“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.