Guilty Bonds

By the dim light given by one of these it was easy to see my horrible position, perched on the edge of the landing, some part of my long ulster actually hanging over the side.

Below, all was dark.

A dense cloud seemed rising between my eyes and the match slowly burning itself out.

The choking sensation told me that it was a cloud of dust raised by the fall of so much plaster.

After waiting for a short time, scarcely daring to breathe, I struck another match, and again looked around.

The cloud had disappeared, but my clothes were whitened, indicating where its particles had settled.

Then the match burnt my fingers, and as it dropped down into the Stygian darkness I could descry its course till it became merely a faint red speck in that great depth.

Lighting yet another match, and making a great effort to pull myself together, I slowly and carefully rose and crept away from that dangerous spot.

Why need I go into further detail? Let it suffice for me to state that, with care and eagerness, I searched every room I could find, till my patience and my matches were exhausted – yet without avail.

Evidently I had entered the wrong house!

On the bottom flight I had to encounter and pass over the débris which had fallen from above. The task was a difficult and perilous one, but eventually reaching the bottom, I stood on firm ground.

My journey had been for naught; my clothes were covered with a white powder which all my resources failed to remove; and the task of regaining the street unobserved and unsuspected remained to be accomplished.

I listened attentively. There was not a sound to be heard. All was silent and gloomy, save where the light from a street-lamp shone through a distant window in another room, making the outline of the door dimly visible.

Cautiously and carefully I essayed to reach the pavement by the window which had afforded me an entrance.

Suddenly I was startled by my wrists being seized from the outside, the hoarding removed in a trice, and ere an exclamation could escape me, I found myself in the grasp of a couple of stalwart constables.

“What are you doing here – eh?” one asked, roughly, turning the insufferable glare of his lantern into my eyes.

I tried to answer, but a dimness seemed to come over me, and the only recollection that remains of what followed was of darting across a road accompanied by my two captors, one of whom held me on each side.

”‘Being on unoccupied premises, supposed for an unlawful purpose – ’ eh?” suggested the man on my right.

“That’s it,” replied the other, who had first spoken to me.

Then I was dragged into a police-station.

Chapter Twenty Six

Queer Straits

“Well, constable, what’s the charge?” asked the inspector on duty, turning on his stool and surveying me critically.

“Found him getting through the window of a house in Angel Court, Drury Lane, sir. The place is unoccupied, and we arrested him in the act of coming out,” replied the man nearest me.

“Stolen anything?”

“No, sir; we think not: we haven’t searched the premises yet.”

“Put him in the dock.”

“This way,” commanded the constable, and I followed him into a bare, unfurnished room, where I entered the prisoners’ dock, and leaned upon the steel rail, silent in perplexity.

In a few moments the inspector came in and seated himself at the desk, saying, —

“Now then, look alive; charge him, and get on your beat again.”

“Stand up straight, I want to take your measure,” the constable said, and as I obeyed, he exclaimed, “Five-foot-nine.”

“What’s your name?” asked the officer, looking towards me.

I hesitated.

“Give us your right one, now; or it may go against you.”

Why need I? Was it not a disgrace to be arrested? For Vera’s sake I felt I must keep the matter secret.

“Harold Dobson,” I replied, uttering the first name that occurred to me.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.” The inspector filled in the charge-sheet.

“Where do you live?”

Again I hesitated.

“No use hatching up any lies! Where do you live?”

“I refuse to say.”

“Hum!” muttered the officer as if to himself. “It’s only guilty persons who refuse their address; but if you won’t answer, then there’s an end of it. What are you?”

“Nothing.”

“Gentleman at large, I suppose,” said he, smiling incredulously as he surveyed my clothes.

“Very well; no occupation,” and then there was a silence of some minutes, only broken by the hissing of the flaring gas-jet, and the monotonous scratching of the inspector’s quill.

“Sign your names,” he commanded, when he had finished; and the two constables who had arrested me appended their signatures.

“Now, prisoner,” said the inspector, as he blotted the charge-sheet, “you are charged with breaking and entering the dwelling-house, Number 4, Angel Court, Drury Lane, for the purpose of committing a felony. I must caution you that any statement you make will be taken down and used as evidence against you.”

“I don’t see how I can be suspected of a felony when the place is unoccupied,” I replied.

“You must leave that point to be decided to-morrow by the magistrate. A man don’t break into a house for nothing.”

“Two days ago a man died in that house, and I was searching for his body in order to give you information,” I said.

“That can’t be true, sir,” interposed one of the men. “The house hasn’t been lived in for a year or more.”

“Well, if a man died there a couple of days ago there would be surely be some furniture, or some traces of habitation. When he’s in the cell, go and examine the premises thoroughly.”

“Very well, sir,” the man answered.

“Now,” said the inspector, turning to me, “have you anything more to say?”

“Nothing; I’ve told you the truth.”

“Turn out your pockets. We’ll take care of your valuables,” he said laying stress on the last word, as if it were not likely my possessions were worth much.

The constable lifted the bar allowing me to step from the dock, and I went to a small table and commenced placing the contents of my pockets thereon. Some silver, my pocket-book, penknife, pencil-case, and other articles I produced, each of which were examined by the two men.

The pocket-book, one that Vera had given me, attracted the most curiosity, and one of them opened it and commenced reading my memoranda, also scrutinising the various papers and cards therein.

“Hulloa, what’s this?” he suddenly exclaimed, holding a piece of paper nearer his eyes and examining it carefully. The ejaculation caused the other constable to peer over his shoulder, while the inspector rose and walked towards them.

It was then only that I recognised the horrifying reality. It was the fatal seal, the one given me by the strange man, now dead, that they had discovered? “Why, great Heavens!” cried the inspector, as he took the paper from the man’s hand, “don’t you see? It’s the seal that puzzled us so last year!”

“Good God? so it is!” ejaculated both the men almost simultaneously, a look of abject astonishment upon their faces.

The inspector lifted his eyes from the seal and glanced at me keenly. He had been thoroughly taken by surprise at the discovery, but did not lose his head.

“Warner,” he said, hastily, addressing one of the men, “go round to the superintendent and ask him to come here at once.”

“Right, sir!” and, swinging his cape around his shoulders, the man departed.

“Richards, remain here with the prisoner,” he added, as he turned and left the charge-room also.

A few moments later the sharp ring of the telegraph bell in the outer office broke upon my ear, followed by the whirr and click of the instrument; and with a sinking heart I knew that information of my capture was being flashed to Scotland Yard.

For myself I cared nothing. I had never told Vera of my connection with that series of mysterious crimes that had startled the country, and was only thinking of the means by which I could still keep her in ignorance of the facts.

I had given a fictitious name and refused my address; if I were firm and careful not to commit myself I might still be able to keep my identity a secret.

What a fool I had been, thought I, not to have left the seal in the cash-box, as I first intended, and this reflection brought with it another, more maddening, when I remembered that, although I was bearing this oppression and mental torture for Vera’s sake, nevertheless I had found a portion of a seal at Elveham, identical with that which had produced such a consternation among the police.

Again I was seized with that horrible apprehension that Vera wished to rid herself of me, and the seal I found in my library was to have been placed on the next victim – myself!

Why should I not make a clean breast of the matter to the inspector? Vera had already proved herself base and treacherous. For her I had suffered enough in that Russian dungeon, at the horrors of which I involuntarily shuddered, even then. Were I to give my right name the suspicion could easily be removed, and I should be a free man. I was wavering. I own I felt almost inclined to do it. Then I reflected that my wife must know the secret of the seal, and that in the event of my release detectives would be busy. What if it were traced to her and she stood in the position I then was? No, I decided to conceal my identity, come what might, for I had not forgotten the promise I made her before we parted.

In a couple of weeks her explanation would be forthcoming, and in the meantime the police might do their worst.

Presently the inspector returned, and I was taken to a small room leading from the charge-room.

“How did this seal come into your possession?” the officer asked sharply.

“It was given to me.”

“By whom?”

“By a man who is dead.”

“What was his name?”

“I do not know.”

“You don’t know; or you won’t tell me, which?”

“I have already answered.”

“We shall want to know more than that,” he said, ominously.

“Unsatisfactory as my answer may be it is nevertheless a fact,” I replied.

“You expect us to believe it?” he asked with a suspicious smile.

“Discredit it if you like, it’s all the same to me,” I replied rather disinterestedly, after which the officer turned on his heel and left.

I sank upon a chair in a semi-exhausted state, and tried to think of some way out of this maze, for I could plainly see none of my statements appeared to have even the elements of truth.

The constable stood silently at the door, his arms folded, his gaze fixed upon me. He was watching me, fearing, perhaps, lest I should attempt suicide to escape justice.

Shortly afterwards three men entered, accompanied by the inspector. Two were detectives – I knew them at a glance – the other a tall, dark man, with curled moustaches, pointed beard, and a pair of keen grey eyes. He spoke with authority, in a sharp, abrupt tone, and, as I afterwards, discovered, I was correct in thinking him the superintendent of that division of Metropolitan police.

“I understand you give a false name, refuse your address, and decline to say how you came possessed of this seal?” he said to me.

“The seal was given me by a man who is dead,” I repeated, calmly.

“Has that man any relations living?”

“I don’t know.”

“What evidence can you bring to corroborate your statement that it was given to you?”

“None. But stay – I have one friend whom I told of the occurrence, although I do not wish him to be brought into this matter.”

“You refuse to name him, or call him on your behalf?” said the chief officer, raising his eyebrows. “I do.”

“Are you aware of the significance of this symbol?”

“Perfectly – in a general sense.”

“Then perhaps it will be no surprise to you to know that a lady named Inglewood was discovered murdered at her house in Bedford Place some time ago, with an identical seal pinned upon her breast, and further, that a woman was found in Angel Court a short time back. Her throat was cut, and she lay within a few yards of where you were arrested. Upon her body was found a portion of paper to which part of a seal adhered, and this paper, which is in our possession, exactly fits the piece that has been torn from the one found in your pocket-book.”

“It does!” I cried, amazed, for in a moment I recognised the serious suspicion now resting upon me.

“Now; what have you to say?”

“I have nothing to add,” I said dreamily.

“And you still refuse your address?”

“Yes.”

“Very well, then; we must find out for ourselves.” After a few words to the detectives in an undertone, he turned and said, —

“Inspector, you will charge him on suspicion of the wilful murder of the woman – and, by the way, let one of the men sit with him to-night. I’m going down to the Yard.”

“Very well, sir,” replied the officer, and they all left the room, with the exception of the statuesque constable.

Chapter Twenty Seven

A Guiltless Crime

Down one dimly-lit, dreary corridor, along an other, and up a flight of spiral stairs, I walked listlessly, with two warders at my side.

A low door opened, a breath of warm air, a hum of voices, and I was standing in the prisoners’ dock at the Central Criminal Court, Old Bailey.

As I entered and faced the grave-looking judge, and the aldermen in their fur-trimmed scarlet robes seated beside him, I heard the stentorian voice of the usher cry “Silence,” and immediately the clerk rose, and with a paper in his hand, said in clear monotonous tones:

“Prisoner at the bar, you are indicted for that you did on the night of August the fifteenth, eighteen hundred and eighty-seven, wilfully murder Ethel Inglewood, one of Her Majesty’s subjects, at Number 67, Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, by stabbing her with a knife. Are you guilty, or not guilty?”

Mr Roland, Q.C., who, with Mr Crane, had been retained for my defence, rose promptly and replied, “Prisoner pleads not guilty, m’lord.”

There was a dead silence.

All that could be heard was the rustling of the briefs of the great array of counsel before me, and the busy hum and din of the city that came through the open window, while a stray streak of dusky sunlight, glinting across the sombre Court, fell like a bar of golden dust between myself and the judge. The twelve benevolent-looking yet impassive jurymen sat motionless on my left, and on my right the crowd of eager spectators craned their necks in their curiosity to obtain a glimpse of one who was alleged to be the author of the mysterious crime.

Mine was a celebrated case.

Three weeks had nearly elapsed since my arrest, and Scotland Yard, so far from being idle, had succeeded in working up evidence and charging me with a horrible murder, for which I had been committed to take my trial by the magistrate at Bow Street.

Of Vera I had seen nothing. Both Bob and Demetrius had visited me whilst under remand and endeavoured to cheer me, although both admitted they had been served with subpoenas by the prosecution, but of the nature of the evidence they wished them to give they were ignorant.

Rumours had reached me, even in my prison cell, of the intense excitement that had been caused by the news of my capture, and the plain facts had, I heard, become so distorted in their progress from mouth to mouth that not only was it anticipated that my identity as the murderer was completely established, but speculation had already planned for me another atrocity in connection with the spot where I had been found.

The one topic of conversation was my arrest, and in private circles, as well as in places of general meeting, little else was discussed. The public pulse, in fact, was fevered.

With the opening of the trial the crisis had arrived.

I had been told that the counsel appearing to conduct my prosecution were Mr Norman Ayrton, Q.C., and Mr Paget, and as I glanced at these gentlemen seated in close consultation I instinctively dreaded the cold, merciless face of the former, and the supercilious nonchalance of the latter.

As perfect quietude was restored in the stifling Court with its long tiers of white expectant faces, Mr Ayrton gave his gown a twitch, and with a preliminary cough, rose.

The warder handed me a chair, and, seating myself, I concentrated my attention upon the clear, concise utterances of the man who was doing his utmost to fix the awful stigma upon me.

Turning to the judge, he said: “May it please your lordship, I appear on behalf of the Crown to prosecute the prisoner at the bar. The case which your lordship and gentlemen of the jury have before you to-day is one of an abnormal and extraordinary nature. It will be within the recollection of the Court that during the last three years a series of mysterious and diabolical murders have been committed, absolutely, as far as at present known, without motive. What may have been the motive of these, however, is not the point to which I desire to call your attention, but to one utterly unaccountable crime, as it then appeared, which took place on the night of August the fifteenth, two years ago. On that occasion a lady named Mrs Ethel Inglewood, residing at 67, Bedford Place, Bloomsbury, was discovered murdered, and the connecting link between that tragic occurrence and six of a similar character which had preceded it was the circumstance that a seal of peculiar design, fixed to a blank paper, was found pinned upon the breast of that lady. Of the seal, and the mysteries surrounding it, I shall be in a position to give your lordship and the gentlemen of the jury some further information at a later stage in these proceedings.

“It is sufficient for my purpose at the present moment simply to indicate the fact that the seal, connected in such a peculiar manner with the previous outrages, was also a conspicuous object in this, and undoubtedly proved that the crime, if not the work of the same hand, emanated at any rate from the same source. The prisoner at the bar was the principal witness in the discovery of the murder of Mrs Inglewood, and gave evidence before the Coroner, when a verdict of wilful murder against some person unknown was returned. He professed, in the assistance which he then gave, to have been animated simply and solely by the desire to bring the offender to justice. Considerable doubt was entertained by the police with regard to the veracity of that statement, and I believe, my lord, it will be in my power to prove, by most conclusive evidence, that the prisoner then committed the crime of perjury in addition to the greater and more hideous one for which he stands here indicted.”

Counsel then paused and examined the first folio of his brief.

To my disordered imagination it seemed as if I already stood convicted.

Again the eminent Queen’s Counsel gave a preliminary cough, and resumed: —

“If I shall be in a position to establish beyond any shadow of doubt that the prisoner really committed the murder in Bloomsbury, the evidence which can be adduced against him in regard to a second count, which, however, is not on the present indictment, is even still more indubitable. On the night of March the fourth last, the body of a woman, which has never yet been identified, was discovered lying in a blind alley, called Angel Court, leading from Drury Lane. She was quite dead when discovered, having been stabbed in the throat, and on her breast, as in the previous tragedy, was a piece of paper from which the larger portion had evidently been roughly torn. The small piece adhering was pinned in exactly the same fashion as upon the deceased Mrs Inglewood, and no one could doubt that the murder which had been committed formed one of that series of horrifying outrages of which it formed the eighth.

“From that day till the present no clue whatever has been obtained as to the identity of the poor woman who was then discovered, but events have so conspired, and the police have been so vigilant, that a strange finale has been brought about. There is an old truism, gentlemen, that ‘Murder will out,’ and though that expression is worn almost threadbare by constant repetition, its force is recognised, and its truth is applicable as much now as ever. ‘Murder,’ in this case ‘did out,’ by a most fortuitous circumstance which I will briefly narrate, although the story has been freely circulated in the public Press.”

In a few terse sentences counsel explained my arrest, and the discovery of the seal in my wallet.

“Such, my lord,” he continued, “were the means by which the prisoner at the bar came into the hands of the police, and I would impress very strongly upon the jury, at this stage, the consideration that when charged at the police-station prisoner not only gave a fictitious name, but refused his address, besides giving as his excuse for his presence in the house on the night in question, a silly story which I venture to believe, you, gentlemen of the jury, will at once see to be outside the bounds of credibility. In the extraordinary explanations which the prisoner has given of his actions during the past year – strange and improbable – none so utterly feeble as these have been advanced. He asserts that his motive in going to the house in Angel Court, at that hour of the evening, was the altogether monstrous one of filching from a corpse evidence in connection – in close connection, I may say, gentlemen – with this very crime which we are now investigating.”

A murmur of surprise ran through the densely-packed Court. This was the first time my explanation had been made public.

“Incredible as it may seem,” said counsel, immediately resuming, “for the last twelve months he says he has been actively pursuing inquiries in regard to these crimes, and that his own life having, in some way which he will not at present disclose, been endangered, it has given him peculiar reason so to do. This story, of course, the jury will regard in any light they choose, but I rather think that when the evidence which I shall presently call is given, absolutely no credence will be placed upon it. My remarks will be brief at the present moment, but my learned friends who have been instructed for the defence, will, no doubt, seek to attach great importance to the personal character of the prisoner. Nevertheless I would ask what that character is? Two years ago this man, who used formerly, it is true, to occupy a position of some importance in journalism, became possessed of a fortune, and whether it be that the possession of so much wealth suddenly turned him into a monomaniac, or whether, previously to that time, his actions, of which we have, at present, no record, were characterised by this mad thirst for blood, I cannot inform you. Whatever things may have appeared to the outside world, there is no doubt in my mind that the prisoner has been cherishing a most intense and unnatural hatred against mankind, and that with the accession of wealth his means for executing his fell projects were correspondingly enhanced.

“It is true he bears the character of an English gentleman, but men of the world, such as I see before me in the jury box, are not to be deceived by mere detail of dress or conversation. The actions of men are the means by which they must be judged, and, looking upon the past life of this man by the lurid glare which the statements of the witnesses – and which his own actions themselves afford – it will be matter for surprise that his career has been allowed to go on so long unchecked. When he talks of his character, gentlemen, let me ask one question. In what was he engaged for nearly six months out of the last twelve? Perhaps my learned friend will answer this in his defence. The prisoner refuses, gentlemen, to give one word of explanation.”

Again there was a rustle in court, and the usher interposed with his stern command of “Silence?”

“Now, gentlemen, with these few brief observations, which I shall supplement later on, I will proceed to call my witnesses – persons whose veracity is unimpeachable – who will give you such an insight into his past life that will leave not the faintest suspicion of doubt in your minds that the prisoner at the bar has been the perpetrator of one, at least, of that string of almost unparalleled crimes which have shocked the whole of the civilised world.”

As the leading counsel, with a significant smile at the jury, resumed his seat, and his junior rose to call the witnesses, I folded my arms and waited.