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.
"And Miss--Miss Ashwicke?" I said, quickly remembering that she had
been introduced to me by that name.
"Ashwicke," repeated the girl, puzzled. "There is no Miss Ashwicke in
the family, sir."
"Oh, of course," I said, rather lamely I fear; "it's my mistake. I
meant Miss Wynd."
"She's with her ladyship in Wiltshire, sir."
"At Atworth?"
"Yes, sir."
"When did they leave?"
"Three days ago, sir. Sir Henry went with them."
"Did a young gentleman named Chetwode accompany them?"
"I don't know, sir."
"But you know Mr Chetwode, of course?" I said.
"Oh yes, sir. They say he is to marry Miss Beryl," answered the girl,
smiling.
"And his mother is a frequent visitor also, isn't she."
"Yes; she's here very often indeed."
"And Major Tattersett?"
"He's only been here once, I think--a long time ago. He's a round-faced
gentleman who wears a single eyeglass, isn't he?"
"Yes. Did he call to see Sir Henry?"
"No, sir. He came to see Miss Beryl."
"And he has only been here once, you say?"
"Yes--only once, as far as I know."
"I suppose you don't expect the family back till the end of September--
eh?"
"Oh, not before the middle of October. They'll stay there through the
shooting."
Other questions I put to her she answered frankly, and I left a coin in
her hand as I turned and went down the steps. Why, I wondered, had her
ladyship thought fit to introduce Beryl to me as Feo Ashwicke?
In deep disappointment I returned to Rowan Road. Every effort I made
seemed unavailing.
As the weeks passed in inactivity, and I was still Bob's guest,
assisting him among the few patients who rang the surgery bell, I began
to feel that I must stir myself and find a fresh post as assistant.
Rather than borrow off Bob, I had slid into a pawnbroker's one evening
and exchanged the watch which my mother had given me in my schoolboy
days for two pounds and a ticket upon which was inscribed a false name
and address. Of this money only a few shillings remained, and I was
existing upon my friend's charity.
While in this unsettled state of mind I was called out one morning to
visit a patient over in Brook Green, and on my return entered a
saloon-bar opposite Hammersmith Station for a glass of that homely and
inexpensive beverage vulgarly known as "bitter." Upon the counter
before me the _London Post-office Directory_ lay open, and of a sudden
it occurred to me that I had never searched for the name of Ashwicke.
I turned over the pages curiously until I reached that headed "Ash," and
suddenly, half-way down, I came across the name I wanted: "Ashwicke,
Alan Wynd, 94, Queen's-gate Gardens, S.W."
Without hesitation I went forth and mounted an omnibus, which set me
down at the corner of the Cromwell Road, and ten minutes later I stood
before the house which the directory indicated.
Instantly I saw that its exterior was identical--a large grey place with
a great dark portico supported by four huge columns. It was the house
to which I had been called on the day the strange marriage had taken
place.