Northern Weekly Gazette. — 1914-04-04 (Stockton-on-Tees, Cleveland, England)

THE MURDER EXPERT.  OFTEN used to wonder who and what my neighbour was. His name, of course, I 'knew —Mr Edwards. Mr John Edwards, but that was all the informa.Lion I had. Our villas, in the quiet , suburb. adjoined each other-. and I often saw Mr Edwards in his  garden, attending to his rotee trees. fl was a short, clean-shaven man of about five-and-forty, bri.skish in movement, and alert in aspect. He appeared to be a bachelor—at any rate, save for a couple of servants, I never saw any woman about the house, and since I had retired from the active practice of architecture I was nearly always at home. One afternoon, however, my neighbour got into the same first-ciass railway compartment as that in which I was travelling down from London, and of which we were the only occupants. Mr Edwards! bowed and smiled, remarked that he knew me well by sight. and we immedia.tely became friendly, having a most pleasant conversetion until the train drew up at our station. We walked home together, and at his gate Mr Edwards asked me to come in and smoke a cigar with him after dinner. "I can give you a cigar," he said, "such as I dare swear you have seldom smoked, never perhaps, because such weeds cannot possibly be pur chased through the ordinary channels." I accepted the invitation with pleasure, thinking in my own mind that the pleasant-faced man was probably a shipper or importer of cigars. I am a great smoker, and I promised myself an amusing evening, and an interesting "tobacco talk." My evening was certainly destined to be amusing— though that is hardly the word—interesting it Wi.P in the highest degree. I shall always look baek upon it with regret and sorrow. Regret that it did not 'Drove the first of many such evenings spent in such congenial society, sorrow that it should have had such a lamentable and tragic- conclusion. About half-past eight I rang the front-door bell of Mr Edwards' house, and was at once admitted by atrim housemaid. My host was waiting for me in his study, and in a few minutes I was enjoying an excellent cup of coffee and a cigar which was the finest I had e*er smoked.  I rr_Amarked upon the remarkable bouquet and flavour. Mr Edwards smiled.  "I thought you would say so," he said, "and ' You would rea..ise why, if I were at liberty to say from what illustrious hand they came to mine. That, however, is not possible. But in my profes sion, if I may call it so, I occasionally receive valuable presents." Mr Edwards saw the question in my face, though I was too polite to put it into words. Ire smiled. "Since we are neighbours •' he said, "and are to be friends a:so, I hope, I must let you into a little secret. I follow no ordinary avocation, nor do I suppose there is anyone else in England who occupies exactly my position. I am, to put it in four words, an expert in murder!" I started violently. Anyone will easily imagine my feelings at these strange and yet deliberate words. "Do not. mistake me," said Mr Edwards. "I neither commit crimes, nor do I detect them in the ordinary sense of the word. I have no official connection with Scotland Yard. but I occupy the position, as it were, of a final court of appeal. No one ever hears my name. I have never given evi• dence in a court of law in my life. But when everything else fails, when a murder ease of more than unusual mystery occurs, then I am consulted by the police or by private persons who are in terested. My interest is purely intellectual. I have means of my own, but the crime of murder, the study of it I mean, has been my main interest throughout life." Such a revelation was surprising, but surprise waS lost in interest after a moment or two. I sat in the comfortable hook-lined room smoking and sipping my coffee—made in the Turldsh fashion in a Long-handled brass pot. The firelight played upon all the gold and crimson of the shelves, the lamplight filled the cosy room with its mellow radiance, and I sat entranced till far into the night, hearing tales of strange and secret crime. • • • "Yes!" said my host, "it is indeed true the world only hears of the more ordinary and less Slbtle murders. The real artist in murder is  BY