The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

by Brian Flynn

  Bannister abruptly put a stoppage upon his sentimental reminiscences. “You’re certain—absolutely certain—of what you say?”

  “Positive, sir—you don’t see two like her every day of the week.”

  The Inspector turned to Sergeant Godfrey. “You hear what he says? We’ll get along up to the ‘Lauderdale’ at once. What name did she give, Martin?’

  “I’ve copied the name from the reception-book just as I entered it when she arrived. I thought I’d better do that in case it should turn out as I feared.”

  He fumbled in his breast pocket for a moment—produced a slip of paper which was far from being clean and handed it to Bannister. The latter read it aloud, “‘Miss Daphne Carruthers.’ This will save you a lot of trouble, Godfrey. Here’s your identification! No need now to broadcast the news or publish a photograph or anything—it’s a great help, this evidence of yours, Martin. It will save the police very valuable time at the most important stage of the case—the very beginning. Just where we looked uncommonly like losing it.”

  Maynard was obviously pleased at the Inspector’s tribute to a member of his staff. “Are you coming to the ‘Lauderdale’ now?” he inquired.

  “This very minute—lock the door, Godfrey, put the key in your pocket and station your two men outside.”

  A matter of a few minutes saw the journey accomplished. “Show these gentlemen the entry you made in the admission register, Martin,” said Maynard with a show of authority. The reception clerk ran his finger along the particular line. The name was as he had given it. Bannister glanced over his shoulder—then turned away—seemingly satisfied. The next step was an inspection of Room Sixty-six. The suit-case that had figured in Martin’s story lay on the floor between the wardrobe and the dressing-table. Bannister lifted it on to the bed. It was of good quality although of common type. There were, in all probability, hunddreds similar to it in various places in Seabourne, on that very night. Two labels of the “tie-on” variety were attached to the handle. The hand-writing on each of them was the same—suggestive certainly of a girl’s hand—“Daphne Carruthers, 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington.” He tried the catches.

  “It’s locked. Where are your keys, Godfrey?” Godfrey produced several bunches of keys—unavailingly.

  Then the manager came to the rescue. He slipped from the room quickly—to return almost immediately with a large key-ring bearing keys of all shapes and sizes. Bannister’s attempt to open the case were eventually successful. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. Its contents were almost entirely clothes and toilet requisites. Clothes that one would reasonably anticipate finding in the suit-case of a young lady upon holiday in the summer. There was no letter, no card—nothing more personal than hair-brushes and face powder. The Inspector tossed the stuff back into the case.

  “Your job, Godfrey, will be to get in touch with the place from where this girl’s come. Send a ’phone message through to Kensington as soon as you can and use the Press for all your worth. Get the London papers humming to-morrow morning like flies. We shall soon get information about Daphne Carruthers, you mark my words, even if we can’t get it from the place where she lived.” He turned to Maynard. “I’ll take charge of this”—he patted the suit-case—“you Godfrey—get those strings to work at once. By the way, Martin—the motor-car that the young lady was driving—did you notice what it was?”

  Martin scratched his chin—then shook his head. “I didn’t sir, and that’s a fact. I was too much taken up with the young lady herself.”

  “H’m,” muttered Banister, “that’s a pity—we must see what we can do in that direction to-morrow morning. That car must be traced, Godfrey. I expect we shall have a pretty ticklish day to-morrow—with one thing and another.”

  In which opinion Chief-Inspector Bannister was entirely accurate, although the day was destined also to have its compensations for him. Not the least of these compensations was his introduction to a certain Mr. Anthony Lotherington Bathurst. Even though Seabourne is a hundred and nine miles from Tranfield, and a trifle more than that from Westhampton—two places in which Mr. Bathurst had fully expected to be!

  Chapter VI

  Mr. Bathurst changes his destination

  Anthony Bathurst read the telegram that had so summarily interrupted his breakfast, with much more than a suspicion of a frown. Not that it was at all ambiguous or in any way difficult for him to understand. Indeed it was completely the reverse of these things. “Come at once to Hotel Cassandra, Seabourne,” was the message it conveyed and the sender’s name was shewn at the end of the message as “Mr. Lucius.” “His Royal Highness seems to imagine that I’m thoroughly at his beck and call,” he murmured to himself softly. “This will put the tin hat on my going to Westhampton—as I had intended.” he lit a cigarette and thrust his left hand into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Mr. Bathurst was a staunch adherent of the theory of breakfasting in comfort. “Seabourne?” he thought to himself. “Seabourne? What caught my eye in this morning’s paper concerning Seabourne?” he picked up the paper that had already been read and tossed aside—and eagerly sought the more prominent head-lines. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “I thought I wasn’t mistaken.” His eyes swept the paragraph with its sensational notice. The headings wee—“Strange Tragedy at Seabourne. Young Lady Murdered in Dentist’s Chair.” The paragraph below the head-lines ran as under. “About half-past two yesterday afternoon the Seabourne police were called to the Dental Surgery of Mr. Ronald Branston which is situated at the corner of Coolwater Avenue and the Lower Seabourne Road. A lady patient upon whom Mr. Branston had just previously attended had been discovered poisoned in the Dentist’s chair. Dr. Renfrew, the divisional Surgeon was called and gave it as his opinion that deceased had died from an administration of Hydrocyanic Acid. Mr. Branston himself has told the authorities a remarkable story. Sergeant Godfrey of the Marlshire County Police had charge of the case but has now had the good fortune to obtain the active co-operation of Chief-Inspector Bannister, one of the famous ‘Six’ of New Scotland Yard, who happens to be spending part of his annual holiday in Seabourne. Thanks to the untiring assiduity of the latter gentleman, the lady, in regard to whose identity the Police were at the outset without a vestige of a clue has now been identified as Miss Daphne Carruthers of 11, Lexham Gardens, Kensington, a visitor to Seabourne staying at the Lauderdale Hotel. Taking into consideration certain facts that Mr. Branston has communicated to them, the Police have no doubt that a brutal murder has been committed. Surprising developments are hourly expected.” Mr. Bathurst put down his paper, and pulled at his top lip—“I wonder,” he murmured.

  Two hours later he stood outside the big railway station that introduces Seabourne to thousands of visitors. He hailed a “taxi.” Five minutes longer saw him inside the “Cassandra.”

  “Mr. Lucius,” murmured a gentleman superbly tailored and faultlessly barbed, “suit 17, if you please. Have you then the business with him? But yes? Then I, myself will personally conduct you to him.” He shrugged his perfectly-fitted shoulders with a shrug that betokened much to a receptive mind. “Mr. Lucius—he is indeed a personage—But yes!”

  Mr. Bathurst appeared to be in no mood to contradict him. He followed the gentleman upstairs. Mr. Lucius was in! Mr. Lucius was pacing the floor of his room after the manner of an infuriated tiger. It was evident that Mr. Lucius was very much annoyed!

  “Ah, Bathurst,” he exclaimed, with a shade of relief in his tone, “so you’re here at last. I am indeed pleased. Sit down. This terrible business is wearing my nerves to pieces. In fact I’m thoroughly unnerved and nearly worried out of my life. Doubtless you’ve seen this morning’s paper?”

  Mr. Bathurst had. “Did His Royal Highness allude—” Mr. Lucius’s hand stopped him with a dramatic gesture.

  “Please respect my incognito. You have a saying, ‘The walls have the ears.’ Pardon my seeming insistence on the point.”

  Anthony murmured what he considered was a dignified apology. Then he complete
d his unfinished sentence, “Did Mr. Lucius allude to the matter that the Press were calling ‘The Seabourne Murder’?”

  Mr. Lucius clapped the palms of his two hands together in uncontrollable emotion. Anthony realised at once that His Royal Highness was certainly in a highly-nervous state and that his previous protestations to that effect had strong foundation. He had been frightened by something and frightened badly. Anthony remembered his parting words at their interview of a week ago. He had threatened to let nothing stand in his way—and at the moment was badly rattled. Anthony decided upon reflection, that it promised to turn out a distinctly interesting case. His host stopped his nervy pacing of the room and plunged himself ill-humouredly into an arm-chair. “I will be very frank,” he commenced. “Although it goes against the grain of my inclination—yet I will tell you all.” He laid his finely-shaped hand upon Anthony’s arm with an imperious movement. “After I left your rooms, Mr. Bathurst, at the end of last week. I drove straight to my hotel ‘The Florizel.’ And although I was very much preoccupied on the journey, nevertheless I was convinced when I reached my destination that I had been followed. By two men! They were hanging about outside your rooms when I left there—and I am positive that they followed me in a small two-seater car to my hotel. However, it is of the smallest importance, perhaps. What I am going to tell you now belongs to what you will call—a different category. ‘Une autre galére.’ By the next morning’s post I received another handwriting of that ‘detestable’—no—from a lady.” He paused to see the effect of his words but Anthony’s face was as inscrutable as ever. “In fact, Mr. Bathurst, from the lady.”

  “Really,” murmured Anthony with the suspicion of a smile. “I take it you were extremely surprised?”

  “Most assuredly,” replied Mr. Lucius, “I had not heard from the lady for a considerable length of time, as I informed you last week. And if I was surprised to receive the letter, I was still more surprised at the nature of its contents. Unfortunately—in the light of after events—I destroyed it.”

  Mr. Bathurst lifted his eye-brows—was His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince of Clorania always a stickler for veracity, he wondered?

  “But I can remember it verbatim—every word, Mr. Bathurst.” The Crown Prince leaned back in his arm-chair, closed his eyes, placed his finger-tips together and proceeded to remember the contents of his letter. “It was as follows,” he announced pompously, “‘Dear Alexis, I am perfectly aware, you will be surprised to know, that you have made two unsuccessful attempts to transfer a certain particular object from my possession to your own. Advices received to-day, that I cannot disregard, tell me that you have sought the professional assistance of Mr. Anthony Bathurst. I happen to know something of that gentleman, you see, as my solicitors are “Merryweather, Linnell and Daventry.” Upon mature reflection therefore, I have decided to discontinue what would be a hopeless struggle. I liked you once, Alexis, very, much. Because of that, and because I’m a silly idiot as well, I’m going to give the photo back to you and burn all the letters. Meet me at the Hotel where we stayed in Seabourne before. I will give it to you there. Will some time next week suit you?’” His Highness turned in his chair. “That, Mr. Bathurst, is reproduced as accurately as I can recall it.” A spirit of uneasiness appeared to take possession of him. “It was signed,” he added in an apparent afterthought and undertone, “by a pet-name that I had used upon previous occasions when addressing her. It would not assist you at all to know it. To cut a long story short, Mr. Bathurst, I came to this Hotel on Tuesday last, met the lady, as she suggested on the following day and as a matter of fact was able to bring the affair that was so important and interesting to me to a highly-satisfactory conclusion. The lady concerned left the Hotel on Wednesday evening—I stayed on.”

  His Royal Highness sprang to his feet as he finished his story. His excitement and anxiety had temporarily mastered him. He approached Anthony and his face was white, shaking and uncontrolled. “Mr. Bathurst,” he exclaimed, “when I called upon you a the end of last week you will remember I refused to divulge the name of the lady in the case—I told you that I was a man of honour.” His voice shook with emotion. “Now I feel myself as compelled to reveal it, even though at the risk of injuring myself. Fate has taken a hand in the game, Mr. Bathurst. The lady’s name was Daphne Carruthers—and I learned from the Press this morning and also from a medley of cursed, gossiping tongues in this infernal seaside town—that she was murdered here in Seabourne—yesterday.” His voice was now completely hoarse. With grief or with anxiety, Anthony was unable to decide. But he went on. Standing erect in the middle of the room, he raised his right-hand dramatically over his head. “And I myself, it is more than possible will be a ‘suspect.’ I would not have had such a terrible affair happen for the world. It will ruin me.” He gestured helplessly in Mr. Bathurst’s direction, then sank into his chair again—his head in his hands.

  “When did you last see Miss Carruthers?” demanded the latter.

  “On the evening of Wednesday—we dined together—early—settled our little differences, and parted—to go our own ways and to lead our own lives. We understood each other.”

  “You had possession, then, I take it, of the photograph?” remarked Anthony.

  “But certainly—I had come to get it. “It is destroyed.”

  “And the letters—!”

  “We burned them together,” rejoined the Crown Prince.”

  “Where?”

  “In a wood that lies off the road to Froam.”

  Anthony looked grave.

  “The letters you had threatening blackmail—those you left with me—what had Miss Carruthers to say regarding them?”

  “But that is remarkable! I taxed her with them—she denied all knowledge of them.”

  “Did you believe her?”

  The Crown Prince shrugged his shoulders eloquently. “Can a man ever believe a woman with whom he’s once been in love?”

  Anthony shot a quick glance at him. He was not an amorist and supremely contemptuous of the professional philanderer. To him, “le pays du Tendre” was far too sacred a country for such light imaginings. “You’re more qualified to answer that question than I, Your Highness. Did you believe her?”

  The Crown Prince sulkily reflected for a brief moment. “Well—on the whole—I think I did. Her denial of the affair seemed to me to be transparently honest.”

  “Tell me,” said Anthony, “was it, as far as you know, the intention of Miss Carruthers, to return to her home at once—or did she intend to stay anywhere else in Seabourne?”

  “She intended to return to London by the last train on Wednesday evening—she told me so.”

  “Of course,” suggested Anthony, “her plans may have been altered—an attack of violent tooth-ache, for instance, has a lot of force behind it.”

  “No mention was made to me of any tooth-ache. She had none while she was with me,” grumbled His Royal Highness.

  Anthony couldn’t resist the feeling that the Crown Prince regarded it as most inconsiderate on the part of miss Carruthers to have been murdered. “You have been seen together here, of course?” he queried.

  “But naturally! We dined ‘à deux’ in the hotel on Wednesday evening. There is for example, a Captain Willoughby staying here who was also here in the hotel when we styed before. They say he lives here permanently. If you remember—”

  “He was the taker of the particularly-important photograph,” interjected Anthony. He made a point of remembering most things—did Mr. Bathurst.

  “That is so,” supplemented the Crown Prince, “you see Captain Willoughby will be certain to connect us.”

  Anthony could find no reason to contest the point. “Undoubtedly,” he responded.

  His Highness came over to him again. “Tell me,” he said, rather more imperiously than Mr. Bathurst considered commendable, “what steps had you taken in respect of my own case? Had you made any investigations?”

  “It was my intention to h
ave started to-day—strangely enough. I was on the point of starting for Westhampton this evening—your telegram calling me down here was the thing that stopped me. I was convinced, you see, that a judicious inquiry in the Westhampton district might yield good result.”

  The Crown Prince nodded in corroboration. Putting his right hand on Anthony’s shoulder he looked very carefully round the apartment—then sank his voice to a mere whisper. “Mr. Bathurst,” he said softly, “I take it you are quite familiar with the facts?”

  “Of yesterday’s tragedy?”

  “Yes—of the murder.”

  “Only so far as I have been able to read the morning papers.”

  The Crown Prince nodded again. “Quite so—and you will agree I feel sure that it appears to be a most remarkable case. You will have been able to glean sufficient from the accounts in the Press to admit that. Listen—I have a theory—an idea has persisted in my brain since I heard the affair in the first place. Those letters that were addressed to me. Vile blackmail! Mr. Bathurst—supposing that blackmailer is also the murderer of Miss Carruthers. It fits! It is on all four legs as you English day. Supposing he knew that Miss Carruthers and I had met amicably—that the affair was settled—that she had returned the photograph to my keeping—that the letters were burned—it would be clear to him that I could snap the finger-tips to him—that I could treat his threats with scorn—with disdain—in short that I could say to him, ‘Go to Hell.’ Well, then—assume that he knows what I have just said—he follows Miss Carruthers whose arrangement with me has spoiled his little game and in a rage and passion at being thwarted—he kills her at this dentist’s to whom she has gone. Why not—I say—why not? Find my blackmailer, Mr. Bathurst—and you’ll find the murderer of Daphne Carruthers.” He paused—his face and lips tremulous with anxiety and excitement—and took out a cigarette. Anthony watched him closely—the affair had got badly on his nerves—there was no denying the fact.