Of Which Mr. Bathurst Holds the Ace
Mr. Bathurst was considerate enough to see Chief-Inspector Bannister
off from Westhampton station on the following morning. He was
sufficiently solicitous also to procure for him a corner-seat—to
obtain for him all the newspapers that he desired—and to press upon
him a couple of Henry Clays. From which it will be unerringly inferred
that they parted upon the best of terms. “I wish you the best of luck
down in Seabourne, Inspector,” he said on parting. “Keep me posted if
anything important pops up, won’t you?”
“I will,” promised Bannister. “Rely on me. And I hope when I see you
again to be on the way to a successful termination of the case.”
Anthony grinned. “There’s nothing like a note of cheery optimism,” he
murmured; “just enough to cover a sixpence.”
Bannister smiled back and waved his hand gaily as the train drew
slowly from the long platform. Anthony made his way back to his hotel.
There he sought the seclusion afforded by the smoke-room. Writing
materials were to hand. Mr. Bathurst set to work upon what he always
called his “Initial Summary of Facts.” Completed he snuggled
back in his chair and surveyed the epitome complacently. This
is how it read. (A) Present at Hunt Ball—“_lever de rideau_,”
so to speak—Alexis—Sheila—Daphne—Major Carruthers—Sir Matthew
Fullgarney (probably)—Alan Warburton—and the mysterious “Mr. X.”
(B) Present at “Cassandra” when compromising photograph was
taken—Alexis—Daphne—Captain Willoughby——“? Mr. X.” (C) Present at
Seabourne at the time of the actual tragedy—Alexis—Sheila—Daphne—Alan
Warburton—Captain Willoughby——“? Mr. X.”? Is “Mr. X.” one of these? If
so, which one? Or is he another person altogether? A curious point how
certain names are like a certain type of decimals—they keep recurring.
(D) Sheila is deliberately shrouded under Daphne’s identity and
provided with her suit-case—why? Arrangements are made in _Daphne’s
name_—and that luggage is deliberately substituted—again why? (E)
Sheila is poisoned at a dentist’s of all places. (F) “Pinkie” and Alan
Warburton are agreed that there came a lover into her life. When
exactly? Crown Prince? Mr. X? (G) Whose was the mysterious
correspondence referred to by “Pinkie” Kerr? Who was the ardent
horticulturist that wrote concerning the beauty of the Iris? (H) Who
wrote Branston’s address on the back of Alan Warburton’s
visiting-card—Sheila herself, Warburton—or another? (I) Why did Sheila
want the “Peacock’s Eye” on that particular day? (J) What is Lal Singh
to do with the picture? Does he really fit in at all? (K) Colonel Dan
drowned—Major Carruthers killed whilst motoring—Mrs. Delaney
dead—Sheila murdered—is it just a line of coincidences or a _sequence
of intention?_ (L) Why exactly did the murderer, murderess, or
murderers return post-haste to Tranfield? What did they want if they
_had_ the “Peacock’s Eye”? Anthony twisted the top of his fountain-pen
round and round and smiled grimly. It was a smile that boded no good
for a very clever criminal. Anthony Bathurst had formed certain
conclusions. He added another heading. (M) Did Stark (E. Kingsley
Stark) _know Sir Felix Warburton_? He spent another quarter of an hour
or so studying his list then folded it carefully and placed it in his
pocket. He looked at his watch, obtained his hat and stick from the
stand outside the door of the smoke-room and sauntered to the front
entrance of the hotel. The porter knew Crossley Road very well. He
would assist Mr. Bathurst! Mr. Bathurst should follow the tram-lines,
turn round by the “Ram and Raven,” pass the statue to Doctor Harvey,
and he would see that Crossley Road was the first turning on the left.
Mr. Bathurst accepted the instructions with a charming thankfulness
and sallied forth. For the moment he had left the main question of
Sheila Delaney’s murder. As Bannister had implied the day before—he
was taking a rest—partly. But he had a shrewd idea at the back of his
clever brain that the half-holiday would not prove completely
unprofitable. He turned down Crossley Road and was not long before he
stood in front of Number 19. In response to his knock a rather
slatternly woman appeared at the door. She eyed Mr. Bathurst with a
disfavour that she took no pains to conceal. Which fact mattered but
little to him. Mr. Bathurst always appeared to be supremely
unconscious of little incidents of that kind.
“Mr. Warburton?” she echoed his request. “Yes, he’s in. Would you be
wantin’ him?” she added unnecessarily.
“Naturally,” smiled Mr. Bathurst. “That was why I asked for him.”
The lady scowled ungraciously, but Mr. Bathurst could be as charming
to scowls as he could be to “wreathèd smiles.”
“What name shall I say?” she demanded more churlishly than ever.
“Say Mr. Bannister’s assistant.”
The lady disappeared with the mendacious information and left Mr.
Bathurst kicking his heels outside the front door. Within a few
minutes she returned.
“You’re to come upstairs,” she announced with the air of one bestowing
the greatest of favours. “Mr. Warburton says as how he’ll see you.”
Anthony ascended the unpretentious staircase and was shown into a
sitting-room that had seen a good many better days.
“Well, my inquisitive friend”—such was the manner of Mr. Warburton’s
greeting—“to what particular strain of damned curiosity am I indebted
for the honour of this visit?”
Anthony waved a deprecating hand. “I beg of you, Mr. Warburton, I beg
of you! Do not, please, mistake your man. It would grieve me
enormously if you were to do that, and I fear that my recovery from
that grief would be extremely tardy. Let me assure you that I have no
official connection whatever with the Police. Rest easy on that
point.”
Warburton stared at him—incredulity and wonderment struggling to find
expression. “What the hell do you mean?”
“Precisely what I say. I do not come from the Police.”
“What were you doing then with Bannister yesterday, eh?”
Again Mr. Bathurst raised a mildly protesting hand. “Ah! There we do
meet on more appropriate terms. I will tell you, Mr. Warburton. I am
watching the case on behalf of His Royal Highness Alexis, Crown Prince
of Clorania. Does that surprise you? My name is Anthony Bathurst.”
Warburton sprang to his feet—furious with anger. “Then get out of
here,” he cried. “As quickly as you know how or——” He stopped
irresolutely.
Mr. Bathurst, as has been observed more than once, was always very
fit—thank you, and Mr. Warburton was intelligent enough to note the
fact. One glance at the lithe and muscular six feet length of body was
ample for him in which to arrive at his conclusions.
“I think not,” said Mr. Bathurst, sweetly—as sweetly as he knew how,
which is considerably so. “And I’ll tell you why, Mr. Warburton, in
case you don’t know.” There was no sweetness in his tone now—rather a
grim menace. “Have you ever heard of the Princess Imogena of Natalia?”
“What do you mean?” muttered Warburton.
“I was called into this case, Mr. Warburton, before it assumed the
tragic aspect that unhappily it has now.” He took a bundle of letters
from his pocket. “Your handwriting, I fancy!” He held one out to Alan
Warburton.
The latter’s lower lip dropped as he gazed at the letter sullenly.
“There’s no need for you to answer,” said Anthony, “your face betrays
you.” Warburton remained obstinately silent. “There’s no fifty
thousand pounds for you this journey, my young friend—you may be
housed rather as a guest of His Majesty.”
“It’s of no consequence to me now—you won’t frighten me with that.”
“Perhaps not! But nevertheless I’m very curious on one point. What
bluff were you calling? You had absolutely nothing at the back of you.
What was your game?”
Warburton’s face twisted into a sneering laugh. “I knew he’d been
meeting her,” he declared. “That was good enough for me to work on.”
“Good enough for blackmail? A dirty word and a dirty trade! However
did you imagine you would be able to keep the strings pulled tightly
enough when you knew absolutely nothing—when you were groping in the
dark? You must be mad.”
“I knew he was meeting Sheila Delaney and a word of that in his future
bride’s ear would have cooked his goose all right, don’t you worry. At
any rate I frightened the swine. I put the fear of God in his carcass
sufficiently for him to call you into the case.”
“You’ll cut a sorry figure in the dock, Warburton, and you’ll get a
stiff sentence—you won’t have a leg to stand on.”
“I’ll stand in no dock,” sneered Warburton. “And what is more, you
know it! I can see dear Alexis cutting almost as sorry a figure as I
should—and a bit sorrier—— Prosecute?” He laughed with an almost
affected bitterness. “He’ll never prosecute me—he hasn’t got half the
pluck.”
Anthony folded up the letters preparatory to putting the bundle away
in his breast pocket. “I’m going,” he announced. “What the Crown
Prince decides to do is entirely his own affair. I can promise you
that. I shall refrain from advising him either way. In some
circumstances, I might feel sorry for you. Good morning.”
Warburton sat sullenly in his chair and made no reply. Anthony stopped
on the threshold. “By the way,” he declared, “you might oblige me in
one little matter, will you? I want the address of an important
gentleman of these parts. I have no doubt you can give it to me—Sir
Matthew Fullgarney.”
Warburton stared wonderingly. “Dovaston Court.” He gave the
information with surliness. “Two miles out of Westhampton on the
Bedford Road.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Bathurst. He closed the door gently behind him.