Venetia Montague: A Romance of Clairvoyance

by James Wight

ɪ.—ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴀᴛ ᴛʜɪꜱ ᴠɪʟʟᴀ ꜱᴏʟꜰᴇʀɪɴᴏ. 

A crime had been committed in a suburb of Boulogne, and the neighborhood was in commotion. A wealthy man who had occupied the Villa Solferino had been found dead in his bed at midnight. After repeated knocks at his door, Petrie, his valet, had become alarmed, and had run like wildfire to the Judge’s house. The body lay on the bed dressed. The face was horribly contorted. The half-opened lips disclosed both rows of teeth, clenched by the last convulsion of agony. The eyes, which no pions hand had closed in time, stared death in the face with a horrid fright. A broad dagger, almost shaped like a bayonet, lay crimsoned with gore in the middle of the room. The blood had spurted upon the carpets, the hangings, the furniture, everywhere.  

Petrie, the valet, who had called the Justice and raised the neighborhood, was silent. He seemed to have exhausted his strength and to have lapsed into a sort of stupor. At the inquest he had so far recovered as to be able to tell all he knew. It was not much. His master had been in his usual health that unfortunate day. The female servant had been called to Calais by a telegram announcing the sickness of her mother. He had therefore served his employer’s supper at the usual hour—eight o’clock—after that he had gone downstairs and eaten a few shrimps, washing them down with a single glass of claret—he positively swore that he had only drunk one glass of claret—then, in a most unaccountable manner, he had dropped asleep, and had not awoke until the hall clock was striking twelve. Being minutely… Read More