“You have a charming home,” he said, with what was almost a sigh; “you are about to marry a beautiful girl; you have wealth, success, and everything else that can make life worth living, Godfrey. You should be a happy man.”
“I am happy,” Godfrey replied, “and, please God, I’ll do my best to make others so. And that reminds me, Victor, I want to have a talk with you. Do you know that on Thursday night I met Teresina in the Strand?”
Victor had turned from the window, andwas brushing his hair at the time. As he heard what Godfrey said, the brush fell from his hand upon the floor. As he picked it up and continued his toilet, he said in surprise:
“Teresina in London? Surely you must have been mistaken. I thought she was still in Naples?”
“She is in London,” Godfrey repeated. “I could not have been mistaken, for I spoke to her.”
“At what time did you see her?”
“Just about midnight,” his friend replied.
“Are you aware that the signora is dead and that Teresina is married?”
“How should I be likely to?” said Victor. “You know that I have not seen her since I bade her good-bye in your studio before we went abroad. And so the pretty model is married? Well, I suppose the proper thing to say is that one hopes that she will be happy.”
“But she is not happy, far from it. Her husband as well as her mother is dead.”
“I believe there are some wives who would consider that fact to be not altogether a matter for sorrow. But what makes you think that Teresina is unhappy?”
“Because she told me so, though shewould not tell me anything further. The poor girl seemed in terrible distress.”
“And you gave her money, I suppose?” said Victor. “That is usually the way one soothes trouble of her kind. I hope she was grateful.”
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so cynical,” said Godfrey, almost losing his temper. “I wanted to help her, but she would not let me. Every time I offered my assistance she implored me to leave her. She broke down altogether when we reached her house.”
“Then you took her home?” said the other. “Do you think that was wise?”
“Why should I not have done so?”
“Well, you see,” said Victor, putting his brushes back into their case, “circumstances have somewhat changed with you. Miss Devereux might not altogether approve.”
“Miss Devereux is too good and kind a girl to object to my doing what I could to comfort an old friend in trouble.”
“But when that old friend in trouble happens to be an extremely beautiful girl the situation becomes slightly changed. However, don’t think that I am endeavouring to interfere. And now shall we go downstairs?”
“But, confound it, Victor, you don’t mean to say that you take no more interest in Teresina’s fate than this? I thought you liked her as much as I did.”
“Mon cher ami,” said Victor, rearranging his tie before the glass, “that is scarcely fair, either to yourself or to me. Have you forgotten a little discussion we had together, and which eventually resulted in our leaving England for a time? Had you not taken such an interest in Teresina then, I doubt very much whether I should have seen Cairo or Jerusalem, or a lot of other places. But still, my dear fellow, if there is anything I can do to help your old model you may be sure I shall be only too glad to do it.”
“I knew you would,” said Godfrey, placing his hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder. “We must talk it over some time and see what can be done. It will never do to let her go on as she is now.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, of the origin of the trouble?”
“Not the least. She would tell me nothing. She tried to make me believe that she had plenty of work, and that she did not stand in need of any assistance. I knew better, however.”
“And where is she living?”
“In Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road. It is a miserable place, mainly occupied by foreigners. The house is on the right-hand side.”
“Very well,” said Victor. “When I go back to town I will look her up. It will be hard if we can’t arrange something.”
Then they descended the stairs together and entered the drawing-room.
“My dear Godfrey, are you aware that you will have one wife in a hundred?” said Kitty, pointing to a table on which some twenty packages of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions were arranged.
“How so?” said Godfrey. “What new virtue have you discovered in her?”
“I have found that she can subordinate curiosity to a sense of duty,” said the young lady. “These presents arrived for you just after you left for the station, and yet she would not open them herself or allow me to do so until you returned. I have been consumed with a mad desire to explore them, particularly that foreign-looking box at the end.”
“Well, your curiosity shall very soon be satisfied,” he said. “But we must begin with the most important-looking packages.”
“Let us pray that there are no more Apostle spoons, serviette-rings, or silver sweet-dishes,” said Molly. “We have already some two dozen of each.”
Package after package was opened in its turn and the contents displayed. As they were for the most part presents to the bridegroom individually, they were mainly of a nature suited to his tastes: hunting flasks, silver sandwich cases, cigar and cigarette holders, and articles of a similar description. At last they came to the curious-looking box to which Kitty had referred. It was oblong in shape, and bore the name of a Vienna firm stamped on the end. It was tied with cord, and the label was addressed in an uneducated handwriting to “Mr. Godfrey Henderson, Detwich Hall, Detwich, Midlandshire.”
In his own mind he had no doubt that it emanated from Teresina, who, as he was aware, had been informed as to his approaching marriage. Having untied the cord, he prized the lid, which was nailed down, with a dagger paper-knife, which he took from a table close at hand. An unpleasant odour immediately permeated the room. A folded sheet of newspaper covered the contents, whatever they were, and this Godfrey removed,only to spring back with a cry of horror. In the box,the fingers tightly interlaced, were two tiny hands, which had been severed from the body, to which they had once belonged, at the wrist.
It would be impossible to picture, with any hope of success, the horror which accompanied the ghastly discovery described at the end of the previous chapter. Save for the cries of the ladies, who shrank from the box and covered their faces with their hands, and a muttered ejaculation from Godfrey, some seconds elapsed before any one spoke. Fensden was the first to recover his presence of mind. Picking up the sheet of paper which had fallen to the ground, he covered the box with it, thus shutting out all sight of the dreadful things it contained.
“Perhaps it would be as well, ladies, if you were to leave the room,” he said. “Godfrey and I must talk this matter over, and consider how we are to act.”
“Come, mother,” said Kitty, and she led the old lady in a semi-fainting condition from the room, closely followed by Molly.
When the door had closed behind them, Godfrey spoke for the first time.
“Good Heavens, Victor!” he said.“What does this mean? Am I mad or dreaming?”
“I fear it is no dream,” replied the other. “Who could have done it? Is it a case of murder, or what? Did you recognise the—the hands?”
Godfrey crossed to the chimney-piece and covered his face. A suspicion, so terrible that he dared not put it into words, was fast taking possession of him.
“Come, come,” said Victor, crossing to him, and placing his hands upon his shoulder, “we must look this matter squarely in the face. Be a man, and help me. The upshot may be even more serious than we suppose. Once more I ask you, did you recognise what you saw?”
“I fear so,” said Godfrey, very slowly, as if he were trying to force himself to speak. “There was a little scar, the result of a burn, half-an-inch or so above the knuckle of the second finger of the right hand.”
He had painted those beautiful hands too often not to remember that scar. Without a word, he crossed to the table in the middle of the room upon which the box stood, surrounded by the cases containing the other wedding presents, and once more removingthe lid and the paper, carefully examined what he saw there. No, God help him! there could be no sort of doubt about it; the hands were those of Teresina Cardi, his model and friend. When he had satisfied himself as to their identity, he closed the box and turned to Fensden once more.
“It is too horrible,” he said; “but what does it mean? Why should the murderer have sent the hands to me in this dreadful way?”
“That is what I have been asking myself,” Fensden replied. “The man, whoever he was, must have borne you a fiendish grudge to have done such a thing. Is there anything about the box that will afford a clew as to the identity of the sender? Let us look.”
He examined the box carefully, but, beyond the printed name of the firm who had originally used it, there was nothing that could serve as a clew. It had come by train from Euston, and had been sent off on the previous evening. That for the present was all there was to know about it.
“Once more, what are we to do?” inquired Fensden.
“Communicate with the police,” said Godfrey. “In the meantime, I think I willsend a note to my future father-in-law, asking him to come over. I should like to have his help and support in the matter.”
“A very proper course,” said his companion. “I don’t think you could do better. I should send a man away at once.”
Accordingly Godfrey went to a writing-table in the corner of the room, and wrote the letter, then rang the bell, and bade the servant who answered it see that the note was despatched without delay. When the man had disappeared, he turned to Fensden once more. “And now,” he said, “I think it would be better if we removed the box to the studio.”
They did so, by way of the new conservatory, of which mention has been made elsewhere. Then, in something less than an hour, Godfrey’s future father-in-law arrived. Godfrey received him in his studio, and introduced Fensden to him as an old friend.
“It is very good of you to come so quickly, Sir Vivian,” he said, motioning him to a chair. “I took the liberty of sending for you because I want your advice in a very serious matter. How serious it is you will understand when you have heard what we have to tell you. We have had a terrible experience, and I am not quite sure that I am capable oflooking at the matter in a temperate light at present.”
“You alarm me, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman. “What can have happened? Tell me everything, and let me see if I can help you.”
“If I am to do that, I must tell you a story. It will simplify matters, and it won’t take very long. As you are aware, before my uncle’s death, I might have been described as a struggling artist. I was painting my biggest work at that time, and was most anxious to find a model for the central figure. I had hunted London over, but without success, when Mr. Fensden here happened to discover an Italian model whom he thought might be of use to me. I saw her, and immediately secured her services. In company with her mother, she had been in England for some little time, and was glad to accept my offer of employment. When the picture was finished and hung, I still retained her services, because I liked the girl and found her useful to me in some other work I had on hand. Then my uncle died, and I came into the estate. Mr. Fensden and I immediately agreed to travel, and we accordingly set off together for Egypt and the East, intending to be awayabout a year. At the same time, it must be borne in mind, the girl and her mother had returned to Italy. While we were at Luxor, I received a letter from her, forwarding me her address in Naples, in case I might desire to communicate with her concerning future work. Some three weeks later my mother was taken ill, and I was telegraphed for to come home at once. I left Port Said in a mail steamer, intending to take the overland express from Naples to England. Having some hours to spend in the latter city, I thought there could be no harm in my discovering the mother and daughter. I did so, we dined together at a small restaurant, and went on to the Opera afterward.”
“You did not tell me that,” said Fensden, quickly.
“I did not deem it necessary,” said Godfrey. “I should have done so when we came to discuss the matter at greater length. But to continue my story. After the Opera I escorted them back to their dwelling, but I did not enter. On my way to my hotel afterward, I was nearly stabbed by a lover of my former model, a man, so she had informed me, who was extremely jealous of any one who spoke to her. Fortunately for me, he did notsucceed in his attempt. I knocked him down, and took his dagger from him.”
As he said this, he took the small poniard, with which the Italian had attempted his life, from a drawer, and handed it to the old gentleman.
“Next morning I left Naples, to find, on reaching England, that my mother was decidedly better, and I need not have abandoned my tour. Then I met your daughter, fell in love with her, and in due course our engagement was announced. From the moment I said good-bye to her in Naples, until last Thursday night, I had neither seen nor heard anything of or from my former model.”
“You saw her on Thursday night?” repeated the old gentleman. “In that case she must have returned to England?”
“Yes,” Godfrey replied. “It was after the theatre, and when I had seen Lady Devereux and Molly to their carriage. I was walking down the Strand in search of a cab to take me back to my hotel, when I met her. She recognised me at once, and informed me that her mother was dead, that she had married, she did not say whom, and that her husband was also dead. Though she seemed in great distress, for reasons of her own shewould not let me help her. Feeling that she ought not to be in the streets at such an hour, I took a cab and drove her to her home, which was a house in a narrow street leading out of the Tottenham Court Road. I bade her good-bye on the pavement, and having once more vainly endeavoured to induce her to let me help her, walked back to my hotel.”
As he said this, he crossed to the table on which the box had been placed, and once more removed the lid and paper.
“A number of wedding presents have arrived to-day,” he continued, “and this box came with them. We opened it, and you may see for yourself what it contained.”
Sir Vivian approached the table and looked into the box, only to start back with an exclamation of horror. His usually rubicund face turned ashen gray.
“My dear boy, this is more terrible than I supposed!” he gasped. “What does it mean?”
“I am afraid that it means murder,” said Godfrey, very quietly. “My poor little Italian friend has been brutally murdered, by whom we have yet to discover. But why these hands of hers should have been sent to me, I can not for the life of me understand.”
“Are you sure they are her hands?”
“Quite sure. There can be no doubt about it. Both Fensden and I recognised them at once.”
“One thing is certain: the man who committed this dreadful deed must have been jealous of you, and have heard of your kindness to the girl. Is there any one you suspect?”
“I have it,” said Fensden, suddenly, before Godfrey could answer. “The man in Naples, the lover who tried to assassinate you. He is the man, or I am much mistaken. We have the best of reasons for knowing that he was in love with her, and that he would not be likely to stop at murder. If he would have killed you, why should he not have killed her? You told me upstairs, when we were speaking of her distress, that the street was occupied by foreigners; what is more likely, therefore, than that he should have lived there too? Possibly, and very probably, he was her husband.”
“But she told me her husband was dead,” Godfrey asserted.
“She may have had some reason for saying so,” Fensden replied. “There are a hundred theories to account for her words. It is as likely as not that she did not want you tosee him. He is a Neapolitan. For all we know to the contrary he may be an Anarchist, and in hiding. She might have been afraid that if you saw him it would lead to his arrest.”
“There certainly seems a good deal of probability in Mr. Fensden’s theory,” said Sir Vivian; “but the best course for you to adopt appears clear to me. You must at once communicate with the police and cause inquiries to be made. I have seen no mention in the papers of a woman’s body having been found under such circumstances. The discovery of a body so mutilated would have been certain to have attracted a considerable amount of public attention.”
“I think you are right,” said Godfrey, after a moment’s hesitation. “In the meantime what are we to do with these poor relics?”
“They must be handed over to the police,” said Sir Vivian. “It is only through them that we can hope to unravel the mystery. If I were you I should send for the head constable at once and give them into his charge.” Then he added kindly: “I can not tell you how sorry I am, Godfrey, for your trouble. It must be a terrible blow to you.”
“No one can tell what a blow it is, Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey in a husky voice. “A more cruel murder has never stained the annals of crime. The girl was an honest, kindly creature, and that she should have met her death in this manner shocks me inexpressibly. If any reward can secure the arrest of the murderer I will gladly pay it. No effort on my part shall be wanting to bring him to justice.”
“You may be sure that he is a cunning fellow,” said Fensden, “and that his plans were deeply laid. For my own part, if I were you I should place it in the hands of Scotland Yard and patiently await the result. You may be quite sure that they will do all in their power, and if they can not bring about his arrest, nobody else will be able to do so.”
“Even if they do not succeed in capturing him I should not abandon the search,” said Godfrey. “Poor little Teresina shall not go unavenged. There must be several private detectives in London who know their business almost as well as the officials of Scotland Yard. I will find the cleverest of them and put them on the trail without delay. If a promise of a thousand pounds can stimulate him to greater exertions it shall be paid.”
“You will be only throwing your moneyaway,” said Fensden. “He will be paid by the hour, with expenses, and he will fool you with bogus clews from first to last.”
“I must risk that,” Godfrey replied.
A message was thereupon despatched to the head of the local constabulary, who very soon put in an appearance at the Hall. He was a little man, with a pompous manner and a great idea of his own importance. It appeared to be his opinion that Detwich was the centre of civilization, and he the custodian of its peace and safety. On his arrival he was shown into the studio, where he found the three gentlemen waiting for him. He saluted Sir Vivian with the deepest servility, Godfrey respectfully, and Victor Fensden good-naturedly, as if the latter, not being a landowner in the district, was not entitled to anything more than a nod.
“We have sent for you, Griffin,” said Sir Vivian, “in order to inform you that a serious crime has been committed, not in this neighbourhood, but in London.”
“A good many serious crimes happen there every day, Sir Vivian,” remarked the official. “May I ask the nature of this particular one?”
“Nothing short of murder!” Sir Vivianreplied; “and as Mr. Henderson here has been brought into it we have adopted the course of sending for you at once in order that you may acquaint the proper authorities.”
“A very proper proceeding, sir, I have no doubt,” said the officer, diving his hand into his pocket and producing a pencil and an enormous pocket-book. “I shall be glad, sir, if you will give me the particulars.”
For the third time that afternoon Godfrey told his story, while the officer made notes. By the time the contents of the box were shown to him the man’s interest was thoroughly aroused. It had always been his ambition to be mixed up in some big affair, and now his chance had come. That being so, he was resolved to make the most of it.
“There can be no doubt, sir,” he said, addressing Sir Vivian, “that it is likely to be a very serious matter. So far as I can understand, the disappearance of the woman has not been noticed, nor has her body been discovered. I will report the facts of the case to Scotland Yard at once, and in the meantime I will take possession of this box and its contents. So far as I can see at present it doesn’t look as if it should be very difficult to lay our hands upon the murderer.”
“In that case, I suppose your opinion tallies with ours,” said Fensden, who had just started another cigarette. “You suspect the Neapolitan lover.”
“I do, sir,” the man replied with dignity, as if his suspicions were not things to be treated lightly. “I only wish I had the conducting of this case throughout. But, there, I suppose it will go elsewhere and others will get the credit of the job. There is nothing else you wish to see me about, I suppose, gentlemen?”
“I think not,” said Godfrey. “But I should be glad if you would let us know all that goes on. As I have told you, the poor girl was an old friend, and her cruel death is naturally a great blow to me.”
“I will let you know as soon as I hear anything,” the man replied. “I shall telegraph to Scotland Yard as soon as I get back to the station, and I expect they will be on the move within the hour. Let me see that I have got the name and address right, sir. Teresina Cardi, No. 16, Burford Street, Tottenham Court Road. That is correct, I suppose?”
“Quite correct,” said Godfrey. “It is a tall house and there is a lamp-post exactly opposite the door.”
These additional facts having been duly noted, the officer was about to withdraw, when the butler entered with the evening papers. He handed them to his master, who made as though he would place them on one side, as being irrelevant to the matter at issue, when Sir Vivian stopped him.
“One moment,” he said. “Before you go, Griffin, let us make sure that there is no reference in the evening papers to the crime. Will you look, or shall I?”
In answer Godfrey opened the first paper. It was as well that he did so, for on the middle page was this announcement in large type:
“I thought as much,” said the police officer in a tone of bitter disappointment. “Just my luck again. I was in hopes of being able to put them on the scent, but it seems that they have found it out without me. Might I be so bold, sir, as to ask what it says?”
“I will read the account,” said Godfrey.
“At an early hour this morning it was reported to the authorities at Scotland Yard that a murder of an unusual nature had been committed in the vicinity of the TottenhamCourt Road. The victim is an Italian woman, known as Teresina Cardi, an artist’s model, who, it is stated, has been living in the house in Burford Street, in which her body was discovered, for upward of a fortnight. It might be mentioned that the house is let out in flats, the occupants being in the main of foreign nationality. The girl herself was of a reserved disposition, and did not associate with the other tenants of the building. She was last seen alive at seven o’clock on the evening of Thursday, when she was observed descending the stairs dressed for going out. The hour of her return is not known, nor was her absence remarked on Friday. Early on Saturday morning, however, the occupant of a neighbouring room, a German cabinet-maker, named Otto Grunther, noticed a small stream of dark-red fluid under the door. His suspicions being aroused, he informed the owner of the house of what he had seen, who called in the assistance of the policeman on the beat. Together they ascended to the room in question to find that the door was securely locked. Their knocks having elicited no response, a key was obtained and the door opened. On entering the room it was discovered that the woman was lying dead upon the floor betweenthe table and the door. Her throat was cut and she had been stabbed in several places. More horrible still, her hands had been severed at the wrists and were missing. Though the police are naturally reticent as to the matter, we are led to believe that they have not succeeded in finding a clew. Needless to say the revolting crime has caused a great sensation in the neighbourhood.”
“Later News.—Up to the moment of going to press, the most diligent inquiries have been made by our own representatives as to the identity of the murdered woman. Teresina Cardi, it would appear, sat as a model for the central figure in Mr. Godfrey Henderson’s famous picture 'A Woman of the People,’ which attracted so much attention in the Royal Academy Exhibition of last year. She was a Neapolitan by birth, but has spent a considerable time in this country. It has also come to light that on the evening in question she returned home shortly after midnight and was seen talking to a gentleman in evening dress on the pavement in front of the house.
“The police hope very shortly to be able to discover the identity of this mysterious individual, when doubtless further light will be thrown upon the tragedy.”
“Good Heavens!” said Godfrey. “They surely don’t think that I know anything more about it than I have said?”
“You must set the matter right without delay,” said Sir Vivian. “Does it say when the inquest will be held?”
“On Monday,” Godfrey replied, after he had once more consulted the paper.
“Then you had better communicate with the coroner at once, telling him that you are the person referred to, and offering him all the information it is in your power to give. You owe it to yourself, as well as the community at large, to do this at once.”
“I will do so to-night,” Godfrey replied. “In the meantime, Griffin, you will communicate with Scotland Yard yourself and tell them what we have discovered. The man who murdered her must have seen us together that night, and in the madness of his jealousy have sent the evidence of his crime on to me.”
When he had wrapped up the horrible box the police officer took his departure, leaving the others to discuss the matter and to endeavour to come to some understanding about it. At last, when there was nothing further to be said, Godfrey proposed that they shouldgo in search of the ladies. He had scarcely opened the door of the studio, however, when there was the sound of a heavy fall. Turning round, he discovered that Victor Fensden had fallen in a dead faint upon the floor.
In the previous chapter I described to you how Victor Fensden had fallen in a dead faint just at the moment when the gentlemen were about to go in search of the ladies, in order to reassure them after the terrible shock they had received. Immediately on hearing his friend fall, Godfrey hurried to his assistance, asking Sir Vivian meanwhile to go in search of brandy. The latter had scarcely left the room, however, before Victor opened his eyes.
“My dear old fellow,” said Godfrey, “I am indeed thankful to see that you are better. I knew very well that this terrible business had upset you more than you were willing to admit. Never mind, it will all be put right in the end. How do you feel now?”
“Much better,” Victor replied. “I can not think what it was that caused me to make such an idiot of myself.”
At this moment Sir Vivian returned with a glass of brandy and water. Victor sipped a little.
He had not been feeling well of late, he explained, and this shock, coming on the top of certain other worries, had unmanned him altogether.
“This has been a terrible day,” said Godfrey, “and a poor welcome for you to Detwich. Now, perhaps, you would rather rest a little before joining the others.”
“I think I should prefer to do so,” said Victor, and he accordingly retired to his room, while Sir Vivian and Godfrey went on to explain matters as best they could to the ladies, who were in the dining-room, awaiting their return with such patience as they could command.
“My dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, hastening forward to greet Godfrey as he entered the room, “you must know how we all feel for you. This has been a terrible experience. Have you been able to arrive at any understanding of it?”
“I think I can,” said Godfrey, who dreaded another explanation. “It will be time enough, however, for me to explain later on. It is sufficient at present to say that a terrible murder has been committed in London, and that the assassin, knowing that I had endeavoured to be a good friend to his victim, hasplayed a ghastly practical joke upon me. As you may suppose, the circumstance has upset me terribly; and when I tell you that you will make me happier if you will spare me further conversation upon the subject for the present, I am sure you will do so.”
“I think it would be better,” said Sir Vivian. “We have placed the matter in the hands of the police, and I am sure that Griffin will do all that lies in his power to prevent Godfrey from being unduly worried by the affair.”
Godfrey felt a small hand steal into his.
“I am so sorry for you,” whispered Molly.
The touch of her soft warm hand was infinitely soothing to him. It did him more good than any amount of verbal sympathy.
“But where is Mr. Fensden?” inquired Mrs. Henderson.
“The shock has proved too much for him,” Sir Vivian explained. “He informed Godfrey that he would prefer to go to his room to rest for a while. I have never met your friend before, Godfrey, but I should say that he is not very strong.”
“I am afraid he is not,” the other replied, and the subject dropped.
A quarter of an hour later Sir Vivian announced his intention of returning home, andwhen his carriage had come round, took Godfrey on one side.
“Keep up a stout heart, my boy,” he said. “The man who committed the crime will certainly be captured before very long, and then the poor girl will be avenged.”
Then the kindly old gentleman drove away. When he had seen him depart, Godfrey went into the house and made his way upstairs to inquire after Fensden’s welfare. Somewhat to his surprise, he found him apparently quite himself once more.
“I can not think what made me behave in that foolish fashion,” said Victor, as he rose from the sofa on which he had been lying. “I am not given to fainting fits. Forgive me, old fellow, won’t you?”
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Godfrey.
As he spoke the dressing gong sounded, and after having asked Fensden whether he would prefer to come down, or to have his meal sent to him, and having received an answer to the first in the affirmative, Godfrey left him, and proceeded along the passage to his own room. When he reached it he passed to the further end and stood before the original sketch of his famous picture, “A Woman ofthe People.” It was only a mere study, roughly worked out; but whatever else it may have been, it was at least a good likeness of the hapless Teresina.
“And to think that that beautiful face is now cold in death,” he said to himself, “and that the brute who murdered her is still at large. God grant that it may be in my power to bring him to justice!”
Before he dressed, he sat down at his writing-table and composed a letter to the coroner, informing him of all he knew of the case, and promising him that he would be present at the inquest in order to give any evidence that might be in his power to supply. It was only when he had finished the letter and sealed it that he felt that he had done a small portion of his duty toward the dead. He also wrote to his solicitor giving him an account of the affair, and telling him that he would call upon him on Monday, prior to the inquest, in order to discuss the matter with him.
Then he rang for his valet and gave instructions that the letters should be posted without fail that evening. Then he began to dress with a heart as heavy as lead. He remembered how much he had been lookingforward to this dinner ever since the idea had first occurred to him. In his own mind he had endeavoured to picture the first meal that Victor and his betrothed should take together. He had imagined his friend doing his best to amuse Molly with his half-cynical, half-burlesque conversation, with Kitty chiming in at intervals with her sharp rejoinders, while he and his mother listened in quiet enjoyment of their raillery. How different the meal was likely to prove!
His dressing completed, he descended to the drawing-room, where he had the good fortune to find Molly alone. It was plain that she had been there long enough to read the evening paper, for there was a look of horror upon her face as she came forward to meet her lover.
“Godfrey, darling,” she said, “I see by this paper that a terrible murder has been committed in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court Road, and that the victim was once your model. I can now understand why it has affected you so much. Those hands were hers, were they not? I see also that it says that some one, a gentleman in evening dress, was seen talking to her about midnight on the pavement outside her house. Do youthink that that man had anything to do with the crime?”
“I am quite sure he had not,” Godfrey answered. “For the simple reason that that man happened to be myself.”
“Yourself? You, Godfrey?” she inquired, looking up at him with startled eyes. “But that was the night on which we were at the theatre together?”
“Yes, dear, the same night,” he answered. “Perhaps it would be better if I were to tell you the whole story.”
“Tell me nothing more than you wish,” she said. “I am content to trust you in everything. If I did not, my love would scarcely be worth having, would it?”
And then he told her of his association with the unhappy woman; told her of Teresina’s sorrow, and of his own desire to assist her. Molly’s heart was touched as she listened.
“You were right,” she said, “to try and help her, poor girl! If I had known, I would have endeavoured to have done something for her for your sake. Now, unhappily, it is too late. But you must not think too much of it, Godfrey dear. Try to put it away from you, if only for a time.”
At this moment Victor Fensden entered the room. It was plain that he had recovered his former spirits. He apologized in an easy fashion for his weakness of the afternoon, and ascribed it to his recent travels, which, he said, had proved too much for his enfeebled constitution.
“I am not like Godfrey, Miss Devereux,” he said. “He seems capable of bearing any amount of fatigue, plays cricket and football, tennis and golf, while on a summer’s day I sometimes find it impossible even to lift my head.”
It was a sad little party that sat down to dinner that evening. Godfrey was in the lowest spirits, and Molly was quiet in consequence. Fensden was accepted, on his own showing, for an invalid, Mrs. Henderson was naturally of a silent disposition, while Kitty, finding that her efforts were unappreciated, lapsed into silence after a time, and thus added to the general gloom. After dinner there were music and polite conversation in the drawing-room until ten o’clock, followed by a retirement to the billiard-room for a game at pool. It did not prove a success, however. No one had any heart for the game, and before the first three lives had been lost it was voted failure,and the cues were accordingly replaced in the rack. The memory of two white hands, tightly clinched in despair, rose continually before every eye, and when, at half-past ten, Mrs. Henderson proposed that they should retire for the night, every one accepted the situation with a feeling that was very near akin to relief.
The next day was scarcely better. For the first time since he had been master of the house Godfrey rose early on a Sunday morning, and, having ordered his dog-cart, drove into the village. It was scarcely seven o’clock when he reached the police-station to discover that the head constable had not yet risen from his bed. He waited in the small office while the other dressed, finding what consolation he could in a case above the chimney-piece in which several sets of manacles were displayed. The constable in charge was plainly overwhelmed by the squire’s presence, and to cover his confusion poked the fire almost continuously. At last, after what seemed like an hour, Griffin put in an appearance, and with many apologies invited Godfrey to accompany him to his own private sanctum where breakfast was being laid.
“It’s the first time for many a long daythat I have overslept myself, sir,” he hastened to remark; “but I have been so thinking of this ’ere case that I did not get to sleep until this morning, and I am mortal sorry, sir, that I should have kept you waiting.”
“You have communicated with Scotland Yard, of course?” said Godfrey, after the other had finished his apology.
“I telegraphed to them last night, sir, and forwarded my written report at the same time. The post isn’t in yet, sir, but I expect I shall get some instructions when it comes.”
He visibly swelled with importance as he made this remark. He felt that in having the Squire of Detwich for his ally he could scarcely fail to be noticed, particularly when the most valuable evidence in the case would be given by the gentleman in question.
Finding that the man had no further news to give him, Godfrey drove sorrowfully home again, feeling that both his early rising and his visit to the village were alike of no avail. All through the service in the little church afterward, despite the fact that Molly worshipped beside him for the first time, he was ill at ease. Victor had excused himself from attending the service on the plea of a bad headache, saying he would go for a walk instead.When they emerged from the sacred edifice afterward Sir Vivian took his place by Godfrey’s side.
“You have heard nothing more, I suppose?” he asked. “Griffin promised to communicate with you at once on receipt of any intelligence, did he not?”
“He did,” said Godfrey. “But when I saw him at the station this morning there was nothing to tell. In any case I go up to town to-morrow morning, when I shall first call upon my own solicitor, to whom I have already written, and afterward attend the inquest as I have promised. Fensden says he’s coming up, too, in order that any evidence he may have to give may be accepted.”
“One moment, Godfrey,” said the old gentleman, stopping him and allowing the others to go on ahead. “I am going to put a question to you which may probably offend you. But whether it does or does not, it must be asked.”
“Anything you ask me, sir, you may be sure will not offend me,” said Godfrey. “What is this particular question?”
“I want to know how long you have known your friend?” the old man inquired. “You see I am going to be perfectly candidwith you. You may think me absurd when I say so, but I have come to the conclusion that Mr. Fensden does not like you.”
“In that case, sir, I am sure you are mistaken,” said Godfrey. “Victor and I were at school together, and we have been companions ever since. He may be a little cynical in his humour, and inclined to be affected in his dress and speech, but, believe me, in his inmost heart he is a thoroughly good fellow.”
Sir Vivian was silent for a moment.
“If that is so,” he went on, “then I am wrong in my conclusions. I must confess, however, that I was not favourably impressed with Mr. Fensden yesterday. I noticed that when he was looking at you and you were not watching him, there was a curious expression upon his face that was either one of malice or something very like it. If I were asked my opinion about this affair I should say that he knew more about it than you and I put together, and more than he either cares, or is going, to tell.”
“I can not help disagreeing with you, sir,” said Godfrey, warming in defence of his friend. “I happen to know that Victor has not seen Teresina since the day we left England. It was he who induced me to get ridof her because he was afraid that she, being a pretty woman, might possibly induce me to fall in love with her. You see, I am quite candid with you.”
“I am glad that you are,” the other rejoined. “Nevertheless obstinacy is proverbially an old man’s failing, and I still adhere to my opinion concerning the gentleman in question. Whether I am right or wrong time will prove. In the meantime you say that you go up to town to-morrow morning.”
“Yes, to-morrow morning, first thing,” said Godfrey. “We shall leave Detwich by the 10.18.”
“In that case I am going to ask a favour of you,” said the other. “Will you allow me to accompany you? Remember that, as you are going to marry my daughter, your interests are, and must be, as my own.”
“I shall be only too glad if you will come, sir,” said Godfrey, gratefully. “It is a kindness I did not like to ask of you. I am sure it will make Molly happier to know that you are with me, while it will prove to the world, if such a proof is needed, that you believe my interest in this miserable affair to be only what I have stated it to be.”
“We all believe that, Godfrey, of course,” Sir Vivian replied. “The man who thinks otherwise would be insane. And now we turn off here. It is agreed, therefore, that we meet at the railway station to-morrow morning and go up to town together?”
“With all my heart, sir,” Godfrey replied, and then the kindly old gentleman turned off with his wife at the path that led across the fields to the court. When they were out of sight Godfrey informed Molly of her father’s decision.
“With father and Mr. Fensden beside you, the newspapers will not dare to hint at anything more.”
Then for the first time in his life Godfrey felt a vague distrust of Victor Fensden.
He put the suspicion from him, however, as being not only dishonourable to his friend, but also to himself.
“I have known Victor for a good many years,” he muttered, “and I should surely be familiar with his character by this time.”
Yet, despite his resolve to think no ill of the man, he felt that the idea was gaining ground with him.
When they reached the house they found Fensden in the drawing-room, comfortablyensconced in a large chair before a roaring fire. He had changed his mind, he asserted, and had not gone for a walk after all. He certainly did not look well. His face was paler than usual, while he was hollow-eyed, as if from want of sleep. As the party, radiant after their walk through the sharp air, entered the room, he looked up at them.
“How nice it must be to be so energetic,” he said, languidly. “Godfrey looks disgustingly fit, and more like the ideal country squire than ever. You should paint your own portrait in that capacity.”
This time there was no mistaking the sneer. It may have been the thoughts that had occupied his brain as he walked home, but evenhecould not help coming to the conclusion that the man he had known for so long, whom he had trusted so implicitly, and for whom he had done so much, was no longer well disposed toward himself. He said nothing, however, for Victor was not only his guest, but he had troubles enough of his own just then to look after, without adding to the number. Molly had noticed it also, and commented on it when she and her lover were alone together.
“Never mind, dear,” said Godfrey. “Itdoesn’t matter very much if he has taken a dislike to me. I think the truth of the matter is he is not quite himself. Though he will not show it, I have an idea he is as much cut up by this terrible business as I am myself. He is very highly strung, and the shock has doubtless proved too much for his nerves. You won’t see very much more of him, for he will bring his visit to a close to-morrow morning, as he has decided to go abroad again immediately after the inquest.”
“But I thought he was tired of travelling, and that he had stated his desire never to see a foreign hotel again?”
“I thought so too, but it appears we were mistaken. However, do not let us talk about him just now. Can you realize, dearest, that in ten days’ time we are to be married?”
“I am beginning to realize it,” she answered. “But this terrible affair has thrown such a shadow over our happiness for the last twenty-four hours that I have thought of little else.”
“The shadow will soon pass,” he answered. “Then we will go to the sunny South and try to forget all about it.”
In his own heart he knew that this was likely to be easier said than done. Ever sincehe had seen it on that memorable Thursday night, Teresina’s piteous face had been before him, and now with the recollection of what had followed so close upon their interview to deepen the impression, it was more than likely that some time would elapse before he would be able to forget it.
That night, when he went to bed, he found it difficult to get to sleep. It was as if the events of the morrow were casting their shadows before, and when he did sleep he was assailed with the most villainous dreams. He saw himself in a garret room with Teresina kneeling before him holding up her hands in piteous entreaty; then he saw her lying dead upon the floor, her glassy eyes looking up at him as if in mute reproach. A moment later he was sitting up in bed staring at Victor Fensden, who was standing beside him, holding a candle in his hand, and with a look upon his face that showed he was almost beside himself with terror.
“Good Heavens, man, what is the matter?” cried Godfrey, for the other’s face frightened him. It was as white as paper, while in his eyes there shone a light that was scarcely that of reason.
“Let me stay with you, let me stay withyou!” he cried. “If I am left alone I don’t know what I shall do. I have had such dreams to-night that I dare not even close my eyes. For God’s sake give me brandy! I must have something to bring back my courage. Look, look! Can’t you see, man, how badly I need it?”
Needless to say, Godfrey saw this. Accordingly bidding him remain where he was, he went off to procure some. When he returned he found Victor seated on the settee at the foot of the bed. Apparently he had recovered his self-command.
“I am afraid you must think me an awful fool, Godfrey,” he said. “But I have really had a deuce of a fright. You don’t know what awful dreams I had. I could not have stayed alone in that room another minute.”
It must indeed have been a fright, for Godfrey noticed that, though he pretended to have recovered, he was still trembling.
“Well, I am glad to see that you are feeling better,” he said. “Drink some of this, it will make a new man of you.”
“If it could do that I’d drink a hogshead,” he said bitterly. “If there’s one man in this world of whose society I am heartily sick, it is Victor Fensden. Now I’ll go back to myown room. Forgive me for disturbing you, won’t you, but I could not help myself.”
So saying, he took up his candle once more and returned to his own room, leaving Godfrey to put what construction he thought best upon the incident.
“I am beginning to think that poor Victor is not quite right in his head,” said the latter to himself as he blew out his candle and composed himself for slumber once more.
The first train that left Detwich for London next morning had for its passengers Sir Vivian Devereux, Godfrey Henderson, and Victor Fensden. Inspector Griffin was also travelling by it, not a little elated by the importance of his errand. On reaching Euston, after promising to meet them at the inquest, Fensden drove off to his club, while Sir Vivian and Godfrey made their way to Lincoln’s Inn Fields, where they were to have an interview with Mr. Cornelius Bensleigh, of the firm of Bensleigh and Bensleigh, solicitors. That gentleman had already received a letter from Godfrey, written on the Saturday night, giving him an outline of the affair, and acquainting him of the part the latter had played in the mystery.
“I am afraid this will be calculated to put you to a considerable amount of inconvenience, Mr. Henderson,” said the lawyer, after they had discussed the matter for a few moments. “From what I can gather, you werethe last person to see the poor woman alive, and as Sir Vivian Devereux says, for that reason we must be particularly careful that no breath of scandal attaches itself to your name. Now, as cases like this are somewhat foreign to our experience, I have made up my mind, always, of course, with your permission, that I will introduce you to a gentleman who makes them his particular study. Of course, should you desire it, I will put precedent on one side, and do all I can for you; but, if you will be guided by me, you will place your case in the hands of Mr. Codey, the gentleman to whom I refer, and whose name is doubtless familiar to you. His office is not far from here, and if you will accompany me, I shall be only too pleased to escort you to it, and to introduce you to him.”
This course having been agreed upon, they accompanied him to the office of the lawyer in question, and, after a few moments’ delay, were conducted to his presence. He looked more like a trainer of racehorses than a criminal lawyer. He was the possessor of a sharp, keen face, a pair of restless eyes, a clean-shaven mouth and chin, while the whiskers on his cheeks were clipped to a nicety. The elderly lawyer introduced SirVivian and Godfrey to him, and explained the nature of their visit.
“Ah, the Burford Street murder,” said Mr. Codey, as soon as he heard the name of the case. “I was wondering how long it would be before I was drawn into it. And so, Mr. Henderson, you have the misfortune to be connected with it? As a matter of fact, I suppose you are the gentleman in evening dress who was seen speaking to the girl on the pavement outside the house.”
“I am; but how do you know it?” Godfrey asked, in considerable surprise.
“I merely guessed it,” said the lawyer. “I see from the papers that the deceased was once your model. Now you come to me for help. I simply put two and two together, with the result aforesaid. Perhaps you will be kind enough to tell me all you know about it. Be very sure you keep nothing back; after that I shall know how to act.”
Thus encouraged, Godfrey set to work, and told the tale with which by this time my readers are so familiar. The lawyer listened patiently, made a few notes on a sheet of paper as the story progressed, and when he had finished asked one or two more or less pertinent questions.
“You say that you returned to your hotel immediately after your interview with the deceased?”
“Immediately,” Godfrey answered.
“Did you take a cab?”
“No,” said Godfrey; “it was a cold night, and I thought the walk would do me good.”
“But you drove to the house in a cab?”
“I did, and dismissed it at once.”
“That was unfortunate. Do you think the driver would know you again?”
“I should think it very probable,” said Godfrey.
“You were standing under the lamp-post, of course, when you paid him, with the light shining full upon your face?”
“I suppose so, as the lamp is exactly opposite the door; but I did not think of that.”
“No; but, you see, I must think of these things,” said the lawyer. “And when you returned to your hotel?”
“I called for a brandy and soda, and, having drunk it, went to bed.”
When he had learned all he desired to know, it was arranged that Mr. Codey should attend the coroner’s court, and watch the case on Godfrey’s behalf; after which they left the office. On reaching the club where Sir Vivianand Godfrey had elected to lunch, they found that the murder was the one absorbing topic of the day. This was more than Godfrey had bargained for; for, when it was remembered that the deceased woman had been his model, he was cross-questioned concerning her on every hand. So unbearable did this at last become, that he proposed to Sir Vivian that they should take a stroll in the park until it should be time for them to set off to the business of the afternoon.
When they reached the building in which the inquest was to be held, they discovered that a large crowd had collected; indeed, it was only with difficulty, and after they had explained their errand, that they could gain admittance to the building. Fensden was awaiting them there, still looking pale and worried; also Mr. Codey, the lawyer, appearing even keener than he had done at his office.
“Public curiosity is a strange thing,” said the latter, as he looked round the packed court. “Probably not more than five persons now in this room ever saw the dead girl, and yet they crowd here as though their lives depended upon their not losing a word of what is said about her.”
At this moment an official came forward,and said something to Godfrey in a low voice. The latter immediately followed him from the room. When he returned he was very white, and he seemed visibly upset.
Then the coroner entered, a portly, dignified gentleman, and took his seat, after which the proceedings were opened in due form.
The landlord of the house, in which the deceased had resided, was the first witness called. He deposed as to the name she was known by in the house, stated that she was supposed to be an artist’s model, and that, to the best of his belief, she had been a quiet and respectable girl. At any rate, her rent had invariably been paid on the day on which it had become due. He had identified the body as being that of his lodger. During the time she had been with him he had never known her to receive a visitor; as a matter of fact, she had kept to herself; scarcely speaking to any one save when she returned their salutations on the stairs. He was not aware that she had received a letter, and, as far as he knew, she had not a friend in London.
The next witness was the German cabinet-maker, who had been the first to discover the murder. He gave evidence through the medium of an interpreter, and described howhe had seen the congealed blood under the door and the suspicions it had given rise to. In answer to a question put by a superintendent of police, who represented the commissioner, he stated that he had never spoken to the deceased, for the reason that he knew no English or Italian, and she was not acquainted with German. He had heard her go out on the night in question, and return shortly after midnight, but whether she was accompanied by any one he could not say. He also deposed to the position of the body when they opened the door, and to the mysterious fact that the hands were missing.
The next witness was the police-constable on the beat, who had been called in by the landlord. He gave evidence as to the opening of the door, and the discovery then made. He was followed by the doctor, who had made the post-mortem examination, and who described the nature and situation of the various wounds, and the conclusions he had drawn therefrom. Then came the first sensation of the afternoon, when the well-known artist, Godfrey Henderson, was called. In answer to the various questions put to him, he deposed that he had known the deceased for upward of a year; that he had employed her forthe model of his picture, “A Woman of the People,” and had always found her a quiet and eminently respectable girl. He had been compelled to dismiss her, not because he had any fault to find with her, but because he was going abroad. This was not the last he had heard of her, for, while on the Nile at Luxor, he had received a letter from her, informing him of her address, in view of any future work he might have for her. At Naples he had again met her, when he was on his way back to England, and had taken her to the Opera in her mother’s company. On the night of the murder, he had again met her in the Strand, quite by accident, when, finding that she was in serious trouble, he had offered to help her. She would not accept his assistance, however. Noticing that she was in a most unhappy state, and not liking to leave her alone in the streets, he had called a cab and escorted her to her abode in Burford Street. He did not enter the building, however, but bade her good-bye in the street, after which he returned to his hotel. He was unable to assign any motive for the crime, and added that the only person he could have believed would have committed it, was a man named Dardini, an Italian, who was in love with the girl, andwho had attempted his (the witness’s) life in Naples, on the night of the visit to the Opera. Whether the man was in England he was unable to say. Whether she had been in want of money at the time of his last seeing her, he also was unable to say. She had declared that she was in work, that was all he knew of the matter.
“On hearing that she was married, did you not inquire the name of her husband?” asked the coroner.
“I did,” Godfrey replied, “but she refused to tell me.”
“Did not that strike you as being singular?”
“No,” Godfrey replied. “When she informed me that he was dead, I did not press the matter.”
“You are quite sure, I suppose, that she was not married when you met her at Naples?”
“I feel convinced that she was not; but I could not say so on my oath.”
“And when you opened the box, which you say was sent you at your country residence, were you not shocked at the discovery you made?”
“Naturally I was!”
“And what conclusions did you come to?”
“I gathered from it that my old friend had been murdered.”
“What caused you to recognise her hands?”
“A certain mark above the knuckle of the second finger, the result, I should say, of a burn.”
At this point, Mr. Codey, who had already informed the coroner that he was appearing on behalf of the witness then being examined, asked an important question.
“On making this terrible discovery, what was your immediate action?”
“I sent for my prospective father-in-law, Sir Vivian Devereux, and for the police officer in charge of Detwich. It was at once agreed that we should communicate with the authorities and that I should render them all the assistance in my power.”
“Pardon my touching upon such a matter, but I believe you are about to be married, Mr. Henderson?” said the coroner.
“I hope to be married on Thursday next,” said Godfrey.
“I do not think I need trouble you any further,” the coroner then remarked.
The next witness was a police officer, who informed the Court that inquiries had been made in Naples concerning the man Dardini, with the result that it was discovered that he had been arrested for assault upon a foreigner a fortnight before the deceased’s return to England, and that he was still in prison. This effectually disposed of his association with the crime, and added an even greater air of mystery to it than before.
When this witness had stepped down, Mr. Victor Fensden was called. He stated that he was also an artist, and a friend of Mr. Godfrey Henderson. It was he who had first discovered the deceased, and he had recommended her to his friend for the picture of which she was afterward the principal figure. She had always struck him as being a quiet and respectable girl. When asked why she had received her notice of dismissal, Victor answered that it was because his friend, Mr. Henderson, had suddenly made up his mind to travel.
“I understand you to saysuddenly,” said the superintendent in charge of the case. “Why was it Mr. Henderson suddenly made up his mind to go abroad?”
“I do not know that this question is at allrelevant to the case,” said Victor, appealing to the coroner. “It was purely a private matter on Mr. Henderson’s part.”
“But anything that bears on the question at issue can scarcely be irrelevant,” said the coroner. “I think it would be better if you would answer the question.”
Fensden paused for a moment while the Court waited in suspense.
“I repeat my question,” said the superintendent. “Why did the deceased so suddenly lose her employment?”
Once more Victor hesitated. Godfrey looked at him in surprise. Why did he not go on?
“We decided to travel on account of a conversation Mr. Henderson and I had concerning the girl.”
“What was that conversation?” inquired the coroner.
Once more Fensden seemed to hesitate.
“Did the conversation refer to the deceased?”
“It did!”
“I gather from your reluctance to answer that you were afraid Mr. Henderson might become attached to her, so you used your friendly influence in order to hurry him awayas quickly as possible? Am I right in so supposing?”
Another pause, during which Victor’s face was seen to express great emotion.
“That was so.”
“You are sure that Mr. Henderson was attached to the deceased?”
“I am sure of it.”
“Did you know that Mr. Henderson was aware of the deceased’s return to Naples?”
“I was aware that he was in correspondence with her,” said Victor; “but he said nothing to me of his intention to visit her in Naples.”
“Had you known this, would you have endeavoured to dissuade him from such a course?”
“I do not know what I should have done; but I should think it very probable that I should have endeavoured to prevent their meeting.”
“When did you become aware of the deceased’s return to England?”
“When Mr. Henderson informed me of it on my arrival at his house at Detwich Hall.”
“You were naturally very much surprised to hear that he had met her, I suppose?”
“Very much,” Victor replied.