Chapter Twenty Nine. Is Still More Mysterious.

I held my breath. What mystery had I discovered? Marigold had been secretly done to death by these hard-faced foreigners!

There was no light save one single lamp at the far end of the road, and by its feeble rays I saw that the silhouettes of the two men who carried their burden to the carriage were those of the sallow-faced foreigner who had met the pair on Calais platform and the man who had awaited the arrival of the express at Milan.

Logan did not appear. He evidently remained in the house.

Of the identity of the victim there surely could be no doubt. It was she who had aided Marie Lejeune in the commission of some offence—that woman whose word could clear the character of my love Lolita.

What could I do? I stood in hesitation, utterly dumbfounded. I had fortunately discovered the truth how these men had ingeniously entrapped the woman towards whom Logan had shown a marked but false friendship, but alone and undefended I feared to rush forward and denounce them.

I recollected what the delegato of police had told me in Biffi’s and stood watching, confident that ere long I should be able to give the police such information as would lead to the arrest of the whole gang.

Little ceremony was used in handling the covered body of the lifeless woman. It was simply bundled into the cab, the two men got in with it, the door closed, and the vehicle was driven off rapidly in the direction of the town.

The instant it passed me I ran after it as fast as my legs could carry me, determined to follow it to its destination. My own idea, from the fact that the horse was a weak one, was that it was not going far—in fact only just sufficiently far to place the body in some place of concealment.

The wheels rattled over the stones, awakening the echoes of the silent streets as the cab turned towards the main thoroughfare in the direction of the city.

I was panting some distance behind, and had halted for a second to catch my breath, when all of a sudden, before I was aware of what had happened, I felt a crushing blow upon my skull, and fell to earth like a felled ox.

I only recollect having seen a thousand stars at that moment when the irresistible blow fell upon me—nothing else. My soft grey felt hat did not break the blow, the full force of which came down upon the top of my head, striking me in an instant dumb and unconscious.

Of what happened to me after that I have no knowledge whatever. I had, of course, acted unwisely in my quick eagerness to ascertain the truth, for by rushing after the vehicle I had exposed myself to the detection of those of the conspirators who were evidently outside the house keeping watch. My curiosity had misled me into a distinct error of judgment, and I had no doubt been felled by those whose motive it was to keep secret the tragic affair.

My next recollection was of a terrible throbbing in my brain. My head seemed aflame! My skull seemed to be boiling with molten lead. Ah! never in all my life shall I forget the torments I suffered for about an hour, yet unable to speak, unable to complain of them. Before my blinded eyes was a dull red haze, in which stars seemed to shoot with every throb of the blood through my poor unbalanced brain.

I believe at last I spoke, but of what I said I have no idea. Merely the ravings of delirium I have since been told. I felt something strange upon my brow, like burning coal or corrosive acid, yet when I knew the truth I found to my surprise that it was ice.

My first impression was that I was demented. I could not think of anything. Strange weird visions, mostly grotesque or gruesome, floated through my mind, but without motive or coherence. I tried to recollect the past, but I found I had none. My brain had been thrown out of its usual balance, and my sufferings were excruciating.

Ah! I now know some of those tortures which are the wages of sin, and I tell you I would not endure them again—no, not for a million in hard cash. My poor brain seemed to bubble and boil, as though my skull had been emptied and re-filled with molten metal, while the sound in my ears seemed as deafening as the noise of a thousand steam-hammers.

At last I knew that I was still breathing, my sore heavy eyes seemed less clouded, and the haze grew clearer. I heard other sounds above that maddening, crashing, hammering rending that deafened me—sounds of human voices.

My hot lips were touched by something cold, and I felt a few drops of some liquid dribble into my mouth. This I swallowed, for I believed that aid was at hand.

I tried to speak, but over the articulation of my words I had absolutely no control. What I said was not what I really intended to say in the least. Never have I experienced such a strange loss of control over my tongue before. I was sane, and yet insane at the same moment.

Slowly and with very great difficulty I regained my senses, when, to my surprise, I found a face in a wide head-dress of white linen, the face of a sister of one of the religious orders.

My eyes wandered to other beds around, all of them occupied, and on the wall was a gigantic crucifix. Then I knew that I was in a hospital. My head was bandaged, and two doctors seemed to be re-adjusting the folds of linen.

I inquired in English where I was, but suddenly recollected that I was in Milan, and in the same language the elder of the two doctors replied—

“Don’t trouble where you are, my dear sir. For the present remain quiet, and get better. You’ve taken a turn now, and will recover. Be thankful for that.”

“How long have I been here?” I asked, gazing around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

“Three days,” replied the sister, a calm-faced elderly woman, who wore a huge rosary and crucifix suspended from her girdle. “We thought you would not recover—until yesterday. But you will soon be better now.”

Then I recollected the terrible fate of the young Countess of Stanchester.

And after pondering and wondering I lapsed again into a lethargic state, remaining so for many hours.

It was not before the following day that my senses really fully returned, and when they did there came to my bedside a short rather stout fussy little man in a soft hat and snuff-coloured suit, by whose bearing I knew him at once to be a delegato of the Milan police.

“I regret to disturb you, signore,” he commenced, as he seated himself at my side, “but in the circumstances it is necessary. Are you aware of the conditions under which you were discovered?”

“No,” I answered. “Tell me.”

“Well,” he said, “the affair is a mystery upon which you no doubt can throw some light, but before questioning you I have to inform you that whatever you will say will be taken down in writing, and may be used in evidence, because you are under arrest.”

“What?” I said, starting up and glaring at him. “Under arrest—for what?”

“For murder.”

“That’s interesting, at any rate,” I exclaimed, half inclined to treat the matter as a joke. “And whom have I murdered, pray?”

“A woman.”

“Well,” I said, “if you will tell me where and how I was found I may perhaps be able to throw some light on the affair. If not, perhaps you will send for the British Consul, and I’ll make a statement to him.”

At first the detective seemed disinclined to tell me anything, but finding the unconcerned manner in which I took the serious charge, he at last told me certain facts that held me utterly dumb with astonishment.

“You were found insensible by some workmen who went to do some repairs in an apartment in a house beyond the Monforte gate—you and the woman. The knife with which you struck her was lying beside you, and we also have the hatchet with which she struck you on the head in self-defence.”

“What!” I gasped, amazed. “Do you allege that I killed the woman?”

“You are guilty until you prove yourself innocent,” was the man’s cold reply, regarding me with a keen quick glance in his dark eyes.

“Well, just tell me a little more about it,” I urged. “You say that some workmen found me in the same room as the woman, and between us was a knife and a hatchet. Whose house was it?”

“Ah! you are unaware of whose place it was? You broke into it during the absence of the proprietor and took up your quarters there, of course,” was the man’s reply. “You are a foreigner—English?”

“I am. And I think before we go any further you’d better send for the Consul and let me put a different complexion upon your story. Your theory is, of course, the natural and only one, if, as you say, a knife and a hatchet have been found. But you have not told me to whom the apartments belonged,” I said.

“They were rented by a man named Rondani, manager of the silk factory in the Via della Stella. He, however, locked up the place about a month ago, having been sent by his firm on a commission to Berlin. The other day a builder received the key by post, with orders to enter and effect certain repairs, and when the men went there they discovered you both in the dining-room and at once informed us. At first you were believed to be dead, but as the doctor declared that you were still alive you were brought here and placed under arrest.”

“But I’m innocent!” I declared dismayed. “I was attacked from behind in the open street.” And then I told him of my midnight vigil, and of the weird scene of which I had been witness. It seemed plain that having been recognised and struck down by the assassins they suddenly changed their plans, taking back the body of the young Countess as well as myself, ingeniously placing us in such a position as to make it appear that I was the actual murderer. No doubt they were under the belief that I had died from the effects of the blow.

I expressed anxiety to visit the scene of the assassination, to which the man replied—

“By all means. Indeed, we shall be compelled to take you there as soon as you are well enough.”

“Let me go now,” I urged. “I can drive there all right.”

“No—to-morrow,” he said.

“What have you found upon the woman?” I inquired.

“Several things—letters in English and other things. They are being translated.”

“Letters in English. May I see them?”

“At the trial,” he said. “Instead of gloating over your crime as you seem to be doing, would it not be better to try and establish your innocence?” he suggested.

“Why should I? I’m not guilty. Therefore I fear nothing. Only take me to the scene of the crime.”

“To-morrow you shall go. I promise you,” was his reply, and then he left, one of his assistants mounting guard over me, in fear, I suppose, that I might try and escape them.

The murder of Lady Stanchester was an appalling dénouement of the mystery, and increased it rather than threw any light upon the extraordinary circumstances. It was evident that she had been deliberately enticed there to her doom, and had I not fortunately followed her, her end would have remained a complete enigma.

The police had discovered certain letters. What, I wondered, did they contain? Would they at last throw any light upon the affair which, when it got into the papers, must startle English society.

At present her name was, of course, unknown, unless perchance any of the envelopes were with the letters. I felt sympathy for my friend George, and wondered how I could prevent her name from being known.

The hours crept slowly on; the day seemed never-ending. The presence of that scrubby-bearded little Italian sitting near me reading a newspaper idly, or gossiping with the men who lay in the neighbouring beds, was particularly irritating.

At last, however, when night came on and my guard was relieved, I slept, for the pain in my head wore me out and exhausted me.

Next day, in accordance with his word, the delegato, accompanied by two other police officials, arrived, and feeling sufficiently well I dressed and accompanied them downstairs, where a closed cab was in waiting. After a short drive we turned into the half-finished street so familiar to me, and pulled up before the house over the threshold of which I had seen, carried by the assassin, the lifeless body of one of the most admired women in England.

They conducted me up a flight of stairs to a landing at the back, and there entered one of the flats with a key. I noticed that the door had been sealed, for the delegato broke the seal before inserting the key.

Inside, the place was rather barely furnished, the home of a man with small means; but as we walked into the little dining-room the sight that met my eyes was terrible.

Upon the table were the remains of a supper—decaying fruit, half-consumed champagne and an unlit cigar lying on one of the plates. Places seemed to have been laid, for five, but the cloth had been half torn off in the struggle, and a dish lay upon the ground, smashed.

Upon the floor of painted stone, the usual floor of an Italian house, were great brown patches—pools of blood that had dried up, and into one the corner of the table-cloth had draggled, staining it with a mark of hideous ugliness.

On the ground, just as they had been found, lay a heavy hatchet with blood upon it, the instrument with which my unknown assailant had struck me down. While at a little distance lay a long very thin knife, with a finely tempered three-edged blade.

To the astonishment of my three guards I took it in my hand and felt its edge. The curious thought occurred to me that with such a weapon, thin and triangular, Hugh Wingfield had been so mysteriously done to death.

“Then this is where they enticed the woman—to an apartment that was not their own, and which they evidently entered by a false key! They invited her to supper, and then—well, they murdered her,” I said reflectively. “Where is the body? May I see it?”

The confronting of a murderer with his victim is part of the procedure of the Continental police, therefore the detectives were not adverse in the least to granting my request.

“Certainly,” answered the delegato. “It is here, in this room, awaiting the official inquiry.” With that he opened the door of the small bedroom adjoining, and there, stretched upon the bed, lay the body, covered with a sheet.

I approached it, to take a last look upon the woman whose end had been so terrible, at the same time wondering what evidence the police had secured in those letters found upon her.

“God!” I cried, when one of the men with a quick movement, and watching my face the while, drew away the sheet and revealed the white dead countenance.

I stood glaring at it, as one transfixed.

“Ah!” exclaimed the delegato in satisfaction. “It is a test that few can withstand. You recognise her as your victim—good!”

I let the fellow condemn me. I allowed him to form what theory he liked, for I was far too surprised and amazed to protest.

The truth was absolutely incredible. At first I could not believe my own eyes.

The dead woman was not Marigold, but another—Marie Lejeune!