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THE
BILLIARD ROOM
MYSTERY
BY
BRIAN FLYNN
[Illustration: Decorative glyph]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
BRIAN FLYNN MYSTERIES
THE CASE OF THE BLACK TWENTY-TWO
THE BILLIARD ROOM MYSTERY
FIRST PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES,
OCTOBER, 1929
_Manufactured in the U. S. A._
CONTENTS
I Mr. Bathurst as an Aid to Memory 9
II In the Billiard Room 21
III Mr. Bathurst and the Bed-clothes 31
IV Under the Billiard Room Window 43
V The Methods of Inspector Baddeley 56
VI Lieutenant Barker Attempts to Remember 69
VII Lady Considine Complicates Matters 83
VIII Mr. Bathurst Has a Memory for Faces 96
IX Mr. Bathurst Calls Upon the Postmistress 110
X Walk into My Parlor 124
XI What Was Found on the "Spider" 138
XII Major Hornby and the Venetian Dagger 147
XIII Mr. Bathurst Pots the Red 162
XIV Mary Consults Mr. Bathurst 176
XV Mr. Bathurst Takes His Second Look--with Mr. Cunningham's
Assistance 190
XVI The Inquest 204
XVII Inspector Baddeley Puts His Cards on the Table 218
XVIII Mr. Bathurst Partially Emulates His Example 229
XIX Mr. Bathurst's Wonderful Sympathy 237
XX Mary Receives Her Second Proposal 246
XXI Mr. Bathurst Waves His Hand 255
XXII Mr. Bathurst Reminiscent 261
_The_
BILLIARD ROOM
_Mystery_
CHAPTER I
MR. BATHURST AS AN AID TO MEMORY
Seeing Bathurst this evening, after a lapse of eight years, has given me
a most insistent inclination to set down, for the first time, the real
facts of that _cause célèbre_, that was called by the Press at the time,
the "Billiard Room Mystery." Considering the length of the interval, and
regarding the whole affair from every possible point of view, it is
sufficiently plain to me that an authentic history of the case can harm
nobody and can prejudice no interests. I therefore succumb to the
temptation, serenely confident that, no matter what shortcomings there
may be in the telling, the affair itself as a whole, is entitled to rank
as one of the most baffling in the annals of criminology.
Inasmuch as I was a member of the audience to-night at a private
theatrical performance and Anthony Bathurst was playing lead for the
company (amateur of course) that was entertaining us, I had no
opportunity for conversation with him, but I am certain that had I had
this opportunity, I should have found that his brain had lost none of
its cunning and that his uncanny gifts for deduction, inference, and
intuition, were unimpaired. These powers allied to a masterly memory for
detail and to an unusual athleticism of body, separated him from the
majority--wherever he was, he always counted--one acknowledged
instinctively his mental supremacy--he was a personality always and
everywhere. A tall, lithe body with that poised balance of movement that
betrays the able player of all ball games, his clean-cut, clean-shaven
face carried a mobile, sensitive mouth and grey eyes. Remarkable eyes
that seemed to apprehend and absorb at a sweep every detail about you
that was worth apprehending. A man's man, and, at the same time, a
ladies' man. For when he chose, he was hard to resist, I assure you.
Such, eight years ago, was Anthony Lotherington Bathurst, and such had
he promised to be from comparative immaturity, for he had been with me
at Uppingham, and afterwards at Oxford.
Which latter fact goes to the prime reason of my being at Considine
Manor in the last week of July of the year of the tragedy.
At Oxford we had both grown very pally with Jack Considine, eldest son
of Sir Charles Considine, of Considine Manor, Sussex, and although
Bathurst had to a certain extent fallen away from the closest relations
of the friendship, Jack and I were bosom companions, and it became my
custom each year, when the 'Varsity came down, to spend a week at
Considine Manor, and to take part in Sir Charles' Cricket Week. For I
was a fairly useful member, and had been on the fringe of the 'Varsity
Eleven; indeed many excellent judges were of the opinion that Prescott,
who had been given the last place, was an inferior man. But of that,
more later.
Bathurst never took his 'Varsity cricket seriously enough. Had he done
so he would probably have skippered England--he's the kind that
distinguishes whatever he sets his hand to--but it was cricket that took
me to Considine Manor, and it was cricket that took both Prescott and
Bathurst--but not in the same direction.
Sir Charles that year was particularly anxious to have a good
team--which got Prescott his invitation. An invitation that he had
certainly not lingered over accepting. For he had met Mary Considine at
Twickenham the previous autumn, and had improved upon that
acquaintanceship at Lords' in the first week of July. Mary was the third
and youngest child, Jack coming between her and her sister, Helen, who
had married a Captain Arkwright--a big, bluff Dragoon. Now whatever
Prescott's feelings may have been towards Mary, I had no idea then, what
hers were to him. Decidedly, I have no idea now; I can only surmise. But
Mary Considine with her birth, her breeding and her beauty was a peach
of peaches. She had grace, she had charm, and a pair of heavy-lashed,
Parma violet eyes that sent all a man's good resolutions to the four
winds of heaven and to my mind at least, it was something like
presumption on Prescott's part to lift his eyes to her. Still that was
only my opinion. As I said, what encouragement he received I have little
knowledge of.
The Cricket Week passed off comparatively uneventfully. The first three
one-day games--I forget whom against, except one against the
"Incogs"--were relatively unimportant. That is, to Sir Charles! His
_pièce de résistance_ was always kept for the Thursday and Friday, the
last two days of the week. Then came the hardy annual--Sir Charles
Considine's Eleven, versus "The Uppingham Rovers." Prior to this last
game I had failed lamentably, my bag being 3, 7 and a couple of
balloons. Two of the days were wet and real cricket out of the question.
Prescott had a lot of luck and got a couple of centuries and a 70 odd in
four times. Which of course gave him a good conceit of himself.
"Bill," said Mary to me on the Thursday morning, "I do hope you see them
all right to-day--Gerry Prescott's getting a bit of 'roll' on, charming
man though he be."
I finished my fourth egg and remarked, "Thanks, Mary--I'll have a good
try, but I don't seem able to do anything right lately--still my luck
must turn before long. Thanks again." She slipped over to the sideboard
and helped herself to some Kedgeree--smiled--and then replied, "I think
it will--_to-day_." The rest of the crowd then joined us--Jack, Gerry
Prescott, Helen and Dick Arkwright, Sir Charles and Lady Considine,
three boys from the 'Varsity, Tennant, Daventry and Robertson, and two
Service men, friends of Arkwright, Major Hornby and Lieutenant
Barker--the last five all pretty decent cricketers--the rest of the
eleven being recruited from the Manor staff.
It was, I remember, a perfectly glorious summer morning. One's thoughts
instinctively flew to the whirr of the mowing machine and a real plumb
wicket. The insects hummed in the sun, and there was a murmur of bees
that gave everybody a feeling that an English summer morning in Sussex
could give anything in Creation a start and a beating.
"Toppin' mornin'--what?" said Prescott. "Feel like gettin' some more
to-day, if we bat."
"You won't," said Dick Arkwright. "You'll field, and this big brute of a
Bill can get rid of some of his disgraceful paunch. He hasn't had much
exercise all the week. Exceptin' of course walkin' back to the
pavilion."
"Feeling funny, aren't you?" I sallied back. "And as for 'big brutes'
and 'paunches,' neither you nor Prescott has a lot to telegraph home
about."
Actually I was about a couple of inches taller than either of them and
decidedly heavier.
"Anybody of the old crowd playing for the Rovers, Jack?" queried Helen.
"Don't know, haven't seen the team yet."
Daventry, I think, handed the _Sporting Life_ to the two girls. They
scanned the names.
"Only Toby Purkiss and Vernon Hurst that we know," from Mary. "What a
pity."
"I am very keen on winning," boomed Sir Charles. "Very, very keen. We
haven't beaten the Rovers for more years than I care to--ah--remember. I
spoke seriously to Briggs this morning about it. And I may say, here and
now, Tennant--Daventry--I trust without offence, that I viewed with some
disfavor your late retirement last night. You were very late getting to
bed. I am willing to concede that Auction Bridge has a fascination----"
"That's all right, Governor," said Jack. "They're just infants--stand
anything. Think what a tough bird you were at their age."
"Perfectly true. I remember the night I----"
"As long as you can remember it, you can't have been so bad, sir," said
Daventry.
Lady Considine smiled.
"Would you like me to stop Auction in the evening, till the week is
over, dear?" she said. "You never seem to win anything."
"As a matter of fact, Marion--I have been most unusually successful; and
I have no wish to--er--interfere with others' pleasure."
"Thanks, Father. For we don't all play cricket."
"No, Helen, that's so."
"Seems to me, Governor, it takes age and judgment to play really good
Auction."
"Thank you, Arkwright. You have keen powers of observance."
The clock chimed ten.
"Gracious," said Mary, "I promised to help get the big marquee ready."
She flew off. Very shortly the breakfast party withdrew entirely, the
ladies to the selection of appropriate raiment, the men who were
playing, to get ready.
I was late getting down to the field and had no sooner arrived than up
came Sir Charles.
"Fielding, Bill!" He guessed right. "Know you're pleased!" he grinned.
"Of course--just what I expected! It'll rain in the night."
The first wicket put on a few runs and I was chatting to Robertson and
Jack Considine while we were waiting for the next man.
"Good Lord," I heard from behind me.
I turned.
Strolling in, nonchalantly adjusting his left-hand glove, was the very
last person I expected to see there--Anthony Bathurst.
"Bless you, Bill," he smiled. "Seeing you is a reward in itself."
"But I had no idea----"
"What on earth?" queried Jack.
"Tell you later," grinned Anthony; "Umpire, Middle and leg, if you
please."
He didn't get a lot. But when we got into lunch he told us that Hurst
had cried off from the game, developed measles or spotted fever or
something, and he had been roped in, being handy. He was staying near
Bramber and going on to Canterbury for the "Old Stagers." Angus McKinnel
and Gerry Crookley were great chums of his, and as the entertainments of
Canterbury Week were in their hands as usual, they had been only too
glad for him to help them.
Everybody, of course, was delighted, for Considine Manor had heard much
of Anthony Bathurst from both Jack and me.
Sir Charles immediately issued an invitation.
"Stay on, my dear fellow! I shall be charmed, I assure you. Stay till
the Bank Holiday--then motor over."
"Thanks, I will. It's good of you." Anthony accepted the offer.
Thus, it was that the Friday evening saw Anthony still at Considine
Manor, and the stage set for what happened subsequently. When I reached
the drawing-room that night I had a fit of the blues. The game had ended
in a draw and once again, I had not reached double figures. Prescott had
got another 50 odd and, in the opinion of most, had saved our side from
a beating. Conversation was desultory as it had been at dinner.
As usual most of them were listening attentively to Anthony Bathurst. He
was well launched on a theme that I had heard him discuss many a time
before in his rooms at Oxford. "The Detective in Modern Fiction." It was
a favorite topic of his and like everything that aroused his interest,
he knew it thoroughly--backwards, forwards, and inside out.
I caught his words as I entered the room.
"Oh--I admit it quite cheerfully--I look forward tremendously to a
really good thriller. I'm intrigued utterly by a title like 'The Stain
on the Linoleum.' But, there you are, really good detective stories are
rare."
"You think so?" interjected Major Hornby, "what about those French
Johnnies, Gaboriau and Du Boisgobey?"
"Like the immortal Holmes," replied Anthony, "I have the greatest
contempt for Lecoq. Poe's 'Dupin' wasn't so bad, but the majority----"
"You admire Holmes?"
"Yes, Mr. Arkwright, I do! That is to say--the pre-war Holmes!"
"You don't admit that his key is always made to fit his lock?"
"Of course," replied Anthony, "that must be so! But he deduces--he
reasons--and thereby constructs. The others, so many of them, depend for
success on amazing coincidences and things of that nature."
"You think Holmes stands alone?" queried Mary.
"Not altogether, Miss Considine, as I've often told Bill Cunningham." He
turned to me, "Mason's _M. Hanaud_, Bentley's _Trent_, Milne's _Mr.
Gillingham_, and to a lesser degree perhaps, Agatha Christie's _M.
Poirot_ are all excellent in their way, but oh!--the many dozens that
aren't."
"I could mention three others," said Jack Considine.
"Yes? Who are they?"
"Bernard Capes' 'Baron' of _The Skeleton Key_, Chesterton's _Father
Brown_, and H. C. Bailey's _Reginald Fortune_."
"I am willing to accept two," said Anthony, "but _Father Brown_--no.
He's too entirely 'Chestertonian.' He deduces that the dustman was the
murderer because of the shape of the piece that had been cut from the
apple-pie. I can't quite get him."
The company laughed merrily.
"Ah, Mr. Bathurst," remarked Sir Charles. "There is a great gulf between
fiction and real life. Give me Scotland Yard every time."
"I am ready to. Scotland Yard is a remarkably efficient
organization--but----"
"Well, Sir Charles, I think this! Give me a fair start with Scotland
Yard, and its resources to call upon, if necessary, and I'll wager on my
results."
"What about that trumpeter?" from Gerry Prescott.
"Never mind that. I was asked for my opinion and I gave it."
"In the event of your being on the spot at a murder case, then, you
consider that you would solve the mystery quicker than trained men?"
"Under equal conditions, yes, Captain Arkwright! Again, what is a
trained man? I am a trained man. I've trained myself to observe and to
remember."
Here, Lady Considine interrupted with "Pardon me, Mr. Bathurst. But
these girls won't sleep if you keep on discussing murders. Besides, Sir
Charles wants his game of Auction."
Two tables started, the military party playing solo. And gradually the
hum of conversation subsided as the games got under way. Helen Arkwright
played while her sister sang. Jack Considine and Anthony went into the
garden to smoke cigars. I stayed and watched the cards. Prescott won
steadily from most of them, but from Lieutenant Barker chiefly. And when
after a time, I saw a look of more than ordinary chagrin pass over the
latter's face and following that, an I.O.U. handed across the table to
Prescott, I felt that they had played long enough. For neither Sir
Charles nor Lady Considine cared for such happenings as that. So at
eleven-forty or thereabouts, I suggested they stop.
The others assented readily.
"I'm for bed," I said, "after just one 'spot'!"
I walked to the French windows that commanded the garden and looked out.
The rain that had come on just before seven, had ceased and there was a
moon with a sparkling retinue of stars.
I swallowed my whisky.
"Good-night, you fellows."
"Good-night, Bill!"
At the foot of the staircase just in the shadow of the heavy banisters,
I passed Prescott and Barker, deep in conversation. The conversation
stopped as I approached.
"Coming to bed?" I interrogated.
"Not yet," replied Prescott. "Time's young yet. Besides I have----"
I didn't wait for his sentence to be finished.
Our bedrooms were on the second floor--seven of them in a row along a
long corridor that ran the length of the house. All the men were
together. Jack was in the biggest--the first--that night he was sharing
with Anthony--then came in order, Daventry and Robertson together in No.
2, Hornby, Prescott, Tennant, myself, and Barker last. On the first
floor was the billiard room, directly facing the stairs as you ascended,
and the bedrooms of the other members of the family.
Each one of the bedrooms on the second floor was fitted with a bathroom
and shower. There was a connecting door in each room, leading to the
bath. This connecting door in each instance faced the door of the
bedroom opening out on to the corridor. It was a fancy of Sir Charles
Considine, this, and much appreciated by all those privileged to enjoy
the hospitality of Considine Manor. I shall never forget that night.
I slept but little, a most unusual state of affairs for me.
I was strangely uneasy, and it was not till close on five o'clock that I
fell into a doze.
And if I never forget that night, I shall never forget the memory that
followed it!
For I was awakened by a piercing scream that echoed and reëchoed through
the house. It came from the floor below!
"Murder! Murder! Help! Help! Murder!"