Chapter Thirty
“La Gioia.”
On the following afternoon, in response to a telegram I had sent to Beryl, she accompanied me to Highgate to face La Gioia. Now that I had such complete evidence of her attempts to poison, I did not fear her, but was determined to elucidate the mystery. Beryl accompanied me rather reluctantly, declaring that, with such power as the woman held, our lives were not safe; but I resolved to take her by surprise, and to risk all. After leaving Hoefer I had sought an interview with the detective Bullen, and he, by appointment, was in the vicinity of the house in question, accompanied by a couple of plain-clothes subordinates.
We stopped our cab in Hampstead Lane, and descending, found that the Bishop’s-wood Road was a semicircular thoroughfare of substantial detached houses, the garden of each abutting upon a cricket-ground in the centre, and each with its usual greenhouse where geraniums were potted and stored in winter. On entering the quiet, highly-respectable crescent, we were not long in discovering a house with the name “Fairmead” inscribed in gilt letters upon the gate, while a little further along my eyes caught sight of two scavengers diligently sweeping the road, and, not far away, Bullen himself was walking with his back turned towards me.
On our summons being responded to I inquired for Mrs Turton, and we were shown into the drawing-room – a rather severely furnished apartment which ran through into the greenhouse wherein stood the rare plant. Hoefer had described it minutely, and while we waited, we both peered into the greenhouse and examined it. The plant standing in the full sunlight was about two feet high, with broad, spreading leaves of a rich, dark green, and grew in an ordinary flower-pot. Half-hidden by the leaves, just as Hoefer had said, we saw some small green pods, long and narrow – the pods of the fatal vayana.
Ere we had time to exchange words the door of the room opened, and there stood before us the tall, dark-robed figure of “La Gioia.” Her hard face, pale and expectant, showed in the full light to be that of a woman of perhaps forty, with dark hair, keen, swift eyes, thin cheeks, and bony features – a countenance not exactly ugly, but rather that of a woman whose beauty had prematurely faded owing to the heavy cares upon her.
I was the first to address her, saying, “I think, madam, you are sufficiently well acquainted with both of us not to need any formal introduction.”
Her brow contracted and her lips stood apart. Then, without hesitation, I told her my name and that of my companion, while the light died from her careworn face and she stood motionless as one petrified.
“We have come here, to you, to seek the truth of the conspiracy against us – the plot in which you yourself have taken part. We demand to know the reason of the secret attempts you have made upon the lives of both of us.”
“I don’t understand you,” she answered with hauteur.
“To deny it is useless,” I said determinedly. “The insidious poison you have used is the vayana, and the only specimen in England bearing fruit is standing there in your greenhouse.” And as I uttered those words I closed the door leading beyond, and, locking it, placed the key in my pocket.
Her teeth were firmly set. She glanced at me and tried to deny the allegation, but so utterly was she taken aback by my sudden denunciation that words failed her. A moment later, however, taking several paces forward to where we stood, she cried with a sudden outburst of uncontrollable anger —
“You – Beryl Wynd – I hate you! I swore that you should die, and you shall – you shall!”
But I stepped between them, firm and determined. I saw that this woman was a veritable virago, and that now we had cornered her so neatly she was capable of any crime.
“I demand to know the truth!” I said in a hard, distinct voice.
“You will know nothing from me,” she snarled. “That woman has betrayed me!” she added, indicating Beryl.
“Your evil deeds alone have betrayed you,” I responded, “and if you decline to tell me anything of your own free will, then perhaps you will make a statement to the police when put upon your trial for attempted murder.”
“My trial!” she gasped, turning pale again. “You think to frighten me into telling you something, eh?” she laughed. “Ah! you do not know me.”
“I know you sufficiently well to be aware that you are a clever and ingenious woman,” I replied. “And in this affair I entertain a belief that our interests may, after all, be mutual.”
“How?”
“Tattersett is your enemy, as he is ours.” It was a wild shot, but I recollected his words that I had overheard in the park at Whitton. “There has been a conspiracy against myself and this lady here, who is my wife.”
“Your wife!” she gasped.
“I have spoken the truth,” I said. “I am here to learn the details from you. If, on the other hand, you prefer to preserve the secret of your accomplices, I shall demand your arrest without delay.”
She was silent. Then, after further declarations of ignorance, she was driven to desperation by my threats of arrest, and at last said in a hard, husky voice —
“I must first tell you who and what I am. My father was an English merchant, named Turton, who lived in Palermo, and my mother was Italian. Fifteen years ago I was a popular dancer, known throughout Italy as ‘La Gioia.’ While engaged at La Scala Theatre, in Milan, I met an Englishman named Ashwicke – ”
“Ashwicke?” I exclaimed.
“Not the man whom you know as Ashwicke, but another,” she responded. “He was interested in the occult sciences, apparently wealthy, and much enamoured of me. In the six months of our courtship I learned to love him madly, and the result was that we were married at the Municipio, in Milan, which stands exactly opposite the entrance to the theatre. A month afterwards, however, he decamped with my jewels and the whole of the money I had saved, leaving behind him, as his only personal possessions, a box containing some rare old vellum books which he had purchased somewhere down in the old Tuscan towns, and of which he had been extremely careful. At first I could not believe that he could have treated me thus, after all his professions of love; but as the weeks passed and he did not return, I slowly realised the truth that I had been duped and deserted. It was then that I made a vow of revenge.
“Ten endless years passed, and, my personal beauty having faded, I was compelled to remain on the stage, accepting menial parts and struggling for bread until, by the death of a cousin, I found myself with sufficient to live upon. Though I had no clue to who my husband was, beyond a name which had most probably been assumed, I nevertheless treasured his books, feeling vaguely that some day they might give me a clue. In those years that went by I spent days and days deciphering the old black letters, and translating from the Latin and Italian. They were nearly all works dealing with the ancient practice of medicine, but one there was dealt with secret poisons. I have it here;” and unlocking a drawer in a rosewood cabinet, she took therefrom a big leather-covered tome, written in Latin upon vellum.
There was an old rusted lock of Florentine workmanship upon it, and the leather was worm-eaten and tattered.
“This contains the secret of the vayana,” she went on, opening the ponderous volume before me upon the table. “I discovered that the poison was the only one impossible of detection, and then it occurred to me to prepare it, and with it strike revenge. Well, although I had been in London a dozen times in search of the man I had once loved, I came again and settled down here, determined to spare no effort to discover him. Through four whole years I sought him diligently, when at last I was successful. I discovered who and what he was.”
“Who was he?” I inquired.
“The man you know as Major Tattersett. His real name is Ashwicke.”
“Tattersett?” gasped Beryl. “And he is your husband?”
“Most certainly,” she responded. “I watched him diligently for more than twelve months, and discovered that his career had been a most extraordinary one, and that he was in association with a man named Graham – who sometimes also called himself Ashwicke – and who was one of the most expert and ingenious forgers ever known. Graham was a continental swindler whom the police had for years been endeavouring to arrest, while the man who was my husband was known in criminal circles as ‘The Major.’ Their operations in England, Belgium, and America were on a most extensive-scale, and in the past eight years or so they have amassed a large fortune, and have succeeded in entering a very respectable circle of society. While keeping watch upon my husband’s movements, I found that he, one evening a few months ago, went down to Hounslow, and, unobserved by him, I travelled by the same train. I followed him to Whitton, and watched him meet clandestinely a lady who was one of the guests.”
“It was myself?” Beryl exclaimed, standing utterly dumbfounded by these revelations.
“Yes,” the woman went on. “I was present at your meeting, although not sufficiently near to overhear your conversation. By your manner, however, I felt confident that you were lovers, and then a fiendish suggestion – one that I now deeply regret – occurred to me, namely to kill you both by secret means. With that object I went to the small rustic bridge by the lake – over which I knew you must pass on your return to the house, both of you having crossed it on your way there – and upon the hand-rail I placed the poison I had prepared. I knew that if you placed your hand upon the rail the poison would at once be absorbed through the skin, and must prove fatal. My calculations were, however, incorrect, for an innocent man fell victim. Colonel Chetwode came down that path, and, unconsciously grasping the rail, received the sting of death, while you and your companion returned by a circuitous route, and did not therefore discover him.”
“And is that really the true story of the Colonel’s death?” I asked blankly.
“Yes,” she answered, her chin upon her breast. “You may denounce me. I am a murderess – a murderess?”
There was a long and awkward pause.
“And can you tell us nothing of our mysterious union and its motive?” I asked her.
“Nothing,” she responded, shaking her head. “I would tell you all, if I knew, for you, like myself, have fallen victims in the hands of Tattersett and Graham – only they themselves know the truth. After the tragedy at Whitton I traced Beryl Wynd to Gloucester Square, and, still believing her to have supplanted me in my husband’s affections, called there in the guise of a dressmaker, and while your wife was absent from the room managed to write a reply to a fictitious message I had brought her from Graham. I placed the liquid upon the porcelain handle of the door on the inside, so that a person on entering would experience no ill effect, but on pulling open the door to leave would receive the full strength of the deadly vayana. This again proved ineffectual; therefore ascertaining that Graham intended to visit Atworth, I entered there and placed the terrible alkaloid on certain objects in your wife’s room – upon her waist-belt, and in the room that had been occupied by him on his previous visit, but which proved to be then occupied by yourself.”
“And that accounts for the mysterious attacks which we both experienced!” I observed, amazed at her confession.
“Yes,” she replied; “I intended to commit murder. I was unaware that Beryl was your wife, and I have committed an error which I shall regret through all my life, I can only ask your forgiveness – if you really can forgive.”
“I have not yet learnt the whole facts – the motive of our marriage,” I answered. “Can you direct us to either of the men?”
She paused. Then at last answered, “Graham, or the man you know as Ashwicke, is here in this house; he called upon me by appointment this afternoon. If you so desire, I will tell my servant to ask him in.”
“But before doing so,” cried Beryl, excitedly, “let me first explain my own position! I, too, am not altogether blameless. The story of my parentage, as I have given it to you, Richard, is a fictitious one. I never knew my parents. My earliest recollections were of the Convent of the Sacré Coeur at Brunoy, near Paris, where I spent fourteen years, having as companion, during the latter seven years, Nora Findlay, the daughter of a Scotch ironmaster. Of my own parents the Sisters declared they knew nothing, and as I grew up they constantly tried to persuade me to take the veil. Nora, my best friend, left the convent, returned to England, and two years afterwards married Sir Henry, whereupon she generously offered me a place in her house as companion. She is no relation, but, knowing my susceptibilities, and in order that I should not be looked upon as a paid companion, she gave out that we were cousins – hence I was accepted as such everywhere.
“With Nora I had a pleasant, careless life, until about two years ago I met the Major, unknown to Nora, and afterwards became on friendly terms with a young man, an officer in the guards, who was his friend. Tattersett won a large sum from him at cards; and then I saw, to my dismay, that he had been attracted only by the mild flirtation I had carried on with him, and that he had played in order to please me. The Major increased my dismay by telling me that this young man was the son of a certain woman who was his bitterest enemy – the Italian woman called La Gioia – and that she would seek a terrible revenge upon us both. This was to frighten me. My life having been spent in the convent, I knew very little of the ways of the world, yet I soon saw sufficient of both to know that Tattersett was an expert forger, and that his accomplice Graham was a clever continental thief whom the police had long been wanting. How I called at the house in Queen’s-gate Gardens, and afterwards lost control over my own actions, I have already explained. The motive of our marriage is an absolute enigma.”
She stood before me white-faced and rigid.
“It is fortunate that Graham is here. Shall we seek the truth from him?” I asked.
“Yes,” she responded. “Demand from him the reason of our mysterious union.”
La Gioia touched the bell, gave an order to the servant, and, after a few moments of dead silence, Graham stood in the doorway.
Chapter Thirty One
Conclusion
“You!” gasped the man, halting quickly in alarm.
“Yes,” I said. “Enter, Mr Graham; we wish to speak with you.”
“You’ve betrayed me – curse you!” he cried, turning upon La Gioia. “You’ve told them the truth?”
The colour had died from his face, and he looked as grey and aged as on the first occasion when we had met and he had tempted me.
“We desire the truth from your own lips,” I said determinedly. “I am not here without precautions. The house is surrounded by police, and they will enter at a sign from me if you refuse an explanation – the truth, mind. If you lie you will both be arrested.”
“I know nothing,” he declared, his countenance dark and sullen.
He made a slight instinctive movement towards his pocket, and I knew that a revolver was there.
“You know the reason of our marriage,” I said quickly. “What was it?”
“Speak!” urged La Gioia. “You can only save yourself by telling the truth.”
“Save myself!” he cried in a tone of defiance. “You wish to force me to confession – you and this woman! You’ve acted cleverly. When she invited me here, this afternoon, I did not dream that she had outwitted me.”
The woman had, however, made the appointment in ignorance of our intentions, therefore she must have had some other motive. But he was entrapped, and saw no way of escape.
“I have worked diligently all these months, and have solved the mystery of what you really are,” I said.
“Then that’s sufficient for you, I suppose;” and his thin lips snapped together.
“No, it is not sufficient. To attempt to conceal anything further is useless. I desire from you a statement of the whole truth.”
“And condemn myself?”
“You will not condemn yourself if you are perfectly frank with us,” I assured him.
There was a long silence. His small eyes darted an evil look at La Gioia, who stood near him, erect and triumphant. Suddenly he answered, in a tone hard and unnatural —
“If you know all, as you declare, there is little need to say much about my own association with Tattersett. Of the latter the police are well aware that he is one of the most expert forgers in Europe. It was he and I who obtained thirty thousand pounds from the Crédit Lyonnais in Bordeaux, and who, among other little matters of business, tricked Parr’s for twenty thousand. At Scotland Yard they have all along suspected us, but have never obtained sufficient evidence to justify arrest. We took very good care of that, for after ten years’ partnership we were not likely to blunder.” He spoke braggingly, for all thieves seem proud of the extent of their frauds.
“But you want to know about your marriage, eh?” he went on. “Well, to tell the truth, it happened like this. The Major, who had dabbled in the byways of chemistry as a toxicologist, held the secret of a certain most deadly poison – one that was used by the ancients a thousand years ago – and conceived by its means a gigantic plan of defrauding life insurance companies. About that time he accidentally met Miss Wynd, and cultivated her acquaintance because, being extremely handsome, she would be useful as a decoy. The secret marriage was accomplished, but just as the elaborate plan was to be put into operation he made an astounding discovery.”
“What was the reason of the marriage?” I inquired breathlessly.
He paused in hesitation.
“Because it was essential that, in close association with us, we should have a doctor of reputation, able to assist when necessary, and give death-certificates for production to the various life insurance companies. You were known to us by repute as a clever but impecunious man, therefore it was decided that you should become our accomplice. With that object Tattersett, accompanied by a young woman, whom he paid to represent herself as Beryl Wynd, went to Doctors’ Commons, and petitioned for a special licence. Possession was obtained of the house in Queen’s-gate Gardens which I had occupied two years previously under the name of Ashwicke – for we used each other’s names just as circumstances required – paying the caretaker a ten-pound note; and, when all was in readiness, you were called and bribed to marry Beryl, who was already there, rendered helpless with unbalanced brain by the deadly vayana. I posed, as you will remember, as Wyndham Wynd, father of the young lady, and, after the marriage, in order to entrap you into becoming our accomplice, tempted you to take her life. You refused, therefore you also fell a victim to a cigarette steeped in a decoction of curare, handed you by the Major, and were sent out of the country, it being our intention, on your return, to threaten you with being a party to a fraudulent marriage, and thus compel you to become our accomplice.”
“But this paper which I found beneath her pillow?” And I took from my pocket the sheet of paper with the name of La Gioia upon it.
“It is a note I sent her, on the day before her visit to Queen’s-gate Gardens, in order to induce her to come and consult with me. She had evidently carried it in her pocket.”
“And this photograph?” I asked, showing him the picture I had found concealed in the Colonel’s study.
“We took that picture of her as she lay, apparently dead, for production afterwards to the life insurance company. The Colonel, who was a friend of Tattersett’s, must have found it in the latter’s room and secured it. It was only because two days after the marriage Sir Henry’s wife overheard a conversation between myself and Tattersett, in which you were mentioned, that we were prevented from making our gigantic coup against the life offices. While Beryl was asleep her ladyship found the wedding-ring. Then, knowing your address – for she had seen you with Doctor Raymond – she sought your acquaintance on your return, and, by ingenious questioning, became half convinced that you were actually Beryl’s husband. Your friend Raymond was slightly acquainted with her, and had been introduced to Beryl some months before.”
“But I cannot see why I should have been specially chosen as victim of this extraordinary plot,” my wife exclaimed, her arm linked in mine. “You say that Tattersett made a discovery which caused him to alter his plans. What was it?”
“He discovered a few hours after your marriage that you were his daughter!”
“His daughter – the daughter of that man?” she cried.
“Yes,” he answered seriously. “He did not know it, however, until when you were lying insensible after the marriage, he discovered upon your chest the tattoo-mark of the three hearts, which he himself had placed there years before. Then, overcome by remorse, he administered an antidote, placed you upon a seat in Hyde Park, and witched until you recovered consciousness and returned to Gloucester Square. It had before been arranged that an insurance already effected upon you should be claimed. The truth is,” he went on, “that Wyndham Ashwicke, alias Major Tattersett, first married in York the daughter of a cavalry officer, and by her you were born. A year afterwards, however, they separated, your mother died, and you were placed in the convent at Brunoy under the name of Wynd, while your father plunged into a life of dissipation on the Continent which ended in the marriage with this lady, then known as La Gioia.”
“It seems incredible?” my love declared. “I cannot believe it?”
“But Nora introduced you as Feo Ashwicke on the first occasion we met after our marriage,” I remarked.
“I well remember it. Nora must have discovered the secret of my birth, although, when I questioned her after your departure, she declared that she had only bestowed a fictitious name upon me as a joke.”
“Yet Ashwicke was your actual name,” I observed.
“You will find the register of your birth in York,” interposed Graham. “I have told you the truth.”
“I will hear it from my father’s own lips,” she said.
“Alas!” the grey-haired man answered very gravely, “that is impossible. Your father is dead.”
“Dead?” I echoed. “Tattersett dead?”
“Yes; he was found lifeless in his rooms in Piccadilly East yesterday afternoon. His man called me, and discovered upon the table a tiny tube containing some crystals of the secret vayana. He had evidently touched them accidentally with his fingers, and the result was fatal. The police and doctor believe it to be due to natural causes, as I secured the tube and destroyed it before their arrival. The news of the discovery is in the evening papers;” and, taking a copy of the Globe from his pocket, he handed it to me, indicating the paragraph.
I read the four bare lines aloud, both my well-beloved and the dead man’s widow standing in rigid silence.
The elucidation of the bewildering mystery and its tragic dénouement held us speechless. It staggered belief.
My explanation to Bullen, or our subsequent conversation, need not be here recounted. Suffice it to say that from that moment, when the truth became apparent, the Major’s widow, who had once sought to take both our lives, became our firmest and most intimate friend, while Graham, having expressed regret at his association in the conspiracy, and declared his intention of leading an honest life in future, was allowed to escape abroad, where he still remains.
And Beryl? She is my wife. Ah! that small word, which is synonymous with peace and happiness. Several years have passed, and I have risen rapidly in my profession – far beyond my deserts, I fear – yet we are still lovers. We are often visitors at Atworth and at Gloucester Square, while there is no more welcome guest at our own table in Harley Street than the ever-erratic Bob Raymond.
The original copy of the ponderous ancient Florentine treatise with its rusty lock, which the Major left in possession of La Gioia, had been presented by the latter to the Bodleian Library at Oxford, where it can now be seen, while Hoefer’s re-discovery of the vayana having opened up an entirely new field to toxicologists, the deadly vegetable, like strychnine and atropia, is to-day used as one of the most powerful and valuable medicines, many lives being saved yearly by its administration in infinitesimal doses.
All the bitterness of the past has faded. What more need I say?
To-night as I sit here in my consulting-room, writing down this strange history for you, my friendly reader, my wife lingers beside me, sweet and smiling in white raiment – a dead-white dress that reminds me vividly of that June day long ago when we first met within the church of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, while at her throat is that quaint little charm, the note of interrogation set with diamonds, a relic of her ill-fated mother.
She has bent, and, kissing me tenderly upon the brow, has whispered into my ear that no man and wife in all the world are half as happy as ourselves.