The Lord Lieutenant Goes Back a Few Years
Mr. Bathurst strolled to the window of the smoke-room of the Grand
Hotel, Westhampton, and looked at the red chimney pots of the town. It
was certainly a very beautiful morning. The two miles along the
Bedford road that he intended to travel within the next hour or so—the
two miles that would bring him to Dovaston Court—would seem, he felt
sure, more like two yards than two miles, under the exhilarating
influence of that morning sun. Mr. Bathurst felt more light-hearted
that morning than he had felt for many mornings since he had left
London. The first part of his task was over—accomplished. His
interview of the previous day with Alan Warburton had definitely
cleared up the first part of the case. The task that had been
entrusted to him by Alexis of Clorania had been successfully
completed. “There now remains,” he said to himself, half-humorously,
“the Mystery of the Peacock’s Eye! And how far is it connected with
Warburton’s blackmailing of the Crown Prince! Connected and yet not
connected. A most interesting and intricate case,” remarked Mr.
Bathurst. “But nevertheless rapidly approaching a solution.” At the
same time Mr. Bathurst was beginning to realise that he would have to
play his cards very carefully indeed to complete it as he wished. For
he was beginning to form very clear-cut conclusions—conclusions that
he confidently hoped would be seen more firmly consolidated after the
interview that he intended should take place this morning. For some
appreciable time now—in fact, ever since the Bank Manager’s timely
entry—he had been considering very carefully the testimony of Mr. E.
Kingsley Stark. “And he has held the position of Manager since May of
last year—a matter of fourteen months only,” said Mr. Bathurst to
himself. “Fourteen months,” he repeated; “three months shall we say
since the ominous Hunt Ball in this interesting old town of
Westhampton.”
Half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to Dovaston Court and he
quickly covered the length of the sweeping drive that took him to the
front entrance.
“Sir Matthew Fullgarney is expecting you, sir,” said the dignified
personage whose duty it was to admit him, “if you will be good enough
to step this way?”
Anthony followed his imposing guide down a hall with a
beautifully-polished floor into a sumptuously-furnished room. A
magnificent tiger-skin rug lay in a prominent position as he entered,
while the walls were somewhat lavishly decorated perhaps, with many
and varied trophies of the chase.
“I will tell Sir Matthew that you have arrived, sir. Please sit down.”
The personage departed. Anthony accepted the suggestion whimsically.
He wondered if he looked as though he had been sufficiently impressed.
Smiling to himself, semi-cynically, he surveyed his immediate
surroundings approvingly. Then he settled himself to await patiently
the distinguished gentleman to whom he had written and whom he had
come with express purpose to see. He was not kept waiting very long.
The Lord Lieutenant of the County entered—caressing his white
moustache in the grand manner. Anthony rose and bowed to him, and at
the same time was conscious that two fierce blue eyes were regarding
him unwaveringly.
“I have your letter, Mr.—er——”
“Bathurst,” interjected Anthony hopefully.
“Ah—yes—that’s it. Bathurst! I am Sir Matthew Fullgarney himself. I
understand from the contents of the letter that you wish to see me—to
see me personally. You go even further than that, I observe—you assert
that it is important. Damn it, sir—for the life of me, I can’t imagine
_why_ you want to see me. Have I ever met you before?”
“Never, Sir Matthew. And the loss has been mine—I fully realise that.”
Anthony smiled his reply.
Sir Matthew grunted. “Sit down then and say what you have to
say. Please don’t beat about the bush. I hate to have to
listen to a farrago of words—two-thirds of which are usually
entirely—er—redundant—er—tautological—er—er unnecessary.” He blew his
nose fiercely—intending it no doubt as an imposing battery of support.
“You will not find me wearisome, I hope,” returned Anthony. “I will
state my case in as few words as I possibly can. I have called to see
you in reference to the ‘Seabourne Mystery’—the murder of Sheila
Delaney—a young lady with whom I believe you were not unacquainted?”
“A terrible affair, Mr. Bathurst,” interposed Sir Matthew. “A truly
shocking affair. It has disturbed me profoundly. It has upset me more
than I can say. But you asked me a question, which I have not yet
answered. I knew Sheila Delaney very well. Also, I was very much
attached to her.”
“Am I right in assuming that you also knew her father—the late Colonel
Delaney?” Anthony’s question came curt and crisp.
“You are quite right. I should think I did. None better. Dan Delaney
and I were almost inseparables forty odd years ago. He and I—and
Desmond Carruthers—got into as many scrapes and damned well got out of
’em, too—as any three junior officers of the British Army ever did. By
Gad! Mr. Bathurst, they were stirring times and no mistake. Times that
we shall never see the like of again—worse luck. Now poor old Dan and
all his family have gone—and the last in such a terrible way, too. A
tragedy—there’s no denying it.” He paused and the fierceness of his
expression softened a trifle as he meditated over the poor girl’s
untimely and tragic end.
“What you have just said brings me to another question,” exclaimed
Anthony.
“What may that be?”
“Have you ever heard during your association either with the late
Colonel Delaney or with his daughter any mention of a very valuable
jewel—rejoicing, I believe, under the somewhat fantastic ‘sobriquet’
of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?”
Sir Matthew Fullgarney sprang to his feet. Anthony Bathurst felt the
two steel-blue eyes of his host glaring at him relentlessly. “‘The
Peacock’s Eye’? What in hell do you know about the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?”
Anthony suffered this rather surprising outburst with complete
equanimity. He had always possessed the tactful gift of making
allowances.
“Not a lot, Sir Matthew. Very little, in fact. But enough to cause me
to come to ask you for more. I have strong reason to believe that Miss
Delaney was murdered for possession of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’!”
Sir Matthew bordered upon the apoplectic. “God bless my soul—do you
realise what you are saying? How could Sheila Delaney have had the
‘Peacock’s Eye’ in her possession? It’s too ridiculous for words, sir!
What the——?” Sir Matthew fumed into aggressive speechlessness.
“Not so ridiculous as it may appear upon the surface, Sir Matthew.
Please listen to what I have to say.” He waved the Lord Lieutenant of
Westhamptonshire to a seat again, for Mr. Bathurst had a way with him.
Sir Matthew obeyed the gesture but glowered at Mr. Bathurst as though
his suggestion had been completely unspeakable. Anthony took up his
recital again. “According to the evidence of Mr. E. Kingsley Stark,
the present manager of the Westhampton branch of the Mutual Bank, Miss
Delaney took the stone known as the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ out of the custody
of the bank on the morning of the day upon which she met her death.
There is therefore very good reason to believe that it travelled with
her to Seabourne. And very certainly it was not in her possession when
she was found dead in the dentist’s chair at Seabourne. A remarkable
chain of events, Sir Matthew, don’t you think?” Anthony watched him
warily. But Sir Matthew remained as he was—to all appearances bereft
of the power of speech. “Having told you so much of what I know I want
you to tell me more in return. Am I right in thinking that it lies in
your power to give me the true history of the ‘Peacock’s Eye’?” His
voice contained a note of quiet insistence.
The man addressed rose from his chair and paced the room—it might be
said belligerently. The situation as it had developed was novel for
him. He came to a decision suddenly. Taking a letter from his pocket
he referred to it in such a way that Anthony was irresistibly reminded
of a huge bird of prey.
“You state here, Mr. Bathurst”—he tapped the letter aggressively with
his bony forefinger—“that you are representing the Crown Prince Alexis
of Clorania in a matter of paramount delicacy.” Anthony bowed. “I
don’t quite see then how the devil that fact touches the ‘Seabourne
Mystery,’ and the death of Sheila Delaney—what has the one to do with
the other—tell me that?” He made his demand with all his old
fierceness.
“Candidly, I can’t, sir,” replied Anthony, “at the moment, that is.
But I hope to be able to do so when I get more data. That is why I
asked you to tell me the history of the ‘Peacock’s Eye.’ I have formed
the opinion that to know that will help me materially.”
Sir Matthew caressed the white moustache again in an endeavour to
assume command. “You’re asking me to go back a good many years, Mr.
Bathurst. Forty-four to be exact. And forty-four years are not
five-and-twenty minutes. But I’ll tell you all I know.” He chuckled at
the savour of the reminiscence. “Dan Delaney, Desmond Carruthers and I
were all Westhamptonshire born men and were junior officers together
in the 8th Westhampton Regiment. We were sent to India. Eventually we
found ourselves stationed in a wild territory of Baluchistan, near
Quetta, and not far from the Bolan Pass. It’s a mountainous, sandy
desert of a place by no means thickly populated—the natives that do
eke out an existence there live a nomadic, pastoral sort of life. Four
years after we got out there a separate administration was constituted
under the Governor-General’s Agent in Baluchistan and things got a bit
better. For which we were all devoutly thankful. But we fellows were a
reckless, wild-harum-scarum set always ready for any desperate
adventure that promised itself. The more perilous it was the better we
welcomed it. The big bug in that region is the Khan of Kalat and there
are all sorts of fancy religions knocking about round there—I can tell
you.”
“Pardon me interrupting a moment,” interjected Anthony. “What was the
name of the dialect spoken by the natives? Can you remember? I have a
real reason for asking.”
Sir Matthew wrinkled his brows. “There were many. Dozens of ’em in all
probability. In the Central Provinces you get Hindi and Marathi
chiefly, but up there, you find so many different tribal tongues.
Where was I?”
“Ready for any desperate adventure,” smiled back Anthony.
“Ah yes!” Sir Matthew rubbed his hands in evident enjoyment. The old
man was back in the saddle again. “Well, as I said, we were a wild lot
and although I say it myself, Delaney, Carruthers and I were perhaps
the three most adventurous spirits of the whole crowd—as venturesome
as we were high. I mentioned that there was plenty of religious
fanaticism knocking about. When he _is_ religious—the tribesman takes
his religion pretty seriously, I can tell you, Mr. Bathurst. We
Europeans aren’t made like it. Well, one day we got wind of a
wonderful native temple, situated up by the Bolan Pass. It was
supposed to be a most amazing affair and hundreds of their specially
holy men were in the habit of making long pilgrimages to it. As a
religious exercise, you know. Kind of Mecca! You know what I mean!
Rumour had it also that no European had ever set foot inside it—or at
all events if he had succeeded in doing so, he hadn’t come out of it
alive. Death was the penalty of entrance. All the young officers in
our crowd were desperately keen to get inside it, when one day Dan
Delaney discovered that he was in luck’s way. He had a body servant
attached to him who had been specially transferred for some reason or
the other to the 8th Westhamptons from one of the native regiments.”
“Lal Singh?” murmured Mr. Bathurst, with an almost affected
nonchalance. Sir Matthew stared at him amazed and spellbound.
“Good God, sir,” he declared, white as a sheet, when he pulled himself
together, “how the devil did you know that?”
Anthony answered question with question. “You haven’t seen Lal Singh
then lately?”
“Haven’t seen him for over thirty years—what on earth——?”
“I’ll explain later,” replied Anthony; “please proceed.”
“Marvellous—marvellous—now let me see again—where was I?” He frowned
in his attempts at recollection. “I know Lal Singh’s father was in
some way connected with the actual administration of this temple and
as a result Lal Singh himself was able to put a lot of information in
Delaney’s way. To cut a long story short the three of us got away one
night and got clean inside—penetrated in fact to the proper holy of
holies—the inmost shrine. There we found what the natives called the
‘Sacred Peacock.’ Its body was of pure gold and the ‘eyes’ of its
train feathers consisted of a number of blue-tinted emeralds. I can’t
tell you how marvellous it was. I regret to say that Delaney wrenched
away the biggest of these and we were about to add to our spoils when
Lal Singh rushed in with the news that in a few minutes we should be
surrounded—the news of our entry had leaked out somehow. We got away
by the skin of our teeth. Lal Singh was scared to death and warned us
with all sorts of fantastic tales that the outraged gods would punish
us though the punishment took years to materialise. Gad! What a lovely
scrap it was, getting away that night.”
Anthony broke in. “Delaney, I presume, regarded the ‘Peacock’s Eye’ as
his own personal spoils?”
“Not at all,” replied Sir Matthew stiffly and with a distinct touch of
frigidity. “We were brother-officers—it was a case of share and share
alike—not only the ‘spoils’ as you call it, but the ‘bright eyes of
danger,’ too. We drew lots for the stone. Strangely enough, Delaney
was the winner. As far as I know he kept the stone till his death. It
was a gorgeous gem—exactly similar in shape to the ‘eye’ of a
peacock’s tail. Worth thousands—but Dan never realised on it. He kept
it for its dazzling beauty—he was Irish—an idealist.” He glared at
Anthony. “That’s all. Now it’s your turn. Tell me what you know about
Lal Singh! You staggered me just now. You knocked me all of a heap.”
“I am quite prepared to believe that, Sir Matthew—but there is no
magic about it. The explanation, like most explanations, is perfectly
simple. Have you ever met Miss Kerr—Miss Delaney’s old nurse?”
“Many a time,” chuckled Sir Matthew; “you mean ‘Pinkie’?”
“I believe that is the nickname by which she is, perhaps, even better
known. I met her at ‘Rest Harrow’ the other day, when we were first
investigating the circumstances of Miss Delaney’s death. She told
rather an extraordinary story. I should like your considered opinion
on it. She states that about a month ago an Indian called upon Miss
Delaney, at her home in Tranfield—calling himself Lal Singh. He asked
for Colonel Delaney and informed her that he was the Colonel’s old
servant. He was unaware of the Colonel’s death. Or said he was—that
possibly is a more accurate version!”
“What?” roared Sir Matthew. “Lal Singh here in Westhamptonshire. That
tale won’t hold water. It’s incredible—it’s amazing——” He spluttered
in his attempt to find suitable words to express his rejection.
“I can take it then,” intervened Anthony, “that Lal Singh did not
extend his visit to you?”
“To me? Good gracious, Mr. Bathurst—of course not! Lal Singh indeed! I
haven’t set eyes on Lal Singh for over thirty years, as I told you.
What on earth gives you that extraordinary idea?”
“‘Pinkie’ Kerr is under the impression that he announced to Miss
Delaney his intention of so doing,” said Anthony, gravely.
“Good God, sir—you astound me—dear, dear—dear, dear!”
It was obvious that Sir Matthew was extremely perturbed.
“He certainly _inquired_ after you,” proceeded Anthony, “and also
after the late Major Desmond Carruthers.”
“Well—I’m damned—I suppose there’s no possible doubt about this
rigmarole, Mr. Bathurst? You’re sure in your own mind that ‘Pinkie’
Kerr isn’t giving way to a little romancing?”
“Her evidence is entirely uncorroborated—obviously—her mistress is
dead—Lal Singh has disappeared. At the same time——” He paused.
“Well?” demanded Sir Matthew vehemently. “What?”
“It would be a remarkable story for her to _invent_,” said Mr.
Bathurst with a shrug of the shoulders. “Don’t you think so?”
“Let me come to the point, then. What do you make of it?”
“That we are in very deep waters, Sir Matthew! Sheila Delaney has been
the victim of one of the most cunning and cold-blooded crimes of the
century and it’s going to take me all my time to bring her assassin to
justice. There’s a big difference between suspecting a man and proving
his guilt. There’s a big difference, also, between _knowing_ a man’s
guilt and _proving_ it.”
Sir Matthew glared at him—his cold blue eyes full of purpose. But Mr.
Bathurst gave him back an equally unwavering stare.
“I quite appreciate what you say,” said the old man eventually; “I
appreciate it to the full.”
“By the way, Sir Matthew, there is one more point before I go. Perhaps
you would be good enough to enlighten me? Can you remember the
Westhampton Hunt Ball—a year ago last February?”
“Certainly I can. I was present—naturally.”
“Good—I was expecting you to say that. Now tell me this. Was the Crown
Prince of Clorania present?” Mr. Bathurst watched him keenly and
carefully. So much depended upon the exact terms of the answer. It
came quickly.
“I have always understood so! His Royal Highness preserved his
‘incognito,’ it is true, but as far as I know he was most certainly
there.”
“Did you speak to him?”
“Of course. Most assuredly. I was introduced to him by Desmond
Carruthers.”
“I see. Please think carefully. For this question is most important.
Did you at any time during the evening of the ball see the Crown
Prince in conversation with or dancing with Sheila Delaney?”
The Lord Lieutenant knitted his brows. Then he began to shake his head
negatively. “No—I can’t remember that. Sheila at that time was flying
round with young Alan Warburton. I can distinctly remember _him_ being
there. No! I can’t remember her with the Crown Prince.”
“Thank you. You mentioned Alan Warburton. I’ve had the pleasure of
meeting him. I understand that there was a likelihood once, we will
say, of an engagement between him and Miss Delaney?”
“That is so, most certainly!”
“Now Sir Matthew—can you tell me this? Did the Westhampton Hunt Ball
that we have been discussing coincide pretty closely with the ‘Mutual
Bank’ scandal and the arrest and suicide of Sir Felix Warburton? Can
you tell me that?”
“It did, Mr. Bathurst,” replied Sir Matthew grimly. “Not merely
‘pretty closely’ but absolutely. Sir Felix committed suicide on the
very day that the ball took place.”
“Thank you,” said Mr. Bathurst. “I rather fancy that my case is nearly
complete.”