diff options
Diffstat (limited to '75209-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 75209-0.txt | 8213 |
1 files changed, 8213 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/75209-0.txt b/75209-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..06e00f0 --- /dev/null +++ b/75209-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8213 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75209 *** + + +The Case of the Black Twenty-Two + +by Brian Flynn + +Copyright, 1929, by Macrae Smith Company + +Published by Grosset & Dunlap (New York), January, 1929 + +Second printing, February, 1929 + + + +CONTENTS + + I. Mr. Daventry Receives a Commission + II. Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39 + III. The Hanover Galleries Murder + IV. Peter Daventry Is Mindful of Mr. Bathurst + V. The Assynton Lodge Murder + VI. Marjorie Lennox Doesn’t Mince Matters + VII. Butterworth Is Apprehensive of the Future + VIII. The 6:55 Carries a Trio of Distinction + IX. Mr. Bathurst Opens His Bedroom Door + X. The Incident of the Boot-Boy’s Bicycle + XI. With a Given Center, Mr. Bathurst Describes a Circle + XII. The Second Screen of Mary Stuart + XIII. Colonel Leach-Fletcher Is at Home to Visitors + XIV. Mr. Bathurst Takes a Book from the Bookcase + XV. Mr. Daventry Gets His Feet Wet + XVI. Mr. Bathurst Again Samples the Bookcase + XVII. The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure + XVIII. The Room at Blanchard’s Hotel + XIX. Inspector Goodall Is Entertained + XX. Mr. Bathurst Brushes Up His History + XXI. Mr. Ferguson of New York + XXII. Mr. Bathurst Baits the Hook + XXIII. When the Cat’s Away + XXIV. The Secret of the Screens + XXV. The Riddle of the Black Twenty-Two + + + +CHAPTER I + +Mr. Daventry Receives a Commission + +The fact that it was an unusually sunny morning for an English summer +day had not put Peter Daventry in the mood that it undoubtedly should +have done. A riotous evening—during which he had dined not wisely but +too well with a number of men who had been at Oxford with him—is not +perhaps the best preparation for work on the following day, and Peter +heartily cursed the relentless and inexorable fate that had made him +junior partner of “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Solicitors.” He +thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window of his +room, gazing disconsolately at the street below. + +“Cornhill!” he muttered. “And it might be anywhere else for all it +means to me, or for all I care. It’s a dull old world nowadays and +devilish difficult to get thrills out of a business like this. After a +night with the lads it gets me ‘on the raw’ more than ever.” + +He looked down at London scurrying and hurrying. Men, women, young and +old, treading their way quickly, decisively and imperturbably on the +various errands and ventures that Life had chosen for them. “Poor +devils!” he thought. “Day in and day out the same old grind! I +sometimes wonder how they stand it. I certainly don’t know how I do.” +He walked back to the chair by his desk, carefully selected a +cigarette and pressed the bell. + +A middle-aged, black-coated clerk appeared in the doorway. + +“You rang, Mr. Daventry? You want me?” + +“Oh, no, Plunkett! Not for a moment! What on earth gave you that +extraordinary idea?” + +“The bell——” He indicated the table with a sort of hopeless +resignation. + +“Merely a matter of ‘physical jerks’ on my part, Plunkett. I’ve been +standing on my head on the desk, and in the process I inadvertently +butted the bell and caused you——” + +Plunkett smiled feebly. He was the kind of man that always +did—thirty-five years’ service for the firm had made him afraid to do +anything too vigorously—even to a smile. But he knew Peter Daventry +and knew his little whims and ways—“he will have his little joke,” he +would inform his friends and acquaintances, “and till he’s had it, +it’s best to lie low and keep quiet.” It will be observed, therefore, +that he had _not_ encountered “Brer Rabbit.” + +“You wanted——?” + +“This morning’s post, Plunkett! Neither more nor less! Stay +though—when you bring it in, you might also bring me all the papers +and correspondence relating to the Langley Case.” He drew at his +cigarette and watched the smoke rising. Then smiled. “Breach of +promise is a God-send, Plunkett! Manna from the heights of Heaven.” + +Plunkett stared at him it might be said, sorrowfully—and withdrew +unobtrusively. At his second appearance he placed the unopened letters +and the required papers on Peter’s desk. + +“Thank you, Plunkett!” + +“Thank you, Mr. Daventry. Mr. Linnell asked me to tell you he would +like to see you in his room as soon as possible, sir. At your +convenience that is to say, sir.” + +Peter ran the paper-knife along the back of an envelope and nodded +acquiescence. “All right, Plunkett. Tell Mr. Linnell I’ll blow along +to him shortly.” + +Mr. Merryweather, the founder of the firm, had been gathered to his +fathers seven years before the date of the opening of this history; +but his name had been retained. As Peter remarked to his more intimate +friends, “the name of ‘Merryweather’ had a cheerful ring about it and +therefore was worth keeping!” + +David Linnell was a medium-sized, clean-shaven, spare man of +fifty-eight years. He had been born in Lancashire and was a firm +believer in the men of the Red Rose. He fully subscribed to the theory +that “what Manchester thinks to-day—the rest of the world thinks +to-morrow.” In conjunction with the departed Merryweather, he had +built up an eminently satisfactory business in London, had attracted +to it a sound and rapidly-growing “clientèle,” and when the question +arose of Peter Daventry coming in as a partner, he had seen with all a +Northerner’s shrewdness and acumen that this young Oxonian would bring +to the firm new business and new clients from a hitherto unexplored +source. + +“Good morning, Peter!” he said as Daventry entered his room. + +“Good morning! Plunkett tells me you want to see me.” + +Mr. Linnell looked up from his seat and motioned Peter to a chair +beside him. + +“Sit down, Peter! And listen attentively! Ever heard of Laurence P. +Stewart?” Peter had, and said so immediately. + +“Naturally! The American millionaire you mean, I presume?” + +“The same. Know anything about him—anything special?” + +Peter thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I do—beyond what all the +world knows. Made his money first in Chicago and afterwards on Wall +Street—I fancy he’s a widower.” + +“Quite right. With one son—about two and twenty. I’ll tell you more! +About three months ago Stewart came to England. At the time Assynton +Lodge was in the market. He bought it and, I believe, paid a pretty +stiff figure for it. It’s a very fine place—not very far from +Wantage—and right in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. I understand +that he intends spending the remainder of his days in this country.” + +“Don’t think I should, if I had his money,” contributed Peter. +“Still—there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. What’s his pet +ambition—to win the Derby or become an O. B. E.?” + +“Neither,” replied Linnell a trifle testily. “But your question, +flippant though it may have been, brings me to his association with +this conversation of ours this morning.” He leaned forward to pick up +a letter from the desk in front of him. Then turned again towards his +partner. “He has one overpowering interest in life. He is a +collector——” + +“Horrible word,” interrupted Peter. “Makes me think of Rates and +Income Tax.” + +“He is a collector,” repeated the elder man, ignoring the +interruption. “For many years now, his one hobby has been his +priceless and almost unique collection of articles of what may be +termed, paramount historical interest and association.” + +Peter began to show signs of increased attention. This sounded better! +Linnell continued. “I am informed, from a source that is certainly +above reproach, that Stewart is the proud possessor of over two +thousand articles of great historical significance. He claims to +include in his—er Museum—if I may so describe it—a Musk-Ball used by +Henry VIII for instance. He has a peculiar passion it seems for +objects that are supposed to have Royal associations! Which last fact +brings me to the Mary, Queen of Scots business!” + +Peter raised his eyebrows—then helped himself to his third cigarette. +“We’re apparently moving in exalted circles,” he ventured. + +“And a great compliment to us, as a firm—Peter. But I will proceed. If +he may be said to have a passion for collecting these objects that I +have mentioned of Royal association—then I can tell you that he has a +perfect mania—an overwhelming obsession would be perhaps a happier +phrase—for anything connected with Mary, Queen of Scots.” He paused. +Then looked at Peter. “Laurence P. _Stewart_, Peter! Note the name—he +has got it into his head—or had it put there possibly—that he is a +legitimate descendant of that ill-fated lady. Every relic of hers at +all possible of acquisition—he acquires. Now look at this letter.” + +He pushed the letter that he had picked up from his table, across to +Peter. + +“Read it!” he said authoritatively. + +Peter obeyed the instruction with more than ordinary alacrity. + + Assynton Lodge, + Assynton, Berkshire, + June 7th, 192–. + + Sir, + + I am a man of few words. Your firm has been highly recommended to me + by Colonel Leach-Fletcher, for whom you have acted many times in the + past in matters of extreme discretion. He speaks in the highest + possible terms of your integrity and efficiency. For reasons of my + own I wish you to act for me at the Sale taking place on the 10th + inst. at “Day, Forshaw and Palmers’.” You will purchase for me the + articles scheduled in their catalogue as follows: + + (No. 37) “Collar of Pearls.” + (No. 38) “Antique Tapestry Fire-screen.” + (No. 39) “Rosary of Amber Beads.” + + “all having been indisputably the property of Mary, Queen of Scots.” + + The purchases completed, you will bring them or cause them to be + brought to the above address at your earliest convenience, when your + own account will be settled by + + Yours faithfully, + Laurence P. Stewart. + + David Linnell, Esq., + Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry. + +Peter looked up at his companion. “H’m,” he remarked, “seems to know +what he wants. No limit I suppose, as to price?” + +“None! As far as I can see! He simply says, ‘You will purchase——’” +Peter glanced at the letter again. + +“And we charge him what we like!” + +“Money’s no object to Stewart, Peter,” replied Linnell. “If he’s set +his mind upon getting the three articles in question—nothing short of +a miracle will stop him.” + +“Why is he employing a firm of solicitors for a job of this kind?” +asked Peter. + +“Can’t say! But I suggest Colonel Leach-Fletcher has impressed him +that we are thoroughly ‘safe and sound’—and he’s out taking no risks.” + +“Very possibly you’re right,” Peter commented. “I certainly can’t +think of any other reason. Have you seen a catalogue of the sale?” + +“I’ve sent for one. Immediately upon receipt of this letter! Collins +has gone round to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ offices. He should be back +very shortly!” + +Peter walked to the window and looked out. + +“Here is Collins,” he said, turning to his senior, “with catalogue +complete.” + +In a few minutes they were examining it. It was headed as follows: + + “At Messrs. Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ Rooms, + The Hanover Galleries, W.1. + On Friday, June 10th, 192–, at one o’clock + precisely. + Sale of Old English and French Furniture, + Pictures, Porcelain, Jewelry, and + Objects of Art, + Formerly the property of Lord Clavering, + deceased, late of Clavering Court, + Warwickshire.” + +Linnell and Peter ran their eyes down its contents. They were many and +varied. Linnell read them quickly. “A William and Mary Marqueterie +Walnut Cabinet, a Chippendale Wine-Cooler, a pair of Boulle Cabinets +of Regency Design, Portraits by Hoppner, Paintings by De Ribera, +Romney, Van Der Velde and Sir Peter Lely, Derby and Nantgarw +Porcelain, Chinese Porcelain of the Sung and Ming periods, Jewelry, a +Cromwellian chalice with the Hull hall-mark, a George II octofoil +salver, a Georgian Epergne, an unusually large King’s Pattern service, +several Sèvres vases—here we are, Peter, 37, 38 and 39 . . . +h’m—h’m . . . exactly as described by our client in his letter.” He +looked up from the catalogue. + +Peter pointed to a sentence at the end of the list. “May be viewed the +two days preceding the Sale from 10 to 5 o’clock. That’s to-day and +to-morrow. What do you say to me running along and having a glance at +the particular stuff Stewart wants?” + +“Just what I was on the point of suggesting, Peter. You’ve taken the +very words from my mouth.” + +“To-day or to-morrow?” + +“Please yourself—but it’s a nice morning—why not take advantage of +it—have an early lunch and pop up West afterwards?” + +“A pleasing prospect,” exclaimed Peter. “Life seems a little +brighter.” + +Linnell smiled—then waved him away. “That’s settled then.” + +He strolled back to his own room and looked at his watch. “Don’t see +any just cause or impediment why I shouldn’t get along at once and see +about that lunch,” he said to himself. “Plunkett!” He went to his door +and called down the corridor. + +“Yes, Mr. Daventry.” Plunkett appeared in the distance and laboriously +made his way to answer to the call. + +“I’m going out, Plunkett. Mr. Linnell will be here if anything should +be wanted. That’s all. You needn’t trouble to come in.” + +Plunkett bowed his understanding and reëntered his daily cell. + +Once outside, Peter hailed a passing taxi. “Oxford Street,” he +announced curtly. “The Violette.” It was where he habitually lunched +whenever he happened to be in its vicinity. He made for his customary +table and beamed upon the waiter who came forward solicitously. + +Now Peter prided himself upon the quality of his gastronomic +inclinations. He scanned the menu with a fine and fitting +discrimination. + +“A Dry Martini, Gustave.” + +“Yes, sir!” + +“Thick white soup, Sole au Colbert—and Roast Duck—that will do nicely +to be getting on with.” He smiled in anticipatory relish. Gustave did +likewise before disappearing. To appear again very quickly with the +Dry Martini! + +Peter raised it to his lips—after all Life wasn’t so very +unsatisfactory when there was good food and welcome drink to be had. +He sipped his cocktail appraisingly. The place was comparatively +empty—it was early. At the next table sat a man and woman. They were +talking eagerly and with much animation. The man was doing most of it, +with the woman listening attentively and punctuating his remarks at +rapid and regular intervals with a curious little vigorous inclination +of her head. Peter fell to wondering about them—“a lower middle-class +couple on a shopping expedition” was his verdict—arrived at +simultaneously with the advent of Gustave and the soup. The fish +quickly followed, and he was awaiting the coming of the “appetizing +Aylesbury” as he termed it to himself when a familiar voice broke on +his ears. + +“Hullo, Daventry! What’s brought you up this end so early in the +morning?” + +Peter looked up. Then he grinned cheerfully. + +“Sit down, Marriott! An unexpected pleasure!” + +The newcomer sank into the proffered seat, and languidly stretched out +a hand for the menu. Peter had met him several times in the Law Courts +and had dined with him two or three times recently. + +“You haven’t answered my question,” said Marriott. “What brings you up +here at this time of day?” + +“Business, my boy, purely business. Give Gustave your order.” + +Marriott smiled, rattled off his desires, and turned again to Peter. + +“Glad to see an improvement in you. The other day you were talking +about ‘chucking’ it all and going out to ‘God’s own Country’ or +somewhere.” + +“Wish I could, Marriott, but I can’t. I’m afraid the improvement about +which you are babbling so delightfully will be short-lived. These peas +are really excellent—you’ll enjoy them!” + +“Good! Any news of importance?” + +“Only that the next Coal Strike is expected to last twenty-two years +or thereabouts.” + +“Really,” grinned Marriott. “Tell me something fresh. Say Queen Anne’s +dead!” + +Peter pushed back his plate with an air of complete satisfaction and +made a reply that seemed to leap to his tongue without his brain +having undergone any preliminary process of thinking. It seemed to be +entirely spontaneous and at the same time to him as he sat there, +peculiarly appropriate. It fitted in with the morning so happily. + +“So’s Mary, Queen of Scots!” He blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling. +As he spoke, there happened to be a lull pervading the whole room. A +lull that was violently and almost instantaneously shattered! The man +at the next table turned sharply as the words tingled through the air, +and as he turned, with his body for the brief moment excitedly +uncontrolled, his arm abruptly swept the cruet from the table to the +floor. + +Two waiters dashed heroically to the work of rescue and salvage. The +culprit muttered a few words of apology. The lady was heard to remark +something about the bad luck attendant upon spilling the salt, smiled +upon the two diligent waiters, but flashed a quick look at her +companion. It was a look that possessed more than one quality. It +contained a suggestion of warning, a hint of rebuke and a touch of +fierce annoyance. The man sat sullenly in his seat, and Peter’s eyes +never left his face. For exactly what reason he didn’t quite know—he +felt almost compelled to it. His senses seemed to be jingling a +refrain to him. It rang repeatedly through his brain and its purpose +was, “Well—I’m damned.” At the same time he tried to persuade himself +that it was just an ordinary case of carelessness and that he had +drawn liberally upon his imagination to connect the incident with the +words he had used. + +“What’s amiss, Daventry?” broke in Marriott, cutting his reverie +abruptly short. “You look as though you have seen a ghost!” + +Peter jerked himself back to the normal with a tremendous effort. + +“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “That little incident surprised me—that +was all.” + +But his eyes strayed back to the other table, and as they did so the +eyes of the man there met his and held them for a brief moment +truculently and challengingly. The woman appeared to be urging her +companion to do something that he apparently did not favor. He shook +his head doubtfully, as though he were questioning the wisdom of what +she said. Peter turned to Marriott. “I’ll be getting along now, if you +don’t mind. Gustave! Bring me my bill! What’s the damage?” + +“I’m nearly through myself,” responded Marriott. “I’m coming along +too! Which way are you going?” + +“Up West. And you aren’t, probably! Thank you, Gustave!” + +“No! I’m bound in the other direction—you’ve said it! Cheerio!” + +Peter waved a hand to his retreating figure and collected his change. +As he did so, the couple from the other table made their way past his +table on their journey out. The man was in front—the woman followed +closely on his heels. As they passed, for some reason almost unknown +to himself, Peter strained his ears to catch, if at all possible, any +stray fragment of their conversation. He was successful. The woman was +speaking in a low-toned voice, but it was not too low to carry to his +ears. + +“Take my advice,” Peter heard her say—“let’s go to-morrow—not to-day.” + +“Can’t see it makes much difference”—her companion’s reply floated +back to him. They passed down the restaurant—out of sight! + +Peter rose to his feet and crammed his hat on his head. + +“I’m a silly ass,” he said to himself. “Letting my imagination run +riot—magnifying trivial incidents—giving way to distorted ideas.” + +He hailed his second taxi-cab that day, and settled down comfortably. +“Best thing I can do,” he thought, “is to go and have that look at +those antiquities I’m going to buy on Friday.” + +Wherein he erred—for he never bought them after all. + + + +CHAPTER II + +Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39 + +When Peter entered the Galleries there were comparatively few people +present. A knot of interested art-enthusiasts had gathered in front of +a superb “Reynolds” dated 1765. It was described as the “Portrait of a +Lady.” She held a lute in her hand and wore a satin dress cut low and +edged with pearls. Although Peter was no expert in these matters, it +did not take him long to realize that he was gazing at a masterpiece. +But he passed on. The Galleries held other attractions that interested +him more. Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39 were easily to be found. The +three objects that had brought him to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ almost +jostled each other on the left of the room as you entered. The screen +stood on the floor, the Pearl Collar and Rosary lay on a small +Sheraton Inlaid Mahogany side table right against it. Their only +visible protection from covetous hands was a rail that barriered them +from the public, about four feet high. But as Peter looked at the +three things for which he had been commissioned by Mr. Laurence P. +Stewart, he became acutely aware and very definitely conscious, that +he in his turn was being watched. Two men of medium height were +lounging near . . . their profession was obvious to him. He had come +into contact with their kind too many times before in the course of +his own business not to recognize them when he saw them. +“Plain-clothes,” he told himself. He walked across to the barrier and +took a close inspection of the objects in which he was interested. As +he did so he fancied the two men edged a little more closely to him. +But he realized, upon looking round, that with the exception of the +men to whom reference has been made, he was the only person in that +particular part of the room; hence their keener interest in his +movements. “Hang it all,” he said to himself—“this shadowing business +gets on my nerves—I’ll establish my ‘bona-fides.’” + +He walked back to the entrance to the Galleries. A middle-aged man was +superintending the transportation of what was evidently a valuable +picture. He paused in his directions as Peter came up. “Anything I can +do for you, sir?” Peter caught him by the arm. + +“Yes. Look here! Here’s my card! I’m Daventry—of ‘Merryweather, +Linnell and Daventry.’ I want to examine items Nos. 37, 38 and 39 in +the published catalogue of your sale on Friday.” + +The man scratched his chin—thoughtfully. Then looked again at the +proffered card. + +“Young Mr. Forshaw’s here, sir. You’re Mr. Daventry, I think you said, +sir.” + +“That’s right.” + +“I’ll tell the young governor, sir! Can I say you’ve a mind to +purchase?” + +“Oh yes!” cut in Peter impetuously. “I’m representing my firm on +behalf of a very——” + +He checked himself—suddenly. It occurred to him that there was +absolutely no need to mention Stewart’s name at this juncture and +perhaps more than one excellent reason for withholding it. He thought +of Stewart’s phrase concerning discretion. + +“Very good, sir,” said the man. “I’ll bring young Mr. Forshaw along to +you in half a minute.” + +He was as good as his word. A young man bustled up, wiping his hands +upon a duster. + +“Mr. Daventry?” queried Forshaw. Peter bowed! + +“You wished to have a look at something included in to-morrow’s sale? +What is it exactly?” + +“It’s not an ‘it,’” responded Peter jocularly. And then with scant +regard for the inclination of the verb “to be”—“it’s a ‘them.’” + +“More than _one_, sir?” + +“To be precise—three—the numbers are 37, 38 and 39 in your catalogue.” + +“Come this way.” He escorted Peter to the handrail from which he had +so recently come. Then slipped underneath with ease and handed him the +Collar and the Rosary. It was impossible for Peter to form any +adequate idea of the value of either. His experience of jewels was +very limited, and the Rosary appeared to him to possess little value +apart from its historical association. However, for the sake of +appearances he feigned to make a very careful study of each. + +“Aren’t your people afraid of having some of these things stolen?” he +ventured to Forshaw. + +“We take certain precautions, Mr. Daventry,” was the answer. “Close +watch is maintained all day and all night. Anybody attempting any +‘jiggery-pokery’ would get the surprise of his life.” + +Peter glanced at the two representatives of the Law. They lounged in a +corner. Forshaw followed the direction of his eyes and smiled. +“Exactly! And well armed too!” He replaced the Pearl Collar and the +Rosary as Peter handed them across to him. Then lifted up the screen +and handed it over. + +“I see that you advertise these three articles as having belonged to +Mary, Queen of Scots,” remarked Peter. + +“That is so!” replied Forshaw. “They formed part of the late Lord +Clavering’s collection. Had been in his family, I believe, for over +two hundred years. No doubt whatever on that point,” he concluded +decisively. + +Peter looked at the screen with some interest. It stood approximately +from three and a half to four feet high he estimated—on a carved-wood +pedestal. Upon the tapestry, which was covered with thick glass, he +could see a number of brightly colored beads. They were, to all +appearances, arranged in the form of letters. Peter inspected them +carefully. Then quickly grasped their meaning. The beads formed words +and the words were— + + “JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND SAVIOUR.” + +In the top left-hand corner of the tapestry was worked the Scots +Queen’s Royal Lion and in the right could be discerned the +“fleur-de-lis.” The corners at the bottom showed the Leopards and +Lilies of England. + +“Of more ornament than use, I’m afraid, Mr. Daventry,” said Forshaw +with a smile. + +“I agree.” He bent down to examine it more closely. + +“I expect some pretty brisk bidding for that on Friday! Just the kind +of thing to appeal to a collector of antiques.” + +“I suppose so,” replied Peter. He handed it back to its temporary +guardian. + +“Thank you—Mr. Forshaw. I’m very much obliged to you, I’m sure, for +showing me round as you have. I’ll be getting along now.” + +Then he was suddenly impelled to ask a question. “I suppose a good +many people have had a good look at these three articles already?” + +“On the contrary—you’re the first, Mr. Daventry. That is, of course, +up to the moment. They haven’t been on show very long.” + +Peter shook hands and laughed. “My remarks seem to miss fire every +time.” + +“Good afternoon, sir.” + +“Good afternoon.” He passed by the middle-aged man at the entrance and +pushed something into his hand. The man looked at it and smiled—then +put his finger to his forehead in salute. + +“Thank you, sir. You’re a gentleman. Still—there was no necessity——” + +Peter waved a sympathetic hand and departed. + +Half an hour later saw him back at the office in Cornhill. + +“Well?” said Linnell as he entered the room, “everything +satisfactory?” + +Peter sat on the corner of the table and swung his leg. + +“I went up there, as we arranged, and I had a look at the stuff we’ve +been asked to get.” He paused. + +“Yes?” interrogated Linnell. “What did you think of it?” + +“Hard to say. The Pearl Collar is really magnificent, and the screen I +should say will prove a tremendous attraction for the ‘genus’ +collector—the species that we are deputed to represent—the Rosary, in +my opinion, won’t fetch anything like so much.” + +“H’m,” said Linnell reflectively. He traced a pattern on his +blotting-paper with his pen. Then he looked up at his companion. + +“Has it struck you, Daventry—that we may possibly be running a big +risk over this business?” + +Peter looked startled. “How do you mean?” + +Linnell opened a drawer and handed over a letter. “Supposing that +letter hadn’t come from Stewart; supposing that signature—purporting +to be Stewart’s——was a forgery?” + +Peter’s eyes opened even wider. “That’s interesting. Go on!” + +Linnell from Lancashire went on. And emphasized his points with quick +jerks of the head. “We are instructed to _purchase_! That is to say +Stewart in no way restricts us. He mentions no limit. Supposing we +pay, for argument’s sake, £25,000—thinking we’re acting for +Stewart—and then Stewart repudiates ever having commissioned us! And +then, after that, we find our £25,000 worth of stuff is worth say—only +£15,000. Where are we then, Daventry? I’ve inflated the figures +purposely.” + +“Down the mine, Daddy,” declared Peter. “But what’s the Big Idea—who +would ever——?” + +“Who would? Seems to me Day, Forshaw and Palmers might find it a very +healthy proposition,” replied Linnell. + +“And that’s what you really think?” asked Peter incredulously. + +“No—I don’t!” said Linnell grimly. “But I’m damned well going to find +out.” + +“How? Go and see Stewart?” Peter was all alertness now. + +“No! I’ve telegraphed to him—this morning. The answer should be here +at any moment! That should be sufficient.” + +He looked at his watch. + +Peter selected a cigarette—then handed his case to Linnell. + +“Thanks! I don’t mind if I do.” + +Before Peter had had time to take his eyes from the match with which +he lit his companion’s cigarette——there was a tap at the door—Plunkett +entered. Linnell tore open the telegram that was handed to him. Then +he smiled. Peter looked over his shoulder. Then he smiled in his turn, +and read aloud what he saw. + +“Say! What the hell’s biting you—when I say Buy—then Buy. Got that? +Stewart.” + +That was the intelligent rendering of the message. A message which +looked and sounded even cruder and terser in the unpunctuated +word-arrangement of telegrams. + +Linnell’s smile developed into a ringing laugh. “I’ve been barking up +the wrong tree, after all, Peter. Still—one can’t be too careful. +You’ll go along then on Friday and——” + +Plunkett reappeared in the doorway. “Another telegram, sir.” Linnell +looked surprised. Then read the second message. + +“Say—you don’t _look_ before you leap—you take a magnifying glass. +Same name as before.” + +“Mr. Stewart has a decided sense of humor,” commented David Linnell. +“But I’d sooner he took liberties with my ‘_amour propre_’ than with +my pocket.” + +Peter laughed. + +“Some people wouldn’t,” continued Linnell, determined to justify +himself, “but I _would_. And even if he is a millionaire—to put four +words where he could have used one—should have used one in fact, is +just a piece of reckless and shameless waste—and that’s all there is +to it.” + +He turned to Daventry, proudly conscious that he was safeguarding an +important principle. + +“I think I’ll go myself and have a glance at the stuff to-morrow, +Peter—after all he’s a millionaire—and business is business. Where did +you lunch?” + +“At the ‘Violette,’” was the reply. “And, by the by, whatever you +do—don’t upset the cruet.” + +“What do you mean?” Linnell looked at him curiously. + +Peter recounted the incident that had occurred earlier in the day. + +“Probably quite an accident,” he concluded, “and a coincidence—still +it took my breath away, as it were, for just the moment.” + +Linnell thought for a moment or two. “Probably nothing in it, Peter. +You had the thing on your mind and were over-imaginative. What are you +doing to-night? Anything special?” + +“I’m dining at the Club. And I may have a rubber or two afterwards.” + +“Good. I sha’n’t be in, in the morning. I may run down to Berkshire +this evening, and in any case I’ll go straight on to Day, Forshaw and +Palmers’ first thing to-morrow. I’m really very anxious to see the +actual objects of this extraordinary commission of ours!” + +But just as Peter was destined never to buy them, so Linnell was fated +not to see them on the morrow. + +For when he arrived at Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ next morning he found +a condition of extreme excitement and agitation. Detective-Inspector +Goodall was in charge of the case—a case that had cost Day, Forshaw +and Palmers Schedule Nos. 37, 38 and 39 in their sale catalogue, and +their night-watchman his life. Linnell’s hand shook when he heard what +had happened. The conviction came to him that he was connected with +the affair. Acting upon a sudden impulse, he went in. + + + +CHAPTER III + +The Hanover Galleries Murder + +Just inside the room he was stopped. Two six-feet members of the +Metropolitan Police barred his further entrance. + +“Sorry, sir,” said one of them, “but our orders are to admit nobody.” + +Linnell paused—then under the influence of a sudden idea—he produced +his card. + +“Give that to the Inspector who has the case in hand, will you?” he +said; “it’s just possible I may be able to help him.” He looked +straight at the officer. + +“Very well, sir,” rejoined the latter. “I’ll see what I can do for +you.” He spoke to his colleague. “You stay here—I’ll go and have a +word with the Chief about this gentleman.” + +He was soon back. “Detective-Inspector Goodall will see you, sir! This +way, if you please!” + +He piloted Linnell down the lengthy room. A group of men were standing +at the far end. Goodall was in the center of the group. Linnell saw a +clean-shaven man of medium height and stoutish build—dressed in a +double-breasted blue serge suit. He awaited Linnell’s approach with +uplifted eyebrows. + +“Mr. Linnell?” he interrogated—quickly and decisively. “Of——?” + +“Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Cornhill,” replied Linnell—to the +point as always. “I am the senior partner of the firm.” + +“You have important information for me, I understand,” cut in Goodall. + +“Information,” corrected Linnell. “You must be the judge of its +importance.” + +“Well, I’m listening, Mr. Linnell. Go ahead!” + +“Before I tell you what I know—would you, in your turn, be good enough +to tell me if the rumors that are traveling round outside—are correct? +Are you investigating a case of murder and robbery?” + +“I am! A robbery has taken place here since shutting-up hours last +evening—and a poor devil of a watchman been bashed on the head—he’s as +dead as mutton. Where do you come in?” + +“Maybe not at all, Inspector. But my firm had a rather peculiar +commission entrusted to it yesterday in relation to the sale that was +to have taken place here to-morrow. And it struck me when I heard——” + +“Aren’t you a bit imaginative, Mr. Linnell?” demanded Goodall. “How +could anything you—still—let’s hear all about it.” + +“I was going to,” remonstrated Linnell mildly. “We were commissioned +to buy three articles that were advertised as having belonged to Mary, +Queen of——” + +“What?” blazed Goodall. “The devil you were. They’re the only three +articles we can trace to have been stolen. Who commissioned you?” + +Although Linnell was really surprised at this announcement—yet in one +way he was not. His mind seemed prepared for it—some sixth and subtle +sense had been pounding at his brain ever since his arrival at this +place that Stewart’s instructions and the tragedy that confronted him +were in some manner connected with each other. It was the shadowy +belief in this that had prompted him to try to interview the +Inspector. + +“Mr. Laurence P. Stewart of Assynton, Berkshire,” he replied quietly. + +“The millionaire?” exclaimed a tall man from the group. + +“Yes,” said Linnell. + +“You know this man Stewart, Mr. Day?” asked Goodall, turning to the +speaker. + +“Only by reputation,” rejoined Day. “It’s the American millionaire—you +must have heard of him, Inspector! Forshaw here, met him once or twice +over in the States—I never have.” + +“That’s so,” intervened Forshaw with a positive movement of the head. +“I met him in New York a year or two after the War.” + +“Go on, Mr. Linnell,” said the Inspector. “You said his instructions +to your firm were ‘peculiar’—that was the adjective you used. I reckon +you’ve some more to tell us.” + +Here young Forshaw broke in. “The gentleman who called here +yesterday—a Mr. Daventry—he was a representative of your firm, I +think?” + +“Quite correct,” affirmed Linnell. “My partner! My only partner, I +should have said.” + +Goodall swung round on to Forshaw Junior. “Called here yesterday? What +about?” he grumbled in his deep voice. + +“The Mary, Queen of Scots’ stuff.” Goodall looked a trifle annoyed. + +“You didn’t tell me,” he muttered. “Why didn’t you?” + +“I simply haven’t had a chance yet,” came the reply with just a hint +of rebellious obstinacy, “you’ve been doing best part of the talking. +I should have told you though before you’d finished.” Forshaw shrugged +his shoulders. + +Goodall glared—then reverted to Linnell. “Fire away, Mr. Linnell. What +exactly were your instructions?” + +“Yesterday morning I received a letter from the gentleman I just +mentioned—Laurence P. Stewart—authorizing me to buy the three articles +that you have just informed me have been stolen—er—numbers 37, 38 and +39 in the sale catalogue.” + +“Well?” rapped Goodall—“I can’t see anything . . .” + +Linnell went on. “The whole thing was peculiar in this respect. I was +entirely unacquainted with the gentleman—the commission was right out +of our usual type of business—no price was mentioned—I was given +_carte blanche_—I know absolutely nothing about this particular +species of—er—antiques—and what is more”—here he paused and looked +Goodall straight in the eyes—“I had no absolute proof that the affair +was genuine.” + +Goodall nodded approvingly. “You took steps, of course, to——” + +“I wired to Berkshire and the reply was satisfactory—at all events——” + +“What reply did you get?” Goodall was showing signs of impatience. + +“It came by telegram—you shall see it. It’s at my office.” + +“You were satisfied?” + +“Yes, Inspector.” + +“One little point, Mr. Linnell, before you proceed any farther. Why +did Mr. Stewart select your firm to carry out this commission? Any +idea?” + +“He explained that in his letter. He said he had been told of us by a +very respected and esteemed client of ours—a Colonel Leach-Fletcher.” + +“Was that true?” demanded Goodall. + +“Colonel Leach-Fletcher is a client of ours—certainly—I can say +nothing as to the alleged recommendation. You can see the letter with +the telegram.” + +“I will. Anything else?” + +“Not very much. The telegram reassured me—Mr. Daventry, my partner, +came and had a look over here yesterday—and I had come with similar +purpose this morning—only to find this trouble.” + +“How did you know, Mr. Linnell?”—Goodall’s voice sounded very +distinctly, almost as though he were launching an accusation—“that +these three particular objects had been stolen? It seems to me——” + +“I didn’t,” replied Linnell in an almost aggrieved manner. “I thought +you understood that when I entered. I had no knowledge of it whatever. +I only obeyed my instincts.” + +“H’m,” grunted the Inspector. “Yes, Doctor?” This last remark was +addressed to a gentleman who had come authoritatively down the room. + +“The poor fellow’s quite dead, of course. Been dead, I should say, +about eight hours when I examined him. Four particularly savage blows +on the skull I think—part of the brain actually protruding—whoever did +it—meant doing it.” + +“Struck from behind, do you think, Doctor?” queried Goodall. + +“Very probably—the parietal bone is badly smashed.” + +Goodall turned to Day. “What time did this night-watchman come on +duty, Mr. Day?” + +“At midnight, Inspector! The first watchman is on duty from six +o’clock—when we close—till twelve, when poor Mason relieved him. I’ve +sent for Druce—that’s the other watchman—he should be along here in a +few moments.” + +“Well, this poor fellow in the other room can’t tell us anything—so we +shall have to rely on Druce. I hope he will be of some help.” + +“Was he found dead in this room, Inspector?” asked Linnell—“or——” + +“Just over there”—pointed Goodall to a spot about a dozen yards +away—“right in front of the handrail. Doctor Archer examined him first +down there—then we had him taken into Mr. Day’s private office.” + +“Where the rug is?” interrogated Linnell. He looked at the rug on the +floor. + +“That’s it,” answered Goodall. “There’s a nasty mess underneath—that’s +why the rug’s there!” + +“How did they get in and out?” + +“Well, Mr. Linnell—as to that—they got out with the night-watchman’s +keys—we can’t find them anywhere—how they got in is a matter of +conjecture—that’s what I want to see this other watchman, Druce, +about.” + +“But I presume you’ve formed some conclusions? There must be some——” + +“There’s very little,” replied Goodall. “Very little indeed. No forced +entrance at all. Not even a foot mark or finger-print. Three articles +stolen—a night-watchman dead on the floor. Motive—burglary! Which +makes the murder a subordinate factor in the crime. Which makes the +murdered man almost impersonal! And I’m supposed to put my hands on +this murderer in less than twenty-four hours—and that out of a little +matter of six millions of people.” + +“You’re supposed——” + +Goodall shrugged his shoulders. “If I don’t—my wife or some other +damned good-natured friend will confront me with an article in the +London press shrieking ‘the decadence of Scotland Yard.’” + +Linnell looked at him curiously. To say the least he was impressed. +That this sturdy and efficient police-representative would prove no +mean antagonist he felt sure. + +Mr. Day came bustling forward. “Druce is here, Inspector,” he +announced. + +“Bring him along here, Mr. Day.” Goodall’s eyes brightened +perceptibly. + +Druce came slowly forward—nervously plucking with his fingers at the +cap he held in his hand. He was a wizened-faced man—of about sixty +years of age. He had had no encounters with the Police before—all his +life he had “kept honest”—and this new experience, therefore, had had +a somewhat unsettling effect upon him. + +“You are Edward Druce—one of the night-watchmen here?” commenced +Goodall. + +“Yes, sir.” + +“How long have you worked here?” + +Druce hesitated and half-turned towards Mr. Day. “Is it five or——?” + +“Six years, Druce, you’ve been with us,” supplemented his employer, +“six years last Easter.” + +Druce nodded. “That’s it, sir. And I hope I’ve always given +satisfaction.” + +A glint of humor shot through Goodall’s eyes. + +“What time were you relieved last night?” he asked. + +“About five to twelve, sir, or thereabouts.” + +“Mason came on then? Was that about his usual time?” + +“It were, sir,” replied Druce. “He never varied much, sir, did +Mason—steady and reliable he were—always. What’s come to him, sir?” + +“He’s dead, Druce,” came the relentless reply, “murdered in the +night.” + +Druce went ashen pale. He licked his lips as the horror of the news +struck home to him. “Murdered?” he managed to gasp. + +“Now tell me, Druce,” proceeded Goodall, “did anything about Mason +last night strike you as peculiar or—extraordinary?” + +Druce shook his head. “No, sir—nothing.” This decisively! “He ’ad a +joke on his lips, sir, when he came up the stairs with me—just as he +usually had. Told me I could go ’ome and do some gardenin’—before I +went to ‘Kip.’ Twelve o’clock at night, sir, that was.” + +“You went downstairs to open the doors to let him in?” + +“Yes, sir. He always give three loud sharp knocks.” + +“And you noticed nothing then—or at any other time during the evening +that you regarded as unusual or abnormal? Think carefully!” + +Druce pondered over the question. “No—I can’t say as how”—then a +sudden reminiscence seemed to awake in him—“well, sir—now you mention +it, there was an incident, so to speak, when Jim Mason come to +the—nothing at all important, sir——” he spoke deprecatingly. + +“Let’s hear it,” rapped Goodall. “Every word of it!” + +Every vestige of blood went from the night-watchman’s face. “I’m sorry +I didn’t think of it before, sir,” he muttered, “I hope there’s no +harm done——” + +“Let’s have it,” bellowed Goodall, “every second’s of importance!” + +“Well, sir,” said Druce—“it was like this. When I ’eard Jim Mason +knock—he give his three knocks just as usual—I went downstairs to let +’im in. When I opened the door he was standin’ there just in the +ordinary way—when a female comes up to us. Wanted to know what time +the Galleries opened the next morning—that was all she enquired, sir! +I told her ‘ten o’clock.’ Then she pointed down the street and asked +if that way was the right direction for the Marble Arch.” + +“And was it?” snapped Goodall eagerly. + +“Yes,” said Druce with some surprise. “That’s so, sir!” + +“What did Mason do while this conversation was taking place?” + +“Mason, sir? He showed ’er the way the same as wot I did.” + +“Of course he did,” cut in Goodall with decision. “And I expect she +wanted a deal of showing, didn’t she?” + +“She did seem a bit mazed-like,” murmured Druce. + +“I’ll warrant she did,” said the Inspector. “Just long enough for the +murderer to slip in behind your backs and up the stairs in front of +Mason.” + +Druce went goggle-eyed. “Gosh! Who’d ’ave thought of that?” + +“Not you, evidently,” returned Goodall. “If you had have done, your +mate might still be alive. It’s no use, though, wasting time on +regrets or recriminations.” + +He stepped into the private room used by Day as his office. + +“Is this door locked of an evening when the place closes?” he asked. + +“Always,” responded Day. “Or, at least, it should be!” + +“Who was in charge here yesterday evening?” queried the Inspector +swiftly. + +“I was.” Young Forshaw stepped forward. + +“Did you lock this door when you left?” + +“To the best of my memory—yes. But it’s a mechanical sort of job—you +know, Inspector—the kind of thing you do so often from mere force of +habit—that the doing it leaves no very clear impression on your mind.” + +Goodall nodded in acceptance. He knew exactly what the speaker meant. + +“Still,” went on Forshaw, “I’m fairly certain I did it.” He thought it +over carefully. + +“How many keys are there?” broke in the Inspector. + +Day took it upon himself to answer. “Four. Each of the partners has +one—and Ronald Forshaw here also. He’s more often in charge here of an +evening than anybody—he has to have a key.” + +“Now tell me again,” interjected Goodall, “who gave the alarm? The +cleaner, you said, didn’t you?” + +“That’s so,” replied Day. “The watchman on duty between twelve +midnight and seven a. m. is always relieved by a Mrs. Turner—she +sweeps and cleans the place up generally. When she arrived she got no +answer, of course. Couldn’t get in! So she got into touch with the +people next door, who ’phoned me. I came down post-haste. I guessed +there was trouble because I knew we had some valuable things here.” + +Goodall pursed his lips. “The door of your office was locked when you +arrived?” + +Day knitted his brows. Then a sudden flush of color welled and broke +into the ordinary paleness of his face. “Inspector,” he said, “write +me down a dunderhead. The door of my office was closed but not locked. +I remember it distinctly now. I brought the keys of the front door +along—my own keys—we all came in together—my partners and I—we found +poor Mason on the floor there and I rushed to the ’phone for you and +Doctor Archer. I never gave a thought to the fact that the door of my +office wasn’t locked. The idea of the murder drove it completely from +my mind.” + +He paused—a little crestfallen and apologetic. + +Goodall turned to the group of listeners somewhat dramatically. +“That’s how the murderer got in and managed the job,” he declared. +“Got in while the attention of the two watchmen was being distracted +by the woman ‘decoy’—made his way quickly up here—picked the lock of +that door”—he pointed to the door of the private office—“hid in the +office till the time came for action—then pounced on Mason from +behind.” + +Linnell interposed. “Would he have sufficient time, do you think, +Inspector, to pick the lock before Mason and Druce could get up here?” + +“Depends on Mason and Druce and the time they spent downstairs,” +replied Goodall. He swung round like lightning on the man concerned. +Druce reddened. “How long were you before you and Mason came +upstairs?” + +Druce shifted his feet uneasily. “Not more than a matter of a few +minutes, sir. Say five minutes!” + +Goodall flashed a look of understanding at him. “I suppose you stayed +at the foot of the staircase for a ‘few draws,’ eh?” He turned on his +heel to Mr. Day. “Smoking forbidden here during the watchmen’s shifts, +Mr. Day?” + +Day inclined his head in assent. + +“Thought so. Well, Druce, am I right?” + +“Well, sir, Mason certainly did have a puff or two—only for a few +minutes though.” + +“Why did you come back with him—upstairs again—when you were going +home?” + +“For my things, sir. I never collected ’em together when I ’eard ’im +knock. I always went straight down to ’im.” + +Goodall nodded. “You and Mason were certainly long enough absent from +the room to give this fellow his chance and Mason paid for his mistake +with his life, poor chap. Now—about this woman, Druce—what was she +like? Describe her!” + +Druce shook his head with evident misgiving. “I’m afraid I can’t ’elp +you much there, sir. I ain’t much of a ’and at descriptions—my +daughter Poppy now—if she were ’ere she’d be able to——” + +“Describe a woman she’d never seen, I suppose,” snapped Goodall. “Come +now.” + +Druce pulled up with a jerk. “Well, she ’ad on dark clothes and some +sort of an ’at—and was about middle height.” He concluded hopefully. + +Goodall turned away with a gesture of dismay. + +“And yet we’re informed that all undiscovered crimes are the fault of +the Police,” he said bitterly. “When we get civilian help like this.” + +“What age would you say the woman was, Druce?” asked Mr. Day. + +Druce hesitated. He seemed to find this another poser. Then he +committed himself. + +“Well, I ain’t certain, sir, not by no manner of means, but I should +say somewhere between thirty and forty.” + +“Dark or fair?” + +“I couldn’t see, sir. Honest, I couldn’t—so it’s no use askin’ me, +sir.” + +Day turned in Goodall’s direction. “I’m afraid that’s about all we +shall get, Inspector,” he declared semi-humorously. “Do you want to +ask him any more?” + +“I’m thirsting to,” drawled Goodall. “He’s such a mine of information. +Let him go,” he muttered with a tinge of disgust. + +Druce turned with relief written on every line of his face. “Thank +you, sir. Thank you, gentlemen. I’m glad to ’ave been of assistance to +you.” He made his way to the door. Then he turned to the group again. + +“I’ll tell you what I _did_ notice about that woman, now I come to +think of it,” he announced with an air of extreme wisdom. + +“You don’t say!” declared Goodall. “Don’t tell me she walked with one +shoulder lower than the other—all suspected persons do.” + +“No!” replied Druce with disappointment in his tone. “Nothink so +important as that, sir. But when she walked away up the street, sir, +she sneezed several times. That’s what I’ve just thought of, sir.” + +Goodall threw his head up hopelessly. “Can you beat that?” he said +plaintively. “The stiff!” He heard Druce slowly descending the stairs, +proudly aware no doubt of a very perfect piece of Pelmanism. + +“There you are,” asserted Goodall, “there you have——” + +His remarks were interrupted by a ring of the telephone from the +private office. Mr. Day went into his room and picked up the receiver. + +The others outside heard him say, “Yes! He’s here now. I’ll bring him +to the ’phone.” + +He came out. “Mr. Linnell,” he announced, “Mr. Daventry, your partner, +would like to speak to you on the telephone.” + +“Thank you,” said Linnell. He entered and took the message. + +“What?” he said. “Good God, Peter—you can’t mean it. It’s impossible.” + +He stayed a minute or two longer—then replaced the receiver with +trembling finger. For the moment he had a hard task to control +himself. Then he pulled himself together and reëntered the Gallery. + +“Gentlemen,” he said very gravely, “Mr. Laurence P. Stewart was +murdered last night in his library at Assynton. He was found with his +skull battered in!” + + + +CHAPTER IV + +Peter Daventry Is Mindful of Mr. Bathurst + +To say that Goodall and his companions were dumbfounded is no +exaggeration. Events were crowding upon them this morning with a +vengeance. The announcement of this second murder took their breath +away. It startled them and threw them off their balance much more +effectively than the first calamity had done. Mason was a +night-watchman! Stewart was a millionaire! The former could be very +easily replaced—the latter’s death was a tragedy in more senses than +one. Goodall knew perfectly well that any failure on his part to find +the murderer of Mason would occasion no questions in Parliament and +would cause the Home Secretary no loss of sleep. But now that Laurence +P. Stewart was caught in the wheels of the murder-machinery he was +painfully conscious that he must be “up and doing.” The case might be +his, too! + +“How did that news reach you, Mr. Linnell?” was his first question. + +“From my partner, Mr. Daventry. He has just had a ’phone-call from +Stewart’s home in Berkshire—from Stewart’s son, I understood him to +say.” + +“What made Stewart’s son telephone so quickly to your office?” + +Linnell rubbed his cheek with his fingers. “He didn’t explain the +reason to me just now—Daventry didn’t, I mean. I can only surmise that +young Stewart knew that we had received instructions from his father +concerning the sale of those antiques and wished possibly to +countermand them—considering the fresh and tragic circumstances.” + +“H’m,” muttered the Inspector. “I suppose that’s possible. When was +Stewart murdered, did you say?” + +“They believe—some time last night. Naturally, I wasn’t able to glean +extensive details—even if my partner had been in a position to give +them to me. But from what he did tell me, I imagine that the body was +discovered early this morning.” + +Goodall looked thoughtful. “Hardly looks like the same people! +Assynton must be a matter of seventy miles from London—getting on for +a couple of hours’ journey at least—that means they would have to +leave there somewhere about nine-thirty, assuming Stewart to have been +killed first, and accepting Druce’s evidence as reliable—h’m—possible +but not probable—have to find out when Stewart was last seen alive.” + +He turned to Linnell. “Extremely useful your turning up here, Mr. +Linnell. There does seem to be a connection between the two +affairs—difficult though it may be to discover it. I’ll come and see +your Mr. Daventry later on.” + +“I shall be delighted. There’s our address.” He handed his card to the +Inspector. + +Goodall fingered it, thinking carefully. “Mr. Forshaw!” he called. +“Mr. Forshaw, Junior!” + +“Yes, Inspector!” + +“You stated just now that you interviewed Mr. Linnell’s partner +yesterday.” + +“That’s so, Inspector. Yesterday afternoon, to be precise.” + +“What happened exactly—tell me?” + +“Well, it was like this! This gentleman, Mr. Daventry, asked to be +allowed to have a look at the Stuart stuff—the three articles that +have been stolen. I showed them to him. He examined them rather +carefully . . . that’s all I think . . . oh . . . he commented on the +possibility of them being stolen . . . I remember that fact, because I +took the trouble to explain the precautions that were always taken to +safeguard our property.” + +“You had a watch on the stuff then?” queried Goodall. + +Day intervened and took up the thread from Forshaw. “Two of your +people were here, Inspector. During the hours the Galleries were open +to the public! In ‘plain-clothes’ of course, and armed! It’s our usual +plan when we have sales of anything at all valuable. It’s been our +practice for many years now.” + +Goodall signified that he understood. Then he turned to young Forshaw +again. “What else did this Daventry do?” + +Forshaw passed his hands across his brow in an attempt at +recollection. + +“Nothing, I think! That is to say—oh, I remember—he asked how many +other people had been to examine the three articles he was handling.” + +“What was your answer? That question interests me too.” + +“My answer was ‘nobody’ . . . It was true,” Forshaw replied simply. + +Goodall looked across at Linnell. + +“Now I wonder what made your partner——” + +“Look here, Inspector,” broke in Linnell with a gesture of annoyance, +“for goodness sake don’t start imagining things. Daventry was +interested in Stuart articles purely from the standpoint of a +competitive purchaser, about to act on behalf of a client—surely you +don’t——” + +Goodall patted him on the arm. “Don’t get a ‘peeve,’ Mr. Linnell. It’s +my job to ask questions and very often a random sort of question hits +a target quite unexpectedly. Don’t forget that the presence of both +you and your partner in this affair is downright queer. Right from the +beginning—to the point we’ve reached now—you admitted as much yourself +when you came in.” + +But Mr. Linnell’s professional dignity had been touched—he remained +quite silent under the Inspector’s attempt at justification. He walked +across to the others. “I think I’ll go, gentlemen. My partner will, no +doubt, desire to discuss matters with me as soon as possible. You know +where to find me if you should want me.” + +He bowed to the company and made his exit. + +Upon arrival at his offices in Cornhill he found Peter awaiting him +with anxious impatience. + +“I’m jolly glad to see you,” was his greeting. “There’s been a second +message from Assynton—young Stewart was particularly anxious to talk +to you—he seemed quite annoyed when I told him you were still away +from the office.” + +“Peter,” said Linnell, “we’ve been caught in a most curious set of +circumstances. When you ’phoned me just now, at Day, Forshaw and +Palmers’, what do you imagine I was doing?” + +Peter looked at him blankly. “Doing? Why—having a look round of +course—the same as I had. What are you driving at?” + +“I’m not driving at anything, Peter. I’m just giving you some +information. When I arrived at the show-rooms this morning I had +rather a ‘jolt.’ The police were there—the Galleries had been robbed +during the night—and what is even more dreadful than that, a +night-watchman employed there had been brutally murdered.” + +Peter gasped. “Good Lord! My telephone message to you must have been a +shock.” + +“It was! I could hardly believe my ears! I decided not to say anything +to you over the ’phone but to come back here.” + +Peter thrust his hands into his trousers-pockets. “Funny thing—we seem +in it both ends—don’t we? The whole thing is very queer. Both here and +in Berkshire.” + +Linnell shook his head. “Not really. We just happened to be in at the +Galleries end because Stewart sent us there—but I haven’t finished +yet.” + +Peter uttered a cry of amazement. “Don’t say there are any more——” + +Linnell cut into his remarks. “I told you the Galleries had been +robbed during the night. I didn’t tell you what had actually been +stolen. As far as the police could tell when I left them, the only +three things that had been taken were _the very three that Stewart +commissioned us to buy_!” + +He paused and walked to the window. Then turned and confronted Peter. + +“What do you make of that? Extraordinary, isn’t it? To say the least!” + +Peter whistled softly. “I said we seemed to be well in it. I feel sure +now. And what’s more, Linnell, I’ve got a feeling we haven’t heard or +seen the last of it either, by a long way. You mark my words.” + +Linnell smiled. “I agree with you! As a matter of fact, I shouldn’t be +at all surprised if Detective-Inspector Goodall hasn’t already got a +certain Peter Daventry on his list of ‘suspects.’ I hope your alibi’s +good.” + +“What on earth are you gibbering about?” demanded Peter. “And who the +hell’s Detective-Inspector Goodall?” + +“I’m not gibbering, my dear fellow. Detective-Inspector Goodall is the +gentleman from Scotland Yard that is investigating the Galleries +murder, and he has, of course, been informed of your interest in the +Stuart relics and of your call there yesterday. Young Forshaw told +him. Then there was my call to-day—I got in ‘at the death’ as you +might say—I could see he thought it was damned suspicious conduct—all +of it—I explained our connection with the affair——” + +“You told him of Stewart’s commission? Was that wise? Yet awhile?” + +“I think so, Peter! My professional experience has taught me the value +of frankness and truth—even as a solicitor—that is why I never entered +Parliament.” + +“But why suspect _me_?” reiterated Peter. “Is every intending +purchaser on the——?” + +“The police _must_ suspect _somebody_. Why not flatter yourself at +their attention? But tell me all you’ve heard about the Berkshire end +of the tangle.” + +Peter swung his legs as he sat . . . somewhat petulantly. “The message +came through about half-past ten—the first message, I mean—Stewart’s +secretary put it through—I think he said his name was Morgan or +Llewellyn—I’m not sure. He asked if you were in—I told him ‘no’—then +he asked for me. I said it was all right and he told me that young Mr. +Stewart wanted me. The poor chap seemed very agitated—his father had +been found dead in the library that morning. Murdered—his head beaten +in! Would we cancel our instructions about the sale to-morrow? As far +as he was able he was getting into touch with all his father’s +immediate business activities . . . in the case of a millionaire, he +explained, it was of the utmost importance . . . affected the money +market so. That was about all, I fancy. Then I ’phoned the news on to +you—I knew I should find you there. By the way, did you run down to +Assynton last night?” + +“Didn’t have time. When was the second telephone message?” + +“About twenty minutes before you returned,” said Peter. + +“What did he want?” + +“He asked for you, again. It seems he isn’t too satisfied with the +quality of the local Police Force—he’s asking for Scotland Yard to +send a man down—says he’s prepared to pay anything to get at the truth +and arrest the murderer. Also he wanted your advice. Could you +recommend an efficient, discreet, and trustworthy private detective? +They were the three adjectives he used.” + +“Why does he appeal to me, I wonder?” + +“I asked him that. He says he hasn’t been in England more than a few +months and it occurred to him that we might help him. He also wants +one of us to go down—his father’s solicitors, I understand, are in New +York.” + +“H’m,” muttered Linnell. “I can appreciate his position. But I’m +afraid I’m no use to him in the matter of the private detective. I +don’t know anybody I should care to send down there—it isn’t as though +it were a case of keeping a person under observation.” He shook his +head doubtfully. + +“Nor I, either,” supplemented Peter. “What about his idea of one of us +going down there—shall I go? What do you think yourself?” + +“I think you might go,” replied Linnell. “It should be more in your +line than mine—you’re younger to begin with. Can’t you do a bit of +‘sleuthing’ on your own account? Sherlock Holmes has had many +imitators!” + +“I might. It will make quite an interesting and ‘piquant’ situation—a +‘suspect’ one moment—a ‘sleuth’ the next. I remember my brother +Gerald—by Jove, Linnell, I’ve got it—Anthony Bathurst! Why on earth +didn’t I think of him before?” + +“Who’s that? What do you mean?” + +“Why, if you want a man to act for young Stewart, you couldn’t +possibly find a better!” + +“What is he—a private inquiry agent?” + +“Not on your life—he’s a sort of free lance—tinkers about at a good +many things. He was up at Oxford about the same time as Gerald. That +is to say, about three years after me. Can you remember the Considine +Manor affair?” + +“Considine Manor? Wasn’t it a murder down in Sussex somewhere?” + +“You’ve got it. Well, old Gerald was actually stopping in the house at +the time. He always regards Bathurst as an absolute marvel. Cleared up +the case when it had got the Police absolutely ‘stone cold.’ He never +tires of singing Bathurst’s praises!” + +“Where is he now? Do you know?” + +Peter stroked his chin. Hadn’t Gerald told him Bathurst was living in +London somewhere? + +“No, I don’t. There you’ve got me! Still—old Gerald may know. I’ll +give him a ring.” He unhooked the receiver. “Give me ‘Wedderburn and +Rathbone,’ will you—the Accountants—Devonshire Place—will you +_please_—I’ve forgotten the number. Oh! Thank you!” + +He waited for a moment or two. “Yes. Mr. Gerald Daventry, that’s it! +Oh—hallo, Gerald—Peter speaking. Could you possibly put me into touch +with Anthony Bathurst? Eh? . . . Yes, something after his own heart, +where . . . Leyton . . . thanks very much.” + +He turned to Linnell. “Gerald says we shall probably find him at +Leyton this afternoon, on the members’ pavilion. Middlesex are playing +Essex, and he rarely misses any of the Middlesex games. He’ll come +down himself—Gerald, I mean—and if Bathurst is there—he’ll introduce +us.” + +“All right, then, Peter. You get along—and if it can be arranged +satisfactorily, we’ll ’phone Stewart when you return.” + +“Won’t you come along too? Come and see your adopted shire!” + +“No. I’ll stay here. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.” + +Peter grinned! “You’re a superlative optimist,” he exclaimed, “I must +introduce you to a friend of mine who’s a baseball ‘fan.’ He’d be +tickled to death to hear you connect cricket with excitement.” + +A step sounded in the corridor outside. Linnell and Peter glanced +quickly in the direction of the door. Then Linnell heard a voice that +he recognized only too well. + +“Come in, Inspector,” he announced. “I was half expecting you.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Linnell. I thought no harm would be done if I came +along and dropped in on you as I suggested. This gentleman, I presume, +is Mr. Daventry?” His keen eyes ran Peter up and down. + +Peter bowed. “Quite right, Inspector. The man in whom you are +interested, I believe.” + +Goodall shot a quick glance at him—then laughed quietly. “Mr. +Linnell’s been talking, I suppose! I certainly got a bit curious—but +there—curiosity’s part of my job—and I can’t afford to take anything +for granted.” + +“Any more news, Inspector?” intervened Linnell affably. + +“Up to the moment—no! I came straight on here. I want to have a look +at one or two things! That letter from Stewart—may I see it?” + +Linnell opened a drawer and handed the letter to him. + +“H’m,” muttered Goodall. “Assynton postmark—June 7th.” He read it. “I +fancy you gave me to understand that you knew nothing about Stewart, +till you got this letter. Am I right?” + +“That is so, Inspector. My only knowledge of him was just ordinary +public knowledge.” + +“I see. What did you do after you got the letter?” + +“I thought it over and wired back. To get confirmation, as it were!” + +“And you got a reply?” + +“This!” + +Linnell gave him the extravagant telegram—then waited for the smile to +ripple over Goodall’s face. + +“Seems to be a man who knew his own mind. Doesn’t seem possible the +man’s dead.” His eyes narrowed as he stood thinking. + +“Tell Inspector Goodall what you’ve just told me, Peter! About young +Stewart ’phoning here.” + +Goodall became all attention. “That interesting! Fire away, Mr. +Daventry!” + +Peter repeated the information he had previously given Linnell, taking +care, however, to suppress any reference to the Berkshire police or +the desire for a private detective. + +Goodall listened carefully. “It doesn’t help me much,” he commented +when Peter had finished. Then looked him straight between the eyes. + +“Oh! Mr. Daventry!” Goodall spoke as though an afterthought had struck +him. “After you visited the Galleries yesterday—where did you go?” + +Peter’s cheeks went a dull red—it seemed to him he was being +humiliated. + +“Came back here! Mr. Linnell can confirm that—if you doubt my word.” + +“Thank you! And after that?” He fingered his note-book. + +“I dined at my club—then went to a show.” + +“Thank—you—your club is—and the show was——?” + +“The Isthmian—Piccadilly—and ‘On Approval’! Anything more, Mr. +Inspector?” + +“That will do for the present.” Goodall closed his note-book with a +snap. + +Peter’s eyes blazed at him angrily. “And if you’re interested in any +more of my comings and goings—I may as well tell you that I’m just off +down to Leyton to put in an hour or two at the Middlesex and Essex +match.” + +But Goodall remained imperturbable under the shaft of sarcasm. “Wish I +could come with you! I like watching cricket—particularly Lancashire +and Glamorganshire—they always seem to me to lack supporters so—it +means such a terrible lot of traveling, you see, for their relations +to go to watch them.” The Inspector grinned. + +Peter’s ill-temper vanished instantaneously at Goodall’s sally. He +held out his hand and shook the Inspector’s. Goodall took it—crossed +to Linnell—and departed. + +“I’ll bring Bathurst along, then, as arranged—if I’m lucky enough to +find him.” + +Linnell made a gesture of assent. “If he’ll come! Then we’ll get on to +Assynton and tell them.” + +Daventry soon motored down to the ground and quickly found his +brother. Together they made their way onto the pavilion, Gerald being +a member of the M.C.C. and of the three Metropolitan counties. But all +attempts to unearth the man for whom they were searching proved +unavailing. + +Then Gerald met a kindred spirit. “Bathurst?” he said. “Yes—I can help +you—he won’t be here to-day at all—he told me—now, why the devil was +it?—I’ve a cursed rotten memory”—he assumed an air of painful mental +effort—then suddenly his face cleared. “Oh, I know—he’s playing +‘Squash’ at ‘Princes’ this afternoon—you’ll see him if you pop along +up there. Is it anything important?” + +“It is rather,” replied Gerald. “And I’m awfully obliged to you.” + +“Pleasure, old son. Shall we drift along and have one off the ice?” + +They drifted and after the one had multiplied considerably the two +Daventrys motored back up to Knightsbridge. + +“The uninitiated would never dream of a club like ‘Princes’ hiding +here, would they, Peter?” queried his brother as they entered. “I +remember being very interested the first time I came.” + +Bathurst was soon run to earth. + +“Haven’t seen you for nearly a year, Daventry! Your brother? +Delighted! Fit?” + +“Very fit—thanks—and you?” + +“Never better!” His words did not belie him. Anthony Bathurst, in +whatever company of men he found himself, was usually the fittest of +the lot. He excelled at nearly all ball games and took extraordinary +pains to keep thoroughly “trained.” And his mental powers were equally +outstanding. Peter Daventry speedily realized something of the +admiration that he knew his brother felt for the man to whom he had +just been introduced. He was aware of that atmosphere of “personality” +that distinguishes a select company. + +“What brings you along here?” queried Anthony. “Playing—are you?” + +“No,” responded Gerald. “I’ve brought Peter here to see you! It’s his +funeral.” + +Anthony waved them into a couple of deck-chairs. “What about?” + +“He’s got a story for you that you may possibly find interesting. Have +a cigarette, lie back in your chair, and listen. Now, Peter—say your +mouthful.” + +Peter complied with his brother’s request. Bathurst lay +listening—apparently lazily—but Peter quickly discovered that his +faculties were acutely alert. When he reached the murder of Mason—the +night-watchman, Anthony’s eyes betrayed understanding. + +“I read a short account in the early editions to-day. Seemed just an +interrupted robbery case to me then . . . of course . . . you say the +identical _three_ things . . . go on.” + +At the point when Peter told of the death of Stewart, Bathurst +listened most attentively. “Extraordinary,” he commented at the finish +of Peter’s narrative. “Quite a fascinating little problem. And you say +Stewart’s son would like me to have a look at it for him—eh?” + +“He wants me to bring somebody down with me and I suddenly thought of +you—I had heard so much of you from Gerald.” + +Anthony took a cigarette and lit up carefully. “I’ve nothing pressing +at the moment. I’m your man if you’re sure you want me.” + +“That’s great. When can you come along?” + +Anthony looked at his watch. + +“I should have liked to commence my little investigations at this end. +But I suppose I can’t—I must get down to Assynton to see +Stewart—that’s evident—there’s a train at Paddington at five minutes +to seven. That will get us down before nine. I’ll meet you on the +platform, Daventry.” + +“Right!” declared Peter, “6:55 then.” + +“Yes—and Daventry—I think you’d better bring a revolver.” + + + +CHAPTER V + +The Assynton Lodge Murder + +Sergeant Clegg assumed an air of profound sagacity, which did not +altogether become him too well. At the moment he was a prey to +conflicting emotions. A police-officer’s career in an obscure +Berkshire village doesn’t get too many chances for personal +“spot-light.” And although he felt that his big chance had come, he +had a nasty feeling somewhere at the back of his mind that the case +was going to prove _too_ big. However, he turned to the son of the +murdered man and to the Doctor who had accompanied him into the +library and made his preliminary announcement—importantly! + +“Nothing in here must be touched. Nothing—whatever.” + +“Nothing has been disturbed, Sergeant Clegg. Doctor Gunner arrived +only a few minutes in front of you.” + +“That’s all right, then, Mr. Stewart! You might make your examination, +Doctor, with as little disturbance of the corpse as possible—will you? +I haven’t got a photographer handy—that business will have to come +later.” + +The murdered man was seated in a chair at his desk—the cause of death +being painfully visible to all. He had received a heavy blow or blows +from behind—the back of his skull was smashed like an egg-shell. He +had apparently been in the act of writing when killed—for his pen had +almost entirely fallen from his grasp—the butt being just retained +between thumb and forefinger. He was dressed in a dark-blue +dressing-gown and on his feet were bedroom slippers. The dressing-gown +had been put on over his pajama sleeping suit and he gave every +appearance of having come downstairs from his bedroom. The doctor +busied himself for a few moments over his gruesome task. Meanwhile the +Sergeant turned to the young man who found himself so suddenly +bereaved. He cleared his throat—twice. + +“Tell me the details, Mr. Stewart, as far as you are able.” Stewart +shook his head. + +“I know very little. The maid who does the library every morning was +amazed this morning to find the door locked. She couldn’t understand +it, so she informed Butterworth, the butler. He went along and found +that what she had reported was correct. He sought me out and we found +Mr. Llewellyn, my father’s secretary. We went to my father’s bedroom. +It was empty—the bed had not been slept in. So we decided to burst +open the library door. You can see for yourselves how we found my +father. I immediately telephoned for you and for Doctor Gunner.” + +“The door was locked, you say. Where was the key?” + +“In the lock—on the inside.” + +Clegg strolled across to the French doors that opened on to the +garden. “These are fastened all right. All the bolts are shot.” He +stooped down and examined them. + +“By gum—that’s funny. How did the murderer escape? Bit of a +puzzle—eh?” + +Stewart saw the drift of his remarks. “Extraordinary, isn’t it?” he +ventured. + +Clegg walked over to the desk and looked at it carefully. Beside the +dead man’s hand there rested a sheet of notepaper. The Sergeant took +it up. “Looks as though this is what he was writing when the blow +fell,” he suggested. + +Scrawled on the paper were the words, “Urgent in the morning! M. L.” +“This your father’s handwriting, Mr. Stewart?” he asked. + +The young man looked over his shoulder. “Yes,” he said. “Without a +doubt—although it looks to me as though it had been written very +hurriedly or in a moment of extreme agitation—it isn’t as firm as +usual.” + +Clegg leaned over the dead man and felt in the pockets of his +dressing-gown. + +The right-hand pocket was empty. He gave a sharp exclamation when he +took from the left—a revolver. He looked at it carefully. “Loaded in +five chambers,” he declared—“the sixth has been discharged.” His eyes +traveled slowly round the room. Then they came back to Stewart. “Did +you hear anything like a shot any time last evening or during the +night?” + +Stewart shook his head in dissent. “Nothing at all!” + +“Is this your father’s revolver?” + +“It looks like it—though it’s a common pattern.” + +Clegg turned to the Doctor. “Finished your little investigation, +Doctor?” + +“Yes,” was the reply. “Been dead about twelve hours, I should say, and +received three blows I think! I’ll leave him as nearly as possible as +he was when I came in. I’ll make arrangements for moving him later.” + +“Thank you, Doctor!” Clegg returned to young Stewart. “I suppose your +father had had no recent quarrel with anybody?” + +“N—no. Not that I’m aware of! Of course a man with his vast financial +interests didn’t go through life without making some enemies—and +pretty vindictive ones at that—but I can think of nothing +special—certainly not recently.” + +He spoke with deep feeling in his voice, and Clegg wasn’t absolutely +sure that there hadn’t been just a trace of hesitation in the first +part of his answer. + +“How old was your father, Mr. Stewart?” he continued. + +“Fifty-three in July—on the twenty-second of next month. We have been +in England only a matter of a few months.” + +“From America, wasn’t it? I remember your coming here.” + +“New York—previously we had lived at Washington and Chicago.” + +“You the only member of the family living here?” + +“My father’s ward, Miss Lennox, lives here also. She is like a member +of the family.” + +“Who else is in the house?” + +“My father’s private secretary—a Mr. Morgan Llewellyn—Butterworth, the +butler, and his wife, who acts as housekeeper, and the servants.” + +“Any idea, Mr. Stewart, who was the last person to see your father +alive?” + +“I don’t know that I can answer that question with certainty. I had +been out during the evening—playing tennis. I returned about a quarter +to ten. My father was in here with Colonel Leach-Fletcher—that’s a +neighbor of ours—I simply put my head round the door and said +‘Good-night.’” + +“Didn’t you go in and speak to the Colonel?” + +“Oh no! He’s a constant visitor here, has been on very friendly terms +with my father ever since we came here. I never feel on ‘company +manners’ with him.” + +“Any idea what time the Colonel left?” + +“No—Butterworth could probably tell you.” + +“Butterworth’s the butler, isn’t he? And the secretary’s name is +Llewellyn? How long have they been with you?” + +“Butterworth came into my father’s service when we were living at +Washington. He was butler to Sir Julian Kennedy, the British +Ambassador at Washington at that time. When Sir Julian died—about +fifteen years ago I should say—speaking from memory—my father offered +him employment. My father”—his voice broke a trifle—the realization +that his father was dead was becoming more poignant to him as time +passed—“regarded him as invaluable.” + +“And Mr. Llewellyn? How long has he been with your father?” + +“About two years. He came to us when we were in New York.” + +“The butler’s wife—you said just now, I think—acts as housekeeper?” + +“Yes. There are four maids here, also.” + +“Any comments to make on them?” The Sergeant puffed out his cheeks and +endeavored to look impressive. + +“I have nothing against any of them.” + +“You’ll forgive me, I hope, putting the question, Mr. +Stewart—especially at a time like this—had your father any +entanglements as you might say with the opposite sex?” The indelicacy +of his query affected the Sergeant so profoundly as to produce a +superfluous aspirate. + +But once again he was destined to draw a blank. + +“You can make your mind easy on that point, Sergeant. My mother died +ten years ago when I was twelve. It was a great blow to my father—they +idolized each other—I don’t think the thought of another woman since +has ever entered my father’s mind.” He kept his gaze resolutely +averted from the still figure at the desk. Doctor Gunner, before he +had slipped out, had reverently laid a white towel over the head and +face. But the boy’s nerves were rapidly getting on edge, and he felt +he would be unable to endure this phlegmatic policeman very much +longer. Clegg, however, was nothing if not “thorough.” His favorite +philosophy was to contemplate the epic struggle of the hare and the +tortoise and whenever he was tempted to hitch his personal wagon to a +star he always took excessive care to see it was well secured. “I +don’t believe in taking a lot of risks,” he was wont to say to his +staff at Assynton. “Care may have killed the cat, but it’s never been +known to have killed a policeman.” + +This case that Fate had tossed so unexpectedly into his lap was +beginning to worry him a trifle. It was so much bigger than anything +he had previously handled. Once again the conviction was borne upon +him that in all likelihood it would prove eventually to be too much +for him. However, “sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof” might +have been his uppermost thought as he squared his ponderous shoulders +and walked across the room. As you entered, the desk stood on the left +with its back to the left-hand wall. The leathern arm-chair in which +the dead man sat was drawn up to the desk in the usual way. A person +seated in this arm-chair would therefore show the left-hand side of +his face to anybody entering by the door. Facing the door stood a +bookcase—sectional. It was of many more sections than is usual. +Stewart was evidently a lover of books—the “standard” authors jostled +each other and Coventry Patmore rubbed shoulders with Renan, +Baudelaire and Verlaine. On the right were French windows commanding +the garden. No part of it, however, brought Sergeant Clegg his badly +needed “inspiration.” Nothing in the room seemed to him to tell any +story other than its natural one. He walked back to the door. That +door worried him. “Key in the lock on the inside,” he muttered—“bolts +on the French doors shot—top and bottom—and a dead man inside the +room.” + +He made his disconsolate way to the fireplace—on the bookcase’s right. +Bending down, he stepped into the hearth and attempted to look up the +chimney. The attempt proved completely unsuccessful as a source of +inspiration. It was speedily made plain to the Sergeant that the +murderer of Laurence P. Stewart had not escaped in that direction. +Then an idea struck him. + +“Have you communicated with your father’s solicitors, Mr. Stewart?” + +Stewart shook his head. “No, my father’s solicitors are Crake and +Ferguson—New York. I’m going to get Mr. Llewellyn to cable them as +soon as possible.” + +“New York’s a long way away. It’s a pity you haven’t somebody nearer.” + +“I may be able to get into touch with somebody who may assist me—till +Crake and Ferguson move in the matter. I had considered that +possibility myself.” + +Clegg concurred with a heavy shake of the head. + +“Good. Now I must get a move on, too. I had better have an interview +with some of these others.” He consulted his note-book with judicial +gravity. “Ring for this Mr. Llewellyn—will you, Mr. Stewart—please?” + +Within a few minutes the summons was answered. The secretary was a man +somewhere in the early thirties. Of good height and slim, with the +hair thinning considerably on the front of his head, his general +appearance, aided by the pince-nez that he wore, suggested what may be +termed not unkindly an academic superciliousness. His eyes were a +rather unusual shade of reddish-brown and gave an acute observer an +impression of brooding watchfulness. He entered the room quietly, yet +perhaps warily. + +“You wished to see me, I believe?” + +Sergeant Clegg grunted a somewhat reluctant affirmative. + +“I am conducting a preliminary investigation, Mr. Llewellyn, into the +death of your employer, Mr. Laurence Stewart. If it lies in your power +at all to help me, I want you to do so.” + +“I am perfectly willing to tell you all I know—which I’m afraid isn’t +very much.” + +“Thank you. When were you first informed of the tragedy?” + +“This morning—about eight o’clock—just about an hour and a half ago. I +was in my bedroom dressing when Mr. Charles Stewart came to my door +and told me he feared something was amiss with his father. I finished +my toilet hastily and joined him and the butler, Butterworth. The +maid, it appeared, had been unable to get into the library—the door +was locked. The three of us burst down the door and were horrified to +find Mr. Stewart as he is.” He inclined his head in the direction of +the motionless body. + +“What did you do then?” + +“Well, we rushed up to him—but it didn’t take us very long to realize +that he was dead.” + +“And then——?” + +“Mr. Charles Stewart gave me certain orders to convey to the servants +while he telephoned for you and for the doctor.” + +“I am told, Mr. Llewellyn, that after you three gentlemen burst the +door open—you found the key in the lock on the inside.” + +“That is true. Mr. Charles Stewart called my attention to it +specially.” + +“And the French doors were also fastened—all the bolts firm in the +slots?” + +“Yes.” + +“When did you last see your employer alive?” + +“At dinner, last night.” + +“Was it your custom to dine with him?” + +“Usually I did. Our dinner party generally consisted of Mr. Stewart, +his son, Miss Lennox, and me.” + +“Was that the case last evening?” + +Charles Stewart intervened. “I did not dine here last evening. I was +out. I think I told you. I was playing tennis.” + +Clegg nodded his head. “That’s all right, sir! I understand!” + +Llewellyn proceeded. “Colonel Leach-Fletcher completed our party last +evening—but really, I don’t see——” + +“Had this Colonel any particular reason for dining here last evening?” + +Stewart allowed a faint smile to illumine his features. “What on earth +do you mean, Sergeant? Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here at my poor +father’s invitation—he didn’t suddenly announce that he intended to +stop for dinner.” + +Llewellyn’s brooding eyes seemed to smoulder for a brief instant—then +they flickered back to their habitual watchfulness. He allowed himself +the vestige of a smile. His smile broadened as the Sergeant made a +clumsy attempt at extrication. + +“Naturally, naturally, gentlemen. Exactly what I meant.” He followed +the secretary’s eyes and observed them rest on the desk-table in front +of the dead man. “It seems that Mr. Stewart was writing a message of +some kind when he was struck down?” + +“Yes,” came Llewellyn’s quick response, almost automatically. “Mr. +Charles Stewart and I noticed that when we first found the body.” + +“What do you think its meaning is?” + +Llewellyn raised his eyebrows in interrogation. The poise of his head +and the somewhat peremptory significance contained in his gesture, +accentuated his suggestion of superciliousness. + +He held out his hand. “May I see it again? I hardly——” + +Clegg took the paper from beneath the dead man’s hand. “Not much to go +on, I admit! But Mr. Stewart had evidently received important news of +some kind that he regarded as very urgent. To sit down to write it +there and then——” he stopped abruptly. “M. L.” he quoted. “They might +be a person’s initials even,” he declared. + +Stewart felt a flood of sudden excitement run through his veins. He +watched Llewellyn’s face keenly and could not avoid seeing the sudden +glint flash through the striking eyes. But once again the flame was +but momentary and died down as quickly as it had been born. + +When the secretary answered he was coolness personified. “They might. +It’s very probable. They might even be mine. I am called Morgan +Llewellyn.” + +He paused and watched the effect of his declaration upon his +questioner. Then continued, even cooler than he had appeared before, +“But I can suggest no good reason to make me think that they are.” + +Both Clegg and Charles Stewart watched him very closely. And to each +of them there came the feeling—in the first case, slowly and of +deliberation, and in the second case, quickly and instinctively—that +his coolness was assumed and his seemingly frank indifference +something of a calculated pose. + +Clegg harked back. “Going back a little way, Mr. Llewellyn, you stated +that you last saw Mr. Stewart at dinner. What happened after dinner?” + +Again Llewellyn’s answer came quickly. “After dinner, Mr. Stewart +intimated to me that he was going into the library with Colonel +Leach-Fletcher—and that he wouldn’t require anything further from me. +I think that he had something to discuss with the Colonel, who is a +keen collector like Mr. Stewart—was. I was free to do as I pleased.” + +“What did you do?” + +“I spent the rest of the evening with Miss Lennox in the music-room.” + +“What time would that be?” + +“From about half-past eight till ten o’clock, I should say!” + +Clegg made a note of the times. “One more question, Mr. Llewellyn! Did +you go straight to bed after that?” + +“I did. I was in bed, I should think, by half-past ten.” + +“Now think very carefully, Mr. Llewellyn. Did you at any time during +the evening or during the night hear anything like a revolver shot?” + +Llewellyn started up in his chair, stung by surprise. “Certainly not!” + +Clegg glanced at Stewart. “Confirms your statement, Mr. Stewart. I +can’t think myself that the shot was fired in here. The fact of the +revolver being in your father’s pocket—not in his hand—the fact that +there is a complete absence of any signs of a struggle—both those +facts seem to me to point to the shot having been fired elsewhere—at +some other time.” + +Stewart appeared to agree. “I heard nothing. I told you I didn’t.” + +The Sergeant thought for a moment. “How far away are your bedrooms?” +he demanded. + +“Mine is on the floor above this,” answered Charles Stewart. +“Llewellyn’s is above that.” + +“Where is your father’s?” + +“Next to mine! The only other bedroom on that floor is used by Miss +Lennox.” + +“And the servants?” + +“On the same floor as Llewellyn’s. On the other wing.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Stewart. I don’t think I shall need Mr. Llewellyn any +more for the present. Thank you, Mr. Llewellyn.” + +The secretary bowed and thanked the Sergeant, not without a touch of +irony. + +Charles Stewart turned to him as he walked to the door. + +“You might get that cable off to New York, that I mentioned to you +previously, and also ’phone to that firm in Cornhill who were acting +for my father to-morrow, will you? Explain the circumstances and tell +them to consider their instructions cancelled. I can’t see any reason +why I should go ahead with those purchases now. Stay, though, a +minute—get them for me and I’ll speak to them—I’ll tell them all about +the whole affair. Probably that will avoid any misunderstanding.” + +Llewellyn took his instructions quietly and went out. Charles Stewart +gestured to the Sergeant. + +“My father intended to purchase two or three more very special +antiques—he was always anxious to add to his collection. Now that this +dreadful thing has happened—I don’t care to go on with it.” + +“I understand exactly how you feel, sir. It does you credit.” + +“Whom will you see next, Sergeant? Or have you finished for the time +being?” + +Clegg looked at his note-book—then wetted the point of his pencil, +thoughtfully. + +“I should like a few words with the lady that’s been mentioned, Mr. +Stewart. This ward of your father’s—Miss Lennox.” + +Stewart turned quickly. “I don’t think she’ll be able to——” + +The door moved and Llewellyn entered. Charles Stewart frowned. + +“I’ve got through to Cornhill, Mr. Stewart. If you would come +along—they’re holding the line. Mr. Linnell is out—Mr. Daventry, the +junior partner, is speaking.” + +“Right.” He turned again towards Clegg. “Pardon me for a minute or +two, Sergeant. I’ll just transact this little piece of business and on +my way back I’ll tell Miss Lennox you would like to speak to her. You +will see her in another room, of course.” He looked across at the desk +significantly. Clegg showed his agreement. The glorious June sunshine +flooded through the French doors and bathed the room with its +shimmering shafts. It seemed completely incongruous in that room where +so recently tragedy had dwelt. Shadows would have become it more +fittingly than sunshine. The presence of the dead man stirred an +emotional chord in Clegg’s being and he shivered. He walked away from +the desk beside which he had been standing towards the French doors +and looked out into the garden. For a moment or two he stood there +thinking—his shivery feeling vanishing under the warming and +comforting influence of the summer sun. He glanced down at the +curtains that hung, one at the side of each door—then started. Bending +down quickly, he picked out something that had been lying hidden +there—something that nestled a pure white against the creamy-white of +the curtains. It was a lady’s handkerchief—fragrant, fragile and +delicate. Holding it somewhat gingerly, he opened it! In the corner +were embroidered initials—“M. L.” + +“By Gum!” said Sergeant Clegg. + + + +CHAPTER VI + +Marjorie Lennox Doesn’t Mince Matters + +The Sergeant felt hope surging in his breast. Up to this moment his +investigations had yielded little, but this sudden discovery, he felt, +had at last set him moving. This “M. L.,” whoever it might be, had +undoubtedly an important bearing on the case. Twice this morning +previously these initials had confronted him. He subjected the +handkerchief to a most careful scrutiny. It was a lace square of about +six inches and exhaled a dainty fragrance that in other circumstances +even the Sergeant might have found distinctly alluring. For he was +something of a Romantic! And in consequence had an inclination towards +a leniency to what he himself always described as “the fair sex.” He +heard Stewart’s voice outside and hastily pocketed the delicate trifle +that the curtains had concealed. When Stewart entered he found the +Sergeant engaged in a careful examination of the bookcase. + +“I have arranged that you see Miss Lennox in the music-room. Will that +suit you, Sergeant?” + +Clegg thanked him, but stayed where he was. “That will do very nicely, +Mr. Stewart,” he replied. “But would you mind telling the constable on +duty at the front entrance to report to me for just a moment—or +sending somebody with a message to that effect? Thank you.” + +“I want you for a little while, Potter,” he said to the man when he +came in. “You’re to keep at this door here and to see that nobody +enters! You understand—_nobody_! If you have any trouble over it—send +for me. I shall only be the other side of the hall.” + +P. C. Potter saluted smartly. “Right—Sergeant. Is the body in here?” + +“You’ve said it! Now you understand.” The constable assumed a bearing +of importance. Clegg walked across the hall and entered the +music-room. He felt somehow that the approaching interview might prove +disturbing. All the same he was anxious to meet the lady in question, +for he felt sure that the handkerchief was hers. The possession of +this gave him an advantage, he considered. He started with something +in his favor—otherwise he might have viewed the position with less +complacency. For he had yet to make the acquaintance of the lady in +question. + +“This is Sergeant Clegg, Marjorie,” announced Charles Stewart as he +entered. “He wants to ask you one or two things about my father to see +if you can help him in any way to discover the truth of what happened +last night—he won’t worry you for long I am sure.” + +Marjorie Lennox rose quietly from the low chair upon which she had +been seated. + +“I am ready to tell the Sergeant anything.” + +And at that moment the truth came home to Sergeant +Clegg—unerringly—that unless he “watched his step” very carefully he +would be as wax in the hands of the highly-capable Miss Lennox. He +found himself fervently wishing that he belonged to the ranks of the +“strong, silent men”—certainly not to the Romantics. For Marjorie +Lennox had a delicate beauty and a dainty charm that were instantly +arresting. She was “petite,” it is true, but she had that +semi-disdainful, semi-challenging roguishness that many men find so +hard to resist. It was easy to find fault with her features, for her +nose was appreciably “retroussé”—but this very tip-tiltedness only +served, if anything, to enhance her attractiveness. She had glorious +blue eyes—twin pools of pure cornflower, and a complexion that made +one immediately think of roses and cream. Added to this she possessed +a demure gracefulness that almost perfected her, giving her a Dresden +china sort of setting—from the depths of which she was destined to +play havoc with the hearts of men. And of course she fulfilled that +destiny to the limit of her dainty power! Sergeant Clegg threw an +inexorable rein over his romanticism and did his duty. A little throat +clearing once again prefaced his first remark. + +“Thank you, Miss——” he hesitated momentarily. + +“Lennox,” she broke in quickly. “Marjorie Lennox. I am—or rather, I +was—Mr. Stewart’s ward.” She sank back in her chair again. + +“Yes, miss. I understand that much. How long have you lived with Mr. +Stewart?” + +“Ever since I was a little girl of three. My father was a very old +friend of Uncle Laurence’s—I always called Mr. Stewart ‘uncle’”—she +explained with engaging candor—“and when my father died I came to +Uncle Laurence to live. My mother died when I was born,” she added +simply. + +“Was your father in good circumstances when he died—can you remember?” + +Marjorie Lennox flushed. “I believe not. Certainly his circumstances +were quite different from those of Uncle Laurence. What has that to +do——?” + +Clegg wagged his head half apologetically. “I see! I see! Now, coming +to the events of last night—I’ve no wish to distress you, Miss Lennox, +but there’s just this. You dined, I believe, with Mr. Stewart, Colonel +Leach-Fletcher and Mr. Morgan. Is that so?” He ticked the three names +off on his fingers. + +“Yes. There were just the four of us. Charles did not return for +dinner.” + +“And after dinner?” + +Marjorie flashed him a searching—penetrating glance. “Do you mean what +did I do after dinner or——” + +“If you please, miss.” The Sergeant became acutely aware of his +constitutional chivalry, but sternly suppressed it. + +“I came in here. It is my usual practice after dinner. Uncle Laurence +used to like me to play to him—he was passionately fond of music. But +last night he went into the library.” + +“Did you stay in here for the rest of the evening?” + +“Yes—no—no, I’m wrong! It was about nine o’clock when I left here.” + +She amended her statement with the utmost composure and Clegg couldn’t +be sure if she had made a genuine mistake or was desirous of +concealing something. But he remembered Llewellyn’s story and the two +didn’t tally! Llewellyn had made no mention of Miss Lennox having left +the music-room at nine o’clock! He had stated that he spent the +_remainder_ of the evening with her. Now—according to Marjorie +Lennox—he had been alone for an hour. That is to say there was at +least one hour of his time for which he had not accounted. Now Clegg +was slow-moving and inspiration visited him but seldom, but he took +_care_, and he quickly came to the conclusion that hereabouts in his +inquiry extreme care would be necessary if he were to achieve any +success. He decided to hasten slowly. + +“Where did you go then, Miss Lennox?” he followed up. + +“To my room. My uncle was still engaged with Colonel Leach-Fletcher in +the library, and I didn’t wish to disturb them.” + +“Did you see Mr. Stewart again before you retired for the night?” + +“No—I was tired. It had been a rather hot day, down here, as you +probably know yourself. And I seem to mind the heat. I thought I would +go to bed early.” + +“You are quite certain you didn’t go into the library?” + +“Positive.” Miss Lennox flicked an imaginary speck of dust from her +sleeve. + +“When did you last go in there?” + +“To the library? I didn’t go in at any time yesterday. Why do you +ask?” + +She was lying! Clegg knew it! But he wasn’t certain why he knew it. +His knowledge didn’t emanate altogether from the fact of the lace +handkerchief lying in his pocket. It came rather from the lady +herself. Nonchalant, despite her grief, utterly self-controlled, she +nevertheless failed to impress him with the quality of simple +sincerity. He was fairly certain that she was acting a part. His +present and immediate task was to discover “why”! He had half intended +to tax her here and now with the handkerchief, but in the later light +of what she had just told him—he decided to keep quiet—for a time at +least. + +“I fancied I was told by Mr. Stewart here that he saw you in there.” + +“No, Sergeant. Your memory has failed you! I said nothing of the +kind.” Charles Stewart appeared anxious to clear up this +misunderstanding. It seemed to him that Marjorie needed protection. + +“Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Clegg made his apology. + +But it didn’t deceive Miss Lennox. Just as Clegg had realized her +insincerity, so she in her turn knew that this rather lame explanation +of his question to her had not been the truth. She immediately put +herself on the defensive. Inclined as she had been in the first place +to under-rate this policeman, she effected a mental readjustment. + +She awaited his next question—outwardly unchanged, but inwardly more +vigilant. When it came it surprised her. + +“Did you hear anything unusual in the night, Miss Lennox?” Somewhat +relieved, she breathed more freely, but her defensive tension remained +unrelaxed. + +“Nothing! I slept like a top.” The blue eyes regarded him ingenuously. + +“Thank you. One last question, Miss Lennox. You have lived a long time +with Mr. Laurence Stewart, almost as long I suppose as Mr. Charles +Stewart here—and ladies, if you’ll excuse me saying such a thing, are +very often more in a man’s confidence than gentlemen! For instance, +you were as a daughter to the poor gentleman”—he broke off +suddenly—and Marjorie Lennox began to sob quietly—her handkerchief +pressed to her eyes. There was genuine sorrow here—Sergeant Clegg had +sufficient sense to recognize it when it came his way—and it was +reflected in young Stewart as well. His white face grew whiter—the +ordeal of this dreadful day was oppressing him more and more—and +Marjorie’s convulsive sobbing tore his heart-strings. He knew he must +have help. He would get it as soon as he could. This was too much. +Sergeant Clegg felt his courage sink into his boots. This sobbing was +more than a Romantic could stand—the more so because he himself had +provoked it. He must do something to stop it. He placed his hand on +her shoulder—an act that he was always to remember. + +“Come, come. What I mean is this. If Mr. Stewart regarded you in the +light of a daughter—did he ever _confide_ in you? Any secret? Any +trouble? Had he any enemies that might have wanted to do him harm?” + +She looked up. “He had no secrets at all. He wasn’t the kind. But +since you’ve asked me—I’ll tell you—something.” + +She sprang to her feet. Her eyes shone like stars and her hands were +clenched together. Her whole manner altered. + +“There _is_ a man who wanted to do him harm. A man none of you would +ever suspect. He’s in the house now—why should I shield him?” + +Charles Stewart threw out his hand and attempted to restrain her. But +she flung the proffered hand away imperiously, while Stewart looked at +her reproachfully. + +“Sergeant Clegg asked me,” she asserted vehemently. “Sergeant Clegg +shall know. The man is Morgan Llewellyn!!!” + +Clegg received the announcement stolidly—he was progressing! Charles +Stewart gave a gasp of astonishment and turned to her with an air of +remonstrance. + +“You’re mad, Marjorie! You’ve no right to bring an accusation of that +kind. Why should Llewellyn have harmed my father?” + +Clegg waited eagerly for the answer. He even got his note-book ready. + +Marjorie Lennox faced her so-called cousin defiantly—her blue eyes +challenging his grey ones. For a moment there was a silent battle for +the mastery. Then before either of the men could stop her, she swept +majestically from the room! + + + +CHAPTER VII + +Butterworth Is Apprehensive of the Future + +For the second time on that eventful morning Sergeant Clegg felt at +loggerheads with circumstances. For the second time he felt that the +Law had received a set-back—that he, its accredited representative, +had been flouted! + +Charles Stewart looked at him somewhat anxiously. How was he going to +take this feminine outburst? Stewart attempted to smooth things over. +“A trifle hysterical, I fancy, Sergeant, and it’s scarcely to be +wondered at. She’s had a trying time—I know what it’s been like to +me—it must be a thousand times worse for her.” + +Clegg nodded. “H’m. Now that’s most extraordinary. There’s an ‘M. L.’ +on the paper under your father’s hand—then there turns up a ‘Morgan +Llewellyn’—then I find a ‘Marjorie Lennox’ and a——” he pulled himself +up. He would keep the handkerchief incident absolutely to himself. +“And to crown all—one of the ‘M. L.’s’ finishes up by accusing the +other ‘M. L.’” He sighed and then gave expression to the point that +had been his constant worry since his arrival. “What was the weapon +the murderer used?” + +Stewart broke in upon him. “With all deference, Sergeant, I shouldn’t +place any reliance at all on what Miss Lennox said. She’s distraught.” + +“She’s not, Mr. Stewart. She’s not the kind. She meant +_something_—I’ll take my Bible oath on that.” + +Stewart shook his head as though unconvinced. “Women are whimsical, +Sergeant.” + +“I know. None better. I’ve been married seventeen years and I’m still +learning things—but there you are! I’d like to see this butler of +yours now—what’s his name, Butterworth?” + +“Right! In here?” + +“No—in the library. I’ll get along in there again. Bring Butterworth, +will you, Mr. Stewart?” + +“Well, Potter,” said the Sergeant as he regained the library door, +“everything O. K.?” + +Potter touched his helmet—satisfaction oozing from his finger-tips. +“Yes, Sergeant—nobody’s crossed the threshold since you left, +Sergeant. A young lady came across the corridor just now and wanted me +to let her pull down the blinds or something—she said the sun ruined +the carpet at this time of the day—but I explained as genteelly as I +could about orders being orders.” He beamed at this account of his +devotion to duty. Clegg scratched his chin. The plot was getting +thicker! + +“What sort of a young lady, Potter?” + +“On the small side, Sergeant. A regular dainty piece she was and no +mistake!” + +“How long ago was this?” + +“Only a few minutes, Sergeant. You only just missed her.” + +“Now what does she want in here,” thought Clegg as he entered. Her +handkerchief? Something else? Or both? His musings were cut abruptly +short by the entrance of Stewart with the butler. Butterworth was a +man with a presence. Tall and well set-up, he carried his sixty odd +years with impressive dignity. When he had left the service of Sir +Julian Kennedy for that of the man whom they were now mourning, it had +not been without a certain amount of misgiving. After all, as he was +fond of relating to a carefully chosen circle, the British aristocracy +was a thing apart. Sir Julian had been a diplomat of the old school, +and in the words of Butterworth, “we were ‘looked up to’ by the +‘élite’ of Washington.” He had accepted Stewart’s offer of employment +with a certain suggestion of condescension—and after he had turned +down two less remunerative offers, it was a tribute to his strength of +character that this apparent condescension still remained obvious in +the manner of his acceptance. Certainly it was sufficiently manifest +to impress Laurence Stewart. But the Butterworth of this morning was +not the Butterworth that had lamented Sir Julian Kennedy. Fifteen +years had made a considerable difference in him, and a man who has +turned sixty, fears the “menace of the years” more than the man turned +forty. He had hoped to finish his days with this rich American. Last +night’s tragedy had definitely closured that idea. Butterworth loved +England—the English countryside; he loved “breathing English air” and +“suns of home,” and it was extremely improbable that Charles Stewart +would continue the establishment on his father’s lines. The boy had +spent most of his life in America and in all probability he would +return there. Therefore Butterworth was not free from anxiety this +morning. He was face to face with upheaval—and he disliked change +exceedingly. + +“Good morning, Sergeant,” he said, on his entrance. “I understand you +wish to speak to me.” + +Clegg was visibly impressed. He realized that he was in close touch +with a “personage.” Butterworth had intended that he should. + +“Yes—Mr.—Butterworth. It would help me considerably in my +investigations”—Clegg was at pains to do at least some share of the +“impressing” business—“if you could tell me for certain when you last +saw Mr. Stewart alive.” + +“I can do that without any difficulty. I showed Colonel Leach-Fletcher +out a few minutes after ten. My master told me that it was not his +intention to sit up late—would I lock up at half-past ten. At +ten-thirty precisely I came in here, as was my usual practice, +Sergeant Clegg, to lock up for the night. My master had retired, as he +had previously said that he should. I bolted the French doors—replaced +the tantalus—and locked the library door. I then attended to the other +living rooms down here, and shortly afterwards retired to rest myself. +It was Mr. Stewart’s special orders that I should always personally +perform the locking up duty every night. He was extremely particular +with regard to it.” + +Clegg nodded gravely to express his complete understanding. + +“How long did it take you?” he asked, knitting his brows. + +“I was in bed by ten-forty and asleep almost immediately. I am a sound +sleeper, Sergeant.” + +“And nothing awakened you?” + +“Nothing whatever! The first intimation that I had that anything +unusual had occurred was early this morning. Barton—one of the +maids—was unable to gain admission to the library. She referred the +matter to me—I came and tried the door—it was locked and the key gone. +I went to Mr. Charles at once. We got Mr. Llewellyn and came down here +together. We eventually burst the door open.” + +“One moment, Butterworth! Are you perfectly certain that the key was +in the lock on the _inside_ and that the French doors were bolted when +you entered?” + +Butterworth paused for a brief moment to assimilate thoroughly the +full significance of the question. Then he nodded in agreement. + +“Yes, I am. Mr. Charles called our attention to the key, and I can +swear to the bolts on the French doors having been shot tight. I saw +them—you can rely on both those facts.” + +Charles Stewart interposed. “I can vouch for that too, Clegg! Also +Llewellyn. Rest easy on that point.” Clegg stroked his chin between +thumb and forefinger, seemingly disinclined to accept this piece of +soothing advice. There was no denying, however, the vital importance +of what the butler had stated. + +“Anything else, Butterworth?” + +“We found my master dead, Mr. Clegg. Exactly as I can see him sitting +now.” His voice broke. “It was a great blow to me. For all of us, no +doubt; but one describes one’s own feelings best. No servant ever +worked for a better master. I loved Mr. Stewart and I’m pleased and +proud to think that he had a little affection for me. I don’t quite +know what will happen to me now—I’m not a young man——” + +Charles Stewart put a hand on his shoulder. “There is no need to +worry, Butterworth. I should be sorry to fail _one_ of my father’s +servants.” + +Butterworth’s eyes clouded with sorrow. “Thank you, Mr. Charles—thank +you.” + +He rose from the chair he had been occupying. Then turned with +unmistakable dignity to Clegg. “Is there anything further you want of +me?” he said. + +“You haven’t any idea, Butterworth, I suppose, of anybody likely to +have done this?” + +“What do you mean, Sergeant?” + +“I mean this.” Clegg breathed heavily in his desire to do justice to +the dignity and importance of the Law. “Did Mr. Stewart have any +enemies?” + +“If he had, I didn’t know them. He never confided such an idea to me.” + +“How was Mr. Stewart when you last saw him? Bright and cheery like?” + +“Just as usual. Nothing different from the ordinary.” + +“Didn’t appear to have anything on his mind?” asked Clegg. + +“Not to worry him. I think he was a bit eager about the sale that was +taking place.” + +“Sale?” Clegg seemed momentarily at a loss. + +“I told you, Sergeant,” Charles interposed. “My father intended to +purchase some——” + +“Quite right, sir,” apologized the Sergeant. “It was the use of the +word ‘sale’ that sent me astray for the moment. He seemed ‘eager’—you +say?” + +“That is the word. It describes my master’s feelings exactly—that is, +if I am any judge. Anything fresh towards a gratification of his hobby +always made him like a schoolboy on a half-holiday.” + +The Sergeant understood perfectly. But Charles Stewart, as though in +doubt about this, stepped forward with an offer of assistance. “You +can have access to all the correspondence relative to the intended +purchases, Sergeant—with the greatest pleasure. Mr. Llewellyn will let +you see it—I will instruct him to do so.” + +“Thank you, Mr. Charles! I should certainly like to glance over it.” + +“You shall. Do you want Butterworth any more?” + +Clegg considered the matter. It was evidently a weighty one, for it +occasioned much frowning and facial contortion. At last a reply was +forthcoming. + +“The servants, Butterworth; the other servants here—anything +suspicious about any of them?” he said slowly. + +“Nothing, Sergeant Clegg! There’s my wife, who acts as housekeeper—I +can speak for her—I’ve been married thirty-seven years and I’m +perfectly satisfied. There are four maids, Barton, Regan, Evans and +Winter—the cook, Mrs. Briggs—and Maidment the gardener. Then there’s +O’Connor—he assists the gardener—does odd jobs. We call him the +boot-boy. Of course the last two—O’Connor and Maidment—don’t sleep +here—they live in the village.” + +Clegg noted the personnel and the additional information thereto with +becoming solemnity. Then he deliberately closed his note-book. The +gesture seemed to convey to his two companions that the preliminary +investigation was finished. A nod from the Sergeant confirmed this +conviction and Butterworth withdrew—gravely and silently—the perfect +butler to the last. + +“I’m going to get another ’phone message through to London, Sergeant,” +exclaimed Charles Stewart. Clegg detected a note of anxiety in his +tone. He scanned the young man’s face interrogatively. Stewart +flushed, but quickly came to the point. “Look here, Sergeant +Clegg—frankly I think we’re up against it. There seems to me to be +some dark mystery here that will need the best brains of your +profession to solve. I’m not slighting you—in any way, when I say +that, either.” + +Clegg sucked his pencil. “I wouldn’t say that you weren’t right. +Still—we’ll be doing our best.” + +He walked to the door—then turned. “I’ll make arrangements about your +father”—he nodded towards the body—“and then get down to make my +report. Good morning, sir! I’m very sorry, sir.” + +He stepped into the corridor—then started. Butterworth was waiting +there and caught him by the arm. He seemed to be laboring under some +tremendous excitement. “Something I didn’t tell you, Sergeant, I _last +saw_ Mr. Stewart at _ten o’clock_, but I _heard_ his _voice_ about +_ten minutes after that—in that room_!” He stabbed with his finger at +the library. “And I heard another voice, too! I heard the voice of +Miss Lennox, I’m _certain_!” + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +The 6:55 Carries a Trio of Distinction + +Peter Daventry glanced at the clock on Paddington platform. He saw +with undisguised relief that he was a good quarter of an hour to the +good. “Curse this beastly wrist-watch,” he muttered to himself—“it +gets worse every day—fairly put the wind up me that time.” He walked +to the platform indicator—digested the information thereon applicable +to the 6:55—“Didcot, Wantage Rd., Assynton”—and drifted over to the +appropriate platform. Arrived there, he scanned the horizon for +Anthony Bathurst. The platform was pretty crowded and he could not see +the man he wanted. It was unlike Bathurst to arrive at 6:45 for 6:55. +He argued that it was a sheer waste of very valuable minutes. Daventry +commenced his second tour up the platform when a voice at his shoulder +jolted his equilibrium and suddenly brought him to a standstill. + +“Good evening, Mr. Daventry.” Detective-Inspector Goodall smiled +genially and extended what looked like an amicable hand. “Going to try +the Berkshire air?” + +Peter gasped feebly but retained sufficient presence of mind to grasp +the extended hand—mechanically it must be admitted. Goodall clasped it +warmly, but Peter could almost feel the handcuffs on his wrists. +“Y—es. I’m going down to Assynton.” Then his indignation mastered his +surprise and his resentment. “But why the devil are you trailing _me_, +Inspector—for it’s pretty evident you _are_ trailing me,” he concluded +with asperity. + +“Not on your life, Mr. Daventry,” replied Goodall—the picture of +unruffled imperturbability. “You mustn’t get jumpy like that—or I +shall begin to suspect you after all.” He smiled again. + +“Well then, it’s a wonderful coincidence to meet you here,” remarked +Peter ruefully. + +“Not so wonderful—if you think for a moment.” Peter’s face cleared +magically. + +“Ass that I am,” he declared. “You’re bound for the same destination, +of course.” + +“Now we’re talking,” said Goodall. “The local people down at Assynton +have asked ‘the Yard’ to take a look at things down there—just at the +very moment, too, when we at ‘the Yard’ were trying to piece the two +murders together, somehow! I’m going down. But what about you, Mr. +Daventry?” + +“I’m representing my firm—Mr. Stewart’s son has asked me to run down.” + +“How about a nice compartment, then, with a couple of corner seats? +This train isn’t a ‘corridor,’ worse luck.” + +“Well—as a matter of fact”—temporized Peter—“I’m waiting for +somebody!” + +Goodall instantly became all interest. “Really? I had no idea—you wish +to be alone?” + +Peter denied the idea strenuously—feeling all the time that he was +heading straight for the Valley of Suspicion again. “Not at all. Only +too pleased to travel with you, Inspector. I’m sure my friend will +be——” + +“Delighted,” said Anthony Bathurst. “Introduce me, Daventry, will +you?” + +Peter accepted the invitation gladly. He was downright pleased that +Bathurst had turned up when he did. This fellow Goodall seemed to know +a jolly sight more about a chap than was thoroughly comfortable. He +was curious to see how Anthony Bathurst would be affected by +Detective-Inspector Goodall. He made the introduction. + +“I am honored,” remarked Bathurst. “Scotland Yard must consider the +Assynton Lodge murder as extremely ‘difficult’ for it to engage the +attention of Inspector Goodall.” + +He bowed to the Inspector, who, however, seemed impervious to the +compliment. + +“You flatter me, Mr. Bathurst,” was his rejoinder. He turned to +Daventry. “We’d better get in—if we don’t want to be left behind.” + +“On the contrary,” smiled Bathurst—entering the compartment last of +the three—“I paid you a compliment. Flattery is merely a counterfeit +business. A flatterer usually seeks to gain favor—a compliment is a +tribute made to ability by reason of recognition.” + +Goodall melted a trifle. “Thank you,” he yielded. The train glided out +of the station and they settled down more comfortably. The flamboyant +beauty of the June day was dying hard in a glorious evening. As they +approached the first fringes of the countryside and caught the +wonderful streaks of the westering sun flung over copse, wood and +water—flooding the tranquillity of green and white with red-gold +radiance—the tragic nature of their journey seemed to grow more remote +in the minds of the three of them. Anthony waved his hand at the +country decorated so beautifully. + +“Look at it, gentlemen,” he exclaimed. “We shall be too busy during +the next two or three days to think of beauty—murder’s a +soul-destroying business—let us enjoy it while we may!” + +Goodall looked across the carriage with raised eyebrows. “We?”—he +questioned. + +Peter dashed in courageously. “Mr. Bathurst is also coming down at +young Stewart’s request,” he volunteered. “He’s in a bit of a fix, I +think, new to England and all that, you know—he feels he wants a sort +of steadying hand.” He beamed at Goodall—guilelessly. + +But it was unnecessary. “The usual term, I believe, Mr. Daventry, is +to watch a person’s interests.” Goodall appeared to be on the frigid +side. + +“I would have preferred to have had a look at the case from +the Galleries murder end, Inspector, but Fate has decreed +otherwise—however, it may be all for the best.” + +Goodall’s face again registered surprise. “You seem remarkably well +informed, Mr. Bathurst——” + +Anthony raised an explanatory hand. “Mr. Daventry has posted me pretty +soundly, thank you. He interviewed me this afternoon. I understand the +main facts of the case are these.” He gave a brief but explicit resumé +of the affair as it had been presented to him. “That’s about all, I +fancy, Inspector?” He looked at Goodall for corroboration. + +Now Goodall could have supplemented Bathurst’s information with one or +two additional facts, which was precisely what Mr. Bathurst intended +should happen. But the Inspector was not yet quite certain of his +bearings and Mr. Bathurst’s exposition of the facts had been +sufficiently masterly to prompt him to refrain. He gave Bathurst a +confirmatory nod and said nothing. + +“At any rate,” proceeded Anthony—“we are fortunate in one respect—that +is to say from the standpoint of investigation. With regard to the +first murder we do know the motive.” + +“The first murder?” queried Goodall. “Which of the two was that—I +should be pleased to know?” + +Anthony smiled. “I was not referring to the order in which the two men +were murdered—although I appreciate your point. At the moment I don’t +know when Stewart was killed. All I know is that he was found dead +this morning. By the term ‘the first murder’ I meant the murder +of Mason, the night-watchman. It was the first of which I heard. +It was the first of which you heard. It happened in London, where +we live. Cigarette, Inspector? You, Daventry?” They accepted his +invitation—Goodall a little nettled. He had provoked an encounter and +chosen his weapons, but had not been brilliantly successful. But he +had the sense to accept what Anthony had said. + +“Quite right, Mr. Bathurst. I just wanted to make sure. I rather +believe in making sure, you know—I tested _your_ alibi, by the way, +Mr. Daventry, this afternoon.” + +Peter grinned. “Well—and how was it? I’ll guarantee you couldn’t shake +it.” + +“I’m not going to arrest you—sit still!” He leaned over to Bathurst +with his elbows on his knees. + +“You reckon then we know the motive for the Hanover Galleries job?” + +“Well, it’s pretty plain, I should say. Possession of the Stuart +antiques—robbery! Which makes it a clean-cut case! This end we aren’t +so well off.” He looked at Goodall with that humorous twist to his +mouth that his friends knew so well. When they saw it they knew that +things were running pretty smoothly. “To know the motive of any crime +gives you a flying start, Inspector.” He tossed his cigarette end +through the window. + +Goodall scratched his chin, reflectively. “That’s all very well, as +far as it goes. Robbery—you say, for possession of the Stuart +antiques. Worth what? I’m not an expert—but for the sake of argument +we’ll put it at a matter of hundreds. And we sha’n’t be so very far +out, at that! Now, Mr. Bathurst, what was there so peculiarly +attractive about these antiques—or about one of them—to spell Mason’s +murder?” He leaned forward still further in his seat and his voice cut +across the compartment quietly insistent and definitely certain. “To +kill Laurence Stewart? To send you—and you—and me, to Assynton, on a +summer evening—_wondering_! Eh, Mr. Bathurst—tell me that!” His eyes +blazed with a mingled excitement and determination, as he watched his +_vis-à-vis_. Bathurst rubbed his hands, appreciatively! + +“Excellent, Inspector, excellent. That’s a question that I should very +much like to be able to answer.” + +“Which of the antiques, Mr. Bathurst? Which one? And not a clue that +you can call a clue as to where they’ve gone—except a sneezing woman,” +he remarked semi-humorously. + +“Tell me,” said Anthony, “I’m interested.” He listened carefully +while Goodall—despite his opposite intention when the journey +started—related the trenchant evidence of Edward Druce—night-watchman. + +“So they were at the Hanover Galleries at midnight, were they? That’s +important! That gives us a definite time-anchor.” He spoke to Goodall +with decision. “I think with you, Inspector Goodall, that the two +cases are connected without a doubt. But it’s a mistake to theorize +without data—let’s wait till we pick up the threads a bit this end. As +you say—which one of the three antiques were they after? It’s as bad +as ‘finding the lady’—with Mary, Queen of Scots, as the lady.” + +He grinned at Daventry, who had been following the interchange of +ideas with the keenest possible attention. Suddenly Peter slapped his +thigh with excitement. + +“By Jove!” he cried, “Mary, Queen of Scots—that reminds me—what an +idiot I’ve been not to tell you before.” + +Then he paused with a hint of apology. “So much has happened since, +that it has been driven completely out of my mind.” + +“You become more interesting hourly, Daventry,” remarked Anthony. “Out +with it, whatever it is—before you forget it again.” Peter waved the +sarcasm aside. + +“It’s a pretty trivial matter,” he commenced, “but I know you ‘sleuth’ +people always like to hear full particulars about everything—the usual +phraseology is ‘no matter how unimportant it may seem’”—he +grinned—then went on again. “You observe, of course, that I have read +several detective stories!” Goodall wrinkled his nose somewhat +contemptuously. But Peter was perfectly hardened against that kind of +discouragement. “When Linnell and I first heard from Stewart about the +purchase of these antiques it was arranged between the two of us that +I should pop along to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ to have a squint at +the stuff. Well, I did so—on my way I blew in to the ‘Violette’ for a +mouthful of grub. While I was there I ran into a pal of mine—Marriott, +by name—we got gassing to each other about the usual thousand and one +things. Well—I’m afraid I’m telling this pretty badly”—Goodall’s face +was a study—“but sitting at the next table were a man and a woman. I +noticed them particularly for two reasons. Firstly the ‘Violette’ was +comparatively deserted—it was early, you see—and secondly they seemed +to be having a ‘powwow’ of some importance to them. They were just an +ordinary looking couple—scarcely anything distinctive about them—no +help for you there, Inspector. Well, I made an inane sort of remark to +old Marriott and he replied—as idiots will—‘Queen Anne’s dead.’ Then I +did a mad sort of thing—I’d been thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots, all +the morning—at any rate since getting Stewart’s jolly old letter—and +some inexplicable imp of mischief made me say, ‘So’s Mary, Queen of +Scots.’” He stopped again to see the effect he was producing upon his +companions. Each was listening in his own way. Goodall’s slightly +cavalier attitude had relaxed somewhat, and Anthony was giving him +that nonchalant attention that he employed to mask unusual mental +activity. Peter let his words sink in. “Directly I said it, the chap +at the next table seemed—mind you, I only say ‘seemed’—to give a +sudden sort of start. He swept round in his chair and sent the cruet +and all its contents flying on to the floor—three bags full.” He +shrugged his shoulders. “Of course I can’t swear that it was what I +said that had poked the gust up him, but it did seem like it to me, +gentlemen.” + +“What happened then?” cut in Goodall. + +“Nothing much,” answered Peter—“the waiters rushed to repair the +damage—that was all.” + +“H’m,” commented the Inspector. “I know Lironi, the proprietor of the +‘Violette,’ pretty well. If I think it important enough I could see +him—he might know something about them—they might be fairly regular +customers of his. It depends on what I strike down here in Berkshire.” +He looked across at Bathurst, who was sitting with his head sunk on +one shoulder. Suddenly the latter sat up. + +“What did the woman do, Daventry—anything noticeable?” + +“Well, there again—it’s hard to say, definitely. But in my opinion she +was pretty savage about the incident. She certainly tried to joke it +off to the waiters, but I’m fairly confident she chewed the merchant’s +ear off a bit—looked to me like it,” he affirmed. + +Bathurst nodded. “I thought perhaps the truest indication of the value +of the incident might be supplied by the conduct of the woman.” He +spoke to Inspector Goodall. “Sherlock Holmes has laid it down, +Inspector, that in moments of sudden alarm and anxiety, a single woman +rushes for her jewel case—a married woman for her baby. This incident +throws a further light on the question. It may be added now that the +married woman on occasion gives her husband wordy castigation—as the +present-day ‘argot’ would put it—she ‘ticks him off’!” He smiled. +“Don’t you think so?” + +“I don’t know that this particular pair represented husband and wife, +Mr. Bathurst,” protested Goodall. + +“I wouldn’t bank on the marriage certificate, myself, Inspector,” +returned Anthony. “But there is just this to be said for what Daventry +has told us. A woman crops up in two of our little scenes. There’s a +woman in this incident and there’s the woman whose thirst for +information took her to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ at the identical +moment when Mason and Druce, the two night-watchmen, were changing +shifts.” He thought for a moment or two. “It’s certainly a point to be +considered,” he concluded. + +“There aren’t many ‘crooks’ that haven’t a woman in tow, nowadays,” +declared Goodall. “The equality of the sexes has become very +far-reaching. Still it’s deuced smart work for the same gang to have +pulled off both these jobs—I can’t quite take that in myself—not yet.” + +“Who’s in charge of the case down here?” queried Anthony. “Anybody +you’ve run against before?” + +Goodall shook his head. “A Sergeant Clegg was called to Assynton Lodge +this morning—he’s the local man—he’s at Assynton. They ’phoned to ‘the +Yard’ this afternoon—felt the case was a nasty one—likely to prove too +big for friend Clegg. When the news reached me I told our people of +Mr. Linnell’s information which seemed to link up the two cases, and +it was decided then and there that I should come down.” He rubbed his +cheek with his forefinger. “About twenty-four hours late,” he murmured +as a kind of afterthought. “The scent cold—another man—possibly with +an assistant or two—done his best to destroy most of the things that +might help one—talk about ‘locking the door behind the stolen +steed’—can you beat it?” + +“Not too helpful, I admit, Inspector,” argued Anthony. “Still, even +now there may be something to pick up—you never know—there’s always +the ‘human element’ to be considered in every case.” + +“All murderers don’t make glaring mistakes, Mr. Bathurst, don’t you +run away with that idea—if they did—Scotland Yard would have precious +few failures to record. Take my advice—don’t you go relying on the +human element for mistakes—_always_.” He took his hat from the rack +and put it on his head. “I fancy we’re running into Assynton.” He +looked at his watch. “A little matter of four minutes late!” + +Anthony uncoiled his length from the seat. “I didn’t mean that, +Inspector! By the ‘human element’ I meant the people in the case—the +circle round the dead man—the people we shall encounter—there’s always +the factor of their personal psychologies. Do you follow me?” + +Goodall grunted as the train drew up. Darkness was beginning to +suggest itself. A heavy figure emerged from the recesses of the +booking office and presented itself to them—semi-important, yet at the +same time—semi-apologetic. + +“Detective-Inspector Goodall?” he inquired. + +“That’s me,” replied Goodall. “And you?” He peered forward at the man +that had met him. + +“Sergeant Clegg, Inspector.” He saluted. “And downright glad to see +you.” + +“Thank you,” said Inspector Goodall. + + + +CHAPTER IX + +Mr. Bathurst Opens His Bedroom Door + +Inspector Goodall motioned towards Anthony and Peter. “These two +gentlemen have traveled down with me, Sergeant Clegg. They have been +sent for by Mr. Charles Stewart.” + +He introduced them. Sergeant Clegg was visibly impressed. “Pleased to +meet you, gentlemen,” he announced—“though it’s a sad business, to be +sure, that has thrown us together.” He turned to the Inspector. “I’ve +taken the trouble to book a room for you, Inspector, at the ‘Red +Dolphin’—quite an excellent place. What will you do—go straight there +for now, and start work in the morning, or would you prefer to get +into your stride at once?” He looked somewhat anxiously at Goodall as +though he attached very great importance to his decision. + +“Tell me, first of all, what you’ve done, Clegg,” said the Inspector. + +“I was called to the case this morning, Inspector, and I interviewed +everybody that might be termed ‘principals’—you shall have their facts +almost verbatim—I’ve been polishing ’em up from my note-book. I’ve had +‘photos’ taken this afternoon of the body and of the library +generally, so that poor Mr. Stewart could be taken away—and I’ve had +the room fixed and fastened so that nobody can get into it.” He +breathed heavily—weighed down with an acute sense of his +responsibility. Goodall’s reply transported him. + +“Excellent, Clegg,” he declared, “excellent. I’m for the ‘Red Dolphin’ +and supper, bed and breakfast.” + +“Very good, Inspector! What time shall I see you in the morning, +then?” + +“I’ll be along directly after breakfast—say about half-past nine. I +shall probably do much better if I approach the case in the first +place with a mind refreshed from a good night’s rest than if I were to +commence right now—make it half-past nine, then, Clegg.” + +He turned to Anthony and Peter Daventry. “You two gentlemen are going +to the Lodge now, of course. Good-night. I shall see you in the +morning, too.” + +The three shook hands, and Goodall and Clegg swung off to the delights +afforded by the hospitality of the “Red Dolphin.” Bathurst pointed to +a smart car that was drawn up in the station-yard. + +“Ours—I think, Daventry,” he said. An equally smart chauffeur swung +from the driver’s seat and touched his cap. + +“Assynton Lodge, sir?” he inquired of Bathurst. + +They entered and the car purred its way to its destination. It was not +long before they found themselves sweeping up the drive that took them +to the main entrance. + +“Nine minutes’ run,” announced Bathurst. Charles Stewart met them in +the hall. + +“I got your telegram, Mr. Daventry,” he said, “and I’ve arranged for +dinner to be served for you directly you are ready.” + +“Thanks—that’s extremely good of you,” responded Peter, “and I’m sure +you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve been able to bring somebody with +me—as you suggested—this gentleman is Mr. Anthony Bathurst. He will be +pleased to help you in any way whatever.” + +“It’s a great relief to know that,” replied Stewart. “Butterworth”—he +turned to the butler—“show these gentlemen to their rooms—you’re on +the second floor,” he explained. Butterworth carried out his +instructions quietly and efficiently. “Dinner will be served in half +an hour, gentlemen,” he announced. + +“I have arranged that we three dine alone,” said Stewart upon their +return. “Miss Lennox—my late father’s ward—has a bad headache and begs +to be excused, and Mr. Llewellyn, my father’s secretary, dined earlier +as he is very busy. My father’s sudden and tragic death has entailed, +as you may guess, a tremendous amount of important correspondence.” +His fingers drummed on the table-cloth. “My father’s solicitors are +Messrs. Crake and Ferguson, of New York. I have had a cable sent to +them to-day—till I hear from them I don’t exactly know how matters +altogether stand financially.” + +Peter Daventry expressed his sympathy. + +“Mr. Stewart,” said Bathurst, “I am delighted to take this case for +you—though, of course, very sincerely deploring the sad circumstances +and your own personal loss. If it isn’t asking too much of you—would +you be good enough to tell me all you know of the facts of the +case—take your own time and tell me entirely in your own way?” + +“Before you start, Mr. Stewart,” intervened Peter, impetuously, “have +you heard of the other——” but a well-directed kick on the shin from +Bathurst under the table dried up the torrent of his information quite +abruptly but most effectively. + +“Don’t worry Mr. Stewart, Daventry,” said Anthony gravely. “Let him +tell us as I suggested.” + +Stewart proceeded to tell the story of his father’s death. Soon came +Bathurst’s first interruption. + +“You say that when you burst open the door the key was in the lock on +the inside and also that the French doors were shut and bolted?” +Anthony leaned forward across the dinner table and pointed his query +with keen interest. + +“Yes, Mr. Bathurst. Extraordinary though it may sound—the facts were +so.” + +Anthony rubbed his hands together. “Most interesting,” he muttered, +“most interesting. Go on.” + +“My poor father,” continued Stewart with evident distress, “was seated +in his chair at his desk-table—his head on his hands—his skull badly +smashed—he had been dead some hours—struck down in some foul, +dastardly way from behind.” He stopped and tried to control his +feelings, which were obviously beginning to master him. After a short +interval of silence—sympathetically observed by the two others—he +continued again. “Apparently he had been writing when he was attacked, +for a pen had almost fallen from his hand and on the desk in front of +him lay a sheet of note-paper. On it had been written the words, +‘Urgent in the morning, M. L.’” + +Anthony shot his second question across to the speaker. “In your +father’s handwriting, Mr. Stewart?” + +“Beyond doubt, Mr. Bathurst.” Anthony waved to him to proceed. + +“In the left-hand pocket of my father’s dressing-gown was his +revolver—loaded in five chambers only. None of us can remember hearing +a shot during the night, so that we don’t know when the one shot was +fired—in the night or on some previous occasion.” + +Anthony stopped him with his hand uplifted. + +“One minute, Mr. Stewart. Was it your father’s habit to carry firearms +in the pocket of his dressing-gown? Have you ever known him to do it? +Think carefully—this is most important.” + +“Well, of course, naturally, I don’t sleep with my father—I rarely see +him after he has retired for the night—but I certainly wasn’t aware +that he made a habit of carrying a revolver. It doesn’t surprise me, +though, to know that he had a revolver pretty handy, because we house +a number of very valuable things here—still—I’ll say this—I’ve never +seen him with a revolver in his hand.” + +Anthony accepted the statement—then followed up with another question. +“Your father was a right-handed man, of course, Mr. Stewart?” + +“Yes. Always. Doctor Gunner gave it as his opinion that he had been +dead about twelve hours. That wasn’t quite possible, as he was alive +at ten o’clock last night.” + +“Who saw him?” + +Stewart hesitated for a moment. “Two of us here can prove that my +father was alive round about ten o’clock last night. I spoke to him +about a quarter to ten, and Butterworth, the butler, spoke to him a +few minutes after ten. My father gave Butterworth instructions to lock +up about that time.” Bathurst nodded. + +“I see. So Butterworth was the last person to see your father alive—as +far as is known?” + +“Yes. A Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here with my father last night. +Butterworth saw him out about ten. When I spoke to my father at +nine-forty-five the Colonel was with him then, in the library.” + +“An old friend of your father’s, I presume—I understand from Mr. +Daventry here that it was on Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s recommendation +that your father got into touch with his firm?” + +“I believe that is so, Mr. Bathurst—but I should hesitate before I +described the Colonel as an old friend of my father’s—his friendship +only dates back to the time when we first came here.” + +Anthony pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. Had +Daventry known him better he would have understood from this gesture +that certain features of the problem were worrying him. Then suddenly +his face betrayed eagerness. + +“Three more questions, Mr. Stewart, if you’ll pardon me. This sheet of +note-paper found under your father’s hand—the writing on it—if my +memory serves me correctly—was ‘Urgent in the morning—M. L.’—I am +right, am I not?” He looked at Stewart. The latter nodded. Anthony +went straight on. “This ‘M. L.’—the initials probably of somebody or +something—I’ve been wondering about them. You mentioned just now, Mr. +Stewart, two other members of your father’s household—a Miss Lennox, +his ward, and a Mr. Llewellyn, his secretary. I feel bound to ask you +if the Christian name of either of these two people begins with +‘M’—yes.” He fingered the stem of his champagne glass with undisguised +approval—then carefully watched the face of his young host while he +awaited his answer. + +“Very curiously, Mr. Bathurst, both Mr. Llewellyn and Miss Lennox have +those initials—Miss Lennox is ‘Marjorie’ and Llewellyn is ‘Morgan.’” +He spoke with apparent composure, but Peter Daventry—most interested +of spectators—was not quite sure that some, at least, of the unconcern +was not deliberately assumed. He began to wonder why. Who was who in +this house upon which such a tragic shadow had been cast? What dark +passions had been loosed but a few hours since that had meant death, +sudden and terrible, for an unsuspecting victim? What was Bathurst’s +opinion? What was he thinking? Had he noticed Stewart’s counterfeit +composure? Bathurst, however, appeared to be tremendously interested. +He lifted his eyebrows at the piquancy of the situation as revealed to +him. + +“Really?” he said. “We are confronted with two ‘M. L.’s’ then. Now +that’s distinctly fascinating.” He paused. “Was it a message, Mr. +Stewart, do you think, to either of them—or even——” he stopped and +pondered—eyes narrowed. + +“A message or an instruction, Mr. Bathurst, would almost certainly +affect Llewellyn, Mr. Bathurst—I think we may safely discard any idea +of Miss Lennox being implicated.” He spoke quite quietly, but yet +Peter Daventry fell to introspection once again. He felt certain that +he was able to detect a tinge of anxiety in the voice—almost, in fact, +that in what Stewart had said the wish had been father to the thought. +But Bathurst, to all appearances, accepted the situation as Stewart +had presented it. He went to another question. + +“You stated a little while since that your father had a number of +valuable things in the house. Quite a natural thing for a man of his +wealth, of course. Has anything been stolen? Anything missed?” + +Stewart shook his head in denial of the idea. “As far as we know, Mr. +Bathurst—_nothing_ has been taken. Certainly no money has been stolen. +My father’s personal jewelry is in his bedroom—untouched—just where he +left it.” + +Anthony thought for a moment. “Papers! Documents! Was there any +evidence that anything of that nature had been taken from the library? +Did any drawers appear to have been ransacked?” + +“There were no signs of disorder in the library at all. Everything +there seemed quite normal.” + +But Bathurst persisted. “Your father’s collection, Mr. Stewart—that +was very valuable, I believe. Have steps been taken to see that this +is intact? Where is the collection kept?” + +“In what we call the Museum Room—next to the library. I don’t know +that it occurred to me—or even to any of us—to go in there—there was +no connection you see.” He looked across at Anthony. + +“Is the Museum Room kept locked?” demanded the latter. + +“Not necessarily during the day,” came the answer. “My father might be +in and out several times during an ordinary day—he might even have +been in there last night with Colonel Leach-Fletcher for all we know. +Butterworth will be able to tell us,” he concluded, rather lamely, +Daventry thought, “we can ask Butterworth if he locked the Museum Room +when he locked up last night.” + +“You don’t mind if I smoke?” put in Bathurst. “The key of this Museum +Room now—where would it be kept—in the door?” He lit his cigarette, +and tossed the match into an ash-tray. + +“No—I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure not. The key of a room like +that would be hung up each night in Butterworth’s service-room. He +would unlock the room some time during the following morning.” + +“So that we may say—anybody had access to it—knowing that the key was +kept there?” + +“I suppose so,” replied Stewart. “But I’m quite certain the Museum +Room door was shut all right when the alarm was given this morning.” +He sat back in his chair firmly as though to give point to his words. + +“That’s pretty conclusive then,” admitted Anthony. “Still—I think +we’ll have a look at this Museum Room—nevertheless! You see it might +supply that motive I’m looking for.” He rubbed his chin with his +finger. “Otherwise——” + +Stewart rose from his chair at the head of the table. “Would you care +to come and look now, Mr. Bathurst?” + +Anthony motioned him back again. “In the morning, Mr. Stewart, in the +morning. That will be time enough. Tell me—I’m rather curious to +know—the point is of extreme importance—have you any list or catalogue +of your father’s collection?” + +Stewart looked somewhat surprised. “It would be some task for you to +go through all the things in the Museum Room, Mr. Bathurst—but I +believe I am right in saying that Llewellyn has compiled something in +the way of a catalogue. You shall see a copy in the morning, if you +would care to.” + +“I should—very much,” responded Anthony. “I have just the glimmering +of an idea—that’s all—and I think it’s just possible the catalogue may +help me.” He looked at Daventry, who had been trying hard to follow +him—unsuccessfully. + +“What started you off?” inquired Peter—“that key of the Museum Room +business? Personally, I can’t see anything much——” + +Bathurst interrupted. “No—not that, Daventry. I happened to be +thinking about ‘M. L.’—that was all.” He rubbed his hands as the idea +took shape. “And I’ll lay a guinea to a gooseberry,” he proceeded, +“that I’m ‘warm’ as the youngsters say. If I’m not—well, then, we +shall have to start all over again.” + +He smiled at his two companions. “But we sha’n’t have to. You see.” + +Stewart did not appear to share this piece of optimism—he shook his +head rather hopelessly, but Peter Daventry remembered the judgment of +his brother Gerald and was able to catch something of the Bathurst +tradition. + +“One last question,” said Anthony. “What was the opinion of the +Sergeant who came along this morning about the weapon with which the +crime was committed? Did he have any ideas about that, do you know? +Did he seem confident of making any arrest?” + +Stewart dismissed the suggestion immediately it was made. “I was quite +unimpressed by him. In fact that was the chief reason why I asked Mr. +Daventry’s people to help me and why I suggested Scotland Yard could +do worse than have a look at things. I don’t think he formed any ideas +about the crime at all! The question you have just raised about the +weapon that was used puzzled the Sergeant, I should say, from my +observation of him, pretty considerably. There wasn’t a trace of +anything!” He seemed to have almost reached his limit of physical +endurance, and Anthony was quick to detect it. + +“Daventry,” he said, “I’m afraid I haven’t shown Mr. Stewart too much +consideration—he’s worn out, and I must leave any further questions +till to-morrow morning.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “It’s well +past ten and we’re all tired. A good night’s rest will do us all +good.” He rose and walked across to his young host with outstretched +hand. “Good-night, Mr. Stewart, and my most sincere sympathy! I know +it’s easy to say that, but I’ll say something else as well.” He paused +for a second and his jaw set with the lines of indomitable purpose. “I +have every hope, even at this early stage of the case, of getting the +handcuffs on the right wrists—which should comfort you a little!” + +Stewart was very pale when he answered, and his answer was brief. +“Thank you, Mr. Bathurst. Good-night!” + +Peter added his salutations and they made their way upstairs. + +“No need to trouble Butterworth,” exclaimed Anthony, “we know our +rooms. Here’s mine—there’s yours, Daventry. Good-night!” + +Anthony walked to the window and opened it. He was fond of darkness +and it was just beginning to get dark. Darkness and its attendant +tranquillity he always found invaluable conditions for the process of +concentration—he had often discovered the solution to a mystifying +problem out of this communion. He smoked a cigarette through and lit +another. “What was it,” he said to himself as he stood there by the +open window, “that caused Stewart to come downstairs and enter the +library? What happened in the library to make him scrawl the message +that he described as ‘urgent’?” He commenced a third cigarette. “And +who trod softly behind as he sat there writing—and killed him?” He +undressed and got into bed. “A pretty little problem—especially when +we think of the Hanover Galleries affair on top.” That was his last +conscious thought before he slept. He had the knack of getting to +sleep almost instantaneously and also the complementary faculty of +awaking at the slightest sound. He was destined to awake suddenly that +night. And he knew instantly and instinctively what had awakened him—a +stealthy step had gone past his bedroom door—he was certain of it! He +looked at the luminous face of his wrist-watch. “Twenty-two minutes +past one,” he muttered. “Not an ordinary time for legitimate +night-wanderings.” He tiptoed to his bedroom door and drew it +very slightly ajar; then listened intently for what seemed like +ages. It was very quiet beneath him. Had the step been on its +way back? Suddenly he heard a sound that sent his heart racing +perilously—somebody was ascending the stairs! He shut the door +silently and held the handle tight. The step passed—almost +noiselessly. Anthony waited a second, then pulled his door gently +open, and looked out on to the corridor. He was just able to +distinguish the figure of a man, entering the room next but one. A +man—slim and of good height. Judged by his walk—comparatively young. +Anthony whistled very softly, as he sat on the side of his bed to +think things over. “Now, who the devil was that?” he muttered, “and +why does he wander o’ nights?” In the morning at breakfast his first +query was answered. + +“Let me introduce you,” said Charles Stewart. “Mr. Bathurst—Mr. Morgan +Llewellyn—my late father’s secretary.” + + + +CHAPTER X + +The Incident of the Boot-Boy’s Bicycle + +Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgment. And at the same time felt that +matters were progressing. Progressing, perhaps, a trifle _too_ +quickly, and at a rate that, to a less alert intelligence than Mr. +Bathurst’s, might prove extremely disconcerting. Under cover of a few +casual and perfunctory remarks he studied Llewellyn carefully and at +the same time reviewed the events of the morning. For Mr. Bathurst had +been up betimes. The music of the Berkshire birds had been his first +consciousness of this glorious morning. He had risen to the “Te Deum” +of the bird-choir and had joined with them in a thanksgiving for “the +immaculate hours”; and when he found himself downstairs his watch +showed the time to be a few minutes past seven. He made his way into +the garden and marveled at the magic of the morning. What was the +geography of the library in relation to the garden? Passing through a +charming rockery with a fountain plashing deliciously in the center of +a clear-watered pool, he came on to a stretch of perfectly kept grass +that stretched almost to the French doors of the library itself. Under +the morning sun this patch of exquisite emerald seemed fit for the +flying feet of angels. Anthony retraced his steps—he would leave the +library question till he could get inside to have a look properly. He +strolled through the rockery, then turned and came out on to the road. +He would have a walk before breakfast, for a thought was beginning to +take shape within his brain. He cut along briskly and soon discovered +that he was descending the hill to Assynton village. At the foot of +the hill on the fringe of Assynton itself, he stopped. It was an iron +foundry that claimed his attention, for Mr. Bathurst had always been +intrigued by the industry of the early morning. The clang of the +hammers was as music to his ear. To him it represented one of the real +essences of England—there were others—a barge moving steadily on a +canal—the scraping of a bricklayer’s trowel—a fishing fleet standing +in to the harbor heavy with the fruit of its toil—all of them tingling +as it were—with the impetus of the newness of the morning. These +things to Anthony Bathurst meant much. He listened as the clanging +quivered incessantly on the almost virgin stillness of the June air. +Suddenly he noticed a man signaling to him from the open door. +Bathurst turned into the yard and approached him. A magnificent man, +with a sweeping breadth of shoulder, came out of the foundry and stood +waiting. His black eyes sparkled genially and he pulled at a bushy +black beard as Anthony came up. He must have stood at least six feet +two, and his leathern apron became him handsomely. He touched his +forehead. + +“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for takin’ what may appear a liberty. But I +should like a word with you, sir.” He looked behind him somewhat +anxiously, then drew Bathurst a few yards farther away from the +foundry door. “If I’m not mistaken, sir, aren’t you one of the +gentlemen what’s lookin’ into matters up at the Lodge?” He jerked with +his thumb in the direction of “up the hill.” + +Anthony regarded the black-bearded giant with curious interest. “I +haven’t the least idea how you know that,” he replied, “but you’re +quite right—I am! News seems to travel quickly in these parts.” + +Blackbeard’s teeth flashed in a smile. “No great mystery about that, +sir,” he explained. “I saw you in the company of Sergeant Clegg last +night with another gentleman that looked uncommonly like a +police-detective. And I ain’t too bad at puttin’ two and two +together.” He grinned again. + +“I see,” said Anthony. “And what was it you wanted to tell me? I take +it that there _is_ something—you haven’t called me in here merely to +wish me good morning?” He eyed the foundry-man quizzically. + +“No, sir, I haven’t, and that’s a fact! And what I’ve got to say, I’d +sooner say to you than to the police, for I’ve no love for that +fraternity—you can take it from me.” He spat with some vigor as a +garnish to his remark; then proceeded to embellish what he had said. +“Especially for Sergeant Amos Clegg. But I like the look of you, sir, +and when my boy told me what he told me yesterday midday I advised him +to keep a still tongue in his head till I told him to loosen it. When +I spotted you last night, sir—I made up my mind that _I’d_ do the +tellin’ and to _you_!” + +“Thank you for the compliment,” returned Anthony smiling. “I +appreciate it, I assure you. I shall be very pleased to hear what you +wish to tell me. Fire away!” The giant glanced round, then lowered his +voice appreciably. “My name’s Michael O’Connor and I’m the father of +Patrick O’Connor—him as they call boot-boy up at the Lodge—Mr. +Stewart’s place. Patrick was eighteen on the 17th of March and has +worked for poor Mr. Stewart for three or four months now. He does lots +of odd jobs about the place and gives the gardener a hand—I’m tellin’ +you this just to give you a rough idea of who he is—so to speak. Now +Patrick’s a good lad—though he’s mine and say it I shouldn’t—honest +and willin’. He gets sent out a good deal, so Mr. Stewart provided him +with a bicycle to run his errands on. He don’t sleep up at the Lodge +and he’s supposed to leave the bicycle there when he gets away of an +evening—which is usually about seven. The machine goes into old +Maidment’s potting-shed. Maidment’s the gardener. That’s where Patrick +put it the night before last.” He stroked his beard and pushed his +face nearer to Bathurst. “When he went to the Lodge yesterday mornin’ +and heard all about the murder there wasn’t much work for him, as you +may well guess—so he thought he’d give his bicycle a bit of a +clean-up. What does he find when he looks at it?” He paused +dramatically and drew himself to his full height. “That it had been +used by somebody since my Patrick left it in the shed.” He spat again. +“And how do you think he knew?” he chuckled—then without giving +Bathurst time to venture an opinion, continued, “Look down there, +sir,” he said, pointing down the road that wound into Assynton +village. “See the steam-roller?” Bathurst both saw and heard +it—puffing and grinding after the manner of steam-rollers and +flaunting the White Horse of Kent. “The road into Assynton is bein’ +done up,” continued O’Connor—“with tarred macadam. The sun for two or +three days now has been melting the new stuff that’s been put down—it +sticks to your boots if you walk in it. And my Patrick tells me that +_the tires of his bicycle were all_ marked with it.” He concluded on a +note of triumph. Then looked at Bathurst with an invitation for +approval. + +“Good lad,” contributed Anthony. “He’s told nobody besides you?” +O’Connor shook his leonine head. + +“He was a bit frightened-like, I think, sir, so he brought his +troubles to his father—I teach my young’uns to do that! But it proves +this, sir, _somebody used the bicycle the night of the murder_.” + +Anthony nodded in corroboration. “I suppose he’s sure he didn’t pick +the stuff up himself on some errand?” + +“Absolutely, sir. He says he came into the village twice the day +before yesterday, and took great care to miss the part of the road +that’s been tarred. But a person riding in the dark, sir, wouldn’t +notice it—’specially if he had somethin’ on his mind.” He sniffed—and +the sniff carried a wealth of meaning. + +“Perfectly true,” agreed Anthony, “and I’m much obliged to you for the +information—this road into the village leads straight to the station, +doesn’t it—it was getting dark when I drove up last night?” + +“That’s right, sir,” replied O’Connor—“straight up through Assynton.” + +Bathurst pushed a Treasury note into his hand, which, after some +demur, he accepted. + +“I’ll be getting back now, O’Connor, and I’ll have a quiet chat with +Patrick at the first opportunity. I’ll tell him you’ve seen me—that +will establish my credentials.” + +He swung back in the direction of the Lodge—musing over the encounter, +and over the incident of the footsteps during the night. When Stewart +introduced Morgan Llewellyn and he was able to identify the gentleman +as the wanderer who had disturbed his sleep, he concluded that he had +quite enough to think over for his first morning. Peter greeted him at +the breakfast-table. + +“Been out, Bathurst? So early?” + +“Just a short stroll, Daventry. I was anxious to have a look round and +I hadn’t the heart to rout you out, old man! I went across the downs a +bit and worked down towards the village.” He turned to Stewart. “The +birds were simply wonderful. I even enjoyed those melancholy +‘pee-wits’!” + +“We’ll get breakfast over as soon as we possibly can, gentlemen,” +exclaimed Stewart. “I expect the Scotland Yard representative will be +up here pretty early. I should like you to be present, Mr. Bathurst, +when he enters the library—Sergeant Clegg closed the room up, you +know, when he left yesterday.” + +Llewellyn sniffed contemptuously. “A brilliant piece of work—that! One +of us might have wanted to use the room—for a legitimate purpose, I +mean.” He wiped the glasses of his pince-nez with his silk +handkerchief. As he did so, Bathurst observed the peculiar quality of +his eyes and at the same time formed the opinion that Mr. Morgan +Llewellyn might very well prove to be a dangerous customer if things +didn’t please him over-well. + +“Mr. Stewart,” said Anthony, addressing his host, “what sort of a lad +is Patrick O’Connor—the boot-boy?” + +Stewart stared at him with a certain strain of amazement on his face. + +“Really,” he said, “I didn’t know that you were sufficiently +acquainted with our staff here to be able to ask that question! I +suppose it’s a case of the early bird, eh?” + +Anthony’s grey eyes twinkled delightfully! “We all have our little +secrets, Mr. Stewart,” he responded. “You mustn’t probe me too +thoroughly—tell me rather of Master O’Connor.” He looked round at +Peter Daventry—“He’s got a fine name, you know, Daventry—‘Patrick +O’Connor’—hark to the music of the ‘r’ and the ‘n’!” + +“Quite a reliable lad,” came Stewart’s answer. “As far as I know. +Certainly I know nothing unfavorable.” + +“What time does he get here in the morning?” asked Anthony. + +“About half-past six, I believe,” replied Stewart. “You should +know—you’ve seen him, I take it, this morning?” + +“On the contrary—I’ve never set eyes on him.” Bathurst smiled gravely. + +He felt the glances of the three men fixed intently on him. + +“Well, you’ve certainly wasted no time,” declared Llewellyn, “though +how exactly you’ve been to work, I can’t guess.” + +“I sha’n’t ask you to,” laughed Anthony. “It might be trying you too +highly, and I mustn’t do that.” + +Peter Daventry began to wish that he hadn’t slept so soundly—Mr. +Bathurst’s methods were beginning to fascinate him. Breakfast over, he +came across and joined Anthony. The latter went up and spoke quietly +to Charles Stewart. + +“By all means,” was Stewart’s reply, “I’ll let you know directly I +want you.” + +“Come and have a breath of air, Daventry,” said Anthony. “It’s a +perfectly wonderful morning.” + +They strolled out into the garden; Anthony took a cigarette and handed +his case to his companion. “I want a few minutes’ conversation with +this boot-boy, Patrick O’Connor—I have a fancy that it may prove to be +somewhat enlightening—and don’t forget, Daventry, anything we may +hear, either now or later on, we’ll keep to ourselves, unless we +decide otherwise.” + +Peter saluted with mock gravity. “I’ll be the soul of tacit +discretion,” he exclaimed. “Have you really stumbled across a clue +already?” + +Bathurst’s face relaxed into a smile. “Clues are tumbling over each +other—I’ve really had the luck of the old gentleman himself up to the +moment. The ball’s running altogether too kindly—doubtless I shall get +a rude awakening soon. Come over on the grass there and I’ll tell you +something!” + +Peter accepted his bidding with alacrity. Anthony carefully chose +another cigarette. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, speaking in low +tones, “before we go across to find O’Connor. But first—a question! +How did you sleep last night? Anything disturb you?” + +Peter knitted his brows. “No! Nothing! But I was dog-tired and slept +like a top—whichever way that may actually be.” + +Anthony pointed across to the wall of the garden against which could +be seen nestling a burden of magnificent nectarines. “Be +interested—apparently——in something that I’m showing you—I don’t want +anybody in the house to think I’m discussing the case with you—for all +I know we are being watched.” + +Peter grimaced, but began to play his part as per instructions. “The +situation is becoming decidedly interesting,” he muttered. “Why do you +ask me about how I slept?” + +Anthony made a gesture with his arm towards another part of the garden +before he answered. “At twenty-two minutes past one this morning I +awoke very suddenly. I’m a very light sleeper and the slightest sound +is sufficient to wake me. What I had heard was a step passing my +bedroom door. Of course I couldn’t be sure which direction the steps +had taken. But I slipped out of bed and opened my door. I stood +listening for some time and then I heard the steps coming back. +Whoever it was, was coming upstairs again. Naturally I had to bolt +back into my bedroom, but I held the door handle so that I could open +it quickly and noiselessly immediately the prowler had passed. I just +had time to see the gentleman disappear into the room next to yours. +You may guess that I went back to bed and did a little bit of quiet +thinking.” + +“By Jove!” exclaimed Peter. “The plot thickens! Who the blazes was +it—any idea?” + +“I know who it was,” replied Anthony. “It was the gentleman who had +‘brekker’ with us this morning—Mr. Morgan Llewellyn! You may remember +what he thought about the library being shut up.” + +Peter whistled softly. “You mean that he was trying to get in there, +in the night?” + +“I think it extremely probable,” declared Anthony. “And the question +is what is it that’s attracting him there? That’s what we’ve got to +find out—that’s why I’ve told you.” + +“Did he get in do you think?” queried Peter, “because if he did, the +mischief’s done.” + +“Not he,” grinned Anthony. “Sergeant Clegg saw to that, quite +thoroughly. Now come along over to the other side. We’ll see if we can +run across Patrick O’Connor.” + +Maidment, the gardener, was earthing up potatoes in the kitchen garden +as they approached. He straightened himself as he wished them “Good +morning.” + +“O’Connor,” he said, in answer to Anthony’s question. “You’ll find him +up there in the potting-shed.” He pointed past the cucumber frames +that lay on his right to a shed at the end of the path. “Perhaps you’d +like me to be accompanying you?” he continued. “Maybe I’ll be able to +help you?” + +Anthony waved his offer on one side. “Thanks—but we’ll see him +alone—you stay here.” + +As they reached the shed, a tall lad stepped out, and Bathurst +immediately recognized that here was a case of inherited physique. He +seemed surprised to see his visitors and made as though to turn back +into the potting-shed. + +Anthony touched him on the arm—then bent down and whispered something +into his ear. The lad’s face cleared and he beckoned them inside. + +“You gentlemen gave me a bit of a start,” he declared. “I’m a bit +jumpy I suppose since yesterday. This sort of thing gets on your +nerves, you know, sir—you can’t help it.” + +Peter Daventry wondered what the message was that Bathurst had passed +on. What possible connection could there be between the two of them? +But his wonderings were summarily cut short. Anthony’s next remark +showed that he was speedily getting to business. + +“Where is the bicycle, O’Connor?” + +O’Connor walked across to the farther corner and wheeled the machine +down to them. He pointed to both front and back tires. “There you are, +sir! You can see for yourself!” + +Anthony went down on his haunches and smelt the tires. “Quite certain +you didn’t pick it up yourself, O’Connor—on another part of the road, +for instance?” + +“I’ll take my dyin’ oath I never did, sir. The day before the murder +was discovered I went down into Assynton twice—once just before lunch +time and the second time about a quarter-past four. I was extry +careful about riding over the new road because I hates my bike all +messed and mucked up, so I jumped off when I came to it and wheeled it +along the path. As for pickin’ it up anywhere else, sir—there ain’t no +other part of the road round here, sir, what’s bein’ done up.” His +eyes flashed, and Anthony realized again that here stood the son of +his father. + +“Do you always keep the machine in this shed?” he asked. + +Patrick O’Connor nodded an affirmative. “Always, sir!” + +Anthony threw a critical glance round the potting-shed. “When you came +in yesterday morning and found your bicycle like that—was there +anything else here that caught your attention—was the shed just as +usual—everything in its place—nothing touched or disturbed?” + +O’Connor thought for a moment—then shook his head. “Not that I +noticed, sir.” + +Anthony walked to the door and looked out; then he retraced his steps. +“Re bicycles, O’Connor! Are there any other bicycles kept at Assynton +Lodge—or is this the only one on the premises?” + +O’Connor flung his head back with decision. “This is the only cycle +here, sir, so that whoever used it on the night of the murder either +struck lucky or _knew that it was in here_.” He lowered his voice on +the last few words. Peter saw Anthony’s face as O’Connor spoke—then he +turned sharply. Maidment, arriving apparently from the clouds, was +framed against the doorway of the potting-shed. His approach had been +noiseless and unexpected, for even Bathurst seemed slightly taken off +his guard! + +“Mr. Charles’s compliments,” announced the gardener, “and he will be +glad to see you two gentlemen in the library.” + + + +CHAPTER XI + +With a Given Center, Mr. Bathurst Describes a Circle + +Stewart met them at the French doors. “Inspector Goodall and Sergeant +Clegg are here already. We shall have to postpone our visit to the +Museum Room till later. Come in, will you?” Clegg and Goodall had +already got to work. + +“Nothing has been touched, sir,” said the former, “since I was first +called in. Except for the removal of the dead man, the room is exactly +as it was yesterday morning.” + +“Good,” replied Goodall. “I’ve read all your notes on the case—the key +was in the lock on the inside when the door was burst open, and the +bolts of the French doors were securely shot. Darned peculiar!” + +Stewart made as if to offer an explanation of something, but the +Inspector checked him. “I’m fully acquainted with all the +circumstances of the case, sir! I’ve read Sergeant Clegg’s notes +thoroughly—not only those concerning the crime itself but also those +dealing with the interviews he had with the various people when he was +here—so you can write me down thoroughly _au fait_ with the whole +business.” Stewart bowed. Goodall took a tape measure from his pocket +and walked to the chair where Laurence Stewart had been murdered. “Is +this chair exactly in position?” he queried of the Sergeant. Clegg +came and surveyed the situation gravely. Then announced his opinion. + +“As near as makes no odds, Inspector.” + +Goodall first of all measured from the chair to the library door and +then from the chair to the French doors. He then examined the lock of +the door and the bolts of the other two doors. + +“H’m,” he said—then scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Doctor’s +report”—he drew a document from his breast-pocket and perused it for a +moment or two—“states that your father was struck three times, Mr. +Stewart. The first blow rendered him unconscious, in all probability, +Doctor Gunner thinks, and the second and third finished him +completely. Mr. Bathurst—you might help me in a little experiment. I’m +going to try to reconstruct the crime.” He looked at Anthony and did +not wait for his reply. “Sit here, will you, as Mr. Stewart sat. Now +you’re Mr. Stewart and I’m the murderer.” He walked back to the French +doors, which he opened, and then went outside, pulling them together. +He then opened them noiselessly and tiptoed across the heavy pile +carpet. He reached Bathurst and raised his hand as though to strike. +“Did you hear me?” he asked. + +“Not your steps—I heard you breathing—that was all—but of course I was +aware that you were advancing on me. I can quite believe the murdered +man was taken by surprise in that way and heard nothing.” He rose from +the chair. “Congratulations, Inspector.” + +Goodall came up to the desk. “Is this the piece of note-paper, Clegg? +Just where you found it?” + +“Yes, Inspector!” Bathurst joined the Inspector. The message was there +just as it had been written by the dead man. Bathurst let the +Inspector read it—then extended his hand for it. “May I see it?” + +Goodall passed it over. Anthony produced his magnifying glass and then +covered all the writing with another sheet of paper—that is to say, +from “urgent” to “M. L.” Then he carefully examined with his glass the +part of the paper immediately following the letter “L.” Peter Daventry +watched him curiously. After a moment or two he put down the sheet of +paper and replaced his magnifying glass. Clegg’s eyelid flickered as +he caught a glance from Goodall, but the latter gave no other sign of +interest. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the +bookcase—then suddenly turned on his heel. + +“Where’s that revolver you mentioned, Clegg—let’s have a look at it.” +The Sergeant took it from the right-hand drawer of the desk. + +“This was in Mr. Stewart’s left-hand pocket,” he declared—“and one +shot has been fired.” He passed it across to the Inspector. “That’s +not to say it was fired at the time of the murder,” rejoined his +superior. “All the evidence you’ve collected is absolutely contrary.” + +“You mean that nobody admits having heard it?” intervened Anthony. + +“I do,” said Goodall. + +“With your permission, Inspector—not quite the same thing,” came the +reply. + +Goodall fingered his cheek. “No sign of the bullet, Mr. Bathurst, if +you’re suggesting that a shot was fired in here.” + +Clegg smiled broadly. There was no gainsaying the Inspector’s last +remark. Anthony shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and went back to +the desk again. Peter noticed that his eyes were sweeping backwards +and forwards over that particular part of it directly in front of +where Stewart’s head had rested. Suddenly he picked up the ink-bowl +and held it up carefully to the light. He swirled the ink round and +round in the bowl three or four times and watched its black eddy with +the greatest keenness. Apparently what he saw gave him entire +satisfaction—which his face showed when he replaced the ink-bowl on +the desk. He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “You were quite +right, Inspector, regarding your theory of the crime. I hope to put my +hand on the——” + +“Criminal, Mr. Bathurst?” broke in Charles Stewart. “What makes you so +optimistic?” + +“No! I was about to say ‘on the weapon,’ Mr. Stewart. But the other +will naturally follow.” + +“I’m rather curious to follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall. He +walked to the desk and picked up the ink-bowl. “Ah!” he muttered, +after a moment—“I think I see your drift.” He nodded his head two or +three times—then came back to Charles Stewart again. “I’m going into +the garden for a few moments—when I return I should like to see Miss +Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn, your father’s secretary. Perhaps you would +be good enough to tell them.” He passed through the French doors—the +indefatigable Clegg at his heels. Anthony and Peter watched them go +through the rockery and disappear out of sight. “Where’s he gone now?” +questioned Peter. + +“He’s bound to have a look outside,” was Anthony’s reply. “He may pick +up the O’Connor information—he should do—he’s a pretty shrewd fellow.” + +Out of sight of the library, Clegg touched the Inspector on the +coat-sleeve. “What I wanted to tell you was this. I wanted you to come +into it fresh—with no suspicions so to speak—so I didn’t tell you +everything till you’d had a bit of a look round.” He gazed round +warily to make sure that they were not overlooked or overheard. Then +he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his tunic and handed +Goodall a dainty lace handkerchief. “I found that caught in the +curtains hanging by those French doors yesterday morning,” he +explained breathlessly. “Do you see the initials? That belongs to the +dead man’s ward—Miss Lennox.” + +Goodall handled it with great interest. “Now that’s very curious, +Clegg,” he observed. “Miss Lennox—eh? And I understand that +Butterworth, the butler, accuses her of having been with the dead man +at ten minutes past ten on the night of the murder—h’m. She, in her +turn, puts the rough edge of her tongue round Mr. Morgan +Llewellyn—h’m! Clegg—where the hell are we getting to?” + +Clegg coughed discreetly. “There was the other point I mentioned, +Inspector, on top of all that,” he pointed out steadfastly. Goodall +considered for a second. Then he remembered what Clegg meant. + +“She attempted to get into the library you mean, don’t you, when you +left your man on duty there?” + +“Not a doubt about it,” replied the Sergeant. + +“Before I see her or this secretary fellow—I’m going to have a few +words with some of the servants——come along with me—we may perhaps +pick something up that may be valuable.” + +Clegg fell into step. Goodall went on to outline his difficulties. +“There’s one feature of the case that’s rather strange, Clegg. Nothing +appears to have been stolen from here at all—no search seems to have +been made for anything—there’s not a drawer ransacked or disturbed. +Now in this other affair that I told you about—this Hanover Galleries +murder—three objects that the dead man here was desperately keen on +getting hold of were stolen—they were apparently the motive for the +murder. Yet nothing’s gone from here.” He turned to Clegg somewhat +impatiently. The Sergeant wagged his big head solemnly. + +“Aye,” he conceded—“that’s the very identical point that struck me. +But”—he thrust his face very close to Goodall’s—“is it certain that +the two murders _are_ connected—have you never heard tell of the long +arm of coincidence?” He pronounced the last word to rhyme with +“guidance,” much to Goodall’s professional disgust. + +“No,” affirmed the latter, “there’s no doubt in my own mind that there +is a connection somewhere, and it’s up to me to find it—I can’t agree +with your coincidence theory, Clegg.” + +The latter pushed his chest out and accepted Goodall’s statement as +final, registering at the same time a mental resolution that for the +future he would emit no theories. He would listen! + +Anthony, meanwhile, was still at work in the library, finding Peter +Daventry a highly appreciative audience. “The important features of +the case as I see them are these, Daventry. (a) The one shot fired +from Stewart’s revolver and the taking of that revolver by Clegg from +the _left-hand_ pocket of Stewart’s dressing-gown. (b) The use of +Patrick O’Connor’s bicycle some time during the evening or some time +during the night. (c) The message left by the dead man with its +reference to ‘M. L.’ (d) The dirty condition of the ink in the +ink-bowl. (e) The apparently impossible conditions under which the +murder was committed—the room is locked on the inside at both exits.” +He blew a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. “Add to that the somewhat +unusual and rather absorbing detail—the fascination for Stuart +antiques, themselves associated with a particularly brutal murder in +London almost contemporaneously—and we have all the ingredients for as +pretty a problem as ever was.” Then suddenly a thought seemed to +strike him. “By Jove,” he said, “that coal cabinet, Daventry. I wonder +if it’s worth while looking in there—it’s just possible the murderer +may have——” He dashed across to the coal cabinet. It was of the type +that swung outwards on a hinge. He pulled it towards him. Then he +knelt down in front of it. Taking a sheet of note-paper from his +pocket, he very carefully picked out some objects from the contents of +the scuttle. Daventry wasn’t able to see what they were as Anthony +placed them on the piece of paper. He couldn’t restrain his curiosity +any longer. “What is it, Bathurst? What have you found in there?” + +“A long shot,” chuckled Anthony, “but it’s happened to have come off.” +He held the paper out to his companion. “It struck me when I looked at +that coal-scuttle just now, that a person clearing little pieces of +dirt and mud from the surface of that table”—he pointed to the desk +where Stewart had been found dead—“might very easily dispose of them +in the scuttle—it might well be the handiest and most convenient +place—look here then!” Daventry looked at the paper held out on the +palm of Anthony’s hand. There were seven or eight dried pellets of mud +and four small light brown stones such as may be found in any garden. +Anthony went on with his explanation. “There isn’t very much coal +there—as you may see if you look—fires have been discontinued for some +time now, I expect—so it didn’t give me very much trouble to find +these chaps.” He smiled with infinite satisfaction, but Peter Daventry +wasn’t too clear at all. “I can understand that part of the business,” +he conceded—“where I’m floundering is over the part of the affair +before we come to that. I haven’t the foggiest notion how you ever +deduced their existence!” + +“When I get the chance,” replied Anthony, “I think I shall be able to +show you at least one other stone just like these four little fellows +that I’ve taken from the coal-scuttle—I can’t now—the Inspector and +Clegg may be back at any minute.” He walked to the French doors and +looked out—then turned back to Daventry. “There they come,” he +exclaimed. + +“That stone, Bathurst,” cut in Peter hastily. + +“Is _in this room_,” replied Anthony, “but not a word for the time +being.” + +Clegg stepped into the room, immediately followed by Goodall. To +Daventry’s amazement, Anthony went straight over to them. “Well, +Inspector, what did you make of the matter of O’Connor’s bicycle?” + +“You rather take my breath away, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall very +quietly. “Permit me to return your question—what did you?” + +“I had no doubt you would pick it up,” he said, “and I’ll answer your +question quite frankly.” He walked across to the bookcase, and +standing with his back to it had his three hearers in front of him, +Peter on his right, and the two officers on his left. “O’Connor’s +bicycle, gentlemen, was used last night to carry somebody from this +house into Assynton. In my opinion it carried the murderer of +Stewart—if not the murderer, certainly his or her accomplice—but I +fancy the murderer.” He watched the three faces to see the effect of +his opinion. Goodall became critical at once. + +“Who placed the bicycle in the shed then?” he asked cautiously. + +Bathurst’s reply came just as quickly. “The murderer, of course.” + +Goodall screwed up his face as though unconvinced. “You mean, then, +that the murderer returned—that the murderer lives——” + +Anthony interrupted him. “I mean that if my theory holds good—that the +_murderer_ used the machine and not an accomplice—he is either in this +house now or very near it. He or _she_.” + +But Goodall stuck to his guns. “But why go away to come back +again?—that’s what beats me.” + +“More than one reason might supply a reasonable answer to that +question, Inspector. The murderer may have wished to hide something, +for instance. He may have gone to meet somebody even. Thirdly, he may +have gone to deliver an important message.” He paused to consider the +three possibilities he had named. Then looked straight across to +Goodall. “I am inclined to the third suggestion myself, Inspector. +Rather strongly as a matter of fact.” He came away from the bookcase, +giving Peter Daventry an impression—vague perhaps—that the final word +had been spoken. + +Goodall shook his head rather doubtfully. “Theories are all very well +in their way, Mr. Bathurst—but if I were to go chasing after all the +theories I have put in front of me—I should be well set to work—can’t +you give me something more definite on which your theories have been +based—something more tangible?” + +Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets with a gesture of +impatience. “Of course I can, Inspector. Surely you don’t think I make +statements of this kind irresponsibly? ’Pon my soul, I feel rather +like picking up your challenge and being much more explicit than I had +intended to be.” He paced to the bookcase and then came back again. +“That bicycle was almost certainly ridden into Assynton after the +murder had been committed. For the reason, in my opinion, that +immediate communication had to be established between this end of the +tangle and the other—or if you prefer it—between Assynton Lodge and +the _people that murdered Mason at the Hanover Galleries the same +night_.” He paused, and Peter Daventry noticed that Inspector Goodall +was listening keenly and critically—punctuating Anthony’s remarks with +sharp, quick movements of the head. “I deduce an urgent telephone +message,” continued Anthony, “something had happened here that made +instantaneous action _imperative_—the ’phone was the only way. +Obviously the ’phone in the house itself must not be used—the nearest +is in Assynton village—the nearest that would also be safest. If you +like, I will embroider my theory somewhat.” He smiled as he sensed the +improvement in his “atmosphere.” He was beginning to “get over!” “I +deduce also, Inspector, that this urgent telephone message was very +probably to an hotel. I think that we are dealing with a dangerous set +of criminals who mean to stick at nothing to gain their ends and who +in all likelihood had prepared their plans very thoroughly to meet all +emergencies. If quick telephone communication formed a link in their +connection system those of them who are conducting the operations from +the other end were probably stopping at a quiet hotel. They don’t +appeal to me as likely to be permanent residents in the West End of +London, so I incline to the probability of an hotel.” He turned to +Inspector Goodall decisively. “Let me make a suggestion, Inspector! +Try to trace a telephone message from Assynton about 11:20 on the +night before last.” Goodall broke in with an exclamation of +incredulity. But Bathurst held up his hand and went straight on. “A +message to an hotel—I’ll give you a list that I fancy will contain the +identical one.” + +Goodall raised his hands. “You travel a darned sight too fast, Mr. +Bathurst. Hold hard a minute—there’s a pretty wide gulf of difference +between outlining your suggestions and putting them into solid +practice. For instance, you assert quite confidently that the time was +11:20. How——” + +“Tut-tut, man,” broke in Anthony—“that shouldn’t surprise you. Your +mysterious woman arrived at the Hanover Galleries at twelve o’clock or +thereabouts—I’ve endeavored to fill in the time with what happened +here between ten o’clock and then—I put the murder at eleven o’clock +approximately, and I’ve allowed twenty minutes for the cycle ride.” + +Goodall nodded slowly as Anthony made his points. “Granted all +that—Mr. Bathurst—I don’t say I accept it all—how about that list of +hotels you talk about drawing up and handing to me—there isn’t exactly +a famine in hotels in London—it seems to me it will be ‘some list.’” +He smiled at Anthony with just a tinge of sarcasm. + +“Just a little matter of geometry, Inspector,” came the somewhat +baffling answer. + +“Geometry?” queried Goodall. + +“Yes,” said Anthony, “with a given center and a radius say of one +mile—describe a circle—the hotel will be found within that circle—the +lady was at work on the real business by midnight—remember.” The +Inspector’s face cleared. + +“Of course! I see now what you mean. Your center will be the Hanover +Galleries?” + +“Exactly,” replied Mr. Bathurst. + + + +CHAPTER XII + +The Second Screen of Mary Stuart + +Goodall turned to Clegg and fired off a rapid fusillade of +instructions to which that worthy gave the most respectful attention. +“At once, Inspector?” he questioned. + +“Quicker than that,” snapped Goodall, “and stand no nonsense from +anybody.” + +Anthony gave him a glance of approval. Then watched Clegg depart with +heavy and important tread. “Tell Mr. Charles Stewart we should like to +speak to him for a moment,” he called to the Sergeant as he made his +way towards the hall—“you’ll find him close handy.” Goodall then came +forward. “I want Mr. Stewart,” he said. “He promised that I should +interview Miss Lennox and the late Mr. Stewart’s secretary—also I’m +afraid I’ve been keeping him waiting.” + +“Would you mind postponing the interviews for a little while, +Inspector?” asked Anthony. “I’ve another suggestion to make.” + +“Let’s hear it then.” + +“Please yourself, of course,” proceeded Anthony—“have them in now by +all means if you consider it very important. But what I was going to +suggest was this. I should very much like to have a look at this +Museum Room of Mr. Stewart’s. I’ve got a shrewd idea that it won’t +prove to be entirely unprofitable.” + +Goodall thought for a moment and then signified his agreement. “Very +well, Mr. Bathurst—that will suit me very well—I can see the others +later.” + +As he spoke Charles Stewart returned. + +“That trifling matter of the Museum Room, Mr. Stewart,” exclaimed +Anthony. “Did you remember to get that little catalogue from Mr. +Llewellyn that you promised me? If you did I should like to go in +there and have that tour of inspection I discussed with you last +evening.” + +Stewart made an exclamation of regret. “My apologies, Mr. Bathurst, it +slipped my memory—but I’ll soon rectify that.” He touched the bell. +“Mr. Llewellyn,” he said as the secretary appeared, “didn’t you +compile for my father some time ago a catalogue of the contents of the +Museum Room?” + +Anthony watched the secretary’s face with the utmost intentness as he +replied. “Yes, Mr. Charles. That is so! Your father was very keen on +having it done.” + +Charles Stewart nodded eagerly. “Bring me a copy, will you, please? In +here—at once!” + +Llewellyn left quite imperturbably and Stewart offered a hint of +explanation to the others. “My father thought a tremendous lot of +Llewellyn, gentlemen—and one of the reasons of his great confidence in +him was because of Llewellyn’s keen interest in _all_ of my father’s +concerns. He wasn’t a chap who just did his bare duty and no more—he +seemed able to identify himself intimately with each one of my +father’s many interests—and not least with his mania for collecting.” + +Anthony stopped him. “Is Llewellyn a ‘devotee’ of the ‘antique +artistic’?” he asked. + +“My father found him a most zealous assistant in it, Mr. Bathurst,” +replied Charles Stewart, “that’s all I can tell you. I’m afraid I was +much less interested myself.” + +A tap on the library door heralded the secretary’s reappearance. +“There is a copy of what you wanted, Mr. Charles,” he declared. +Stewart took it and rapidly glanced over it. “That is a list,” +continued Llewellyn, “of every single article in your father’s +collection.” + +Charles Stewart handed the list to Anthony. “Here you are, Mr. +Bathurst! Would you like a copy, too, Inspector?” + +Goodall declined with a shake of the head. “All I want I can get from +Mr. Bathurst,” he answered. “Remember—this is more his ‘stunt’ than +mine. I haven’t yet been informed that anything has been stolen from +the room in question”—he looked hard at his questioner. Stewart’s +reply came with just the slightest touch of asperity. + +“Mr. Bathurst doesn’t get any inspired information from me, Inspector, +if that’s what you’re hinting at. He knows that I rather disagree with +his idea. The room was closed when the alarm was given, and I’ve never +suggested to anybody that anything has been stolen.” + +Goodall partly shifted his ground. “Why then is our friend here so +insistent on the point?” + +Anthony made an attempt at explanation. “I’m not exactly insistent, +Inspector,” he explained, “don’t misunderstand me! I haven’t perhaps +very much reason at the back of my idea, but I’m just curious to get a +look at these treasures that the late Mr. Stewart valued so highly. I +have a strong feeling that the visit may help us considerably.” + +Here Goodall’s gesture stopped him. + +“Your theory, of course, Mr. Bathurst, if I may call it such, being +based on the Hanover Galleries murder—eh?” + +“Yes,” replied Anthony quickly, “it seems to me that the whole case +revolves round the Stuart heirlooms—if you can so describe them.” + +“Well,” intervened Stewart, “the matter can very soon be settled—we’ll +go to the room. Get the key, Mr. Llewellyn, will you—you’ll probably +find it hanging up in the service-room. Come along, gentlemen.” It was +the work of a moment for Llewellyn to get the key and for Stewart to +unlock the door of the room. The five men entered. As far as could be +seen the room presented an appearance of complete order. A more +heterogeneous collection it would have been impossible to imagine. +Tables of old and exquisite workmanship supported the smaller +articles—the larger finding their place on the floor and against the +four walls. Four glass cases protected other treasures. Manuscripts, +missals, musical instruments of all ages, weapons, rings, snuff-boxes, +furniture of all kinds were to be found, with suits of ancient armor +and specimens of fragile glass. + +“There are over two thousand articles in this room, gentlemen,” +announced Morgan Llewellyn, “and the catalogue that I was privileged +to compile lists and partly describes every one of the two thousand +odd. If you look at the end of the catalogue, Mr. Bathurst, you’ll see +the exact number there are.” Bathurst turned to the end. “Two thousand +and forty-four,” he declared. Goodall smiled at Llewellyn and Stewart. + +“Well, it’s pretty evident that no burglarious entry was made here, +gentlemen. Nothing here appears to have been disturbed.” He turned to +the others for corroboration of his opinion. + +Stewart shook his head doubtfully. “It would be most difficult, +gentlemen, to trace anything that _had_ been stolen. My father +doubtless would have been able to tell at once, but I fear that now——” +He stopped and shook his head again. + +“I appreciate what Mr. Stewart says entirely,” supported Llewellyn. “I +was intimately connected with this particular side of Mr. Stewart, +senior, but I should hesitate to assert that I could say that anything +was missing. Of course, I could tell if some of the things had been +taken—some of the more special objects for instance. For example”—he +walked to a table that stood to the left of the door. On it lay what +looked like a circlet of dull and twisted metal. Llewellyn picked it +up. “The ancient Crown of the Kings of England—believed to have last +graced the head of Charles the First. Mr. Stewart paid a tremendous +price for this—and the sale was secret. It was purchased by him from +one of the most famous names in England. I should have known at once, +for example, if this had been missing.” He replaced it on the table, +and his eyes smouldered with the covetous zeal of the collector. +Laurence Stewart’s enthusiasm had apparently been infectious. Bathurst +found himself pondering over it. Llewellyn crossed to the wall and +unhooked a piece of armor that had been hanging there. “Look at this! +This is a gorget. Who do you think is supposed to have worn it?” +Goodall took it and examined it curiously. + +“No idea,” he said. It was a species of breastplate shaped like a +half-moon. + +“That,” continued Llewellyn, well launched now on a subject close to +his heart, “is supposed to have been worn by the Black Prince at the +Battle of Creçy. That is a second thing that I should have missed +instantly.” + +Inspector Goodall cut in. “Let’s put it like this, Mr. Llewellyn, or +you, Mr. Stewart! Do either of you miss anything at all—that’s the +quickest way to get to grips with the question?” + +Llewellyn made a tour of the room. “I miss nothing, Inspector.” + +Charles Stewart shook his head rather despondently. “I can’t help you +and that’s a fact, Inspector. You must leave it at that.” He looked at +Anthony Bathurst, who was, however, busy at the moment turning over +the leaves of Llewellyn’s catalogue. + +“Well then, if that’s the case,” rejoined Goodall, “no particularly +good purpose will be served by us stopping in here any longer. I’m +afraid Mr. Bathurst has given us a ‘stunner’ this time.” + +“Half a minute,” interposed Anthony quietly. “You’ve all had an +innings, now it’s my turn. Listen to me for two minutes. Mr. +Llewellyn”—he turned to the secretary—“consider for a moment item +number eight hundred and sixty-six in the catalogue, will you?” + +Apparently the number conveyed nothing to Llewellyn, for his face was +unchanged. + +“Eight—six—six?” he inquired. + +“I’ll read you the description I find here,” proceeded Anthony. +“Antique fire-screen, of beaten metal-work—about four feet high. +Originally the property of Mary, Queen of Scots.” He tucked the +catalogue under his arm. “I’d like to have a look at that,” he said, +“I’m interested.” + +Llewellyn raised his forefinger. “You shall, Mr. Bathurst, I do know +it now you mention it—it’s in this corner—behind this collection of +Waterford glass.” He crossed to the right-hand corner of the room. +Anthony scratched the back of his neck—watching Llewellyn pick his way +between the tables. Suddenly the secretary stopped, and although his +back was towards them, more than one of the four detected an anxiety +in the manner of his stopping. Then he turned—his face white and +working with excitement. “It’s gone, gentlemen,” he cried. “It’s not +here—come and look yourself, Mr. Stewart.” Charles Stewart walked +quickly to the corner. + +“There’s no screen here,” he declared. + +“Mightn’t it be somewhere else?” asked the Inspector. “Are these +things always kept in precisely the same spot?” + +“Always, Inspector,” replied Morgan Llewellyn promptly. “Mr. Stewart +was most particular about that.” + +“Isn’t it possible that Mr. Stewart himself may have removed it—on the +eve of his intended purchases—for comparison or something?” suggested +Daventry. + +“No,” said Llewellyn. “I think not. I’m certain Mr. Stewart would have +told me if he had done so.” + +“Goodall,” said Anthony, with a suspicion of the didactic in his +manner, “I can now assure you of at least one thing! Mason, the +night-watchman, was murdered for possession of the other Stuart +screen!” + +“And my father——” broke in Charles Stewart with emotion. + +“I am not sure,” replied Anthony with his hand on Stewart’s shoulder, +“yet! Time is precious,” he continued, “we’re moving at last. Who can +give me a more detailed description of this screen that was kept +here—I am anxious to know more about it? Can you, Mr. Llewellyn?” + +Llewellyn hesitated. But Peter was unable to decide what it was that +was passing through his mind. He seemed to be considering something, +but nevertheless gave no apparent hint of embarrassment or agitation. +Then his answer came, but it was not quite in the form that Peter had +anticipated. + +“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Bathurst. I certainly remember the +screen, as I said just now. It was of some kind of beaten metal-work +and about the size stated in the catalogue. When I compiled the +catalogue I had some notes of Mr. Stewart’s to assist me in my +classification—I remember I used his own description wherever +possible, when it came to making up my own list. There were some +objects in the collection that I was forced to raise certain questions +about through lack of information in the notes, but this screen wasn’t +one of those. Mr. Stewart himself, I may add, approved the description +in the catalogue in every instance.” + +Anthony had followed him very carefully as he furnished this +explanation. “Did Mr. Stewart mention the matter of this screen to you +in connection with his projected purchase of the other one?” + +Llewellyn shook his head vigorously. “Never!” was his emphatic reply. +“I knew that he was adding to his collection, but he never referred in +any way to this screen that he already had in his possession. I’m +absolutely sure on the point.” + +“Forgive me, Mr. Llewellyn, if I appear insistent, but I’ve understood +since I’ve been here that you were a very zealous assistant to Mr. +Stewart in this particular branch of his work. Is that true?” + +Here Goodall intervened abruptly. “Yes, Mr. Llewellyn, how was it, if +you were so intimate with Mr. Stewart in all his collecting work, that +he didn’t mention the fact of these two screens to you?” But Llewellyn +was not to be so easily shaken. + +“Without appearing to be disrespectful, I would suggest that Mr. +Stewart would have been in a better position to answer that than I, +Inspector,” he replied smoothly. + +Goodall flushed, but Llewellyn went on. “All I can say is that he +_didn’t_ mention them.” + +Then Anthony countered with another question. “Had Mr. Stewart +confided in you at any time—before—had he discussed similar purchases +on previous occasions?” + +“Many times,” responded Llewellyn with absolute candor. + +“Can you then account for a seeming lack of confidence on his part in +this instance?” + +“Frankly, Mr. Bathurst, I can’t! But Mr. Stewart, if his son will +pardon my outspokenness at such a time as this, was a man of quick +impulses. He was very impetuous and utterly impatient—caught by this +whim and influenced by that wave of feeling—therefore not exactly a +man that you could call a model of consistency. Not that I have any +reason or desire to find fault with him as an employer. He was always +just and always generous—I cannot complain of his treatment of me.” He +looked up and caught Inspector Goodall’s eye and he was quick enough +to sense its disapproval. For Goodall’s brain was considering several +elements of doubt. “Why,” said the Inspector to himself, “why does +this young man talk like this when Miss Marjorie Lennox accuses him of +harboring revengeful feelings against the man of whom he speaks?” He +decided that the solution to this little problem might possibly be +more speedily forthcoming if he showed a little craft. So he affected +an air of ingenuousness. + +“The sentiments do you credit,” he declared. “It’s the fashion of the +world nowadays to run down your employers as much as you can. Well, +Mr. Bathurst, what about this screen of yours? I’m afraid there’s +nobody here that can help you with those details you asked for. You’ll +have to remain content with the description in the catalogue—‘an +antique metal-work screen.’ I expect the only person that could have +supplied more information was Mr. Stewart himself.” + +“That’s not quite true!” A musical voice from the doorway tinkled +across to the group of men. They all turned instantaneously as +Marjorie Lennox picked her dainty way towards them. “No! That’s not +true,” she reaffirmed. “Because I can! Charles—introduce me to these +gentlemen.” She spoke imperiously. + +Peter Daventry realized when he bowed to this charming interruption +that life had discovered for him an additional interest. He murmured a +few words to a magical smile and thanked God for another blessing. +Anthony expressed his intense satisfaction that Miss Lennox was able +to help them so materially, in which statement he was gallantly +seconded by Detective-Inspector Goodall, whose thoughts at the same +time reverted to Sergeant Clegg and a lady’s handkerchief! + +“I overheard what was being said,” exclaimed Miss Lennox demurely, +“and I realized at once that I could help you. The night before he +died, poor Uncle Laurence brought me in here specially to look at that +screen. He was very excited about it and he explained to me that Lord +Clavering’s death and the sale of his property had given him the +chance to get the two screens that had belonged to Mary, Queen of +Scots, before the débacle at Carbery Hill and her subsequent +imprisonment. We looked at it together—I can describe it very fully.” + +“Just what I want, Miss Lennox,” exclaimed Anthony. “As fully as you +can, please—you will help me a lot.” + +Marjorie puckered her brow. Peter instantly formed the opinion that it +made her distinctly more lovely than ever. “It stood about so high,” +she declared with an appropriate gesture, “and was made as far as I +could judge of some kind of metal—copper I should imagine from the +color. Of course, being over 300 years old it was much darker and +blacker than the beaten copper work that we see now.” Here came more +brow-puckering, to Peter’s secret delight—Mr. Daventry, it must be +remembered, had a keen eye and the soundest of discriminating tastes. +“The next part is harder to remember,” continued the charming +chronicler, “but I think I’m right.” She thought for a moment and then +went on. “In the top left-hand corner there was Mary’s Lion and in the +right-hand corner the ‘fleur-de-lis.’ At the bottom of the screen—on +the right——” + +“Forgive me, Miss Lennox,” said Peter under the influence of a sudden +impulse, “it’s awfully rude of me, I know, but let me see if I can +finish the description for you—just a fancy of mine—that’s all.” + +Miss Lennox looked very surprised and a little disdainful, but, “Go on +then,” was all she permitted herself to say. Thus encouraged, Peter +did so. + +“At the bottom,” he declared oracularly, “were the Leopards and Lilies +of England.” + +A pair of wonderful blue eyes seemed suddenly to become more +wonderful. With the wonder of amazement. + +“You’re right—absolutely right,” she said. “Where and when did you see +Uncle’s screen?” + +But Peter proceeded with the assurance of the conqueror. “In the +center,” he said, “were the words, ‘Jesus Christ, God and Saviour.’” +He paused and with his eyes invited her corroboration. But this time +Marjorie corrected him—_very_ disdainfully. + +“Oh no,” she remarked—“in the center were two words in Latin. They had +been scratched, or inscribed perhaps is the happier word, with a +sharp-pointed instrument—at least that’s what it looked like. The two +words were ‘_Timeo Danaos_.’” Here she stopped as all good +story-tellers should when they have scored a good point. + +“Translate, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall with the suggestion of a grin, +“my classics are rusty.” + +“‘_Timeo Danaos_,’” repeated Anthony, “‘_et dona ferentes_’—which +being interpreted means, ‘I fear the Greeks especially when they bring +gifts.’” + +“What the deuce are Greeks doing on this screen?” grumbled Goodall. + +Anthony shook his head. “Can’t see for the moment, I admit. Anything +else, Miss Lennox?” + +Marjorie nodded her little head in the affirmative. “Yes,” she said, +“right underneath the two words—almost exactly in the center of the +screen—was a big fish.” + +“A fish?” queried Anthony, wrinkling his forehead, “what sort of a +fish?” + +Marjorie shook her head. “Just an ordinary fish—that’s all I could say +about it. All the animals—the Lion, and the Leopards and the Fish—and +the flowers too, were done in a kind of repoussé work—you know what I +mean—they stood out as it were away from the surface of the screen +itself.” + +Anthony nodded that he understood what she meant. + +“You’ve been of tremendous assistance to me, Miss Lennox,” he +declared. “The case becomes more complicated than ever, but all the +same I feel it in my bones that we shall solve it. Inspector Goodall +here will confirm my opinion.” + +The Inspector smiled grimly, but whatever remark he may have been +about to make was stifled by the reappearance of Sergeant Clegg at the +door of the Museum Room. Clegg saluted smartly. + +“A word with you, Inspector, if you please.” + +Goodall turned to Charles Stewart. “Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I should +be obliged if you would take Miss Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn into the +library—I will join you in a few moments—I want to have a little chat +with them—thank you.” + +Peter Daventry had been half hoping that the Inspector would dismiss +him too, but his luck failed. He was more reconciled, however, when he +listened to Clegg’s report. + +“A trunk-call was put through on the night of the murder, Inspector, +to Blanchard’s Hotel, Clifford Street, W. I worked on the lines this +gentleman suggested—although as it happened he was a good bit out in +his reckoning as regards the time.” This last remark left his lips +triumphantly. + +Anthony looked up—puzzled. “How much, Sergeant?” he inquired promptly. + +“Eleven minutes,” Clegg announced judicially. + +“Good Lord, Sergeant,” said Anthony, “I was afraid you meant hours”—he +broke off and shrugged his shoulders. + +The Sergeant looked aggrieved. “Eleven minutes is a long time, if I +may say so,” he urged—defending his position—“you try and catch a +train when you’re eleven minutes late.” + +“Come, Clegg,” exclaimed Goodall impatiently, “what do they say at +Blanchard’s Hotel?” + +Clegg resumed his narrative with an air of injury. “I ’phoned the +Hotel and I’ve been able to trace that it was to a gentleman who was +staying there with his wife. When the ’phone call had been answered +they asked for the manager—immediately. They informed him that owing +to the sudden serious illness of a near relative they were obliged to +leave the hotel at once. They paid their bill, collected their luggage +and departed.” + +“On foot?” cut in Goodall peremptorily. + +“I didn’t inquire,” murmured Clegg, “I was too—er—taken aback with +what I heard next. This gentleman and his wife had registered at the +hotel in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart!” + +Goodall whistled in amazement. + +“From where?” flashed Anthony. + +“From New York,” replied the Sergeant. + + + +CHAPTER XIII + +Colonel Leach-Fletcher Is at Home to Visitors + +“Stewart!” echoed Goodall. “Great Scott! Where on earth are we getting +to? Did you get a description of these people, Clegg?” + +“I did, sir. According to my information the man was between thirty +and forty—his wife about the same. They had been at Blanchard’s Hotel +about a week—I didn’t wait for any more details—I was anxious to get +back to you with the information I had got!” + +Goodall gave him a quick nod of praise, then turned to Anthony. “Do +you know what I’m thinking, Mr. Bathurst?” he said. “I’m thinking that +this lady and gentleman who left this hotel so suddenly are the +identical pair that lunched with Mr. Daventry. What do you think, +yourself?” + +Anthony considered for a brief moment. “Yes, Inspector, I’m inclined +to agree with you—I _was_ thinking the same, myself. And when you get +them you’ll clap your hands on the murderer of poor Mason, the +night-watchman—you can bet your bottom dollar on that.” + +Goodall’s jaw set tight. “Well, I _shall_ clap my hands on them—if it +means chasing them over two continents. At the same time—I’ve got +precious little to go upon—two people from New York that put up at an +hotel for a week and then walk out of it suddenly. It’s a needle in a +haystack job, very probably,” he concluded pessimistically. + +“You have two other facts besides that, Inspector,” added Anthony. +“They possess a tapestry fire-screen, stolen from Day, Forshaw and +Palmers’, and the lady sneezes.” + +Goodall snapped his fingers impatiently. + +“All the same, Mr. Bathurst—that won’t help me overmuch. But with +regard to what you just said about the screen—have they one screen or +two?” + +“That’s difficult to say, Inspector. I don’t know what to think—upon +reflection, perhaps two.” + +“That’s what I think,” agreed Goodall, “and when I’ve had my little +interview with Miss Lennox and Llewellyn—I’ll decide upon a plan of +action.” + +Half an hour later he joined Anthony and Peter. “I’m running up to +Blanchard’s Hotel,” he announced. “It’s imperative that I should have +a look round there—there may be a most valuable clue left behind—you +never know. What will you do, Mr. Bathurst?” + +“I’m calling on a gentleman whose name has been mentioned more than +once in connection with this case, Inspector—a gentleman who lives +very near—Colonel Leach-Fletcher.” + +Goodall’s face brightened. “Exactly my own idea,” he exclaimed, “it +was just on the cards that I called on him myself before getting my +train up to town.” He stopped and thought—then swung round quickly on +the two men. “And I will, Mr. Bathurst,” he declared, “I’ll come with +you—if anybody can tell us anything it’s this Colonel chap.” + +“Right‑o, there’s no time like the present. What about getting away +now?” + +“Delighted—I’ll just run back and tell Clegg.” Goodall dashed back and +within a couple of minutes had made a start. “The address is ‘Neuve +Chapelle’—it’s a charming bungalow, I’m given to understand, on the +road to Rockinge—a matter of about four miles. The gallant Colonel, I +presume, judging from the name he has given his bungalow, saw service +in the European War—I expect Stewart found him an interesting and +delightful neighbor.” + +“No doubt,” agreed the Inspector, “I hear from Clegg that they were +pretty close cronies.” + +“Neuve Chapelle” was reached in an hour, and the smart maid-servant +who answered their ring showed some signs of surprise at the number of +the visitors. The Colonel evidently didn’t have many friends who +called upon him of mornings. Goodall took upon himself the post of +spokesman. + +“My compliments to Colonel Leach-Fletcher,” he said, “and will you +please tell him that Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard, +would like to see him for a moment or two?” + +The maid-servant looked scared and her rosy cheeks whitened a trifle. +“Will you please step inside, I’ll tell my master.” + +An interval of a few moments saw them ushered into what was evidently +the lounge. It was altogether a charming room, furnished in +irreproachable taste. A man in the early sixties was standing in the +center of the room—facing them as they entered. Colonel Leach-Fletcher +was a man of fine physique——round about five feet ten and weighing as +far as Anthony could judge from a quick glance, somewhere in the +region of fourteen stone. His manner was very decisive—some people +might have described it as curt. + +“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said rather abruptly. “I understand you +wish to see me—about poor Stewart I presume?” + +Goodall bowed. “These gentlemen are Mr. Anthony Bathurst and Mr. Peter +Daventry—they represent Mr. Charles Stewart’s interests.” + +Colonel Leach-Fletcher acknowledged the introduction with a quick +inclination of the head—and a rather cavalier one, at that. “I am +ready to tell you anything you think necessary—but really, I’m afraid +you will find it of small consequence—sit down, gentlemen!” The +Colonel took up his position in front of the mantelpiece as his +self-invited guests accepted his invitation. + +“In the first place, Colonel,” said Goodall, opening the interview, “I +am informed that you dined with the murdered man on the evening of the +murder, and left Assynton Lodge somewhere about ten o’clock.” Goodall +looked up for the Colonel’s corroboration. It came immediately. + +“Quite correct!” Goodall waited to see if the Colonel purposed adding +anything to his reply, but the Colonel didn’t—he waited for Goodall. + +“Was Mr. Stewart in normally good spirits during the evening, +Colonel?” + +Colonel Leach-Fletcher twirled his white moustache. Then he thrust his +two hands deep into his trouser-pockets and stood still. “Look here, +Inspector—what name did you say—Goodall?—look here, Inspector +Goodall—I’m utterly opposed to beating about the bush, so I’ll tell +you straight to your face without any embroidery that I hate your +infernal trade and all its tricks and practices. But I’m a man that +realizes the exigencies of duty—so I’ll waive my personal inclinations +that prompt me to send you to the Devil—and I’ll answer your +question—even though I feel within me that I’m betraying a dead man’s +confidence. Mr. Stewart was _not_ exactly in his ordinary cheerful +frame of mind on the evening in question.” + +“H’m,” said Goodall, “perhaps you will explain more fully.” + +Anthony’s eyes never left the Colonel now—he realized that he might be +on the point of hearing something that touched the crime very closely. +The Colonel’s steely-blue eyes were full of resolution and +determination. He had made a decision, and though he found its +carrying-out irksome and unpleasant, he was determined to see it +through. + +“You must understand that Stewart and I had become very friendly and +were on very intimate terms. We had a number of common interests and +we were almost neighbors, four miles isn’t a great distance in the +country. I am not sure that, when he invited me to dine with him that +evening, he hadn’t a special reason for so doing. If I may be +permitted to say so—he valued my opinion on most things and regarded +himself as privileged to consider me a friend. During the +evening—_after_ dinner—he took me into the library and told me of two +matters that were causing him a good deal of uneasiness. The first was +rather a surprising one. He told me that there was underhand work +going on at Assynton Lodge.” + +Anthony, with a quick glance at Goodall, cut in. “Did he actually use +the word ‘underhand,’ Colonel?” + +The latter pursed his lips. “Upon reflection, I believe he used the +word ‘treacherous,’ but I’m not absolutely certain on the point. Is it +very important?” + +Anthony shook his head. “Tell us more, Colonel——this is most +illuminating.” The Colonel appeared gratified at this testimony to his +narrative powers. He proceeded. + +“Mr. Stewart went on to tell me that more than once he had found that +his private papers and documents had been interfered with. This fact +was worrying him considerably and causing him great concern. It wasn’t +so much the espionage that troubled him, but the idea that there was +somebody near to him that was acting treacherously. I gathered from +his conversation with me that evening that he was determined to take +the bull by the horns and endeavor to put a stop to it, if at all +possible.” + +“Did he suspect anybody?” questioned Goodall. + +“I think not,” replied the Colonel, “at any rate, if he did, he +refrained from taking me into his confidence to that extent.” + +“One point that strikes me as important, Colonel,” interposed Anthony, +“did Mr. Stewart give you any idea as to how long this had been going +on?” + +“Only for a matter of months at the most—that at all events is +certain—it commenced, he told me, some time after he came to England.” + +“Had he mentioned it to you before?” Anthony watched the Colonel very +keenly as he put this question to him. + +“Not in actual terms,” came the reply, “he had hinted once or twice +very recently that he was disturbed about something, but he never gave +me any actual details till that last night of his life.” + +The Colonel leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and put his head in +his hand. + +“What was the second matter that Mr. Stewart spoke about?” queried +Goodall. + +The Colonel deliberated for a moment or two before he answered. + +“There, gentlemen, you approach me on much more delicate ground. And +in some ways, I regret having made the admission to you and the +promise to tell you all I know. The dead man, if he still possesses a +spiritual consciousness in some other sphere, will, I hope, +understand. I can only hope also that the living man will understand +too. Gentlemen, Mr. Stewart was extremely upset about the conduct of +his son—Charles Stewart.” + +Goodall’s body became all attention. It seemed to him that he was +beginning to emerge into the light at last. + +“What had Charles Stewart done to offend his father?” he demanded. The +Colonel extended his hands towards them—palms upwards. It was a +gesture of deprecation and at the same time seemed to contain a tinge +of disappointment. “That is a question I cannot answer! Mr. Stewart +did not enlighten me. He told me that he was grievously disappointed +over something Charles had done. He said that it would make a +difference to his whole life.” + +“_Whose_ life?” Anthony shot the question at him. “His own life or his +son’s?” + +“I understood him to mean his _own_ life,” rejoined the Colonel very +quietly. + +“And he gave you no inkling as to what this conduct was?” + +“None at all!” The Colonel shook his head slowly, “and I didn’t press +him for any more information on the point. It would have been a breach +of courtesy on my part to have appeared unwarrantably inquisitive. I +let Mr. Stewart tell me as much as it pleased him—and I sympathized +with him. He was deeply attached to Charles and felt the +misunderstanding or whatever it was very keenly. There is just one +more piece of information that I am in a position to give. Mr. Stewart +intended having an interview with his son after I left that evening. +Of course, I can’t say that the interview ever took place.” The +Colonel caressed his moustache again. + +Goodall sprang to his feet. “Good heavens, Colonel! Do you realize the +gravity of this last statement? Do you know at what time Mr. Stewart’s +murder has been put at—pretty well _fixed_?” + +“I do not, Inspector,” responded the Colonel. “I have only heard the +bare facts.” He looked at Goodall with an invitation for information. +The Inspector gave it to him. + +“As far as we are able to judge—we who have been looking into the +case—the late Mr. Stewart met his death somewhere about eleven +o’clock—just about an hour after Butterworth saw you out.” + +The Colonel shrugged his square shoulders. “An hour is a long time, +gentlemen, I would remind you! And Charles Stewart may not have been +with his father after all. Events may have conspired to prevent +it—there’s no knowing. You are working more or less in the dark.” + +Anthony ranged himself with the Colonel. “I quite agree with you, sir. +Half-a-dozen people might have been in the library with Mr. Stewart +between ten and eleven o’clock that night—there is no evidence to the +contrary—that’s certain. But this interview that you mention, Colonel! +Are you convinced that it was to be on the subject that had caused Mr. +Stewart such displeasure? That seems to me to matter a great deal.” + +“I can’t be certain with regard to that,” was the Colonel’s reply. +“Mr. Stewart didn’t tell me so exactly—but I think that I should be +perfectly justified in assuming so—coming as it did after what he had +just previously told me.” + +Goodall took a hand again. “Coming back to the details of your own +visit, Colonel—I’m sure you won’t mind answering a few more questions. +How did you travel over to Assynton Lodge on that particular evening?” + +The Colonel’s reply came quickly with a touch of annoyance in his +voice. “By car, of course, my own car. What’s your point in asking a +question like that?” + +Goodall affected not to hear the question—he made no immediate answer. +“So that I presume,” he continued, “that you were home here by +ten-fifteen easily?” + +“I should imagine that would be about the time,” said Colonel +Leach-Fletcher testily, “though what the blazes all this has to do +with the affair——” + +Goodall intervened again. “In that quarter of an hour’s journey—did +you pass anybody or notice anybody on the road?” + +“I did not,” snapped the Colonel. “It was a perfectly glorious night, +and if I had passed anybody, I probably shouldn’t have seen them—my +attention is always too much taken up in driving my car.” + +Anthony flashed him a cordial smile. “Fond of motoring, Colonel?” + +“I am that. It’s one of my hobbies—the roads are pretty good down this +way, and I go for some fast spins.” + +Anthony rubbed his hands. “You’re another like myself,” he chuckled. +“What’s your car?” + +“A Bentley—latest model,” said the Colonel—“real beauty—I can knock an +easy seventy-five out of her.” + +“I don’t think I’ve seen the latest model,” said Anthony reflectively, +“I don’t fancy——” + +The Colonel broke in on his musings enthusiastically. “Come out to the +garage then and have a look at mine. It won’t take a moment.” + +They followed the Colonel, who explained the car’s fine points with +the eagerness of a schoolboy. Goodall looked at his watch. + +“Good-bye, Colonel,” he said, “I must be going! Many thanks for your +kindness. You know where I’m off to, Mr. Bathurst—don’t quite know +when I shall be back—if you want me, ’phone ‘the Yard.’” + +The Colonel’s eyes followed his retreating figure for some distance. +“We must be going too, Colonel,” exclaimed Anthony, “but there’s one +little point before I go. That last evening you spent with Mr. +Stewart—did he refer to any book while you were there—was he reading +any book at any time during the evening? Try to remember if you +possibly can!” + +The Colonel knitted his brows. “There was a book open on his desk, now +you come to mention it—I remember seeing it there—what was it called +now?” he searched his mind in the effort of remembrance—“I know—it was +Renan’s _Vie de Jésus_.” + + + +CHAPTER XIV + +Mr. Bathurst Takes a Book From the Bookcase + +The Colonel made this announcement with an air! “By Gad!” it seemed to +say—“I’ll show these police fellers and detective Johnnies that they +aren’t the only people that can use their eyes or their memories!” +Then Mr. Bathurst jerked him back from his ecstatic contemplation to +stern reality. + +“Now Colonel,” he said, “think very carefully—when did you see this +book lying on Mr. Stewart’s desk—when you entered the library after +dinner—or when you left him at ten o’clock?” + +The Colonel frowned. “Damn it all, sir,” he muttered, “you expect a +man to remember a devil of a lot—had I known there was going to be a +murder, I might have taken more particular notice,” he glared at his +questioner with growing impatience. + +Anthony smiled. “As a matter of fact, sir—I wouldn’t have troubled to +ask that question of ninety-nine persons out of a hundred—because I +know I should get no satisfaction. The ordinary person is very +unobservant. But I have been so impressed with the various points that +you have remembered.” + +The Colonel grunted his satisfaction—he was a soldier and therefore +not unmoved by flattery. “Thank you—thank you,” he muttered. “Now +let me see if I _can_ help you in this particular instance.” He +closed his eyes for a few seconds seeking either concentration or +inspiration—perhaps both. “The book was lying open on poor Stewart’s +desk when he took me into the library—I’m certain of that now I cast +my mind back—and I’m almost equally certain that it was in exactly the +same position when I said ‘Good-bye’—I can’t remember him closing it +or putting it away—he was talking pretty seriously to me virtually the +entire evening. Yes”—he reflected, giving himself a species of mental +check—“I’m confident that’s right.” Anthony held out his hand. + +“That’s excellent, Colonel.” + +Colonel Leach-Fletcher took it in his. “Must you be going?” + +“Afraid so, Colonel—we’ve a heap of things to see to, Mr. Daventry and +I—and we haven’t too much time at our disposal—coming over to see you +has helped us no end—no doubt I shall see you again before the affair +is finally settled.” + +“When is the inquest fixed for?” queried the Colonel. + +“Haven’t been told yet,” answered Anthony, “but in all probability it +will only be formal at the first inquiry. The Police will probably +take evidence of identification and then ask the Coroner for an +adjournment. I’ll make arrangements for you to know as soon as we get +the news at Assynton Lodge—still you’ll be wanted yourself—I was +forgetting that.” + +“I suppose you’re right—it’s a bad business and a nuisance—still it +can’t be helped now—what’s done can’t be undone. Good-bye, gentlemen.” +The Colonel waved his hand in dismissal. For a few minutes Anthony +remained silent, and Peter Daventry was beginning to know him +sufficiently well to realize that it was a thoroughly sound investment +to let him alone during those moments. After a time his mood passed +and Daventry saw his face break into a smile. + +“Cigarette, Daventry?” he exclaimed, “and I’ll join you in smoking the +health of a very pretty little problem indeed. I am deeply in your +debt, Daventry, for my introduction to it. I wouldn’t have missed it +for the world.” + +Peter took the cigarette and they lit up. “Glad to hear you say that, +Bathurst,” he rejoined, “but the question is will you be able to let +daylight into it?” + +Anthony rubbed his chin with his fingers. “As to that, Daventry,” he +said, “I am extremely confident—although I always try to school myself +to remember that ‘Pride goeth before a fall.’” He grinned. + +“Look here, Bathurst,” remarked Daventry, “I know in cases of this +kind the Doctor Watson of the business is always a thick-headed sort +of arrangement, and I don’t suppose I’m any more brilliant than the +majority.” He stopped for a second—shamefaced and apologetic. + +But he found Anthony the reverse of inaccessible. “Unload, Daventry,” +he said sympathetically, “what precisely is troubling you?” + +“Well, it’s like this,” responded Peter, “everything points as far as +I can see to this Assynton Lodge murder being an inside job—and yet +everybody there seems unaffected—I’m afraid I’m not making myself too +clear—everybody seems normal—nobody’s bolted with the screen, for +instance!” + +Anthony shook his head. “I know what you mean, but what you put +forward is very easily explained, isn’t it? The screen may have been +handed to a confederate, or again, it may be more profitable for the +criminal to hold up his activities for a while.” + +“H’m,” said Peter, as he thought over what his companion said. “I see +your point—but I’m not altogether satisfied.” + +“I don’t suppose you are for a moment,” was the rejoinder, “the case, +as a whole, bristles with extremely puzzling details—and you don’t +know them all, Daventry, take it from me.” + +Peter looked at him incredulously. “Why—what do you mean?” + +“I got one or two pieces of evidence from Sergeant Clegg that he +collected before we arrived at the scene—I haven’t told you of all of +them yet.” + +“Tell me now,” said Peter anxiously, “don’t leave me in the dark.” + +“Let’s take the case as a whole then, without stopping to attempt to +think of what you know and what you don’t know. Stewart is murdered, +I’m confident I’m right here, about eleven p. m. Colonel +Leach-Fletcher left at ten o’clock, Butterworth can give unimpeachable +confirmation of _that_. The Colonel tells us that Stewart intended +interviewing his son about some matter that was causing friction +between them. We’ll call it friction—although it may have been of more +serious consequence. It is a significant fact that Charles Stewart, +although calling you and me into the case, has maintained an eloquent +silence concerning it, whatever it was. Now we arrive at a further +complication. Butterworth tells Sergeant Clegg that he heard +Stewart—_Laurence_ Stewart—in conversation with somebody else in the +library at _ten minutes past ten_!” He paused and watched Peter +intently. + +“You don’t say so,” exclaimed the latter. “Can he tell who it was?” + +“Oh yes,” murmured Anthony negligently, “he recognized the person’s +voice.” + +“Then who was it?” demanded Peter eagerly. + +“Marjorie Lennox!” Anthony dropped the name daintily and delicately—he +must have been thinking of the little lady herself. + +“It’s a lie,” cried Peter. “The butler’s lying—I refuse to believe +it—it’s not feasible—it’s——” + +“My dear Peter,” cooed Anthony, “I am sorely afraid that I diagnosed +your complaint a few hours ago—when Miss Lennox made her dramatic +entrance into the Museum Room. I feel doubly sure now that I was +right.” + +Peter looked somewhat sheepish. + +“Unfortunately the excellent Butterworth’s story has strong support.” + +“From whom?” asked Peter sullenly. + +“Support of a peculiar and convincing nature,” continued Mr. Bathurst +nonchalantly. “When the Sergeant first examined the library—_the +actual scene of the crime_, Daventry—he found a lady’s handkerchief +caught in the curtains that hang at the French doors.” He took another +cigarette with evident enjoyment. + +“Doesn’t necessarily belong to Miss Lennox,” countered Peter. + +“N—no,” replied Anthony, calculatingly, “no, I admit that. But it has +initials on it, in the corner, I believe—and those initials are ‘M. +L.’—perhaps it belongs to Mr. Morgan Llewellyn!” + +Peter gasped. + +“Is that a fact, Bathurst?” + +“Absolutely, my boy—everything exactly as I’ve told you!” + +“Well, all I can say,” replied Peter, exercising his full powers of +recovery, “I don’t believe Miss Lennox has _anything_ to do with the +dreadful business and that she can give a perfectly reasonable account +of how her handkerchief got there.” He seemed very dogged as he made +this last remark. But Anthony had not finished with him yet awhile. + +“But she _won’t_,” he proceeded airily. “She was approached about +having been in the library. And she _lied_ about it, Daventry. It’s no +use disguising the fact, she _lied_ about it—_and then made an attempt +to get into the library_—presumably to look for her handkerchief.” + +“Do they suspect her—do _you_ suspect her, Bathurst?” demanded Peter, +“it seems impossible——that girl—mixed up in a monstrous affair of this +sort”—he stopped at a loss for words to express his indignation +adequately. + +“I can’t answer your first question—I can’t answer for them,” said +Anthony, “but I certainly suspect her of knowing more than she has +told us. For instance—why has she deliberately accused Morgan +Llewellyn?” + +“What?” muttered Peter again. “When?” + +“To Sergeant Clegg when he first spoke to her—what do you make of +that, Daventry?” Peter was non-committal. “Again,” continued Bathurst +relentlessly, “why were her initials in front of the dead man—scrawled +by the dead man in his last conscious moments?” + +“They mightn’t have been intended for hers—you can’t be certain,” +defended Peter. + +“Of course not!” Anthony slapped him on the back. “_As a matter of +fact they weren’t!_” + +Peter could hardly believe his ears at this sudden revelation. “How +can you know that?” he demanded. + +“Well, I don’t know, Daventry,” came the prompt reply, “but all the +same, I’m pretty sure.” + +They were nearing their destination, and the edges of the grounds of +Assynton Lodge were already coming into sight. Anthony became grave +again. + +“But there’s one thing I don’t know,” he muttered. “What is the secret +of these Stuart screens? What do they hold to make men murder for +their possession? Why does one bear the first two words of a line from +Virgil? ‘I fear the Greeks’—why the Greeks?—there were no Greeks round +Mary surely”—he turned to his companion. “Tell me again—what was the +inscription on the tapestry screen at the Hanover Galleries?” + +“It was done in colored beads—the beads spelled the words, ‘Jesus +Christ, God and Saviour.’” + +“Made by a monk, I suppose,” murmured Anthony, “their work was usually +dedicated in that way—still——” + +Peter cut in. “I know! There’s one thing I wanted to ask +you—it slipped my mind just now. What made you suspect Colonel +Leach-Fletcher?” + +Anthony showed signs of amusement. “Who says I suspect him?” + +“I could see you did,” replied Peter, “dash it all, I’m not so blind +as all that.” + +“You’re forgetting something, Daventry,” said Anthony. +“Leach-Fletcher’s stay was from seven to ten, you know—three hours he +spent with the murdered man!” + +Peter looked blank. “Don’t get you,” he exclaimed. “If you want to +suspect anybody—suspect that lying Butterworth. He must have some +ulterior motive for hatching up that yarn about Miss Lennox.” + +Anthony shook his head in denial. “Butterworth told the truth, +Daventry. What he said about Miss Lennox is entirely accurate.” + +They entered the gate and walked round to the back of the house, Peter +growing moodier and more despondent. His championship of Miss Lennox, +together with his denunciation of the butler, had proved +profitless—his words had fallen on barren soil. Whereat he was +distinctly crestfallen! He refused to harbor the idea for a mere +moment that Miss Lennox could be implicated in the crime that he was +helping to investigate. It was ridiculous! When he considered that +only a couple of days ago he was craving for something exciting to +turn up and now that “something exciting” _had_ turned up—he found the +whole thing extremely difficult to believe. + +“When do you expect Goodall back?” he questioned as they entered the +house. + +“Can’t say definitely,” said Anthony, “it depends on how he gets on up +in Clifford Street. London’s a big place—he may have a ticklish job to +trace ‘Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart.’ You can’t tell.” + +Peter assented. “That’s just what I’m thinking,” he declared, “rather +neat that, don’t you think, to register in those names?” + +Anthony turned to him—a serious look on his face. “You feel certain +then—that they are assumed names, Daventry, and not their own?” + +“Well,” replied Peter, with a certain amount of hesitation, “I’m +afraid I took that for granted—I hadn’t been considering them as +possible members of Stewart’s family—do you really think they are?” + +“I don’t know quite what to think about it—I’ve nothing sound to work +upon—I reserve my opinion till I know more—it’s a habit of mine.” + +Charles Stewart came forward to greet them. “So Goodall’s gone to +town—eh? What about some lunch—you must be ready for some by now?” + +“Yes, to both questions,” laughed Anthony. “The Inspector thinks he +can do better up in town for the time being than down here.” + +Stewart seemed disinclined for conversation at lunch, and with +Llewellyn relapsing into taciturnity, Anthony was left to contemplate +the _entente cordiale_ that had so speedily arisen between Peter +Daventry and Marjorie Lennox. It possessed several features of +attraction for him. At the same time he realized that it might +conceivably place Daventry in an awkward position as Charles Stewart’s +solicitor and indirectly affect himself. When they rose from the table +he slipped his arm into Peter’s. + +“I want you for a moment, Daventry—I want to get into the library +while the coast is reasonably clear, and I want you to help me.” + +Peter was pleased to hear this—action stimulated him just as much as +passivity galled him. He cast one more adoring glance in the direction +of the exquisite Marjorie and fell in at Anthony’s side. + +“It’s just possible that I’m too late,” remarked the latter, “that the +bird has flown—or rather ‘has been flown with’—still, we’ll see.” + +Peter nodded in agreement, although of course he didn’t see. + +“Come in and close the door quietly,” said Anthony, “and now you’re +in, sit down and make yourself comfortable—you’re going to stay in +here some little time.” Peter found himself wondering what was coming. +“I’m going to speak very quietly, Daventry, because something sinister +is going on in this house—and as events have already shown—the persons +concerned stick at nothing. I am particularly anxious not to be +overheard or even overlooked. So we’ll pretend, as far as we are able, +to be indulging in just an ordinary conversation. Remember how careful +I was first thing after breakfast this morning.” + +“Bank on me,” came Peter’s reply. This sort of thing rather appealed +to him, it served to put him on his mettle. + +“You will remember also,” commenced Anthony, “that my rest was +disturbed last night, or to be precise, this morning, by a gentleman +who was indulging in a little walking exercise past my bedroom door +and down the corridor to his own! You and I know that gentleman, my +dear Daventry, as a Mr. Morgan Llewellyn. I formed the opinion that it +must be a fairly strong motive that lures a man from his bed to +promenade the house at night—what do you think, Daventry?” + +“Absolutely,” said Peter decisively, “I know it would have to be for +me.” + +“We’ll proceed then”—Anthony lit a cigarette and tossed his case to +Peter. “From other symptoms that very quickly manifested themselves, I +concluded that the gentleman in question was seeking something that he +had dropped—or left by mistake, possibly—in this room—he was annoyed, +you will remember, that he found his entrance barred by Clegg’s +arrangements. And he was so annoyed that he was indiscreet enough to +_express_ his annoyance. Of course I ought to mention that there’s +just one other possibility”—here Anthony glanced slyly at the +attentive Daventry—“Mr. Llewellyn _may_ have been worried about +something that somebody else had left in here.” He blew a cloud of +smoke from his nostrils. “A lady’s handkerchief, for example. What do +you say to that—impossible?” + +“I suppose it’s possible,” conceded Peter grudgingly, “I’ll grant you +that much.” + +“That’s very sporting of you,” declared Anthony. “But somehow I don’t +think that’s the true explanation—Miss Lennox, Clegg tells me, was +working on her own to recover the lost handkerchief—so I don’t think +she employed Mr. Llewellyn. Now—listen. I watched our gentleman very +carefully when we were all in here this morning—when Stewart sent for +him and also afterwards—and I’m pretty confident that he’s uneasy +about something in this library. From the way in which he used +his eyes on this desk—I deduce a document or paper of some kind. +I may be wrong, of course. This is where I come to the remark I +made when we came in just now. During our absence at Colonel +Leach-Fletcher’s—Goodall came as well, remember—he may have made hay +while the sun shone. But I think not, my dear Daventry, I think not.” +He crossed to Stewart’s bookcase. “You may have noticed more than once +in your experience that a man will very often put an important paper +handed to him unexpectedly into a receptacle that he has handy at the +moment. As I see the facts of the case after Colonel Leach-Fletcher +said his ‘good-bye’ to Laurence Stewart, Stewart returned to the book +that he had been reading. The Colonel was good enough to remember its +title. It was Renan’s ‘_Vie de Jésus_.’” Anthony stopped and pondered +for a minute or two. Peter wondered what was troubling him. Whatever +it was, it soon passed. He lifted up the glass front of the bookcase +and sought the book he had just mentioned. “A singularly beautiful +piece of work, this, Daventry,” he declared. “But I expect you’ve read +it.” He brought it over to Peter—then held it by the two sides of the +cover and fluttered its leaves together quickly. A paper fell on the +carpet. Peter’s hand, disengaged and therefore at an advantage, beat +Anthony’s in its descent, by the merest fraction. He ran his eye over +it with eager excitement. + +“It’s a letter,” he cried—“from Morgan Llewellyn.” + +“Really,” said Anthony—“and to whom?” + +Peter’s eyes searched for the information. “To Miss Lennox,” he +gasped. + +“_Voilà!_” murmured Mr. Bathurst. + + + +CHAPTER XV + +Mr. Daventry Gets His Feet Wet + +“Read it to me, Daventry,” said Anthony. “Upon what precisely does Mr. +Llewellyn find time to write to Miss Lennox? For the sake of her +‘_beaux yeux_’?” + +Peter tossed it to him—rather ungraciously let it be said. “Read it +yourself, though it seems to me to concern Miss Lennox herself and +Miss Lennox only.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and strode to +the bookcase—where he stood, moodily, with his back to his companion. + +“‘Dear Incomparable Marjorie’”—read Mr. Bathurst—“‘At the risk of +punishing myself far too severely to contemplate, by driving the smile +from your two wonderful eyes’—Mr. Llewellyn wields a pretty pen, +Daventry—you’d better listen to this—‘I once again write to you to ask +you to reconsider the answer you gave me a little while ago to a very +important question. A question that affects me—body and soul. For, +dear, peerless Marjorie, monotonous though it may sound to you—I love +you! To say that I worship the ground that you walk upon is by no +means an exaggeration—judge then how much more I worship _you_! When +you are away from me life is most unutterably empty—the sun ceases to +shine—the flower to bloom—the bird to sing—everything is bitter +emptiness and desperate waste. Marjorie—marry me! I refuse to accept +your previous answers as final! And if your guardian endeavors to +interfere between us, as you threaten will happen—his blood be upon +his own head! I am a desperate man—desperate with love for you, +Marjorie—and desperate men have a habit of using desperate remedies. +Let me know your answer after dinner to-night, and may that answer +bring mad joy to the heart of—Morgan Llewellyn.’” Anthony whistled, +“Dear me, Daventry, do you know I hardly suspected anything quite so +ardent as this!” He looked up, and although his tone still contained a +hint of raillery, there was at the same time a strong hint of gravity +also. But Peter was in no mood for banter and in none too good a +temper for serious discussion. + +“After all, say what you like,” he muttered, “that letter was written +to Miss Marjorie Lennox, and it hardly seems decent to me for us to +have read it—that’s the worst of this investigation business.” + +“You feel this particular instance rather too acutely, I fear, +Daventry,” said Anthony gaily, “it touches you on a tender spot.” +Peter’s sole reply was inarticulate—a grunt. Anthony tried a different +tack. “I had hoped,” he chided gently, “that a rather effective +piece of work on my part might have received some measure of +congratulation.” + +Peter swung round—instant with shamefaced apology. “I say, I’m +frightfully sorry, Bathurst. It was too bad of me altogether. Really I +do congratulate you on a topping shot—forgive my discourtesy—it was +inexcusable on my part.” + +Anthony grinned—pleased nevertheless at the unmistakable sincerity of +the compliment. “Thank you—it wasn’t too bad a shot—although I +candidly admit the actual result has surprised me.” He tapped the +letter with his forefinger. “At the same time we must realize that +this is most important. It explains a good deal that was previously +somewhat puzzling. We know now for certain why Miss Lennox was in here +with her guardian after the Colonel’s departure.” + +Peter raised his eyebrows. “Why—exactly?” + +“To show him this letter! Don’t be alarmed—the lady does not eye +Llewellyn’s suit with any favor. She has threatened him doubtless that +if he continued to pester her with his attentions, she would report +the whole affair to Stewart. Somewhere about five minutes past ten on +the fatal night—she did so.” + +“What happened after that?” queried Peter, breathlessly. + +“That, of course, I can’t answer,” replied Anthony. “I can only enter +and subsequently explore the realm of conjecture. I assume that +Stewart found this to be yet another trouble to add to his worries. He +was probably incensed at what he would naturally term his secretary’s +effrontery. I think his interview with his ward was short—he would +deal with Mr. Llewellyn in the morning. I imagine also that Miss +Lennox left by the French doors and made her way into the garden.” + +“Why?” demanded Peter quickly. + +“That was when I suggest she dropped her handkerchief.” + +“Of course—I should have remembered.” + +“We know now,” continued Anthony, “the reason underlying +her accusation of Llewellyn. Which you observe was a merely +_general-indefinite_ sort of accusation. She wouldn’t give a definite +reason for it—she kept silent about his attitude towards her—even to +denying that she had been in this room.” + +“But why did she do that?” questioned Peter again. + +Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “Most women are different about their +love affairs in matters of this kind—after all Llewellyn found her +attractive—she would probably forgive him that much more quickly than +indifference—for instance. All women like to be liked—you know!” + +“I don’t think Miss Lennox is a girl of that type,” asserted Peter +vigorously. “I think she has proved that by——” + +“Of course you don’t,” chaffed Anthony. “But whether you do or you +don’t is of no consequence—take it from me.” + +Peter relapsed into a chair. It was gradually being driven home to him +that he was not showing himself to the best advantage this afternoon. +“What are you going to do now?” he asked. Anthony carefully put the +letter into his breast pocket. + +“This certainly places Llewellyn in an unfavorable light,” he +remarked. “He threatens the dead man—he’s Welsh, too—and has struck me +throughout as a man who might make a dangerous enemy—still”—he pointed +to the desk at the side of which Peter had seated himself. “Give me +that bowl of ink,” he commanded. Peter obeyed—wondering again. Anthony +held it up to the light. “Remember what Goodall said when he looked at +this?” + +“Yes,” said Peter. “Something about understanding what you meant.” + +“Quite right—though I’m not absolutely sure that friend Goodall really +did.” He glanced quickly round the room as though in search of +something—“hand me that glass, will you, Daventry?” Holding the glass +in his left hand, he carefully poured the ink from the bowl into +it—very slowly—almost as though measuring it drop by drop. At last the +bowl appeared empty—of ink. He handed it back to Peter. “_The other +tiny stone_ I mentioned a little time ago—see it at the bottom there—I +knew it was there—I could hear it the first time I shook up the ink!” + +Peter gazed into the ink-bowl with a feeling that he had gone back to +school once more and was being confronted again with mathematical +mysteries that he had never been too successful in solving. “A similar +stone, Daventry, to those we found in the coal-scuttle.” + +The use of the plural pronoun stimulated Peter immensely. “Yes—yes, of +course,” he contributed. + +Anthony continued with the expression of his theory. “The murderer +cleared the table to the best of his ability—but he—(or she)—forgot +the ink. And as it happened he had dropped some dirt _into the bowl +where the ink was_.” + +Peter’s wonderment increased. “Really, I don’t altogether follow you,” +he declared. “What did he do to make the table dirty—I don’t know?” + +Anthony poured the ink back into the bowl—after carefully removing the +tell-tale stone. “I’ll retrace my steps then a trifle,” he remarked. +“First of all, I am fairly confident that this murder was not a +premeditated one. It was deliberate and brutal, but as I read the +case, something unexpected happened that forced the murderer into what +he considered was an impossible situation and one that called for the +murder of Stewart—_quickly_.” + +“You mean that Stewart fired at him and he killed Stewart in a sort of +self-defence?” + +Anthony thought over that for a moment—then shook his head. “No—not +that exactly—Stewart was murdered treacherously—as he sat there,” he +pointed to the seat by the desk—“killed from behind—but I think you’re +right in your assumption that Stewart fired at him—we’ll look into +that question in a moment.” + +“How do you mean, then, that the murderer was _forced_ into killing +Stewart?” + +“Dead men tell no tales,” replied Anthony gravely. + +Peter nodded. “I see what you mean. But I’ll tell you something that I +can’t quite get the hang of!” + +“I’m listening,” said Anthony. “Fire away.” + +“Well, it’s like this—all the way through the case—the tendency has +been for all of you to take the view that somebody in the house was +implicated—everything seems to me to point in that direction! Well”—he +stopped for a moment at a loss for words. Anthony said nothing, but +waited interestedly for him to continue. Bathurst’s attention, and +silent attention at that, gave Peter encouragement. “Well—if that’s +so—what made Stewart fire his revolver—as you suggest he did?—it seems +to me he would hardly fire a shot at somebody whom he _knew_—somebody +with whom he was familiar!” + +Anthony considered his statement very carefully. “Supposing he +suddenly found that particular somebody acting dishonestly or +treacherously towards him—mightn’t he fire then—what do you think?” + +“I don’t think he would even then,” contended Peter, “unless they +attacked him, of course!” + +“H’m,” muttered Anthony, “I’m inclined to appreciate your point, +Daventry—you’ve given me something to think over.” + +He paced up and down the room turning over this new aspect of the case +that had just been presented to him. Suddenly he turned quickly. +“We’ll look into that point a bit later on, Daventry—in the meantime, +I want you to accompany me—I’m going to look for something else—come +along.” He opened the French doors and stepped out—Peter immediately +following him. A moment’s walk brought them to the rockery garden. The +fountain, continually throwing up its sparkling cascade, to fall in +widening ripples into the water of the pool that surrounded it, +brought a delicious touch of coolness to the warmth of the June +afternoon. The rock garden had been built all around it—the pieces of +crazy paving, with the green blades of grass peeping inquisitively +between them—lying around it on all sides and in all shapes and sizes. +Bathurst’s eyes took it all in quickly and alertly. The larger pieces +formed the floor of the rockery, the smaller pieces having doubtless +been selected for building and banking up the sides. Anthony scrambled +to the top and stood there for a second or two—astraddle almost—one +foot poised on the top—the other on a pointed stone a trifle lower +down. He called to Peter Daventry. “Come up here a minute, +Daventry—will you?” Peter scrambled up behind him. Anthony pointed to +the spaces between the pieces of stone and rock. “Look in there,” he +said. Peter looked! “See those little brown stones? Seen anything like +them before?” + +“Of course—from Stewart’s table—in the coal-scuttle.” + +They stepped down. “That’s right, Daventry—that’s where you +saw them—and I’ve one in my pocket as well—that I took from the +ink-bowl.” He started to walk round the rockery—his eyes searching +everywhere—keenly alert but apparently anxious as well. “I can do with +half a dozen of these pieces of paving,” he called over his shoulder +to Peter. “Half a dozen of the smaller pieces—the size that I could +pick up pretty comfortably—get them for me, will you—you’ll probably +find the kind I want round the top of the garden.” Peter made his +second undignified scramble to the summit of the rockery. He quickly +collected a few and tossed them one by one down to Anthony below. He +watched the latter pick them up and in turn examine them with the +greatest care. Peter noticed that he paid particular attention to the +underneath part of each piece that he looked at. Then he shook his +head doubtfully as though dissatisfied with the turn that events were +taking. Picking the rocky pieces up again, he subjected them to a +further examination. “You command the back of the house from where +you’re standing, Daventry——or at any rate part of it—is there anybody +about?” + +Peter looked across—and then back over the stretch of grass that ran +to the doors of the library, and saw no one. “Not a soul,” he called +with cheerful assurance. + +“Good man,” said Anthony, “I’m rather keen that we shouldn’t be +observed at this particular moment.” Then an idea seemed to strike him +suddenly. With his eyes on the path of the rock garden he began to +walk around—keeping the fountain in the center. He had almost +completed the entire circle when he came to an abrupt stop. “Quick, +Daventry—come down here.” Peter picked his way down. “Look at the side +of this path—the side nearest the pool—does anything suggest itself to +you?” + +Peter adjusted his thinking-cap. He gazed carefully at the side that +Anthony indicated—there was a slight declivity where the path made its +natural shelving towards the pool. The meaning of what he saw was +instantaneously obvious to the most elementary powers of observation. +There was the impression of a stone—but there was no stone near +anything like the shape delineated in the soft soil. Anthony rubbed +his hands. Peter knew the gesture to signify pleasure and success. + +“I see what you mean,” said the latter, “there’s a piece of paving +missing!” + +Anthony looked all round. Then came to a decision. “Daventry,” he +said, “I’m going to ask you to do me a favor. Somewhere in that pool +lies the missing stone—you know its shape.” He bent down and inspected +the impression at the side of the path. “It’s roughly the shape of a +magnum of champagne—about fourteen inches in length and at its widest +part—the part corresponding to the bottom of the bottle—about half +that size.” + +“What do you want me to do?” inquired Peter. + +Anthony grinned. “I want you to go paddling.” + +Peter looked into the water. “Not deep,” he remarked. He pulled off +his shoes and socks, hitched up his trousers, and waded in. + +“Don’t move round too quickly,” called Anthony. “It won’t be healthy +for bare toes when you do find it.” + +Peter trudged round treading the mud at the bottom with the utmost +respect. Step by step he circled the water-pool—then suddenly Bathurst +saw him bend down. When he straightened himself he held a longish +piece of stone just as had been described to him. One end resembled +the neck of a bottle and it broadened out towards its other end to a +width of about seven inches. This end had sharp jagged edges. Anthony +took it from Peter’s outstretched hand. + +“As I thought, Daventry,” he declared, as Peter made the path again, +“a short time ago this piece of stone formed part of the path that we +are now standing upon—you know what it is of course?” + +Peter replied very promptly. “I’ve a very shrewd idea,” he declared. +“I’m just beginning to see daylight—your theory is that that piece of +jagged stone——” + +“Was used to kill Laurence Stewart,” said Anthony, “and then thrown +into that pool—and it’s more than a theory—it’s a fact.” + + + +CHAPTER XVI + +Mr. Bathurst Again Samples the Bookcase + +Peter whistled. “You seem pretty sure of it. But all the same——” + +Anthony interrupted him a trifle impatiently. “Those little mud +pellets and small stones told me an unmistakable story. It seemed to +me a most important factor in the case—remember no weapon was found +near the body. It was obvious that Stewart had been struck from +behind—I immediately deduced a sharp and heavy piece of stone. But if +it hadn’t been for the proximity of the ink-bowl to the dead man’s +head, the true significance would probably have escaped me. For the +wound on the head was clean—I inquired of the doctor through Goodall. +The murderer held the piece of stone by the ‘neck’ end—soil side +uppermost—and struck Stewart with the comparatively clean part, and +the force of the blows caused the small stones underneath (as they lay +originally) to be dislodged.” He held out the weapon to Daventry. “Of +course the water in the pool has cleaned it, but I daresay a thorough +and scientific examination may yield us some little evidences to +support my theory. Time will tell—we’ll take it back to the library +and hand it over to Goodall upon his return from London, as a +souvenir.” He turned to Peter. “But not a word till I say when.” + +Back in the library, Anthony got to work again very quickly. “Stay +here a moment, Daventry,” he said, “while I have a word with young +Stewart—I won’t keep you waiting long—put this in a safe place”—he +handed over the recent discovery. A matter of ten minutes saw him +back, and then Peter was destined to receive yet another surprise. +“Get that revolver of yours, will you, Daventry—I told you to bring +one down here with you, didn’t I?” + +“It’s upstairs in my bedroom—I shall have to go to get it.” + +“Do—and load it—in all six chambers—I suppose you haven’t brought any +‘blanks’?” + +Peter shook his head. “Sorry—I haven’t!” + +“H’m,” muttered Anthony, “never mind. We shall have to take +care—that’s all!” + +It was the work of a few moments that brought Peter back to the +library with his revolver. + +“Now listen,” directed Anthony, “I want you to fire two separate +shots—you’ll have to fire of course out into the garden—fire in the +direction of the fountain, for instance—that will do—make sure there’s +nobody about—stand in the center of the room when you fire.” + +He walked to the library door. + +“Where are you going?” questioned Peter. “Aren’t you going to stop to +enjoy the performance?” + +“I’m going to shut this door, which I want you to _keep_ shut—then I’m +going upstairs to my own bedroom—look at your watch—in five minutes’ +time fire one shot—then wait till you hear from me—clear on +everything?” + +“Right‑o,” murmured Peter. “I understand perfectly.” + +Anthony closed the door. Peter watched the hand of his watch travel +the five appointed minutes. Then he walked to the French doors and +opened them. The coast was clear—the walk to the rockery entirely +deserted. He returned to the center of the room as he had been +directed and pulled the trigger. Then he grinned to himself. “Expect +the inhabitants of Assynton Lodge that hear that will be scared stiff +unless old Bathurst tipped them the bright idea just now.” The door +opened behind him. + +“Well?” said Bathurst. + +“Well?” said Peter. + +“I lay on my bed just as I should if I were there in the ordinary way, +and although I was _listening_, old son, _I never heard a sound_.” His +face showed obvious signs of pleasure. + +“What makes you so pleased about that?” queried Peter. + +“What makes me pleased?” echoed Anthony. “Why, it fits in with my +theory beautifully—that’s what pleases me. Now I’m going again—wait +another five minutes and then fire a second shot exactly similar to +the previous one.” + +He slipped out again noiselessly. Peter waited patiently for the +second spell of five minutes to pass. Taking care again that all was +in order in the garden, he walked back to the center of the library as +before and for the second time discharged his revolver. “Where did +that one go to?” he murmured reminiscently—then sat on the table till +the arrival of Bathurst. + +“Just the same as before,” announced the latter. “I took the liberty +of using Charles Stewart’s bedroom for that little experiment—it’s on +the floor below ours, you know—I asked him if I might just now—and +once again, Daventry, _I heard nothing at all_.” He thrust his hands +into his pockets and walked to the bookcase. “That experiment that we +have just conducted,” he continued, “proves to me conclusively that +the shot that we know had _at some time_ been fired from Stewart’s +revolver _had been fired by him on the night of the murder_, but +why—why?” He paced backwards and forwards three or four times. + +“Perhaps the shot was fired by the murderer after Stewart was dead,” +volunteered Peter. + +“Why?” demanded Anthony immediately. “Why should the murderer fire a +shot that for all he knew might awaken the whole house?” + +“Well—as a blind,” supplemented Peter somewhat feebly. + +“Don’t think so—it doesn’t fit,” said Anthony, in summary dismissal of +the theory. “The shot is fired,” reflected Anthony, “by Stewart, who +has—according to his dress at the moment—come down to the library from +his bedroom in a hurry—why does he fire—he doesn’t seem to have been +attacked _then_, but afterwards—as you said earlier, the treachery and +the attack appear to come from inside his own ménage and yet he +_fires_—why?” His eyes wandered round the room—intent and purposeful. +“Also, my dear Daventry, if he fires, as I’m out to assert that he +_did_—where’s the bullet—eh—tell me that?” He stood with his left hand +caressing his chin. “Supposing he didn’t know—supposing he wasn’t +sure—that’s certainly an idea—that would account for the pocketing of +his revolver _subsequently_—a feeling of safety—of security that came +to him—false as it eventually turned out to be—but yet conveyed to him +temporarily by the conditions.” He came across to Peter full of this +latest piece of theorizing. “Look here, Daventry—let’s remember what +Colonel Leach-Fletcher told us. He was Stewart’s friend—his evidence +should be reliable. He was insistent that Stewart was worried about +something that was going on in his house. The word that Stewart used, +according to the Colonel, imputed _treachery_ on the part of somebody +here! Now do you remember what the Colonel went on to say? He stated +that in his opinion Stewart had come to a decision ‘to take the bull +by the horns’ in an attempt to put a stop to whatever was happening. +Remember that?” + +Peter agreed. “Yes.” + +“Well now,” continued Anthony, “let’s assume that Stewart was +thoroughly on the _qui vive_ that night, and succeeded in identifying +this disturber of his peace. He comes hurriedly downstairs—armed—ready +to defend himself if necessary—prepared to see the thing through to +the bitter end—as he comes down”—he swung round on to Peter in violent +enthusiasm—“I deserve to be kicked, Daventry, I’ve been painfully slow +to appreciate what actually happened—but I think I’m clear now. Go and +stand at the door, will you—just where you would be if you had just +opened it and entered.” Peter stared wonderingly but obeyed him. +Anthony went to the side of the bookcase and faced the opening door. + +“This is where the murderer stood,” he declared gravely, “when Stewart +opened the door. He came here from that chair.” He indicated the chair +by the desk—the chair in which the dead man had been discovered. + +“How do you know that?” demanded Peter. + +“Never mind for the time being—but if you look carefully at where I’m +standing—you’ll be able to see for yourself.” Peter looked—but saw +nothing to solve his own difficulty. He shook his head, as though to +give point to his failure to grasp Anthony’s idea. The next words the +latter spoke rather startled him. “Stewart stood where you are +standing and fired in the direction of where I am standing—then +something happened that caused him to put his revolver back in the +pocket of his dressing-gown—the left-hand pocket, remember—and to take +a rather changed view of the situation in which he found himself.” + +“What was that?” demanded Peter. + +“_He recognized the interloper—the interloper who afterwards murdered +him._” + +“Why then,” countered Peter instantly, “didn’t he recognize him at +first—before he fired the shot? You either know or don’t know a +person—it isn’t as though Stewart fired from a distance—you say +yourself that he fired from the doorway only a few feet away—when he +entered the room—the fact that he _did_ fire in that way seems to me +to show conclusively that he _didn’t_ know the person—that he fired at +a stranger. You don’t blaze away with a revolver at anybody you happen +to see—regardless of consequences.” He lit a cigarette with the air of +a man that defies contradiction. + +“An excellent piece of reasoning on your part,” smiled Anthony, “but +there’s one little possibility that I fear you may have been tempted +to overlook.” + +“What’s that?” retorted Peter. + +“I’m not blaming you, my dear chap. I overlooked it myself in the +first place; _supposing the conditions changed_.” + +Peter wrinkled his brow. “Conditions,” he said, in a puzzled kind of +way, “what conditions do you mean?” + +“The conditions of the room!” Anthony watched Peter’s mystified +expression. “As I said just now, Daventry, I was slow myself to pick +up the crucial point. When Stewart fired his shot—he fired _in the +dark_. When the intruder disclosed his identity, Stewart put his +revolver away—he felt safe. So safe that he put it away in his +left-hand pocket—a right-handed man doesn’t do that if he wants to use +it again. And unhappily, events proved that his faith in the situation +brought about his death—that was why I told you to look where I was +standing.” + +He pointed to the wall to the right of the bookcase directly facing +the doorway. Peter’s eyes followed the direction of his finger. + +“The electric light switch?” he queried. + +“That’s what I think,” exclaimed Anthony. “It seems to me that whoever +was in here heard Stewart coming down from his bedroom and just had +time to get over there and switch off the light. Stewart probably +challenged from the doorway, and either at some movement on the part +of the intruder or out of intense anxiety—he had been worrying, you +know—he fired. Then I suggest that the burglar disclosed his identity +deliberately to safeguard his own skin or that something happened that +caused Stewart to discover it. That’s the reason, Daventry, why I say +that we ought to find a bullet somewhere in here.” + +Peter grunted. “Might be in the burglar’s body for all you know!” + +“A thousand to one against that,” returned Anthony, as he came to the +middle of the room. “It should be somewhere in the vicinity of that +electric light switch,” he asserted. “The intruder would be standing +there when Stewart fired.” + +But the wall was untouched—not a vestige of a scratch upon it +anywhere. His eyes traveled to the bookcase. “What about the bookcase, +Daventry?” + +“It’s sectional,” replied Peter, “and every section is protected by a +glass shutter—no bullet can possibly have touched any of them—look for +yourself—they’re all sound.” He motioned towards them with his hand. + +“Quite true,” said Anthony. “Then where the devil”—he paused for a +second; “supposing one of the glass fronts was up—eh—what then?” + +“Then the bullet would hit the back of one of the books, of course.” + +“Supposing there were blank spaces—where books were missing from their +places on the shelves?” + +Peter scratched his chin. “Then the bullet would go through the back +of the bookcase—but it’s tremendous odds on a shot fired like this one +was finding such a space as you describe—it would border on the +miraculous.” + +Anthony nodded in acquiescence. “I agree.” Then he broke out again. +“Damn it all, Daventry, I’m certain I’m right in my conclusion—that +bullet must be somewhere about. Take down the books on the top +shelves—that’s the nearest height, I should say, to where Stewart +would have fired—and start with the top shelf nearest to the switch.” + +Peter somewhat reluctantly moved about three dozen volumes, tossing +each one on to the floor as he did so. The woodwork at the back of the +shelf was clean and unimpaired—no bullet had torn its destructive way +through there. “Nothing here,” he declared over his shoulder to +Anthony. But the latter was studying the books that Peter had just +moved. One in particular seemed to be affording him particular +interest. It was the thickest and bulkiest of them all. + +“Come here, Daventry, will you?” said Anthony. Peter strolled across. +Anthony pointed to a hole neatly drilled in the back of the cover. He +opened the book at a page near the beginning. “There’s our +bullet—embedded in this book. The thickness of the paper and the size +of the book—848 pages to be exact—were sufficient to arrest its +further progress—it was the only possible solution that remained to +us.” + +Peter Daventry gasped! “By Jove,” he muttered, “who’d have thought +it?” + +“Also, my dear Daventry,” remarked Mr. Bathurst, “let me call your +attention to the title—‘The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure—one-time Page +to Mary Stuart.’ Altogether a most fascinating work, I should +imagine.” + + + +CHAPTER XVII + +The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure + +Anthony took out his pocket-knife and carefully extracted the bullet +from its paper bed. “I think that Goodall will have little difficulty +in fitting this to Stewart’s own revolver,” he declared. He turned to +Peter. “It’s easier to piece the affair together now. When the +burglar—the murderer if you prefer to call him so—cut across the room +to put out the light he was holding this book in his hand—_so_.” He +placed the fingers of his left hand on the switch and held the book in +his right—with the back of the cover facing the door. Peter nodded—the +scene was now becoming plainer to him, and its visualization most +intriguing. “Stewart entered in the dark as I told you—and challenged +the person he knew was facing him. At first he got no reply, but the +intruder _attempted to replace the book on its shelf in the bookcase +at his side_—he was familiar with its location because he had replaced +it _on many occasions before_. Stewart detected the movement and +instantly fired _in the direction of the sound_. Then the gentleman +concerned so closely with historical research considered his safest +plan was to disclose his identity—it might save his life for one +thing. You know the result!” + +“Wonderful—Bathurst!” said Peter. “I can see the whole thing as you +depict it—there isn’t a weak link in your chain.” + +Anthony flushed with pleasure. “A closer study of M. Réné will, I +think, more than repay us for any little trouble we have taken”—he +tapped the cover of the book playfully. + +“I’ve been thinking, Bathurst,” said Peter, “if this book is so +important, if, for example, it holds the key to the entire mystery, +why on earth did the murderer leave it behind—especially as it held +the tell-tale evidence of the bullet?” + +“There may be several answers to that question. The right one may be +difficult to name. When the revolver was fired the book was sent +spinning from the murderer’s hand! Possibly Stewart himself replaced +it on the shelf in the bookcase. Also—after the murder, the paramount +question was to get away, remember!” He opened the book and examined +it with some care. “There’s one thing, Daventry, if this book has been +in constant use recently, and I’m convinced it has—there shouldn’t be +too much difficulty in discovering the particular page or pages that +have been pored over so many times so very assiduously. Remarkable how +the Stuart connection keeps cropping up, isn’t it?” + +“I’d like to know what we’re on the track of,” interjected Peter. +“It’s a positive strain to keep on wondering like we do—or like _I_ +do—to be properly precise.” + +Anthony smiled at him. “Include me, Daventry——for the time being at +least.” He walked to the chair by the desk and sat down. “The question +of ‘how long’ depends on what success I have with the estimable de St. +Maure—let’s have a preliminary look.” + +Peter went to his side and sprawled on the table—his elbows supporting +his head. It was a ponderous and bulky book, and the ravages made by +the passage of the bullet only served to make its examination more +awkward. + +“M. Réné was blessed with an unusually prodigal fund of reminiscence,” +remarked Mr. Bathurst—“what has he handed down in the pages of this +dainty little treatise that has turned men’s minds to murder—I +wonder?” He turned to Peter. “I’m going to try a little experiment—yet +another one.” + +Peter still watched him with interest. He inserted the forefinger of +each hand at the back of the book—between the binding and the massed +pages—the left finger holding the top and the right the bottom. The +book, of course, hung down loosely—the pages swinging a trifle and +presenting openings in three or four places. “Put a thin slip of paper +where you see the pages separating,” said Anthony, “a book invariably +opens at the places where it has been well used. See that they hold, +Daventry.” When the book was turned over, the first two marked places +yielded nothing that seemed to have the slightest bearing on their +quest. At the third, Anthony let go a whoop of triumph. Peter bent +over him and read the printed matter with avidity. The passage that +was pointed out to him read as follows: “Now in these days the +knowledge came to my Queen-Mistress that her Cause had been betrayed, +and that nothing short of a miracle from High Heaven could succor it. +Whereupon there was much secret to-do and conniving amongst her chief +adherents. I happened more times than once to find the Queen in her +Seton’s arms or whispering to Mary Fleming. At four o’clock of the +tenth day of the six month the Queen-Mistress sent for Thibaut +Girardier—he that had been her Chief Armorer since she left my beloved +country—and it was bruited abroad in the household both that night and +during the days that followed that much wealth had been very secretly +disposed of in many secret places of Wild Scotland. Messengers that +carried her full faith and trust were employed and despatched to many +of these secret spots. But Girardier was summoned so it was whispered +by them that should have known, in the matter of the Cardinal’s great +gift—‘the Black Twenty-Two.’ I know not, for it was never my practice +to seek out or spy, what handiwork it was that he did. Sufficient be +it to say that he made the Queen-Mistress two screens—one of Tapestrie +and one of some specimen of beaten metal—and they twain shall tell the +generations that are to come all that is deemed necessary of the +‘Black Twenty-Two.’ But the riddle of this message cannot be read from +one of the twain alone. Thibaut had special audience of the Queen for +many of these days.” + +“Well?” inquired Anthony—“and what do you make of all that?” + +“Dashed if I know,” replied Peter. “Who is this St. Maure Johnny +anyway, and what is it that he’s gassing about?” + +Anthony pointed to the title page again. “‘One-time Page to Mary +Stuart,’” he quoted; “I presume he escaped from the wreck of that +lady’s fortunes and lived to a ripe old age to inflict these memories +on us.” + +“What the hell does he mean by the ‘Black Twenty-Two’?” questioned +Peter irreverently. + +Anthony shook his head. “I can’t answer that, Daventry—my history’s +too rusty altogether. I shall have to undertake a little research on +my own before I can properly tell you that—but at any rate, I promise +you, it sha’n’t be long.” He rubbed his hands. “Make a copy of that +for me, will you—and then we’ll put the message back on the bookshelf. +It won’t be the first time that that particular piece has been +copied.” + +Peter set to work on his task. + +“When Goodall comes back,” continued Anthony, “we shall have several +little things to show him. Daventry, I owe you an eternal debt of +gratitude. I wouldn’t have missed this case for worlds—this time next +week I shall be bored stiff—I shall have nothing exciting to occupy my +mind.” + +Peter stared. “What exactly do you mean—what about this affair—aren’t +you going to stick to it and see it out?” + +“Of course,” responded Anthony, “but it will be all over by +then—because in about three days at the most, I shall have +much pleasure in the performance of three duties. Firstly, +I shall introduce the police to the murderer of Mason the +night-watchman—secondly, I shall introduce the police and you yourself +to the murderer of Laurence P. Stewart, and thirdly, I have high hopes +of reading to a distinguished audience _the secret of the screens_.” + +Peter handed him the copy for which he had asked. Words failed him. +But he permitted himself one exclamation—unhappily it was not +altogether free from profanity. A little failing of Mr. Daventry! + + + +CHAPTER XVIII + +The Room at Blanchard’s Hotel + +Outside the library Anthony ran into Charles Stewart. “With your +permission, Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I should like to run up to town +this evening on an urgent matter. I’ve just telephoned Goodall and +made arrangements to see him this side of nine o’clock to-night.” +Stewart lifted his eyebrows. + +“Any startling discoveries, Mr. Bathurst?” + +“Not exactly startling—but I want to look into one or two things that +have suggested themselves to me, at the London end of the tangle—I’m +sure you understand.” + +Stewart bowed. “I presume you are accompanying Mr. Bathurst, Mr. +Daventry—I had hoped that we could have——” + +Before Peter could frame an affirmative reply, Anthony had spoken for +him. “Mr. Daventry will be remaining here until I return,” he +intervened. + +Stewart’s face showed a certain amount of surprise, but he accepted +Anthony’s statement without demur. + +“I’ll get Llewellyn to look up a train for you, Bathurst, and get one +of the cars ordered for you.” + +Anthony thanked him and turned away. “I’m afraid he’s a trifle +disappointed in your choice of me as an investigator,” he murmured to +Peter, “but perhaps in a few days I shall be able to rehabilitate +myself in his good graces—or perhaps not—you never know, do you, +Daventry?” + +“I’m rather hipped at having to stay behind,” responded the latter. + +Anthony caught his arm lightly and spoke in a low-toned voice. “You’re +staying behind on special service. You’re on guard—and you must watch +everybody without them having the ghost of an idea that you _are_ +watching them. Particularly you must see that _nobody leaves this +house on a journey to London without you follow him or her_. If that +does occur, let me know at once—understand?” + +“Where shall I find you?” + +“Telephone Goodall at the ‘Yard’—he’ll put you in touch with me.” + +Peter nodded with understanding. Then an idea came to him. “You say ‘a +journey to London.’ Why London? Supposing I find somebody leaving for +Stow-on-the-Wold? Or Husband’s Bosworth?” He grinned in appreciation +of his poser. + +Anthony stood still a moment and thought. “Everybody here must be +watched by _you_,” he declared. “If anyone tries to leave here you +must follow him and get the news through to me at once. You’ll find +the destination will be London, though, should the contingency occur. +It’s what the racing fraternity describe as a ‘stone-ginger.’” + +Peter indulged in a burlesque salute. “Very good, Sergeant. I’m your +man!” + +Anthony shook him by the hand. “I know I can rely on you implicitly, +Daventry—that’s why I feel safe in leaving you here—if you weren’t +here I couldn’t undertake this journey to town, I don’t mind telling +you that. I want to see Goodall, I want to put in a quiet hour or two +at the British Museum, and I also desire to have a look at the hotel +in Clifford Street. When you see me again I have high hopes that my +case will be complete—good-bye, old chap.” + +“Shall I come down to the station with you?” asked Peter. + +“Better not, I think, in the circumstances—I shall feel easier in my +mind to think that you will be here on the spot all the time. What I’m +relying on you to prevent is the one thing that might cause my plans +to miscarry. I’ll tell you one more thing that will make you realize +how important your job is.” He bent forward and whispered in Peter’s +ear. “The key to the secret is still in Assynton Lodge—I want it to +stay there—get me?” + +Peter’s expression grew serious, although he felt more reconciled to +staying behind now that he had a job of work to do. He whistled—the +situation was a little clearer to him and more attractive of +acceptance. He watched Anthony’s car purr down the drive, turn the +corner and go over the crest of the hill. And he wondered when he +would welcome him back. + +Arrived at Paddington, Anthony entered a public telephone box and was +connected with Goodall. + +“Wasn’t sure that I should catch you, Inspector,” he opened. “I’m +speaking from Paddington—I’ve come up myself you see—close on your +heels too! What’s that? No—not exactly—what I wanted to know was this. +Have you had time to go over to Blanchard’s Hotel yet? To-night? Good +man—I’ll come with you—if you don’t mind—I’ll meet you in Clifford +Street at nine o’clock. Right‑o—I’ll have a little light refreshment +and come round.” Punctually to the time arranged he turned the corner +of Clifford Street from New Bond Street, to walk into the arms almost +of Detective-Inspector Goodall and a plain clothes officer. The +Inspector greeted him cordially. + +“Good evening, Mr. Bathurst—I’ve been engaged on following up a clue +in connection with these two Stewarts from America—that’s why I’ve +left this job round here till now.” + +“Any luck, Inspector?” + +“Not up to the moment, Mr. Bathurst. They seem to have walked out of +this hotel and been swallowed up—but I’ll get ’em—you can rest assured +on that. When I got back to the ‘Yard’ this afternoon, I was sent +hot-foot to a house in Wimbledon where they were supposed to be—not a +doubt about it, I was informed! That’s the worst of our game, Mr. +Bathurst—we have to listen to all sorts of information that can’t be +tested till _we_ test it. And it often means the waste of valuable +time.” He clicked his tongue in emphasis of his dissatisfaction. “But +I’ll comb ’em out—if it takes me six months—the teeth of my comb will +pick ’em up somewhere—Scotland Yard may be slow but it’s sure—and +remarkably patient. Here we are, Mr. Bathurst—they’re expecting me +here.” + +The reception clerk telephoned news of their arrival. + +“Mr. Blanchard says will you please go up to his private room. Atkins! +Show these gentlemen up to the governor’s room, will you?” + +Atkins, a uniformed attendant, quickly piloted them to the proper +quarters. + +“Come in, Inspector! Good evening, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you +ever since your telephone inquiry of this morning.” + +Blanchard was a fair, stout man, somewhere, at a glance, in the early +fifties. His eyelashes and eyebrows were so fair as to be almost +invisible—giving his eyes a strange protruding tendency. He had a +nervous habit of throwing his eyes down to the floor, immediately +after he addressed a remark to anybody, which gave him a bird-like +appearance. + +“Sit down, gentlemen.” He waved a pudgy hand—much be-ringed—towards an +arm-chair and a comfortable looking settee. Anthony selected the +former. + +“This gentleman is Mr. Bathurst—he is acting for Mr. Charles Stewart, +of Assynton Lodge, Berkshire. Doubtless you have heard of the tragedy +that has taken place down there?” The Inspector made the introduction. + +“I read of it in this evening’s paper, Inspector,” replied Blanchard. +He looked at Anthony. “Good evening, sir. I’m sorry that we haven’t +met under more pleasant circumstances. Now, Inspector, what is it you +want of me?” + +Inspector Goodall leaned forward in his chair and fixed his eyes +intently on Blanchard. The latter fluttered his lids and became more +ornithological than ever. + +“You will remember, I think,” commenced Goodall, “that my inquiries +this morning elicited the fact that a lady and gentleman stopping +here, under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart, +received a telephone call late on Wednesday evening. The call was +answered in all probability by the man.” Blanchard intervened. “Quite +correct, Inspector! I was downstairs at the time when the ’phone rang. +Mr. Stewart went into the smoke-room to answer it.” + +“Good,” rapped Goodall. “What happened after that?” + +“Directly afterwards, Mr. Stewart came to me and asked for his bill. +He said that he had just received bad news concerning a near relation. +Serious illness of some kind—they would have to leave at once. They +paid the bill and went off at once.” + +“H’m,” said Goodall. “Now a few questions, Mr. Blanchard. I may as +well tell you that this pair that we’ve been discussing are strongly +suspected in connection with the Hanover Galleries murder, so I’ll +trouble you to be as careful and explicit in answering as possible.” + +Blanchard’s fat face paled. Such things were not good advertisements +for his hotel! + +“Count on me, Inspector,” he fluttered. “Ask me your questions!” + +“How long had they been stopping here?” + +Blanchard picked up the receiver and pressed a button. “That you, Miss +Fortescue? Bring me up the reception register, at once, please. Ask +Atkins to stand by till you get back!” Blanchard opened the register; +ran his finger down two or three pages—then looked up. “Here you are, +Inspector——came in on the 28th May—the last Saturday of the month.” He +pushed the book across to Goodall. + +“From New York, I see,” said the Inspector. “Did they strike you as +being American?” + +Blanchard nodded. “Yes, I should have put them down as American +anywhere had I been asked—not knowing!” + +“How did he pay you when he left that night?” + +“Let me think—the bill was a little over fourteen pounds, I +remember—he gave me the exact money in Treasury notes and silver!” + +“A man between thirty and forty, you say—and wife about the +same—anything distinctive about either of them?” + +Blanchard hesitated. “Possibly some of my chaps here could answer that +more satisfactorily than I can. I can’t say that I noticed anything.” + +“How many rooms did they have?” + +“Only one—their bedroom—they took all the meals that they had here in +the hotel dining-room.” + +“Can you remember any letters coming here for them?” + +“I couldn’t answer that either—my clerk downstairs might be able to +remember.” + +Blanchard’s fat fingers stroked his cheek as he answered. Then he +continued quickly. “There’s one thing I am in a position to tell +you—they were out of the hotel a good deal during the day—I do know +that.” + +The Inspector nodded. “Sight-seeing, I suppose—eh?” + +“That’s what I thought myself,” responded Blanchard. + +“Pardon me,” interposed Anthony, “when Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, to grant +them temporarily the name they gave themselves, left here in a +hurry—do you happen to remember if they went by taxi?” + +“Atkins might know—would you care to ask him?” + +“Thank you,” replied Anthony. + +Blanchard repeated his previous business with the telephone and in +ready response the porter arrived. + +“You remember Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, Atkins, the lady and gentleman +that left in such an almighty hurry on Wednesday night?” + +“Yes, sir—very well, sir—I was on duty down below, sir, when they went +out.” + +“Very well, then—you’ll be able to answer what this gentleman wishes +to know—did you call a taxi for them?” + +Atkins shook his head. “No, sir! They went on foot—each of ’em +carrying a suitcase.” + +“Another piece of bad luck,” muttered Goodall to Anthony. “We always +seem to run up against a brick wall!” + +Anthony plied the porter with another question. “Any special points +about either of them, Atkins, during their stay here?” + +The porter’s shrewd face wrinkled in thought. “Well, sir,” he said, +after a few seconds’ consideration, “you mightn’t call it a _special_ +point—and there again, you _might_, but I did spot something you might +call peculiar on the part of the lady—Mrs. Stewart as we called her.” + +“Let’s hear it,” exclaimed Anthony—“little things count in cases of +this description. Try to remember carefully.” + +Atkins rubbed his fingers across his nose. “Well, sir—it was like this +’ere. I happened to be on duty in the ‘foyer’ when Mr. and Mrs. +Stewart first arrived. And I noticed that Mrs. Stewart was able to +tell the time from the clock that hangs right at the other end of the +vestibule. I remember ’er saying to ’im—‘Look—we’re late—it’s nearly +half-past six.’ Now, you can take it from me, sir, a woman’s got to +’ave blinkin’ good sight to see the time that distance—you ’ave a look +yourself, sir, when you go out.” + +“I will,” said Anthony encouragingly. “Go on, Atkins.” + +“Well, sir, two days after that little incident and almost what you +might call regular ever since—Mrs. Stewart went about wearing black +glasses—in fact, she was wearing ’em when ’er husband was in the +smoke-room answering that telephone call that caused ’em to skip out +so quick.” + +“How do you know that?” rapped Goodall. + +Atkins turned to him and answered him—unperturbed and unabashed. “I +was in there, sir, when Mr. Stewart came in and his wife followed on +be’ind. They ’ad the call put through from downstairs. A gent sent for +me to ’ave a word with me about getting his luggage orf—that’s ’ow I +came to be in there.” + +“This gets better and better,” declared Anthony. “Did you happen by +any chance to overhear any of the Stewarts’ conversation?” + +Atkins rubbed his nose again—possibly as an incentive to remembrance. +“Nothing to speak of, sir—but I heard the lady say something about her +father.” + +Anthony interrupted him promptly. “What do you mean, Atkins—did she +say ‘my father’ or ‘her father’—you appreciate the difference, don’t +you?” + +Atkins regarded him with an air of pained surprise. “The words she +used, sir, were ‘my father’! I took it as ’ow she was alludin’ to ’er +own male parent.” + +“Thank you, Atkins.” He discovered the exact position of the palm of +the porter’s right hand. “You’ve been a great help to me.” + +“Thank you, sir. It’s been a real pleasure.” + +Inspector Goodall chewed the end of his cigarette. “Some relation +of the murdered man, Mr. Bathurst, without a doubt. Fits in with my +own theory, too—born the wrong side of the blanket perhaps over in +the States somewhere—used the black glasses as a disguise. Worked +the two jobs I shouldn’t wonder, in a way that we can’t quite fathom +at the moment—there’s a missing link somewhere. Also—where does +Mr. _Charles_ Stewart come in?”—he leaned right across in Anthony’s +direction—“supposing it affects his inheritance—eh?” + +Anthony waved his hand and harked back to the proprietor of +Blanchard’s hotel. “Mr. Blanchard—would you be good enough to turn up +Mr. and Mrs. Stewart’s account—the one they settled when they went?” + +“I’ll go down and get it for you,” said Blanchard. “A matter of a few +moments only.” + +“After he’s brought you that,” interjected the Inspector, “we’ll go +and have a look at the room they occupied.” + +Blanchard was as good as his word. “I have what you asked for, sir! +What was it in particular you wanted?” + +“Refer to the last day of their stay here, will you, Mr. Blanchard—did +they lunch here?” + +Blanchard’s eyes traveled down the columns of the account. Then he +shook his head. “No, sir, apparently they did not—it must have been +one of the days when they were out—one of the days I mentioned!” + +Anthony looked across at Goodall. The latter smiled. “Testing Mr. +Daventry’s theory, aren’t you—and it holds good—eh?” + +“What about that bedroom, Goodall?” + +“Just what I was thinking,” said the latter, rising from his seat. +“Mr. Blanchard, we should like to have a look at the bedroom that Mr. +and Mrs. Stewart occupied while they were staying here—I hope no +newcomer is in it.” + +Blanchard was all attention. “Nobody at all, Inspector. The room is as +they left it—except that the chambermaid may have tidied it up.” + +“That’s what I was afraid of,” groaned Goodall. “That gentle little +operation known as ‘tidying up’—however, we’ll hope for the best.” + +Blanchard referred to a book. “Number fifty-four,” he announced. “I’ll +take you up.” + +Goodall turned to his assistant. “Stay here, Waring—I don’t expect to +be very long”—then followed the other two upstairs. It was a large +room, furnished with wardrobe, dressing-table, wash-hand stand, double +bed—half a dozen chairs, one wicker arm-chair and a box-divan. Every +piece of furniture was subjected by Goodall to a thorough +investigation. But they yielded nothing. He then went to the various +ornaments of the china trinket-set that stood on the dressing-table. +They were all empty—as was the grate. Anthony went to the wardrobe. + +“Nothing here, either, Inspector,” he declared. The Inspector came and +tried the lower drawers. They also were all empty. + +“Drawn a proper blank—as I thought,” muttered Goodall. “Everything +that might have whispered the words of the chorus to us has been +‘tidied up.’ What have you got there, Mr. Bathurst?” + +Anthony was standing by the fireplace examining something on the +mantelpiece. “What do you make of that, Inspector?” he asked. Holding +his right hand to the edge of the mantel, he very carefully swept +something into it with his left. + +Goodall looked at it curiously. “Looks like a few grains of dust of +some kind,” he said. “Sort of dried grass—what do you think?” + +Anthony put his nose to it and smelled it. “Pungent,” he exclaimed. +“Not exactly aromatic.” He blew it away from the palm of his hand, +Goodall watching him. + +“Would you care to have a chat with the chambermaid that attends to +this room?” inquired Blanchard. + +“That’s an idea, certainly,” said Goodall. “Have her up, by all +means.” + +Blanchard went out and called down the speaking-tube. + +“I don’t think we shall find anything more, Inspector,” said Anthony. +“I expect——” + +“_More!_” exclaimed Goodall with evident disgust. “I like the +‘_more_,’ Mr. Bathurst. It seems to me we’ve run across precious +little—I don’t know what you think about it.” Anthony grinned, as they +both turned to welcome Rabjohns, the chambermaid. + +“I’m a Police Inspector,” announced Goodall terrifyingly, “so be +careful what you say! When you ‘tidied up’ this room after Mr. and +Mrs. Stewart left it—did you destroy any papers or letters that you +found here?” + +Rabjohns slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “No, sir—that I didn’t. +There was nothing left in here, Mr. Inspector, not even a ‘bob’ on the +dressing-table.” + +Blanchard frowned at her—after all, he thought, it was not seemly that +she should obtrude her trivial personal “grouses” at a critical time +such as this. + +“You’re sure of that,” barked the Inspector. “Certain you found and +destroyed nothing?” + +“Positive, sir. You can rely on what I’m tellin’ yer, sir—you can put +your shirt—sorry, sir!” She caught Blanchard’s eye and amended her +ways. + +“One question I’d like to ask you before you go,” intervened Anthony. +She turned and faced him. “Yes, sir?” + +“When you have entered this room, first thing in the morning—during +Mr. and Mrs. Stewart’s stay here I mean—have you ever detected a +peculiar odor in the room?” + +Rabjohns dropped her hands in astonishment. “That I have, sir! Not one +morning, but _every_ morning—I even mentioned it down in the kitchen. +Smelt like something burning, it did, sir—but however did you know +about it, sir?” + +Anthony turned to Goodall. “We all have our little secrets, haven’t +we, Inspector? As I’ve reminded people before.” + +The Inspector coughed. What exactly did Mr. Bathurst mean? + + + +CHAPTER XIX + +Inspector Goodall Is Entertained + +When they left Blanchard’s, Anthony decided to have a few additional +words with Goodall. “What do you say to a little supper with me, +Inspector?” + +Goodall caught eagerly at the idea. “Waring,” he said to his +subordinate—“you can get along now. Report to me at the ‘Yard’ in the +morning—I’m going along with Mr. Bathurst here.” + +Waring saluted and quickly made himself scarce. + +“I know a nice quiet little place in Soho,” said Anthony, “where I can +give you Omelette Espagnol, Homard Americaine, a delicious piece of +Stilton and a really excellent Burgundy—you will be my guest, of +course, Inspector!” + +“I shall be delighted, Mr. Bathurst—may I ask what else you intend to +give me?” His eyes twinkled shrewdly. + +“Patience, Inspector—there are one or two things I want to tell you, +but Ricardo’s will be a better setting for them than the street we are +in now.” + +Ricardo’s was all that Anthony had claimed for it. Inspector Goodall +warmed under its cheering influence, and with his fourth glass of the +really excellent Burgundy toasted Mr. Bathurst almost hilariously, and +Mr. Bathurst was pleased to reciprocate. Eventually the latter pushed +his chair back and recalled Goodall to the business of life. + +“Before you tell me what you thought of to-night’s jaunt, Inspector, +I’ll tell you briefly what I did at Assynton after you left us at +Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s—try one of these cigars, Goodall—they’ll suit +your palate.” + +Goodall lit up, leaned back and prepared to listen. + +“I conducted a series of little experiments,” continued Anthony. +Goodall nodded complacently. The cigar really _was_ intended for a man +of discernment. “First of all,” proceeded Anthony, “I was able to +trace a letter that had been lying in the library since the fatal +evening.” He took the letter from his breast pocket. “Read that, +Goodall, will you?” + +The effect was electrical—Goodall’s complacency became a thing of the +past. “Morgan Llewellyn,” he muttered grimly. “I had a pretty shrewd +idea that he was interested in that little baggage that treated old +Clegg so contemptuously.” He tapped the letter with his forefinger. “I +don’t know that I’m altogether too pleased to get hold of this.” + +Anthony appeared to disregard the last remark and went on. “Then I set +to work on another point. You remember the condition of the ink in +front of where the dead man was found?” Goodall frowned an +affirmative. “I had a strong impression, Inspector, that I should find +some weapon—near at hand—in the garden in all probability, from which +that débris had come. _I was right in that impression._” + +Goodall sat up straight in his chair. “You don’t mean to say——” + +Anthony knocked the ash from the end of his cigar. “I’m confident that +I have found the weapon with which Mr. Stewart was killed. It’s a +sharp jagged piece of stone that once formed part of the path leading +from the Assynton Lodge rockery. At the present moment, I believe, it +resides somewhere in the library where Daventry has concealed it.” + +“That’s risky, Mr. Bathurst, supposing——!” + +“It’s quite safe there, Inspector. Daventry fished it up from the pool +where the murderer had slung it. Acting upon my instructions, of +course—I showed him where to look for it.” + +Goodall’s eyes widened with amazement and incredulity. “But where’s +all this leading to—I’m getting bewildered!” + +“Sit still, Inspector,” went on Anthony, “I haven’t quite finished +yet. The curtain isn’t up for the third act yet—then there’s still the +fourth to come.” He pushed his fingers into the left-hand pocket of +his waistcoat. “The bullet that Stewart fired at his murderer, +Inspector—take a good look at it!” He tossed it across, nonchalantly. + +Goodall’s eyes almost started from his head as he handled the little +messenger of Death. “And how the hell did you find this, Mr. Bathurst, +and where?” + +Anthony smiled at the Inspector’s astonishment. “I was convinced that +Stewart _had_ fired his revolver on the fatal night, so it was fairly +conclusive to me that the bullet should be in the library somewhere. I +tried to reconstruct the whole scene as I had imagined it! The result +of this little attempt at reconstruction brought me round about the +bookcase. Eventually, Daventry and I found a book—embedded in this +particular book was the bullet you are now holding.” + +Goodall sank back in his chair with the appearance of a man who, after +repeated and ineffectual struggling and striving, at last reluctantly +bows to Fate and accepts the inevitable. “You’ll tell me you’ve +arrested the murderer next, Mr. Bathurst! When are you starting on the +Hanover Galleries case?” His mouth might have been described as +cynical. + +Anthony leaned across the table. “Not yet, Inspector! I told you the +fourth act was still to come! I must ask you to give me another +forty-eight hours say—then I hope to put the entire threads of the +case in your hands. You will then proceed to make your arrests.” His +grey eyes danced, and even his hard-bitten companion caught something +of the domination of his personality. “The following day we shall read +with our early morning cup of tea—‘Dramatic Double Arrest—Police Swoop +in Hanover Galleries’ and ‘Assynton Lodge Murders—Triumph of +Detective-Inspector Goodall.’” His mouth twisted into a smile. “Does +the prospect please you, Inspector?” + +“That’s a hard question to answer,” grunted Goodall. “I feel that I’d +rather see my way than have somebody hold my hand—with all due +respect, Mr. Bathurst.” + +“Of course, Inspector—any man would! I promise you, you shall see +every step of the way, before I ask you to take the _final_ +steps—there’s my hand on it.” + +The Inspector grasped his hand warmly. “You’ve made me feel easier,” +he conceded. “I’ve only known you a couple of days, and yet I seem to +have known you all my life.” + +“One point I want to mention now, Inspector—before I forget it. I’ve +left Mr. Daventry in charge down at Assynton. I’ve told him, if he +wants me in a hurry—and it’s just possible, in the circumstances, that +he may—to ring you up at ‘the Yard.’ I sha’n’t be wanted to-night—I’m +certain of that. If he should ring you to-morrow or Sunday—that +address will find me”—he scribbled an address on his visiting card and +pushed it across to the Inspector. Goodall transferred it to his +pocket-book. + +“All Sir Garnet, Mr. Bathurst. That shall be attended to, if +required!” + +Anthony called their waiter and settled the bill. “Perhaps you’ll be +good enough to return to Assynton with me when I go back—will you, +Inspector? Don’t worry about this end of the tangle—it will solve +itself with the other, take it from me. I’ve another difficulty, +unfortunately, at the moment—I have to solve a third mystery.” He rose +to go and Goodall followed his example. + +“I don’t quite understand, Mr. Bathurst.” + +Anthony’s eyes glinted. “I have to solve ‘the riddle of the screens,’ +or in the picturesque language of M. Réné de St. Maure—the problem of +the ‘Black Twenty-Two’—but that, Inspector, is another story.” He took +the Inspector by the arm. “The British Museum is going to be my H.Q. +for to-morrow, Inspector—if that interests you at all—don’t forget—if +you should want me at the address I just gave you.” + +They passed out into the street. “There’s one thing I forgot to tell +you,” remarked Anthony. “There’s a woman in the case, as I expect you +know. But here’s something you may not know—she suffers a good deal +from hay fever—and although I can’t tell you her name—I could tell you +what it was before she married—good-night, Goodall.” + +Goodall turned quickly at the surprising intelligence, but all he +could see was Mr. Bathurst’s retreating figure. Which, as may be +guessed, afforded him no enlightenment. + + + +CHAPTER XX + +Mr. Bathurst Brushes Up His History + +An observer of discernment would have formed the opinion that Mr. +Bathurst had fallen a victim to the fascination of the history of the +Stuarts. At least half a dozen volumes were ranged round him; and the +same discerning observer, had he been sufficiently discourteous to +peer over Mr. Bathurst’s shoulder as he read, would have discovered +that the life of Mary, Queen of Scots, appeared to present special +features of absorbing interest. “Before we begin looking for +anything”—murmured Mr. Bathurst to himself—“it will probably be as +well if we attempt to satisfy ourselves as to what exactly we are +looking for.” He took from his pocket-book a copy of the paragraph +from “The Memoirs of M. Réné de St. Maure” that Peter Daventry had +made, and read it through carefully more than once. “If these memoirs +are in any way reliable and authentic,” he reasoned, “two screens were +used in some special way towards the temporary disposal, at least, of +part of Mary’s possessions. My task then, is to discover (a) what +particular part this was? (b) are the two screens mentioned by M. de +St. Maure the two that have figured so prominently in the Hanover +Galleries and Assynton Lodge murders? and (c) if so, what is the +secret the screens contain that affects the hiding-place of whatever +was hidden?” He turned again, to the paragraph. At any rate, there was +a distinct reference within it that bore unmistakably on the query he +had designated as (a)—“The Cardinal’s great gift”! So far so good—but +which Cardinal? Mr. Bathurst had a shrewd suspicion that more than one +gentleman entitled to the description of “His Eminence” had figured in +the life of the tragic Mary. That was certainly one point upon which +it would be necessary for him to reassure himself. “If I had the +wretched screens in front of me, it wouldn’t be so bad,” he mused—“as +it is I’m working with a couple of second-hand descriptions of them.” +He tapped his front teeth with the butt of his fountain-pen; Peter +Daventry in the one instance and Miss Lennox in the other, might have +missed vital points in their descriptions. He looked through two of +the histories that seemed to deal more closely with the minute details +of Mary’s career than any of the others and was successful after a +time in finding three references to the Chief Armorer—Thibaut +Girardier. But no mention could be discovered concerning Girardier’s +special work in connection with the two screens. “Many secret places +of Wild Scotland,” he quoted—“would give us a pretty extensive field +to cover—‘O Caledonia, stern and wild!’” Then his thoughts reverted +again to the one bizarre description that he did possess of “The +Cardinal’s great gift”—“The Black Twenty-Two!” What was meant exactly +by that? “Might be a couple of football elevens,” he muttered with a +shade of sarcastic bitterness. “Only one thing for it,” he concluded +after seven abortive attempts to extract any pertinent information +from a number of dead and gone historians—“only one thing for it, and +that is to work systematically and methodically right through the +incidents of Mary’s life as I find them recorded here.” He arranged +all the volumes he had requisitioned, side by side, and started to go +through them, as far as possible, simultaneously. An hour and a half’s +arduous exertion yielded him nothing, and even his own inexhaustible +supply of patience combined with intellectual optimism began to feel +the strain. But it is the darkest hour before the dawn—suddenly a +sentence from the fourth of his arranged books seemed to leap from the +page upon which it was printed! Anthony’s eyes glistened—he read on +with feverish excitement—he felt certain in his mind that at last he +had run to earth his first clue to the identification of “The +Cardinal’s great gift.” At least, here was a definite start and a +start of the right kind! Fortified with this piece of knowledge, he +ransacked every book for additional data. Fruitlessly! Here all +success ended—not a single page told him anything more. He worked on +for another hour; then he began to tell himself that he was ploughing +the sands. “After all,” he soliloquized, “what more can I really +reasonably expect to find? If Réné de St. Maure knew what he did know +and yet remained ignorant of the real secret of Girardier’s work—how +can I expect to find any trace of this knowledge in other historians +who were probably nothing like so well placed for knowledge as de St. +Maure himself? This part of the problem I shall have to solve by my +own ingenuity.” He pushed his chair back from the table—and thought +the whole question over very carefully, omitting nothing and giving +every possible point the fullest examination and consideration. +Suddenly he came to a decision. He returned the books he had +requisitioned to the appropriate attendant, at the same time +requesting access to recent files of “The Times” and “The Daily +Telegraph.” “Those two will do for a start,” he said to himself—“it’s +only an idea on my part and it may lead nowhere, but I should like to +test my theory before relinquishing it.” Starting with “The Times,” he +ran his eye down the “Personal” column on the front page—day by +day—six copies to each week—till he had worked back as far as +the 1st January. Nothing caught his eye as being likely to be what +he wanted. He paused at several—considering them with the utmost +discrimination—but eventually, occasionally perhaps with a certain +amount of reluctance, decided to discard them as inappropriate. He +then commenced on the file of the “Daily Telegraph.” The first few +days were quickly disposed of. But at the second item of the +“Personal” column of the copy for Monday, May 30th, he paused. The +message ran as follows:—“M. S. Ring Regent 9999 till further notice. +Both well!” His eyes narrowed as he reread this—weighing every +syllable. “‘M. S.’ might very well be ‘Mary Stewart,’ which in itself +might very well be a ‘code word’ used to convey messages relative to +this particular little conspiracy;” his thoughts raced on—“then we get +a telephone number which is of course the pith of the message that is +required to be communicated and an intimation that two people are in +good health.” He thought for a moment and then the truth leaped to his +brain. “By Jove—nothing of the kind—idiot that I was—‘both well’ is +simply ‘Bothwell’—the other code word—just a word I might have looked +for in relation to the ‘Mary Stuart’!” He searched the remaining +papers through rapidly, in case there were other previous +communications of a similar nature. To no effect! This was the only +one! Anthony surrendered the files, conscious of an excellent +morning’s work—he had started badly, but had finished well. At the +first opportunity he walked into a public telephone callbox. He lifted +the dog’s-eared Directory that swung at the side of the receiver, true +to the tradition of such Directories, and opened it at the “B’s.” His +finger traced the names down till he came to the particular one he +desired. “Blanchard’s Hotel—Regent 9999.” Mr. Bathurst replaced the +Directory and allowed himself the satisfaction of a smile. “But Regent +9999 doesn’t harbor Mr. and Mrs. Bothwell now—if it did once, when +they preferred to call themselves Mr. and Mrs. Laurence C. Stewart.” +He walked to his flat. “Any message come for me while I’ve been out, +Emily?” he inquired of a girl who met him as he entered—a maid on the +housekeeper’s staff. + +“Yes, Mr. Bathurst! A telephone message came through for you about +eleven o’clock this morning—I said you were out and that I didn’t know +when you would be back—it’s a gentleman that rang up—he’s promised to +ring up again in the afternoon—he told me to tell you not to worry +about not getting the message in the first place.” + +Anthony heaved a sigh of relief. Emily’s statement meant that Peter +Daventry had telephoned Scotland Yard as he had arranged with him and +through the offices of Inspector Goodall had been put through to the +flat. He had realized that failure to deliver his message might +conceivably be a source of anxiety to Anthony and had very sensibly +endeavored to allay possible fears by the injunction not to worry. It +was simply a question now of waiting for the promised ring and hearing +what Peter had to tell him. Meanwhile he would seek the seclusion of +an easy chair, fill his pipe, and concentrate on the secret of the +screens. “The riddle cannot be read from one of the twain—alone.” As +far as he could see only the screen stolen from Stewart’s museum room +contained anything in the nature of a message. “_Timeo Danaos_,” he +reflected. “‘I fear the Greeks’—once again, ‘why the Greeks’?” His +mind went back to his Uppingham days and groped for the Virgil +context. He was delighted to find that his memory didn’t fail him. +“_Quid quid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes, sic fatus validis +ingentem viribus hastam_” . . . what the blazes came next—anyhow it +didn’t matter much that was evident—none of it seemed to have any +intelligent bearing on Thibaut Girardier . . . yet he had put “_Timeo +Danaos_” on the one screen . . . what was it Daventry had said was on +the other . . . the two would have to be taken together if any sense +was to be knocked out of them . . . those animals . . . he could +understand the Lion, and the Leopards . . . and the fleur-de-lis . . . +why the devil was the Fish there . . . he had read enough that morning +to authenticate most of it . . . but that Fish . . . “I fear the +Greeks” . . . what was that he had read . . . The telephone bell rang +peremptorily. He lifted the receiver. “Speaking, Daventry! What is +it?” + + + +CHAPTER XXI + +Mr. Ferguson of New York + +Anthony listened. “Yes—that’s all right, old man. I got your message +and of course I knew from that that everything was O. K. down at +Assynton . . . What . . . When? . . . Monday? You say Stewart would +like me to come down . . . well I should rather like it myself . . . +it will suit me all right, too . . . I had intended returning on +Monday in any case . . . Goodall will be coming too . . . Ferguson, +you said . . . he’s been pretty quick over it, hasn’t he? . . . don’t +quite see how it’s been possible . . . right‑o then . . . be very +careful over the week-end, won’t you? . . . keep your eyes skinned on +every man Jack of ’em . . . Good-bye.” He sank back in his chair. +Ferguson of Crake and Ferguson, New York! Laurence Stewart’s +solicitors! But how Mr. Ferguson could have arrived in England so +quickly after the murder wasn’t clear to him—“he must have flown +over,” he remarked to himself somewhat jocularly. His train of +thought, however, didn’t last for long. His mind was soon back to the +problem of the screens. Where was he when that confounded telephone +rang? He closed his eyes in an attempt to recapture his concentration +and the exact point to which he had arrived. He had been wondering +about two things—he remarked. The Latin tag and the Fish in the center +of the screen. It was becoming increasingly plain to him that he would +have to get into touch with the Hanover Galleries screen! Without +that, he was merely beating the air. He decided to speak to Goodall at +once. He was instantly put through. Goodall seemed anxious for news. +“We are no nearer a solution this end, Mr. Bathurst,” he announced +rather gloomily, “every clue seems to lead nowhere—the pretty pair I’m +after seem to have been spirited off the face of the earth.” + +“I wanted to speak to you about them, Goodall, among other things,” +replied Anthony. “Get into touch with the New York police as quickly +as you possibly can—I have a strong presentiment that the gentleman +we’re after has a considerable reputation as a ‘crook’ over the other +side. Who is he? Haven’t the least idea, Goodall—ask them if any +particularly promising specimen of the unsavory sort has slipped out +of the States recently—from little old New York, in all probability. +You can give them a rough description of the man you want.” + +“Very well,” answered Goodall, “although I think you’re drawing a bow +at a venture—still I’ll try it! What else did you want to say?” + +“I’ve two more pieces of news for you, Inspector—the first will make +you sit up a bit.” + +“I’ve been doing quite a lot of that lately, Mr. Bathurst—what’s the +latest development?” + +“Have a glance at the Personal Column of the ‘Telegraph’ for the 30th +of last month—see what you make of it!” + +“All right,” assented the Inspector. “What else?” + +“I want you to come down to Assynton with me on Monday morning. +There’s a train at a quarter to eleven. I’ve just heard from Mr. +Daventry that Mr. Stewart’s solicitor from New York is expected down +there and I’m required to be there as well. It isn’t putting me out at +all, because it was my intention to return then—I dare not delay +action much longer. I’ll meet you then at Paddington.” + +“I hope to be in a position to report some progress this end by that +time,” declared Goodall, in a tone of voice not exactly distinguished +by hopefulness. + +“I hope so too, Goodall,” added Anthony, “but never mind if you +aren’t. I forgot to tell you something! When you come down on +Monday—bring a couple of pairs of handcuffs, will you?” He chuckled, +and put the receiver back with the fervent wish that he could have +witnessed the expression on the Inspector’s face. It was during the +week-end that followed that an idea began to take very definite shape +in Mr. Bathurst’s brain. In fact, so definite did it become that he +was sorely tempted more than once to put a telephone call through to +Assynton. But he desisted—there would be plenty of time on the +morrow—and there was more important work to be done than the solving +of the problem of the “Black Twenty-Two”! Goodall was straining at the +leash, eager and impatient to land his man—to land his _men_ in both +affairs. Goodall should be satisfied! + +When he met him in the morning at Paddington, Anthony could see that +the Inspector was looking very finely-drawn. Anthony touched him on +the arm. “Don’t worry, Inspector,” he exclaimed with a note of gaiety +in his voice, “the curtain is just going up for those third and fourth +acts I mentioned, and you and I are not going to miss any of it. Also, +Inspector,” he grinned broadly, “the bouquets will be for you when it +goes down—so possess your soul in patience and wait for that +‘soothsome’ moment—that ‘fragrant minute.’” + +Goodall’s eyes twinkled—not necessarily in anticipation of the coming +event as depicted by Mr. Bathurst. “Bouquets aren’t much in my line! +Still, I’ve brought what you asked me.” He patted his left-hand pocket +with the palm of his hand. “Optimist—aren’t I?” + +“Good man,” said Anthony, “for you’ll certainly want them. By the +way—any news from New York yet?” + +“I’ve got on to them, but there’s no news as yet!” + +The journey down was comparatively uneventful. + +“It’s been an interesting little problem, Goodall,” said Anthony as +they ran into the drab station at Assynton, “and not the least +interesting part is yet to come. I hope you are thoroughly prepared +for a rather dramatic _dénouement_?” + +“I shall be there,” retorted Goodall with grim determination, +“whatever the _dénouement_ is! Whenever! And _wherever_!” He stepped +into the car that was waiting for them. + +Peter Daventry met them in the hall immediately upon their arrival. +Anthony put his finger to his lips. + +“All serene, Daventry?” he whispered. + +Peter nodded briskly and elevated his two thumbs. “The entire +household is as you left it—the people indoors and the outside staff +as well—you need have no qualms.” + +Anthony patted him on the shoulder. “Excellent, Daventry—I felt I +could rely upon you.” + +Charles Stewart came from the library with outstretched hand. “I’m +glad you’re back, Bathurst. I suppose it’s too much to ask you if +there have been any developments?” He rattled on without giving +Anthony a chance to reply. “Good morning, Inspector! You look a trifle +tired! Mr. Ferguson hasn’t arrived yet, but I’m expecting him any +minute now. I’m pleased you’re both back with us—I feel that you +should be here to hear what Ferguson has to say—come into the +library!” The three men followed him in. “The inquest is this +afternoon,” continued Stewart, “and we are burying my father early +to-morrow morning—it will be very quiet—we have very few friends in +this country—we haven’t been here long enough to make many. Colonel +Leach-Fletcher will be present—it is very considerate of him.” + +He went across to the French doors and looked out on to the garden. It +was an easy matter to see that the tragic events of the last week had +left their mark upon him. He was over-young to bear alone the burden +of the blow that had befallen his house. It seemed unfair that it +should rest entirely upon his own shoulders. Anthony walked over to +him. + +“Mr. Stewart,” he said very quietly, “immediately the inquest is over +this afternoon I should like to have a talk with you. There are one or +two little matters that I should like to settle as soon as possible. +Will it be convenient?” Charles Stewart paled a little. + +“Only too pleased, Bathurst,” came his reply. “Let me know when you +want me—will in here do?” + +“Excellently!” + +As Anthony spoke the word, the noise of a car was heard humming up the +gravel approach to Assynton Lodge. The door opened to admit a stout, +clean-shaven man—dressed in a fashionable lounge-suit of +light-grey—double-breasted. Holding his grey Homburg to his chest he +bowed to Charles Stewart, at the same time making his own +introduction. + +“My dear Mr. Stewart,” he said in a pleasantly modulated voice, with +just a touch of American accent, “I am Andrew Ferguson, of Crake and +Ferguson, of New York. I am grieved beyond measure that our first +meeting should be taking place under such heart-breaking +circumstances. My very sincerest sympathy—Mr. Stewart.” He clasped the +young man’s hand warmly in his own. “These gentlemen”—he inquired, +raising his eyebrows. + +“Mr. Peter Daventry, representing a London firm, similar to your +own—Mr. Anthony Bathurst, whom I’ve called in to watch my interests, +and Detective-Inspector Goodall, of Scotland Yard.” Stewart motioned +towards the three in turn. Ferguson bowed again. “Come to the library, +Mr. Ferguson, will you?” said Stewart, “and no doubt, you will stay +for lunch.” + +“As a matter of fact,” said the lawyer, “my presence here to-day is +rather remarkable. When you cabled last Thursday to our New York +offices—I had already sailed for London. We have some very important +business to transact over here in connection with one of our most +esteemed clients, and Mr. Crake and I decided that I had better run +over myself. So I sailed on the _Mauretania_. I was, naturally, most +distressed and shocked to get a wireless message from my partner, +Crake, late last Friday, informing me of the sad news of Mr. Laurence +Stewart’s death—and asking me if I would call down here to see you +immediately upon my landing. My dear Mr. Stewart—I have lost no time!” +He beamed on the assembled company. “By the way, Inspector, has the +inquest been held yet?” He turned towards Goodall. + +“Not yet—it is to be held this afternoon.” + +“H’m—pardon any—er—possible—er—laceration of your feelings, Mr. +Stewart—I am sure—in the circumstances you will understand thoroughly +my motive in asking—but I presume that there is no possible doubt that +my unfortunate client was murdered?” He removed his glasses and wiped +them nervously. + +Charles Stewart looked across at the Inspector. The latter took it as +his cue to reply to Andrew Ferguson’s question. “Unfortunately—no—Mr. +Ferguson—as far as I can see at the moment—there is not the vestige of +a doubt.” Ferguson replaced his glasses on his nose and blinked at +Goodall. “Have the police any——” + +Goodall cut him short, breaking in abruptly. “As far as the inquest +this afternoon is concerned—the police will content themselves with +offering merely formal evidence of identification and then asking for +an adjournment.” + +“Quite so—I see,” responded the lawyer. He paused for a moment. “Well, +what I was about to say was this. Mr. Crake in his message—sent me in +our own private professional code, of course—the major provisions of +your father’s will. Have I your permission to make them public here +and now, Mr. Stewart?” + +Charles Stewart waved his hand in assent. “Certainly—I shall be rather +glad if you will. I had intended to ask you.” + +Ferguson took a document from his pocket. “As you know, your father +was a very rich man. His investments, which were many and varied, have +almost, without exception, turned out to be excessively lucrative. He +had with him very much more than a mere touch of financial genius.” He +looked up. “You will understand that I have only, at this juncture, +received from my partner what I termed the _major_ provisions. +Legacies are left to all members of the late Mr. Stewart’s household +who had been in his service for any length of time—I can safely say +that nobody with any claim at all has been forgotten. Mr. Stewart was +always most generous. For example,” he broke off and referred to his +paper—“Mr. Morgan Llewellyn receives an annuity of £300—John +Butterworth £500 per annum, ‘in recognition of many years’ faithful +and devoted service’—several other servants have been remembered very +kindly. The rest of the will is rather surprising.” He wiped his +glasses and blinked at the company again. “£250,000 is devised and +bequeathed to Miss Marjorie Lennox—Mr. Stewart’s ward—and the whole of +the residue of the estate to Mr. Charles Stewart—in respect of both +real and personal property. But there are important conditions +attached to each of these two bequests. In Miss Lennox’s case, the +capital sum is to be held in trust until she reaches the age of forty, +and in Mr. Stewart’s case similar conditions apply till the age of +forty-five, unless they marry each other, when the capital sums pass +into their respective possessions immediately upon such marriage. +Should, however, either Miss Lennox or Mr. Stewart marry a third +party—when marriage to the other principal legatee is possible and +legal—the contractor of such marriage forfeits his or her bequest +under this will and the said bequest passes to various charitable +institutions.” He waved his hands with a gesture of semi-apology. “It +was pointed out to Mr. Stewart when he first outlined these provisions +that there might be several flaws in the disposition, but”—he shrugged +his ample shoulders—“he was absolutely determined upon the matter.” + +Charles Stewart was very white and kept biting at his underlip in +nervous excitement. “You will be a very rich man, Mr. Stewart,” said +Mr. Ferguson of New York—“provided, of course—but there.” He smiled +somewhat fatuously—“I know how perfectly charming the lady is—I have +no doubt——” + +“Come in and have some lunch, Mr. Ferguson, will you?” responded Mr. +Charles Stewart. It will be noticed that Mr. Ferguson’s remark +provoked in him no particular enthusiasm. Certainly Mr. Bathurst +noticed the fact! + + + +CHAPTER XXII + +Mr. Bathurst Baits the Hook + +The inquest that afternoon took its course as Inspector Goodall had +foreshadowed. Formal identification of the body was taken by the +Coroner, and almost immediately afterwards, Sergeant Clegg asked for +an adjournment. The Coroner granted the Sergeant’s request without +demur. Goodall attended—he told Anthony that he always made a special +point of attending inquests—he had more than once during his career +picked up an hitherto elusive trail from some unexpected turn an +inquest had taken, and he also liked to have a good look at all the +people who made it their business to be present—but Peter stayed in +the house with Anthony. The latter’s first remark after lunch was +surprising. “What daily papers come to Assynton Lodge, Daventry, any +idea?” + +“You bet I have,” replied Peter. “I was only too glad of them during +my enforced term of Sentinel-in-Chief—‘The Times,’ ‘The Telegraph,’ +and ‘The Morning Post’—also a financial paper of some kind—I didn’t +look at it.” + +“Good,” said Anthony—it flashed through his mind that Goodall had +never informed him whether the “Telegraph” for the 30th ultimo had +afforded him any special information. He would have to ask him that +when he came in. + +“Tell me,” said Peter, “I haven’t had a chance of speaking to you +quietly—how did you get on—what are the latest developments—what’s +been doing?” + +“Matters have gone very well,” rejoined Anthony. “There is still one +little point upon which I am not yet quite clear, but I hope to clear +that up before many hours have passed. I also wish to amend with all +apologies a statement that I made—rather carelessly perhaps—to you!” +He swung one leg over the other and clasped the knee with his two +hands. “I told you, Daventry, that I would introduce the police to the +murderer of Mason the night-watchman—and you yourself to the murderer +of Laurence P. Stewart! I was wrong!” He paused, and Peter looked up! +What had gone wrong to cause Anthony Bathurst to retract a statement +like that? Disillusionment on that score came quickly. “I was wrong,” +repeated Anthony, “inasmuch as I shall have the pleasure, my dear +Daventry, of introducing _you to both murderers_.” + +“I’m sure I shall be charmed,” murmured Peter, responsively. “But +before that happens I should like to be enlightened a bit. What do you +make of that wretched will?” + +“You shall see, Daventry,” responded Anthony, ignoring the last +question, “my final plans are not quite complete—they will be +to-night—when they are—you shall know more. I shall have to take +Goodall into my confidence, too—I’ve promised him as much.” His words +coincided with the sound of the latter’s voice outside the door. +Anthony went to the door and beckoned to him. The Inspector came, +scratching his head thoughtfully. + +“That will—Mr. Bathurst! You must have noticed how young Stewart kept +away from it all the time during lunch—yet I’ll swear it was the only +thing that he was really thinking about. I can’t help feeling that +that will contains the key to the whole business!” He made the +statement emphatically, and watched Anthony’s face carefully to see +the effect of his words. + +But Mr. Bathurst’s face remained impassive. “What do you think, +yourself?” persisted Goodall—definitely putting the opinion to the +test. + +“I think it certainly had something to do with the _second_ murder,” +conceded Anthony. “But possibly not altogether in the way you think.” +He turned the subject. “What about that Personal message in the +‘Telegraph,’ Goodall? You never told me what you made of it.” + +The Inspector fished out a newspaper cutting. “I certainly must +congratulate you again over that, Mr. Bathurst,” he declared. “The +telephone number mentioned is assuredly that of Blanchard’s +Hotel—though I don’t altogether see how you got on to it—the ‘M. S.’ +_could_ also be linked up with the affair to read ‘Mary Stuart,’ but +even there——” + +Anthony cut in. “I was actually looking for something of the sort,” he +confessed. “I had thought previously that the ‘Agony Column’ might +very probably prove to be one of their most likely means of +communication! The combination of ‘M. S.’ and ‘Both-well’ was too +strong a coincidence to be passed over without investigation.” He +paused to see how the Inspector would take this last remark. + +Goodall’s eyes opened! “Well, I’m blessed,” he exclaimed. “I see now +what you mean—I’m afraid I missed the second point—that was real smart +now.” + +Peter held out his hand for the paragraph, which he read with +interest. Interest which was all the more intense on account of the +explanation that had preceded it. Anthony’s next words brought both +him and the Inspector to a keener alertness. “Make sure your +revolver’s in working order, Daventry, and you, Inspector, keep those +handcuffs close to you. I sha’n’t ask you to wait very much longer +now. I want to have a chat with Stewart this evening before the +funeral to-morrow morning—then all we shall have to do will be to +await events. Somehow I don’t think we shall be kept in suspense very +long. Our birds are a bit impatient _now_ I fancy.” The door opened +suddenly to admit Morgan Llewellyn. + +“You’re wanted on the telephone, Inspector Goodall,” he announced. “In +the hall.” Goodall disappeared quickly. + +Anthony motioned to Peter to await his return. Five minutes saw the +Inspector back. “From the ‘Yard,’ gentlemen! In answer to the inquiry +I put through at your instigation, Mr. Bathurst. New York has sent a +message through that I fancy identifies our ‘Mr. Laurence C. Stewart +the second’ of Blanchard’s Hotel and the Hanover Galleries. In the +opinion of the New York Police, he’s no less a person than ‘Snoop’ +Mortimer—otherwise known as ‘Flash Alf’—they’ve been after him for +months in connection with some very cute jobs over the other side—he +slipped out of the country about a month ago—they’re pretty certain +that he’s our man.” + +Goodall’s manner was becoming more jaunty—he felt he was “getting +hold” at last. Anthony weighed the information over in his mind. It +tallied with what he had been expecting. She had met him in New +York—no doubt—when Stewart had moved there from Washington. That would +account for the entry of Mr. Mortimer into the cast. “Is Mr. Charles +Stewart back yet, Inspector?” + +“He should be by now, Mr. Bathurst. I left him talking to Mr. +Llewellyn—but no doubt he came up by car. Very likely he passed me on +the road—I walked up.” + +Anthony nodded in an understanding manner. “I’m going to see him—you +stay and talk to the Inspector—Daventry!” + +The two latter looked at each other in some amusement as Anthony +slipped from the room. “He’s actually arranging my amusements now,” +commented Goodall ruefully. “I shall be thundering glad when we clear +the decks for action.” + +Anthony found Charles Stewart in Llewellyn’s room—the secretary was +busy writing. He glanced at Stewart, who rose to greet him. “I hadn’t +forgotten I promised to have a word with you, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll come +along now.” He pushed some papers into his pocket and accompanied +Anthony down the corridor. “In the library?” he suggested. + +Anthony declined. “Daventry and Inspector Goodall are in there—come in +the Museum Room—is it unlocked?” + +Stewart pushed open the door of the room in question and waved Anthony +to a seat. He chose a Chippendale chair—his host followed his example. +Anthony cut no time to waste and speedily got to grips with what he +wanted to do. + +“Mr. Stewart,” he said, leaning across with a mixture of interest and +sympathy, “I am going to ask you one or two more questions that +possibly may border upon the personal. You will, I am sure, pardon any +seeming directness—but I am _nearing the end of my case_, and I wish +to handle all the facts firmly and confidently.” + +Stewart’s cheeks flushed quickly. “I don’t quite understand——” + +Anthony extended a protesting hand. “I think you will. Who is the lady +you wish to marry?” + +Stewart half rose in his chair. Then he sank back, as though resigned +to anything that might come next. + +“I think I am able, Mr. Stewart,” continued Anthony, “to put my finger +on the subject of the interview that you had with your father, not +long before he was killed—it concerned a lady—the lady you are +desirous of marrying—who is she?” + +Stewart’s emotion got the better of him for a brief period. Then he +made a big effort and succeeded in pulling himself together. “That’s +been one of the hardest things I’ve had to bear, Mr. Bathurst,” he +stated. “The thought that my last words with my father had been bitter +ones. Ever since that awful morning when I realized that I should +never speak to him again—that I should never again hear his voice +speaking to me, that thought haunted me—every moment almost. And +another thought has accompanied it. This! If by any miracle I could +bring my father back to life and have that interview over again, I +don’t see that I could conscientiously end it or even carry it on, in +any other way.” He looked pathetically at Anthony. + +“You have my very profound sympathy, Mr. Stewart. But you mustn’t +upset yourself needlessly. Tell me all about it.” He put his arm on +the young man’s shoulder. Stewart drew his hand across his forehead +and tossed his hair back from his brow. + +“Well, of course, Mr. Bathurst, you have been able to see, from what +Ferguson has told us to-day—exactly how the land lay. My father was +fond of me as a man is of his only son, but he was also passionately +attached to Marjorie—Miss Lennox! I think, perhaps, he was the type of +man that prefers girls to boys, and although she was his ward—he +always regarded her as a daughter. _More_ than as a daughter.” He +brought his fist down in the palm of his other hand. “_More_—because +he cherished the idea that one day she and I would marry. But I don’t +think either of us care for the other in that way. We’ve always been +tremendous pals and all that—but there it ended! Somehow we didn’t +want to marry. I’m speaking more for myself than I possibly can for +Marjorie—naturally—but I don’t think she has ever wanted to marry me +any more than I have ever wanted to marry her. How the idea obsessed +my father’s mind you can judge after hearing what Ferguson told us +with regard to his will. My father couldn’t bear to be thwarted in +anything.” He stopped, and once again the color flaunted its red +banner in his cheeks. “Soon after we came to Assynton, I met a lady to +whom I was instantly attracted, and now I am very happy to say there +is a complete understanding between us. She is a Miss Rosemary +Armitage, of ‘The Towers’—seven miles from here. I had been playing +tennis there the night Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined with my father. I +don’t know if anything was said during the evening, but when the +Colonel went, my father sent for me and in his own words—‘had it out +with me.’ He had heard of my admiration for Miss Armitage and it had +upset him.” + +“What time was that?” interjected Anthony. + +“At a quarter-past ten—I looked at my wrist-watch as I entered the +library! I wondered what it was my father wanted to see me about so +late—he sent for me—you see.” + +Anthony thought for a second. “That leaves a quarter of an hour +between the Colonel’s departure and his sending for you. Whom did he +send for you?” + +“Marjorie,” replied Stewart listlessly. + +“Miss Lennox has made no mention, as far as my knowledge and memory +go, of having been in here after Colonel Leach-Fletcher went. Yet I am +certain she came in, and I am equally certain of the reason that +brought her. When she left your father, he sent her to fetch you.” +Anthony made this statement very confidently and went straight on to +invest it with more significance. “It was _because_ of what Miss +Lennox told your father that he _immediately_ sent for you—she went to +him to complain of the lover-like attentions of his secretary.” + +“Of course,” burst out Stewart, “you can’t be sure of that—you’re +speculating somewhat, aren’t you?” + +“On the contrary, Mr. Stewart,” came Anthony’s reply, “I have been +able to obtain conclusive proof of what I have just said!” + +“What sort of proof?” demanded Stewart. + +“Proof about which there isn’t a shadow of a doubt—_proof in Morgan +Llewellyn’s own handwriting_.” + +Stewart let a look of complete astonishment pass over his face. +“Honestly, I hadn’t the least idea.” + +“I don’t suppose you had! Now I want to talk about another matter. And +I want you to give me your absolute confidence again, and eventually, +your entire obedience. I want this house to be shut up after to-morrow +morning’s ceremony!” + +“What?” muttered Stewart. + +Anthony leaned over to him and spoke in very quiet tones. + +“I want you to announce this evening to all your staff that Assynton +Lodge is to be left empty from say to-morrow midday. Tell Llewellyn to +take a month’s leave—tell all the servants the same thing. Send Miss +Lennox to friends or to an hotel in town, and tell her you will join +her in a few days. I shall want you with me. Let Colonel +Leach-Fletcher know—let the whole world know—make it as public as you +possibly can—and leave the place as soon as is convenient to you, +to-morrow afternoon.” + +Stewart looked dumbfounded. “But I must leave somebody here. How about +all the valuables—I shouldn’t care to lose them all.” + +Anthony considered the point that he raised. “I see your point. Very +well, then—leave Butterworth and his wife here—he’s the best to stay +behind—_but nobody else_!” + +Stewart still looked at him in amazement. “Where am I to go myself?” +he questioned. + +“I’ll tell you to-morrow midday,” answered Anthony. “Meanwhile will +you do as I suggest?” + +Stewart’s answer came a trifle wearily. “I’ve placed myself in your +hands, Mr. Bathurst—I must be content to leave the matter entirely to +you.” Then he seemed to think of something. “What about Mr. Daventry +and Inspector Goodall?” + +“Leave them to me—and answer me one more question. When your father +had that interview with you—did he by any chance mention to you the +peculiar provisions of his will?” + +Stewart hesitated for just the fraction of a second before his answer +came. “Certainly not, Mr. Bathurst—when Ferguson told me the +provisions of the will this morning nobody was more surprised than I. +My father was angry at my not falling in with this supreme desire of +his—furiously angry I may say! He so far forgot himself to say things +about Miss Armitage which were as absurd as they were untrue, to +anybody that knew her—he even threatened me in a way—a vague sort of +way. But——” + +“How do you mean?” interrupted Anthony abruptly. “How did he threaten +you?” + +Stewart gnawed at his lower lip. “As I said—vaguely! That it would be +the worse for me if I persisted in acting in opposition to his +wishes—just that—nothing more. Why do you ask?” + +“The point occurred to me—that’s all—go on!” + +“Well—that’s all,” concluded Stewart. “The word ‘will’ was never +mentioned—I left my father hoping that he would cool down and see +things eventually from my point of view—and Marjorie’s.” + +“When Miss Lennox came to tell you your father wanted you, did she +seem upset or distressed at all?” + +Stewart reflected for a second or two. “No,” he declared. “But I’ll +tell you what I did notice about her—her cheeks were very flushed—as +though she were laboring under great excitement—I certainly did notice +that.” + +Anthony rose and walked across to one of the tables. He picked up a +dainty piece of glass—almost gossamer-like in its texture and quality. + +“You understand, don’t you? I want that announcement about closing the +house up to be made _to-night_. Inform all the servants—arrange with +Llewellyn and Miss Lennox on the lines that I suggested—see +Butterworth about taking charge during the time you will be +away—’phone Colonel Leach-Fletcher—in short make all the necessary +arrangements as soon as possible. If it could be managed—don’t come +back to the house after the funeral. What a lovely piece of glass this +is!” He rang his finger nail against its edge. + +“Very well,” said Stewart. “I will do exactly as you wish.” + +“I’m obliged,” returned Anthony. He walked to the door—then stopped +and looked back at Stewart. “By the way,” he exclaimed, “would you +kindly arrange for me to have a word with young O’Connor before he +goes for his unexpected month’s holiday?” + + + +CHAPTER XXIII + +When the Cat’s Away + +“Goodall,” murmured Anthony, “I shall never be able to forget entirely +the look on your face this afternoon when I asked you to fall in with +my arrangements. It was an education on its own—really in some ways I +regard it as sufficient reward in itself for the trouble I have taken +over the matter. Have another slice of this cold lamb. You too, +Daventry!” + +The two people addressed pushed their plates towards him, the +Inspector grinning somewhat feebly. + +“It might even have been a better education for you had you felt +disposed to tell me a bit more—even now you haven’t put me wise to all +that’s going on—thanks, Mr. Bathurst.” + +“Well, Inspector, you do know more than I do,” grumbled Peter. “If +anybody’s got a real legitimate ‘grouse’ it’s little Peter—that’s +enough—thanks—I haven’t got an appetite like the Inspector here.” +Anthony drained the contents of his tankard and surveyed his two +companions with an almost fatherly air of condescension and regard. + +“You must allow me to stage-manage the show in the way I think best. +Really—I could charge you both with downright ingratitude! I procure a +topping car for you—if you prefer the word ‘procure’ to borrow—I drive +you out into some most charming country—and I carefully select an inn +that provides you with delicious cold lamb, admirable new potatoes, +delightful green peas, singularly delectable mint-sauce, excellent +Cheddar—all washed down with cooling draughts of the wine of the +country. In exchange for all this—you censure me for what you both +appear to consider excessive reticence.” + +Goodall looked intently at him. “‘Borrow,’ did you say? Now I thought +I’d seen that car before—now I know where it was—that’s Colonel +Leach-Fletcher’s ‘Bentley’ we’ve been joy-riding in!” He slapped his +hand on his thigh. + +“Quite right, Inspector,” exclaimed Anthony. “I thought you would spot +its identity when I invited you to get in and be seated!” + +“Wasn’t thinking of it then—I was wondering where you were taking us +to and what was the big idea!” + +Daventry handed round the cigarettes. “Why were you so anxious to get +off the main road?” he queried. + +“‘Journeys end in lovers meeting,’” quoth Mr. Bathurst—“I didn’t want +to meet people—two in particular.” He looked at his watch. “It’s +half-past eight, Goodall,” he announced; “I asked Stewart to be here +at nine.” + +“Stewart?” questioned the Inspector. + +“Yes—he’s coming back, according to my intentions, with the three of +us to Assynton Lodge—and we’re going via ‘Neuve Chapelle’—Colonel +Leach-Fletcher’s house is the Rockinge side of Assynton—that’s why +we’re going round that way. It will be safer!” Goodall nodded an +assent. “Of course,” continued Anthony—“it’s just on the cards that we +shall draw a complete blank—but as I said before, I don’t think so. +Impatience is a tyrannical taskmaster—ask any woman! Come into the +smoke-room!” They made themselves comfortable. “I calculate that it +will be dark about a quarter-past ten—we have three-quarters of an +hour’s journey from here by car—let alone the walk from the Colonel’s. +We should leave here, to be on the safe side, directly Stewart comes.” + +“You think it’s certain that nothing will happen before dark?” asked +Goodall. + +“I don’t think any attempt will be made,” answered Anthony, “_before +midnight_! They will wait until it’s really dark—still we mustn’t give +any chances away. Now, Daventry—I want to talk to you! That screen you +saw at the Hanover Galleries! If my memory isn’t faulty, it was +covered with the words, ‘Jesus Christ, God and Saviour,’ in beads. Am +I right?” Peter nodded. + +“That’s right,” he admitted cheerfully; “I can see it now. +Brightly-colored beads they were—under a kind of glass covering.” + +“Was the word ‘and’ shown in full—with its full complement of +letters—that is?” + +“What do you mean?” + +“Just this! In the present day, ‘and’ is often expressed by a kind of +hieroglyphic—you know what I mean—I don’t quite know how old the +practice is—but counting ‘and’ as one—if it had been shown like +that—there would have been just twenty-two letters in the +inscription—see what I’m getting at?” + +Peter shook his head. “That theory goes ‘phut,’ old man,” he declared, +“‘and’ was depicted in full—the three letters, a—n—d.” + +“Thank you,” replied Anthony somewhat surprisingly cheerfully. “I’m +rather glad, as a matter of fact, to hear you say that—it rather +strengthens my belief in my other theory.” Goodall looked up at the +clock anxiously. + +“Mr. Stewart should be here, Mr. Bathurst—I don’t want to stay in here +too long, you know. I shall be getting uneasy.” + +“Neither do I. Let’s go and have a look outside!” + +They scanned the white stretch of road that wound its serpentine-like +way through the green of the countryside. For the moment their eyes +saw nothing—then Anthony spoke to his companions. “Our man—I fancy!” +He pointed in the reverse direction to that in which they had been +looking. + +“Traveling pretty fast, too,” muttered Goodall. + +“He’s a trifle late—that’s why,” replied Anthony. In a few moments the +big car spun into the inn-yard with Charles Stewart at the wheel. His +face seemed set and anxious. + +“Sorry if I’m a bit behind time, Bathurst,” he apologized, “I +miscalculated the distance this place was away—I hope it hasn’t +inconvenienced you at all.” + +Anthony got into the car and sat next to him. “We were getting a bit +worried about you—that was all. I’ll travel back with you! +Daventry—you drive the Inspector in the Colonel’s car. Make straight +for ‘Neuve Chapelle’!” + +The two cars swung out on to the road—Peter in the “Bentley” leading. + +“I should like to get back to the Colonel’s by ten to ten at the +latest,” exclaimed Anthony. “Can we do it?” + +“Easy,” said Stewart. “I’ll let her out when we get on to the Rockinge +road—it’s bound to be pretty clear there—it always is.” + +“What about O’Connor, Bathurst?” he continued. “Did you see him all +right as you desired?” + +“Yes—thanks! I’ve arranged all that I wanted.” He paused and looked at +his companion. “I’m rather afraid that events have crowded upon us +very quickly, Mr. Stewart, and that coming so soon after this morning +they may have proved a severe strain upon you—but there is this much +to be said, I hope to clear up the whole business within the next few +hours.” + +Stewart nodded. “It will be a great relief—perhaps in time I may +school myself to forget it all . . . except that wretched will, +though . . . that’s likely to be a permanent obstacle.” + +“Nine-fifty-two,” he announced eventually as they drew up outside +Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s. “Not bad going that.” + +The Colonel was not in, the maid-servant informed them. He had gone +out after ten on foot and had not yet returned. Mr. Bathurst thanked +her, and in the circumstances would put the “Bentley” into the garage +if she would see that it was unlocked for him! Peter ran it in as +smoothly and in as businesslike a manner as possible. + +“Yours too, Mr. Stewart,” instructed Anthony. “You’re leaving it here +to-night—you know—and completing the rest of the journey with us on +foot!” + +Stewart looked a little bewildered, but by this time had become quite +prepared to obey Mr. Bathurst’s orders without asking too many +questions. + +“If we walk smartly,” declared Goodall, “we ought to be there by a +quarter to eleven, and that’s quite late enough in my opinion. . . . +Step it out, gentlemen, until I give the word to stop you.” + +The four were quickly into their stride—Peter Daventry wondering where +it was all going to end. He put his hand in the pocket of his coat and +felt the butt of his revolver. He was prepared, at any rate, should it +turn out to be a “rough house.” Old Bathurst evidently thought it +might by his references to the revolver. He jerked at Anthony’s +sleeve. “That’s the second mile-stone since we started—another quarter +of an hour or so ought to bring us pretty close to the Lodge.” + +Anthony nodded, and for the next ten minutes or thereabouts the little +party walked in silence. Suddenly Goodall, who was leading, stopped, +and turning in his tracks, approached the others. “We’re just on +there,” he whispered, “and we must all keep very quiet. Is there +anything more you want seen to, Mr. Bathurst?” + +“How many men have you posted round the house, Goodall?” asked +Anthony. + +“Half a dozen. Every point is well watched—I’ve seen to that!” + +“Better make sure they’re there before we do anything,” suggested +Anthony. + +“Wait, then,” snapped Goodall. He was soon back. “All O. K.,” he +declared very quietly. + +“What I propose, then, is this—we four will keep well away from the +entrance that leads to the front of the house on the Assynton side. +We’ll climb the garden wall at the back—we shall come to it first, +approaching from this direction, and once inside the grounds we’ll +take cover—somewhere near the rock garden say. We oughtn’t to stand +much chance of being spotted round there.” He looked up at the sky. +“The moon’s in our favor!” Goodall appeared to be considering the plan +very carefully. “Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I don’t think we can +do very much better than that. I’ll go and have another word with +Sergeant Clegg and wait for you under the shadow of the wall.” He was +as good as his word, and shortly afterwards the four figures dropped +silently from the wall and stealthily made their way nearer to the +house. Not a glimmer of light showed, and the dim foreboding that the +night was destined to produce nothing sensational smote Anthony for a +brief moment. Then his reason reasserted itself and he shook off the +idea of failure. + +“Deuced peculiar way of entering my own garden,” muttered Charles +Stewart. + +Goodall put his fingers to his lips. “Silence—everybody—please—not a +syllable—gentlemen.” + +Suddenly a figure flitted out from behind a bush. Peter quivered with +excitement. Anthony caught it by the arm. “That you, Patrick?” he +whispered softly. + +Goodall turned round again angrily, but Anthony held up his finger +with a gesture that betokened silence. + +“Ay, sir, it’s Patrick O’Connor. I fixed that little job for you—and +father’s up near the window—as you told him, sir. Nothing’s happened +yet, sir—I’ve watched since the time you mentioned.” Anthony expressed +approval. “Fall in with us, Patrick—and as quietly as you know how.” + +Two or three minutes later came another order from the Inspector. “Now +sort yourselves out—and keep within half a dozen yards of one +another—and nobody’s to move forward after taking up position unless +ordered by me or Mr. Bathurst here.” As he spoke a light suddenly +flashed and lit up one of the rooms. Peter started as he saw it. +“Which room’s that?” he queried of Anthony in a whisper. + +“Not sure—watch the house carefully—get away to my right—three yards +will be ample.” + +For a long time nothing happened—till just as suddenly as previously a +second room flashed into light. Anthony tiptoed over to Daventry. “One +of the bedrooms now—on the second floor—I really think things are +moving. I’m going forward a bit to have a word with Goodall.” + +The Inspector listened sagely and was on the point of making his reply +when Anthony gripped his arm. + +“Listen, Goodall, listen. Hear that? A car! It’s driven up to the +house—it’s going up the drive now—can’t you hear it?” + +Goodall cocked his head in the darkness—then turned swiftly and +silently. + +“Get the men to their places, Mr. Bathurst—we haven’t long to wait +now, I’ll lay any odds.” + +Goodall’s instructions were instantly obeyed, and Peter Daventry was +perfectly certain in his own mind that everybody could hear plainly +the sound of his heart beating. But nobody appeared to—nobody turned +on him angrily with an order to stop the noise his heart was making—so +he concluded after a time that the noise wasn’t anything like as bad +as he imagined and that his fears were exaggerated. + +Anthony flitted noiselessly across to the Inspector. “Stay here—all of +you—I’m going forward a bit—don’t do anything till I come back and +give you the word.” He slipped away in the darkness. Keeping well in +the shadow, he silently approached the library. A figure suddenly +materialized, peering at him for a brief moment of palpitating +suspense. Suddenly Anthony felt his hand gripped in a grasp that would +have made many a man wince. + +“All right, O’Connor,” he whispered, “be careful not to make the +slightest sound—_they’re somewhere in the house_.” The giant flashed +back a smile, white teeth gleaming in the darkness. Simultaneously the +library flooded into light! Anthony in the stress of his excitement +dug his fingers into the foundryman’s shoulder. “I’m going right up to +the French doors,” he whispered again, “in a very few minutes from +now—get well back for a moment or two in case they open them and come +out.” They crouched together in the darkest patch they could find. The +few minutes seemed an eternity. O’Connor’s breath came in short sharp +gasps—inactivity fretted him and he found this period of waiting and +suspense well-nigh intolerable. Then his heart went to his mouth as he +saw Anthony go forward, very slowly and silently—on the grass as much +as possible—step by step—and reach the doors of the lighted library. +He saw Bathurst’s body worm to one side, seeking a favorable chink of +vantage—he saw it stiffen to rigid attention as this chink was +apparently gained . . . the rest he had to leave to the flights of his +imagination. Then as he looked he saw Bathurst drop down from his full +height and begin to tiptoe again on his return journey. Anthony +answered his companion’s unspoken question. “Couldn’t be better—stay +here while I go back to get Goodall and the others.” O’Connor could +just see that the speaker’s face was shining with a mixture of +excitement and elation. Goodall heard Anthony’s news with quiet +satisfaction. + +“Good,” was all he permitted himself. He collected Peter and Charles +Stewart, sent young O’Connor down to Sergeant Clegg and issued his +final instructions. “Your revolver, Mr. Daventry? Right! You’re +perfectly certain about the doors, Mr. Bathurst, aren’t you?” + +“They’ve been attended to, Inspector—be easy on that point.” The four +men crept forward and joined the elder O’Connor. And at last they +reached the point they wanted. Anthony listened for a single tense +moment—then beckoned to Goodall, who stole silently to his side. “Look +through there,” he whispered. Goodall peered into the room. Two men +were standing with their backs to the French doors, but the form of +one of them was vaguely familiar to him. A woman was kneeling on the +floor in front of two objects the exact shape of which her body hid +from the watchers’ sight. Anthony caught at Goodall’s arm and pulled +him away—then he whispered a few words into the Inspector’s ear. + +“Good God!” muttered Goodall. Then he made a sign to Peter and the +others, and with a sudden sharp movement of his hands pulled open the +doors. The woman sprang to her feet with a scream that rang in Peter’s +ears as he leveled his revolver. Goodall was at his side, and Peter +could see a second automatic gleaming in the Inspector’s hand. The two +men in the library pivoted round in amazement, and the smaller man’s +hand dropped like lightning to his hip pocket. + +“Put your hands up,” roared Goodall, “or, by God, I’ll let daylight +through you.” + +Four hands went sullenly up, while the woman sank quivering to the +floor. Goodall walked to the man that was armed and quietly took the +revolver from his hip pocket. “‘Snoop’ Mortimer and Alice Mortimer,” +he said deliberately, “I arrest you on the charge of murdering James +Mason at the Hanover Galleries on the morning of June 9th last.” + +Sergeant Clegg came out of the circle of light by the doors and +clicked the handcuffs on the man’s wrists. The woman lay prostrate on +the floor. Goodall administered the usual caution. He then walked to +the elder man who stood grey and ashen by the library table, +completely paralyzed at the dramatic interruption. “I also arrest you, +John Butterworth,” he said, “for the murder of your master, Laurence +P. Stewart, on the night of June 8th!” Butterworth reeled and swayed +like a tree shaken in the wind—then held out his hands mechanically +for the handcuffs—the bracelets from which, for murderers, there is no +escape. + + + +CHAPTER XXIV + +The Secret of the Screens + +The library door closed upon the three prisoners. Goodall’s mouth was +set in lines that were grim and hard—the man-hunting game is no +occupation for the squeamish. “Clegg and his men will have them in the +cells in no time,” he declared. “And the papers will sell well +to-morrow morning.” + +But his remark evoked no response from the others—all eyes had gone to +Charles Stewart. He had sunk into a chair—the very chair, as it +happened, where his father had been sitting when he had met his +death—thoroughly overcome by the events of the evening. “Butterworth,” +he muttered incredulously in a broken voice—“Butterworth! A man that +my father would have trusted with anything”—he put his head into his +hands and his shoulders shook in his emotion. + +“Come—come,” said Anthony, “you mustn’t break down like +this—personally I was somewhat relieved to find that it was +Butterworth whom we were trailing and not anybody else.” + +Stewart lifted up his face and looked at Anthony searchingly. “You +were _relieved_?” he queried. “Didn’t you know then till to-night?” + +“Some time before to-night, Mr. Stewart,” replied Bathurst with a +sympathetic movement of the head. “You see I had some occasion to +suspect him from the very first.” + +Stewart looked at him again blankly and a trifle doubtfully. “To me,” +he continued, “it has come as a very great shock. I don’t think I +shall ever be able to forget it.” + +Anthony patted him on the shoulder and went across to the others in +the room. Goodall picked up the two screens—the two objects that had +been engaging the attention of Alice Mortimer as she knelt upon the +floor just prior to the arrest. He placed them on the table—in its +center—Anthony removing everything else to obtain clear room-space. +Then he looked carefully at the screens. There they stood——the one +that had come back to the house from which it had been removed—the +other just as Peter Daventry had seen it in the Hanover Galleries +before the murders. The first had been the property of Laurence P. +Stewart, who had been murdered. The second had been the property of +Lord Clavering, who had died in his bed. The screens were as they had +been for over three hundred years—they had defied Time, and up to now +had defied also the challenging and predatory lusts of men. Stewart’s +screen was of the dark bronze-like metal work that Marjorie Lennox had +described. It stood about four feet high, with the Queen’s Lion in the +top left-hand corner and the “fleur-de-lis” in the corresponding +position on the right. In the middle could be read the two words from +Virgil—“_Timeo Danaos_”—they had been scratched on with infinite care +and patience. Below them swam the fish just as Miss Lennox had +pictured it. At the bottom, in the two corners, were the Leopards and +Lilies of England—the Leopards directly beneath the Lion and the +Lilies below the “fleur-de-lis.” Lord Clavering’s screen, that had +traveled to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ and thence to Mr. and Mrs. +“Snoop” Mortimer, stood perhaps an inch or two higher—upon a carved +wood pedestal. The glass-shielded tapestry was just as Peter Daventry +remembered it. It was the counterpart of the other as regards +decoration and ornament, save for its centerpiece. The colored beads +took the place of the Latin words—they were all that there was +there—“JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND SAVIOUR.” Peter pointed to the fourth +word, “It is written in full,” he exclaimed, “just as I told you.” +Anthony nodded. + +“Yes—that’s all right. I’ve abandoned that particular theory.” He +turned to the others, who were beginning to be infected with his +strange combination of eagerness, enthusiasm and excitement. “Judging +from the faces of the little gathering that we were discourteous +enough just recently to interrupt,” he declared, “I don’t fancy that +the lady had successfully interpreted the riddle that her father had +put in front of her.” + +“Her father,” interjected Goodall, “you mean her husband, Mr. +Bathurst!” + +“I don’t,” smiled Anthony, “I mean her father, as I said—you will find +that Alice Mortimer was _née_ Butterworth—she met her esteemed husband +in the States.” + +Charles Stewart gasped and Peter Daventry raised his eyes in +astonishment. + +“Assuming therefore,” continued Anthony, “that the secret of the +screens still remains unsolved, I purpose putting a little idea of +mine to the test—I think you will find it interesting, gentlemen.” He +walked to the French doors. “O’Connor,” he called. The black-bearded +giant stepped smartly into the room. + +“At your service, Mr. Bathurst—what is it that you’re wantin’ of me?” + +Anthony pointed to the smaller of the two screens. “You know a good +deal about metal work, O’Connor,” he exclaimed, “have a look over +here, will you?” Michael O’Connor strode across to the table. “What +would be the effect, O’Connor, of heavy blows upon this metal work?” + +O’Connor ran his fingers over the embossed surface of the screen. Then +he ran them through his hair. “Would it be with a hammer that you +mean?” he questioned doubtfully. + +“Yes—something of that kind.” + +“Well”—he scratched his head still more doubtfully—“you could beat it +and beat it and kape on beatin’ it. You could knock it into all shapes +and that ’ud be about all you could do—you couldn’t knock holes into +it. It’s old and hard that metal work is—and it ’ud stand all the +banging you could give it. That’s my opinion, sir.” He paused and +looked round at them, as though inviting either a criticism or a +confirmation of what he had stated. + +From Anthony there came the latter. “Just my own opinion, O’Connor,” +he declared, “it would stand as much hammering as you chose to give +it.” He walked up to the table and inspected the two screens intently. +Goodall and Peter Daventry joined him, while Charles Stewart came +round to the other side of them. Suddenly Bathurst put his finger on +the point of the metal work that comprised the eye of the swimming +fish. But to no purpose—and his circle of spectators saw something +like a gleam of disappointment cross his face. Then he tried a second +time—the forefinger of his left hand pushing on the fish’s eye and the +forefinger of his right pressing on its tail! There was a sudden +clicking sound and a sharp exclamation of amazement from Charles +Stewart. As though by magic the embossed body of the fish on the +reverse side of the screen to which Bathurst had pressed, swung +away—revealing a cavity in the metal work the size of a man’s hand. +Anthony plunged his hand into it and drew out what looked like a wad +of discolored cotton wool. + +“Gentlemen,” he cried, with dramatic triumph, “allow me to introduce +you to the ‘Twenty-Two Black Pearls of Lorraine.’” + + + +CHAPTER XXV + +The Riddle of the Black Twenty-Two + +He laid the dirty padded mass on the library table, and started to +pull the soft fleecy substance to pieces. From the first corner he +extracted a magnificent specimen of a black pearl. Then the others +came to his assistance with exclamations of delight, wonder and +incredulity. In a few moments the twenty-two black pearls lay on the +table in front of them—none the worse to all appearances for their +three hundred odd years’ concealment. Every one was a truly +magnificent specimen. Goodall, Peter and Charles Stewart handled them +in a kind of amazed bewilderment, marveling at their size and beauty. +Michael O’Connor’s two eyes were nearly falling from his head. This +would make a story for many future generations of O’Connors to smack +their lips over. After a time the reason of the other three reasserted +itself, and they turned to Bathurst—their questions in their eyes. + +“Hadn’t you better tell us all about it, Mr. Bathurst,” suggested the +Inspector, “it’s the nearest approach to the Arabian Nights that ever +I’ve run up against.” + +Anthony selected a comfortable corner of the table and swung himself +on to it. The others seated themselves round him. “I had better begin +at the beginning,” he said. “Although the case appeared very involved +and complicated in its initial stages—one of the points that seemed to +border upon the impossible and which seemed also to be perhaps the +most difficult one to surmount—actually simplified matters enormously +and gave me my starting-point. I refer to the fact that when you, Mr. +Stewart, accompanied by Llewellyn and Butterworth, broke down the +library door on the morning when you discovered the body of your +father—the key was in the door on the inside and the bolts of the +French doors were firmly shot in their sockets. All three of you were +agreed on the matter. Inasmuch as these were the only two exits from +the room by which the murderer _could possibly have escaped_—this +evidence must have been false—faked if you like. One of the three +people had been quick enough and clever enough on his entry to +_impose_ this piece of evidence upon the minds of the other two. Quite +easily done, too, when their attention was so distracted. It was the +only possible solution to the mystery, and when you find the only +possible solution, gentlemen, you hang on to it. The question then +arose which one of the three was it? I made up my mind to await events +a bit before deciding prematurely and to preserve an open mind. The +next important step in my investigations was the letter found on the +murdered man’s desk—the few words that had been scribbled by him just +before he met his death. They were, you will remember—‘Urgent—in the +morning. M. L.’ Now I suggest, gentlemen, that most of you—perhaps all +of you—were inclined to associate either Mr. Morgan Llewellyn or Miss +Marjorie Lennox with the initials there written—I considered those +possibilities very carefully, but after a time I rejected them. If it +were in the nature of an instruction—then it would almost certainly be +intended for Llewellyn—and he would scarcely be reminded in that +particular way of anything about _himself_. Also would Stewart put +initials if he were referring to the lady whom he looked upon as a +daughter? Surely she would be ‘Marjorie’ to him, without any surname? +No, gentlemen! I came to the conclusion that ‘M. L.’ stood for the +abbreviated and incompleted form of ‘Merryweather, Linnell and +Daventry.’” He paused and looked across at Peter, who allowed an +exclamation of “By Jove!” to escape his lips. Goodall said +laconically, “Go on!” Anthony proceeded. “Assuming this to be a sound +theory, then—what had happened in the library that night to cause +Stewart to scrawl the words? That was what I had to find out. It +seemed to me pretty conclusive that if Merryweather, Linnell and +Daventry were coming into the picture, then what I had suspected for +some time was true—_that the kernel of the matter lay in the screen +that I discovered to be missing from the Museum Room and in the +strange coincidence of the murder at the Hanover Galleries with yet +another missing screen_. I was indebted to Colonel Leach-Fletcher for +the next important piece of assistance. Stewart, he informed us—you +remember, Goodall—was very troubled about what he described as some +treachery happening in his house. Private papers and documents were +being tampered with. Was this the same trouble that he was feeling +over his son? I decided no! Mr. Charles Stewart here had no reason to +acquire information from his father by stealth or underhand methods. +He could have obtained it in the open—in many ways. I then began to +center my suspicions upon two people—Llewellyn and Butterworth. Also, +I considered the evidence of Patrick O’Connor’s bicycle. I was able to +establish—with your help, Inspector, that communication had +undoubtedly passed on the night of the crime between the murderer this +end and Blanchard’s Hotel. Something had happened suddenly down here +that made the immediate acquisition of the tapestry screen +imperative—it was to be obtained at any cost! Then I reconstructed the +crime—finding the missing bullet and the weapon that the murderer had +used. The location of the bullet was most interesting—but of that more +later. Also I found the answer to my question as to what was making +Llewellyn so uneasy. It was a love-interest—concerned at the moment +with a love-letter! I began to think seriously then about +Butterworth—John Butterworth, the trusted butler. ‘Treachery,’ you +will agree, is a good interpretation of betrayed trust. This is what I +think happened on the night of the murder.” He stopped again to light +a cigarette. “We know that Stewart had confided to the Colonel that he +intended to take immediate steps to probe the treachery that he +imagined was going on around him. In my opinion he had formed certain +suspicions and intended to take action, that very night. But something +happened directly after his guest left that he hadn’t been expecting. +Marjorie Lennox had been waiting for Colonel Leach-Fletcher to leave +to get into the library and to put before her ‘Uncle’ documentary +evidence of the unwelcome attentions to which she was being subjected +by Llewellyn. We know that she had threatened to do so, by the terms +of Llewellyn’s letter. We can only conjecture what happened—but it is +plain that the question of Marjorie’s affections caused your father, +Mr. Stewart, to send for you directly after she left him—in the hope +of arranging matters more on the lines of what he desired.” + +Charles Stewart nodded his head in acquiescence. “That is so—Mr. +Bathurst.” + +“After your talk with your father finished—your father went to +bed—but only ostensibly. He was on the _qui vive_ that night—he +undressed—slipped a dressing-gown over his pajamas—a revolver into the +right-hand pocket——” + +“Left,” cut in Peter Daventry crisply. Anthony ignored the +interruption. + +“——And waited until something happened that brought him downstairs. To +the library—for this was the room where he had previously discovered +signs of interference with his private papers. Butterworth was in +there—engaged on a book of French memoirs to which I shall refer +again. Like ‘John Shand,’ he had always been a natural scholar—with an +unusual aptitude for learning and culture—this aptitude unhappily has +brought him, finally, to what I believe is sometimes described as ‘the +nine o’clock walk.’ But I digress! Butterworth heard his master’s +footsteps—sprang to the light switch and snapped out the light. +Stewart fired at the unknown intruder—we know where the bullet went. +Butterworth then disclosed his identity—probably with an instinct for +self-preservation. Shocked at the perfidy of the man he trusted +implicitly, but at the same time realizing that he surely would not +need the revolver again, Stewart then replaced it in his left-hand +pocket. Do you agree, Daventry?” Peter nodded rather shamefacedly and +could have kicked himself for his recent interruption. Anthony smiled. +“Stewart wrested part of the truth from him, in all probability, and +then heaped rebuke and scathing censure on his head. And I +think—although perhaps it’s largely guesswork—that he let Butterworth +know that the provision that he had made for him in his will would be +immediately negatived. Then the butler was dismissed and Stewart sat +down to think things over. He didn’t notice that Butterworth had _made +his exit by the French doors into the garden and not by the door_. +Stewart scrawled his few words—intended for Llewellyn—I suggest it +would have read had it been completed—‘urgent in the morning. M. L. +and Co. to act re’—well—what shall we say—perhaps a new will—perhaps +they were to receive more explicit instructions re the tapestry screen +that had now been invested with an intrinsic value concerning which +his curiosity had been considerably whetted. But Butterworth, with his +half-share in the proceeds of the ‘Twenty-Two Black Pearls of +Lorraine’ greatly imperiled, to say nothing of an immediate pension of +five hundred pounds a year at stake, _came back_ from the garden with +murder in his heart. Fate had placed his weapon handy. He struck! As +we know, he cleaned as much of the dirt from the table as he could +see—he forgot the proximity of the bowl of ink. He then collected the +Museum Room screen, locked the library door on the inside, went out by +the French doors, borrowed O’Connor’s bicycle and ’phoned his daughter +at Blanchard’s Hotel. Her precious husband—a real product of the +Bowery—went on with her to the Hanover Galleries and completed the +job. Meanwhile, Butterworth returned, disposed of the screen +somewhere, and went to bed.” + +“Just a minute, Mr. Bathurst,” interposed Goodall. “Why did +Butterworth replace the book he was at work on—I can’t understand +that?” + +“It’s hard to say—I question very much if he knew that the bullet was +embedded in it—he was probably obsessed with the idea of leaving the +room quite normal. Alternatively, Stewart may have replaced it.” + +“I think it was a mistake,” declared the Inspector. + +“We all make ’em,” continued Anthony. “That’s why we’re waiting for +the perfect crime. Where was I? Oh, I remember. Well, I now began to +consider what it was that lay behind it all. M. Réné, Daventry, +please?” He pointed to the bookcase. Mr. Daventry took down once again +“The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure” and handed it to him. Anthony read +the paragraph to them. Goodall’s face was a study, and Michael +O’Connor’s black eyes gleamed with excitement. + +“Pretty vague,” commented Charles Stewart. + +“Vague, certainly,” said Anthony, “but it told me conclusively that +they were after something valuable—the clue to which lay in some way +in these two screens. Butterworth no doubt had got on the track of it +through his delvings into your father’s library, had realized that the +late Lord Clavering’s screen—advertised for sale—would give him the +evidence that he had been wanting and had brought his choice specimen +of a son-in-law over from the States to take a hand in the game. A +morning’s research gave me a hint as to what the query might very well +be. Perhaps you would care to listen to a little history. Mary, Queen +of Scots, besides being Queen of Scotland, was Dowager of France, the +widow of the little King Francis. She was also the niece of His +Eminence the Cardinal of Lorraine. He showered upon her a much greater +measure of affection than was usual in those days, and when she +eventually sailed for Scotland he made her a ‘great gift’ of +twenty-two black pearls—you’ve handled some of them to-night, +gentlemen. When Mary suffered her defeat years afterwards at Carbery +Hill, which meant the complete overthrow of her fortunes, she took the +steps about which you have just heard to preserve many of her +treasures—the Cardinal’s gift among them. First of all I anticipated +that they were buried somewhere in Scotland and the clue to their +hiding-place was contained somewhere on the screens. So I set to work +to read the riddle.” He walked up to the two screens and beckoned up +the others. They crowded round. “Look at them,” he exclaimed. “What +strikes you as strange about either of them?” + +“A good many things,” muttered Goodall. “But I don’t know that I can +pick out anything in particular!” + +“Go on, Bathurst,” prompted Peter. “Put us out of our misery.” + +“Well,” said Anthony. “There is this. There is one thing—on +the metal-work screen—that appeals to me as extraordinary. By +extraordinary, I mean out of place—something you wouldn’t expect to be +there. The inscription to Our Lord—the fleur-de-lis, the Lilies—the +Leopards—all these are historically sound—normal—but what about the +Latin words ‘_Timeo Danaos_’—‘I fear the _Greeks_’? It struck me that +the word ‘Greek’ might contain an important significance. I toyed with +the idea for some time—trying this and that attempt at solution. Then +I began to dwell on the other inscription—‘JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND +SAVIOUR.’ I turned it into Greek form—thus ‘_Ιησοῦς Χριστός Θεός +Σωτἡρ_.’ + +“I knew then that I had solved the puzzle! Take the initial letters of +each word—I’ll put them in English form to help you—I—CH—TH—S. You +have there four of the five Greek letters that make up the Greek word +for ‘Fish’! ’ICHTHUS! In relation to that—the Early Christians in the +agonizing days of their first bitter persecutions used to signify +their secret allegiance to the Christ by drawing a fish upon the +ground when they encountered a stranger of whose Faith they were +doubtful. He was tested by that sign. When I thought of that fish on +the other screen I knew I was home at last. It then remained for me to +entice the murdering devils here—I thought the empty house would lure +them—it was all so beautifully convenient with Butterworth left +behind. Mortimer brought the tapestry screen down by car, and +Butterworth, who induced him down, of course, had the other in safe +hiding somewhere. They were desperately impatient to turn their +knowledge to account and profit. The rest you know! When I saw the +screens for the first time to-night I guessed the fish had a secret +cavity somewhere—luckily at the second attempt I found it.” + +Stewart and Goodall advanced to him with outstretched hands. “A +wonderful piece of work, Mr. Bathurst,” said the former, “and worthy +of the heartiest congratulations.” + +“Mine also,” grunted the Inspector. “I’m very much in your debt—like +Mr. Stewart here.” + +Anthony, flushed with triumph, waved their praise on one side. + +“There’s one thing I _can_ take credit for,” added Peter. “I told you +he was a liar when he tried to implicate Miss Lennox—I was certain of +it.” + +Goodall laughed at Daventry’s plea for recognition—then turned to +Anthony. + +“One last point, Mr. Bathurst. What made you state to me that the +woman we were looking for suffered from hay fever?” + +“Come, Goodall,” replied Mr. Bathurst. “Remember Druce’s +evidence—continuous sneezing—Atkins’ evidence—the occasional use of +dark spectacles by a woman possessed of excellent sight—a few +fragments of ‘Asthma Cure’ on the mantelpiece of the room at +Blanchard’s Hotel—Rabjohns’ story of the odor in the bedroom—the time +of the year, June—it was a comparatively easy matter to deduce a +hay-fever patient—any more questions?” + +“No more,” said the Inspector promptly and decisively. “I’m perfectly +satisfied.” + +“There’s still that awkward will,” put in Charles Stewart. “That’s got +to be faced.” + +“Quite easy, Mr. Stewart,” said Anthony. “Miss Lennox will marry a +very rich man, so that forfeiting her share of your father’s money +will matter little to her. That will leave you free and unhampered to +marry Miss Armitage—I think that’s the lady’s name, isn’t it? And +when we remember that the metal-work screen—_your_ property, Mr. +Stewart—was the one that contained the ‘Cardinal’s Great Gift’—what +better wedding present could you give Miss Marjorie Lennox than +the ‘Black Twenty-Two’?” He pointed to the table. “Splendid +compensation—you know.” + +Charles Stewart smiled a little sadly—then shook him by the hand +again. + +“I’m jolly glad,” he exclaimed, “that old Thibaut Girardier picked the +right screen in which to hide them.” + +“So am I,” responded Mr. Bathurst. + + + The End + + +TRANSCRIBER NOTES + +This transcription follows the text of the second printing of the US +edition published by Grosset & Dunlap in February, 1929. However, the +following alterations have been made to correct what are believed to +be unambiguous errors in the text: + + * “Lawrence” has been corrected to “Laurence” (Chapter I); + * “propertly” has been corrected to “property” (Chapter I); + * an omitted em dash has been restored (Chapter V); + * “_vis-a-vis_” has been corrected to “_vis-à-vis_” (Chapter VIII); + * “mènage” has been corrected to “ménage” (Chapter XVI); + * two missing quotation marks have been restored (Chapters XIX & XX). + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 75209 *** |