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Title: The Man In The Corner Author: Baroness Orczy * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: fr100118.html Language: English Date first posted: March 2020 Most recent update: March 2020 This eBook was produced by: Walter Moore Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg Australia Licence which may be viewed online.GO TO Project Gutenberg Australia HOME PAGE
She had interviewed Miss Ellen Terry and the Bishop of Madagascar, Mr. Seymour
Hicks and the Chief Commissioner of Police. She had been present at the last
Marlborough House garden party—in the cloak-room, that is to say, where
she caught sight of Lady Thingummy’s hat, Miss What-you-may-call’s
sunshade, and of various other things modistical or fashionable, all of which
were duly described under the heading “Royalty and Dress” in
the early afternoon edition of the Evening Observer.
(The article itself is signed M.J.B., and is to be found in the files of
that leading halfpennyworth.)
For these reasons—and for various others, too—Polly felt irate
with the man in the corner, and told him so with her eyes, as plainly as
any pair of brown eyes can speak.
She had been reading an article in the Daily Telegraph. The article
was palpitatingly interesting. Had Polly been commenting audibly upon it?
Certain it is that the man over there had spoken in direct answer to her
thoughts.
She looked at him and frowned; the next moment she smiled. Miss Burton (of
the Evening Observer) had a keen sense of humour, which two years’ association
with the British Press had not succeeded in destroying, and the appearance
of the man was sufficient to tickle the most ultra-morose fancy. Polly thought
to herself that she had never seen any one so pale, so thin, with such funny
light-coloured hair, brushed very smoothly across the top of a very obviously
bald crown. He looked so timid and nervous as he fidgeted incessantly with
a piece of string; his long, lean, and trembling fingers tying and untying
it into knots of wonderful and complicated proportions.
Having carefully studied every detail of the quaint personality Polly felt
more amiable.
“And yet,” she remarked kindly but authoritatively, “this
article, in an otherwise well-informed journal, will tell you that, even
within the last year, no fewer than six crimes have completely baffled the
police, and the perpetrators of them are still at large.”
“Pardon me,” he said gently, “I never for a moment ventured
to suggest that there were no mysteries to the police; I merely remarked
that there were none where intelligence was brought to bear upon the investigation
of crime.”
“Not even in the Fenchurch Street mystery. I suppose,” she
asked sarcastically.
“Least of all in the so-called Fenchurch Street mystery,” he
replied quietly.
Now the Fenchurch Street mystery, as that extraordinary crime had popularly
been called, had puzzled—as Polly well knew—the brains of every
thinking man and woman for the last twelve months. It had puzzled her not
inconsiderably; she had been interested, fascinated; she had studied the
case, formed her own theories, thought about it all often and often, had
even written one or two letters to the Press on the subject—suggesting,
arguing, hinting at possibilities and probabilities, adducing proofs which
other amateur detectives were equally ready to refute. The attitude of that
timid man in the corner, therefore, was peculiarly exasperating, and she
retorted with sarcasm destined to completely annihilate her self-complacent
interlocutor.
“What a pity it is, in that case, that you do not offer your priceless
services to our misguided though well-meaning police.”
“Isn’t it?” he replied with perfect good-humour. “Well,
you know, for one thing I doubt if they would accept them; and in the second
place my inclinations and my duty would—were I to become an active
member of the detective force—nearly always be in direct conflict.
As often as not my sympathies go to the criminal who is clever and astute
enough to lead our entire police force by the nose.
“I don’t know how much of the case you remember,” he went
on quietly. “It certainly, at first, began even to puzzle me. On the
12th of last December a woman, poorly dressed, but with an unmistakable air
of having seen better days, gave information at Scotland Yard of the disappearance
of her husband, William Kershaw, of no occupation, and apparently of no fixed
abode. She was accompanied by a friend—a fat, oily-looking German—and
between them they told a tale which set the police immediately on the move.
“It appears that on the 10th of December, at about three o’clock
in the afternoon, Karl Müller, the German, called on his friend, William
Kershaw, for the purpose of collecting a small debt—some ten pounds
or so—which the latter owed him. On arriving at the squalid lodging
in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, he found William Kershaw in a wild state
of excitement, and his wife in tears. Müller attempted to state the
object of his visit, but Kershaw, with wild gestures, waved him aside, and—in
his own words—flabbergasted him by asking him point-blank for another
loan of two pounds, which sum, he declared, would be the means of a speedy
fortune for himself and the friend who would help him in his need.
“After a quarter of an hour spent in obscure hints, Kershaw, finding
the cautious German obdurate, decided to let him into the secret plan, which,
he averred, would place thousands into their hands.”
Instinctively Polly had put down her paper; the mild stranger, with his
nervous air and timid, watery eyes, had a peculiar way of telling his tale,
which somehow fascinated her.
“I don’t know,” he resumed, “if you remember the
story which the German told to the police, and which was corroborated in
every detail by the wife or widow. Briefly it was this: Some thirty years
previously, Kershaw, then twenty years of age, and a medical student at one
of the London hospitals, had a chum named Barker, with whom he roomed, together
with another.
“The latter, so it appears, brought home one evening a very considerable
sum of money, which he had won on the turf, and the following morning he
was found murdered in his bed. Kershaw, fortunately for himself, was able
to prove a conclusive alibi; he had spent the night on duty at the
hospital; as for Barker, he had disappeared, that is to say, as far as the
police were concerned, but not as far as the watchful eyes of his friend
Kershaw were able to spy—at least, so the latter said. Barker very
cleverly contrived to get away out of the country, and, after sundry vicissitudes,
finally settled down at Vladivostok, in Eastern Siberia, where, under the
assumed name of Smethurst, he built up an enormous fortune by trading in
furs.
“Now, mind you, every one knows Smethurst, the Siberian millionaire.
Kershaw’s story that he had once been called Barker, and had committed
a murder thirty years ago, was never proved, was it? I am merely telling
you what Kershaw said to his friend the German and to his wife on that memorable
afternoon of December the 10th.
“According to him Smethurst had made one gigantic mistake in his clever
career—he had on four occasions written to his late friend, William
Kershaw. Two of these letters had no bearing on the case, since they were
written more than twenty-five years ago, and Kershaw, moreover, had lost
them—so he said—long ago. According to him, however, the first
of these letters was written when Smethurst, alias Barker, had spent all
the money he had obtained from the crime, and found himself destitute in
New York.
“Kershaw, then in fairly prosperous circumstances, sent him a £10
note for the sake of old times. The second, when the tables had turned, and
Kershaw had begun to go downhill, Smethurst, as he then already called himself,
sent his whilom friend £50. After that, as Müller gathered, Kershaw
had made sundry demands on Smethurst’s ever-increasing purse, and had
accompanied these demands by various threats, which, considering the distant
country in which the millionaire lived, were worse than futile.
“But now the climax had come, and Kershaw, after a final moment of
hesitation, handed over to his German friend the two last letters purporting
to have been written by Smethurst, and which, if you remember, played such
an important part in the mysterious story of this extraordinary crime. I
have a copy of both these letters here,” added the man in the corner,
as he took out a piece of paper from a very worn-out pocket-book, and, unfolding
it very deliberately, he began to read:—
“‘Sir,—Your preposterous demands for money are wholly
unwarrantable. I have already helped you quite as much as you deserve. However,
for the sake of old times, and because you once helped me when I was in a
terrible difficulty, I am willing to once more let you impose upon my good
nature. A friend of mine here, a Russian merchant, to whom I have sold my
business, starts in a few days for an extended tour to many European and
Asiatic ports in his yacht, and has invited me to accompany him as far as
England. Being tired of foreign parts, and desirous of seeing the old country
once again after thirty years’ absence, I have decided to accept his
invitation. I don’t know when we may actually be in Europe, but I promise
you that as soon as we touch a suitable port I will write to you again, making
an appointment for you to see me in London. But remember that if your demands
are too preposterous I will not for a moment listen to them, and that I am
the last man in the world to submit to persistent and unwarrantable blackmail.
‘I am, sir,
‘Yours truly,
‘Francis
Smethurst.’
“The second letter was dated from Southampton,” continued the
old man in the corner calmly, “and, curiously enough, was the only
letter which Kershaw professed to have received from Smethurst of which he
had kept the envelope, and which was dated. It was quite brief,” he
added, referring once more to his piece of paper.
“‘Dear Sir,—Referring to my letter
of a few weeks ago, I wish to inform you that the Tsarskoe Selo will
touch at Tilbury on Tuesday next, the 10th. I shall land there, and immediately
go up to London by the first train I can get. If you like, you may meet
me at Fenchurch Street Station, in the first-class waiting-room, in the
late afternoon. Since I surmise that after thirty years’ absence
my face may not be familiar to you, I may as well tell you that you will
recognize me by a heavy Astrakhan fur coat, which I shall wear, together
with a cap of the same. You may then introduce yourself to me, and I will
personally listen to what you may have to say.
‘Yours faithfully,
‘Francis
Smethurst.’
“It was this last letter which had caused William Kershaw’s
excitement and his wife’s tears. In the German’s own words, he
was walking up and down the room like a wild beast, gesticulating wildly,
and muttering sundry exclamations. Mrs. Kershaw, however, was full of apprehension.
She mistrusted the man from foreign parts—who, according to her husband’s
story, had already one crime upon his conscience—who might, she feared,
risk another, in order to be rid of a dangerous enemy. Woman-like, she thought
the scheme a dishonourable one, for the law, she knew, is severe on the blackmailer.
“The assignation might be a cunning trap, in any case it was a curious
one; why, she argued, did not Smethurst elect to see Kershaw at his hotel
the following day? A thousand whys and wherefores made her anxious, but the
fat German had been won over by Kershaw’s visions of untold gold, held
tantalisingly before his eyes. He had lent the necessary £2, with which
his friend intended to tidy himself up a bit before he went to meet his friend
the millionaire. Half an hour afterwards Kershaw had left his lodgings, and
that was the last the unfortunate woman saw of her husband, or Müller,
the German, of his friend.
“Anxiously his wife waited that night, but he did not return; the
next day she seems to have spent in making purposeless and futile inquiries
about the neighbourhood of Fenchurch Street; and on the 12th she went to
Scotland Yard, gave what particulars she knew, and placed in the hands of
the police the two letters written by Smethurst.”
“‘There! there! that’ll do!’ he managed to say at
last, as he gave the man in the shirt a vigorous shove, which silenced him
for the moment. ‘Leave the man alone now, you mustn’t make that
noise this time o’ night, wakin’ up all the folks.’ The
unfortunate tramp, who in the meanwhile had managed to get onto his feet
again, made no attempt to get away; probably he thought he would stand but
a poor chance. But the man in the shirt had partly recovered his power of
speech, and was now blurting out jerky, half—intelligible sentences:
“‘I have been robbed—robbed—I—that is—my
master—Mr. Knopf. The desk is open—the diamonds gone—all
in my charge—and—now they are stolen! That’s the thief—I’ll
swear—I heard him—not three minutes ago—rushed downstairs—the
door into the garden was smashed—I ran across the garden—he was
sneaking about here still—Thief! Thief! Police! Diamonds! Constable,
don’t let him go—I’ll make you responsible if you let him
go—’
“‘Now then—that’ll do!’ admonished D 21 as
soon as he could get a word in, ‘stop that row, will you?’
“The man in the shirt was gradually recovering from his excitement.
“‘Can I give this man in charge?’ he asked.
“‘What for?’
“‘Burglary and housebreaking. I heard him, I tell you. He must
have Mr. Knopf’s diamonds about him at this moment.’
“‘Where is Mr. Knopf?’
“‘Out of town,’ groaned the man in the shirt. ‘He
went to Brighton last night, and left me in charge, and now this thief has
been and—’
“The tramp shrugged his shoulders and suddenly, without a word, he
quietly began taking off his coat and waistcoat. These he handed across to
the constable. Eagerly the man in the shirt fell on them, and turned the
ragged pockets inside out. From one of the windows a hilarious voice made
some facetious remark, as the tramp with equal solemnity began divesting
himself of his nether garments.
“‘Now then, stop that nonsense,’ pronounced D 21 severely, ‘what
were you doing here this time o’ night, anyway?’
“‘The streets o’ London is free to the public, ain’t
they?’ queried the tramp.
“‘This don’t lead nowhere, my man.’
“‘Then I’ve lost my way, that’s all,’ growled
the man surlily, ‘and p’raps you’ll let me get along now.’
“By this time a couple of constables had appeared upon the scene.
D 21 had no intention of losing sight of his friend the tramp, and the man
in the shirt had again made a dash for the latter’s collar at the bare
idea that he should be allowed to ‘get along.’
“I think D 21 was alive to the humour of the situation. He suggested
that Robertson (the man in the night-shirt) should go in and get some clothes
on, whilst he himself would wait for the inspector and the detective, whom
D 15 would send round from the station immediately.
“Poor Robertson’s teeth were chattering with cold. He had a
violent fit of sneezing as D 21 hurried him into the house. The latter, with
another constable, remained to watch the burglared premises both back and
front, and D 15 took the wretched tramp to the station with a view to sending
an inspector and a detective round immediately.
“When the two latter gentlemen arrived at No. 22, Phillimore Terrace,
they found poor old Robertson in bed, shivering, and still quite blue. He
had got himself a hot drink, but his eyes were streaming and his voice was
terribly husky. D 21 had stationed himself in the dining-room, where Robertson
had pointed the desk out to him, with its broken lock and scattered contents.
“Robertson, between his sneezes, gave what account he could of the
events which happened immediately before the robbery.
“His master, Mr. Ferdinand Knopf, he said, was a diamond merchant,
and a bachelor. He himself had been in Mr. Knopf’s employ over fifteen
years, and was his only indoor servant. A charwoman came every day to do
the housework.
“Last night Mr. Knopf dined at the house of Mr. Shipman, at No. 26,
lower down. Mr. Shipman is the great jeweller who has his place of business
in South Audley Street. By the last post there came a letter with the Brighton
postmark, and marked ‘urgent,’ for Mr. Knopf, and he (Robertson)
was just wondering if he should run over to No. 26 with it, when his master
returned. He gave one glance at the contents of the letter, asked for his
A.B.C. Railway Guide, and ordered him (Robertson) to pack his bag at once
and fetch him a cab.
“‘I guessed what it was,’ continued Robertson after another
violent fit of sneezing. ‘Mr. Knopf has a brother, Mr. Emile Knopf,
to whom he is very much attached, and who is a great invalid. He generally
goes about from one seaside place to another. He is now at Brighton, and
has recently been very ill.
“‘If you will take the trouble to go downstairs I think you
will still find the letter lying on the hall table.
“‘I read it after Mr. Knopf left; it was not from his brother,
but from a gentleman who signed himself J. Collins, M.D. I don’t remember
the exact words, but, of course, you’ll be able to read the letter—Mr.
J. Collins said he had been called in very suddenly to see Mr. Emile Knopf,
who, he added, had not many hours to live, and had begged of the doctor to
communicate at once with his brother in London.
“‘Before leaving, Mr. Knopf warned me that there were some valuables
in his desk—diamonds mostly, and told me to be particularly careful
about locking up the house. He often has left me like this in charge of his
premises, and usually there have been diamonds in his desk, for Mr. Knopf
has no regular City office as he is a commercial traveller.’
“This, briefly, was the gist of the matter which Robertson related
to the inspector with many repetitions and persistent volubility.
“The detective and inspector, before returning to the station with
their report, thought they would call at No. 26, on Mr. Shipman, the great
jeweller.
“You remember, of course,” added the man in the corner, dreamily
contemplating his bit of string, “the exciting developments of this
extraordinary case. Mr. Arthur Shipman is the head of the firm of Shipman
and Co., the wealthy jewellers. He is a widower, and lives very quietly by
himself in his own old-fashioned way in the small Kensington house, leaving
it to his two married sons to keep up the style and swagger befitting the
representatives of so wealthy a firm.
“‘I have only known Mr. Knopf a very little while,’ he
explained to the detectives. ‘He sold me two or three stones once
or twice, I think; but we are both single men, and we have often dined together.
Last night he dined with me. He had that afternoon received a very fine consignment
of Brazilian diamonds, as he told me, and knowing how beset I am with callers
at my business place, he had brought the stones with him, hoping, perhaps,
to do a bit of trade over the nuts and wine.
“‘I bought £25,000 worth of him,’ added the jeweller,
as if he were speaking of so many farthings, ‘and gave him a cheque
across the dinner table for that amount. I think we were both pleased with
our bargain, and we had a final bottle of ‘48 port over it together.
Mr. Knopf left me at about 9.30, for he knows I go very early to bed, and
I took my new stock upstairs with me, and locked it up in the safe. I certainly
heard nothing of the noise in the mews last night. I sleep on the second
floor, in the front of the house, and this is the first I have heard of poor
Mr. Knopf’s loss—’
“At this point of his narrative Mr. Shipman very suddenly paused,
and his face became very pale. With a hasty word of excuse he unceremoniously
left the room, and the detective heard him running quickly upstairs.
“Less than two minutes later Mr. Shipman returned. There was no need
for him to speak; both the detective and the inspector guessed the truth
in a moment by the look upon his face.
“‘The diamonds!’ he gasped. ‘I have been robbed.’”
“Hastily the guard, having carefully locked the carriage door, summoned
a couple of porters, and sent one of them off to the police-station, and
the other in search of the station-master.
“Fortunately at this time of day the up platform is not very crowded,
all the traffic tending westward in the afternoon. It was only when an inspector
and two police constables, accompanied by a detective in plain clothes and
a medical officer, appeared upon the scene, and stood round a first-class
railway compartment, that a few idlers realized that something unusual had
occurred, and crowded round, eager and curious.
“Thus it was that the later editions of the evening papers, under
the sensational heading, ‘Mysterious Suicide on the Underground Railway,’ had
already an account of the extraordinary event. The medical officer had very
soon come to the decision that the guard had not been mistaken, and that
life was indeed extinct.
“The lady was young, and must have been very pretty before the look
of fright and horror had so terribly distorted her features. She was very
elegantly dressed, and the more frivolous papers were able to give their
feminine readers a detailed account of the unfortunate woman’s gown,
her shoes, hat, and gloves.
“It appears that one of the latter, the one on the right hand, was
partly off, leaving the thumb and wrist bare. That hand held a small satchel,
which the police opened, with a view to the possible identification of the
deceased, but which was found to contain only a little loose silver, some
smelling-salts, and a small empty bottle, which was handed over to the medical
officer for purposes of analysis.
“It was the presence of that small bottle which had caused the report
to circulate freely that the mysterious case on the Underground Railway was
one of suicide. Certain it was that neither about the lady’s person,
nor in the appearance of the railway carriage, was there the slightest sign
of struggle or even of resistance. Only the look in the poor woman’s
eyes spoke of sudden terror, of the rapid vision of an unexpected and violent
death, which probably only lasted an infinitesimal fraction of a second,
but which had left its indelible mark upon the face, otherwise so placid
and so still.”
“The body of the deceased was conveyed to the mortuary. So far, of
course, not a soul had been able to identify her, or to throw the slightest
light upon the mystery which hung around her death.
“Against that, quite a crowd of idlers—genuinely interested
or not—obtained admission to view the body, on the pretext of having
lost or mislaid a relative or a friend. At about 8.30 p.m. a young man, very
well dressed, drove up to the station in a hansom, and sent in his card to
the superintendent. It was Mr. Hazeldene, shipping agent, of 11, Crown Lane,
E.C., and No. 19, Addison Row, Kensington.
“The young man looked in a pitiable state of mental distress; his
hand clutched nervously a copy of the St. James’s Gazette, which
contained the fatal news. He said very little to the superintendent except
that a person who was very dear to him had not returned home that evening.
“He had not felt really anxious until half an hour ago, when suddenly
he thought of looking at his paper. The description of the deceased lady,
though vague, had terribly alarmed him. He had jumped into a hansom, and
now begged permission to view the body, in order that his worst fears might
be allayed.
“You know what followed, of course,” continued the man in the
corner, “the grief of the young man was truly pitiable. In the woman
lying there in a public mortuary before him, Mr. Hazeldene had recognized
his wife.
“I am waxing melodramatic,” said the man in the corner, who
looked up at Polly with a mild and gentle smile, while his nervous fingers
vainly endeavoured to add another knot on the scrappy bit of string with
which he was continually playing, “and I fear that the whole story
savours of the penny novelette, but you must admit, and no doubt you remember,
that it was an intensely pathetic and truly dramatic moment.
“The unfortunate young husband of the deceased lady was not much worried
with questions that night. As a matter of fact, he was not in a fit condition
to make any coherent statement. It was at the coroner’s inquest on
the following day that certain facts came to light, which for the time being
seemed to clear up the mystery surrounding Mrs. Hazeldene’s death,
only to plunge that same mystery, later on, into denser gloom than before.
“The first witness at the inquest was, of course, Mr. Hazeldene himself.
I think every one’s sympathy went out to the young man as he stood
before the coroner and tried to throw what light he could upon the mystery.
He was well dressed, as he had been the day before, but he looked terribly
ill and worried, and no doubt the fact that he had not shaved gave his face
a careworn and neglected air.
“It appears that he and the deceased had been married some six years
or so, and that they had always been happy in their married life. They had
no children. Mrs. Hazeldene seemed to enjoy the best of health till lately,
when she had had a slight attack of influenza, in which Dr. Arthur Jones
had attended her. The doctor was present at this moment, and would no doubt
explain to the coroner and the jury whether he thought that Mrs. Hazeldene
had the slightest tendency to heart disease, which might have had a sudden
and fatal ending.
“The coroner was, of course, very considerate to the bereaved husband.
He tried by circumlocution to get at the point he wanted, namely, Mrs. Hazeldene’s
mental condition lately. Mr. Hazeldene seemed loath to talk about this. No
doubt he had been warned as to the existence of the small bottle found in
his wife’s satchel.
“‘It certainly did seem to me at times,’ he at last reluctantly
admitted, ‘that my wife did not seem quite herself. She used to be
very gay and bright, and lately I often saw her in the evening sitting, as
if brooding over some matters, which evidently she did not care to communicate
to me.’
“Still the coroner insisted, and suggested the small bottle.
“‘I know, I know,’ replied the young man, with a short,
heavy sigh. ‘You mean—the question of suicide—I cannot
understand it at all—it seems so sudden and so terrible—she certainly
had seemed listless and troubled lately—but only at times—and
yesterday morning, when I went to business, she appeared quite herself again,
and I suggested that we should go to the opera in the evening. She was delighted,
I know, and told me she would do some shopping, and pay a few calls in the
afternoon.’
“‘Do you know at all where she intended to go when she got into
the Underground Railway?’
“‘Well, not with certainty. You see, she may have meant to get
out at Baker Street, and go down to Bond Street to do her shopping. Then,
again, she sometimes goes to a shop in St. Paul’s Churchyard, in which
case she would take a ticket to Aldersgate Street; but I cannot say.’
“‘Now, Mr. Hazeldene,’ said the coroner at last very kindly, ‘will
you try to tell me if there was anything in Mrs. Hazeldene’s life which
you know of, and which might in some measure explain the cause of the distressed
state of mind, which you yourself had noticed? Did there exist any financial
difficulty which might have preyed upon Mrs. Hazeldene’s mind; was
there any friend—to whose intercourse with Mrs. Hazeldene—you—er—at
any time took exception? In fact,’ added the coroner, as if thankful
that he had got over an unpleasant moment, ‘can you give me the slightest
indication which would tend to confirm the suspicion that the unfortunate
lady, in a moment of mental anxiety or derangement, may have wished to take
her own life?’
“There was silence in the court for a few moments. Mr. Hazeldene seemed
to every one there present to be labouring under some terrible moral doubt.
He looked very pale and wretched, and twice attempted to speak before he
at last said in scarcely audible tones:
“‘No; there were no financial difficulties of any sort. My wife
had an independent fortune of her own—she had no extravagant tastes—’
“‘Nor any friend you at any time objected to?’ insisted
the coroner.
“‘Nor any friend, I—at any time objected to,’ stammered
the unfortunate young man, evidently speaking with an effort.
“I was present at the inquest,” resumed the man in the corner,
after he had drunk a glass of milk and ordered another, “and I can
assure you that the most obtuse person there plainly realized that Mr. Hazeldene
was telling a lie. It was pretty plain to the meanest intelligence that the
unfortunate lady had not fallen into a state of morbid dejection for nothing,
and that perhaps there existed a third person who could throw more light
on her strange and sudden death than the unhappy, bereaved young widower.
“That the death was more mysterious even than it had at first appeared
became very soon apparent. You read the case at the time, no doubt, and must
remember the excitement in the public mind caused by the evidence of the
two doctors. Dr. Arthur Jones, the lady’s usual medical man, who had
attended her in a last very slight illness, and who had seen her in a professional
capacity fairly recently, declared most emphatically that Mrs. Hazeldene
suffered from no organic complaint which could possibly have been the cause
of sudden death. Moreover, he had assisted Mr. Andrew Thornton, the district
medical officer, in making a postmortem examination, and together they had
come to the conclusion that death was due to the action of prussic acid,
which had caused instantaneous failure of the heart, but how the drug had
been administered neither he nor his colleague were at present able to state.
“‘Do I understand, then, Dr. Jones, that the deceased died,
poisoned with prussic acid?’
“‘Such is my opinion,’ replied the doctor.
“‘Did the bottle found in her satchel contain prussic acid?’
“‘It had contained some at one time, certainly.’
“‘In your opinion, then, the lady caused her own death by taking
a dose of that drug?’
“‘Pardon me, I never suggested such a thing; the lady died poisoned
by the drug, but how the drug was administered we cannot say. By injection
of some sort, certainly. The drug certainly was not swallowed; there was
not a vestige of it in the stomach.’
“‘Yes,’ added the doctor in reply to another question
from the coroner, ‘death had probably followed the injection in this
case almost immediately; say within a couple of minutes, or perhaps three.
It was quite possible that the body would not have more than one quick and
sudden convulsion, perhaps not that; death in such cases is absolutely sudden
and crushing.’
“I don’t think that at the time any one in the room realized
how important the doctor’s statement was, a statement which, by the
way, was confirmed in all its details by the district medical officer, who
had conducted the postmortem. Mrs. Hazeldene had died suddenly from an injection
of prussic acid, administered no one knew how or when. She had been travelling
in a first-class railway carriage in a busy time of the day. That young and
elegant woman must have had singular nerve and coolness to go through the
process of a self-inflicted injection of a deadly poison in the presence
of perhaps two or three other persons.
“Mind you, when I say that no one there realized the importance of
the doctor’s statement at that moment, I am wrong; there were three
persons, who fully understood at once the gravity of the situation, and the
astounding development which the case was beginning to assume.
“Of course, I should have put myself out of the question,” added
the weird old man, with that inimitable self-conceit peculiar to himself. “I
guessed then and there in a moment where the police were going wrong, and
where they would go on going wrong until the mysterious death on the Underground
Railway had sunk into oblivion, together with the other cases which they
mismanage from time to time.
“I said there were three persons who understood the gravity of the
two doctors’ statements—the other two were, firstly, the detective
who had originally examined the railway carriage, a young man of energy and
plenty of misguided intelligence, the other was Mr. Hazeldene.
“At this point the interesting element of the whole story was first
introduced into the proceedings, and this was done through the humble channel
of Emma Funnel, Mrs. Hazeldene’s maid, who, as far as was known then,
was the last person who had seen the unfortunate lady alive and had spoken
to her.
“‘Mrs. Hazeldene lunched at home,’ explained Emma, who
was shy, and spoke almost in a whisper; ‘she seemed well and cheerful.
She went out at about half-past three, and told me she was going to Spence’s,
in St. Paul’s Churchyard, to try on her new tailor-made gown. Mrs.
Hazeldene had meant to go there in the morning, but was prevented as Mr.
Errington called.’
“‘Mr. Errington?’ asked the coroner casually. ‘Who
is Mr. Errington?’
“But this Emma found difficult to explain. Mr. Errington was—Mr.
Errington, that’s all.
“‘Mr. Errington was a friend of the family. He lived in a flat
in the Albert Mansions. He very often came to Addison Row, and generally
stayed late.’
“Pressed still further with questions, Emma at last stated that latterly
Mrs. Hazeldene had been to the theatre several times with Mr. Errington,
and that on those nights the master looked very gloomy, and was very cross.
“Recalled, the young widower was strangely reticent. He gave forth
his answers very grudgingly, and the coroner was evidently absolutely satisfied
with himself at the marvellous way in which, after a quarter of an hour of
firm yet very kind questionings, he had elicited from the witness what information
he wanted.
“Mr. Errington was a friend of his wife. He was a gentleman of means,
and seemed to have a great deal of time at his command. He himself did not
particularly care about Mr. Errington, but he certainly had never made any
observations to his wife on the subject.
“‘But who is Mr. Errington?’ repeated the coroner once
more. ‘What does he do? What is his business or profession?’
“‘He has no business or profession.
“‘What is his occupation, then?
“He has no special occupation. He has ample private means. But he
has a great and very absorbing hobby.’
“‘What is that?’
“‘He spends all his time in chemical experiments, and is, I
believe, as an amateur, a very distinguished toxicologist.’”
“Schwarz glanced at the card, and by the light of the arc lamps above
his head read on it the name of ‘Dimitri Slaviansky Burgreneff, de
la IIIe Section de la Police Imperial de S.M. le Czar.’
“Quickly the owner of the unpronounceable name and the significant
title pointed to the cab from which he had just alighted, and Schwarz, whose
every suspicion with regard to his princely customer bristled up in one moment,
clutched his bag and followed his imposing interlocutor; as soon as they
were both comfortably seated in the cab the latter began, with courteous
apology in broken but fluent English:
“‘I must ask your pardon, sir, for thus trespassing upon your
valuable time, and I certainly should not have done so but for the certainty
that our interests in a certain matter which I have in hand are practically
identical, in so far that we both should wish to outwit a clever rogue.’
“Instinctively, and his mind full of terrible apprehension, Mr. Schwarz’s
hand wandered to his pocket-book, filled to overflowing with the bank-notes
which he had so lately received from the Prince.
“‘Ah, I see,’ interposed the courteous Russian with a
smile, ‘he has played the confidence trick on you, with the usual addition
of so many so-called bank-notes.’
“‘So-called,’ gasped the unfortunate young man.
“‘I don’t think I often err in my estimate of my own countrymen,’ continued
M. Burgreneff; ‘I have vast experience, you must remember. Therefore,
I doubt if I am doing M.—er—what does he call himself?—Prince
something—an injustice if I assert, even without handling those crisp
bits of paper you have in your pocket-book, that no bank would exchange them
for gold.’
“Remembering his uncle’s suspicions and his own, Mr. Schwarz
cursed himself for his blindness and folly in accepting notes so easily without
for a moment imagining that they might be false. Now, with every one of those
suspicions fully on the alert, he felt the bits of paper with nervous, anxious
fingers, while the imperturbable Russian calmly struck a match.
“‘See here,’ he said, pointing to one of the notes, ‘the
shape of that “w” in the signature of the chief cashier. I am
not an English police officer, but I could pick out that spurious “w” among
a thousand genuine ones. You see, I have seen a good many.’
“Now, of course, poor young Schwarz had not seen very many Bank of
England notes. He could not have told whether one ‘w’ in Mr.
Bowen’s signature is better than another, but, though he did not speak
English nearly as fluently as his pompous interlocutor, he understood every
word of the appalling statement the latter had just made.
“‘Then that Prince,’ he said, ‘at the hotel—’
“’Is no more Prince than you and I, my dear sir,’ concluded
the gentleman of His Imperial Majesty’s police calmly.
“‘And the jewels? Mr. Winslow’s jewels?’
“‘With the jewels there may be a chance—oh! a mere chance.
These forged bank-notes, which you accepted so trustingly, may prove the
means of recovering your property.’
“‘How?’
“‘The penalty of forging and circulating spurious bank-notes
is very heavy. You know that. The fear of seven years’ penal servitude
will act as a wonderful sedative upon the—er—Prince’s joyful
mood. He will give up the jewels to me all right enough, never you fear.
He knows,’ added the Russian officer grimly, ‘that there are
plenty of old scores to settle up, without the additional one of forged bank-notes.
Our interests, you see, are identical. May I rely on your co-operation?’
“‘Oh, I will do as you wish,’ said the delighted young
German. ‘Mr. Winslow and Mr. Vassall, they trusted me, and I have been
such a fool. I hope it is not too late.’
“‘I think not,’ said M. Burgreneff, his hand already on
the door of the cab. ‘Though I have been talking to you I have kept
an eye on the hotel, and our friend the Prince has not yet gone out. We are
accustomed, you know, to have eyes everywhere, we of the Russian secret police.
I don’t think that I will ask you to be present at the confrontation.
Perhaps you will wait for me in the cab. There is a nasty fog outside, and
you will be more private. Will you give me those beautiful bank-notes? Thank
you! Don’t be anxious. I won’t be long.’
“He lifted his hat, and slipped the notes into the inner pocket of
his magnificent fur coat. As he did so, Mr. Schwarz caught sight of a rich
uniform and a wide sash, which no doubt was destined to carry additional
moral weight with the clever rogue upstairs.
“Then His Imperial Majesty’s police officer stepped quickly
out of the cab, and Mr. Schwarz was left alone.”
“The medical officer who was called in, and also Dr. Mellish who attended
Mr. Morton, both said that he seemed dazed by some stupefying drug, and also,
of course, terribly weak and faint with the want of food.
“The first witness of real importance was Mrs. Chapman, the proprietress
of Russell House, whose original information to the police led to the discovery
of Mr. Morton. In answer to Mr. Pepys, she said that on March 1st the accused
called at her house and gave his name as Mr. Edward Skinner.
“‘He required, he said, a furnished room at a moderate rental
for a permanency, with full attendance when he was in, but he added that
he would often be away for two or three days, or even longer, at a time.
“‘He told me that he was a traveller for a tea-house,’ continued
Mrs. Chapman, ‘and I showed him the front room on the third floor,
as he did not want to pay more than twelve shillings a week. I asked him
for a reference, but he put three sovereigns in my hand, and said with a
laugh that he supposed paying for his room a month in advance was sufficient
reference; if I didn’t like him after that, I could give him a week’s
notice to quit.’
“‘You did not think of asking him the name of the firm for which
he travelled?’ asked Mr. Pepys.
“‘No, I was quite satisfied as he paid me for the room. The
next day he sent in his luggage and took possession of the room. He went
out most mornings on business, but was always in Brighton for Saturday and
Sunday. On the 16th he told me that he was going to Liverpool for a couple
of days; he slept in the house that night, and went off early on the 17th,
taking his portmanteau with him.’
“‘At what time did he leave?’ asked Mr. Pepys.
“‘I couldn’t say exactly,’ replied Mrs. Chapman
with some hesitation. ‘You see this is the off season here. None of
my rooms are let, except the one to Mr. Skinner, and I only have one servant.
I keep four during the summer, autumn, and winter season,’ she added
with conscious pride, fearing that her former statement might prejudice the
reputation of Russell House. ‘I thought I had heard Mr. Skinner go
out about nine o’clock, but about an hour later the girl and I were
both in the basement, and we heard the front door open and shut with a bang,
and then a step in the hall.
“‘“That’s Mr. Skinner,” said Mary. “So
it is,” I said, “why, I thought he had gone an hour ago.” “He
did go out then,” said Mary, “for he left his bedroom door open
and I went in to do his bed and tidy his room.” “Just go and
see if that’s him, Mary,” I said, and Mary ran up to the hall
and up the stairs, and came back to tell me that that was Mr. Skinner all
right enough; he had gone straight up to his room. Mary didn’t see
him, but he had another gentleman with him, as she could hear them talking
in Mr. Skinner’s room.’
“‘Then you can’t tell us at what time the prisoner left
the house finally?’
“‘No, that I can’t. I went out shopping soon after that.
When I came in it was twelve o’clock. I went up to the third floor
and found that Mr. Skinner had locked his door and taken the key with him.
As I knew Mary had already done the room I did not trouble more about it,
though I did think it strange for a gentleman to lock up his room and not
leave the key with me.’
“‘And, of course, you heard no noise of any kind in the room
then?’
“‘No. Not that day or the next, but on the third day Mary and
I both thought we heard a funny sound. I said that Mr. Skinner had left his
window open, and it was the blind flapping against the window-pane; but when
we heard that funny noise again I put my ear to the keyhole and I thought
I could hear a groan. I was very frightened, and sent Mary for the police.’
“Mrs. Chapman had nothing more of interest to say. The prisoner certainly
was her lodger. She had last seen him on the evening of the 16th going up
to his room with his candle. Mary the servant had much the same story to
relate as her mistress.
“‘I think it was ’im, right enough,’ said Mary guardedly. ‘I
didn’t see ’im, but I went up to ’is landing and stopped
a moment outside ’is door. I could ’ear loud voices in the room—gentlemen
talking.’
“‘I suppose you would not do such a thing as to listen, Mary?’ queried
Mr. Pepys with a smile.
“‘No, sir,’ said Mary with a bland smile, ‘I didn’t
catch what the gentlemen said, but one of them spoke so loud I thought they
must be quarrelling.’
“‘Mr. Skinner was the only person in possession of a latch-key,
I presume. No one else could have come in without ringing at the door?’
“‘Oh no, sir.’
“That was all. So far, you see, the case was progressing splendidly
for the Crown against the prisoner. The contention, of course, was that Skinner
had met Mr. Morton, brought him home with him, assaulted, drugged, then gagged
and bound him, and finally robbed him of whatever money he had in his possession,
which, according to certain affidavits which presently would be placed before
the magistrate, amounted to £10,000 in notes.
“But in all this there still remained the great element of mystery
for which the public and the magistrate would demand an explanation: namely,
what were the relationships between Mr. Morton and Skinner, which had induced
the former to refuse the prosecution of the man who had not only robbed him,
but had so nearly succeeded in leaving him to die a terrible and lingering
death?
“Mr. Morton was too ill as yet to appear in person. Dr. Mellish had
absolutely forbidden his patient to undergo the fatigue and excitement of
giving evidence himself in court that day. But his depositions had been taken
at his bedside, were sworn to by him, and were now placed before the magistrate
by the prosecuting counsel, and the facts they revealed were certainly as
remarkable as they were brief and enigmatical.
“As they were read by Mr. Pepys, an awed and expectant hush seemed
to descend over the large crowd gathered there, and all necks were strained
eagerly forward to catch a glimpse of a tall, elegant woman, faultlessly
dressed and wearing exquisite jewellery, but whose handsome face wore, as
the prosecuting counsel read her husband’s deposition, a more and more
ashen hue.
“‘This, your Honour, is the statement made upon oath by Mr.
Francis Morton,’ commenced Mr. Pepys in that loud, sonorous voice of
his which sounds so impressive in a crowded and hushed court. ‘“I
was obliged, for certain reasons which I refuse to disclose, to make a payment
of a large sum of money to a man whom I did not know and have never seen.
It was in a matter of which my wife was cognisant and which had entirely
to do with her own affairs. I was merely the go-between, as I thought it
was not fit that she should see to this matter herself. The individual in
question had made certain demands, of which she kept me in ignorance as long
as she could, not wishing to unnecessarily worry me. At last she decided
to place the whole matter before me, and I agreed with her that it would
be best to satisfy the man’s demands.
“‘“I then wrote to that individual whose name I do not
wish to disclose, addressing the letter, as my wife directed me to do, to
the Brighton post office, saying that I was ready to pay the £10,000
to him, at any place or time and in what manner he might appoint. I received
a reply which bore the Brighton postmark, and which desired me to be outside
Furnival’s, the drapers, in West Street, at 9.30 on the morning of
March 17th, and to bring the money (£10,000) in Bank of England notes.
“‘“On the 16th my wife gave me a cheque for the amount
and I cashed it at her bank—Bird’s in Fleet Street. At half-past
nine the following morning I was at the appointed place. An individual wearing
a grey overcoat, bowler hat, and red tie accosted me by name and requested
me to walk as far as his lodgings in the King’s Parade. I followed
him. Neither of us spoke. He stopped at a house which bore the name ‘Russell
House,’ and which I shall be able to swear to as soon as I am able
to go out. He let himself in with a latch-key, and asked me to follow him
up to his room on the third floor. I thought I noticed when we were in the
room that he locked the door; however, I had nothing of any value about me
except the £10,000, which I was ready to give him. We had not exchanged
the slightest word.
“‘“I gave him the notes, and he folded them and put them
in his pocket-book. Then I turned towards the door, and, without the slightest
warning, I felt myself suddenly gripped by the shoulder, while a handkerchief
was pressed to my nose and mouth. I struggled as best I could, but the handkerchief
was saturated with chloroform, and I soon lost consciousness. I hazily remember
the man saying to me in short, jerky sentences, spoken at intervals while
I was still weakly struggling:
“‘“What a fool you must think me, my dear sir! Did you
really think that I was going to let you quietly walk out of here, straight
to the police-station, eh? Such dodges have been done before, I know, when
a man’s silence has to be bought for money. Find out who he is, see
where he lives, give him the money, then inform against him. No you don’t!
not this time. I am off to the continent with this £10,000, and I can
get to Newhaven in time for the midday boat, so you’ll have to keep
quiet until I am the other side of the Channel, my friend. You won’t
be much inconvenienced; my landlady will hear your groans presently and release
you, so you’ll be all right. There, now, drink this—that’s
better.’ He forced something bitter down my throat, then I remember
nothing more.
“‘“When I regained consciousness I was sitting in an arm-chair
with some rope tied round me and a wool shawl round my mouth. I hadn’t
the strength to make the slightest effort to disentangle myself or to utter
a scream. I felt terribly sick and faint.”‘
“Mr. Reginald Pepys had finished reading, and no one in that crowded
court had thought of uttering a sound; the magistrate’s eyes were fixed
upon the handsome lady in the magnificent gown, who was mopping her eyes
with a dainty lace handkerchief.
“The extraordinary narrative of the victim of so daring an outrage
had kept every one in suspense; one thing was still expected to make the
measure of sensation as full as it had ever been over any criminal case,
and that was Mrs. Morton’s evidence. She was called by the prosecuting
counsel, and slowly, gracefully, she entered the witness-box. There was no
doubt that she had felt keenly the tortures which her husband had undergone,
and also the humiliation of seeing her name dragged forcibly into this ugly,
blackmailing scandal.
“Closely questioned by Mr. Reginald Pepys, she was forced to admit
that the man who blackmailed her was connected with her early life in a way
which would have brought terrible disgrace upon her and upon her children.
The story she told, amidst many tears and sobs, and much use of her beautiful
lace handkerchief and beringed hands, was exceedingly pathetic.
“It appears that when she was barely seventeen she was inveigled into
a secret marriage with one of those foreign adventurers who swarm in every
country, and who styled himself Comte Armand de la Tremouille. He seems to
have been a blackguard of unusually low pattern, for, after he had extracted
from her some £200 of her pin money and a few diamond brooches, he
left her one fine day with a laconic word to say that he was sailing for
Europe by the Argentina, and would not be back for some time. She
was in love with the brute, poor young soul, for when, a week later, she
read that the Argentina was wrecked, and presumably every soul on
board had perished, she wept very many bitter tears over her early widowhood.
“Fortunately her father, a very wealthy pork-butcher of Chicago, had
known nothing of his daughter’s culpable foolishness. Four years later
he took her to London, where she met Mr. Francis Morton and married him.
She led six or seven years of very happy married life when one day, like
a thunderbolt from a clear, blue sky, she received a typewritten letter,
signed ‘Armand de la Tremouille,’ full of protestations of undying
love, telling a long and pathetic tale of years of suffering in a foreign
land, whither he had drifted after having been rescued almost miraculously
from the wreck of the Argentina, and where he never had been able
to scrape a sufficient amount of money to pay for his passage home. At last
fate had favoured him. He had, after many vicissitudes, found the whereabouts
of his dear wife, and was now ready to forgive all that was past and take
her to his loving arms once again.
“What followed was the usual course of events when there is a blackguard
and a fool of a woman. She was terrorised and did not dare to tell her husband
for some time; she corresponded with the Comte de la Tremouille, begging
him for her sake and in memory of the past not to attempt to see her. She
found him amenable to reason in the shape of several hundred pounds which
passed through the Brighton post office into his hands. At last one day,
by accident, Mr. Morton came across one of the Comte de la Tremouille’s
interesting letters. She confessed everything, throwing herself upon her
husband’s mercy.
“Now, Mr. Francis Morton was a business man, who viewed life practically
and soberly. He liked his wife, who kept him in luxury, and wished to keep
her, whereas the Comte de la Tremouille seemed willing enough to give her
up for a consideration. Mrs. Morton, who had the sole and absolute control
of her fortune, on the other hand, was willing enough to pay the price and
hush up the scandal, which she believed—since she was a bit of a fool—would
land her in prison for bigamy. Mr. Francis Morton wrote to the Comte de la
Tremouille that his wife was ready to pay him the sum of £10,000 which
he demanded in payment for her absolute liberty and his own complete disappearance
out of her life now and for ever. The appointment was made, and Mr. Morton
left his house at 9 a.m. on March 17th with the £10,000 in his pocket.
“The public and the magistrate had hung breathless upon her words.
There was nothing but sympathy felt for this handsome woman, who throughout
had been more sinned against than sinning, and whose gravest fault seems
to have been a total lack of intelligence in dealing with her own life. But
I can assure you of one thing, that in no case within my recollection was
there ever such a sensation in a court as when the magistrate, after a few
minutes’ silence, said gently to Mrs. Morton:
“‘And now, Mrs. Morton, will you kindly look at the prisoner,
and tell me if in him you recognize your former husband?’
“And she, without even turning to look at the accused, said quietly:
“‘Oh no! your Honour! of course that man is not the Comte
de la Tremouille.’”
“And he pointed to the swollen tongue, the eyes half out of their
sockets, bloodshot and congested, the purple, almost black, hue of the face.
“At this point one of the spectators, more callous to horrors, peered
curiously into the dead man’s face. He uttered an exclamation of astonishment.
“‘Why, surely, it’s Mr. Cohen from No. 30!’
“The mention of a name familiar down the length of the street had
caused two or three other men to come forward and to look more closely into
the horribly distorted mask of the murdered man.
“‘Our next-door neighbour, undoubtedly,’ asserted Mr.
Ellison, a young barrister, residing at No. 31.
“‘What in the world was he doing this foggy night all alone,
and on foot?’ asked somebody else.
“‘He usually came home very late. I fancy he belonged to some
gambling club in town. I dare say he couldn’t get a cab to bring him
out here. Mind you, I don’t know much about him. We only knew him to
nod to.’
“‘Poor beggar! it looks almost like an old-fashioned case of
garroting.’
“‘Anyway, the blackguardly murderer, whoever he was, wanted
to make sure he had killed his man!’ added Constable F 18, as he picked
up an object from the pavement. ‘Here’s the revolver, with two
cartridges missing. You gentlemen heard the report just now?’
“‘He don’t seem to have hit him though. The poor bloke
was strangled, no doubt.’
“‘And tried to shoot at his assailant, obviously,’ asserted
the young barrister with authority.
“‘If he succeeded in hitting the brute, there might be a chance
of tracing the way he went.’
“‘But not in the fog.’
“Soon, however, the appearance of the inspector, detective, and medical
officer, who had quickly been informed of the tragedy, put an end to further
discussion.
“The bell at No. 30 was rung, and the servants—all four of them
women—were asked to look at the body.
“Amidst tears of horror and screams of fright, they all recognized
in the murdered man their master, Mr. Aaron Cohen. He was therefore conveyed
to his own room pending the coroner’s inquest.
“The police had a pretty difficult task, you will admit; there were
so very few indications to go by, and at first literally no clue.
“The inquest revealed practically nothing. Very little was known in
the neighbourhood about Mr. Aaron Cohen and his affairs. His female servants
did not even know the name or whereabouts of the various clubs he frequented.
“He had an office in Throgmorton Street and went to business every
day. He dined at home, and sometimes had friends to dinner. When he was alone
he invariably went to the club, where he stayed until the small hours of
the morning.
“The night of the murder he had gone out at about nine o’clock.
That was the last his servants had seen of him. With regard to the revolver,
all four servants swore positively that they had never seen it before, and
that, unless Mr. Cohen had bought it that very day, it did not belong to
their master.
“Beyond that, no trace whatever of the murderer had been found, but
on the morning after the crime a couple of keys linked together by a short
metal chain were found close to a gate at the opposite end of the Square,
that which immediately faced Portland Place. These were proved to be, firstly,
Mr. Cohen’s latch-key, and, secondly, his gate-key of the Square.
“It was therefore presumed that the murderer, having accomplished
his fell design and ransacked his victim’s pockets, had found the keys
and made good his escape by slipping into the Square, cutting under the tunnel,
and out again by the further gate. He then took the precaution not to carry
the keys with him any further, but threw them away and disappeared in the
fog.
“The jury returned a verdict of wilful murder against some person
or persons unknown, and the police were put on their mettle to discover the
unknown and daring murderer. The result of their investigations, conducted
with marvellous skill by Mr. William Fisher, led, about a week after the
crime, to the sensational arrest of one of London’s smartest young
bucks.
“The case Mr. Fisher had got up against the accused briefly amounted
to this:
“On the night of February 6th, soon after midnight, play began to
run very high at the Harewood Club, in Hanover Square. Mr. Aaron Cohen held
the bank at roulette against some twenty or thirty of his friends, mostly
young fellows with no wits and plenty of money. ‘The Bank’ was
winning heavily, and it appears that this was the third consecutive night
on which Mr. Aaron Cohen had gone home richer by several hundreds than he
had been at the start of play.
“Young John Ashley, who is the son of a very worthy county gentleman
who is M.F.H. somewhere in the Midlands, was losing heavily, and in his case
also it appears that it was the third consecutive night that Fortune had
turned her face against him.
“Remember,” continued the man in the corner, “that when
I tell you all these details and facts, I am giving you the combined evidence
of several witnesses, which it took many days to collect and to classify.
“It appears that young Mr. Ashley, though very popular in society,
was generally believed to be in what is vulgarly termed ‘low water’;
up to his eyes in debt, and mortally afraid of his dad, whose younger son
he was, and who had on one occasion threatened to ship him off to Australia
with a £5 note in his pocket if he made any further extravagant calls
upon his paternal indulgence.
“It was also evident to all John Ashley’s many companions that
the worthy M.F.H. held the purse-strings in a very tight grip. The young
man, bitten with the desire to cut a smart figure in the circles in which
he moved, had often recourse to the varying fortunes which now and again
smiled upon him across the green tables in the Harewood Club.
“Be that as it may, the general consensus of opinion at the Club was
that young Ashley had changed his last ‘pony’ before he sat down
to a turn of roulette with Aaron Cohen on that particular night of February
6th.
“It appears that all his friends, conspicuous among whom was Mr. Walter
Hatherell, tried their very best to dissuade him from pitting his luck against
that of Cohen, who had been having a most unprecedented run of good fortune.
But young Ashley, heated with wine, exasperated at his own bad luck, would
listen to no one; he tossed one £5 note after another on the board,
he borrowed from those who would lend, then played on parole for a while.
Finally, at half-past one in the morning, after a run of nineteen on the
red, the young man found himself without a penny in his pockets, and owing
a debt—gambling debt—a debt of honour of £1500 to Mr. Aaron
Cohen.
“Now we must render this much maligned gentleman that justice which
was persistently denied to him by press and public alike; it was positively
asserted by all those present that Mr. Cohen himself repeatedly tried to
induce young Mr. Ashley to give up playing. He himself was in a delicate
position in the matter, as he was the winner, and once or twice the taunt
had risen to the young man’s lips, accusing the holder of the bank
of the wish to retire on a competence before the break in his luck.
“Mr. Aaron Cohen, smoking the best of Havanas, had finally shrugged
his shoulders and said: ‘As you please!’
“But at half-past one he had had enough of the player, who always
lost and never paid—never could pay, so Mr. Cohen probably believed.
He therefore at that hour refused to accept Mr. John Ashley’s ‘promissory’ stakes
any longer. A very few heated words ensued, quickly checked by the management,
who are ever on the alert to avoid the least suspicion of scandal.
“In the meanwhile Mr. Hatherell, with great good sense, persuaded
young Ashley to leave the Club and all its temptations and go home; if possible
to bed.
“The friendship of the two young men, which was very well known in
society, consisted chiefly, it appears, in Walter Hatherell being the willing
companion and helpmeet of John Ashley in his mad and extravagant pranks.
But to-night the latter, apparently tardily sobered by his terrible and heavy
losses, allowed himself to be led away by his friend from the scene of his
disasters. It was then about twenty minutes to two.
“Here the situation becomes interesting,” continued the man
in the corner in his nervous way. “No wonder that the police interrogated
at least a dozen witnesses before they were quite satisfied that every statement
was conclusively proved.
“Walter Hatherell, after about ten minutes’ absence, that is
to say at ten minutes to two, returned to the club room. In reply to several
inquiries, he said that he had parted with his friend at the corner of New
Bond Street, since he seemed anxious to be alone, and that Ashley said he
would take a turn down Piccadilly before going home—he thought a walk
would do him good.
“At two o’clock or thereabouts Mr. Aaron Cohen, satisfied with
his evening’s work, gave up his position at the bank and, pocketing
his heavy winnings, started on his homeward walk, while Mr. Walter Hatherell
left the club half an hour later.
“At three o’clock precisely the cries of ‘Murder’ and
the report of fire-arms were heard in Park Square West, and Mr. Aaron Cohen
was found strangled outside the garden railings.”
“It seemed at first sight as if the young man had been the victim
of a homicidal maniac, so brutal had been the way in which he had been assassinated.
The head and body were battered and bruised by some heavy stick or poker,
almost past human shape, as if the murderer had wished to wreak some awful
vengeance upon the body of his victim. In fact, it would be impossible to
recount the gruesome aspect of that room and of the murdered man’s
body such as the police and the medical officer took note of that day.
“It was supposed that the murder had been committed the evening before,
as the victim was dressed in his evening clothes, and all the lights in the
room had been left fully turned on. Robbery, also, must have had a large
share in the miscreant’s motives, for the drawers and cupboards, the
portmanteau and dressing-bag had been ransacked as if in search of valuables.
On the floor there lay a pocket-book torn in half and only containing a few
letters addressed to the Hon. Robert de Genneville.
“The Earl of Brockelsby, next-of-kin to the deceased, was also telegraphed
for. He drove over from Brockelsby Castle, which is about seven miles from
Birmingham. He was terribly affected by the awfulness of the tragedy, and
offered a liberal reward to stimulate the activity of the police in search
of the miscreant.
“The inquest was fixed for the 17th, three days later, and the public
was left wondering where the solution lay of the terrible and gruesome murder
at the Castle Hotel.”
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