The Mystery of the Peacock's Eye

by Brian Flynn

  Anthony nodded. The case was getting trebly interesting to him. On the pillow at the head of the bed lay a lady’s hand-bag and several keys thrown in all directions. For a moment he regarded them intently, while Bannister busied himself with an examination of the Wilton hair-carpet that covered the floor. Anthony picked up the hand-bag and opened it. At the first glance it seemed to be empty, but Mr. Bathurst, in examinations of this kind, always made a point of being extremely through. A thin card nestled in one of the corners. Anthony drew it out carefully. It was a man’s visiting-card of the usual kind, “Alan Warburton, 19, Crossley Road, Westhampton.” He turned it over. On the other side another address had been carefully scrawled in pencil. “Ronald N. Branston—Dental Surgeon—Coolwater Avenue, Seabourne.”

  “Inspector,” he called quietly. Bannister came round immediately from the far end of the bed. “What do you make of this?” he demanded. “Look at the back!”

  Bannister’s eyes shone through his glasses with quick interest. “This is important, Mr. Bathurst—exceedingly important. Where did you find it?”

  Anthony held up the bag in explanation. Bannister frowned—then stretched out his hand for it. Anthony walked to the bed and picked up several of the keys that had lain there.

  “Have you seen this gentleman,” exclaimed the Inspector—he tapped the visiting-card with the back of his finger-nail. “It’s just possible that we’ve go the threads of the affair in our hands at last.”

  “Yes,” smiled Anthony, “just ‘on the cards’ as you might say. If he recommended Miss Delaney to visit the Coolwater Avenue Surgery, it could certainly be argued against him that he might have known when to find her there. But look here, Inspector,” he paused—looked at the keys in his hand—then back to the hand-bag that Bannister was still holding.

  “Well?” said Bannister, invitingly. Anthony smiled again. “It’s like this, Inspector. Imagination is a skittish sort of filly to ride—I’m well aware. But it seems to me that the hand-bag, the visiting-card, and these keys tell us a lot.” He looked quizzically at Bannister.

  “I’m listening,” said that gentleman with the same touch of tolerant cynicism that Mr. Bathurst had observed before. “What’s the big idea?”

  “Were there any signs, Inspector, when we entered ‘Rest Harrow’ just now—that any forced entrance had been effected?” Bannister promptly shook his head. “Well, then,” proceeded Anthony, “how did the people who played high jinks in this bedroom—get in?” He went on without waiting for Bannister to answer. “They got in with these keys, Inspector! And in my opinion this hand-bag contained these keys and this visiting-card, was taken from Miss Delaney at Seabourne either just before her death or just after.”

  Bannister rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the fingers of his left hand. “I think you’re right, Mr. Bathurst. If only we knew what the devils were looking for. Get on the track of that and we shall be two-thirds of the way towards a complete solution. Yes, Ross—what is it?”

  “No luck, sir—out in the garden. The dust-bin is empty. All the refuse that was here when the people went away must have been burned.”

  “I was afraid so,” replied the Inspector. “Come and look here!”

  As Ross obeyed the behest of Anthony tried the doors of the other bedrooms. They were locked and when opened presented no appearance beyond the ordinary. He called Bannister’s attention to them.

  “They knew where to look, Mr. Bathurst, for what they wanted, didn’t they?”

  “I don’t think, somehow, that we’re dealing with ordinary thieves. There’s something special about this.”

  “You think there were more than one then, Inspector?”

  “I’m inclined to think so! There are a few traces of dried mud on the carpet—nothing to speak of—can’t be sure whether they were left there by one man or two. Still—on the whole, I fancy there are more than one in it.” He looked at Anthony critically. “What can this young lady have possessed of such value that these people wanted it so badly?”

  Anthony considered the question. “And was its value intrinsic or extrinsic?” he added to Bannister’s query. He was thinking now of such things as a photograph. The Inspector raised his eyebrows interrogatively.

  “Just what are you thinking of?” he asked.

  “When I spoke,” rejoined Anthony, “I wasn’t exactly thinking of anything in particular—since you’ve pressed me, however—I’ll give you an example. In some circumstances for instance—a photograph or a bundle of letters might possess an extraordinary value.”

  Bannister caressed his top lip. “H’m,” he commented. “I suppose there’s something in what you say. But where we’re handicapped so tremendously here at the moment is in the fact that there’s nobody here can tell us anything about the dead girl. Until we get into touch with this ‘Pinkie’ person—or with the gentleman whose visiting-card we’ve found—we’re working in the dark.” He swung round on the local man. “Ross,” he exclaimed sharply, “can you tell me anything personal or intimate about this Miss Delaney?”

  Ross responded to the invitation with a certain amount of eagerness. “I’m a Westhampton man, although I only came to my present job a year ago,” he said, “and I’ve known Miss Delaney ever since her father came to live in Tranfield. I’ve watched her grow into a beautiful young woman that she undoubtedly was. I knew her father, Colonel Delaney, well. He died—whilst home on leave in 1917, I think it was.” He knitted his brows—then continued his story. “He was drowned, if I remember rightly, up at Nillebrook Water—that’s about four miles from here—and the police weren’t altogether satisfied with the manner of his death. It was a most unsatisfactory business. In fact—for a considerable time too—foul play was strongly suspected. But nothing ever came to light that properly justified their suspicions and it was brought in ‘Accidental death.; I wish I could remember the details but it’s eleven years ago and a lot of things have happened since then. Still, the best man for information about Colonel and Sheila Delaney is Sir Matthew Fullgarney—the Lord Lieutenant of the County. He and Major Carruthers were great pals of the Colonel—officers together, I believe, years before—in the same regiment or something.”

  Bannister shewed signs of corroboration. “That would be the Major Desmond Carruthers to whom Miss Carruthers referred this morning,” he announced to Anthony. “He’s dead, also, I believe. Tell me, Ross, is Miss Delaney’s mother dead, too?”

  “Yes, sir,” replied Ross. “She survived the Colonel for some years but died, I think about four years ago.”

  “Which leaves only Sir Matthew Fullgarney,” soliloquised Anthony. He turned to Inspector Bannister. “Quite a chapter of fatalities, isn’t it?” he suggested. “How did Major Carruthers die, Ross?”

  “In a motor accident, sir—somewhere about the early part of last year.”

  “H’m,” said Anthony, “nothing to arouse suspicion—eh?”

  Ross shook his head. “Nothing that I can remember, sir.”

  “Perhaps you can tell me something else, Ross,” remarked Bannister. “Do you know anything about a gentleman living in Westhampton—Alan Warburton by name?”

  Ross nodded eagerly. “Know him well, Inspector. He’s the only survivor as far as my knowledge goes, of the famous Warburtons—the big banking family. You remember the celebrated ‘Mutual Bank Frauds,’ about two years ago. Sir Felix Warburton was arrested and sentenced and afterwards committed suicide in his cell. He was Alan Warburton’s uncle—Alan being the son of his only brother—Murray Warburton. Alan’s father died when Alan was a boy. It’s rather a coincidence that you should introduce his name.”

  “Why?” snapped Bannister. “Where’s the coincidence?”

  Anthony watched Ross’s face carefully and awaited his reply with much more than ordinary interest.

  “Well,” proceeded Ross, “what I meant exactly was this. Up to the time of the ‘Mutual Bank’ scandal, local gossip in Westhampton and Tranfield was inclined to couple Alan War
burton’s name with Sheila Delaney’s.”

  “Really now,” said Bannister; “that’s most interesting. And what happened after that Bank scandal?”

  Ross shrugged his broad shoulders non-committally but the movement was expressive. “The lady didn’t appear to be anything like so keen—at least rumour has it so.”

  Bannister eyed Anthony significantly. Evidently an idea was beginning to assume very definite shape within his mind. “I see,” he said quietly. “The family reputation was tarnished—eh?”

  “Possibly,” smiled back Ross; “the Delaneys were always people to hold their heads high.”

  He gave Anthony the impression that he was very much more inclined to be confidential than to be reserved. But Mr. Bathurst kept quiet—he was content to let Bannister do the questioning.

  “And after that?” continued Bannister, “was there another Richmond in the field? Another lover—eh?”

  “I can’t answer that,” declared Ross. “Local gossip hasn’t reached that stage yet.”

  “But it’s quite likely—eh—?” urged Bannister.

  “I should imagine so—considering what a charming girl Miss Delaney was.”

  “H’m—what sort of a chap is this Alan Warburton—pretty steady? Or does he inherit the tendencies of Sir Felix?”

  “I know nothing against him,” declared Ross. “No whisper against him has ever reached me.”

  “How did he take the lady’s change of feelings?”

  “No idea. As I said just now, I’m only repeating local gossip.” With that the Inspector was forced to be content.

  It was obvious that the local man’s knowledge was largely founded upon hearsay. Anthony realised this and turned once again to the miscellaneous heap upon the bed. He picked up a long silk scarf, with what definite object at the time he scarcely knew, when to his surprise a postcard fluttered from the folds and fell to the ground. He stooped to pick it up. It was undated and the sender had omitted to put his or her address. It ran as follows: “Dearest Sheila,—If only you were here instead of those miles away! Then I should love the Spring (and you) still more. The garden is looking splendid—nearly equal to that at ‘Rest Harrow.’ All the flowers have made a fine show but the irides are simply wonderful.” It was signed with one initial only—“X.” Anthony held it out to Bannister. “Came out of this scarf,” he said. “Do you think it’s of any importance?”

  Bannister looked at it very attentively—read the message—then attempted to decipher the postmark. Anthony looked over his shoulder. “Looks to me like Dulwich,” he said.

  “I think so too,” said Bannister.

  “It’s a peculiar handwriting, Inspector,” added Anthony. “You very seldom see a hand slope quite like that.”

  “Very peculiar indeed, Mr. Bathurst. I’ll hang on to this—you never know in cases of this kind. The least thing may turn the scale.”

  Anthony walked to the window of the bedroom and looked out on to the front garden. He stood there for perhaps a minute. Then he turned quickly round and addressed Bannister again. “An idea has just come to me, Inspector. I should very much like to test it. What do you say?” Bannister stared. “I’m going to bring all these larger keys into the garden and find the garage. I want to have a peep inside. Come along with me.” he suited the action to the words and within a few minutes swung open the garage doors. A car stood inside—a ‘Standard.’ Anthony waved his hand towards it. “There, Inspector,” he exclaimed dramatically, “is the car that took Miss Delaney to Seabourne.”

  Bannister regarded him incredulously. “Then how the devil did it get back here?” he demanded.

  “That certainly is a poser,” replied Mr. Bathurst, “but we’ll find the answer before we’ve finished. Come in and have a look at her, Inspector. I would suggest that somebody drove it back.”

  “Go on!” said Bannister.

  Chapter XI

  A newspaper and a second suit-case

  “Much petrol in the tank, Inspector?”

  Bannister looked. “Very little, Mr. Bathurst.”

  Anthony bent down and took a good look at each of the tyres. Bannister watched him.

  “There’s one thing,” he added, “she hasn’t been cleaned up lately—certainly not since the last time she was taken out. I’d bank on that!”

  Anthony agreed. “Doesn’t look like it, Inspector. I’ll tell you though what does strike me,” he went on.

  “What’s that?” queried Bannister.

  “The hood and the side-screens are up.” Anthony point to them.”

  “What about it?”

  “Well,” remarked Anthony slowly, “there’s been no rain for over a week—and the temperature has been decidedly high for several days now—hasn’t it? I should have thought that anybody driving that car would have been only too glad to have kept it open. That’s the point I’ve been considering. Of course—they may have been put up after the car returned.”

  He paused and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers. Bannister regarded him with the semblance of a grin playing round the corners of his mouth. He translated it into words. “I haven’t yet accepted as final your theory that this is the identical car that Miss Delaney had at Seabourne,” he reminded Anthony.

  The lines of Mr. Bathurst’s mouth were firmly set. “You can take it from me that it is, Inspector,” he announced with an unmistakable air of determination, “and I hope in time to be able to prove it to you.”

  “Perhaps you will. I shall want some convincing though. Still—even so—assuming for the moment that your idea is correct—the car after all may have been used late at night—when the air begins to feel a bit cold.”

  “That’s perfectly true,” conceded Anthony, “and there’s yet another possible explanation—one which I’m disposed to think may eventually prove to be the correct one. The person that drove this car back to Tranfield from Seabourne wanted to be screened from observation as much as possible. So he or she had the side-screens in and the hood up.

  “That’s certainly a point, Mr. Bathurst,” admitted Bannister, “I grant you I hadn’t thought of that.” He rubbed the ridge of his jaw with is finger-tips. “Give me a hand, Mr. Bathurst,” he said, “let’s get the hood down—we shall be able to see things more clearly then. Mind your fingers! That’s the ticket! Now get these side-screens out.”

  Anthony pulled the rods from the sockets prior to opening the door of the car.

  “Hallo!” exclaimed the Inspector sharply, “what’s this under the seat?” Anthony watched him as he bent down to pull an object out from beneath the farther seat. It was a suit-case bearing the initials “S.D.” “What do you make of this, Mr. Bathurst—the second suit-case we’ve encountered?”

  Anthony smiled whimsically. “Two ladies—two suit-cases, Inspector. I don’t know that I’m overwhelmingly surprised to run up against this second one. If Miss Delaney intended to stay in Seabourne for any length of time as the people at the ‘Lauderdale’ testify—and as the postcard from Otterton indicates also—she would almost certainly carry something in the nature of a suit-case. No,” he shook his head as though attempting to measure the situation thoroughly, “I’m not surprised, Inspector.”

  “I grant you all that,” replied Bannister, “but I don’t know that I expected to meet it in a motor-car to Tranfield. It’s locked,” he added—trying the two catches.

  “You’ll find the key on the bed in all probability, Inspector,” cut in Anthony jerking his head in the direction of the room that they had just left. “The murderer—if it were a man—took all Miss Delaney’s keys and brought them back with him from Seabourne. Nothing of hers was found in Branston’s surgery remember.”

  Bannister grunted thoughtfully. Anthony picked up the suit-case. “Was this case actually right underneath the seat, Inspector?” he asked.

  “It was, Mr. Bathurst—why?”

  “Does it suggest anything to you, Inspector?”

  “Only too true! This car was pre
tty full up on the return journey.”

  Anthony regarded him curiously. “Funny thing—that didn’t occur to me. It’s strange how people see different explanations. Two heads are better than one—you can’t get away from the truth of that. No—what I was thinking was that the suit-case had been pushed under the seat to hide it.”

  Bannister turned slowly—his eyes narrowing. “By Jove—now that possibility certainly might mean—” he strode to the doors of the garage rapidly and decisively. Anthony’s idea seemed to have given him a new and definite impetus.

  “Ross,” he called, peremptorily. The local Sergeant came up quickly. “Ross,” went on Bannister, “get a telegram despatched at once to ‘4, Rolle Cottages, Otterton,’” he referred to the postcard they had found on the mat, and then turned to Anthony. “I think Miss Carruthers said the nurse’s name was ‘Carr,” didn’t she?”

  “Quite right, Inspector.”

  “I’ll write the name and address down for you, Ross.” He suited the action to the words and handed the Sergeant a slip of paper. Ross placed it carefully within the leaves of an expansive pocket-book. “Right you are, sir,” he said, saluting, “I’ll attend to it at once.”

  “I want you to,” confirmed Bannister, “and when you’ve sent it off—you see what I’ve said—come back here.”

  Ross swung down the garden path and they heard the gate shut behind him.

  “I’ve sent for the old companion, Mr. Bathurst—this ‘Pinkie’ person—if she’s lived with Miss Delaney for as long as we’ve been informed she probably knows more about her than anybody else.”