Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 1

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Farjeon Benjamin Leopold. Great Porter Square: A Mystery. Volume 1

CHAPTER I. INTRODUCES MRS. JAMES PREEDY; HINTS AT THE TROUBLE INTO WHICH SHE HAS FALLEN; AND GIVES AN INSIGHT INTO HER SOCIAL POSITION

CHAPTER II. WHAT WAS PRINTED ON THE QUARTO BILL: A PROCLAMATION BY HER MAJESTY’S GOVERNMENT

CHAPTER III. EXTRACTED FROM THE “EVENING MOON.”

CHAPTER IV. THE EXAMINATION OF MRS. PREEDY, CONTINUED FROM THE “EVENING MOON.”

CHAPTER V. CONTAINS FURTHER EXTRACTS FROM THE “EVENING MOON” RELATING TO THE GREAT PORTER SQUARE MYSTERY

CHAPTER VI. THE “EVENING MOON” SPEAKS ITS MIND

CHAPTER VII. IN WHICH THE “EVENING MOON” CONTINUES TO SPEAK ITS MIND

CHAPTER VIII. THE “EVENING MOON” POSTPONES ITS STATEMENT RESPECTING ANTONY COWLRICK

CHAPTER IX. IN WHICH THE “EVENING MOON” RELATES THE ADVENTURES OF ITS SPECIAL CORRESPONDENT

CHAPTER X. THE SPECIAL REPORTER OF THE “EVENING MOON” MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A LITTLE MATCH GIRL

CHAPTER XI. THE “EVENING MOON” FOR A TIME TAKES LEAVE OF THE CASE OF ANTONY COWLRICK

CHAPTER XII. MRS. PREEDY HAS DREADFUL DREAMS

CHAPTER XIII. MRS. PREEDY’S YOUNG MAN LODGER

CHAPTER XIV. IN WHICH BECKY COMMENCES A LETTER TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY

CHAPTER XV. IN WHICH BECKY CONTINUES HER LETTER AND RELATES HOW SHE OBTAINED THE SITUATION AT NO. 118

CHAPTER XVI. IN WHICH BECKY WRITES A SECOND LETTER TO HER FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY, AND GIVES A WOMAN’S REASON FOR NOT LIKING RICHARD MANX

CHAPTER XVII. IN WHICH BECKY, CONTINUING HER LETTER, RELATES HER IMPRESSIONS OF MRS. PREEDY’S YOUNG MAN LODGER

CHAPTER XVIII. THE “EVENING MOON” RE-OPENS THE SUBJECT OF THE GREAT PORTER SQUARE MURDER, AND RELATES A ROMANTIC STORY CONCERNING THE MURDERED MAN AND HIS WIDOW

CHAPTER XIX. THE “EVENING MOON” CONTINUES ITS ACCOUNT OF THE TRAGEDY, AND DESCRIBES THE SHAMEFUL PART ENACTED BY MR. FREDERICK HOLDFAST IN HIS FATHER’S HOUSE

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HAVE you ever observed and studied the expressions on the faces of the people who congregate before the “Murder” proclamations pasted up in Scotland Yard, and on the dead walls of the poor neighbourhoods in England? Have you ever endeavoured, by a mental process, to discover the characters of some of these gaping men and women who read the bills and linger before them with a horrible fascination? Appropriate, indeed, that such announcements of mysterious murders should be pasted on dead walls! Come with me, and mingle for a few moments with this little group, gathered before a Government proclamation in Parliament-street, offering a reward for the discovery of a murderer. Here is a respectable-looking workman, with his basket of tools over his shoulder, running his eyes swiftly down the bill, and taking in its purport with rapid comprehension. He knows already about the murder, as indeed all London does, having read the particulars in the newspapers. “They’ve offered a reward at last,” he thinks, with a scornful smile: “they ought to have done it a month ago. Too late, now. This is another added to the list. How many undiscovered murders have been committed in the last twelve months? Temple of intellect, Scotland Yard!” As he walks away to his work, he looks with a kind of contempt at the policeman sauntering lazily along. Here is a young woman, without a bonnet, reading the bill very slowly; she can read quicker if she likes, but as the words pass before her eyes, she thinks of her own life and the drunken brute of a man she is living with. She would leave him to-day, this very moment, but she is afraid. “Do!” the brute has frequently exclaimed, when she has threatened to run away from him; “and say your prayers! As sure as you stand there I’ll kill yer, my beauty! I don’t mind being ’ung for yer!” And in proof of his fondness for her, he gives her, for the hundredth time, a taste of his power by striking her to the earth. “Git up!” he cries, “and never cheek me agin, or it’ll be worse for yer.” “I wonder,” the young woman is now thinking as she reads the particulars of the murder, “whether there’ll ever be a bill like that out about me; for Jack’s a cunning one!” Here is an errand boy reading the bill, with his eyes growing larger and larger. Murders will be committed in his dreams to-night. But before night comes an irresistible fascination will draw him to the neighbourhood in which the murder was committed, and he will feast his eyes upon the house. Here is an old woman spelling out the words, wagging her head the while. It is as good as a play to her. She lives in Pye Street, Westminster, and is familiar with crime in its every aspect. She is drunk – she has not been sober a day for thirty years. Well, she was born in a thief’s den, and her mother died in a delirium of drink. Here is a thief, who has lived more than half his life in prison, reading the bill critically, with a professional eye. It would be a pleasure to him to detect a flaw in it. There is in his mind a certain indignation that some person unknown to himself or his friends should have achieved such notoriety. “I’d like to catch ’im,” he thinks, “and pocket the shiners.” He wouldn’t peach on a pal, but, for such a reward, he would on one who was not “in the swim.” Here is a dark-visaged man reading the bill secretly, unaware that he is casting furtive glances around to make sure that he is not being watched. There is guilt on the soul of this man; a crime undiscovered, which haunts him by day and night. He reads, and reads, and reads; and then slinks into the nearest public-house, and spends his last twopence in gin. As he raises the glass to his lips he can scarcely hold it, his hand trembles so. How sweet must life be to the man who holds it on such terms; and how terrible the fears of death! Here is another man who reads the bill with an assumption of indifference, and even compels himself to read it slowly a second time, and then walks carelessly away. He walks, with strangely steady steps, along Parliament Street, southwards, and turns to Westminster Bridge, holding all the way some strong emotion in control. Difficult as it is, he has a perfect mastery over himself, and no sound escapes him till he reaches the bridge; then he leans over, and gives vent to his emotion. It takes the form of laughter – horrible laughter – which he sends downwards into the dark waters of the Thames, hiding his face the while! What secret lies concealed in his brain? Is he mad – or worse?

Many small knots of people had lately gathered before the bills posted on London walls, of which one was in the possession of Mrs. James Preedy:

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Witness: I’m a-doing of it, sir.

Mr. White Lush: Thank you. Did the scream proceed from a man or a woman?

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