An Eye for an Eye

“Both have assisted us in our inquiries,” Patterson briefly explained to the Coroner.

“Of course,” the Coroner answered, “this is a public court, and therefore we cannot exclude any one. Yet I am confident the reporters will respect my wishes.”

This we both promised to do, Cleugh, well-known to the Coroner, speaking first.

The Coroner, when the jury had returned from viewing the bodies, made a few further observations, pointing out to the jury that although the a flair was one of the most mysterious and inexplicable that had ever come beneath his notice in the course of his twenty years’ experience as a London coroner, yet they were there to try and decide the cause of death alone. They had no concern with any other facts except the cause of death, and he trusted they would give the matter their undivided attention.

Patterson was the first witness. In terse language he gave an account of his discovery and of his second visit to the house in my company. Then, when he had concluded, I was called and bore out his statement, relating how we had entered the laboratory and found the marvellous scientific apparatus, and how in the pocket of the dead man I had found a penny wrapped in paper. The cards with the strange devices which had been beneath the plates on the dining-table were handed round to the jury for their inspection, and then a statement which I made startled even the Coroner. It was how the body of the woman at present in the mortuary was not the same as the one we had at first discovered.

“Impossible!” exclaimed the Coroner, while the twelve jurymen stood aghast at my statement.

“That is quite true, sir,” exclaimed Patterson, rising from his seat. “The lady we first discovered was younger, with fair hair.”

“Then there must have been a triple tragedy,” observed the Coroner, astounded. “This is most extraordinary.”

I was about to explain how I had recognised in the girl I met in St. James’s Park the identical woman whom we had discovered lifeless, but a sharp look from the inspector silenced me.

“We are making diligent inquiries,” the officer went on, “and we have reason to believe that we shall be able to make a further statement later – at the adjourned inquiry.”

The Coroner nodded, and turning to the jury, said —

“Of course, gentlemen, it would not be wise at this stage for the police to disclose any of the information in their possession. Their success in such matters as this mainly depends upon secrecy. I think we may now, perhaps, hear the medical evidence.”

The jury stirred uneasily and settled themselves to listen intently as Dr Lees Knowles, the police divisional surgeon, stepped forward and was sworn.

“I was called by the police to the house,” he said, “and found there two deceased persons, a man and a woman, in the drawing-room on the first floor. The attire of the man was rather disarranged, as the police had already searched him, but there were no signs whatever of a struggle.”

“You made a cursory examination, of course,” suggested the Coroner.

“Yes. Life had been extinct sometime, and rigor mortis had commenced. There was, however, no external sign of foul play.”

“And the post-rnortem?”

The Court was silent in anxious anticipation of the doctor’s response.

“Assisted by Doctor Lynes I made a post-mortem, but found absolutely nothing to account for death. There was no mark of violence on either of the bodies, and no physical defect or slightest trace of disease. Nevertheless, the position of the bodies when found makes it evident that both persons died with great suddenness, and without being able to obtain assistance.”

“Was there nothing whatever to give any clue to the cause of death?” asked the Coroner, himself a medical man.

“Nothing,” responded the surgeon. “One thing, however, struck us as peculiar. On the inside of the right forearm of both the man and the woman were identical tattoo marks. The device, nearly an inch in diameter, represented a serpent with its tail in its mouth, the ancient emblem of eternity. The mark on the man had evidently been traced several years ago, but that on the woman is comparatively fresh, and could not have completely healed over more than a month ago. It is as though the mark on the man has been copied upon the woman.”

“And what do you think is the signification of this mark?” inquired the Coroner, looking up from the blue foolscap whereon he had been writing down the depositions.

“I’m utterly at a loss to know,” the doctor answered. “Yet it is very curious that upon one of these cards we found beneath the plates there is a circle drawn, while it also seemed that snakes were kept in the house as pets. To my mind all three circumstances have some connecting significance.”

The jury bent together and conversed in whispers. This theory of the doctor’s seemed to possess a good deal of truth, even though the mystery was increased rather than diminished.

Many more questions were put to the doctor, after which his colleague, Dr Lynes, was called, and corroborated the police surgeon’s evidence. He, too, was utterly unable to ascribe any fatal cause. The tattoo marks had puzzled him, but he suggested that the man and woman might be husband and wife, and that in a freak of caprice, to which women of some temperaments are subject, she had caused the device on her husband’s arm to be copied upon her own. Opinions were, however, divided as to whether the pair were husband and wife. For my own part I did not regard his theory as a sound one.

“You did not overlook the contents of the stomach, of course?” the Coroner exclaimed.

“No, we sent them in sealed bottles to Dr Marston, the analyst of the Home Office.”

“And have we his report?” inquired the Coroner.

“Dr Marston is here himself, sir. He has come to give evidence,” Patterson answered from the back of the room, while at the same time an old grey-haired gentleman in gold-rimmed spectacles rose, and walking forward took the oath.

“You received from the previous witnesses two bottles?” suggested the Coroner. “Will you please tell us the result of your analysis?”

“I tested carefully with group reagents for every known poison, and also for ptomaine,” he said, “but all the solvents – alcohol, benzol, naphtha, ammonia and so forth – failed. I tested for the alkaloids, such as strychnine, digitalin, and cantharidin, and used hydrochloric acid to find either silver, mercury or lead, and also ammonia in an endeavour to trace tin, cadmium or arsenic. To none of the known groups does the poison – if poison there be – belong. Therefore I have been utterly unable to arrive at any definite conclusion.”

“Is there no direct trace of any poison?”

“None,” was the answer. “Yet from the result of certain group reagents it would appear that death was due to the virulence of some azotic substance.”

“You cannot, we take it, decide what that substance was?”

“Unfortunately, no,” the renowned analyst answered, apparently annoyed at having to thus publicly acknowledge his failure. “The state of the stomach of either person was not such as might cause death. Indeed, there was only a secondary and most faint trace of the unknown substance to which I have referred.”

“Then, to put it quite plainly,” said the Coroner, “it is your opinion that they were poisoned?”

“I can scarcely go so far as that,” the witness responded. “All I can say in evidence is that I found a slight trace of some deleterious substance which all tests refused to clearly reveal. Whether it were an actual poison which resulted in death I hesitate to say, as the result of my analysis is not sufficiently clear to warrant any direct allegation.”

“Do you suggest that this substance, whatever it was, must have been baneful and injurious to the human system?”

“I think so. Even that, however, is not absolutely certain. As you know, certain poisons in infinitesimal quantities are exceedingly beneficial.”

“Then we must take it that, presuming these two persons actually died of poison, it must have been by a poison unknown in toxicology?” observed the Coroner.

“Exactly,” the analyst responded, standing with his hands behind his back and peering through his spectacles at the expectant jury.

The Coroner invited the jury to ask any questions of the analyst, but the twelve Kensington tradesmen feared to put any query to the man who had the science of poisoning thus at his fingers’ ends, and whose analyses were always thorough and absolutely beyond dispute. He was the greatest authority on poisons, and they could think of nothing further to ask him. Therefore the Coroner politely invited him to sign his depositions.

After he had withdrawn, the Coroner, placing down his pen, sighed, leaned back in his chair with a puzzled expression, and once more addressed the twelve men who had been “summoned and warned” before him. They had heard the evidence, he said, and it was now for them to decide whether the two persons had died from natural causes, or whether they had met with foul play. In the circumstances he acknowledged that a decision was extremely difficult on account of the many mysterious side issues connected with the affair, yet he pointed out that if they were in real doubt whether to return a verdict of natural death or of wilful murder, there was still a third course, namely, to return an open verdict of “Found dead,” and thus leave the matter in the hands of the police. He was ready, of course, to adjourn the inquiry, but from what he knew of the matter, together with the evidence which had just been given, it was his honest opinion that no object could be obtained in an adjournment, and further by closing the inquest at once they would prevent any inexpedient facts leaking out to the newspapers.

The jury retired to consult in an adjoining room, and in ten minutes returned, giving an open verdict of “Found dead.” Thus ended the inquiry, and while the law had been complied with, public curiosity remained unaroused, and the police were enabled to work on in secret.

With Cleugh I lingered behind, chatting with Patterson and Boyd.

“We’re keeping observation at Upper Phillimore Place,” Boyd explained, in response to my inquiry. “Funny thing that nobody else calls there, and that the servants have never come back.”

“Have you found the snake that was in the garden?” Cleugh asked of Patterson, with a significant glance at me.

“No,” he responded, rather confused. “You see any search there might arouse suspicion. Therefore we are compelled to be content with watching for the return of any one to the house.”

“But you haven’t yet succeeded in establishing the identity of the pair,” Dick observed.

“No. That’s the queerest part of it,” Boyd exclaimed. “The owner of the house, a builder who has an office in Church Street, close by, says that the place was taken furnished by a Mrs Blain, who gave her address at Harwell, near Didcot. She paid six months’ rent in advance.”

“Harwell!” echoed Cleugh, turning to me. “Isn’t that your home, Urwin?”

“Yes,” I gasped. The name of Blain caused me to stand immovable.

“Why,” Dick exclaimed, noticing my agitation, “what’s the matter, old fellow? Do you know the Blains?”

“Yes,” I managed to reply. “They must be the Blains of Shenley Court. If so, they are friends of my family.”

I had never told my companion of my bygone love affair, because it had been a thing of the past before we had gone into diggings together.

“Who are they?” inquired Boyd quickly. “Tell me all you know concerning them, as we are about to prosecute inquiries in their direction.”

“First, tell me the statement of the house owner,” I said.

“Well, he describes Mrs Blain as a middle-aged, rather pleasant lady, who came to his office about a year ago in response to an advertisement in the Morning Post. She appeared most anxious to have the house, and one fact which appears to strike the old fellow as peculiar is that she took it and paid a ten-pound note as deposit without ever seeing the interior of the premises. She told him that it was for some friends of hers from abroad, and that they not having arrived she would sign the agreement and accept all responsibility.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes,” the detective replied. “She was accompanied by a young lady, whom old Tritton, the landlord, took to be her daughter. Now, tell me what you know.”

I paused, looking at him fixedly. The disclosure that Mrs Blain was the actual holder of that house of mystery was certainly startling. It was remarkable, too, that on the very night of the crime I should receive a letter from Mary, the woman who had so long lingered in my memory. Was that, I wondered, anything more than a mere coincidence?

“I don’t know that I can tell you very much about the family,” I answered, determined to put him off the scent and make inquiries myself. “They were much respected when at Shenley, where they kept up a fine country house, and entertained a great deal. They were parishioners of my father, therefore I went there very often.”

“Do you know Mrs Blain well?”

“Quite well.”

“And her daughter?” suggested Dick, much interested. “What’s she like? Pretty?”

“Passable,” I answered, with affected indifference.

“Then they are not a shady family at all?” suggested the detective.

“Not in the least. That is why the fact of Mrs Blain having taken the house is so surprising.”

“It may have been sub-let,” Cleugh observed. “Her friends from abroad may not have arrived after all, and she might have re-let it, a circumstance which seems most likely, as no one appears to have seen her enter the place.”

“At any rate it’s most extraordinary,” I said. Then, turning to Boyd, I asked, “Why not leave the inquiry in that quarter to me? Knowing her, I can obtain information far more easily than you can.”

“Yes,” Cleugh urged. “It would be a better course – much better.”

“Very well,” answered the detective, not, however, without some hesitation. “But be careful not to disclose too much. Try and find out one fact only – the reason she took the house. Leave all the rest to us.”

I promised, and after drinking together over in the refreshment bar at High Street Station we parted, and Cleugh and I took a bus back to our chambers.

He stopped in Holborn to buy some last editions of the papers, while I hurried on, for, being terribly hungry, I wished to give old Mrs Joad early intimation of our readiness for the diurnal steak.

With my latch-key I entered our chambers. The succulent scent of grilled meat greeted my nostrils, and I strode eagerly forward shouting for the Hag.

As I entered the sitting-room I started and drew back. A quick word of apology died from my lips, for out of our single armchair there arose a tall female dark, well-fitting dress, bowing with a grace that was charming.

I saw before me, half concealed beneath a thin black veil, a smiling face eminently pretty, a tiny mouth parted to show an even row of pearly teeth, a countenance that was handsome in every feature.

That pair of eyes peering forth at me held me motionless, dumb. I stood before my visitor, confused and speechless.

Chapter Nine

The Love of Long Ago

There are hours in our lives which are apparently without importance, but which, nevertheless, exercise an influence on our destiny.

Little wonder was it that at this instant I stood before my visitor voiceless in amazement, for in her erect, neat figure I recognised the broken idol of those long-past summer days – Mary Blain.

Of all persons she was the one I most desired at that moment to meet. Her letter to me, and her presence in my chambers that evening, were two facts that appeared pre-arranged with some ulterior motive rather than mere coincidence. Not an hour before Boyd had made a most puzzling statement regarding her mother, and here she was, confronting me with that smile I knew so well, as if anxious to make explanation.

“I believe I’ve startled you, Frank,” she exclaimed, laughing, as she held out her gloved hand in greeting. “Is it so long since we met? Perhaps it is indiscreet of me to come here to your chambers, but I wanted to see you. Mother would be furious if she knew. Why didn’t you answer my letter?”

“Forgive me,” I said in excuse. “I’ve been busy. The life of a daily journalist leaves so very little time for correspondence,” and I invited her to be re-seated in our only armchair.

She shrugged her shoulders, smiling dubiously.

“You men are always adepts at the art of excuse,” she remarked.

She was pretty – yes, decidedly pretty. As I sat looking at her, there came back to me vivid recollections of a day that was dead, a day when we had exchanged vows of undying affection and had wandered in secret arm-in-arm along those quiet leafy lanes. She was a girl then, and I not much more than a stripling youth. But we had both grown older now, and other ideas had sprung up in our minds, other jealousies and other loves. Almost four whole years had passed since I had last seen her. She had grown a little more plump and matronly, and in her dark, luminous eyes was a look more serious than in her old hoydenish days at Harwell. How time flies! It did not seem four years since that autumn evening when we parted in the golden sunset. Yet how great had the change been in the fortunes of her purse-proud family, and even in my own life.

There was no love between us now. None. The days were long-past since a woman’s touch and words would make me colour like a girl. Even this meeting when she pressed my hand and her eyelids fluttered, did not re-stir within me the chord of love so long untouched. I had heard of her only as a flirt and fortune-hunter, and had read in the newspapers a paragraph announcing her engagement to the elder son of a millionaire ironfounder of Wigan. Nevertheless, a month ago the papers contained a further paragraph stating that the marriage arranged “would not take place.” Since we had parted she had evidently been through many love adventures. Still, she was nevertheless uncommonly good-looking, with a grace of manner that was perfect.

“I’ve often wondered, Frank, what had become of you,” she said, leaning her elbow on the table, raising her veil and looking straight into my eyes. “We were such real good friends long ago that I’ve never failed to entertain pleasant recollections of our friendship. Once or twice I’ve heard of you through your people, and have now and then read your articles in the magazines. Somehow I’ve felt a keen desire for a long time past to see you and have a chat.”

“I feel honoured,” I answered, perhaps a trifle sarcastically, for mine was but a bitter recollection. “It is certainly pleasant to think that one is remembered after these years.” Then, in order to add irony to my words, I added: “I’ve heard you are engaged.”

“I was,” she responded, glancing at me sharply. “But it is broken off.”

“You found some one you liked better, I presume? It is always so.”

“No, not at all,” she hastened to assure me. “The fact is there was very little love on either side, and we parted quite amicably.”

“As amicably as we did ourselves – eh?”

“No, Frank,” she said with a sudden seriousness, dropping her eyes to the table. “Do not refer to that. With years has come wisdom. We were both foolish, were we not?”

“Perhaps I was when I believed your vow to be a true one,” I responded a trifle bitterly, for I had thought the summer of my life over and at an end.

“Ah, no!” she cried. “I did not come here to reopen an incident that has been so long closed. You love another woman, no doubt.”

“No,” I answered. “I loved you once, until you forsook me. I have not loved since.”

“But I was a mere girl then,” she urged. “Ours was but a midsummer madness – that you’ll surely admit.”

I was silent. I had believed myself proof against all sentiment in this respect, for of late I had thought little, if at all, of my lost love. Yet alone with her at that moment all the bitter past flooded upon me, my wild passion and my shattered hopes, with a vividness that stirred up a great bitterness within me. Not that I loved her now. No. On the contrary, I hated her. She had played others false and treated them just as she had treated me.

“After madness there is always a reaction,” I answered, recollecting how fondly I had once loved her, and how, since the day we parted, my life, even Bohemian as it must ever be in journalistic London, was nevertheless loveless and misanthropic, the life of one whose hopes were shattered and whose joy in living had been sapped. Shenley was but the tomb of those summer recollections. I never now visited the place.

“But all this is very foolish, Frank,” she exclaimed with a calm philosophical air and a smile probably meant to be coquettish. “Why recollect the past?”

“When one has loved as I once did, it is difficult to rid oneself of the memory of its sweetness or its bitterness,” I said. “Your visit here has brought it all back to me – all that I have striven so long and so strenuously to forget.”

She sighed. For a single instant her dark eyes met mine, and then she avoided my gaze.

“I ventured here,” she explained in a low, apologetic tone, “because I believed that our youthful passion had mutually died, and that I might renew your acquaintance not as lover but as friend. If, by coming here, I have pained you, or caused you any particularly unhappy recollections, forgive me, Frank – forgive me,” and she stretched forth her hand and placed it upon my arm with a gesture of deep earnestness and regret.

“Certainly, I forgive you,” I answered, annoyed with myself for having thus worn my heart on my sleeve. It was foolish, I knew. That idyllic love of ours was a mere dream of youth, like the other castles in the air we build when in our teens. It was unwise to have spoken as I had, for after all, truth to tell, I was at that moment secretly glad of my freedom. And why? Because the mysterious woman, whose beauty was perfect, yet whose very existence was an enigma, had awakened within my soul a new-born love.

Since that bright morning when she had first passed me in St. James’s Park my thoughts had been constantly of her. Although I had not exchanged a single word with her I loved her, and all thought of this dark-eyed woman who had once played me false had passed from me.

Thus, angry with myself at having spoken as I had, I strove to remedy whatever impression my words had made by treating my visitor with a studied courtesy, at the same time seeking to discover the real motive of her call. I recollected the mystery, together with the fact that had been elicited regarding the tenancy of the house, and felt convinced that her visit was not without some strong incentive. She either came to me in order to learn something, or else with the object of satisfying herself upon some point remaining in doubt.

This thought flashing through my troubled brain placed me on the alert, and as we with mutual eagerness changed the topic of conversation, I sat gazing into her mobile countenance, filled with ecstatic wonder.

“As you know,” she chattered on, quite frankly, in her rather high-pitched key, “before we left Shenley father had some very heavy losses in the City. At first we found a smaller house simply horrible, but now we are quite used to it, and personally I’m happier there, because we are right on the river and can have such jolly boating.”

“But Riverdene is not such a very small place, surely?” I said. Dick, who knew the river well, had once told me that it was a fine house situated in one of the most picturesque reaches.

“No,” she laughed, “not really so very small, I suppose. But why not come down and see for yourself? Mother often speaks of you, and you know you’re always welcome.”

Now, in ordinary circumstances I should have refused that invitation point-blank, but when I reflected that I was bound to make certain inquiries of Mrs Blain, I, with apparent reluctance, accepted.

“Mother will be most delighted to see you. We have tennis very often, and boating always. It’s awfully jolly. Come down the day after to-morrow – in the afternoon. I shall tell mother that I met you in the street and asked you down. She must, of course, never know that I came here to see you,” and she laughed at her little breach of the convenances.

“Of course not. I won’t give you away,” I said. Then suddenly recollecting, I added: “May I get you a cup of tea?”