In White Raiment

“And you never again saw him alive?”

“No,” she faltered. “When I saw him again he was down in the hall. Some men were carrying him in – dead! Oh, it’s awful! I – I can’t realise it!” And she burst into a torrent of tears.

“It certainly is a most painful affair,” said Bullen, sympathetically; “but we are striving our utmost to solve the mystery. Therefore, I trust you will forgive me for seeking this interview. Whatever information you can give us will assist us very materially in our inquiries.”

“I don’t think I can tell you anything more,” declared the distressed woman.

“But what is your theory? Do you believe that the announcement that he was not feeling well was a mere excuse for absence?”

“Ah, that I cannot tell,” she responded. “The house was locked up at midnight, and it was evident that he was out then, for this morning all the doors were bolted, and the windows were found fastened, just as the servants had left them.”

“Well,” he said, “that shows that he went out before the house was locked up. Were any of the other guests out in the park?”

“Not to my knowledge,” she replied, after a second’s hesitation. “Of course the men went out upon the drive in front of the house, and walked up and down to smoke after dinner.”

“From your statement it would almost appear as though your husband went out to keep some secret appointment. Have you any suspicion that he had arranged to meet any one?”

“None whatever.”

“And he had never mentioned to you any single person with whom he was at enmity?”

“Never.”

“I presume that most of the guests who were here last night have since left?”

“All have left. I am practically alone.”

“I shall be glad if, as soon as you can do so, you will kindly make me out a list of your guests, together with their addresses. We may not require it, but in this matter we must not overlook a single point.”

“But surely you don’t suspect any of them?” she exclaimed quickly.

“We suspect no one, at present,” he responded. “But in order to prosecute our inquiries satisfactorily, it is necessary to know exactly who was in the house at the time of the tragedy.”

“Oh, of course – of course,” she said. “I will make out the list and let you have it in the course of an hour – if that will do?”

“Excellent,” the detective said.

Bullen glanced across to a half-open door, which appeared to give entrance to the library, saying —

“If you will permit us, we will examine the Colonel’s papers; they may give us some clue. It is just possible that he received a letter making the appointment in the park.”

“You are quite at liberty to act just as you think best,” she answered with perfect frankness.

He thanked her, and then tactfully turned the conversation back to the events of the previous night. It might have been owing to the prejudice which I entertained towards her, but somehow she seemed anxious to avoid any remark regarding the period immediately preceding the tragedy. Naturally a wife whose husband has been foully assassinated in a manner so mysterious, would look back in horror upon past events; but in some strange, indefinite way she seemed to hold our presence in dread.

Bullen, not slow to notice this, continued to ply her with questions in order to obtain further details of how the hours after dinner had been spent.

“Who saw your husband last?” he inquired.

“I don’t know for certain. I believe it was one of the guests – a Mr Durrant, with whom he had played billiards.”

“After he had complained to you of not feeling well?”

“No; he played billiards before,” she answered. Then readily added, “On leaving me he returned to the billiard-room to fetch his cigar-case. It was then he wished Mr Durrant good-night.”

“Did he tell him, also, that he was unwell?”

“Yes, I believe so. But Mr Durrant sent a card of sympathy to my room and left without seeing me. I therefore only know this by hearsay from the servants.”

“You have a stepson – Lieutenant Chetwode. Where was he?”

“With me in the drawing-room. Ah! here he comes.” And at that moment a thin, dark-haired, well-set-up young man entered, eyeing us with an inquiring glance.

This, then, was my wife’s lover.

Briefly the widow explained who we were, and, in reply to Bullen’s questions, the dead man’s son described how his father had managed to slip out unobserved, and how his absence had passed unnoticed until the awful discovery had been made in the morning.

“You have no suspicion that he had any enemy, I suppose?” the detective asked.

“None whatever. The terrible affair is a most profound mystery.”

“Yes,” said Bullen reflectively, his grey eyes fixed upon those of the widow; “it’s a mystery we must try to solve.”

“I hope you will,” the young man exclaimed. “My father has fallen beneath the hands of some cowardly assassin concealed in those bushes down by the lake – he was the victim of the revenge of some person unknown.”

“What makes you think the motive was revenge?” inquired the detective, quick to scent any clue.

The widow and her stepson exchanged rapid glances. I was watching, and it occurred to me that some secret understanding existed between them. My friend of the Red Lion had declared that they were enemies, but to me it certainly appeared as though they were acting in complete accord.

“Oh,” responded Cyril Chetwode, rather lamely, “I merely suppose that.”

“Revenge for what?”

“Ah! if we only knew the reason it would not be difficult to find the murderer,” answered the man who loved my wife. “It may be that some person sought revenge for an imaginary grievance.”

“But why was the Colonel walking at that lonely spot at that hour? He must have had an object. It looks suspiciously as though he went to keep a secret appointment. The excuse that he was ill seems to have been made with a view to securing his room from intruders who might disturb him.”

“He may have kept an appointment,” his son replied. “But only he himself could tell us the truth.”

The detective acquiesced, and after some further conversation, in which I joined, he rose, and passing through into the library, commenced an examination of the papers lying on the writing-table. With my rival in the affections of the woman who was my wife, I assisted him, while the widow stood behind us watching, her face pale and anxious and her nervous hands trembling.

She was in fear. Of that I felt absolutely convinced. But what discovery did she dread?

While we were bending, examining the contents of one of the drawers, which was full of papers relating to the Colonel’s duty as a justice of the peace – for it was here that he performed his judicial work – his widow stood behind me, and, with a quick movement, sidled up to her stepson. The next instant it occurred to me that she had passed something to him; but, pretending to be engrossed in the papers, I made no sign that I had observed their rapid exchange.

“Have you found anything?” she inquired calmly, after a few moments.

“No; nothing, unfortunately,” Bullen responded. And then, having searched the room from top to bottom, suggested a move to the Colonel’s bedroom.