FATAL FINGERS.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XLIX, Issue 15155, 20 November 1912, Page 11

FATAL FINGERS.

BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX,

Author of " Zoraida," " The Eye of lif»r," " Whcso Findeih a Wife," " England's Peril," Secrets of Monte Carlo," " Her Majetty'a Minister," " Court of Honour," '.' Secrets of the Foreign Office," "Th« Invasion of 1910,"

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued.) The doctor stepped into the box, and taking the oath with a professional air stated that he was called by the police and found Sir George dead. _ " And in your opinion what was the cause of death?"

" I made a post-mortem-. Death was duo .0 poison injected." " Could a syringe such as the one just shown have produced death?" asked the coroner.

" Certainly. I understand that Sir George was unfortunately in the habit of having recourse to drugs. It was probably an overdose wilfully taken."

" Any questions to ask the doctor 1" inquired the coroner sharply of the jury. "The deceased eeems to have taken a double dose of morphia.'

There was no response. The twelve respectable tradesmen of the City of Westminster 'were apparently quite satisfied. The authorities can always obtain a verdict in the manner they wish. How frequently Scotland Yard obtains a verdict of suicide in cases, where they are convinced that murder has been committed ' only Scotland Yard itself knows.

"I will ask you, gentlemen of the jury," said the coroner, addressing them, "having heard the evidence available, to return what verdict you honestly believe to be the true one. " If you consider what you have heard sufficient proof that deceased died by his own hand, then you will return a,"verdict to that effect —wilful or accidental. If, on the contrary, you do not accept the evidence, then, perhaps, you may wish to adjourn the inquiry. For my" own part," ho added carelessly, placing down his fen, " I have no hesitation in deciding at what verdict I, as a juryman, would arrive." "Neither have we, I think, sir,," remarked the foreman, glancing inquiringly along the line of his colleagues. ''There can be no doubt that the case is one of suicide while temporarily insane." '• Then may I take that as your verdict, gentlemen!" asked the coroner, with a brisk, business-like air, to which they assented, without a single dissentient. Five minutes later tho Court of Inquiry rose, and everyone filed out into the street. Two hours afterwards, in that same sombre room, where the gas was now lit and where another jury had been empanelled, tho same coroner held an inquiry into tho death of Richard Goodrick, late of 78, C'harlwood-street, Pimlico.

Only two reporters were present, and the attendance of the general public was small. But tho same- police officers who had attended the inquest upon Sir George Ravenscourt also attended, several of them seated upon the benches with the public. Not more than 30 persons were present, but among them, sitting alone at the extreme back of the court, half in the sha-

dow, was an elderly, clean-shaven man in neat brown overcoat and velvet collar. Ho wore dog-skin gloves, and his hair was parted down the back in the dandified fashion of the early sixties. Apparently he had dropped in out of mere curiosity. Yet in his eyes was a crafty, sinister expression, about his mouth a "strange hardness, while his gloved fingers twitelied nervously as he sat impatiently awaiting the opening of the inquiry. None—perhaps not even Maidce herself —world havo recognised in that smartlydressed old gentleman the shabby and negligent Uncle John,—the man who lived in that meagre, obscure lodging off the Walworth Road. And yet it was he! Inspector Medland, brisk and active as before, was the first witness after the jury had viewed the body. "From information received," he deposed, " I went, on the morning of the 17th, to 78, Cliarlwood-street, Pimlico, whore I saw the deceased lying in a back room on the ground floor. He was dead. I searched the room, and on making inquiry found he was a person of somewhat eccentric habits. He had lived as lodger in the house in question for 18 years, but according to information 1 have" gathered he has, of late, experienced some difficulty in paving his rent." "All! financial difficulties!" exclaimed the coroner. '* The old storyeh?" " I think so, sir." "Poison, I understand?" remarked the coroner casually.

" Yes, sir. I produce a bottle," and he handed in a small phial. "It has contained chloral."

Old John Ambrose sat breathless and open-mouthed. How much did the police really know? Mrs. Ayres then gave some details regarding her lodger's idiosyncracies. "I suppose you've seen that bottle before—eh?" asked the coroner, to which tho talkative woman replied in the affirmative, chattering on with many reminiscences of "poor Mr. Goodrick." The coroner, however, cut her short and asked for the medical evidence, which was to the effect that death had been duo to chloral.

Suicide, I suppose?" asked the coroner, in his dry, matter-of-fact way. To this the doctor merely shrugged his shoulders.

"Apparently the old man became reduced in circumstances," remarked the coroner, turning to the jury. We have it ip evidence that he was proud and independent, and extremely punctilious regarding his payments. His poverty probably preyed upon his mind. But, o{ course, it is for you, gentlemen, to say how deceased came by his death—whether accidentallv, or by his own hand." The worthy jury, without hesitation, returned a verdict of suicide, littlo dreaming that they were investigating as strange a tragedy as aver puzzled the metropolitan police. The reporters rose and left in disappointment that the case had furnished no "copy" to take the eye of the news editor, and the < neat, clean-shaven old man in the corridor breathed more freely, and rose with a low chuckle, making his way out into th© street.

" Goodrick's secret is still safe—still safe— safe!" he murmured to himself as he made his way through tho darkness and falling rain in the direction of Westminster Bridge. " Fortunately for me, tho old man who spoke with Richard Goodrick —the only mar\ who knew his secretis deaddead!"

CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN OF THE MOMENT.

A toll, slim, dark-haired, athletic-looking young man of 26 was lounging in a big armchair in the saloon of Boodle's, idly smoking a cigarette, and gazing out into tho winter gloom of St. James-street.

His clean-shaven, aquiline face showed shrewdness and cleverness, but his knitted brows betrayed a deep seriousness somewhat alien to his nature. Ho was a merry, easy-going, good-looking fellow, very popular in the clubs and in society, for "he was hailed on every hand as a coming man. The younger son of Gilbert Cunningham, of Cunningham, in Devonshire, who had held office as an Under-Secretary of State, had inherited an ample income from his aunt, old Lady Lindley Bruce, and in addition to his brilliant university career he had distinguished himself by travelling in tho Near East, more especially in Albania and the disturbed districts of Macedonia, and writing the most thorough and comprehensive account of the tangle of politics concerning those distressful countries ever published.

In Parliament, a Cabinet Minister had quoted the young man's words and declared them to be a solemn warning to England; hence the press took up the book, and in a week Gordon Cunningham had found himself famous.

From that" moment ho bad never been idle, and had steadily progressed. He was constantly travelling, constantly writing, and constantly being interviewed. At the last general election he had stood successfully for the Kingebridge division of Devonshire, and in the House had given a maiden speech upon the Turkish maladministration in Macedonia, which had been listened to with great interest, and bad been the subject of a leader in the Times next day.

The short, winter's day was fading. Outside in the street passers-by hurried along beneath streaming umbrellas, and already the gas-lamps were appearing, everywhere. Yet the young man still sat, his eyes fixed before him moodily, taking no notice either of the fact that a shabby, ill-dressed old Roman Catholic priest had taken shelter from the rain in a doorway opposite. Cunningham had just returned from the funeral of Sir George Ravenscourt, which had taken place in tho village churchyard at Pyrton, at the foot of the Chiftern Hills, where the baronet had a pretty week-end house on the hill above Cuxham.

It had been a very solemn and depressing ceremony. A special train had been run from Paddington to Watlington, the nearest station, and by it a large assembly of the dead man's personal and political friends had travelled, among them many whose names were as household words. No ladies had been present. Lady Ravenscourt and Maidee had remained in London, plunged in grief, for the wet, dismal day seemed to add gloom to th© tragic circumstance. Among the early arrivals was a tall, well-dressed old gentleman, with a reddish, narrow, rather bony face, clean-shaven, erect, and rather spruce in his neat black and silk hat with its broad mourning band. The special was not duo till noon, the funeral being fixed lor one o'clock. Therefore tho stranger, having plenty of time at his disposal, walked through the mud into Watlington and entered the old Bell Hotel.

In the ot>ffeu-room he ordered some breakfast, and as he ate his meal he chatted with the waiter, who guessed his errand by his garments. The rain having ceased, he later on retraced his steps to the station, and as the special came in he took up .a position where he could watch the mourners as they passed the porter who was collecting the tickets.

When all had entered the line of carriages in readiness for them, the stronger was still apparently uncertain, for. hiring a closed fly, he followed them to the picturesque little church in Pyrton village, seating himself alone in a pew at the back and watching the service conducted with due solemnity by the white-haired rector. The stranger had a pair of keen dark eyes, which, though his bead was apparently bent in prayer, searched everywhere. His hard, thin lips bore a distinctly evil expression as now and then they moved, though no sound escaped them. Bending forward, his elbows on the ledgo before him, he buried his face in his hands, and as ho did so his features slowly relaxed into a grin of satisfaction. Apparently he had recognised among the mourners the person of whom he had been in search. Presently, when the first portion of the service had been concluded and the coffin was borne forth into the churchyard, he rose and slowlv followed the mourners out. Standing aside, some distance from the silent, bare-headed crowd around the open grave, the stranger seemed both watchful and exultant. His presence there seemed as though he desired to witness the actual ; burial rather than mourn the loss of the I noteworthy politician. His appearance was entirely different from when he had sat in the coroner's court and heard the fictitious story of old Mr. Goodrick's death, yet ho was the same the man John Ambrose. To be : continued pn ;Baturda*V-HWt>:;. "