Mr. Daventry Gets His Feet Wet
“Read it to me, Daventry,” said Anthony. “Upon what precisely does Mr.
Llewellyn find time to write to Miss Lennox? For the sake of her
‘_beaux yeux_’?”
Peter tossed it to him—rather ungraciously let it be said. “Read it
yourself, though it seems to me to concern Miss Lennox herself and
Miss Lennox only.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and strode to
the bookcase—where he stood, moodily, with his back to his companion.
“‘Dear Incomparable Marjorie’”—read Mr. Bathurst—“‘At the risk of
punishing myself far too severely to contemplate, by driving the smile
from your two wonderful eyes’—Mr. Llewellyn wields a pretty pen,
Daventry—you’d better listen to this—‘I once again write to you to ask
you to reconsider the answer you gave me a little while ago to a very
important question. A question that affects me—body and soul. For,
dear, peerless Marjorie, monotonous though it may sound to you—I love
you! To say that I worship the ground that you walk upon is by no
means an exaggeration—judge then how much more I worship _you_! When
you are away from me life is most unutterably empty—the sun ceases to
shine—the flower to bloom—the bird to sing—everything is bitter
emptiness and desperate waste. Marjorie—marry me! I refuse to accept
your previous answers as final! And if your guardian endeavors to
interfere between us, as you threaten will happen—his blood be upon
his own head! I am a desperate man—desperate with love for you,
Marjorie—and desperate men have a habit of using desperate remedies.
Let me know your answer after dinner to-night, and may that answer
bring mad joy to the heart of—Morgan Llewellyn.’” Anthony whistled,
“Dear me, Daventry, do you know I hardly suspected anything quite so
ardent as this!” He looked up, and although his tone still contained a
hint of raillery, there was at the same time a strong hint of gravity
also. But Peter was in no mood for banter and in none too good a
temper for serious discussion.
“After all, say what you like,” he muttered, “that letter was written
to Miss Marjorie Lennox, and it hardly seems decent to me for us to
have read it—that’s the worst of this investigation business.”
“You feel this particular instance rather too acutely, I fear,
Daventry,” said Anthony gaily, “it touches you on a tender spot.”
Peter’s sole reply was inarticulate—a grunt. Anthony tried a different
tack. “I had hoped,” he chided gently, “that a rather effective
piece of work on my part might have received some measure of
congratulation.”
Peter swung round—instant with shamefaced apology. “I say, I’m
frightfully sorry, Bathurst. It was too bad of me altogether. Really I
do congratulate you on a topping shot—forgive my discourtesy—it was
inexcusable on my part.”
Anthony grinned—pleased nevertheless at the unmistakable sincerity of
the compliment. “Thank you—it wasn’t too bad a shot—although I
candidly admit the actual result has surprised me.” He tapped the
letter with his forefinger. “At the same time we must realize that
this is most important. It explains a good deal that was previously
somewhat puzzling. We know now for certain why Miss Lennox was in here
with her guardian after the Colonel’s departure.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “Why—exactly?”
“To show him this letter! Don’t be alarmed—the lady does not eye
Llewellyn’s suit with any favor. She has threatened him doubtless that
if he continued to pester her with his attentions, she would report
the whole affair to Stewart. Somewhere about five minutes past ten on
the fatal night—she did so.”
“What happened after that?” queried Peter, breathlessly.
“That, of course, I can’t answer,” replied Anthony. “I can only enter
and subsequently explore the realm of conjecture. I assume that
Stewart found this to be yet another trouble to add to his worries. He
was probably incensed at what he would naturally term his secretary’s
effrontery. I think his interview with his ward was short—he would
deal with Mr. Llewellyn in the morning. I imagine also that Miss
Lennox left by the French doors and made her way into the garden.”
“Why?” demanded Peter quickly.
“That was when I suggest she dropped her handkerchief.”
“Of course—I should have remembered.”
“We know now,” continued Anthony, “the reason underlying
her accusation of Llewellyn. Which you observe was a merely
_general-indefinite_ sort of accusation. She wouldn’t give a definite
reason for it—she kept silent about his attitude towards her—even to
denying that she had been in this room.”
“But why did she do that?” questioned Peter again.
Anthony shrugged his shoulders. “Most women are different about their
love affairs in matters of this kind—after all Llewellyn found her
attractive—she would probably forgive him that much more quickly than
indifference—for instance. All women like to be liked—you know!”
“I don’t think Miss Lennox is a girl of that type,” asserted Peter
vigorously. “I think she has proved that by——”
“Of course you don’t,” chaffed Anthony. “But whether you do or you
don’t is of no consequence—take it from me.”
Peter relapsed into a chair. It was gradually being driven home to him
that he was not showing himself to the best advantage this afternoon.
“What are you going to do now?” he asked. Anthony carefully put the
letter into his breast pocket.
“This certainly places Llewellyn in an unfavorable light,” he
remarked. “He threatens the dead man—he’s Welsh, too—and has struck me
throughout as a man who might make a dangerous enemy—still”—he pointed
to the desk at the side of which Peter had seated himself. “Give me
that bowl of ink,” he commanded. Peter obeyed—wondering again. Anthony
held it up to the light. “Remember what Goodall said when he looked at
this?”
“Yes,” said Peter. “Something about understanding what you meant.”
“Quite right—though I’m not absolutely sure that friend Goodall really
did.” He glanced quickly round the room as though in search of
something—“hand me that glass, will you, Daventry?” Holding the glass
in his left hand, he carefully poured the ink from the bowl into
it—very slowly—almost as though measuring it drop by drop. At last the
bowl appeared empty—of ink. He handed it back to Peter. “_The other
tiny stone_ I mentioned a little time ago—see it at the bottom there—I
knew it was there—I could hear it the first time I shook up the ink!”
Peter gazed into the ink-bowl with a feeling that he had gone back to
school once more and was being confronted again with mathematical
mysteries that he had never been too successful in solving. “A similar
stone, Daventry, to those we found in the coal-scuttle.”
The use of the plural pronoun stimulated Peter immensely. “Yes—yes, of
course,” he contributed.
Anthony continued with the expression of his theory. “The murderer
cleared the table to the best of his ability—but he—(or she)—forgot
the ink. And as it happened he had dropped some dirt _into the bowl
where the ink was_.”
Peter’s wonderment increased. “Really, I don’t altogether follow you,”
he declared. “What did he do to make the table dirty—I don’t know?”
Anthony poured the ink back into the bowl—after carefully removing the
tell-tale stone. “I’ll retrace my steps then a trifle,” he remarked.
“First of all, I am fairly confident that this murder was not a
premeditated one. It was deliberate and brutal, but as I read the
case, something unexpected happened that forced the murderer into what
he considered was an impossible situation and one that called for the
murder of Stewart—_quickly_.”
“You mean that Stewart fired at him and he killed Stewart in a sort of
self-defence?”
Anthony thought over that for a moment—then shook his head. “No—not
that exactly—Stewart was murdered treacherously—as he sat there,” he
pointed to the seat by the desk—“killed from behind—but I think you’re
right in your assumption that Stewart fired at him—we’ll look into
that question in a moment.”
“How do you mean, then, that the murderer was _forced_ into killing
Stewart?”
“Dead men tell no tales,” replied Anthony gravely.
Peter nodded. “I see what you mean. But I’ll tell you something that I
can’t quite get the hang of!”
“I’m listening,” said Anthony. “Fire away.”
“Well, it’s like this—all the way through the case—the tendency has
been for all of you to take the view that somebody in the house was
implicated—everything seems to me to point in that direction! Well”—he
stopped for a moment at a loss for words. Anthony said nothing, but
waited interestedly for him to continue. Bathurst’s attention, and
silent attention at that, gave Peter encouragement. “Well—if that’s
so—what made Stewart fire his revolver—as you suggest he did?—it seems
to me he would hardly fire a shot at somebody whom he _knew_—somebody
with whom he was familiar!”
Anthony considered his statement very carefully. “Supposing he
suddenly found that particular somebody acting dishonestly or
treacherously towards him—mightn’t he fire then—what do you think?”
“I don’t think he would even then,” contended Peter, “unless they
attacked him, of course!”
“H’m,” muttered Anthony, “I’m inclined to appreciate your point,
Daventry—you’ve given me something to think over.”
He paced up and down the room turning over this new aspect of the case
that had just been presented to him. Suddenly he turned quickly.
“We’ll look into that point a bit later on, Daventry—in the meantime,
I want you to accompany me—I’m going to look for something else—come
along.” He opened the French doors and stepped out—Peter immediately
following him. A moment’s walk brought them to the rockery garden. The
fountain, continually throwing up its sparkling cascade, to fall in
widening ripples into the water of the pool that surrounded it,
brought a delicious touch of coolness to the warmth of the June
afternoon. The rock garden had been built all around it—the pieces of
crazy paving, with the green blades of grass peeping inquisitively
between them—lying around it on all sides and in all shapes and sizes.
Bathurst’s eyes took it all in quickly and alertly. The larger pieces
formed the floor of the rockery, the smaller pieces having doubtless
been selected for building and banking up the sides. Anthony scrambled
to the top and stood there for a second or two—astraddle almost—one
foot poised on the top—the other on a pointed stone a trifle lower
down. He called to Peter Daventry. “Come up here a minute,
Daventry—will you?” Peter scrambled up behind him. Anthony pointed to
the spaces between the pieces of stone and rock. “Look in there,” he
said. Peter looked! “See those little brown stones? Seen anything like
them before?”
“Of course—from Stewart’s table—in the coal-scuttle.”
They stepped down. “That’s right, Daventry—that’s where you
saw them—and I’ve one in my pocket as well—that I took from the
ink-bowl.” He started to walk round the rockery—his eyes searching
everywhere—keenly alert but apparently anxious as well. “I can do with
half a dozen of these pieces of paving,” he called over his shoulder
to Peter. “Half a dozen of the smaller pieces—the size that I could
pick up pretty comfortably—get them for me, will you—you’ll probably
find the kind I want round the top of the garden.” Peter made his
second undignified scramble to the summit of the rockery. He quickly
collected a few and tossed them one by one down to Anthony below. He
watched the latter pick them up and in turn examine them with the
greatest care. Peter noticed that he paid particular attention to the
underneath part of each piece that he looked at. Then he shook his
head doubtfully as though dissatisfied with the turn that events were
taking. Picking the rocky pieces up again, he subjected them to a
further examination. “You command the back of the house from where
you’re standing, Daventry——or at any rate part of it—is there anybody
about?”
Peter looked across—and then back over the stretch of grass that ran
to the doors of the library, and saw no one. “Not a soul,” he called
with cheerful assurance.
“Good man,” said Anthony, “I’m rather keen that we shouldn’t be
observed at this particular moment.” Then an idea seemed to strike him
suddenly. With his eyes on the path of the rock garden he began to
walk around—keeping the fountain in the center. He had almost
completed the entire circle when he came to an abrupt stop. “Quick,
Daventry—come down here.” Peter picked his way down. “Look at the side
of this path—the side nearest the pool—does anything suggest itself to
you?”
Peter adjusted his thinking-cap. He gazed carefully at the side that
Anthony indicated—there was a slight declivity where the path made its
natural shelving towards the pool. The meaning of what he saw was
instantaneously obvious to the most elementary powers of observation.
There was the impression of a stone—but there was no stone near
anything like the shape delineated in the soft soil. Anthony rubbed
his hands. Peter knew the gesture to signify pleasure and success.
“I see what you mean,” said the latter, “there’s a piece of paving
missing!”
Anthony looked all round. Then came to a decision. “Daventry,” he
said, “I’m going to ask you to do me a favor. Somewhere in that pool
lies the missing stone—you know its shape.” He bent down and inspected
the impression at the side of the path. “It’s roughly the shape of a
magnum of champagne—about fourteen inches in length and at its widest
part—the part corresponding to the bottom of the bottle—about half
that size.”
“What do you want me to do?” inquired Peter.
Anthony grinned. “I want you to go paddling.”
Peter looked into the water. “Not deep,” he remarked. He pulled off
his shoes and socks, hitched up his trousers, and waded in.
“Don’t move round too quickly,” called Anthony. “It won’t be healthy
for bare toes when you do find it.”
Peter trudged round treading the mud at the bottom with the utmost
respect. Step by step he circled the water-pool—then suddenly Bathurst
saw him bend down. When he straightened himself he held a longish
piece of stone just as had been described to him. One end resembled
the neck of a bottle and it broadened out towards its other end to a
width of about seven inches. This end had sharp jagged edges. Anthony
took it from Peter’s outstretched hand.
“As I thought, Daventry,” he declared, as Peter made the path again,
“a short time ago this piece of stone formed part of the path that we
are now standing upon—you know what it is of course?”
Peter replied very promptly. “I’ve a very shrewd idea,” he declared.
“I’m just beginning to see daylight—your theory is that that piece of
jagged stone——”
“Was used to kill Laurence Stewart,” said Anthony, “and then thrown
into that pool—and it’s more than a theory—it’s a fact.”