Chapter XXXVII

Of the half-hour which followed I can give no coherent account. As I try to recall it, after the lapse of many years, details start into vivid relief, but without sequence or any clear relation of cause and effect.

I have an impression of helping Lavender to raise Fédore from the ground, and of his muttering—‘A foul blow, before God a foul blow,’ as we laid her, quivering but apparently unconscious, upon the couch. An impression of sultry, copper-coloured sunshine suddenly and harshly lighting up the disordered room, the grim assembly of men, and the woman’s pale recumbent figure, as with a glare of widespread conflagration. I have an impression of Marsigli, too, and that a very strange one, coolly holding out his hands—the right hand horribly splashed and stained—while Lavender clapped a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. The fury of primitive passion seemed assuaged in him by his hideous act of vengeance, and he had become impassive, courtly even in manner, as I remembered him when waiting on her Magnificence at table or ushering in her guests. He had given himself up, as I heard later, without any struggle or attempt at escape. But above all I have an impression, nauseating and to me indescribably dreadful, which—though I trust I am not unduly squeamish—I shall, I believe, carry with me to the day of my death, an impression of the sight, the sense, the smell of fresh shed blood. Upon that I will not dwell further, since, however deeply affecting to myself, it can serve no useful purpose.

Finally—summoned, I suppose, by the younger of Lavender’s underlings, who had reappeared after locking the servant, Marie, in some room below—a surgeon arrived. Then I slipped away downstairs and out into the comparatively cool untainted atmosphere of the shabby little garden. If I was wanted, they must call me. Not voluntarily could I witness a professional examination of what, less than an hour ago, had been a strong and very beautiful if very sinful woman, and was now but a helpless corpse.

All my thought had softened towards Fédore. Her evildoings—evil even in respect of her accomplice—were manifest. For, let us be just, Marsigli’s crime was not without provocation. But she had played for great stakes and had lost. The pathos of irremediable failure was upon her. And I was awe-stricken by the swiftness of her punishment, the relentless and appalling haste with which she had been thrust out of life. Into what uncharted regions of being had her astute, ambitious, and voluptuous spirit now passed? Regardless of the prohibitions of my Church, I prayed—and how earnestly!—her sins might be forgiven; and that through the Eternal Mercy—so far broader, deeper, more abiding, as I confidently believe, than any man-made definition of it—she might even yet find a place for repentance and peace at the last.

Under the plane-tree I found a rickety garden seat, on which, being now very tired, I was glad enough to rest.

How long I remained there in solitude—hearing the distant roar of London and a confused movement and noise of voices from the street, in which I judged a crowd had now gathered—I know not. But, finally, I beheld the stalwart form of Lavender, his hands clasped behind him and his head bent as in deep thought, coming up the wet garden path between the straggling row of little fruit-trees. His aspect struck me as depressed.

‘Well, sir,’ he said, when he reached me, ‘I think we have done all we can for to-night. I have disposed of Mr. Marsigli, and I and my men have been pretty thoroughly through the house. Some of what I take to be the stolen jewels are there, and a certain amount of plate; but no letters or papers that I can discover.’

He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face.

‘This is strictly between ourselves, sir,’ he went on, ‘you understand of course?’

I assured him I did.

‘Then I think I may say that in my opinion you can make your mind easy as to the existence of a previous marriage. You remember the conversation we overheard? Her answer, you may have observed, was not a denial of the fact but of the existence of proof—a very different story. However, if we fail to find proofs nearer home it will be simple to take a run over to Paris. We shall have no difficulty with the prisoner. It is in his interest to give all the information he can, and he is sharp enough to know that. A rum customer, though, as I have ever had to deal with—one minute a mad savage and the next close on a fine gentleman. Trying cattle these foreigners, always springing some trick on you! He’ll have to swing for her, I expect—still she must have led him a pretty lively dance. Something to be said on both sides, sir, as in my experience there usually is.’

Much of the above was welcome hearing; yet the detective’s aspect remained depressed. Again he wiped his face.

‘And now I dare say you’ll not be sorry to be moving, sir,’ he remarked.

Then as I rose, stiff and weary, and walked beside him along the garden path, the real source of his trouble was disclosed.

‘I feel I am bound to apologise, sir, for letting you in for so much unpleasantness. I blame myself; I was over-confident, and have got a well-deserved slap to my professional pride as the result.’

‘How so?’ I asked him.

‘Why, I delayed too long before opening those double doors in my eagerness to secure all the evidence I could—a mistake which might be excusable in a youngster, but not in one of my standing. The very secret of our business is to know the moment for action to a tick. I let them both get too worked up. And, worked up as they were, he being Italian, I ought to have foreseen the likelihood of that knife. No, sir, look at it what way I will, I am bound to blame myself. It is a discredit, in my opinion, and a grave one, for a man in my position to have a murder—and in broad daylight too—committed within three yards of his nose. The less said the better, I’m afraid, for some time to come, sir, about Lavender’s luck.’

I consoled the mortified and over-conscientious hunter of criminals and crime to the best of my ability; and then, thankfully bidding farewell to that blood-stained and tragic little house, pushed my way, with Lavender’s help, through the gaping and curious crowd in the street, and, bestowing myself in the coach one of his men had called for me, rumbled and jolted back to Grosvenor Square through the hot, thundery dusk.

(To be continued.)