In White Raiment

“We took that picture of her as she lay, apparently dead, for production afterwards to the life insurance company. The Colonel, who was a friend of Tattersett’s, must have found it in the latter’s room and secured it. It was only because two days after the marriage Sir Henry’s wife overheard a conversation between myself and Tattersett, in which you were mentioned, that we were prevented from making our gigantic coup against the life offices. While Beryl was asleep her ladyship found the wedding-ring. Then, knowing your address – for she had seen you with Doctor Raymond – she sought your acquaintance on your return, and, by ingenious questioning, became half convinced that you were actually Beryl’s husband. Your friend Raymond was slightly acquainted with her, and had been introduced to Beryl some months before.”

“But I cannot see why I should have been specially chosen as victim of this extraordinary plot,” my wife exclaimed, her arm linked in mine. “You say that Tattersett made a discovery which caused him to alter his plans. What was it?”

“He discovered a few hours after your marriage that you were his daughter!”

“His daughter – the daughter of that man?” she cried.

“Yes,” he answered seriously. “He did not know it, however, until when you were lying insensible after the marriage, he discovered upon your chest the tattoo-mark of the three hearts, which he himself had placed there years before. Then, overcome by remorse, he administered an antidote, placed you upon a seat in Hyde Park, and witched until you recovered consciousness and returned to Gloucester Square. It had before been arranged that an insurance already effected upon you should be claimed. The truth is,” he went on, “that Wyndham Ashwicke, alias Major Tattersett, first married in York the daughter of a cavalry officer, and by her you were born. A year afterwards, however, they separated, your mother died, and you were placed in the convent at Brunoy under the name of Wynd, while your father plunged into a life of dissipation on the Continent which ended in the marriage with this lady, then known as La Gioia.”

“It seems incredible?” my love declared. “I cannot believe it?”

“But Nora introduced you as Feo Ashwicke on the first occasion we met after our marriage,” I remarked.

“I well remember it. Nora must have discovered the secret of my birth, although, when I questioned her after your departure, she declared that she had only bestowed a fictitious name upon me as a joke.”

“Yet Ashwicke was your actual name,” I observed.

“You will find the register of your birth in York,” interposed Graham. “I have told you the truth.”

“I will hear it from my father’s own lips,” she said.

“Alas!” the grey-haired man answered very gravely, “that is impossible. Your father is dead.”

“Dead?” I echoed. “Tattersett dead?”

“Yes; he was found lifeless in his rooms in Piccadilly East yesterday afternoon. His man called me, and discovered upon the table a tiny tube containing some crystals of the secret vayana. He had evidently touched them accidentally with his fingers, and the result was fatal. The police and doctor believe it to be due to natural causes, as I secured the tube and destroyed it before their arrival. The news of the discovery is in the evening papers;” and, taking a copy of the Globe from his pocket, he handed it to me, indicating the paragraph.

I read the four bare lines aloud, both my well-beloved and the dead man’s widow standing in rigid silence.

The elucidation of the bewildering mystery and its tragic dénouement held us speechless. It staggered belief.

My explanation to Bullen, or our subsequent conversation, need not be here recounted. Suffice it to say that from that moment, when the truth became apparent, the Major’s widow, who had once sought to take both our lives, became our firmest and most intimate friend, while Graham, having expressed regret at his association in the conspiracy, and declared his intention of leading an honest life in future, was allowed to escape abroad, where he still remains.

And Beryl? She is my wife. Ah! that small word, which is synonymous with peace and happiness. Several years have passed, and I have risen rapidly in my profession – far beyond my deserts, I fear – yet we are still lovers. We are often visitors at Atworth and at Gloucester Square, while there is no more welcome guest at our own table in Harley Street than the ever-erratic Bob Raymond.

The original copy of the ponderous ancient Florentine treatise with its rusty lock, which the Major left in possession of La Gioia, had been presented by the latter to the Bodleian Library at Oxford, where it can now be seen, while Hoefer’s re-discovery of the vayana having opened up an entirely new field to toxicologists, the deadly vegetable, like strychnine and atropia, is to-day used as one of the most powerful and valuable medicines, many lives being saved yearly by its administration in infinitesimal doses.

All the bitterness of the past has faded. What more need I say?

To-night as I sit here in my consulting-room, writing down this strange history for you, my friendly reader, my wife lingers beside me, sweet and smiling in white raiment – a dead-white dress that reminds me vividly of that June day long ago when we first met within the church of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, while at her throat is that quaint little charm, the note of interrogation set with diamonds, a relic of her ill-fated mother.

She has bent, and, kissing me tenderly upon the brow, has whispered into my ear that no man and wife in all the world are half as happy as ourselves.