Chapter Twenty Six.
Queer Straits.
“Well, constable, what’s the charge?” asked the inspector on duty, turning on his stool and surveying me critically.
“Found him getting through the window of a house in Angel Court, Drury Lane, sir. The place is unoccupied, and we arrested him in the act of coming out,” replied the man nearest me.
“Stolen anything?”
“No, sir; we think not: we haven’t searched the premises yet.”
“Put him in the dock.”
“This way,” commanded the constable, and I followed him into a bare, unfurnished room, where I entered the prisoners’ dock, and leaned upon the steel rail, silent in perplexity.
In a few moments the inspector came in and seated himself at the desk, saying,—
“Now then, look alive; charge him, and get on your beat again.”
“Stand up straight, I want to take your measure,” the constable said, and as I obeyed, he exclaimed, “Five-foot-nine.”
“What’s your name?” asked the officer, looking towards me.
I hesitated.
“Give us your right one, now; or it may go against you.”
Why need I? Was it not a disgrace to be arrested? For Vera’s sake I felt I must keep the matter secret.
“Harold Dobson,” I replied, uttering the first name that occurred to me.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine.” The inspector filled in the charge-sheet.
“Where do you live?”
Again I hesitated.
“No use hatching up any lies! Where do you live?”
“I refuse to say.”
“Hum!” muttered the officer as if to himself. “It’s only guilty persons who refuse their address; but if you won’t answer, then there’s an end of it. What are you?”
“Nothing.”
“Gentleman at large, I suppose,” said he, smiling incredulously as he surveyed my clothes.
“Very well; no occupation,” and then there was a silence of some minutes, only broken by the hissing of the flaring gas-jet, and the monotonous scratching of the inspector’s quill.
“Sign your names,” he commanded, when he had finished; and the two constables who had arrested me appended their signatures.
“Now, prisoner,” said the inspector, as he blotted the charge-sheet, “you are charged with breaking and entering the dwelling-house, Number 4, Angel Court, Drury Lane, for the purpose of committing a felony. I must caution you that any statement you make will be taken down and used as evidence against you.”
“I don’t see how I can be suspected of a felony when the place is unoccupied,” I replied.
“You must leave that point to be decided to-morrow by the magistrate. A man don’t break into a house for nothing.”
“Two days ago a man died in that house, and I was searching for his body in order to give you information,” I said.
“That can’t be true, sir,” interposed one of the men. “The house hasn’t been lived in for a year or more.”
“Well, if a man died there a couple of days ago there would be surely be some furniture, or some traces of habitation. When he’s in the cell, go and examine the premises thoroughly.”
“Very well, sir,” the man answered.
“Now,” said the inspector, turning to me, “have you anything more to say?”
“Nothing; I’ve told you the truth.”
“Turn out your pockets. We’ll take care of your valuables,” he said laying stress on the last word, as if it were not likely my possessions were worth much.
The constable lifted the bar allowing me to step from the dock, and I went to a small table and commenced placing the contents of my pockets thereon. Some silver, my pocket-book, penknife, pencil-case, and other articles I produced, each of which were examined by the two men.
The pocket-book, one that Vera had given me, attracted the most curiosity, and one of them opened it and commenced reading my memoranda, also scrutinising the various papers and cards therein.
“Hulloa, what’s this?” he suddenly exclaimed, holding a piece of paper nearer his eyes and examining it carefully. The ejaculation caused the other constable to peer over his shoulder, while the inspector rose and walked towards them.
It was then only that I recognised the horrifying reality. It was the fatal seal, the one given me by the strange man, now dead, that they had discovered? “Why, great Heavens!” cried the inspector, as he took the paper from the man’s hand, “don’t you see? It’s the seal that puzzled us so last year!”
“Good God? so it is!” ejaculated both the men almost simultaneously, a look of abject astonishment upon their faces.
The inspector lifted his eyes from the seal and glanced at me keenly. He had been thoroughly taken by surprise at the discovery, but did not lose his head.
“Warner,” he said, hastily, addressing one of the men, “go round to the superintendent and ask him to come here at once.”
“Right, sir!” and, swinging his cape around his shoulders, the man departed.
“Richards, remain here with the prisoner,” he added, as he turned and left the charge-room also.
A few moments later the sharp ring of the telegraph bell in the outer office broke upon my ear, followed by the whirr and click of the instrument; and with a sinking heart I knew that information of my capture was being flashed to Scotland Yard.
For myself I cared nothing. I had never told Vera of my connection with that series of mysterious crimes that had startled the country, and was only thinking of the means by which I could still keep her in ignorance of the facts.
I had given a fictitious name and refused my address; if I were firm and careful not to commit myself I might still be able to keep my identity a secret.
What a fool I had been, thought I, not to have left the seal in the cash-box, as I first intended, and this reflection brought with it another, more maddening, when I remembered that, although I was bearing this oppression and mental torture for Vera’s sake, nevertheless I had found a portion of a seal at Elveham, identical with that which had produced such a consternation among the police.
Again I was seized with that horrible apprehension that Vera wished to rid herself of me, and the seal I found in my library was to have been placed on the next victim—myself!
Why should I not make a clean breast of the matter to the inspector? Vera had already proved herself base and treacherous. For her I had suffered enough in that Russian dungeon, at the horrors of which I involuntarily shuddered, even then. Were I to give my right name the suspicion could easily be removed, and I should be a free man. I was wavering. I own I felt almost inclined to do it. Then I reflected that my wife must know the secret of the seal, and that in the event of my release detectives would be busy. What if it were traced to her and she stood in the position I then was? No, I decided to conceal my identity, come what might, for I had not forgotten the promise I made her before we parted.
In a couple of weeks her explanation would be forthcoming, and in the meantime the police might do their worst.
Presently the inspector returned, and I was taken to a small room leading from the charge-room.
“How did this seal come into your possession?” the officer asked sharply.
“It was given to me.”
“By whom?”
“By a man who is dead.”
“What was his name?”
“I do not know.”
“You don’t know; or you won’t tell me, which?”
“I have already answered.”
“We shall want to know more than that,” he said, ominously.
“Unsatisfactory as my answer may be it is nevertheless a fact,” I replied.
“You expect us to believe it?” he asked with a suspicious smile.
“Discredit it if you like, it’s all the same to me,” I replied rather disinterestedly, after which the officer turned on his heel and left.
I sank upon a chair in a semi-exhausted state, and tried to think of some way out of this maze, for I could plainly see none of my statements appeared to have even the elements of truth.
The constable stood silently at the door, his arms folded, his gaze fixed upon me. He was watching me, fearing, perhaps, lest I should attempt suicide to escape justice.
Shortly afterwards three men entered, accompanied by the inspector. Two were detectives—I knew them at a glance—the other a tall, dark man, with curled moustaches, pointed beard, and a pair of keen grey eyes. He spoke with authority, in a sharp, abrupt tone, and, as I afterwards discovered, I was correct in thinking him the superintendent of that division of Metropolitan police.
“I understand you give a false name, refuse your address, and decline to say how you came possessed of this seal?” he said to me.
“The seal was given me by a man who is dead,” I repeated, calmly.
“Has that man any relations living?”
“I don’t know.”
“What evidence can you bring to corroborate your statement that it was given to you?”
“None. But stay—I have one friend whom I told of the occurrence, although I do not wish him to be brought into this matter.”
“You refuse to name him, or call him on your behalf?” said the chief officer, raising his eyebrows. “I do.”
“Are you aware of the significance of this symbol?”
“Perfectly—in a general sense.”
“Then perhaps it will be no surprise to you to know that a lady named Inglewood was discovered murdered at her house in Bedford Place some time ago, with an identical seal pinned upon her breast, and further, that a woman was found in Angel Court a short time back. Her throat was cut, and she lay within a few yards of where you were arrested. Upon her body was found a portion of paper to which part of a seal adhered, and this paper, which is in our possession, exactly fits the piece that has been torn from the one found in your pocket-book.”
“It does!” I cried, amazed, for in a moment I recognised the serious suspicion now resting upon me.
“Now; what have you to say?”
“I have nothing to add,” I said dreamily.
“And you still refuse your address?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then; we must find out for ourselves.” After a few words to the detectives in an undertone, he turned and said,—
“Inspector, you will charge him on suspicion of the wilful murder of the woman—and, by the way, let one of the men sit with him to-night. I’m going down to the Yard.”
“Very well, sir,” replied the officer, and they all left the room, with the exception of the statuesque constable.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
A Guiltless Crime.
Down one dimly-lit, dreary corridor, along an other, and up a flight of spiral stairs, I walked listlessly, with two warders at my side.
A low door opened, a breath of warm air, a hum of voices, and I was standing in the prisoners’ dock at the Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey.
As I entered and faced the grave-looking judge, and the aldermen in their fur-trimmed scarlet robes seated beside him, I heard the stentorian voice of the usher cry “Silence,” and immediately the clerk rose, and with a paper in his hand, said in clear monotonous tones:
“Prisoner at the bar, you are indicted for that you did on the night of August the fifteenth, eighteen hundred and eighty-seven, wilfully murder Ethel Inglewood, one of Her Majesty’s subjects, at Number 67, Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, by stabbing her with a knife. Are you guilty, or not guilty?”
Mr Roland, Q.C., who, with Mr Crane, had been retained for my defence, rose promptly and replied, “Prisoner pleads not guilty, m’lord.”
There was a dead silence.
All that could be heard was the rustling of the briefs of the great array of counsel before me, and the busy hum and din of the city that came through the open window, while a stray streak of dusky sunlight, glinting across the sombre Court, fell like a bar of golden dust between myself and the judge. The twelve benevolent-looking yet impassive jurymen sat motionless on my left, and on my right the crowd of eager spectators craned their necks in their curiosity to obtain a glimpse of one who was alleged to be the author of the mysterious crime.
Mine was a celebrated case.
Three weeks had nearly elapsed since my arrest, and Scotland Yard, so far from being idle, had succeeded in working up evidence and charging me with a horrible murder, for which I had been committed to take my trial by the magistrate at Bow Street.
Of Vera I had seen nothing. Both Bob and Demetrius had visited me whilst under remand and endeavoured to cheer me, although both admitted they had been served with subpoenas by the prosecution, but of the nature of the evidence they wished them to give they were ignorant.
Rumours had reached me, even in my prison cell, of the intense excitement that had been caused by the news of my capture, and the plain facts had, I heard, become so distorted in their progress from mouth to mouth that not only was it anticipated that my identity as the murderer was completely established, but speculation had already planned for me another atrocity in connection with the spot where I had been found.
The one topic of conversation was my arrest, and in private circles, as well as in places of general meeting, little else was discussed. The public pulse, in fact, was fevered.
With the opening of the trial the crisis had arrived.
I had been told that the counsel appearing to conduct my prosecution were Mr Norman Ayrton, Q.C., and Mr Paget, and as I glanced at these gentlemen seated in close consultation I instinctively dreaded the cold, merciless face of the former, and the supercilious nonchalance of the latter.
As perfect quietude was restored in the stifling Court with its long tiers of white expectant faces, Mr Ayrton gave his gown a twitch, and with a preliminary cough, rose.
The warder handed me a chair, and, seating myself, I concentrated my attention upon the clear, concise utterances of the man who was doing his utmost to fix the awful stigma upon me.
Turning to the judge, he said: “May it please your lordship, I appear on behalf of the Crown to prosecute the prisoner at the bar. The case which your lordship and gentlemen of the jury have before you to-day is one of an abnormal and extraordinary nature. It will be within the recollection of the Court that during the last three years a series of mysterious and diabolical murders have been committed, absolutely, as far as at present known, without motive. What may have been the motive of these, however, is not the point to which I desire to call your attention, but to one utterly unaccountable crime, as it then appeared, which took place on the night of August the fifteenth, two years ago. On that occasion a lady named Mrs Ethel Inglewood, residing at 67, Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, was discovered murdered, and the connecting link between that tragic occurrence and six of a similar character which had preceded it was the circumstance that a seal of peculiar design, fixed to a blank paper, was found pinned upon the breast of that lady. Of the seal, and the mysteries surrounding it, I shall be in a position to give your lordship and the gentlemen of the jury some further information at a later stage in these proceedings.
“It is sufficient for my purpose at the present moment simply to indicate the fact that the seal, connected in such a peculiar manner with the previous outrages, was also a conspicuous object in this, and undoubtedly proved that the crime, if not the work of the same hand, emanated at any rate from the same source. The prisoner at the bar was the principal witness in the discovery of the murder of Mrs Inglewood, and gave evidence before the Coroner, when a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown was returned. He professed, in the assistance which he then gave, to have been animated simply and solely by the desire to bring the offender to justice. Considerable doubt was entertained by the police with regard to the veracity of that statement, and I believe, my lord, it will be in my power to prove, by most conclusive evidence, that the prisoner then committed the crime of perjury in addition to the greater and more hideous one for which he stands here indicted.”
Counsel then paused and examined the first folio of his brief.
To my disordered imagination it seemed as if I already stood convicted.
Again the eminent Queen’s Counsel gave a preliminary cough, and resumed:—
“If I shall be in a position to establish beyond any shadow of doubt that the prisoner really committed the murder in Bloomsbury, the evidence which can be adduced against him in regard to a second count, which, however, is not on the present indictment, is even still more indubitable. On the night of March the fourth last, the body of a woman, which has never yet been identified, was discovered lying in a blind alley, called Angel Court, leading from Drury Lane. She was quite dead when discovered, having been stabbed in the throat, and on her breast, as in the previous tragedy, was a piece of paper from which the larger portion had evidently been roughly torn. The small piece adhering was pinned in exactly the same fashion as upon the deceased Mrs Inglewood, and no one could doubt that the murder which had been committed formed one of that series of horrifying outrages of which it formed the eighth.
“From that day till the present no clue whatever has been obtained as to the identity of the poor woman who was then discovered, but events have so conspired, and the police have been so vigilant, that a strange finale has been brought about. There is an old truism, gentlemen, that ‘Murder will out,’ and though that expression is worn almost threadbare by constant repetition, its force is recognised, and its truth is applicable as much now as ever. ‘Murder,’ in this case ‘did out,’ by a most fortuitous circumstance which I will briefly narrate, although the story has been freely circulated in the public Press.”
In a few terse sentences counsel explained my arrest, and the discovery of the seal in my wallet.
“Such, my lord,” he continued, “were the means by which the prisoner at the bar came into the hands of the police, and I would impress very strongly upon the jury, at this stage, the consideration that when charged at the police-station prisoner not only gave a fictitious name, but refused his address, besides giving as his excuse for his presence in the house on the night in question, a silly story which I venture to believe, you, gentlemen of the jury, will at once see to be outside the bounds of credibility. In the extraordinary explanations which the prisoner has given of his actions during the past year—strange and improbable—none so utterly feeble as these have been advanced. He asserts that his motive in going to the house in Angel Court, at that hour of the evening, was the altogether monstrous one of filching from a corpse evidence in connection—in close connection, I may say, gentlemen—with this very crime which we are now investigating.”
A murmur of surprise ran through the densely-packed Court. This was the first time my explanation had been made public.
“Incredible as it may seem,” said counsel, immediately resuming, “for the last twelve months he says he has been actively pursuing inquiries in regard to these crimes, and that his own life having, in some way which he will not at present disclose, been endangered, it has given him peculiar reason so to do. This story, of course, the jury will regard in any light they choose, but I rather think that when the evidence which I shall presently call is given, absolutely no credence will be placed upon it. My remarks will be brief at the present moment, but my learned friends who have been instructed for the defence, will, no doubt, seek to attach great importance to the personal character of the prisoner. Nevertheless I would ask what that character is? Two years ago this man, who used formerly, it is true, to occupy a position of some importance in journalism, became possessed of a fortune, and whether it be that the possession of so much wealth suddenly turned him into a monomaniac, or whether, previously to that time, his actions, of which we have, at present, no record, were characterised by this mad thirst for blood, I cannot inform you. Whatever things may have appeared to the outside world, there is no doubt in my mind that the prisoner has been cherishing a most intense and unnatural hatred against mankind, and that with the accession of wealth his means for executing his fell projects were correspondingly enhanced.
“It is true he bears the character of an English gentleman, but men of the world, such as I see before me in the jury box, are not to be deceived by mere detail of dress or conversation. The actions of men are the means by which they must be judged, and, looking upon the past life of this man by the lurid glare which the statements of the witnesses—and which his own actions themselves afford—it will be matter for surprise that his career has been allowed to go on so long unchecked. When he talks of his character, gentlemen, let me ask one question. In what was he engaged for nearly six months out of the last twelve? Perhaps my learned friend will answer this in his defence. The prisoner refuses, gentlemen, to give one word of explanation.”
Again there was a rustle in court, and the usher interposed with his stern command of “Silence?”
“Now, gentlemen, with these few brief observations, which I shall supplement later on, I will proceed to call my witnesses—persons whose veracity is unimpeachable—who will give you such an insight into his past life that will leave not the faintest suspicion of doubt in your minds that the prisoner at the bar has been the perpetrator of one, at least, of that string of almost unparalleled crimes which have shocked the whole of the civilised world.”
As the leading counsel, with a significant smile at the jury, resumed his seat, and his junior rose to call the witnesses, I folded my arms and waited.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
The Clique.
The two men first called did not interest me. They were the constables to whose evidence I had listened at the police court.
“Detective-Inspector Cronin,” exclaimed Mr Paget, when they had finished, and a tall, well-preserved, black-bearded man entered the witness-box and was sworn.
“I am John Cronin, detective inspector, Criminal Investigation Department,” said he, in answer to counsel. “The pocket-book which I produce was handed me on prisoner’s arrest, and upon examining it, I found it contained, amongst other things, a bill of the Charing Cross Hotel. I proceeded there, made inquiries, and ascertained that prisoner had been staying there one day, giving his name as Frank Burgoyne. I examined the room he occupied, and found a despatch box in which was the photograph I now produce. Comparing it with that of the woman murdered in Angel Court, taken after death, I find the features exactly coincide.”
“Was there any distinguishing mark?” asked his lordship.
“Yes, m’lord,” replied the detective handing up both photographs. “Your lordship will notice a small scar over the left eye.”
“You made other inquiries, I believe?” asked Mr Paget.
“Yes; on the following day I went to prisoner’s house, Elveham Dene, Northamptonshire, and searched the premises. On examining the drawers of a writing-table in the library, which were unlocked, I found two blank pieces of paper on which were seals corresponding in every particular to that found on the lady murdered in Bedford Place.”
What did all this mean? I knew nothing of these seals. Surely it must be some plot to take away my life!
The frightful suspicion—could Vera be concerned in it—entered my soul.
The doubt was too awful to be entertained; yet she had not communicated with me since my arrest.
“In the same drawer,” continued the detective fumbling among some papers he held in his hand, “I found this telegram. It is dated on the day of the murder in Bloomsbury, and addressed to the deceased. It reads:—‘Handed in at Hull and received at the West Central district office. Shall be with you about midnight. Be at home.’ It is signed with a single letter ‘B.’ On examining the notepaper on the writing-table, I found it was the same as that upon which the seals were impressed.”
“You produce some of that notepaper, I think?” said Mr Paget.
“I do, sir.”
The paper was handed to the judge, who held it to the light and compared the watermarks.
When he had satisfied himself the detective resumed:
“Throughout my examination I was in every way retarded by the action of the prisoner’s wife. On proceeding to search one of the bedrooms she positively refused to give me the keys of a chest of drawers, and I was therefore compelled to force them. Concealed under some papers, which lined one of the drawers, I discovered a small gold padlock, upon which are engraved the initials ‘R.S.’, and to which was attached the small portion of gold chain I now produce. I had charge of the inquiries in the case of Mrs Inglewood, and remember at the time of her decease she was wearing a diamond bracelet which is also produced. When I examined the house at Bedford Place I discovered the case of the bracelet, which bore the name of the jeweller. The manager of the firm in question will be called to prove that the padlock found in the bedroom of the prisoner is the one belonging to Mrs Inglewood’s bracelet, and that it had been sold to her a week before her death.”
Some of the dead woman’s jewellery in my room! Incredible!
Was it possible that Vera—but, no—again banish the thought!
“In the same drawer,” added the detective, with a self-satisfied smile at the intense surprise which his statements excited, “was this letter, in a lady’s handwriting, signed ‘Ethel Inglewood’: ‘Come and dine to-morrow evening. I have the money ready, and rely on you to keep my secret.’ The address embossed on the paper is ‘67, Bedford Place,’ and the date is that of the day previous to the murder.”
“Do you prove anything else?” inquired Mr Paget, expectantly.
“No,” replied the inspector, “except that from inquiries I made I find that very shortly after the inquest on Mrs Inglewood the prisoner left the country suddenly, and the next murder—the one in Angel Court—was perpetrated on the day of his return.”
As Mr Paget resumed his seat, my counsel, Mr Roland, rose. Turning to the witness with a suave countenance, he mildly asked:
“How do you fix the day of the prisoner’s return?”
“By the books of the club to which the accused belonged—the Junior Garrick.”
“You say you found the seals in the library. Could access be easily gained to that room?”
“No; prisoner’s wife had the key.”
“And she refused you the keys of the chest of drawers?”
“Yes, giving as her reason that it contained papers of a strictly private nature.”
“Did she express surprise when you found the seals?”
“When I showed them to her she fainted.”
“You said, just now, that the little padlock was ‘concealed.’ Are you sure it had not accidentally fallen behind the paper?”
“No; I should think not.”
“Did you suspect the prisoner previous to his arrest?”
“I did. After the inquest on Mrs Inglewood, observation was kept upon him for some time, but he eluded us by going abroad.”
“And now you endeavour to fix the crime upon him without any direct evidence. I have nothing more to ask you.”
My hopes sank as Mr Roland resumed his seat, with a poor affectation of indifference.
The next witness was a neatly-attired, gentlemanly-looking man, the jeweller’s manager, who proved the purchase of the bracelet by Mrs Inglewood, and identified the tiny padlock as a portion of it.
When he had retired, Mr Roland having asked him no questions, he was succeeded by Bob Nugent, who stepped into the witness-box averting my gaze. Was even Bob in the conspiracy!
“You were, I think, Mr Nugent,” said the prosecuting counsel, “a friend—a particular friend I may say—of the prisoner’s?”
“I was—formerly.”
“Now, tell me, do you remember the night of the 15th August?”
“I do. The prisoner and I left the Junior Garrick Club soon after midnight, to proceed home.”
“Was there anything in his manner which attracted your attention?”
“He seemed rather excited, having lost heavily at cards. I left him at Danes’ Inn.”
“Do you know on what day he returned from abroad?”
“It was in the beginning of March. He was then strangely reticent as to his actions in the meantime.”
“You will remember, as a journalist, possibly, on what night the murder in Angel Court occurred?”
“On the same night as the prisoner’s return.”
“Do you know anything of the photograph found upon the accused?”
“Yes; he produced it accidentally, while dining at the Junior Garrick Club, and appeared much confused and annoyed, endeavouring at once to conceal it.”
“Did you see it again?”
“The prisoner, in consequence of some remarks I made to him, showed it to me next day at his hotel. On that occasion he explained that it had been given to him by some man who is now dead.”
“Did that not strike you as improbable?”
“Well—yes, it did.”
“Did he enter into any further explanation?”
“Very little was said about the seal.”
The court was extremely hot. Surely I was becoming fainter and more faint! There was a singing and surging in my ears. Was I falling or standing upright? What were they speaking of? I had lost sight of the face of my friend. I could only see the lines of expectant upturned countenances.
I was really fainting; nevertheless I struggled against it. Something, too, within me told me that I ought to struggle against it, yet everything was swimming and whirling around me, and vague forms seemed rapidly passing and repassing before my vision.
Then I staggered backward into the chair placed for me, and gradually the sense of sickening misery departed.
Chapter Twenty Nine.
Monsieur’s Opinion.
The spirit was strong within me not to yield to any growing unconsciousness; not to be subdued by any physical or moral influences.
I again became perfectly calm. I was seated in the chair. A seafaring man was in the witness-box. Nugent was not there. Demetrius, sitting below, was looking at me with an anxious and uneasy expression.
“I recognise the accused,” I heard the witness say in reply to a question from the prosecuting counsel. “A recent event has brought me here to give evidence.”
“Have you any doubt prisoner is the man you saw emerge from the doorway of Mrs Inglewood’s house on the night in question?”
“None.”
“Did he appear agitated?”
“Yes; he passed me and rushed down the street as fast as he could run.”
“Did you not make any attempt to stop him?”
“No; at that time I was unaware of the murder.”
“When did you again see him?”
“Not until a few days ago, when I recognised his portrait in a newspaper.”
A long cross-examination resulted in the witness firmly adhering to his story, and explaining that as he had been on a long voyage he knew nothing of the occurrence until many months afterwards.
Demetrius, with evident unwillingness, entered the box. His story was brief, yet damaging.
When he had concluded, Mr Roland, adjusting his eye-glasses, rose and asked:
“You are acquainted with prisoner’s wife, I believe?”
“Yes; she is my cousin.”
“Where did you go when you left England?”
“I decline to answer.”
“You have been the prisoner’s guest at Elveham, have you not?”
“Yes.”
“And what were these suspicious circumstances of which you spoke just now?”
“There were several. Late one night, about three weeks ago, I had occasion to enter the library. The door was ajar, and as I pushed it open I saw the accused in the act of impressing a seal, similar to the ones produced. I drew back unnoticed.”
It was untrue! He had seen me sealing the envelope containing a lease, and believed I was using the fatal emblem!
I waited breathlessly for the next question.
“Is it a fact that on the night previous to his departure from Elveham, some unpleasant incident occurred?”
“I know nothing of it. I have heard that the prisoner had some little difference with his wife.”
“Come, sir,” demanded my counsel sharply, “did you not overhear a conversation in the early morning?”
The witness appeared confused.
“Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I heard my cousin ask him to wait a stipulated period for an explanation.”
“Have you any idea what this explanation is?”
“None.”
“Then, after all, you are unable to throw any light whatever upon these mysterious crimes?” he asked, in a strange harsh voice.
“I’ve told you all I know,” replied Demetrius, a trifle paler than before.
Mr Roland flung down his brief upon the table, slowly resumed his seat, and pushed his wig from off his forehead with a perplexed gesture.
I could hardly realise my situation. What could it all possibly mean? What was the object of this seaman giving evidence when he could throw no light upon the matter, except that he actually saw me following the murderer from Bedford Place?
He had taken a seat in the well of the Court with his face turned towards me.
“Sergius Hertzen.”
As the words rang through the place I started. I had not seen Vera’s uncle since our marriage, as he went to Zurich immediately afterwards.
There was a shuffling near the door, and the old man entered. As he mounted the steps to the witness-box I noticed he had aged considerably.
“What are you, Mr Hartzen?” Mr Paget asked, referring to his brief at the same moment.
“Police agent.”
“And your nationality?”
“Russian.”
The old man a police agent! Dumbfounded, I looked blankly around me.
“You are father of the previous witness?”
“I am.”
“Now, what evidence can you give regarding the charge against the prisoner?”
There was a dead and painful silence.
“We first met at the Hotel Isotta, Genoa, about a month after the murder in Bedford Place. We frequently played écarté together, and on one occasion he paid me a debt with the three five-pound notes I now produce.”
“And what is there peculiar about them?”
“I have since ascertained that their numbers correspond with those now known to have been stolen from the house in Bedford Place.”
The thought flashed across my mind that once, when I had lost to him, I had discharged the debt with three notes. From whom I received them I could not tell.
“What else do you know about the affair?” was the insinuating question of the prosecuting counsel.
“Well; some three months after this I was present at the Central Tribunal at St. Petersburg, when prisoner was sentenced to the mines for complicity in the murder of a hotel-keeper. The sentence, however, was never carried out, for on the way to Siberia he escaped, returning to England.”
“It’s a lie! I was exiled without trial,” I shouted. Amid the loud cries of “Silence,” counsel turned to the judge, and with a cruel smile about his lips remarked, “You see, my lord, prisoner admits he was exiled.”
Mr Roland made an impatient motion to me to preserve silence; so seeing my protests were useless, I sank again into my chair, and tried to conquer my fate by bearing it.
Mr Crane the junior counsel defending me, cross-examined him at some length, but resumed his seat without being able to shake his testimony.
The waiter who had attended to me at the Charing Cross Hotel, and two of my own servants were called, but their evidence was immaterial and uninteresting.
I felt a strange morbid yielding to a superstitious feeling that I could not shake off, and sat as one in a dream, until the Court rose and I was sent back to my cell.
Chapter Thirty.
The Eleventh Hour.
Next morning my trial was resumed.
There was the same array of counsel; the same crowd of curious onlookers lounging on the benches like carrion crows around a carcase; the same strange, half-visionary procession of judges, lawyers and witnesses, who passed and repassed before me, sometimes ludicrous, but generally gloomy and depressing.
The jury looked pale and weary. They had been locked up during the night, and now several of them were yawning. None gave indication that they felt the responsibility of the sentence they had to pronounce.
I sat in the dock heedless of everything; I had grown callous. I had one thought only: Why had not Vera made her promised explanation?
A few minor witnesses were called, and the case for the prosecution closed.
At last Mr Roland rose to make his speech in my defence. The circumstantial evidence already produced was, I knew, sufficient to cause the jury to find me guilty, and I listened in rapt attention to the clear, concise arguments of the famous advocate.
But how unsatisfactory was his speech—how weak was his defence! With a sinking heart I saw more than one of the jury smile incredulously when my innocence was asserted.
“I admit, gentlemen,” said Mr Roland, in the course of his address, “that this case is enshrouded in mystery; but while asserting that the prisoner is innocent, I tell you plainly there is a secret. The key to this enigma is known to one person alone, and that person, for reasons with which I am myself unacquainted, is not in a position to divulge it. That this secret bears directly upon the crime is obvious, nevertheless it is a most unfortunate circumstance that the mystery cannot be wholly elucidated by a satisfactory explanation. However, I have several witnesses whom I purpose calling before you; and having heard them, I shall ask you to discharge the prisoner, feeling assured you will be convinced that he is entirely innocent.”
“But, Mr Roland, this is a most extraordinary case,” interposed the judge. “You speak of a person who knows the secret and refuses to give evidence. If this is so, this person is party to the crime. To whom do you refer?”
Counsel held a brief consultation with his junior, then rose again.
The Court was all expectancy.
“I refer, m’lord, to no less a person than the prisoner’s wife!”
The reply caused a sensation. Vera knew the secret! I was not wrong.
“Ah, that is unfortunate,” exclaimed the judge, disappointedly. “It is impossible to call her in a case of this description.”
At that moment the usher handed Mr Roland a note. He read it hastily, and, raising his hand, said:
“The lady has just arrived in court, and is about to produce important evidence, m’lord.”
The silence was unbroken, save for the frou-frou of Vera’s dress as she advanced towards my counsel, and bent over him, whispering.
Mr Roland was seated close to the dock, and I strained my ears to catch their hurried conversation.
In face of the horrible charge brought against me, the persistency with which it was pursued, and the evidence produced in support of it, I had been so overwhelmed by a sense of fatality that I had almost decided to let things take their course. I knew I was innocent, nevertheless I felt the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of proving it. Now, however, encouraged by this proof of sympathy on the part of Vera, I took heart.
“What will these witnesses prove?” asked Mr Roland, hurriedly.
Vera, whose face was rendered more delicate and touching by the tortures she seemed undergoing, glanced quickly towards me, and replied:
“They will prove my husband’s innocence!”
Counsel uttered an ejaculation of surprise. “Are you certain of this?” he asked.
“Yes. If it were possible that I might be called as a witness I could tell the Court things that would probably astonish it; but I leave everything to the two persons I have brought,” she replied in a tremulous voice.
The jury grew impatient. The excitement was intense.
In a few moments a young and rather showily-attired woman stepped into the box. As she turned towards me I was puzzled to know where I had seen the face before. The features seemed quite familiar, yet I could not recollect.
“You are Jane Maygrove?” asked my counsel.
“Yes.”
“Tell us what you know of the murder of Mrs Inglewood. Relate it in your own way.”
She hesitated for a moment and commenced:
“Before I married I was maid to Mrs Inglewood. Mistress was a very quiet lady, and lived with a cook and myself in Bedford Place. I was in her service about three months, and although she told me she was married—and she wore a wedding-ring—her husband never visited her. Several foreign ladies came to see her on different occasions, but only one gentleman. He also had the appearance of a foreigner but spoke English without an accent. One evening, in the latter part of July, mistress dined alone with this gentleman, and I overheard a conversation which took place in the drawing-room afterwards. I—”
“Was this gentleman to whom you refer the prisoner?” asked Mr Roland.
“No he was not. On that night I heard the visitor advising mistress to withdraw her money from a company which he said was on the brink of collapsing, and place it in his hands to invest. At first she demurred, and appeared to discredit the rumour that the company was not safe; but, after a long argument, he exacted a promise that she would withdraw the money and hand it over to him in cash on the fifteenth of August, when it was arranged that he should re-invest it for her.”
“And what happened on the latter date?”
“Mistress was at home during the day. A clerk called in the afternoon and handed a small leather bag to her, for which she signed a receipt, after counting the money. When she had finished, I saw her place the bag under the sofa, at the same time leaving a small roll of bank-notes upon the mantelshelf. Previously I had mentioned the matter to my young man, and it was he who prompted me to act in the manner I did. Well, about seven o’clock the gentleman arrived, and shortly afterwards mistress and he went out—to the Café Royal, I believe—to dine, as Mary, our cook, had been dismissed that morning for dishonesty.
“My young man urged me to get possession of the money while they were out, saying that we could then marry, go abroad, and set up in business with it. But my heart failed me, and I could not bring myself to commit the robbery. About ten o’clock a telegram came, and half an hour later mistress and the gentleman returned. When mistress read the telegram she appeared nervous and agitated. They both entered the dining-room, and at first conversed in low tones, but soon appeared to be in altercation. I heard the gentleman say, ‘I shall not leave this house until you let me have the money. I tell you I will not allow you to ruin yourself.’ To which mistress replied that she had changed her mind, and should place the money in the bank instead. At this the foreigner grew furious. Mistress urged him to go, but he would not. Then all was quiet again. She gave me orders to lay supper in the sitting-room upstairs, which I obeyed, she telling me that her husband was coming home after a long journey. I wondered what the master would say to the other gentleman, but discreetly held my tongue. It wasn’t my place to say a word. About eleven o’clock the gentleman departed very reluctantly, and soon after midnight mistress’s husband arrived.
“I opened the door to him. He was a tall, handsome man, who wore a felt hat and long travelling ulster. He greeted mistress very cordially, kissing her with much affection, and then they went upstairs together to supper.
“All the evening I had been hesitating whether or not I should decamp with the money, and while they were sitting at table I was still thinking over the matter. The clock struck two, and roused me. Suddenly I made up my mind to take it, so creeping back to the drawing-room I opened the bag, abstracted the contents, and replaced it again. Just as I was about to leave the room with the money in my hands I heard a footstep on the stairs. I knew it was mistress! I slipped behind the screen, hoping to escape observation. Scarcely had she crossed the threshold when I heard another person following stealthily. It was the foreign gentleman. ‘Have you decided?’ he asked, in a low whisper. ‘Yes,’ she replied, starting at his sudden reappearance; ‘once for all, I tell you I will rid myself of you.’ He appeared mad with anger. He pushed the door to, and placed his back against it. Then he laughed a low, harsh laugh, replying, ‘That’s not so easy, my pretty one: remember our secret bond.’ She turned upon him furiously, crying, ‘Leave this house at once! Do you wish to compromise me besides endeavouring to rob me of my money? Ah! you think I do not know you. We have been friends because it suited my purpose; but if you dare touch that money I will tell what I know! I will give the police the information they seek regarding the Villeneuve affair!’ This speech had a strange effect upon him. ‘Dieu!—she knows,’ he ejaculated, involuntarily. Glaring at her with an expression of murderous hatred, he watched her every movement. ‘Will you hand me over the money?’ he demanded, sternly. ‘No; you shall never have it. Leave this house; and if you remain in England another week I’ll carry my threat into effect. If you fancy you can practise the confidence trick on me you are mistaken—so, go!’
”‘I shall not!’ he replied, fiercely. ‘I will have that money,’ and he bent down in the act of drawing the bag from beneath the sofa. ‘Touch it at your peril!’ she cried, hoarsely. ‘I see you now in your true light; you would rob a woman of her means of existence. God knows you have brought me enough misery already!’ Again he tried to obtain possession of the bag, but once more she frustrated his design. Then they struggled for the mastery. His face was ashen pale, and his fingers gripped her bare arms, leaving great red marks; but she was not to be easily vanquished, and fought like a tigress. ‘To-morrow,’ she said, in a terrible half-whisper, ‘the world shall know who stole the Villeneuve diamonds, and I will rid myself of you forever. I will expose your accursed villainy!’ He grasped her by the wrist and dragged her towards him. ‘You—you say this—to me,’ he hissed, in a frenzy of passion. ‘You have spoken your last words—you—you shall die.’ I saw a knife uplifted in his hand, and he plunged it in my mistress’s breast with a dull, sickening sound. She sank upon the floor, uttering a shrill cry. For a few seconds he bent over her and seemed to be rearranging her dress, then he snatched up the bag, took the roll of notes from the mantelshelf, and thrusting them into his pocket, stole noiselessly out by the back-door. I stood for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. At last I summoned courage to approach my poor mistress, who lay motionless; but just as I was stepping from my hiding-place I heard some one descending the stairs. It was master! He rushed into the room, but stopped suddenly, in horror, as he caught sight of his wife. Bending over her, he was about to lift her, when his eyes caught sight of something, which I suppose was the seal afterwards found. With a loud cry of despair, and uttering words in a foreign language, he kissed her calm white face. ‘I must fly,’ he said, aloud, ‘or I shall be suspected,’ and without another word he also hurried out of the house.
“When he had gone, I placed the money I had stolen in a small hand-bag, and crept out by the front door. A few days later my young man and myself sailed for Australia, and that is all I know of the murder.”
There was a long pause when the voluble witness had concluded her breathless recital.