Mr. Bathurst Forgets His Change
“Show His Royal Highness in!” said Anthony.
“Very well, sir,” replied Falcon. “In one moment.” He retired feeling
very satisfied. He had had no idea that the Mr. Bathurst staying at
his hotel was such a distinguished visitor. To number the Crown Prince
of Clorania upon his visiting-list argued much, and eloquently, for
his social standing. Chief-Inspector Bannister was something of a
different proposition. Falcon was well aware of the Inspector’s very
high position at Scotland Yard and had His Royal Highness inquired for
the Inspector, it would have occasioned him no surprise whatever. But
for Mr. Bathurst——! It was surprising to say the least of it.
Surprising but comfortably reassuring. He shewed the Crown Prince into
Mr. Bathurst’s room and immediately telephoned the astounding news
through to a friend of his—an occupant of a position on the Aldermanic
Bench of Westhampton. This, he was fully conscious, was equivalent to
getting the B.B.C. to broadcast the news, for the worthy Alderman in
question was a prominent member of a Local Mutual Toleration Society.
Alexis of Clorania advanced to Anthony—his hand outstretched in
greeting. “I have been unable to compose myself, Mr. Bathurst,” he
said, “during your absence. I have been strangely worried and uneasy.
I had to come. What success have you had?”
Anthony motioned him to be seated. “In what particular direction, Your
Highness?”
The Crown Prince jerked back his head. “Either! Both! Have you
progressed at all? Are you any nearer to a solution?”
Anthony stopped him with a quick movement of the hand. “I came to
Westhampton, Your Highness, to kill, if possible, two birds with one
stone.”
“And you have had the success?”
“Not altogether—although I can say that I have strong hopes. Perhaps
in the near future——”
The Crown Prince uttered an exclamation of impatient disappointment.
“‘Perhaps’ is a word that does not make a very strong appeal to me,
Mr. Bathurst. I do not wish to appear arbitrary or high-handed or even
ungrateful for the work that you have done, but I am afraid I’m a man
that judges merit only by actual results. No doubt the case was a
difficult one, but your reputation was sufficient for me to rely upon
you implicitly. Those letters that were sent to me——”
“Need trouble you no longer,” contributed Anthony laconically; “that
part of the case has been satisfactorily completed. It was very
simple. I had almost forgotten it.”
The Crown Prince sat bolt upright in his chair. “Completed? What do
you mean? Tell me, I beg of you. Do not keep me in suspense.”
“I have interviewed the writer of the letters and Your Highness may
rest assured that there will be no repetition of the offence. I took
the liberty, however, of promising in Your Highness’s name—if
‘promising’ be the right word to use in such circumstances—that there
would be no prosecution.”
“Was that wise, Mr. Bathurst? Is such a scoundrel to go?”
“Come, sir, look at the matter from your own point of view. Publicity
is surely the last condition that you would court?”
Alexis appeared to be in doubt.
“Her Royal Highness, Imogena of Natalia,” murmured Anthony.
Alexis’ doubt vanished like snow under the sun. “Who was the
blackmailer?” he demanded truculently.
Anthony hesitated a moment before answering. “Alan Warburton, an old
lover of Sheila Delaney—the girl murdered in the dentist’s chair at
Seabourne. Can you in any way reconcile the two facts?”
Alexis sprang to his feet excitedly. “I told you—didn’t I? I said find
the blackmailer—and you’ll find the murderer.”
“Not so fast, sir, if you please? Think in the first place where you
are. What link was there between Sheila Delaney and yourself?”
“None,” replied the Crown Prince. “None whatever—I swear it! That’s
the extraordinary part about it.”
“Then why did Alan Warburton attempt to blackmail you?” broke in
Anthony.
The Crown Prince spread out his hands. “How do I know? What can I say?
It is all conjecture.”
“Yet I think I know,” replied Mr. Bathurst, “and time alone will prove
whether I am right or wrong.”
Alexis gave a curious movement of the shoulders. “It is a mystery and
I fear it will remain a mystery.”
“I am not so pessimistic as to think that. But I appreciate the fact
that a difficult task lies in front of me. How is Miss Carruthers?”
His Royal Highness looked at him curiously. It struck him as strange
that Anthony should have found time to inquire after Daphne
Carruthers. What was his intention?
“All right. As far as I know. I haven’t seen her since leavening
Seabourne. I doubt if our paths will ever cross again. They probably
lie far apart. But tell me—this man Warburton—how were you able to
discover him?—how did you run him to earth? You haven’t told me.”
“Oh—it wasn’t too difficult a matter—that. Bannister and I ran across
this fellow Warburton’s name while we were investigating the murder
case. It kept cropping up, you see, in more than one connection. The
connections were very significant. He was a man who was always
breathing fire and slaughter against _you_. Against you—in relation to
Sheila Delaney. It didn’t take me very long to put that particular two
and two together. So I decided upon a bold move. I tackled him with
your letters. He caved in—admitted the whole business—as I said just
now—he’ll trouble you no longer. For the future you can disregard his
existence. But the more extraordinary features of the affair are yet
to be explained. According to Alan Warburton’s version of the facts,
Sheila Delaney told him that she had been introduced to you at the
Westhampton Hunt Ball that you attended in the February of last year.
He seemed quite sure of his statement—which included also the fact
that the introduction to you was effected by Major Desmond
Carruthers—the Chief Constable of the county. Now I find those
statements very hard to reconcile with what you have said throughout
the entire case. You see my meaning, don’t you?”
A dull red suffused the Crown Prince’s cheeks. He was instant with his
denials. “It is abominably untrue. I have never met this Miss Delaney
in my life. There is some ghastly mistake somewhere—what you call a
‘mixture-up.’” He gnawed at his loose lower lip. “This Mr. Allan
Warburton is a liar!”
“Were you acquainted with Miss Carruthers’ uncle—the Major that I just
mentioned?”
“But of course! Daphne was a great favourite of his. All the same he
never introduced me to Sheila Delaney. I’ve never met the girl. I
would swear it on the Holy Relics.”
“That’s as far as we can get, then,” smiled Anthony. “I’m coming up to
town later on in the day. I have, however, two calls to make and one
may take me some little time to see through. If convenient to you,
sir, meet me on the Westhampton platform at four-fifty—we’ll pick up
the Wolverhampton express. It’s a fast train to town.”
The Crown Prince bowed and took his aggrieved departure.
The first of Mr. Bathurst’s two advertised calls was at 21, Crossley
Road. “Miss Kerr at home?” he inquired of the stout homely-looking
woman who opened the door.
“Yes—she is. What name shall I say, sir?”
“Anthony Bathurst. Although I doubt if she’ll remember it—tell her
somebody wants to see her in reference to the late Miss Delaney—one of
the gentlemen whom she saw before at Miss Delaney’s home.”
“I’ll tell her, sir.” The woman speedily bustled back. “Come this way,
sir, if you please?—I’ll take you into the front room. That’s the best
place for you to go. Miss Kerr will be with you in a moment or two.”
When she arrived, Anthony saw that the time that had elapsed since
their previous interview had only served to intensify the outward and
visible signs of her profound grief. To-day she was showing him a face
heavily lined with the marks of care and sorrow.
“Good morning, Miss Kerr.”
“Good morning, Mr. Bathurst.”
“I told you that I might want to communicate with you again, didn’t I?
Well, here I am. There wasn’t time to write to you—I’m returning to
town this afternoon. But before I go there’s one more question I
particularly wish to ask you.” He smiled in the best Bathurst manner.
“What is that, sir?” inquired “Pinkie” listlessly.
“She’s taking her trouble badly,” thought Anthony to himself. “She
needs to pull herself together.”
“Just this point, Miss Kerr. I want you to cast your mind back to the
occasion when Lal Singh—the Indian—called upon Miss Delaney—the
incident of which you told us the other day. The point I want to
emphasise is this. Did he speak in English the whole time he was
here?”
“All that I heard him say was English,” answered “Pinkie.” “Yes,” she
proceeded, stressing her remarks with nods of the head, “I remember
now. What you have just said has brought it back to me. Miss Sheila
spoke to him in Hindustani, but it was in the wrong dialect or
something. He couldn’t get on with it. She said afterwards that he
came from a different part of the country—belonged to a different
tribe or something. That’s why they couldn’t make each other
understand.”
Anthony’s reply held a trace of sternness. “Good-bye, Miss Kerr,” he
said. “You’ve been able to clear up something in my mind that’s been
troubling me—no doubt we shall meet again.”
The second of Mr. Bathurst’s morning calls to which he had made
reference in his conversation with Alexis was of a somewhat
extraordinary nature. The Editor of the “Westhampton and
Chellingborough Independent” contemplated somewhat ungraciously the
visiting-card that had been presented to him by a singularly dirty and
ink-stained office-boy, but after a minute or two’s thought decided
that his time was not too fully occupied to see the gentleman
described thereon.
“Tell Mr. Bathurst we can give him ten minutes, Fred,” he remarked
editorially. “But not a minute more.”
Mr. Bathurst stated his business. As usual the introduction of the
name of the Crown Prince of Clorania had a magical effect and worked
wonders towards the establishment of a perfectly amicable atmosphere.
“I think I can manage that,” said the Editor. “Let me see now—the
affair took place in the early part of last year—I think that was the
time, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” confirmed Mr. Bathurst, “February was the month—to be exact.
I can’t give you any nearer than that.”
“Ah—February! Now what is it—er—precisely that you want to do—to read
all our reports and comments on the case, did you say?” He toyed with
the paper-knife that lay on the desk in front of him.
Mr. Bathurst acquiesced. “If you would be so good that is what I
should like to do.”
“I may take it, I hope, that any news of interest—any special feature
of the case that you are investigating—should it materialise—would
be placed in the way of the ‘Independent’ before any of
its—er—contemporaries?”
“You may rely on me,” murmured Mr. Bathurst engagingly.
The Editor picked up his telephone receiver. “Bring me a complete file
of the ‘Independent’ for the month of February of last year. Bring it
up to my private room.”
“Here we are,” he declared five minutes later. “Here are our issues of
February five, twelve, nineteen and twenty-six. I remember the affair
made a big stir at the time. I remember the big London dailies gave it
a rare lot of attention although news was by no means scarce at the
time. Perhaps one of them might prove more useful to you.”
“It’s possible, of course,” conceded Anthony. “But I thought the local
paper would probably contain more detail in its report. A question of
local interest and all that.”
“I see. Will you run through them here? Or quietly elsewhere?”
“Let me have half an hour with them quietly, will you? I don’t suppose
I shall require them any longer than that. There are one or two
features of the case with which I am not too familiar. I just want to
have a closer look at them. Half an hour should be ample.”
The Editor assented with a cordial smile and Mr. Bathurst thanked him
appropriately.
The “Ram and Raven” proved to contain a quiet saloon and a table in
the corner thereof served excellently for liquid refreshment and quiet
reading. The issues of February five and February twelve each
contained a column concerning the “Mutual Bank Frauds.” The usual
sensational headlines were well to the fore. “Astounding Disclosures.”
“Sensational Revelations.” “Defalcations amounting to £250,000.”
“Prominent Directors Believed to be Involved,” were among the many to
be found at the head of the columns relative to the case. Sales must
have been good during those weeks. In the issue of the nineteenth, Mr.
Bathurst found something more pertinent to the subject of his inquiry.
The paragraph that aroused his interest so acutely ran as follows:
“Since our last issue we are able to announce authoritatively that
important developments have taken place with regard to the amazing
conditions prevailing at the Mutual Bank. These developments—the
precise nature of which was being freely whispered in well-informed
circles as long ago as last Monday—culminated on Wednesday afternoon
in the sensational arrest of no less a person than Sir Felix
Warburton, one of the Bank’s most well-known and most influential
directors. We are able to state that Sir Felix will be charged at
Westhampton Police Court this morning (Friday) on charges of
embezzlement and fraudulent conversion. The arrest was made at the
residence of Sir Felix—‘Wyvenhoe Towers,’ Nillebrook.” When he read
the sentence which immediately followed, Mr. Bathurst rubbed his
hands. He read on with as much excitement as Mr. Bathurst ever
permitted himself to entertain. When he had finished, he astonished
the barmaid who had ministered to his wants by putting down a ten
shilling note in payment for a “Guinness” and departing without
collecting his change. By the time he reached the offices of the
“Independent” he was himself again.
“Well?” demanded the Editor, “got a scoop?”
Mr. Bathurst smiled and shook his head. “There’s nothing here that I
didn’t know,” he remarked, semi-truthfully.