A Room Is Ransacked at “Rest Harrow”
“A great deal of my success in cases that have seemed to be at first
sight, both intricate and baffling,” remarked Bannister as the train
ran through Bletchley, “has been due to my appreciation of the value
of care allied to imagination. Apply the maximum of the one to the
maximum of the other; and when you get the combined maxima judiciously
concentrated upon the problem in hand, they should eventually yield a
minimum of trouble.” He removed his horn-rimmed glasses—wiped them
studiously—and replaced them. “I’ve worked on those lines ever since I
can remember,” he continued, “and I’ve never had any reason to alter
my plan of campaign.”
Anthony took the offered cigarette from the Inspector’s heavy silver
case and lit up.
“A thoroughly sound plan, too,” he concurred.
Bannister elaborated his point. “Care and finely-controlled
imagination should take most men as high as they can reasonably wish
to rise—they are two admirable servants. Now in this present case,”
proceeded Bannister, “all efforts to trace Miss Delaney’s car have
failed—to all intents and purposes it might have been spirited
away—it’s not been abandoned on the highway anywhere that we can find.
Similarly with her luggage.” He took a cigarette for himself. “Care
then having failed to produce me anything—I shall have to give flight
to imagination.”
“Go on,” said Anthony; “I’m most interested.”
“I’m coming to Tranfield in the hope that something I may happen to
pick up here will stimulate my imagination and eventually supply me
with the answer to this riddle that has been set me. By the way, Mr.
Bathurst, we change at Westhampton for Tranfield. It lies on the
branch line to Easton Favell—I expect we shall find one train on it
every six hours or thereabouts.”
Bannister was wrong in his prophecy. They discovered upon arrival at
Westhampton that trains to Tranfield and Easton Favell were scheduled
to run at regular intervals of twenty minutes. The station-master at
the little station of Tranfield was delighted to direct them to “Rest
Harrow.”
“It’s Miss Delaney’s place you’re wanting,” he announced. “You’ve a
walk of about eight minutes. Go down the hill that leads from the
station and you’ll come to a field on the left that belongs to Farmer
Peasland—cut across by the footpath—you can’t miss seeing it—go over a
stile and then through a swing gate. That will bring you to the road
running to Easton Favell—‘Rest Harrow’ is about one hundred and fifty
yards down—on the right.”
Ten minutes walk brought them to it. Anthony immediately placed it as
one of the most charming bungalows he had ever seen. It nestled back
from the road with a kind of old-world shyness that did much to
enhance its appeal. The garden in front was a mass of varied bloom and
colour and the air was heavy with the scent of its many flowers. As
they made their objective a man who had been standing fifty yards or
so further up the road came towards them.
“Inspector Bannister?” he inquired with an interrogative glance.
“Quite right,” said Bannister. “You got my message, then?”
The newcomer nodded. “I’m Sergeant Ross,” he added, introducing
himself. “I’ve been waiting for you here as instructed.”
“Very good,” said Bannister. “I’m sorry to say, Sergeant, that Miss
Delaney—the lady who lived here, I believe—has been murdered in
Seabourne.”
Ross whistled. “We guessed as much from your message,” he exclaimed.
“You’re going inside—I take it?”
Bannister’s reply was to ring the bell at the front entrance. Anthony
heard it peal through the building but could hear no step in answer to
it.
Bannister turned to Ross. “I understand that Miss Delaney lived here
with another lady—a companion or something—is that so?”
“So I believe,” returned Ross.
“Not in—that’s evident,” retorted the Inspector.
Anthony strolled round the right-hand side of the bungalow to the
back. Then he called to the others. “We ought to be able to get in
this way,” he said.
Bannister broke a pane of glass, pushed his hand through and lifted
up the catch of the casement window. A few moments saw them inside.
There were no signs of very recent occupation showing in the
kitchen-scullery in which they stood. Everything was tidy and orderly.
Bannister gave it a sweeping glance.
“Looks to me as though the other lady’s away,” he remarked. “Let’s get
along to the other rooms.”
On the left lay the dining-room and the lounge. On the right were
three bedrooms. Suddenly Bannister gave a sharp exclamation and walked
to the front door. From the mat he picked a postcard. “That explains
this other woman’s absence,” he said to Anthony as he tossed it over
to him.
Anthony read it. It was a picture postcard of the seaside-view
variety. The view was of Budleigh Salterton. Its message was brief.
“4, Rolle Cottages, Otterton. July 3rd. Dear Miss Sheila, I am having
a lovely time and it’s so nice to be home again. The weather is
beautiful—I only hope it will continue so for you. Much love from
‘Pinkie.’”
“One thing—you’ve got her address, Inspector,” remarked Anthony.
“I have that,” replied Bannister with a touch of tolerant cynicism.
“And I’m afraid she’s going to be the second person to have her
holiday rather ruthlessly disturbed.”
“Evidently the companion went away first—and Miss Delaney went down to
Seabourne afterwards.”
“Intended staying there, too, Mr. Bathurst. The clerk at the
‘Lauderdale’ stated that she booked her room for a fortnight—this card
to a certain extent confirms his statement. ‘I hope it will continue
so for you,’—the sentence certainly implies that Miss Delaney intended
being away for some time.”
Anthony assented.
“What about having a look over the rooms?” suggested Ross.
“That’s what I’m here for,” returned Bannister grimly.
The doors of the respective rooms seemed to be locked—with the
respective keys left in the locks. The Inspector turned the key in the
door of the dining-room and went in. Like the previous room that they
had entered there were no signs of disorder or of very recent
occupation. Everything was just as could be expected—quite consistent
with the facts as Bannister and Anthony knew them. The occupants of
the bungalow were away for a holiday—the rooms had been uninhabited
for a matter of a few days. There was nothing whatever so far to
excite comment. There were no papers, documents or letters lying about
anywhere. Bannister walked to the open grate. It was beautifully
clean. “Ross,” he said, after two or three seconds’ thought, “see if
there’s a refuse-bin at the back of the bungalow. Keep your eyes open
for any correspondence that may have been torn up and found its way in
there. Unlikely,” he added—turning to Anthony—“but it’s just a chance.
I’ve known it happen before now—especially when the number in the
household is small. When you’ve only one other person living with
you—especially a person of the type that we have here—it’s almost the
same as living alone. There’s always a certain privacy.” Anthony saw
the Inspector’s meaning and said so. “While Ross is out there,”
continued Bannister, “we’ll glance at the other rooms.” The lounge was
as reticent as the dining-room. “Nothing here,” grunted the Inspector.
Anthony’s eyes examined it keenly and saw nothing to arrest his
attention. The two men crossed to the other side of the hall. The door
of the first room was almost exactly opposite to the door of the
lounge. Bannister tried the handle. The door instantly yielded.
“That’s funny, Mr. Bathurst.” Bannister shot the remark at him. “All
the other doors have been shut—the keys turned in the locks. The key
was in this lock but this door is open.” Anthony followed him in.
“Good God!” exclaimed the Inspector; “something’s been happening
here.” The dressing-table was without its drawers. Anthony pointed to
the bed. It was easy to see what had happened. The contents of the
drawers had been turned out on to the bed which presented an
appearance of indescribable chaos and confusion. The drawers lay on
the bed. Gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, silk scarves and stockings,
powder, toilet requisites of all description lay scattered there in a
shapeless heap. From the manner in which the various articles had been
tossed aside it was evident that the drawers containing them had been
subjected to a rigorous examination. “Looking for something, Mr.
Bathurst! The question’s ‘what?’”
Anthony nodded. The case was getting trebly interesting to him. On the
pillow at the head of the bed lay a lady’s hand-bag and several keys
thrown in all directions. For a moment he regarded them intently,
while Bannister busied himself with an examination of the Wilton
hair-carpet that covered the floor. Anthony picked up the hand-bag and
opened it. At the first glance it seemed to be empty, but Mr.
Bathurst, in examinations of this kind, always made a point of being
extremely thorough. A thin card nestled in one of the corners. Anthony
drew it out carefully. It was a man’s visiting-card of the usual kind,
“Alan Warburton, 19, Crossley Road, Westhampton.” He turned it over.
On the other side another address had been carefully scrawled in
pencil. “Ronald N. Branston—Dental Surgeon—Coolwater Avenue,
Seabourne.”
“Inspector,” he called quietly. Bannister came round immediately from
the far end of the bed. “What do you make of this?” he demanded. “Look
at the back!”
Bannister’s eyes shone through his glasses with quick interest. “This
is important, Mr. Bathurst—exceedingly important. Where did you find
it?”
Anthony held up the bag in explanation. Bannister frowned—then
stretched out his hand for it. Anthony walked to the bed and picked up
several of the keys that had lain there.
“Have to see this gentleman,” exclaimed the Inspector—he tapped the
visiting-card with the back of his finger-nail. “It’s just possible
that we’ve got the threads of the affair in our hands at last.”
“Yes,” smiled Anthony, “just ‘on the cards’ as you might say. If he
recommended Miss Delaney to visit the Coolwater Avenue Surgery, it
could certainly be argued against him that he might have known when to
find her there. But look here, Inspector,” he paused—looked at the
keys in his hand—then back to the hand-bag that Bannister was still
holding.
“Well?” said Bannister, invitingly. Anthony smiled again. “It’s like
this, Inspector. Imagination is a skittish sort of filly to ride—I’m
well aware. But it seems to me that the hand-bag, the visiting-card,
and these keys tell us a lot.” He looked quizzically at Bannister.
“I’m listening,” said that gentleman with the same touch of tolerant
cynicism that Mr. Bathurst had observed before. “What’s the big idea?”
“Were there any signs, Inspector, when we entered ‘Rest Harrow’ just
now—that any forced entrance had been effected?” Bannister promptly
shook his head. “Well, then,” proceeded Anthony, “how did the people
who played high jinks in this bedroom—_get in_?” He went on without
waiting for Bannister to answer. “_They got in with these keys,
Inspector!_ And in my opinion this hand-bag containing these keys and
this visiting-card, was taken from Miss Delaney at Seabourne either
just before her death or just after.”
Bannister rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the fingers of his left
hand. “I think you’re right, Mr. Bathurst. If only we knew what the
devils were looking for. Get on the track of that and we shall be
two-thirds of the way towards a complete solution. Yes, Ross—what is
it?”
“No luck, sir—out in the garden. The dust-bin is empty. All the refuse
that was here when the people went away must have been burned.”
“I was afraid so,” replied the Inspector. “Come and look in here!”
As Ross obeyed the behest Anthony tried the doors of the other
bedrooms. They were locked and when opened presented no appearance
beyond the ordinary. He called Bannister’s attention to them.
“They knew where to look, Mr. Bathurst, for what they wanted, didn’t
they?”
“I don’t think, somehow, that we’re dealing with ordinary thieves.
There’s something special about this.”
“You think there were more than one then, Inspector?”
“I’m inclined to think so! There are a few traces of dried mud on the
carpet—nothing to speak of—can’t be sure whether they were left there
by one man or two. Still—on the whole, I fancy there are more than one
in it.” He looked at Anthony critically. “What can this young lady
have possessed of such value that these people wanted it so badly?”
Anthony considered the question. “And was its value intrinsic or
extrinsic?” he added to Bannister’s query. He was thinking now of such
things as a photograph. The Inspector raised his eyebrows
interrogatively.
“Just what are you thinking of?” he asked.
“When I spoke,” rejoined Anthony, “I wasn’t exactly thinking of
anything in particular—since you’ve pressed me, however—I’ll give you
an example. In some circumstances for instance—a photograph or a
bundle of letters might possess an extraordinary value.”
Bannister caressed his top lip. “H’m,” he commented. “I suppose
there’s something in what you say. But where we’re handicapped so
tremendously here at the moment is in the fact that there’s nobody
here can tell us anything about the dead girl. Until we get into touch
with this ‘Pinkie’ person—or with the gentleman whose visiting-card
we’ve found—we’re working in the dark.” He swung round on the local
man. “Ross,” he exclaimed sharply, “can you tell me anything personal
or intimate about this Miss Delaney?”
Ross responded to the invitation with a certain amount of eagerness.
“I’m a Westhampton man, although I only came to my present job a year
ago,” he said, “and I’ve known Miss Delaney ever since her father came
to live in Tranfield. I’ve watched her grow into the beautiful young
woman that she undoubtedly was. I knew her father, Colonel Delaney,
well. He died—whilst home on leave in 1917, I think it was.” He
knitted his brows—then continued his story. “He was drowned, if I
remember rightly, up at Nillebrook Water—that’s about four miles from
here—and the police weren’t altogether satisfied with the manner of
his death. It was a most unsatisfactory business. In fact—for a
considerable time too—foul play was strongly suspected. But nothing
ever came to light that properly justified their suspicions and it was
brought in ‘Accidental death.’ I wish I could remember the details but
it’s eleven years ago and a lot of things have happened since then.
Still, the best man for information about Colonel and Sheila Delaney
is Sir Matthew Fullgarney—the Lord Lieutenant of the County. He and
Major Carruthers were great pals of the Colonel—officers together, I
believe, years before—in the same regiment or something.”
Bannister shewed signs of corroboration. “That would be the Major
Desmond Carruthers to whom Miss Carruthers referred this morning,” he
announced to Anthony. “He’s dead, also, I believe. Tell me, Ross, is
Miss Delaney’s mother dead, too?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Ross. “She survived the Colonel for some years but
died, I think, about four years ago.”
“Which leaves only Sir Matthew Fullgarney,” soliloquised Anthony. He
turned to Inspector Bannister. “Quite a chapter of fatalities, isn’t
it?” he suggested. “How did Major Carruthers die, Ross?”
“In a motor accident, sir—somewhere about the early part of last
year.”
“H’m,” said Anthony, “nothing to arouse suspicion—eh?”
Ross shook his head. “Nothing that I can remember, sir.”
“Perhaps you can tell me something else, Ross,” remarked Bannister.
“Do you know anything about a gentleman living in Westhampton—Alan
Warburton by name?”
Ross nodded eagerly. “Know him well, Inspector. He’s the only survivor
as far as my knowledge goes, of the famous Warburtons—the big banking
family. You remember the celebrated ‘Mutual Bank Frauds’ about two
years ago. Sir Felix Warburton was arrested and sentenced and
afterwards committed suicide in his cell. He was Alan Warburton’s
uncle—Alan being the son of his only brother—Murray Warburton. Alan’s
father died when Alan was a boy. It’s rather a coincidence that you
should have introduced his name.”
“Why?” snapped Bannister. “Where’s the coincidence?”
Anthony watched Ross’s face carefully and awaited his reply with much
more than ordinary interest.
“Well,” proceeded Ross, “what I meant exactly was this. Up to the time
of the ‘Mutual Bank’ scandal, local gossip in Westhampton and
Tranfield was inclined to couple Alan Warburton’s name with Sheila
Delaney’s.”
“Really now,” said Bannister; “that’s most interesting. And what
happened _after_ the Bank scandal?”
Ross shrugged his broad shoulders non-committally but the movement was
expressive. “The lady didn’t appear to be anything like so keen—at
least rumour has it so.”
Bannister eyed Anthony significantly. Evidently an idea was beginning
to assume very definite shape within his mind. “I see,” he said
quietly. “The family reputation was tarnished—eh?”
“Possibly,” smiled back Ross; “the Delaneys were always people to hold
their heads high.”
He gave Anthony the impression that he was very much more inclined to
be confidential than to be reserved. But Mr. Bathurst kept quiet—he
was content to let Bannister do the questioning.
“And after that?” continued Bannister, “was there another Richmond in
the field? Another lover—eh?”
“I can’t answer that,” declared Ross. “Local gossip hasn’t reached
that stage yet.”
“But it’s quite likely—eh——?” urged Bannister.
“I should imagine so—considering what a charming girl Miss Delaney
was.”
“H’m—what sort of a chap is this Alan Warburton—pretty steady? Or does
he inherit the tendencies of Sir Felix?”
“I know nothing against him,” declared Ross. “No whisper against him
has ever reached me.”
“How did he take the lady’s change of feelings?”
“No idea. As I said just now, I’m only repeating local gossip.” With
that the Inspector was forced to be content.
It was obvious that the local man’s knowledge was largely founded upon
hearsay. Anthony realised this and turned once again to the
miscellaneous heap upon the bed. He picked up a long silk scarf, with
what definite object at the time he scarcely knew, when to his
surprise a postcard fluttered from the folds and fell to the ground.
He stooped to pick it up. It was undated and the sender had omitted to
put his or her address. It ran as follows: “Dearest Sheila,—If only
you were here instead of those miles away! Then I should love the
Spring (and you) still more. The garden is looking splendid—nearly
equal to that at ‘Rest Harrow.’ All the flowers have made a fine show
but the irides are simply wonderful.” It was signed with one initial
only—“X.” Anthony held it out to Bannister. “Came out of this scarf,”
he said. “Do you think it’s of any importance?”
Bannister looked at it very attentively—read the message—then
attempted to decipher the postmark. Anthony looked over his shoulder.
“Looks to me like Dulwich,” he said.
“I think so too,” said Bannister.
“It’s a peculiar handwriting, Inspector,” added Anthony. “You very
seldom see a hand slope quite like that.”
“Very peculiar indeed, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll hang on to this—you never
know in cases of this kind. The least thing may turn the scale.”
Anthony walked to the window of the bedroom and looked out on to the
front garden. He stood there for perhaps a minute. Then he turned
quickly round and addressed Bannister again. “An idea has just come to
me, Inspector. I should very much like to test it. What do you say?”
Bannister stared. “I’m going to bring all these larger keys into the
garden and find the garage. I want to have a peep inside. Come along
with me.” He suited the action to the words and within a few minutes
swung open the garage doors. A car stood inside—a ‘Standard.’ Anthony
waved his hand towards it. “There, Inspector,” he exclaimed
dramatically, “is the car that took Miss Delaney to Seabourne.”
Bannister regarded him incredulously. “Then how the devil did it get
back here?” he demanded.
“That certainly is a poser,” replied Mr. Bathurst, “but we’ll find the
answer before we’ve finished. Come in and have a look at her,
Inspector. I would suggest that somebody drove it back.”
“Go on!” said Bannister.