- -
- 100%
- +
This was considered a very curious circumstance and was freely commented upon by various London and provincial newspapers, some giving a woodcut of what purported to be a representation of the mysterious characters upon the seal. Considerable excitement was caused thereby, and numbers of antiquarians and others at once set about trying to solve its meaning; but although editors were flooded with correspondence from those who professed to have found an elucidation, it remained as enigmatical as ever.
Just as the excitement was abating there came information of a third tragedy. This time a young French actress, Mlle. Voiturit, who was première danseuse at the Eden Theatre in Paris, was discovered late one evening in the Kalverstraat at Amsterdam, dying from the effects of a knife-wound in the breast.
There were dozens of persons passing and repassing in the street at the time of the occurrence, nevertheless, so swiftly and surely was the blow dealt and the seal attached, that before a crowd had assembled, the unfortunate young artiste had expired.
This created little less than a panic.
By the existence of the seals – each of which corresponded in every detail with the others – the fact was proved that the murders, if not committed by the same hand, were within the knowledge of the same person. This, of course, was a peculiar element in the case, and not a little speculation was indulged in as to what was the chief motive leading to the commission of crimes so outrageous.
The next dastardly affair caused a thrill of amazement and horror through the whole of Europe.
Mr Joseph Glossop, member of the House of Commons, and one of Society’s shining lights, had been found dead in bed at his house in Mount Street, Grosvenor Square, in most curious circumstances. True, the deceased had met with his death much in the same manner as the three previous victims, and he seal was present in exactly the same form, yet the window of the room was securely fastened, and the door locked.
This catastrophe caused the hearts of the three great capitals to throb with fear and indignation and the efforts of the police were redoubled. The same result – or lack of result – followed all their endeavours, however, and again nothing was discovered of the assassin who so ruthlessly took the lives of his unoffending fellow-men.
The police were utterly powerless, for the marvellous, almost superhuman, swiftness with which the fell deeds were accomplished, and the manner in which the murderer gained access to his victims, were two points which were entirely incomprehensible.
But while this situation was bad enough, it was nothing when compared with the complete paralysis which took possession of the entire population when, a few weeks later, the work of the same dreadful hand was observed, this time at Zurich, where Madame Daburon – a celebrated authoress, whose works, principally on political questions, and of a Socialistic tendency, had attracted a great deal of attention – was found lying in the bottom of a pleasure boat drifting upon the Lake.
The discovery was made by a party of tourists who were out sailing, and their dismay may be readily imagined when they found the unfortunate woman had been shot in the breast, and the seal placed upon her.
There were neither oars nor rudder to the boat, yet from the presence of blood it was plain that the shot was fired after the murdered woman had embarked, and it was more than probable that the assassin, before escaping, threw both oars and rudder overboard. How he landed was a mystery.
Hardly had the news of this latest crime reached London, when the sensation was increased by the report that another person had been discovered in the metropolis with the seal upon him.
In a few hours this statement was confirmed.
It transpired that on the afternoon following the discovery in Switzerland some children who were at play in Upper Street, Islington, noticed blood trickling from under the door of a pawnbroker’s shop occupied by Mr Isaac Solomons. The police were called; with difficulty the door was forced. Solomons was found face downwards in the passage, with a fearful gash in his throat, and on lifting the body, the seal was seen pinned upon him.
The seventh of this remarkable series was the Mystery of Bedford Place.
The Comet– most sensational of evening newspapers – upon the staff of which was my friend Bob Nugent, appeared with what it assured its readers was a portrait of the murdered woman, and in its comments upon the continuation of the mysterious crimes severely criticised our police system, asking what was the use of a Commissioner, of detectives, of a police force at all, if crimes could be committed with impunity in our very midst.
The murderer apparently treated the vigilance of the combined detective force of Europe with the utmost indifference, and such an attitude was alarming, for, as the latter acknowledged themselves defeated, there was no telling where this wholesale butchery would end!
That there was a motive for it all no one doubted, though it was a problem none could solve.
What was to be done? demanded the public; a question on which the newspapers were skilfully silent.
Questions were asked in the House, but the reply was that all that could be done had been done.
The population were to be coolly assassinated, while the apathetic authorities made no secret of their incompetency, and treated it with unconcern.
The excitement rose to fever heat.
Chapter Four
“Startling revelations.”
The coroner held his inquiry at a neighbouring tavern two days after the murder, but the investigations, instead of throwing any light upon the mystery, only increased it.
After the jury had formally viewed the body, the coroner, addressing the inspector in charge of the case, said, —
“We will take evidence of identification first.”
“We have none, sir, up to the present,” replied the officer gravely.
The jury looked at one another in dismay.
“What!” exclaimed the coroner. “Have you not discovered who the lady is?”
“No, sir. The only evidence we can procure is that of an estate agent by whom the house was let to deceased.”
“Call him.”
The oath having been administered to the witness, a man named Stevenson, he proceeded to give his evidence, from which it appeared that he was an agent carrying on business in Gower Street. A few months previous he was entrusted with the house in Bedford Place to let furnished, the family having gone abroad. A month ago the deceased called upon him, and after viewing the premises, consented to take them, paying six months’ rent in advance, and giving her name as Mrs Inglewood. She was undoubtedly a lady of means, for she kept two servants and rode out daily in a brougham hired from a neighbouring livery stable.
The most unaccountable feature of the case, however, was that neither of these servants were in the house at the time of the murder, nor had they since returned. The police had been unable to discover any one else who knew the murdered woman, or could give any particulars regarding her.
The next witness was myself, and my depositions were rather more satisfactory. I related my experience on the fatal night, and how I had discovered the crime. Then I was submitted to a severe cross-examination by the jury regarding the appearance of the man who left the house immediately afterwards.
The other evidence adduced was purely formal: that of the divisional surgeon, who certified the cause of death was a knife-wound in the heart, and of the constable who came to my assistance. The latter produced the blood-smeared paper with its cabalistic seal, as to which much curiosity was evinced by the jury, it being handed round and minutely examined.
The inquest, after lasting several hours, was ultimately adjourned for a week, in order that the police might make further inquiries and bring the necessary evidence of identification.
To this end advertisements were inserted in the leading newspapers, giving a description of the latest victim, with the request that persons acquainted with her would communicate at once with any police-station in the metropolitan district.
This mystery in which the murdered woman was enveloped added to the excitement prevalent. Notwithstanding all the efforts of the Criminal Investigation Department, the coroner was informed, when he resumed his inquiry on the following week, that no further light could be thrown upon her identity. It seemed that the mysterious Mrs Inglewood was an utter stranger and entirely friendless, although the police were bound to admit there was something suspicious in the continued absence and strict silence of the servants. Had she any friends, one or other must have come forward, for the Press had carried the details of the tragedy to the most remote corners of the Kingdom.
No further statements being forthcoming, the jury, after a long deliberation, returned the same verdict as had been recorded upon the other mysterious deaths, that of “Wilful murder by some person or persons unknown.”
Thus ended the seventh murder, with all its journalistic embellishments; and the public, who looked for “startling revelations,” were disappointed.
“Who will be the next victim?” was the question all the capitals of the world were asking.
The detectives were by no means idle, and from occupants of neighbouring houses they found that Mrs Inglewood, during her residence, had received but few visitors, the most conspicuous being an elderly lady, accompanied apparently by her daughter. They came several times a week in a victoria, and remained an hour.
This was all the information they were able to glean, for it seemed that the unfortunate woman was an enigma herself, making the mystery even more abstruse.
On the evening the jury delivered their verdict, I went down to the Club.
In the spacious smoking-room, with its fine portraits of Garrick and his contemporaries (which, alas, have now fallen under the hammer), a few Bohemians were taking their ease in the well-padded lounge chairs, discussing the details of the inquiry as reported in the evening journals.
“It’s all very well to talk,” exclaimed Hugh Latimer, a young artist of renown, as he cast aside his newspaper, “there must be something radically wrong with our detective force if the man Burgoyne has seen cannot be traced.”
“But how’s it to be done? Perhaps he could not be recognised,” suggested one.
“Or he may be in America by this time,” said another.
“No. I disagree with you. It is proved that the guilty one is a well-dressed man, and the success of his sanguinary work has been such as to encourage him to commit further crimes; therefore, the logical deduction is that he will remain in England and continue them,” Latimer replied. “What do you think?” he added, turning to me.
“I don’t think anything about it, except that I heartily wish I’d never been mixed up with it at all,” I said.
“I should have liked it myself,” exclaimed Bob Nugent, with an eye to the manufacture of sensational “copy.” The remark created a laugh.
“Well; joking aside,” he continued, “very few of you fellows who are pressmen would have objected to being on the scene of the tragedy. Sensational writing is the living of most of us, and if Burgoyne were in the position he once occupied, he would have been eager enough for the chance.”
”‘Them’s just my sentiments,’” said Moreland, who was on the staff of a comic journal, and fancied himself the wit of the Club. “But, you see, Burgoyne is no longer one of us; he’s one of the ‘bloated aristocracy,’ as he used to call the wealthy at one time.”
“True,” I said, smiling. “I know from experience that such mysteries are an unqualified blessing to the impecunious journalist. The worst of it is that I’ve grown so confoundedly idle now, I really have nothing with which to occupy my time.”
“But you have plenty of work of a character that will benefit mankind, if you’ll only do it,” observed Nugent.
“What’s that?”
“Find the author of the crimes. You have seen him, and it only remains for you to turn amateur detective. By the exercise of a little patience you will be able to identify the wretch and bring his guilt home to him.”
“Impossible,” I remarked, though the suggestion was one which had not crossed my mind before, and I felt inclined to give it some consideration, as I had grown listless and lazy, and required something to occupy my mind.
To write for one’s bread and to write for mere pastime are very different matters. When I was compelled to follow journalism as a profession I put my very soul into my work; but now my keen enthusiasm had entirely disappeared, and I had neither patience nor inclination to write for pleasure.
“Man-hunting would be rattling good fun,” remarked Latimer, “especially when one is free, and possesses as much of the world’s good things as you, Burgoyne.”
“What nonsense you fellows talk?” I said. “How could I hope to succeed where Scotland Yard fails?”
“Exactly. But they haven’t seen the man they want; you have.”
“Oh, let’s change the subject. If ever I come across him he shall not go unpunished. Now, I’ve been at the inquest all day, and am bored to death with the whole thing. Come, Bob, let’s go out on the balcony; I want to talk to you,” I added, addressing Nugent.
Rising, we both passed out upon the veranda overlooking the Embankment.
Chapter Five
Suspicions
Like many others, I found my sudden acquisition of wealth had made me not a whit the more contented than when I was compelled to write for an existence. Still, I was a thorough-going Bohemian, and never happier than when amongst that free-and-easy artistic circle that made the Junior Garrick its headquarters.
For years Nugent had been my particular chum, and had frequently been the means of getting my articles accepted when I was more than usually hard-up; and now, in my affluence, I did not fail to remember the many services my old friend had rendered me.
As we sat together under the stars I was confiding to him how discontented I had felt of late.
“Well, my dear fellow, there’s only one remedy,” said Bob, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips.
“And what’s that?”
“Get married.”
“Marriage be hanged! I couldn’t settle down; besides, it is not my intention to forge the matrimonial gyves just yet. The fact is, Bob, I’m not well. I believe this horrible murder has given me a touch of the blues, and nothing but an entire change will rid me of it. I’m bored with everything, and with myself most of all. It may seem strange, but I have no object in life, except merely to exist. Once I envied fellows with money, but, by Jove, I don’t now.”
“Then what is your intention?”
“To go abroad; and I want you to accompany me.”
“I should be only too pleased, providing I could get away, but I have a great deal of work on hand which I must finish,” replied Nugent.
“Do come, and take the rest with you. Fresh surroundings will incite new inspirations, and you can combine business with pleasure. Can you be ready by next Saturday?”
“Well, yes, I think so; but where do you intend going?”
“Don’t know, and don’t care a straw, as long as I get a change. We’ll run over to Paris first, and afterwards decide where shall be our next halting-place.”
“And how long do you propose being away?”
“Six months – a year, if you like.”
“I must return in a couple of months at latest, for I’ve business to attend to.”
“Very well, return whenever you please. What do you say to starting by the night mail on Saturday?”
Bob replied in the affirmative, and we ratified the agreement over a bottle of Pommery.
Later that night when I left the Club to walk home, my thoughts involuntarily wandered to the mysterious tragedy which I had discovered.
It was past one o’clock, and few people were about as I turned from Adam Street into the Strand. I was alone, and strolling along at an easy pace, passed down Drury Lane.
Suddenly I became conscious that some one had been following me, though the footsteps of the person seemed almost noiseless.
Thinking it might be some pickpocket, I buttoned my coat across the chest, and grasping my stick firmly, waited until I approached a gas-lamp, then turning suddenly, confronted a respectably-dressed man in the garb of a mechanic.
He was only a few yards from me, and at first I felt ashamed of exhibiting such fear, but a momentary glance sufficed to show that this person was also connected with the adventure of the never-to-be forgotten evening.
He was an elderly man, who bore a striking resemblance to the detective who had called upon me.
I stood aghast, for this man’s appearance had been so sudden and unexpected that I was too much confused for the moment to collect my thoughts.
He was apparently following me and keeping observation upon my movements. That fact instantly aroused in me a feeling of great indignation. I should have spoken, and probably an angry scene would have followed, had not he, with a celerity of movement which baffled my efforts, almost instantly gone off in an opposite direction.
I made no attempt to follow him.
It was intensely annoying to be tracked in this manner. Was I, Frank Burgoyne, to be watched like a suspected criminal or a ticket-of-leave man, because I had – unfortunately, as it seemed – been the means of bringing to light yet another foul piece of handiwork of the unknown miscreant?
Why did they suspect me? What end had they in view in such a proceeding?
Suppose my friends and the world should notice the suspicion resting upon me? I grew hot at the very thought.
Perhaps, after all, he was only acting from curiosity, and not under the orders of his superiors. The suggestion was a little consoling, and endeavouring to re-assure myself by its aid, I walked briskly home.
Chapter Six
Vera Seroff
Two months had elapsed.
Rob Nugent and I had had a pleasant time up the Rhine and among the Swiss lakes, and both acknowledged ourselves greatly benefited by the change. We were in Genoa, having broken our journey between Lugano and Rome, intending to remain only a couple of days, but finding so much of interest in the old city of Paganini and Columbus, we had already remained there a fortnight; and neither of us felt any inclination to travel further south.
We had taken up our quarters at the Hôtel Isotta, in that handsome thoroughfare the Via Roma, of which the Genoese are so justly proud, and though debarred from sight-seeing in the daytime by reason of the blazing autumn sun, we thoroughly enjoyed those cool balmy evenings when jalousies are thrown open, and the light-hearted Ligurians stroll up and down the Via Carlo Felice and the Via Assaroti, or sit outside the cafés taking their ease in the bel fresco.
Nugent’s vacation was at an end, for he had received a letter which necessitated his almost immediate return to London. I had neither the desire nor intention of quitting Genoa just yet. The cause of this was not very far to seek, and of course Bob suspected the position of affairs from the first; yet when he signified his intention of departing, and I said I should remain another week or so, his surmise was confirmed, and he could not refrain from indulging in a little good-humoured chaff at my expense.
The fact was that at the hotel there was also staying an exceedingly pretty young lady, named Vera Seroff, under the guardianship of her uncle, and accompanied by her French maid. The first evening we met at table-d’hôte I was fascinated with her beauty, and my admiration had not diminished as we sat opposite one another on the eve of Nugent’s departure.
The hotel was not full, and the number dining that evening did not exceed twenty, though the long table, glittering with its choice glass and plate, would have accommodated a hundred.
My vis-à-vis was about twenty-three, with a face as to which there could be no adverse opinion. She was dark, with fine eyes, serious and penetrating, a delicate little nose, and a well-formed mouth, which showed, when she smiled, two rows of pearly teeth. She was brisk, vivacious, with a charming ingenuousness in her flawless face; a figure slim and graceful, and a voice silvery and sympathetic.
In contrast to her was her uncle, who sat by her side, a short, stout old gentleman, with sharp features, a prominent nose, and scanty white hair, who seldom entered into conversation with any one, and who always appeared ill-humoured, grumbling constantly at the heat.
She spoke English with a pleasant accent, and was conversing with Bob and myself, to the apparent annoyance of the old gentleman, who could not understand a word. She was relating her impressions of one of the galleries she had visited that day, and displayed such a wide knowledge of pictures as to astonish Nugent, himself the art-critic of the Evening Comet. We both had become friendly with her, for, besides meeting daily at the hotel, we had several times run across one another at those places of interest the tourist always visits. Her uncle, Monsieur Hertzen, rarely went out, and her maid usually accompanied her on such expeditions; however, when only taking a short walk, she was frequently alone.
On one of these latter occasions I met her in the Piazza Principale, and offered to escort her to the hotel, to which proposal she made no objection. The distance was not great, but it sufficed to break the conventional ice between us, and when we parted I was more than ever fascinated. Never before had I met a woman so beautiful, so charming, so near my ideal of perfection.
When the meal had ended, and we rose, I said to her, “This is my friend’s last evening in Genoa. He returns to England to-morrow.”
“And do you go also?” she asked, with an intonation – as I flattered myself – of disappointment.
“Well; no,” I replied; “I shall remain a few days longer.”
The shadow of anxiety which had rested momentarily upon her face, vanished at once, as she turned to Nugent, saying, “I am sorry you are leaving, and must wish you bon voyage. I hope, some day, we may meet again, for our dinner-table discussions have been exceedingly pleasant.”
“Thanks, Mademoiselle,” replied Bob, grasping the tiny white hand she held out to him. “My business calls me to London, otherwise I should not return just yet. However, I hope you will prevent my friend, here, from getting into any scrapes with the bloodthirsty Italians after I’m gone.”
She laughed merrily as she answered, “He’s quite old enough to take care of himself. I cannot undertake the responsibility. Good-bye,” and she tripped away up the stairs to her own apartments.
“Old fellow,” exclaimed Bob, after she was out of hearing, “if you feel inclined to pitch yourself into the matrimonial net, there’s your chance; and I wish you every success.”
“Well, there are more unlikely things than my enlistment in the ranks of Benedicts,” I replied, laughing, as we sought our hats and went out to spend our last evening together.
Early the following morning Nugent departed for Turin, en route for England, and I was left alone to amuse myself as best I could. Truth to tell, I was not sorry Bob had gone, for now I felt free to devote myself to the beautiful woman who held me under her spell. I lost no time in carrying out my object, for meeting her in the drawing-room before dinner, I obtained permission to escort her on her evening walk.
It was already dusk when the tediously long meal was brought to a conclusion, and we left the hotel, strolling along the Galleria Mazzini towards the public gardens of Aqua Sola, the most charming promenade in Genoa. It is situated upon a picturesque cliff overlooking the port and the Mediterranean beyond, while at the rear rise the tall vine-covered Appenines, with romantic-looking villas peeping out here and there from amongst the olives and maize. The shadow of its great old trees form a delightful retreat from the scorching noon-day sun; but at night, when the people refresh themselves after the heat and burden of the day, its gravelled walks are thronged by the élite. Fashionable Genoa enjoys herself with mad but harmless frolic, and under the deep shadows fire-flies flit and couples flirt.