The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

by Brian Flynn

  “What are her people?”

  “Her father and mother are dead. Her father was Colonel Delaney of the Westhampton Regiment. She lives with a kind of family retainer—her old nurse, I think.” She knitted her brows.

  “Shall have to get into touch with her,” muttered Bannister. “Do you happen to remember her name?”

  Daphne pondered, the tip of her fore-finger pressed to her dainty lips. “Carr, I think,” she answered after a moment or two, “but Sheila always referred to her by a nickname or something—now what was it?—I can remember hearing Uncle Desmond use it when he mentioned her.” She screwed up her eyes—as people do sometimes when attempting to remember something particularly elusive. “No,” she concluded regretfully, “I can’t remember what it was.”

  The Crown Prince looked across at Anthony in such a meaning way that that gentleman formed the opinion that he wished to communicate something to him. Mr. Bathurst judged that the existing conditions might be far from favourable for an interchange of the Royal confidences—he therefore rather adroitly avoided the Royal eye. Whatever it was it could wait and, which was more, would probably be all the better for keeping, Bannister turned to Sergeant Godfrey as they left the building.

  “Get through to the Westhampton police as quickly as possible. Tell them as much as you consider expedient—tell them I hope to be up there with them by tea-time this evening.”

  Godfrey vanished—a load was taken from his mind—Banister was taking hold! That to him meant considerable relief. Anthony approached the Inspector.

  “I should be tremendously obliged, Inspector, ” he spoke very quietly, “if I could have a glance at the clothes this poor girl was wearing.”

  “Don’t think you’ll learn much from them,” rejoined Bannister. He obtained them and tossed them over to Anthony. The latter turned them over and picked up the hat. “The only name to be found is inside the hat—you’ll see it if you look.”

  But Mr. Bathurst appeared to be more concerned with the external. He looked carefully at the brim—turned down as it was all the way round—Banister watching with some amusement. Anthony looked away quickly and caught his critical eye. He gave Bannister smile for smile; then picked up the dead girl’s shoes. He ran his finger-tips across their glossy surface. First across the right shoe—then across the left. He looked at his fingers.

  “Well?” queried his audience, “Cherry Blossom or Kiwi?”

  Mr. Bathurst ignore the interruption. He could afford to—he managed to establish his first point. He looked at the soles of the two ‘semi-brogues.’ With the help of his magnifying glass he scrutinised the tops of the two shoes and the sides of the two soles with the most meticulous care.

  “There’s one thing I can tell you, Inspector,” he said, as he put back his glass in his pocket, “This lady had travelled some considerable distance by car—she had driven it, I should say, all the way from her home at Tranfield.”

  “We know she came by car,” returned Bannister. “The ‘Lauderdale’ people—”

  “With all deference, Inspector—we didn’t know how far she had come in that car. She might have come by train as you yourself suggested and picked up the car here in Seabourne. However, she didn’t. Look at the brim of this hat—it is distinctly dusty—and if you look at the dust very carefully, you will see that it is not all quite the same shade of colour. Now the screen will protect you on a comparatively short journey, but over a distance of a hundred miles or so—a car-driver usually picks up some patches of dust. Much more than a person travelling by train, for instance. The different shades of dust suggest to me for example, two separate counties many miles apart. Let us say, just for example, Westhamptonshire and Marlshire. Now look at the surface of the shoes. A person who had walked even a small part of that distance would have much dustier shoes than that!” He held them out to Bannister who nodded his acceptance of Mr. Bathurst’s theory.

  “No doubt you’re right,” he conceded.

  Anthony continued his explanation, warming to his work. “Now there are certain parts of the soles of these two shoes that shew unmistakable signs of friction—of rubbing. I am pretty certain that Miss Delaney had driven a considerable distance in that car when she drove up to the ‘Lauderdale’ Hotel.”

  “Yes—I think you’re right. One of the questions we have to face is the tracing of that car.”

  He turned to address the Crown Prince and Miss Carruthers. “I won’t detain you any longer, Your Royal Highness, if you’d care to go. If I want you again I’ll see you at the ‘Cassandra’—I shall be calling there again before leaving for Tranfield.” He thought for a moment. “Get Godfrey to drive you up and tell him to come back here for Mr. Bathurst and me.”

  The Crown Prince accepted the dismissal with evident pleasure.

  “Seemed very sure the dead girl wasn’t Miss Travers, didn’t he?” contributed Bannister meaningly—“did you notice that?”

  “I did—on the other hand so did Captain Willoughby—so there might be nothing in that—it’s an extraordinary case although—it’s difficult to know where to begin.”

  Banister put the dead girl’s clothing back in the cupboard from where he had taken it and carefully locked the door. “If we walk up to the ‘Cassandra’ we shall meet Godfrey in the car on the way back here. Fit?”

  Anthony acquiesced.

  He couldn’t resist a strong feeling that Bannister’s recent allusion to the Crown Prince’s attitude towards what he himself had termed the “Lois Travers theory” was in the nature of a warning to him. Bannister knew from Sir Austin Kemble that he represented the interests of the heir to the throne of Clorania—so that Anthony was disposed to think that the Inspector had given him an initial hint as it were that the Law is no respecter of persons—‘or personages.’ They soon spotted Sergeant Godfrey with the car and were quickly back in the “Cassandra.” Bannister immediately sent for the manger.

  “I want some information,” he said, when the latter appeared, “concerning your procedure with regard to the transport of visitors’ luggage.”

  “Certainly, Inspector—what is it you wish to know?”

  “I want to know exactly what occurs when luggage is left here to be forwarded to a visitor’s home. I want full details of the procedure.”

  “I’ll send for the head porter—he will tell you.”

  The manager despatched a messenger to find the man required. In a few minutes he stood before them. “This gentleman wishes to ask you some questions about luggage-transport,” said the manager; “tell him all he wants to know.”

  “Let me take an actual example,” illustrated Bannister. “Suppose when I leave to-morrow, I leave my cabin-trunk behind in my room to be forwarded to my home. The trunk in question we will assume to be labelled properly and correctly addressed—understand?” The porter nodded. “Well,” proceed the Inspector, “tell me exactly what happens after that.”

  “The trunk would be brought down here, sir, and placed on the luggage-wagon. From there, I should superintend its removal to our own hotel motor-lorry which would convey it to the station. The driver of the lorry sees it on to the platform.”

  “H’m,” said Bannister; “how long usually elapses between the trunks going on to the wagon and being put on the lorry?”

  “That depends, sir,” said the porter, pushing his cap back from his forehead, “and it varies, too. Sometimes, a matter of a few minutes, sometimes in the afternoon, perhaps, the luggage might stand on the wagon down here for a couple of hours.”

  “As it might on the platform, too,” declared Bannister. He turned sharply to Sergeant Godfrey, “You say there’s nothing been found on the platform that appears to have been substituted for Miss Carruthers’ case?”

  “Nothing, Inspector.”

  “Suppose we have a glance at this luggage-wagon, Inspector,” ventured Anthony. “I suppose it’s on duty to-day, isn’t it, porter?”

  “It is, sir.”

  “Very well, Mr.
Bathurst—I’m perfectly agreeable.” They trooped along the corridor.

  “There’s the wagon,” pointed out the porter, “standing there by the door. We load the lorry up from here.”

  Bannister and Godfrey and Anthony walked up to it.

  “Easily accessible from the street,” demonstrated the last-named with a motion of the hand.

  “Too easily,” agreed the Inspector.

  “Tell, me,” said Anthony to the porter, “did you see this wagon first thing on Thursday morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Was there any luggage on it?”

  “It was empty.”

  The Inspector dismissed the porter curtly and thanked the manager for his assistance.

  “Anybody intending the changing of those cases or alternatively the stealing of Miss Carruthers’ suit-case—had ample opportunity both here and at the station. All the same—as I said before to the Crown Prince—we may eventually discover that it’s the result of a pure accident.”

  He turned smartly on his heel.

  “It’s not an accident, Inspector,” declared Anthony. “Look at the accumulative force of evidence that we have already managed to collect. Not only is Miss Delaney’s suit-case or trunk missing—and it’s reasonable to suppose that she had something of the kind with her, but also her purse and the motor-car itself, which brought her. The idea is obvious. She was to remain unrecognised—and from the murderer’s point of view—the longer that situation remained in force the better. There’s no possible doubt about it.”

  “You’re very confident, Mr. Bathurst,” smiled Bannister; “but I shouldn’t be overwhelmingly surprised if you’re right.” He looked at his watch.

  “My next move is ‘Tranfield,’” he announced.

  “And if you’ve not objection, Inspector,” remarked Anthony, “I’ll accompany you.”

  Bannister was on the point of replying when he remembered his telephone conversation with Sir Austin Kemble.

  “Please yourself,” he said a trifle coolly. “I’ll meet you on the platform at Seabourne in an hour’s time.”

  Anthony waved his assent as Bannister left the hotel—then turned to seek the Crown Prince and Miss Carruthers. They had returned to the Crown Prince’s suite—he was informed. On his way to the apartment he passed Captain Willoughby carrying a suit-case.

  Chapter X

  A room is ransacked at “Rest Harrow”

  “A great deal of my success in cases that have seemed to be at first sight, both intricate and baffling,” remarked Bannister as the train ran through Bletchley, “has been due to my appreciation of the value of care allied to imagination. Apply the maximum of the one to the maximum of the other; and when you get the combined maxima judiciously concentrated upon the problem in hand, they should eventually yield a minimum of trouble.” he removed his horn-rimmed glasses—wiped them studiously—and replaced them. “I’ve worked on those lines ever since I can remember,” he continued, “and I’ve never had any reason to alter my plan of campaign.”

  Anthony took the offered cigarette from the Inspector’s heavy silver case and lit up.

  “A thoroughly sound plan, too,” he concurred.

  Bannister elaborated his point. “Care and finely controlled imagination should take most men as high as they can reasonably wish to rise—they are two admirable servants. Now in this present case,” proceeded Bannister, “All efforts to trace Miss Delaney’s car have failed—to all intents and purposes it might have been spirited away—it’s not been abandoned on the highway anywhere that we can find. Similarly with her luggage.” He took a cigarette for himself. “Care then having failed to produce me anything—I shall have to give flight to imagination.”

  “Go on,” said Anthony; “I’m most interested.”

  “I’m coming to Tranfield in the hope that something I may happen to pick up here will stimulate my imagination and eventually supply me with the answer to this riddle that has been set me. By the way, Mr. Bathurst, we change at Westhampton for Tranfield. It lies on the branch line to Easton Favell—I expect we shall find one train on it every six hours or thereabouts.”

  Bannister was wrong in his prophecy. They discovered upon arrival at Westhampton that trains to Tranfield and Easton Favell were scheduled to run at regular intervals of twenty minutes. The station-master at the little station of Tranfield was delighted to direct them to “Rest Harrow.”

  “It’s Miss Delaney’s place you’re wanting,” he announced. “You’ve a walk of about eight minutes. Go down the hill that leads from the station and you’ll come to a field on the left that belongs to Farmer Peasland—cut across by the footpath—you can’t miss seeing it—go over a stile and then through a swing gate. That will bring you to the road running to Easton Favell—‘Rest Harrow’ is about one hundred and fifty yards down—on the right.”

  Ten minutes walk brought them to it. Anthony immediately placed it as one of the most charming bungalows he had ever seen. It nestled back from the road with a kind of old-world shyness that did much to enhance its appeal. The garden in front was a mass of varied bloom and colour and the air was heavy with the scent of its many flowers. As they made their objective a man who had been standing fifty yards or so further up the road came towards them.

  “Inspector Bannister?” he inquired with an interrogative glance.

  “Quite right,” said Bannister. “You got my message, then?”

  The newcomer nodded. “I’m Sergeant Ross,” he added, introducing himself. “I’ve been waiting for you here as instructed.”

  “Very good,” said Bannister. “I’m sorry to say, Sergeant, that Miss Delaney—the lady who lived here, I believe—has been murdered in Seabourne.”

  Ross whistled. “We guessed as much from your message,” he exclaimed. “You’re going inside—I take it?”

  Bannister’s reply was to ring the bell at the front entrance. Anthony heard it peal through the building but could hear no step in answer to it.

  Bannister turned to Ross. “I understand that Miss Delaney lived here with another lady—a companion or something—is that so?”

  “So I believe,” returned Ross.

  “Not in—that’s evident,” retorted the Inspector.

  Anthony strolled round the right-hand side of the bungalow at the back. Then he called to the others. “We ought to be able to get in this way,” he said.

  Banister broke a pane of glass, pushed his hand through and lifted up the catch of the casement window. A few moments saw them inside. There were no signs of very recent occupation showing in the kitchen-scullery in which they stood. Everything was tidy and orderly. Bannister gave it a sweeping glance.

  “Looks to me as though the other lady’s away,” he remarked. “Let’s get along to the other rooms.”

  On the left lay the dining-room and the lounge. On the right were three bedrooms. Suddenly Bannister gave a share exclamation and walked to the front door. From the mat he picked a postcard. “That explains this other woman’s absence,” he said to Anthony as he tossed it over to him.

  Anthony read it. It was a picture postcard of the seaside-view variety. The view was of Budleigh Salterton. Its message was brief. “4, Rolle Cottages, Otterton. July 3rd. Dear Miss Sheila, I am having a lovely time and it’s so nice to be home again. The weather is beautiful—I only hope it will continue so for you. Much love from ‘Pinkie.’”

  “One thing—you’ve got her address, Inspector,” remarked Anthony.

  “I have that,” replied Bannister with a touch of tolerant cynicism. “And I’m afraid she’s going to be the second person to have her holiday rather ruthlessly disturbed.”

  “Evidently the companion went away first—and Miss Delaney went down to Seabourne afterwards.”

  “Intended staying there, too, Mr. Bathurst. The clerk at the ‘Lauderdale’ stated that she booked her room for a fortnight—this card to a certain extent confirms his statement. ‘I hope it will continue so for you,’—the sentence
certainly implies that Miss Delaney intended being away for some time.”

  Anthony assented.

  “What about having a look over the rooms?” suggested Ross.

  “That’s what I’m here for,” returned Bannister grimly.

  The doors of the respective rooms seemed to be locked—with the respective keys left in the locks. The Inspector turned the key in the door of the dining-room and went in. Like the previous room that they had entered there were no signs of disorder or of very recent occupation. Everything was just as could be expected—quite consistent with the facts as Bannister and Anthony knew them. The occupants of the bungalow were away for a holiday—the rooms had been uninhabited for a matter of a few days. There was nothing whatever so far to excite comment. There were no papers, documents or letters lying about anywhere. Bannister walked to the open grate. It was beautifully clean. “Ross,” he said, after two or three seconds’ thought, “See if there’s a refuse-bin at the back of the bungalow. Keep your eyes open for any correspondence that may have been torn up and found its way in there. Unlikely,” he added—turning to Anthony—“but it’s just a chance. I’ve known it happen before now—especially when the number in the household is small. When you’ve only one other person living with you—especially a person of the type that we have here—it’s almost the same as living alone. There’s always a certain privacy.” Anthony saw the Inspector’s meaning and said so. “While Ross is out there,” continued Bannister, “we’ll glance at the other rooms.” The lounge was as reticent as the dining-room. “Nothing here,” grunted the Inspector. Anthony’s eyes examined it keenly and saw nothing to arrest his attention. The two men crossed to the other side of the hall. The door of the first room was almost exactly opposite to the door of the lounge. Bannister tried the handle. The door instantly yielded. “That’s funny, Mr. Bathurst.” Bannister shot the remark at him. “All the other rooms have been shut—the keys turned in the locks. The key was in this lock but this door is open” Anthony followed him in. “Good God!” exclaimed the Inspector; “Something’s been happening here.” The dressing-table was without its drawers. Anthony point to the bed. It was easy to see what had happened. The contents of the drawers had been turned out on the bed which presented an appearance of indescribable chaos and confusion. The drawers lay on the bed. Gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, silk scarves and stockings, powder, toilet requisites of all description lay scattered there in a shapeless heap. From the manner in which the various articles had been tossed aside it was evident that the drawers containing them had been subjected to a rigorous examination. “Looking for something, Mr. Bathurst! The question’s ‘what?’”