by a crest,” my companion said in a strange voice. “I wonder what’s on him?” and he proceeded to search the breast-pocket of the dead man’s coat. The contents, which we afterwards examined together, consisted only of two prospectuses of new companies, an amber cigar-tube mounted in gold, and the envelope of a letter addressed in a woman’s hand to “George Grove, Poste Restante, Charing Cross,” and bearing the Manchester post-mark of three days before. The letter had unfortunately been destroyed; only the envelope remained. But we both recollected that persons who have letters addressed to the Poste Restante do not usually give their correct names.
In one of the vest pockets were three ten-pound notes folded carelessly together, while in the trousers pockets was a quantity of loose silver. Beyond that there was nothing else upon him. Contrary to the effect of death upon his unfortunate companion, his face was slightly distorted, the tip of the tongue protruding, and both hands clenched, showing that he had endured a momentary spasm of agony as the last spark of life died out, while from the fact that a small tripod table with painted plate-glass top had been overturned and broken it seemed apparent that he had staggered and clutched wildly at the first object within his reach.
But on neither could we detect any wound, nor was there anything to show the cause of death. I examined the hand of the woman, a tiny, slim, cold hand, the contact of which thrilled me by its chilliness, and saw that her rings, set with emeralds, rubies and diamonds, were of the finest quality.
“She’s beautiful,” Patterson observed, gazing down upon her. “Perhaps she was his wife.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “Curious that they should have both died together in this manner.”
“They were evidently sitting here chatting before dinner, when both were either murdered, or died suddenly before assistance could reach them. She died before he did.”
“What makes you think that?” I asked quickly, my eyes wandering around the large, comfortable room, the atmosphere of which was heavy with fragrant odours.
“Because he placed that cushion beneath her head,” answered the shrewd, observant police-officer. “He had kissed her, and she was in the act of smiling at his last act of love when her heart suddenly failed, and soul and body parted.”
“And he died immediately afterwards, you think?”
“Yes, that’s what I surmise. What’s your opinion?”
“I can form no theory at present,” I answered, bewildered. In the course of years spent in the investigation of crime for journalistic purposes I had had my wits sharpened, and rather prided myself upon the soundness of the theories I propounded in the articles I wrote. Patterson knew this, and probably for that reason had invoked my companionship in this curious affair.
Together we made a searching examination of the whole room, but there was absolutely nothing to show the motive, or even the mode, of the tragedy. The absence of servants was of course extremely suspicious, but neither of us attached much importance to that. A close examination of the scene was our present object, experience having taught that upon the scene of most crimes there remains some trace of the assassin. The old saying that “Murder will out” is truer than the majority of people believe, for even that night we had had a striking illustration in Patterson’s attention being attracted by the snake in the gateway.
Beside the dead woman’s chair was lying a handkerchief, a tiny square of lawn and lace, which I picked up. It emitted an odour very sweet and subtle, such as I had never before smelt.
Patterson sniffed it, but placed it down.
“Some new scent,” he said. “Women are always going in for the latest inventions in perfumes.”
“But this is an extraordinary one,” I said, again smelling it. “Terribly strong, too,” I added, for the odour had a strange, half-intoxicating effect upon me. The small red light steadily burning, the fragrance of the incense, the two dead forms lying there, still and cold, and the single gas-burner, hissing as it flared, combined to present a weird, lurid picture, each detail of which has ever since been indelibly photographed upon my memory.
The smile of death upon that woman’s lips was horrible. That look of hers has ever since haunted me, for now that I know the truth and have realised all that had taken place in that room prior to the tragedy, that laugh of derision has a significance which renders its recollection bitter, gruesome, hideous.
I know not what prompted me at that moment, but bending again beside the prostrate man I placed my hand inside his vest, recollecting that sometimes tailors, adopting the French mode, made pockets there, and that therein many men carried articles of value in secrecy and safety.
As I did so, I felt that there was a pocket in the lining, that it was buttoned, and that there was something within. Quickly I unbuttoned it and drew forth a small packet wrapped in glazed writing-paper, dirty and worn through being carried for a long time. With care I opened it, and inside found an object which caused us both to give vent to an ejaculation of wonder.
It was simply a penny.
“His mascot, I suppose,” remarked the inspector. “A lucky coin.”
“But it has no hole through it,” I observed.
“The hole is of no importance. The coin may have been given him for luck,” replied my companion. “Lots of people believe in such things, especially betting men.”
“He was evidently very careful of it,” I said, at the same time searching and finding another pocket on the other side of the vest, and from this I took a neat little cloth-covered case, not much larger than those containing cigarette tubes, and found on opening it that it contained a small hypodermic syringe, complete with its needles and accessories.
“This shows that he was addicted to the morphia habit,” I remarked. “An overdose, perhaps.”
My friend, who had now recovered something of his coolness and self-possession, took the tiny instrument and examined it carefully beneath the gas-light.
“There’s been no morphia in this lately,” he said. “It’s quite dry, and certainly hasn’t been used to-day.”
“Let’s search the whole house,” I suggested. “We may find something which will give us a clue as to who and what these people were. Funny that the servants don’t come back, isn’t it?”
“I don’t expect they will,” answered Patterson.
“Depend upon it that there’s more mystery in this affair than we at present suspect.”
“Why?”
“Look at these,” he said, passing over to me the three banknotes found upon the dead man. “They are spurious!”
No second glance was needed to convince me that he spoke the truth. They were clever imitations of ten-pound notes, but the paper, the despair of the forger, was thick and entirely different to that of the genuine bank-note.
Again I glanced at that beautiful woman’s face with its smile of mingled ecstatic pleasure and bitterness. Her sightless eyes seemed fixed upon me, following me as I moved.
I drew back horrified, shuddering. Her gaze was ghastly.
“It certainly is a most mysterious affair,” I ejaculated again, glancing around the place. “You ought at once to report it.”
“No,” cried my companion quickly. “The discovery must be yours. You must report it, Mr Urwin.”
“Why?”
“Because, as I’ve already told you, I fear to do so on account of the snake.”
I smiled at his curious objection, but an instant later grew serious because of the sharp and sudden ringing of an electric bell somewhere on the ground floor. It was the bell my companion had heard when first knocking at the door.
We both listened for a few moments while the ringing continued, until with sudden resolve I dashed downstairs