In White Raiment

We went into several of the other rooms after that, and all of them were, I found, well furnished in a style rather out-of-date but nevertheless comfortable.

“And how long have you been in Mrs Stentiford’s service?” I inquired, as we descended the stairs.

“Just a fortnight.”

“You’re a police-officer, aren’t you?” I inquired.

“Yes – a sergeant,” he answered. “But how do you know?”

“Oh,” I answered, laughing, “when a man’s been in the police there’s little mistake about it. We doctors have our eyes open, you know.”

He smiled, but was apparently surprised that I should have detected his calling.

“There are none of the other servants here, I suppose?”

“No – none. Why?”

“Because I’m anxious to find out whether Mrs Stentiford has ever let her house furnished.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What gives you that impression?”

“Because before she went away she told me that she preferred to close the place and pay me, rather than to let her things be ruined by strangers.”

“And I suppose you’ve heard from neighbours about the house?”

“Yes,” he replied; “I’ve heard that a gentleman lived here about four years ago – I think the name was Ashwicke.”

“But he was living here a few weeks ago,” I declared; “I visited him here.”

The retired police-sergeant looked at me incredibly.

“I think you must be mistaken. Mrs Stentiford was certainly occupying the house then.”

“But you were not here?”

“No; I wasn’t here, that’s true.”

“She might have let it for a few weeks, during the London season – eh?”

“She certainly might,” he responded; “but, if she did, she kept the matter a secret, for none of the neighbours are aware of it.”

“Then you have already inquired?” I asked, somewhat surprised, for he spoke so positively.

“Yes,” he replied. “Curiously enough, a few days ago I had some one else call and ask for Mr Ashwicke.”

“Who was it?” I demanded quickly.

“A lady – a young, rather good-looking lady.”

“What was she like? Describe her to me.”

“Well, she wore a thick white veil so that I couldn’t see her face quite distinctly,” the man answered; “but she, like yourself, declared that she knew Mr Ashwicke, and had been a visitor here. She asked to see the very same rooms as you have seen. Very curious, isn’t it?”

“Very,” I exclaimed in wonder. “Did she give any further explanation?”

“No; she gave me half a sovereign instead,” he laughed.

“And she also declared that Mr Ashwicke had lived here recently?”

“Yes; that’s what caused me to inquire.”

“Very remarkable,” I said. “I wonder who she could have been. Can’t you give the slightest description of her?”

“I only noticed that she spoke in a soft, refined voice, and that she had very pretty eyes, blue-grey, I believe they were. But those thick white veils, with embroidery on them, make it very difficult to see a woman’s face clearly.”

“And her hair? Was she fair or dark?”

“Between colours.”

“Fair?”

“No; not fair, and not dark. Almost chestnut colour, I think it was.”

“Was she tall?”

“Middling. She came in a hansom, and it waited for her. She was evidently a lady.”

“She gave no name?”

“No; she was very discreet. And that’s what made me scent a mystery when you called and asked for the same person, and to see the same rooms.”

“Well, it is extraordinary,” I remarked. “Most extraordinary!”

I was sorry that I had no money to give him a tip, but my last half-crown reposed in the corner of my pocket, and I could not summon courage to leave myself penniless; so I merely thanked him, and, descending the steps, left him with disappointment plainly depicted upon his face.

The man might be useful, I felt, therefore I had decided to return at an early date, when my funds were not so low, and give him a similar tip to the one he had received from the veiled lady.

Who was she? I wondered. Surely it could not have been Beryl herself.

By good fortune, on my return to Rowan Road, I found a letter awaiting me, and on opening it discovered that it was from a doctor practising in Bayswater, who, in reply to my application a week before, appointed me his locum tenens. Therefore, on the following day, I thanked Bob warmly, for all his hospitality towards me, and bade him good-bye.

“Promise me one thing, Dick,” he said, as he stood in the hall, holding my hand in a firm, friendly grip of farewell.

“Well,” I asked, “what is it?”

“That you’ll try and forget all about this mystery of yours,” he said earnestly. “You’ll be getting brain fever, or something equally disagreeable, if you don’t try to control yourself and think no more of it. The experience is unusual, but, depend upon it, the mystery is so well-kept by the set of scoundrels into whose hands you fell, that you’ll never get to the bottom of it.”