“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.