With a Given Center, Mr. Bathurst Describes a Circle
Stewart met them at the French doors. “Inspector Goodall and Sergeant
Clegg are here already. We shall have to postpone our visit to the
Museum Room till later. Come in, will you?” Clegg and Goodall had
already got to work.
“Nothing has been touched, sir,” said the former, “since I was first
called in. Except for the removal of the dead man, the room is exactly
as it was yesterday morning.”
“Good,” replied Goodall. “I’ve read all your notes on the case—the key
was in the lock on the inside when the door was burst open, and the
bolts of the French doors were securely shot. Darned peculiar!”
Stewart made as if to offer an explanation of something, but the
Inspector checked him. “I’m fully acquainted with all the
circumstances of the case, sir! I’ve read Sergeant Clegg’s notes
thoroughly—not only those concerning the crime itself but also those
dealing with the interviews he had with the various people when he was
here—so you can write me down thoroughly _au fait_ with the whole
business.” Stewart bowed. Goodall took a tape measure from his pocket
and walked to the chair where Laurence Stewart had been murdered. “Is
this chair exactly in position?” he queried of the Sergeant. Clegg
came and surveyed the situation gravely. Then announced his opinion.
“As near as makes no odds, Inspector.”
Goodall first of all measured from the chair to the library door and
then from the chair to the French doors. He then examined the lock of
the door and the bolts of the other two doors.
“H’m,” he said—then scratched his chin thoughtfully. “The Doctor’s
report”—he drew a document from his breast-pocket and perused it for a
moment or two—“states that your father was struck three times, Mr.
Stewart. The first blow rendered him unconscious, in all probability,
Doctor Gunner thinks, and the second and third finished him
completely. Mr. Bathurst—you might help me in a little experiment. I’m
going to try to reconstruct the crime.” He looked at Anthony and did
not wait for his reply. “Sit here, will you, as Mr. Stewart sat. Now
you’re Mr. Stewart and I’m the murderer.” He walked back to the French
doors, which he opened, and then went outside, pulling them together.
He then opened them noiselessly and tiptoed across the heavy pile
carpet. He reached Bathurst and raised his hand as though to strike.
“Did you hear me?” he asked.
“Not your steps—I heard you breathing—that was all—but of course I was
aware that you were advancing on me. I can quite believe the murdered
man was taken by surprise in that way and heard nothing.” He rose from
the chair. “Congratulations, Inspector.”
Goodall came up to the desk. “Is this the piece of note-paper, Clegg?
Just where you found it?”
“Yes, Inspector!” Bathurst joined the Inspector. The message was there
just as it had been written by the dead man. Bathurst let the
Inspector read it—then extended his hand for it. “May I see it?”
Goodall passed it over. Anthony produced his magnifying glass and then
covered all the writing with another sheet of paper—that is to say,
from “urgent” to “M. L.” Then he carefully examined with his glass the
part of the paper immediately following the letter “L.” Peter Daventry
watched him curiously. After a moment or two he put down the sheet of
paper and replaced his magnifying glass. Clegg’s eyelid flickered as
he caught a glance from Goodall, but the latter gave no other sign of
interest. He clasped his hands behind his back and walked to the
bookcase—then suddenly turned on his heel.
“Where’s that revolver you mentioned, Clegg—let’s have a look at it.”
The Sergeant took it from the right-hand drawer of the desk.
“This was in Mr. Stewart’s left-hand pocket,” he declared—“and one
shot has been fired.” He passed it across to the Inspector. “That’s
not to say it was fired at the time of the murder,” rejoined his
superior. “All the evidence you’ve collected is absolutely contrary.”
“You mean that nobody admits having heard it?” intervened Anthony.
“I do,” said Goodall.
“With your permission, Inspector—not quite the same thing,” came the
reply.
Goodall fingered his cheek. “No sign of the bullet, Mr. Bathurst, if
you’re suggesting that a shot was fired in here.”
Clegg smiled broadly. There was no gainsaying the Inspector’s last
remark. Anthony shrugged his shoulders good-humoredly and went back to
the desk again. Peter noticed that his eyes were sweeping backwards
and forwards over that particular part of it directly in front of
where Stewart’s head had rested. Suddenly he picked up the ink-bowl
and held it up carefully to the light. He swirled the ink round and
round in the bowl three or four times and watched its black eddy with
the greatest keenness. Apparently what he saw gave him entire
satisfaction—which his face showed when he replaced the ink-bowl on
the desk. He rubbed the palms of his hands together. “You were quite
right, Inspector, regarding your theory of the crime. I hope to put my
hand on the——”
“Criminal, Mr. Bathurst?” broke in Charles Stewart. “What makes you so
optimistic?”
“No! I was about to say ‘on the weapon,’ Mr. Stewart. But the other
will naturally follow.”
“I’m rather curious to follow you, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall. He
walked to the desk and picked up the ink-bowl. “Ah!” he muttered,
after a moment—“I think I see your drift.” He nodded his head two or
three times—then came back to Charles Stewart again. “I’m going into
the garden for a few moments—when I return I should like to see Miss
Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn, your father’s secretary. Perhaps you would
be good enough to tell them.” He passed through the French doors—the
indefatigable Clegg at his heels. Anthony and Peter watched them go
through the rockery and disappear out of sight. “Where’s he gone now?”
questioned Peter.
“He’s bound to have a look outside,” was Anthony’s reply. “He may pick
up the O’Connor information—he should do—he’s a pretty shrewd fellow.”
Out of sight of the library, Clegg touched the Inspector on the
coat-sleeve. “What I wanted to tell you was this. I wanted you to come
into it fresh—with no suspicions so to speak—so I didn’t tell you
everything till you’d had a bit of a look round.” He gazed round
warily to make sure that they were not overlooked or overheard. Then
he thrust his hand into the breast-pocket of his tunic and handed
Goodall a dainty lace handkerchief. “I found that caught in the
curtains hanging by those French doors yesterday morning,” he
explained breathlessly. “Do you see the initials? That belongs to the
dead man’s ward—Miss Lennox.”
Goodall handled it with great interest. “Now that’s very curious,
Clegg,” he observed. “Miss Lennox—eh? And I understand that
Butterworth, the butler, accuses her of having been with the dead man
at ten minutes past ten on the night of the murder—h’m. She, in her
turn, puts the rough edge of her tongue round Mr. Morgan
Llewellyn—h’m! Clegg—where the hell are we getting to?”
Clegg coughed discreetly. “There was the other point I mentioned,
Inspector, on top of all that,” he pointed out steadfastly. Goodall
considered for a second. Then he remembered what Clegg meant.
“She attempted to get into the library you mean, don’t you, when you
left your man on duty there?”
“Not a doubt about it,” replied the Sergeant.
“Before I see her or this secretary fellow—I’m going to have a few
words with some of the servants——come along with me—we may perhaps
pick something up that may be valuable.”
Clegg fell into step. Goodall went on to outline his difficulties.
“There’s one feature of the case that’s rather strange, Clegg. Nothing
appears to have been stolen from here at all—no search seems to have
been made for anything—there’s not a drawer ransacked or disturbed.
Now in this other affair that I told you about—this Hanover Galleries
murder—three objects that the dead man here was desperately keen on
getting hold of were stolen—they were apparently the motive for the
murder. Yet nothing’s gone from here.” He turned to Clegg somewhat
impatiently. The Sergeant wagged his big head solemnly.
“Aye,” he conceded—“that’s the very identical point that struck me.
But”—he thrust his face very close to Goodall’s—“is it certain that
the two murders _are_ connected—have you never heard tell of the long
arm of coincidence?” He pronounced the last word to rhyme with
“guidance,” much to Goodall’s professional disgust.
“No,” affirmed the latter, “there’s no doubt in my own mind that there
is a connection somewhere, and it’s up to me to find it—I can’t agree
with your coincidence theory, Clegg.”
The latter pushed his chest out and accepted Goodall’s statement as
final, registering at the same time a mental resolution that for the
future he would emit no theories. He would listen!
Anthony, meanwhile, was still at work in the library, finding Peter
Daventry a highly appreciative audience. “The important features of
the case as I see them are these, Daventry. (a) The one shot fired
from Stewart’s revolver and the taking of that revolver by Clegg from
the _left-hand_ pocket of Stewart’s dressing-gown. (b) The use of
Patrick O’Connor’s bicycle some time during the evening or some time
during the night. (c) The message left by the dead man with its
reference to ‘M. L.’ (d) The dirty condition of the ink in the
ink-bowl. (e) The apparently impossible conditions under which the
murder was committed—the room is locked on the inside at both exits.”
He blew a cloud of smoke from his cigarette. “Add to that the somewhat
unusual and rather absorbing detail—the fascination for Stuart
antiques, themselves associated with a particularly brutal murder in
London almost contemporaneously—and we have all the ingredients for as
pretty a problem as ever was.” Then suddenly a thought seemed to
strike him. “By Jove,” he said, “that coal cabinet, Daventry. I wonder
if it’s worth while looking in there—it’s just possible the murderer
may have——” He dashed across to the coal cabinet. It was of the type
that swung outwards on a hinge. He pulled it towards him. Then he
knelt down in front of it. Taking a sheet of note-paper from his
pocket, he very carefully picked out some objects from the contents of
the scuttle. Daventry wasn’t able to see what they were as Anthony
placed them on the piece of paper. He couldn’t restrain his curiosity
any longer. “What is it, Bathurst? What have you found in there?”
“A long shot,” chuckled Anthony, “but it’s happened to have come off.”
He held the paper out to his companion. “It struck me when I looked at
that coal-scuttle just now, that a person clearing little pieces of
dirt and mud from the surface of that table”—he pointed to the desk
where Stewart had been found dead—“might very easily dispose of them
in the scuttle—it might well be the handiest and most convenient
place—look here then!” Daventry looked at the paper held out on the
palm of Anthony’s hand. There were seven or eight dried pellets of mud
and four small light brown stones such as may be found in any garden.
Anthony went on with his explanation. “There isn’t very much coal
there—as you may see if you look—fires have been discontinued for some
time now, I expect—so it didn’t give me very much trouble to find
these chaps.” He smiled with infinite satisfaction, but Peter Daventry
wasn’t too clear at all. “I can understand that part of the business,”
he conceded—“where I’m floundering is over the part of the affair
before we come to that. I haven’t the foggiest notion how you ever
deduced their existence!”
“When I get the chance,” replied Anthony, “I think I shall be able to
show you at least one other stone just like these four little fellows
that I’ve taken from the coal-scuttle—I can’t now—the Inspector and
Clegg may be back at any minute.” He walked to the French doors and
looked out—then turned back to Daventry. “There they come,” he
exclaimed.
“That stone, Bathurst,” cut in Peter hastily.
“Is _in this room_,” replied Anthony, “but not a word for the time
being.”
Clegg stepped into the room, immediately followed by Goodall. To
Daventry’s amazement, Anthony went straight over to them. “Well,
Inspector, what did you make of the matter of O’Connor’s bicycle?”
“You rather take my breath away, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall very
quietly. “Permit me to return your question—what did you?”
“I had no doubt you would pick it up,” he said, “and I’ll answer your
question quite frankly.” He walked across to the bookcase, and
standing with his back to it had his three hearers in front of him,
Peter on his right, and the two officers on his left. “O’Connor’s
bicycle, gentlemen, was used last night to carry somebody from this
house into Assynton. In my opinion it carried the murderer of
Stewart—if not the murderer, certainly his or her accomplice—but I
fancy the murderer.” He watched the three faces to see the effect of
his opinion. Goodall became critical at once.
“Who placed the bicycle in the shed then?” he asked cautiously.
Bathurst’s reply came just as quickly. “The murderer, of course.”
Goodall screwed up his face as though unconvinced. “You mean, then,
that the murderer returned—that the murderer lives——”
Anthony interrupted him. “I mean that if my theory holds good—that the
_murderer_ used the machine and not an accomplice—he is either in this
house now or very near it. He or _she_.”
But Goodall stuck to his guns. “But why go away to come back
again?—that’s what beats me.”
“More than one reason might supply a reasonable answer to that
question, Inspector. The murderer may have wished to hide something,
for instance. He may have gone to meet somebody even. Thirdly, he may
have gone to deliver an important message.” He paused to consider the
three possibilities he had named. Then looked straight across to
Goodall. “I am inclined to the third suggestion myself, Inspector.
Rather strongly as a matter of fact.” He came away from the bookcase,
giving Peter Daventry an impression—vague perhaps—that the final word
had been spoken.
Goodall shook his head rather doubtfully. “Theories are all very well
in their way, Mr. Bathurst—but if I were to go chasing after all the
theories I have put in front of me—I should be well set to work—can’t
you give me something more definite on which your theories have been
based—something more tangible?”
Anthony thrust his hands into his pockets with a gesture of
impatience. “Of course I can, Inspector. Surely you don’t think I make
statements of this kind irresponsibly? ’Pon my soul, I feel rather
like picking up your challenge and being much more explicit than I had
intended to be.” He paced to the bookcase and then came back again.
“That bicycle was almost certainly ridden into Assynton after the
murder had been committed. For the reason, in my opinion, that
immediate communication had to be established between this end of the
tangle and the other—or if you prefer it—between Assynton Lodge and
the _people that murdered Mason at the Hanover Galleries the same
night_.” He paused, and Peter Daventry noticed that Inspector Goodall
was listening keenly and critically—punctuating Anthony’s remarks with
sharp, quick movements of the head. “I deduce an urgent telephone
message,” continued Anthony, “something had happened here that made
instantaneous action _imperative_—the ’phone was the only way.
Obviously the ’phone in the house itself must not be used—the nearest
is in Assynton village—the nearest that would also be safest. If you
like, I will embroider my theory somewhat.” He smiled as he sensed the
improvement in his “atmosphere.” He was beginning to “get over!” “I
deduce also, Inspector, that this urgent telephone message was very
probably to an hotel. I think that we are dealing with a dangerous set
of criminals who mean to stick at nothing to gain their ends and who
in all likelihood had prepared their plans very thoroughly to meet all
emergencies. If quick telephone communication formed a link in their
connection system those of them who are conducting the operations from
the other end were probably stopping at a quiet hotel. They don’t
appeal to me as likely to be permanent residents in the West End of
London, so I incline to the probability of an hotel.” He turned to
Inspector Goodall decisively. “Let me make a suggestion, Inspector!
Try to trace a telephone message from Assynton about 11:20 on the
night before last.” Goodall broke in with an exclamation of
incredulity. But Bathurst held up his hand and went straight on. “A
message to an hotel—I’ll give you a list that I fancy will contain the
identical one.”
Goodall raised his hands. “You travel a darned sight too fast, Mr.
Bathurst. Hold hard a minute—there’s a pretty wide gulf of difference
between outlining your suggestions and putting them into solid
practice. For instance, you assert quite confidently that the time was
11:20. How——”
“Tut-tut, man,” broke in Anthony—“that shouldn’t surprise you. Your
mysterious woman arrived at the Hanover Galleries at twelve o’clock or
thereabouts—I’ve endeavored to fill in the time with what happened
here between ten o’clock and then—I put the murder at eleven o’clock
approximately, and I’ve allowed twenty minutes for the cycle ride.”
Goodall nodded slowly as Anthony made his points. “Granted all
that—Mr. Bathurst—I don’t say I accept it all—how about that list of
hotels you talk about drawing up and handing to me—there isn’t exactly
a famine in hotels in London—it seems to me it will be ‘some list.’”
He smiled at Anthony with just a tinge of sarcasm.
“Just a little matter of geometry, Inspector,” came the somewhat
baffling answer.
“Geometry?” queried Goodall.
“Yes,” said Anthony, “with a given center and a radius say of one
mile—describe a circle—the hotel will be found within that circle—the
lady was at work on the real business by midnight—remember.” The
Inspector’s face cleared.
“Of course! I see now what you mean. Your center will be the Hanover
Galleries?”
“Exactly,” replied Mr. Bathurst.