The Clique.
The two men first called did not interest me. They were the constables to whose evidence I had listened at the police court.
“Detective-Inspector Cronin,” exclaimed Mr Paget, when they had finished, and a tall, well-preserved, black-bearded man entered the witness-box and was sworn.
“I am John Cronin, detective inspector, Criminal Investigation Department,” said he, in answer to counsel. “The pocket-book which I produce was handed me on prisoner’s arrest, and upon examining it, I found it contained, amongst other things, a bill of the Charing Cross Hotel. I proceeded there, made inquiries, and ascertained that prisoner had been staying there one day, giving his name as Frank Burgoyne. I examined the room he occupied, and found a despatch box in which was the photograph I now produce. Comparing it with that of the woman murdered in Angel Court, taken after death, I find the features exactly coincide.”
“Was there any distinguishing mark?” asked his lordship.
“Yes, m’lord,” replied the detective handing up both photographs. “Your lordship will notice a small scar over the left eye.”
“You made other inquiries, I believe?” asked Mr Paget.
“Yes; on the following day I went to prisoner’s house, Elveham Dene, Northamptonshire, and searched the premises. On examining the drawers of a writing-table in the library, which were unlocked, I found two blank pieces of paper on which were seals corresponding in every particular to that found on the lady murdered in Bedford Place.”
What did all this mean? I knew nothing of these seals. Surely it must be some plot to take away my life!
The frightful suspicion—could Vera be concerned in it—entered my soul.