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.