Guilty Bonds

“When he had gone, I placed the money I had stolen in a small hand-bag, and crept out by the front door. A few days later my young man and myself sailed for Australia, and that is all I know of the murder.”

There was a long pause when the voluble witness had concluded her breathless recital.

Chapter Thirty One

By whose Hand?

“This is a most remarkable statement,” observed the judge, regarding the woman keenly. “You swear positively that the prisoner was not the murderer?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Then surely you would be able to recognise the man whom you assert stabbed your mistress? Have you seen him since?”

“Never.”

“Don’t tell me his name, but answer me; do you know it?”

“No; my mistress always called him Victor, and told me, whenever he came, to announce him as Monsieur. He, too, always addressed her by her Christian name.”

“Why did you not give information to the police at the time?” asked his lordship.

“Because I should have been prosecuted for robbery,” she replied, confusedly.

“I have only one question, m’lord,” exclaimed counsel for the prosecution, rising. Turning to the witness, he asked: “When was the first occasion upon which you saw the prisoner?”

“Half-an-hour ago.”

“And you positively swear you never saw him before to-day?”

“I do.”

“Witness,” said the judge, “you will give the police a detailed description of the man you saw commit the murder. That will do.”

Mr Roland and Vera were in earnest conversation. He appeared to be dubious about some point upon which she was trying to convince him.

The spectators were eager for the next development of the curious case. They had followed the verbal duel with the same interest as that inspired by a thrilling drama performed by first-class artistes. Several times already applause had almost broken out, and was only suppressed by the dread of the Court being cleared.

“The next witness, m’lord, will be Boris Seroff,” Mr Roland said, glancing hesitatingly at his brief, while Vera retired to a seat where I could not observe her.

“Seroff!” I repeated to myself, “who can he be? Surely he must be a relation of Vera’s; and yet I’ve never heard of him!”

The name was shouted down the corridor outside the Court; then there was a movement among the eager crowd which stood about the door, and a man advanced towards the witness-box.

Instantly I recognised him. It was the murderer!

What fresh intrigue was this?

I leapt from my chair, and leaning over the dock, cried:

“My lord, that man who is going to give evidence, is – ”

“Enough?” interposed the judge. “If you cannot be silent, you will be removed to the cells during the remainder of your trial.”

The warder at my side grasped me roughly by the arm, and forcing me into my chair, whispered, “Don’t be a fool! Such excitement can do you no good.”

I saw how utterly helpless I was, yet I was determined to denounce this man by some means. The midnight scene in the Dene came back to me in all its hideous reality. Vera’s lips defiled by those of a murderer!

The thought goaded me to desperation. Springing to my feet again I was on the point of proclaiming his guilt, when the first question was put by my counsel.

“Now, Mr Seroff, what are you?”

With bated breath I awaited his answer.

“I am brother-in-law of accused. His wife is my sister.”

His sister! Then at least I had no cause for jealousy, and had judged Vera wrongly.

“Tell us, please, what you know of the circumstances attending the murder of Mrs Inglewood.”

The witness twirled his moustache nervously, and glanced at me; then, as he saw my eyes fixed upon him, he scowled and turned away.

Yes. I felt convinced it was he. I could see guilt written upon his face.

“The story is a rather long one, and there are some matters which I cannot explain; however, I will tell you what occurred on the night in question. The murdered woman, who, for certain reasons, assumed the name of Mrs Inglewood, was my wife. She was called Rina Beranger before I married her, a schoolfellow of my sister’s, at Warsaw. After our marriage it was imperative she should live in England, and for that reason she left me. I resumed my position, that of an officer of Cossacks, and for a year we were parted. At last I obtained leave and travelled from St. Petersburg to London. I landed at Hull on the afternoon of the fifteenth of August, and at once telegraphed to my wife announcing that I should arrive about midnight.”

“Did you sign that telegram?” asked Mr Roland.

“With my initial only.”

“Is that the message?” counsel asked, handing up the telegram which had been put in as evidence against me.

“Yes; it is.”

“I would point out, your lordship,” observed Mr Roland, “that the letter B. stands for Boris, as well as Burgoyne, the prisoner.”

Continuing, the witness said: “I arrived home soon after twelve at night, and was admitted by the woman I see sitting in the well of the Court. Supper was laid in an upstairs room, and my wife, who I thought appeared unusually nervous, called for it to be served at once. I do not remember how long we sat together talking; it might have been a couple of hours for aught I know. My wife was telling me certain things, which it is unnecessary to repeat here, they being purely business matters, when suddenly she recollected that she had a letter to give me. It was downstairs in the drawing-room, she said, and begging me to remain where I was she left the room, closing the door.”

“Was this only a ruse on her part?” asked the judge.

“I’m afraid so. She – she did not return,” he continued, with a sign of emotion. “After she had been absent five or six minutes I heard a shrill scream, and then a sound like the smashing of glass. At first I believed that the servant had fallen with a tray, and fully expected my wife to return and relate the occurrence; but as she did not come I opened the door and listened. All was silent. The terrible quiet unmanned me. I called to her, but there was no response, then, suspecting that some accident had happened, I dashed downstairs and entered the room – ”

“And what did you find?” counsel inquired.

The witness appeared overcome with agitation, which he strove to repress. But was it only feigned?

“There – I saw my wife – lying on the floor – murdered!”

“How did you act immediately after discovering the crime?”

“I – I fled from the house,” he stammered.

“Did you not first ascertain whether the unfortunate woman was really dead? Did you not call the servant?”

“No. Overcome by sudden fear I left the place, lest I should be suspected of committing the murder.” This statement had a great effect upon the spectators, and it was some moments before quiet was sufficiently restored for the interrogatory to proceed. “Did you give information to the police?”

“No. I left for Paris at ten the same morning.”

“Can you say positively that it was not the prisoner who committed the murder?”

“Yes; I am certain it was not,” he replied, drawing a long breath.

I was still convinced he was the murderer. He might, I thought, be endeavouring to shield himself by giving evidence against some imaginary person. “Have you any idea who committed the deed?”

“I have – I believe – ”

“Stop! Whatever information you can give in a serious charge like this must be given to the police,” exclaimed the judge, interrupting.

“Shall I give the police the name of the person I suspect?” asked the Russian.

“Yes; at the conclusion of your examination.” Counsel for the prosecution rose and took a deliberate view of the witness, saying: “Tell me, Mr Seroff, what prompted you to act in the extraordinary manner you did on discovering the crime?”

“I had no desire to be suspected.”

“Would it not have been more natural to have given information at once, instead of hiding yourself?”

“Possibly it would.”

“Then what caused you to keep the matter a secret, and not come forward until now?” demanded the lawyer, with a shrewd look.

“I had my reasons.”

“It is those reasons I desire to know.”

“I refuse to state them.”

“Then your evidence is very incomplete, and I do not think the jury will accept it.”

“Not if I place the police on the track of the assassin?”

“You forget that by your refusal to state the whole of the facts, and keeping the matter secret as you have, that you are an accessory, in a certain degree, to your wife’s murder.”

“I’m fully aware of it; nevertheless I refuse to give you the reason why I believed I should be suspected of the crime.”

“Very well,” said counsel, in a tone of annoyance, resuming his seat. “I hope the jury will accept your evidence with the utmost caution.”

“Have you any more witnesses, Mr Roland?” the judge asked.

“No, m’lord. This concludes the case for the defence.”

Boris Seroff descended from the witness-box, and left the Court in company with an inspector of police and a detective.

A few seconds later they returned, held a hurried conversation with the clerk of the Court, who in turn whispered something to the judge, which appeared greatly to surprise him. Then the two officers went out again.

Had my newly-discovered brother-in-law divulged the name of the murderer?

Those were moments of terrible excitement.

Chapter Thirty Two

Rays of Hope

My trial was concluding.

With logical clearness Mr Roland addressed the jury for my defence, saying that in the face of the evidence which had been produced, and which all tended to show that the murder was committed by another person, he felt assured they would not find me guilty. He commented at some length upon the lack of corroborative evidence on the part of the prosecution, criticising the weak points in that masterly manner which had brought him so much renown.

“I again admit, gentlemen,” he continued, “mine is not a wholly satisfactory defence, for the prisoner appears to have acted somewhat suspiciously, and he refuses to explain certain matters connected with the occurrence; yet this trial is satisfactory, inasmuch as it has caused the real culprit to be denounced, and although I am as ignorant as yourselves as to the identity of the murderer, I understand the police are already engaged in tracking him.

“As I told you in my opening speech, there are certain facts connected with this case which are bound to be kept secret, even though a man’s life or liberty are at stake, and when I tell you that I – like yourselves – am unaware of the bearing which these family affairs have upon the crime we are investigating, you will fully appreciate the difficulty in which I am placed. Had it not been for the production of the two witnesses by the prisoner’s wife at the eleventh hour, I should have been compelled to give way against the weight of circumstantial evidence brought by the prosecution. However, I feel assured that no right-minded man can assume that the prisoner at the bar had any hand in the assassination of the defenceless woman in Bedford Place, after the statement of the maid who actually saw the crime committed, and who positively swears that the accused was not present. I would therefore ask you to at once return a verdict of ‘Not Guilty,’ and thus bring about the prisoner’s discharge.”

Then the judge summed up.

He reviewed the case with much deliberation and care, saying that, in dealing with a crime committed without any witnesses being present, inference must take the place of direct evidence; but in the case before them they had discovered that a witness was present, and that witness positively swore that I was not the murderer. Therefore, despite the obvious gaps in the argument for the defence, it was an open question whether or not I should be discharged.

The spectators looked on with breathless anxiety, understanding that the woman’s evidence had served as a lever to demolish the whole theory of the prosecution.

But no. The jury were not unanimous. They asked leave to retire. Once only I saw Vera during the quarter of an hour they were absent. I could see she was terribly agitated as she leant over to consult Mr Roland. “You need have no fear,” I heard him say. “He will be acquitted.”

All eyes were turned upon me during those awful moments.

Suddenly there was a movement, and the jury Slowly filed into Court.

A deathlike stillness ensued as the clerk rose and asked the foreman, —

“Have you agreed upon your verdict?”

“We have.”

“Do you find the prisoner, Frank Burgoyne, guilty of having murdered Ethel Inglewood, or not guilty?”

“Not guilty!”

An outburst of applause greeted this announcement; then the judge ordered my discharge, and I walked from the dock a free man.

Vera met me, and flinging her arms about my neck, kissed me. My face was wet with her tears of joy. Not a single word was exchanged between us.

We left the Court together, and entering a cab, drove to the Grand Hotel, where she was staying.

Chapter Thirty Three

Vera’s Secret

A few hours had elapsed since my acquittal, and after a brush up and a hasty meal I had entered Vera’s sitting-room.

It was already dark. The tiny electric lamps flooded with amber light the small apartment rendered cosy by the drawn curtains. On a lounge chair she sat, wrapped in a pale grey cashmere gown, with a bunch of crimson roses in her breast. At sight of me she rose. Not a muscle of her countenance stirred, I and could divine her embarrassment by the sharp glance she momentarily darted at me.

I scented in this proceeding some annoying mystery.

A constrained silence reigned for some moments.

“Frank,” exclaimed she, in a very calm tone, advancing slowly and taking my hand, “at last we are alone.”

“Yes, Vera,” I replied, calling to my aid all my coolness to feign a serenity which I was far from possessing. “Now, perhaps, you will let me know this secret of yours which has so long estranged us, and brought us all this sorrow.”

She stood motionless, with compressed lips, and shivering slightly, said, —

“Forgive me! Frank, forgive me! I will tell you everything. You shall know the truth; believe me.”

“Why did you not tell me the truth long ago; then this degrading trial would have been avoided,” I said, bitterly.

“Because I could not, until this afternoon.”

“Not when my life was at stake?”

She shook her head seriously, replying, “No, it was impossible.”

Was I still being duped? Those were the only words that beat a constant and painful tattoo in my brain.

“Tell me,” I said, laying my hand upon her shoulder, “tell me the reason why you have kept this secret of yours till now?”

“Hark!” she said, listening intently.

I could hear nothing beyond the roar of the traffic in Trafalgar Square.

She crossed quickly to the window, and flinging aside the curtains, opened it.

“Come here,” she commanded.

I obeyed her.

“See! below. There is a man selling newspapers. Listen to what he says?”

I leant out of the window, and as I did so a hoarse cry broke upon my ear. It caused me to start, for the words the man shouted were, “Extra special! Attempt to murder the Czar! Exciting Scenes! Extra special!”

“What has that to do with it?” I asked, puzzled, as she closed the window and drew the curtains again.

“Everything,” she replied, sighing. “Sit down, and I will tell you the story.”

I flung myself into an easy-chair, and she came and stood beside me. Her hand smoothed my forehead with a tender caress, yet somehow I could not trust her; the ironic and brutal strokes of Fate had paralysed me, and I felt myself wholly stupefied.

“Sometimes, Frank, an unforeseen incident, a chance, an exterior influence, may bring on a disastrous crisis. It has unfortunately been so in my case,” she said, in a deep, earnest voice.

“Begin at the beginning. Let me know what is this strange mystery which has shadowed your life,” I urged, taking her hand in mine.

“Hush! we must not be overheard,” she replied, glancing apprehensively at the door. “I – I fully recognise how painful all these complications must have been to you, dear, but I assure you it is not my fault that I have not divulged. I had taken an oath – ”

“An oath!”

“Yes. I know it was purely from love that you married me, enveloped in mystery as I was; and, then, when you saw me in the Dene, and – and – thought me untrue – ah – you surely should have known me better than that. You know how I love you; and yet you suspected me!” she cried passionately.

“Don’t let’s talk of that,” I said, impatiently.

“When I have told you,” she continued, her eyes filling with tears, “you will no longer believe me Valse, even though I – your wife – have stained my Hands with crime!”

“What!” I cried, in amazement, “you?”

“Ah, no,” she answered, “and yet mine is a horrible crime. Listen! Years ago, when I was a little child, my father, Count Nicholas, held a responsible position at the Court of the Czar at Petersburg. His closest friend was Sergius Orselska – the man you know as Hertzen – his half-brother. His son, Demetrius, and I were playmates.”

“But what of Boris. The man who gave evidence to-day?”

“He is my brother. When the Russo-Turkish war broke out, my father, who was an officer, was placed in command of a troop, Boris having in the meantime joined the Cossacks. The Count served with distinction throughout the campaign; but, alas! after the fall of Plevna, he received news that my brother had been killed in an engagement with some insurgents in Georgia.

“Overcome with sorrow, my father retired from the army, and took me to live in a gloomy old house in the Njazlov at Warsaw. While we were leading a somewhat secluded existence the revolutionary movement sprang up in Poland; the people commenced their struggle for freedom, and the propaganda took root with alarming rapidity. My father, a loyal subject of the Czar, believed that his warmest friend, Serge Orselska, held views similar to his own, but, as I afterwards discovered, he was mistaken. This half-brother was a scheming scoundrel, who having allied himself with the Terrorists, determined upon making it a lucrative business by becoming a police spy, so that he could give secret information regarding the conspirators. In this he had more than one object in view. My father had occasion to travel to Petersburg on business connected with his estate, and remained there several weeks. On the day following his return to Warsaw the grand coup was made, and the Czar was assassinated by a bomb thrown at his sleigh. The world was convulsed. My father, honest loyalist that he was, regarded this action of the Nihilists most unfavourably.

“Yet as soon as Alexander the Third had succeeded the dead Emperor my poor father was arrested, conveyed to Petersburg, and charged with being implicated in the assassination! Though the accusation was utterly unfounded, the perjured evidence was much against him. He was found guilty, and condemned to Siberian hard labour for life. I was in Court and heard sentence pronounced. Ah! Grand Dieu! Shall I ever forget that day?

“He was despatched with a convoy of prisoners to Asia, but on the way endeavoured to escape, and was shot dead. It was the new Czar who was responsible for my beloved father’s death; he was his murderer! and I swore it should be avenged, even if my own life were sacrificed in the attempt. Then I went to live under the guardianship of Serge Orselska, who, hearing my vow, admitted that he was a Nihilist, and persuaded me to take the oath to the Executive. I did so, and, confident of success, swore that I would make three attempts to remove the Autocrat of the Russias, adding, as a stipulation, that if none were successful the oath should be removed. Thus I developed into an enthusiastic and patriotic Terrorist. Bent upon avenging my father’s wrongs, I was prepared to go to any length, and to follow the examples of Jessy Helfman and Sophia Perovskaia in order to accomplish my object.”

“Fancy, you – a Nihilist!” I said, incredulously in abject astonishment.

“Yes, and I was not idle either. The schemes of our Circle having matured sufficiently to allow me to make the first attempt, I did so. We were living in Petersburg at the time, and although everything appeared to favour me, the plot failed at the last moment. The police, however grew suspicious, and we were compelled to fly from Russia. My uncle – who had assumed the name of Hertzen – and I, travelled first to Paris, and for a couple of years led a wandering life, visiting nearly all the European capitals. I devoted to the Cause a large portion of the fortune left me by my father, and was looked upon by the members of the Circle as one who would probably be successful in effecting our purpose. If I did, I told myself it would be but a life for a life. I believed that a terrible victory would be obtained by the Party, and saw everything in a rose-coloured light.”

Notwithstanding the overwhelming passion which filled her heart, and revealed itself painfully in spite of her, in her face, and her voice, she tried to speak slowly and calmly. There was an expression of indescribable suffering, too, around her mouth and in her eyes, which told me that this chapter of her life she would have hidden forever, if she could.

“Then it was during these wanderings that we met?” I said.

“Exactly. Fate brought us together in Genoa just as we were arranging the second attempt. I was in sore need of a friend, and – why should I hesitate to admit it – when first we met, I loved you. But, cruel Fate! mine has been a love which has almost brought death to you,” she faltered.

“How?”

“My uncle – always a scheming villain – laid his plans deeply in this, as in other things. I was the instigator of the attempt to be made, and was at my wits’ ends to know how to get the instrument conveyed to Petersburg. The police were keeping a sharp look-out, and for any of our Circle to have entered Russia would have been highly dangerous. Notwithstanding this, I was determined to succeed. Meanwhile our affection was not unnoticed by Orselska, who spoke to me upon the subject. Remember, he was my guardian, and, not being of age, I was bound to obey him in a certain measure. When I admitted that I loved you and that you had asked me to be your wife, he flew into a passion, and said he would never give his consent. For several days he was harsh and unkind, when suddenly his manner changed and he again referred to the matter. He said he would give his consent with one stipulation: that I should, as a test of your love, get you to take the instrument to Petersburg, the – ”

“The instrument! What do you mean?” I asked.

“I mean, that the box you took to the Russian capital did not contain jewels at all; it was dynamite clock!”

“An infernal machine!”

“Yes. It was that which wrecked the Winter Palace on the day you were arrested. But listen, and you will learn the depth of Orselska’s villainy. Already by his treachery my poor father had been degraded and killed, and the fortune left to me was in his hands. He was determined to keep it, and there were but two ways of doing this: either I, too, must be killed, or marry his son Demetrius. Now you see why he schemed that you should be sent upon that dangerous errand. You were sent, Frank dear, so that on your arrival he, as a police spy, could give information which would secure your arrest and exile?”

“Impossible!” I cried. “Yet the explosion accounts for the excitement on the night of my arrest.”

“It is true, every word,” my wife asserted.

“I was arrested, nevertheless.”

“Yes, and it was with difficulty that we planned your escape. Partisans of Czaricide, those assisting in the struggle of freedom, however, are to be found in every class of society in my downtrodden country. The military and prison officials are no exception. My brother Boris, who was not – after all – dead, had allied himself with the Nihilists from the same motives as myself, and chanced to be the officer in command of the escort ordered to take your convoy to Siberia. Two of the prison warders were members of my Circle. Your trial was avoided by the judicious exercise of stratagem. When you changed clothes with the dead convict you ceased to exist in the eyes of the law, and your subsequent escape, due mainly to the exertions of Boris, was rendered easy.”