Guilty Bonds

Chapter Twenty Eight

The Clique

The two men first called did not interest me. They were the constables to whose evidence I had listened at the police court.

“Detective-Inspector Cronin,” exclaimed Mr Paget, when they had finished, and a tall, well-preserved, black-bearded man entered the witness-box and was sworn.

“I am John Cronin, detective inspector, Criminal Investigation Department,” said he, in answer to counsel. “The pocket-book which I produce was handed me on prisoner’s arrest, and upon examining it, I found it contained, amongst other things, a bill of the Charing Cross Hotel. I proceeded there, made inquiries, and ascertained that prisoner had been staying there one day, giving his name as Frank Burgoyne. I examined the room he occupied, and found a despatch box in which was the photograph I now produce. Comparing it with that of the woman murdered in Angel Court, taken after death, I find the features exactly coincide.”

“Was there any distinguishing mark?” asked his lordship.

“Yes, m’lord,” replied the detective handing up both photographs. “Your lordship will notice a small scar over the left eye.”

“You made other inquiries, I believe?” asked Mr Paget.

“Yes; on the following day I went to prisoner’s house, Elveham Dene, Northamptonshire, and searched the premises. On examining the drawers of a writing-table in the library, which were unlocked, I found two blank pieces of paper on which were seals corresponding in every particular to that found on the lady murdered in Bedford Place.”

What did all this mean? I knew nothing of these seals. Surely it must be some plot to take away my life!

The frightful suspicion – could Vera be concerned in it – entered my soul.

The doubt was too awful to be entertained; yet she had not communicated with me since my arrest.

“In the same drawer,” continued the detective fumbling among some papers he held in his hand, “I found this telegram. It is dated on the day of the murder in Bloomsbury, and addressed to the deceased. It reads: – ‘Handed in at Hull and received at the West Central district office. Shall be with you about midnight. Be at home.’ It is signed with a single letter ‘B.’ On examining the notepaper on the writing-table, I found it was the same as that upon which the seals were impressed.”

“You produce some of that notepaper, I think?” said Mr Paget.

“I do, sir.”

The paper was handed to the judge, who held it to the light and compared the watermarks.

When he had satisfied himself the detective resumed:

“Throughout my examination I was in every way retarded by the action of the prisoner’s wife. On proceeding to search one of the bedrooms she positively refused to give me the keys of a chest of drawers, and I was therefore compelled to force them. Concealed under some papers, which lined one of the drawers, I discovered a small gold padlock, upon which are engraved the initials ‘R.S.’, and to which was attached the small portion of gold chain I now produce. I had charge of the inquiries in the case of Mrs Inglewood, and remember at the time of her decease she was wearing a diamond bracelet which is also produced. When I examined the house at Bedford Place I discovered the case of the bracelet, which bore the name of the jeweller. The manager of the firm in question will be called to prove that the padlock found in the bedroom of the prisoner is the one belonging to Mrs Inglewood’s bracelet, and that it had been sold to her a week before her death.”

Some of the dead woman’s jewellery in my room! Incredible!

Was it possible that Vera – but, no – again banish the thought!

“In the same drawer,” added the detective, with a self-satisfied smile at the intense surprise which his statements excited, “was this letter, in a lady’s handwriting, signed ‘Ethel Inglewood’: ‘Come and dine to-morrow evening. I have the money ready, and rely on you to keep my secret.’ The address embossed on the paper is ‘67, Bedford Place,’ and the date is that of the day previous to the murder.”

“Do you prove anything else?” inquired Mr Paget, expectantly.

“No,” replied the inspector, “except that from inquiries I made I find that very shortly after the inquest on Mrs Inglewood the prisoner left the country suddenly, and the next murder – the one in Angel Court – was perpetrated on the day of his return.”

As Mr Paget resumed his seat, my counsel, Mr Roland, rose. Turning to the witness with a suave countenance, he mildly asked:

“How do you fix the day of the prisoner’s return?”

“By the books of the club to which the accused belonged – the Junior Garrick.”

“You say you found the seals in the library. Could access be easily gained to that room?”

“No; prisoner’s wife had the key.”

“And she refused you the keys of the chest of drawers?”

“Yes, giving as her reason that it contained papers of a strictly private nature.”

“Did she express surprise when you found the seals?”

“When I showed them to her she fainted.”

“You said, just now, that the little padlock was ‘concealed.’ Are you sure it had not accidentally fallen behind the paper?”

“No; I should think not.”

“Did you suspect the prisoner previous to his arrest?”

“I did. After the inquest on Mrs Inglewood, observation was kept upon him for some time, but he eluded us by going abroad.”

“And now you endeavour to fix the crime upon him without any direct evidence. I have nothing more to ask you.”

My hopes sank as Mr Roland resumed his seat, with a poor affectation of indifference.

The next witness was a neatly-attired, gentlemanly-looking man, the jeweller’s manager, who proved the purchase of the bracelet by Mrs Inglewood, and identified the tiny padlock as a portion of it.

When he had retired, Mr Roland having asked him no questions, he was succeeded by Bob Nugent, who stepped into the witness-box averting my gaze. Was even Bob in the conspiracy!

“You were, I think, Mr Nugent,” said the prosecuting counsel, “a friend – a particular friend I may say – of the prisoner’s?”

“I was – formerly.”

“Now, tell me, do you remember the night of the 15th August?”

“I do. The prisoner and I left the Junior Garrick Club soon after midnight, to proceed home.”

“Was there anything in his manner which attracted your attention?”

“He seemed rather excited, having lost heavily at cards. I left him at Danes’ Inn.”

“Do you know on what day he returned from abroad?”

“It was in the beginning of March. He was then strangely reticent as to his actions in the meantime.”

“You will remember, as a journalist, possibly, on what night the murder in Angel Court occurred?”

“On the same night as the prisoner’s return.”

“Do you know anything of the photograph found upon the accused?”

“Yes; he produced it accidentally, while dining at the Junior Garrick Club, and appeared much confused and annoyed, endeavouring at once to conceal it.”

“Did you see it again?”

“The prisoner, in consequence of some remarks I made to him, showed it to me next day at his hotel. On that occasion he explained that it had been given to him by some man who is now dead.”

“Did that not strike you as improbable?”

“Well – yes, it did.”

“Did he enter into any further explanation?”

“Very little was said about the seal.”

The court was extremely hot. Surely I was becoming fainter and more faint! There was a singing and surging in my ears. Was I falling or standing upright? What were they speaking of? I had lost sight of the face of my friend. I could only see the lines of expectant upturned countenances.

I was really fainting; nevertheless I struggled against it. Something, too, within me told me that I ought to struggle against it, yet everything was swimming and whirling around me, and vague forms seemed rapidly passing and repassing before my vision.

Then I staggered backward into the chair placed for me, and gradually the sense of sickening misery departed.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Monsieur’s Opinion

The spirit was strong within me not to yield to any growing unconsciousness; not to be subdued by any physical or moral influences.

I again became perfectly calm. I was seated in the chair. A seafaring man was in the witness-box. Nugent was not there. Demetrius, sitting below, was looking at me with an anxious and uneasy expression.

“I recognise the accused,” I heard the witness say in reply to a question from the prosecuting counsel. “A recent event has brought me here to give evidence.”

“Have you any doubt prisoner is the man you saw emerge from the doorway of Mrs Inglewood’s house on the night in question?”

“None.”

“Did he appear agitated?”

“Yes; he passed me and rushed down the street as fast as he could run.”

“Did you not make any attempt to stop him?”

“No; at that time I was unaware of the murder.”

“When did you again see him?”

“Not until a few days ago, when I recognised his portrait in a newspaper.”

A long cross-examination resulted in the witness firmly adhering to his story, and explaining that as he had been on a long voyage he knew nothing of the occurrence until many months afterwards.

Demetrius, with evident unwillingness, entered the box. His story was brief, yet damaging.

When he had concluded, Mr Roland, adjusting his eye-glasses, rose and asked:

“You are acquainted with prisoner’s wife, I believe?”

“Yes; she is my cousin.”

“Where did you go when you left England?”

“I decline to answer.”

“You have been the prisoner’s guest at Elveham, have you not?”

“Yes.”

“And what were these suspicious circumstances of which you spoke just now?”

“There were several. Late one night, about three weeks ago, I had occasion to enter the library. The door was ajar, and as I pushed it open I saw the accused in the act of impressing a seal, similar to the ones produced. I drew back unnoticed.”

It was untrue! He had seen me sealing the envelope containing a lease, and believed I was using the fatal emblem!

I waited breathlessly for the next question.

“Is it a fact that on the night previous to his departure from Elveham, some unpleasant incident occurred?”

“I know nothing of it. I have heard that the prisoner had some little difference with his wife.”

“Come, sir,” demanded my counsel sharply, “did you not overhear a conversation in the early morning?”

The witness appeared confused.

“Yes, I did,” he admitted. “I heard my cousin ask him to wait a stipulated period for an explanation.”

“Have you any idea what this explanation is?”

“None.”

“Then, after all, you are unable to throw any light whatever upon these mysterious crimes?” he asked, in a strange harsh voice.

“I’ve told you all I know,” replied Demetrius, a trifle paler than before.

Mr Roland flung down his brief upon the table, slowly resumed his seat, and pushed his wig from off his forehead with a perplexed gesture.

I could hardly realise my situation. What could it all possibly mean? What was the object of this seaman giving evidence when he could throw no light upon the matter, except that he actually saw me following the murderer from Bedford Place?

He had taken a seat in the well of the Court with his face turned towards me.

“Sergius Hertzen.”

As the words rang through the place I started. I had not seen Vera’s uncle since our marriage, as he went to Zurich immediately afterwards.

There was a shuffling near the door, and the old man entered. As he mounted the steps to the witness-box I noticed he had aged considerably.

“What are you, Mr Hartzen?” Mr Paget asked, referring to his brief at the same moment.

“Police agent.”

“And your nationality?”

“Russian.”

The old man a police agent! Dumbfounded, I looked blankly around me.

“You are father of the previous witness?”

“I am.”

“Now, what evidence can you give regarding the charge against the prisoner?”

There was a dead and painful silence.

“We first met at the Hotel Isotta, Genoa, about a month after the murder in Bedford Place. We frequently played écarté together, and on one occasion he paid me a debt with the three five-pound notes I now produce.”

“And what is there peculiar about them?”

“I have since ascertained that their numbers correspond with those now known to have been stolen from the house in Bedford Place.”

The thought flashed across my mind that once, when I had lost to him, I had discharged the debt with three notes. From whom I received them I could not tell.

“What else do you know about the affair?” was the insinuating question of the prosecuting counsel.

“Well; some three months after this I was present at the Central Tribunal at St. Petersburg, when prisoner was sentenced to the mines for complicity in the murder of a hotel-keeper. The sentence, however, was never carried out, for on the way to Siberia he escaped, returning to England.”

“It’s a lie! I was exiled without trial,” I shouted. Amid the loud cries of “Silence,” counsel turned to the judge, and with a cruel smile about his lips remarked, “You see, my lord, prisoner admits he was exiled.”

Mr Roland made an impatient motion to me to preserve silence; so seeing my protests were useless, I sank again into my chair, and tried to conquer my fate by bearing it.

Mr Crane the junior counsel defending me, cross-examined him at some length, but resumed his seat without being able to shake his testimony.

The waiter who had attended to me at the Charing Cross Hotel, and two of my own servants were called, but their evidence was immaterial and uninteresting.

I felt a strange morbid yielding to a superstitious feeling that I could not shake off, and sat as one in a dream, until the Court rose and I was sent back to my cell.

Chapter Thirty

The Eleventh Hour

Next morning my trial was resumed.

There was the same array of counsel; the same crowd of curious onlookers lounging on the benches like carrion crows around a carcase; the same strange, half-visionary procession of judges, lawyers and witnesses, who passed and repassed before me, sometimes ludicrous, but generally gloomy and depressing.

The jury looked pale and weary. They had been locked up during the night, and now several of them were yawning. None gave indication that they felt the responsibility of the sentence they had to pronounce.

I sat in the dock heedless of everything; I had grown callous. I had one thought only: Why had not Vera made her promised explanation?

A few minor witnesses were called, and the case for the prosecution closed.

At last Mr Roland rose to make his speech in my defence. The circumstantial evidence already produced was, I knew, sufficient to cause the jury to find me guilty, and I listened in rapt attention to the clear, concise arguments of the famous advocate.

But how unsatisfactory was his speech – how weak was his defence! With a sinking heart I saw more than one of the jury smile incredulously when my innocence was asserted.

“I admit, gentlemen,” said Mr Roland, in the course of his address, “that this case is enshrouded in mystery; but while asserting that the prisoner is innocent, I tell you plainly there is a secret. The key to this enigma is known to one person alone, and that person, for reasons with which I am myself unacquainted, is not in a position to divulge it. That this secret bears directly upon the crime is obvious, nevertheless it is a most unfortunate circumstance that the mystery cannot be wholly elucidated by a satisfactory explanation. However, I have several witnesses whom I purpose calling before you; and having heard them, I shall ask you to discharge the prisoner, feeling assured you will be convinced that he is entirely innocent.”

“But, Mr Roland, this is a most extraordinary case,” interposed the judge. “You speak of a person who knows the secret and refuses to give evidence. If this is so, this person is party to the crime. To whom do you refer?”

Counsel held a brief consultation with his junior, then rose again.

The Court was all expectancy.

“I refer, m’lord, to no less a person than the prisoner’s wife!”

The reply caused a sensation. Vera knew the secret! I was not wrong.

“Ah, that is unfortunate,” exclaimed the judge, disappointedly. “It is impossible to call her in a case of this description.”

At that moment the usher handed Mr Roland a note. He read it hastily, and, raising his hand, said:

“The lady has just arrived in court, and is about to produce important evidence, m’lord.”

The silence was unbroken, save for the frou-frou of Vera’s dress as she advanced towards my counsel, and bent over him, whispering.

Mr Roland was seated close to the dock, and I strained my ears to catch their hurried conversation.

In face of the horrible charge brought against me, the persistency with which it was pursued, and the evidence produced in support of it, I had been so overwhelmed by a sense of fatality that I had almost decided to let things take their course. I knew I was innocent, nevertheless I felt the difficulty, if not the impossibility, of proving it. Now, however, encouraged by this proof of sympathy on the part of Vera, I took heart.

“What will these witnesses prove?” asked Mr Roland, hurriedly.

Vera, whose face was rendered more delicate and touching by the tortures she seemed undergoing, glanced quickly towards me, and replied:

“They will prove my husband’s innocence!”

Counsel uttered an ejaculation of surprise. “Are you certain of this?” he asked.

“Yes. If it were possible that I might be called as a witness I could tell the Court things that would probably astonish it; but I leave everything to the two persons I have brought,” she replied in a tremulous voice.

The jury grew impatient. The excitement was intense.

In a few moments a young and rather showily-attired woman stepped into the box. As she turned towards me I was puzzled to know where I had seen the face before. The features seemed quite familiar, yet I could not recollect.

“You are Jane Maygrove?” asked my counsel.

“Yes.”

“Tell us what you know of the murder of Mrs Inglewood. Relate it in your own way.”

She hesitated for a moment and commenced:

“Before I married I was maid to Mrs Inglewood. Mistress was a very quiet lady, and lived with a cook and myself in Bedford Place. I was in her service about three months, and although she told me she was married – and she wore a wedding-ring – her husband never visited her. Several foreign ladies came to see her on different occasions, but only one gentleman. He also had the appearance of a foreigner but spoke English without an accent. One evening, in the latter part of July, mistress dined alone with this gentleman, and I overheard a conversation which took place in the drawing-room afterwards. I – ”

“Was this gentleman to whom you refer the prisoner?” asked Mr Roland.

“No he was not. On that night I heard the visitor advising mistress to withdraw her money from a company which he said was on the brink of collapsing, and place it in his hands to invest. At first she demurred, and appeared to discredit the rumour that the company was not safe; but, after a long argument, he exacted a promise that she would withdraw the money and hand it over to him in cash on the fifteenth of August, when it was arranged that he should re-invest it for her.”

“And what happened on the latter date?”

“Mistress was at home during the day. A clerk called in the afternoon and handed a small leather bag to her, for which she signed a receipt, after counting the money. When she had finished, I saw her place the bag under the sofa, at the same time leaving a small roll of bank-notes upon the mantelshelf. Previously I had mentioned the matter to my young man, and it was he who prompted me to act in the manner I did. Well, about seven o’clock the gentleman arrived, and shortly afterwards mistress and he went out – to the Café Royal, I believe – to dine, as Mary, our cook, had been dismissed that morning for dishonesty.

“My young man urged me to get possession of the money while they were out, saying that we could then marry, go abroad, and set up in business with it. But my heart failed me, and I could not bring myself to commit the robbery. About ten o’clock a telegram came, and half an hour later mistress and the gentleman returned. When mistress read the telegram she appeared nervous and agitated. They both entered the dining-room, and at first conversed in low tones, but soon appeared to be in altercation. I heard the gentleman say, ‘I shall not leave this house until you let me have the money. I tell you I will not allow you to ruin yourself.’ To which mistress replied that she had changed her mind, and should place the money in the bank instead. At this the foreigner grew furious. Mistress urged him to go, but he would not. Then all was quiet again. She gave me orders to lay supper in the sitting-room upstairs, which I obeyed, she telling me that her husband was coming home after a long journey. I wondered what the master would say to the other gentleman, but discreetly held my tongue. It wasn’t my place to say a word. About eleven o’clock the gentleman departed very reluctantly, and soon after midnight mistress’s husband arrived.

“I opened the door to him. He was a tall, handsome man, who wore a felt hat and long travelling ulster. He greeted mistress very cordially, kissing her with much affection, and then they went upstairs together to supper.

“All the evening I had been hesitating whether or not I should decamp with the money, and while they were sitting at table I was still thinking over the matter. The clock struck two, and roused me. Suddenly I made up my mind to take it, so creeping back to the drawing-room I opened the bag, abstracted the contents, and replaced it again. Just as I was about to leave the room with the money in my hands I heard a footstep on the stairs. I knew it was mistress! I slipped behind the screen, hoping to escape observation. Scarcely had she crossed the threshold when I heard another person following stealthily. It was the foreign gentleman. ‘Have you decided?’ he asked, in a low whisper. ‘Yes,’ she replied, starting at his sudden reappearance; ‘once for all, I tell you I will rid myself of you.’ He appeared mad with anger. He pushed the door to, and placed his back against it. Then he laughed a low, harsh laugh, replying, ‘That’s not so easy, my pretty one: remember our secret bond.’ She turned upon him furiously, crying, ‘Leave this house at once! Do you wish to compromise me besides endeavouring to rob me of my money? Ah! you think I do not know you. We have been friends because it suited my purpose; but if you dare touch that money I will tell what I know! I will give the police the information they seek regarding the Villeneuve affair!’ This speech had a strange effect upon him. ‘Dieu! – she knows,’ he ejaculated, involuntarily. Glaring at her with an expression of murderous hatred, he watched her every movement. ‘Will you hand me over the money?’ he demanded, sternly. ‘No; you shall never have it. Leave this house; and if you remain in England another week I’ll carry my threat into effect. If you fancy you can practise the confidence trick on me you are mistaken – so, go!’

”‘I shall not!’ he replied, fiercely. ‘I will have that money,’ and he bent down in the act of drawing the bag from beneath the sofa. ‘Touch it at your peril!’ she cried, hoarsely. ‘I see you now in your true light; you would rob a woman of her means of existence. God knows you have brought me enough misery already!’ Again he tried to obtain possession of the bag, but once more she frustrated his design. Then they struggled for the mastery. His face was ashen pale, and his fingers gripped her bare arms, leaving great red marks; but she was not to be easily vanquished, and fought like a tigress. ‘To-morrow,’ she said, in a terrible half-whisper, ‘the world shall know who stole the Villeneuve diamonds, and I will rid myself of you forever. I will expose your accursed villainy!’ He grasped her by the wrist and dragged her towards him. ‘You – you say this – to me,’ he hissed, in a frenzy of passion. ‘You have spoken your last words – you – you shall die.’ I saw a knife uplifted in his hand, and he plunged it in my mistress’s breast with a dull, sickening sound. She sank upon the floor, uttering a shrill cry. For a few seconds he bent over her and seemed to be rearranging her dress, then he snatched up the bag, took the roll of notes from the mantelshelf, and thrusting them into his pocket, stole noiselessly out by the back-door. I stood for a few seconds, not knowing what to do. At last I summoned courage to approach my poor mistress, who lay motionless; but just as I was stepping from my hiding-place I heard some one descending the stairs. It was master! He rushed into the room, but stopped suddenly, in horror, as he caught sight of his wife. Bending over her, he was about to lift her, when his eyes caught sight of something, which I suppose was the seal afterwards found. With a loud cry of despair, and uttering words in a foreign language, he kissed her calm white face. ‘I must fly,’ he said, aloud, ‘or I shall be suspected,’ and without another word he also hurried out of the house.