It would be impossible to picture, with any hope of success, the horror
which accompanied the ghastly discovery described at the end of the
previous chapter. Save for the cries of the ladies, who shrank from the
box and covered their faces with their hands, and a muttered ejaculation
from Godfrey, some seconds elapsed before any one spoke. Fensden was the
first to recover his presence of mind. Picking up the sheet of paper
which had fallen to the ground, he covered the box with it, thus
shutting out all sight of the dreadful things it contained.
“Perhaps it would be as well, ladies, if you were to leave the room,” he
said. “Godfrey and I must talk this matter over, and consider how we are
to act.”
“Come, mother,” said Kitty, and she led the old lady in a semi-fainting
condition from the room, closely followed by Molly.
When the door had closed behind them, Godfrey spoke for the first time.
“Good Heavens, Victor!” he said. “What does this mean? Am I mad or
dreaming?”
“I fear it is no dream,” replied the other. “Who could have done it? Is
it a case of murder, or what? Did you recognise the--the hands?”
Godfrey crossed to the chimney-piece and covered his face. A suspicion,
so terrible that he dared not put it into words, was fast taking
possession of him.
“Come, come,” said Victor, crossing to him, and placing his hands upon
his shoulder, “we must look this matter squarely in the face. Be a man,
and help me. The upshot may be even more serious than we suppose. Once
more I ask you, did you recognise what you saw?”
“I fear so,” said Godfrey, very slowly, as if he were trying to force
himself to speak. “There was a little scar, the result of a burn,
half-an-inch or so above the knuckle of the second finger of the right
hand.”
He had painted those beautiful hands too often not to remember that
scar. Without a word, he crossed to the table in the middle of the room
upon which the box stood, surrounded by the cases containing the other
wedding presents, and once more removing the lid and the paper,
carefully examined what he saw there. No, God help him! there could be
no sort of doubt about it; the hands were those of Teresina Cardi, his
model and friend. When he had satisfied himself as to their identity, he
closed the box and turned to Fensden once more.
“It is too horrible,” he said; “but what does it mean? Why should the
murderer have sent the hands to me in this dreadful way?”
“That is what I have been asking myself,” Fensden replied. “The man,
whoever he was, must have borne you a fiendish grudge to have done such
a thing. Is there anything about the box that will afford a clew as to
the identity of the sender? Let us look.”
He examined the box carefully, but, beyond the printed name of the firm
who had originally used it, there was nothing that could serve as a
clew. It had come by train from Euston, and had been sent off on the
previous evening. That for the present was all there was to know about
it.
“Once more, what are we to do?” inquired Fensden.
“Communicate with the police,” said Godfrey. “In the meantime, I think I
will send a note to my future father-in-law, asking him to come over. I
should like to have his help and support in the matter.”
“A very proper course,” said his companion. “I don’t think you could do
better. I should send a man away at once.”
Accordingly Godfrey went to a writing-table in the corner of the room,
and wrote the letter, then rang the bell, and bade the servant who
answered it see that the note was despatched without delay. When the man
had disappeared, he turned to Fensden once more. “And now,” he said, “I
think it would be better if we removed the box to the studio.”
They did so, by way of the new conservatory, of which mention has been
made elsewhere. Then, in something less than an hour, Godfrey’s future
father-in-law arrived. Godfrey received him in his studio, and
introduced Fensden to him as an old friend.
“It is very good of you to come so quickly, Sir Vivian,” he said,
motioning him to a chair. “I took the liberty of sending for you because
I want your advice in a very serious matter. How serious it is you will
understand when you have heard what we have to tell you. We have had a
terrible experience, and I am not quite sure that I am capable of
looking at the matter in a temperate light at present.”
“You alarm me, my dear boy,” said the old gentleman. “What can have
happened? Tell me everything, and let me see if I can help you.”
“If I am to do that, I must tell you a story. It will simplify matters,
and it won’t take very long. As you are aware, before my uncle’s death,
I might have been described as a struggling artist. I was painting my
biggest work at that time, and was most anxious to find a model for the
central figure. I had hunted London over, but without success, when Mr.
Fensden here happened to discover an Italian model whom he thought might
be of use to me. I saw her, and immediately secured her services. In
company with her mother, she had been in England for some little time,
and was glad to accept my offer of employment. When the picture was
finished and hung, I still retained her services, because I liked the
girl and found her useful to me in some other work I had on hand. Then
my uncle died, and I came into the estate. Mr. Fensden and I immediately
agreed to travel, and we accordingly set off together for Egypt and the
East, intending to be away about a year. At the same time, it must be
borne in mind, the girl and her mother had returned to Italy. While we
were at Luxor, I received a letter from her, forwarding me her address
in Naples, in case I might desire to communicate with her concerning
future work. Some three weeks later my mother was taken ill, and I was
telegraphed for to come home at once. I left Port Said in a mail
steamer, intending to take the overland express from Naples to England.
Having some hours to spend in the latter city, I thought there could be
no harm in my discovering the mother and daughter. I did so, we dined
together at a small restaurant, and went on to the Opera afterward.”
“You did not tell me that,” said Fensden, quickly.
“I did not deem it necessary,” said Godfrey. “I should have done so when
we came to discuss the matter at greater length. But to continue my
story. After the Opera I escorted them back to their dwelling, but I did
not enter. On my way to my hotel afterward, I was nearly stabbed by a
lover of my former model, a man, so she had informed me, who was
extremely jealous of any one who spoke to her. Fortunately for me, he
did not succeed in his attempt. I knocked him down, and took his dagger
from him.”
As he said this, he took the small poniard, with which the Italian had
attempted his life, from a drawer, and handed it to the old gentleman.
“Next morning I left Naples, to find, on reaching England, that my
mother was decidedly better, and I need not have abandoned my tour. Then
I met your daughter, fell in love with her, and in due course our
engagement was announced. From the moment I said good-bye to her in
Naples, until last Thursday night, I had neither seen nor heard anything
of or from my former model.”
“You saw her on Thursday night?” repeated the old gentleman. “In that
case she must have returned to England?”
“Yes,” Godfrey replied. “It was after the theatre, and when I had seen
Lady Devereux and Molly to their carriage. I was walking down the Strand
in search of a cab to take me back to my hotel, when I met her. She
recognised me at once, and informed me that her mother was dead, that
she had married, she did not say whom, and that her husband was also
dead. Though she seemed in great distress, for reasons of her own she
would not let me help her. Feeling that she ought not to be in the
streets at such an hour, I took a cab and drove her to her home, which
was a house in a narrow street leading out of the Tottenham Court Road.
I bade her good-bye on the pavement, and having once more vainly
endeavoured to induce her to let me help her, walked back to my hotel.”
As he said this, he crossed to the table on which the box had been
placed, and once more removed the lid and paper.
“A number of wedding presents have arrived to-day,” he continued, “and
this box came with them. We opened it, and you may see for yourself what
it contained.”
Sir Vivian approached the table and looked into the box, only to start
back with an exclamation of horror. His usually rubicund face turned
ashen gray.
“My dear boy, this is more terrible than I supposed!” he gasped. “What
does it mean?”
“I am afraid that it means murder,” said Godfrey, very quietly. “My poor
little Italian friend has been brutally murdered, by whom we have yet to
discover. But why these hands of hers should have been sent to me, I can
not for the life of me understand.”
“Are you sure they are her hands?”
“Quite sure. There can be no doubt about it. Both Fensden and I
recognised them at once.”
“One thing is certain: the man who committed this dreadful deed must
have been jealous of you, and have heard of your kindness to the girl.
Is there any one you suspect?”
“I have it,” said Fensden, suddenly, before Godfrey could answer. “The
man in Naples, the lover who tried to assassinate you. He is the man, or
I am much mistaken. We have the best of reasons for knowing that he was
in love with her, and that he would not be likely to stop at murder. If
he would have killed you, why should he not have killed her? You told me
upstairs, when we were speaking of her distress, that the street was
occupied by foreigners; what is more likely, therefore, than that he
should have lived there too? Possibly, and very probably, he was her
husband.”
“But she told me her husband was dead,” Godfrey asserted.
“She may have had some reason for saying so,” Fensden replied. “There
are a hundred theories to account for her words. It is as likely as not
that she did not want you to see him. He is a Neapolitan. For all we
know to the contrary he may be an Anarchist, and in hiding. She might
have been afraid that if you saw him it would lead to his arrest.”
“There certainly seems a good deal of probability in Mr. Fensden’s
theory,” said Sir Vivian; “but the best course for you to adopt appears
clear to me. You must at once communicate with the police and cause
inquiries to be made. I have seen no mention in the papers of a woman’s
body having been found under such circumstances. The discovery of a body
so mutilated would have been certain to have attracted a considerable
amount of public attention.”
“I think you are right,” said Godfrey, after a moment’s hesitation. “In
the meantime what are we to do with these poor relics?”
“They must be handed over to the police,” said Sir Vivian. “It is only
through them that we can hope to unravel the mystery. If I were you I
should send for the head constable at once and give them into his
charge.” Then he added kindly: “I can not tell you how sorry I am,
Godfrey, for your trouble. It must be a terrible blow to you.”
“No one can tell what a blow it is, Sir Vivian,” said Godfrey in a husky
voice. “A more cruel murder has never stained the annals of crime. The
girl was an honest, kindly creature, and that she should have met her
death in this manner shocks me inexpressibly. If any reward can secure
the arrest of the murderer I will gladly pay it. No effort on my part
shall be wanting to bring him to justice.”
“You may be sure that he is a cunning fellow,” said Fensden, “and that
his plans were deeply laid. For my own part, if I were you I should
place it in the hands of Scotland Yard and patiently await the result.
You may be quite sure that they will do all in their power, and if they
can not bring about his arrest, nobody else will be able to do so.”
“Even if they do not succeed in capturing him I should not abandon the
search,” said Godfrey. “Poor little Teresina shall not go unavenged.
There must be several private detectives in London who know their
business almost as well as the officials of Scotland Yard. I will find
the cleverest of them and put them on the trail without delay. If a
promise of a thousand pounds can stimulate him to greater exertions it
shall be paid.”
“You will be only throwing your money away,” said Fensden. “He will be
paid by the hour, with expenses, and he will fool you with bogus clews
from first to last.”
“I must risk that,” Godfrey replied.
A message was thereupon despatched to the head of the local
constabulary, who very soon put in an appearance at the Hall. He was a
little man, with a pompous manner and a great idea of his own
importance. It appeared to be his opinion that Detwich was the centre of
civilization, and he the custodian of its peace and safety. On his
arrival he was shown into the studio, where he found the three gentlemen
waiting for him. He saluted Sir Vivian with the deepest servility,
Godfrey respectfully, and Victor Fensden good-naturedly, as if the
latter, not being a landowner in the district, was not entitled to
anything more than a nod.
“We have sent for you, Griffin,” said Sir Vivian, “in order to inform
you that a serious crime has been committed, not in this neighbourhood,
but in London.”
“A good many serious crimes happen there every day, Sir Vivian,”
remarked the official. “May I ask the nature of this particular one?”
“Nothing short of murder!” Sir Vivian replied; “and as Mr. Henderson
here has been brought into it we have adopted the course of sending for
you at once in order that you may acquaint the proper authorities.”
“A very proper proceeding, sir, I have no doubt,” said the officer,
diving his hand into his pocket and producing a pencil and an enormous
pocket-book. “I shall be glad, sir, if you will give me the
particulars.”
For the third time that afternoon Godfrey told his story, while the
officer made notes. By the time the contents of the box were shown to
him the man’s interest was thoroughly aroused. It had always been his
ambition to be mixed up in some big affair, and now his chance had come.
That being so, he was resolved to make the most of it.
“There can be no doubt, sir,” he said, addressing Sir Vivian, “that it
is likely to be a very serious matter. So far as I can understand, the
disappearance of the woman has not been noticed, nor has her body been
discovered. I will report the facts of the case to Scotland Yard at
once, and in the meantime I will take possession of this box and its
contents. So far as I can see at present it doesn’t look as if it should
be very difficult to lay our hands upon the murderer.”
“In that case, I suppose your opinion tallies with ours,” said Fensden,
who had just started another cigarette. “You suspect the Neapolitan
lover.”
“I do, sir,” the man replied with dignity, as if his suspicions were not
things to be treated lightly. “I only wish I had the conducting of this
case throughout. But, there, I suppose it will go elsewhere and others
will get the credit of the job. There is nothing else you wish to see me
about, I suppose, gentlemen?”
“I think not,” said Godfrey. “But I should be glad if you would let us
know all that goes on. As I have told you, the poor girl was an old
friend, and her cruel death is naturally a great blow to me.”
“I will let you know as soon as I hear anything,” the man replied. “I
shall telegraph to Scotland Yard as soon as I get back to the station,
and I expect they will be on the move within the hour. Let me see that I
have got the name and address right, sir. Teresina Cardi, No. 16,
Burford Street, Tottenham Court Road. That is correct, I suppose?”
“Quite correct,” said Godfrey. “It is a tall house and there is a
lamp-post exactly opposite the door.”
These additional facts having been duly noted, the officer was about to
withdraw, when the butler entered with the evening papers. He handed
them to his master, who made as though he would place them on one side,
as being irrelevant to the matter at issue, when Sir Vivian stopped him.
“One moment,” he said. “Before you go, Griffin, let us make sure that
there is no reference in the evening papers to the crime. Will you look,
or shall I?”
In answer Godfrey opened the first paper. It was as well that he did so,
for on the middle page was this announcement in large type:
TERRIBLE MURDER OF A GIRL!
REVOLTING DETAILS!
“I thought as much,” said the police officer in a tone of bitter
disappointment. “Just my luck again. I was in hopes of being able to put
them on the scent, but it seems that they have found it out without me.
Might I be so bold, sir, as to ask what it says?”
“I will read the account,” said Godfrey.
“At an early hour this morning it was reported to the authorities at
Scotland Yard that a murder of an unusual nature had been committed in
the vicinity of the Tottenham Court Road. The victim is an Italian
woman, known as Teresina Cardi, an artist’s model, who, it is stated,
has been living in the house in Burford Street, in which her body was
discovered, for upward of a fortnight. It might be mentioned that the
house is let out in flats, the occupants being in the main of foreign
nationality. The girl herself was of a reserved disposition, and did not
associate with the other tenants of the building. She was last seen
alive at seven o’clock on the evening of Thursday, when she was observed
descending the stairs dressed for going out. The hour of her return is
not known, nor was her absence remarked on Friday. Early on Saturday
morning, however, the occupant of a neighbouring room, a German
cabinet-maker, named Otto Grunther, noticed a small stream of dark-red
fluid under the door. His suspicions being aroused, he informed the
owner of the house of what he had seen, who called in the assistance of
the policeman on the beat. Together they ascended to the room in
question to find that the door was securely locked. Their knocks having
elicited no response, a key was obtained and the door opened. On
entering the room it was discovered that the woman was lying dead upon
the floor between the table and the door. Her throat was cut and she
had been stabbed in several places. More horrible still, her hands had
been severed at the wrists and were missing. Though the police are
naturally reticent as to the matter, we are led to believe that they
have not succeeded in finding a clew. Needless to say the revolting
crime has caused a great sensation in the neighbourhood.”
“Later News.--Up to the moment of going to press, the most diligent
inquiries have been made by our own representatives as to the identity
of the murdered woman. Teresina Cardi, it would appear, sat as a model
for the central figure in Mr. Godfrey Henderson’s famous picture ‘A
Woman of the People,’ which attracted so much attention in the Royal
Academy Exhibition of last year. She was a Neapolitan by birth, but has
spent a considerable time in this country. It has also come to light
that on the evening in question she returned home shortly after midnight
and was seen talking to a gentleman in evening dress on the pavement in
front of the house.
“The police hope very shortly to be able to discover the identity of
this mysterious individual, when doubtless further light will be thrown
upon the tragedy.”
“Good Heavens!” said Godfrey. “They surely don’t think that I know
anything more about it than I have said?”
“You must set the matter right without delay,” said Sir Vivian. “Does it
say when the inquest will be held?”
“On Monday,” Godfrey replied, after he had once more consulted the
paper.
“Then you had better communicate with the coroner at once, telling him
that you are the person referred to, and offering him all the
information it is in your power to give. You owe it to yourself, as well
as the community at large, to do this at once.”
“I will do so to-night,” Godfrey replied. “In the meantime, Griffin, you
will communicate with Scotland Yard yourself and tell them what we have
discovered. The man who murdered her must have seen us together that
night, and in the madness of his jealousy have sent the evidence of his
crime on to me.”
When he had wrapped up the horrible box the police officer took his
departure, leaving the others to discuss the matter and to endeavour to
come to some understanding about it. At last, when there was nothing
further to be said, Godfrey proposed that they should go in search of
the ladies. He had scarcely opened the door of the studio, however, when
there was the sound of a heavy fall. Turning round, he discovered that
Victor Fensden had fallen in a dead faint upon the floor.