The Case of the Black Twenty-Two
by Brian Flynn
Copyright, 1929, by Macrae Smith Company
Published by Grosset & Dunlap (New York), January, 1929
Second printing, February, 1929
CONTENTS
I. Mr. Daventry Receives a Commission
II. Schedule Numbers 37, 38 and 39
III. The Hanover Galleries Murder
IV. Peter Daventry Is Mindful of Mr. Bathurst
V. The Assynton Lodge Murder
VI. Marjorie Lennox Doesn’t Mince Matters
VII. Butterworth Is Apprehensive of the Future
VIII. The 6:55 Carries a Trio of Distinction
IX. Mr. Bathurst Opens His Bedroom Door
X. The Incident of the Boot-Boy’s Bicycle
XI. With a Given Center, Mr. Bathurst Describes a Circle
XII. The Second Screen of Mary Stuart
XIII. Colonel Leach-Fletcher Is at Home to Visitors
XIV. Mr. Bathurst Takes a Book from the Bookcase
XV. Mr. Daventry Gets His Feet Wet
XVI. Mr. Bathurst Again Samples the Bookcase
XVII. The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure
XVIII. The Room at Blanchard’s Hotel
XIX. Inspector Goodall Is Entertained
XX. Mr. Bathurst Brushes Up His History
XXI. Mr. Ferguson of New York
XXII. Mr. Bathurst Baits the Hook
XXIII. When the Cat’s Away
XXIV. The Secret of the Screens
XXV. The Riddle of the Black Twenty-Two
CHAPTER I
Mr. Daventry Receives a Commission
The fact that it was an unusually sunny morning for an English summer
day had not put Peter Daventry in the mood that it undoubtedly should
have done. A riotous evening—during which he had dined not wisely but
too well with a number of men who had been at Oxford with him—is not
perhaps the best preparation for work on the following day, and Peter
heartily cursed the relentless and inexorable fate that had made him
junior partner of “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry—Solicitors.” He
thrust his hands into his pockets and walked to the window of his
room, gazing disconsolately at the street below.
“Cornhill!” he muttered. “And it might be anywhere else for all it
means to me, or for all I care. It’s a dull old world nowadays and
devilish difficult to get thrills out of a business like this. After a
night with the lads it gets me ‘on the raw’ more than ever.”
He looked down at London scurrying and hurrying. Men, women, young and
old, treading their way quickly, decisively and imperturbably on the
various errands and ventures that Life had chosen for them. “Poor
devils!” he thought. “Day in and day out the same old grind! I
sometimes wonder how they stand it. I certainly don’t know how I do.”
He walked back to the chair by his desk, carefully selected a
cigarette and pressed the bell.
A middle-aged, black-coated clerk appeared in the doorway.
“You rang, Mr. Daventry? You want me?”
“Oh, no, Plunkett! Not for a moment! What on earth gave you that
extraordinary idea?”
“The bell——” He indicated the table with a sort of hopeless
resignation.
“Merely a matter of ‘physical jerks’ on my part, Plunkett. I’ve been
standing on my head on the desk, and in the process I inadvertently
butted the bell and caused you——”
Plunkett smiled feebly. He was the kind of man that always
did—thirty-five years’ service for the firm had made him afraid to do
anything too vigorously—even to a smile. But he knew Peter Daventry
and knew his little whims and ways—“he will have his little joke,” he
would inform his friends and acquaintances, “and till he’s had it,
it’s best to lie low and keep quiet.” It will be observed, therefore,
that he had _not_ encountered “Brer Rabbit.”
“You wanted——?”
“This morning’s post, Plunkett! Neither more nor less! Stay
though—when you bring it in, you might also bring me all the papers
and correspondence relating to the Langley Case.” He drew at his
cigarette and watched the smoke rising. Then smiled. “Breach of
promise is a God-send, Plunkett! Manna from the heights of Heaven.”
Plunkett stared at him it might be said, sorrowfully—and withdrew
unobtrusively. At his second appearance he placed the unopened letters
and the required papers on Peter’s desk.
“Thank you, Plunkett!”
“Thank you, Mr. Daventry. Mr. Linnell asked me to tell you he would
like to see you in his room as soon as possible, sir. At your
convenience that is to say, sir.”
Peter ran the paper-knife along the back of an envelope and nodded
acquiescence. “All right, Plunkett. Tell Mr. Linnell I’ll blow along
to him shortly.”
Mr. Merryweather, the founder of the firm, had been gathered to his
fathers seven years before the date of the opening of this history;
but his name had been retained. As Peter remarked to his more intimate
friends, “the name of ‘Merryweather’ had a cheerful ring about it and
therefore was worth keeping!”
David Linnell was a medium-sized, clean-shaven, spare man of
fifty-eight years. He had been born in Lancashire and was a firm
believer in the men of the Red Rose. He fully subscribed to the theory
that “what Manchester thinks to-day—the rest of the world thinks
to-morrow.” In conjunction with the departed Merryweather, he had
built up an eminently satisfactory business in London, had attracted
to it a sound and rapidly-growing “clientèle,” and when the question
arose of Peter Daventry coming in as a partner, he had seen with all a
Northerner’s shrewdness and acumen that this young Oxonian would bring
to the firm new business and new clients from a hitherto unexplored
source.
“Good morning, Peter!” he said as Daventry entered his room.
“Good morning! Plunkett tells me you want to see me.”
Mr. Linnell looked up from his seat and motioned Peter to a chair
beside him.
“Sit down, Peter! And listen attentively! Ever heard of Laurence P.
Stewart?” Peter had, and said so immediately.
“Naturally! The American millionaire you mean, I presume?”
“The same. Know anything about him—anything special?”
Peter thought for a moment. “Can’t say that I do—beyond what all the
world knows. Made his money first in Chicago and afterwards on Wall
Street—I fancy he’s a widower.”
“Quite right. With one son—about two and twenty. I’ll tell you more!
About three months ago Stewart came to England. At the time Assynton
Lodge was in the market. He bought it and, I believe, paid a pretty
stiff figure for it. It’s a very fine place—not very far from
Wantage—and right in the heart of the Berkshire Downs. I understand
that he intends spending the remainder of his days in this country.”
“Don’t think I should, if I had his money,” contributed Peter.
“Still—there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose. What’s his pet
ambition—to win the Derby or become an O. B. E.?”
“Neither,” replied Linnell a trifle testily. “But your question,
flippant though it may have been, brings me to his association with
this conversation of ours this morning.” He leaned forward to pick up
a letter from the desk in front of him. Then turned again towards his
partner. “He has one overpowering interest in life. He is a
collector——”
“Horrible word,” interrupted Peter. “Makes me think of Rates and
Income Tax.”
“He is a collector,” repeated the elder man, ignoring the
interruption. “For many years now, his one hobby has been his
priceless and almost unique collection of articles of what may be
termed, paramount historical interest and association.”
Peter began to show signs of increased attention. This sounded better!
Linnell continued. “I am informed, from a source that is certainly
above reproach, that Stewart is the proud possessor of over two
thousand articles of great historical significance. He claims to
include in his—er Museum—if I may so describe it—a Musk-Ball used by
Henry VIII for instance. He has a peculiar passion it seems for
objects that are supposed to have Royal associations! Which last fact
brings me to the Mary, Queen of Scots business!”
Peter raised his eyebrows—then helped himself to his third cigarette.
“We’re apparently moving in exalted circles,” he ventured.
“And a great compliment to us, as a firm—Peter. But I will proceed. If
he may be said to have a passion for collecting these objects that I
have mentioned of Royal association—then I can tell you that he has a
perfect mania—an overwhelming obsession would be perhaps a happier
phrase—for anything connected with Mary, Queen of Scots.” He paused.
Then looked at Peter. “Laurence P. _Stewart_, Peter! Note the name—he
has got it into his head—or had it put there possibly—that he is a
legitimate descendant of that ill-fated lady. Every relic of hers at
all possible of acquisition—he acquires. Now look at this letter.”
He pushed the letter that he had picked up from his table, across to
Peter.
“Read it!” he said authoritatively.
Peter obeyed the instruction with more than ordinary alacrity.
Assynton Lodge,
Assynton, Berkshire,
June 7th, 192–.
Sir,
I am a man of few words. Your firm has been highly recommended to me
by Colonel Leach-Fletcher, for whom you have acted many times in the
past in matters of extreme discretion. He speaks in the highest
possible terms of your integrity and efficiency. For reasons of my
own I wish you to act for me at the Sale taking place on the 10th
inst. at “Day, Forshaw and Palmers’.” You will purchase for me the
articles scheduled in their catalogue as follows:
(No. 37) “Collar of Pearls.”
(No. 38) “Antique Tapestry Fire-screen.”
(No. 39) “Rosary of Amber Beads.”
“all having been indisputably the property of Mary, Queen of Scots.”
The purchases completed, you will bring them or cause them to be
brought to the above address at your earliest convenience, when your
own account will be settled by
Yours faithfully,
Laurence P. Stewart.
David Linnell, Esq.,
Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.
Peter looked up at his companion. “H’m,” he remarked, “seems to know
what he wants. No limit I suppose, as to price?”
“None! As far as I can see! He simply says, ‘You will purchase——’”
Peter glanced at the letter again.
“And we charge him what we like!”
“Money’s no object to Stewart, Peter,” replied Linnell. “If he’s set
his mind upon getting the three articles in question—nothing short of
a miracle will stop him.”
“Why is he employing a firm of solicitors for a job of this kind?”
asked Peter.
“Can’t say! But I suggest Colonel Leach-Fletcher has impressed him
that we are thoroughly ‘safe and sound’—and he’s out taking no risks.”
“Very possibly you’re right,” Peter commented. “I certainly can’t
think of any other reason. Have you seen a catalogue of the sale?”
“I’ve sent for one. Immediately upon receipt of this letter! Collins
has gone round to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ offices. He should be back
very shortly!”
Peter walked to the window and looked out.
“Here is Collins,” he said, turning to his senior, “with catalogue
complete.”
In a few minutes they were examining it. It was headed as follows:
“At Messrs. Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ Rooms,
The Hanover Galleries, W.1.
On Friday, June 10th, 192–, at one o’clock
precisely.
Sale of Old English and French Furniture,
Pictures, Porcelain, Jewelry, and
Objects of Art,
Formerly the property of Lord Clavering,
deceased, late of Clavering Court,
Warwickshire.”
Linnell and Peter ran their eyes down its contents. They were many and
varied. Linnell read them quickly. “A William and Mary Marqueterie
Walnut Cabinet, a Chippendale Wine-Cooler, a pair of Boulle Cabinets
of Regency Design, Portraits by Hoppner, Paintings by De Ribera,
Romney, Van Der Velde and Sir Peter Lely, Derby and Nantgarw
Porcelain, Chinese Porcelain of the Sung and Ming periods, Jewelry, a
Cromwellian chalice with the Hull hall-mark, a George II octofoil
salver, a Georgian Epergne, an unusually large King’s Pattern service,
several Sèvres vases—here we are, Peter, 37, 38 and 39 . . .
h’m—h’m . . . exactly as described by our client in his letter.” He
looked up from the catalogue.
Peter pointed to a sentence at the end of the list. “May be viewed the
two days preceding the Sale from 10 to 5 o’clock. That’s to-day and
to-morrow. What do you say to me running along and having a glance at
the particular stuff Stewart wants?”
“Just what I was on the point of suggesting, Peter. You’ve taken the
very words from my mouth.”
“To-day or to-morrow?”
“Please yourself—but it’s a nice morning—why not take advantage of
it—have an early lunch and pop up West afterwards?”
“A pleasing prospect,” exclaimed Peter. “Life seems a little
brighter.”
Linnell smiled—then waved him away. “That’s settled then.”
He strolled back to his own room and looked at his watch. “Don’t see
any just cause or impediment why I shouldn’t get along at once and see
about that lunch,” he said to himself. “Plunkett!” He went to his door
and called down the corridor.
“Yes, Mr. Daventry.” Plunkett appeared in the distance and laboriously
made his way to answer to the call.
“I’m going out, Plunkett. Mr. Linnell will be here if anything should
be wanted. That’s all. You needn’t trouble to come in.”
Plunkett bowed his understanding and reëntered his daily cell.
Once outside, Peter hailed a passing taxi. “Oxford Street,” he
announced curtly. “The Violette.” It was where he habitually lunched
whenever he happened to be in its vicinity. He made for his customary
table and beamed upon the waiter who came forward solicitously.
Now Peter prided himself upon the quality of his gastronomic
inclinations. He scanned the menu with a fine and fitting
discrimination.
“A Dry Martini, Gustave.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Thick white soup, Sole au Colbert—and Roast Duck—that will do nicely
to be getting on with.” He smiled in anticipatory relish. Gustave did
likewise before disappearing. To appear again very quickly with the
Dry Martini!
Peter raised it to his lips—after all Life wasn’t so very
unsatisfactory when there was good food and welcome drink to be had.
He sipped his cocktail appraisingly. The place was comparatively
empty—it was early. At the next table sat a man and woman. They were
talking eagerly and with much animation. The man was doing most of it,
with the woman listening attentively and punctuating his remarks at
rapid and regular intervals with a curious little vigorous inclination
of her head. Peter fell to wondering about them—“a lower middle-class
couple on a shopping expedition” was his verdict—arrived at
simultaneously with the advent of Gustave and the soup. The fish
quickly followed, and he was awaiting the coming of the “appetizing
Aylesbury” as he termed it to himself when a familiar voice broke on
his ears.
“Hullo, Daventry! What’s brought you up this end so early in the
morning?”
Peter looked up. Then he grinned cheerfully.
“Sit down, Marriott! An unexpected pleasure!”
The newcomer sank into the proffered seat, and languidly stretched out
a hand for the menu. Peter had met him several times in the Law Courts
and had dined with him two or three times recently.
“You haven’t answered my question,” said Marriott. “What brings you up
here at this time of day?”
“Business, my boy, purely business. Give Gustave your order.”
Marriott smiled, rattled off his desires, and turned again to Peter.
“Glad to see an improvement in you. The other day you were talking
about ‘chucking’ it all and going out to ‘God’s own Country’ or
somewhere.”
“Wish I could, Marriott, but I can’t. I’m afraid the improvement about
which you are babbling so delightfully will be short-lived. These peas
are really excellent—you’ll enjoy them!”
“Good! Any news of importance?”
“Only that the next Coal Strike is expected to last twenty-two years
or thereabouts.”
“Really,” grinned Marriott. “Tell me something fresh. Say Queen Anne’s
dead!”
Peter pushed back his plate with an air of complete satisfaction and
made a reply that seemed to leap to his tongue without his brain
having undergone any preliminary process of thinking. It seemed to be
entirely spontaneous and at the same time to him as he sat there,
peculiarly appropriate. It fitted in with the morning so happily.
“So’s Mary, Queen of Scots!” He blew a ring of smoke to the ceiling.
As he spoke, there happened to be a lull pervading the whole room. A
lull that was violently and almost instantaneously shattered! The man
at the next table turned sharply as the words tingled through the air,
and as he turned, with his body for the brief moment excitedly
uncontrolled, his arm abruptly swept the cruet from the table to the
floor.
Two waiters dashed heroically to the work of rescue and salvage. The
culprit muttered a few words of apology. The lady was heard to remark
something about the bad luck attendant upon spilling the salt, smiled
upon the two diligent waiters, but flashed a quick look at her
companion. It was a look that possessed more than one quality. It
contained a suggestion of warning, a hint of rebuke and a touch of
fierce annoyance. The man sat sullenly in his seat, and Peter’s eyes
never left his face. For exactly what reason he didn’t quite know—he
felt almost compelled to it. His senses seemed to be jingling a
refrain to him. It rang repeatedly through his brain and its purpose
was, “Well—I’m damned.” At the same time he tried to persuade himself
that it was just an ordinary case of carelessness and that he had
drawn liberally upon his imagination to connect the incident with the
words he had used.
“What’s amiss, Daventry?” broke in Marriott, cutting his reverie
abruptly short. “You look as though you have seen a ghost!”
Peter jerked himself back to the normal with a tremendous effort.
“It’s nothing,” he muttered. “That little incident surprised me—that
was all.”
But his eyes strayed back to the other table, and as they did so the
eyes of the man there met his and held them for a brief moment
truculently and challengingly. The woman appeared to be urging her
companion to do something that he apparently did not favor. He shook
his head doubtfully, as though he were questioning the wisdom of what
she said. Peter turned to Marriott. “I’ll be getting along now, if you
don’t mind. Gustave! Bring me my bill! What’s the damage?”
“I’m nearly through myself,” responded Marriott. “I’m coming along
too! Which way are you going?”
“Up West. And you aren’t, probably! Thank you, Gustave!”
“No! I’m bound in the other direction—you’ve said it! Cheerio!”
Peter waved a hand to his retreating figure and collected his change.
As he did so, the couple from the other table made their way past his
table on their journey out. The man was in front—the woman followed
closely on his heels. As they passed, for some reason almost unknown
to himself, Peter strained his ears to catch, if at all possible, any
stray fragment of their conversation. He was successful. The woman was
speaking in a low-toned voice, but it was not too low to carry to his
ears.
“Take my advice,” Peter heard her say—“let’s go to-morrow—not to-day.”
“Can’t see it makes much difference”—her companion’s reply floated
back to him. They passed down the restaurant—out of sight!
Peter rose to his feet and crammed his hat on his head.
“I’m a silly ass,” he said to himself. “Letting my imagination run
riot—magnifying trivial incidents—giving way to distorted ideas.”
He hailed his second taxi-cab that day, and settled down comfortably.
“Best thing I can do,” he thought, “is to go and have that look at
those antiquities I’m going to buy on Friday.”
Wherein he erred—for he never bought them after all.