THE
BILLIARD ROOM
MYSTERY

BY
BRIAN FLYNN

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

BRIAN FLYNN MYSTERIES

THE CASE OF THE BLACK TWENTY-TWO
THE BILLIARD ROOM MYSTERY

FIRST PUBLISHED IN THE UNITED STATES,
OCTOBER, 1929

Manufactured in the U. S. A.

CONTENTS

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.

“Bill,” said Mary to me on the Thursday morning, “I do hope you see them all right to-day—Gerry Prescott’s getting a bit of ‘roll’ on, charming man though he be.”

I finished my fourth egg and remarked, “Thanks, Mary—I’ll have a good try, but I don’t seem able to do anything right lately—still my luck must turn before long. Thanks again.” She slipped over to the sideboard and helped herself to some Kedgeree—smiled—and then replied, “I think it will—to-day.” The rest of the crowd then joined us—Jack, Gerry Prescott, Helen and Dick Arkwright, Sir Charles and Lady Considine, three boys from the ’Varsity, Tennant, Daventry and Robertson, and two Service men, friends of Arkwright, Major Hornby and Lieutenant Barker—the last five all pretty decent cricketers—the rest of the eleven being recruited from the Manor staff.

It was, I remember, a perfectly glorious summer morning. One’s thoughts instinctively flew to the whirr of the mowing machine and a real plumb wicket. The insects hummed in the sun, and there was a murmur of bees that gave everybody a feeling that an English summer morning in Sussex could give anything in Creation a start and a beating.

“Toppin’ mornin’—what?” said Prescott. “Feel like gettin’ some more to-day, if we bat.”

“You won’t,” said Dick Arkwright. “You’ll field, and this big brute of a Bill can get rid of some of his disgraceful paunch. He hasn’t had much exercise all the week. Exceptin’ of course walkin’ back to the pavilion.”

“Feeling funny, aren’t you?” I sallied back. “And as for ‘big brutes’ and ‘paunches,’ neither you nor Prescott has a lot to telegraph home about.”

Actually I was about a couple of inches taller than either of them and decidedly heavier.

“Anybody of the old crowd playing for the Rovers, Jack?” queried Helen.

“Don’t know, haven’t seen the team yet.”

Daventry, I think, handed the Sporting Life to the two girls. They scanned the names.

“Only Toby Purkiss and Vernon Hurst that we know,” from Mary. “What a pity.”

“I am very keen on winning,” boomed Sir Charles. “Very, very keen. We haven’t beaten the Rovers for more years than I care to—ah—remember. I spoke seriously to Briggs this morning about it. And I may say, here and now, Tennant—Daventry—I trust without offence, that I viewed with some disfavor your late retirement last night. You were very late getting to bed. I am willing to concede that Auction Bridge has a fascination——”

“That’s all right, Governor,” said Jack. “They’re just infants—stand anything. Think what a tough bird you were at their age.”

“Perfectly true. I remember the night I——”

“As long as you can remember it, you can’t have been so bad, sir,” said Daventry.

Lady Considine smiled.

“Would you like me to stop Auction in the evening, till the week is over, dear?” she said. “You never seem to win anything.”

“As a matter of fact, Marion—I have been most unusually successful; and I have no wish to—er—interfere with others’ pleasure.”

“Thanks, Father. For we don’t all play cricket.”

“No, Helen, that’s so.”

“Seems to me, Governor, it takes age and judgment to play really good Auction.”

“Thank you, Arkwright. You have keen powers of observance.”

The clock chimed ten.

“Gracious,” said Mary, “I promised to help get the big marquee ready.” She flew off. Very shortly the breakfast party withdrew entirely, the ladies to the selection of appropriate raiment, the men who were playing, to get ready.

I was late getting down to the field and had no sooner arrived than up came Sir Charles.

“Fielding, Bill!” He guessed right. “Know you’re pleased!” he grinned.

“Of course—just what I expected! It’ll rain in the night.”

The first wicket put on a few runs and I was chatting to Robertson and Jack Considine while we were waiting for the next man.

“Good Lord,” I heard from behind me.

I turned.

Strolling in, nonchalantly adjusting his left-hand glove, was the very last person I expected to see there—Anthony Bathurst.

“Bless you, Bill,” he smiled. “Seeing you is a reward in itself.”

“But I had no idea——”

“What on earth?” queried Jack.

“Tell you later,” grinned Anthony; “Umpire, Middle and leg, if you please.”

He didn’t get a lot. But when we got into lunch he told us that Hurst had cried off from the game, developed measles or spotted fever or something, and he had been roped in, being handy. He was staying near Bramber and going on to Canterbury for the “Old Stagers.” Angus McKinnel and Gerry Crookley were great chums of his, and as the entertainments of Canterbury Week were in their hands as usual, they had been only too glad for him to help them.

Everybody, of course, was delighted, for Considine Manor had heard much of Anthony Bathurst from both Jack and me.

Sir Charles immediately issued an invitation.

“Stay on, my dear fellow! I shall be charmed, I assure you. Stay till the Bank Holiday—then motor over.”

“Thanks, I will. It’s good of you.” Anthony accepted the offer.

Thus, it was that the Friday evening saw Anthony still at Considine Manor, and the stage set for what happened subsequently. When I reached the drawing-room that night I had a fit of the blues. The game had ended in a draw and once again, I had not reached double figures. Prescott had got another 50 odd and, in the opinion of most, had saved our side from a beating. Conversation was desultory as it had been at dinner.

As usual most of them were listening attentively to Anthony Bathurst. He was well launched on a theme that I had heard him discuss many a time before in his rooms at Oxford. “The Detective in Modern Fiction.” It was a favorite topic of his and like everything that aroused his interest, he knew it thoroughly—backwards, forwards, and inside out.

I caught his words as I entered the room.

“Oh—I admit it quite cheerfully—I look forward tremendously to a really good thriller. I’m intrigued utterly by a title like ‘The Stain on the Linoleum.’ But, there you are, really good detective stories are rare.”

“You think so?” interjected Major Hornby, “what about those French Johnnies, Gaboriau and Du Boisgobey?”

“Like the immortal Holmes,” replied Anthony, “I have the greatest contempt for Lecoq. Poe’s ‘Dupin’ wasn’t so bad, but the majority——”

“You admire Holmes?”

“Yes, Mr. Arkwright, I do! That is to say—the pre-war Holmes!”

“You don’t admit that his key is always made to fit his lock?”

“Of course,” replied Anthony, “that must be so! But he deduces—he reasons—and thereby constructs. The others, so many of them, depend for success on amazing coincidences and things of that nature.”

“You think Holmes stands alone?” queried Mary.

“Not altogether, Miss Considine, as I’ve often told Bill Cunningham.” He turned to me, “Mason’s M. Hanaud, Bentley’s Trent, Milne’s Mr. Gillingham, and to a lesser degree perhaps, Agatha Christie’s M. Poirot are all excellent in their way, but oh!—the many dozens that aren’t.”

“I could mention three others,” said Jack Considine.

“Yes? Who are they?”

“Bernard Capes’ ‘Baron’ of The Skeleton Key, Chesterton’s Father Brown, and H. C. Bailey’s Reginald Fortune.”

“I am willing to accept two,” said Anthony, “but Father Brown—no. He’s too entirely ‘Chestertonian.’ He deduces that the dustman was the murderer because of the shape of the piece that had been cut from the apple-pie. I can’t quite get him.”

The company laughed merrily.

“Ah, Mr. Bathurst,” remarked Sir Charles. “There is a great gulf between fiction and real life. Give me Scotland Yard every time.”

“I am ready to. Scotland Yard is a remarkably efficient organization—but——”

“Well, Sir Charles, I think this! Give me a fair start with Scotland Yard, and its resources to call upon, if necessary, and I’ll wager on my results.”

“What about that trumpeter?” from Gerry Prescott.

“Never mind that. I was asked for my opinion and I gave it.”

“In the event of your being on the spot at a murder case, then, you consider that you would solve the mystery quicker than trained men?”

“Under equal conditions, yes, Captain Arkwright! Again, what is a trained man? I am a trained man. I’ve trained myself to observe and to remember.”

Here, Lady Considine interrupted with “Pardon me, Mr. Bathurst. But these girls won’t sleep if you keep on discussing murders. Besides, Sir Charles wants his game of Auction.”

Two tables started, the military party playing solo. And gradually the hum of conversation subsided as the games got under way. Helen Arkwright played while her sister sang. Jack Considine and Anthony went into the garden to smoke cigars. I stayed and watched the cards. Prescott won steadily from most of them, but from Lieutenant Barker chiefly. And when after a time, I saw a look of more than ordinary chagrin pass over the latter’s face and following that, an I.O.U. handed across the table to Prescott, I felt that they had played long enough. For neither Sir Charles nor Lady Considine cared for such happenings as that. So at eleven-forty or thereabouts, I suggested they stop.

The others assented readily.

“I’m for bed,” I said, “after just one ‘spot’!”

I walked to the French windows that commanded the garden and looked out. The rain that had come on just before seven, had ceased and there was a moon with a sparkling retinue of stars.

I swallowed my whisky.

“Good-night, you fellows.”

“Good-night, Bill!”

At the foot of the staircase just in the shadow of the heavy banisters, I passed Prescott and Barker, deep in conversation. The conversation stopped as I approached.

“Coming to bed?” I interrogated.

“Not yet,” replied Prescott. “Time’s young yet. Besides I have——”

I didn’t wait for his sentence to be finished.

Our bedrooms were on the second floor—seven of them in a row along a long corridor that ran the length of the house. All the men were together. Jack was in the biggest—the first—that night he was sharing with Anthony—then came in order, Daventry and Robertson together in No. 2, Hornby, Prescott, Tennant, myself, and Barker last. On the first floor was the billiard room, directly facing the stairs as you ascended, and the bedrooms of the other members of the family.

Each one of the bedrooms on the second floor was fitted with a bathroom and shower. There was a connecting door in each room, leading to the bath. This connecting door in each instance faced the door of the bedroom opening out on to the corridor. It was a fancy of Sir Charles Considine, this, and much appreciated by all those privileged to enjoy the hospitality of Considine Manor. I shall never forget that night.

I slept but little, a most unusual state of affairs for me.

I was strangely uneasy, and it was not till close on five o’clock that I fell into a doze.

And if I never forget that night, I shall never forget the memory that followed it!

For I was awakened by a piercing scream that echoed and reëchoed through the house. It came from the floor below!

“Murder! Murder! Help! Help! Murder!”

CHAPTER II
IN THE BILLIARD ROOM

It was a woman screaming! Not that I’m in the position of having frequently heard men scream. But the feminine note in the voice was apparent to the most careless listener.

I hastily threw on a blazer, pulled on a pair of slippers, opened my bedroom door, and came out into the corridor.

Everybody’s door seemed to open simultaneously.

Leaning over the banisters, it was easy to tell that the screams were coming from the billiard room.

We dashed down the staircase, the crowd of us—white-faced and anxious—as men and women are, when suddenly aroused by shock! And as we came to the billiard room door, I was conscious that we were one short—and something told me whom we lacked. I was soon to know for sure.

For as I entered the room that held the horror that had brought us flying from our beds I could hear Sir Charles Considine’s voice rising authoritatively above the hum of excitement, “Gentlemen, gentlemen—please—whatever the trouble is—one of you stay outside and keep the ladies from entering.”

Across the bottom of the table face downwards, the right arm hanging limply over the side, lay Gerry Prescott. He lay partly on his right shoulder, and it was easy to see how he had met his death. A dagger had been driven fast into the base of his neck, at the top of the spinal cord.

The shock hit us all hard, and the chatter of the girls, querulous and interrogative, although just outside the door, seemed vaguely distant.

Marshall, the maid, who had given the alarm, stood shaking against the wall, her affrighted eyes staring at the body of poor Prescott.

“Get back to your room, Marshall,” said Sir Charles. “I’ll see you again later.” His ordinary pomposity of manner seemed to have deserted him.

“What can we do, sir?” said Arkwright.

“He’s past all earthly help,” muttered Anthony.—“Been dead, I should say, some hours.”

“Terrible, terrible, in my house too,” went on the old man. “I shall never....”

“May I suggest, sir, that perhaps Jack and Arkwright should get a doctor and the police here, as quickly as possible?” said Bathurst.

“Yes, yes, my boys, excellent!”

“And of course we must touch nothing. Look!” He pointed round the room. Then went and whispered in Sir Charles’s ear.

“Certainly, Bathurst. Capital suggestion. You and Jack get along, Arkwright. And all the rest of you go, please, to the garden except Mr. Bathurst and Bill Cunningham. No good can be done by crowding round.”

Hornby, Barker, Daventry and the others did as they were bid, very pleased I think to get into the wholesome fresh air! And I turned to look at what Anthony had pointed out.

Three chairs were overturned on the floor, the other side of the table, and by the side of one lay the poker from the billiard room fireplace.

The window at the further end of the room, overlooking the gravel drive that ran along that side of the house was open at the bottom—at least, a couple of feet. Prescott was fully dressed. As far as I could judge in the same clothes as he had worn the previous evening. Dinner jacket, wing collar, bow tie, dress shirt, to my eye exactly as he had dined. An exclamation from Anthony arrested my attention.

“What’s he wearing brown shoes for? Eh”—rubbing his hands—“Bill, I fancy I’ve got my chance after all. Do you see that, Sir Charles? Brown shoes! And what is more”—he crowed with excitement—“one hasn’t got a lace.”

“My God!” said Sir Charles, “you’re right. Perhaps he dressed in a hurry.”

Anthony was shaking his head. “Perhaps,” he muttered, “but——” Sir Charles turned to us, agitation on his face.

“It has just occurred to me,” he said, “you don’t think anybody in the house...?”

Anthony shook his head again. “It’s a bad business, and I can’t tell you anything till the police come. There are several questions I require answered.”

This time it was my turn to provide the sensation.

“Sir Charles,” I cried, “look at the dagger! Don’t you recognize it?” He adjusted his pince-nez, and went across to the body.

“Good God, Bill! It’s the Venetian dagger off the curio table.”

“What’s that?” Anthony’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Your property?”

“Been in the family two hundred years. An ancestor of mine brought it from Italy.”

“Where was it kept?”

“On a table in the drawing-room!”

“I don’t like it,” murmured Anthony. “Why was it brought up here?”

“I have it,” cried Sir Charles. “It’s burglars after all. Poor Prescott heard them and....”

“It’s no good theorizing, Sir Charles ... without facts to go on! When the police come and deal with points that I can’t possibly touch yet ... I may be able to help you.”

No sooner had he finished speaking than Jack’s voice was heard outside. “This way, doctor ... in here.”

Dr. Elliott entered. Jack followed him. Close on their heels came Arkwright with an Inspector of Police, and a man who was apparently his assistant—in plain clothes.

“This is Inspector Baddeley, of the Sussex Constabulary,” said Arkwright. “I was lucky enough to find him at the station.” The Inspector assented.

“Good-morning, Sir Charles. Good-morning, gentlemen.”

“This is a bad business, Sir Charles,” declared Dr. Elliott. “It hardly seems credible that only yesterday this poor fellow....” He went to the body.

The Inspector followed him.

“Quite dead, gentlemen—hum—hum—been dead several hours.”

The Inspector carefully withdrew the dagger.

“Try that for any prints, Roper,” he muttered. “It’s just on the cards.”

“Yes, sir,” replied plain clothes; he at once got to work with the “insufflator.”

“Then photograph the body from both sides of the room.”

Roper retired; to return in a few minutes with a camera.

“I think it would be better for you, Baddeley,” declared the doctor, “if you had a good look round before I make my examination. I can do nothing and the cause of death is pretty obvious. The murderer knew his business, too! A blow at that part of the spinal column—effective—and to all intents and purposes instantaneous.”

“Very well, Doctor. These gentlemen—Sir Charles?” he queried.

“My son, my son-in-law, Captain Arkwright, Mr. Bathurst and Mr. Cunningham, guests and very old friends.”

“I understand. All staying here, I presume?”

I took a look at him, carefully. Anthony, I observed, was following my example.

We saw a man of soldierly bearing, dark hair, closely cut to the head, a small moustache neatly trimmed, two steady blue eyes, and an alert and thoroughly business-like manner that completed a make-up which I was convinced belonged to one who would make no mean opponent for the cleverest criminal.

“Is the body exactly as found?”

“Exactly,” replied Sir Charles.

“Who found him?”

“The housemaid. Marshall, by name.”

“Time?”

“About half-past seven, I should say. You will see her?”

“Shortly.”

“Room as it was?”

“Entirely. Nothing has been touched. We were most careful,” said Sir Charles. “Mr. Bathurst here,” he smiled, “was most insistent on that point.”

“Really! Very good of him.”

He turned and flung a quick glance in Anthony’s direction.

“Thank you,” smiled back Anthony. “I’m rather interested in this sort of situation.”

“Yes. A lot of people are till they find one. Roper, get those photographs and I’ll get to work.”

Roper, with camera, did his work quickly and quietly. Baddeley went through Prescott’s pockets.

“Absolutely empty, gentlemen. He’s fully dressed, too.”

“Not quite, Inspector,” said Anthony. “Look at his shoes!”

“Good Lord! Fully, but not properly, eh? Tut—tut—extraordinary.” His eyes brightened. “And a lace missing—why, oh why, oh why?” And then authoritatively—

“Sir Charles, none of your guests must leave this morning, till I have seen any of them I consider it necessary to.”

“As you wish, Inspector. Tell them all, Jack.”

Jack Considine slipped out.

“Got all you want, Roper?” Baddeley strode across to the window.

“Not been touched—eh?” He bent forward—eager—attentive; then leaned out across the window sill. Then I think he sniffed and rubbed his hands together.

“We’re progressing, Mr. Bathurst. Don’t you think so?”

Anthony joined him and I could see he was puzzled.

“You can get on now, Dr. Elliott,” declared Baddeley. “I want to have a look outside. Come along, Roper.” They went out.

Sir Charles heaved a sigh of relief.

“Most distressing!” he said. “When he was looking at me I felt like a murderer myself. I think we’ll leave Dr. Elliott to his job for a few minutes and go and dress decently.”

Anthony lingered for a moment or two, then followed us out.

Within a short time he joined me in my bedroom. Like me, he had taken the opportunity to shave and dress.

“Sit on the bed, Holmes,” I said, “the tobacco is not in the Persian slipper, but the cigarettes are on the dressing-table.”

He took one.

“Bill,” he said, “I’m worried. This is a beastly business.”

“No clues?” I said.

“On the contrary, too many! I can see too much light. It’s part of me to distrust the too-glaringly obvious.”

“Dashed if I follow you. Tell me of these clues that have hit you so forcibly.”

“Listen then. We have the following indisputable facts:

“(1) Prescott is found dead in the billiard room—stabbed with a weapon with which you all appear to be familiar.

“(2) There is evidence of a struggle.

“(3) The window of the room is wide open—distinctly suggesting the entrance of an outsider—or possibly the exit.

“(4) This is most important—he is fully dressed with the exception of the shoes—one of which is minus a lace. And there is mud on those shoes.

“(5) His pockets are empty—pointing to robbery.

“(6) He was murdered between twelve o’clock and five o’clock—approximately. We shall learn more from the doctor as to that.” He paused. “All very significant. And I have three other clues at the moment which exercise me considerably. Two in what I will term ‘Group A’ and one in ‘Group B.’ That is to say—they don’t exactly fit.” He blew a smoke-ring and shook his head.

“What are they?” I queried excitedly.

He grinned. “I’m holding ’em for the time being, old son. Don’t be in such a hurry. All good Watsons have patience as their longest suit.”

“I can’t see any motive,” I complained.

“Find that, Bill, and you’ll be two-thirds of the way to the solution. In a few minutes I’m going to have a good look round. I’m going with Baddeley when he comes back from the garden.”

“Where to?” I asked. “Where will he go then?”

“Well, if he’s got any sense—and I’m confident he has—to Prescott’s bedroom.”

I nodded my head wisely.

“To see any——”

Sir Charles’s voice outside, broke in upon us without ceremony.

“Dr. Elliott wants us all in the billiard room,” he called. “All those of us who were there before.”

We accompanied him downstairs.

Dr. Elliott seemed to be bursting with importance.

“Tell Inspector Baddeley at once—please,” he cried. “Sir Charles, will you please arrange for Baddeley——”

“I have already done so, Doctor,” rejoined our host.

We waited, expectant. What had the doctor to tell us that we didn’t know?

Baddeley entered—Roper following.

“Well, Doctor, what’s the excitement? There’s something very interesting outside. The more I see of this case—the more it——”

“Sir Charles—Inspector—I have carefully examined the body of this poor young fellow”—he paused dramatically—it was his moment—“and I find that he died not from a stab as we all presumed and supposed, but from asphyxiation!

“Gentlemen, he was strangled by something tied tightly round his throat! Look at the peculiar color of his face—look at his tongue!”

CHAPTER III
MR. BATHURST AND THE BED-CLOTHES

“What!” snapped Baddeley. “Strangled? Strangled with what?”

“I can’t say exactly,” replied the doctor. “Look at this mark”—he pointed decisively—“it runs right round his throat. The thing has been tightened at the back of the neck. String! Tape! Anything that would bear the strain. Look at the mark on the flesh.” We looked. The impressions were certainly vivid. They had been hidden from us, partly by reason of the dress collar, and partly by the position of the body.

“But where is the tape?” muttered Baddeley.

“Rather, Inspector,” cut in Anthony, “ask your question in a slightly different form.”

“What do you mean?”

“Say—Where is the shoe-lace?”

“By Moses—but you’re on the spot, Mr. Bathurst.” He turned with the utmost excitement. “That’s why the lace is missing! I must see everybody, Sir Charles, I really must.”

Anthony leaned over and looked up the dead man’s sleeves, with a curious, quizzical expression.

Baddeley regarded him playfully.

“I’ve no doubt somebody in the house has got something up his sleeve, Mr. Bathurst, but I don’t think it can be this poor fellow.” Anthony smiled back. “He has a handkerchief—Inspector!”

The Inspector then delivered a question that was surprising.

I confess it startled me.

“Can any of you tell me reasonably accurately, what time it started raining here last evening?”

“I can,” I answered. “The rain started about ten minutes to seven.”

“And ceased—when?” he followed up.

“It was not raining,” I said, “at a quarter to twelve.”

“How do you know? Were you out?”

“No, Inspector,” I replied. “I happened to look out into the garden about that time and the stars were shining—that’s all.”

“H’m! Sure of your time?”

“Quite.”

“Now, gentlemen,” Baddeley turned to us all with a gesture that contained a certain amount of defiance and, at the same time, the fleeting hint of an apology—and he seemed to gain from it an added sense of dignity—“I need your help. And because I need it—I’m going to ask for it.”

“Ask on,” said Anthony. “I’m your man.”

“Well, I feel like this, Sir Charles and gentlemen, this isn’t an ordinary case. Can any of you; you, Sir Charles, Mr. Bathurst, Mr. Cunningham—or you, gentlemen”—he turned towards Arkwright and Jack—“tell me of anything you know that puts any motive into this affair? Any incident that throws any light on it whatsoever?”

We shook our heads.

“Frankly, Inspector,”—Anthony spoke for us—“we are as much in the dark regarding the whole affair as you yourself are.”

Baddeley went on.

“Very well, gentlemen. Then we know where we are. But I may as well tell you that Mr. Prescott was in the garden last night—after 12 o’clock—and he was not alone! But I’ll find out who was with him! And what’s more, I’ll find the scoundrel that murdered him!” He squared his shoulders.

“You’re certain of what you just told us?” queried Anthony.

“I am.”

“How are you certain?”

“That’s my business, Mr. Bathurst. Try your hand at finding things out yourself.”

“Right-o!” Anthony accepted the challenge laughingly. “Shall we go fifty-fifty with our discoveries?”

“If it suits me.” He turned to Sir Charles.

“I should like now, Sir Charles, to see Mr. Prescott’s bedroom.”

“Certainly, Inspector.”

“May we accompany you, Inspector?” suggested Anthony.

“You may—if you keep moderately quiet.”

We ascended the stairs.

Sir Charles leading the way, stopped outside Prescott’s door. “Perhaps, Arkwright,” he said, “you and Jack would get back to the others. They must be having a pretty thin time. Tell them to have any breakfast they care to, and that Inspector Baddeley wishes to interview them all before he goes.”

Baddeley called Roper on one side. He seemed to say something quickly and imperatively, and I fancied I heard the words—“and keep your eye on her all the time.”

“A new development—hear that?” I whispered to Anthony.

He came last, preoccupied.

“Nine stairs, Bill! Nine stairs. Nine stairs—Inspector.”

Baddeley looked puzzled. Then walked to the bedroom door.

“Of course,” he said, “anybody could have been in here since, couldn’t they? The door is shut. But not locked. The key is on the inside. But I can’t tell for certain that these facts were so when Prescott left it for the last time, can I?”

“I think you may take it so,” said Sir Charles somewhat pompously. “My people here wouldn’t think of entering another’s room.”

“Somebody here thinks of murder, Sir Charles, say what you like! What about the servants?”

“They have not been on this floor yet.”

“Very good.”

We made our way into the room.

As far as I could see there was nothing to excite the slightest comment. Between us and the bed, upon our immediate right and left was the dressing-table and a chair respectively.

With its head to the left-hand wall, as we entered, stood the bed—that is to say, almost in the far left-hand corner of the room. A door opposite to us opened on to the bathroom that I have previously described. In the far right-hand corner stood a large Sheraton wardrobe.

“Well, he went to bed last night, did Mr. Prescott,” said Baddeley. “That’s pretty clear at any rate. And he got up in a hurry!”

The bed certainly showed signs of recent occupation. All the normal and ordinary signs of a person having slept there were clearly and distinctly indicated, the bed-clothes being in disarray and lying trailingly on the floor between the bed and the door of our entrance.

The Inspector was quickly at work.

He crossed to the dressing-table and examined it carefully. He then came back to the bed, lifted the pillows, and peered inquisitively beneath.

“Strange——” I heard him mutter. I turned to Anthony who was standing with his eyes fixed intently on the bed. He seemed to be following an acute train of thought.

“Sir Charles,” broke in Baddeley. “There’s one thing that every man has to a degree, and yet this young fellow Prescott appears to have been entirely without—unless he’d been systematically robbed.”

Sir Charles lifted his eyebrows. “Yes?” he queried.

“Money—cash—whatever you call it. How do you account for this? He has no money in his pockets, he has no note-case in his pockets. His pockets are all beautifully empty. I say to myself he dressed in a hurry—I shall find his money in his bedroom. Either on the dressing-table or under his pillow. People have different places of putting their cash you know, gentlemen. But I don’t find it! And it puzzles me!”

“It’s certainly very strange, Inspector,” said Anthony. “But there may be the possibility that his small change had run out, and that he has put a note-case into another jacket. Let’s try the wardrobe.”

Baddeley did so. Two more coats hung there. His deft fingers quickly ran over them. “Nothing there,” he declared.

Anthony thought again. “Try the drawers of the dressing-table.”

Baddeley opened the right-hand drawer. Ties, collars, a handkerchief or two. He tried the left. “Ah!”

He held a wallet—leather—the kind of wallet that is in popular use. He opened it.

“Stamps—and private papers—no money—not a note there—I’ll run through these papers later,” he said. “But not a cent.”

“Is it robbery, Inspector?” questioned Sir Charles. “Appearances, at least, seem to me to be pointing in that direction.”

Baddeley shook his head. “Up to now, sir,” he declared—“it’s got me beat! I find out one thing and seem to see a little light, and then I chance on something else, equally important on the face of it, that knocks my first theory into a cocked hat. Nothing fits! Nothing tallies!”

“I confess that to some extent, I share your bewilderment, Inspector,” said Anthony. “If I knew——”

Baddeley suddenly became vividly alive. “Of course—there may be that explanation.” He swung round on to the three of us. “Any cards last night?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Why?”

“Never mind”—impatiently—“Prescott playing?”

“Yes.”

Anthony became all interest. “I see your drift, Inspector.”

Baddeley grinned. “Qualifying for a mental hospital—I’ve been—haven’t I?

“Now, Mr. Cunningham,” he turned to me—“you say you saw Prescott playing—I’ll tell you something more—you saw him lose and lose, now didn’t you? He was cleaned out of all he had, wasn’t he?” he brought his fist down on the dressing-table triumphantly—“he lost the lot?”

Anthony’s eyes held me inquiringly.

“Yes, Bill?” he murmured. “What about it?”

For a brief moment I felt majestic. I had a curious sense of power. “This is my grand minute,” I whispered to myself.

Taking a cigarette from my case, I tapped it on the lid with a becoming delicacy.

“On the contrary, Baddeley,” I weighed my words with a meticulous distinctness. “On the contrary—Prescott won! Systematically, consistently, and heavily.”

Baddeley stared as though unable to believe the words. Anthony let out a low whistle.

“Frightfully sorry to upset your pet theories,” I continued airily—“but I know that for an absolute certainty.”

“How?” snapped Baddeley. “Were you playing with him?”

“No,” I replied. “I was watching.”

“And onlookers see most of the game, Inspector,” said Anthony.

“Who was playing?” insisted Baddeley.

“Almost everybody—except Mr. Bathurst, Mr. Jack Considine and myself.”

He scratched his chin, reflectively.

Then came the question that I was half-expecting.

“Anybody in particular lose more than most?”

I hesitated before replying, and I sensed that he detected the hesitation.

I crossed the Rubicon! “I think Lieutenant Barker was the heaviest loser, but he would, doubtless, let you have that information. Surely, you don’t imagine——”

“That’s all right, Bill,” said Anthony. “The Inspector can easily satisfy himself.”

I made a mental note to tell Anthony as soon as the coast was reasonably clear of the Barker I. O. U. That had certainly not come to light.

“Any idea who was the last person to be with Prescott, last night?” asked Baddeley.

I reflected. After all, it was best to be candid with this man.

“I can’t answer that for certain,” I said, “but I can tell you this. I went to bed about a quarter to twelve, and on my way I saw Prescott in conversation with Lieutenant Barker.”

“Where?”

“At the foot of the staircase.”

“Anything in the nature of a quarrel?”

“No,” I answered with rapid decision, “the conversation as far as I could gather was just ordinary conversation. Naturally, I didn’t listen to what they were talking about.”

“H’m, I suppose not.”

Baddeley sat on the chair and put his head in his hands. “As soon as I’ve looked round,” he observed, “I shall have to interview everybody.”

Anthony strolled across the room, round to the left-hand side of the bed.

“Not much room here, Inspector,” he said. “Hardly enough space for a fellow to dress—eh?”

Baddeley looked up from his reflections, distinctly unimpressed.

“He would find plenty of room to dress the other side, Mr. Bathurst—there’s every indication of it.” He indicated the appointments.

“You think so,” replied Anthony. “So do I. And unless I receive an unexpected set-back I really believe things are moving.”

I was frankly amazed. I turned over all that I had heard, all that I had seen and as I pondered over them, I couldn’t for the life of me see how the slightest light could possibly have come to him.

“I presume, Inspector, you will see the people within a little while, eh?” he inquired.

“That is my intention, Mr. Bathurst. Why do you ask?”

“Well, I’m going to have a little tour outside, if it’s all the same to you, and Bill Cunningham’s coming with me. Let’s hear from you when you’re ready and waiting. Come along, Bill.”

He walked out, down the stairs, through the hall and into the garden.

Anthony took out his pipe and filled it.

“Before I do anything more, Bill,” he said slowly, “I’m going to sit on this seat and smoke this good tobacco—and you can do likewise.”

“Good!” I uttered. “Tell me what you think.”

“No”—shaking his head—“I can’t do that, just yet. For Baddeley will be well on with his work of cross-questioning before very long, and there are some things I wouldn’t tell my mother—just yet.”

“Please yourself,” I grunted. “But what puzzles me,” I said, “is the scene of the crime as the journalists say. What took Prescott to the billiard room?”

“There are three reasonable solutions to that,” puffing at his pipe, “one—an assignation, two—he was called, drawn, or attracted there by something he saw, heard—or perhaps was afraid of happening—and three—he was taken there.”

“By force?” I interrupted.

“Perhaps. There were, if you remember, certain signs of a struggle.”

“The fact that he was fully dressed,” I countered, “suggests to me very strongly that there was an assignation.”

“Yes, I concede that, Bill, but against that, you know, I must recall to you the brown shoes he was wearing.”

“Perhaps his dress shoes weren’t handy,” I argued. “The others may have been nearer to his hand.”

“No. I can’t have it, Bill, his dress shoes were under his chair by the bed—just where he put them when he took them off last night. You see, I looked for them.”

“Oh,” I said, rather nettled. “You evidently thought them important.”

“Most assuredly,” he rejoined. “But not so important as the other thing Prescott’s bedroom told us.” He rose and stretched his arms.

“Yes,” I assented. “That money business of Baddeley’s is very mystifying. And yet there may be a perfectly simple explanation.”

“Of course,” said Anthony. “But I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“What do you mean?” I broke in. “What else was there?”

“My dear Bill,” came the reply, “I want you to come with me now and have a look at the ground immediately below the billiard room window.”

“Yes, but—that bedroom—what else did you——?”

“What else did I notice? Let me see, now. What was it? Oh—I found much food for thought, my dear Bill, in the somewhat peculiar disposition of the bed-clothes.”

CHAPTER IV
UNDER THE BILLIARD ROOM WINDOW

“Peculiar?” I queried wonderingly. “Nothing about them struck me as peculiar. Anybody getting up in a hurry would have thrown them off just as they appeared to——”

“You think so—well, you may if you like—here we are.”

We had progressed along the gravel drive until we were opposite the billiard room window. This lay on our right. Separating the path where we were from the window in question, there was a bed of roses approximately ten to twelve yards in width.

“What Baddeley has found, Bill, we can find,” muttered Anthony. “There you are—look. Footprints—that interested Baddeley.”

His face shone with eagerness and intensity.

“Keep on the path, Bill; leave these to me.”

He stepped carefully on to the earth bed, examining the prints with the utmost care. From where I stood I could see a number of well-defined “treads” and I readily appreciated the importance attached to them by both Baddeley and my companion. It was very evident that one person at least had crossed the rose-bed pretty recently to get beneath the billiard room window. It looked an outside job of course. Burglary evidently—Prescott had heard noises—come down to investigate—found the trouble in the billiard room and had interrupted the disturbers at the cost of his own life. But would burglars strangle their assailant with a shoe-lace? Surely not! The whole affair seemed to me to be most intricate and most involved. Still, the rain of the evening before had been a Godsend—there were the footmarks—telling some story to more than one pair of eyes. They might help the Inspector and I knew they would interest Anthony.

I looked across at him. He was evidently at a loss. Something on the wall beneath the window of the billiard room had apparently excited his attention. He scrutinized it most carefully, and then turned again to the prints. He shook his head.

“Bill!”

“Hullo?”

“Come over here, will you?”

I complied.

“Now, Bill, look at what I am going to show you, very carefully. I expected to find traces of Prescott somewhere out here—you, of course, noticed the mud on the shoes he is wearing—so that Baddeley’s announcement came as no surprise to me. The natural place to look for them was in the vicinity of the billiard room window, since that room was the last room he can have entered. Now, look here! Do you see that double line of tracks? Looks something like a 10, I should say. We can bank on those being Prescott’s. I’ll make sure later—but I’m certain of my ground.”

“In a double sense,” I grinned.

“Eh? Oh—I see——” he laughed. “I wasn’t thinking of what I had said. But do look. Here we have a distinct set of tracks that are undoubtedly Prescott’s, side by side with a similar set, undoubtedly again Prescott’s, leading in the reverse direction. The left-hand set, as we face the window, lead to the path, and the right-hand set lead to the window. Agree?”

I looked attentively at the footmarks. “Yes. It would seem so.”

“Right,” he rejoined. “Then—proceeding along that line of argument—since Prescott eventually reached the billiard room and stayed there, the tracks leading to the path should have been made first. That’s elementary, isn’t it?”

Once again I assented.

“Now,” continued Anthony, “cast your weather-eye over there.”

He pointed to a few feet away from the tracks we had agreed were Prescott’s.

I stared and started in surprise.

“More!” I cried.

“True, O King,” said Anthony, rubbing his hands with real showman instinct, “and whose are they? Come and look closer.” They belonged to a much smaller foot.

“A woman?” I queried.

Anthony shook his head in disagreement. “I think not. Might be. But it’s broad for a woman, not suggestive of a woman’s heel, and more generally indicative of a medium-sized man. He has walked deliberately towards the window from the path and then equally deliberately back again. That’s another point I’m basing my opinion on, a woman so often picks her way, especially with any mud about. Put it down to feminine fastidiousness.”

“Then Prescott did have an assignation?” I ventured.

“Perhaps! It certainly looks like it. But——”

“But what?”

“Well, there’s nothing to prove that the two people that have been here were here at the same time, is there? Of course, I’m willing to admit that in circumstances of this kind, the balance of probability is that they were. But one never knows. I wonder what Baddeley——”

“What do you really think about it?” I urged.

His answer amazed me rather.

“Too much!”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I say. I am actually thinking too much about a number of points. There are too many clues here, Bill, falling over one another. No wonder Baddeley’s mystified. My job is to separate the true significances from the false. That’s real detective talent, Bill. In this case, there is so much that conflicts. One set of facts, for example, points to the North, and another set, apparently just as authentic, points unerringly to the South. Therefore, they can’t, all of them, be authentic! See? Some must be false. And I’ve got to pick ’em out.” He slapped me on the back. “Magna est veritas”—he stopped abruptly.

“Now what?”

“By Jove!” he murmured. And an illuminating smile spread across his features. “Of course. Of course.”

He turned to me quickly.

“It’s strange, Bill, how an occasion will turn up to illustrate the exact truth that a man has just enunciated. Here’s an example to hand. I was talking about the separation of falsehood from truth. Effecting this separation explains something very clearly that has been causing me no end of bother.”

I became all attention and interest, immediately.

“Explain,” I said. “Put me out of my miserable ignorance.”

“Look at this wall, then.”

I looked. “Yes, what about it?”

“Well, Bill, it’s like this—listen! Assuming Prescott was out here some time last night or this morning, how would you suggest he got here? Did he come downstairs and risk the possible disturbance of other people or did he come from his bedroom down the nine stairs to the billiard room and out via the billiard room window? Think before you answer.”

I hesitated a moment.

“Well, of course, it’s all guesswork——”

“Not for a moment, old son! Use the powers the good God has given you.”

I nodded sagely, yet still uncomprehending; then burned my boats.

“Down the stairs and out of the window!”

“You think so? Let’s investigate. I suppose that window, Bill, is roughly fifteen feet from the ground—eh?”

I assented. “An easy job,” I interjected, “for an active man!”

“And when he wanted to get back,” replied Anthony, “a moderately easy climb. He could use the water-pipe,” he indicated with his hand the water-pipe running down the wall on the right of the window—“for a hold with his right hand, could dig his toes in the brickwork; clutch the window-sill with his left hand and easily draw his body up. Agree, Bill?”

“Absolutely,” I concurred. “If you like, I’ll try it here and now, to prove it’s a practicable possibility.”

“Done with you, Bill. You’re a stout fellow! Up you go!”

I suited the action to the words. Reaching out with my right hand I gripped the water-pipe well up its length, pulled myself up a bit, kicked at the brickwork with my toes, got a momentary hold, hung for a second, shot up my left hand to clutch the window-sill, succeeded, and hauled myself up. Entrance to the billiard room would have been a comparatively simple matter.

“Satisfied?” I grinned. Then, dropped to the ground again.

“Completely! So that, friend Bill, is the method by which the now defunct Prescott, poor fellow, got out and got back? Eh?”

“That’s about the size of it,” I agreed, feeling a sense of triumph. “We’ve established that pretty firmly.”

Then I woke up.

“I disagree!” said Anthony curtly.

“You disagree?” I muttered in amazement.

“I do! And I’ll show you why. I warned you to get that grey matter of yours to work—didn’t I? Pay attention to what I am going to demonstrate.”

“Go ahead!”

“I’m going. Now, Bill, which would be the easier way to get out of the room? To get out, using the reverse method by which you got up—that is to say—leaning out for a grip of the water-pipe with one hand, and then all the rest of the movements, or as you said, a simple drop from the window-sill?”

“A simple drop, unquestionably,” I answered, without any hesitation.

“I think so, too! Where then,” he swung round on me, alive with interest, “are the heavy marks of his feet when he dropped? The ground is soft, remember. And he was a pretty hefty fellow. There’s no sign of a drop at all—only this double line of tracks. Look!”

It was as he showed. There were no indications whatever of anybody having dropped from the window.

I stared at him, for the moment nonplussed. Then turning, caught his eye. I could see that there was more to come.

It came! “Also, Bill, I would call your attention to two very important facts. Important, that is, in relation to the line of investigation that we are at present conducting. Look at the toes of your shoes.”

I did as directed.

“Slightly scraped,” I said ruefully, “getting up to that window of yours.”

“Exactly, laddie. Exactly. Now for important fact number two.”

“I’m all attention.”

“Well, just as the wall has had its effect on your shoes, so have your shoes had their effect on the wall. See?”

He pointed to the brickwork. It was quite true. My shoes had made a perceptible discoloration where they had rubbed as I had struggled for my foot-grip.

“And what is more, Bill,” continued Anthony, “it’s comparatively dry now. Last night was wet, remember. And it may interest you to know that the wall was perfectly clean when I arrived here just now, and Prescott’s shoes are certainly not scraped.”

“Sure?” I queried.

“I am. I’m carrying a mental photograph of Prescott about with me, and you can take it from me, Bill, that Prescott never did the climbing trick that you’ve done this morning. Now where are we?”

“Ask me another,” I grunted. “I should think, more in the dark than ever.”

But Anthony dissented.

“I’m not so sure of that. I’m beginning to see a little more light.”

I surveyed him with astonishment.

“What on earth——”

“I’m still holding on, Bill, so don’t worry me. Come along here, we’ll do a little more prospecting.”

We strolled back along the path that led back to the French doors.

“No indication here of which way either of them went,” remarked Anthony. “This gravel path hardly takes a foot’s impression, which, at the best, would be hours old by now.”

He stopped by the French doors. “Yes, Bill, I’m in the dark still with regard to many points. As I said to you previously, there are so many things that don’t fit, they seem extraneous to the real core of the crime—all the same, at the risk of becoming monotonous, I think I can see a glimmer of light.”

“What’s your next move?” I questioned.

“I want to have another look around Prescott’s bedroom. I should also like to glance at his papers—but Baddeley pouched those—his check-book might be interesting too. Yes, I must have another look up there.”

“How are you going to manage it?”

“This way. I’m going to ask Sir Charles to cover me by engaging me, so to speak, to clear up the affair on his behalf. You know what I mean. Terrible disgrace to Considine Manor, and all that, to have this mystery unsolved. Poor young fellow done to death, in a charming English country house, where he is staying as a guest. Must get to the bottom of it for the sake of the family name, you know. Otherwise, if Scout Baddeley finds me poking about too much in bedrooms and around footprints, he’ll take the bull by the horns and arrest A. L. Bathurst, Esq. Get me, Bill?”

Truth to tell, it did seem pretty terrible to think that a delightful place like Considine Manor could harbor the crime it did. It was another English summer morning after the rain of the night before. It seemed to breathe freshness, and grass, and new-mown hay, and butterflies and cricket—all that pageant of hot July that no other country in the world can give.

“What about Canterbury?” I ejaculated.

“Giving it a miss! I can’t very well rush off and bury myself in a round of gaiety after what’s happened here. Besides, I shouldn’t be surprised if Baddeley has something chatty and snappy to say about any of us leaving yet awhile at any rate.”

“Have you let them know?”

“No, I’ll wire later. Let’s get back now, and I’ll see Sir Charles.”

We strolled back, and the reflection came to me how suddenly our immediate outlooks had changed. A few hours ago Anthony had the prospect of a glorious week at Canterbury. Similarly, I had been anticipating a delightful time in various delightful places—an English country house takes a bit of beating during real summer—and now! Look at it how you would—this sinister affair inevitably impinged in some way on the lives of all of us who were staying in the house. I, for one, try as I might, could not shake off its shadow.

Sir Charles met us as we entered the house, a changed man from the morning before.

“I wanted a word with you two men. I’m perfectly assured that you will understand—it’s nothing really to do with me, or anything—er—over which I appear to be able to exercise any control—but Inspector Baddeley has intimated to me—I must say, that, for a policeman, he put the matter very, very tactfully—I might even go so far as to say—delicately—that he wishes to interview all of us in the house, as soon as possible. I suggested we resort to the library.”

“That’s all right, sir,” responded Anthony. “Is he waiting now?”

Sir Charles looked at his watch. “I have made arrangements for the proceedings to—er—commence in half an hour’s time.”

“Could I have half a word with you, sir?” asked Anthony.

“Delighted, Bathurst.”

“I’ve always been attracted by affairs of this nature, sir, little thinking that one day I should be swept into one. Would you be good enough to give me carte blanche as it were, to do a little investigating off my own bat? With your authority, you see, acting in a private capacity as your agent, I can satisfy Inspector Baddeley of my bona fides if he catches me nosing into things.” Sir Charles pondered for a moment, and I fancied his reply came after some degree of hesitation.

“I see no objection, Bathurst. Provided, of course, that any—er—results of your inquiry—are submitted to me before any action is taken.”

“I’ll promise you that, sir—readily!”

“Very well.”

“Then we’ll regard that as settled.”

“This will entail your staying on here,” continued our host. “I’ve discussed the question with nearly all the others, and I’ve put it to them, subject to the Inspector’s permission being granted that they leave as quietly as possible to suit their several conveniences. After the interview, of course. No good purpose whatever can be served by any of them staying, and no lack of respect will be shown by them to the dead, if they leave in the manner that I have described. If any one of them should be required for the inquest—I am sorely afraid that an inquest is unavoidable—Inspector Baddeley will be furnished with full particulars. This will enable the authorities to get into touch quickly, should it be necessary.”

“What about Prescott’s people, sir?” I ventured.

“He has no father, Bill, and is the only child of his mother. Jack is communicating with her, I believe, almost at once. Somewhere in Blackheath, I fancy. I dread the task of meeting her. Still more I dread the task of telling her.” He blew his nose fiercely to cover his evident agitation.

The other members of the party came thronging up. But a hush seemed to have descended upon them. The conviviality of last night and the excitement of the morning’s awakening had departed. They had heard, indistinctly yet definitely, the flutter of the wings of the Angel of Death. He had passed them by, but he had been very close to them. And now what awaited them? Grief to the young is a transient matter. It soon becomes impossible—youth’s ardent eagerness engulfs it. It must be so. Grief can find no permanent habitation in the heart of youth. Lady Considine thought of Mrs. Prescott, and the news that would so soon reach her. One mother considered the anguish of another mother. Mary seemed terribly shaken, most of the men looked unperturbed; no matter what their feelings were, they were clever enough to mask them.

The servants did most of their work on a kind of mental tiptoe. We waited. But not for long.

A quick step and a quick voice sounded upon our ears.

“I am at your service, ladies and gentlemen,” said Inspector Baddeley.

CHAPTER V
THE METHODS OF INSPECTOR BADDELEY

“I don’t suppose this is going to be a very pleasant job for the ladies, Sir Charles, and you can rest assured that as far as lies in my power, I’ll make it as smooth and easy as possible. So I propose, with your approval, to talk to you gentlemen first. I should prefer to see my clients separately, and, as was your suggestion, I think the library will serve the purpose very nicely.”

He turned to Roper.

“You come with me, Roper. I may want you.”

Sir Charles Considine coughed—then, very quietly but nevertheless very determinedly—interposed. “That seems to me a trifle one-sided as a proposition, Inspector. You have support, physical, moral, and also no doubt intellectual,” he smiled somewhat whimsically at Roper—“and we, all of us, are, to an extent, shaken by the terrible event that has befallen my house, and, therefore, as a consequence are neither so self-controlled nor so mentally alert as normally. We appear before you to be questioned and cross-examined. I don’t think I should be asking an unwarranted favor if I suggested that you allow, say, two members of my circle to be present while you conduct your examination. H’m? What do you say, Inspector?”

Baddeley met his gaze for a moment, as though making an attempt to fathom his real intentions. Then with a laugh and a shrug of his eminently business-like shoulders, gestured his consent.

“Choose your men. On the condition that I see the three of you first.”

“Thank you, Inspector. Believe me, I appreciate your courtesy. I should like Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Bathurst to—er—um—assist you in your intended investigations.”

“As you wish, sir, and thank you. Now, with your permission, you three gentlemen will do me the goodness to accompany me to the library, and we will do our united best to see if we can’t, by hook or by crook, throw some light on this unfortunate affair. And you, Roper! I’ve been lucky enough to unravel some pretty ticklish problems in my time, some by good luck, some, if I may say so, gentlemen, with pardonable pride, by intelligent application to the matter in hand. And I hope,” he turned on us all decisively, “to hunt the truth out, here.”

We entered the library. Our host motioned us to our seats. Baddeley took the armchair at the head of the table investing himself as far as he could with an atmosphere of the inquisitorial. Roper took the chair on his left. Sir Charles placed himself in front of the fireplace, while Anthony and I took chairs at the side of the table.

The Inspector was soon in his stride.

“Now, Sir Charles, this Mr. Prescott, whose death we all deplore, was a guest of yours?”

“Yes. For my cricket week.”

“Known him long?”

“No. It would help you materially, if I informed you of the circumstances of the acquaintanceship. Prescott was at Oxford with my son and Mr. Cunningham here, and we met him at Lords’ during the last ’Varsity Match—just a month ago. We invited him here for our annual week.”

The Inspector was impressed. “Is he G. O. L. Prescott then—that played for Oxford against Cambridge?”

“He is, Inspector! And there’s one more fact that I had omitted to mention, he had met my daughter, Mary, some months previously.”

“Where?” Baddeley’s face betrayed keen interest.

“At Twickenham, in December.”

“You have no reason to suspect, Sir Charles, that any developments had transpired from these meetings?”

“None whatever. As far as my knowledge goes, Mr. Prescott and my daughter entertained no feelings for each other, beyond those of mere friendship.”

“I see.” Baddeley fingered his chin. “You’ve seen nothing during his stay here, that you consider might have any bearing upon his death? Nothing—however seemingly unimportant? Think, Sir Charles!”

The old man shook his head. “No, Inspector. I’ve noticed nothing at all unusual, nothing that could possibly touch his death. The scene this morning came as a terrible shock to me. And as terrible by reason of its utter unexpectedness as by reason of its horror.”

“How much money did Prescott lose last night, Sir Charles?”

“Really, I’ve no idea! But nothing worth worrying about—you can set your mind easy on that point. I shouldn’t allow it—in Considine Manor.”

The Inspector raised his eyebrows.

“Then, in light of your answer, you may be surprised to know that there was some pretty high playing at Considine Manor last night.”

The eyes of our host flashed with his reply. “Very surprised and exceedingly annoyed. Had I known, had I had the slightest inkling—you are certain of what you are stating—pardon me?”

“I make that statement, Sir Charles, on unimpeachable authority.”

“Dear, dear! This news disturbs me profoundly.”

The old man’s appearance confirmed the truth of this last statement. This unexpected revelation, following upon the shock of the murder, had made its mark upon his countenance. He huddled himself into a chair. Then braced himself to ask another question.

“Was Prescott playing high?”

“He was, Sir Charles.” Baddeley’s features relaxed for a fleeting moment into a smile—“and incidentally, he won a considerable sum of money.”

“Whom from?”

“That you shall hear, sir, during the course of this morning’s inquiry.”

Sir Charles subsided again, by no means so sure of himself as he had been. I could not help whispering to Anthony as he lounged in his chair with his long legs extended—“First blood to the Inspector.”

He grinned, and as he did so Baddeley’s next question came.

“Now you, Mr. Bathurst. A guest here, also?”

“Yes.”

“Like Mr. Prescott?”

“Didn’t know him sufficiently to express an opinion.”

Baddeley evinced his annoyance. “I didn’t mean did you like him, Mr. Bathurst, what I meant to say was, were you a guest of Sir Charles under similar circumstances?”

“Sorry! I misunderstood you. No—not exactly. My invitation is only a day or two old.”

“Did you know the murdered man?”

“No, I did not. That is to say at all well. I’ve run against him at Oxford.”

“Did you see anything while you were here, or did you hear anything during the night that you think worthy of mentioning to me?”

“Nothing at all, Inspector.”

“You were not playing cards, last evening?”

“No, after dinner when the cards started I strolled into the garden with Mr. Jack Considine. We were there about twenty minutes. Then we went to bed—and like everybody else were awakened by the maid’s discovery in the billiard room. Which she celebrated in the usual manner.”

“H’m—any theory in regard to the crime, Mr. Bathurst?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Based on?”

“What I’ve seen this morning.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“You shall. All in good time. After all—it’s merely a theory.”

Baddeley was obviously disconcerted by the reply. I don’t think he knew quite what to make of Anthony.

So he turned his battery on to me.

“Mr. Cunningham? Sir Charles tells me you’re an old friend of the family.”

I bowed. “Of many years’ standing. And a regular guest for the Considine Cricket Week as you may guess.”

“Know Prescott?”

“Moderately. Played cricket with him at Oxford—not much beyond that.”

“Know anything about his private affairs?”

“Nothing.”

“And last night, Mr. Cunningham. What can you tell us about that?”

“I was in the drawing-room after dinner with the others, and as I have previously told you, I was a watcher of the card-playing party. I went up to bed about a quarter to twelve.”

“Where was Prescott then?”

“I left him in conversation with Lieutenant Barker.”

“And of course you heard nothing during the night?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Bill,” interjected Anthony. “Tell me this. When Jack and I went into the garden for a smoke, was everybody in the drawing-room? Think carefully.”

I considered for a moment—then replied with decision—“Yes—everybody.”

“You didn’t see anybody leave it?” he reiterated.

“To the best of my belief,” I asserted, “everybody save you and Jack was in the drawing-room.”

“Right.”

Baddeley pushed across a letter.

“Have a good look at that, Mr. Cunningham.”

“Yes?” I queried.

“That’s a letter addressed to Mr. Prescott. I think you may know the handwriting?”

I took the letter. It seemed an ordinary enough letter, touching upon the fact that Prescott was shortly visiting Considine Manor, but the portion where the signature would have normally appeared, had been torn off.

“Sorry, Inspector,” I replied, “I don’t. I can’t help you.”

I handed it back to him. His glance searched my features for a brief space then——

“Try Mr. Bathurst; does he find the writing familiar?”

Anthony smiled and held out his hand. He read the writing with interest and turned the letter over with apparent curiosity.

“Where did you find this, Inspector?”

“Sorry, Mr. Bathurst, but you mustn’t expect me to give away all my secrets. Tricks in every trade, you know.” He laughed lightly. “As you were good enough to remark just now—all in good time. Let’s come to the point, the handwriting—recognize it?”

“I’ve never seen it before, so I can’t. But I think, before the case is over, that I shall probably see it again.”

Baddeley flung him a challenging glance. But Anthony’s eyes met his and never for an instant wavered. Then they both smiled.

“Try Sir Charles Considine,” countered Anthony. “He might know it, though I don’t fancy so.”

Sir Charles straightened himself in his chair. He extended his hand. “Let me look, Baddeley, though why Mr. Bathurst is so confident that—no, no,” shaking his head in dissent, “to the best of my knowledge and belief, this writing is new and therefore strange to me. What’s the date—my eyes aren’t as good as they were?”

“July 22nd,” responded Anthony, with the utmost readiness, from the other side of the table.

I fancied that the Inspector threw him an approving glance, but I remembered his uncanny memory for dates, and their associations. He had seen the letter and had mastered its detail—that was all. Baddeley gave the letter to Roper. “Keep that handy,” he muttered, “we haven’t exhausted all the possibilities.” Then to Sir Charles: “I should like to see Mr. Considine junior next, Mr. Jack Considine, is it?”

Our host bowed—“As you wish.”

“Just tell him, Roper, will you?” from Baddeley quietly.

“And as most of us have had very hasty breakfasts, gentlemen, I’ll get Fitch to bring us a little light refreshment,” chimed in Sir Charles. “We seem destined to be here some little time.” He rang the bell, as Roper entered with Jack Considine. Fitch followed them.

Sir Charles delivered his instructions, which were promptly carried out.

“Mr. Considine,” said the Inspector, “sorry to trouble you—but—can you throw any light on this business?”

He proceeded to question him on similar lines to those he had just employed with us.

Jack told him all he knew, and I was just beginning to think that it was all a business of ploughing the sands when I was startled out of my convictions.

I had vaguely heard the question repeated for the fourth time—“did you hear anything during the night?” and was just as vaguely prepared for the denial when Jack Considine gave an answer that made us all sit up and take notice.

“Well, Inspector,” he said, a little diffidently perhaps, “now I come to think over things very carefully, I have rather a hazy recollection that I heard something that I may describe as unusual.”

“What was it?”

“I am pretty certain that I was half awakened during the night by the sound of a door shutting. It might have been something different, but I don’t think so. No,” he continued reflectively, “the more I try to reproduce in my ears the sound that I heard, the more convinced I am that it was a door shutting.”

“Ah!” rejoined Baddeley. “Near you? Or distant?”

“That’s awkward to answer. As I stated, my awakening was only partial, it is difficult to measure sound when one is half asleep ... but I should say pretty near.”

“Any idea of the time?”

“None! I didn’t trouble. I wondered at it in a sleepy sort of way ... and went to sleep again.”

Baddeley pondered for a moment.

“I understand, Mr. Bathurst, that you have been sharing Mr. Considine’s bedroom. Did you hear anything of this?”

“No,” came the reply. “I heard nothing—I was tired and slept very soundly, as is usual with me.”

The Inspector nodded.

“We may take it then,” he proceeded, emphasizing his points by a succession of curious little fingertaps on the table, “that Mr. Considine heard this door shutting more because of his half-awake condition than through any particular—er—nearness or proximity to the place where it occurred—eh? You grasp my point?”—turning to Sir Charles.

“You mean,” interposed Anthony, “that had this door shut very near to our bedroom, the chances are that I should have heard it, too?”

“Exactly,” answered Baddeley. “Don’t you agree with me?”

Anthony meditated for a moment. “Perhaps. It’s certainly possible—but on the other hand—perhaps not. I might and I mightn’t.”

Our interrogator then came back to Considine.

“Did you hear anything after you heard this door shut, Mr. Considine?”

“No! I simply turned over and went to sleep again.”

“Think very carefully, sir. Pardon my insistence, but very often things come to us out of our sleeping moments if we only concentrate sufficiently.” His eyes fixed Jack, and held him and once again I caught a glance of the man’s efficiency. There was no brilliance there, no subtlety beyond ordinary astuteness, no flashing intuition bringing in its wake an inspired moment, but merely a species of machine-like efficiency. I have repeated the word, I am aware, but I can think of no other, at the moment, that so adequately expresses the quality that I perceived. I contrasted him with Anthony Bathurst. One of the product of “the Force,” hard-bitten in the school of personal industry, bringing a well-ordered brain to bear on the problem that confronted us, the other, public school and ’Varsity all over, with a brilliant intellect nursed by the terminology of these institutions, treating the affair as an adventure after his own heart. What would Baddeley have done, I found myself wondering, with the other’s opportunities? Where would Anthony have cleared a passage, had he been born Baddeley? My musings were short-lived.

“Let me have that letter again, Roper?” demanded the Inspector. And once again was the letter produced and inspected. And once again was the writing unrecognized; it conveyed no more to Considine than it had done to us.

Then Anthony surprised me. “Do you mind if I take another glance at it?” he asked. “Something has just come to my mind.”

Baddeley looked at him shrewdly and curiously for a moment.

“Certainly,” he agreed, and passed the letter over.

But one look proved satisfactory.

“I’m sorry—I’m wrong,” muttered Anthony, “I can’t help you.”

The Inspector smiled at his apparent discomfiture. He seemed agreeably relieved to discover that A. L. Bathurst was human after all; and followed on to the next stage of his investigation.

“I think that will do for the time being then, Mr. Considine,” he said. “And ask if I can see—in order, if you please”—he referred to some notes that he took from the pocket of his lounge jacket, “first Mr. Robertson, then Mr. Daventry, and then Mr. Tennant?”

Robertson entered. He hadn’t bargained for this when he accepted the invitation to Considine Manor.

He could tell the Inspector nothing, except what he knew concerning the cards. He could not identify the writing of the letter.

He had known Prescott at Oxford—just casually—that was all. He had slept soundly, only to be awakened by Marshall’s scream, as we had all been.

Daventry and Tennant, in turn followed him, only to be similarly ignorant and similarly dismissed.

Baddeley sipped a glass of port and munched a biscuit. Sir Charles followed suit approvingly.

“Well, what now, Inspector?” he remarked. “We appear to have reached an impasse. What is your opinion now?”

“Plenty of time yet, sir,” came the reply. “I’ve by no means exhausted my possibilities of information yet.” He referred again to his list, then looked up—“There are three gentlemen to be seen yet, Major Hornby, Captain Arkwright and Lieutenant Barker, then there are three ladies, and finally some of the servants. I’m sorry, Sir Charles,”—he swung round in his chair and confronted him—“but somebody in this house knows something about last night’s job—and I’m stopping on till I lay my hands on him—or her. So ask Lieutenant Barker to step this way.”

CHAPTER VI
LIEUTENANT BARKER ATTEMPTS TO REMEMBER

I glanced in Anthony’s direction. Evidently the Inspector imagined that Barker knew something, or perhaps as an alternative he fancied that he in his turn knew something about Barker. I scanned Anthony’s face in the idea of ascertaining, if I could, if he attached any degree of importance to the man we were awaiting. Personally, I couldn’t see Barker as a murderer ... he was a chap whom I had always liked, no end of a decent sort ... surely they didn’t regard him in that light ... it seemed to me ridiculous ... preposterous....

“Come in, Barker,” said Sir Charles Considine kindly. He, too, seemed to sense the hostility in the atmosphere and appeared to be desirous of putting the man at his ease, were such a thing possible. “Inspector Baddeley, as you are fully aware, is conducting a little inquiry into the terrible tragedy that has—er—overwhelmed us this morning, and would like to feel that any information you can give him in the matter, you will do so unhesitatingly. Understand, m’boy?”

Barker smiled. He had one of those sunny smiles that run, so to speak, in all directions across the smiler’s face. You know what I mean—the eyes light up, and the whole face seems radiantly happy. This was a blue-eyed smile, and I always think that’s the finest variety.

“Delighted, sir,” he answered. “May I sit down?”

He seated himself in the chair that Baddeley proffered him. The latter leaned across the table in his direction.

“I am relying on you, Lieutenant Barker, to be perfectly frank with me,” he said.

“Fire away, Inspector,” smiled the Lieutenant.

“How many tables were playing cards last night?”

“I really couldn’t tell you, Inspector. I believe Sir Charles Considine here was playing ‘Auction’ with some of the others—Sir Charles can confirm this if you ask him, and give you full particulars—I really didn’t pay much attention—but I was playing ‘Solo’ myself with Major Hornby, Robertson and Prescott. You’ve seen Robertson already, hasn’t he told you?” His teeth flashed into another disarming smile.

“And you lost money, didn’t you? Consistently?”

“That seems to me my business, Inspector, but I’ll be perfectly open and frank ... I did.”

“Remember, Lieutenant Barker,” snapped Baddeley, “we are investigating a murder, and a singularly brutal murder at that, not the theft of two pennyworth of tripe.”

“I do, Inspector,” responded Barker with an almost affected languidity, “that was the sole reason I answered you. Rest assured that I certainly shouldn’t have done, otherwise.”

Baddeley glared. Then his experience gained the victory over his temper.

“Do you object to telling me the amount you lost to the dead man?”

Barker hesitated momentarily. Looked up at the ceiling and tapped his foot on the carpet. Then, to all appearances, came to a decision.

“I’ll tell you. I suppose it’s your job to nose into things. I lost over two hundred pounds—two hundred and eight, to be strictly accurate.”

“Did you pay it over there and then?”

Barker flushed under his tan.

“I gave Prescott an I.O.U. for the amount,” he said very quietly.

I felt rather than saw Anthony straighten himself in his chair. And I was relieved to think that Barker, having furnished the information regarding the I.O.U. himself, I should be saved the unpleasant business of telling Anthony as I had intended. Baddeley’s voice cut into my thoughts. It rang with expectancy.

“Now then, Lieutenant, you gave that I.O.U. to Prescott?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do with it? Do you know? Can you remember?”

I am certain that Barker hesitated ever so slightly over his reply, and I caught myself wondering if one of those machines they use in France for measuring heart-beats or something—or the time a suspected person takes to answer pregnant questions—would have registered and recorded this almost imperceptible hesitation. The answer came, however, and perhaps not quite what I anticipated.

“Yes! He put it into his pocket wallet.”

“Certain?”

“I watched him—it meant two hundred and eight pounds to me, did that tiny piece of paper.”

“Tiny? How tiny?”

“Half an ordinary-sized envelope. I tore an envelope in half to write it.”

“By Moses! this is important, Lieutenant Barker. Do you realize the importance of it?”

“Possibly I do.”

“I’ve been through Prescott’s papers—I’ve been through that wallet arrangement you spoke about—that I.O.U. has vanished!”

But Barker met his almost accusing eyes—unflinchingly.

“How can you be positive as to that?” he urged. “Prescott may have put it anywhere, since placing it in the wallet—it might conceivably be in a dozen places!”

“There is no trace of that I.O.U. in Mr. Prescott’s bedroom—nor among his belongings. I’ve looked for it. And I can’t find it. I may as well tell you that it had a special interest for me, because I deduced its existence, there’s no harm that I can see in telling you how. I knew Prescott had won money, several witnesses can prove that—and I knew also that it was a good-sized sum. It was distinctly unlikely that cash would pass for a large amount. Therefore I suspected an I.O.U.”

“I might have settled by check for all you know,” muttered Barker.

“Possible, but the chances are—no!” replied Baddeley. “Gentlemen don’t usually carry their check-books in their dress clothes.” This laconically.

“Prescott had no money anywhere, had he, Inspector?” asked Sir Charles.

“Not a coin, sir—he was robbed as well as murdered. But this is a significant fact, he was only robbed of cash. Not of anything else.”

“May I ask Lieutenant Barker a question?” from Anthony.

Barker raised his eyebrows.

“When you gave Prescott your I.O.U. was it at the card-table or after you rose?”

“At the card-table—directly we had finished playing.” The answer came promptly and abruptly.

“So that,” and here Anthony spoke with extreme deliberation, “at least two people saw it passed over? Eh?”

“Hornby and Robertson undoubtedly,” continued Barker. “There may have been others near.”

“Can you recall anybody?”

Barker reflected. “Captain Arkwright and his wife were standing close by—Mrs. Arkwright had just come from the piano—and I rather think her sister was with them—I can’t remember anybody else.”

I interposed.

“I saw you give the I.O.U. to Prescott—I was standing by the French doors.”

Baddeley flashed an angry look at me.

“You didn’t tell me that, Mr. Cunningham,” he remonstrated.

I “finessed.” “I told you Prescott won money,” I argued. “I couldn’t think of everything on the spur of the moment.”

Anthony intervened.

“That’s all right, Bill. The Inspector understands that.”

Baddeley, however, had not finished with Lieutenant Barker.

“When you had handed your I.O.U. over, what did you do?”

Again I imagined that I detected a certain hesitation in his answer.

“I chatted for a few minutes with Prescott over the amazing luck he had ... then I went upstairs to bed.”

“Prescott go with you?”

“N-no! He gave me the impression he had something he wished to do.”

“That’s so,” I interjected again, “I spoke to him as I went up, and I gathered something similar.”

“Then you went straight to bed?”

“Yes!”

“Didn’t speak to anybody after you got upstairs to your bedroom?”

“No—yes, I did,” correcting himself. “I sang out ‘good-night’ to Hornby, Robertson and Cunningham here. If you call that speaking to people.”

“The three of them? Where were they?”

“Not exactly to them, Inspector, but as I passed their bedroom doors. I walked down the corridor and called out ‘good-night’ to them as I went. See?”

“Why to those three?”

“Because I knew they were there. They were the only three whom I had seen go up. Bathurst and Jack Considine were in the garden.”

Baddeley nodded in acquiescence, and accepted the explanation.

“Did the three people answer you?” suddenly queried Anthony.

“Lord, what a memory I’m expected to have,” groaned Barker. “Let me think.” He passed his fingers through his hair. “I can only recall that Major Hornby answered, with any certainty. But that may perhaps be because I know his voice best. I can’t answer for the others.”

“What do you say, Bill?” continued Anthony.

For the life of me I wondered what he could see in a point of detail like this. I hesitated.

“Did you hear him, Bill? Did you answer him? Is his memory correct? These little things count so much in a case of this kind. What do you say?”

I thought very carefully. Had I any accurate remembrance of what Barker said he had done? Yes! I had!

“Yes,” I replied. “I heard Lieutenant Barker go by along the corridor, and I answered him. Perhaps he failed to hear me.”

“Good,” muttered Anthony. “You were occupying the last bedroom along the corridor, weren’t you, Barker, and you, Bill, the last but one?”

We nodded in agreement.

Then Baddeley cut in. “Hand the Lieutenant that letter we found in Mr. Prescott’s bedroom, Roper,” he ordered.

Lieutenant Barker took it.

“Know that handwriting?”

“Never seen it! Absolutely certain on the point.” He handed it back.

Baddeley appeared almost to have expected this answer. Perhaps he was getting used to it by now. He drummed on the table with his finger-tips.

“Anything more, Inspector?” asked Barker.

“For the time being, no thank you,” was the answer, when Anthony, who had been leaning across the table chatting to Sir Charles, broke in.

“I’m awfully sorry to trouble you, Barker, but I’d be eternally obliged ... was last night the first night that Prescott had won much?”

Barker shifted uneasily. “From me.... Yes!”

“That isn’t quite what I asked you,” continued Anthony relentlessly.

“By Moses,” cried the Inspector, “this case fairly beats the band for a lot of tight-lips.”

Barker looked from one to the other. Then he suddenly seemed to realize the value to himself of the information that was his to give.

“The night before last,” he answered a trifle obstinately, perhaps sullenly is the happier word, “he won a considerable amount from a brother officer of mine.”

“Major Hornby?”

Lieutenant Barker bowed.

Anthony turned to the Inspector. “Inspector,” he said, “gentlemen are traditionally ‘tight-lipped’ when it comes to what they regard as ‘telling tales.’ I think you have misjudged Lieutenant Barker.”

Barker blushed, he was the type of Englishman that finds praise embarrassing. But Baddeley did not take his semi-rebuke passively.

“Gentlemen do lots of funny things,” he declared. “Even to fracturing the Sixth Commandment.”

“Now, I’ve a second question ...” proceeded Anthony.

“You stated a few moments ago that your I.O.U. to Prescott was half an ordinary-sized envelope. You said you tore an envelope in half to write it. I am not quite clear as to your exact meaning. Do you mean that your I.O.U. was half an envelope or half the back or front of an envelope? You get my meaning? There’s a difference if you think it over carefully.”

“I see what you mean, Bathurst. I slit an envelope down the side with my finger, separated the back from the front, then tore the back in two and used a half.”

“I follow you! So that your I.O.U. would have measured say two inches by three?”

“Just about.”

“Thank you! That’s all I wanted to know.”

Barker bowed to Sir Charles and retired.

“You seem to be able to extract all the information you require, Mr. Bathurst,” said Baddeley. “Much more successful than I am.”

Anthony grinned. “Put it down to my irresistible charm of manner.”

His tone altered. “Who’s next? Major Hornby?”

The Inspector nodded in agreement. Sir Charles Considine rose. “I’ll convey your message.” He passed through the door.

“We are now going to have a few words with Lieutenant Barker’s ‘brother officer,’” declared Baddeley, “and military blood is thicker than ...”

Sir Charles entered with the Major on his heels.

Baddeley commenced with a direct action. In this instance the attack came early.

“Of course, Major,” he said, “doubtless you are quite cognizant of the fact that you are not bound to answer any of my questions ... all the same, I hope that you will ... your rank and position have taught you that Duty is very often unpleasant ... but nevertheless remains Duty ... it is my Duty as an Inspector of Police to prosecute these inquiries ... however much against the grain....”

Major Hornby’s face remained set ... immovable.

“Your apologies are unnecessary, Inspector,” he said.

“Apologies? You misunderstand me ...” Baddeley was floundering now, a trifle out of his depth ... these people were different from those of his usual encounters ... he went straight to his objective ... safer, no doubt.

“We have been informed, Major,” he remarked, “that on the evening before last, you lost a large sum of money to Mr. Prescott.”

“Quite true.”

“How much?”

“The amount doesn’t concern you, Mr. Inspector, that I can see.”

The muscles of Baddeley’s face tightened. But despite the rebuff he stuck manfully to his guns.

“Did you pay him or ...”

“Don’t be insultin’ ...” Baddeley winced as though he had been stung.

“You refuse to answer my question?” he retorted.

“On the contrary—I have answered it. I told you not to be insultin’!”

The atmosphere had become electrical. Two or three times Sir Charles had half-risen from his seat in a deploring kind of manner—a venerable peacemaker. Anthony watched with keenest interest while Roper remained inscrutable, the perfect subordinate.

“I don’t appreciate your attitude, Major Hornby,” insisted the Inspector, “and perhaps it may not be extended to the consideration of this letter”; he held his hand out to Roper, who passed the letter across to his chief once again.

“Do you know that handwriting?” he asked in a curt voice.

Major Hornby flung the letter on the library table contemptuously. “I do not! It’s not addressed to me, and therefore has nothing whatever to do with me. Also, I’ll wish you a very good-morning.” He left us!

“Tut, tut,” commented Sir Charles. “This is very unfortunate!”

Anthony smiled. Then burst into laughter.

“Sorry I don’t possess your irresistible charm of manner, Mr. Bathurst, nor yet your keen sense of humor,” put in Baddeley. “If all people were like that specimen that has just departed, Justice wouldn’t often be appeased and many murderers would survive to exult over their crimes. I’m not sure, however, that he hasn’t proved of some assistance. In murder, motive must always be pursued first. To whose benefit was the death of this man Prescott? A burglar? Or somebody inside the house? Which? When I can answer correctly to those two questions, I shall be nearer a solution. For both have possibilities.” He paused. Then turned to Sir Charles again.

“I hope Captain Arkwright will prove more reasonable.”

Sir Charles replied.

“My son-in-law will help you all he can ... for my sake.”

Now Dick Arkwright was a white man. One of the best, all the way through, and I felt assured that whatever his father-in-law’s wishes were he would fall into line. His marriage with Helen Considine had been a love-match and it was patent to all observers that it had brought no regrets with it. His consideration for his wife carried with it consideration for the members of her family, particularly for the head thereof.

“Captain Arkwright,” said Baddeley, “I have very little to ask you, and as a consequence, I will not detain you for more than a few moments. That is of course assuming that you have nothing to tell us?” He paused.

“I am sorry to think that I am unable to help you, Inspector, by supplying any facts of importance, beyond those with which you are already acquainted,” Arkwright said.

“I appreciate that. Thank you. First, take a look at that letter. Know the handwriting? No? Thanks! Secondly, your bedroom, Captain Arkwright, is the nearest to the door of the billiard room—it is on the same floor—with Sir Charles’—did you hear any noise in the night, any sounds of the struggle that appears to have taken place there?”

“No, Inspector! I can’t honestly say that I did. But I have a very hazy recollection that I heard footsteps in the garden not so very long after I had gone to bed. I can’t be sure even of that—and yet the sound of footsteps seems to belong to my last night’s sleep! Have you ever experienced anything of the kind, gentlemen?” he appealed to all of us,—“and I have a reason for telling you. As a matter of fact,” he continued, “the reminiscence was so vague, so entirely nebulous, that I had decided to say nothing about it. But something has happened to make me change my mind.”

“What is that?” demanded Baddeley.

“Mrs. Arkwright heard them too,” he replied quietly. “But she can’t place the time.”

Baddeley nodded his head in apparent confirmation. “I’m not surprised.” There was a respectful tap on the door.

“Come in,” called Sir Charles. Fitch, the butler, entered. He went to our host. “Wants me at once, Fitch?” muttered Sir Charles.

“If you please, Sir Charles.”

“Excuse me for a few moments, gentlemen. Lady Considine wants me immediately.” Fitch held the door open. We waited. But not for long. Sir Charles was quickly back, agitated, breathless, but alert.

“Inspector Baddeley,” he said, “I have news for you at last. Lady Considine has been robbed of her pearls—the Considine pearls.”

CHAPTER VII
LADY CONSIDINE COMPLICATES MATTERS

“I ought to tell you gentlemen, or at least those of you to whom the Considine pearls are unknown, that they have been in my family for several generations and are of great value. My wife wears them in the form of a necklace that she had made some seventeen years ago. And it has been her fancy, call it whim if you please to, to wear this necklace quite often. The last occasion she wore it was the evening before last—it was my birthday and it delighted her to celebrate the affair. She informs me that she replaced the necklace in her jewel-case when she retired that evening. I ought to mention that it goes into a case of its own which, in turn, is placed in a larger case. Unfortunately, she did not take the trouble to get this second case at the time—she was very tired. Yesterday morning she asked Coombes, her maid, to do so for her. About half an hour ago, it occurred to her that Prescott’s death may have resulted from a clash with burglars. She went to her large jewel-case, and was amazed to discover that the case containing the pearl necklace was not there. Neither was it to be found—anywhere. She is terribly upset to think that her partial neglect may have cost this poor young man his life.”

Baddeley waved his hand deprecatingly.

“There is no need for Lady Considine to worry over that, Sir Charles. None of us ever know the result of some of our most innocent actions. But this requires careful consideration. Coombes—this maid of Lady Considine’s—is she to be trusted?”

“As far as I can say,” replied Sir Charles. “She has been with us seven or eight years. She is desperately worried, Lady Considine says, and has no definite remembrance as to whether she replaced the necklace or not. Will you see her?”

“I will see both Lady Considine and her maid in a few moments. But I should like to feel certain whether I am investigating one case or two.”

“Things certainly are moving, Inspector,” said Anthony. “But perhaps this latest piece of news will help us a lot.”

Lady Considine was heart-broken at her loss. But she did her best to forget her personal loss in the greater sorrow that had befallen others. She was a pretty woman, and I knew that she had been considered a beauty in her day.

“When I went to bed the night before last,” she said, “I took the necklace off and put it into its own case, but I did not put this case into the larger one. I was sleepy and it meant getting up and crossing the room. My maid was brushing my hair. I said, ‘Coombes—put the case with the necklace away, in the morning—never mind now. Hurry up with my hair and I’ll get to bed.’”

Sir Charles interrupted here.

“I understood you asked her the following morning.”

“No, I asked her that night. To put the case away in the morning.”

“Did she reply?” commented Baddeley.

“She promised that she would.”

“Did you remind her again the following morning?” he continued.

“Yes—first thing.”

“And then what transpired?”

“Nothing. I thought no more about it. Not seeing the case lying on my dressing-table, I naturally imagined that Coombes had carried out my instructions.”

Baddeley nodded in acquiescence. “Quite so. And then?”

“Well, I was thinking over this dreadful business of last night and worrying ... and wondering ... when suddenly the idea of theft and burglary flew to my brain ... and as I have just explained to Sir Charles ... I went straight to the large jewel-case, unlocked it ... more as a means of making sure than because I really thought I had lost anything ... you know the rest. The case containing the necklace was not there.”

“Now, Lady Considine,” said the Inspector, “try and think ... when is your last remembrance of seeing the missing case?”

“Yesterday morning.”

“You are sure ... quite sure?”

“I am.” Then turning to her husband, “I want Inspector Baddeley to see Coombes—poor girl—she’s in a terrible way. I think she can already visualize herself being hanged at least. But as honest as the day, Inspector, so don’t frighten her.”

“I’ll try not to, I’m sure,” grunted Baddeley. “Roper!”

The silent Roper came to life again.

“Get full particulars of this missing necklace from Sir Charles and take the usual steps. If you send for Coombes,” to Lady Considine, “I’ll see her now.”

“Enter Coombes L.U.E.,” smiled Anthony. “As innocent as the ‘rathe’ primrose by the river’s brim.”

“Don’t count chickens before the hatching stage is completed, Mr. Bathurst. I’ve known crooks that looked like choristers, and bishops that looked like burglars.”

“That comes of judging people by their looks, Inspector,” chaffed back Anthony, “instead of by their actions.”

Coombes entered. Scared to death! She was a tall girl, with wispy red hair and a big face. The sense of bigness was given by the face, by a long line of strong jaw. It was what I should have called a “horse’s face.” Pythagoras would have declared that she had transmigrated from a horse. She opened the proceedings by bursting into loud sobbing.

“It’s all my fault, Mr. Policeman,” she managed to get out between her sobs. “I’ll tell the truth. I promised mother when I came into service I’d tell the truth always, so I’ll tell it now, even though I shall cop out for it—but it’s all my fault and God’s own mercy that we haven’t all been murdered.” She paused for breath.

“Come, come, my girl, what is all your fault?” demanded Baddeley.

“Why, sir ... this.... I d-d-don’t believe I put the n-n-necklace case away at all!”

“You mean you left it lying where Lady Considine had left it?”

“Y-y-yes! I meant to put it away first thing that morning when my Lady told me to—but something put it out of my mind and made me forget it ... and I never saw it again to make me remember it. At least I don’t think I did.”

“You can’t be sure of that, you know ...” remarked the Inspector. “Because you didn’t see it, doesn’t prove it wasn’t there.” He turned to Sir Charles. “Any strange characters been knocking about lately, that you’ve noticed?”

“None that I’ve seen.”

“H’m! Probably an inside job. With your permission I’ll step up to the bedroom in question, a little later on, Sir Charles! Perhaps you gentlemen would care to accompany me? I’ll adjourn down here, temporarily. All right, Coombes—you come along with us.”

We made our way upstairs—Anthony wrapped in thought.

Lady Considine’s bedroom was, as has already been explained, on the same floor as the billiard room. It will be remembered that the door of the latter faced anybody ascending the stairs. Lady Considine’s room lay on the left of the landing some twenty yards away. Between her room and the billiard room was the bedroom occupied by Dick and Helen Arkwright.

Baddeley entered, the rest of us following him.

“Is this the dressing-table where the case was?” Lady Considine replied in the affirmative.

“It’s near the window. Quite an easy entrance from outside.” He walked to the window and measured with his eyes the distance to the ground. “Is the window left open during the day?”

“Quite possibly, Inspector. As you see, it’s of the casement type.”

He examined it. “No signs of its having been forced,” he pronounced.

“I presume the door is open during the day?”

“It’s closed, of course, but not locked, if that’s what you mean.”

“I see! Most people in the house would have a fairly reasonable opportunity of access to the room—eh?”

“I suppose they would,” admitted Sir Charles, reluctantly. “This may sound as though we are confoundedly careless, Inspector, but we’ve always considered ourselves remote from crime. That’s the only explanation I can give.”

“Surely you don’t suspect anyone here ...” broke in Dick Arkwright. “I’m beginning to think those footsteps I was yammering about were made by real feet. And I feel very relieved to think that I told you.”

“I’m not forgetting ’em, Captain Arkwright. Not for a moment,” conceded Baddeley. “I’ve formed some very definite conclusions. Come down again to the library, Sir Charles, and you two gentlemen, also,” he addressed Anthony Bathurst and me—“you may as well see the thing through with me.” We retraced our steps downstairs to the library.

“Your servants, Sir Charles—tell me about them—I’m curious.”

“There’s Fitch, the butler, been with me over twenty years, Mrs. Dawson, the cook over fifteen years. The four maids are Coombes, the one you saw—she looks after Lady Considine and my daughter, Mary, if she happens to require her—Marshall, Hudson and Dennis. I suppose you would call them housemaids. They see to the rooms and wait at table if we want them. Coombes has been with us over seven years, Marshall and Hudson are comparative newcomers to my establishment. Been with me about three years and eighteen months respectively. Dennis we have only had nine weeks. I’ve no complaints against any one of them.”

For a brief space Baddeley conferred with Roper.

I observed that Anthony watched this consultation with some interest.

“Very well, then, Roper—I quite agree,” I heard the Inspector say—and then, “ask her to come in.” He turned in the direction of Sir Charles. “This maid, Marshall, that discovered Mr. Prescott’s body this morning—you say she has been with you for about three years?”

“About that time, Inspector.”

“Well, I’m going to have a few words with her. I’m not——”

The door opened to admit Marshall.

She was a dark, rather pretty girl, of medium height—I should have said of Welsh type. When she entered, I was struck by the extreme pallor of her face. The shock of the finding of Prescott’s body had evidently affected her considerably. Had I not known that, I should have thought that she was a victim of fear.

“Your name is Marshall?” opened Baddeley.

“Amy Marshall.”

“You’ve been here some time?”

“Three years in October.”

“Your daily duties, I presume, took you into the billiard room this morning?”

Marshall shot a scared glance at him through half closed eyes.

“I sweep and clean several rooms before breakfast—the billiard room every morning, as it has usually been in use the night before.”

“Was the billiard room the first room you did this morning?”

“No, sir! I had swept and polished two floors before I went into the billiard room.”

“Was the door open when you came to it?”

“No, sir, it was shut.”

“When you got in the room—what happened?”

“Well, sir, I opened the door with my left hand, I had my broom and things in my right, so that I didn’t catch sight of the corpse, sir, till I was well inside the room.”

“Then you saw Mr. Prescott? Eh?”

“And that awful knife——” she shuddered as the memory of the scene came home to her again.

“H’m. Was the window open?”

Her black eyes opened wide, intensifying the pallor of her face.

“The window—sir?” she queried. “Let me think.” She pondered for a brief moment. “Yes, sir,” she declared. “I think so.”

“Your pardon, Inspector,” intervened Sir Charles, “perhaps I can help you with regard to that point; the window was open, I distinctly remember noticing it.” He preened himself.

Baddeley regarded him with a mixture of approval and amusement.

“It was open when I arrived, Sir Charles, but I was later on the scene than you gentlemen.

“Now, Marshall,” he continued, “after you saw Mr. Prescott’s body—what did you do? Did you go and touch it at all—take hold of the dagger—inquisitive-like—h’m?”

“Touch it!” she gasped. And then again as though she hadn’t heard him properly—“touch it? Lord love yer”—she relapsed from her acquired manners—“I wouldn’t ’ave gorn near it for a thousand quid. Touch it!”

“Well, what did you do?”

“I screamed. And then got up against the wall to support myself—I come over so queer.”

“And then?”

“Then all the gentlemen rushed down, and the master told me to clear off.”

Baddeley addressed Sir Charles.

“This dagger, Sir Charles, that was used by the murderer ... I understood, when I was upstairs, that it is your property?”

“It has been in my family for two hundred years. Came originally from Venice and lies on the curio table in the drawing-room. It was in the drawing-room last night.”

“So it must have been taken out between last night and the early hours of the morning?”

Sir Charles bowed. “It would seem so—beyond argument.”

“Have you finished with me, sir?” interrupted Marshall. “If you ’ave”—her h’s were very uncertain and fugitive just now—“I should like to go—I’m feeling far from well. This shock ’as been a great blow to me.”

“No—I haven’t quite done with you, yet. You have just told me you sweep and clean the rooms.”

Marshall nodded.

“What time did you do Lady Considine’s bedroom, yesterday?”

Marshall never turned a hair.

“I ’aven’t never been in Lady Considine’s bedroom since I was engaged. Coombes sees to that as the master will tell you if you ask him! I know my place, and what’s better than that—I keep it.”

Baddeley looked her straight in the eyes, but Marshall never batted an eyelid.

“What Marshall says is quite true, Inspector,” interjected Sir Charles Considine. “Her duties do not take her into Lady Considine’s room.”

Baddeley accepted the situation with good grace. He tried another tack.

“There were three chairs overturned in the billiard room when you entered it. Didn’t that strike you as strange?”

“It did—when I caught sight of ’em. But the corpse caught my eye first—you run across a corpse on a billiard-table first thing in the morning—see whether you notice anything else much—a corpse seems to fill the landscape—you might say. You don’t want no ‘close-up’ of it—believe me.”

This was truth and truth with a vengeance, naked and unashamed. There was no mistaking it. Marshall had put the matter in plain unvarnished terms—with all the cheap humor of her class—but her sincerity was undoubted and it struck home. If we had not been concerned in the investigation of a murder, I think most of us would have laughed outright.

Sir Charles Considine shifted in his chair, uneasily and disapprovingly. Anthony alone seemed completely unperturbed.

Baddeley bent across to Roper. I did not catch all he said, but he seemed very importunate with regard to some point or other, and I heard Roper say, “It’s all right.... I got it when you first put me wise.”

“All right then, Marshall,” said the Inspector. “You can go now; if I want you again, I’ll send for you.”

Anthony leaned across the table, his forefinger extended towards the maid.

“One moment, Marshall.”

“Yes, sir,” she said fretfully.

“You’ve answered Inspector Baddeley’s questions so nicely,” he continued, with a smile charming enough to put any member of the gentler sex at her ease—“that I’m going to ask you to answer some of mine.” His smile expanded.

Marshall eyed him doubtfully, but seemed to relax a bit.

He scanned her face deliberately—then I saw him hesitate as though puzzled by something. His eyes searched her, seeking. And his glance grew more penetrative in its quality. Something about her was causing him a difficulty. But he threw it off.

“You had done some work this morning, before you went to the billiard room?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Would you mind telling me what work?”

“I had swept two rooms, done a bit of general tidying-up and polished the floor of the dining-room.”

“Had you polished the dining-room floor just before you went to the billiard room?”

“Yes, sir—just before!”

“What with?” Anthony’s voice was tense and eager.

“Ronuk floor polish.”

“By Moses!” cried Baddeley, “then it was Ronuk.”

Marshall looked the picture of amazement. She had been led to the brink of a morass and even yet failed to realize her imminent danger.

“You wear gloves for polishing floors?” Anthony’s tone grew sharper.

“I use a cloth ... and wear gloves when I’m using it ...” Marshall replied with a suspicion of sullenness.

“Then why”—cried Anthony,—“when you entered the billiard room and saw Prescott’s body on the billiard-table—why did you rush straight to the window, fling it open—and lean out over the window-sill?”

For the space of a few seconds Marshall stared at him in astonishment. Then she swayed slightly and fell into a dead faint on the library floor.

CHAPTER VIII
MR. BATHURST HAS A MEMORY FOR FACES

Baddeley and Roper sprang to her assistance. The rest of us looked at Anthony with bewilderment.

“An elementary piece of reasoning,” he said, apologetically. “In fact, upon reflection, Inspector Baddeley takes more honors than I.”

Baddeley who was doing his best to bring Marshall round, looked up and waved away the compliment. “I missed my chance,” he said.

“You will remember that when our friend here”—Anthony indicated the Inspector—“arrived on the scene, he saw the open window—and immediately had a look at it. I was watching him, and by one of those rare chances of observation, I noticed that something had attracted his sense of smell—he sniffed. And apparently although he detected something—he wasn’t quite satisfied as to what it really was. I followed him up—I’ve a good nasal organ”—he rubbed it humorously—“and I was able to detect round the windows and also round the window-sill, a faint aroma—pungent—faintly spicy. I suddenly deduced furniture polish—you all know the smell. Marshall uses gloves every morning when she wields the cloth with the polish on; you can well imagine how thoroughly impregnated they are with the odor. When she saw Prescott’s body—I said to myself—she rushed to this window and opened it—she leaned out—she placed her gloved hands on the sill—why? And then, gentlemen, I was lucky. Adhering to the wooden top of the window frame—the part under which she had placed her finger-tips to push up the window, was a tiny pink fleck of Ronuk floor polish. It had come off the glove. Now—why did she open the window?”

“Is it a crime to open a window?” The interruption came from Marshall herself. She walked unsteadily to a chair. “I’ve listened to part of what you’ve said. Are you going to ’ang me for opening a window?”

“You admit you did open it, then?” urged Baddeley. “Why did you lie about it?”

Marshall eyed him fiercely.

“Why did you open it?” he rapped out.

“I forgot about it! What with all your questions and all your cross-questionin’ it just slipped my mind. That was why.”

“You haven’t answered the Inspector’s question,” remarked Anthony. “Why did you open it?”

“For a breath of air. Seeing that corpse and that dagger fair frightened me it did. I was struck all of a ’eap. Thought I was goin’ to faint, I did. My first thought was air—air. So I rushed to the window—then I screamed.”

“I see,” snapped Baddeley, threateningly. “You were playing to orders—open window first, then scream—eh? Who told you to do that?”

“What d’ye mean?” she exclaimed defiantly. “Who told me! Nobody—I’m tellin’ the truth, I am.”

“The truth,” cried Baddeley incredulously. “You aren’t on speaking terms with it. Who told you? Come on out with it. It will go all the worse with you, if you don’t.”

“I can’t tell you no more than what I ’ave,” persisted Marshall. “Seeing that corpse on the table was as big a surprise to me as it was to you. And what’s more, you ’aven’t no right to keep me ’ere.”

Baddeley shrugged his shoulders.

“In a few hours’ time you’ll wish you’d told me the truth, my girl,” he said. “Get along now, and don’t play any tricks.”

Marshall made her exit, sullen and defiant. But she was afraid of something I felt sure.

“May I use your telephone, Sir Charles? Thank you. I’ll get on to the Superintendent to send a couple more men up here. Marshall is worth watching.”

“Very well, Inspector.”

“And I won’t trouble to see Mrs. Arkwright or Miss Considine now—or the other servants. I’ll make a point of seeing them alone, later ... will that suit you, Sir Charles? ... this latest development has made a big difference. Come along, Roper.”

They bustled out. Anthony linked his arm in mine. “We’ll have a little lunch, Bill, first, and then I’m going to smoke a pipe in the garden ... there’s something hammering at my brain that I can’t properly get hold of.... I must be suffering from senile decay or something. A little good food and better drink may stimulate me. It sometimes happens.”

Lunch over, we adjourned to the garden.

“A deck-chair and a pipe, Bill—I find very useful adjuncts to clear thinking.”

“Has that inspiration come to you yet?” I queried.

“No, Bill—but it will, laddie—don’t you fret!”

“What’s Baddeley going to do?” I asked. “Arrest Marshall?”

“What for—murder?”

“Well, she seems to know something about it—you ought to think so, you bowled her over.”

“H’m—do you quite know where we are, Bill? Let me run over things for you. Come and sit at the feet of Gamaliel.

“Well, first of all there’s the question of motive. Find the motive, say the Big Noises and you’ll find the murderer.”

“What about Lady Considine’s jewels? ...” I broke in.

“Yes, they do complicate things a bit, don’t they? Still, they supply a motive! Prescott may have been murdered by the thief ... dead men tell no tales. But there are other people with a motive ... there’s Barker,” he went on thoughtfully, “possibly Hornby ... these are the known motives, what about the unknown—eh?”

“The whole thing seems so damned labyrinthine to me,” I muttered.

Anthony assented. “Clear as Thames mud, isn’t it? But it won’t be a bad idea if we sit down and collect our evidence. What do we know as opposed to what we conjecture?” He emphasized the points with his pipe on his finger-tips.

“(a) That when Marshall saw the body—she rushed to the window and opened it.

“(b) That Jack Considine thinks he heard a door shutting during the night.

“(c) That Dick Arkwright (who is supported in this by his wife or says he is), heard footsteps in the garden.

“(d) That Barker’s I.O.U. is missing. Baddeley says so!

“(e) That the murder was premeditated.”

I started. “How do you know that?” I demanded.

“The lace was removed from Prescott’s shoe, my dear Bill. If the murder were one of sudden passion, you wouldn’t say ‘lend me your shoe while I take out the lace.’”

“Of course,” I conceded. “I should have thought.”

“Let’s get on! Where were we?...

“(f) That Prescott appears to have crossed the rose-bed under the billiard room window some time between seven and his death.

“(g) That somebody else did, too—at some time after seven.

“(h) That the Venetian dagger or the poker found on the billiard room floor shows finger-prints.”

“What?” I yelled. “How the devil do you deduce that? You haven’t examined them! You haven’t looked at either of them enough to know that.”

He grinned. “William, my lad, you won’t always have me to hold your little hand. Didn’t you tumble to Baddeley’s game with the letter?”

“What letter?”

“The letter he asked us to identify. That was for finger-prints, old son ... he’d prepared it in the usual way ... he’s got excellent prints of you and me. And of the others.” He chuckled. “He had at least two letters he was handing round.”

“Why?” I asked.

“He was probably taking three or four people to one letter. Roper was marking them as we fingered them. Roper wrote them while we were in the garden.” He chuckled again. “That was how I spotted it.”

“How?”

“You remember they were torn, don’t you, where the signature should have been ... well, the first two tears I saw, didn’t exactly coincide in shape ... see ... that was what I looked at when Baddeley was asking Jack Considine ... it’s deuced hard, Bill, to tear things exactly similarly. Torn, that is, in the way they were torn. He probably used a third letter later on ... but I wasn’t concerned with that.”

“Good Lord,” I groaned, “and I never knew.”

“I’m now proceeding with the last of things we know,” continued Anthony.

“(i) That Lady Considine has lost her pearls. Anything else? I think not! I think that just about exhausts what we know.”

“Prescott was robbed too,” I ventured.

“Of how much, Bill?—nobody knows.”

I saw his point. Then I broached a matter over which I had felt very curious.

“You told me this morning, after we had been first called to the billiard room that you had three distinct clues—two I think you said, in Group A and one in Group B. What were they?”

“Hasten slowly, William. Hasten slowly. I’ll meet you half-way. The clue in Group B was my little triumph that resulted in the discomfiture of Mademoiselle Marshall.”

“And the other two?” I persisted eagerly.

“The other two, Bill, are now three. But I haven’t developed them properly yet. There’s a missing link, somewhere, and until I get it, I’m floundering a bit. What do you make of Marshall?”

“Well,” I answered doubtfully—“I think she’s afraid of something.”

He knocked the ash out of his pipe.

“I’m curious about Marshall—she knows something she hasn’t divulged—why did she open that window? Tell me that.”

“How about Baddeley’s theory?” I put in.

“What? Acting under instructions? Open the window—then scream?” He shook his head. “Don’t think so—somehow.”

“Do you know, Bill” ... he went on, “Señorita Marshall’s face haunts me rather. I can’t get away from it.”

“Love at first sight,” I chaffed. “All good detectives do it ... think of Irene Adler.”

“No—not that, Bill. Not in that way. It’s a different feeling altogether. I can’t forget it ... because I can’t place it.... I seem to have seen it before somehow. The question is where?”

“The Eton and Harrow match at Lords’,” I suggested sarcastically.

“Don’t be an ass. Lords’! I keep conjuring up a photograph—Lords’! Don’t suppose she’s ever heard of Lords’ ... let alone ever been there. ... Holy Smoke, Bill, I’ve got it!!! And by a miracle of miracles, your mention of Lords’ gave it to me. Great Scott! What a bit of luck.”

Now this was the manner of Mr. Bathurst’s memory.

“Do you ever see The Prattler, Bill?”

“Sometimes! Always when I’m here—Sir Charles Considine has taken it since it started!”

“He has? Better and better, laddie. I’m on the crest of the wave. Listen! This is what I’ve remembered. Do you remember the second Test Match of the Australian tour in 1921? At Lords’.”

“What are you getting at?” I said rather peevishly. “Are you trying to prove that it rained or something—you know it always rains for Test Matches.”

“No—I’m deadly serious. The Australians won easily—but that isn’t the point—the last ball bowled—by Durston it was, flew out of his hand and went somewhere in the region of ‘cover.’ Before the umpire called ‘wide’ Bardsley, who was batting at the time, chased after it, got to it, and promptly ‘despatched it to the boundary’ as the reporters said. I remember the incident perfectly now.” He smiled with satisfaction.

“Well,” I said, “What in the name of thunder has this to do with Marshall?”

“This, Bill.” His voice grew serious.

“The Prattler printed a photograph of the incident....”

“Yes ...” I remarked.

“And next to the photograph—in the adjoining space—they printed a photograph of Fraulein Marshall. Now what do you say? I can see it now.”

“In what relation? ...” I protested.

“Can’t recall, William. All I can see is Bardsley’s uplifted bat and adjoining it the face of Marshall. It’s five years ago, remember. But we’ll soon find out. It’s easy! Or it should be.” He sprang to his feet excitedly. “We will now proceed to investigate. I wonder what Sir Charles does with his old Prattlers?”

“Best way to find out will be to ask him!” I ventured.

“Excellent advice, William, that I am going to take. Allons!” Mary Considine met us as we went up to the house.

She looked deathly pale, I thought, and utterly discomfited by the events of the day. I would much rather have stopped in the garden with Mary than gone chasing old copies of The Prattler with Anthony. She stopped us.

“Bill—Mr. Bathurst! I have just been interviewed by Inspector Baddeley, and been asked if I can recognize some handwriting.” She flung us a glance under her long lashes. “Tell me,” she questioned us, “does he suspect anybody in the house of having done this awful thing? It’s unthinkable.”

“Don’t you worry, Mary,” I replied. “It’s only the usual official formality carried out by the Police.”

She turned to Anthony.

“Who could have killed him, Mr. Bathurst? I can’t realize it—yesterday alive and in such ... good spirits ... and now to-day....” She broke off and shook her head helplessly.

“You’re upset,” said Anthony, sympathetically. “Very naturally. It has been a shock to you. How is Lady Considine?”

“Wonderful, considering. I think the murder has to some extent mitigated the loss of her pearls ... can you understand?” She looked up at him and then half smiled towards me. Her pallor only seemed to accentuate her loveliness. I have never seen eyes like Mary’s—and I found myself dreaming dreams.

“Jack has sent word to poor Mrs. Prescott—I don’t know what I shall say to her.” The violet eyes fringed with tears. “It would have been difficult,” she went on, “with someone you knew ... it will be infinitely more difficult with a stranger.”

Anthony conveyed more sympathy with a slight gesture.

“I am sure it will be in able hands. Can you help me now? I want to turn up an old copy of The Prattler. Bill tells me your father has taken it for years. Do you keep them?”

“How long ago is the copy you want?”

“Just over five years,” he replied.

“Then we can’t help you. We never keep more than those of the current year. Is it important?”

“It is, rather,” responded Anthony. “Do you know what becomes of them?”

“I am not quite sure, Mr. Bathurst, but I believe Father sends them to the Cottage Hospital. Come in and see Father—he’ll tell you at once.”

Sir Charles and Lady Considine were in the library.

“Father,” said Mary, “Mr. Bathurst and Bill want you. They want to know where the old copies of The Prattler go?”

Sir Charles looked wonderment.

“It’s rather an unusual request, I know, sir,” said Anthony; “but believe me, I have excellent reasons for worrying you over it.”

“The Prattler? They’re sent to the Allingham Cottage Hospital at the end of every year,” he said.

“H’m—hard luck,” muttered Anthony. “The Allingham Cottage Hospital! Far from here?”

“No,” declared Sir Charles. “About five miles, walking across the Downs. Eight and a half by road.”

“A walk across the Downs would be the very thing for Bill ... he shall have it. He shall accompany me.”

“Which I hope will prove to be the end of a perfect day,” I grumbled.

“You look pretty tired, Bill, now I can gaze upon you properly,” he said, as we struck off across the Downs. “But I shan’t be able to rest till I’ve satisfied myself. Till then my eager excitement will keep me going.”

“I am tired,” I rejoined. “And I’ve a very shrewd idea that we are on a fool’s errand. I don’t suppose for one moment they keep copies of periodicals for five years.”

“Very likely you’re right, Bill. It’s a long shot, but it may strike home—there’s nothing lost if we don’t—we can easily turn up the files at the British Museum—but that will take time—whereas this is opportune.”

After about one hour and a quarter’s walking, we saw our objective. Anthony gave his card to the porter and after a brief period of waiting we were ushered into the presence of the Matron.

The atmosphere of Considine Manor worked wonders. I have always noticed that the Matron dearly loves a lord.

She could not say if she could help Mr. ... she referred to his card... Mr. Bathurst ... many periodicals and magazines were presented to the Hospital ... but she didn’t know quite what became of them. She would ring for the steward. Anthony thanked her. Yes, the steward could help us. Most of the books of that kind when finished with, were sold to a man named Clarke, who kept a shop in Brighton.

“What kind of a shop?” asked Anthony.

“A kind of second-hand bookseller’s, where old magazines and periodicals of all kinds were put in boxes in front of the shop and sold for twopence or threepence.”