The Bond of Black

Every neck was craned in Court to catch sight of what had been discovered, and I standing near him saw as he handed it to the Coroner that it was a tiny piece of soft black chiffon about half an inch square, evidently torn from a woman’s dress.

The Coroner took it, and then remarked —

“This would appear to prove that the deceased had a visitor immediately before his death, and that his visitor was a lady.”

“That is what I surmise,” observed the doctor. “My examination has proved one or two things.” There was a stir in Court, followed by a dead and eager silence.

“I found no external mark of violence whatsoever,” the doctor continued in a clear tone, “and the clenched hand with the piece of muslin within did not point to death from any unnatural cause. The only external marks were two very curious ones which are entirely unaccountable. On each elbow I found a strange white scar, the remains of some injury inflicted perhaps a year ago. The eyes, too, were discoloured in a manner altogether unaccountable. On further examination, I found no trace whatever of any organic disease. The deceased was a strong athletic man, and was suffering from no known malady which could have resulted fatally.”

“Did you make an examination of the stomach?” inquired the Coroner.

“I did. Suspecting suicide by poison, I made a most careful analysis, assisted by Dr Leverton, of King’s College Hospital, but we failed to discover any trace of poison whatsoever.”

“Then you cannot assign any cause for death in this instance?” observed the Coroner, looking up sharply in surprise.

“No,” answered the doctor. “I cannot.”

“Have you a theory that deceased died from the effects of poison?”

“Certain appearances pointed to such a conclusion,” the doctor responded. “Personally, before making the post-mortem, I suspected prussic acid; but all tests failed to detect any trace of such deleterious matter.”

“Of course,” said the Coroner, who was also a medical man of wide experience, clearing his throat, as he turned to the jury, “the presence of poison can be very easily discovered, and the fact that the analyses have failed must necessarily add mystery to this case.”

“Having failed to find poison,” continued the doctor, “we naturally turned our attention to other causes which might result fatally.”

“And what did you find?” inquired the Coroner eagerly, his pen poised in his hand.

“Nothing!” the witness answered. “Absolutely nothing.”

“Then you are quite unable to account for death?”

“Utterly. Several of the circumstances are suspicious of foul play, but we have found not the slightest trace of it. The marks upon the elbows are very curious indeed – circular white scars – but they have, of course, nothing to do with Mr Morgan’s sudden death,” I recollected the portion of charred paper which I had picked up, the discovery of the glove-button, and its connection with the tiny scrap of black chiffon. Yes, there was no doubt that he had had a visitor between the time that Ash went out to meet the mysterious woman at King’s Cross and the moment of his death.

“The affair seems enveloped in a certain amount of mystery,” observed the Coroner to the jury after the doctor had signed his depositions. “You have the whole of the evidence before you – that of the valet, the friend of deceased who discovered him, the police who have searched the chambers, and the doctor who made the post-mortem. In summing up the whole we find that the unfortunate gentleman died mysteriously – very mysteriously – but to nothing the medical men have discovered could they assign the cause of death. It would certainly appear, from the fact that a portion of a woman’s dress-trimming was discovered in the dead man’s clenched hand, that he had a secret visitor, and that she desired to escape while he wished her to remain. Yet there was no sign of a struggle in the rooms, and no one saw any person enter or leave. Again, we have it in evidence that deceased, at the hour of his death, sent a message to some unknown lady whom his valet had instructions to meet on the railway platform at King’s Cross. This meeting had undoubtedly been pre-arranged, and the lady expected the unfortunate gentleman to keep it. Perhaps watching from a distance, and not seeing Mr Morgan, she did not approach the clock, and hence the valet did not give her the mysterious blank and unaddressed letter. After this, the suggestion naturally occurs whether or not this same lady visited Mr Morgan in the absence of his valet. She may have done, or may not. But in this Court we have nothing to do with theories. It is your duty, gentlemen of the jury, to say whether this gentleman actually died from natural causes, or whether by suicide or foul means. We must recollect that the police have discovered what may eventually throw some light on the affair, namely, the fact that a cheque is missing from deceased’s cheque-book, leaving the counterfoil blank. By means of that cheque it is just possible that the identity of the unknown person who visited Mr Morgan may be established. I think, gentlemen,” continued the Coroner, after a pause, “I think you will agree with me that in these strange circumstances it would be unwise to go further into the matter. By exposing all the evidence the police have in their possession we might possibly defeat our inquiry; therefore I ask you whether you will return a verdict that the death of this gentleman has resulted from natural causes, or whether you think it wiser to return an open verdict of ‘Found dead,’ and leave all further inquiries in the hands of the police.”

Those in Court stirred again uneasily. There had been breathless silence while the Coroner had been speaking save for the rustling of the paper and “flimsies” used by the reporters, and the departure of one or two uniformed messenger-lads carrying “copy” to the evening journals for use in their special editions.

The foreman of the jury turned to his fellow-jurymen and inquired whether they desired to consult in private. But all were of one opinion, and without leaving the room returned a verdict of “Found dead.” At the club that night everybody read the evening papers, and in the smoking-room everybody propounded his own view of the mystery. Some were of opinion that their friend had fallen a victim of foul play, while others who, like myself, had noticed his recent depressed spirits and inert attitude, were inclined to think that he had taken his own life in a fit of despondency. They declared that he had sent Ash out on a fool’s errand in order to be alone, and that the blank note was really nothing at all. The only argument against that theory was the fact that I had found the door leading to his chambers open. This was incompatible with the idea that he had deliberately taken his own life.

As the person who had made the startling discovery, I was, of course, questioned on every hand regarding all the minor details of the terrible scene. The men who held the opinion that he had been murdered desired to make out that the furniture had been disturbed, but having very carefully noted everything, I was able to flatly contradict them. Thus the evening passed with that one single subject under discussion – the murder of the man who had been so popular amongst us, and whom we had all held in such high esteem.

Next morning, near noon, while reading the paper beside my own fire, Simes entered, saying —

“There’s Ash, sir, would like to see you.”

“Show him in,” I exclaimed at once, casting the paper aside, and an instant later the dead man’s valet made his appearance, pale and agitated.

“Well, Ash,” I said, “what’s the matter?”

“I’m a bit upset, sir; that’s all.” And he panted from the effort of ascending the stairs. Therefore, I motioned him to a seat.

“Well, have the police visited your master’s rooms again?”

“No, sir. They haven’t been again,” he replied. “But I made a thorough examination last night, and I wish you’d come round with me, if you’d be so kind, sir. I know you were my master’s best friend, and I’m sure you won’t let this affair rest, will you?”

“Certainly not,” I answered in surprise. “But why do you wish me to go with you?”

“I want to ask your opinion on something.”

“What have you discovered?”

“Well, sir, I don’t know whether it is a discovery, or not. But I’d like you to see it,” he said, full of nervous impatience.

Therefore, I called Simes to bring my hat and coat, and we went out together, taking a cab along to poor Roddy’s chambers. They seemed strangely silent and deserted now, as we let ourselves in with the latch-key. No cheery voice welcomed me from the sitting-room within, and there was no odour of Egyptian cigarettes or overnight cigars; no fire in the grate, for all was cheerless and rendered the more funereal because of the darkness of the rainy day.

“This morning,” explained Ash, “when I thought I had made a thorough examination of the whole place last night, I chanced to be taking a turn around this room and made a discovery which seems to me very remarkable.” Then, pointing, he went on: “You see in that cabinet there’s some old china.”

“Yes,” I answered, for some of the pieces were very choice, and I had often envied them.

“From where we stand here we can see a small casket of chased brass – Indian work, I think he called it.”

“Certainly.”

“Well, now, I chanced to pass this, and a thought occurred to me that I’d look what was in that box. I did so, and when I saw, I closed it up again and came to you to get your opinion.”

With that he opened the glass doors of the cabinet, took forth the little casket and opened it.

Inside there was nothing but ashes. They were white ashes, similar to those I had found in my own rooms after Aline had departed!

“Good God!” I gasped, scarcely believing my own eyes. “What was in this box before?”

“When I opened it last week, sir, there was a rosary, such as the Roman Catholics use. It belonged to my master’s grandmother, he once told me. She was a Catholic.”

I turned the ashes over in my hand. Yes, there was no doubt whatever that it had been a rosary, for although the beads were consumed yet the tiny lengths of wire which had run through them remained unmelted, but had been blackened and twisted by the heat. There was one small lump of metal about the size of a bean, apparently silver, and that I judged to have been the little crucifix appended.

“It’s extraordinary!” I said, bewildered, when I reflected that this fact lent additional colour to my vague theory that Aline might have visited Roddy before his death. “It’s most extraordinary!”

“Yes, sir, it is,” Ash replied. “But what makes it the more peculiar is the fact that about a year ago I found a little pile of ashes very similar to these when I went one morning to dust the master’s dressing-table. He always kept a little pocket Testament there, but it had gone, and only the ashes remained in its place. I called him, and when he saw them he seemed very upset, and said – ‘Take them out of my sight, Ash! Take them away! It’s the Devil’s work!’”

“Yes,” I observed. “This is indeed the Devil’s work.”

The mystery surrounding the tragic affair increased hourly.

I examined the brass box, and upon the lid saw a strange discolouration. It was the mark of a finger – perhaps the mark of that mysterious hand, the touch of which had the potency to consume the object with which it came in contact. I placed the box back upon the table, and could not resist the strange chill which crept over me. The mystery was a more uncanny one than I had ever heard of.

“Now tell me, Ash,” I said at last. “Did your master ever entertain any lady visitors here?”

“Very seldom, sir,” the man answered. “His married sister, Lady Hilgay, used to come sometimes, and once or twice his aunt, the Duchess, called, but beyond those I don’t recollect any lady here for certainly twelve months past.”

“Some might have called when you were absent, of course,” I remarked.

“They might,” he said; “but I don’t think they did.”

“Have you ever seen any letters that you’ve posted addressed to a lady named Cloud?”

He reflected, then answered —

“No, sir. The name is an unusual one, and if I’d ever seen it before I certainly should have remembered it.”

“Well,” I said, after some minutes of silence, “I want you to come with me and try and find a lady. If we do meet her you’ll see whether you can identify her as a person you’ve seen before. You understand?”

“Yes,” he replied, with a puzzled look. “But are we going to see the woman whom the police suspect visited my master while I was absent?”

“Be patient,” I said, and together we went out, and re-entering the cab drove up to Hampstead.

The mystery of my friend’s death was becoming more inexplicable. Therefore I had resolved to seek Aline, and at all costs demand some explanation of the extraordinary phenomena which had taken place in Roddy’s rooms as well as in my own.

Chapter Nine

Mrs Popejoy’s Statement

“Is Miss Cloud at home?” I inquired of the maid, as Ash stood behind in wonder.

“She doesn’t live here, sir,” replied the girl.

“Doesn’t live here?” I echoed dubiously. “Why, only a short time ago I saw her enter here!”

“Well, sir, I don’t know her. I’ve never heard the name.”

“Is Mrs Popejoy in?” I inquired.

“Yes, sir. If you wish to see her, please step inside.”

We both entered the hall, the usual broad passage of a suburban house, with its cheap hall-stand, couple of straight-backed wooden chairs, and a long chest in imitation carved oak. The girl disappeared for a few moments, and on returning ushered us into the dining-room, where we found a rather sour-looking old lady standing ready to greet us. She was about sixty, grey-haired, thin-faced, and wore a cap with faded cherry-coloured ribbons.

“Mrs Popejoy, I believe?” I exclaimed politely, receiving in return a bow, the stiffness of which was intended to show breeding. Then continuing, I said: “I have called on a rather urgent matter concerning your niece, Miss Aline Cloud; but the servant tells me she is not at home, and I thought you would perhaps tell me where I can find her without delay.”

“My niece!” she exclaimed in surprise. “My poor niece died ten years ago.”

“Ten years ago!” I gasped. “And is not Miss Cloud your niece?”

“I have no niece of that name, sir,” she answered. “The name indeed is quite strange to me. There must be some mistake.”

“But your name is Popejoy,” I exclaimed, “and this is Number sixteen, Ellerdale Road?”

“Certainly.”

“Truth to tell, madam,” I said, “I have called on you in order to assure myself of a certain very extraordinary fact.”

“What is it?”

“Well, late on a certain night some weeks ago I accompanied Miss Cloud, the lady I am now in search of, to this house. I sat in the cab while she got out, and with my own eyes saw her admitted by your maid. This strikes me as most extraordinary, in lace of your statement that you know nothing of her.” The old lady reflected.

“What cock-and-bull story did she tell you?” she inquired quickly. “Explain it all to me, then perhaps I can help you.”

There was something about Mrs Popejoy’s manner that I did not like. I could have sworn that she was concealing the truth.

“Well,” I said, “I met Miss Cloud at a theatre, and she told me that you and another lady had accompanied her; that you had got separated, and being a stranger in London she did not know her way home. Therefore I brought her back, and saw her enter here.”

The old lady smiled cynically.

“My dear sir,” she said, “you’ve been very neatly imposed upon. In the first place, I have no niece; secondly, I’ve never entered a theatre for years; thirdly, I’ve never heard of any girl named Cloud; and fourthly, she certainly does not live here.”

“But with my own eyes I saw her enter your door,” I said. “I surely can believe what I have seen!”

“It must have been another house,” she answered. “There are several in this road similar in appearance to mine.”

“No. Number sixteen,” I said. “I looked it up previously in the Directory and saw your name. There can be no mistake.”

“Well, sir,” snapped the old lady, “I am mistress of this house, and surely I ought to know whether I have a niece or not! What kind of lady was she?”

“She was young, fair-haired, blue-eyed, and very good-looking. She had lived in France previously, at Montgeron, near Paris.”

“Ah!” the old lady cried suddenly. “Why, of course, the hussy! Now I remember. It is quite plain that she duped you.”

“Tell me,” I exclaimed eagerly. “Where is she now?”

“How should I know? She wasn’t my niece at all. A few weeks ago I advertised in the Christian World for a companion, and engaged her. She came one afternoon, and said that coming from France she had left all her luggage at Victoria. She was exceedingly pleasant, took tea with me, and afterwards at her request I allowed her to go down to Victoria to see about her boxes. That was about six o’clock, but she did not return until nearly two o’clock in the morning, and when I questioned her she said that she had been unable to find the office where her luggage had been placed, and had been wandering about, having lost her way. I didn’t believe such a lame story, and the consequence was that she left after a week, and I haven’t seen her since.”

I stood dumbfounded.

“That’s a strange story, sir,” observed Ash, who was standing near.

“It’s amazing!” I said. “And it complicates matters very considerably.”

Turning to Mrs Popejoy, I inquired —

“When you corresponded with her, to what address did you write?”

“To a village post-office somewhere in the Midlands. It was a funny name, which I can’t remember.”

“Do you recollect the county?”

“No. I didn’t put the county. The first letter I wrote was to initials at the office of the newspaper; and in reply I received a letter from Paris, with a request that further letters might be addressed to Miss – what was her name? – Cloud, at this post-office.”

“Then to you she gave her name as Cloud?” I said quickly.

“Yes. At first when you mentioned it I did not recollect. Now I remember.”

“Then you have no idea where she is now!” I said.

“Not the slightest,” the old lady snapped. “I was very glad to see the back of the hussy, for I believe she was no better than she should be, staying out till that hour of the morning. I told Ann to turn out the gas and go to bed, but it seems that she didn’t, and waited up till that unearthly hour. And do you know what,” continued old Mrs Popejoy in a confidential tone, “I believe that there was something very mysterious about her. I have a very shrewd suspicion that she meant to rob me, or do me some evil or other.”

“Why?” I asked eagerly. “What mystery was there surrounding her?”

“Well,” she responded after some little hesitation, “I was very glad indeed when she went off in a flounce, and I hope she’ll never darken my door again. You may think me very timid, but if you had seen what I discovered after she had gone you’d have been of my way of thinking.”

“What did you discover?” I asked, surprised.

“Well, in her bedroom there was, in a small silver box, an old ring that my late husband had prized very much. It had belonged to one of the Popes, and had been blessed by him. The relic was no doubt an extremely valuable one.”

“And when she went?” I asked.

“When she went I had a look round her room to see that nothing had been taken, but to my surprise I found the ring and the box actually burnt up. Only the ashes remained! There was a picture of the Virgin also in the room, an old panel-painting which my husband had picked up in Holland, and what was most extraordinary was that although this picture had also been wholly consumed, the little easel had been left quite intact. Some Devil’s work was effected there, but how, I can’t imagine.”

This was certainly a most startling statement, and the old lady was evidently still nervous regarding it. Did it not fully bear out what had already occurred in my own rooms and in those of the man whose life had so suddenly gone out?

“Do you think, then, that the picture was deliberately burned?” I inquired.

“I examined the ashes very closely,” she replied, “and found that by whatever means the picture was destroyed, the table-cloth had not even been singed. Now, if the picture had been deliberately lighted, a hole must have been burned in the cloth; but as it was, it seemed as though the picture, which the Roman Catholics hold in such reverence, had been destroyed by something little short of a miracle.”

“Have you preserved the ashes?”

“No,” responded the old lady; “Ann threw them into the dustbin at once. I didn’t like to keep them about.”

“And what is your private opinion?” I asked, now that we had grown confidential.

“I believe,” she answered decisively, “I believe that the hussy must have been in league with the very Evil One himself.”

Such was exactly my own opinion, but I had no desire to expose all my feelings, or confess the fascination which she had held over me by reason of her wondrous beauty. It was strange, I thought, how, evil though her heart, she had uttered those ominous warnings. True, I had loved her; I had adored her with all the strength of my being; but she in return had only urged me to love my Platonic little friend Muriel. She who held me powerless beneath her thrall had, with self-denial, released me in order that I might transfer my affections to the bright-eyed woman who was wearing out her heart at Madame Gabrielle’s; she had implored me to cast her aside, and thus escape the mysterious unknown fate which she predicted must inevitably fall upon me.

The reason why she had forbidden me to call at Mrs Popejoy’s, or to address a letter there, was now quite plain. She had deceived me, and I could trust her no further.

Yet had she actually deceived me? Had she not plainly told me that she was an evil-doer, a malefactor, one whose mission was to bring ill-fortune to her fellow-creatures. Yes, Aline Cloud was a mystery. More than ever I now felt that she was the possessor of some unknown subtle influence, some unseen supernatural power by which she could effect evil at will.

“I suppose,” I said, in an endeavour to allay the nervous old lady’s fears, “I suppose there is some quite ordinary explanation for the strange occurrence. Many things which at first appear inexplicable are, when the truth is made plain, quite ordinary events. So it was, I suppose, with the picture and the ring which were consumed by what appears like spontaneous combustion.”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I’ve thought over it a great deal, but the more I think of it, the more extraordinary it seems.”

“I regret to have troubled you,” I said. “I must try and find her at whatever cost, for the matter is a most important one. If you should by any chance come across her again, or if she visits you, I should be obliged if you would at once communicate with me,” and I handed her a card.

“Certainly, sir,” she replied. “The hussy entirely misled you, and I should like to be able to fathom the mystery how my picture and ring were reduced to ashes. If I ever do see her again, depend upon it that I’ll let you know.” Then, with woman’s curiosity, pardonable in the circumstances, she asked, “Is the matter on which you wish to speak to her a personal one?”

“It is, and yet it is not,” I responded vaguely. “It concerns another person – a friend.”

With that I shook her hand, and accompanied by Ash, walked out and left the house.

As we drove back down the Hampstead Road I turned to the valet and said —

“Do you remember whether a tall, dark, shabby-genteel man in a frock-coat and tall hat – a man with a thin, consumptive-looking face – ever called upon your master?”

I was thinking of Aline’s companion, and of their remarkable conversation. At that moment it occurred to me that it might be of Roddy they had spoken, and not of myself. Did he urge her to kill my friend? Ash reflected deeply.

“I don’t remember any man answering that description,” he responded. “After he became a Member of Parliament one or two strange people from his constituency called to see him, but I don’t recollect anybody like the man you describe. How old was he?”

“About forty; or perhaps a trifle over.”

The man shook his head. “No,” he declared, “I don’t think he ever called.”