tendency, had attracted a great deal of attention--was foundlying in the bottom of a pleasure boat drifting upon the Lake.
The discovery was made by a party of tourists who were out sailing, andtheir dismay may be readily imagined when they found the unfortunatewoman had been shot in the breast, and the seal placed upon her.
There were neither oars nor rudder to the boat, yet from the presence ofblood it was plain that the shot was fired after the murdered woman hadembarked, and it was more than probable that the assassin, beforeescaping, threw both oars and rudder overboard. How he landed was amystery.
Hardly had the news of this latest crime reached London, when thesensation was increased by the report that another person had beendiscovered in the metropolis with the seal upon him.
In a few hours this statement was confirmed.
It transpired that on the afternoon following the discovery inSwitzerland some children who were at play in Upper Street, Islington,noticed blood trickling from under the door of a pawnbroker's shopoccupied by Mr Isaac Solomons. The police were called; with difficultythe door was forced. Solomons was found face downwards in the passage,with a fearful gash in his throat, and on lifting the body, the seal wasseen pinned upon him.
The seventh of this remarkable series was the Mystery of Bedford Place.
The _Comet_--most sensational of evening newspapers--upon the staff ofwhich was my friend Bob Nugent, appeared with what it assured itsreaders was a portrait of the murdered woman, and in its comments uponthe continuation of the mysterious crimes severely criticised our policesystem, asking what was the use of a Commissioner, of detectives, of apolice force at all, if crimes could be committed with impunity in ourvery midst.
The murderer apparently treated the vigilance of the combined detectiveforce of Europe with the utmost indifference, and such an attitude wasalarming, for, as the latter acknowledged themselves defeated, there wasno telling where this wholesale butchery would end!
That there was a motive for it all no one doubted, though it was aproblem none could solve.
What was to be done? demanded the public; a question on which thenewspapers were skilfully silent.
Questions were asked in the House, but the reply was that all that couldbe done had been done.
The population were to be coolly assassinated, while the apatheticauthorities made no secret of their incompetency, and treated it withunconcern.
The excitement rose to fever heat.
CHAPTER FOUR.
"STARTLING REVELATIONS."
The coroner held his inquiry at a neighbouring tavern two days after themurder, but the investigations, instead of throwing any light upon themystery, only increased it.
After the jury had formally viewed the body, the coroner, addressing theinspector 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 ladyis?"
"No, sir. The only evidence we can procure is that of an estate agentby 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 anagent carrying on business in Gower Street. A few months previous hewas entrusted with the house in Bedford Place to let furnished, thefamily having gone abroad. A month ago the deceased called upon him,and after viewing the premises, consented to take them, paying sixmonths' rent in advance, and giving her name as Mrs Inglewood. She wasundoubtedly a lady of means, for she kept two servants and rode outdaily in a brougham hired from a neighbouring livery stable.
The most unaccountable feature of the case, however, was that neither ofthese servants were in the house at the time of the murder, nor had theysince returned. The police had been unable to discover any one else whoknew the murdered woman, or could give any particulars regarding her.
The next witness was myself, and my depositions were rather moresatisfactory. I related my experience on the fatal night, and how I haddiscovered the crime. Then I was submitted to a severecross-examination by the jury regarding the appearance of the man wholeft the house immediately afterwards.
The other evidence adduced was purely formal: that of the divisionalsurgeon, who certified the cause of death was a knife-wound in theheart, and of the constable who came to my assistance. The latterproduced the blood-smeared paper with its cabalistic seal, as to whichmuch curiosity was evinced by the jury, it being handed round andminutely examined.
The inquest, after lasting several hours, was ultimately adjourned for aweek, in order that the police might make further inquiries and bringthe 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 personsacquainted with her would communicate at once with any police-station inthe metropolitan district.
This mystery in which the murdered woman was enveloped added to theexcitement prevalent. Notwithstanding all the efforts of the CriminalInvestigation Department, the coroner was informed, when he resumed hisinquiry on the following week, that no further light could be thrownupon her identity. It seemed that the mysterious Mrs Inglewood was anutter stranger and entirely friendless, although the police were boundto admit there was something suspicious in the continued absence andstrict silence of the servants. Had she any friends, one or other musthave come forward, for the Press had carried the details of the tragedyto the most remote corners of the Kingdom.
No further statements being forthcoming, the jury, after a longdeliberation, returned the same verdict as had been recorded upon theother mysterious deaths, that of "Wilful murder by some person orpersons unknown."
Thus ended the seventh murder, with all its journalistic embellishments;and the public, who looked for "startling revelations," weredisappointed.
"Who will be the next victim?" was the question all the capitals of theworld were asking.
The detectives were by no means idle, and from occupants of neighbouringhouses they found that Mrs Inglewood, during her residence, hadreceived but few visitors, the most conspicuous being an elderly lady,accompanied apparently by her daughter. They came several times a weekin a victoria, and remained an hour.
This was all the information they were able to glean, for it seemed thatthe unfortunate woman was an enigma herself, making the mystery evenmore abstruse.
On the evening the jury delivered their verdict, I went down to theClub.
In the spacious smoking-room, with its fine portraits of Garrick and hiscontemporaries (which, alas, have now fallen under the hammer), a fewBohemians were taking their ease in the well-padded lounge chairs,discussing the details of the inquiry as reported in the eveningjournals.
"It's all very well to talk," exclaimed Hugh Latimer, a young artist ofrenown, as he cast aside his newspaper, "there must be somethingradically wrong with our detective force if the man Burgoyne has seencannot 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 awell-dressed man, and the success of his sanguinary work has been suchas to encourage him to commit further crimes; therefore, the logicaldeduction is that he will remain in England and continue them," Latimerreplied. "What do you think?" he added, turning to me.
"I don't think anything about it, except that I heartily wish I'd neverbeen mixed up with it at all," I said.
"I should have liked it myself," exclaimed Bob Nugent, with an eye tothe manufacture of sensational "copy." The remark created a laugh.
"Well; joking aside," he continued, "very few of you fellows who arepressmen would have objected to being on the scene of the trag
edy.Sensational writing is the living of most of us, and if Burgoyne were inthe position he once occupied, he would have been eager enough for thechance."
"`Them's just my sentiments,'" said Moreland, who was on the staff of acomic 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 mysteriesare an unqualified blessing to the impecunious journalist. The worst ofit is that I've grown so confoundedly idle now, I really have nothingwith 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 remainsfor you