After leaving Teresina, Godfrey made his way back to his hotel. As he strode along he meditated as to what he should do to help her. That the girl was in serious trouble, he had not the least doubt; but since she would not allow him to assist her in any form, what could he do?
He had been through a good deal that day, and by the time he reached his hotel he was quite worn out. The night porter who admitted him noticed his haggard appearance.
“You don’t look very well, sir,” he said, sympathetically; “is there anything I can do for you?”
“If you could manage to get me a brandy and soda, I should be very much obliged,” Godfrey said, as he dropped into one of the seats in the hall.
“I will do so with pleasure, sir,” the man replied, and disappeared at once in search of the refreshment, which he very soon brought back. Godfrey drank it off, and then announced his intention of proceeding at once to bed.
“Poor little Teresina!” he said to himself as he wound up his watch; “poor little girl, it seems a shame that she should suffer so!”
Little did he guess that at that moment Teresina’s troubles were over, that she would never know sorrow or poverty again.
Next morning he returned to Detwich by an early train. Though he had only been absent from it a little more than twenty-four hours, it seemed to him that he had been away for years.
“You look tired out, Godfrey,” said his mother, as they stood together in the hall.
“I did not have a very good night last night,” he said, “and I had a hard day’s running about yesterday. That is all. You needn’t worry about me, mother; I’m as strong as a horse.”
He went on to tell his mother of his meeting with Fensden, and informed her that the latter intended coming to stay with them next day.
“That will be very nice,” she said. “You will enjoy having him. I shall put him up in the south wing in order that he may be near you. The wall-papers are more subdued there. I know, of old, how he notices these things.”
“I don’t think he will bother himself very much about wall-papers,” said Godfrey, with a laugh. “He declares that he is so tired of travelling that the quiet of an English country house will brace him up again.”
“I have no doubt it will,” said the old lady: “I remember when your father took me to Paris for our honeymoon, the mere sound of the French language gave me a headache. I never hear it now without thinking of that time. And now tell me about Molly. Did she enjoy the play you took her to see?”
“Immensely,” he replied. “She sent her love to you, and bade me tell you that she would be very pleased to come over to meet Fensden on Saturday. I only hope that she won’t be knocked up by all this shopping.”
His mother shook her head.
“I don’t think you need have any fear on that score,” she said. “When a girl is about to be married to the man of her heart, the collection of her trousseau becomes a labour of love. She will make a beautiful bride, worthy of my boy. I can’t say more than that.”
“You shouldn’t say so much,” said Godfrey. “If your boy were to believe all the compliments you pay him, he would become insufferably conceited. And now I must go round and see how things have been progressing in my absence.”
The following morning witnessed Molly’s arrival at the Hall. It was the first time she had stayed there since her engagement, and in consequence she was received with rapturous delight by her lover. Though they had only been parted for a day, they seemed to have a hundred things to tell each other. There were, moreover, certain important matters to be discussed connected with the internal arrangements of the house of which she was so soon to be mistress. I believe, so infatuated was the young man that, had she expressed a desire to have the whole fabric pulled down, and rebuilt in another fashion, he would have set about the work at once.
“You are quite sure there is nothing else you would like to have done?” he asked, when they had made the tour of inspection, and were approaching to the drawing-room once more.
“You have done too much already,” she replied, looking affectionately at her lover. “I very much doubt if ever there was a girl so spoilt as I. You will have to make up for it by ruling me with a rod of iron afterward.”
“God forbid that I should ever do that,” he said seriously. “I hope I shall always be an indulgent husband to you.”
“Not too indulgent,” she said. “For my own sake, you must not be. I don’t want to be like a spoilt child.”
“You will never be that,” he said. “To me you will always be the most——”
“Hush!” she said, holding up her finger in warning. “I think we must make it a rule to avoid every sort of compliment. I have had more than is good for me already.”
“I shall find it difficult to obey you, but I will try,” he returned. “And now come with me to the studio; I have one thing left to show you.”
“What is that?”
“You must wait and see for yourself,” he replied, and led the way through the conservatory to the room of which he had spoken. They found the easel covered with a cloth. This he drew aside.
“It is my present to you,” he said, referring to the picture he had revealed, “to be hung in your own room.”
“Oh, Godfrey, how good of you! What a splendid likeness!”
It was, in fact, a portrait of himself upon which he had been working hard ever since his engagement had been announced. He had intended it as a surprise, and in the pleasure he gave her, he felt that he had been amply repaid for the labour it had cost him.
“I shall treasure it all my life long,” she said, and rewarded him in a manner that would have turned many folks green with envy.
“And now,” she said, when she had gazed her full upon it, “I want you to show me a photograph of your friend, Mr. Fensden, if you have one. Remember I have no idea what he is like.”
“That can very easily be remedied,” he said. “I have a photo which was taken in Rome, and a small portrait that I painted myself.”
So saying, he crossed the room to his writing-table, and, having opened a drawer, took from it a packet of cabinet photographs. They were, for the most part, likenesses of old friends, and when he had selected one of Victor from the number, he placed it before her.
“So that is Mr. Fensden?” she said, seating herself in what he called his business chair.
For some moments she studied it attentively. Then she replaced it on the writing-table.
“Well, now that you have seen the portrait, what do you think of him?” Godfrey asked, as he turned over some canvases on the other side of the room.
“I scarcely know what to say,” she replied, slowly. “It is a refined face, a clever one, if you like; but, if I may be allowed to say what I think, there is something in it, I can not tell what, that I do not care about. I fancy the eyes are set a little too close together.” Then she added more quickly: “I hope I have not offended you, dear. I should not have spoken so candidly.”
“Why shouldn’t you?” he inquired. “Perhaps, now you speak of it, the eyes are a little too close together. But you must wait until you have seen the man himself before you judge him. I assure you he can be a charming companion.”
“I gathered as much from his photograph,” she answered, taking it up and looking at it again, “At what time does he arrive to-day?”
“In time for afternoon tea,” said Godfrey. “I am going to drive in to meet him.”
Molly made a little moue; with the selfishness of love, she did not approve of Godfrey leaving her, if only for so short a time. And, if the truth be confessed, I fear she was a little jealous of the man who was to be responsible for his absence. It is not always that a sweetheart is any too well disposed toward her lover’s bachelor friends. For some reason, Fensden’s photograph had prejudiced her against him. She was resolved to be just; but she felt convinced in her own mind that she would never be able to say that she really liked or trusted the man. She did not tell Godfrey this.
In accordance with the arrangements he had made, that afternoon, at about three o’clock, Godfrey drove off to the station to meet his friend. He was looking forward to seeing him, if only that he might show him how great was the difference between the sketch the other had drawn of his future wife that night in the desert, and the reality. I fancy if England had been searched through that day, a happier young man than the master of Detwich would have been difficult to find. Yet, though he could not guess it, the climax of his life was only a few hours’ distant.
As he drove along, he thought of Molly and the happiness that was to be his portion in the future. Then his thoughts turned to Teresina. While he had prospered in the world, she had lost what little happiness she had ever possessed. He determined to discuss her affairs with Fensden on the first available opportunity, when doubtless the latter would be able to suggest a way in which he might assist her. By the time he had arrived at this reflection, he had reached the station, and the groom was standing at the horse’s head. Having placed the reins under the patent clip, he descended from the cart and went on to the platform. The station-master saluted him respectfully, and informed him that the train had already been signalled. Indeed, the words had scarcely left that functionary’s lips before a whistle was heard in the cutting, and a moment later it came into view. As the train swept past him Godfrey caught a glimpse of the man he had come to meet, gathering together his travelling things, in a first-class carriage.
“How are you, my dear old fellow?” he cried, as he turned the handle of the door. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you! I am afraid you have had a cold journey. Let me take some of your things.”
Victor graciously permitted the other to assist him with his luggage, and then he himself descended from the carriage. They shook hands and afterward strolled in the direction of the gate. Victor was attired in a magnificent travelling ulster, and a neat deer-stalker’s hat. An orange-coloured tie peeped from the opening under his beard, and his hands were as daintily gloved as a lady’s. Altogether, as he walked down the platform, he presented as artistic a figure as Detwich had seen for a very long time.
“What have you been doing since I saw you?” Godfrey inquired as they took their places in the dog-cart.
“Repairing the ravages of time and Continental travel,” Victor replied, somewhat ambiguously. Then he added politely: “I hope Miss Devereux is well?”
“Very well, indeed,” said Godfrey, “and most anxious to see you. She has read your poems and has seen your portrait; all she requires now is to be introduced to the original.”
“In that case I fear she will be disappointed,” said Victor, with what was almost a sneer in his voice. “Since she is with you, I presume your mother and sister are at the Hall. Do they look forward to the idea of turning out?”
“They are a pair of foolish women who would do anything, or give up anything in order to make me happy,” the other replied. “As a matter of fact, I don’t know that they altogether mind. They both prefer London, and when they return from their travels, I believe it is their intention to take a flat and settle down somewhere in the neighbourhood of Kensington.”
“While you are assimilating the bucolic virtues. Well, it’s a pretty picture, and if I had fifteen thousand a year and a fine estate I might be tempted to do the same. As I haven’t the money or the property I remain what I am.”
“And that is?”
“A trifler,” Victor replied, with unusual bitterness. “One who might have done and who did not—who dropped the substance in an attempt to grasp the shadow.”
“Nonsense,” said Godfrey, who did not like to hear his friend abuse himself in this fashion. “If you are going to talk like that I shall have to prescribe a long dose of country air.”
Then, in an attempt to change the other’s thoughts, he talked of their travels together, and of the curious characters they had met, which lasted until they had passed through the lodge gates and were well on their way across the park. Even in the sombreness of winter the place looked very beautiful, and Victor expressed himself delighted with it.
“I had no idea it was so fine,” he said, as they swept round the drive and came into view of the house. “I can very well understand your liking for a country life when you possess an estate like this. Your uncle did you a kind action when he made you his heir.”
“Nobody is more sensible of that fact than I am,” Godfrey replied. “I only wish I could let the old fellow know how grateful I am. I often think that during his lifetime he was disappointed in me because I took to painting instead of becoming a country gentleman. I wonder what he would say if he could see me now? I don’t know what you may think, but to my mind there are times when one likes to imagine that the dead are near us.”
Victor gave a violent start, followed by a shiver.
“Good Heavens! What an idea!” he cried. Then, dropping back into his old cynical tone, he continued: “I am afraid that if your idea were possible our human affairs would become somewhat complicated. For my own part I am quite content that the matter should stand as it is.”
As he finished speaking they drew up before the steps and the two men descended from the cart. The ladies were waiting in the hall to receive them.
“How do you do, Mr. Fensden?” said Mrs. Henderson, coming forward to meet him. “It is a long time since we have met, and you have been a great traveller in the meantime.”
“Thanks to your son,” said Victor as he took her hand. “How do you do, Miss Kitty? Events advance too quickly with all of us, but they seem to have taken giant strides with you.”
“You mean that when last we met I was still on the other side of that line which is only crossed by a girl when she performs the mysterious operation called 'putting her hair up,’” answered that sharp-tongued young lady.
“Now, Victor,” said Godfrey, when Kitty had been annihilated, “let me have the pleasure of introducing you to Miss Devereux.”
The couple bowed to each other, and Victor offered her his congratulations.
“And now you must come and have your tea,” said Mrs. Henderson, hospitably. “You must need it, I am sure, after your long journey.”
“Or perhaps you would prefer something more substantial,” put in Godfrey. “I noticed that you shivered as we came up the drive.”
“I really think I should,” said Victor. “After the warmth of the East our English winters are not to be trifled with.”
Godfrey led the way to the dining-room and placed the spirit-stand before his friend.
“I don’t think I have ever been so cold in my life before,” said Victor, as he poured out an amount of brandy for himself that made Godfrey open his eyes in astonishment, for he had always looked upon the other as an exceedingly temperate man.
“Now, tell me, would you prefer to see your room first?” Godfrey inquired, when the other had tossed off his refreshment, “or shall we join the ladies?”
“Perhaps I had better make myself presentable first,” Victor answered, glancing complacently at himself in the mirror above the chimney-piece.
Godfrey accordingly led the way to the room which had been set apart for his friend’s use, and to which the latter’s luggage had been conveyed. It was a pleasant apartment, looking out on what was called the Ladies’ Garden, and thence across the park to a high and wooded hill. Victor went to the window and studied the prospect.
“You have a charming home,” he said, with what was almost a sigh; “you are about to marry a beautiful girl; you have wealth, success, and everything else that can make life worth living, Godfrey. You should be a happy man.”
“I am happy,” Godfrey replied, “and, please God, I’ll do my best to make others so. And that reminds me, Victor, I want to have a talk with you. Do you know that on Thursday night I met Teresina in the Strand?”
Victor had turned from the window, and was brushing his hair at the time. As he heard what Godfrey said, the brush fell from his hand upon the floor. As he picked it up and continued his toilet, he said in surprise:
“Teresina in London? Surely you must have been mistaken. I thought she was still in Naples?”
“She is in London,” Godfrey repeated. “I could not have been mistaken, for I spoke to her.”
“At what time did you see her?”
“Just about midnight,” his friend replied.
“Are you aware that the signora is dead and that Teresina is married?”
“How should I be likely to?” said Victor. “You know that I have not seen her since I bade her good-bye in your studio before we went abroad. And so the pretty model is married? Well, I suppose the proper thing to say is that one hopes that she will be happy.”
“But she is not happy, far from it. Her husband as well as her mother is dead.”
“I believe there are some wives who would consider that fact to be not altogether a matter for sorrow. But what makes you think that Teresina is unhappy?”
“Because she told me so, though she would not tell me anything further. The poor girl seemed in terrible distress.”
“And you gave her money, I suppose?” said Victor. “That is usually the way one soothes trouble of her kind. I hope she was grateful.”
“I wish to goodness you wouldn’t be so cynical,” said Godfrey, almost losing his temper. “I wanted to help her, but she would not let me. Every time I offered my assistance she implored me to leave her. She broke down altogether when we reached her house.”
“Then you took her home?” said the other. “Do you think that was wise?”
“Why should I not have done so?”
“Well, you see,” said Victor, putting his brushes back into their case, “circumstances have somewhat changed with you. Miss Devereux might not altogether approve.”
“Miss Devereux is too good and kind a girl to object to my doing what I could to comfort an old friend in trouble.”
“But when that old friend in trouble happens to be an extremely beautiful girl the situation becomes slightly changed. However, don’t think that I am endeavouring to interfere. And now shall we go downstairs?”
“But, confound it, Victor, you don’t mean to say that you take no more interest in Teresina’s fate than this? I thought you liked her as much as I did.”
“Mon cher ami,” said Victor, rearranging his tie before the glass, “that is scarcely fair, either to yourself or to me. Have you forgotten a little discussion we had together, and which eventually resulted in our leaving England for a time? Had you not taken such an interest in Teresina then, I doubt very much whether I should have seen Cairo or Jerusalem, or a lot of other places. But still, my dear fellow, if there is anything I can do to help your old model you may be sure I shall be only too glad to do it.”
“I knew you would,” said Godfrey, placing his hand affectionately on the other’s shoulder. “We must talk it over some time and see what can be done. It will never do to let her go on as she is now.”
“You have no idea, I suppose, of the origin of the trouble?”
“Not the least. She would tell me nothing. She tried to make me believe that she had plenty of work, and that she did not stand in need of any assistance. I knew better, however.”
“And where is she living?”
“In Burford Street, off the Tottenham Court Road. It is a miserable place, mainly occupied by foreigners. The house is on the right-hand side.”
“Very well,” said Victor. “When I go back to town I will look her up. It will be hard if we can’t arrange something.”
Then they descended the stairs together and entered the drawing-room.
“My dear Godfrey, are you aware that you will have one wife in a hundred?” said Kitty, pointing to a table on which some twenty packages of all sizes, shapes, and descriptions were arranged.
“How so?” said Godfrey. “What new virtue have you discovered in her?”
“I have found that she can subordinate curiosity to a sense of duty,” said the young lady. “These presents arrived for you just after you left for the station, and yet she would not open them herself or allow me to do so until you returned. I have been consumed with a mad desire to explore them, particularly that foreign-looking box at the end.”
“Well, your curiosity shall very soon be satisfied,” he said. “But we must begin with the most important-looking packages.”
“Let us pray that there are no more Apostle spoons, serviette-rings, or silver sweet-dishes,” said Molly. “We have already some two dozen of each.”
Package after package was opened in its turn and the contents displayed. As they were for the most part presents to the bridegroom individually, they were mainly of a nature suited to his tastes: hunting flasks, silver sandwich cases, cigar and cigarette holders, and articles of a similar description. At last they came to the curious-looking box to which Kitty had referred. It was oblong in shape, and bore the name of a Vienna firm stamped on the end. It was tied with cord, and the label was addressed in an uneducated handwriting to “Mr. Godfrey Henderson, Detwich Hall, Detwich, Midlandshire.”
In his own mind he had no doubt that it emanated from Teresina, who, as he was aware, had been informed as to his approaching marriage. Having untied the cord, he prized the lid, which was nailed down, with a dagger paper-knife, which he took from a table close at hand. An unpleasant odour immediately permeated the room. A folded sheet of newspaper covered the contents, whatever they were, and this Godfrey removed, only to spring back with a cry of horror. In the box, the fingers tightly interlaced, were two tiny hands, which had been severed from the body, to which they had once belonged, at the wrist.
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:
“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.
In the previous chapter I described to you how Victor Fensden had fallen in a dead faint just at the moment when the gentlemen were about to go in search of the ladies, in order to reassure them after the terrible shock they had received. Immediately on hearing his friend fall, Godfrey hurried to his assistance, asking Sir Vivian meanwhile to go in search of brandy. The latter had scarcely left the room, however, before Victor opened his eyes.
“My dear old fellow,” said Godfrey, “I am indeed thankful to see that you are better. I knew very well that this terrible business had upset you more than you were willing to admit. Never mind, it will all be put right in the end. How do you feel now?”
“Much better,” Victor replied. “I can not think what it was that caused me to make such an idiot of myself.”
At this moment Sir Vivian returned with a glass of brandy and water. Victor sipped a little.
He had not been feeling well of late, he explained, and this shock, coming on the top of certain other worries, had unmanned him altogether.
“This has been a terrible day,” said Godfrey, “and a poor welcome for you to Detwich. Now, perhaps, you would rather rest a little before joining the others.”
“I think I should prefer to do so,” said Victor, and he accordingly retired to his room, while Sir Vivian and Godfrey went on to explain matters as best they could to the ladies, who were in the dining-room, awaiting their return with such patience as they could command.
“My dear boy,” said Mrs. Henderson, hastening forward to greet Godfrey as he entered the room, “you must know how we all feel for you. This has been a terrible experience. Have you been able to arrive at any understanding of it?”
“I think I can,” said Godfrey, who dreaded another explanation. “It will be time enough, however, for me to explain later on. It is sufficient at present to say that a terrible murder has been committed in London, and that the assassin, knowing that I had endeavoured to be a good friend to his victim, has played a ghastly practical joke upon me. As you may suppose, the circumstance has upset me terribly; and when I tell you that you will make me happier if you will spare me further conversation upon the subject for the present, I am sure you will do so.”
“I think it would be better,” said Sir Vivian. “We have placed the matter in the hands of the police, and I am sure that Griffin will do all that lies in his power to prevent Godfrey from being unduly worried by the affair.”
Godfrey felt a small hand steal into his.
“I am so sorry for you,” whispered Molly.
The touch of her soft warm hand was infinitely soothing to him. It did him more good than any amount of verbal sympathy.
“But where is Mr. Fensden?” inquired Mrs. Henderson.
“The shock has proved too much for him,” Sir Vivian explained. “He informed Godfrey that he would prefer to go to his room to rest for a while. I have never met your friend before, Godfrey, but I should say that he is not very strong.”
“I am afraid he is not,” the other replied, and the subject dropped.
A quarter of an hour later Sir Vivian announced his intention of returning home, and when his carriage had come round, took Godfrey on one side.
“Keep up a stout heart, my boy,” he said. “The man who committed the crime will certainly be captured before very long, and then the poor girl will be avenged.”
Then the kindly old gentleman drove away. When he had seen him depart, Godfrey went into the house and made his way upstairs to inquire after Fensden’s welfare. Somewhat to his surprise, he found him apparently quite himself once more.
“I can not think what made me behave in that foolish fashion,” said Victor, as he rose from the sofa on which he had been lying. “I am not given to fainting fits. Forgive me, old fellow, won’t you?”
“There is nothing to forgive,” said Godfrey.
As he spoke the dressing gong sounded, and after having asked Fensden whether he would prefer to come down, or to have his meal sent to him, and having received an answer to the first in the affirmative, Godfrey left him, and proceeded along the passage to his own room. When he reached it he passed to the further end and stood before the original sketch of his famous picture, “A Woman of the People.” It was only a mere study, roughly worked out; but whatever else it may have been, it was at least a good likeness of the hapless Teresina.
“And to think that that beautiful face is now cold in death,” he said to himself, “and that the brute who murdered her is still at large. God grant that it may be in my power to bring him to justice!”
Before he dressed, he sat down at his writing-table and composed a letter to the coroner, informing him of all he knew of the case, and promising him that he would be present at the inquest in order to give any evidence that might be in his power to supply. It was only when he had finished the letter and sealed it that he felt that he had done a small portion of his duty toward the dead. He also wrote to his solicitor giving him an account of the affair, and telling him that he would call upon him on Monday, prior to the inquest, in order to discuss the matter with him.
Then he rang for his valet and gave instructions that the letters should be posted without fail that evening. Then he began to dress with a heart as heavy as lead. He remembered how much he had been looking forward to this dinner ever since the idea had first occurred to him. In his own mind he had endeavoured to picture the first meal that Victor and his betrothed should take together. He had imagined his friend doing his best to amuse Molly with his half-cynical, half-burlesque conversation, with Kitty chiming in at intervals with her sharp rejoinders, while he and his mother listened in quiet enjoyment of their raillery. How different the meal was likely to prove!
His dressing completed, he descended to the drawing-room, where he had the good fortune to find Molly alone. It was plain that she had been there long enough to read the evening paper, for there was a look of horror upon her face as she came forward to meet her lover.
“Godfrey, darling,” she said, “I see by this paper that a terrible murder has been committed in the neighbourhood of the Tottenham Court Road, and that the victim was once your model. I can now understand why it has affected you so much. Those hands were hers, were they not? I see also that it says that some one, a gentleman in evening dress, was seen talking to her about midnight on the pavement outside her house. Do you think that that man had anything to do with the crime?”
“I am quite sure he had not,” Godfrey answered. “For the simple reason that that man happened to be myself.”
“Yourself? You, Godfrey?” she inquired, looking up at him with startled eyes. “But that was the night on which we were at the theatre together?”
“Yes, dear, the same night,” he answered. “Perhaps it would be better if I were to tell you the whole story.”
“Tell me nothing more than you wish,” she said. “I am content to trust you in everything. If I did not, my love would scarcely be worth having, would it?”
And then he told her of his association with the unhappy woman; told her of Teresina’s sorrow, and of his own desire to assist her. Molly’s heart was touched as she listened.
“You were right,” she said, “to try and help her, poor girl! If I had known, I would have endeavoured to have done something for her for your sake. Now, unhappily, it is too late. But you must not think too much of it, Godfrey dear. Try to put it away from you, if only for a time.”
At this moment Victor Fensden entered the room. It was plain that he had recovered his former spirits. He apologized in an easy fashion for his weakness of the afternoon, and ascribed it to his recent travels, which, he said, had proved too much for his enfeebled constitution.
“I am not like Godfrey, Miss Devereux,” he said. “He seems capable of bearing any amount of fatigue, plays cricket and football, tennis and golf, while on a summer’s day I sometimes find it impossible even to lift my head.”
It was a sad little party that sat down to dinner that evening. Godfrey was in the lowest spirits, and Molly was quiet in consequence. Fensden was accepted, on his own showing, for an invalid, Mrs. Henderson was naturally of a silent disposition, while Kitty, finding that her efforts were unappreciated, lapsed into silence after a time, and thus added to the general gloom. After dinner there were music and polite conversation in the drawing-room until ten o’clock, followed by a retirement to the billiard-room for a game at pool. It did not prove a success, however. No one had any heart for the game, and before the first three lives had been lost it was voted failure, and the cues were accordingly replaced in the rack. The memory of two white hands, tightly clinched in despair, rose continually before every eye, and when, at half-past ten, Mrs. Henderson proposed that they should retire for the night, every one accepted the situation with a feeling that was very near akin to relief.
The next day was scarcely better. For the first time since he had been master of the house Godfrey rose early on a Sunday morning, and, having ordered his dog-cart, drove into the village. It was scarcely seven o’clock when he reached the police-station to discover that the head constable had not yet risen from his bed. He waited in the small office while the other dressed, finding what consolation he could in a case above the chimney-piece in which several sets of manacles were displayed. The constable in charge was plainly overwhelmed by the squire’s presence, and to cover his confusion poked the fire almost continuously. At last, after what seemed like an hour, Griffin put in an appearance, and with many apologies invited Godfrey to accompany him to his own private sanctum where breakfast was being laid.
“It’s the first time for many a long day that I have overslept myself, sir,” he hastened to remark; “but I have been so thinking of this ’ere case that I did not get to sleep until this morning, and I am mortal sorry, sir, that I should have kept you waiting.”
“You have communicated with Scotland Yard, of course?” said Godfrey, after the other had finished his apology.
“I telegraphed to them last night, sir, and forwarded my written report at the same time. The post isn’t in yet, sir, but I expect I shall get some instructions when it comes.”
He visibly swelled with importance as he made this remark. He felt that in having the Squire of Detwich for his ally he could scarcely fail to be noticed, particularly when the most valuable evidence in the case would be given by the gentleman in question.
Finding that the man had no further news to give him, Godfrey drove sorrowfully home again, feeling that both his early rising and his visit to the village were alike of no avail. All through the service in the little church afterward, despite the fact that Molly worshipped beside him for the first time, he was ill at ease. Victor had excused himself from attending the service on the plea of a bad headache, saying he would go for a walk instead. When they emerged from the sacred edifice afterward Sir Vivian took his place by Godfrey’s side.
“You have heard nothing more, I suppose?” he asked. “Griffin promised to communicate with you at once on receipt of any intelligence, did he not?”