"TIME WILL PROVE."
These are truly the fevered days of journalistic enterprise the world
over.
There are no smarter journalists than those of Fleet Street, and none,
not even in New York, with scent more keen for sensational news. "The
day's story" is the first thought in every newspaper office, and surely
no story would have been a greater "scoop" for any journal than the
curious facts which I have related in the foregoing pages.
But even though the gentlemen of the Press are ubiquitous, many a curious
happening, and many a remarkable coroner's inquiry, often remain
unreported.
And so in this case. When, on the following morning, the coroner for the
borough of Kensington held his inquiry in the little court off the High
Street, no reporter was present, and only half a dozen idlers were seated
in the back of the gloomy room.
When the jury had taken their seats after viewing the remains, according
to custom, the police inspector reported to the coroner that the body
remained unidentified, though the description had been telegraphed
everywhere.
"I might add, sir," went on the inspector, "that there is strong belief
that the young lady may be a foreigner. Upon the tab of her coat she was
wearing was the name of a costumier: 'Sartori, Via Roma.' Only the name
of the street, and not the town is given. But it must be somewhere in
Italy. We are in communication with the Italian police with a view to
ascertaining the name of the town, and hope thus to identify the
deceased."
"Very well!" said the coroner, a shrewd, middle-aged, clean-shaven man in
gold pince-nez. "Let us have the evidence," and he arranged his papers
with business-like exactitude.
The procedure differed in no way from that in any other coroner's court
in the kingdom, the relation of dry details by matter-of-fact persons
spoken slowly in order that they might be carefully taken down.
The scene was, indeed, a gloomy one, for the morning was dark, and the
place was lit by electric light. The jury--twelve honest householders of
Kensington--appeared from the outset eager to get back to their daily
avocations. They were unaware of the curious enigma about to be presented
to them.
Not until I began to give my evidence did they appear to evince any
curiosity regarding the case. But presently, when I had related my
midnight interview with my friend, who was now a fugitive, the foreman
put to me several questions.
"You say that after your return from your visit from this man, Sir Digby
Kemsley, he rang you up on the telephone?"
"Yes."
"What did he say?" inquired the foreman, a thin, white-headed man whose
social standing was no doubt slightly above that of his fellow jurymen.
"He asked me to return to him at once," was my reply.
"But this appears extraordinary----"
"We are not here to criticise the evidence, sir!" interrupted the coroner
sharply. "We are only here to decide how the deceased came by her
death--by accident, or by violence. Have you any doubt?"
The foreman replied in the negative, and refrained from further
cross-examining me.
The coroner himself, however, put one or two pointed questions. He asked
me whether I believed that it had actually been Sir Digby speaking on the
second occasion, when I had been rung up, to which I replied:
"At first, the voice sounded unfamiliar."
"At first! Did you recognise it afterwards?"
I paused for a few seconds, and then was compelled to admit that I had
not been entirely certain.
"Voices are, of course, often distorted by the telephone," remarked the
coroner. "But in this case you may have believed the voice to have been
your friend's because he spoke of things which you had been discussing in
private only half-an-hour before. It may have been the voice of a
stranger."
"That is my own opinion, sir," I replied.
"Ah!" he ejaculated, "and I entirely agree with you, for if your friend
had contemplated the crime of murder he would scarcely have telephoned to
you to come back. He would be most anxious to get the longest start he
could before the raising of any hue and cry."
This remark further aroused the curiosity of the hitherto apathetic jury,
who sat and listened intently to the medical evidence which followed.
The result of the doctor's examination was quickly told, and not of great
interest. He had been called by the police and found the young woman
dying from a deep wound under the breast, which had penetrated to the
heart, the result of a savage blow with some long, thin, and very sharp
instrument. The girl was not dead when he first saw her, but she expired
about ten minutes afterwards.
"I should think that the weapon used was a knife with a very sharp,
triangular blade judging from the wound," the spruce-looking doctor
explained. "The police, however, have failed to discover it."
The words of the witness held me dumbfounded.
"Have you ever met with knives with triangular blades, doctor?" inquired
the coroner.
"Oh, yes!" was the reply. "One sees them in collections of mediæval arms.
In ancient days they were carried almost universally in Southern
Europe--the blade about nine inches long, and sometimes perforated. Along
the blade, grease impregnated with mineral poison was placed, so that, on
striking, some of the grease would remain in the wound. This form of
knife was most deadly, and in Italy it was known as a misericordia."
I sat there listening with open mouth. Why? Because I knew where one of
those curious knives had been--one with a carved handle of cracked,
yellow ivory. I had often taken it up and looked at the coat of arms
carved upon the ivory--the shield with the six balls of the princely
house of the Medici.
"And in your opinion, doctor, the deceased came by her death from a blow
from such a weapon as you describe?" the coroner was asking.
"That is my firm opinion. The wound penetrated to the heart, and death
was probably almost instantaneous."
"Would she utter a cry?"
"I think she would."
"And yet no one seems to have heard any noise!" remarked the coroner. "Is
that so?" he asked, turning to the police inspector.
"We have no evidence of any cry being heard," replied the officer. "I
purposely asked the other tenants of the flats above and below. But they
heard no unusual sound."
One of the detective-sergeants was then called; Inspector Edwards, though
present, being purposely omitted. In reply to the coroner, he described
the finding of the body, its examination, and the investigation which
ensued.
"I need not ask you if you have any clue to the assassin," said the
coroner, when he had concluded writing down the depositions. "I presume
you are actively prosecuting inquiries?"
"Yes, sir," was the brief response.
"I think, gentlemen," the coroner said, turning at last to the jury,
"that we can go no further with this inquiry to-day. We must leave it for
the police to investigate, and if we adjourn, let us say for a fortnight,
we may then, I hope, have evidence of identification before us. The case
certainly presents a number of curious features, not the least being the
fact that the owner of the flat has mysteriously fled. When he is found
he will, no doubt, throw some light upon the puzzling affair. I have to
thank you for your attendance to-day, gentlemen," he added, addressing
the dozen respectable householders, "and ask you to be present again this
day fortnight--at noon."
There was evident dissatisfaction among the jury, as there is always when
a coroner's inquest is ever adjourned.
It is certainly the reverse of pleasant to be compelled to keep an
appointment which may mean considerable out-of-pocket expense and much
personal inconvenience.
One juror, indeed, raised an objection, as he had to go to do business in
Scotland. Whereupon the coroner, as he rose, expressed his regret but
declared himself unable to assist him. It was, he remarked, his duty as a
citizen to assist in this inquiry, and to arrive at a verdict.
After that the court rose, and every one broke up into small groups to
discuss the strange affair of which the Press were at present in
ignorance.
Edwards had crossed the room and was speaking to me. But I heard him not.
I was thinking of that triangular-bladed weapon--the "misericordia" of
the middle ages--so frequently used for stealthy knife-thrusts.
"Coming?" he asked at last. This aroused me to a sense of my
surroundings, and I followed him blindly out into the afternoon shopping
bustle of High Street, Kensington.
Outside the Underground Station were the flower-sellers. Some were
offering that tribute which the Riviera never fails to send to us
Londoners in spring--sprigs of mimosa: the yellow flower which would be
worn by the mysterious "E. P. K.," the written message to whom reposed in
my writing-table at home.
Personally, I am not a man of mystery, but just an ordinary London
business man, differing in no way to thousands of others who are at the
head of prosperous commercial concerns. London with all its garish
glitter, its moods of dulness and of gaiety, its petrol-smelling streets,
its farces of passing life, and its hard and bitter dramas always
appealed to me. It was my home, the atmosphere in which I had been born
and bred, nay, my very existence. I loved London and was ever true to the
city of my birth, even though its climate might be derided, and Paris
claimed as the one city in which to find the acme of comfort and
enjoyment.
I had not sought mystery--far from it. It had been thrust upon me, and
now, as we went along the High Street in Kensington, towards the
police-station, I found myself a sudden but important factor in a stern
chase--a man-hunt--such as London had seldom known, for Edwards was
saying to me:
"At all hazards we must find your friend Kemsley, and you, Mr. Royle,
must help us. You know him, and can identify him. There are grave
suspicions against him, and these must be cleared up in view of the
mysterious tragedy in Harrington Gardens."
"You surely don't expect me to denounce my friend!" I cried.
"It is not a question of denouncing him. His own actions have rendered
the truth patent to every one. The girl was brutally killed, and he
disappeared. Therefore he must be found," Edwards said.
"But who was it who telephoned to me, do you think?" I asked.
"Himself, perhaps. He was full of inventiveness, and he may have adopted
that course hoping, when the time came, to prove an alibi. Who knows?"
asked the famous inspector.
"Look here!" I said as we crossed the threshold of the police-station, "I
don't believe Sir Digby was either an impostor or an assassin."
"Time will prove, Mr. Royle," he laughed with an incredulous air. "A man
don't take all these precautions before disappearing unless he has a
deeper motive. Your friend evidently knew of the lady's impending visit.
Indeed, how could she have entered the flat had he not admitted her?"
"She might have had a key," I hazarded.
"Might--but not very likely," he said. "No, my firm conviction is that
the man you know as Sir Digby Kemsley struck the fatal blow, and took the
knife away with him."
I shrugged my shoulders, but did not reply.
Inside the station, we passed into the long room devoted to the officers
of the Criminal Investigation Department attached to the division, and
there met two sergeants who had given evidence.
I was shown the photograph of the dead unknown, calm, and even pretty,
just as I had seen her lying stretched in Digby's room.
"The medical evidence was curious, Mr. Royle, wasn't it?" Edwards
remarked. "That triangular knife ought not to be very difficult to trace.
There surely are not many of them about."
"No," I replied faintly, for the recollection of one which I had seen
only a few days prior to the tragic occurrence--the one with the arms of
the Medici carved upon its hilt, arose vividly before me.
To me, alas! the awful truth was now plain.
My suspicion regarding the culprit had, by the doctor's evidence, become
entirely confirmed.
I set my jaws hard in agony of mind. What was a mystery of London was to
me no longer a mystery!