Mr. Bathurst Looks at a Pair of Shoes—and a Luggage-Wagon
Bannister’s eyes blazed! Whatever chagrin he may have felt at the
failure of the theory that he had put forward was momentary. It almost
instantly gave place to the excitement of the chase. The hunt was up!
“Sheila who?” he exclaimed.
“Sheila Delaney,” replied Daphne. “I——”
“How do you come to know her?” demanded Bannister peremptorily. “Was
she a friend of yours?”
Daphne shook her head—her own excitement had passed for the time being
and she was now feeling quite calm—stunned almost with the horror that
she had been the first to unveil properly.
“Hardly a friend,” she replied. “Although I knew her very well. She
was a very great friend of my late uncle—Major Desmond Carruthers. I
expect you have heard of him—he died in March of last year—he was
killed in a motoring accident. He was Chief Constable of
Westhamptonshire.” She looked at Bannister inquiringly.
Anthony was stung into the keenest attention. Westhamptonshire!
Another coincidence or another link in the chain—which? He caught the
Crown Prince’s eye and instantly formed the opinion that the mention
of Westhamptonshire had increased that gentleman’s agitation. But
Bannister was pressing eagerly for information.
“I remember the name, I think. Although I never connected you with
him. Can you give me her home address?”
“Oh yes,” replied Miss Carruthers simply. “Rest Harrow, Tranfield,
near Westhampton.”
Mr. Bathurst’s grey eyes flashed back to the Crown Prince. Westhampton
and now Tranfield—the two places of the post-marks on the Crown
Prince’s letters! Alexis had apparently appreciated the point just as
quickly as Mr. Bathurst himself—his fingers were toying nervously with
the ends of his bellicose moustache. Bannister noted the address in
his book.
“Why was this young lady in Seabourne, Miss Carruthers?” he inquired.
“Any idea?”
Daphne’s answer was a negative. “None whatever, Inspector. I haven’t
set eyes on her for months.”
“What are her people?”
“Her father and mother are dead. Her father was Colonel Delaney of the
Westhampton Regiment. She lives with a kind of family retainer—her old
nurse, I think.” She knitted her brows.
“Shall have to get into touch with her,” muttered Bannister. “Do you
happen to remember her name?”
Daphne pondered, the tip of her fore-finger pressed to her dainty
lips. “Carr, I think,” she answered after a moment or two, “but Sheila
always referred to her by a nickname or something—now what was it?—I
can remember hearing Uncle Desmond use it when he mentioned her.” She
screwed up her eyes—as people sometimes do when attempting to remember
something particularly elusive. “No,” she concluded regretfully, “I
can’t remember what it was.”
The Crown Prince looked across at Anthony in such a meaning way that
that gentleman formed the opinion that he wished to communicate
something to him. Mr. Bathurst judged that the existing conditions
might be far from favourable for an interchange of the Royal
confidences—he therefore rather adroitly avoided the Royal eye.
Whatever it was it could wait and, which was more, would probably be
all the better for keeping. Bannister turned to Sergeant Godfrey as
they left the building.
“Get through to the Westhampton police as quickly as possible. Tell
them as much as you consider expedient—tell them I hope to be up there
with them by tea-time this evening.”
Godfrey vanished—a load was taken from his mind—Bannister was taking
hold! That to him meant considerable relief. Anthony approached the
Inspector.
“I should be tremendously obliged, Inspector,” he spoke very quietly,
“if I could have a glance at the clothes this poor girl was wearing.”
“Don’t think you’ll learn much from them,” rejoined Bannister. He
obtained them and tossed them over to Anthony. The latter turned them
over and picked up the hat. “The only name to be found is inside the
hat—you’ll see it if you look.”
But Mr. Bathurst appeared to be more concerned with the external. He
looked carefully at the brim—turned down as it was all the way
round—Bannister watching with some amusement. Anthony looked away
quickly and caught his critical eye. He gave Bannister smile for
smile; then picked up the dead girl’s brown shoes. He ran his
finger-tips across their glossy surface. First across the right
shoe—then across the left. He looked at his fingers.
“Well?” queried his audience, “Cherry Blossom or Kiwi?”
Mr. Bathurst ignored the interruption. He could afford to—he had
managed to establish his first point. He looked at the soles of the
two ‘semi-brogues.’ With the help of his magnifying glass he
scrutinised the tops of the two shoes and the sides of the two soles
with the most meticulous care.
“There’s one thing I can tell you, Inspector,” he said, as he put back
his glass in his pocket, “this lady had travelled some considerable
distance by car—she had driven it, I should say, all the way from her
home at Tranfield.”
“We know she came by car,” returned Bannister. “The ‘Lauderdale’
people——”
“With all deference, Inspector—we didn’t know _how far_ she had come
in that car. She might have come by train as you yourself suggested
and picked up the car here in Seabourne. However, she didn’t. Look at
the brim of this hat—it is distinctly dusty—and if you look at the
dust very carefully, you will see that it is not all quite the same
shade of colour. Now the screen will protect you on a comparatively
short journey, but over a distance of a hundred miles or so—a
car-driver usually picks up _some_ patches of dust. Much more than a
person travelling by train, for instance. The different shades of dust
suggest to me for example, two separate counties many miles apart. Let
us say, just for example, Westhamptonshire and Marlshire. Now look at
the surface of these shoes. A person who had walked even a small part
of that distance would have much dustier shoes than these!” He held
them out to Bannister who nodded his acceptance of Mr. Bathurst’s
theory.
“No doubt you’re right,” he conceded.
Anthony continued his explanation, warming to his work. “Now there are
certain parts of the soles of these two shoes that shew unmistakable
signs of friction—of rubbing. I am pretty certain that Miss Delaney
had driven a considerable distance in that car when she drove up to
the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel.”
“Yes—I think you’re right. One of the questions we have to face is the
tracing of that car.”
He turned to address the Crown Prince and Miss Carruthers. “I won’t
detain you any longer, Your Royal Highness, if you’d care to go. If I
want you again I’ll see you at the ‘Cassandra’—I shall be calling
there again before leaving for Tranfield.” He thought for a moment.
“Get Godfrey to drive you up and tell him to come back here for Mr.
Bathurst and me.”
The Crown Prince accepted the dismissal with evident pleasure.
“Seemed very sure the dead girl _wasn’t_ Miss Travers, didn’t he?”
contributed Bannister meaningly—“did you notice that?”
“I did—on the other hand so did Captain Willoughby—so there might be
nothing in that—it’s an extraordinary case altogether—it’s difficult
to know where to begin.”
Bannister put the dead girl’s clothing back in the cupboard from where
he had taken it and carefully locked the door. “If we walk up to the
‘Cassandra’ we shall meet Godfrey in the car on the way back here.
Fit?”
Anthony acquiesced.
He couldn’t resist a strong feeling that Bannister’s recent allusion
to the Crown Prince’s attitude towards what he himself had termed the
“Lois Travers theory” was in the nature of a warning to him. Bannister
knew from Sir Austin Kemble that he represented the interests of the
heir to the throne of Clorania—so that Anthony was disposed to think
that the Inspector had given him an initial hint as it were that the
Law is no respecter of persons—‘or personages.’ They soon spotted
Sergeant Godfrey with the car and were quickly back in the
“Cassandra.” Bannister immediately sent for the manager.
“I want some information,” he said, when the latter appeared,
“concerning your procedure with regard to the transport of visitors’
luggage.”
“Certainly, Inspector—what is it you wish to know?”
“I want to know exactly what occurs when luggage is left here to be
forwarded to a visitor’s home. I want full details of the procedure.”
“I’ll send for the head porter—he will tell you.”
The manager despatched a messenger to find the man required. In a few
minutes he stood before them. “This gentleman wishes to ask you some
questions about luggage-transport,” said the manager; “tell him all he
wants to know.”
“Let me take an actual example,” illustrated Bannister. “Suppose when
I leave to-morrow, I leave my cabin-trunk behind in my room to be
forwarded to my home. The trunk in question we will assume to be
labelled properly and correctly addressed—understand?” The porter
nodded. “Well,” proceeded the Inspector, “tell me exactly what happens
after that.”
“The trunk would be brought down here, sir, and placed on the
luggage-wagon. From there, I should superintend its removal to our own
hotel motor-lorry which would convey it to the station. The driver of
the lorry sees it on to the platform.”
“H’m,” said Bannister; “how long usually elapses between the trunks
going on to the wagon and being put on the lorry?”
“That depends, sir,” said the porter, pushing his cap back from his
forehead, “and it varies, too. Sometimes, a matter of a few minutes,
sometimes in the afternoon, perhaps, the luggage might stand on the
wagon down here for a couple of hours.”
“As it might on the platform, too,” declared Bannister. He turned
sharply to Sergeant Godfrey, “You say there’s nothing been found on
the platform that appears to have been substituted for Miss
Carruthers’ case?”
“Nothing, Inspector.”
“Suppose we have a glance at this luggage-wagon, Inspector,” ventured
Anthony. “I suppose it’s on duty to-day, isn’t it, porter?”
“It is, sir.”
“Very well, Mr. Bathurst—I’m perfectly agreeable.” They trooped along
the corridor.
“There’s the wagon,” pointed out the porter, “standing there by the
door. We load the lorry up from here.”
Bannister and Godfrey and Anthony walked up to it.
“Easily accessible from the street,” demonstrated the last-named with
a motion of the hand.
“Too easily,” agreed the Inspector.
“Tell me,” said Anthony to the porter, “did you see this wagon first
thing on Thursday morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Was there any luggage on it?”
“It was empty.”
The Inspector dismissed the porter curtly and thanked the manager for
his assistance.
“Anybody intending the changing of those cases or alternatively the
stealing of Miss Carruthers’ suit-case—had ample opportunity both here
and at the station. All the same—as I said before to the Crown
Prince—we may eventually discover that it’s the result of a pure
accident.”
He turned smartly on his heel.
“It’s not an accident, Inspector,” declared Anthony. “Look at the
accumulative force of evidence that we have already managed to
collect. Not only is Miss Delaney’s suit-case or trunk missing—and
it’s reasonable to suppose that she had something of the kind with
her, but also her purse and the motor-car itself, which brought her.
The idea is obvious. She was to remain _unrecognised_—and from the
murderer’s point of view—the longer that situation remained in force
the better. There’s no possible doubt about it.”
“You’re very confident, Mr. Bathurst,” smiled Bannister; “but I
shouldn’t be overwhelmingly surprised if you’re right.” He looked at
his watch.
“My next move is ‘Tranfield,’” he announced.
“And if you’ve no objection, Inspector,” remarked Anthony, “I’ll
accompany you.”
Bannister was on the point of replying when he remembered his
telephone conversation with Sir Austin Kemble.
“Please yourself,” he said a trifle coolly. “I’ll meet you on the
platform at Seabourne in an hour’s time.”
Anthony waved his assent as Bannister left the hotel—then turned to
seek the Crown Prince and Miss Carruthers. They had returned to the
Crown Prince’s suite—he was informed. On his way to the apartment he
passed Captain Willoughby carrying a suit-case.