Читать книгу The Peer and the Woman - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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Almost at the same time as the jury were sitting in Grosvenor Square upon the body of the Earl of Harrowdean an inquest of a very different character was being held in another part of London. The scene was the Rising Sun, Brown Street, Bethnal Green Road, and the subject of the inquest the body of an unknown woman found murdered in her room on the same night as the terrible West End murder.

The mysterious murder of a peer of the realm, a great diplomatist, and one of the most distinguished men of the day, is a far more sensational episode than the murder of an unknown woman in a slum. But local interest in the less notorious murder was very strong indeed. The victim was almost a stranger in the district, but upon those with whom she had spoken or come in contact she had made an impression. She was not one of them, and they knew it. She had shared none of their vices, nor had their habits been hers. There were many stories floating about, and some very mysterious whispers, but they were all agreed upon one point. She was not one of them.

The jurymen, one by one, picking their way through the filthy streets and elbowing a passage for themselves among the crowd of ruffianly-looking men and brazen-faced, unsexed-looking women who swarmed about the door of the Rising Sun, heard something of these rumors and felt their curiosity quickened. They were watched with envious eyes as they passed through the swing-doors and were admitted into the public-house. Perhaps they felt something of the same sense of added self-importance in having been selected for this dreary task as their fellow-jurymen in the West End had felt when respectfully ushered to their places by a little body of bowing black-liveried servants. If so, they showed little of it in their faces, which, to do them justice, were stolid enough. One by one they passed in and made their way to the sanded parlor, stained with and odorous of beer and smoke. Most of them were minor tradesmen in the neighborhood, and when they were all assembled in a group they looked as hard, and unsympathetic, and wooden-headed a body of men as could easily have been got together.

The coroner arrived in a hansom, with a bland apology for unpunctuality, which was received by a sullen silence. He sank into the chair at the head of the table made a great show of pausing to recover his breath, and proposed that the proceedings should be commenced by an inspection of the body, which, he added, had not yet been identified.

The proposition was acted upon at once. Preceded by the sergeant in charge of the case, the little body of men filed up a creaking wooden staircase into an upper room, light and clean, but barely furnished. There in the middle of the chamber was a plain wooden bedstead, and upon it, underneath the smoothly-drawn counterpane, was the outline of a human figure. With a touch that was almost gentle the coroner withdrew the covering and disclosed the face of the dead woman.

The course, rough body of men who thronged around felt something akin to awe pierce even their toughened sensibilities. They looked over one another's shoulders into the calm, peaceful face of a beautiful woman instead of, as most of them had expected, into a vice-stained hideous countenance.

The mass of golden hair which lay coiled about her pillow was tinged with gray, and there were lines upon her forehead; but these were small drawbacks. There was something, too, about the small shapely head, with its firm mouth and well-cut features, which was essentially thoroughbred.

"It's a lady, or I never see'd one," whispered a juryman.

There was a murmur of assent. A new interest in the case had been awakened among them. Instead of taking a hasty glance at the corpse and hurrying away to finish the business up, they lingered round the bedside, as though loath to depart. One of them lifted up her arm with clumsy reverence and silently pointed out to the others the plain gold wedding-ring on her delicate white finger. When at last they turned away they talked to one another in whispers, and the coroner looked thoughtful.

"Have any attempts at identification been made?" he asked the sergeant who was in charge of the case.

"Several, sir, but all unsuccessful. Every one who came turned away at once after a single glance at her. Beg pardon, sir, one moment."

The coroner obeyed his beckoning finger and stepped on one side. The sergeant drew a small parcel from his pocket, and dropped his voice to a mysterious pitch.

"Mrs. Preece, sir—that's the woman who was called in to see to her—found this 'ere tightly locked on the top of her arm, above the elbow. It's a curious spring, you see, sir, and it took her a long time to take it off, it was so stiff. Seems a queer place, like, for a bracelet, don't it, sir?"

The coroner took it to the light and examined it. It was simply a plain gold bangle, without initials or any mark. The fastening, as the sergeant had remarked, was very stiff, as though it had not been often used. The coroner was not a romantic man—far from it—but he held the bracelet reverently, and indulged for a few moments in silent thought. It was a love token, that was very evident, and she had worn it though sorrow and distress and poverty, perhaps degradation; she had worn it still heedless of the fact that it would have brought her gold, would have brought her food and drink and comfort, at any rate, for a time, had she chosen to part with it. Doubtless it was the one solitary link which bound her to the past.

"You did quite right, sergeant," he said, in a businesslike tone. "There is no object in keeping the discovery secret, though. It may aid toward identification."

The sergeant saluted and followed the coroner into the sanded parlor where the jury were waiting. The proceedings were commenced at once, but at a very early stage there came an interruption.. A four-wheeled cab stopped at the door outside, creating no little commotion among the little crowd of idlers who had gathered there, and out of it a short, pale man, very much muffled up, was seen to descend and enter the public-house. There was a moment's curious pause, and then came a knock at the door.

"Come in," responded the coroner.

A policeman entered and saluted.

"Beg pardon, sir," he exclaimed, apologetically; "but there's a gentleman outside as thinks he can identify the body."

"Very good. Take his name and address, policeman, and show him upstairs," directed the coroner. "Let me know the result."

The policeman closed the door and returned to the new-comer, whom he found sitting down on a bench outside. He repeated the coroner's directions to him.

The stranger hesitated for a moment. Then he drew a small morocco case from his pocket and took out a card.

The policeman held it between his thumb and fore-finger and scrutinized it.

"M. de Feurget, 19 Craven Street. Very good, sir. Will you come this way?"

The policeman crossed the passage and descended the narrow creaking stairs. The other followed slowly, holding on to the banisters with one hand and with the other pressed to his side. At the top of the landing he paused and gasped for breath.

"Seems to me you ain't scarcely fit to be out," remarked the burly policeman, pityingly.

"I'm not—well," M. de Feurget answered. "Is that the room?"

The policeman nodded, with his hand upon the handle. M. de Feurget checked him.

"One moment. Do me—a favor, will you? Let me—go in—alone. You—wait for—me here."

The request was backed by a solid and glittering argument, which was irresistible. The policeman was but human, and sovereign tips are scarce. Besides, there was no harm in it it wasn't even against orders. So he opened the door and stood aside while M. de Feurget passed in.

It was twilight in the room, and at first he could see nothing but the dim outline of a figure stretched out upon the iron bedstead. He moved a step toward it, groping his way and staggering like a drunken man. Then he stopped suddenly, covered his face with his hands, and half turned away as though he dared go no further. He moved a step nearer—gazed with fascinated eyes at a spot on the white sheet, and wondered how it came there. Again he moved another step, and his fingers rested upon the coverlet which concealed the face. Dare he raise it? How his fingers, his knees, his whole frame, quivered with an unutterable horror. God! that this should be she!

The hand with its wedding-ring had been left hanging down. He caught it passionately in his and bore it to his lips. He held it away from him, and looked at the blue veins and white fingers with streaming eyes. It was hers; he recognized it. Farewell hope! Farewell all dreams of an altered and a happier future! Welcome grim, black despair!

Dead! Murdered! With a tenderness which no woman's touch could have equalled, he lifted the coverlet from her face and gazed into the still features. It was she. Beautiful in life, beautiful in death, beautiful forever in his heart. Dead or alive the last embrace should be his, and throwing himself down on his knees by the side of the rough bedstead he pressed his trembling lips to her cold forehead, and folded his arms in one last passionate caress around her still, lifeless form.

Downstairs the coroner was growing impatient, and at last sent a messenger up to know how long the gentleman was going to be. M. de Feurget met him on the stairs and returned with him.

"I am glad to say that I am not able to positively identify the deceased," he announced. "She is not the person of whom I am in search. At—at—the same time I have seen her before."

"Do you know her name?" the coroner asked. M. de Feurget shook his head.

"I'm afraid not. I met her abroad, I believe, but where I cannot say. I feel some interest in this sad affair, on that account, and if—if it would be permitted—I should be glad to arrange for the funeral."

The coroner thought that there would be no difficulty.

"Perhaps, sir, as you feel some interest in the matter, you would like to remain during the inquest," he added courteously. "Something may happen to refresh your memory, and any evidence as to the antecedents of the deceased would be very acceptable to us."

M. de Feurget bowed and took the chair which was offered to him.

"I should certainly like to watch the proceedings," he said, quietly.