In the momentary flash that followed I caught a glimpse of the face of
the intruder. It was that of a woman!
She was young and beautiful. Her parted lips revealed an even row of
tightly-clenched teeth, her dark eyes had a look of unutterable horror
in them, and her cheeks were deathly pale.
It was the most lovely face I had ever gazed upon.
Its beauty was perfect, yet there was something about the forehead that
struck me as peculiar.
The thick dark hair was brushed back severely, and high up, almost in
the centre of the white brow, was a curious mark, which, in the rapid
flash of light, appeared to be a small but _perfectly-defined
bluish-grey ring_!
As I fired, the arm of the mysterious visitor was raised as if to ward
off a blow, and in the hand I saw the gleam of steel.
The slender fingers were grasping a murderous weapon--a long, keen
surgeon's knife, the blade of which was besmeared with blood.
Was I dreaming? I again asked myself. No, it was not a visionary
illusion, for I saw it plainly with my eyes wide-open.
So great a fascination did this strange visitant possess over me, that I
had been suddenly overcome by a terrible dread that had deprived me of
the power of speech. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth.
I felt more than ever convinced that there must be something
supernatural about the silent masquerader.
In the dim light the puff of grey smoke from the revolver slowly curled
before my eyes, hiding for a few seconds the singularly-beautiful
countenance.
When, however, a moment later, the veil had cleared, I was amazed to
discover that the figure had vanished.
My hand had been unsteady.
Grasping my revolver firmly, I sprang to my feet and rushed out of the
tent. While gazing quickly around, a Cossack sentry, whose attention
had been attracted by the shot, ran towards me.
"Has a woman passed you?" I asked excitedly, in the best Russian I
could muster.
"A woman! No, sir. I was speaking with Ivan, my comrade on duty, when
I heard a pistol-shot; but I have seen no one except yourself."
"Didn't you see an officer?"
"No, sir," the man replied, leaning on his Berdan rifle and regarding me
with astonishment.
"Are you positive?"
"I could swear before the holy _ikon_," answered the soldier. "You
could not have seen a woman, sir. There's not one in the camp, and one
could not enter, for we are exercising the greatest vigilance to exclude
spies."
"Yes, yes, I understand," I said, endeavouring to laugh. "I suppose,
after all, I've been dreaming;" and then, wishing the man good-morning,
I returned to the tent.
It was, I tried to persuade myself, merely a chimera of a disordered
imagination and a nervous system that had been highly strained by
constant fatigue and excitement. I had of late, I remembered,
experienced curious delusions, and often in the midst of most exciting
scenes I could see vividly how peaceful and happy was my home in London,
and how anxiously yet patiently my friends and relatives were awaiting
my return from the dreaded seat of war.
On entering the tent, I was about to fling myself down to resume my
rest, when it occurred to me that my wounded comrade might require
something. Apparently he was asleep, and it seemed a pity to rouse him
to administer the cooling draught the surgeon had left.
Bending down, I looked into his face, but could not see it distinctly,
for the light was still faint and uncertain. His breathing was very
slight, I thought; indeed, as I listened, I could not detect any sound
of respiration. I placed my hand upon his breast, but withdrew it
quickly.
My fingers were covered with blood.
Striking a match and holding it close to his recumbent figure, my eyes
fell upon a sight which caused me to start back in horror. The face was
bloodless, the jaw had dropped; he was dead!
There was a great ugly knife-wound. Captain Alexandrovitch had been
stabbed to the heart!
At that moment the loud rumble of cannon broke the stillness, and a
second later there was a vivid flash of light, followed by a terrific
explosion. The redoubts of Plevna had opened fire upon us again, and a
shell had burst in unpleasant proximity to my tent. The sullen roar of
the big guns, and the sharp rattle from the rifle-pits, quickly placed
us on the defence.
Bugles sounded everywhere, words of command were shouted, there was
bustle and confusion for a few minutes, then every one sprang to his
post, and our guns recommenced pouring their deadly fire into the
picturesque little town, with its two white minarets, its domed church,
and its flat-roofed houses, nestling in the wooded hollow.
With a final glance at my murdered comrade, I hastily buckled on my
traps, reloaded my revolver, and, taking a photograph from my pocket,
kissed it. Need I say that it was a woman's? A moment later, I was
outside amid the deafening roar of the death-dealing guns. Our
situation was more critical than we had imagined, for Osman, believing
that he had discovered a weak point in the girdle of Muscovite steel,
was advancing, notwithstanding our fire. A terrible conflict ensued;
but our victory is now historical.
We fought the Turks hand to hand, bayonet to bayonet, with terrible
desperation, knowing well that the battle must be decisive. The carnage
was fearful, yet to me there was one thing still more horrible, for
throughout that well-remembered day the recollection of the mysterious
murder of my friend was ever present in my mind. Amid the cannon smoke
I saw distinctly the features of the strange visitant. They were,
however, not so beautiful as I had imagined. The countenance was
hideous. Indeed, never in my life have I seen such a sinister female
face, or flashing eyes starting from their sockets in so horrible a
manner.
But the most vivid characteristic of all was the curious circular mark
on the forehead, that seemed to stand out black as jet.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Three months afterwards, on a rainy, cheerless March afternoon, I
arrived at Charing Cross, and with considerable satisfaction set foot
once again upon the muddy pavement of the Strand. It is indeed pleasant
to be surrounded by English faces, and hear English voices, after a long
period of enforced exile, wearying work, and constant uncertainty as to
whether one will live to return to old associations and acquaintances.
Leaving my luggage at the station, I walked down to the office in Fleet
Street to report myself, and having received the welcome of such of the
staff as were about the premises at that hour, afterwards took a cab to
my rather dreary bachelor rooms in Russell Square.
My life in London during the next few months was uneventful, save for
two exceptions. The first was when the Russian Ambassador conferred
upon me, in the name of his Imperial master the Tzar, a little piece of
orange and purple ribbon, in recognition of a trifling accident whereby
I was enabled to save the lives of several of his brave Sibirsky
soldiers. The second and more important was that I renounced the
Bohemian ease of bachelorhood, and married Mabel Travers, the girl to
whom for five years I had been engaged, and whose portrait I had carried
in my pocket through so many scenes of desolation and hours of peril.
We took up our residence in a pretty bijou flat in Kensington Court, and
our married life was one of unalloyed happiness. I found my wife
amiable and good as she was young and handsome, and although she moved
in a rather smart set, there was nothing of the butterfly of fashion
about her. Her father was a wealthy Manchester cotton-spinner, who had
a town-house at Gloucester Gate, and her dowry, being very considerable,
enabled us to enter society.
On a winter's afternoon, six months after our marriage, I arrived home
about four o'clock, having been at the office greater part of the day,
writing an important article for the next morning's issue. Mabel was
not at home, therefore, after a while, I entered the diningroom to await
her. The hours dragged on, and though the marble clock on the
mantelshelf chimed six, seven, and even eight o'clock, still she did not
return. Although puzzled at her protracted absence, I was also hungry,
so, ringing for dinner to be served, I sat down to a lonely meal.
Soon afterwards Mabel returned. She dashed into the room, gazed at me
with a strange, half-frightened glance, then, rushing across, kissed me
passionately, flinging her arms about my neck, and pleading to be
forgiven for being absent so long, explaining that a lady, to whose "At
Home" she had been, was very unwell, and she had remained a couple of
hours longer with her. Of course I concealed my annoyance, and we spent
the remainder of the evening very happily; for, seated before the
blazing fire in full enjoyment of a good cigar and liqueur, I related
how I had spent the day, while she gave me a full description of what
she had been doing, and the people she had met.
Shortly before eleven o'clock the maid entered with a telegram addressed
to Mabel. A message at that hour was so extraordinary, that I took it
and eagerly broke open the envelope.
It was an urgent request that my wife should proceed at once to the
house of her brother George at Chiswick, as something unusual had
happened. We had a brief consultation over the extraordinary message,
and as it was late, and raining heavily, I decided to go in her stead.
An hour's drive in a cab brought me to a large red-brick, ivy-covered
house, standing back from the road, and facing the Thames near Chiswick
Mall. It was one of those residences built in the Georgian era, at a
time when the _fetes champetres_ at Devonshire House were attended by
the King, and when Chiswick was a fashionable country retreat. It stood
in the centre of spacious grounds, with pretty serpentine walks, where
long ago dainty dames in wigs and patches strolled arm-in-arm with
splendid silk-coated beaux. The house was one of those time-mellowed
relics of an age bygone, that one rarely comes across in London suburbs
nowadays.
Mabel's brother had resided here with his wife and their two children
for four years, and being an Oriental scholar and enthusiast, he spent a
good deal of his time in his study.
It was midnight when the old man-servant opened the door to me.
"Ah, Mr. Harold!" he cried, on recognising me. "I'm glad you've come,
sir. It's a terrible night's work that's been done here."
"What do you mean?" I gasped; then, as I noticed old Mr. Travers
standing pale and haggard in the hall, I rushed towards him, requesting
an explanation.
"It's horrible," he replied. "I--I found poor George dead--_murdered_!"
"Murdered?" I echoed.
"Yes, it is all enshrouded in mystery," he said. "The detectives are
now making their examination."
As I followed him into the study, I felt I must collect myself and show
some reserve of mental strength and energy, but on entering, I was
horror-stricken at the sight.
This room, in which George Travers spent most of his time, was of medium
size, with French windows opening upon the lawn, and lined from floor to
ceiling with books, while the centre was occupied by a large
writing-table, littered with papers.
Beside the table, with blanched face upturned to the green-tinted light
of the reading-lamp, lay the corpse of my brother-in-law, while from a
wound in his neck the blood had oozed, forming a great dark pool upon
the carpet.
It was evident that he had fallen in a sitting posture in the chair when
the fatal blow had been dealt; then the body had rolled over on to the
floor, for in the position it had been discovered it still remained.
The crime was a most remarkable one. George Travers had retired to do
some writing shortly before eight o'clock, leaving his father and his
wife together in the drawing-room, and expressing a wish not to be
disturbed.
At ten, old Mr. Travers, who was about to return home, entered the room
for the purpose of bidding his son good-night, when, to his dismay, he
found him stabbed to the heart, the body rigid and cold. The window
communicating with the garden stood open, the small safe had been
ransacked, the drawers in the writing-table searched, and there was
every evidence that the crime was the deliberate work of an assassin who
had been undisturbed.
No sound had been heard by the servants, for the murderer must have
struck down the defenceless man at one blow.
Entrance had been gained from the lawn, as the detectives found muddy
footprints upon the grass and on the carpet, prints which they carefully
sketched and measured, at length arriving at the conclusion that they
were those of a woman.
They appeared to be the marks of thin-soled French shoes, with high
heels slightly worn over.
Beyond this there was an entire absence of anything that could lead to
the identification of the murderer, and though they searched long and
diligently over the lawn and shrubbery beyond, their efforts were
unrewarded.
It was dawn when I returned home, and having occasion to enter the
kitchen, I noticed that on a chair a pair of woman's shoes had been
placed.
They were Mabel's. Scarcely knowing why I did so, I took them up and
glanced at them. They were very muddy, and, strangely enough, some
blades of grass were embedded in the mud. Then terrible thoughts
occurred to me.
I recollected Mabel's long absence, and remembered that one does not get
grass on one's shoes in Kensington.
The shoes were of French make, stamped with the name of "Pinet." They
were thin-soled, and the high Louis XV heels were slightly worn on one
side.
Breathlessly I took them to the window, and, in the grey light, examined
them scrupulously. They coincided exactly with the pair the detectives
were searching for, the wearer of which they declared was the person who
stabbed George Travers to the heart!
The dried clay and the blades of grass were positive proof that Mabel
had walked somewhere besides on London pavements.
Could she really have murdered her brother? A terrible suspicion
entered my soul, although I strove to resist it, endeavouring to bring
myself to believe that such a thought was absolutely absurd; but at
length, fearing detection, I found a brush and removed the mud with my
own hands.
Then I walked through the flat and entered the room where Mabel was
soundly sleeping. At the foot of the bed something white had fallen.
Picking it up, I discovered it was a handkerchief.
A second later it fell from my nerveless grasp. It had dark, stiff
patches upon it--the ugly stains of blood!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The one thought that took possession of me was of Mabel's guilt. Yet
she gave me no cause for further suspicion, except, indeed, that she
eagerly read all the details as "written up" in those evening papers
that revel in sensation.
George was buried, his house was sold, and his widow went with her
children to live at Alversthorpe Hall, old Mr. Travers' place in
Cumberland.
Mabel appeared quite as inconsolable as the bereaved wife.
"Do you believe the police will ever find the murderer?" she asked me
one evening, when we were sitting alone.
"I really can't tell, dear," I replied, noticing how haggard and serious
was her face as she gazed fixedly into the fire.
"Have--have they discovered anything?" she inquired hesitatingly.
"Yes," I answered. "They found the marks of a woman's shoes upon the
lawn."
She started visibly and held her breath.
"Ah!" she gasped; "I--I thought they would. I knew it--I knew--"
Then, sighing, she drew her hand quickly across her brow, and, rising,
left me abruptly.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
About two months afterwards, Mabel and I went down to Alversthorpe on a
visit, and as we sat at dinner on the evening of our arrival, Fraulein
Steinbock, the new German governess, entered to speak with her mistress.
For a moment she stood behind the widow's chair, glancing furtively at
me. It was very remarkable. Although her features bore not the
slightest resemblance to any I had ever seen before, they seemed somehow
familiar. It was not the expression of tenderness and purity of soul
that entranced me, but there was something strange about the forehead.
The dark hair in front had accidentally been parted, disclosing what
appeared to be _a portion of a dark ugly scar_!
Chancing to glance at Mabel, I was amazed to notice that she had dropped
her knife and fork, and was sitting pale and haggard, with her eyes
fixed upon the wall opposite.
Her lips were moving slightly, but no sound came from them.
When, on the following morning, I was chatting with the widow alone, I
carelessly inquired about the new governess.
"She was called away suddenly last night. Her brother is dying," she
said.
"Called away!" I echoed. "Where has she gone?"
"To London. I do hope she won't be long away, for I really can't do
without her. She is so kind and attentive to the children."
"Do you know her brother's address?"
She shook her head. Then I asked for some particulars about her, but
discovered that nothing was known of her past. She was an excellent
governess--that was all.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Twelve months later. One evening I had been busy writing in my own
little den, and had left Mabel in the drawing-room reading a novel. It
was almost ten o'clock when I rose from my table, and, having turned out
my lamp, I went along the passage to join my wife.
Pushing open the door, I saw she had fallen asleep in her little wicker
chair.
But she was not alone.
The tall, statuesque form of a woman in a light dress stood over her.
The profile of the mysterious visitor was turned towards me. The face
wore the same demoniacal expression, it had the same dark, flashing
eyes, the same white teeth, that I had seen on that terrible day before
Plevna!
As she bent over my sleeping wife, one hand rested on the chair, while
the other grasped a gleaming knife, which she held uplifted, ready to
strike.
For a moment I stood rooted to the spot; then, next second, I dashed
towards her, just in time to arrest a blow that must otherwise have
proved fatal.
She turned on me ferociously, and fought like a wild animal, scratching
and biting me viciously. Our struggle for the weapon was desperate, for
she seemed possessed of superhuman strength. At last, however, I proved
victor, and, wrenching the knife from her bony fingers, flung it across
the room.
Meanwhile Mabel awoke, and, springing to her feet, recognised the
unwelcome guest.
"See!" she cried, terrified. "Her face! It is the face of the man I
met on the night George was murdered!"
So distorted were the woman's features by passion and hatred, that it
was very difficult to recognise her as Fraulein Steinbock, the
governess.
In a frenzy of madness she flew across to Mabel, but I rushed between
them, and by sheer brute force threw her back upon an ottoman, where I
held her until assistance arrived. I was compelled to clutch her by the
throat, and as I forced her head back, the thick hair fell aside from
her brow, disclosing a deep, distinct mark upon the white flesh--a
bluish-grey ring in the centre of her forehead.
Screaming hysterically, she shouted terrible imprecations in some
language I was unable to understand; and eventually, after a doctor had
seen her, I allowed the police to take her to the station, where she was
charged as a lunatic.
It was many months before I succeeded in gleaning the remarkable facts
relating to her past. It appears that her real name was Darya Goltsef,
and she was the daughter of a Cossack soldier, born at Darbend, on the
Caspian Sea. With her family she led a nomadic life, wandering through
Georgia and Armenia, and often accompanying the Cossacks on their
incursions and depredations over the frontier into Persia.
It was while on one of these expeditions that she was guilty of a
terrible crime. One night, wandering alone in one of the wild mountain
passes near Tabreez, she discovered a lonely hut, and, entering, found
three children belonging to the Iraks, a wandering tribe of robbers that
infest that region.
She was seized with a terrible mania, and in a semi-unconscious state,
and without premeditation, she took up a knife and stabbed all three.
Some men belonging to the tribe, however, detected her, and at first it
was resolved to torture her and end her life; but on account of her
youth--for she was then only fifteen--it was decided to place on her
forehead an indelible mark, to brand her as a murderess.
It is the custom of the Iraks to brand those guilty of murder;
therefore, an iron ring was made red hot, and its impression burned
deeply into the flesh.
During the three years that followed, Darya was perfectly sane, but it
appeared that my friend, Captain Alexandrovitch, while quartered at Deli
Musa, in Transcaucasia, killed, in a duel, a man named Peschkoff, who
was her lover. The sudden grief at losing the man she loved caused a
second calenture of the brain, and, war being declared against Turkey
just at that time, she joined the Red Cross Sisters, and went to the
front to aid the wounded. I have since remembered that one evening,
while before Plevna, I was passing through the camp hospital with
Alexandrovitch, when he related to me his little escapade, explaining
with happy, careless jest how recklessly he had flirted, and how
foolishly jealous Peschkoff had been.
He told me that it was an Englishman who had been travelling for
pleasure to Teheran, but whose name he did not remember, that had really
been the cause of the quarrel, and laughed heartily, with a Russian's
pride of swordsmanship, as he narrated how evenly matched Peschkoff and
he had been.
That just cost my friend his life, for Darya must have overheard.
Then the desire for revenge, the mad, insatiable craving for blood that
had remained dormant, was again aroused; and, under the weird
circumstances already described, she disguised herself as a man, and,
entering our tent, murdered Alexandrovitch.
On further investigation, I discovered that the unknown English
traveller was none other than George Travers, for in one of the
sketchbooks he had carried during his tour in the East, I found a
well-executed pencil portrait of the Cossack maiden.
Darya's motive in coming to England was, without doubt, one of revenge,
prompted by the terrible aberration from which she was suffering.
Mabel, who had refrained from saying anything regarding the murder of
her brother, fearing lest her story should appear absurd, now made an
explanation. On the night of the tragedy, she was on her way to the
house at Chiswick, and, when near the gates, a well-dressed young man
had accosted her, explaining that he was an old friend of George's
recently returned from abroad, and wished to speak with him privately
without his wife's knowledge. He concluded by asking her whether, as a
favour, she would show him the way to enter her brother's room without
going in at the front door. The story told by the young man seemed
quite plausible, and she led him up to the French windows of the study.
Then she left the stranger, and crossed the lawn to go round to the
front door, but at that moment the clock of Chiswick church chimed, and,
finding the hour so late, she suddenly resolved to return home.
Later, when she heard of the tragedy, she was horrified to discover that
she had actually aided the assassin, but resolved to preserve silence
lest suspicion might attach itself to her.
She now identified the distorted features of the madwoman as those of
the young man, and when I questioned her with regard to the bloodstained
handkerchief, she explained how, in groping about the shrubbery in the
dark, she had torn her hand severely on some thorns.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The cloud of suspicion that had rested so long upon Mabel is now
removed, and we are again happy.
The carefully-devised plots and the devilish cunning that characterised
all the murderess's movements appeared most extraordinary; nevertheless,
in cases such as hers, they are not unheard of. Darya is now in
Brookwood Asylum, hopelessly insane, for she is still suffering from
that most terrible form of madness,--acute homicidal mania,--and is
known to the attendants as "The Woman with a Blemish."