It was a kind of
nightmare morning to look back upon, relieved only by the
figure of my old Bohemian, with his pea jacket, his black
thorn, his puffy, crinkly face, and his camelia.
To make a long story short, then, the funeral came
off as arranged, General Wainwright, Whitehall, and I
being the sole mourners. The captain had never seen poor
Fred in the flesh, but he "liked to be in at the finish,
sir," and so he gave me his company. It was at eight in
the morning, and it was ten before we found ourselves at
Oakley Villa. A burly man with bushy whiskers was
waiting for us at the door.
"Are you Dr. Munro, sir?" he asked.
"I am."
"I am a detective from the local office. I was
ordered to inquire into the death of the young man in
your house lately."
Here was a thunderbolt! If looking upset is a sign
of guilt, I must have stood confessed as a villain. It
was so absolutely unexpected. I hope, however, that I
had command of myself instantly.
"Pray step in!" said I. Any information I can give
you is entirely at your service. Have you any objection
to my friend Captain Whitehall being present?
"Not in the least." So in we both went, taking this
bird of ill-omen.
He was, however, a man of tact and with a pleasant
manner.
"Of course, Dr. Munro," said he, "you are much too
well known in the town for any one to take this matter
seriously. But the fact is that we had an anonymous
letter this morning saying that the young man had died
yesterday and was to be buried at an unusual hour to-day,
and that the circumstances were suspicious.
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