In White Raiment

“And her cousin, Miss Wynd?”

“Of that I am not quite sure. All I know is that she was there on the afternoon previous to the tragedy. Sir Henry’s wife is Mrs Chetwode’s bosom friend.”

The old fellow grunted, closed his eyes, and puffed contentedly at his pipe.

“In that case,” he observed at last, “her ladyship may know something about that affair. Is that your suspicion?”

“Well, yes; to tell the truth, that is my opinion.”

“And also mine,” he exclaimed. “I am glad you have told me this, for it throws considerable light upon my discovery.”

“Discovery?” I echoed. “What have you discovered?”

“The identity of the woman in black who visited Miss Wynd last night.”

“You’ve discovered her – already?” I cried. “Who was she?”

“A woman known as La Gioia,” responded the queer old fellow, puffing a cloud of rank smoke from his heavy lips.

“La Gioia?” I gasped, open-mouthed and rigid. “La Gioia! And you have found her?”

“Yes; I have found her.”

Chapter Twenty Three

A Counter-Plot

“I have no knowledge yet of who the woman is,” responded Hoefer, in answer to my question. “I only know that her name is La Gioia. But you are aware of her identity, it seems.”

“No; like yourself, I only know her name.”

He glanced at me rather curiously through his big spectacles, and I knew that he doubted my words. I pressed him to explain by what means he had made the discovery, but his answers were ambiguous. In brief, he believed that I knew more than I really did, and therefore declined to tell me anything. He was extremely eccentric, this queer old dabbler in the occult, and I well knew that, having once adopted a plan in the pursuit of an inquiry, no power on earth would induce him to deviate from it.

Fully an hour I remained in that atmosphere full of poisonous fumes, watching a further but futile analysis that he made, and afterwards took my leave of him.

I went back to Bayswater, wrote a letter of resignation to the doctor who had employed me, and then went forth again upon my round of visits. The practice was large and scattered, and several cases were critical ones, therefore it was not until nearly eight o’clock that I returned again, fagged and hungry, only to find the waiting-room filled with club patients and others.

The irregularity of meals is one of the chief discomforts of a busy doctor’s life. I snatched a few moments to swallow my soup, and then entered the surgery and sat there until past nine ere I could commence dinner.

Then, over my coffee and a pipe, I sat at ease, thinking over the many occurrences of the day. Truly it had been an eventful one – the turning-point of my life. I had telegraphed to my mother, telling her of my good fortune, and, in response, received her hearty congratulations. One of the chief gratifications which the thousand pounds had brought to me was the fact that, for a year or so, she would not feel the absolute pinch of poverty as she had done through so long past.

And I was invited to Atworth! I should there have an opportunity of being always at the side of the woman I loved so madly, and perhaps be enabled to penetrate the veil of mystery with which she was surrounded. I was suspicious of the baronet’s wife – suspicious because she had made her first call upon me under such curious circumstances. How did she know me? and for what reason had she sought my acquaintance?

She had endeavoured to flirt with me. Faugh! Her beauty, her smartness, and her clever woman’s wiles might have turned the heads of the majority of men. But I loved Beryl, and she was mine – mine!

Reader, I have taken you entirely into my confidence, and I am laying bare to you my secret. Need I tell you how maddening the enigma had now become, how near I always seemed to some solution and yet how far off the truth? Place yourself in my position for a single moment – adoring the woman who, although she was actually my wife, was yet ignorant of the fact; and I dare not tell her the truth lest she might hold me in suspicion as one of those who had conspired against her. So far from the problem being, solved, each day rendered it more intricate and more inscrutable, until the continual weight upon my mind drove me to despair. Hence my anxiety for the days to pass in order that I might journey down to Atworth.

At last, on a close, overcast afternoon in the middle of September, when the hot sun seemed unable to penetrate the heavy veil of London smoke and the air was suffocating, I left Paddington, and, in due course, found myself upon the platform of the wayside station of Corsham, close to the entrance to the Box tunnel, where Sir Henry and his wife awaited me. The former was a tall, smart-looking, elderly man with grey hair and a well-trimmed grey beard, who, on our introduction, greeted me most cordially, expressing a hope that I should have “a good time” with them. I liked him at once; his face was open and honest, and his hand-grip was sincere.

We mounted the smart dogcart, and, leaving my baggage to the servant, drove out into the high-road which ran over the hills, looming purple in the golden sunset haze, to Trowbridge. Five miles through that picturesque, romantic district – one of the fairest in England – skirting the Monk’s Park, crossing the old Roman Road between Bath and London, and having ascended the ridge of the steep known as Corsham Side, we descended again through the little old-fashioned village of Atworth by a road which brought us, at last, to the lodge of the Hall. Then, entering the drive, we drove up to the fine old Tudor mansion, low and comfortable looking, with its long façade almost overgrown with ivy. One of “the stately homes of England,” it stood commanding a view of the whole range of the Wiltshire hills, the trees and park now bathed in the violets of the afterglow.

From the great hall the guests came forth to meet us in old English welcome, and, as I descended, Beryl herself, fresh in a pink cotton blouse and short cycling skirt, was the first to take my hand.

“At last, Doctor Colkirk!” she cried. “We’re all awfully delighted to see you.”

Our eyes met, and I saw in hers a look of genuine welcome.

“You are very kind,” I answered. “The pleasure is, I assure you, quite mutual.”

Then my host introduced me to all the others.

The house, built in the form of a square, with a large courtyard in the centre, was much larger than it appeared from the exterior. The hall, filled as it was with curios and trophies of the chase – for the baronet was a keen sportsman, and his wife, too, was an excellent shot – formed a comfortable lounge. My host and hostess had travelled widely in India and the East, and most of the Atworth collection had been acquired during their visits to the Colonies. The room assigned to me was a bright pleasant one, clean, with old-fashioned chintzes, while from the deep window I could see across the lawn and the deep glen beyond, away over the winding Avon to the darkening hills.

At dinner I was placed next my hostess, with Beryl on my left. The latter wore a striking gown of turquoise blue, which, cut low at the neck, suited her admirably. Her wonderful gold-brown hair had evidently been arranged by a practised maid; but, as I turned to her, before she seated herself, I saw, at her throat, an object which caused me to start in surprise; suspended by a thin gold chain around her neck, a small ornament in diamonds, an exact replica of that curious little charm, shaped like a note of interrogation, which I had taken from her on the fateful day of our marriage, which I wore around my own neck at the moment. As I looked it sparkled and flashed with a thousand brilliant fires. Could that strange little device convey any hidden meaning? It was curious that, having lost one, she should wear another exactly similar.

We sat down together chatting merrily. The baronet’s wife was in black lace, her white throat and arms gleaming through the transparency, while her corsage was relieved by crimson carnations. Around the table, too, were several other striking dresses, for the majority of the guests were young, and the house-party was a decidedly smart one. The meal, too, was served with a stateliness which characterised everything in the household of the Pierrepoint-Lanes.

I watched my love carefully, and saw, by her slightly flushed cheeks, that my arrival gave her the utmost satisfaction.

It was in the drawing-room afterwards, when we were sitting together, that I inquired if she had entirely recovered.

“Oh, entirely,” she replied. “It was extraordinary, was it not? Do you know whether Doctor Hoefer has visited the house again?”

“I don’t know,” I responded. “He’s so very secret in all his doings. He will tell me nothing – save one thing.”

“One thing – what is that?”

“He has discovered the identity of your visitor in black.”

“He has?” she cried quickly. “Who was she?”

“A woman whom he called by a curious foreign name,” I said, watching Beryl’s face the while. “I think he said she was known amongst her intimates as La Gioia.”

The light died in an instant from her face.

“La Gioia!” she gasped. “And he knows her?”

“I presume that, as a result of his inquiries, he has made this discovery. His shrewdness is something marvellous; he has succeeded in many cases where the cleverest detectives have utterly failed.”

“But how can he have found her?” she went on, greatly agitated by my statement.

“I have no idea. I only tell you this just as he made the announcement to me – without any explanation.”

She was silent, her eyes downcast. The ornament at her throat caught the light and glittered. My words had utterly upset her.

“I must tell Nora,” she said briefly, at last.

“But I presume that you know this person called La Gioia?” I remarked.