All the world was gay, and I alone was desolate. The little office I entered was kept by a hook-nosed Jew, who, when I asked for gold in exchange for the limp piece of paper, took it and examined it carefully through his hornrimmed spectacles. Taking a book from a shelf, he consulted it, started, and then looked sharply up at me.
“This note,” he said, “does not belong to you.”
“It does,” I answered indignantly.
“Can you tell me whence you obtained it?”
“It is no business of yours!” I cried.
“Corpo di Bacco, signore! It were best for you to answer such a simple and necessary question with at least a semblance of civility.”
“Why should I, when you roundly accuse me of possessing stolen property? What grounds have you for saying the note does not belong to me?”
“I did but speak the truth. This note is not rightfully yours.”
“You waste my time. Give me back the note; I will change it elsewhere.”
“Signore, I dare not return you the note.”
“And why, pray?” I asked, suppressing my angry indignation.
“Avvertite! It was stolen.”
“Stolen?” I cried.
“Yes. Stolen from the man who was murdered at the Villa Pallanzeno three years ago. There is a big reward. I must inform the police.”
I was dumbfounded. The note Santina had sent me had been filched from a murdered man? Impossible!
The old Jew was hobbling round the counter, intending to give the alarm, so, seeing my danger, I snatched the note from him, and ran away through many intricate byways until I reached my studio. Cramming a number of things I valued into my pockets, I tied up a few other necessaries in a handkerchief, and then sped downstairs again and out into the open country.
In the east, the great arc of the sky, the distant mountains and the plains, were rose-coloured with the flush of dawn, for it was the hour when night and morning met and parted. My soul was mad with baffled hope, and I was mentally and physically ill.
The softening influences of the glorious morning awoke no responsive echoes in my troubled brain, for I had walked the whole night through, and now, worn out, footsore, hungry, and altogether hopeless, I was resting beside a little wayside shrine of Our Lady of Good Counsels, and in the hazy distance could see the gold cross, red roofs, and the gleaming white towers of Florence.
For many months I had been a homeless wanderer, a mere tramp, picking up a living as best as I could, but always moving from place to place over the smiling plains of Lombardy, or among the peaceful Tuscan vineyards, fearing that the police would pounce upon me and charge me with a crime of which I was innocent.
I had tramped to Milan in search of Pietro, but he had left – gone to Naples, they thought.
I think you, in English, have something like our old Tuscan saying, “Le sciagúre e le alle-grézze non vèngono mai sóle.”
Ah me! There is bitter truth in it. Misfortunes always come in overwhelming numbers, and those who are not favourites of the jade might as well be in their graves.
The more I reflected upon the strange tragedy, the more puzzling was the mystery.
Where was Santina? If she were innocent, why should she hide herself?
For two hours I tramped on over the dusty road to the city of Dante and Michael Angelo, at last entering the Porte Romano; and then wandering down the long street and around the Palazzo Pitti, I crossed the Vecchio Bridge, and passed on towards the great Duomo, with Brunelleschi’s wondrous dome.
I had taken a drink of water at the old Renaissance fountain in the Piazza del Mercato, and was strolling quietly on, gazing in wonderment at the grand old Gothic cathedral, when suddenly a heavy hand was laid upon my shoulder, and a stern voice said —
“Gasparo Corazzini, I arrest you.”
Almost before I was aware of it, two gendarmes, who had accompanied a little, shabbily-dressed police agent, seized me.
“For what crime do you lay your hands upon me?” I cried indignantly.
“You are accused of the murder of Colonel Rossano in Genoa,” the detective replied.
My heart sank within me. I was spellbound by the appalling charge.
The gloomy old Assize Court at Genoa was crowded; the afternoon heat was intense; the ray of sunlight slanting through the high window lit up the time-dimmed picture of Gesu, and fell upon the great gold crucifix that hung over the head of the grave-looking President. My trial had excited the greatest interest, for the police had, with extraordinary ingenuity, pieced together a truly wonderful chain of circumstantial evidence against me; and it was remarkable how ready people were to swear my life away. I stood like one in a dream, for I had at last become convinced of Santina’s treachery, and, having relinquished hope, had grown callous to everything.
I had no defence, for I had admitted being at the Villa on the night in question, and in the revolver found upon me remained some of the cartridges, the bullets of which exactly corresponded with that which caused the colonel’s death.
The Prosecutor had concluded, and without heeding the words the President was addressing to me, I stood with bent head and eyes fixed upon the floor. They might do their worst; they could not heap upon me greater agony than I had already suffered.
Suddenly there was a stir in court, as a servant in the Pallanzeno livery pushed his way forward and handed a large envelope to the judge. There were two legal-looking papers inside, and the President, having read them through twice, handed them to his two colleagues with an expression of profound surprise. A witness was called, and gabbled a statement in English which I could not understand. Then the judges retired to an ante-room, and remained absent for nearly half an hour.
Presently they returned and reseated themselves. A moment later, with startling suddenness, the words fell upon my ears —
“The prisoner, Gasparo Corazzini, is free. The murderer has confessed.”
Confessed? Was it Santina or her husband who had admitted their guilt? From my guards I endeavoured to ascertain the name of the assassin. But I was told that the President had decided for the present to keep it secret, and as the Contéssa’s servant had disappeared, I turned and left the court.
Walking through the white sunlit streets to the Via Balbi, I mounted the stairs to my studio. The dust of months was over everything, but some one had been there during my absence.
The image of the Contéssa still stood where I had left it, but its hideous appearance startled me. An arm had been broken off, and the face had been disfigured, battered beyond recognition with a heavy iron mallet that lay upon the floor.
An enemy had maliciously wrecked my masterpiece.
Sinking into a chair, I covered my face with my hands in blank despair. My reputation as a sculptor had gone, my skill with the chisel had departed. My kind master, the great Verga, had died, and I, lonely, forsaken, and forgotten, had no means of livelihood left to me.
How long I sat plunged in grim, melancholy thoughts I know not. When I returned to consciousness, the bright moon was shining full into the room, and the broken statue looked pale and ghostly in the deep shadow.
I had risen, and was standing before the window with my head sunk on my breast, when suddenly I felt a warm arm slowly entwine itself about my neck. Starting with a cry of surprise, I turned, and found to my amazement that Santina stood beside me.
“Gasparo!” she whispered softly, drawing my head down and kissing my lips.
“Santina!” I exclaimed joyfully. “You have at last returned?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I – I told you we should meet again, and I have kept my promise.”
She was very handsomely dressed in an evening gown of pale blue, her velvet cape was edged with sable, and, unloosened, displayed around her throat a diamond necklet that shone in the bright moonbeams a narrow line of white brilliancy.
For a few moments we stood in silence, clasped in each other’s arms.
Then I commenced to question her, and she told me how she had been living far away in London, adding —
“But I have come back to you, Gasparo. You still love me, do you not?”
“Love you?” I cried. “I would give half the years of my life if you were mine.”
“I am yours,” she said, gazing earnestly into my eyes.
“But – but your husband?” I exclaimed.
She shrugged her shoulders carelessly and laughed. Her eyes travelled round the studio, until they fell upon the mutilated statue.
“Ah!” she cried hoarsely; “your enemy’s handiwork. Then that was part of the revenge!”
“What revenge? Tell me about it!”
“A – a shadow came between us, Gasparo,” she sighed. “You had a rival, although you were unaware of it, and I was afraid to tell you, because I feared you would act desperately and create a scene. The man pestered me with his attentions, but I loved you, and turned a deaf ear to him. On the evening of the tragedy he came to me surreptitiously, and, with passionate declarations, begged me to accept him, but I refused, and left the room, vowing to leave Italy, never to return. I knew not what to do, for I was afraid to confess I loved you, as I saw that a fracas and scandal would ensue, but at length I came to the conclusion that it would be best for both of us if we parted at least for a time, therefore I wrote you that cruel letter, in order to make you think my flirtation was at an end.”
“Yes; yes,” I said, eagerly drinking in every word.
“The conspiracy against us both was one of extraordinary cunning and daring. Your rival was, I have since ascertained, a French spy. On the evening in question, Colonel Rossano, who was an old friend of my father’s, arrived from Milan, having been entrusted with some plans of fortifications and other important and secret documents to take to the Ministry of War at Rome. The colonel intended to remain the night with us, but your rival, by some means, knew that the documents were in his possession, and resolved to secure them. Therefore he secreted himself, and when the officer entered the garden, he shot him, afterwards taking from his pockets the plans, together with a large sum in bank-notes. It was after committing this terrible deed that he sought me; and then, when I refused him, he plotted a desperate vengeance that he intended should fall upon us both. With villainous cunning he had already caused your name to be engraved on the revolver with which he took the colonel’s life, and placed the weapon beside the body. Afterwards he proceeded to carry out the other portion of the foul plot that was so nearly successful.”
“What was that?” I asked, amazed at her story.
“He followed my servant Guiseppe, bribed him to give him the letter I addressed to you, and, having read its contents, enclosed one of the bank-notes he had stolen from the murdered man. He intended that when the charge of assassination was made against you owing to the revolver, corroborative evidence would be furnished by the stolen note in your possession. Towards me he acted differently. You still have that little souvenir I gave you, I suppose? Strike a light, and I will show you something.”
I obeyed, and lit one of the candles, afterwards taking from my pocket the quaint little carved Amida, which I had kept carefully wrapped in a piece of chamois leather.
“See! Look at this!” she said, as she screwed off the head of the idol.
And then, holding out my hand, she emptied into my palm a piece of thin paper screwed up into the size of a nut. I spread it out, and found it was a plan of the submarine mines in Genoa harbour!
“I had only a few days previously showed him this little image, and had quite innocently told him that it was hollow, and the head could be removed,” she continued. “Therefore, during my absence from the room, he must have secreted the paper there for two reasons: firstly, to get rid of it for a time; and secondly, so that he could, if so desired, throw a terrible suspicion upon me as your friend and alleged accomplice.”
“But how do you know all this?” I inquired.
“For some time after I left Italy I neither saw nor heard of him. When, however, I was told of the tragedy, I admit that I felt convinced that the colonel had fallen by your hand, for I knew you were desperate that night, and knew also that you frequently carried a revolver. It was the horrible suspicion of your guilt that prevented me from returning or communicating with you. Nevertheless, a year ago, while I was living in London, this man, who had followed me, recommenced his hateful attentions. His actions throughout were bèlle paròle e cattivi fatti. Apparently he refrained from denouncing you because he believed he would eventually prevail upon me to marry him. For six months he shadowed me, and I humoured him until at last I again lost sight of him. One night, while still in London, I received a telegram stating that he had met with an accident, that he was dying, and that he must see me. I went, and found him in a wretched, squalid garret in a gloomy quarter they call Saffron Hill. It was there, before he died, that he made, in the presence of a notary I called in, the confession which I sent to the President of the Assize Court to-day. In an English newspaper I read the grave charge made against you, and hastened here without losing a moment.”
“You have not explained,” I said quickly. “You have not told me the name of my unknown rival.”
“He was your friend. His name was Pietro Barolini!”
“Pietro!” I gasped. “Why, I considered him my warmest friend. But what of your husband? Where is he?”
“Ah, I deceived you, Gasparo!” she said, laying her hand upon my arm. “I knew you would allow me to go in peace if you believed my husband still lived, therefore I practised a ruse upon you. The man from whom you hid was my father, to whose exertions the elucidation of the mystery is in a great measure due. He has returned with me to the Villa, and I will introduce you to him this evening.”
“Then the Count is not living?”
“No, Gasparo,” Santina whispered softly. “He died in Buenos Ayres, as you are aware, six months after our marriage. There is no barrier now between us; the grim shadow that darkened my life has passed away, and we are free – free to love each other, and to marry.”
Chapter Six.
The Woman with a Blemish
The weird prologue of the drama was enacted some years ago, yet time, alas! does not obliterate it from my memory.
To the hail of bullets, the whistling of shells, the fitful flash of powder, and the thunder of guns I had grown callous. During the months I had been in Servia and Bulgaria watching and describing the terrible struggle between Turkey and Russia, I had grown world-weary, careless of everything, even of life. I had been present at the relief of Kars, had witnessed the wholesale slaughter in various parts of the Ottoman Empire, and was now attached to the Russian forces bombarding Plevna.
Those who have never experienced actual warfare cannot imagine how terrible are the horrors of life at the front.
Picture for a moment a great multitude of men whose sole occupation is slaughter – some with smoke-blackened faces toiling in the earthworks, discharging their heavy field-pieces which day and night dispatch their death-dealing missiles into the shattered town yonder, while hordes of Cossacks and Russian grenadiers engage the enemy at every point; the rattle of musketry and artillery is deafening, the rain of bullets incessant, and on every side is suffering and death. And you are a war-correspondent, a spectator, a non-combatant! You have travelled across Europe to witness this frightful carnage, and paint word-pictures of it for the folk at home. At any moment a stray bullet might end your existence; nevertheless, you must not be fatigued, for after the toil of the day your work commences, and you must find a quiet corner where you can write a column of description for transmission to Fleet Street.
Such were the circumstances in which I was placed when, after a six months’ absence from England, I found myself before Plevna. The brief December day was drawing to a close as I stood, revolver in hand, near one of the great guns that at regular intervals thundered forth in chorus with the others. I was in conversation with Captain Alexandrovitch, a smart young officer with whom I was on very friendly terms, and we were watching through our field-glasses the effect of our fire upon the town.
“Now my lads,” the captain shouted in Russian, to the men working the gun. “Let us test our accuracy. See! one of Osman’s officers has just appeared on the small redoubt yonder to encourage his men. There is a good target. See!”
Scarcely had he spoken when the men sprang back, the great gun belched forth flame, and the shell, striking the enemy’s fortification, took part of it away, blowing the unfortunate Turkish officer into fragments.
Such are the fortunes of war!
“Good!” exclaimed Alexandrovitch, laughing; as, turning to me, he added, “If we continue like this, we shall silence the redoubts before to-morrow. How suicidal of Osman Pasha to imagine his handful of lean, hungry dogs capable of defence against the army of the Great White Tzar. Bah! We shall – ”
The sentence was left unfinished, for a bullet whistled close to me, and a second later he threw up his hands, and, uttering a loud cry of pain, staggered and fell, severely wounded in the side.
Our ambulance and medical staff was on that day very disorganised, so, instead of conveying him to the field hospital, they carried him into my tent, close by.
Night fell, and for hours I knelt beside him, trying to alleviate his agony. The surgeon had dressed the wound, and the officer lay writhing and groaning, while by the meagre light of an evil-smelling oil-lamp I scribbled my dispatch. At last the wounded man became quieter, and presently slept; while I, jaded and worn, wrapped my blanket about me, placed my revolver under my saddle, and lay down to snatch an hour’s repose.
How long I slept I scarcely know; but I was awakened by a strange rustling.
The flap of the tent was open, and I saw against the faint grey glimmering of the wintry morning’s struggling dawn a figure stealthily bending over the wounded man who lay asleep at my side.
The intruder wore the heavy greatcoat and round cap of a Cossack officer, and was evidently searching my comrade’s pockets.
“Who are you? What do you want?” I cried in Russian, clutching my revolver.
The man started, withdrew his hand, and stood upright, looking down upon me. For a moment I fixed my eyes upon the statuesque figure, and gazed at him amazed. I am not by any means a nervous man, but there was something weird about the fellow’s appearance.
Whether it was due to the suddenness with which I had discovered him, or whether some peculiar phenomenon was caused by his presence, I was unable to determine.
I remember asking myself if I were really awake, and becoming convinced that I was in possession of all my faculties.
“Speak!” I said sternly. “Speak – or I’ll fire!”
Raising the weapon, I waited for a moment.
The figure remained motionless, facing the muzzle of the pistol unflinchingly.
Again I repeated my challenge. There was, however, no reply.
I pulled the trigger.
In the momentary flash that followed I caught a glimpse of the face of the intruder. It was that of a woman!
She was young and beautiful. Her parted lips revealed an even row of tightly-clenched teeth, her dark eyes had a look of unutterable horror in them, and her cheeks were deathly pale.
It was the most lovely face I had ever gazed upon.
Its beauty was perfect, yet there was something about the forehead that struck me as peculiar.
The thick dark hair was brushed back severely, and high up, almost in the centre of the white brow, was a curious mark, which, in the rapid flash of light, appeared to be a small but perfectly-defined bluish-grey ring!
As I fired, the arm of the mysterious visitor was raised as if to ward off a blow, and in the hand I saw the gleam of steel.
The slender fingers were grasping a murderous weapon – a long, keen surgeon’s knife, the blade of which was besmeared with blood.
Was I dreaming? I again asked myself. No, it was not a visionary illusion, for I saw it plainly with my eyes wide-open.
So great a fascination did this strange visitant possess over me, that I had been suddenly overcome by a terrible dread that had deprived me of the power of speech. My tongue clave to the roof of my mouth.
I felt more than ever convinced that there must be something supernatural about the silent masquerader.
In the dim light the puff of grey smoke from the revolver slowly curled before my eyes, hiding for a few seconds the singularly-beautiful countenance.
When, however, a moment later, the veil had cleared, I was amazed to discover that the figure had vanished.
My hand had been unsteady.
Grasping my revolver firmly, I sprang to my feet and rushed out of the tent. While gazing quickly around, a Cossack sentry, whose attention had been attracted by the shot, ran towards me.
“Has a woman passed you?” I asked excitedly, in the best Russian I could muster.
“A woman! No, sir. I was speaking with Ivan, my comrade on duty, when I heard a pistol-shot; but I have seen no one except yourself.”
“Didn’t you see an officer?”
“No, sir,” the man replied, leaning on his Berdan rifle and regarding me with astonishment.
“Are you positive?”
“I could swear before the holy ikon,” answered the soldier. “You could not have seen a woman, sir. There’s not one in the camp, and one could not enter, for we are exercising the greatest vigilance to exclude spies.”
“Yes, yes, I understand,” I said, endeavouring to laugh. “I suppose, after all, I’ve been dreaming;” and then, wishing the man good-morning, I returned to the tent.
It was, I tried to persuade myself, merely a chimera of a disordered imagination and a nervous system that had been highly strained by constant fatigue and excitement. I had of late, I remembered, experienced curious delusions, and often in the midst of most exciting scenes I could see vividly how peaceful and happy was my home in London, and how anxiously yet patiently my friends and relatives were awaiting my return from the dreaded seat of war.
On entering the tent, I was about to fling myself down to resume my rest, when it occurred to me that my wounded comrade might require something. Apparently he was asleep, and it seemed a pity to rouse him to administer the cooling draught the surgeon had left.
Bending down, I looked into his face, but could not see it distinctly, for the light was still faint and uncertain. His breathing was very slight, I thought; indeed, as I listened, I could not detect any sound of respiration. I placed my hand upon his breast, but withdrew it quickly.
My fingers were covered with blood.
Striking a match and holding it close to his recumbent figure, my eyes fell upon a sight which caused me to start back in horror. The face was bloodless, the jaw had dropped; he was dead!
There was a great ugly knife-wound. Captain Alexandrovitch had been stabbed to the heart!
At that moment the loud rumble of cannon broke the stillness, and a second later there was a vivid flash of light, followed by a terrific explosion. The redoubts of Plevna had opened fire upon us again, and a shell had burst in unpleasant proximity to my tent. The sullen roar of the big guns, and the sharp rattle from the rifle-pits, quickly placed us on the defence.
Bugles sounded everywhere, words of command were shouted, there was bustle and confusion for a few minutes, then every one sprang to his post, and our guns recommenced pouring their deadly fire into the picturesque little town, with its two white minarets, its domed church, and its flat-roofed houses, nestling in the wooded hollow.
With a final glance at my murdered comrade, I hastily buckled on my traps, reloaded my revolver, and, taking a photograph from my pocket, kissed it. Need I say that it was a woman’s? A moment later, I was outside amid the deafening roar of the death-dealing guns. Our situation was more critical than we had imagined, for Osman, believing that he had discovered a weak point in the girdle of Muscovite steel, was advancing, notwithstanding our fire. A terrible conflict ensued; but our victory is now historical.
We fought the Turks hand to hand, bayonet to bayonet, with terrible desperation, knowing well that the battle must be decisive. The carnage was fearful, yet to me there was one thing still more horrible, for throughout that well-remembered day the recollection of the mysterious murder of my friend was ever present in my mind. Amid the cannon smoke I saw distinctly the features of the strange visitant. They were, however, not so beautiful as I had imagined. The countenance was hideous. Indeed, never in my life have I seen such a sinister female face, or flashing eyes starting from their sockets in so horrible a manner.
But the most vivid characteristic of all was the curious circular mark on the forehead, that seemed to stand out black as jet.
Three months afterwards, on a rainy, cheerless March afternoon, I arrived at Charing Cross, and with considerable satisfaction set foot once again upon the muddy pavement of the Strand. It is indeed pleasant to be surrounded by English faces, and hear English voices, after a long period of enforced exile, wearying work, and constant uncertainty as to whether one will live to return to old associations and acquaintances. Leaving my luggage at the station, I walked down to the office in Fleet Street to report myself, and having received the welcome of such of the staff as were about the premises at that hour, afterwards took a cab to my rather dreary bachelor rooms in Russell Square.
My life in London during the next few months was uneventful, save for two exceptions. The first was when the Russian Ambassador conferred upon me, in the name of his Imperial master the Tzar, a little piece of orange and purple ribbon, in recognition of a trifling accident whereby I was enabled to save the lives of several of his brave Sibirsky soldiers. The second and more important was that I renounced the Bohemian ease of bachelorhood, and married Mabel Travers, the girl to whom for five years I had been engaged, and whose portrait I had carried in my pocket through so many scenes of desolation and hours of peril.
We took up our residence in a pretty bijou flat in Kensington Court, and our married life was one of unalloyed happiness. I found my wife amiable and good as she was young and handsome, and although she moved in a rather smart set, there was nothing of the butterfly of fashion about her. Her father was a wealthy Manchester cotton-spinner, who had a town-house at Gloucester Gate, and her dowry, being very considerable, enabled us to enter society.
On a winter’s afternoon, six months after our marriage, I arrived home about four o’clock, having been at the office greater part of the day, writing an important article for the next morning’s issue. Mabel was not at home, therefore, after a while, I entered the diningroom to await her. The hours dragged on, and though the marble clock on the mantelshelf chimed six, seven, and even eight o’clock, still she did not return. Although puzzled at her protracted absence, I was also hungry, so, ringing for dinner to be served, I sat down to a lonely meal.
Soon afterwards Mabel returned. She dashed into the room, gazed at me with a strange, half-frightened glance, then, rushing across, kissed me passionately, flinging her arms about my neck, and pleading to be forgiven for being absent so long, explaining that a lady, to whose “At Home” she had been, was very unwell, and she had remained a couple of hours longer with her. Of course I concealed my annoyance, and we spent the remainder of the evening very happily; for, seated before the blazing fire in full enjoyment of a good cigar and liqueur, I related how I had spent the day, while she gave me a full description of what she had been doing, and the people she had met.
Shortly before eleven o’clock the maid entered with a telegram addressed to Mabel. A message at that hour was so extraordinary, that I took it and eagerly broke open the envelope.
It was an urgent request that my wife should proceed at once to the house of her brother George at Chiswick, as something unusual had happened. We had a brief consultation over the extraordinary message, and as it was late, and raining heavily, I decided to go in her stead.
An hour’s drive in a cab brought me to a large red-brick, ivy-covered house, standing back from the road, and facing the Thames near Chiswick Mall. It was one of those residences built in the Georgian era, at a time when the fêtes champètres at Devonshire House were attended by the King, and when Chiswick was a fashionable country retreat. It stood in the centre of spacious grounds, with pretty serpentine walks, where long ago dainty dames in wigs and patches strolled arm-in-arm with splendid silk-coated beaux. The house was one of those time-mellowed relics of an age bygone, that one rarely comes across in London suburbs nowadays.
Mabel’s brother had resided here with his wife and their two children for four years, and being an Oriental scholar and enthusiast, he spent a good deal of his time in his study.
It was midnight when the old man-servant opened the door to me.
“Ah, Mr Harold!” he cried, on recognising me. “I’m glad you’ve come, sir. It’s a terrible night’s work that’s been done here.”
“What do you mean?” I gasped; then, as I noticed old Mr Travers standing pale and haggard in the hall, I rushed towards him, requesting an explanation.
“It’s horrible,” he replied. “I – I found poor George dead —murdered!”
“Murdered?” I echoed.
“Yes, it is all enshrouded in mystery,” he said. “The detectives are now making their examination.”
As I followed him into the study, I felt I must collect myself and show some reserve of mental strength and energy, but on entering, I was horror-stricken at the sight.
This room, in which George Travers spent most of his time, was of medium size, with French windows opening upon the lawn, and lined from floor to ceiling with books, while the centre was occupied by a large writing-table, littered with papers.