In White Raiment

by William Le Queux

convinced. But whatdiscovery did she dread?

  While we were bending, examining the contents of one of the drawers,which was full of papers relating to the Colonel's duty as a justice ofthe peace--for it was here that he performed his judicial work--hiswidow stood behind me, and, with a quick movement, sidled up to herstepson. The next instant it occurred to me that she had passedsomething to him; but, pretending to be engrossed in the papers, I madeno sign that I had observed their rapid exchange.

  "Have you found anything?" she inquired calmly, after a few moments.

  "No; nothing, unfortunately," Bullen responded. And then, havingsearched the room from top to bottom, suggested a move to the Colonel'sbedroom.

  Here the search, both of the clothes in his wardrobe and of the roomwherein he usually slept, likewise proved fruitless. After twentyminutes or so, however, I contrived, while the others were busy turningover the dead man's effects, to slip back to the library. YoungChetwode had, at the moment when the suspicious movement had been madebehind me, stood with his back to the black marble mantelshelf, and itwas to examine this that I returned. While doing so I suddenly found acrack between the wall and the upright marble support, where the plasterhad dried out by the heat of the winter fires, and, peering within, Isaw something concealed there.

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

  I spread it out; the picture I gazed upon was both startling andghastly. It was a portrait of Beryl, my love, supported by pillows, herface 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. Thatmy wife had been photographed after death there could be no doubt, forI, as a medical man, was, alas! too well acquainted with the appearanceof a face from which life had faded, as distinguished from that of oneasleep or under the influence of an anaesthetic.

  Yet she was now living, bright, vivacious, and defiant! Had I not stoodnear her, seen her silhouette in the darkness, and heard the sweet musicof her voice only twelve hours ago? It was incomprehensible--anabsolute and complete enigma.

  Fearing lest suspicion might be aroused by the missing photograph, Itook a small scrap of paper from the waste-paper basket and thrust itinto the crack. No doubt they would return for it, but, finding anotherpiece of paper there, would probably believe that the photograph hadgone so deeply into the crack as to be hidden successfully in the heartof the wall.

  Bullen was still with the widow and her stepson when I rejoined him inthe drawing-room, accounting for my absence by saying that I had beenaround the exterior of the house. He was again questioning MrsChetwode, and I could discern by her manner that she was acting inaccord with her stepson. To the latter I had taken an instinctivedislike. Although an officer of hussars, he was an over-dressed youthwith 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 interestingspecimen of the "_saltator Britannicus_," or common or garden "bounder."

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

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

  My lunch I took in the bar of the _Station Hotel_. I had a purpose indoing this, for during a chat with the proprietor I learned that theMajor had remained there three days, and had paid his bill and left onthe previous evening. That in itself certainly appeared a suspiciouscircumstance. He had left the place ostensibly to return to London, yethe 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 churchtower just after I had watched them disappear into the night.

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

  "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 knowssomething more than she will tell us."

  "Exactly?" I exclaimed. "I wonder what her object is in concealing anyfacts she knows?"

  "Ah, Doctor," he replied, "women are funny creatures; one never knowswhat motive they may have. In this case we shall be compelled to actvery 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 thatit was incomplete. The two persons whom I knew had been there she hadomitted; their names were Lady Pierrepoint-Lane and Beryl Wynd.

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

  That evening, having resolved to remain and watch the inquest on themorrow, I scribbled a hasty line to Bob, and then spent the hour afterdinner in company with Bullen and Rowling in the bar parlour of aneighbouring 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 wasverbatim, for being the dead season, such a mystery came as a welcome"scoop" to those journals whose only claims to notoriety are thesensationalism 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 awhisky-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. "Mostextraordinary, isn't it?"

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

  "Well?" I asked. "What do you think of it?"

  "Think of it?" he said. "Why, the mystery becomes more involved thanever. 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 theMajor, her lover, and Mrs Chetwode, and that they all of them know thetruth regarding the tragedy."

  "That's exactly my theory," I responded, taking down my pipe from therack, 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 toyou, my reader, and he sat listening with a dark, thoughtful expressionupon 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 wasso 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 beobtained here, in London--and not down there."

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

  "Certainly. You are in possession of two distinct facts which may leadus to a clue, not only to the murderer, but to the motive of yourmarr
iage 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 interestto denounce him."

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

  The mystery at Whitton, startling though it was, was quickly forgottenby the public. Several times, in the days that followed, I went down toHounslow and held consultations with