Mr. Bathurst Brushes Up His History
An observer of discernment would have formed the opinion that Mr.
Bathurst had fallen a victim to the fascination of the history of the
Stuarts. At least half a dozen volumes were ranged round him; and the
same discerning observer, had he been sufficiently discourteous to
peer over Mr. Bathurst’s shoulder as he read, would have discovered
that the life of Mary, Queen of Scots, appeared to present special
features of absorbing interest. “Before we begin looking for
anything”—murmured Mr. Bathurst to himself—“it will probably be as
well if we attempt to satisfy ourselves as to what exactly we are
looking for.” He took from his pocket-book a copy of the paragraph
from “The Memoirs of M. Réné de St. Maure” that Peter Daventry had
made, and read it through carefully more than once. “If these memoirs
are in any way reliable and authentic,” he reasoned, “two screens were
used in some special way towards the temporary disposal, at least, of
part of Mary’s possessions. My task then, is to discover (a) what
particular part this was? (b) are the two screens mentioned by M. de
St. Maure the two that have figured so prominently in the Hanover
Galleries and Assynton Lodge murders? and (c) if so, what is the
secret the screens contain that affects the hiding-place of whatever
was hidden?” He turned again, to the paragraph. At any rate, there was
a distinct reference within it that bore unmistakably on the query he
had designated as (a)—“The Cardinal’s great gift”! So far so good—but
which Cardinal? Mr. Bathurst had a shrewd suspicion that more than one
gentleman entitled to the description of “His Eminence” had figured in
the life of the tragic Mary. That was certainly one point upon which
it would be necessary for him to reassure himself. “If I had the
wretched screens in front of me, it wouldn’t be so bad,” he mused—“as
it is I’m working with a couple of second-hand descriptions of them.”
He tapped his front teeth with the butt of his fountain-pen; Peter
Daventry in the one instance and Miss Lennox in the other, might have
missed vital points in their descriptions. He looked through two of
the histories that seemed to deal more closely with the minute details
of Mary’s career than any of the others and was successful after a
time in finding three references to the Chief Armorer—Thibaut
Girardier. But no mention could be discovered concerning Girardier’s
special work in connection with the two screens. “Many secret places
of Wild Scotland,” he quoted—“would give us a pretty extensive field
to cover—‘O Caledonia, stern and wild!’” Then his thoughts reverted
again to the one bizarre description that he did possess of “The
Cardinal’s great gift”—“The Black Twenty-Two!” What was meant exactly
by that? “Might be a couple of football elevens,” he muttered with a
shade of sarcastic bitterness. “Only one thing for it,” he concluded
after seven abortive attempts to extract any pertinent information
from a number of dead and gone historians—“only one thing for it, and
that is to work systematically and methodically right through the
incidents of Mary’s life as I find them recorded here.” He arranged
all the volumes he had requisitioned, side by side, and started to go
through them, as far as possible, simultaneously. An hour and a half’s
arduous exertion yielded him nothing, and even his own inexhaustible
supply of patience combined with intellectual optimism began to feel
the strain. But it is the darkest hour before the dawn—suddenly a
sentence from the fourth of his arranged books seemed to leap from the
page upon which it was printed! Anthony’s eyes glistened—he read on
with feverish excitement—he felt certain in his mind that at last he
had run to earth his first clue to the identification of “The
Cardinal’s great gift.” At least, here was a definite start and a
start of the right kind! Fortified with this piece of knowledge, he
ransacked every book for additional data. Fruitlessly! Here all
success ended—not a single page told him anything more. He worked on
for another hour; then he began to tell himself that he was ploughing
the sands. “After all,” he soliloquized, “what more can I really
reasonably expect to find? If Réné de St. Maure knew what he did know
and yet remained ignorant of the real secret of Girardier’s work—how
can I expect to find any trace of this knowledge in other historians
who were probably nothing like so well placed for knowledge as de St.
Maure himself? This part of the problem I shall have to solve by my
own ingenuity.” He pushed his chair back from the table—and thought
the whole question over very carefully, omitting nothing and giving
every possible point the fullest examination and consideration.
Suddenly he came to a decision. He returned the books he had
requisitioned to the appropriate attendant, at the same time
requesting access to recent files of “The Times” and “The Daily
Telegraph.” “Those two will do for a start,” he said to himself—“it’s
only an idea on my part and it may lead nowhere, but I should like to
test my theory before relinquishing it.” Starting with “The Times,” he
ran his eye down the “Personal” column on the front page—day by
day—six copies to each week—till he had worked back as far as
the 1st January. Nothing caught his eye as being likely to be what
he wanted. He paused at several—considering them with the utmost
discrimination—but eventually, occasionally perhaps with a certain
amount of reluctance, decided to discard them as inappropriate. He
then commenced on the file of the “Daily Telegraph.” The first few
days were quickly disposed of. But at the second item of the
“Personal” column of the copy for Monday, May 30th, he paused. The
message ran as follows:—“M. S. Ring Regent 9999 till further notice.
Both well!” His eyes narrowed as he reread this—weighing every
syllable. “‘M. S.’ might very well be ‘Mary Stewart,’ which in itself
might very well be a ‘code word’ used to convey messages relative to
this particular little conspiracy;” his thoughts raced on—“then we get
a telephone number which is of course the pith of the message that is
required to be communicated and an intimation that two people are in
good health.” He thought for a moment and then the truth leaped to his
brain. “By Jove—nothing of the kind—idiot that I was—‘both well’ is
simply ‘Bothwell’—the other code word—just a word I might have looked
for in relation to the ‘Mary Stuart’!” He searched the remaining
papers through rapidly, in case there were other previous
communications of a similar nature. To no effect! This was the only
one! Anthony surrendered the files, conscious of an excellent
morning’s work—he had started badly, but had finished well. At the
first opportunity he walked into a public telephone callbox. He lifted
the dog’s-eared Directory that swung at the side of the receiver, true
to the tradition of such Directories, and opened it at the “B’s.” His
finger traced the names down till he came to the particular one he
desired. “Blanchard’s Hotel—Regent 9999.” Mr. Bathurst replaced the
Directory and allowed himself the satisfaction of a smile. “But Regent
9999 doesn’t harbor Mr. and Mrs. Bothwell now—if it did once, when
they preferred to call themselves Mr. and Mrs. Laurence C. Stewart.”
He walked to his flat. “Any message come for me while I’ve been out,
Emily?” he inquired of a girl who met him as he entered—a maid on the
housekeeper’s staff.
“Yes, Mr. Bathurst! A telephone message came through for you about
eleven o’clock this morning—I said you were out and that I didn’t know
when you would be back—it’s a gentleman that rang up—he’s promised to
ring up again in the afternoon—he told me to tell you not to worry
about not getting the message in the first place.”
Anthony heaved a sigh of relief. Emily’s statement meant that Peter
Daventry had telephoned Scotland Yard as he had arranged with him and
through the offices of Inspector Goodall had been put through to the
flat. He had realized that failure to deliver his message might
conceivably be a source of anxiety to Anthony and had very sensibly
endeavored to allay possible fears by the injunction not to worry. It
was simply a question now of waiting for the promised ring and hearing
what Peter had to tell him. Meanwhile he would seek the seclusion of
an easy chair, fill his pipe, and concentrate on the secret of the
screens. “The riddle cannot be read from one of the twain—alone.” As
far as he could see only the screen stolen from Stewart’s museum room
contained anything in the nature of a message. “_Timeo Danaos_,” he
reflected. “‘I fear the Greeks’—once again, ‘why the Greeks’?” His
mind went back to his Uppingham days and groped for the Virgil
context. He was delighted to find that his memory didn’t fail him.
“_Quid quid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes, sic fatus validis
ingentem viribus hastam_” . . . what the blazes came next—anyhow it
didn’t matter much that was evident—none of it seemed to have any
intelligent bearing on Thibaut Girardier . . . yet he had put “_Timeo
Danaos_” on the one screen . . . what was it Daventry had said was on
the other . . . the two would have to be taken together if any sense
was to be knocked out of them . . . those animals . . . he could
understand the Lion, and the Leopards . . . and the fleur-de-lis . . .
why the devil was the Fish there . . . he had read enough that morning
to authenticate most of it . . . but that Fish . . . “I fear the
Greeks” . . . what was that he had read . . . The telephone bell rang
peremptorily. He lifted the receiver. “Speaking, Daventry! What is
it?”