Here, after certain formalities, I gained knowledge which seemed of distinct advantage. Of the official there I learned that the special licence by which I had been married had been applied for by Beryl herself, and was shown a copy of the application signed by her, “Beryl Wynd.”
I read the document through, and its contents held me in amazement, for it prayed “that a licence might be issued for the solemnisation of marriage in the church of St. Ann’s, Wilton Place, between herself and Richard Dawes Colkirk, bachelor, Doctor of Medicine, of 114, Rowan Road, Hammersmith.” Besides, it was dated nearly a fortnight before—soon after I had accepted Raymond’s invitation to be his guest.
But my main object in making inquiries at the registry was to discover my wife’s address, and in this I was successful, for in the same document I found that she was described as “Beryl Grace Wynd, spinster, of 46, Earl’s-court Road, Kensington.”
I had, at least, gained knowledge of the house in which the tragedy had been enacted.
“When the young lady called to make this application, were you present?” I inquired eagerly.
“Yes. I saw her.”
“What was she like? Could you give me a description of her?”
“She was good-looking, elegantly dressed, and about middle height, if I remember aright.”
“And her hair?”
“It was of a colour rather unusual,” answered the man, peering at me through his spectacles. “A kind of golden-brown.”