“One fact is plain. Vittorina must not come to England.”
“Why? She, a mere inexperienced girl, knows nothing.”
“Her presence here will place us in serious jeopardy. If she really intends to visit London, then I shall leave this country at once. I scent danger.”
“As far as I can see, we have nothing whatever to fear. She doesn’t know half a dozen words of English, and London will be entirely strange to her after Tuscany.”
The face of the man who, while speaking, had raised his wine-glass was within the zone of light cast by the pink-shaded lamp. He was about twenty-eight, with dark eyes, complexion a trifle sallow, well-arched brows, and a dark moustache carefully waxed, the points being trained in an upward direction. In his well-cut evening clothes, Arnoldo Romanelli was a handsome man, a trifle foppish perhaps; yet his features, with their high cheek-bones, bore the unmistakable stamp of Southern blood, while in his eyes was that dark brilliance which belongs alone to the sons of Italy.
He selected some grapes from the silver fruit-dish, filled a glass with water and dipped them in—true-bred Tuscan that he was—shook them out upon his plate, and then calmly contemplated the old blue Etruscan scarabaeus on the little finger of his left hand. He was waiting for his companion to continue the argument.
The other, twenty years his senior, was ruddy-faced and clean-shaven, with a pair of eyes that twinkled merrily, square jaws denoting considerable determination, altogether a typical Englishman of the buxom, burly, sport-loving kind. Strangely enough, although no one would have dubbed Doctor Filippo Malvano a foreigner, so thoroughly British was his appearance, yet he was an alien. Apparently he was in no mood for conversation, for the habitual twinkle in his eyes had given place to a calm, serious look, and he slowly selected a cigar, while the silence which had fallen between them still remained unbroken.
The man who had expressed confidence again raised his glass to his lips slowly, regarded his companion curiously across its edge, and smiled grimly.
The pair were dining together in a large, comfortable but secluded house lying back from the road at the further end of the quaint, old-world village of Lyddington, in Rutland. The long windows of the dining-room opened out upon the spacious lawn, the extent of which was just visible in the faint mystic light of the August evening, showing beyond a great belt of elms, the foliage of which rustled softly in the fresh night wind, and still further lay the open, undulating country. Ever and anon the wind, in soft gusts, stirred the long lace curtains within the room, and in the vicinity the sweet mellow note of the nightingale broke the deep stillness of rural peace.
Romanelli ate his grapes deliberately, while the Doctor, lighting his long Italian cigar at the candle the servant handed him, rested both elbows on the table and puffed away slowly, still deep in contemplation.
“Surely this girl can be stopped, if you really think there is danger,” the younger man observed at last.
At that instant a second maid entered, and in order that neither domestics should understand the drift of their conversation, the Doctor at once dropped into Italian, answering—
“I don’t merely think there’s danger; I absolutely know there is.”
“What? You’ve been warned?” inquired Arnoldo quickly.
The elder man raised his brows and slowly inclined his head.
Romanelli sprang to his feet in genuine alarm. His face had grown pale in an instant.
“Good heavens!” he gasped in his own tongue. “Surely the game has not been given away?”
The Doctor extended his palms and raised his shoulders to his ears. When he spoke Italian, he relapsed into all his native gesticulations, but in speaking English he had no accent, and few foreign mannerisms.
The two maid-servants regarded the sudden alarm of their master’s guest from London with no little astonishment; but the Doctor, quick-eyed, noticed it, and, turning to them, exclaimed in his perfect English—
“You may both leave. I’ll ring, if I require anything more.”
As soon as the door had closed, Arnoldo, leaning on the back of his chair, demanded further details from his host. He had only arrived from London an hour before, and, half famished, had at once sat down to dinner.
“Be patient,” his host said in a calm, strained tone quite unusual to him. “Sit down, and I’ll tell you.” Arnoldo obeyed, sinking again into his chair, his dark brows knit, his arms folded on the table, his eyes fixed upon those of the Doctor.
Outwardly there was nothing very striking about either, beyond the fact that they were foreigners of a well-to-do class. The English of the elder man was perfect, but that of Romanelli was very ungrammatical, and in both faces a keen observer might have noticed expressions of cunning and craftiness. Any Italian would have at once detected, from the manner Romanelli abbreviated his words when speaking Italian, that he came from the Romagna, that wild hot-bed of lawlessness and anarchy lying between Florence and Forli, while his host spoke pure Tuscan, the language of Italy. The words they exchanged were deep and earnest. Sometimes they spoke softly, when the Doctor would smile and stroke his smooth-shaven chin, at others they conversed with a volubility that sounded to English ears as though they were quarrelling.
The matter under discussion was certainly a strangely secret one.
The room was well-furnished in genuine old oak, which bore no trace of the Tottenham Court Road; the table was adorned with exotics, and well laid with cut-glass and silver; while the air which entered by the open windows was refreshing after the heat and burden of the August day.
“The simple fact remains, that on the day Vittorina sets foot in London the whole affair must become public property,” said Malvano seriously.
“And then?”
“Well, safety lies in flight,” the elder man answered, slowly gazing round the room. “I’m extremely comfortable here, and have no desire to go wandering again; but if this girl really comes, England cannot shelter both of us.”
Romanelli looked grave, knit his brows, and slowly twirled the ends of his small waxed moustache.
“But how can we prevent her?”
“I’ve been endeavouring to solve that problem for a fortnight past,” his host answered. “While Vittorina is still in Italy, and has no knowledge of my address, we are safe enough. She’s the only person who can expose us. As for myself, leading the life of a country practitioner, I’m respected by the whole neighbourhood, dined by the squire and the parson, and no suspicion of mystery attaches to me. I’m buried here as completely as though I were in my grave.”
The trees rustled outside, and the welcome breeze stirred the curtains within, causing the lamp to flicker.
“Yet you fear Vittorina!” observed the younger man, puzzled.
“It seems that you have no memory of the past,” the other exclaimed, a trifle impatiently. “Is it imperative to remind you of the events on a certain night in a house overlooking the sea of Livorno; of the mystery—”
“Basta!” cried the younger man, frowning, his eyes shining with unnatural fire. “Can I ever forget them? Enough! All is past. It does neither of us good to rake up that wretched affair. It is over and forgotten.”
“No, scarcely forgotten,” the Doctor said in a low, impressive tone. “Having regard to what occurred, don’t you think that Vittorina has sufficient incentive to expose us?”
“Perhaps,” Romanelli answered in a dry, dubious tone. “I, however, confess myself sanguine of our success. Certainly you, as an English country doctor, who is half Italian, and who has practised for years among the English colony in Florence, have but very little to fear. You are eminently respectable.”
The men exchanged smiles. Romanelli glanced at his ring, and thought the ancient blue scarabaeus had grown darker—a precursory sign of evil.
“Yes,” answered Malvano, with deliberation, “I know I’ve surrounded myself with an air of the most severe respectability, and I flatter myself that the people here little dream of my true position; but that doesn’t effect the serious turn events appear to be taking. We have enemies, my dear fellow—bitter enemies—in Florence, and as far as I can discern, there’s absolutely no way of propitiating them. We are, as you know, actually within an ace of success, yet this girl can upset all our plans, and make English soil too sultry for us ever to tread it again.” A second time he glanced around his comfortable dining-room, and sighed at the thought of having to fly from that quiet rural spot where he had so ingeniously hidden himself.
“It was to tell me this, I suppose, that you wired this morning?” his guest said.
The other nodded, adding, “I had a letter last night from Paolo. He has seen Vittorina at Livorno. She’s there for the sea-bathing.”
“What did she say?”
“That she intended to travel straight to London.”
“She gave him no reason, I suppose?” Arnoldo asked anxiously.
“Can we not easily guess the reason?” the Doctor replied. “If you reflect upon the events of that memorable night, you will at once recognise that she should be prevented from coming to this country.”
“Yes. You are right,” Romanelli observed in a tone of conviction. “I see it all. We are in peril. Vittorina must not come.”
“Then the next point to consider is how we can prevent her,” the Doctor said.
A silence, deep and complete, fell between them. The trees rustled, the clock ticked slowly and solemnly, and the nightingale filled the air with its sweet note.
“The only way out of the difficulty that I can see is for me to hazard everything, return to Livorno, and endeavour by some means to compel her to remain in Italy.”
“But can you?”
Romanelli shrugged his shoulders. “There is a risk, of course, but I’ll do my best,” he answered. “If I fail—well, then the game’s up, and you must fly.”
“I would accompany you to Italy,” exclaimed the other, “but, as you are aware, beyond Modane the ground is too dangerous.”
“Do you think they suspect anything at the Embassy?”
“I cannot tell. I called the other day when in London, and found the Ambassador quite as cordial as usual.”
“But if he only knew the truth?”
“He can only know through Vittorina,” answered the Doctor quickly. “If she remains in Italy, he will still be in ignorance. The Ministry at Rome knows nothing, but her very presence here will arouse suspicion.”
“Then I’ll risk all, and go to Italy,” said the younger man decisively. “I don’t relish that long journey from Paris to Pisa this weather. Thirty-five hours is too long to be cramped up in that horribly stuffy sleeping-car.”
“If you go, you must start to-morrow, and travel straight through,” urged the Doctor earnestly. “Don’t break your journey, or she may have started before you reach Livorno.”
“Very well,” his young companion answered. “I’ll go right through, as you think it best. If I start from here at six to-morrow morning, I shall be in Livorno on Monday morning. Shall I wire to Paolo?”
“No. Take him by surprise. You’ll have a far better chance of success,” urged the other; and, pushing the decanter towards him, added, “Help yourself, and let’s drink luck to your expedition.”
Romanelli obeyed, and both men, raising their glasses, saluted each other in Italian. The younger man no longer wore the air of gay recklessness habitual to him, but took a gulp of the drink with a forced harsh laugh. In the eyes of the usually merry village doctor there was also an expression of doubt and fear. Romanelli was too absorbed in contemplating the risk of returning to Italy to notice the strange sinister expression which for a single instant settled upon his companion’s face, otherwise he might not have been so ready to adopt all his suggestions. Upon the countenance of Doctor Malvano was portrayed at that moment an evil passion, and the strange glint in his eyes would in itself have been sufficient proof to the close observer that he intended playing his companion false.
“Then you’ll leave Seaton by the six-thirty, eh?” he inquired at last.
Romanelli nodded.
The Doctor touched the gong, and the maid entered. “Fletcher,” he said, “the Signore must be called at half-past five to-morrow. Tell Goodwin to have the trap ready to go to Seaton Station to catch the six-thirty.”
The maid withdrew, and when the door had closed, Malvano, his elbows on the table, his cold gaze fixed upon his guest, suddenly asked in a low, intense voice, “Arnoldo, in this affair we must have no secrets from each other. Tell me the truth. Do you love Vittorina?” The foppish young man started slightly, but quickly recovering himself, answered—
“Of course not. What absurd fancy causes you to suggest that?”
“Well—she is very pretty, you know,” the Doctor observed ambiguously.
The young man looked sharply at his host. “You mean,” he said, “that I might make love to her, and thus prevent her from troubling us, eh?”
The other nodded in the affirmative, adding, “You might even marry her.”
At that instant the maid entered, bearing a telegram which a lad on a cycle had brought from Uppingham for the Doctor’s guest. The latter opened it, glanced at its few faintly-written words, then frowned and placed it in his pocket without comment.
“Bad news?” inquired Malvano. “You look a bit scared.”
“Not at all; not at all,” he laughed. “Merely a little affair of the heart, that’s all;” and he laughed in a happy, self-satisfied way. Arnoldo was fond of the society of the fair sex, therefore the Doctor, shrewd and quick of observation, was fully satisfied that the message was from one or other of his many feminine acquaintances.
“Well, induce Vittorina to believe that you love her, and all will be plain sailing,” he said. “You are just the sort of fellow who can fascinate a woman and compel her to act precisely as you wish. Exert on her all the powers you possess.”
“I’m afraid it will be useless,” his companion answered in a dry, hopeless tone.
“Bah! Your previous love adventures have already shown you to be a past-master in the arts of flattery and flirtation. Make a bold bid for fortune, my dear fellow, and you’re bound to succeed. Come, let’s take a turn across the lawn; it’s too warm indoors to-night.” Romanelli uttered no word, but rose at his host’s bidding, and followed him out. He felt himself staggering, but, holding his breath, braced himself up, and, struggling, managed to preserve an appearance of outward calm. How, he wondered, would Doctor Malvano act if he knew the amazing information which had just been conveyed to him? He drew a deep breath, set his lips tight, and shuddered.
On the same night as the Doctor and his guest were dining in the remote rural village, the express which had left Paris at midday was long overdue at Charing Cross. Presently a troop of porters assembled and folded their arms to gossip, Customs officers appeared, and at last the glaring headlights of the express were seen slowly crossing the bridge which spans the Thames. Within a couple of minutes all became bustle and confusion. The pale faces and disordered appearance of alighting passengers told plainly how rough had been the passage from Calais. Many were tweed-coated tourists returning from Switzerland or the Rhine, but there were others who, by their calm, unruffled demeanour, were unmistakably experienced travellers.
Among the latter was a smart, military-looking man of not more than thirty-three, tall, dark, and slim, with a merry face a trifle bronzed, and a pair of dark eyes beaming with good humour. As he alighted from a first-class carriage he held up his hand and secured a hansom standing by, then handed out his companion, a well-dressed girl of about twenty-two, whose black eyes and hair, rather aquiline features and sun-browned skin, were sufficient evidence that she was a native of the South. Her dress, of some dark blue material, bore the stamp of the first-class costumier; attached to her belt was the small satchel affected by foreign ladies when travelling; her neat toque became her well; and her black hair, although a trifle awry after the tedious, uncomfortable journey, still presented an appearance far neater than that of other bedraggled women around her.
“Welcome to London!” he exclaimed in good Italian.
For a moment she paused, gazing wonderingly about her at the great vaulted station, dazed by its noise, bustle, and turmoil.
“And this is actually London!” she exclaimed. “Ah! what a journey! How thankful I am that it’s all over, and I am here, in England at last!”
“So am I,” he said, with a sigh of relief as he removed his grey felt hat to ease his head. They had only hand-baggage, and this having been quickly transferred to the cab, he handed her in. As he placed his foot upon the step to enter the vehicle after her, a voice behind him suddenly exclaimed—
“Hullo, Tristram! Back in London again?”
He turned quickly, and recognised in the elderly, grey-haired, well-groomed man in frock-coat and silk hat his old friend Major Gordon Maitland, and shook him heartily by the hand.
“Yes,” he answered. “London once again. But you know how I spend my life—on steamboats or in sleeping-cars. To-morrow I may start again for Constantinople. I’m the modern Wandering Jew.”
“Except, that you’re not a Jew—eh?” the other laughed. “Well, travelling is your profession; and not a bad one either.”
“Try it in winter, my dear fellow, when the thermometer is below zero,” answered Captain Frank Tristram, smiling. “You’d prefer the fireside corner at the club.”
“Urgent business?” inquired the Major, in a lower tone, and with a meaning look.
The other nodded.
“Who’s your pretty companion?” Maitland asked in a low voice, with a quick glance at the girl in the cab.
“She was placed under my care at Leghorn, and we’ve travelled through together. She’s charming. Let me introduce you.”
Then, approaching the conveyance, he exclaimed in Italian: “Allow me, signorina, to present my friend Major Gordon Maitland,—the Signorina Vittorina Rinaldo.”
“Your first visit to our country, I presume?” exclaimed the Major, in rather shaky Italian, noticing how eminently handsome she was.
“Yes,” she answered, smiling. “I have heard so much of your great city, and am all anxiety to see it.”
“I hope your sojourn among us will be pleasant. You have lots to see. How long shall you remain?”
“Ah! I do not know,” she answered. “A week—a month—a year—if need be.”
The two men exchanged glances. The last words she uttered were spoken hoarsely, with strange intonation. They had not failed to notice a curious look in her eyes, a look of fierce determination.
“Terribly hot in Leghorn,” observed Tristram, turning the conversation after an awkward pause of a few moments. Vittorina held her breath. She saw how nearly she had betrayed herself.
“It has been infernally hot here in London these past few days. I think I shall go abroad to-morrow. I feel like the last man in town.”
“Go to Wiesbaden,” Tristram said. “I was at the Rose ten days ago, and the season is in full swing. Not too hot, good casino, excellent cooking, and plenty of amusement. Try it.”
“No, I think I’ll take a run through the Dolomites,” he said. “But why have you been down to Leghorn? Surely it’s off your usual track.”
“Yes, a little. The Ambassador is staying a few weeks for the sea-bathing at Ardenza, close to Leghorn, and I had important despatches.”
“She’s exceedingly good-looking,” the Major said in English, with a smiling glance at the cab. “I envy you your travelling companion. You must have had quite an enjoyable time.”
“Forty hours in a sleeping-car is scarcely to be envied this weather,” he answered, as a porter, recognising him in passing, wished him a polite “Good journey, I hope, sir?”
Continuing, Tristram said, “But we must be off. I’m going to see her safe through to her friends before going to the office, and I’m already nearly three hours late in London. So good-bye.”
“Good-bye,” the other said. “Shall I see you at the club to-night?”
“Perhaps. I’m a bit done up by the heat, but I want my letters, so probably I’ll look in.”
“Buona sera, signorina,” Maitland exclaimed, bending towards the cab, shaking her hand and raising his hat politely.
She smiled, returning his salute in her own sweet, musical Tuscan, and then her companion, shouting an address in Hammersmith, sprang in beside her, and they drove off.
“You must be very tired,” he said, turning to her as they emerged from the station-yard into the busy Strand.
“No, not so fatigued as I was when we arrived in Paris this morning,” she answered, gazing wonderingly at the long line of omnibuses and cabs slowly filing down the brightly lit thoroughfare. “But what confusion! I thought the Via Calzaiuoli in Florence noisy, but this—!” and she waved her small hand with a gesture far more expressive than any words.
Frank Tristram, remarking that she would find London very different to Florence, raised his hand to his throat to loosen his collar, and in doing so displayed something which had until that moment remained concealed. A narrow ribbon was hidden beneath his large French cravat of black silk tied in a bow. The colour was royal blue, and from it was suspended the British royal arms, surmounted by the crown, with a silver greyhound pendant, the badge known on every railway from Calais to Ekaterinbourg, and from Stockholm to Reggio, as that of a King’s Foreign Service Messenger. Captain Frank Tristram was one of the dozen wanderers on the face of the earth whose swift journeys and promptness in delivering despatches have earned for them the title of “The Greyhounds of Europe.”
So engrossed was the dark-haired girl in contemplating her strange surroundings that she scarcely uttered a word as the cab sped on swiftly through the deepening twilight across Trafalgar Square, along Pall Mall, and up the Haymarket. Suddenly, however, the blaze of electricity outside the Criterion brought to Frank Tristram’s mind cherished recollections of whisky and soda, and, being thirsty after the journey, he shouted to the man to pull up there.
“You, too, must be thirsty,” he said, turning to her. “At this café, I think, they keep some of your Italian drinks—vermouth, menthe, or muscato.”
“Thank you—no,” she replied, smiling sweetly. “The cup of English tea I had at Dover did me good, and I’m really not thirsty. You go and get something. I’ll remain here.”
“Very well,” he said. “I won’t be more than a minute;” and as the cab drew up close to the door of the bar, he sprang out and entered the long saloon.
His subsequent movements were, however, somewhat curious.
After walking to the further end of the bar, he ordered a drink, idled over it for some minutes, his eyes glancing furtively at the lights of the cab outside. Suddenly, when he had uttered a few words to a passing acquaintance, he saw the vehicle move slowly on, probably under orders from the police; and the instant he had satisfied himself that neither Vittorina nor the cabman could observe him, he drained his glass, threw down a shilling, and without waiting for the change turned and continued through the bar, making a rapid exit by the rear door leading into Jermyn Street.
As he emerged, a hansom was passing, and, hailing it, he sprang in, shouted an address, and drove rapidly away.
Meanwhile the cabman who had driven him from Charing Cross sat upon his box patiently awaiting his return, now and then hailing the plethoric drivers of passing vehicles with sarcasm, as cab and ’bus drivers are wont to do, until fully twenty minutes had elapsed. Then, there being no sign of the reappearance of his fare, he opened the trap-door in the roof, exclaiming—
“Nice evenin’ miss.”
There was no response. The man peered down eagerly for a moment in surprise then cried aloud—
“By Jove! She’s fainted!”
Unloosing the strap which held him to his seat, he sprang down and entered the vehicle.
The young girl was lying back in the corner inert and helpless, her hat awry, her pointed chin upon her chest. He pressed his hand to her breast, but there was no movement of the heart. He touched her ungloved hand. It was chilly, and the fingers were already stiffening. Her large black eyes were still open, glaring wildly into space, but her face was blanched to the lips.
“Good heavens!” the cabman cried, stupefied, as in turning he saw a policeman standing on the kerb. “Quick, constable!” he shouted, beckoning the officer. “Quick! Look here!”
“Well, what’s the matter now?” the other inquired, approaching leisurely, his thumbs hitched in his belt.
“The matter!” cried the cabman. “Why, this lady I drove from Charin’ Cross is dead?”
Within half a minute a crowd had gathered around the cab.
The instant the cabman raised the alarm the constable was joined by the burly door-opener of the Criterion in gaoler-like uniform and the round-faced fireman, who, lounging together outside, were ever on the look-out for some diversion. But when the constable agreed with the cab-driver that the lady was dead, their ready chaff died from their lips.
“What do you know of her?” asked the officer of the cab-driver.
“Nothing, beyond the fact that I drove ’er from Charin’ Cross with a gentleman. She’s a foreigner, but he was English.”
“Where is he?” demanded the constable anxiously, at that moment being joined by two colleagues, to whom the fireman in a few breathless words explained the affair.
“He went into the bar there ’arf an hour ago, but he ain’t come out.”
“Quick. Come with me, and let’s find him,” the officer said.
Leaving the other policemen in charge of the cab, they entered, and walked down, the long, garish bar, scrutinising each of the hundred or so men lounging there. The cabman, however, saw nothing of his fare.
“He must have escaped by the back way,” observed the officer disappointedly. “It’s a strange business, this.”
“Extremely,” said the cab-driver. “The fellow must have murdered her, and then entered the place in order to get away. He’s a pretty cute ’un.”
“It seems a clear case of murder,” exclaimed the other in a sharp, precise, business-like tone. “We’ll take her to the hospital first; then you must come with me to Vine Street at once.”
When they emerged, they found that the crowd had already assumed enormous proportions. The news that a woman had been murdered spread instantly throughout the whole neighbourhood, and the surging crowd of idlers, all curiosity, pressed around the vehicle to obtain a glimpse of the dead woman’s face. Amid the crowd, elbowing his way fiercely and determinedly, was a man whose presence there was a somewhat curious coincidence, having regard to what had previously transpired that evening. He wore a silk hat, his frock-coat was tightly buttoned and he carried in his gloved hand a silver-mounted cane. After considerable difficulty, he obtained a footing in front of the crowd immediately behind the cordon the police had formed around the vehicle, and in a few moments, by craning his neck forward, obtained nil uninterrupted view of the lady’s face.
His teeth were firmly set, but his calm countenance betrayed no sign of astonishment. For an instant he regarded the woman with a cold, impassive look, then quickly he turned away, glancing furtively right and left, and an instant later was lost in the surging, struggling multitude which a body of police were striving in vain to “move on.”
The man who had thus gazed into the dead woman’s face was the man to whom she had been introduced at the station. Major Gordon Maitland.
Almost at the same moment when the Major turned away, the constable sprang into the cab beside the woman, and the driver, at once mounting the box, drove rapidly to Charing Cross Hospital.
To the small, bare, whitewashed room to the left of the entrance hall, where casualties are received, the dark-haired girl was carried, and laid tenderly upon the father-covered divan.
The dresser, who attended to minor accidents, gave a quick glance at the face of the new patient, and at once sent for the house-surgeon. He saw it was a grave case.
Very soon the doctor, a thin, elderly man, entered briskly, asked a couple of questions of the constable outside in the corridor, unloosened her dress, cut the cord of her corsets, laid his hands upon her heart, felt her pulse, slowly moved her eyelids, and then shook his head.
“Dead!” he exclaimed. “She must have died nearly an hour ago.”
Then he forced open her mouth, and turning the hissing gas-jet to obtain a full light, gazed into it.
His grey, shaggy eyebrows contracted, and the dresser standing by knew that his chief had detected something which puzzled him. He felt the glands in her neck carefully, and pushing back the hair that had fallen over her brow, reopened her fast-glazing eyes, and peered into them long and earnestly.
He carefully examined the palm of her right hand, which was ungloved, then tried to remove the glove from the left, but in vain. He was obliged to rip it up with a pair of scissors. Afterwards he examined the hand minutely, giving vent to a grunt of dissatisfaction.
“Is it murder, do you think, sir?” the constable inquired as the doctor emerged again.
“There are no outward signs of violence,” answered the house-surgeon. “You had better take the body to the mortuary, and tell your inspector that I’ll make the post-mortem to-morrow morning.”
“Very well, sir.”
“But you said that the lady was accompanied from Charing Cross Station by a gentleman, who rode in the cab with her,” the doctor continued. “Where is he?”
“He alighted, entered the Criterion, and didn’t come back,” explained the cabman.
“Suspicious of foul play—very suspicious,” the doctor observed. “To-morrow we shall know the truth. She’s evidently a lady, and, by her dress, a foreigner.”
“She arrived by the Paris mail to-night,” the cabman observed.
“Well, it must be left to the police to unravel whatever mystery surrounds her. It is only for us to ascertain the cause of her death—whether natural, or by foul means;” and he went back to where the dead woman was lying still and cold, her dress disarranged, her dark hair fallen dishevelled, her sightless eyes closed in the sleep that knows no awakening until the Great Day.
The cabman stood with his hat in his hand; the constable had hung his helmet on his forearm by its strap.
“Then, outwardly, there are no signs of murder?” the latter asked, disappointed perhaps that the case was not likely to prove so sensational as it had at first appeared.
“Tell your inspector that at present I can give no opinion,” the surgeon replied. “Certain appearances are mysterious. To-night I can say nothing more. At the inquest I shall be able to speak more confidently.”
As he spoke, his cold, grey eyes were still fixed upon the lifeless form, as if held by some strange fascination. Approaching the cupboard, he took from a case a small lancet, and raising the dead woman’s arm, made a slight incision in the wrist. For a few moments he watched it intently, bending and holding her wrist full in the glaring gaslight within two inches of his eyes.
Suddenly he let the limp, inert arm drop, and with a sigh turned again to the two men who stood motionless, watching, and said: “Go. Take the body to the mortuary. I’ll examine her to-morrow;” and he rang for the attendants, who came, lifted the body from the couch, and conveyed it out, to admit a man who lay outside groaning, with his leg crushed.
Half an hour later the cab-driver and the constable stood in the small upper room at Vine Street Police Station, the office of the Inspector of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to that station. Inspector Elmes, a dark-bearded, stalwart man of forty-five, sat at a table, while behind him, arranged over the mantelshelf, were many photographs of criminals, missing persons, and people who had been found dead in various parts of the metropolis, and whose friends had not been traced. Pinned against the grey-painted walls were several printed notices offering rewards, some with portraits of absconding persons, others with crude woodcuts of stolen jewels. It was a bare, carpetless loom, but eminently business-like.
“Well,” the inspector was saying to the constable as he leant back in his chair, “there’s some mystery about the affair, you think—eh? Are there any signs of murder?”
“No, sir,” the man answered. “At present the doctor has discovered nothing.”
“Then, until he has, our Department can’t deal with it,” replied the detective. “Why has your Inspector sent you up here?”
“Because it’s so mysterious, I suppose, sir.”
“She may have had a fit—most probable, I should think. Until the doctor has certified, I don’t see any necessity to stir. It’s more than possible that when the man who left her at the Criterion reads of her death in the papers, he’ll come forward, identify her, and clear himself.” Then, turning to the cabman, he asked, “What sort of a man was he—an Englishman?”
“Well, I really don’t know, sir. He spoke to the dead girl in her own language, yet I thought, when he spoke to his friend at the station, that his English was that of a foreigner. Besides, he looked like a Frenchman, for he wore a large bow for a tie, which no Englishman wears.”
“You think him a foreigner because of his tie—eh?” the detective observed, smiling. “Now, if you had noticed his boots with a critical eye, you might perhaps have accurately determined his nationality. Look at a man’s boots next time.”
Then, taking up his pen, he drew a piece of pale yellow official paper before him, noted the number of the cabman’s badge, inquired his name and address, and asked several questions, afterwards dismissing both men with the observation that until a verdict had been given in the Coroner’s Court, he saw no reason to institute further inquiries.
Two days later the inquest was held in a small room at St. Martin’s Town Hall, the handsome building overlooking Trafalgar Square, and, as may be imagined, was largely attended by representatives of the Press. All the sensationalism of London evening journalism had, during the two days intervening, been let loose upon the mysterious affair, and the remarkable “latest details” had been “worked up” into an amazing, but utterly fictitious story. One paper, in its excess of zeal to outdistance all its rivals in sensationalism, had hinted that the dead woman was actually the daughter of an Imperial House, and this had aroused public curiosity to fever-heat.
When the usual formalities of constituting the Court had been completed, the jury had viewed the body, and the cabman had related his strange story, the Coroner, himself a medical man, dark-bearded and middle-aged, commenced a close cross-examination.
“Was it French or Italian the lady spoke?” he asked.
“I don’t know the difference, sir,” the cabman admitted. “The man with her spoke just as quickly as she did.”
“Was there anything curious in the demeanour of either of them?”
“I noticed nothing strange. The gentleman told me to drive along Pall Mall and the Haymarket, or of course I’d ’ave taken the proper route, up Charin’ Cross Road and Leicester Square.”
“You would recognise this gentleman again, I suppose?” the Coroner asked.
“I’d know him among a thousand,” the man promptly replied.
Inspector Elmes, who was present on behalf of the Criminal Investigation Department, asked several questions through the Coroner, when the latter afterwards resumed his cross-examination.
“You have told us,” he said, “that just before entering the cab the gentleman was accosted by a friend. Did you overhear any of their conversation?”
“I heard the missing man address the other as ‘Major,’” the cabman replied. “He introduced the Major to the lady, but I was unable to catch either of their names. The two men seemed very glad to meet, but, on the other hand, my gentleman seemed in a great hurry to get away.”
“You are certain that this man you know as the Major did not arrive by the same train, eh?” asked the Coroner, glancing sharply up from the paper whereon he was writing the depositions of this important witness.
“I am certain; for I noticed him lounging up and down the platform fully ’arf an hour before the train came in.”
“Then you think he must have been awaiting his friend?”
“No doubt he was, sir, for as soon as I drove the lady and gentleman away, he, too, started to walk out of the station.”
Then the Coroner, having written a few more words upon the foolscap before him, turned to the jury, exclaiming—“This last statement of the witness, gentlemen, seems, to say the least, curious.”
In an instant all present were on tip-toe with excitement, wondering what startling facts were likely to be revealed.
No further questions were put to the cab-driver at this juncture, but medical evidence was at once taken. Breathless stillness pervaded the court, for the statement about to be made would put an end to all rumour, and the truth would be known.
When the dapper elderly man had stepped up to the table and been sworn, the Coroner, in the quick, business-like tone which he always assumed toward his fellow medical men, said—
“You are Doctor Charles Wyllie, house-surgeon, Charing Cross Hospital?”
“I am,” the other answered in a correspondingly dry tone.
“The woman was brought to the hospital, I suppose?”
“Yes, the police brought her, but she had already been dead about three-quarters of an hour. There were no external marks of violence, and her appearance was as though she had died suddenly from natural causes. In conjunction with Doctor Henderson, I yesterday made a careful post-mortem. The body is that of a healthy woman of about twenty-three, evidently an Italian. There was no trace whatever of organic disease. From what I noticed when the body was brought to the hospital, however, I asked the police to let it remain untouched until I was ready to make a post-mortem.”
“Did you discover anything which might lead to suspicion of foul play?” inquired the Coroner.
“I made several rather curious discoveries,” the doctor answered, whereat those in court shifted uneasily, prepared for some thrilling story of how the woman was murdered. “First, she undoubtedly died from paralysis of the heart. Secondly, I found around the left ankle a curious tattoo-mark in the form of a serpent with its tail in its mouth. It is beautifully executed, evidently by an expert tattooist. Thirdly, there was a white mark upon the left breast, no doubt the scar of a knife-wound, which I judged to have been inflicted about two years ago. The knife was probably a long narrow-bladed one, and the bone had prevented the blow proving fatal.”
“Then a previous attempt had been made upon her life, you think?” asked the Coroner, astonished.
“There is no doubt about it,” the doctor answered. “Such a wound could never have been caused by accident. It had no doubt received careful surgical attention, judging from the cicatrice.”
“But this had nothing to do with her death?” the Coroner suggested.
“Nothing whatever,” replied the doctor. “The appearance of the body gives no indication of foul play.”
“Then you assign death to natural causes—eh?”
“No, I do not,” responded Dr Wyllie deliberately, after a slight pause. “The woman was murdered.”
These words produced a great sensation in the breathlessly silent court.
“By what means?”
“That I have utterly failed to discover. All appearances point to the fact that the deceased lost consciousness almost instantly, for she had no time even to take out her handkerchief or smelling-salts, the first thing a woman does when she feels faint. Death came very swiftly, but the ingenious means by which the murder was accomplished are at present entirely a mystery. At first my suspicions were aroused by a curious discoloration of the mouth, which I noticed when I first saw the body; but, strangely enough, this had disappeared yesterday when I made the post-mortem. Again, in the centre of the left palm, extending to the middle finger, was a dark and very extraordinary spot. This I have examined microscopically, and submitted the skin to various tests, but have entirely failed to determine the cause of the mark. It is dark grey in colour, and altogether mysterious.”
“There was no puncture in the hand?” inquired the Coroner.
“None whatever. I examined the body thoroughly, and found not a scratch,” the doctor answered quickly. “At first I suspected a subcutaneous injection of poison; but this theory is negatived by the absence of any puncture.”
“But you adhere to your first statement that she was murdered?”
“Certainly. I am confident that the paralysis is not attributable to natural causes.”
“Have you found any trace of poison?”
“The contents of the stomach were handed over by the police to the analyst. I cannot say what he has reported,” the doctor answered sharply.
At once the Coroner’s officer interposed with the remark that the analyst was present, and would give evidence.
The foreman of the jury then put several questions to the doctor.
“Do you think, doctor,” he asked, “that it would be possible to murder a woman while she was sitting in a cab in so crowded a place as Piccadilly Circus?”
“The greater the crowd, the less the chance of detection, I believe.”
“Have you formed no opinion how this assassination was accomplished? Is there absolutely nothing which can serve as clue to the manner in which this mysterious crime was perpetrated?”
“Absolutely nothing beyond what I have already explained,” the witness answered. “The grey mark is on the palm of the left hand, which at the time of the mysterious occurrence was gloved. On the hand which was ungloved there is no mark. I therefore am of opinion that this curious discoloration is evidence in some way or other of murder.”
“Was she a lady?”
“She had every evidence of being so. All her clothing was of first-class quality, and the four rings she wore were of considerable value. When I came to make the post-mortem, I found both hands and feet slightly swollen, therefore it was impossible to remove her rings without cutting.”