O’Connor ran his fingers over the embossed surface of the screen. Then he ran them through his hair. “Would it be with a hammer that you mean?” he questioned doubtfully.
“Yes—something of that kind.”
“Well”—he scratched his head still more doubtfully—“you could beat it and beat it and kape on beatin’ it. You could knock it into all shapes and that ’ud be about all you could do—you couldn’t knock holes into it. It’s old and hard that metal work is—and it ’ud stand all the banging you could give it. That’s my opinion, sir.” He paused and looked round at them, as though inviting either a criticism or a confirmation of what he had stated.
From Anthony there came the latter. “Just my own opinion, O’Connor,” he declared, “it would stand as much hammering as you chose to give it.” He walked up to the table and inspected the two screens intently. Goodall and Peter Daventry joined him, while Charles Stewart came round to the other side of them. Suddenly Bathurst put his finger on the point of the metal work that comprised the eye of the swimming fish. But to no purpose—and his circle of spectators saw something like a gleam of disappointment cross his face. Then he tried a second time—the forefinger of his left hand pushing on the fish’s eye and the forefinger of his right pressing on its tail! There was a sudden clicking sound and a sharp exclamation of amazement from Charles Stewart. As though by magic the embossed body of the fish on the reverse side of the screen to which Bathurst had pressed, swung away—revealing a cavity in the metal work the size of a man’s hand. Anthony plunged his hand into it and drew out what looked like a wad of discolored cotton wool.
“Gentlemen,” he cried, with dramatic triumph, “allow me to introduce you to the ‘Twenty-Two Black Pearls of Lorraine.’ ”
CHAPTER XXV.
The Riddle of the Black Twenty-Two
He laid the dirty padded mass on the library table, and started to pull the soft fleecy substance to pieces. From the first corner he extracted a magnificent specimen of a black pearl. Then the others came to his assistance with exclamations of delight, wonder and incredulity. In a few moments the twenty-two black pearls lay on the table in front of them—none the worse to all appearances for their three hundred odd years’ concealment. Every one was a truly magnificent specimen. Goodall, Peter and Charles Stewart handled them in a kind of amazed bewilderment, marveling at their size and beauty. Michael O’Connor’s two eyes were nearly falling from his head. This would make a story for many future generations of O’Connors to smack their lips over. After a time the reason of the other three reasserted itself, and they turned to Bathurst—their questions in their eyes.
“Hadn’t you better tell us all about it, Mr. Bathurst,” suggested the Inspector, “it’s the nearest approach to the Arabian Nights that ever I’ve run up against.”
Anthony selected a comfortable corner of the table and swung himself on to it. The others seated themselves round him. “I had better begin at the beginning,” he said. “Although the case appeared very involved and complicated in its initial stages—one of the points that seemed to border upon the impossible and which seemed also to be perhaps the most difficult one to surmount—actually simplified matters enormously and gave me my starting-point. I refer to the fact that when you, Mr. Stewart, accompanied by Llewellyn and Butterworth, broke down the library door on the morning when you discovered the body of your father—the key was in the door on the inside and the bolts of the French doors were firmly shot in their sockets. All three of you were agreed on the matter. Inasmuch as these were the only two exits from the room by which the murderer could possibly have escaped—this evidence must have been false—faked if you like. One of the three people had been quick enough and clever enough on his entry to impose this piece of evidence upon the minds of the other two. Quite easily done, too, when their attention was so distracted. It was the only possible solution to the mystery, and when you find the only possible solution, gentlemen, you hang on to it. The question then arose which one of the three was it? I made up my mind to await events a bit before deciding prematurely and to preserve an open mind. The next important step in my investigations was the letter found on the murdered man’s desk—the few words that had been scribbled by him just before he met his death. They were, you will remember—‘Urgent—in the morning. M. L.’ Now I suggest, gentlemen, that most of you—perhaps all of you—were inclined to associate either Mr. Morgan Llewellyn or Miss Marjorie Lennox with the initials there written—I considered those possibilities very carefully, but after a time I rejected them. If it were in the nature of an instruction—then it would almost certainly be intended for Llewellyn—and he would scarcely be reminded in that particular way of anything about himself. Also would Stewart put initials if he were referring to the lady whom he looked upon as a daughter? Surely she would be ‘Marjorie’ to him, without any surname? No, gentlemen! I came to the conclusion that ‘M. L.’ stood for the abbreviated and incompleted form of ‘Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.’ ” He paused and looked across at Peter, who allowed an exclamation of “By Jove!” to escape his lips. Goodall said laconically, “Go on!” Anthony proceeded. “Assuming this to be a sound theory, then—what had happened in the library that night to cause Stewart to scrawl the words? That was what I had to find out. It seemed to me pretty conclusive that if Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry were coming into the picture, then what I had suspected for some time was true—that the kernel of the matter lay in the screen that I discovered to be missing from the Museum Room and in the strange coincidence of the murder at the Hanover Galleries with yet another missing screen. I was indebted to Colonel Leach-Fletcher for the next important piece of assistance. Stewart, he informed us—you remember, Goodall—was very troubled about what he described as some treachery happening in his house. Private papers and documents were being tampered with. Was this the same trouble that he was feeling over his son? I decided no! Mr. Charles Stewart here had no reason to acquire information from his father by stealth or underhand methods. He could have obtained it in the open—in many ways. I then began to center my suspicions upon two people—Llewellyn and Butterworth. Also, I considered the evidence of Patrick O’Connor’s bicycle. I was able to establish—with your help, Inspector, that communication had undoubtedly passed on the night of the crime between the murderer this end and Blanchard’s Hotel. Something had happened suddenly down here that made the immediate acquisition of the tapestry screen imperative—it was to be obtained at any cost! Then I reconstructed the crime—finding the missing bullet and the weapon that the murderer had used. The location of the bullet was most interesting—but of that more later. Also I found the answer to my question as to what was making Llewellyn so uneasy. It was a love-interest—concerned at the moment with a love-letter! I began to think seriously then about Butterworth—John Butterworth, the trusted butler. ‘Treachery,’ you will agree, is a good interpretation of betrayed trust. This is what I think happened on the night of the murder.” He stopped again to light a cigarette. “We know that Stewart had confided to the Colonel that he intended to take immediate steps to probe the treachery that he imagined was going on around him. In my opinion he had formed certain suspicions and intended to take action, that very night. But something happened directly after his guest left that he hadn’t been expecting. Marjorie Lennox had been waiting for Colonel Leach-Fletcher to leave to get into the library and to put before her ‘Uncle’ documentary evidence of the unwelcome attentions to which she was being subjected by Llewellyn. We know that she had threatened to do so, by the terms of Llewellyn’s letter. We can only conjecture what happened—but it is plain that the question of Marjorie’s affections caused your father, Mr. Stewart, to send for you directly after she left him—in the hope of arranging matters more on the lines of what he desired.”
Charles Stewart nodded his head in acquiescence. “That is so—Mr. Bathurst.”