The Second Screen of Mary Stuart
Goodall turned to Clegg and fired off a rapid fusillade of
instructions to which that worthy gave the most respectful attention.
“At once, Inspector?” he questioned.
“Quicker than that,” snapped Goodall, “and stand no nonsense from
anybody.”
Anthony gave him a glance of approval. Then watched Clegg depart with
heavy and important tread. “Tell Mr. Charles Stewart we should like to
speak to him for a moment,” he called to the Sergeant as he made his
way towards the hall—“you’ll find him close handy.” Goodall then came
forward. “I want Mr. Stewart,” he said. “He promised that I should
interview Miss Lennox and the late Mr. Stewart’s secretary—also I’m
afraid I’ve been keeping him waiting.”
“Would you mind postponing the interviews for a little while,
Inspector?” asked Anthony. “I’ve another suggestion to make.”
“Let’s hear it then.”
“Please yourself, of course,” proceeded Anthony—“have them in now by
all means if you consider it very important. But what I was going to
suggest was this. I should very much like to have a look at this
Museum Room of Mr. Stewart’s. I’ve got a shrewd idea that it won’t
prove to be entirely unprofitable.”
Goodall thought for a moment and then signified his agreement. “Very
well, Mr. Bathurst—that will suit me very well—I can see the others
later.”
As he spoke Charles Stewart returned.
“That trifling matter of the Museum Room, Mr. Stewart,” exclaimed
Anthony. “Did you remember to get that little catalogue from Mr.
Llewellyn that you promised me? If you did I should like to go in
there and have that tour of inspection I discussed with you last
evening.”
Stewart made an exclamation of regret. “My apologies, Mr. Bathurst, it
slipped my memory—but I’ll soon rectify that.” He touched the bell.
“Mr. Llewellyn,” he said as the secretary appeared, “didn’t you
compile for my father some time ago a catalogue of the contents of the
Museum Room?”
Anthony watched the secretary’s face with the utmost intentness as he
replied. “Yes, Mr. Charles. That is so! Your father was very keen on
having it done.”
Charles Stewart nodded eagerly. “Bring me a copy, will you, please? In
here—at once!”
Llewellyn left quite imperturbably and Stewart offered a hint of
explanation to the others. “My father thought a tremendous lot of
Llewellyn, gentlemen—and one of the reasons of his great confidence in
him was because of Llewellyn’s keen interest in _all_ of my father’s
concerns. He wasn’t a chap who just did his bare duty and no more—he
seemed able to identify himself intimately with each one of my
father’s many interests—and not least with his mania for collecting.”
Anthony stopped him. “Is Llewellyn a ‘devotee’ of the ‘antique
artistic’?” he asked.
“My father found him a most zealous assistant in it, Mr. Bathurst,”
replied Charles Stewart, “that’s all I can tell you. I’m afraid I was
much less interested myself.”
A tap on the library door heralded the secretary’s reappearance.
“There is a copy of what you wanted, Mr. Charles,” he declared.
Stewart took it and rapidly glanced over it. “That is a list,”
continued Llewellyn, “of every single article in your father’s
collection.”
Charles Stewart handed the list to Anthony. “Here you are, Mr.
Bathurst! Would you like a copy, too, Inspector?”
Goodall declined with a shake of the head. “All I want I can get from
Mr. Bathurst,” he answered. “Remember—this is more his ‘stunt’ than
mine. I haven’t yet been informed that anything has been stolen from
the room in question”—he looked hard at his questioner. Stewart’s
reply came with just the slightest touch of asperity.
“Mr. Bathurst doesn’t get any inspired information from me, Inspector,
if that’s what you’re hinting at. He knows that I rather disagree with
his idea. The room was closed when the alarm was given, and I’ve never
suggested to anybody that anything has been stolen.”
Goodall partly shifted his ground. “Why then is our friend here so
insistent on the point?”
Anthony made an attempt at explanation. “I’m not exactly insistent,
Inspector,” he explained, “don’t misunderstand me! I haven’t perhaps
very much reason at the back of my idea, but I’m just curious to get a
look at these treasures that the late Mr. Stewart valued so highly. I
have a strong feeling that the visit may help us considerably.”
Here Goodall’s gesture stopped him.
“Your theory, of course, Mr. Bathurst, if I may call it such, being
based on the Hanover Galleries murder—eh?”
“Yes,” replied Anthony quickly, “it seems to me that the whole case
revolves round the Stuart heirlooms—if you can so describe them.”
“Well,” intervened Stewart, “the matter can very soon be settled—we’ll
go to the room. Get the key, Mr. Llewellyn, will you—you’ll probably
find it hanging up in the service-room. Come along, gentlemen.” It was
the work of a moment for Llewellyn to get the key and for Stewart to
unlock the door of the room. The five men entered. As far as could be
seen the room presented an appearance of complete order. A more
heterogeneous collection it would have been impossible to imagine.
Tables of old and exquisite workmanship supported the smaller
articles—the larger finding their place on the floor and against the
four walls. Four glass cases protected other treasures. Manuscripts,
missals, musical instruments of all ages, weapons, rings, snuff-boxes,
furniture of all kinds were to be found, with suits of ancient armor
and specimens of fragile glass.
“There are over two thousand articles in this room, gentlemen,”
announced Morgan Llewellyn, “and the catalogue that I was privileged
to compile lists and partly describes every one of the two thousand
odd. If you look at the end of the catalogue, Mr. Bathurst, you’ll see
the exact number there are.” Bathurst turned to the end. “Two thousand
and forty-four,” he declared. Goodall smiled at Llewellyn and Stewart.
“Well, it’s pretty evident that no burglarious entry was made here,
gentlemen. Nothing here appears to have been disturbed.” He turned to
the others for corroboration of his opinion.
Stewart shook his head doubtfully. “It would be most difficult,
gentlemen, to trace anything that _had_ been stolen. My father
doubtless would have been able to tell at once, but I fear that now——”
He stopped and shook his head again.
“I appreciate what Mr. Stewart says entirely,” supported Llewellyn. “I
was intimately connected with this particular side of Mr. Stewart,
senior, but I should hesitate to assert that I could say that anything
was missing. Of course, I could tell if some of the things had been
taken—some of the more special objects for instance. For example”—he
walked to a table that stood to the left of the door. On it lay what
looked like a circlet of dull and twisted metal. Llewellyn picked it
up. “The ancient Crown of the Kings of England—believed to have last
graced the head of Charles the First. Mr. Stewart paid a tremendous
price for this—and the sale was secret. It was purchased by him from
one of the most famous names in England. I should have known at once,
for example, if this had been missing.” He replaced it on the table,
and his eyes smouldered with the covetous zeal of the collector.
Laurence Stewart’s enthusiasm had apparently been infectious. Bathurst
found himself pondering over it. Llewellyn crossed to the wall and
unhooked a piece of armor that had been hanging there. “Look at this!
This is a gorget. Who do you think is supposed to have worn it?”
Goodall took it and examined it curiously.
“No idea,” he said. It was a species of breastplate shaped like a
half-moon.
“That,” continued Llewellyn, well launched now on a subject close to
his heart, “is supposed to have been worn by the Black Prince at the
Battle of Creçy. That is a second thing that I should have missed
instantly.”
Inspector Goodall cut in. “Let’s put it like this, Mr. Llewellyn, or
you, Mr. Stewart! Do either of you miss anything at all—that’s the
quickest way to get to grips with the question?”
Llewellyn made a tour of the room. “I miss nothing, Inspector.”
Charles Stewart shook his head rather despondently. “I can’t help you
and that’s a fact, Inspector. You must leave it at that.” He looked at
Anthony Bathurst, who was, however, busy at the moment turning over
the leaves of Llewellyn’s catalogue.
“Well then, if that’s the case,” rejoined Goodall, “no particularly
good purpose will be served by us stopping in here any longer. I’m
afraid Mr. Bathurst has given us a ‘stunner’ this time.”
“Half a minute,” interposed Anthony quietly. “You’ve all had an
innings, now it’s my turn. Listen to me for two minutes. Mr.
Llewellyn”—he turned to the secretary—“consider for a moment item
number eight hundred and sixty-six in the catalogue, will you?”
Apparently the number conveyed nothing to Llewellyn, for his face was
unchanged.
“Eight—six—six?” he inquired.
“I’ll read you the description I find here,” proceeded Anthony.
“Antique fire-screen, of beaten metal-work—about four feet high.
Originally the property of Mary, Queen of Scots.” He tucked the
catalogue under his arm. “I’d like to have a look at that,” he said,
“I’m interested.”
Llewellyn raised his forefinger. “You shall, Mr. Bathurst, I do know
it now you mention it—it’s in this corner—behind this collection of
Waterford glass.” He crossed to the right-hand corner of the room.
Anthony scratched the back of his neck—watching Llewellyn pick his way
between the tables. Suddenly the secretary stopped, and although his
back was towards them, more than one of the four detected an anxiety
in the manner of his stopping. Then he turned—his face white and
working with excitement. “It’s gone, gentlemen,” he cried. “It’s not
here—come and look yourself, Mr. Stewart.” Charles Stewart walked
quickly to the corner.
“There’s no screen here,” he declared.
“Mightn’t it be somewhere else?” asked the Inspector. “Are these
things always kept in precisely the same spot?”
“Always, Inspector,” replied Morgan Llewellyn promptly. “Mr. Stewart
was most particular about that.”
“Isn’t it possible that Mr. Stewart himself may have removed it—on the
eve of his intended purchases—for comparison or something?” suggested
Daventry.
“No,” said Llewellyn. “I think not. I’m certain Mr. Stewart would have
told me if he had done so.”
“Goodall,” said Anthony, with a suspicion of the didactic in his
manner, “I can now assure you of at least one thing! Mason, the
night-watchman, was murdered for possession of the other Stuart
screen!”
“And my father——” broke in Charles Stewart with emotion.
“I am not sure,” replied Anthony with his hand on Stewart’s shoulder,
“yet! Time is precious,” he continued, “we’re moving at last. Who can
give me a more detailed description of this screen that was kept
here—I am anxious to know more about it? Can you, Mr. Llewellyn?”
Llewellyn hesitated. But Peter was unable to decide what it was that
was passing through his mind. He seemed to be considering something,
but nevertheless gave no apparent hint of embarrassment or agitation.
Then his answer came, but it was not quite in the form that Peter had
anticipated.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, Mr. Bathurst. I certainly remember the
screen, as I said just now. It was of some kind of beaten metal-work
and about the size stated in the catalogue. When I compiled the
catalogue I had some notes of Mr. Stewart’s to assist me in my
classification—I remember I used his own description wherever
possible, when it came to making up my own list. There were some
objects in the collection that I was forced to raise certain questions
about through lack of information in the notes, but this screen wasn’t
one of those. Mr. Stewart himself, I may add, approved the description
in the catalogue in every instance.”
Anthony had followed him very carefully as he furnished this
explanation. “Did Mr. Stewart mention the matter of this screen to you
in connection with his projected purchase of the other one?”
Llewellyn shook his head vigorously. “Never!” was his emphatic reply.
“I knew that he was adding to his collection, but he never referred in
any way to this screen that he already had in his possession. I’m
absolutely sure on the point.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Llewellyn, if I appear insistent, but I’ve understood
since I’ve been here that you were a very zealous assistant to Mr.
Stewart in this particular branch of his work. Is that true?”
Here Goodall intervened abruptly. “Yes, Mr. Llewellyn, how was it, if
you were so intimate with Mr. Stewart in all his collecting work, that
he didn’t mention the fact of these two screens to you?” But Llewellyn
was not to be so easily shaken.
“Without appearing to be disrespectful, I would suggest that Mr.
Stewart would have been in a better position to answer that than I,
Inspector,” he replied smoothly.
Goodall flushed, but Llewellyn went on. “All I can say is that he
_didn’t_ mention them.”
Then Anthony countered with another question. “Had Mr. Stewart
confided in you at any time—before—had he discussed similar purchases
on previous occasions?”
“Many times,” responded Llewellyn with absolute candor.
“Can you then account for a seeming lack of confidence on his part in
this instance?”
“Frankly, Mr. Bathurst, I can’t! But Mr. Stewart, if his son will
pardon my outspokenness at such a time as this, was a man of quick
impulses. He was very impetuous and utterly impatient—caught by this
whim and influenced by that wave of feeling—therefore not exactly a
man that you could call a model of consistency. Not that I have any
reason or desire to find fault with him as an employer. He was always
just and always generous—I cannot complain of his treatment of me.” He
looked up and caught Inspector Goodall’s eye and he was quick enough
to sense its disapproval. For Goodall’s brain was considering several
elements of doubt. “Why,” said the Inspector to himself, “why does
this young man talk like this when Miss Marjorie Lennox accuses him of
harboring revengeful feelings against the man of whom he speaks?” He
decided that the solution to this little problem might possibly be
more speedily forthcoming if he showed a little craft. So he affected
an air of ingenuousness.
“The sentiments do you credit,” he declared. “It’s the fashion of the
world nowadays to run down your employers as much as you can. Well,
Mr. Bathurst, what about this screen of yours? I’m afraid there’s
nobody here that can help you with those details you asked for. You’ll
have to remain content with the description in the catalogue—‘an
antique metal-work screen.’ I expect the only person that could have
supplied more information was Mr. Stewart himself.”
“That’s not quite true!” A musical voice from the doorway tinkled
across to the group of men. They all turned instantaneously as
Marjorie Lennox picked her dainty way towards them. “No! That’s not
true,” she reaffirmed. “Because I can! Charles—introduce me to these
gentlemen.” She spoke imperiously.
Peter Daventry realized when he bowed to this charming interruption
that life had discovered for him an additional interest. He murmured a
few words to a magical smile and thanked God for another blessing.
Anthony expressed his intense satisfaction that Miss Lennox was able
to help them so materially, in which statement he was gallantly
seconded by Detective-Inspector Goodall, whose thoughts at the same
time reverted to Sergeant Clegg and a lady’s handkerchief!
“I overheard what was being said,” exclaimed Miss Lennox demurely,
“and I realized at once that I could help you. The night before he
died, poor Uncle Laurence brought me in here specially to look at that
screen. He was very excited about it and he explained to me that Lord
Clavering’s death and the sale of his property had given him the
chance to get the two screens that had belonged to Mary, Queen of
Scots, before the débacle at Carbery Hill and her subsequent
imprisonment. We looked at it together—I can describe it very fully.”
“Just what I want, Miss Lennox,” exclaimed Anthony. “As fully as you
can, please—you will help me a lot.”
Marjorie puckered her brow. Peter instantly formed the opinion that it
made her distinctly more lovely than ever. “It stood about so high,”
she declared with an appropriate gesture, “and was made as far as I
could judge of some kind of metal—copper I should imagine from the
color. Of course, being over 300 years old it was much darker and
blacker than the beaten copper work that we see now.” Here came more
brow-puckering, to Peter’s secret delight—Mr. Daventry, it must be
remembered, had a keen eye and the soundest of discriminating tastes.
“The next part is harder to remember,” continued the charming
chronicler, “but I think I’m right.” She thought for a moment and then
went on. “In the top left-hand corner there was Mary’s Lion and in the
right-hand corner the ‘fleur-de-lis.’ At the bottom of the screen—on
the right——”
“Forgive me, Miss Lennox,” said Peter under the influence of a sudden
impulse, “it’s awfully rude of me, I know, but let me see if I can
finish the description for you—just a fancy of mine—that’s all.”
Miss Lennox looked very surprised and a little disdainful, but, “Go on
then,” was all she permitted herself to say. Thus encouraged, Peter
did so.
“At the bottom,” he declared oracularly, “were the Leopards and Lilies
of England.”
A pair of wonderful blue eyes seemed suddenly to become more
wonderful. With the wonder of amazement.
“You’re right—absolutely right,” she said. “Where and when did you see
Uncle’s screen?”
But Peter proceeded with the assurance of the conqueror. “In the
center,” he said, “were the words, ‘Jesus Christ, God and Saviour.’”
He paused and with his eyes invited her corroboration. But this time
Marjorie corrected him—_very_ disdainfully.
“Oh no,” she remarked—“in the center were two words in Latin. They had
been scratched, or inscribed perhaps is the happier word, with a
sharp-pointed instrument—at least that’s what it looked like. The two
words were ‘_Timeo Danaos_.’” Here she stopped as all good
story-tellers should when they have scored a good point.
“Translate, Mr. Bathurst,” said Goodall with the suggestion of a grin,
“my classics are rusty.”
“‘_Timeo Danaos_,’” repeated Anthony, “‘_et dona ferentes_’—which
being interpreted means, ‘I fear the Greeks especially when they bring
gifts.’”
“What the deuce are Greeks doing on this screen?” grumbled Goodall.
Anthony shook his head. “Can’t see for the moment, I admit. Anything
else, Miss Lennox?”
Marjorie nodded her little head in the affirmative. “Yes,” she said,
“right underneath the two words—almost exactly in the center of the
screen—was a big fish.”
“A fish?” queried Anthony, wrinkling his forehead, “what sort of a
fish?”
Marjorie shook her head. “Just an ordinary fish—that’s all I could say
about it. All the animals—the Lion, and the Leopards and the Fish—and
the flowers too, were done in a kind of repoussé work—you know what I
mean—they stood out as it were away from the surface of the screen
itself.”
Anthony nodded that he understood what she meant.
“You’ve been of tremendous assistance to me, Miss Lennox,” he
declared. “The case becomes more complicated than ever, but all the
same I feel it in my bones that we shall solve it. Inspector Goodall
here will confirm my opinion.”
The Inspector smiled grimly, but whatever remark he may have been
about to make was stifled by the reappearance of Sergeant Clegg at the
door of the Museum Room. Clegg saluted smartly.
“A word with you, Inspector, if you please.”
Goodall turned to Charles Stewart. “Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I should
be obliged if you would take Miss Lennox and Mr. Llewellyn into the
library—I will join you in a few moments—I want to have a little chat
with them—thank you.”
Peter Daventry had been half hoping that the Inspector would dismiss
him too, but his luck failed. He was more reconciled, however, when he
listened to Clegg’s report.
“A trunk-call was put through on the night of the murder, Inspector,
to Blanchard’s Hotel, Clifford Street, W. I worked on the lines this
gentleman suggested—although as it happened he was a good bit out in
his reckoning as regards the time.” This last remark left his lips
triumphantly.
Anthony looked up—puzzled. “How much, Sergeant?” he inquired promptly.
“Eleven minutes,” Clegg announced judicially.
“Good Lord, Sergeant,” said Anthony, “I was afraid you meant hours”—he
broke off and shrugged his shoulders.
The Sergeant looked aggrieved. “Eleven minutes is a long time, if I
may say so,” he urged—defending his position—“you try and catch a
train when you’re eleven minutes late.”
“Come, Clegg,” exclaimed Goodall impatiently, “what do they say at
Blanchard’s Hotel?”
Clegg resumed his narrative with an air of injury. “I ’phoned the
Hotel and I’ve been able to trace that it was to a gentleman who was
staying there with his wife. When the ’phone call had been answered
they asked for the manager—immediately. They informed him that owing
to the sudden serious illness of a near relative they were obliged to
leave the hotel at once. They paid their bill, collected their luggage
and departed.”
“On foot?” cut in Goodall peremptorily.
“I didn’t inquire,” murmured Clegg, “I was too—er—taken aback with
what I heard next. This gentleman and his wife had registered at the
hotel in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart!”
Goodall whistled in amazement.
“From where?” flashed Anthony.
“From New York,” replied the Sergeant.