Goodall turned quickly at the surprising intelligence, but all he could see was Mr. Bathurst’s retreating figure. Which, as may be guessed, afforded him no enlightenment.
CHAPTER XX.
Mr. Bathurst Brushes Up His History
An observer of discernment would have formed the opinion that Mr. Bathurst had fallen a victim to the fascination of the history of the Stuarts. At least half a dozen volumes were ranged round him; and the same discerning observer, had he been sufficiently discourteous to peer over Mr. Bathurst’s shoulder as he read, would have discovered that the life of Mary, Queen of Scots, appeared to present special features of absorbing interest. “Before we begin looking for anything”—murmured Mr. Bathurst to himself—“it will probably be as well if we attempt to satisfy ourselves as to what exactly we are looking for.” He took from his pocket-book a copy of the paragraph from “The Memoirs of M. Réné de St. Maure” that Peter Daventry had made, and read it through carefully more than once. “If these memoirs are in any way reliable and authentic,” he reasoned, “two screens were used in some special way towards the temporary disposal, at least, of part of Mary’s possessions. My task then, is to discover (a) what particular part this was? (b) are the two screens mentioned by M. de St. Maure the two that have figured so prominently in the Hanover Galleries and Assynton Lodge murders? and (c) if so, what is the secret the screens contain that affects the hiding-place of whatever was hidden?” He turned again, to the paragraph. At any rate, there was a distinct reference within it that bore unmistakably on the query he had designated as (a)—“The Cardinal’s great gift”! So far so good—but which Cardinal? Mr. Bathurst had a shrewd suspicion that more than one gentleman entitled to the description of “His Eminence” had figured in the life of the tragic Mary. That was certainly one point upon which it would be necessary for him to reassure himself. “If I had the wretched screens in front of me, it wouldn’t be so bad,” he mused—“as it is I’m working with a couple of second-hand descriptions of them.” He tapped his front teeth with the butt of his fountain-pen; Peter Daventry in the one instance and Miss Lennox in the other, might have missed vital points in their descriptions. He looked through two of the histories that seemed to deal more closely with the minute details of Mary’s career than any of the others and was successful after a time in finding three references to the Chief Armorer—Thibaut Girardier. But no mention could be discovered concerning Girardier’s special work in connection with the two screens. “Many secret places of Wild Scotland,” he quoted—“would give us a pretty extensive field to cover—‘O Caledonia, stern and wild!’ ” Then his thoughts reverted again to the one bizarre description that he did possess of “The Cardinal’s great gift”—“The Black Twenty-Two!” What was meant exactly by that? “Might be a couple of football elevens,” he muttered with a shade of sarcastic bitterness. “Only one thing for it,” he concluded after seven abortive attempts to extract any pertinent information from a number of dead and gone historians—“only one thing for it, and that is to work systematically and methodically right through the incidents of Mary’s life as I find them recorded here.” He arranged all the volumes he had requisitioned, side by side, and started to go through them, as far as possible, simultaneously. An hour and a half’s arduous exertion yielded him nothing, and even his own inexhaustible supply of patience combined with intellectual optimism began to feel the strain. But it is the darkest hour before the dawn—suddenly a sentence from the fourth of his arranged books seemed to leap from the page upon which it was printed! Anthony’s eyes glistened—he read on with feverish excitement—he felt certain in his mind that at last he had run to earth his first clue to the identification of “The Cardinal’s great gift.” At least, here was a definite start and a start of the right kind! Fortified with this piece of knowledge, he ransacked every book for additional data. Fruitlessly! Here all success ended—not a single page told him anything more. He worked on for another hour; then he began to tell himself that he was ploughing the sands. “After all,” he soliloquized, “what more can I really reasonably expect to find? If Réné de St. Maure knew what he did know and yet remained ignorant of the real secret of Girardier’s work—how can I expect to find any trace of this knowledge in other historians who were probably nothing like so well placed for knowledge as de St. Maure himself? This part of the problem I shall have to solve by my own ingenuity.” He pushed his chair back from the table—and thought the whole question over very carefully, omitting nothing and giving every possible point the fullest examination and consideration. Suddenly he came to a decision. He returned the books he had requisitioned to the appropriate attendant, at the same time requesting access to recent files of “The Times” and “The Daily Telegraph.” “Those two will do for a start,” he said to himself—“it’s only an idea on my part and it may lead nowhere, but I should like to test my theory before relinquishing it.” Starting with “The Times,” he ran his eye down the “Personal” column on the front page—day by day—six copies to each week—till he had worked back as far as the 1st January. Nothing caught his eye as being likely to be what he wanted. He paused at several—considering them with the utmost discrimination—but eventually, occasionally perhaps with a certain amount of reluctance, decided to discard them as inappropriate. He then commenced on the file of the “Daily Telegraph.” The first few days were quickly disposed of. But at the second item of the “Personal” column of the copy for Monday, May 30th, he paused. The message ran as follows:—“M. S. Ring Regent 9999 till further notice. Both well!” His eyes narrowed as he reread this—weighing every syllable. “ ‘M. S.’ might very well be ‘Mary Stewart,’ which in itself might very well be a ‘code word’ used to convey messages relative to this particular little conspiracy;” his thoughts raced on—“then we get a telephone number which is of course the pith of the message that is required to be communicated and an intimation that two people are in good health.” He thought for a moment and then the truth leaped to his brain. “By Jove—nothing of the kind—idiot that I was—‘both well’ is simply ‘Bothwell’—the other code word—just a word I might have looked for in relation to the ‘Mary Stuart’!” He searched the remaining papers through rapidly, in case there were other previous communications of a similar nature. To no effect! This was the only one! Anthony surrendered the files, conscious of an excellent morning’s work—he had started badly, but had finished well. At the first opportunity he walked into a public telephone callbox. He lifted the dog’s-eared Directory that swung at the side of the receiver, true to the tradition of such Directories, and opened it at the “B’s.” His finger traced the names down till he came to the particular one he desired. “Blanchard’s Hotel—Regent 9999.” Mr. Bathurst replaced the Directory and allowed himself the satisfaction of a smile. “But Regent 9999 doesn’t harbor Mr. and Mrs. Bothwell now—if it did once, when they preferred to call themselves Mr. and Mrs. Laurence C. Stewart.” He walked to his flat. “Any message come for me while I’ve been out, Emily?” he inquired of a girl who met him as he entered—a maid on the housekeeper’s staff.
“Yes, Mr. Bathurst! A telephone message came through for you about eleven o’clock this morning—I said you were out and that I didn’t know when you would be back—it’s a gentleman that rang up—he’s promised to ring up again in the afternoon—he told me to tell you not to worry about not getting the message in the first place.”
Anthony heaved a sigh of relief. Emily’s statement meant that Peter Daventry had telephoned Scotland Yard as he had arranged with him and through the offices of Inspector Goodall had been put through to the flat. He had realized that failure to deliver his message might conceivably be a source of anxiety to Anthony and had very sensibly endeavored to allay possible fears by the injunction not to worry. It was simply a question now of waiting for the promised ring and hearing what Peter had to tell him. Meanwhile he would seek the seclusion of an easy chair, fill his pipe, and concentrate on the secret of the screens. “The riddle cannot be read from one of the twain—alone.” As far as he could see only the screen stolen from Stewart’s museum room contained anything in the nature of a message. “Timeo Danaos,” he reflected. “ ‘I fear the Greeks’—once again, ‘why the Greeks’?” His mind went back to his Uppingham days and groped for the Virgil context. He was delighted to find that his memory didn’t fail him. “Quid quid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes, sic fatus validis ingentem viribus hastam” . . . what the blazes came next—anyhow it didn’t matter much that was evident—none of it seemed to have any intelligent bearing on Thibaut Girardier . . . yet he had put “Timeo Danaos” on the one screen . . . what was it Daventry had said was on the other . . . the two would have to be taken together if any sense was to be knocked out of them . . . those animals . . . he could understand the Lion, and the Leopards . . . and the fleur-de-lis . . . why the devil was the Fish there . . . he had read enough that morning to authenticate most of it . . . but that Fish . . . “I fear the Greeks” . . . what was that he had read . . . The telephone bell rang peremptorily. He lifted the receiver. “Speaking, Daventry! What is it?”
CHAPTER XXI.
Mr. Ferguson of New York
Anthony listened. “Yes—that’s all right, old man. I got your message and of course I knew from that that everything was O. K. down at Assynton . . . What . . . When? . . . Monday? You say Stewart would like me to come down . . . well I should rather like it myself . . . it will suit me all right, too . . . I had intended returning on Monday in any case . . . Goodall will be coming too . . . Ferguson, you said . . . he’s been pretty quick over it, hasn’t he? . . . don’t quite see how it’s been possible . . . right‑o then . . . be very careful over the week-end, won’t you? . . . keep your eyes skinned on every man Jack of ’em . . . Good-bye.” He sank back in his chair. Ferguson of Crake and Ferguson, New York! Laurence Stewart’s solicitors! But how Mr. Ferguson could have arrived in England so quickly after the murder wasn’t clear to him—“he must have flown over,” he remarked to himself somewhat jocularly. His train of thought, however, didn’t last for long. His mind was soon back to the problem of the screens. Where was he when that confounded telephone rang? He closed his eyes in an attempt to recapture his concentration and the exact point to which he had arrived. He had been wondering about two things—he remarked. The Latin tag and the Fish in the center of the screen. It was becoming increasingly plain to him that he would have to get into touch with the Hanover Galleries screen! Without that, he was merely beating the air. He decided to speak to Goodall at once. He was instantly put through. Goodall seemed anxious for news. “We are no nearer a solution this end, Mr. Bathurst,” he announced rather gloomily, “every clue seems to lead nowhere—the pretty pair I’m after seem to have been spirited off the face of the earth.”
“I wanted to speak to you about them, Goodall, among other things,” replied Anthony. “Get into touch with the New York police as quickly as you possibly can—I have a strong presentiment that the gentleman we’re after has a considerable reputation as a ‘crook’ over the other side. Who is he? Haven’t the least idea, Goodall—ask them if any particularly promising specimen of the unsavory sort has slipped out of the States recently—from little old New York, in all probability. You can give them a rough description of the man you want.”
“Very well,” answered Goodall, “although I think you’re drawing a bow at a venture—still I’ll try it! What else did you want to say?”
“I’ve two more pieces of news for you, Inspector—the first will make you sit up a bit.”