Mr. Bathurst Opens His Bedroom Door
Inspector Goodall motioned towards Anthony and Peter. “These two
gentlemen have traveled down with me, Sergeant Clegg. They have been
sent for by Mr. Charles Stewart.”
He introduced them. Sergeant Clegg was visibly impressed. “Pleased to
meet you, gentlemen,” he announced—“though it’s a sad business, to be
sure, that has thrown us together.” He turned to the Inspector. “I’ve
taken the trouble to book a room for you, Inspector, at the ‘Red
Dolphin’—quite an excellent place. What will you do—go straight there
for now, and start work in the morning, or would you prefer to get
into your stride at once?” He looked somewhat anxiously at Goodall as
though he attached very great importance to his decision.
“Tell me, first of all, what you’ve done, Clegg,” said the Inspector.
“I was called to the case this morning, Inspector, and I interviewed
everybody that might be termed ‘principals’—you shall have their facts
almost verbatim—I’ve been polishing ’em up from my note-book. I’ve had
‘photos’ taken this afternoon of the body and of the library
generally, so that poor Mr. Stewart could be taken away—and I’ve had
the room fixed and fastened so that nobody can get into it.” He
breathed heavily—weighed down with an acute sense of his
responsibility. Goodall’s reply transported him.
“Excellent, Clegg,” he declared, “excellent. I’m for the ‘Red Dolphin’
and supper, bed and breakfast.”
“Very good, Inspector! What time shall I see you in the morning,
then?”
“I’ll be along directly after breakfast—say about half-past nine. I
shall probably do much better if I approach the case in the first
place with a mind refreshed from a good night’s rest than if I were to
commence right now—make it half-past nine, then, Clegg.”
He turned to Anthony and Peter Daventry. “You two gentlemen are going
to the Lodge now, of course. Good-night. I shall see you in the
morning, too.”
The three shook hands, and Goodall and Clegg swung off to the delights
afforded by the hospitality of the “Red Dolphin.” Bathurst pointed to
a smart car that was drawn up in the station-yard.
“Ours—I think, Daventry,” he said. An equally smart chauffeur swung
from the driver’s seat and touched his cap.
“Assynton Lodge, sir?” he inquired of Bathurst.
They entered and the car purred its way to its destination. It was not
long before they found themselves sweeping up the drive that took them
to the main entrance.
“Nine minutes’ run,” announced Bathurst. Charles Stewart met them in
the hall.
“I got your telegram, Mr. Daventry,” he said, “and I’ve arranged for
dinner to be served for you directly you are ready.”
“Thanks—that’s extremely good of you,” responded Peter, “and I’m sure
you’ll be pleased to hear that I’ve been able to bring somebody with
me—as you suggested—this gentleman is Mr. Anthony Bathurst. He will be
pleased to help you in any way whatever.”
“It’s a great relief to know that,” replied Stewart. “Butterworth”—he
turned to the butler—“show these gentlemen to their rooms—you’re on
the second floor,” he explained. Butterworth carried out his
instructions quietly and efficiently. “Dinner will be served in half
an hour, gentlemen,” he announced.
“I have arranged that we three dine alone,” said Stewart upon their
return. “Miss Lennox—my late father’s ward—has a bad headache and begs
to be excused, and Mr. Llewellyn, my father’s secretary, dined earlier
as he is very busy. My father’s sudden and tragic death has entailed,
as you may guess, a tremendous amount of important correspondence.”
His fingers drummed on the table-cloth. “My father’s solicitors are
Messrs. Crake and Ferguson, of New York. I have had a cable sent to
them to-day—till I hear from them I don’t exactly know how matters
altogether stand financially.”
Peter Daventry expressed his sympathy.
“Mr. Stewart,” said Bathurst, “I am delighted to take this case for
you—though, of course, very sincerely deploring the sad circumstances
and your own personal loss. If it isn’t asking too much of you—would
you be good enough to tell me all you know of the facts of the
case—take your own time and tell me entirely in your own way?”
“Before you start, Mr. Stewart,” intervened Peter, impetuously, “have
you heard of the other——” but a well-directed kick on the shin from
Bathurst under the table dried up the torrent of his information quite
abruptly but most effectively.
“Don’t worry Mr. Stewart, Daventry,” said Anthony gravely. “Let him
tell us as I suggested.”
Stewart proceeded to tell the story of his father’s death. Soon came
Bathurst’s first interruption.
“You say that when you burst open the door the key was in the lock on
the inside and also that the French doors were shut and bolted?”
Anthony leaned forward across the dinner table and pointed his query
with keen interest.
“Yes, Mr. Bathurst. Extraordinary though it may sound—the facts were
so.”
Anthony rubbed his hands together. “Most interesting,” he muttered,
“most interesting. Go on.”
“My poor father,” continued Stewart with evident distress, “was seated
in his chair at his desk-table—his head on his hands—his skull badly
smashed—he had been dead some hours—struck down in some foul,
dastardly way from behind.” He stopped and tried to control his
feelings, which were obviously beginning to master him. After a short
interval of silence—sympathetically observed by the two others—he
continued again. “Apparently he had been writing when he was attacked,
for a pen had almost fallen from his hand and on the desk in front of
him lay a sheet of note-paper. On it had been written the words,
‘Urgent in the morning, M. L.’”
Anthony shot his second question across to the speaker. “In your
father’s handwriting, Mr. Stewart?”
“Beyond doubt, Mr. Bathurst.” Anthony waved to him to proceed.
“In the left-hand pocket of my father’s dressing-gown was his
revolver—loaded in five chambers only. None of us can remember hearing
a shot during the night, so that we don’t know when the one shot was
fired—in the night or on some previous occasion.”
Anthony stopped him with his hand uplifted.
“One minute, Mr. Stewart. Was it your father’s habit to carry firearms
in the pocket of his dressing-gown? Have you ever known him to do it?
Think carefully—this is most important.”
“Well, of course, naturally, I don’t sleep with my father—I rarely see
him after he has retired for the night—but I certainly wasn’t aware
that he made a habit of carrying a revolver. It doesn’t surprise me,
though, to know that he had a revolver pretty handy, because we house
a number of very valuable things here—still—I’ll say this—I’ve never
seen him with a revolver in his hand.”
Anthony accepted the statement—then followed up with another question.
“Your father was a right-handed man, of course, Mr. Stewart?”
“Yes. Always. Doctor Gunner gave it as his opinion that he had been
dead about twelve hours. That wasn’t quite possible, as he was alive
at ten o’clock last night.”
“Who saw him?”
Stewart hesitated for a moment. “Two of us here can prove that my
father was alive round about ten o’clock last night. I spoke to him
about a quarter to ten, and Butterworth, the butler, spoke to him a
few minutes after ten. My father gave Butterworth instructions to lock
up about that time.” Bathurst nodded.
“I see. So Butterworth was the last person to see your father alive—as
far as is known?”
“Yes. A Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined here with my father last night.
Butterworth saw him out about ten. When I spoke to my father at
nine-forty-five the Colonel was with him then, in the library.”
“An old friend of your father’s, I presume—I understand from Mr.
Daventry here that it was on Colonel Leach-Fletcher’s recommendation
that your father got into touch with his firm?”
“I believe that is so, Mr. Bathurst—but I should hesitate before I
described the Colonel as an old friend of my father’s—his friendship
only dates back to the time when we first came here.”
Anthony pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. Had
Daventry known him better he would have understood from this gesture
that certain features of the problem were worrying him. Then suddenly
his face betrayed eagerness.
“Three more questions, Mr. Stewart, if you’ll pardon me. This sheet of
note-paper found under your father’s hand—the writing on it—if my
memory serves me correctly—was ‘Urgent in the morning—M. L.’—I am
right, am I not?” He looked at Stewart. The latter nodded. Anthony
went straight on. “This ‘M. L.’—the initials probably of somebody or
something—I’ve been wondering about them. You mentioned just now, Mr.
Stewart, two other members of your father’s household—a Miss Lennox,
his ward, and a Mr. Llewellyn, his secretary. I feel bound to ask you
if the Christian name of either of these two people begins with
‘M’—yes.” He fingered the stem of his champagne glass with undisguised
approval—then carefully watched the face of his young host while he
awaited his answer.
“Very curiously, Mr. Bathurst, both Mr. Llewellyn and Miss Lennox have
those initials—Miss Lennox is ‘Marjorie’ and Llewellyn is ‘Morgan.’”
He spoke with apparent composure, but Peter Daventry—most interested
of spectators—was not quite sure that some, at least, of the unconcern
was not deliberately assumed. He began to wonder why. Who was who in
this house upon which such a tragic shadow had been cast? What dark
passions had been loosed but a few hours since that had meant death,
sudden and terrible, for an unsuspecting victim? What was Bathurst’s
opinion? What was he thinking? Had he noticed Stewart’s counterfeit
composure? Bathurst, however, appeared to be tremendously interested.
He lifted his eyebrows at the piquancy of the situation as revealed to
him.
“Really?” he said. “We are confronted with two ‘M. L.’s’ then. Now
that’s distinctly fascinating.” He paused. “Was it a message, Mr.
Stewart, do you think, to either of them—or even——” he stopped and
pondered—eyes narrowed.
“A message or an instruction, Mr. Bathurst, would almost certainly
affect Llewellyn, Mr. Bathurst—I think we may safely discard any idea
of Miss Lennox being implicated.” He spoke quite quietly, but yet
Peter Daventry fell to introspection once again. He felt certain that
he was able to detect a tinge of anxiety in the voice—almost, in fact,
that in what Stewart had said the wish had been father to the thought.
But Bathurst, to all appearances, accepted the situation as Stewart
had presented it. He went to another question.
“You stated a little while since that your father had a number of
valuable things in the house. Quite a natural thing for a man of his
wealth, of course. Has anything been stolen? Anything missed?”
Stewart shook his head in denial of the idea. “As far as we know, Mr.
Bathurst—_nothing_ has been taken. Certainly no money has been stolen.
My father’s personal jewelry is in his bedroom—untouched—just where he
left it.”
Anthony thought for a moment. “Papers! Documents! Was there any
evidence that anything of that nature had been taken from the library?
Did any drawers appear to have been ransacked?”
“There were no signs of disorder in the library at all. Everything
there seemed quite normal.”
But Bathurst persisted. “Your father’s collection, Mr. Stewart—that
was very valuable, I believe. Have steps been taken to see that this
is intact? Where is the collection kept?”
“In what we call the Museum Room—next to the library. I don’t know
that it occurred to me—or even to any of us—to go in there—there was
no connection you see.” He looked across at Anthony.
“Is the Museum Room kept locked?” demanded the latter.
“Not necessarily during the day,” came the answer. “My father might be
in and out several times during an ordinary day—he might even have
been in there last night with Colonel Leach-Fletcher for all we know.
Butterworth will be able to tell us,” he concluded, rather lamely,
Daventry thought, “we can ask Butterworth if he locked the Museum Room
when he locked up last night.”
“You don’t mind if I smoke?” put in Bathurst. “The key of this Museum
Room now—where would it be kept—in the door?” He lit his cigarette,
and tossed the match into an ash-tray.
“No—I don’t think so. In fact, I’m sure not. The key of a room like
that would be hung up each night in Butterworth’s service-room. He
would unlock the room some time during the following morning.”
“So that we may say—anybody had access to it—knowing that the key was
kept there?”
“I suppose so,” replied Stewart. “But I’m quite certain the Museum
Room door was shut all right when the alarm was given this morning.”
He sat back in his chair firmly as though to give point to his words.
“That’s pretty conclusive then,” admitted Anthony. “Still—I think
we’ll have a look at this Museum Room—nevertheless! You see it might
supply that motive I’m looking for.” He rubbed his chin with his
finger. “Otherwise——”
Stewart rose from his chair at the head of the table. “Would you care
to come and look now, Mr. Bathurst?”
Anthony motioned him back again. “In the morning, Mr. Stewart, in the
morning. That will be time enough. Tell me—I’m rather curious to
know—the point is of extreme importance—have you any list or catalogue
of your father’s collection?”
Stewart looked somewhat surprised. “It would be some task for you to
go through all the things in the Museum Room, Mr. Bathurst—but I
believe I am right in saying that Llewellyn has compiled something in
the way of a catalogue. You shall see a copy in the morning, if you
would care to.”
“I should—very much,” responded Anthony. “I have just the glimmering
of an idea—that’s all—and I think it’s just possible the catalogue may
help me.” He looked at Daventry, who had been trying hard to follow
him—unsuccessfully.
“What started you off?” inquired Peter—“that key of the Museum Room
business? Personally, I can’t see anything much——”
Bathurst interrupted. “No—not that, Daventry. I happened to be
thinking about ‘M. L.’—that was all.” He rubbed his hands as the idea
took shape. “And I’ll lay a guinea to a gooseberry,” he proceeded,
“that I’m ‘warm’ as the youngsters say. If I’m not—well, then, we
shall have to start all over again.”
He smiled at his two companions. “But we sha’n’t have to. You see.”
Stewart did not appear to share this piece of optimism—he shook his
head rather hopelessly, but Peter Daventry remembered the judgment of
his brother Gerald and was able to catch something of the Bathurst
tradition.
“One last question,” said Anthony. “What was the opinion of the
Sergeant who came along this morning about the weapon with which the
crime was committed? Did he have any ideas about that, do you know?
Did he seem confident of making any arrest?”
Stewart dismissed the suggestion immediately it was made. “I was quite
unimpressed by him. In fact that was the chief reason why I asked Mr.
Daventry’s people to help me and why I suggested Scotland Yard could
do worse than have a look at things. I don’t think he formed any ideas
about the crime at all! The question you have just raised about the
weapon that was used puzzled the Sergeant, I should say, from my
observation of him, pretty considerably. There wasn’t a trace of
anything!” He seemed to have almost reached his limit of physical
endurance, and Anthony was quick to detect it.
“Daventry,” he said, “I’m afraid I haven’t shown Mr. Stewart too much
consideration—he’s worn out, and I must leave any further questions
till to-morrow morning.” He glanced at his wrist-watch. “It’s well
past ten and we’re all tired. A good night’s rest will do us all
good.” He rose and walked across to his young host with outstretched
hand. “Good-night, Mr. Stewart, and my most sincere sympathy! I know
it’s easy to say that, but I’ll say something else as well.” He paused
for a second and his jaw set with the lines of indomitable purpose. “I
have every hope, even at this early stage of the case, of getting the
handcuffs on the right wrists—which should comfort you a little!”
Stewart was very pale when he answered, and his answer was brief.
“Thank you, Mr. Bathurst. Good-night!”
Peter added his salutations and they made their way upstairs.
“No need to trouble Butterworth,” exclaimed Anthony, “we know our
rooms. Here’s mine—there’s yours, Daventry. Good-night!”
Anthony walked to the window and opened it. He was fond of darkness
and it was just beginning to get dark. Darkness and its attendant
tranquillity he always found invaluable conditions for the process of
concentration—he had often discovered the solution to a mystifying
problem out of this communion. He smoked a cigarette through and lit
another. “What was it,” he said to himself as he stood there by the
open window, “that caused Stewart to come downstairs and enter the
library? What happened in the library to make him scrawl the message
that he described as ‘urgent’?” He commenced a third cigarette. “And
who trod softly behind as he sat there writing—and killed him?” He
undressed and got into bed. “A pretty little problem—especially when
we think of the Hanover Galleries affair on top.” That was his last
conscious thought before he slept. He had the knack of getting to
sleep almost instantaneously and also the complementary faculty of
awaking at the slightest sound. He was destined to awake suddenly that
night. And he knew instantly and instinctively what had awakened him—a
stealthy step had gone past his bedroom door—he was certain of it! He
looked at the luminous face of his wrist-watch. “Twenty-two minutes
past one,” he muttered. “Not an ordinary time for legitimate
night-wanderings.” He tiptoed to his bedroom door and drew it
very slightly ajar; then listened intently for what seemed like
ages. It was very quiet beneath him. Had the step been on its
way back? Suddenly he heard a sound that sent his heart racing
perilously—somebody was ascending the stairs! He shut the door
silently and held the handle tight. The step passed—almost
noiselessly. Anthony waited a second, then pulled his door gently
open, and looked out on to the corridor. He was just able to
distinguish the figure of a man, entering the room next but one. A
man—slim and of good height. Judged by his walk—comparatively young.
Anthony whistled very softly, as he sat on the side of his bed to
think things over. “Now, who the devil was that?” he muttered, “and
why does he wander o’ nights?” In the morning at breakfast his first
query was answered.
“Let me introduce you,” said Charles Stewart. “Mr. Bathurst—Mr. Morgan
Llewellyn—my late father’s secretary.”