The Mystery of M. FelixFarjeon, B. L. (Benjamin Leopold)
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The Mystery of M. Felix
Farjeon, B. L. (Benjamin Leopold)
Detective and mystery stories; English fiction -- 19th century
"She came into the kitchen rubbing her eyes, and presenting a general
appearance of untidiness which did not speak well for her social
training. Her short hair was uncombed, her face unwashed, her frock
open at the back, and she had no boots on. She stared hard at our
reporter, but was not at all abashed at his presence.
"'I'm a friend of aunt's,' said our reporter. 'You had better finish
dressing, light the fire, and give yourself a good wash, and then get
breakfast ready. You needn't come upstairs till you're called.'
"He beckoned Mrs. Middlemore out of the room, and they proceeded
upstairs to the apartments on the first floor.
"'It will be as well to say nothing before Sophy,' he said. 'Now, if
you please, we will go on. It is plain that the body of M. Felix is
not in the house; but it must be somewhere. The question is--Where,
and how it got there? These rooms were fairly secure before you went
to bed last night. Is there a chain on the street door?'
"'Yes.'
"'Did you put it up before you went down to your bedroom?'
"'I puts it up regularly every night.'
"'And you did so last night?'
"'Yes.'
"'And turned the key?'
"'Yes.'
"'Was the door locked and the chain up the first thing this morning?'
"'Yes--no!'
"'What do you mean by that?'
"'I mean I can't remember. I must be sure, mustn't I, sir?'
"'You must be sure, there must not be the possibility of a mistake;
this putting up of the chain is one of the points upon which a great
deal may hang. Do you mean to tell me that you have any doubt on the
subject?'
"'I can't say for certain. I was that upset and bewildered when I
found M. Felix gone that I don't remember nothing till you came up to
me at the street door. 'Ow I opened it, or 'ow I got it open, I don't
remember no more than the dead.'
"'Think a little; it is not longer than half-an-hour since I saw you.
Your memory cannot have deserted you in so short a time.'
"'I've got no more memory about it than the babe unborn.'
"'But you must try to have. It is a fact that the chain either was or
was not up, that the door either was or was not locked. Sit down and
think about it for a minute or two; I will keep quiet while you
think.'
"But though the woman obeyed our reporter, and sat down and thought of
the matter, or said she did, she declared she could make nothing of
it, and had to give it up in despair.
"'It is awkward,' said our reporter, 'to say the least of it. There is
no telling what construction may be put upon your loss of memory.'
"'I'm a honest woman, sir,' said Mrs. Middlemore, looking imploringly
at our reporter; 'you'll put in a good word for me?'
"'You may depend upon that, for I am convinced you are honest and
innocent, but it is unfortunate. If you _should_ happen to remember,
you had best let me know before you tell anyone else.'
"'Yes, sir, I'll promise that. I don't know what I should do without
you.'
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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