In White Raiment

Here the search, both of the clothes in his wardrobe and of the room wherein he usually slept, likewise proved fruitless. After twenty minutes or so, however, I contrived, while the others were busy turning over the dead man’s effects, to slip back to the library. Young Chetwode had, at the moment when the suspicious movement had been made behind me, stood with his back to the black marble mantelshelf, and it was to examine this that I returned. While doing so I suddenly found a crack between the wall and the upright marble support, where the plaster had dried out by the heat of the winter fires, and, peering within, I saw something concealed there.

With the aid of my scarf-pin I managed to pick it out, and found that it was an unmounted photograph that had been crumpled in the hand and was dirty. Mrs Chetwode had managed to seize it before we could discover it, and the stepson had concealed it in that ingenious hiding-place.

I spread it out; the picture I gazed upon was both startling and ghastly. It was a portrait of Beryl, my love, supported by pillows, her face expressionless, her eyes closed.

The hideous truth was plain. The photograph had been taken after death!

Chapter Fifteen

The Grey House

I placed the mysterious picture in my pocket and remained silent. That my wife had been photographed after death there could be no doubt, for I, as a medical man, was, alas! too well acquainted with the appearance of a face from which life had faded, as distinguished from that of one asleep or under the influence of an anaesthetic.

Yet she was now living, bright, vivacious, and defiant! Had I not stood near her, seen her silhouette in the darkness, and heard the sweet music of her voice only twelve hours ago? It was incomprehensible – an absolute and complete enigma.

Fearing lest suspicion might be aroused by the missing photograph, I took a small scrap of paper from the waste-paper basket and thrust it into the crack. No doubt they would return for it, but, finding another piece of paper there, would probably believe that the photograph had gone so deeply into the crack as to be hidden successfully in the heart of the wall.

Bullen was still with the widow and her stepson when I rejoined him in the drawing-room, accounting for my absence by saying that I had been around the exterior of the house. He was again questioning Mrs Chetwode, and I could discern by her manner that she was acting in accord with her stepson. To the latter I had taken an instinctive dislike. Although an officer of hussars, he was an over-dressed youth with a three-inch collar, a cravat of an effeminative shade of lavender, a fancy vest, and a general get-up which stamped him as an interesting specimen of the “saltator Britannicus,” or common or garden “bounder.”

Presently we took our leave of the pair, and together went down to the spot where the body had been found. One of the detectives had discovered the missing shirt-stud, as I had predicted, while the various marks in the vicinity had been carefully examined and noted.

I spent the whole morning striving to obtain some clue, sometimes with the others and often wandering by myself.

My lunch I took in the bar of the Station Hotel. I had a purpose in doing this, for during a chat with the proprietor I learned that the Major had remained there three days, and had paid his bill and left on the previous evening. That in itself certainly appeared a suspicious circumstance. He had left the place ostensibly to return to London, yet he had kept that appointment in the park and had afterwards gone – whither? The last train left Hounslow for Waterloo at 11:05. He had, however, not taken that, for eleven o’clock struck from Whitton church tower just after I had watched them disappear into the night.

During the greater part of the afternoon I was with Bullen, and at the latter’s request assisted the police surgeon to make his post-mortem. But we discovered nothing further to account for death, absolutely nothing.

“What is your opinion?” I asked of my friend, the detective-inspector, when alone with him.

“I have no opinion,” he responded, “except that that woman knows something more than she will tell us.”

“Exactly?” I exclaimed. “I wonder what her object is in concealing any facts she knows?”

“Ah, Doctor,” he replied, “women are funny creatures; one never knows what motive they may have. In this case we shall be compelled to act very warily, and, if possible, mislead her and place her off the scent. She has given me a list of the guests, which may be useful.”

He took from his pocket a sheet of writing-paper with stamped heading, and I quickly glanced down the list of names. In an instant I saw that it was incomplete. The two persons whom I knew had been there she had omitted; their names were Lady Pierrepoint-Lane and Beryl Wynd.

Without comment I handed it back to him. It occurred to me that it might be best to keep my knowledge to myself, for by so doing I might perchance discover a clue.

That evening, having resolved to remain and watch the inquest on the morrow, I scribbled a hasty line to Bob, and then spent the hour after dinner in company with Bullen and Rowling in the bar parlour of a neighbouring public-house.

At the inquest held in the billiard-room at Whitton next morning, reporters were present in dozens, and the “note” taken by all was verbatim, for being the dead season, such a mystery came as a welcome “scoop” to those journals whose only claims to notoriety are the sensationalism of their contents bills and their remarkable “cross-heads.”

The same evening I returned to Rowan Road, where I found Bob in his den, stretched out lazily in his cane deck-chair, smoking his big pipe with a whisky-and-soda at his elbow.

“Hullo, old chap!” he cried, jumping up as I entered. “Back again, eh? And with a murder case on hand, too?”

“Yes,” I responded, sinking into a chair, wearied and tired out. “Most extraordinary, isn’t it?”

Then at his request, I gave him a minute and detailed account of all that had occurred, and placed in his hands the hideous post-mortem photograph.

“Well?” I asked. “What do you think of it?”

“Think of it?” he said. “Why, the mystery becomes more involved than ever. You are certain that this photograph is of her?”

“Absolutely certain.”

“Then it seems to me very much as though she is hand-in-glove with the Major, her lover, and Mrs Chetwode, and that they all of them know the truth regarding the tragedy.”

“That’s exactly my theory,” I responded, taking down my pipe from the rack, and filling it while Bob poured me out a drink.

“But the injuries?”

I described them in terms which, being technical, are of no interest to you, my reader, and he sat listening with a dark, thoughtful expression upon his round, usually merry countenance.

“A fact which is very puzzling to me, old fellow,” he said at last, blowing a cloud of smoke from his lips, “is the reason her ladyship was so extremely eager to make your acquaintance.”

“Yes; I can’t understand it in the least. It is fortunate, however, that she is in ignorance of my visit to Whitton.”

“Most fortunate,” he answered. “My idea is that the truth is only to be obtained here, in London – and not down there.”

“Do you think. Bob, that I acted wisely in keeping the secret of that midnight meeting to myself?” I asked earnestly, for I felt that perhaps I had, by so doing foiled the activity of the police.

“Certainly. You are in possession of two distinct facts which may lead us to a clue, not only to the murderer, but to the motive of your marriage to this mysterious wife of yours.”

“Does it strike you that the Major may be the actual assassin?”

He was silent, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe.

“No,” he responded. “To tell you the truth, that isn’t my theory.”

“Then what is?” I asked.

“If Mrs Chetwode and this mysterious wife of yours are acting together, Tattersett cannot be the culprit. It would rather be to their interest to denounce him.”

I saw the trend of his argument, but nevertheless clung to my theory that the man who had in my hearing proposed murder had committed the crime.

The mystery at Whitton, startling though it was, was quickly forgotten by the public. Several times, in the days that followed, I went down to Hounslow and held consultations with Bullen and his assistant, but no fresh discovery was made, for not the slightest clue presented itself. A verdict of “Wilful murder against some person or persons unknown” had been returned, and the matter left in the hands of the police.

A week went past, but I could not decide whether it would be policy to call at Gloucester Square and have an interview with Beryl and her cousin. I recollected that the Colonel’s widow had not given their names to the police – a fact full of significance, for it appeared as though she desired to conceal their visit to Whitton.

I longed to see my love to speak with her, to hold her hand and bask in the sunshine of her smiles.

She had defied the man who had tempted her to revenge, she had declared her intention of renouncing all the past. Ah, that past! If I could only glean something regarding it! If I could only stand by her as her champion without arousing any suspicion within her.

This impulse to see her proved too strong. I could not resist it, therefore one day I went to Gloucester Square to make an afternoon call, but found the blinds down.

“Her ladyship is out of town, sir,” the maid-servant answered in response to my inquiry.