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.