familiar scene to her, no doubt. What took her to Little Bourke Street I don’t know. Perhaps she got lost—perhaps it had been a favourite walk of hers in the old days; at all events she was found dead drunk in that unsavoury locality, by Sal Rawlins. I know this is so, because Sal told me so herself. Sal acted the part of the good Samaritan—took her to the squalid den she called home, and there Rosanna Moore fell dangerously ill. Whyte, who had missed her, found out where she was, and that she was too ill to be removed. I presume he was rather glad to get rid of such an encumbrance, so he went back to his lodgings at St. Kilda, which, judging from the landlady’s story, he must have occupied for some time, while Rosanna Moore was drinking herself to death in a quiet hotel Still he does not break off his connection with the dying woman; but one night is murdered in a hansom cab, and that same night Rosanna Moore dies. So, from all appearance, everything is ended; not so, for before dying Rosanna sends for Brian Fitzgerald at his club, and reveals to him a secret which he locks up in his own heart. The writer of this letter has a theory—a fanciful one, if you will—that the secret told to Brian Fitzgerald contains the mystery of Oliver Whyte’s death. Now then, have I not found out a good deal without you, and do you still decline to reveal the rest? I do not say you know who killed Whyte, but I do say you know sufficient to lead to the detection of the murderer. If you tell me, so much the better, both for your own sense of justice and for your peace of mind; if you do not—well, I shall find out without you. I have taken, and still take, a great interest in this strange case, and I have sworn to bring the murderer to justice; so I make this last appeal to you to tell me what you know. If you refuse, I will set to work to find out all about Rosanna Moore prior to her departure from Australia in 1858, and I am certain sooner or later to discover the secret which led to Whyte’s murder. If there is any strong reason why it should be kept silent, I perhaps, will come round to your view, and let the matter drop; but if I have to find it out myself, the murderer of Oliver Whyte need expect no mercy at my hands So think over what I have said; if I do not hear from you within the next week, I shall regard your decision as final, and pursue the search myself. “I am sure, my dear Fitzgerald, you will find this letter too long, in spite of the interesting story it contains, so I will have pity on you, and draw to a close. Remember me to Miss Frettlby and to her father. With kind regards to yourself, I remain, yours very truly,

“DUNCAN CALTON.”

When Fitzgerald had finished the last of the closely-written sheets, he let the letter fall from his hands, and, leaning back in his chair, stared blankly into the dawning light outside. He arose after a few moments, and, pouring himself out a glass of brandy, drank it quickly. Then mechanically lighting a cigar, he stepped out of the door into the fresh beauty of the dawn. There was a soft crimson glow in the east, which announced the approach of the sun, and he could hear the chirping of the awakening birds in the trees. But Brian did not see the marvellous breaking of the dawn. He stood staring at the red light flaring in the east, and thinking of Calton’s letter.

“I can do no more,” he said bitterly, leaning his head against the wall of the house. “There is only one way of stopping Calton, and that is by telling him all. My poor Madge! My poor Madge!”

A soft wind arose, and rustled among the trees, and there appeared great shafts of crimson light in the east; then, with a sudden blaze, the sun peered over the brim of the wide plain. The warm yellow rays touched lightly the comely head of the weary man, and, turning round, he held up his arms to the great luminary, as though he were a fire-worshipper.

“I accept the omen of the dawn,” he cried, “for her life and for mine.”

 

CHAPTER XXV.

 

WHAT DR. CHINSTON SAID.

 

His resolution taken, Brian did not let the grass grow under his feet, but rode over in the afternoon to tell Madge of his intended departure.

The servant told him she was in the garden, so he went there, and, guided by the sound of merry voices, and the laughter of pretty women, soon found his way to the lawn—tennis ground. Madge and her guests were there, seated under the shade of a great witch elm, and watching, with great interest, a single-handed match being played between Rolleston and Peterson, both of whom were capital players. Mr. Frettlby was not present. He was inside writing letters, and talking with old Mr. Valpy, and Brian gave a sigh of relief as he noted his absence. Madge caught sight of him as he came down the garden path, and flew quickly towards him with outstretched hands, as he took his hat off.

“How good of you to come,” she said, in a delighted tone, as she took his arm, “and on such a hot day.”

“Yes, it’s something fearful in the shade,” said pretty Mrs. Rolleston, with a laugh, putting up her sunshade.

“Pardon me if I think the contrary,” replied Fitzgerald, bowing, with an expressive look at the charming group of ladies under the great tree.

Mrs. Rolleston blushed and shook her head.

“Ah! it’s easy seen you come from Ireland, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she observed, as she resumed her seat. “You are making Madge jealous.”

“So he is,” answered Madge, with a gay laugh. “I shall certainly inform Mr. Rolleston about you, Brian, if you make these gallant remarks.”

“Here he comes, then,” said her lover, as Rolleston and Peterson, having finished their game, walked off the tennis ground, and joined the group under the tree. Though in tennis flannels, they both looked remarkably warm, and, throwing aside his racket, Mr. Rolleston sat down with a sigh of relief.

“Thank goodness it’s over, and that I have won,” he said, wiping his heated brow; “galley slaves couldn’t have worked harder than we have done, while all you idle folks sat SUB TEGMINE FAGI.”

“Which means?” asked his wife, lazily.

“That onlookers see most of the game,” answered her husband, impudently.

“I suppose that’s what you call a free and easy translation,” said Peterson, laughing. “Mrs. Rolleston ought to give you something for your new and original adaptation of Virgil.”

“Let it be iced then,” retorted Rolleston, lying full length on the ground, and staring up at the blue of the sky as seen through the network of leaves. “I always like my ‘something’ iced.”

“It’s a way you’ve got,” said Madge, with a laugh, as she gave him a glass filled with some sparkling, golden-coloured liquor, with a lump of ice clinking musically against the side of it.

“He’s not the only one who’s got that way,” said Peterson, gaily, when he had been similarly supplied.

 

“It’s a way we’ve got in the army, It’s a way we’ve got in the navy, It’s a way we’ve got in the ‘Varsity.”

 

“And so say all of us,” finished Rolleston, and holding out his glass to be replenished; “I’ll have another, please. Whew, it is hot.”

“What, the drink?” asked Julia, with a giggle.

“No—the day,” answered Felix, making a face at her. “It’s the kind of day one feels inclined to adopt Sydney Smith’s advice, by getting out of one’s skin, and letting the wind whistle through one’s bones.”

“With such a hot wind blowing,” said Peterson, gravely, “I’m afraid they’d soon be broiled bones.”

“Go, giddy one,” retorted Felix, throwing his hat at him, “or I’ll drag you into the blazing sun, and make you play another game.”

“Not I,” replied Peterson, coolly. “Not being a salamander, I’m hardly used to your climate yet, and there is a limit even to lawn tennis;” and turning his back on Rolleston, he began to talk to Julia Featherweight.

Meanwhile, Madge and her lover, leaving all this frivolous chatter behind them, were walking slowly towards the house, and Brian was telling her of his approaching departure, though not of his reasons for it.

“I received a letter last night,” he said, turning his face away from her; “and, as it’s about some important business, I must start at once.”

“I don’t think it will be long before we follow,” answered Madge, thoughtfully. “Papa leaves here at the end of the week.”

“Why?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Madge, petulantly; “he is so restless, and never seems to settle down to anything. He says for the rest of his life he is going to do nothing; but wander all over the world.”

There suddenly flashed across Fitzgerald’s mind a line from Genesis, which seemed singularly applicable to Mr. Frettlby—“A fugitive and a vagabond thou shalt be in the earth.”

“Everyone gets these restless fits sooner or later,” he said, idly. “In fact,” with an uneasy laugh, “I believe I’m in one myself.”

“That puts me in mind of what I heard Dr. Chinston say yesterday,” she said. “This is the age of unrest, as electricity and steam have turned us all into Bohemians.”

“Ah! Bohemia is a pleasant place,” said Brian, absently, unconsciously quoting Thackeray, “but we all lose our way to it late in life.”

“At that rate we won’t lose our way to it for some time,” she said laughing, as they stepped into the drawingroom, so cool and shady, after the heat and glare outside.

As they entered Mr. Frettlby rose from a chair near the window. He appeared to have been reading, for he held a book in his hand.

“What! Fitzgerald,” he exclaimed, in a hearty tone, as he held out his hand; “I am glad to see you.”

“I let you know I am living,