“And arrest her?”
“Yes—providing the coroner’s jury bring in a verdict of wilful murder. And they must, for he was struck a heavy blow on the head by a piece of iron piping.”
Later Falconer stood by the body of his friend, who was dressed just as he had been when they parted at Liverpool Street. Indeed he was still wearing his light overcoat, showing that he had been killed either on arrival at the flat or upon his departure.
Naturally Geoffrey was greatly perturbed, and eager to discover the woman in whose apartment Enrico had been assassinated. Next day the motive of the crime was established—robbery. His wallet was missing! That he had carried one Geoffrey knew, because he had produced it to pay for his railway-fare from Chelmsford to London. It was a dark-red one, and seemed well-filled with Treasury notes.
In due course, the inquest was held, and though Geoffrey gave evidence of identification, he refrained, at the suggestion of Superintendent Ransley, from telling the jury of that remarkable telephonic message of farewell to which he had listened. The jury returned their verdict, and left the police to solve the mystery and arrest the woman Priestley.
But though they made every inquiry, no trace could be found of her. The firm of furniture removers stated that she had called one day and asked them to remove her furniture and store it, handed the key of the flat to the clerk, showed him a receipt for the last quarter’s rent, and gave him a cheque for fifty pounds on account. She told him that she was going abroad, and would probably be away for a year at least. A receipt was given, and the men, going to carry out the work of removal, made the sensational discovery.
About a month went by. The body of poor Enrico had been buried at Geoffrey’s expense, and though the latter continued his research work at Chelmsford, his thoughts were ever centred upon the mysterious Mrs. Priestley.
One day Superintendent Ransley received information that an Englishwoman named Priestley, who answered the description of the missing woman, was staying at the Hôtel des Indes at the Hague. A few hours later a detective-inspector armed with a request for arrest and extradition, left London on his way to Holland via Harwich, and six days later Mrs. Priestley was at Bow Street Police Station, where she was interrogated by Superintendent Ransley, who, of course, first cautioned her that whatever she might say would be taken down and might be used as evidence against her.
The charge that she had been guilty of murdering Enrico Rossi had, it seemed, from the first staggered her. She had protested her innocence over and over again.
“You knew this Signor Enrico Rossi?” said the superintendent, looking up from the pocket-book in which he had been writing.