The Incident of the Boot-Boy’s Bicycle
Mr. Bathurst bowed his acknowledgment. And at the same time felt that
matters were progressing. Progressing, perhaps, a trifle _too_
quickly, and at a rate that, to a less alert intelligence than Mr.
Bathurst’s, might prove extremely disconcerting. Under cover of a few
casual and perfunctory remarks he studied Llewellyn carefully and at
the same time reviewed the events of the morning. For Mr. Bathurst had
been up betimes. The music of the Berkshire birds had been his first
consciousness of this glorious morning. He had risen to the “Te Deum”
of the bird-choir and had joined with them in a thanksgiving for “the
immaculate hours”; and when he found himself downstairs his watch
showed the time to be a few minutes past seven. He made his way into
the garden and marveled at the magic of the morning. What was the
geography of the library in relation to the garden? Passing through a
charming rockery with a fountain plashing deliciously in the center of
a clear-watered pool, he came on to a stretch of perfectly kept grass
that stretched almost to the French doors of the library itself. Under
the morning sun this patch of exquisite emerald seemed fit for the
flying feet of angels. Anthony retraced his steps—he would leave the
library question till he could get inside to have a look properly. He
strolled through the rockery, then turned and came out on to the road.
He would have a walk before breakfast, for a thought was beginning to
take shape within his brain. He cut along briskly and soon discovered
that he was descending the hill to Assynton village. At the foot of
the hill on the fringe of Assynton itself, he stopped. It was an iron
foundry that claimed his attention, for Mr. Bathurst had always been
intrigued by the industry of the early morning. The clang of the
hammers was as music to his ear. To him it represented one of the real
essences of England—there were others—a barge moving steadily on a
canal—the scraping of a bricklayer’s trowel—a fishing fleet standing
in to the harbor heavy with the fruit of its toil—all of them tingling
as it were—with the impetus of the newness of the morning. These
things to Anthony Bathurst meant much. He listened as the clanging
quivered incessantly on the almost virgin stillness of the June air.
Suddenly he noticed a man signaling to him from the open door.
Bathurst turned into the yard and approached him. A magnificent man,
with a sweeping breadth of shoulder, came out of the foundry and stood
waiting. His black eyes sparkled genially and he pulled at a bushy
black beard as Anthony came up. He must have stood at least six feet
two, and his leathern apron became him handsomely. He touched his
forehead.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, for takin’ what may appear a liberty. But I
should like a word with you, sir.” He looked behind him somewhat
anxiously, then drew Bathurst a few yards farther away from the
foundry door. “If I’m not mistaken, sir, aren’t you one of the
gentlemen what’s lookin’ into matters up at the Lodge?” He jerked with
his thumb in the direction of “up the hill.”
Anthony regarded the black-bearded giant with curious interest. “I
haven’t the least idea how you know that,” he replied, “but you’re
quite right—I am! News seems to travel quickly in these parts.”
Blackbeard’s teeth flashed in a smile. “No great mystery about that,
sir,” he explained. “I saw you in the company of Sergeant Clegg last
night with another gentleman that looked uncommonly like a
police-detective. And I ain’t too bad at puttin’ two and two
together.” He grinned again.
“I see,” said Anthony. “And what was it you wanted to tell me? I take
it that there _is_ something—you haven’t called me in here merely to
wish me good morning?” He eyed the foundry-man quizzically.
“No, sir, I haven’t, and that’s a fact! And what I’ve got to say, I’d
sooner say to you than to the police, for I’ve no love for that
fraternity—you can take it from me.” He spat with some vigor as a
garnish to his remark; then proceeded to embellish what he had said.
“Especially for Sergeant Amos Clegg. But I like the look of you, sir,
and when my boy told me what he told me yesterday midday I advised him
to keep a still tongue in his head till I told him to loosen it. When
I spotted you last night, sir—I made up my mind that _I’d_ do the
tellin’ and to _you_!”
“Thank you for the compliment,” returned Anthony smiling. “I
appreciate it, I assure you. I shall be very pleased to hear what you
wish to tell me. Fire away!” The giant glanced round, then lowered his
voice appreciably. “My name’s Michael O’Connor and I’m the father of
Patrick O’Connor—him as they call boot-boy up at the Lodge—Mr.
Stewart’s place. Patrick was eighteen on the 17th of March and has
worked for poor Mr. Stewart for three or four months now. He does lots
of odd jobs about the place and gives the gardener a hand—I’m tellin’
you this just to give you a rough idea of who he is—so to speak. Now
Patrick’s a good lad—though he’s mine and say it I shouldn’t—honest
and willin’. He gets sent out a good deal, so Mr. Stewart provided him
with a bicycle to run his errands on. He don’t sleep up at the Lodge
and he’s supposed to leave the bicycle there when he gets away of an
evening—which is usually about seven. The machine goes into old
Maidment’s potting-shed. Maidment’s the gardener. That’s where Patrick
put it the night before last.” He stroked his beard and pushed his
face nearer to Bathurst. “When he went to the Lodge yesterday mornin’
and heard all about the murder there wasn’t much work for him, as you
may well guess—so he thought he’d give his bicycle a bit of a
clean-up. What does he find when he looks at it?” He paused
dramatically and drew himself to his full height. “That it had been
used by somebody since my Patrick left it in the shed.” He spat again.
“And how do you think he knew?” he chuckled—then without giving
Bathurst time to venture an opinion, continued, “Look down there,
sir,” he said, pointing down the road that wound into Assynton
village. “See the steam-roller?” Bathurst both saw and heard
it—puffing and grinding after the manner of steam-rollers and
flaunting the White Horse of Kent. “The road into Assynton is bein’
done up,” continued O’Connor—“with tarred macadam. The sun for two or
three days now has been melting the new stuff that’s been put down—it
sticks to your boots if you walk in it. And my Patrick tells me that
_the tires of his bicycle were all_ marked with it.” He concluded on a
note of triumph. Then looked at Bathurst with an invitation for
approval.
“Good lad,” contributed Anthony. “He’s told nobody besides you?”
O’Connor shook his leonine head.
“He was a bit frightened-like, I think, sir, so he brought his
troubles to his father—I teach my young’uns to do that! But it proves
this, sir, _somebody used the bicycle the night of the murder_.”
Anthony nodded in corroboration. “I suppose he’s sure he didn’t pick
the stuff up himself on some errand?”
“Absolutely, sir. He says he came into the village twice the day
before yesterday, and took great care to miss the part of the road
that’s been tarred. But a person riding in the dark, sir, wouldn’t
notice it—’specially if he had somethin’ on his mind.” He sniffed—and
the sniff carried a wealth of meaning.
“Perfectly true,” agreed Anthony, “and I’m much obliged to you for the
information—this road into the village leads straight to the station,
doesn’t it—it was getting dark when I drove up last night?”
“That’s right, sir,” replied O’Connor—“straight up through Assynton.”
Bathurst pushed a Treasury note into his hand, which, after some
demur, he accepted.
“I’ll be getting back now, O’Connor, and I’ll have a quiet chat with
Patrick at the first opportunity. I’ll tell him you’ve seen me—that
will establish my credentials.”
He swung back in the direction of the Lodge—musing over the encounter,
and over the incident of the footsteps during the night. When Stewart
introduced Morgan Llewellyn and he was able to identify the gentleman
as the wanderer who had disturbed his sleep, he concluded that he had
quite enough to think over for his first morning. Peter greeted him at
the breakfast-table.
“Been out, Bathurst? So early?”
“Just a short stroll, Daventry. I was anxious to have a look round and
I hadn’t the heart to rout you out, old man! I went across the downs a
bit and worked down towards the village.” He turned to Stewart. “The
birds were simply wonderful. I even enjoyed those melancholy
‘pee-wits’!”
“We’ll get breakfast over as soon as we possibly can, gentlemen,”
exclaimed Stewart. “I expect the Scotland Yard representative will be
up here pretty early. I should like you to be present, Mr. Bathurst,
when he enters the library—Sergeant Clegg closed the room up, you
know, when he left yesterday.”
Llewellyn sniffed contemptuously. “A brilliant piece of work—that! One
of us might have wanted to use the room—for a legitimate purpose, I
mean.” He wiped the glasses of his pince-nez with his silk
handkerchief. As he did so, Bathurst observed the peculiar quality of
his eyes and at the same time formed the opinion that Mr. Morgan
Llewellyn might very well prove to be a dangerous customer if things
didn’t please him over-well.
“Mr. Stewart,” said Anthony, addressing his host, “what sort of a lad
is Patrick O’Connor—the boot-boy?”
Stewart stared at him with a certain strain of amazement on his face.
“Really,” he said, “I didn’t know that you were sufficiently
acquainted with our staff here to be able to ask that question! I
suppose it’s a case of the early bird, eh?”
Anthony’s grey eyes twinkled delightfully! “We all have our little
secrets, Mr. Stewart,” he responded. “You mustn’t probe me too
thoroughly—tell me rather of Master O’Connor.” He looked round at
Peter Daventry—“He’s got a fine name, you know, Daventry—‘Patrick
O’Connor’—hark to the music of the ‘r’ and the ‘n’!”
“Quite a reliable lad,” came Stewart’s answer. “As far as I know.
Certainly I know nothing unfavorable.”
“What time does he get here in the morning?” asked Anthony.
“About half-past six, I believe,” replied Stewart. “You should
know—you’ve seen him, I take it, this morning?”
“On the contrary—I’ve never set eyes on him.” Bathurst smiled gravely.
He felt the glances of the three men fixed intently on him.
“Well, you’ve certainly wasted no time,” declared Llewellyn, “though
how exactly you’ve been to work, I can’t guess.”
“I sha’n’t ask you to,” laughed Anthony. “It might be trying you too
highly, and I mustn’t do that.”
Peter Daventry began to wish that he hadn’t slept so soundly—Mr.
Bathurst’s methods were beginning to fascinate him. Breakfast over, he
came across and joined Anthony. The latter went up and spoke quietly
to Charles Stewart.
“By all means,” was Stewart’s reply, “I’ll let you know directly I
want you.”
“Come and have a breath of air, Daventry,” said Anthony. “It’s a
perfectly wonderful morning.”
They strolled out into the garden; Anthony took a cigarette and handed
his case to his companion. “I want a few minutes’ conversation with
this boot-boy, Patrick O’Connor—I have a fancy that it may prove to be
somewhat enlightening—and don’t forget, Daventry, anything we may
hear, either now or later on, we’ll keep to ourselves, unless we
decide otherwise.”
Peter saluted with mock gravity. “I’ll be the soul of tacit
discretion,” he exclaimed. “Have you really stumbled across a clue
already?”
Bathurst’s face relaxed into a smile. “Clues are tumbling over each
other—I’ve really had the luck of the old gentleman himself up to the
moment. The ball’s running altogether too kindly—doubtless I shall get
a rude awakening soon. Come over on the grass there and I’ll tell you
something!”
Peter accepted his bidding with alacrity. Anthony carefully chose
another cigarette. “I’ll tell you this,” he said, speaking in low
tones, “before we go across to find O’Connor. But first—a question!
How did you sleep last night? Anything disturb you?”
Peter knitted his brows. “No! Nothing! But I was dog-tired and slept
like a top—whichever way that may actually be.”
Anthony pointed across to the wall of the garden against which could
be seen nestling a burden of magnificent nectarines. “Be
interested—apparently——in something that I’m showing you—I don’t want
anybody in the house to think I’m discussing the case with you—for all
I know we are being watched.”
Peter grimaced, but began to play his part as per instructions. “The
situation is becoming decidedly interesting,” he muttered. “Why do you
ask me about how I slept?”
Anthony made a gesture with his arm towards another part of the garden
before he answered. “At twenty-two minutes past one this morning I
awoke very suddenly. I’m a very light sleeper and the slightest sound
is sufficient to wake me. What I had heard was a step passing my
bedroom door. Of course I couldn’t be sure which direction the steps
had taken. But I slipped out of bed and opened my door. I stood
listening for some time and then I heard the steps coming back.
Whoever it was, was coming upstairs again. Naturally I had to bolt
back into my bedroom, but I held the door handle so that I could open
it quickly and noiselessly immediately the prowler had passed. I just
had time to see the gentleman disappear into the room next to yours.
You may guess that I went back to bed and did a little bit of quiet
thinking.”
“By Jove!” exclaimed Peter. “The plot thickens! Who the blazes was
it—any idea?”
“I know who it was,” replied Anthony. “It was the gentleman who had
‘brekker’ with us this morning—Mr. Morgan Llewellyn! You may remember
what he thought about the library being shut up.”
Peter whistled softly. “You mean that he was trying to get in there,
in the night?”
“I think it extremely probable,” declared Anthony. “And the question
is what is it that’s attracting him there? That’s what we’ve got to
find out—that’s why I’ve told you.”
“Did he get in do you think?” queried Peter, “because if he did, the
mischief’s done.”
“Not he,” grinned Anthony. “Sergeant Clegg saw to that, quite
thoroughly. Now come along over to the other side. We’ll see if we can
run across Patrick O’Connor.”
Maidment, the gardener, was earthing up potatoes in the kitchen garden
as they approached. He straightened himself as he wished them “Good
morning.”
“O’Connor,” he said, in answer to Anthony’s question. “You’ll find him
up there in the potting-shed.” He pointed past the cucumber frames
that lay on his right to a shed at the end of the path. “Perhaps you’d
like me to be accompanying you?” he continued. “Maybe I’ll be able to
help you?”
Anthony waved his offer on one side. “Thanks—but we’ll see him
alone—you stay here.”
As they reached the shed, a tall lad stepped out, and Bathurst
immediately recognized that here was a case of inherited physique. He
seemed surprised to see his visitors and made as though to turn back
into the potting-shed.
Anthony touched him on the arm—then bent down and whispered something
into his ear. The lad’s face cleared and he beckoned them inside.
“You gentlemen gave me a bit of a start,” he declared. “I’m a bit
jumpy I suppose since yesterday. This sort of thing gets on your
nerves, you know, sir—you can’t help it.”
Peter Daventry wondered what the message was that Bathurst had passed
on. What possible connection could there be between the two of them?
But his wonderings were summarily cut short. Anthony’s next remark
showed that he was speedily getting to business.
“Where is the bicycle, O’Connor?”
O’Connor walked across to the farther corner and wheeled the machine
down to them. He pointed to both front and back tires. “There you are,
sir! You can see for yourself!”
Anthony went down on his haunches and smelt the tires. “Quite certain
you didn’t pick it up yourself, O’Connor—on another part of the road,
for instance?”
“I’ll take my dyin’ oath I never did, sir. The day before the murder
was discovered I went down into Assynton twice—once just before lunch
time and the second time about a quarter-past four. I was extry
careful about riding over the new road because I hates my bike all
messed and mucked up, so I jumped off when I came to it and wheeled it
along the path. As for pickin’ it up anywhere else, sir—there ain’t no
other part of the road round here, sir, what’s bein’ done up.” His
eyes flashed, and Anthony realized again that here stood the son of
his father.
“Do you always keep the machine in this shed?” he asked.
Patrick O’Connor nodded an affirmative. “Always, sir!”
Anthony threw a critical glance round the potting-shed. “When you came
in yesterday morning and found your bicycle like that—was there
anything else here that caught your attention—was the shed just as
usual—everything in its place—nothing touched or disturbed?”
O’Connor thought for a moment—then shook his head. “Not that I
noticed, sir.”
Anthony walked to the door and looked out; then he retraced his steps.
“Re bicycles, O’Connor! Are there any other bicycles kept at Assynton
Lodge—or is this the only one on the premises?”
O’Connor flung his head back with decision. “This is the only cycle
here, sir, so that whoever used it on the night of the murder either
struck lucky or _knew that it was in here_.” He lowered his voice on
the last few words. Peter saw Anthony’s face as O’Connor spoke—then he
turned sharply. Maidment, arriving apparently from the clouds, was
framed against the doorway of the potting-shed. His approach had been
noiseless and unexpected, for even Bathurst seemed slightly taken off
his guard!
“Mr. Charles’s compliments,” announced the gardener, “and he will be
glad to see you two gentlemen in the library.”