The Day of Temptation

When the dapper elderly man had stepped up to the table and been sworn, the Coroner, in the quick, business-like tone which he always assumed toward his fellow medical men, said —

“You are Doctor Charles Wyllie, house-surgeon, Charing Cross Hospital?”

“I am,” the other answered in a correspondingly dry tone.

“The woman was brought to the hospital, I suppose?”

“Yes, the police brought her, but she had already been dead about three-quarters of an hour. There were no external marks of violence, and her appearance was as though she had died suddenly from natural causes. In conjunction with Doctor Henderson, I yesterday made a careful post-mortem. The body is that of a healthy woman of about twenty-three, evidently an Italian. There was no trace whatever of organic disease. From what I noticed when the body was brought to the hospital, however, I asked the police to let it remain untouched until I was ready to make a post-mortem.”

“Did you discover anything which might lead to suspicion of foul play?” inquired the Coroner.

“I made several rather curious discoveries,” the doctor answered, whereat those in court shifted uneasily, prepared for some thrilling story of how the woman was murdered. “First, she undoubtedly died from paralysis of the heart. Secondly, I found around the left ankle a curious tattoo-mark in the form of a serpent with its tail in its mouth. It is beautifully executed, evidently by an expert tattooist. Thirdly, there was a white mark upon the left breast, no doubt the scar of a knife-wound, which I judged to have been inflicted about two years ago. The knife was probably a long narrow-bladed one, and the bone had prevented the blow proving fatal.”

“Then a previous attempt had been made upon her life, you think?” asked the Coroner, astonished.

“There is no doubt about it,” the doctor answered. “Such a wound could never have been caused by accident. It had no doubt received careful surgical attention, judging from the cicatrice.”

“But this had nothing to do with her death?” the Coroner suggested.

“Nothing whatever,” replied the doctor. “The appearance of the body gives no indication of foul play.”

“Then you assign death to natural causes – eh?”

“No, I do not,” responded Dr Wyllie deliberately, after a slight pause. “The woman was murdered.”

These words produced a great sensation in the breathlessly silent court.

“By what means?”

“That I have utterly failed to discover. All appearances point to the fact that the deceased lost consciousness almost instantly, for she had no time even to take out her handkerchief or smelling-salts, the first thing a woman does when she feels faint. Death came very swiftly, but the ingenious means by which the murder was accomplished are at present entirely a mystery. At first my suspicions were aroused by a curious discoloration of the mouth, which I noticed when I first saw the body; but, strangely enough, this had disappeared yesterday when I made the post-mortem. Again, in the centre of the left palm, extending to the middle finger, was a dark and very extraordinary spot. This I have examined microscopically, and submitted the skin to various tests, but have entirely failed to determine the cause of the mark. It is dark grey in colour, and altogether mysterious.”

“There was no puncture in the hand?” inquired the Coroner.

“None whatever. I examined the body thoroughly, and found not a scratch,” the doctor answered quickly. “At first I suspected a subcutaneous injection of poison; but this theory is negatived by the absence of any puncture.”

“But you adhere to your first statement that she was murdered?”

“Certainly. I am confident that the paralysis is not attributable to natural causes.”

“Have you found any trace of poison?”

“The contents of the stomach were handed over by the police to the analyst. I cannot say what he has reported,” the doctor answered sharply.

At once the Coroner’s officer interposed with the remark that the analyst was present, and would give evidence.

The foreman of the jury then put several questions to the doctor.

“Do you think, doctor,” he asked, “that it would be possible to murder a woman while she was sitting in a cab in so crowded a place as Piccadilly Circus?”

“The greater the crowd, the less the chance of detection, I believe.”

“Have you formed no opinion how this assassination was accomplished? Is there absolutely nothing which can serve as clue to the manner in which this mysterious crime was perpetrated?”

“Absolutely nothing beyond what I have already explained,” the witness answered. “The grey mark is on the palm of the left hand, which at the time of the mysterious occurrence was gloved. On the hand which was ungloved there is no mark. I therefore am of opinion that this curious discoloration is evidence in some way or other of murder.”

“Was she a lady?”

“She had every evidence of being so. All her clothing was of first-class quality, and the four rings she wore were of considerable value. When I came to make the post-mortem, I found both hands and feet slightly swollen, therefore it was impossible to remove her rings without cutting.”

The evidence of Dr Slade, Analyst to the Home Office, being brief, was quickly disposed of. He stated that he had submitted the contents of the stomach to analysis for poison, but had failed to find trace of anything baneful. It was apparent that the woman had not eaten anything for many hours, but that was, of course, accounted for by the fact that she had been travelling. His evidence entirely dismissed the theory of poison, although Dr Wyllie had asserted most positively that death had resulted from the administration of some substance which had proved so deadly as to cause her to lose consciousness almost instantly, and produce paralysis of the heart.

Certainly the report of the analyst did not support the doctor’s theory. Dr Wyllie was one of the last persons to indulge unduly in any sensationalism, and the Coroner, knowing him well through many years, was aware that there must be some very strong basis for his theory before he would publicly express his conviction that the woman had actually been murdered. Such a statement, when published in the Press in two or three hours’ time, would, he knew, give the doctor wide notoriety as a sensation-monger – the very thing he detested above everything. But the fact remained that on oath Dr Wyllie had declared that the fair, unknown foreigner had been foully and most ingeniously murdered. If this were really so, then the culprit must be a past-master in the art of assassination. Of all the inquiries the Coroner had held during many years of office, this certainly was one of the most sensational and mysterious.

When the analyst had concluded, a smartly-dressed young woman, named Arundale, was called. She stated that she was a barmaid at the Criterion, and related how the unknown man, whose appearance she described, had entered the bar, called for a whisky and soda, chatted with her for a few minutes, and then made his exit by the other door.

“Did he speak to any one else while in the bar?” asked the Coroner.

“Yes, while he was talking to me, an older, well-dressed man entered rather hurriedly. The gentleman speaking to me appeared very surprised – indeed, almost alarmed. Then, drawing aside so that I should not overhear, they exchanged a few hurried words, and the elder left by the back exit, refusing the other’s invitation to drink. The younger man glanced at his watch, then turned, finished his whisky leisurely, and chatted to me again. I noticed that he was watching the front door all the time, but believing him to be expecting a friend when, suddenly wishing me a hasty ‘Good-night,’ he threw down a shilling and left.”

“What sort of man was it who spoke to him?” inquired the Coroner quickly.

“He was a military man, for I heard him addressed as ‘Major.’”

“Curious!” the Coroner observed, turning to the jury. “The cab-driver in his evidence says that a certain Major met the pair at Charing Cross Station. It may have been the same person. This coincidence is certainly striking, and one which must be left to the police to investigate. We have it in evidence that the woman and her companion drove away in the cab, leaving the Major – whoever he may be – standing on the platform. The pair drove straight to the Criterion; yet five minutes later the woman’s companion was joined by another Major, who is apparently one and the same.”

The constable who took the body to the hospital then related how, while on duty in Piccadilly Circus, he had been called to the cab, and found the woman dead. Afterwards he had searched the pockets of the deceased, and taken possession of the lady’s dressing-case and the man’s hand-bag – all the luggage they had with them in addition to their wraps. He produced the two bags, with their contents, objects which excited considerable interest throughout the room. In the man’s bag was a suit of dress-clothes, a small dressing-case, and one or two miscellaneous articles, but nothing by which the owner could be traced.

“Well, what did you find in the lady’s pockets? Anything to lead to her identity?” the Coroner asked at last.

“No, sir. In addition to a purse containing some English money, I found a key, a gentleman’s card bearing the name ‘Arnoldo Romanelli,’ and a small crucifix of ivory and silver. In the dressing-case, which you will see is fitted with silver and ivory fittings,” he continued, opening it to the gaze of the jury, “there are a few valuable trinkets, one or two articles of attire, and a letter written in Italian – ”

“I have the letter here,” interrupted the Coroner, addressing the jury. “Its translation reads as follows: —

”‘Dear Vittorina,

”‘Be extremely cautious if you really mean to go to England. It is impossible for me to accompany you, or I would; but you know my presence in Italy is imperative. You will easily find Bonciani’s Café, in Regent Street. Remember, at the last table on the left every Monday at five.

”‘With every good wish for a pleasant journey,

    ”‘Egisto.’

“The letter, which has no envelope,” added the Coroner, “is dated from Lucca, a town in Tuscany, a week ago. It may possibly assist the police in tracing friends of the deceased.” Then, turning to the constable, he asked, “Well, what else was in the lady’s bag?”

“This photograph,” answered the officer, holding up a cabinet photograph.

“Why!” cried the cab-driver, who had taken a seat close to where the policeman was standing. “Why, that’s a photograph of the Major!”

“Yes,” added the barmaid excitedly, “that’s the same man who came up to the gentleman while he was speaking to me. Without doubt that’s the Major, and an excellent portrait, too.”