MR. BATHURST POTS THE RED
The next morning Mary joined me in the garden--just after breakfast. She
looked lovelier than ever, although it was obvious to the careful
observer that she was troubled. "Bill," she said, "you haven't spoken to
poor Mrs. Prescott since her arrival yesterday--she had all her meals in
her room, you know--come and see her this morning--if only to please me.
It's been heart-breaking to talk to her. He was her only son."
I was conscious of a certain feeling of resentment. It was absurd of her
upsetting herself like this--Prescott was dead and it was all
exceedingly sad and all that--but it didn't please me to see the shadows
in Mary's face over it. I gently remonstrated with her.
"You mustn't let yourself be worried about this affair, Mary," I said,
"it's bad enough I know, and pretty sickening happening here and at this
time--rotten for Sir Charles and your mother--but hang it all, it might
have been a lot worse."
She looked at me reproachfully. "What do you mean," she asked, "in what
way?"
"Well," I responded, awkwardly I admit, "it might have been Jack--or--er
Captain Arkwright--one of the family you might say--Prescott wasn't
exactly a 'nearest and dearest.'"
She scanned my face curiously. "No, Bill," she remarked very quietly,
"he wasn't exactly. But I've had to face his mother and I can't forget
that he was our guest and that it was in our house that he met his
death--that he came to his death here," she wrung her hands in the
emotion of her distress--"it makes me feel so responsible."
"Rot!" I exclaimed, "it might have happened to him anywhere--you can't
prevent a crime--now and then."
"It might have, Bill, but it didn't. And that's just all that matters."
"Again, it might have been worse, too, from the other standpoint."
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother's pearls. We've recovered them when the odds seemed pretty
hopeless."
"What do they matter? Bill"--she put her hand on my sleeve, "you can do
me a favor. Tell Mr. Bathurst I should like to have a chat with him."
"When?"
"Oh--when it's convenient--this afternoon, say."
"All right," I replied. "What are you doing this morning?"
"I'm going to take Mrs. Prescott out of herself--if I can. Come and see
her."
I disliked the job as much as Mary had dreaded it, but courtesy demanded
it.
Mrs. Prescott was a tall woman with white hair--somewhere I should judge
in the early "fifties." She was completely mistress of her feelings and
gave an immediate impression of efficiency and capability. I learned
afterwards that she had founded the florist's business in Kensington
that had achieved such remarkable success and had been the foundation
stone of the family fortunes, and was herself at the time of which I
speak a Justice of the Peace. The blow she had received had been a very
heavy one, but she was unmistakably facing it with courage.
"Good-morning, Mr. Cunningham," she greeted me quietly.
"You know me then, Mrs. Prescott?" I asked, not without surprise.
"Gerald"--there was a little catch in her throat--"pointed you out to me
at Lords' a month ago."
I was momentarily at a loss. I had expected a grief-stricken woman
bordering on hysteria, and this quiet and courageous resignation stirred
me greatly.
"I see," I responded. Then murmured a few words of condolence.
"Thank you," she said, "thank you. As you say, Mr. Cunningham, his death
is a terrible thing--but the idea that he has been murdered, and that
his memory will be attached for always to that murder, I find even more
terrible and nerve-racking. If I don't summon all my strength to my
aid--I fear I shall give way to the horror of it."
I expressed my most sincere sympathy, and Mary Considine caught her two
hands and pressed them.
"You're wonderful," she cried, "to endure things as you have. And I'm
going to try to help you to endure them even better."
Mrs. Prescott smiled very sweetly. "You are very kind, my dear," she
said. "But I feel this, Mr. Cunningham," she turned in my direction,
"that I owe it to my son's memory to leave no stone unturned to find the
man or woman who killed him." The look of patient resignation on her
face gave way to one of steady resolution. She continued--talking seemed
to relieve her grief a little, perhaps.
"I'm certain of one thing. I'm absolutely certain, in my own mind, that
when Gerald came down here to Considine Manor, he had no worries, no
trouble on his mind, and that whatever dark passions encompassed his
end--were awakened very recently."
Mary's eyes brimmed with tears.
"Oh, don't say that, Mrs. Prescott," she said. "I can't bear to think
that this came to him when he was our guest--I've just been telling Mr.
Cunningham the same thing."
Mrs. Prescott smiled sadly. "You have nothing with which to reproach
yourself, my dear. I just know that when Gerald came here he was
intensely happy and glad to come. Therefore, whatever cause brought
about his death, had its origin down here. That's all I mean." She put
her arm round Mary's shoulders. I heard a step behind--it was Anthony.
Mary introduced him.
"I am pleased to meet Mr. Bathurst," said Mrs. Prescott. "I have heard
already from Sir Charles Considine of what you have done for him.
Perhaps you will be able to do something for me."
Anthony bowed. "I am at your service, Mrs. Prescott--command me. How can
I help you?"
She repeated to him her previous words to us. Anthony knitted his brows.
"I appreciate," he said, "the fact that you are speaking with intimate
knowledge which makes what you say especially valuable--you are quite
assured that your son had no shadow on his life when he came down here?"
"I am positive of it, Mr. Bathurst," Mrs. Prescott replied. "Of course
it may have been some phase of the robbery Mary has told me about, but
something tells me it wasn't--the cause lies outside that." She shook
her head.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Prescott," interposed Anthony. "I should like to ask
you a question--can you in any obscure or roundabout way connect your
son--legitimately of course--with any previous jewel robbery?"
A look of amazement spread over her features.
Anthony continued quickly. "I'm afraid I've put it to you very awkwardly
and clumsily--but this is what I'm driving at. Has he, for example, ever
been stopping at a country house that has been robbed while he has been
there? The kind of experience, we will say, that would cause him to be
on the _qui vive_ were he confronted a second time with the
possibility?"
"I don't altogether follow you, Mr. Bathurst," she answered, "so I don't
know whether I can answer you satisfactorily--but I don't know of any
connection of the kind you have indicated."
"I have a reason for asking," he intervened quickly. "There is abundant
circumstantial evidence that your son, on the evening of the murder, may
have been outside the billiard room window--almost in the same spot as
this man Webb. If it were he, what took him there?"
"If he were there, Mr. Bathurst," said Mrs. Prescott, "you may depend
upon it, that he had a good and honorable reason for going."
Anthony bowed. "I see no reason to doubt the accuracy of your opinion."
"Thank you, Mr. Bathurst."
"But, all the same, I must confess to being mystified with regard to
those footprints."
"The whole affair is a mystery," she answered, "that may never be
solved."
"Not the whole affair, Mrs. Prescott--some aspects are becoming
increasingly plain--and I hope in time to solve it all!" Anthony's jaw
set.
"That will mean a lot to me, Mr. Bathurst," she said. "Perhaps more than
I can tell you." She turned to Mary. "I'll come with you now, dear, as
you suggested. Good-bye to you two gentlemen. But there, I'm sure to see
you again." They passed out of the room together and left us.
"What are you doing this morning, Holmes?" I sallied. Anthony looked at
me whimsically.
"I'm thinking of having another look at things," he said; "there are one
or two things I should like to make more sure of."
"What are they?" I inquired curiously.
"I should like to have a look at the billiard room--and Prescott's
bedroom," he replied unconcernedly. "I'm building up a theory and I
would like to test it in one or two places. Come with me?"
"Delighted," I answered. "Billiard room first?"
"As you please," said he. We ascended the stairs. In the sunshine of the
morning, there seemed to remain no trace of the dreadful secret the room
held. The table, bereft of its ghastly burden of a few days since, only
spoke of the game it stood for. It was a difficult matter to realize all
that had happened since the last game that had been played upon it.
"These chairs were overturned, Bill, and this poker was lying on the
floor--remember?"
I did--and I said so. He went full length on the floor and took a
magnifying-glass from his pocket.
"I'm rather sceptical about the magnifying-glass stunts you get in
detective novels," he muttered, "but I want an extra-special look at
this floor-covering.
"No," he said as he arose, "I can't see any signs of any struggle--there
are no scratches that would evade the naked eye, of feet moved
uncontrollably like in a fight or wrestle. And what is more, Bill, I
particularly noticed when Marshall gave the alarm, that although
Prescott's brown shoes were muddy--there was no trace of any mud on the
floor here. Think of that, laddie."
"It might happen so," I ventured.
"Hardly likely, Bill! There was an appreciable amount of mud on the
brown shoes, and one would reasonably expect to find a few traces if
Prescott had been engaged in a struggle. In a fight or a wrestle--such
as might have taken place here, there is far more pressure of the feet
on the ground and certainly more friction than is got by ordinary
walking--don't you see?"
"Yes," I conceded. "I see what you mean."
"Yet," he went on, "I am certain that there were no mud-marks on the
floor. Which suggests a number of entertaining possibilities." He
frowned.
"You haven't told me yet," I urged, "of those three definite clues you
picked up right at the outset. Still liking the look of them? I'm
curious!"
"One of 'em has been dragged to light, Bill, and I'm very satisfied with
its results--the other two I'm still keeping--for the time being at all
events."
I felt annoyed. All faithful Watsons were not treated in this cavalier
manner. They were always admitted willingly and readily into the
confidential intimacies. I voiced a complaint. I thought a semi-humorous
strain might become the matter best.
"How, my dear Anthony," I began, "can you reasonably expect to be guided
by the best gleams of my superlative intelligence and highly-powered
imagination, if you persist in withholding important information from
me?" He flashed a smile at me. Then his face took on a more serious
aspect.
"Pardon me, Bill--not exactly information. You have seen the same things
as I have seen--I'm keeping nothing from you--the difference is that a
certain two points made a vivid impression on me--and they didn't on
you."
"All right, then," I returned, "I plead guilty. What were they?"
"If I tell you, Bill, and eventually we find that their significance was
much less than I imagine, you'll never believe in me again--and I can't
possibly run the risk of that."
I could see that nothing I could do would shake his determination. So I
turned the subject.
"Are you in a hurry to look over Prescott's bedroom again?"
"It depends on what you mean by a 'hurry.'"
"Well, what about a 100 up before we go?" I took a cue and walked to the
billiard-table.
"Right-O," said Anthony. "A little relaxation won't harm either of us."
The three balls were in the bottom right-hand pocket where they had
lain, presumably, for some days.
"Let's have them," I cried. "Spot or Plain?"
"Anything," he answered. "Spot!" He put his flat hand, palm upwards,
underneath the pocket and sent the balls rolling on to the green cloth.
"Go on," I said, "break." He opened by giving me the usual point. I
replied by coming off the red ball on to the spot-ball and in attempting
a second cannon I failed, leaving the red nicely in front of the bottom
right-hand pocket. Anthony smiled in appreciative approval.
"Thank you, Bill!" He promptly potted the red. "I can see visions of a
nice healthy little break here," said he, as he sidled round to pick the
red ball out. He plunged his hand into the pocket. Then I saw his face
register surprise.
"What's up?" I queried half-interestedly.
"Something down here in the pocket, Bill," he returned. "A piece of
paper." He drew out a twisted piece of paper and smoothed it out with
his fingers--it was a portion of envelope. In a second it flashed into
my mind what it was. Something seemed to hammer it into my brain
instantaneously. Before my tongue could give sound to the message that
was flooding my brain Anthony spoke very quietly, and very gravely. I
remember that I marvelled at the time that he could retain so
undisturbed an equanimity.
"Bill," he said, "Barker's I.O.U.! By Jove!"
"How the devil did it come there?" I exclaimed.
He thought for a second or two before replying. "Well, taking all the
circumstances into consideration, not such an unlikely place, after all,
to find it. Prescott's body lay across this table, near this particular
pocket, and it's quite conceivable that (1) the I.O.U. fell in some
manner from his coat pocket into the billiard-table pocket or (2) the
I.O.U. was taken from the body by the murderer, and dropped, either in
the struggle or afterwards. The murderer might even have searched the
room for it--assuming that he wanted it badly--and never imagined that
it had fallen where it had."
"Yes," I assented. "I follow you. How was it"--I went on--"that you
didn't notice it when you took the balls out just now?"
"There were three balls in this pocket then. I knocked them out from
_outside_ the pocket--when I plunged my hand _in_ to get out the red
ball, I felt this piece of envelope."
"I see."
"And there's something more that I can contribute, Bill!" He wrinkled
his forehead as was his habit when endeavoring to remember something
very accurately or in extreme detail. "When we were called to this room
at seven o'clock that morning by Marshall, the three balls were in the
pocket then. I can recall them distinctly--Prescott's body was lying
across the bottom of the table. He was partly on his right shoulder, and
his right arm was hanging over the side--very near the pocket where I've
found the I.O.U. I can remember looking at the limp arm hanging
there--and then looking into the pocket and seeing the balls. I can----"
he stopped suddenly. "But there's something wrong somewhere, there's a
difference--there's a----" he thrust his hands into his pockets and
paced the room. When he turned in my direction again, I could see that
his eyes were closed. He was thinking hard. "It will come back to me,"
he muttered. "There was the arm--there were the three balls--there was
the dagger----" he snapped his fingers. Then he swung around.
"Got it?" I asked curiously.
"Got what?"
"Whatever was eluding you?"
He smiled. "I think so," he answered, "anyway the three balls were
there--it was impossible to see the piece of envelope even if we had
thought of looking there. But, I must confess, it didn't occur to me.
And evidently also, it didn't occur to the worthy Baddeley."
"Going to tell him?" I queried.
"Afraid we ought to! Still I don't see why we should ... yet. On second
thoughts, I think we'll put it back in its little nest ... in this
selfsame pocket. For the time being, William, we will remember, we
twain, that 'Silence is Golden' and that Inspector Baddeley didn't call
us a lot of 'tight-lips' unreasonably."
I looked at the I.O.U. There it was as Barker had described it. Just a
mere scrawl. But possibly it had cost a man his life. And might cost
another his. "I.O.U. _L_208. Malcolm V. Barker." Anthony held his hand
out for it. "Let's put it back, Bill. It will suit my book if it lie
there for a time." He tucked it away into the pocket. "Going on with the
game?"
I shook my head. "I've lost interest--this new turn has done it. I don't
feel anything like so keen."
"Neither do I. What about having another look at Prescott's bedroom? You
remember what I told you just now!"
But I was reluctant to turn my thoughts from our latest discovery. I was
anxious to hear more of what Anthony thought with regard to it. Had he
formed one of his brilliantly definite notions or was he still groping
for an elusive factor and groping unsuccessfully? I determined to draw a
bow at a venture. I might, by so doing, discover something of what lay
in his mind.
"I'm afraid," I ventured with an air of wisdom, "that this latest
business brings the searchlight of suspicion on to Lieutenant Barker
again--don't you agree?" I looked at him intently, trying to read his
thoughts.
"Why--particularly?"
"Doesn't it make it appear," I asked, "that Prescott was murdered for
possession of that I.O.U.? _L_200 odd is a pretty substantial sum, you
know, for a young officer to lose at a sitting. At least, I'd think so."
"It's a possibility," came the reply, "but you can't assert that the
I.O.U. was a primary factor in the murder. I know that the I.O.U. has
been discovered near the body, but after all, the explanation may be
perfectly simple. Prescott, we will argue, taking the simple line that I
have indicated, took the I.O.U. from Barker at the card-table, as we
have been told, placed it in the breast-pocket of his dress-coat, and in
the struggle that took place when he was done to death, the thing
dropped from its place into the pocket of the billiard-table. I told you
so just now."
"Certainly a possibility," I said, "but----"
"You don't think so, eh?"
"Well, candidly," I rejoined, "I'm not convinced."
"Nor am I." He smiled again. "I'm only discussing possibilities.
Still"--he proceeded more slowly, "I'm inclined to think that this
discovery tends to eliminate Barker from our list of suspects."
"Can't see it--quite," I intervened. "I think it's rather damaging to
him."
He looked at me keenly.
"I think this," he said. "If Lieutenant Barker had been after that
I.O.U.--sufficiently enthusiastic for its possession to murder a
man--that once he had got his claws on it, he would have destroyed it."
"How?" I said--"and where? He was bound to keep it for a time--he
couldn't destroy it directly he got it--he might have left traces--that
would have inevitably incriminated him!" I was jubilant--I felt I had
scored.
Anthony lit a cigarette. "Bill," he conceded, "you're right--that's
certainly a point that I had not considered!"