Goodall scratched his chin, reflectively. “That’s all very well, as far as it goes. Robbery—you say, for possession of the Stuart antiques. Worth what? I’m not an expert—but for the sake of argument we’ll put it at a matter of hundreds. And we sha’n’t be so very far out, at that! Now, Mr. Bathurst, what was there so peculiarly attractive about these antiques—or about one of them—to spell Mason’s murder?” He leaned forward still further in his seat and his voice cut across the compartment quietly insistent and definitely certain. “To kill Laurence Stewart? To send you—and you—and me, to Assynton, on a summer evening—wondering! Eh, Mr. Bathurst—tell me that!” His eyes blazed with a mingled excitement and determination, as he watched his vis-à-vis. Bathurst rubbed his hands, appreciatively!
“Excellent, Inspector, excellent. That’s a question that I should very much like to be able to answer.”
“Which of the antiques, Mr. Bathurst? Which one? And not a clue that you can call a clue as to where they’ve gone—except a sneezing woman,” he remarked semi-humorously.
“Tell me,” said Anthony, “I’m interested.” He listened carefully while Goodall—despite his opposite intention when the journey started—related the trenchant evidence of Edward Druce—night-watchman.
“So they were at the Hanover Galleries at midnight, were they? That’s important! That gives us a definite time-anchor.” He spoke to Goodall with decision. “I think with you, Inspector Goodall, that the two cases are connected without a doubt. But it’s a mistake to theorize without data—let’s wait till we pick up the threads a bit this end. As you say—which one of the three antiques were they after? It’s as bad as ‘finding the lady’—with Mary, Queen of Scots, as the lady.”
He grinned at Daventry, who had been following the interchange of ideas with the keenest possible attention. Suddenly Peter slapped his thigh with excitement.
“By Jove!” he cried, “Mary, Queen of Scots—that reminds me—what an idiot I’ve been not to tell you before.”
Then he paused with a hint of apology. “So much has happened since, that it has been driven completely out of my mind.”
“You become more interesting hourly, Daventry,” remarked Anthony. “Out with it, whatever it is—before you forget it again.” Peter waved the sarcasm aside.
“It’s a pretty trivial matter,” he commenced, “but I know you ‘sleuth’ people always like to hear full particulars about everything—the usual phraseology is ‘no matter how unimportant it may seem’ ”—he grinned—then went on again. “You observe, of course, that I have read several detective stories!” Goodall wrinkled his nose somewhat contemptuously. But Peter was perfectly hardened against that kind of discouragement. “When Linnell and I first heard from Stewart about the purchase of these antiques it was arranged between the two of us that I should pop along to Day, Forshaw and Palmers’ to have a squint at the stuff. Well, I did so—on my way I blew in to the ‘Violette’ for a mouthful of grub. While I was there I ran into a pal of mine—Marriott, by name—we got gassing to each other about the usual thousand and one things. Well—I’m afraid I’m telling this pretty badly”—Goodall’s face was a study—“but sitting at the next table were a man and a woman. I noticed them particularly for two reasons. Firstly the ‘Violette’ was comparatively deserted—it was early, you see—and secondly they seemed to be having a ‘powwow’ of some importance to them. They were just an ordinary looking couple—scarcely anything distinctive about them—no help for you there, Inspector. Well, I made an inane sort of remark to old Marriott and he replied—as idiots will—‘Queen Anne’s dead.’ Then I did a mad sort of thing—I’d been thinking of Mary, Queen of Scots, all the morning—at any rate since getting Stewart’s jolly old letter—and some inexplicable imp of mischief made me say, ‘So’s Mary, Queen of Scots.’ ” He stopped again to see the effect he was producing upon his companions. Each was listening in his own way. Goodall’s slightly cavalier attitude had relaxed somewhat, and Anthony was giving him that nonchalant attention that he employed to mask unusual mental activity. Peter let his words sink in. “Directly I said it, the chap at the next table seemed—mind you, I only say ‘seemed’—to give a sudden sort of start. He swept round in his chair and sent the cruet and all its contents flying on to the floor—three bags full.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Of course I can’t swear that it was what I said that had poked the gust up him, but it did seem like it to me, gentlemen.”