"STARTLING REVELATIONS."
The coroner held his inquiry at a neighbouring tavern two days after the
murder, but the investigations, instead of throwing any light upon the
mystery, only increased it.
After the jury had formally viewed the body, the coroner, addressing the
inspector in charge of the case, said,--
"We will take evidence of identification first."
"We have none, sir, up to the present," replied the officer gravely.
The jury looked at one another in dismay.
"What!" exclaimed the coroner. "Have you not discovered who the lady
is?"
"No, sir. The only evidence we can procure is that of an estate agent
by whom the house was let to deceased."
"Call him."
The oath having been administered to the witness, a man named Stevenson,
he proceeded to give his evidence, from which it appeared that he was an
agent carrying on business in Gower Street. A few months previous he
was entrusted with the house in Bedford Place to let furnished, the
family having gone abroad. A month ago the deceased called upon him,
and after viewing the premises, consented to take them, paying six
months' rent in advance, and giving her name as Mrs Inglewood. She was
undoubtedly a lady of means, for she kept two servants and rode out
daily in a brougham hired from a neighbouring livery stable.
The most unaccountable feature of the case, however, was that neither of
these servants were in the house at the time of the murder, nor had they
since returned. The police had been unable to discover any one else who
knew the murdered woman, or could give any particulars regarding her.
The next witness was myself, and my depositions were rather more
satisfactory. I related my experience on the fatal night, and how I had
discovered the crime. Then I was submitted to a severe
cross-examination by the jury regarding the appearance of the man who
left the house immediately afterwards.
The other evidence adduced was purely formal: that of the divisional
surgeon, who certified the cause of death was a knife-wound in the
heart, and of the constable who came to my assistance. The latter
produced the blood-smeared paper with its cabalistic seal, as to which
much curiosity was evinced by the jury, it being handed round and
minutely examined.
The inquest, after lasting several hours, was ultimately adjourned for a
week, in order that the police might make further inquiries and bring
the necessary evidence of identification.
To this end advertisements were inserted in the leading newspapers,
giving a description of the latest victim, with the request that persons
acquainted with her would communicate at once with any police-station in
the metropolitan district.
This mystery in which the murdered woman was enveloped added to the
excitement prevalent. Notwithstanding all the efforts of the Criminal
Investigation Department, the coroner was informed, when he resumed his
inquiry on the following week, that no further light could be thrown
upon her identity. It seemed that the mysterious Mrs Inglewood was an
utter stranger and entirely friendless, although the police were bound
to admit there was something suspicious in the continued absence and
strict silence of the servants. Had she any friends, one or other must
have come forward, for the Press had carried the details of the tragedy
to the most remote corners of the Kingdom.
No further statements being forthcoming, the jury, after a long
deliberation, returned the same verdict as had been recorded upon the
other mysterious deaths, that of "Wilful murder by some person or
persons unknown."
Thus ended the seventh murder, with all its journalistic embellishments;
and the public, who looked for "startling revelations," were
disappointed.
"Who will be the next victim?" was the question all the capitals of the
world were asking.
The detectives were by no means idle, and from occupants of neighbouring
houses they found that Mrs Inglewood, during her residence, had
received but few visitors, the most conspicuous being an elderly lady,
accompanied apparently by her daughter. They came several times a week
in a victoria, and remained an hour.
This was all the information they were able to glean, for it seemed that
the unfortunate woman was an enigma herself, making the mystery even
more abstruse.
On the evening the jury delivered their verdict, I went down to the
Club.
In the spacious smoking-room, with its fine portraits of Garrick and his
contemporaries (which, alas, have now fallen under the hammer), a few
Bohemians were taking their ease in the well-padded lounge chairs,
discussing the details of the inquiry as reported in the evening
journals.
"It's all very well to talk," exclaimed Hugh Latimer, a young artist of
renown, as he cast aside his newspaper, "there must be something
radically wrong with our detective force if the man Burgoyne has seen
cannot be traced."
"But how's it to be done? Perhaps he could not be recognised,"
suggested one.
"Or he may be in America by this time," said another.
"No. I disagree with you. It is proved that the guilty one is a
well-dressed man, and the success of his sanguinary work has been such
as to encourage him to commit further crimes; therefore, the logical
deduction is that he will remain in England and continue them," Latimer
replied. "What do you think?" he added, turning to me.
"I don't think anything about it, except that I heartily wish I'd never
been mixed up with it at all," I said.
"I should have liked it myself," exclaimed Bob Nugent, with an eye to
the manufacture of sensational "copy." The remark created a laugh.
"Well; joking aside," he continued, "very few of you fellows who are
pressmen would have objected to being on the scene of the tragedy.
Sensational writing is the living of most of us, and if Burgoyne were in
the position he once occupied, he would have been eager enough for the
chance."
"`Them's just my sentiments,'" said Moreland, who was on the staff of a
comic journal, and fancied himself the wit of the Club. "But, you see,
Burgoyne is no longer one of us; he's one of the `bloated aristocracy,'
as he used to call the wealthy at one time."
"True," I said, smiling. "I know from experience that such mysteries
are an unqualified blessing to the impecunious journalist. The worst of
it is that I've grown so confoundedly idle now, I really have nothing
with which to occupy my time."
"But you have plenty of work of a character that will benefit mankind,
if you'll only do it," observed Nugent.
"What's that?"
"Find the author of the crimes. You have seen him, and it only remains
for you to turn amateur detective. By the exercise of a little patience
you will be able to identify the wretch and bring his guilt home to
him."
"Impossible," I remarked, though the suggestion was one which had not
crossed my mind before, and I felt inclined to give it some
consideration, as I had grown listless and lazy, and required something
to occupy my mind.
To write for one's bread and to write for mere pastime are very
different matters. When I was compelled to follow journalism as a
profession I put my very soul into my work; but now my keen enthusiasm
had entirely disappeared, and I had neither patience nor inclination to
write for pleasure.
"Man-hunting would be rattling good fun," remarked Latimer, "especially
when one is free, and possesses as much of the world's good things as
you, Burgoyne."
"What nonsense you fellows talk?" I said. "How could I hope to succeed
where Scotland Yard fails?"
"Exactly. But they haven't seen the man they want; you have."
"Oh, let's change the subject. If ever I come across him he shall not
go unpunished. Now, I've been at the inquest all day, and am bored to
death with the whole thing. Come, Bob, let's go out on the balcony; I
want to talk to you," I added, addressing Nugent.
Rising, we both passed out upon the veranda overlooking the Embankment.