Chapter Fourteen. A Theory.

Half an hour later I stood beside the body of Colonel Chetwode, making a thorough and complete examination.

It was still clothed, just as it had been found, for the local police had given orders that it should not be touched before the arrival of the detectives from headquarters.

The body was that of a tall, thin man, with aquiline, refined features, about sixty or so, with iron-grey hair and moustache, and a brow lined by care and anxiety. His evening clothes, wet and muddy, in the broad light of day gave the corpse a disreputable, neglected appearance, which was rendered even more striking by his dishevelled hair and moustache matted with dried mud.

Bullen was alone with me, his companions being at the spot where the body was found, and as I proceeded to draw up the blind and examine the wound in the dead man’s scalp, the detective stood by in silence watching my examination.

The wound near the base of the skull was, I found to my surprise, quite a superficial one. By its appearance I saw that the police doctor had probed it and quickly found that the injury was not of such a nature as to have caused death.

“Well?” Bullen asked anxiously. “What do you make out of it. Doctor?”

“At present, I can only say that death was not caused by that wound,” I responded.

“Then how, in your opinion, was the crime committed? What, in your opinion, was the weapon used?” he asked.

“At present I am unable to say,” I responded. “The natural conclusion is that it was caused by a blow from a life-preserver, yet a round knob could never have inflicted such a wound. I incline to the opinion that the wound might have been caused by a fall from the bridge upon the rough stones below.”

By the aid of my probe I satisfied myself that the bone was not fractured, as it would have been by a deliberate blow dealt from behind. The nature of the wound, indeed, was very much as if it had been caused by the unfortunate man’s head coming into contact with some sharp stone.

Then, after very careful investigation, lasting over half an hour, during which I took a number of accurate measurements which might be used later in the identification of the weapon, I came to the rather vague conclusion that the crime had been committed not by a blow, but by hurling the victim from the little bridge below which he had been found.

“Do you believe that death was instantaneous?”

“I am not certain,” I responded. “There is no injury to the spinal column which could have caused death. He was, without doubt, pinioned from behind, at the moment he had crossed the foot-bridge, and thrown backward, rolling down the bank into the lake.”

“His shirt-stud has gone,” remarked the detective. “That looks like robbery.”

“I don’t think so,” I answered.

“Why not?”

“Well, do you notice a long green mark there?” I said, pointing to the limp shirt-front. “You see that it runs straight across the stud-hole. By that mark I feel assured there was no robbery.”

“I see the mark,” Bullen answered, “but at the same time, I don’t quite see your argument.”

“That mark was made by a damp branch or bramble. When he fell he tumbled backward into the bushes, and, crashing through them, rolled into the water. One of the branches caught his shirt-stud and broke it out. If you have a strict search made you will find it somewhere near where he fell. His watch and chain and ring are still upon him, you will notice.”

“I quite understand your theory,” he responded. “I will order active search to be made, for it is an important point whether the murder was done by thieves whom he discovered upon his property. It might have been that burglars were lurking there, and, being disturbed by him, they killed him in order to prevent an alarm being raised.”

“I scarcely think that,” I argued. “If they were burglars they would not have attacked him from behind without any ulterior motive. They would have remained in hiding.”

“But how do you account for him wandering about the park at that hour?” asked the detective.

“That point can only be cleared up by his widow,” I exclaimed. “I think we should see Mrs Chetwode without delay.”

With this suggestion he agreed, and having rearranged the body, I left it to the police surgeon to make his post-mortem.

Out in the corridor we met the butler, by whom Bullen sent his card to the widow with the request that she would grant us an interview.

Ten minutes later we were received in the morning-room by a pale, fair-haired, rather fragile woman, the redness of whose eyes told plainly that she had been crying, but whose improvised mourning became her well. She was perhaps thirty, certainly not more, rather handsome, with an air of self-conceit, and a slightly cockney accent in her voice, which told me that she was not quite so well bred as one might have expected the mistress of Whitton to have been.

Bullen apologised for being compelled to intrude upon her privacy, but explained that it was necessary to make searching inquiries into the painful affair, and he would therefore esteem it a favour if she would answer one or two questions.

To this she assented willingly, and, asking us to be seated, sank into an armchair.

The detective had not introduced me, therefore she no doubt believed me to be an emissary of Scotland Yard.

“Have you any idea of the hour at which the Colonel left the house?” asked Bullen.

“No. I think, however, it must have been about half-past ten,” she responded in a hard voice.

I was watching her carefully, and saw by the nervous twitching of her hands that she was striving to calm the conflicting emotions within her. She kept her eyes—beautiful eyes of almost a violet tint—fixed upon her examiner.

“But if he went out as early as that, you would surely wonder why he did not return?” observed the detective.

“Ah, no,” she said quickly. “I was in ignorance of his absence until—until my maid awoke me at a quarter-past five this morning, and told me of the awful discovery.”

She pursed her lips very slightly. That almost imperceptible movement aroused my suspicions. I had been told that she was on bad terms with the dead man, and probably that had prejudiced me against her.

“Then he went out without your knowledge? Will you kindly tell me how you spent the evening?!”

“How I spent the evening?” she asked with a slight start.

“I mean how you all spent the evening,” he said, correcting himself. “You had guests here, I understand.”

“Yes; we had quite a number of people. And after dinner, as usual, the men played billiards and smoked, while we women remained in the drawing-room. About half-past nine the men joined us, a couple of dances were played, some songs were sung, and the evening passed without further event, as far as I am aware.”

“But your husband?”

“Well, about half-past ten he came to me and said that he was not feeling very well, therefore he should go to his room.”

“And you never again saw him alive?”

“No,” she faltered. “When I saw him again he was down in the hall. Some men were carrying him in—dead! Oh, it’s awful! I—I can’t realise it!” And she burst into a torrent of tears.

“It certainly is a most painful affair,” said Bullen, sympathetically; “but we are striving our utmost to solve the mystery. Therefore, I trust you will forgive me for seeking this interview. Whatever information you can give us will assist us very materially in our inquiries.”

“I don’t think I can tell you anything more,” declared the distressed woman.

“But what is your theory? Do you believe that the announcement that he was not feeling well was a mere excuse for absence?”

“Ah, that I cannot tell,” she responded. “The house was locked up at midnight, and it was evident that he was out then, for this morning all the doors were bolted, and the windows were found fastened, just as the servants had left them.”

“Well,” he said, “that shows that he went out before the house was locked up. Were any of the other guests out in the park?”

“Not to my knowledge,” she replied, after a second’s hesitation. “Of course the men went out upon the drive in front of the house, and walked up and down to smoke after dinner.”

“From your statement it would almost appear as though your husband went out to keep some secret appointment. Have you any suspicion that he had arranged to meet any one?”

“None whatever.”

“And he had never mentioned to you any single person with whom he was at enmity?”

“Never.”

“I presume that most of the guests who were here last night have since left?”

“All have left. I am practically alone.”

“I shall be glad if, as soon as you can do so, you will kindly make me out a list of your guests, together with their addresses. We may not require it, but in this matter we must not overlook a single point.”

“But surely you don’t suspect any of them?” she exclaimed quickly.

“We suspect no one, at present,” he responded. “But in order to prosecute our inquiries satisfactorily, it is necessary to know exactly who was in the house at the time of the tragedy.”

“Oh, of course—of course,” she said. “I will make out the list and let you have it in the course of an hour—if that will do?”

“Excellent,” the detective said.

Bullen glanced across to a half-open door, which appeared to give entrance to the library, saying—

“If you will permit us, we will examine the Colonel’s papers; they may give us some clue. It is just possible that he received a letter making the appointment in the park.”

“You are quite at liberty to act just as you think best,” she answered with perfect frankness.

He thanked her, and then tactfully turned the conversation back to the events of the previous night. It might have been owing to the prejudice which I entertained towards her, but somehow she seemed anxious to avoid any remark regarding the period immediately preceding the tragedy. Naturally a wife whose husband has been foully assassinated in a manner so mysterious, would look back in horror upon past events; but in some strange, indefinite way she seemed to hold our presence in dread.

Bullen, not slow to notice this, continued to ply her with questions in order to obtain further details of how the hours after dinner had been spent.

“Who saw your husband last?” he inquired.

“I don’t know for certain. I believe it was one of the guests—a Mr Durrant, with whom he had played billiards.”

“After he had complained to you of not feeling well?”

“No; he played billiards before,” she answered. Then readily added, “On leaving me he returned to the billiard-room to fetch his cigar-case. It was then he wished Mr Durrant good-night.”

“Did he tell him, also, that he was unwell?”

“Yes, I believe so. But Mr Durrant sent a card of sympathy to my room and left without seeing me. I therefore only know this by hearsay from the servants.”

“You have a stepson—Lieutenant Chetwode. Where was he?”

“With me in the drawing-room. Ah! here he comes.” And at that moment a thin, dark-haired, well-set-up young man entered, eyeing us with an inquiring glance.

This, then, was my wife’s lover.

Briefly the widow explained who we were, and, in reply to Bullen’s questions, the dead man’s son described how his father had managed to slip out unobserved, and how his absence had passed unnoticed until the awful discovery had been made in the morning.

“You have no suspicion that he had any enemy, I suppose?” the detective asked.

“None whatever. The terrible affair is a most profound mystery.”

“Yes,” said Bullen reflectively, his grey eyes fixed upon those of the widow; “it’s a mystery we must try to solve.”

“I hope you will,” the young man exclaimed. “My father has fallen beneath the hands of some cowardly assassin concealed in those bushes down by the lake—he was the victim of the revenge of some person unknown.”

“What makes you think the motive was revenge?” inquired the detective, quick to scent any clue.

The widow and her stepson exchanged rapid glances. I was watching, and it occurred to me that some secret understanding existed between them. My friend of the Red Lion had declared that they were enemies, but to me it certainly appeared as though they were acting in complete accord.

“Oh,” responded Cyril Chetwode, rather lamely, “I merely suppose that.”

“Revenge for what?”

“Ah! if we only knew the reason it would not be difficult to find the murderer,” answered the man who loved my wife. “It may be that some person sought revenge for an imaginary grievance.”

“But why was the Colonel walking at that lonely spot at that hour? He must have had an object. It looks suspiciously as though he went to keep a secret appointment. The excuse that he was ill seems to have been made with a view to securing his room from intruders who might disturb him.”

“He may have kept an appointment,” his son replied. “But only he himself could tell us the truth.”

The detective acquiesced, and after some further conversation, in which I joined, he rose, and passing through into the library, commenced an examination of the papers lying on the writing-table. With my rival in the affections of the woman who was my wife, I assisted him, while the widow stood behind us watching, her face pale and anxious and her nervous hands trembling.

She was in fear. Of that I felt absolutely convinced. But what discovery 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 of the peace—for it was here that he performed his judicial work—his widow stood behind me, and, with a quick movement, sidled up to her stepson. The next instant it occurred to me that she had passed something to him; but, pretending to be engrossed in the papers, I made no 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, having searched the room from top to bottom, suggested a move to the Colonel’s bedroom.

Here the search, both of the clothes in his wardrobe and of the room wherein he usually slept, likewise proved fruitless. After twenty minutes or so, however, I contrived, while the others were busy turning over the dead man’s effects, to slip back to the library. Young Chetwode had, at the moment when the suspicious movement had been made behind me, stood with his back to the black marble mantelshelf, and it was to examine this that I returned. While doing so I suddenly found a crack between the wall and the upright marble support, where the plaster had dried out by the heat of the winter fires, and, peering within, I saw something concealed there.

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

I spread it out; the picture I gazed upon was both startling and ghastly. It was a portrait of Beryl, my love, supported by pillows, her face expressionless, her eyes closed.

The hideous truth was plain. The photograph had been taken after death!