Chapter Fifteen
The Grey House
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.
Chapter Sixteen
The Veiled Lady
The neighbouring houses were mostly closed, their owners being out of town for the summer; but the one before which I halted was apparently occupied, therefore I boldly ascended the steps and rang the bell.
My summons was answered by a burly, ill-dressed man in carpet slippers, who, when I inquired for Mr Ashwicke, responded —
“He don’t live here; this is Mrs Stentiford’s.”
“But he did live here,” I protested. “How long has he been gone?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only been here a fortnight, but I believe the mistress has lived here for three or four years.”
“Is your mistress in?”
“No; she’s away in Switzerland.”
“And you’re taking charge of the house?”
“That’s so.”
“Well,” I said, “Mr Ashwicke lived here until a short time ago, that’s very certain. I feel sure I haven’t mistaken the house; I used to be a visitor here. Would you mind me glancing at some of the rooms?”
He eyed me with distinct suspicion.
“No,” I laughed, “I’m not a swell mobsman, nor a burglar on the look-out for a likely house to rob – I’m a doctor.” And, to convince him, I took off my silk hat and displayed my stethoscope in the lining, as well as giving him a card.
“Well,” he answered, rather ill-manneredly, “I don’t see why I should satisfy you. You aren’t a friend of Mrs Stentiford’s?”
“No,” I admitted; “but I only desire a glance at the library and at the bedrooms upstairs, just to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Why?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, there occurred here, in this house, an incident which was the crisis of my life. For that reason I am full of curiosity to see the rooms again, and I ask you as a favour to allow me to do so.”
“Very well,” he said at last, after a moment’s hesitation, “come along. You say you want to see the library.” And I followed him down the hall, at the end of which he opened a door.
I went in and looked around. Yes; it was the same. Nothing had apparently been moved.
I looked into the dining-room – that same handsome apartment in which champagne had been drunk to my health and happiness. Bah! what a mockery it had been!
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.”
“But I mean to solve it,” I said resolutely. “I’m married, my dear fellow, and – well, I love her.”
“I know. That’s just the devil of it,” he answered bluntly. “You’re gone on her, and the mystery makes you the more eager to claim her as your wife!”
“Exactly, old fellow,” I answered. “I know that you’re my best friend. Indeed, you have kept me out of the gutter or the common lodging-house these past weeks, and I am ready to repay you in any way in my power; but as to taking your advice in this matter, I really can’t.”
“Then, you’re a fool, Dick.”
“I may be,” I responded; “but I mean to clear up the mystery.”
“Because you are jealous of this young Chetwode.”
“I don’t deny that I’m jealous,” I replied with perfect frankness. “But I know that Beryl is in danger, and, as her husband, I should be at her side to protect her.”
“That’s all very well; but, after all your exertions, you’ve really discovered absolutely nothing.”
His words were, alas! only too true. I had made many discoveries, but each of them had only served to render the veil of mystery more impenetrable.
“But why do you urge me to give it up?”
“For your own sake,” he responded. “You can’t practise properly when your head is full of such a bewildering puzzle. Don’t you see that in this affair your reputation is at stake?”
“But her life is of greater moment to me than my own reputation,” I declared. “Let me have my own way, there’s a good chap.” And I wished him good-bye.
An hour later I became installed as temporary assistant to a surgeon in Richmond Road, Bayswater, who, having been “run down” by the unusual number of cases of influenza, had resolved to take a month’s vacation.
The Bayswater surgeon proved a genial fellow, but I saw little of him, for he left for North Wales with his family early next morning, after handing me his visiting-book and giving me general instructions. A fortnight went by, and so large was the practice – for I had to attend a number of the large drapery establishments in Westbourne Grove, where my principal was medical officer – that I had but little leisure. To forget the strange enigma which so troubled my brain I had thrown myself heartily into the work.
One hot, oppressive evening, after I had been in Richmond Road about three weeks, I was busy seeing the patients who, crowding the waiting-room between the hours of seven and nine, entered the consulting-room one by one to describe their physical ills, when the servant came in with a card, saying —
“A lady wishes to see you at once, sir.”
I took the card she handed me, and started with mingled surprise and satisfaction when I recognised the name – Lady Pierrepoint-Lane. At last she was in London again! But how, I wondered had she discovered my whereabouts. Quickly I went into the hall, and there found her with blanched face and in a state of great agitation.
“Ah, Doctor,” she gasped breathlessly, as I greeted her and our hands met, “I am so glad I’ve found you? I went to Hammersmith, but your friend, Doctor Raymond, told me you were here.”
“What is the matter?” I inquired, surprised at her eager manner. “Has anything occurred?”
“Yes, something most mysterious!” she answered hoarsely. “You are the only doctor whom I can trust. Will you come with me at once? I have a cab in waiting.”
“Where?” I inquired. “To your house?”
“Yes,” she urged. “Do not let us lose time. Apologise to your other patients here, and come at once. It’s a matter of life or death.”
“Of life or death?” I cried. “Who is ill?”
“It’s all a mystery,” she answered in the same breathless manner. “But you will keep it a secret – promise me.”
“I have many family secrets entrusted to me,” I answered. “Rest assured that I shall betray no confidence.”
“Then come quickly, and recollect that what you may see or hear to-night you must never divulge. On your word of honour as a gentleman.”
“I give you my word of honour,” I answered, wondering what fresh mystery was in store for me.
Then, turning, I asked a servant, who stood near, to tell the patients waiting for me that I had been unexpectedly called out to an urgent case, and would return in an hour.
“Good!” her ladyship exclaimed. “Let us not lose an instant.”
Instinctively I placed my instrument case in my pocket, and took down my hat.
“Tell me the nature of the illness,” I urged. “How did it occur? Who is the patient?”
“How it occurred nobody knows. It is a mystery, as I tell you. My cousin Feo, to whom I think I introduced you, is dying!”
“Dying!” I gasped, staring at her amazed. “Here in London?”
“Yes, at my house. I have called you because you are a doctor, and I can rely upon your secrecy.”