The Memoirs of Réné de St. Maure
Anthony took out his pocket-knife and carefully extracted the bullet
from its paper bed. “I think that Goodall will have little difficulty
in fitting this to Stewart’s own revolver,” he declared. He turned to
Peter. “It’s easier to piece the affair together now. When the
burglar—the murderer if you prefer to call him so—cut across the room
to put out the light he was holding this book in his hand—_so_.” He
placed the fingers of his left hand on the switch and held the book in
his right—with the back of the cover facing the door. Peter nodded—the
scene was now becoming plainer to him, and its visualization most
intriguing. “Stewart entered in the dark as I told you—and challenged
the person he knew was facing him. At first he got no reply, but the
intruder _attempted to replace the book on its shelf in the bookcase
at his side_—he was familiar with its location because he had replaced
it _on many occasions before_. Stewart detected the movement and
instantly fired _in the direction of the sound_. Then the gentleman
concerned so closely with historical research considered his safest
plan was to disclose his identity—it might save his life for one
thing. You know the result!”
“Wonderful—Bathurst!” said Peter. “I can see the whole thing as you
depict it—there isn’t a weak link in your chain.”
Anthony flushed with pleasure. “A closer study of M. Réné will, I
think, more than repay us for any little trouble we have taken”—he
tapped the cover of the book playfully.
“I’ve been thinking, Bathurst,” said Peter, “if this book is so
important, if, for example, it holds the key to the entire mystery,
why on earth did the murderer leave it behind—especially as it held
the tell-tale evidence of the bullet?”
“There may be several answers to that question. The right one may be
difficult to name. When the revolver was fired the book was sent
spinning from the murderer’s hand! Possibly Stewart himself replaced
it on the shelf in the bookcase. Also—after the murder, the paramount
question was to get away, remember!” He opened the book and examined
it with some care. “There’s one thing, Daventry, if this book has been
in constant use recently, and I’m convinced it has—there shouldn’t be
too much difficulty in discovering the particular page or pages that
have been pored over so many times so very assiduously. Remarkable how
the Stuart connection keeps cropping up, isn’t it?”
“I’d like to know what we’re on the track of,” interjected Peter.
“It’s a positive strain to keep on wondering like we do—or like _I_
do—to be properly precise.”
Anthony smiled at him. “Include me, Daventry——for the time being at
least.” He walked to the chair by the desk and sat down. “The question
of ‘how long’ depends on what success I have with the estimable de St.
Maure—let’s have a preliminary look.”
Peter went to his side and sprawled on the table—his elbows supporting
his head. It was a ponderous and bulky book, and the ravages made by
the passage of the bullet only served to make its examination more
awkward.
“M. Réné was blessed with an unusually prodigal fund of reminiscence,”
remarked Mr. Bathurst—“what has he handed down in the pages of this
dainty little treatise that has turned men’s minds to murder—I
wonder?” He turned to Peter. “I’m going to try a little experiment—yet
another one.”
Peter still watched him with interest. He inserted the forefinger of
each hand at the back of the book—between the binding and the massed
pages—the left finger holding the top and the right the bottom. The
book, of course, hung down loosely—the pages swinging a trifle and
presenting openings in three or four places. “Put a thin slip of paper
where you see the pages separating,” said Anthony, “a book invariably
opens at the places where it has been well used. See that they hold,
Daventry.” When the book was turned over, the first two marked places
yielded nothing that seemed to have the slightest bearing on their
quest. At the third, Anthony let go a whoop of triumph. Peter bent
over him and read the printed matter with avidity. The passage that
was pointed out to him read as follows: “Now in these days the
knowledge came to my Queen-Mistress that her Cause had been betrayed,
and that nothing short of a miracle from High Heaven could succor it.
Whereupon there was much secret to-do and conniving amongst her chief
adherents. I happened more times than once to find the Queen in her
Seton’s arms or whispering to Mary Fleming. At four o’clock of the
tenth day of the six month the Queen-Mistress sent for Thibaut
Girardier—he that had been her Chief Armorer since she left my beloved
country—and it was bruited abroad in the household both that night and
during the days that followed that much wealth had been very secretly
disposed of in many secret places of Wild Scotland. Messengers that
carried her full faith and trust were employed and despatched to many
of these secret spots. But Girardier was summoned so it was whispered
by them that should have known, in the matter of the Cardinal’s great
gift—‘the Black Twenty-Two.’ I know not, for it was never my practice
to seek out or spy, what handiwork it was that he did. Sufficient be
it to say that he made the Queen-Mistress two screens—one of Tapestrie
and one of some specimen of beaten metal—and they twain shall tell the
generations that are to come all that is deemed necessary of the
‘Black Twenty-Two.’ But the riddle of this message cannot be read from
one of the twain alone. Thibaut had special audience of the Queen for
many of these days.”
“Well?” inquired Anthony—“and what do you make of all that?”
“Dashed if I know,” replied Peter. “Who is this St. Maure Johnny
anyway, and what is it that he’s gassing about?”
Anthony pointed to the title page again. “‘One-time Page to Mary
Stuart,’” he quoted; “I presume he escaped from the wreck of that
lady’s fortunes and lived to a ripe old age to inflict these memories
on us.”
“What the hell does he mean by the ‘Black Twenty-Two’?” questioned
Peter irreverently.
Anthony shook his head. “I can’t answer that, Daventry—my history’s
too rusty altogether. I shall have to undertake a little research on
my own before I can properly tell you that—but at any rate, I promise
you, it sha’n’t be long.” He rubbed his hands. “Make a copy of that
for me, will you—and then we’ll put the message back on the bookshelf.
It won’t be the first time that that particular piece has been
copied.”
Peter set to work on his task.
“When Goodall comes back,” continued Anthony, “we shall have several
little things to show him. Daventry, I owe you an eternal debt of
gratitude. I wouldn’t have missed this case for worlds—this time next
week I shall be bored stiff—I shall have nothing exciting to occupy my
mind.”
Peter stared. “What exactly do you mean—what about this affair—aren’t
you going to stick to it and see it out?”
“Of course,” responded Anthony, “but it will be all over by
then—because in about three days at the most, I shall have
much pleasure in the performance of three duties. Firstly,
I shall introduce the police to the murderer of Mason the
night-watchman—secondly, I shall introduce the police and you yourself
to the murderer of Laurence P. Stewart, and thirdly, I have high hopes
of reading to a distinguished audience _the secret of the screens_.”
Peter handed him the copy for which he had asked. Words failed him.
But he permitted himself one exclamation—unhappily it was not
altogether free from profanity. A little failing of Mr. Daventry!