Mr. Bathurst Baits the Hook
The inquest that afternoon took its course as Inspector Goodall had
foreshadowed. Formal identification of the body was taken by the
Coroner, and almost immediately afterwards, Sergeant Clegg asked for
an adjournment. The Coroner granted the Sergeant’s request without
demur. Goodall attended—he told Anthony that he always made a special
point of attending inquests—he had more than once during his career
picked up an hitherto elusive trail from some unexpected turn an
inquest had taken, and he also liked to have a good look at all the
people who made it their business to be present—but Peter stayed in
the house with Anthony. The latter’s first remark after lunch was
surprising. “What daily papers come to Assynton Lodge, Daventry, any
idea?”
“You bet I have,” replied Peter. “I was only too glad of them during
my enforced term of Sentinel-in-Chief—‘The Times,’ ‘The Telegraph,’
and ‘The Morning Post’—also a financial paper of some kind—I didn’t
look at it.”
“Good,” said Anthony—it flashed through his mind that Goodall had
never informed him whether the “Telegraph” for the 30th ultimo had
afforded him any special information. He would have to ask him that
when he came in.
“Tell me,” said Peter, “I haven’t had a chance of speaking to you
quietly—how did you get on—what are the latest developments—what’s
been doing?”
“Matters have gone very well,” rejoined Anthony. “There is still one
little point upon which I am not yet quite clear, but I hope to clear
that up before many hours have passed. I also wish to amend with all
apologies a statement that I made—rather carelessly perhaps—to you!”
He swung one leg over the other and clasped the knee with his two
hands. “I told you, Daventry, that I would introduce the police to the
murderer of Mason the night-watchman—and you yourself to the murderer
of Laurence P. Stewart! I was wrong!” He paused, and Peter looked up!
What had gone wrong to cause Anthony Bathurst to retract a statement
like that? Disillusionment on that score came quickly. “I was wrong,”
repeated Anthony, “inasmuch as I shall have the pleasure, my dear
Daventry, of introducing _you to both murderers_.”
“I’m sure I shall be charmed,” murmured Peter, responsively. “But
before that happens I should like to be enlightened a bit. What do you
make of that wretched will?”
“You shall see, Daventry,” responded Anthony, ignoring the last
question, “my final plans are not quite complete—they will be
to-night—when they are—you shall know more. I shall have to take
Goodall into my confidence, too—I’ve promised him as much.” His words
coincided with the sound of the latter’s voice outside the door.
Anthony went to the door and beckoned to him. The Inspector came,
scratching his head thoughtfully.
“That will—Mr. Bathurst! You must have noticed how young Stewart kept
away from it all the time during lunch—yet I’ll swear it was the only
thing that he was really thinking about. I can’t help feeling that
that will contains the key to the whole business!” He made the
statement emphatically, and watched Anthony’s face carefully to see
the effect of his words.
But Mr. Bathurst’s face remained impassive. “What do you think,
yourself?” persisted Goodall—definitely putting the opinion to the
test.
“I think it certainly had something to do with the _second_ murder,”
conceded Anthony. “But possibly not altogether in the way you think.”
He turned the subject. “What about that Personal message in the
‘Telegraph,’ Goodall? You never told me what you made of it.”
The Inspector fished out a newspaper cutting. “I certainly must
congratulate you again over that, Mr. Bathurst,” he declared. “The
telephone number mentioned is assuredly that of Blanchard’s
Hotel—though I don’t altogether see how you got on to it—the ‘M. S.’
_could_ also be linked up with the affair to read ‘Mary Stuart,’ but
even there——”
Anthony cut in. “I was actually looking for something of the sort,” he
confessed. “I had thought previously that the ‘Agony Column’ might
very probably prove to be one of their most likely means of
communication! The combination of ‘M. S.’ and ‘Both-well’ was too
strong a coincidence to be passed over without investigation.” He
paused to see how the Inspector would take this last remark.
Goodall’s eyes opened! “Well, I’m blessed,” he exclaimed. “I see now
what you mean—I’m afraid I missed the second point—that was real smart
now.”
Peter held out his hand for the paragraph, which he read with
interest. Interest which was all the more intense on account of the
explanation that had preceded it. Anthony’s next words brought both
him and the Inspector to a keener alertness. “Make sure your
revolver’s in working order, Daventry, and you, Inspector, keep those
handcuffs close to you. I sha’n’t ask you to wait very much longer
now. I want to have a chat with Stewart this evening before the
funeral to-morrow morning—then all we shall have to do will be to
await events. Somehow I don’t think we shall be kept in suspense very
long. Our birds are a bit impatient _now_ I fancy.” The door opened
suddenly to admit Morgan Llewellyn.
“You’re wanted on the telephone, Inspector Goodall,” he announced. “In
the hall.” Goodall disappeared quickly.
Anthony motioned to Peter to await his return. Five minutes saw the
Inspector back. “From the ‘Yard,’ gentlemen! In answer to the inquiry
I put through at your instigation, Mr. Bathurst. New York has sent a
message through that I fancy identifies our ‘Mr. Laurence C. Stewart
the second’ of Blanchard’s Hotel and the Hanover Galleries. In the
opinion of the New York Police, he’s no less a person than ‘Snoop’
Mortimer—otherwise known as ‘Flash Alf’—they’ve been after him for
months in connection with some very cute jobs over the other side—he
slipped out of the country about a month ago—they’re pretty certain
that he’s our man.”
Goodall’s manner was becoming more jaunty—he felt he was “getting
hold” at last. Anthony weighed the information over in his mind. It
tallied with what he had been expecting. She had met him in New
York—no doubt—when Stewart had moved there from Washington. That would
account for the entry of Mr. Mortimer into the cast. “Is Mr. Charles
Stewart back yet, Inspector?”
“He should be by now, Mr. Bathurst. I left him talking to Mr.
Llewellyn—but no doubt he came up by car. Very likely he passed me on
the road—I walked up.”
Anthony nodded in an understanding manner. “I’m going to see him—you
stay and talk to the Inspector—Daventry!”
The two latter looked at each other in some amusement as Anthony
slipped from the room. “He’s actually arranging my amusements now,”
commented Goodall ruefully. “I shall be thundering glad when we clear
the decks for action.”
Anthony found Charles Stewart in Llewellyn’s room—the secretary was
busy writing. He glanced at Stewart, who rose to greet him. “I hadn’t
forgotten I promised to have a word with you, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll come
along now.” He pushed some papers into his pocket and accompanied
Anthony down the corridor. “In the library?” he suggested.
Anthony declined. “Daventry and Inspector Goodall are in there—come in
the Museum Room—is it unlocked?”
Stewart pushed open the door of the room in question and waved Anthony
to a seat. He chose a Chippendale chair—his host followed his example.
Anthony cut no time to waste and speedily got to grips with what he
wanted to do.
“Mr. Stewart,” he said, leaning across with a mixture of interest and
sympathy, “I am going to ask you one or two more questions that
possibly may border upon the personal. You will, I am sure, pardon any
seeming directness—but I am _nearing the end of my case_, and I wish
to handle all the facts firmly and confidently.”
Stewart’s cheeks flushed quickly. “I don’t quite understand——”
Anthony extended a protesting hand. “I think you will. Who is the lady
you wish to marry?”
Stewart half rose in his chair. Then he sank back, as though resigned
to anything that might come next.
“I think I am able, Mr. Stewart,” continued Anthony, “to put my finger
on the subject of the interview that you had with your father, not
long before he was killed—it concerned a lady—the lady you are
desirous of marrying—who is she?”
Stewart’s emotion got the better of him for a brief period. Then he
made a big effort and succeeded in pulling himself together. “That’s
been one of the hardest things I’ve had to bear, Mr. Bathurst,” he
stated. “The thought that my last words with my father had been bitter
ones. Ever since that awful morning when I realized that I should
never speak to him again—that I should never again hear his voice
speaking to me, that thought haunted me—every moment almost. And
another thought has accompanied it. This! If by any miracle I could
bring my father back to life and have that interview over again, I
don’t see that I could conscientiously end it or even carry it on, in
any other way.” He looked pathetically at Anthony.
“You have my very profound sympathy, Mr. Stewart. But you mustn’t
upset yourself needlessly. Tell me all about it.” He put his arm on
the young man’s shoulder. Stewart drew his hand across his forehead
and tossed his hair back from his brow.
“Well, of course, Mr. Bathurst, you have been able to see, from what
Ferguson has told us to-day—exactly how the land lay. My father was
fond of me as a man is of his only son, but he was also passionately
attached to Marjorie—Miss Lennox! I think, perhaps, he was the type of
man that prefers girls to boys, and although she was his ward—he
always regarded her as a daughter. _More_ than as a daughter.” He
brought his fist down in the palm of his other hand. “_More_—because
he cherished the idea that one day she and I would marry. But I don’t
think either of us care for the other in that way. We’ve always been
tremendous pals and all that—but there it ended! Somehow we didn’t
want to marry. I’m speaking more for myself than I possibly can for
Marjorie—naturally—but I don’t think she has ever wanted to marry me
any more than I have ever wanted to marry her. How the idea obsessed
my father’s mind you can judge after hearing what Ferguson told us
with regard to his will. My father couldn’t bear to be thwarted in
anything.” He stopped, and once again the color flaunted its red
banner in his cheeks. “Soon after we came to Assynton, I met a lady to
whom I was instantly attracted, and now I am very happy to say there
is a complete understanding between us. She is a Miss Rosemary
Armitage, of ‘The Towers’—seven miles from here. I had been playing
tennis there the night Colonel Leach-Fletcher dined with my father. I
don’t know if anything was said during the evening, but when the
Colonel went, my father sent for me and in his own words—‘had it out
with me.’ He had heard of my admiration for Miss Armitage and it had
upset him.”
“What time was that?” interjected Anthony.
“At a quarter-past ten—I looked at my wrist-watch as I entered the
library! I wondered what it was my father wanted to see me about so
late—he sent for me—you see.”
Anthony thought for a second. “That leaves a quarter of an hour
between the Colonel’s departure and his sending for you. Whom did he
send for you?”
“Marjorie,” replied Stewart listlessly.
“Miss Lennox has made no mention, as far as my knowledge and memory
go, of having been in here after Colonel Leach-Fletcher went. Yet I am
certain she came in, and I am equally certain of the reason that
brought her. When she left your father, he sent her to fetch you.”
Anthony made this statement very confidently and went straight on to
invest it with more significance. “It was _because_ of what Miss
Lennox told your father that he _immediately_ sent for you—she went to
him to complain of the lover-like attentions of his secretary.”
“Of course,” burst out Stewart, “you can’t be sure of that—you’re
speculating somewhat, aren’t you?”
“On the contrary, Mr. Stewart,” came Anthony’s reply, “I have been
able to obtain conclusive proof of what I have just said!”
“What sort of proof?” demanded Stewart.
“Proof about which there isn’t a shadow of a doubt—_proof in Morgan
Llewellyn’s own handwriting_.”
Stewart let a look of complete astonishment pass over his face.
“Honestly, I hadn’t the least idea.”
“I don’t suppose you had! Now I want to talk about another matter. And
I want you to give me your absolute confidence again, and eventually,
your entire obedience. I want this house to be shut up after to-morrow
morning’s ceremony!”
“What?” muttered Stewart.
Anthony leaned over to him and spoke in very quiet tones.
“I want you to announce this evening to all your staff that Assynton
Lodge is to be left empty from say to-morrow midday. Tell Llewellyn to
take a month’s leave—tell all the servants the same thing. Send Miss
Lennox to friends or to an hotel in town, and tell her you will join
her in a few days. I shall want you with me. Let Colonel
Leach-Fletcher know—let the whole world know—make it as public as you
possibly can—and leave the place as soon as is convenient to you,
to-morrow afternoon.”
Stewart looked dumbfounded. “But I must leave somebody here. How about
all the valuables—I shouldn’t care to lose them all.”
Anthony considered the point that he raised. “I see your point. Very
well, then—leave Butterworth and his wife here—he’s the best to stay
behind—_but nobody else_!”
Stewart still looked at him in amazement. “Where am I to go myself?”
he questioned.
“I’ll tell you to-morrow midday,” answered Anthony. “Meanwhile will
you do as I suggest?”
Stewart’s answer came a trifle wearily. “I’ve placed myself in your
hands, Mr. Bathurst—I must be content to leave the matter entirely to
you.” Then he seemed to think of something. “What about Mr. Daventry
and Inspector Goodall?”
“Leave them to me—and answer me one more question. When your father
had that interview with you—did he by any chance mention to you the
peculiar provisions of his will?”
Stewart hesitated for just the fraction of a second before his answer
came. “Certainly not, Mr. Bathurst—when Ferguson told me the
provisions of the will this morning nobody was more surprised than I.
My father was angry at my not falling in with this supreme desire of
his—furiously angry I may say! He so far forgot himself to say things
about Miss Armitage which were as absurd as they were untrue, to
anybody that knew her—he even threatened me in a way—a vague sort of
way. But——”
“How do you mean?” interrupted Anthony abruptly. “How did he threaten
you?”
Stewart gnawed at his lower lip. “As I said—vaguely! That it would be
the worse for me if I persisted in acting in opposition to his
wishes—just that—nothing more. Why do you ask?”
“The point occurred to me—that’s all—go on!”
“Well—that’s all,” concluded Stewart. “The word ‘will’ was never
mentioned—I left my father hoping that he would cool down and see
things eventually from my point of view—and Marjorie’s.”
“When Miss Lennox came to tell you your father wanted you, did she
seem upset or distressed at all?”
Stewart reflected for a second or two. “No,” he declared. “But I’ll
tell you what I did notice about her—her cheeks were very flushed—as
though she were laboring under great excitement—I certainly did notice
that.”
Anthony rose and walked across to one of the tables. He picked up a
dainty piece of glass—almost gossamer-like in its texture and quality.
“You understand, don’t you? I want that announcement about closing the
house up to be made _to-night_. Inform all the servants—arrange with
Llewellyn and Miss Lennox on the lines that I suggested—see
Butterworth about taking charge during the time you will be
away—’phone Colonel Leach-Fletcher—in short make all the necessary
arrangements as soon as possible. If it could be managed—don’t come
back to the house after the funeral. What a lovely piece of glass this
is!” He rang his finger nail against its edge.
“Very well,” said Stewart. “I will do exactly as you wish.”
“I’m obliged,” returned Anthony. He walked to the door—then stopped
and looked back at Stewart. “By the way,” he exclaimed, “would you
kindly arrange for me to have a word with young O’Connor before he
goes for his unexpected month’s holiday?”