Читать книгу The Werewolf Blood Trail: Tales of Gore, Terror & Hunt - Редьярд Джозеф Киплинг - Страница 59

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Scarcely ten minutes had elapsed since the unfortunate Agnes was thus suddenly cut off in the bloom of youth and beauty, when a lieutenant of police, with his guard of sbirri, passed along the road skirting Wagner’s garden.

They were evidently in search of some malefactor, for, stopping in their course, they began to deliberate on the business which they had in hand.

“Which way could he possibly have gone?” cried one, striking the butt-end of his pike heavily upon the ground.

“How could we possibly have missed him?” exclaimed another.

“Stephano is not so easily caught, my men,” observed the lieutenant. “He is the most astute and cunning of the band of which he is the captain. And yet, I wish we had pounced upon him, since we were so nicely upon his track.”

“And a thousand ducats offered by the state for his capture,” suggested one of the sbirri.

“Yes; ’tis annoying!” ejaculated the lieutenant, “but I could have sworn he passed this way.”

“And I could bear the same evidence, signor,” observed the first speaker. “Maybe he has taken refuge in those bushes.”

“Not unlikely. We are fools to grant him a moment’s vantage ground. Over the fence, my men, and beat amongst these gardens.”

Thus speaking, the lieutenant set the example, by leaping the railing, and entering the grounds belonging to Wagner’s abode.

The sbirri, who were six in number, including their officer, divided themselves into two parties, and proceeded to search the gardens.

Suddenly a loud cry of horror burst from one of the sections; and when the other hastened to the spot, the sbirri composing it found their comrades in the act of raising the corpse of Agnes.

“She is quite dead,” said the lieutenant, placing his hand upon her heart. “And yet the crime cannot have been committed many minutes, as the corpse is scarcely cold, and the blood still oozes forth.”

“What a lovely creature she must have been,” exclaimed one of the sbirri.

“Cease your profane remarks, my man,” cried the lieutenant. “This must be examined into directly. Does any one know who dwells in that mansion?”

“Signor Wagner, a wealthy German,” was the reply given by a sbirro.

“Then come with me, my man,” said the lieutenant; “and let us lose no time in searching his house. One of you must remain by the corpse—and the rest may continue the search after the bandit, Stephano.”

Having issued these orders, the lieutenant, followed by the sbirro whom he had chosen to accompany him, hastened to the mansion.

The gate was opened by an old porter, who stared in astonishment when he beheld the functionaries of justice visiting that peaceful dwelling. But the lieutenant ordered him to close and lock the gate; and having secured the key, the officer said, “We must search this house; a crime has been committed close at hand.”

“A crime!” ejaculated the porter; “then the culprit is not here—for there is not a soul beneath this roof who would perpetrate a misdeed.”

“Cease your prating, old man,” said the lieutenant, sternly. “We have a duty to perform—see that we be not molested in executing it.”

“But what is the crime, signor, of which——”

“Nay—that you shall know anon,” interrupted the lieutenant. “In the name of his serene highness, the duke, I command you in the first place to lead me and my followers to the presence of your master.”

The old man hastened to obey this mandate, and he conducted the sbirri into the chamber where Wagner, having thrown off his garments, was partaking of that rest which he so much needed.

At the sound of heavy feet and the clanking of martial weapons, Fernand started from the slumber into which he had fallen only a few minutes previously.

“What means this insolent intrusion?” he exclaimed, his cheeks flushing with anger at the presence of the police.

“Pardon us, signor,” said the lieutenant, in a respectful tone: “but a dreadful crime has been committed close by—indeed within the inclosure of your own grounds——”

“A dreadful crime!” ejaculated Wagner.

“Yes, signor; a crime——”

The officer was interrupted by an ejaculation of surprise which burst from the lips of his attendant sbirro; and, turning hastily round, he beheld his follower intently scrutinizing the attire which Fernand had ere now thrown off.

“Ah! blood-stains!” cried the lieutenant, whose attention was directed toward those marks by the finger of his man. “Then is the guilty one speedily discovered! Signor!” he added, turning once more toward Wagner, “are those your garments?”

An expression of indescribable horror convulsed the countenance of Fernand; for the question of the officer naturally reminded him of his dreadful fate—the fate of a Wehr-Wolf—although, we should observe, he never remembered, when restored to the form of a man, what he might have done during the long hours that he wore the shape of a ferocious monster.

Still, as he knew that his garments had been soiled, torn and blood-stained in the course of the preceding night, it was no wonder that he shuddered and became convulsed with mental agony when his terrible doom was so forcibly called to his mind.

His emotions were naturally considered to be corroborative evidence of guilt: and the lieutenant laying his hand upon Wagner’s shoulder, said in a stern, solemn manner, “In the name of his highness our prince, I arrest you for the crime of murder!”

“Murder!” repeated Fernand, dashing away the officer’s arm; “you dare not accuse me of such a deed!”

“I accuse you of murder, signor,” exclaimed the lieutenant. “Within a hundred paces of your dwelling a young lady——”

“A young lady!” cried Wagner, thinking of Agnes, whom he had left in the garden.

“Yes, signor, a young lady has been most barbarously murdered!” added the officer in an impressive tone.

“Agnes! Agnes!” almost screamed the unhappy man, as this dreadful announcement fell upon his ears. “Oh! is it possible that thou art no more, my poor Agnes!”

He covered his face with his hands and wept bitterly.

The lieutenant made a sign to his follower, who instantly quitted the room.

“There must be some mistake in this, signor,” said the old porter, approaching the lieutenant and speaking in a voice tremulous with emotion. “The master whom I serve, and whom you accuse, is incapable of the deed imputed to him.”

“Yes. God knows how truly you speak!” ejaculated Wagner, raising his head. “That girl—oh! sooner than have harmed one single hair of her head—— But how know you that it is Agnes who is murdered?” he cried abruptly, turning toward the lieutenant.

“It was you who said it, signor,” calmly replied the officer, as he fixed his dark eyes keenly upon Fernand.

“Oh! it was a surmise—a conjecture—because I parted with Agnes a short time ago in the garden,” exclaimed Wagner, speaking in hurried and broken sentences.

“Behold the victim!” said the lieutenant, who had approached the window, from which he was looking.

Wagner sprung from his couch, and glanced forth into the garden beneath.

The sbirri were advancing along the gravel pathway, bearing amongst them the corpse of Agnes upon whose pallid countenance the morning sunbeams were dancing, as if in mockery even at death.

“Holy Virgin! it is indeed Agnes!” cried Wagner, in a tone of the most profound heart-rending anguish, and he fell back senseless in the arms of the lieutenant.

An hour afterward, Fernand Wagner was the inmate of a dungeon beneath the palace inhabited by the Duke of Florence.