MR. BATHURST HAS A MEMORY FOR FACES
Baddeley and Roper sprang to her assistance. The rest of us looked at
Anthony with bewilderment.
"An elementary piece of reasoning," he said, apologetically. "In fact,
upon reflection, Inspector Baddeley takes more honors than I."
Baddeley who was doing his best to bring Marshall round, looked up and
waved away the compliment. "I missed my chance," he said.
"You will remember that when our friend here"--Anthony indicated the
Inspector--"arrived on the scene, he saw the open window--and
immediately had a look at it. I was watching him, and by one of those
rare chances of observation, I noticed that something had attracted his
sense of smell--he sniffed. And apparently although he detected
something--he wasn't quite satisfied as to what it really was. I
followed him up--I've a good nasal organ"--he rubbed it humorously--"and
I was able to detect round the windows and also round the window-sill, a
faint aroma--pungent--faintly spicy. I suddenly deduced furniture
polish--you all know the smell. Marshall uses gloves every morning when
she wields the cloth with the polish on; you can well imagine how
thoroughly impregnated they are with the odor. When she saw Prescott's
body--I said to myself--she rushed to this window and opened it--she
leaned out--she placed her gloved hands on the sill--why? And then,
gentlemen, I was lucky. Adhering to the wooden top of the window
frame--the part under which she had placed her finger-tips to push up
the window, was a tiny pink fleck of Ronuk floor polish. It had come off
the glove. Now--why did she open the window?"
"Is it a crime to open a window?" The interruption came from Marshall
herself. She walked unsteadily to a chair. "I've listened to part of
what you've said. Are you going to 'ang me for opening a window?"
"You admit you did open it, then?" urged Baddeley. "Why did you lie
about it?"
Marshall eyed him fiercely.
"Why did you open it?" he rapped out.
"I forgot about it! What with all your questions and all your
cross-questionin' it just slipped my mind. That was why."
"You haven't answered the Inspector's question," remarked Anthony. "Why
did you open it?"
"For a breath of air. Seeing that corpse and that dagger fair frightened
me it did. I was struck all of a 'eap. Thought I was goin' to faint, I
did. My first thought was air--air. So I rushed to the window--then I
screamed."
"I see," snapped Baddeley, threateningly. "You were playing to
orders--open window first, then scream--eh? Who told you to do that?"
"What d'ye mean?" she exclaimed defiantly. "Who told me! Nobody--I'm
tellin' the truth, I am."
"The truth," cried Baddeley incredulously. "You aren't on speaking terms
with it. Who told you? Come on out with it. It will go all the worse
with you, if you don't."
"I can't tell you no more than what I 'ave," persisted Marshall. "Seeing
that corpse on the table was as big a surprise to me as it was to you.
And what's more, you 'aven't no right to keep me 'ere."
Baddeley shrugged his shoulders.
"In a few hours' time you'll wish you'd told me the truth, my girl," he
said. "Get along now, and don't play any tricks."
Marshall made her exit, sullen and defiant. But she was afraid of
something I felt sure.
"May I use your telephone, Sir Charles? Thank you. I'll get on to the
Superintendent to send a couple more men up here. Marshall is worth
watching."
"Very well, Inspector."
"And I won't trouble to see Mrs. Arkwright or Miss Considine now--or the
other servants. I'll make a point of seeing them alone, later ... will
that suit you, Sir Charles? ... this latest development has made a big
difference. Come along, Roper."
They bustled out. Anthony linked his arm in mine. "We'll have a little
lunch, Bill, first, and then I'm going to smoke a pipe in the garden ...
there's something hammering at my brain that I can't properly get hold
of.... I must be suffering from senile decay or something. A little good
food and better drink may stimulate me. It sometimes happens."
Lunch over, we adjourned to the garden.
"A deck-chair and a pipe, Bill--I find very useful adjuncts to clear
thinking."
"Has that inspiration come to you yet?" I queried.
"No, Bill--but it will, laddie--don't you fret!"
"What's Baddeley going to do?" I asked. "Arrest Marshall?"
"What for--murder?"
"Well, she seems to know something about it--_you_ ought to think so,
you bowled her over."
"H'm--do you quite know where we are, Bill? Let me run over things for
you. Come and sit at the feet of Gamaliel.
"Well, first of all there's the question of motive. Find the motive, say
the Big Noises and you'll find the murderer."
"What about Lady Considine's jewels? ..." I broke in.
"Yes, they do complicate things a bit, don't they? Still, they supply a
motive! Prescott may have been murdered by the thief ... dead men tell
no tales. But there are other people with a motive ... there's Barker,"
he went on thoughtfully, "possibly Hornby ... these are the known
motives, what about the unknown--eh?"
"The whole thing seems so damned labyrinthine to me," I muttered.
Anthony assented. "Clear as Thames mud, isn't it? But it won't be a bad
idea if we sit down and collect our evidence. What do we know as opposed
to what we conjecture?" He emphasized the points with his pipe on his
finger-tips.
"(a) That when Marshall saw the body--she rushed to the window and
opened it.
"(b) That Jack Considine thinks he heard a door shutting during the
night.
"(c) That Dick Arkwright (who is supported in this by his wife or says
he is), heard footsteps in the garden.
"(d) That Barker's I.O.U. is missing. Baddeley says so!
"(e) That the murder was premeditated."
I started. "How do you know that?" I demanded.
"The lace was removed from Prescott's shoe, my dear Bill. If the murder
were one of sudden passion, you wouldn't say 'lend me your shoe while I
take out the lace.'"
"Of course," I conceded. "I should have thought."
"Let's get on! Where were we?...
"(f) That Prescott appears to have crossed the rose-bed under the
billiard room window some time between seven and his death.
"(g) That somebody else did, too--at some time after seven.
"(h) That the Venetian dagger or the poker found on the billiard room
floor shows finger-prints."
"What?" I yelled. "How the devil do you deduce that? You haven't
examined them! You haven't looked at either of them enough to know
that."
He grinned. "William, my lad, you won't always have me to hold your
little hand. Didn't you tumble to Baddeley's game with the letter?"
"What letter?"
"The letter he asked us to identify. That was for finger-prints, old son
... he'd prepared it in the usual way ... he's got excellent prints of
you and me. And of the others." He chuckled. "He had at least two
letters he was handing round."
"Why?" I asked.
"He was probably taking three or four people to one letter. Roper was
marking them as we fingered them. Roper wrote them while we were in the
garden." He chuckled again. "That was how I spotted it."
"How?"
"You remember they were torn, don't you, where the signature should have
been ... well, the first two tears I saw, didn't exactly coincide in
shape ... see ... that was what I looked at when Baddeley was asking
Jack Considine ... it's deuced hard, Bill, to tear things exactly
similarly. Torn, that is, in the way they were torn. He probably used a
third letter later on ... but I wasn't concerned with that."
"Good Lord," I groaned, "and I never knew."
"I'm now proceeding with the last of things _we_ know," continued
Anthony.
"(i) That Lady Considine has lost her pearls. Anything else? I think
not! I think that just about exhausts what we know."
"Prescott was robbed too," I ventured.
"Of how much, Bill?--nobody knows."
I saw his point. Then I broached a matter over which I had felt very
curious.
"You told me this morning, after we had been first called to the
billiard room that you had three distinct clues--two I think you said,
in Group A and one in Group B. What were they?"
"Hasten slowly, William. Hasten slowly. I'll meet you half-way. The clue
in Group B was my little triumph that resulted in the discomfiture of
Mademoiselle Marshall."
"And the other two?" I persisted eagerly.
"The other two, Bill, are now three. But I haven't developed them
properly yet. There's a missing link, somewhere, and until I get it, I'm
floundering a bit. What do you make of Marshall?"
"Well," I answered doubtfully--"I think she's afraid of something."
He knocked the ash out of his pipe.
"I'm curious about Marshall--she knows something she hasn't
divulged--why did she open that window? Tell me that."
"How about Baddeley's theory?" I put in.
"What? Acting under instructions? Open the window--then scream?" He
shook his head. "Don't think so--somehow."
"Do you know, Bill" ... he went on, "Senorita Marshall's face haunts me
rather. I can't get away from it."
"Love at first sight," I chaffed. "All good detectives do it ... think
of Irene Adler."
"No--not that, Bill. Not in that way. It's a different feeling
altogether. I can't forget it ... because I can't place it.... I seem to
have seen it before somehow. The question is _where_?"
"The Eton and Harrow match at Lords'," I suggested sarcastically.
"Don't be an ass. Lords'! I keep conjuring up a photograph--Lords'!
Don't suppose she's ever heard of Lords' ... let alone ever been there.
... Holy Smoke, Bill, I've got it!!! And by a miracle of miracles, your
mention of Lords' gave it to me. Great Scott! What a bit of luck."
Now this was the manner of Mr. Bathurst's memory.
"Do you ever see _The Prattler_, Bill?"
"Sometimes! Always when I'm here--Sir Charles Considine has taken it
since it started!"
"He has? Better and better, laddie. I'm on the crest of the wave.
Listen! This is what I've remembered. Do you remember the second Test
Match of the Australian tour in 1921? At Lords'."
"What are you getting at?" I said rather peevishly. "Are you trying to
prove that it rained or something--you know it always rains for Test
Matches."
"No--I'm deadly serious. The Australians won easily--but that isn't the
point--the last ball bowled--by Durston it was, flew out of his hand and
went somewhere in the region of 'cover.' Before the umpire called 'wide'
Bardsley, who was batting at the time, chased after it, got to it, and
promptly 'despatched it to the boundary' as the reporters said. I
remember the incident perfectly now." He smiled with satisfaction.
"Well," I said, "What in the name of thunder has this to do with
Marshall?"
"This, Bill." His voice grew serious.
"_The Prattler_ printed a photograph of the incident...."
"Yes ..." I remarked.
"And next to the photograph--in the adjoining space--they printed a
photograph of _Fraulein Marshall_. Now what do you say? _I can see it
now._"
"In what relation? ..." I protested.
"Can't recall, William. All I can see is Bardsley's uplifted bat and
adjoining it the face of _Marshall_. It's five years ago, remember. But
we'll soon find out. It's easy! Or it should be." He sprang to his feet
excitedly. "We will now proceed to investigate. I wonder what Sir
Charles does with his old _Prattlers_?"
"Best way to find out will be to ask him!" I ventured.
"Excellent advice, William, that I am going to take. _Allons!_" Mary
Considine met us as we went up to the house.
She looked deathly pale, I thought, and utterly discomfited by the
events of the day. I would much rather have stopped in the garden with
Mary than gone chasing old copies of _The Prattler_ with Anthony. She
stopped us.
"Bill--Mr. Bathurst! I have just been interviewed by Inspector Baddeley,
and been asked if I can recognize some handwriting." She flung us a
glance under her long lashes. "Tell me," she questioned us, "does he
suspect anybody in the house of having done this awful thing? It's
unthinkable."
"Don't you worry, Mary," I replied. "It's only the usual official
formality carried out by the Police."
She turned to Anthony.
"Who could have killed him, Mr. Bathurst? I can't realize it--yesterday
alive and in such ... good spirits ... and now to-day...." She broke off
and shook her head helplessly.
"You're upset," said Anthony, sympathetically. "Very naturally. It has
been a shock to you. How is Lady Considine?"
"Wonderful, considering. I think the murder has to some extent mitigated
the loss of her pearls ... can you understand?" She looked up at him and
then half smiled towards me. Her pallor only seemed to accentuate her
loveliness. I have never seen eyes like Mary's--and I found myself
dreaming dreams.
"Jack has sent word to poor Mrs. Prescott--I don't know what I shall say
to her." The violet eyes fringed with tears. "It would have been
difficult," she went on, "with someone you knew ... it will be
infinitely more difficult with a stranger."
Anthony conveyed more sympathy with a slight gesture.
"I am sure it will be in able hands. Can you help me now? I want to turn
up an old copy of _The Prattler_. Bill tells me your father has taken it
for years. Do you keep them?"
"How long ago is the copy you want?"
"Just over five years," he replied.
"Then we can't help you. We never keep more than those of the current
year. Is it important?"
"It is, rather," responded Anthony. "Do you know what becomes of them?"
"I am not quite sure, Mr. Bathurst, but I believe Father sends them to
the Cottage Hospital. Come in and see Father--he'll tell you at once."
Sir Charles and Lady Considine were in the library.
"Father," said Mary, "Mr. Bathurst and Bill want you. They want to know
where the old copies of _The Prattler_ go?"
Sir Charles looked wonderment.
"It's rather an unusual request, I know, sir," said Anthony; "but
believe me, I have excellent reasons for worrying you over it."
"_The Prattler?_ They're sent to the Allingham Cottage Hospital at the
end of every year," he said.
"H'm--hard luck," muttered Anthony. "The Allingham Cottage Hospital! Far
from here?"
"No," declared Sir Charles. "About five miles, walking across the Downs.
Eight and a half by road."
"A walk across the Downs would be the very thing for Bill ... he shall
have it. He shall accompany me."
"Which I hope will prove to be the end of a perfect day," I grumbled.
"You look pretty tired, Bill, now I can gaze upon you properly," he
said, as we struck off across the Downs. "But I shan't be able to rest
till I've satisfied myself. Till then my eager excitement will keep me
going."
"I am tired," I rejoined. "And I've a very shrewd idea that we are on a
fool's errand. I don't suppose for one moment they keep copies of
periodicals for five years."
"Very likely you're right, Bill. It's a long shot, but it may strike
home--there's nothing lost if we don't--we can easily turn up the files
at the British Museum--but that will take time--whereas this is
opportune."
After about one hour and a quarter's walking, we saw our objective.
Anthony gave his card to the porter and after a brief period of waiting
we were ushered into the presence of the Matron.
The atmosphere of Considine Manor worked wonders. I have always noticed
that the Matron dearly loves a lord.
She could not say if she could help Mr. ... she referred to his card...
Mr. Bathurst ... many periodicals and magazines were presented to the
Hospital ... but she didn't know quite what became of them. She would
ring for the steward. Anthony thanked her. Yes, the steward could help
us. Most of the books of that kind when finished with, were sold to a
man named Clarke, who kept a shop in Brighton.
"What kind of a shop?" asked Anthony.
"A kind of second-hand bookseller's, where old magazines and periodicals
of all kinds were put in boxes in front of the shop and sold for
twopence or threepence."
"Hopeless, Bill. Perfectly hopeless!" He turned to express his thanks.
The Matron expressed her sorrow that his quest was fruitless.
Then the steward of the Allingham Cottage Hospital had a brain-wave.
"It's just come to me, sir," he exclaimed, "that Dr. Mackenzie--that's
the doctor in the village--used to take _The Prattler_ to put on the
table of his waiting-room. He's a lot of office patients, you see, sir,
and isn't over particular about the date of the news he puts in front of
them. So he may have some old ones."
"It's a chance, certainly," exclaimed Anthony, "but a slender one.
"Thank you, Matron. Now for Dr. Mackenzie. There are points in favor of
his parsimony."
The steward directed us, and ten minutes' quick walk brought us to the
house. The doctor was in. He listened to us ... would be pleased to help
us. As far as he knew all the _Spears_ were somewhere in the Office
Patients' waiting-room ... yes, and _The Prattlers_. Would we care to
look? There would be a couple of dozen or so on the table--the rest
would be in a pile on a book wagon there....
"June, Bill ..." muttered Anthony. "About the third week in June."
It was not on the table. I wasn't sorry ... too greasy and too
well-thumbed to be exactly pleasant. We divided the piles from the
wagon. About twenty each. An exclamation from Anthony!
"Here it is, Bill. This would be the one. Come and look."
He turned the pages rapidly ... then....
"There!" triumphantly, "look at that."
I looked.
There was the Test Match photograph he had described to me, and next to
it, just as he had said, was the face of Marshall, and underneath it I
was amazed to read--"Constance Webb, wife of 'Spider' Webb, the famous
jewel thief of three countries, leaving the Central Criminal Court, at
the conclusion of her husband's trial. He was sentenced to five years'
penal servitude."