The constable who took the body to the hospital then related how, while on duty in Piccadilly Circus, he had been called to the cab, and found the woman dead. Afterwards he had searched the pockets of the deceased, and taken possession of the ladys dressing-case and the mans hand-bag all the luggage they had with them in addition to their wraps. He produced the two bags, with their contents, objects which excited considerable interest throughout the room. In the mans bag was a suit of dress-clothes, a small dressing-case, and one or two miscellaneous articles, but nothing by which the owner could be traced.
Well, what did you find in the ladys pockets? Anything to lead to her identity? the Coroner asked at last.
No, sir. In addition to a purse containing some English money, I found a key, a gentlemans card bearing the name Arnoldo Romanelli, and a small crucifix of ivory and silver. In the dressing-case, which you will see is fitted with silver and ivory fittings, he continued, opening it to the gaze of the jury, there are a few valuable trinkets, one or two articles of attire, and a letter written in Italian
I have the letter here, interrupted the Coroner, addressing the jury. Its translation reads as follows:
Dear Vittorina,
Be extremely cautious if you really mean to go to England. It is impossible for me to accompany you, or I would; but you know my presence in Italy is imperative. You will easily find Boncianis Café, in Regent Street. Remember, at the last table on the left every Monday at five.
With every good wish for a pleasant journey,
Egisto.The letter, which has no envelope, added the Coroner, is dated from Lucca, a town in Tuscany, a week ago. It may possibly assist the police in tracing friends of the deceased. Then, turning to the constable, he asked, Well, what else was in the ladys bag?
This photograph, answered the officer, holding up a cabinet photograph.
Why! cried the cab-driver, who had taken a seat close to where the policeman was standing. Why, thats a photograph of the Major!
Yes, added the barmaid excitedly, thats the same man who came up to the gentleman while he was speaking to me. Without doubt thats the Major, and an excellent portrait, too.
Strange that this, of all things, should be in the dead womans possession, when we have it in evidence that she was introduced to him only half an hour before her death, observed the Coroner. Very strange indeed. Every moment the mystery surrounding this unknown woman seems to grow more impenetrable.
Chapter Five
Tristram at Home
The jury, after a long deliberation, returned an open verdict of Found dead. In the opinion of the twelve Strand tradesmen, there was insufficient evidence to justify a verdict of murder, therefore they had contented themselves in leaving the matter in the hands of the police. They had, in reality, accepted the evidence of the analyst in preference to the theory of the doctor, and had publicly expressed a hope that the authorities at Scotland Yard would spare no pains in their endeavours to discover the deceaseds fellow traveller, if he did not come forward voluntarily and establish her identity.
This verdict practically put an end to the mystery created by the sensational section of the evening Press, for although it was not one of natural causes, actual murder was not alleged. Therefore, amid the diversity of the next days news, the whirling world of London forgot, as it ever forgets, the sensation of the previous day. All interest had been lost in the curious circumstances surrounding the death of the unknown Italian girl in the most crowded of London thoroughfares by reason of this verdict of the jury.
The police had taken up the matter actively, but all that had been discovered regarding the identity of the dead woman was that her name was probably Vittorina beyond that, absolutely nothing. Among the millions who had followed the mystery with avidity in the papers, one man alone recognised the woman by her description, and with satisfaction learnt how ingeniously her death had been encompassed.
That man was the eminently respectable doctor in the remote rural village of Lyddington. With his breakfast untouched before him, he sat in his cosy room eagerly devouring the account of the inquest; then, when he had finished, he cast the paper aside, exclaiming aloud in Italian
Dio! What good fortune! I wonder how it was accomplished? Somebody else, besides ourselves, apparently, feared her presence in England. Arnold is in Livorno by this time, and has had his journey for nothing.
Then, with his head thrown back in his chair, he gazed up at the panelled ceiling deep in thought.
Who, I wonder, could that confounded Englishman have been who escorted her to London and who left her so suddenly? Some Jackanapes or other, I suppose. And whos the Major? Hes evidently English too, whoever he is. Only fancy, on the very night we discussed the desirability of the girls death, some unknown person obligingly did the work for us! Then he paused, set his teeth, and, frowning, added, But that injudicious letter of Egistos may give us some trouble. What an idiot to write like that! I hope the police wont trace him. If they do, it will be awkward devilish awkward.
A few minutes later the door opened, and a younger man, slim and pale-faced, entered and wished him good-morning.
No breakfast? the man, his assistant, inquired, glancing at the table. Whats the matter?
Liver, my boy, liver, Malvano answered with his usual good-humoured smile. I shall go to town to-day. I may be absent the whole week; but theres nothing really urgent. That case of typhoid up at Craigs Lodge is going on well. Youve seen it once, havent you?
Yes. Youre treating it in the usual way, I suppose?
Of course; and the doctor, advancing to the table, poured out a cup of coffee and drank it, at the same time calling to his man Goodwin to pack his bag, and be ready to drive him to the London train at ten-twenty.
His assistant being called to the surgery a few minutes later, Malvano sat down at his writing-table, hastily scribbled a couple of telegrams, which he folded and carefully placed in his pocket-book, and half an hour later drove out of the quiet old-world village, with its ancient church spire and long, straggling street of thatched cottages, on his way to catch the train.
Beside the faithful Goodwin he sat in silence the whole way, for many things he had read that morning sorely puzzled him. It was true that the lips of Vittorina were sealed in death, but the letter signed Egisto, discovered by the police in her dressing-bag, still caused him the most intense anxiety.
At the same hour that Malvano had been reading the account of the previous days inquest, Frank Tristram was sitting in his handsome, well-furnished chambers in St. Jamess Street. He had breakfasted early, as was his wont, and had afterwards started his habitual cigarette. The room in which he sat was a typical bachelors quarter, filled with all sorts of curios and bric-à-brac which its owner had picked up in the various corners of the earth he had visited bearing despatches from the Foreign Office. Upon the floor lay a couple of fine tiger-skins, presents from an Indian rajah, while around were inlaid coffee-stools and trays of beaten brass from Constantinople, a beautiful screen from Cairo, a rare statuette from Rome, quaint pictures and time-yellowed ivories from the curiosity shops of Florence and Vienna, savage weapons from Africa and South America, and a bright, shining samovar from St. Petersburg. In a corner stood the much-worn travelling-bag which he kept always ready packed, and hanging upon a nail above the mantelshelf was the blue ribbon with its silver greyhound, the badge which carried its owner everywhere with the greatest amount of swiftness, and the least amount of personal discomfort. Over the fireplace, too, were many autographed portraits of British ambassadors and distinguished foreign statesmen, together with those of one or two ladies of this constant travellers acquaintance.
As he lay back in a wicker deck-chair the same in which he had taken his after-luncheon nap on board many an ocean steamer well-shaven, smart, and spruce, his legs stretched out lazily, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, he sighed deeply.
Italy again! he grumbled to himself as he took up a scribbled note on official paper. Just my infernal luck. Italy is the very last place I want to visit just now, yet, by Jove! the Chief sends me a message to start this morning. And rousing himself, he stretched his arms and glanced wearily at the little carriage clock. The discarded newspaper on the floor recalled all that he had read half an hour before.
I wonder, he went on I wonder if any one on Charing Cross platform except the porter spotted the girl? Then he remained silent for a moment. No. I oughtnt to go to Italy; its far too risky. Theres plenty of time yet for Marvin to be called. I must feign illness, and await my chance to go on a long trip to Pekin, Teheran, or Washington. Yes, a touch of fever will be a good excuse. But, after a moments further consideration, he added, Yet, after all, to be ill will be to arouse suspicion. No, Ill go; and he pressed the electric bell.
In answer to the summons his man-servant, a smart, tall ex-private of Dragoons, entered.
A foreign telegraph form, Smayle, he said.
The man obeyed with military promptitude, and his master a minute later scribbled a few hasty words on the yellow form, securing a berth in the through sleeping-car leaving Paris that night for Rome.
Take this to the telegraph office in Regent Street, he said. Im leaving this morning, and if anybody calls, tell them Ive gone to Washington, to Timbuctoo, or to the devil, if you like anyhow, I shant be back for a month. You understand?
Yes, sir, answered the man with a smile. Shall I forward any letters?
Yes, Poste Restante, Leghorn.
At that moment the bell of the outer door rang out sharply, and Smayle went in response, returning a moment later, saying
Major Maitland, sir.
Show him in, answered his master in a tone of suppressed excitement.
The man disappeared, and a second later the Major entered jauntily, his silk hat slightly askew, extended his well-gloved hand, greeted his friend profusely with the easy air of a man about town, and sank into one of the comfortable saddle-bag chairs.
Well, my dear fellow, he exclaimed as soon as they were alone. Why do you risk London after the events of the other night? I never dreamed that I should find you at home.
Im leaving for Italy again by the eleven train, the other answered. Have you read this mornings paper?
Of course I have, answered the Major. Its an infernally awkward bit of business for both of us, Im afraid. That introduction at the station was the greatest mistake possible, for the cabman will no doubt identify us. Besides, he overheard you address me by rank.
But the police have no suspicion, Tristram observed. At present we are safe enough.
If I were you I wouldnt arrive or depart from Charing Cross for a few months at least, the Major suggested. The business is far too ugly for us to run any unnecessary risks, you know.
No; I shall make a habit of departing from London Bridge and arriving at Cannon Street. I never have more than hand-baggage with me.
Where are you going to-day?
To Leghorn again. Right into the very midst of the enemys camp, he laughed.
Suppose any facts regarding the mystery have been published in the local papers, dont you think youd stand a good chance of being arrested? The police in Italy are very arbitrary.
They dare not arrest me with despatches in my possession. I have immunity from arrest while on official business, His Majestys messenger answered.
That may be so, replied the Major. But youd have a considerable difficulty in persuading the police of either London or Leghorn that you were not the amiable young man who arrived at Charing Cross with Vittorina.
And you would have similar difficulty, my dear old chap, in convincing the detectives that you were not the person who waited for us on the platform, the other replied. Youre so well known about town that, if I were you, I should leave London at once, and not take a return ticket.
I leave to-night.
By what route?
By a rather round-about one, the Major answered, slowly striking a vesta. The ordinary Channel passage might disagree with me, you know, so I shall travel this evening to Hull, and sail to-morrow morning for Christiania. Thence I shall get down into Germany via Hamburg.
A very neat way of evading observation, observed the Captain in a tone of admiration.
I booked my passage a fortnight ago, in case I might require it, the elder man observed carelessly. When one desires to cover ones tracks, the ordinary Channel services are worse than useless. I call the Norwegian the circular route. Ive used it more than once before. They know me on the Wilson liners.
Tristram glanced at his watch. I must be off in five minutes. What will be your address?
Portland before long, if Im not wary, the other replied, with a grim smile.
This is no time for joking, Maitland, Tristram said severely. Reserve your witticisms for the warders, if you really anticipate chokee. Theyll no doubt appreciate them.
Then address me Poste Restante, Brussels. Im certain to drift to the Europe there sooner or later within the next three months, the Major said.
Very well, I must go; and the Kings messenger quickly obtained his soft grey felt hat and heavy travelling coat from the hall, filled a silver flask from a decanter, took down the blue ribbon, deftly fastened it around his neck out of sight beneath his cravat, and snatched up his travelling-bag.
Im going along to the Foreign Office for despatches. Can I drop you anywhere from my cab? he asked as they made their way down the stairs together.
No, my dear fellow, the Major replied. Im going up Bond Street.
Then, on gaining St. Jamess Street, the Captain sprang into a cab, and shouting a cheery adieu to his friend, drove off on the first stage of his tedious thousand-mile journey to the Mediterranean shore.
Chapter Six
In Tuscany
Leghorn, the gay, sun-blanched Tuscan watering-place known to Italians as Livorno, is at its brightest and best throughout the month of August. To the English, save those who reside permanently in Florence, Pisa, or Rome, its beauties are unknown. But those who know Italy and to know Italy is to love it are well aware that at cara Livorno, as the Tuscans call it, one can obtain perhaps the best sea-bathing in Europe, and enjoy a perfectly delightful summer beside the Mediterranean.
It is never obtrusive by its garishness, never gaudy or inartistic; for it makes no pretension to being a first-class holiday resort like Nice or Cannes. Still, it has its long, beautiful Passeggio extending the whole of the seafront, planted with tamarisks, ilexes, and flowing oleanders; it has its wide, airy piazzas, its cathedral, its Grand Hotel, its pensions, and, lastly, its little open cabs in which one can drive two miles for the not altogether ruinous fare of sixpence halfpenny. Its baths, ingeniously built out upon the bare brown rocks into the clear, bright sea, take the place of piers at English seaside resorts, and here during the afternoon everybody, clad in ducks and muslins, lounge in chairs to gossip beneath the widespread awnings, while the waves beat with musical cadence up to their very feet. At evening there are gay, well-lit open-air cafés and several theatres, while the musical can sit in a stall at the opera and hear the best works performed by the best Italian artists for the sum of one and threepence.