The Mystery of the Peacock’s Eye
by Brian Flynn
published by John Hamilton, Ltd. (London)
First Printed, July, 1928
Contents
I. The Hunt Ball at Westhampton
II. Mr. Bathurst Receives a Distinguished Visitor
III. Chief-Inspector Bannister Gets a “Busman’s Holiday”
IV. A Case of Identity
V. John Martin’s Evidence
VI. Mr. Bathurst Changes His Destination
VII. Gentlemen and Players
VIII. Daphne Draws Up the Blinds
IX. Mr. Bathurst Looks at a Pair of Shoes—and a Luggage-Wagon
X. A Room Is Ransacked at “Rest Harrow”
XI. A Newspaper and a Second Suit-Case
XII. Mr. Bathurst Listens to a Little Local Gossip
XIII. Re-enter Mr. X
XIV. The Peacock’s Eye
XV. Alan Warburton Leads Trumps
XVI. Of Which Mr. Bathurst Holds the Ace
XVII. Bannister Strikes the Trail
XVIII. That Leads Round the Mulberry-Bush
XIX. Ronald Branston’s Story
XX. “Findings—Keepings”
XXI. The Lord Lieutenant Goes Back a Few Years
XXII. Gallant Mr. Bathurst
XXIII. Mr. Bathurst Forgets His Change
XXIV. What Did Mr. Bathurst Whisper?
XXV. Mr. Bathurst’s Patience Is Rewarded
XXVI. Rendezvous
XXVII. Sir Austin Kemble Removes His Hat
Chapter I
The Hunt Ball at Westhampton
The foot-fascinating strains of the Red Ruritanian Band died gently
away—to commence again after a short interval just as exquisitely. The
Hunt Ball at Westhampton was the outstanding event of the season and
this year it had exceeded all past successes and even present
anticipations. It was actually honoured, so it was whispered, with the
presence of Royalty—which interesting fact although not announced
publicly or even hinted at in the Press—was nevertheless an open
secret to at least half-a-dozen of the most influential people
present. Life in the Midlands is a very different proposition from
life in London or in the residential neighbourhoods that are within
that great city’s reasonable range. Social distinctions mean very much
more—there is the sharply-definite cleavage of class—determined very
often by “County” prejudice—a line of division against which there is
little or no chance of struggling with any degree of success.
The Westhampton Hunt Ball represented all that was select, some of
what was superior, and most of what was supercilious in the county of
Westhamptonshire. There had been fears, and recent fears at that, that
this year’s Ball might possibly be held under a shadow. But happily
for the peace of mind of Westhampton, this shadow had been partially
lifted from the town. The affair of the “Mutual Bank” frauds that had
at one time seriously threatened to involve more than one of the most
exclusive County families in an upheaval that would have resulted in
their financial ruin, had been brilliantly handled by those in charge
of the case and the final crash triumphantly averted—with the
sensational arrest of Sir Felix Warburton, one of the Bank’s most
important directors. Whereat the more distinguished portion of
Westhampton—albeit shocked and startled—breathed freely again and
welcomed its Annual Ball with all its accustomed avidity.
On the February evening in question the Red Ruritanian Band was in its
most scintillating form, and beautiful women piloted by bronzed
men—sun-tanned and wind-tanned and released for the time-being from
the accustomed lilt of the galloping feet of horses—swept round what
was unanimously acclaimed as a perfect floor, on twinkling toes and
endeavoured with the assurance of the expert dancer, to do it the
strictest justice.
Sir Matthew Fullgarney, Lord Lieutenant of the County made his way
bustlingly from the refreshment-room specially reserved for the more
distinguished guests, and brushed his perfectly-trimmed white
moustache with a gesture that betokened complacent satisfaction. Then
he courteously waved his hand to the smaller of two men who were at
that moment passing him.
“Good evening, Major! Wonderfully fine show this evening—what?”
The man addressed smiled a reply as he walked by with his companion.
“Who’s that Carruthers is trotting round with him to-night, Pauline?”
asked Sir Matthew, turning to his charming young wife—“can’t seem to
place him at all!”
Lady Fullgarney turned interestedly, and threw a quick glance at the
two retreating figures. “I don’t think I know,” she answered—with a
slow shake of the head—“the man’s a perfect stranger to me—I feel
certain.”
Sir Matthew growled unintelligibly—he always liked a satisfactory
reply to any question that it pleased him in his wisdom to ask. He
felt that any failure to supply this satisfaction savoured of
disrespect to him. But on this occasion he suffered Lady Fullgarney to
lead him back again to the ballroom—to be flattering himself very soon
that he was cutting as fine a figure as any man present despite the
annoying fact that his question remained unanswered. Meanwhile, the
Chief Constable—Major Carruthers—was entertaining the subject of Sir
Matthew’s curiosity in the refreshment-room that the Lord Lieutenant
had so recently, and it must be admitted—regretfully—left. Sir Matthew
had a discerning taste in more than one direction.
“Your health, Major Carruthers!” said the tall man—raising his glass.
Carruthers bowed and looked across at him with a certain measure of
criticism, perhaps—but nevertheless approvingly. “Glad you came
to-night?” he questioned.
The man addressed emptied the glass deliberately and took his time
before replying. No doubt he was accustomed to have people wait upon
his words.
“Yes—and no,” he answered. “These things, of course, make some sort of
an appeal—it would be idle to pretend otherwise—yet I can’t help
feeling that they are what I may term counterfeit. They represent the
shadow rather than the substance of Life. They lie far apart, for
instance, from my own destiny and work.” He put down his glass.
Carruthers smiled. “I think I know what you mean. Like you, I am
primarily, I suppose, a man of action. The open spaces are to me the
places that count most. Yet I find time to appreciate this sort of
thing intensely. There is a joyousness about it all that sets
something in me going in vivid response—perhaps you don’t experience
it.”
His companion shook his head, “Only to a degree,” he admitted.
The Major laughed at the cautiousness of the reply. “I suspect that’s
all you feel inclined to admit—your somewhat peculiar position with
regard to Society has given you what I’ll call a bias—a warp perhaps
would be a better description.” He half turned impetuously in his
chair—then gave a sudden exclamation. “Pardon me a moment,” he said,
and rising quickly walked to a table that stood some distance away on
the other side of the room.
The tall man turned and watched him a little lazily perhaps, as he
made his way across. A girl rose to greet him—her hand outstretched
impulsively. Then she turned and indicated her escort shyly—yet
prettily. The man who had been left behind discarded his indolent mood
and saw Major Carruthers bow with an almost studied dignity. Then his
eyes—keen and alert by now—swept back to the girl who had first
engaged the Chief Constable’s attention. It did not take him long to
appreciate her beauty—of a type as unusual as it was outstanding.
Wonderful auburn hair—the true Burne-Jones tint—crowned a dainty head
that was superbly poised on a pair of trim shoulders. She had also the
perfect complexion that almost invariably accompanies that particular
shade of hair. The man that was watching her was seated too far away
to see the colour of her eyes but he was satisfied that her carriage
was charmingly assured and her limbs curvingly supple with the grace
and glory of youth. Major Carruthers bowed gallantly over her
finger-tips—whispered something that caused her to blush
exquisitely—and sauntered back. His companion greeted him immediately.
“Almost am I in a mind now to qualify my last remark.” He flicked the
ash from his cigarette. “Who’s the lady?” His eyes eagerly awaited
Carruthers’ reply.
“I perceive,” said the Major, “that amongst your other gifts you
include an eye for beauty. That’s Sheila Delaney—and by way of being a
very great favourite of mine, I may say! You see I have a taste in
that respect too.”
“Tell me about her—I’m interested.”
“There’s not a great deal to tell,” rejoined Carruthers, “she’s the
only child of the late Colonel Delaney of the Westhampton Regiment.
Her father died in 1917—he was drowned—poor chap, whilst home on leave
from Gallipoli. When her mother died three years later she was left
entirely alone in the world—except for an old nurse-companion who had
lived with the Delaneys since Sheila’s birth. She lives a few miles
out of Westhampton—at a charming little old-world place called
Tranfield. Colonel Delaney left them pretty comfortably off in more
ways than one. She’s always been rare ‘pals’ with me—I’m very
flattered to think so—I regard it as a very fine type of compliment.”
He puffed at his cigar.
“She’s certainly a very beautiful girl, Major! I’m glad now that I
came, without any reservations—the beauty of the world always helps me
to forget so much of the ugliness.”
Carruthers looked over his companion’s shoulder. “You don’t ask me
about her dancing partner,” he ventured. The other man raised his
eyes, turned deliberately and looked across to the other table—his
eyes seeking the man who was in Sheila Delaney’s company. Apparently
he saw little that he found of interest. “Seems to be quite an
ordinary young fellow,” he murmured, “what am I expected to find about
him that is extraordinary?”
Carruthers shifted in his chair, leaned across the table and spoke in
an undertone. “I fancied his name might interest you—that was all.” He
paused.
“His name?”
“Yes—that young fellow is Alan Warburton—nephew of Sir Felix
Warburton.”
The tall man whistled softly. “Really now—and he’s here to-night, so
soon after the scandal—I take it he must have a special interest in
Miss Delaney?”
“I haven’t noticed it before,” replied Carruthers—“but of course, it
wouldn’t surprise me—Sheila, as you may well imagine has hosts of
admirers—so that one more won’t make a lot of difference. I fancy she
relies on the safety that comes with numbers. As to his being here
to-night—well—the young soon forget—you know.” He smiled across at the
tall man.
“And forgive?” questioned the latter.
Before Carruthers could find time to frame a reply, a warning movement
from his companion served to check him. The two young people that had
been forming the subject of the discussion were on their way and
already almost abreast of the Major’s table. Carruthers smiled a
greeting which Sheila Delaney was quick to return. As she did so, her
eyes caught the frankly admiring glance of the Major’s companion. For
a brief space their glances held each other and for the man concerned
the world seemed suddenly to stand still. Then the girl’s eyes dropped
demurely to her fan and she passed on—her hand on Alan Warburton’s arm
and her cheeks aflame with an exquisitely entrancing blush. The tall
man turned to the Chief Constable of Westhamptonshire.
“Do me a favour, Major,” he exclaimed with sudden impulse. “Please! As
I said I withdraw those early remarks of mine, absolutely and
unreservedly. Introduce me to Miss Delaney!”
Major Carruthers appeared to hesitate for a moment—then he looked up
at the man that had made the request. “As——” he waited interrogatively
for his companion to intervene.
“As Mr. X,” came the reply—immediately. “I prefer to retain my
incognito—you know that.”
Carruthers caressed his cheek with his fingers. “I didn’t bargain for
this when I brought you along—you know. And Sheila’s a thoroughbred—I
shouldn’t like anything——”
His companion squared his shoulders with an unmistakable dignity.
“There is more than one attribute of aristocracy, Major,” he murmured
quietly. “I—of all people——”
Carruthers rose from his chair. “I know the truth of that,” he
declared. “I’ve knocked about too much not to realise that. Come
along—let’s find Sheila—time’s getting on.”
The other rose after him—debonair and distinguished—and followed him
through the thronging press of the dancers congregated in the
vestibule of the ballroom. He looked at his watch. It showed a few
minutes past ten.
“She’s dancing,” said the Major.
“Superbly too,” said the other.
The two men waited for the dance to finish. “Come,” said Carruthers,
touching the other’s sleeve, “it’s now or never.”
Sheila Delaney saw them coming and did not wait for them to complete
the distance of their approach. Instead she made her apologies to her
young partner and came forward herself to meet them. Thus it was that
the encounter materialised in the middle of the room.
“Sheila,” exclaimed Carruthers, “my friend here is something more than
anxious to make your acquaintance. But for important reasons of his
own, which must be nameless—he desires you to know him as Mr. X.
Strictly speaking you see, he is not supposed to be here at
all—therefore I submit to this whim of his.” He effected the
introduction. “Talk to him for a few moments, Sheila,” he added, “you
will find him as intriguing and as mysterious as the name under which
he is temporarily cloaking his identity. I’ll return when I think
you’ve been sufficiently entertained.” He waved his hand and slithered
away across the dance-floor. Sheila Delaney looked at the man who had
sought her out. He indicated two of the lounge seats that were
arranged at the side of the ballroom.
“Well!” she said.
“Well!” he replied.
She leant over and tapped him on the arm with her fan. “You hold a
distinct initial advantage over me, you know, Mr. X. Anonymity is such
a terribly strong position in which to entrench one’s self. To you I
am Sheila Delaney—to me you are—an unknown quantity.”
He smiled appreciatively. “Yet one usually concludes by finding the
value of X—shall we say.”
“If one is successful,” she replied, “you have to be successful, you
know, to discover the _true_ value.”
He smiled again.
“I think I am going to like you,” she went on very frankly and
disarmingly, “there is something about you that attracts me—you have
a—what shall I call it—a ‘_je ne sais quoi_’——”
He fingered her fan with a kind of mocking assurance playing round the
line of his lips. She lifted her left hand as he did so. “Hark!” she
exclaimed, “those violins—I love violins—they _croon_—don’t they?
They’ve got something in their music that no other instrument
has—‘silky susurrus of petticoats ravishing—violins crooning
above—drowsy exotics their essences lavishing—whispers of Scandal and
Love’—I’m afraid I’ve misquoted,” she continued breathlessly, “but a
perfectly topping dance always makes me think of that.”
“You like dancing?” he asked simply.
“I adore it,” she answered just as simply—then relapsed into a
contemplative silence. Suddenly she looked up at him with mischievous
eyes. “Do you dance?” she inquired.
“Very seldom—but I’m sorely tempted to dance to-night.” His eyes held
a depth of meaning.
“That’s very charming of you,” she remarked, “and if you’re anything
like me—and I’m sure you are in some things—you delight in yielding to
temptation.” Her eyes caught his and challenged them. They were—he
concluded—in a quite breathless summing up—rather extraordinary eyes.
Quickly changing colour, at this precise moment they seemed to be
flecked with strange shades of light green. They were challenging his
now with an allurement of demure and dainty invitation. She rose and
placed her finger-tips on his broad shoulder. “I’m convinced you dance
beautifully,” she murmured as they stepped off to the rhythm of the
Red Ruritanians, “so don’t attempt to deny it.”
It did not take Sheila Delaney long to realise that her conviction was
right. Her companion proved a worthy partner for her. She looked at
him provocatively. “Why have you no business to be here, Mr. X?” she
queried softly.
He shook his head. Then the Spirit of Audacity and Adventure caught
him and held him securely captive. “One day—perhaps, I’ll tell you,”
he declared, “till then, you must possess your soul in patience.”
“Supposing I don’t choose to wait?” She summoned all her resources of
disdain to her aid and let it tinge her question. Her partner merely
shrugged his ample shoulders. “If you continue to surround yourself
with this dreadfully mysterious atmosphere,” she went on, “I shall
begin to think that I’m dancing with the guest of the evening—His
Royal Highness, The Crown Prince of Clorania—one never quite knows.”
She looked at him with arch invitation—so much so that Alan Warburton
from the end of the room felt suddenly murderous as he watched her
laughing face and the broad back of her partner. But her curiosity was
to remain unsatisfied. Mr. X was apparently in no mood for the
exchange of confidences. He looked at her with a smile that conveyed a
mysterious much, yet confessed a negligible nothing. Carruthers threw
her silk shawl across her shoulders when she returned to her seat—the
dance over; then he turned to the other man a little critically.
“You didn’t tell me you intended to dance,” he exclaimed. “That wasn’t
part——”
“Blame Miss Delaney,” came the unruffled reply, before he could
complete his sentence. “Actually I had no intention of doing so
myself—but Miss Delaney in the rôle of the temptress, I found deucedly
hard to resist.”
Carruthers was about to demur when Sheila laid her hand upon his
wrist. “I have to thank you, Major, for a most delightful experience.
Mr. X”—the green eyes glinted mischievously—“dances beautifully—I
should like to carry him round with me as my dancing partner.”
The person complimented bowed his thanks as the Chief Constable turned
towards him. “I think I had better be going, Major,” he said gravely.
Carruthers looked at his watch—then deliberately at the speaker. “So
do I,” he agreed; “we must also make our departure very shortly,
Sheila.”
The sweeping eye-lashes covered eyes that flickered and themselves
quivered dangerously as she gave the two men her hand. Carruthers gave
it an affectionate clasp, but his companion bent over it with a
studied gallantry. “Good-bye,” she said with some deliberation in her
voice-tone, “Good-bye—Mr. X.” He looked at her with frank admiration
in his gaze—then spoke very quietly—yet with infinite meaning, “Au
’voir—Miss Sheila.” He turned on his heels smartly—then followed the
Chief Constable down the room—and out.
When Carruthers returned half an hour later, he found that the number
of dancers had thinned considerably and that the ballroom was a far
more comfortable place than it had been before. Sheila Delaney was one
of those that had remained. Her nature was such that it was a physical
impossibility for her to be dull for very long, yet Major Carruthers
was definitely conscious that a fit of depression had overcome her. He
rallied her with cynical generosity. “Give me,” he exclaimed
teasingly, “and every time at that—the girl who is content with her
lot—who doesn’t sit sighing for what she has not—” he paused and was
somewhat startled at something he seemed to see in the expression on
her face.
“I’m not sighing, Major,” she spoke with a certain wistfulness, “I’m
very far from sighing if you only knew.” She rose and faced him
confidently. He caught her by the shoulder with an air of parental
proprietorship—looked at her intently—then said abruptly, “where’s
young Warburton?”
“I haven’t the least idea,” came the reply—touched with unexpected
frigidity, “gone—I expect.”
“Dance this with me, then,” said Carruthers, “before we go.”
“I don’t want to dance a bit,” she responded, “but I will—for _you_,
Major.”
As their finger-tips met he noticed how cold she seemed. “You worry me
when you’re down in the dumps, Sheila Delaney,” he remonstrated,
“you’re quite cold.”
“If you want to know,” she laughed, making a spirited attempt to throw
off her mood, “when you came along just now, I was shivering.”
He swung her adroitly round a vacillating couple who appeared likely
to impede their smooth progress. “What’s been happening since I left
you?” he inquired. “May an old friend inquire without appearing too
inquisitive?”
“Nothing of any consequence,” she rejoined. “I just feel
_disturbed_—that’s the best word I can think of.”
“Telling me that tends to disturb _me_,” he replied with quiet
sympathy, “and I refuse to allow that to happen. Come—dance your very
best.”
When it had finished, he thanked her and piloted her back to her seat.
“Daphne has been looking very beautiful to-night,” she said. “Aren’t
you proud of your niece?”
He looked at her curiously, “She has an extra special reason to look
nice to-night.” Then he changed the subject. “If you come now, I’ll
motor you home, being a bachelor has some advantages—there’s nobody
else here to-night about whom I need worry.”
“I should love it, Major,”—she accepted his offer of service with
genuine enthusiasm—“Pinkie will be waiting up for me.”
“How is Pinkie these days—hale and hearty?”
“Wonderful—for her age—she’s over sixty, you know—nobody could look
after me like Pinkie does.”
He drove her home. As they turned the corner of the High Street—where
the Grand Hotel stood—the newsboys were calling an extra-special
edition—late though the hour was.
“What is it?” she said, clutching at his arm, “it must be something
frightfully important.”
He checked the car and listened. Then he turned back to her
as the shouts became intelligible to his ears. “Bank Frauds’
Sensation—suicide of Sir Felix Warburton—in his cell.” He accelerated
immediately. “Pretty rotten business that,” he declared with anxiety,
“and the Chief Constable glad-ragging it at the Hunt Ball. I shall be
in the soup properly if I’m not careful.”
But Sheila Delaney’s sympathy was not entirely for him. “Suicide,” she
whispered, half to herself, “how awful.”
They drove home quietly—neither saying much. As she ran down the
garden path of her bungalow, Carruthers called out to her. “I’ll come
round before Easter, Sheila—and take you for a spin—may I—are you on?”
“Of course,” she sang back. “Good night.” But she never rode with him
again. On a wet night during the following month of March, Major
Carruthers was motoring home, when his car skidded badly and
overturned . . . when that happened Sheila Delaney lost a good friend
and the public service a very gallant gentleman.