CHAPTER XVI.
REVEALS ANOTHER ENIGMA
"The identity of the victim has not yet been established, sir."
These words were spoken to the coroner by Inspector Edwards at the adjourned inquest held on January the twenty-second.
Few people were in court, for, until the present, the public had had no inkling as to what had occurred on that fatal night in Harrington Gardens. The first inquest had not been "covered" by any reporter, as the police had exercised considerable ingenuity in keeping the affair a secret.
But now, at the adjourned inquiry, secrecy was no longer possible, and the three reporters present were full of inquisitiveness regarding the evidence given on the previous occasion, and listened with attention while it was being read over.
Inspector Edwards, however, had dealt with them in his usually genial manner, and by the exercise of considerable diplomacy had succeeded in allaying their suspicions that there was any really good newspaper "story" in connection with it.
The medical witnesses were recalled, but neither had anything to add to the depositions they had already made. The deceased had been fatally stabbed by a very keen knife with a blade of peculiar shape. That was all.
The unknown had been buried, and all that remained in evidence was a bundle of blood-stained clothing, some articles of jewellery, a pair of boots, hat, coat, gloves, and a green leather vanity-bag.
"Endeavours had been made, sir, to trace some of the articles worn by the deceased, and also to establish the laundry marks on the underclothing," the inspector went on, "but, unfortunately, the marks have been pronounced by experts to be foreign ones, and the whole of the young lady's clothes appear to have been made abroad – in France or Belgium, it is thought."
"The laundry marks are foreign, eh?" remarked the coroner, peering at the witness through his pince-nez, and poising his pen in his hand. "Are you endeavouring to make inquiry abroad concerning them?"
"Every inquiry is being made, sir, in a dozen cities on the continent. In fact, in all the capitals."
"And the description of the deceased has been circulated?"
"Yes, sir. Photographs have been sent through all the channels in Europe. But up to the present we have met with no success," Edwards replied. "There is a suspicion because of a name upon a tab in the young girl's coat that she may be Italian. Hence the most ardent search is being made by the Italian authorities into the manner and descriptions of females lately reported as missing."
"The affair seems remarkably curious," said the coroner. "It would certainly appear that the lady who lost her life was a stranger to London."
"That is what we believe, sir," Edwards replied. Seated near him, I saw how keen and shrewd was the expression upon his face. "We have evidence that certain persons visited the flat on the night in question, but these have not yet been identified. The owner of the flat has not yet been found, he having absconded."
"Gone abroad, I suppose?"
"It would appear so, sir."
"And his description has been circulated also?" asked the coroner.
"Yes, a detailed description, together with a recent photograph," was Edwards' reply. Then he added: "We have received this at Scotland Yard, sir – an anonymous communication which may or may not throw considerable light on to the affair," and he handed a letter on blue paper to the coroner, which the latter perused curiously, afterwards passing it over to the foreman of the jury.
"Rather remarkable!" he exclaimed.
Then, when the jury had completed reading the anonymous letter, addressing them, he said:
"It is not for you, gentlemen, to regard that letter in the light of evidence, but, nevertheless, it raises a very curious and mysterious point. The writer, as you will note, is prepared to reveal the truth of the whole affair in return for a monetary reward. It is, of course, a matter to be left entirely at the discretion of the police."
I started at this statement, and gazed across the court – dull and cheerless on that cold winter's afternoon.
Who had written that anonymous letter? Who could it be who was ready to reveal the truth if paid for doing so?
Was Phrida's terrible secret known?
I held my breath, and listened to the slow, hard words of the coroner, as he again addressed some questions to the great detective.
"Yes, sir," Edwards was saying. "There is distinct evidence of the presence at the flat on the night in question of some person – a woman whose identity we have not yet been successful in establishing. We, however, have formed a theory which certainly appears to be borne out by the writer of the letter I have just handed you."
"That the unknown was struck down by the hand of a woman – eh?" asked the Coroner, looking sharply across at the Inspector, who briefly replied in the affirmative, while I sat staring straight before me, like a man in a dream.
I heard the Coroner addressing the jury in hard, business-like tones, but I know not what he said. My heart was too full to think of anything else besides the peril of the one whom I loved.
I know that the verdict returned by the jury was one of "Wilful murder." Then I went out into the fading light of that brief London day, and, seeking Edwards, walked at his side towards the busy Kensington High Street.
We had not met for several days, and he, of course, had no knowledge of my visit to Brussels. Our greeting was a cordial one, whereupon I asked him what was contained in the anonymous letter addressed to "The Yard"?
"Ah! Mr. Royle. It's very curious," he said. "The Coroner has it at this moment, or I'd show it to you. The handwriting is a woman's, and it has been posted at Colchester."
"At Colchester!" I echoed in dismay.
"Yes, why?" he asked, looking at me in surprise.
"Oh, nothing. Only – well, Colchester is a curious place for anyone to live who knows the truth about an affair in Kensington," was my reply, for fortunately I quickly recovered myself.
"Why not Colchester as well as Clapham – eh?"
"Yes, of course," I laughed. "But, tell me, what does the woman say?"
"She simply declares that she can elucidate the mystery and give us the correct clue – even bring evidence if required – as to the actual person who committed the crime, if we, on our part, will pay for the information."
"And what shall you do?" I asked eagerly.
"I don't exactly know. The letter only arrived this morning. To-morrow the Council of Seven will decide what action we take."
"Does the woman give her name?" I asked with affected carelessness.
"No. She only gives the name of 'G. Payne,' and the address as 'The G.P.O., London.' She's evidently a rather cute person."
"G. Payne" – the woman Petre without a doubt.
I recollected her telegram asking me to meet her. She had said that something had "happened," and she had urged me to see her as soon as possible. Was it because I had not replied that she had penned that anonymous letter to the police?
The letter bore the Colchester post-mark, and she, I knew, lived at Melbourne House in that town.
"I suppose you will get into communication with her," I exclaimed presently.
"Of course. Any line of action in the elucidation of the mystery is worth trying. But what I cannot quite understand is, why she requires blood-money," remarked the detective as we strolled together in the arcaded entrance to the Underground Station at High Street, Kensington. "I always look askance at such letters. We receive many of them at the Yard. Not a single murder mystery comes before us, but we receive letters from cranks and others offering to point out the guilty person."
"But may not the writers of such letters be endeavouring to fasten guilt upon perfectly innocent persons against whom they have spite?" I suggested.
"Ah! That's just it, Mr. Royle," exclaimed my companion gravely. "Yet it is so terribly difficult to discriminate, and I fear we often, in our hesitation, place aside letters, the writers of which could really give valuable information."
"But in this case, what are your natural inclinations?" I asked. "I know that you possess a curious, almost unique, intuition as to what is fact and what is fiction. What is, may I term it, your private opinion?"
He halted against the long shop-windows of Derry & Toms, and paused for several minutes.
"Well," he said at last in a deeply earnest tone, "I tell you frankly, Mr. Royle, what I believe. First, I don't think that the man Kemsley, although an impostor, was the actual assassin."
"Why?" I gasped.
"Well – I've very carefully studied the whole problem. I've looked at it from every point of view," he said. "I confess the one fact puzzles me, that this man Kemsley could live so long in London and pose as the dead Sir Digby if he were not the actual man himself, has amazed me! In his position as Sir Digby, the great engineer, he must have met in society many persons who knew him. We have evidence that he constantly moved in the best circles in Mayfair, and apparently without the slightest compunction. Yet, in contradiction, we have the remarkable fact that the real Sir Digby died in South America in very mysterious and tragic circumstances."
I saw that a problem was presented to Inspector Edwards which sorely puzzled him, as it certainly did myself.
"Well," I asked after a pause, and then with some trepidation put the question, "what do you intend doing?"
"Doing!" he echoed. "There is but one course to pursue. We must get in touch with this woman who says she knows the truth, and obtain what information we can from her. Perhaps she can reveal the identity of the woman whose fingers touched that glass-topped table in the room where the crime was committed. If so, that will tell us a great deal, Mr. Royle." Then, taking a cigarette from his pocket and tapping it, he added, "Do you know, I've been wondering of late how it is that you got those finger-prints which so exactly corresponded with the ones which we secured in the flat. How did you obtain them?"
His question non-plussed me.
"I had a suspicion," I replied in a faltering voice, "and I tried to corroborate it."
"But you have corroborated it," he declared. "Why, Mr. Royle, those prints you brought to the Yard are a most important clue. Where did you get them?"
I was silent for a moment, jostled by the crowd of passers-by.
"Well," I said with a faint smile, realising what a grave mistake I had made in inculpating my well-beloved, "I simply made some experiments as an amateur in solving the mystery."
"Yes, but those prints were the same as those we got from the flat. Whence did they come?"
"I obtained them upon my own initiative," I replied, with a forced laugh.
"But you must surely tell me, Mr. Royle," he urged quickly. "It's a most important point."
"No," I replied. "I'm not a detective, remember. I simply put to the test a suspicion I have entertained."
"Suspicion of what?"
"Whether my theory was correct or not."
"Whatever theory you hold, Mr. Royle, the truth remains the same. I truly believe," he said, looking hard at me, "namely that the unknown victim was struck down by the hand which imprinted the marks you brought to me – a woman's hand. And if I am not mistaken, sir – you know the identity of the guilty woman!"
CHAPTER XVII.
CONCERNS MRS. PETRE
Days, weeks, passed, but I could obtain no further clue. The month of March lengthened into April, but we were as far as ever from a solution of the mystery.
Since my return from Brussels I had, of course seen Phrida many, many times, and though I had never reverted again to the painful subject, yet her manner and bearing showed only too plainly that she existed in constant dread!
Her face had become thin and haggard, with dark rings around her eyes and upon it was a wild, hunted expression, which she strove to disguise, but in vain.
She now treated me with a strange, cold indifference, so unlike her real self, while her attitude was one of constant attention and strained alertness.
The woman Petre had apparently not been approached by Scotland Yard, therefore as the days went by I became more and more anxious to see her, to speak with her – and, if necessary, to come to terms with her.
Therefore, without a word to anyone, I one evening caught the six o'clock train from Liverpool Street, and before eight was eating my dinner in the big upstairs room of The Cups Hotel, while the hall-porter was endeavouring to discover for me the whereabouts of Melbourne House.
I had nearly finished my meal when the uniformed servant entered, cap in hand, saying:
"I've found, sir, that the house you've been inquiring for is out on the road to Marks Tey, about a mile. An old lady named Miss Morgan lived there for many years, but she died last autumn, and the place has, they say, been let furnished to a lady – a Mrs. Petre. Is that the lady you are trying to find?"
"It certainly is," I replied, much gratified at the man's success. Then, placing a tip in his palm, I drank off my coffee, put on my overcoat, and descended to the taxi which he had summoned for me.
He gave directions to the driver, and soon we were whirling along the broad streets of Colchester, and out of the town on the dark, open road which led towards London. Presently we pulled up, and getting out, I found myself before a long, low, ivy-covered house standing back behind a high hedge of clipped box, which divided the small, bare front garden from the road. Lonely and completely isolated, it stood on the top of a hill with high, leafless trees behind, and on the left a thick copse. In front were wide, bare, open fields.
Opening the iron gate I walked up the gravelled path to the door and rang. In a window on the right a light showed, and as I listened I heard the tramp of a man's foot upon the oilcloth of the hall, and next moment the door was unlocked and opened.
A tall, thin-faced young man of somewhat sallow complexion confronted me. He had keen, deep-set eyes, broad forehead, and pointed chin.
"Is Mrs. Petre at home?" I inquired briefly.
In a second he looked at me as though with distrust, then apparently seeing the taxi waiting, and satisfying himself that I was a person of respectability, he replied in a refined voice:
"I really don't know, but I'll see, if you will step in?" and he ushered me into a small room at the rear of the house, a cosy but plainly-furnished little sitting-room, wherein a wood fire burned with pleasant glow.
I handed him my card and sat down to wait, in the meanwhile inspecting my surroundings with some curiosity.
Now, even as I recall that night, I cannot tell why I should have experienced such a sense of grave insecurity as I did when I sat there awaiting the woman's coming. I suppose we all of us possess in some degree that strange intuition of impending danger. It was so with me that night – just as I have on other occasions been obsessed by that curious, indescribable feeling that "something is about to happen."
There was about that house an air of mystery which caused me to hesitate in suspicion. Whether it was owing to its lonely position, to the heavy mantle of ivy which hid its walls, to the rather weird and unusual appearance of the young man who had admitted me, or to the mere fact that I was there to meet the woman who undoubtedly knew the truth concerning the tragic affair, I know not. But I recollect a distinct feeling of personal insecurity.
I knew the woman I was about to meet to be a cold, hard, unscrupulous person, who, no doubt, held my love's liberty – perhaps her life – in the hollow of her hand.
That horrifying thought had just crossed my mind when my reflections were interrupted by the door opening suddenly and there swept into the room the lady upon whom I had called.
"Ah! Mr. Royle!" she cried in warm welcome, extending her rather large hand as she stood before me, dressed quietly in black, relieved by a scarlet, artificial rose in her waistband. "So you've come at last. Ah! do you know I've wanted to meet you for days. I expected you would come to me the moment you returned from Brussels."
I started, and stood staring at her without replying. She knew I had been to Belgium. Yet, as far as I was aware, nobody knew of my visit – not even Haines.
"You certainly seem very well acquainted with my movements, Mrs. Petre," I laughed.
But she only shrugged her shoulders. Then she said:
"I suppose there was no secrecy regarding your journey, was there?"
"Not in the least," I replied. "I had business over there, as I very often have. My firm do a big business in Belgium and Holland."
She smiled incredulously.
"Did your business necessitate your visiting all the hotels and music-halls?"
"How did you know that?" I asked in quick surprise.
But she only pursed her lips, refusing to give me satisfaction. I saw that I must have been watched – perhaps by Digby himself. The only explanation I could think of was that he, with his clever cunning, had watched me, and had written to this woman, his accomplice, telling her of my search.
"Oh! don't betray the source of your information if you consider it so indiscreet," I said with sarcasm a few moments later. "I came here, Mrs. Petre, in response to your invitation. You wished to see me?"
"I did. But I fear it is now too late to avert what I had intended," was her quiet response. The door was closed, the room was silent, and we were alone.
Seated in an armchair the woman leaned back and gazed at me strangely from beneath her long, half-closed lashes, as though undecided what she should say. I instantly detected her hesitation, and said:
"You told me in your message that something unexpected had occurred. What is it? Does it concern our mutual friend, Digby?"
"Friend!" she echoed. "You call him your friend, and yet at the same time you have been in search of him, intending to betray him to the police!"
"Such was certainly not my intention," I declared firmly. "I admit that I have endeavoured to find him, but it was because I wished to speak with him."
"Ah! of course," she sneered. "That girl Shand has, perhaps, made a statement to you, and now you want to be inquisitive, eh? She's been trying to clear herself by telling you some fairy-tale or another, I suppose?"
"I repeat, Mrs. Petre," I said with anger, "I have no desire nor intention to act towards Digby in any way other than with friendliness."
"Ah! You expect me to believe that, my dear sir," she laughed, snapping her fingers airily. "No, that girl is his enemy, and I am hers."
"And that is the reason why you have sent the anonymous letter to the police!" I said in a low, hard voice, my eyes full upon her.
She started at my words.
"What letter?" she asked, in pretence of ignorance.
"The one mentioned at the adjourned inquest at Kensington," I replied. "The one in which you offer to sell the life of the woman I love!"
"So you know she is guilty – eh?" the woman asked. "She has confessed it to you – has she not?"
"No. She is innocent," I cried. "I will never believe in her guilt until it is proved."
"Then it will not be long, Mr. Royle, before you will have quite sufficient proof," she replied with a triumphant smile upon her lips.
"You are prepared to sell those proofs, I understand," I said, suddenly assuming an air of extreme gravity. "Now, I'm a business man. If you wish to dispose of this information, why not sell it to me?"
She laughed in my face.
"No, not to you, my dear sir. My business is with the police, not with the girl's lover," was her quick response.
"But the price," I said. "I will outbid the police if necessary."
"No doubt you would be only too glad of the chance of saving the girl who has so cleverly deceived you. But, without offence, Mr. Royle, I certainly think you are a fool to act as you are now acting," she added. "A foul crime of jealousy has been committed, and the assassin must pay the penalty of her crime."
"And you allege jealousy as the motive?" I gasped.
"Most certainly," she answered. Then, after a pause of a few seconds, she added – "The girl you have so foolishly trusted and in whom you still believe so implicitly, left her home in Cromwell Road in the night, as she had often done before, and walked round to Harrington Gardens in order to see Digby. There, in his rooms, she met her rival – she had suspicions and went there on purpose armed with a knife. And with it she struck the girl down, and killed her."
"It's a lie!" I cried, starting to my feet. "A foul, wicked lie!"
"But what I say can be proved."
"At a price," I said bitterly.
"As you are a business man, so I am a business woman, Mr. Royle," she replied quite calmly. "When I see an opportunity of making money, I do not hesitate to seize it."
"But if you know the truth – if this is the actual truth which at present I will not believe – then it is your duty, nay, you are bound by law to go to the police and tell them what you know."
"I shall do that, never fear," she laughed. "But first I shall try and get something for my trouble."
"And whom do you intend to bring up as witness against Miss Shand?" I asked.
"Wait and see. There will be a witness – an eye-witness, who was present, and whose evidence will be corroborated," she declared in due course with a self-satisfied air. "I have not resolved to reveal the truth without fully reviewing the situation. When the police know – as they certainly will – you will then find that I have not lied, and perhaps you will alter your opinion of the girl you now hold in such high esteem."