The day after the disaster Marie told her that she had been summoned to Paris to consult her lawyers about some property left to her by her husband. She parted from her employer with tears in her eyes, but she did not go to the French capital. She fixed upon Marseilles, and, taking up her headquarters in the leading hotel there, had a riotous time on the money she had stolen from the English lady.
The six hundred pounds and Marie were soon separated, and once more she was penniless. She still had her jewellery, but she was loath to sell it, and in desperation she set on foot various swindles. They all came to nothing, and at last, feeling that the police were watching her, she became panic-stricken, and fled to London. They could not harm her there, as she was, by virtue of her second marriage, a British subject.
In London she was friendless, while hotel managers were hard-hearted and would allow no credit. Poor Marie was compelled to work, and, of course, she hated the prospect, but necessity compelled her to dispose of her jewellery, and with the money to start a dressmaker's establishment. She found a coy-looking shop in an unobtrusive street in the West End of London, and with a small and select stock began her new career.
The woman, a criminal to the finger-tips, utterly unscrupulous and merciless, had no intention of settling down to the drudgery of a dressmaker's life. She regarded her establishment as a spider must regard his web. Money was not to be earned legitimately, but by trickery. Money and more money was all Marie thought of, and, with the aid of her crafty tongue, she extracted various sums from trusting and sympathetic clients.
She could ingratiate herself into the confidences of middle-aged English ladies who were losing their attractions by grossly flattering them, and, because she was no rival so far as looks were concerned, they became friends of hers rather than clients.
Her first exploit in London was a great success. A well-to-do woman of fifty, who had been fascinated by "Madame's" promise to keep her young, called to see her, and found the dressmaker in tears. The usual question ensued, and then Marie whispered that the broker's men were in the next room, and that she was ruined. The sympathetic customer paid the amount which Marie said was owing, and as the whole story was a lie the "dressmaker" was sixty pounds to the good.
Hitherto Marie's criminal activities had centred on obtaining money by means of fraud. Her first two husbands may have died under suspicious circumstances, but it was only suspicion after all, and it was not until she was a British subject and a resident in the West End of London that she soared to greater criminal heights.
The widow began to think of marrying again. A husband would be decidedly useful in London. The English were inclined to regard her with suspicion because she had no man attached to her, and Marie meant to abandon the dressmaking business because the comparatively small sums which she obtained from confiding customers were of little use to her. She wanted thousands now, for she had become a confirmed gambler, and the luck as a rule went against her. She therefore, as a preliminary, commenced a campaign to find a husband, and she had not to wait long for success.
It was said at the time of the final catastrophe that Marie first met Vere Goold when the latter called to pay an account for a relative, but there was no confirmation of this, and there is reason to believe that she made his acquaintance at a restaurant in the West End.
Vere Goold was an Irishman of good family, who devoted his time to absorbing intoxicating liquors. A man of education and some ability, drink and drugs had robbed him of all his will power. He had been sent to London by friends and relations who were anxious for him to reform, and they made him a small allowance, hoping that he would find it impossible to live on it, and would, therefore, seek some form of employment.