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.